New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects 9782503601564, 9782503601571

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New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean

Archaeology of the Mediterranean World Volume 4 General Editors Lin Foxhall, University of Liverpool Peter van Dommelen, Brown University Editorial Board Laurel Bestock, Brown University Andrea De Giorgi, Florida State University Francesca Dell’Acqua, Università degli Studi di Salerno Lieve Donnellan, University of Melbourne Claudia Glatz, University of Glasgow Paul S. Johnson, University of Nottingham Luca Zavagno, Bilkent Üniversitesi Previously published volumes in this series are listed at the back of the book.

New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects Edited by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini

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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

© 2023, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2023/0095/102 ISBN: 978-2-503-60156-4 e-ISBN: 978-2-503-60157-1 DOI: 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.130788 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper.

Table of Contents

List of Illustrations

7

List of Abbreviations

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1. Introduction The Material Turn in the Study of Ancient Texts Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini

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I. Texts on Portable Objects — Tablets, Vases, Ostraca, and the Inscribing Hand 2. A Comparative Approach to Methods of Inscribing Clay Tablets Interaction and Innovation in Cyprus and Ugarit Philippa M. Steele and Philip J. Boyes

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3. The Brygos Painter’s Miswritten Signature on the Lancastre pelike Gilberto da Silva Francisco

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4. A Lesson in a Desert Quarry A Material Approach to a School Ostracon Julia Lougovaya

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II. Texts on Portable Objects — Coins, Rolls, Codices, and the Authoritativeness of Texts 5. Inspecto nummo… The Materiality of Coin Imagery and Inscriptions in the Roman World Dario Calomino

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6. What Is a Book? The Ideology of Materiality in Ancient Greek and Roman Writing Technology Nicola Reggiani

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III. Texts on Monuments and Buildings — Spaces and Contexts of Ancient Inscriptions 7. Women in Trouble, and the Habit of Objectifying a Text in the So-Called Confession Inscriptions Irene Salvo 8. Epigraphy and the Power of Precedence in Asia Minor Naomi Carless Unwin

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IV. Texts that Move through Media — Body and Text 9. Inscribed Materialities: Greek Curse Tablets Jessica Lamont

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10. Formulating Faith on Objects and Buildings The ‘Light, Life’ Formula in Late Antiquity Sean V. Leatherbury

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11. ‘And the Word Was Made Flesh’ Greek and Aramaic Inscriptions as Substitutes for the Physical Presence of Benefactors in Eastern Christian Sanctuaries Paweł Nowakowski

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V. Texts that Move through Media — Greek Literary and Inscriptional Epigram 12. Elegy, Epigram, and the Complementarity of Text and Monument Joseph W. Day

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13. From Courtesans, to Goddesses The Materialization of Ritual Practice in Nossis’s Votive Epigrams Sherry (Chiayi) Lee

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14. Strategies of Ocular and Imaginary Deixis in Greek Epigrams Federica Scicolone

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15. Afterword Michael Squire

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Index

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List of Illustrations

2. A Comparative Approach — Philippa M. Steele and Philip J. Boyes Figure 2.1. Fragments 20.01 (larger) and 1193 (smaller), joined as ‘tablet’ ##207. Left: face A. Right: face B.  40 Figure 2.2. Tablet ##208 (1687). Left: face A, aligned so that the text is horizontal. Right: face B.  40 Figure 2.3. Tablet ##208 (1687). Left: face A, aligned so that the left edge is vertical (if turned along this edge, the text on face B would be horizontal). Right: the top edge of the tablet, seen from face A, with the ‘spillover’ from face B visible.  41 Figure 2.4. Tablet ##209 (53.5). Left: face A. Right: face B.  41 Figure 2.5. The teardrop impression, seen from the side (with possible angle of incidence of the stylus) and from above (with the impression of the stylus point marked by converging lines).  42 Figure 2.6. Selection of sign shapes and ‘punkt’ mark from ##208. 42 Figure 2.7. Possible shapes of stylus tip, as used in practical experiments. The bottom shape comes closest to that used to form the wedges in ##208, although it was difficult to replicate its sharpness in the wood used. 42 Figure 2.8. Section of tablet ##209 showing shallower teardrop-shaped impressions.  42 Figure 2.9. The Enkomi cylinder.  43 Figure 2.10. Selection of clay balls showing different degrees of teardrop impressions and drawn lines.  43 Figure 2.11. Replica writing-board of similar dimensions to the Ulu Burun diptych. The less defined first four rows were produced with a wooden stylus, the bottom three rows were made with larger styli in metal and hard plastic. 44 Figure 2.12. Tablet ##212. Left: face A. Right: face B.  46 Figure 2.13. Tablet ##213.  46 Figure 2.14. Tablet ##214.  47 Figure 2.15. Tablet ##215. Left: face A. Right: face B.  47 Figure 2.16. Selection of sign shapes from tablet ##215, showing composition using angled teardrops.  48 Figure 2.17. Reconstruction of angles of incidence between the stylus and tablet surface when producing shorter/deeper (left) and longer/shallower (right) teardrop shapes. . 48 Figure 2.18. Selection of sign shapes from tablet ##215 where both small horizontal ‘strokes’ are made with teardrops that ‘point’ to the left (i.e. the stylus was positioned from the right at a ninety-degree angle).  48 Figure 2.19. Selection of sign shapes from tablet ##215 where longer curved lines where required, made either by drawing the pointed end of the stylus round (left) or by making multiple impressions (right).  48

Figure 2.20. Signs in tablet ##212 showing teardrop-shaped impressions (left) and drawn lines (right).  Figure 2.21. Signs in tablet ##212 containing circular rounded shapes alongside teardrop shapes and drawn lines.  Figure 2.22. Signs in tablet ##214 demonstrating a combination of thin drawn lines and round shapes impressed with the point of the stylus. Figure 2.23. Clay label ##210.  Figure 2.24. Detail of a reproduction of the early Enkomi tablet ##001, showing the ‘ka’ sign middle-left.

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3. The Brygos Painter’s Miswritten Signature on the Lancastre pelike — Gilberto da Silva Francisco Figure 3.1. Attic red-figure pelike with Brygos’s signature. Manuel Lancastre Collection, Lisbon.  55 Figure 3.2. Signature of Brygos on an Attic pelike; Manuel Lancastre Collection, Lisbon (Appendix 2: 1).  55 Figure 3.3. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 95.57 (Appendix 2: 5).  58 Figure 3.4. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Los Angeles, J. P. Getty, 86.AE.293 (Appendix 2: 9).  58 Figure 3.5. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G152 (Appendix 2: 13).  58 Figure 3.6. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Oxford, Ashmolean, 1911.615 (Appendix 2: 15).  58 Figure 3.7. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; London, British Museum, E65 (Appendix 2: 8).  58 Figure 3.8. Inscriptions on an Attic red-figure cup signed by Brygos, 490–480 bce; London, British Museum, E65 (Appendix 2: 8).  59 Figure 3.9. Inscriptions on an Attic red-figure cup signed by Brygos, 490–480 bce; London, British Museum, E68.  59 Figure 3.10. Inscriptions on an Attic red-figure cup signed by Brygos, c. 490 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G313.  59 Figure 3.11. Signature of Amasis on an Attic black-figure olpe, c. 540 bce. Paris, Musée du Louvre, F30.  59 Figure 3.12. Signature of Exekias on an Attic black-figure type B amphora, 550–540 bce. Paris, Musée du Louvre, F53.  59 Figure 3.13. Signature of Nikosthenes on an Attic black-figure Nikosthenic amphora, 530–520 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, F102.  59 Figure 3.14. Signature of Hermogenes on an Attic black-figure lip cup, 550–545 bce; Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 95.17.  60 Figure 3.15. Signature of Pamphaios on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–475 bce; London, British Museum, E815.  60 Figure 3.16. Signature of Euphronios on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–490 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G105.  60 Figure 3.17. Signature of Kalliades on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–450 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G115.  60 Figure 3.18. Signature of Khakhrylion on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–450 bce; Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 95.33.  60 Figure 3.19. Signature of Epiktetos on an Attic red-figure plate, 520–510 bce; New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1981.11.10.  61 Figure 3.20. Signature of Epiktetos on an Attic red-figure plate, 520–510 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G7.  61 4. A Lesson in a Desert Quarry: A Material Approach to a School Ostracon — Julia Lougovaya Figure 4.1. Ostracon O.Claud. II 415, Qift, archaeological storeroom EAS Claudianus no. 7861. Front view. 

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Figure 4.2. Ostracon O.Claud. II 415. Columns 4, 5, and 6. Qift, archaeological storeroom EAS Claudianus no. 7861.  Figure 4.3. Ostracon O.Claud. II 415. Column 5. Qift, archaeological storeroom EAS Claudianus no. 7861. Of the nine entries in this column, that in line 8 was cancelled and the last word (πόρνην in l. 9) was added after the list had been completed. 

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5. Inspecto nummo… — Dario Calomino Figure 5.1. AR denarius of Hadrian: Rome, 118 ce (LON-F67AFA; 18 mm). 84 Figure 5.2. AV aureus of Augustus: Spain c. 18–16 bc. 84 Figure 5.3. AV quaternion of Maxentius: Rome, c. 308 ce. 86 Figure 5.4. AR tetradrachm of Nicomedes III: Bithynia, 111 bce (obverse, NMD RP 2753.1; photo R. H. Nielsen: 34 mm). 86 Figure 5.5. AR denarius of Mark Antony: Asia Minor, c. 41 bce (London Coin Galleries 2015; obverse: 19 mm). 86 Figure 5.6. AE medallion of Caracalla: Cyzicus, c. 214–215 ce (obverse, BM.1906,1010.1; 42 mm). 87 Figure 5.7. AE nummus (‘maiorina’) of Julian: Nicomedia, 361–363 ce (HMB inv. 1953.1; 30 mm). 87 Figure 5.8. AV Visigoth tremissis of Justinian I: Spain, 565 ce (reverse, NY.ANS.2014.45.1; photo courtesy American Numismatic Society: 15 mm; [accessed 1 March 2023]). 88 Figure 5.9. AE nummus of Magnentius: Gaul/Germany, c. 353 ce (Forum of Grumentum inv. 269285 — Grumento Nova (PT); 26 mm). 89 Figure 5.10. AE nummus of Magnentius: Gaul/Germany, c. 353 ce (necropolis of Nempont-SaintFirmin — Hauts-de-France: 27 mm). 89 Figure 5.11. Brass dupondius of Nero: Rome, 64/65 ce (Rheinisches LandesMuseum Bonn no. 6783: 29 mm). 89 Figure 5.12. Brass dupondius of Nero: Rome, 64 ce (CNG eAuction 336, October 2014, lot 254; 30 mm). 90 Figure 5.13. Brass sestertius of Maximinus Thrax: Rome, 236 ce (30 mm). 90 Figure 5.14. AE coin of Julia Domna: Emesa, 215/216 ce (CNG eAuction 335, July 2015, lot 305: 30 mm). 90 Figure 5.15. AE coin of Julia Mamaea: Cibyra, 225/226 ce (NY.ANS.1973.191.38; 29 mm; [accessed 1 March 2023]). 91 Figure 5.16. AE coin of Julia Mamaea: Cibyra, 225/226 ce (BM.1903,0204.111; 30 mm). 91 Figure 5.17. AE coin of Geta: Dardanus, 198–209 ce (BNF.634 [accessed 1 March 2023]). 91 6. What Is a Book? — Nicola Reggiani Figures 6.1–6.2.  The two sides of a red-figure Greek kylix by Douris: papyrus roll and wax tablets in practice during a music class (c. 490–485 bce; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Antikensammlung). Images from the Beazley Archive. Figure 6.3. Greek commercial letter on lead tablet (Ampurias, Spain, fifth century bce; Archaeology Museum of Catalonia). Figure 6.4. Orphic ritual golden tablet (mid-fourth century bce; the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles). Figure 6.5. Fragments of the Derveni papyrus, containing a commentary to an Orphic cosmogony (Derveni, Greek Macedony, c. 340–432 bce; Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki). 

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Figure 6.7. T.Vindol. 21: Latin letter on wooden tablet, folded like a codex (Vindolanda, northern Britain, first–second centuries ce).  100 Figure 6.6. Altar of Domitius Aenobarbus (Campus Martius, Rome, ante 107 bce; Paris, Louvre): the censitor with the tabulae censoriae.100 Figure 6.8. SB XXVI 16551 = SB XXVIII 16911: parchment notebook with a register of dike workers (Fayum?, Egypt, first half of the third century ce; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Ägyptische Museum und Papyrussammlung). 101 Figure 6.9. P.Bodmer 2: papyrus codex with John’s Gospel (Panopolis, Egypt, first half of the third century ce; Fondation Martin Bodmer, Université de Genève). 102 Figure 6.10. P.Kell. III 95: wooden codex with an anthology of Isocrates’ orations (Kellis, Dakhleh Oasis, Egypt, fourth century ce). Image from [accessed 1 March 2023]. 103 Figure 6.11. PSI VI 718: page from a parchment notebook with medical recipes (Hermoupolis Magna, Egypt, fourth century bce; Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana).  103 7. Women in Trouble, and the Habit of Objectifying a Text in the So-Called Confession Inscriptions — Irene Salvo Figure 7.1. Stele to Meter Andirene, from Karakoca, Lydia, 71/72 ce. Reproduced with the permission of Hasan Malay (Malay and Petzl 2017, 183). 117 Figure 7.2. Stele to Apollo Bozenos, from Kula, Lydia. Second–third centuries. Photo courtesy of Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Antikensammlung / Johannes Laurentius, CC BY-SA 4.0. 118 Figure 7.3. Stele to Zeus from Twin Oaks, from Mt Toma, Saittai, Lydia. Musées Royaux d’Art et d’Histoire, Brussels. 253/254 ce.  120 8. Epigraphy and the Power of Precedence in Asia Minor — Naomi Carless Unwin Figure 8.1. Part one of the drawing of the name lists from the Korykian Cave. Heberdey and Wilhelm 1896, 73. Figure 8.2. Imperial copy of a Hellenistic letter of Seleukos II to Olympichos (I. Labraunda 1B–2). Labraunda Archive (LabArP:1951:714). Figure 8.3. Reconstruction of the south anta of Andron B, showing the positions of the remaining inscriptions. J. Blid and N. Carless Unwin. Figure 8.4. View from the north of the temple of Zeus, Aizanoi. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-617). Figure 8.5. View of the interior pronaos wall, showing the positioning of the Hadrianic correspondence. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-626). 9. Inscribed Materialities: Greek Curse Tablets — Jessica Lamont Figure 9.1. Inscribed base of grave stele erected to Βίττη, c. 450–440 bce. Found by Línos Politis in Aigiali Bay (Chora, Amorgos Museum, inv. K 34). 0.15 m H; 0.83 m L; 0.34 m W. Figure 9.2. Attic lead curse tablet with drill hole, c. 400 bce. Found by Maria Petritaki near Agios Ioannis Rentis (Piraeus Museum).  Figure 9.3. Attic lead curse tablet of irregular shape: melted lead offcut. c. 400 bce. Found by Maria Petritaki near Agios Ioannis Rentis (Piraeus Museum). 

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Figure 9.4. Attic lead curse tablet, c. 350–300 bce. Found in a grave in Piraeus in 1872. Cleaned and republished by Curbera from within the Wünsch collection (DTA 67). Written from right to left (retrograde). Figure 9.5. DTA 108, Attic lead curse tablet, fourth century bce. Koumanoudis 1869, 333. Figure 9.6. Iron nail, first century bce. Lead fragments from five pierced curse tablets affixed to head of the nail. Baltimore, Johns Hopkins Archaeological Museum, inv. JHUAM 2011.06.

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10. Formulating Faith on Objects and Buildings — Sean V. Leatherbury Figure 10.1. Marble relief fragment with scenes from the Trojan War, reverse with ‘Theodorus’ magic square inscription, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. First half of the first century ce.  160 Figure 10.2. Epitaph of Licinia Amias with fish and acronym of Christ’s name (ΙΧΘΥΣ), from the area of the Vatican necropolis, Rome. Early third century ce. Photo by Marie-Lan Nguyen. 161 Figure 10.3. Inscription from the south-east corner of the city wall, Aphrodisias. Late fifth–early sixth centuries ce.  162 Figure 10.4. Gold cross pendant excavated in Caesarea Maritima (labelled ‘no. 8’), now in the Milan Archaeological Museum. Sixth–seventh centuries ce.  163 Figure 10.5. Mould for a cross, now in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, Richmond. Sixth–seventh centuries ce. Photo by David Stover,  164 Figure 10.6a–b. Gold cross pendant, now in the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Byzantine Collection, Washington, D.C.; a: front with birds in enamel; b: reverse with inscription. Late sixth century ce.  165 Figure 10.7. Detail, reverse of gold cross pendant with inscription, found in Kerch, Crimea, now in the British Museum, London. Seventh century ce.  166 Figure 10.8. Detail, reverse of gold pendant with inscription, now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of J. Pierpont Morgan, 1917. Sixth–seventh centuries ce.  166 Figure 10.9a–b. Gold cross pendant, reported to be from Cyprus, now in the Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., Gift of Charles Lang Freer. Sixth century ce.  167 Figure 10.10. Textile roundel with Greek inscription, from Egypt, flax and wool, 1 ½ × 1 ¼ in. (3.8 × 3.2 cm), now in the Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the Egypt Exploration Fund. Fifth–sixth centuries ce. 168 Figure 10.11. Detail, floor mosaic of a monastic refectory, Hura. Later sixth century ce.  168 11. ‘And the Word Was Made Flesh’ — Paweł Nowakowski Figure 11.1. East end the nave of the church of Kosmas and Damianos at Jerash. Courtesy of Marlena Whiting. Figure 11.2. Theodoros (the church of Kosmas and Daminos at Jerash). From: Piccirillo 2008, 276.  Figure 11.3. Georgia (the church of Kosmas and Daminos at Jerash). From: Piccirillo 2008, 277.  Figure 11.4. Khirbet Beit Sila (mosaic of the east end of the nave).  Figure 11.5. Khirbet Beit Sila (hole under the altar).  Figure 11.6. Horvat Be’er-Shema/Khirbet al-Far (mosaic of the presbyterium and the reliquary pit).  Figure 11.7a. Khirbet Hesheq (mosaic of the reliquary pit in the southern apse). From: Di Segni 1990a, 381. Courtesy of Jacob Ashkenazi and Mordechai Aviam.

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Figure 11.7b. Khirbet Hesheq (mosaic of the reliquary pit in the southern apse, after the most recent restoration). Courtesy of Jacob Ashkenazi and Mordechai Aviam. Figure 11.8. Church of St Basilios at Rihab (mosaic of the presbyterium and the reliquary pit). From: Piccirillo 1981, tav. 55.  Figure 11.9. CPA inscriptions from Khirbat al-Kursi (mosaic in the presbyterium). From: Piccirillo 1988, pl. 52.  Figure 11.10. Greek and CPA inscriptions from the church at Umm al-Rus near Beit Jimal (mosaic in the presbyterium).  Figure 11.11. Reliquary from Khirbet Khalid with a Syriac inscription. From: Hunter 1991, 164, pl. III.  Figure 11.12. Graffiti from Rusafa.  12. Elegy, Epigram, and the Complementarity of Text and Monument — Joseph W. Day Figure 12.1. ‘Kroisos’s grave marker’, from Olympos and Phoinikia, Attica, now Athens, National Archaeological Museum, 3851 and 4754. c. 540.  Figure 12.2. Aristion of Paros, ‘Phrasikleia’s grave marker’, from Markopoulo and Merenda, Attica, now Athens, National Archaeological Museum, 4889. c. 540. Colour reconstruction (2010): Liebieghaus Skulpturensammlung, Frankfurt, Polychromy Research Project, Frankfurt am Main, since 2014 loan from Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich, Leibnizpreis 2007, O. Primavesi.  Figure 12.3. ‘Cenotaph in southwestern cemetery, on harbour road’, Arta (ancient Ambrakia), in situ. c. 500. Photo: © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (N. 3028/2002 and N. 3081/2002), Ephorate of Antiquities of Arta, by Seth Estrin. . Figure 12.4. Philourgos, ‘Mnasitheos’s grave marker’, from Akraiphia, Boiotia, now Thebes, Archaeological Museum of Thebes, 28200. c. 520–510. Photo: © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (N. 3028/2002 and N. 3081/2002), Archive of the Ephoreia of Antiquities of Boiotia. . Figure 12.5. ‘Rupestral graffito’, Kamariza Lavrion, Attica, in situ. c. 550–500. Photo: courtesy Angelos P. Matthaiou. As at A. P. Matthaiou and I. Rossiou, Horos, 22–25 (2010–2013), 178, fig. 2. Figure 12.6. ‘Sepulchral relief stele’, Athens, Kerameikos Archaeological Museum, P1132. Βefore c. 550.  13. From Courtesans, to Goddesses — Sherry (Chiayi) Lee Figure 13.1. Left panel of the Ludovisi throne, Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano, Palazzo Altemps. Approximately 460 bce. Photo courtesy of the Museo Nazionale Romano, Palazzo Altemps. Courtesy of the Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali Figure 13.2. Map showing the eastern boundary of Epizephyrian Locri, including the extramural temple and U-shaped stoa at Centocamere, and the intramural Marasà temple. After Barra Bagnasco 1994, 232, fig. 1.  Figure 13.3. The Marasà temple (photographed in 2009).

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Federica Scicolone Figure 14.1. Squeeze of the inscription SGO 01/10/01 from Ceramus, Caria, Hellenistic/Imperial period (E. Varinlioğlu, Ep. Anat. 3 (1984), pl. 5c.). 232 Figure 14.2. Tomb of Isidora, necropolis of Tuna el-Gebel, Hermopolis Magna, Egypt, second century ce. 235 Figure 14.3a–b. Photos of Inscr. Métr. 86, painted to the left of the entrance door to Isidora’s burial chamber. 236

Figure 14.4. View of Isidora’s decorated niche, with relief shell and painted couch. Figure 14.5a–b. Photos of Inscr. Métr. 87, painted to the right of the entrance door to Isidora’s burial chamber. 15. Afterword — Michael Squire Figure 15.1. Archaic kore from the Heraion in Samos, c. 570–560 bce. Samos, Vathy Museum, inv. 1750. Photograph: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Athen (D-DAI-ATH-1985/466; ). Figure 15.2. a) ‘Pyrwias’ Corinthian aryballos, c. 580–570 bce. Corinth, Corinth Archaeological Museum, inv. C-54-1.  Figure 15.3. Simias, ‘Wings of Eros’ (Anth. Pal. 15. 24), probably early third century bce. Typeset by Christine Luz. Figure 15.4. a) Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius (‘Optatian’), Carm. 3, as presented in the sixteenth-century Codex Guelferbytanus 9 Augustaneus (labelled ms. W by Giovanni Polara), fol. 5r. Reproduced by kind permission of the Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel. b) Typographic presentation of the same poem (text after Polara 1973, typesetting by Aaron Pelttari). After Squire and Wienand 2018, 29.

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List of Abbreviations

Agora Inv.

Excavations of the Athenian Agora, American School of Classical Studies at Athens: [accessed 1 March 2023] AP Anthologia Palatina (a major component of The Greek Anthology). Book and item numbers ARV Beazley, John D., Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters (Oxford: Clarendon, 1963) AVI Immerwahr, Henry, and Rudolf Watcher, Corpus of Attic Inscriptions , last update 2016 BE Bulletin épigraphique, in Revue des études grecques année. Year and item numbers BMC Gardner, Percy, Barclay V. Head, George F. Hill, Reginald S. Poole, and Warwick Wroth, Catalogue of Greek Coins: The British Museum Collection (London: British Museum, 1873–1927) CEG Hansen, Peter A. (ed.), Carmina epigraphica graeca, i: Saeculorum VIII–V a. Chr. n.; ii: Saeculi IV a. Chr. n, Texte und Kommentare 12, 15 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1983, 1989). Item numbers CGRN Carbon, Jan-Mathieu, Saskia Peels, and Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, A Collection of Greek Ritual Norms (CGRN) (Liège, 2016–) [consulted in 2018] CIIP II Ameling, Walter, Hannah M. Cotton, Werner Eck, Benjamin Isaac, Alla Kushnir-Stein, Haggai Misgav, Jonathan Price, and Ada Yardeni (eds), with contributions by Robert Daniel, Avner Ecker, Michael Shenkar, and Claudia Sode, Corpus inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae, ii: Caesarea and the Middle Coast: 1121–2160 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011) CIIP III Ameling, Walter, Hannah M. Cotton, Werner Eck, Benjamin Isaac, Alla Kushnir-Stein, Haggai Misgav, Jonathan Price, and Ada Yardeni (eds), with contributions by Avner Ecker and Robert Hoyland. 2014. Corpus inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae, iii: South Coast, 2161–2648 (Berlin: De Gruyter) CIIP IV Ameling, Walter, Hannah M. Cotton, Werner Eck, Avner Ecker, Benjamin Isaac, Alla Kushnir-Stein, Haggai Misgav, Jonathan Price, Peter Weiß, and Ada Yardeni (eds). 2018. Corpus inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae, iv: Iudaea/Idumaea, pt 1: 2649–3324; pt 2: 3325–3978 (Berlin: De Gruyter) CVA Corpus vasorum antiquorum (various publishers and dates), 1925– DT Audollent, Auguste, Defixionum tabellae quotquot Innotuerunt tam in Graecis Orientis quam in totius Occidentis partibus praeter Atticas in corpore inscriptionum Atticarum editas (Paris: Fontemoing, 1904) DTA Wünsch, Richard, Defixionum tabellae Atticae (Berlin: Reimer, 1897) EBGR Chaniotis, Angelos, and others, ‘Epigraphic Bulletin for Greek Religion’, Kernos: Revue internationale et pluridisciplinaire de religion grecque antique, 4– (1991–) Estremo Oriente Canali de Rossi, Filippo (ed.), Iscrizioni dello estremo oriente greco: un repertorio, Inschriften griechischer Städte Kleinasien, 65 (Bonn: Habelt, 2004) I. Didyma Rehm, Albert, and Richard Harder (eds), Didyma, ii: Die Inschriften von Albert Rehm (Berlin: Mann, 1958) I. Ephesos Wankel, Hermann, Christoph Börker, Reinhold Merkelbach, Helmut Engelmann, Dieter Knibbe, Recep Meric, Sencer Şahin, and Johannes Nollé (eds), Die Inschriften von Ephesos, Inschriften griechischer Städte Kleinasien, 11–17, 7 vols (Bonn: Habelt, 1979–1981) I. Labraunda Crampa, Jonas (ed.), Labraunda: Swedish Excavations and Researches, iii.1–2: The Greek Inscriptions (Lund: Gleerup, 1969 and 1972) I. Magnesia Kern, Otto (ed.), Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Maeander (Berlin: Spemann, 1900) I. Pessinous Strubbe, Johan (ed.), The Inscriptions of Pessinous, Inschriften Griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 66 (Bonn: Habelt, 2005)

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I. Tralleis

Poljakov, Fjodor B. (ed.), Die Inschriften von Tralleis und Nysa, i: Die Inschriften von Tralleis, Inschriften Griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 36.1 (Bonn: Habelt, 1989) I.Pan Bernand, André, Pan du desert (Leiden: Brill, 1977) ICUR Inscriptiones Christianae urbis Romae IG Inscriptiones graecae (Berlin, 1873–). Volume and item numbers IGR Cagnat, René, Jules Toutain, P. Jonguet, and Georges Lafaye (eds), Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes (Paris: Leroux, 1906–1928) LRBC Carson, Robert A. G., Philip V. Hill, and John P. C. Kent, Late Roman Bronze Coinage (London: Spink, 1962) LRCDOC Grierson, Philip, and Melinda Mays, Catalogue of Late Roman Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection: From Arcadius and Honorius to the Accession of Anastasius (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1992) LSAG2 Jeffery, Lilian H., The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece, 2nd edn with Alan W. Johnston (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) LW Le Bas, Philippe, and William Henry Waddington (eds), Inscriptions grecques et latines recueillies en Gréce en Asie Mineure, iii (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1870) Malay and Petzl, Lydia  Malay, Hasan, and Georg Petzl (eds), New Religious Texts from Lydia (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2017) MAMA IX Levick, Barbara, Stephen Mitchell, James Potter, and Marc Waelkens (eds), Monumenta Asiae Minoris antiqua, ix: Monuments from the Aezanitis Recorded by C. W. M. Cox, A. Cameron, and J. Cullen (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 1988) Milet I. 3 Kawerau, Georg, and Albert Rehm, Milet: Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen und Untersuchungen Seit dem Jahre 1899, i.3: Das Delphinion in Milet (Berlin: Reimer, 1914) Milet II. 3 Gerkan, Armin von. 1935. Milet: Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen und Untersuchungen Seit dem Jahre 1899, ii.3: Die Stadtmauern (Berlin: De Gruyter) ML Meiggs, Russell, and David Lewis (eds), A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century bc, rev. edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988) NGCT Jordan, David, ‘New Greek Curse Tablets (1985–2000)’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 40.1 (2001), 5–46 O.Brit.Mus.Copt. 1  Hall, Henry R. (ed.), Coptic and Greek Texts of the Christian Period from Ostraka, Stelae, etc. in the British Museum (London: British Museum, 1905) O.Claud. Mons Claudianus: Ostraca graeca et latina I, ed. by Jean Bingen, Adam Bülow-Jacobsen, Walter E. H. Cockle, Hélène Cuvigny, Lene Rubinstein, and Wilfried Van Rengen, Documents de fouilles, 29 (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1992) II, ed. by Jean Bingen, Adam Bülow-Jacobsen, Walter E. H. Cockle, Hélène Cuvigny, François Kayser, and Wilfried Van Rengen, Documents de fouilles 32 (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1997) III, Les reçus pour avances à la ‘familia’, ed. by Hélène Cuvigny, Documents de fouilles, 38 (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 2000) IV, The Quarry-Texts, ed. by Adam Bülow-Jacobsen, Documents de fouilles, 47 (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 2009) O.Crum Coptic Ostraca from the Collections of the Egypt Exploration Fund, the Cairo Museum and Others, ed. by Walter E. Crum (London: Egypt Exploration Fund, 1902) Melaerts, Henri (ed.), Papyri in honorem Johannis Bingen Octogenarii, Studia varia Bruxellensia ad P.Bingen orbem graeco-latinum pertinentia, 5 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) P.Bouriant Collart, Paul (ed.), Les Papyrus Bouriant (Paris: Champion, 1926) P.Derveni Kouremenos, Theokritos, George M. Parassoglou, and Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou (eds), The Derveni Papyrus (Florence: Olschki, 2006) [see also Piano 2016, Chapter 6] P.Genova II Zingale, Livia Migliardi (ed.), Papiri dell’Università di Genova, ii, Papyrologica florentina, 6 (Florence: Giuffrè, 1980) P.Gurob Smyly, J. Gilbart (ed.), Greek Papyri from Gurob (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1921) P.Kell. III Worp, Klaas A., and Albert Rijksbaron (eds), The Kellis Isocrates Codex (P. Kell. III Gr. 95) (Oxford: Oxbow, 1997)

li st o f ab b rev iations

Bagnall, Roger S. (ed.), The Kellis Agricultural Account Book (P. Kell. IV Gr. 96) (Oxford: Oxbow, 1997) P.Petaus Hagedorn, Ursula, Dieter Hagedorn, Louise C. Youtie, and Herbert C. Youtie (eds), Das Archiv des Petaus (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1969) P.Ryl. I Hunt, Alan S. (ed.), Catalogue of the Greek and Latin Papyri in the John Rylands Library, Manchester, i: Literary Texts (Manchester: John Rylands Library, 1911) Page FGE Page, Denys L. (ed. and comm.), Further Greek Epigrams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). Item numbers Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl.  Petzl, Georg, ‘Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasiens: Supplement’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 52 (2019), 1–105 Petzl, Beichtinschriften  Petzl, Georg, Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasiens (BIWK), Epigraphica Anatolica, 22 (Bonn: Habelt, 1994) PGM Preisendanz, Karl, with Adam Abt, Erich Diehl, Sam Eitrem, Ludovicus Fahz, Adolf Jacoby, Georg Möller, and Richard Wunsch (eds), Papyri Graecae Magicae: Die griechischen Zauberpapyri, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Leipzig/Berlin 1973–1974) PSI VI Vitelli, Girolamo, and Medea Norsa (eds), Papiri greci e latini, vi (Florence: Ariani, 1920) PSI XI Vitelli, Girolamo, and Medea Norsa (eds), Papiri greci e latini, xi (Florence: Ariani, 1935) RIC The Roman Imperial Coinage, i–x (London: Spink, 1923–1994) Rigsby, Asylia Rigsby, Kent J., Asylia: Territorial Inviolability in the Hellenistic World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996) RRC Crawford, Michael, Roman Republican Coinage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974) Sardis 6. 2. Buckler, W. H. 1924. Sardis: Publications of the American Society for the Excavation of Sardis, vi: Lydian Inscriptions, pt 2 (Leiden: Brill) Sardis 7. 1. Buckler, W. H., and D. M. Robinson. 1932. Sardis: Publications of the American Society for the Excavation of Sardis, vii: Greek and Latin Inscriptions, pt 1 (Leiden: Brill) SB XII Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten, xii: Nr. 10764–11263 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1976–1977) SB XXVIII Jördens, Andrea (ed.), Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten, xxviii (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013) SEG Chaniotis, Angelos, Thomas Corsten, Nikolaos Papazarkadas, Eftychia Stavrianopoulou, and Rolf A. Tybout (eds), Supplementum epigraphicum graecum (Leiden: Brill, 1923–). Volume and item numbers SGD Jordan, David, ‘A Survey of Greek Defixiones Not Included in the Special Corpora’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 26 (1985), 151–97 SGO Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten, ed. and comm. by Reinhold Merkelbach and Josef Stauber, 5 vols (Stuttgart, Leipzig, Munich: Teubner, Saur, 1998–2004). Volume and item numbers SNG Sylloge nummorum Graecorum TAM Tituli Asiae Minoris, i; ii.1–3; iii.1; iv.1; v.1–3 (Vienna: Akademie der Wissenschaften in Wien, 1901–2007) West2 West, Martin L. (ed.), Iambi et elegi graeci ante Alexandrum cantati, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989–1992). Item numbers P.Kell. IV

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Erica Anglik e r and Ilaria Bultrighini

1. Introduction The Material Turn in the Study of Ancient Texts

Over the past few decades, a shift has occurred away from the traditional approach to the study of the content and verbal meaning of ancient texts, especially inscriptions. Scholars are now taking into consideration multiple material aspects of writing, from planning and production to layout and display, provenance, the original setting, and the interactions of texts with the surrounding built and natural environment as well as with their intended audiences.1 Numerous studies of the materiality of text in the ancient world have been written from these perspectives, yet mainly with a focus on inscriptions on monuments. This volume contributes to the increased attention to the materiality of ancient writing by bringing together for the first time discussions of a wide variety of artefacts featuring inscribed texts across different time periods and ancient cultures. The studies gathered in this collection represent a step forward in this emergent field of study by considering a vast range of media associated with texts, including stone monuments, ostraca, vases, lead and clay tablets, papyrus and parchment rolls, and codex supports — as well as objects that are not necessarily immediately associated with writing, such as pendants, reliquaries, mosaics, and coins. The consideration of such a wide variety of media not only demonstrates the pervasiveness of writing on all sorts of objects, but also offers deep insights into the ways in which the

1 As an example, over twenty years ago, Feraudi-Gruénais (2001, 203) affirmed, with reference to Roman funerary inscriptions, ‘a detailed investigation in terms of their placement has so far been a desideratum.’ Borg 2019 is among those who have taken such an approach to Roman tombs and associated inscriptions. For a relatively early plea for ‘an integrated approach to epigraphical culture’ linking object, text, and location (sometimes referred to as archaeological epigraphy), see Oliver 2000. For writing and material practice see Piquette and Whitehouse 2013.

various materials conveyed messages to viewers. The chapters in the present volume present texts produced by various ancient cultures in the wider Mediterranean region across a vast time span extending from the Late Bronze Age to Late Antiquity. The discussion of various types of text-bearing objects in a single volume reveals parallels among media with respect to the production of writing, its interaction with viewers and social impact, and the sensory, spatial, and aesthetic dimensions of inscribed artefacts. Scholars specializing in different branches of the study of the ancient world, including epigraphists, historians, archaeologists, philologists, art historians, numismatists, etc., have been asked to engage in the analysis of texts in terms of the intermingling of media, messages, cultural contexts, and viewers in a fundamentally new way which considers how the material medium shaped the message transmitted and how text and object interacted with the viewer. Although the various chapters can of course be read separately, they complement one another. Drawing on disciplines including epigraphy, archaeology, papyrology, philology, art history, numismatics, material culture studies, codicology, linguistics, religious studies, and ancient history, the argumentations presented in these chapters demonstrate the heuristic value of an interdisciplinary approach to the study of the materiality of ancient writing. There is a particular emphasis on portable objects, which so far have been seldom investigated as text-bearing artefacts. Perhaps more than any other kind of writing, texts on portable objects serve as evidence that some types of writing (e.g. on vases, loom weights) played

Erica Angliker  •  ([email protected]) is Research Associate at the British School at Athens Ilaria Bultrighini  •  ([email protected]) is Honorary Research Fellow in Ancient History at University College London New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 19-32 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133895

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a large role in everyday social and material practices. As several of the chapters show, writing added special significance and power to many artefacts used in daily life. Moreover, texts on portable objects by their very nature raise issues about their intended audiences, and the materiality of an object and the writing that it carries may have influenced the audiences of these texts and also reflected their experiences. Due consideration is naturally given to the fact that some of the intended audiences may have been divine or otherwise supernatural, as in the case of votives and curse tablets. The concept of materiality here comprises both the physical material preserving the text and the cultural and social context in which the artefact existed. Questions pertaining to the materiality of writing from an anthropological perspective are beyond the scope of the present volume.2 Rather, our contributors are interested in the specific purposes of writing, the people who produced it, and the interplay of text-bearing objects with viewers in the context of shifts in dimension from monumental to small texts. Some of the chapters address the materiality of text in a literally ‘concrete’ sense as they deal with the media and tools used to produce writing and the forms of individual letters. The emphasis is largely on portable objects (Sections I, II, and IV), which to date have received far less scholarly attention than monumental inscriptions. Some of these inscribed items once belonged to individuals and, as such, offer insights into the private sphere in the ancient to late antique world. Inscriptions on monuments and buildings form the focus of Section III and are occasionally addressed in other sections (IV and V), for, despite having been more widely discussed, certain aspects of these texts remain to be explored. The various methodologies the authors employ consistently take into account the broader culture as well as the immediate spatial context of the inscriptions and the transmission of texts on various media. The chapters in the final section (V) extend the discussion to the creation of fictional narratives and the role of materiality in this process. This section focuses on Greek epigrams (both literary and epigraphic), a category of texts that has recently received a certain amount of attention from the perspective of the materiality of text. The contributions in the volume, then, illustrate how a variety of media carrying text impacted on perceptions of their content and meaning. The writing discussed here ranges from signatures of potters, single words, and abbreviated names inscribed on portable objects to long inscriptions carved on monuments and poetic verses engraved on stone or preserved in the literary tradition. Taken together, the studies presented here

2 On such approaches see, e.g., Hicks 2010.



show the interplay between material and medium on the one hand and writing and its contexts on the other involving a wide range of objects in antiquity. In the contemporary era, as texts are undergoing a significant technological transition in the form of digitalization — a process that may be conceived of as stripping them of their physical dimension — the significance of the materiality of writing is a particularly timely consideration for the humanities generally.3

Background Before the shift in emphasis just described, archaeologists, philologists, and epigraphists considered writing, the materials on which it appears, and its historical and material contexts as separate elements, a distinction that led to a number of methodological problems for archaeologists and textual critics.4 The history of this distinction between message and material goes back to the fifteenth century, when European antiquarians first began copying ancient inscriptions from monuments around the Mediterranean.5 In most cases, they did so without making any reference to the monuments or objects on which they had found the writing. Furthermore, their compilations often presented the inscriptions in random order or in accordance with agendas that shifted with changes in the audiences for such scholarship over the centuries.6 As a result, many inscriptions carved on various types of monuments were overlooked and never incorporated into such compilations. It was only in the eighteenth century that the gap between epigraphy and material objects began to close thanks to the discovery of a series of artefacts with writing in ancient languages hitherto unknown (in particular, Assyrian, Egyptian, and Mayan). The burst of interest in these languages not only created totally new disciplines (e.g. Assyriology, Egyptology, and Mayan studies) but also inspired collaborations among archaeologists, epigraphists, and philologists, for decipherment required both meticulous records

3 Bodel 2012; Hammond 2016; see also the chapter by Reggiani in this volume. 4 These methodological issues attracted the attention of a number of archaeologists and epigraphists: Moreland 2001; 2006; Kohl 2006; Zettler 2008; Rutz and Kersel 2014; Felle and Rocco 2016. The problems caused by the separation between writing and its material support are explored in detail by Day 2010 and Baumbach and others 2010, who established new methods to approach texts and their materiality, which have been amply used by scholars working on these topics. 5 Sanders 2006; Trigger 2006; Baines and others 2008. 6 Reynolds and Wilson 2013.

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and the methods of classical philology.7 Nonetheless, considerable time elapsed before the experts began to explore the relationship between writing and its materiality in depth. Although modern epigraphists have always been attentive to the physical qualities of inscriptions, with which they deal directly when examining the stones or other materials on which ancient texts appear, until a few decades ago, as has been seen, materiality was not among their central concerns.8 So it was that, for most of the twentieth century, objects and the inscriptions on them continued to be viewed as discrete elements, and, even as recently as in the 1980s, the scholarship remained largely logocentric, privileging linguistic content over the physical properties of writing.9 Only in the present century has this situation changed fundamentally. Among the new aspects of the study of ancient writing associated with this shift in emphasis is the use of an interdisciplinary perspective that encompasses epigraphy, archaeology, history, philology, and sensorial and aesthetics studies. Thus, a full account of an inscription today is expected to include attention to its topography, design, context, and social as well as cultural significance.10 Ancient Greek epigrams, which are intrinsically tied to the monuments on which they appear, now receive not only more scholarly attention than previously but are also studied within their particular material, historical, and political contexts.11 Inscribed Greek epigrams on votives are likewise being scrutinized as integral aspects of dedication practices at Greek sanctuaries and in terms of their religious significance in ritual practices.12 Scholars are likewise placing great importance on the interactions between writing and the readers and viewers of it.13 Attention to the physicality of texts and their locations helps to account for the interactions between writing and the individuals who engaged with it, thereby reintegrating it







7 There are numerous examples that illustrate the collaboration between disciplines in the study of inscriptions. Alföldy 1991 and 2003 and Eck 1998 use inscriptions to study imperial power and administration; Moreland 2001; 2006 and Kohl 2006 reflect on the materiality of inscriptions within the archaeological record, while Zettler 2008 considers the social context of the inscriptions. 8 Cf. e.g. Rutz and Kersel 2014. 9 Havelock 1981; 1986; Ong 1982. 10 See Alföldy and Panciera 2001 for inscriptions as monuments in the Roman world; Chaniotis 2003 for the perception of the inscriptions of Aphrodisias; Baird and Taylor 2011 for the context of ancient graffiti; Petrain 2014 for text images on the Tabulae Iliacae and visual storytelling; Dietrich and others 2020 for inscriptions on statues. 11 Baumbach and others 2010; Kaczko 2016. 12 Day 2010. 13 Baumbach and others 2010; Day 2010.

into its original landscape.14 Interest in these interactions between inscriptions and their readers and viewers has also motivated studies of the emotional impact of inscriptions,15 as well as the connections between them and the images with which they are sometimes associated, whether these are two-dimensional, such as paintings or reliefs, or three-dimensional, such as sculptures.16 In like manner, scholars have begun to consider the aesthetic qualities of writing. Michael Squire approached Homer from a fresh perspective by examining the interplay between and integration of images and writing in the miniature marble tablets with images on one side and text with epic themes on the other known as the Tabulae Iliacae, a much-neglected type of object.17 Likewise, other studies in the present century have focused on the craftsmanship of engravers and the ways in which the artisans who designed the monuments blended writing with images.18 The immense potential of the materiality of ancient texts for research is also reflected in the number of conferences and publications on the subject in the present century. Of particular note in this regard is a conference held at Durham University in 2012, whose proceedings were published in 2019.19 Most of the inscriptions explored in this generously illustrated collection of essays are monumental, and the contributors emphasized the manner of their placement and presence and the ways in which they were perceived. They employed methodologies from the fields of ancient history, literature, philology, art history, and, of course, epigraphy to consider topics ranging from the analysis of forms and perceptions of writing to the positioning of texts in epigraphic, literary, and architectural spaces. Another important contribution to the study of the materiality of text is the research project Materiale Textkulturen, which was initiated at the University of Heidelberg in 2011 and is designed to continue until

14 Svenbro 1993; Sickinger 1999; Pébarthe 2006; Bakewell 2006; Glaraki 2007; Thomas 2009; Haensch 2009; Missiou 2011; Pappas 2011. 15 Chaniotis 2012a; 2012b; 2012c; 2012d; Chaniotis and Ducrey 2013; Kotsifou 2012; Salvo 2012. 16 Day 1989; Smith 2002; Pébarthe 2006; Kaczko 2009; 2012; 2014; Butz 2010; Pappas 2011; Ma 2013; Karlsson 2014; Leypold 2014; Elsner 2015; Pinarello 2015; Chiarini 2018; Kalaitzi 2016; Whitley 2017; Sarri 2018; Steele 2018; Petrovic and others 2019; Ritter-Schmalz, and Schwitter 2019; Dietrich and others 2020. The bibliography on this subject (as well as on the emotions in addition to that cited in the previous footnote) is immense. The selection of works is representative but not complete. 17 Squire 2011. 18 Barbantani 2007; 2014; 2018; Eastmond 2015; Bedos-Rezak and Hamburger 2016; Dietrich and others 2020. 19 Petrovic and others 2019.

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2023. The purpose of the project is, simply put, to examine a variety of texts written on various objects, including pillars, gates, tombstones, potsherds, amulets, scrolls, parchment, and paper. Across a broad range of cultures and periods, the unifying theme is materiality. Accordingly, the volumes originating from the project address such issues as the circumstances in which writing is produced, its spatial arrangement, how it is accessed, and the uses of inscribed objects.20 Since 2014, De Gruyter has published more than thirty volumes in the series, including interdisciplinary essays that pose theoretical questions about text-bearing monuments and objects as well as more general questions about the visibility and legibility of writing.21 In general, the topics covered pertain to the materiality of writing within the field of classical studies, a representative example being a stimulating volume on inscribed artefacts and their surroundings that appeared in 2017.22 The essays in this book present various methodologies for assessing the placement and perception of ancient inscriptions.23 Other volumes focus on the materiality of letter writing in the Graeco-Roman world, showing that the appearance of letters varied according to the socio-cultural backgrounds of the writer and recipient.24 One volume is dedicated entirely to the graffiti at Pompeii and their impact on passers-by.25 Yet another focuses on cameos and amulets, a class of inscribed objects that has rarely received consideration, with essays on various cultures that devote particular attention to the associations of the texts on the objects with magic.26 These recent publications, then, reflect the multiple ways the study of the materiality of writing can be approached. Inevitably, given the scope of this review, the present discussion touches only on some of the more influential works in the field, among which a recent volume on the materiality of Greek and Roman texts and the significance of context, medium, and semantics also deserves mention.27 All of this work demonstrates that, as scholars include ever more types of text-bearing objects in their investigations and examine the various material aspects, contexts, and historical periods in which they originate, new questions arise about meaning and interpretation.

20 For further details on the project, see [accessed 1 March 2023]. 21 Frese and others 2014. 22 Berti and others 2017. 23 On these topics, see also Petrovic and others 2019. 24 Sarri 2018. 25 Lohmann 2017. 26 Kiyanrad and others 2018. 27 Ritter-Schmalz and Schwitter 2019.

Organization and Content of the Book The present volume grew out of a colloquium session titled ‘Current Approaches to the Materiality of Texts in Graeco-Roman Antiquity’ and held at the 119th Joint Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America and the Society for Classical Studies in Boston in January 2018. The session included papers presented by Joseph Day, Federica Scicolone, and Sean Leatherbury, which appear here in updated and expanded form.28 The remaining chapters were prepared especially for this volume in order to cover a greater variety of written objects and explore further questions concerning materiality across disciplines. Michael Squire kindly agreed to provide an Afterword. In what follows, we consider the individual chapters and discuss the various ways in which each advances the study of the materiality of text in the ancient Mediterranean world. The contributions are organized thematically and arranged in five sections. Section I, ‘Texts on Portable Objects — Tablets, Vases, Ostraca, and the Inscribing Hand’, includes three chapters on various types of small, portable text-bearing objects, which focus on the role of the producer(s) and their relation to material and text. The section opens with a comparative examination by Philippa Steele and Philip Boyes of the methods used to inscribe Cypro-Minoan clay tablets found at Enkomi in Cyprus and Ugarit in Syria. The authors demonstrate that the interactions between Cypriot and cuneiform writing traditions were considerably more complex and dynamic than previously assumed. Their study complements recent work on the materiality of texts from the Bronze Age Aegean, eastern Mediterranean, and ancient Near East,29 and represents an essential contribution to the literature on the material dimensions of the production of writing in a range of historical and geographical contexts in the ancient world. Several recent studies have taken a holistic approach, combining the analysis of the epigraphic characteristics of inscribed artefacts, such as the layout and direction of writing, with that of such physical features as shape, size, thickness, colour, written surface, the material(s) of which the artefacts are made, and the techniques and types of equipment used for writing.30 This holistic approach has been providing new insights into the

28 The other speakers at the colloquium session were Silvia Barbantani, Catherine E. Bonesho, and Silvia Ferrara. 29 See especially Balke and Tsouparopoulou 2016, the various chapters in Piquette and Whitehouse 2013; Smith 2002; Ferrara 2012–2013; Hilgert 2017; and Steele 2018. 30 See Piquette and Whitehouse 2013 on the variety of contexts and historical periods; Taylor 2011 and Matthews 2013 on clay tablets inscribed with cuneiform writing; Caputo and Cowey 2018 on

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scribal world, ancient literacy, and, more broadly, into the socio-cultural history of the ancient Mediterranean. The next chapter, by Gilberto da Silva Francisco, addresses the materiality of inscriptions on Greek vases, in particular Attic pots of the sixth and fifth centuries bce. He presents a case study of an authorship inscription on an Attic red-figure pelike from the Manuel de Lancastre Collection in Portugal and also addresses general issues related to the material aspects of writing on Archaic and early Classical Greek pottery. He advances a line of research developed over the past two decades, which transcends the traditional, purely linguistic approach to vase inscriptions with the aim of providing a more complete understanding of the meanings and functions of these texts, by looking at them as integral to the vessels on which they were scratched or painted. Attention to such aspects as the interplay of word and image, the type of pot chosen for inscription, the aesthetic and performative components of writing on pottery, and the relationships among a vessel’s shape, its decoration (including images and inscriptions), production context, and use, complements the philological study of vase inscriptions.31 In the third chapter of this section, Julia Lougovaya discusses another medium that has only recently begun to receive systematic consideration from the perspective of materiality, namely ostraca.32 While potsherds were not often used to jot down brief texts in ancient Athens (excepting the notable case of those used in ostracism), as Lougovaya points out, this was undoubtedly a widespread and long-lived tradition in Egypt.33 A nearly indestructible and readily portable medium for writing, ostraca bore a wide range of mostly ephemeral texts, such as private letters, contracts for sale, leases, mortgages of private property, marriage contracts, lists or accounts, tax receipts, memoranda, school exercises, and liturgical and scientific texts. As is the case with the coins discussed in the chapter by Dario Calomino, these texts reflect and are a product of a variety of daily activities of ordinary people from

various segments of society. Lougovaya’s analysis includes the case study of a school ostracon written in Greek originating from Mons Claudianus in the Eastern Desert of Egypt and dating to the middle or late second century ce. Through attention to the textual and linguistic features as well as the material aspects of the sherd (its shape, the handwriting, the layout of the text, etc.), along with its archaeological, cultural, and social contexts, Lougovaya enhances our understanding of the use of ostraca in educational settings and the role of literacy in the society of Roman Egypt.34 The two chapters in Section II, ‘Texts on Portable Objects — Coins, Rolls, Codices, and the Authoritativeness of Texts’, discuss small text-bearing artefacts with considerable power to convey official and authoritative texts and messages. Dario Calomino inaugurates the study of Roman coins as text-bearing artefacts. As objects of daily use characterized by the combination of inherently complementary writing and images, coins appear to be a medium especially amenable to investigation from the perspective of the materiality of text. At the same time, as small, portable artefacts serving the everyday functions of exchange and payment, coins were destined to constant transfer from hand to hand, thus lacking a physical setting and spatial context of their own. A materiality of text approach is applied here for the first time to numismatic materials to determine the ways in which images and inscriptions on coins impacted on and were received by the Roman public, and how individuals engaged practically with the designs and writing on them. Calomino emphasizes the importance, when studying the reception of the ideological messages with which coins were invested by Roman authorities, of taking into account the geographical and archaeological contexts in which they were found. In terms of individuals’ engagement with the images and inscriptions on coins, Calomino focuses on two forms of tactile interaction: scratching graffiti onto coins, and erasing or otherwise altering their designs and texts. While the former practice yielded texts that may or may not have been associated with the images and legends that originally appeared on the coins, the act of defacing a coin was intrinsically connected to the message(s) it conveyed. In both cases, the resulting written expressions reveal the personal, political, ideological, and religious sentiments of individuals from various social levels in the Roman world. Nicola Reggiani takes a longue durée approach to the history of books in the Graeco-Roman world, from fifth-century Athens to Late Antiquity. His examination of two further categories of ancient text-bearing artefacts,

ostraca from the Fayum in Egypt; Pinarello 2015 and Eckardt 2018 on ancient Egypt and the Roman world, respectively, in each case with a focus on the study of writing implements. 31 Cf. Snodgrass 2000; Osborne and Pappas 2007; Pappas 2011; Gerleigner 2014; Yatromanolakis 2016; Whitley 2017. 32 See Haring 2018; Lougovaya 2018; and Caputo and Cowey 2018, all of which are printed in the same volume (Hoogendijk and van Gompel 2018), with discussion ranging from an analysis of the choice of papyrus or ostraca as writing material in late Ramesside Thebes to the uses of three groups of Greek ostraca from the Ptolemaic and early Byzantine periods based on consideration of their material properties and a combined ceramological and textual study of two groups of ostraca from the Fayum. See also Caputo and Lougovaya 2020. 34 For a recent discussion of literacy in Roman Egypt, see a number 33 Cf. e.g. Bagnall 2011, 117–44. of the contributions in Kolb 2018.

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the papyrus or leather (parchment) roll and the codex (a set of bound sheets or tablets), emphasizes the relationship between the two main book formats of Greek and Roman antiquity in terms of content and function.35 Reggiani traces the history and development of these formats over the centuries and stresses the conceptual as well as typological contraposition between them. In ancient Greece, the papyrus roll or scroll was traditionally reserved for literary and otherwise authoritative texts for public use, with the aim of preserving and disseminating knowledge. Thus, the earliest book rolls were endowed with a quasi-sacred character. Codex-like supports, on the other hand, served primarily to record ephemeral, everyday, and private texts. In the third and second centuries bce, the Greek tradition of (papyrus) rolls was introduced to Rome. Finally, by the late Roman Imperial period, the parchment codex — a sort of synthesis of the two main formats — emerged as the favoured book format. Accordingly, this shift occurred in terms of format (i.e. from roll to codex) as well as material (from papyrus to parchment). Reggiani emphasizes the socio-cultural and ideological factors that contributed to this ‘revolution’ in Late Antiquity. Such revolution, he argues, resulted from the rise to power of the middle class, whose culture and ideological views became dominant.36 The two chapters of Section III, ‘Texts on Monuments and Buildings — Spaces and Contexts of Ancient Inscriptions’, shift the focus from portable to large-scale text-bearing objects and address the materiality of inscriptions on monuments and buildings. Irene Salvo looks at the ‘confession’ inscriptions from Roman Asia Minor. These constitute a corpus of Greek epigraphic texts engraved on stone stelai, which were dedicated at sanctuaries in Lydia and Phrygia over the first three centuries ce. By engaging with issues ranging from religious mentality and ritual practice to gender and agency and applying the theories of praxeology, Salvo sheds new light on these texts as material, tangible products of ritual actions that were performed in accordance with a set of socially determined habits of interaction with the divine among members of the civic community. A major concern throughout the chapter is the degree and mode of social agency experienced by Greek women in Asia Minor during the Roman

Imperial period.37 The analysis of the confession inscriptions through the lenses of the materiality of texts and praxeology demonstrates that the women who were involved in the dedication of this specific type of inscribed stele at Lydian and Phrygian sanctuaries should not be considered a distinct group, for there is no evidence that their participation in the socio-cultural processes related to the confession inscriptions differed from that of the male worshippers. In the second chapter of Section III, Naomi Carless Unwin explores the connections among inscribed monuments, history, and civic memory in the cities of Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor. Her examination contributes to cultural memory studies by exploring the role of monumental epigraphy in evoking and shaping the memory of the cultural past in ancient cities.38 The author considers examples of both the repurposing of inscriptions as material testimonies to civic history and the inscription or re-inscription of documents after their composition — a process that served to commemorate the past and link it to the present. Through case studies from Sardis, Miletos, and other cities in Asia Minor, Carless Unwin analyses the materiality of civic inscriptions, showing that in many instances the verbal content seems not to have been the key motivation for the reuse of these texts. Rather, she argues, the reuse was primarily prompted by specific visual and physical properties. The repurposing of a bilingual GreekLydian inscription at Sardis in the Imperial period, for example, was inspired by the fact that the language of the inscription was Lydian, thereby associating it with a distant Lydian past to which contemporary citizens of Sardis desired to strengthen their connections. The retroactive inscription of epigraphic monuments raises the question of whether the texts were actually meant to be read. In some cases, no thought seems to have been given to the legibility of inscriptions, which was hindered by their location high on a building or the small size of their lettering. For those who planned and produced these texts, Carless Unwin concludes, the overall visual impact of the monuments on which these were inscribed was clearly more important than their readability. As Alison Cooley emphasized (2018, 29, 33), advancing the study of ancient epigraphy requires a commitment to ‘venture beyond an interpretative framework that focuses upon the role of readers […]

35 Cf. e.g. the study of the materiality of book writing in Graeco 37 On the relationship between female agency and writing in Roman antiquity by Johnson 2004 based on the analysis of the Graeco-Roman world, cf. Buonopane 2009; Benefiel 2016, the physical details of hundreds of literary papyrus rolls from 104–06; Tueller 2019. See also the chapter by Sherry Lee in this Oxyrhynchus, which offers insights into the production, use, and volume. aesthetics of the ancient book. 38 Cf. Chaniotis 1988 and, more recently, Livingstone 2011; Proietti 36 Scholars continue to debate whether the triumph of the codex 2012; Chaniotis 2013; Benoist and others 2014; the chapters by was due primarily to ideological, technological, or (as e.g. Julia L. Shear, Milena Melfi, and Elizabeth A. Meyer in Berti and Harnett 2017 has recently argued) practical considerations. others 2017; and Dignas 2020.

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which runs the risk of limiting our understanding of the role of inscribed monuments’. Instead, we ought to ‘think in terms of viewers’. The last two sections address ‘Texts that Move through Media’, ranging from monuments and buildings to small portable objects and Greek literary epigrams. The theme of Section IV is ‘Body and Text’, with three chapters that consider various ways and contexts in which the human body is part of the material relations. Jessica Lamont explores material aspects of lead curse tablets from late Archaic and Classical Greece, particularly Attica. In recent years, there has been an increasing interest in the materiality of ancient magic.39 Magical practices are inherently dependent on the combined power and agency of words (both spoken and written) and objects, which makes artefacts that bear magic texts especially well suited to investigation from the perspective of their materiality. Lamont’s contribution concerns the role of lead as the preferred medium in the production of ancient Greek curse tablets. Although binding spells were inscribed on a variety of materials in antiquity, it appears that small sheets of lead were the most common media in the case of both Greek κατάδεσμοι and Roman defixiones.40 The chapter embraces the idea that ancient magical practitioners infused this metal with connotations that made it the preferred vehicle for curses, and that lead as a medium was significant for its material properties.41 Specifically, lead is grey, heavy, and cold, like the corpses with which it was buried. Thanks to these associations, Lamont claims, the material and sensory properties of lead were thought to transfer to and exercise agency over the victim of the curse. Sean Leatherbury’s contribution represents a temporal as well as socio-cultural shift in the book, from pre-Hellenic, ancient Near Eastern, and GraecoRoman contexts to the early Christian world, within which writing, in all of its manifestations, is explicitly, pervasively, and distinctively a Christian phenomenon.42 The focus here is on the uses and meanings of the formula ‘light, life’ (φῶς ζωή), which is found in the Gospel of John and refers to Christ’s role as Saviour. This formula usually appears in the shape of a cross, with

the two words sharing the central letter omega — an arrangement of great visual impact through which the phrase materializes as both text and image. Most popular in the sixth century ce, the formula arranged in this way was written on media including jewellery, textiles, and mosaics.43 In his analysis of this ‘cross-text’ — to borrow a term from the chapter — as well as in much of his work more generally, Leatherbury is attentive to the aesthetics of inscribed texts and to the relationship between inscribed words and images.44 By exploring the variety of material contexts for the formula, ranging from garments and personal accessories (especially pendant crosses) to mosaic floors, he demonstrates the fundamentally private, individual value of the ‘light, life’ symbol, which had a protective function and acted as a prayer for the salvation of the Christian faithful. In the final chapter of this section, Paweł Nowakowski considers questions of placement, embodiment, and agency regarding Greek and Aramaic dedicatory inscriptions in late antique Christian holy sites in the Roman provinces of Syria, Palaestina, and Arabia.45 Nowakowski shows that in some cases such texts were not primarily designed to fulfil the purpose of memorializing and publicly praising the benefactions of the donor(s), as one would expect. Rather, their principal function was apparently to embody or incarnate these individuals, that is, to act as substitutes for their physical persons and thereby ensure their corporeal and perpetual presence in a given church or Christian sanctuary. This conclusion is consistent with the early Christian belief in physical contact with holiness as a source of benefits for the faithful, both on earth and in the afterlife. The peculiar meanings of these texts are revealed through an examination of three main instances: inscriptions enumerating the names of living and deceased supplicants, which were typically placed in restricted areas, especially within the presbyterium, in proximity to altars and reliquary pits; lists of names of benefactors inscribed on objects deemed holy, particularly stone reliquaries; and visitors’ graffiti carved on the walls of pilgrimage centres and holy caves. The graffiti also enabled the construction of what Nowakowski refers to as the ‘presence of the absentees’:

39 Cf. Boschung and Bremmer 2015; Kiyanrad and others 2018; 43 On the multiplicity of media featuring inscriptions in the Roman Parker and McKie 2018. world, conceived of as a ‘lettered environment’, see Kruschwitz 40 See Sánchez Natalías 2018 for Latin curse tablets and Curbera 2016. 2015 for Greek curse tablets. 44 Leatherbury 2020, 4, 19, notes 11–20 provides bibliographical 41 Graf 1997, 132–33; contra Baratta 2012 and Curbera 2015, both of references on this subfield of research across various periods, whom dismiss the assumption that lead was used for magical cultures, and geographical areas, from ancient Assyria to the practices in antiquity owing to its physical properties; they twenty-first century. One may add Agosti 2011–2012 and Felle point to other criteria, such as availability, low cost, and ease of 2018, both on Late Antiquity. processing. 45 More generally on the placement, embodiment, and agency of 42 As argued by Mitchell 2017, 278–82, with specific reference to late texts, see especially Englehardt and Nakassis 2013; Karagianni antique epigraphy; cf. Leatherbury 2020, 14. and others 2015; Lohmann 2018; Petrovic and others 2019.

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by inscribing the names of family members who did not visit the sacred site next to their own names, the visitors enabled their relatives to materialize their presence in shrines in absentia. For Nowakowski, such texts represent the popular, lower-class counterpart to the inscriptions that only elite, wealthy donors could afford to place in the reliquary pits and mosaic panels within the presbyterium.46 This contribution along with other chapters in this volume, especially Calomino’s, demonstrate the enormous informative potential offered by ancient texts, which in some cases offer unique windows into the lives and beliefs not only of the elites but also of individuals from across a range of cultural and socio-economic groups. The fifth and last section in the volume discusses ‘Texts that Move through Media — Greek Literary and Inscriptional Epigram’. Joseph W. Day explores the effect of the adoption of literary elegiac forms and wording on the relationship between epigram and monument in Archaic and early Classical Greece. Day is a veteran of research on the materiality of Greek inscribed epigram.47 His studies have contributed greatly to the development of material approaches to ancient inscribed texts by pointing to the importance of the interactions among inscriptions, text-bearing artefacts/monuments, physical contexts, and readers/ viewers.48 In the present volume, Day contends that the complementarity of text and monument was better achieved in the case of elegiac epigrams than hexametric or iambic epigrams because of the power of certain features inherent in elegiac verses to elicit reactions from passers-by. These features include the so-called ‘dialogic’ or audience-oriented grammar, which enhanced the interaction of passers-by with inscribed objects. Emotional language likewise increased the complementarity of epigram and monument. In the case of grave monuments featuring figured art, elegiac epigrams adapted the framing of images typical of elegy to guide viewers towards specific emotional responses to the accompanying representation. Sherry Lee offers a fresh reconsideration of three dedicatory epigrams by the female Hellenistic epigrammatist Nossis, who lived in the Greek colony of Epizephyrian Locri on the Ionian coast in Magna

46 On the phenomenon of devotional (including pilgrimage) graffiti in the late antique and early medieval West, see Handley 2017, who points out that (578) ‘the volume of graffiti will only grow in years to come’, thus echoing a similar statement by Nowakowski about the ongoing discovery of graffiti in Eastern Christian holy sites. 47 See especially Day 1989; 2007; 2010; 2019a; 2019b. 48 For a similar approach to Archaic and Classical Greek epigrams see Livingstone 2011; Kaczko 2012; 2014; Nobili 2018; Lavigne 2019.

Graecia. She approaches these texts as evidence for the female-only celebration of the Adonia festival at Locri and as sources of information about the identity of the poetess herself. The chapter thus engages with questions of materiality pertaining to literary texts. In recent times, literary texts have not failed to receive attention along with a variety of more ‘tangible’ writings.49 Each of the epigrams examined in the chapter features a distinct, putative object dedicated to Aphrodite and placed in the goddess’s temple by — Lee hypothesizes — a Locrian hetaira. Lee illustrates how the epigrams allow the reader to access the religious experience of these women as well as the temple itself by materializing, through their language, the artefacts of ritual that they describe. The act of reading these texts enables the visualization of the votive objects and makes them otherwise available to the senses, with the epigrams themselves serving simultaneously as texts and products of the imagined dedicatory ritual. Adopting the methodological perspectives of the materiality of text and material culture as text, Lee’s contribution enriches our understanding of Nossis as a historical figure as well as of the sacred topography and religious life of Hellenistic Locri. The author achieves this by piecing together evidence including, in addition to Nossis’s epigrams, other textual sources, archaeological remains, and elements of material culture. Federica Scicolone concludes the section on the materiality of Greek epigrams in a way that nicely complements the chapters by Day and Lee. Whereas the latter examine, respectively, Archaic and Classical inscribed epigrams and Hellenistic literary epigrams, Scicolone takes a comparative approach and considers three Hellenistic and imperial inscribed epigrams in combination with three Hellenistic literary epigrams. In so doing, she addresses the ways in which the texts of the selected inscribed and literary epigrams interact with the (real or imagined) material contexts of their display by means of deictic expressions. The analysis centres on the use of the strategies of demonstratio ad oculos (perception-oriented deixis) and Deixis am Phantasma (imagination-oriented deixis), which were developed in the fields of psychology and linguistics (cf. Bühler 1934). Scicolone argues for a shift from ocular deixis (referring to objects in the real world) to imagination-oriented deixis (referring to a fictional representation of the real world) as literary Greek epigrams developed through interactions with, again, the material contexts of their display. She suggests that this shift resulted in the emergence of a theory of fiction on the part of ancient audiences which in turn influenced

49 Cf. e.g. Lavigne 2019; Tueller 2019; Heyworth 2019; RitterSchmalz and Schwitter 2019.

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both the production of inscribed epigrams during the post-Hellenistic period and the understanding of the materiality of texts in antiquity. Together, the essays in this volume demonstrate that ancient writing can provide significant new insights into Mediterranean antiquity when proper consideration is given not only to the content and textual features of texts but also to various aspects of their materiality. These involve the planning behind as well as the circumstances of their creation, their material support, layout, and display, the surrounding (built and natural) environment, and viewers’ and readers’ perceptions of and interactions with texts. The volume concludes, as noted, with an Afterword by Michael Squire, whom we gratefully thank for his contribution.

Acknowledgements We would like to thank again Michael Squire for his Afterword as well as for his enthusiasm and encouragement. We are grateful to Yulia Ustinova for her support, and to Irina Oryshkevich and Jesper Tae Jensen for their help with the initial review and the English revision of some chapters. We would like to thank Yannos Kourayos who allowed us to use a photo of a vase retrieved from his excavations at Despotiko for the cover of our book. This project could also count on the support of Lin Foxhall who offered us valuable advice and guidance at various stages and to whom we extend our gratitude. We are likewise thankful to Peter van Dommelen and Rosie Bonté. A final word of appreciation goes to the anonymous reviewers whose comments greatly improved the quality of the volume.

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Hoogendijk, and Steffie M. T. van Gompel (Leiden: Brill), pp. 43–51 Harnett, Benjamin. 2017. ‘The Diffusion of the Codex’, Classical Antiquity, 36.2: 183–235 Havelock, Erik A. 1981. The Literate Revolution in Greece and its Cultural Consequences (Princeton: Princeton University Press) ——. 1986. The Muse Learns to Write: Reflections on Orality and Literacy from Antiquity to Present (New Haven: Yale University Press) Heyworth, Stephen J. 2019. ‘Hard Verses and Soft Books: The Materials of Elegy’, in The Materiality of Text: Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity, ed. by Andrej Petrovic, Ivana Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas, Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy, 11 (Leiden: Brill), pp. 205–28 Hicks, Dan. 2010. ‘The Material Cultural Turn. Event and Effect’, in The Oxford Handbook of Material Cultures, ed. by Dan Hicks and Mary C. Beaudry (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 26–98 Hilgert, Markus (ed.). 2017. Understanding Material Text Cultures: A Multidisciplinary View, Materiale Textkulturen, 9 (Berlin: De Gruyter) Hoogendijk, Francisca A. J., and Steffie M. T. van Gompel (eds). 2018. The Materiality of Texts from Ancient Egypt: New Approaches to the Study of Textual Material from the Early Pharaonic to the Late Antique Period (Leiden: Brill) Johnson, William A. 2004. Bookrolls and Scribes in Oxyrhynchus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press) Kaczko, Sara. 2009. ‘From Stone to Parchment: Epigraphic and Literary Transmission of Some Greek Epigrams’, Trends in Classics, 1.1: 90–117 ——. 2012. ‘The Image and the Text: Dedicatory Epigrams on Stone and Strategies of Communication in Archaic and Classical Athens’, Center for Hellenic Studies Research Bulletin, 1.1 [accessed 1 March 2023] ——. 2014. ‘Rules of Attraction: Linguistic and Visual Strategies in Archaic and Classical Greek Verse-Dedications’, in Öffentlichkeit-Monument-Text: XIV Congressus Internationalis Epigraphiae Graecae et Latinae 27.-31. Augusti MMXII; Akten, ed. by Werner Eck and Peter Funke, Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum. Auctarium; Ser. nova, 4 (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 686–88 ——. 2016. Archaic and Classical Attic Dedicatory Epigrams: An Epigraphic, Literary and Linguistic Commentary (Berlin: De Gruyter) Kalaitzi, Myrina. 2016. 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I.

Texts on Portable Objects — Tablets, Vases, Ostraca, and the Inscribing Hand

Phili ppa M. Steele and Philip J. Boyes

2. A   Comparative Approach to Methods of Inscribing Clay Tablets* Interaction and Innovation in Cyprus and Ugarit

Contexts and Relations between Early Writing Systems (CREWS) is a research project based at the University of Cambridge that has received funding from the European Research Council (ERC) under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 re3search and innovation programme (grant agreement no. 677758).

Cypriot Writing Traditions Bronze Age Cyprus was home to distinctive writing traditions, with a script ultimately derived from the syllabic scripts of the Aegean and is most probably a direct development from Linear A (see Valério 2017). The corpus of written material in Cypro-Minoan is very diverse, although only a relatively small number of inscriptions have survived: c. 250, depending on what is counted in or discounted from the corpus. They appear on a wide range of media (clay, stone, metals, ivory, glass, etc.) and written with a wide range of techniques (incised, impressed, scratched, painted, etc.), thus forming a corpus marked by such a considerable degree of palaeographic diversity that their study has been fraught with some serious difficulties (Steele 2012). Even the earliest inscriptions show influences



from multiple directions and an awareness of both Aegean and Near Eastern writing (Steele 2018, ch. 1), although the writing traditions developed on the island were often distinctive and innovative. This paper is concerned with writing as a material practice — that is, a human practice fundamentally related to material factors such as medium, tools, and body, but also situated within a context of cultural understanding and networks of tradition which helped shape the choices people made regarding these practices. More specifically, we focus on Cypro-Minoan writing on clay and the interaction of cuneiform writing traditions with these practices. An important site for understanding the relationship between the material practices of Cypro-Minoan writing and those of the cuneiform traditions of the Near East is Ugarit (modern Ras Shamra), near the coast of what is now Syria. A cultural melting pot where numerous languages and scripts are attested, Ugarit has produced both abundant quantities of documents in two different cuneiform writing systems and a small corpus of Cypro-Minoan texts. By examining the ways in which

* We would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments and Louise Hitchcock for her comments on a preliminary version of the paper, as well as our colleagues here in Cambridge for their helpful feedback at seminars. Philippa M. Steele  •  ([email protected]) Senior Research Associate, Faculty of Classics, Cambridge and Principal Investigator of the CREWS project Philip J. Boyes  •  Research Associate, Faculty of Classics, Cambridge and researcher on the CREWS project New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 35-52 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133896

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writers1 of Cypro-Minoan interacted with the clay when making an inscription, and how these compare to cuneiform practices and culture from Ugarit, we aim to provide an example of how materiality and culture can interact and feed into each other in cases of cultural contact. Questions of the relationship between a script and the material objects on which it is found, as highlighted by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini in the Introduction to this volume, are particularly pertinent here, given the diversity which some scholars have observed in Cypro-Minoan script itself and in the types of clay object upon which it is written. Some of these object types are familiar outside Cyprus (e.g. tablets, labels) while others are more distinctively Cypriot or peculiar to Cyprus (e.g. clay balls and small cylinders with horizontal text). Of these, two particular groups are of interest owing to a longstanding debate in scholarship as to their epigraphic and palaeographic features, which present some significant differences from the rest of the corpus. One group consists of four tablet fragments from Enkomi in Cyprus, the longest surviving texts in Cypro-Minoan. It was suggested by Émilia Masson that the script found in these tablets was a modified version with a different repertoire, which she labelled ‘CM2’, in contrast to the main body of inscriptions categorized by her as ‘CM1’ (Masson 1972, 104–07; see also Steele 2014). The other group again consists mainly of clay tablets (plus two labels) written in Cypro-Minoan but discovered at the Syrian site of Ugarit in the midst of that city’s considerable cuneiform archives. These inscriptions were also singled out by Masson (1974, 18–46) as being written in a different version of CyproMinoan script, labelled ‘CM3’. It is worth pointing out that the question of script repertoire with which Masson was so concerned, as has been emphasized by recent scholars working on Cypro-Minoan (e.g. Valério 2016), is usually thought to be closely linked to palaeographical factors, especially the medium and method of inscription. Another dimension to this problem is the simple fact that Cypriots were not writing in a vacuum. The distinctive writing system and document types that mark Late Bronze Age Cypriot literacy have considerable interactions with traditions in other nearby areas: the Aegean to the west was the origin of the basic script system developed in Cyprus, and the island was also on the fringes of the cuneiform-using region centred to the east and had longstanding contact with the Levant in particular throughout the relevant period.

1 We avoid the more usual term ‘scribe’ in this paper. For discussion of the problems with this word, see Boyes 2021, 19–22.

It is especially the latter that will feature in this paper, where we investigate the writing methods used to execute the two small corpora of ‘CM2’ tablets from Enkomi and ‘CM3’ tablets from Ugarit.

The Alleged ‘Cuneiformization’ of Cypro-Minoan According to Émilia Masson (1978, 54; see also 1973, 98), the signs of the ‘CM2’ tablets from Enkomi were ‘gravées à la manière des documents cunéiformes’ (inscribed in the manner of cuneiform documents). Such a remark on the ductus of the signs bears a close relationship with her deliberate creation of a separate CM2 script category (one of her three chronologically overlapping categories), founded on a combination of other aspects of these tablet fragments, and seeking to single them out as a separate tradition with a different repertoire of signs denoting a separate language found exclusively at Enkomi (see also Masson 1972, 100). This is a position that has been criticized, for example in Thomas Palaima’s attempt to deconstruct Masson’s subgroupings of Cypro-Minoan tablets and pay greater attention to variations in palaeographic factors that influence the appearance of signs (Palaima 1989, esp. 155–58). Returning to palaeography as a means to establish script repertoire in fact built on the much earlier preliminary work of John Daniel (1941) who sought to understand the development of variation in Cypro-Minoan writing as a response to and consequence of writing on different media using different implements. It is interesting that, in Palaima’s refutation, the concept of ‘cuneiformization’ is often treated as an allor-nothing scenario, not to mention implicitly assuming that ‘cuneiform’ is a single, coherent and homogeneous set of practices, which is not really the case, as we will see. He uses a supposed ‘immunity’ of the Ugaritian ‘CM3’ Cypro-Minoan tablets to cuneiformization, despite their being most ideally placed for Near Eastern influence, in support of his view of the CM2 tablets (Palaima 1989, 156);2 and he makes his conclusion about the non-cuneiformization of ‘CM2’ signs foundational to the further conclusion that the tablets are not written in a script with a different repertoire or a different underlying language.3 Overall he plays down Near 2 As we will see below, the Cypro-Minoan tablets from Ugarit are far from being immune to influences from and interaction with cuneiform traditions of writing. 3 ‘I believe that the signs on the texts now classed as CM2 likewise are not “cuneiformized”. I therefore consider it a very dangerous procedure to study [them] […] as if they were a separate script and language’ (Palaima 1989, 156).

2 . A  Co mparat i ve A pproac h to Me t ho d s o f Ins c ri b i ng Clay Tablets

Eastern influence in order to emphasize the Aegean origins of Cypro-Minoan writing and counter ‘efforts to cuneiformize it or to rend it from its obvious Aegean roots’ (Palaima 1989, 161). The influence of Palaima’s article is still felt today as many scholars of Cypro-Minoan have made the study of palaeographic variation central to their approach to the entire writing system (e.g. Ferrara 2012–2013; 2013; Valério 2016; 2017), finally following up the challenge set by Daniel in his Prolegomena. According to Silvia Ferrara (2012–2013, i, 17), ‘it is necessary to broaden the picture, following the path set out by Palaima more than two decades ago’. With this new emphasis has come a general rejection of the supposed cuneiformization of some Cypro-Minoan texts. Ferrara (2012–2013, i, 197) states that cuneiformization is but a mere epigraphic contingency, due to the style of inscription or ductus-orientation, defined as dependent on the inscribed material and the writing instruments adopted. As such, it is but an effect, and a rather superficial one. Thus its definition should not be an epigraphic qualifier, nor be evocative of a specific cultural legacy. On the one hand, this effectively separates the question of cuneiformization from the analysis of the repertoire of Cypro-Minoan signs and their palaeographic variation. On the other, however, it has gone hand-in-hand with a certain lack of interest in Cypriot interactions with Near Eastern writing traditions, as if any cuneiform-looking features of Cypro-Minoan writing have to be written off as chance resemblances to further palaeographic studies. Another long-term feature of palaeographic research into Cypro-Minoan has been a general lack of interest in the nature and properties of writing implements. This is surely surprising, given that palaeography seeks to understand the shapes of signs and the factors that influenced their shapes. Instead, it has usually been considered enough to follow the vague sorts of stylus definitions outlined in a preliminary way by Daniel (1941, 253): clay inscriptions were usually made with a ‘dull tool’ (considerably less sharp than the implement used for Minoan tablets in Crete) while writing on harder materials was made with something sharper like a knife. For a long time, a class of bone tools with broad rounded end, coming to a brief shallow point in the middle, was considered to be a type of stylus (see e.g. the illustration in Karageorghis 1976, 239, fig. 8), and to this day such implements will often be found labelled as such in museums. Smith’s (2001) decisive refutation of this identification, showing that the bone tools in question are much more plausibly

understood as weaving tools, has sadly done very little to renew interest in what Bronze Age Cypriot styli might have looked like. Pointed tools identified by Giorgos Papasavvas (2003) as styli may indeed have been used to write on perishable wooden tablets, or similar, but are of the wrong shape and thickness to be responsible for most surviving Cypro-Minoan inscriptions. Ferrara’s (2012–2013, i, 197–203) overview of evidence for writing implements concludes that a number of different types of stylus may have been used for different objects, which is surely correct. While Cypriot styli themselves may be missing in action, the tangible effect of their existence is not: we have only to look closely at the impressions they made on inscribed objects to begin to reconstruct some of their properties (see Steele 2020). Joanna Smith’s (2003) attempt to reconstruct relationships between methods of writing, sign shapes, and scribal training gives a much more joined-up sense of interactions between Cypriot literacy and the broader writing traditions of the eastern Mediterranean and Near East. Rather than seeing the CM2 tablets from Enkomi as radically different — the sticking point for Palaima and others — Smith (2003, esp. 281–86) observes that punching (i.e. impressing), or a combination of punching and drawing, is prevalent among a variety of Cypro-Minoan inscriptions on clay, and that this is a marked difference from the largely drawn signs of Minoan writing traditions while being much closer to those of the Near East. The reluctance of many scholars to see any significant interaction with cuneiform (e.g. Ferrara 2012–2013, i, 202: ‘a faint inspiration rather than an expressly borrowed set of habits’) does not help us to engage with the real questions of scribal habits and writing contexts whose importance is highlighted by Smith (2003, 285–86).4 The present paper concentrates on a small set of Cypro-Minoan documents, namely the ‘CM2’ and ‘CM3’ tablets from Enkomi and Ugarit as outlined above, with an aim to analyse the methods used to form sign shapes (partly by practical experimentation) and to reconsider possible interactions between these writing methods and those employed in the cuneiform writing culture of the Near East. Before turning to the tablets themselves, however, it is important to consider what we know from other sources about Cyprus’s exposure to the use of cuneiform.

4 The importance of understanding the context in which writing is done, including issues of individual skill, literacy, and tool use, is approached from another angle in Da Silva Francisco, this volume.

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Cyprus, Diplomacy, and Cuneiform Culture The question of cuneiform culture on Cyprus is inextricably bound up with its participation in the networks of diplomacy and high-level elite exchange that characterize international relations in the Late Bronze Age east Mediterranean and Near East. This of course ties into the long-running debate on whether the ancient polity of Alašiya mentioned in textual sources should be identified with Cyprus (or at least some major kingdom on it). While there remains discussion on this score, it would be fair to say that in recent years the matter has been treated by many as essentially settled, at least in its fundamentals. Alašiya’s evident maritime character, proximity to Ugarit and Anatolia, and association with copper all make Cyprus by far the likeliest candidate. More conclusively, petrographic analysis of the Amarna letters sent from Alašiya and comparison with tablets from Enkomi has shown that the clay very probably originated on Cyprus, most likely in the region of the Troodos (Goren and others 2003). It looks increasingly certain that ancient Alašiya was Cyprus, or a part of it, but the exact political situation remains extremely opaque. As presented in the Amarna letters and other Late Bronze Age diplomatic correspondence, Alašiya seems to be a fairly standard Near Eastern political entity, ruled by an absolute monarch from a palace, equipped with scribes versed in Akkadian and familiar with the cultural norms and expectations of international diplomacy. Not only that, the ruler of Alašiya is a Great King, a ‘brother’ equal to the rulers of Egypt, Babylon, and the Hittite Empire. The problem is that this corresponds very poorly to an archaeological situation for Late Bronze Age Cyprus which appears extremely decentralized, both politically and economically. Although Enkomi was a large and important city, there is no evidence that it or any other settlement served as a ‘capital’ for the whole island (for an overview of the problem see Knapp 2013, 432–38), no sign of Near Eastern- or Aegean-style palaces, and what we can reconstruct of the island’s economy tends to emphasize private commercial enterprise over palace-controlled, state-level ventures. It is hard to escape the conclusion that the presentation of Alašiya as a traditional kingdom in the correspondence was a matter of diplomatic convenience for everyone involved, its status as the equal to the great empires of the day a calculated attempt to stroke the ego of a potentate who controlled a much-needed resource — copper — but whose kingdom was remote enough and sufficiently hard to assail for the largely land-based militaries of the great powers that it was not worth the effort of annexing directly. The modern translations ‘king’ and ‘palace’ conjure an air of grandeur and legitimacy that

is perhaps misleading in even the most long-established ancient states, arbitrary and often petty as they could be; but especially for peripheral and politically ambiguous states such as Alašiya they almost certainly give a false impression. We should probably be thinking more in terms of gangsters, mafia bosses, or pirate kings, ruling self-made domains built on wealth derived from ‘legitimate business’ and control of sought-after resources. A letter found at Ugarit (RS 94.2177+) is telling in this regard. After the diplomatic message from Alašiya’s ‘king’, there is a personal message from the writer in which it becomes clear that he is not a Cypriot at all, but a servant of the king of Ugarit on a long-term ‘diplomatic assignment’ to Cyprus (Ferrara 2016). He asks for good-quality furniture to be sent over — a table and five chairs. Is this, then, how we should imagine the Alašiyan ‘chancellery’: staffed by Akkadian-writing literate functionaries borrowed from neighbours, who even have to supply their own tables? This brings us back to the question of the status of cuneiform culture in Cyprus during the Late Bronze Age. If we are right in seeing the Alašiyan ‘court’ as a rather more ad hoc arrangement, far from the traditional image of a Near Eastern palace, and the niceties of diplomatic convention as just that — superficial and skin-deep — then what are the implications for the island’s engagement with the Babylonian cuneiform culture that underpinned those conventions? Was it entirely outsourced to imported foreign scribes like GI-wa the Ugaritian, or were locals also interested in these traditions? Were there Mesopotamian scribal schools on Cyprus? Did anyone on the island copy out an harra hubullu lexical list, or read Gilgamesh?5 These are questions we cannot presently answer, of course. Very little cuneiform has been found on the island, and none of that points conclusively to local Cypriot cuneiform practices. If we compare Cyprus with thirteenth-century Ugarit, which likewise used Akkadian for certain purposes alongside a flourishing local writing system, the differences are thrown into sharp relief. At Ugarit we have schools teaching a literate education according to an adapted version

5 Bilingual (or less often multilingual) Akkadian-Sumerian lexical lists and classic literature such as Gilgamesh, Atrahasis, or other religious and mythological narratives formed the cornerstone of Babylonian literate education and were used, with varying degrees of accuracy, completeness, and adaptation, widely across the cuneiform world. On the role of Babylon in Near Eastern education see van Soldt 2011, and on the knotty question of the accessibility and completeness of such material, and the knowledge networks that supplied it, see Robson 2014. For the continued use of lexical lists in east Mediterranean education in later antiquity, see Lougovaya, this volume.

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of the traditional Babylonian curriculum; we have Akkadian being used not just for international letters but for legal texts, economic transactions, and other purposes. None of these have been found on Cyprus, although it could be argued that if Near Eastern-style palaces lie undiscovered somewhere, they are where such material might be most likely to be found. Comparison of the Akkadian letters written in Alašiya with those from its neighbours in the Levant presents both commonalities and idiosyncrasies. In preparing this chapter, Philip Boyes was able to examine closely EA 34 in the British Museum, alongside Amarna letters from Byblos (EA 132), Amurru (EA 161), Qaṭna (EA 55), and Tyre (EA 149, 151). Two other Alašiya letters, EA 35 and EA 37, remained on display in the Museum galleries and could only be examined there. Similarities and differences in fabric, tablet-form, and wedge-form were apparent between all these examples, and there was no sense that the Alašiyan letters were more different than the mainland examples were among themselves. They were perhaps closest to the ones from Tyre, exhibiting similar tablet size and shape, clay colour, and wedge size and shape; although the correspondence was by no means absolute. Within the diplomatic letters from the Levant, two quite distinct linguistic traditions exist. In the north — at sites like Ugarit — a relatively standard peripheral Akkadian is used, while in Phoenicia and further south letters are written in a much-debated linguistic form heavily influenced by the local Canaanite vernacular. This has been variously described as a hybrid language, contact language, interlanguage, or even as straightforwardly Canaanite but written in an ‘Akkadiographic’ code — that is, retaining the West Semitic grammar and syntax but substituting Akkadian vocabulary (Rainey 1996; Cochavi-Rainey 2003; von Dassow 2004; Vita 2015). In the Levant, the use of one linguistic tradition or the other is typical, but interestingly, different letters from Alašiya use both: the Amarna letters are written in the ‘Canaano-Akkadian’ of the southern Levant, while the letters found at Ugarit are in the peripheral Akkadian used there (Cochavi-Rainey 2003). This could be interpreted in a couple of possible ways. On the one hand, we might see this as evidence for the lack of a distinct local Cypriot cuneiform tradition and possibly related to the outsourcing of writing to resident foreigners — it would stand to reason that writers from the south would write ‘Akkadian’ according to their own rules, while Ugaritian ones would naturally follow the norms of their own city. On the other hand, we could perhaps argue that this is an example of the flexibility and accommodating nature of Cyprus’s approach to diplomacy, ever-eager to present itself in the way that best fits its correspondents’ expectations: when writing south, it uses ‘Canaano-Akkadian’; when

writing north, peripheral Akkadian. Though, it has to be said, it is hard to imagine why they might have thought the Egyptian pharaoh would have preferred the peculiar Canaanite form over the more standard and prestigious Akkadian. We are left, then, with many questions when dealing with Cyprus’s involvement with international networks and its engagement with the cuneiform culture that came along with them. It seems very likely that a gulf existed between presentation and reality, a sense that behind the ostensibly familiar forms and formulae of Near Eastern globalization, the reality of politics and culture in Alašiya might have seemed rather alien to the long-established dynasties of Babylon or Egypt. Certainly, literate officials were imported; there is a good chance that they were responsible for a significant amount of Alašiya’s Akkadian (or Canaano-Akkadian) output. But we cannot rule out the existence of a more direct Cypriot engagement with cuneiform culture. On the contrary, it seems hard to believe that literates from neighbouring lands might be gathered to write in the language(s) and script of international globalization on behalf of Alašiya without any of the locals taking an interest, especially given their own literacy and scriptal experimentation. Perhaps this Cypriot cuneiform was small, limited, and shallow-rooted compared to its neighbours across the sea — a curiosity rather than an intellectual tradition — but we probably should at least envisage awareness of and access to cuneiform as a background milieu against which local Cypro-Minoan scribal practices must be understood.

The ‘CM2’ Tablets from Enkomi The ‘CM2’ tablets from Enkomi are far from a consistent corpus. Traditionally classed as three tablets, we would be better to speak in terms of four fragments, since the join between two of them has rightly been called into question and should probably be dismissed (Ferrara 2012–2013, i, 192–95). None of the fragments preserves the full height or width of the original tablet from which it was broken, but even so, we can tell from what survives that the originals had different shapes and proportions.6 Of the two fragments joined as inscription ##207 (Fig. 2.1), the smaller one (1193) is very poorly preserved while the larger one (20.01) gives us enough to reconstruct an original size of perhaps as much as 20 cm wide and a height of probably considerably more than the surviving 9.5 cm, with an average depth of around

6 On the physical properties of the tablets, see most recently Ferrara 2012–2013, i, 188–95 and ii under the entry for each item.

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Figure 2.1. Fragments 20.01 (larger) and 1193 (smaller), joined as ‘tablet’ ##207. Left: face A. Right: face B. Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.2. Tablet ##208 (1687). Left: face A, aligned so that the text is horizontal. Right: face B. Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

2.5 cm. The latter bears clear vertical ruling marks to the right of both faces; the original width is in part reconstructed on the assumption that these rulings were made down the centre of the tablet. In order to read from face A to face B, the tablet is turned on its horizontal axis. Despite the valid doubts over the join of fragments 1193 and 20.01, it can be remarked that the size and ductus of the signs is quite similar, with signs varying a little between 2 and 4 mm in height. The larger fragment has a largely smooth, flat face, while the smaller fragment is slightly more convex. The tablet ##208 (1687) (Figs 2.2–2.3) preserves parts of two edges, although it is difficult to extrapolate from its surviving dimensions (9.5 cm height, 11 cm width, 1–2 cm depth) what the original dimensions would have been. The fact that the ends of some lines are clear on face A, with blank space to their right (also indicative of dextroverse direction of writing and similar to what is seen in 20.02), may be taken to suggest that

the surviving width is not very much shorter than the original. There is no evidence of rulings or columns in this tablet, and it has to be turned approximately on its vertical axis to move from face A to face B. Most striking is the fact that the alignment of the lines of text is different on each side of the tablet, a feature related to the fact that the surviving top corner of the tablet has an angle considerably greater than ninety degrees. On face A, the text lines up with the horizontal top edge, but this means that the left edge flares out and the position of the beginnings of the lines of text correspondingly change as you read down the tablet. On face B, the text is lined up against the right edge (and presumably the missing left edge), causing the top line of text to spill over the top edge of the tablet. The height of its signs (regularly c. 3 mm) is quite similar to those in fragments 1193 and 20.01 but there are some differences in the ductus and method of incision. The tablet is slightly convex.

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The tablet ##209 (53.5) (Fig. 2.4) again preserves parts of two edges but bears several similarities with the larger fragment classed as ##207 (20.01). While the original height is difficult to extrapolate from the surviving 12 cm, the width may again be inferred from the presence of column rulings on face B, making it probably considerably wider than the surviving 6 cm: if the vertical ruling 5 cm from the left edge is the centre of the tablet then the original width may have been 10 cm, but ruling into three columns is also possible, making it presumably closer to 15 cm. The depth varies between c. 2 and 4 cm, owing to the convex nature of both sides of the tablet. It is not only a vertical ruling that can be discerned on face B but also several horizontal lines, making ‘boxes’ of text; face A is unruled. Between the top of face A and the top edge of the tablet is a series of small lines; the text of face B also encroaches slightly onto the top edge. Like the fragments classed as ##207, and unlike tablet ##208, this tablet has to be turned on its horizontal axis to read from face A to face B. The signs are c. 3–4 cm in height, though on face B they are so badly effaced that the majority are impossible or almost impossible to read even though the ruling lines are in places quite clear. In terms of tablet size, shape, and format, there are considerable degrees of variation even among these four fragments, perhaps pointing towards a Cypriot tradition of writing on clay tablets that was not strongly standardized or that permitted variation and experimentation in achieving the ‘right’ shape for a given subject or context. It has long been admitted, albeit sometimes grudgingly, that the formatting lines found on fragment 20.01 and face B of ##209/53.5 could have been inspired by cuneiform practice, or, in Palaima’s words (1989, 156), that ‘Cypriote scribes were clever enough to borrow and develop formatting procedures suitable to their texts’. As this already hints, taking inspiration from one aspect of another society’s writing practices need not imply that you must adopt their writing traditions wholesale, and there is no reason why other aspects should be borrowed at the same time. Indeed, it is both useful and important to think of different aspects of writing (e.g. script repertoire, sign shapes, document types, writing implements, methods of inscription, text formatting) as separable, even though they can be connected. The shapes of the signs, then, have to be studied as a separate concern from other physical properties of the documents. Of the four tablet fragments, the one whose signs are best preserved (and so give the best scope for analysis of writing method) is ##208 (1687). The signs are composed largely of quite deep impressions, where the stylus has sunk into the clay, making a point at one end of the impression and a wider round shape at the other; the characteristic Cypro-Minoan ‘teardrop’. Drawings

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Figure 2.3. Tablet ##208 (1687). Left: face A, aligned so that the left edge is vertical (if turned along this edge, the text on face B would be horizontal). Right: the top edge of the tablet, seen from face A, with the ‘spillover’ from face B visible. Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.4. Tablet ##209 (53.5). Left: face A. Right: face B. Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

of the teardrop shape as found in many publications rob it of its three-dimensional properties by making it appear flat. In fact, the pointed end is considerably deeper than the rounded end, apparently because the shape is produced by sinking the stylus tip into the clay at an angle, with the point of the tip sinking further into the clay. Practical experimentation proved very elucidating in attempting to reconstruct the method of inscription. The shape of the stylus tip is patently clear from the shape of the impressions: it is rounded in its cross-section and comes to a central point at the tip, and crucially the length of the section that tapers from the full width to the point must be very short (i.e. a shallow pointed tip, very different from the long and thin pointed implements used for Linear A: see

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Steele 2020). Most ‘strokes’ are made by angling the stylus in order to achieve the characteristics of the teardrop-shaped impression, sinking in the point but angling so that the other end of the stroke is rounder and wider. There is no reason to see the process of creating these shapes in the clay as inattentive or rushed,7 and it should instead be seen as a product of the shape of the stylus and the way in which it was positioned by the scribe. Although the impression made in this way accounts for all or most of the majority of ‘strokes’, some variation is necessary in order to reproduce all signs of the script. Some signs necessitate a curve to the thinner end of the teardrop, which involves briefly drawing the tip of the stylus round before pressing down to make the wider, rounded end of the impression. A few signs also necessitate a thin line between other impressions, which must have been drawn with the very tip of the stylus (Fig. 2.5). Far from a ‘blunt tool’ as often suggested,8 the sharpness of the tip of the stylus is vital in order to achieve the full range of shapes needed when working at such a small size (signs consistently c. 3 mm in height). The length of the section tapering to the point is short, but the point is sharp enough to form a point at the head of the teardrop impression, and to draw thin lines where necessary. The ‘punkt’ mark at the end of face A of ##208 has a considerably wider diameter than the wider ends of the teardrop impressions; the fact that its impression does not come to a point but instead is flat inside suggests that it was made using something different, potentially the other end of the stylus if it had a flat round end with a wider diameter (Figs 2.6–2.7). The two fragments often classed together as ##207 and the fragment ##209 contain sign shapes that are similar in their composition to those of ##208 (formed from teardrop-shaped impressions), but tend to be shallower (Fig. 2.8). This may be in part due to variables in the inscribing medium, e.g. to the clay being slightly drier when it was inscribed, though it may also be related to more wear on the surface of the tablets. There is a less marked difference in the width of the impression between the tip and the rounded part of the teardrop, which could indicate the use of styli with a slightly different shape to that used for ##208 and/or could be a product of shallower impressions (i.e. not sinking as far into the clay) and a shallower angle of incidence between the position of

Figure 2.5. The teardrop impression, seen from the side (with possible angle of incidence of the stylus) and from above (with the impression of the stylus point marked by converging lines). Drawn by Philip Boyes.

Figure 2.6. Selection of sign shapes and ‘punkt’ mark from ##208.

Figure 2.7. Possible shapes of stylus tip, as used in practical experiments. The bottom shape comes closest to that used to form the wedges in ##208, although it was difficult to replicate its sharpness in the wood used.

Figure 2.8. Section of tablet ##209 showing shallower teardrop-shaped impressions. Photo courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

7 Ferrara 2012–2013, i, 191: ‘formed by quickly jabbing the stylus in the clay, as opposed to the attentively drawn signs on the cylinder’. 8 e.g. Valério 2016, 75: ‘drawn with jabbed strokes, probably with a blunter stylus’.

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Figure 2.9. The Enkomi cylinder. Photo courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.10. Selection of clay balls showing different degrees of teardrop impressions and drawn lines. Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

the stylus and the surface of the tablets. However, the method of making each ‘stroke’ of the signs remains essentially the same. It must be pointed out that the use of a rounded tool ending in a shallow point was not confined to these tablets. Inscriptions usually classed as ‘CM1’ can display similar properties and teardrop-shaped impressions, although often with a greater degree of drawing involved in making the signs. The Enkomi cylinder is a good example, with partially drawn lines but with each stroke ending in the wider round impression of a thicker part of the stylus (Fig. 2.9). The clay balls, although in other ways quite homogeneous as an object type, display some variation in the ratio of drawn to impressed aspects of the signs, with some bearing signs that look very similar to the signs of the ‘CM2’ tablets while others bear signs that have longer and/or thinner drawn elements. Issues of scale may also play a role, as individual signs in ‘CM1’ inscriptions are often at a slightly larger (or in some cases much larger) size than those of the ‘CM2’ tablets, in turn making it possible and/or desirable to manipulate the stylus in different ways (Fig. 2.10). We can take from this that, whatever may be different and distinctive about the ‘CM2’ tablets, they were nevertheless written using tools that were the same as or very similar to ones used for writing on other types of document, despite the fact that the way in which the stylus interacted with the tablet (e.g. depth and angle of impression, presence or absence of drawn lines) could vary. This is not to say that the stylus used was always the same shape for all inscriptions classed as ‘CM1’: this is demonstrably not the case, and the ones on materials other than clay especially tend to bear the impression of different stylus shapes and types.

For the clay documents, the idea of impressing the tip of the stylus into the clay at an angle was one shared with Near Eastern cuneiform writing, and this is unlikely to be a coincidence given that Cypriots certainly had sufficient exposure to cuneiform to know that this was the case. Clay tablets were common in the area around Cyprus as they travelled around the Near East and eastern Mediterranean, and we can see at least some traits of cuneiform documents in the Enkomi tablet fragments not only in methods of inscription but also in formatting techniques. The combination of the two suggests meaningful and innovative interactions, perhaps of a longstanding nature, with cuneiform writing traditions. To say so is not radical but it does need to be forcefully stated given the trend in scholarship to back away from Near Eastern influences. Indeed, to think of these interactions as ‘influences’ casts them in an unnecessarily unidirectional light, and we would be much better to think of the situation as a dynamic one involving contact and agency on the part of Cypriots and their documentary traditions. This is an entirely separate concern from the Aegean origins of the Cypro-Minoan script and the question of whether the version of the script used in the tablets has a different repertoire or represents a different underlying language — both issues that we do not intend to address in this paper. We turn now from Cyprus itself to Cypro-Minoan writing at Ugarit, the most obvious known point of contact between Cypriot and cuneiform writing traditions. Before looking at the clay Cypro-Minoan inscriptions found there, it is important to reflect on the kind of cuneiform culture present at Ugarit, among which the authors of those Cypro-Minoan texts (whoever they were, Cypriot or Ugaritian) found themselves.

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Figure 2.11. Replica writing-board of similar dimensions to the Ulu Burun diptych. The less defined first four rows were produced with a wooden stylus, the bottom three rows were made with larger styli in metal and hard plastic.

Cuneiform Culture at Ugarit The corpus of cuneiform-inscribed material from Ugarit is both large and diverse, comprising several thousand items split approximately evenly between Babylonian logosyllabic and the local alphabetic cuneiform script. The syllabic cuneiform is almost exclusively written in Akkadian; the alphabetic in Ugaritic; although a small amount of Hurrian-language material also exists in both scripts. Bilingual and multilingual texts occur — mostly lexical lists used in scribal training, some of which include up to four languages — but there are also ritual texts which transition from Ugaritic to Hurrian and back again for certain parts of the rite. There are a very small number of texts utilizing two

scripts and languages, usually where a short summary or label in Akkadian has been added to a text primarily in Ugaritic. The overwhelming majority of this material — in both scripts — is on clay tablets, which vary greatly in dimensions and proportions, but not noticeably between scripts or languages. That is to say, while there is a fair amount of internal variation, the Ugaritic/ alphabetic cuneiform tablets are not noticeably different in form, amount of variation, or general trends from the Akkadian/logosyllabic ones. There is a broad, but not absolute, separation by genre: international texts such as treaties, diplomatic letters, and so on tend to be written in Akkadian in accordance with Near Eastern norms, while internal letters, religious, ritual, and literary texts, and much administrative documentation tends to be written in the local script and language. As well as the corpus of tablets, there is a non-negligible minority of other inscribed objects, mainly bearing alphabetic inscriptions. These include stelai, bronze tools, ivory replica livers probably used in divination, cylinder seals, ceramic vessels, and small clay labels. It is also not unlikely that cuneiform in one or both scripts was written on perishable materials, most notably wax-covered writing-boards of the kind well known from Assyria and of which an example was recovered from the Ulu Burun shipwreck off the Anatolian coast (Payton 1991; Symington 1991; Wiseman 1955). No such boards have been found at Ugarit itself, although Postgate (2013, 401–02) thinks they are depicted in a stele found on the city’s acropolis, and a letter (RS 19.53) sent to Ugarit, probably from the Middle Euphrates region, also mentions one (Symington 1991, 121 and n. 74). Perhaps connected to this are the bronze styli Schaeffer (1951, 14) reported finding in one of the city’s archives. Despite being long known about, images of these objects have only recently been published (Ernst-Pradal 2019, 20, fig. 5). Ellison (2015, 167–68) has inspected them and experimented with replicas which he reports could exactly reproduce wedge impressions of the kind found in alphabetic cuneiform inscriptions. Our own experimentation with writing cuneiform in wax has shown that hard stylus materials such as metal present a considerable advantage over softer ones like wood for writing in wax, although of course this only shows that these styli would have been suitable for such a use, not that they necessarily were used in this way (Fig. 2.11). Related to the use of perishable materials is the strong but enigmatic influence of linear alphabetic writing practices at Ugarit. There is no doubt that alphabetic cuneiform was developed based on the model of the linear alphabet used further south.

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This was not just a single point of connection at the development of the alphabetic cuneiform script, but seems to have been an ongoing process of interaction and borrowing: for example, three additional signs seem to have been added to the cuneiform alphabet some time after its original creation, based on their position tacked on to the end of the abecedary. One of these, ś, is clearly derived from the linear samekh. A number of variant sign-forms in the alphabetic cuneiform repertoire depart from the strict expectations of what constitutes a cuneiform sign to incorporate more linear-looking features such as curved lines, rings (Ellison 2002, 340–57, figs 1404–22) or circles (e.g. KTU 1.77, 4.31 and 4.710). The latter may indicate that the stylus could have had a round tail-end (Pardee quoted in Ellison 2002, n. 81, and see also n. 376), a possible point of similarity with Cypriot tools. These circles also somewhat resemble the ‘firing holes’ of first-millennium Assyrian tablets, although as letter-signs the Ugaritian ones are evidently a quite different phenomenon. Given the close contacts between Ugarit and the coastal cities of Phoenicia and Palestine, it is inconceivable that there did not continue to be a certain awareness of the linear alphabet among the city’s writers, and it seems very probable that elements borrowed from linear alphabetic writing practices contributed to some of the more unusual aspects of the local script. Harder to determine is whether linear writing practices at Ugarit amounted to anything more — perhaps a local Ugaritian branch of the linear script now lost to us. Over the years a number of scholars have suggested that the cuneiform signs of the Ugaritian alphabet might be schematized, ‘cuneiformized’ versions of linear prototypes (Stieglitz 1971; Dietrich and Loretz 1988). Some of these suggestions look rather plausible, and would explain a number of variant sign-forms which look rather unexpected as versions of the ‘standard’ cuneiform but would make sense if all were derived from a linear original. Ultimately, however, these suggestions remain highly speculative and are probably impossible to prove from the available data. We are on safer ground when considering how this picture of an idiosyncratic local adaptation of general cuneiform writing practices applies to methods of inscription. There has been a good deal of debate about the nature of the stylus used in Mesopotamia for logosyllabic cuneiform, and although it is likely that there were differences across the considerable geographic and chronological spread involved, in general it seems that styli for writing in clay tended to be roughly triangular in cross-section and made from relatively soft materials such as reed or wood (Cammarosano 2014). In contrast, the stylus used at

Ugarit for both alphabetic and logosyllabic cuneiform was larger and square in cross-section, as Ellison (2002; 2015) has thoroughly demonstrated. Most had bevelled heads, although not all, and there is the possibility that some styli may have had round ‘tails’ used for producing circular impressions, as mentioned above. By holding the stylus at varying angles relative to the clay and using different parts of the square head to impress the surface, Ellison found that he could reproduce all the signs of alphabetic cuneiform with minimal repositioning of the tablet or the hand. The choice of a different implement to write alphabetic cuneiform from the general Near Eastern norm gives it a noticeably different visual character and represents an important departure from the older traditions. It is challenging to reduce the complexity of writing practices at Ugarit to such a brief summary, but it will be clear, I hope, that this was a site of considerable experimentation, innovation, and diversity of practice where typical cuneiform writing practices were adapted and reinvented to create something new, distinctive, and characteristically Ugaritian. However, this does not mean it stood alone as some sort of scriptal Galápagos where writing practices pursued their own weird culs-de-sac of evolution without consideration of external developments. Quite the reverse: Ugarit’s idiosyncrasies emerge from a complex blending of multiple regional traditions alongside local developments born out of specific Ugaritian needs and wishes — a strongly articulated local agency within the constraining (and enabling) framework of regional norms and traditions.9

The ‘CM3’ Tablets from Ugarit Within the cuneiform-dominated but highly diverse scriptal and linguistic environment of Ugarit, the remains of four Cypro-Minoan tablets have been found, three of which are fragmentary and one complete; there are also two clay labels and an inscribed pithos rim, as well as a silver bowl. This very small corpus (traditionally all classed under the primarily geographical grouping of ‘CM3’) represents a tiny minority among the main scripts and languages attested in the Ugaritian epigraphic record. The tablets are the primary

9 For discussion of some of the cultural and ideological factors which may have fed into these scriptal innovations, see Boyes 2019; 2021.

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Figure 2.12. Tablet ##212. Left: face A. Right: face B. Photo courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.13. Tablet ##213. Photo courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

focus here although the labels are worth considering alongside them as documents inscribed in moist clay, especially given the quite different palaeographical appearance of one of them (see further below). They were discovered in the residences of Ugaritian administrative officials, making their potential for interaction with cuneiform writing traditions all the more likely contextually.10

10 On the physical properties of the tablets, see Ferrara 2012–2013, ii, under the entry for each item. On the context of Cypriot writing in Ugarit, see Boyes 2021, 212–18.

Tablet ##212 (RS 17.06) (Fig. 2.12) is a small ‘cushion’-shaped document (according to Nougayrol’s classification: Nougayrol and Schaeffer 1956, 3–6), broken at the bottom, with curved sides and convex faces. The full width and depth are preserved at 4.3 cm and 1.5 cm respectively, while 4 cm of its height survives, perhaps not much less than the original height judging by the quite even curvature of the sides. Ruled lines along the sides of the tablet separate face A from face B, and the text on each face is written along horizontal ruled lines with relatively large (4–5 mm) and evenly spaced signs. The tablet is turned along its horizontal axis to read from face A to face B. Tablet fragment ##213 (RS 19.01) (Fig. 2.13) is very small and broken on all sides, with just 2.7 cm height and 2.2 cm width remaining, and a depth of 1.2 cm. A horizontal ruled line appears across the middle of face A, but the line above it does not seem to have a ruling, suggesting it may not have featured regular ruling as found in ##212. Face B does not bear any traces of inscription. Tablet ##214 (RS 19.02) (Fig. 2.14) is composed of two plausibly joined fragments, preserving just the top edge and corners, with a preserved width of c. 6–7 cm and depth of 2–3.5 cm; the original height would be a matter of speculation. It does not feature signs of ruling and face B is uninscribed. Tablet ##215 (RS 20.25) (Fig. 2.15) is the only complete specimen and measures 6.8 cm height, 5.8 cm width, and 1.7 cm depth. It has rounded sides and convex faces, and its proportions place it in Nougayrol’s ‘oblong’ category (Nougayrol and Schaeffer 1956, 3–6). It does not feature ruling. The tablet is turned along its vertical axis to read from face A to face B.

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What is immediately striking about these four tablets is that, despite their more coherent grouping as a set of documents belonging to various official Ugaritian archives, demonstrating contextual similarities that cannot be proved for the ‘CM2’ Enkomi tablets, the ways in which they have been inscribed show a high degree of variation. Tablet ##215 comes closest to what we saw in the Enkomi tablets, with an almost identical method of inscription involving a tool of very similar shape (rounded cross-section with a short tapering section ending in a shallow but sharp point). It is even more evident in this tablet that the angle of incidence between the stylus and the tablet surface is critical to producing the full range of signs (Fig. 2.16), as some strokes require a shallower impression made at a lower angle (producing a longer teardrop) while others require a higher angle to produce a shorter impression where the tip sinks in slightly deeper (Fig. 2.17). It is also clear that the stylus did not have to be rotated very far to produce the full range of strokes, and when for example small horizontal strokes are made on either side of the central part of a sign, both of them are angled as if made from the right side (Fig. 2.18). This is strongly reminiscent of the range of movements and positions employed by scribes writing Ugaritic cuneiform, as illustrated in Ellison’s study of wedge shapes in Ugaritic cuneiform documents.11 Drawn lines are kept to an absolute minimum, and confined to parts of signs that require a slight curve; some of these longer lines are in fact composed of multiple impressions rather than drawn (Fig. 2.19). Such strategies can also be compared with the methods utilized for producing curves in alphabetic cuneiform.12 Far from showing an ‘immunity’ to cuneiformization (Palaima 1989, 156), tablet ##215 shows quite the opposite: the tablet’s author held, positioned, and impressed the stylus in a manner almost identical to what is found in Ugaritic cuneiform documents. It seems likely they worked in the vicinity of people writing cuneiform, and it is hardly far-fetched to say that they were probably biscriptal in Cypro-Minoan and cuneiform, whatever their origin (a Cypriot writing at Ugarit, or an Ugaritian writing Cypriot-related documents?).13 The picture which emerges from this tablet is not of scripts as rigidly demarcated and confined to their own traditions, but dynamic and shading into each other at places of contact. Oddly the other tablet fragments rather look as though they were written using a stylus of a slightly

11 See previous section and Ellison 2002; 2015. 12 See previous section, above, and Ellison 2002, 340–57. 13 On this question see variously Ferrara 2012–2013, 171; 2016, 235; Steele 2018, 203–04.

Figure 2.14. Tablet ##214. Photo courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.15. Tablet ##215. Left: face A. Right: face B. Photo courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

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Figure 2.16. Selection of sign shapes from tablet ##215, showing composition using angled teardrops. Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.17. Reconstruction of angles of incidence between the stylus and tablet surface when producing shorter/deeper (left) and longer/shallower (right) teardrop shapes. Drawn by Philip Boyes.

Figure 2.18. Selection of sign shapes from tablet ##215 where both small horizontal ‘strokes’ are made with teardrops that ‘point’ to the left (i.e. the stylus was positioned from the right at a ninety-degree angle). Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.19. Selection of sign shapes from tablet ##215 where longer curved lines where required, made either by drawing the pointed end of the stylus round (left) or by making multiple impressions (right). Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

different shape, still pointed and rounded but thinner in its cross-section. In ##212 it is especially evident that while some impressions are made by angling the stylus (resulting in a teardrop shape), others are made by drawing the tip through the clay (Fig. 2.20). Sometimes in this tablet a drawn line can terminate in a deliberate circular rounded shape, and rounded shapes form parts of other signs as well (Fig. 2.21). Some of these round shapes could even have been made with a blunter instrument, or hypothetically with the blunter end of the stylus. The combination of drawn lines and deliberate circular rounded shapes is all the more evident in tablet ##214, which contains very thin shallow lines and deeper point impressions (Fig. 2.22). The small fragment ##213 has only a few surviving signs, whose strokes seem to be either impressed or drawn with quite a thin pointed tool (presumably the tip of a similar stylus).

The two Cypro-Minoan labels from Ugarit are a helpful supplement to the evidence of the tablets because one of them shows us something quite different. While the more fragmentary label ##211 bears signs quite similar in appearance to those of the tablet fragment ##213, the other label ##210 (Fig. 2.23) bears signs that have been drawn in long, bold lines. The combination of the depth of the lines and minimal ‘throw-up’ of clay at the edges suggest that they were drawn while the clay was still very moist and the stylus could slide easily through it. However, the two smaller strokes of the first sign are made by impressing the stylus at an angle, and these ones betray that the stylus used was similar in shape to what was used for the other tablets: rounded in cross-section and coming to a shallow but sharp point. The sharpness of the point is evident also from the pointed ends of the drawn lines, and the

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Figure 2.20. Signs in tablet ##212 showing teardrop-shaped impressions (left) and drawn lines (right). Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

Figure 2.21. Signs in tablet ##212 containing circular rounded shapes alongside teardrop shapes and drawn lines. Photos courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

featuring methods of holding, angling, and impressing the stylus that are almost identical to ones used for Ugaritic cuneiform. The other tablets may not feature such a strong resemblance with cuneiform, but they do continue similar methods in combination with the drawing of signs to different degrees. The situation in which the texts were produced is also relevant here. Making Cypro-Minoan look more like cuneiform is not the only possible reaction to the close contact between the two scripts at such a cuneiform-dominant site as Ugarit. Indeed, the elaboration of drawn elements of the signs and rounded elements in some tablets/labels could point to another reaction, namely an instinct to make clear that this is a distinct writing system (with whatever associations of language or identity that may also have entailed). But what they manifestly do not show is a lack of interaction with or interest in cuneiform written culture. Quite the opposite: as we have shown, these are documents that are manufactured and inscribed in ways that interact meaningfully with Near Eastern and specifically Ugaritian traditions.

Conclusions Figure 2.22. Signs in tablet ##214 demonstrating a combination of thin drawn lines and round shapes impressed with the point of the stylus.

Figure 2.23. Clay label ##210. Photo courtesy of Silvia Ferrara.

shape of the indents of those lines (making a V-shape in cross-section in the clay) suggests that the stylus was held at a very high angle in respect to the surface of the clay, perhaps close to ninety degrees. Despite the very high degree of variation in the methods used to write the Cypro-Minoan clay inscriptions found at Ugarit, we have strong evidence here for interaction between Cypro-Minoan and cuneiform. The case of tablet ##215 offers the strongest evidence,

Joanna Smith concluded in her survey of writing techniques in Cyprus (2003, 184) that ‘Cypriote writing derives from multiple sources’ and that ‘without formal training, without a single tradition common to those who worked together, it suggests that people learned elsewhere and came together on Cyprus to create the documents that we have available for study’. While it is certainly apt to try to detect traditions of training that must have played a key role in the dissemination of literacy and methods of writing, we would contend that it is not necessary to reconstruct a situation in which the authors of Cypro-Minoan documents are themselves non-Cypriots, or where forces affecting writing are necessarily purely external. This is not to deny that scribes moved around the Near Eastern and east Mediterranean sphere. However, in the one example of an itinerant writer known to have been sent to Cyprus from Ugarit, we have no evidence whatsoever that he engaged with CyproMinoan writing — only that he wrote diplomatic correspondence in Akkadian cuneiform (Ferrara 2016 and see ‘Cyprus, Diplomacy, and Cuneiform Culture’, above). The motivation for developing widespread and varied traditions of writing in Cypro-Minoan script is better understood as an impetus by Cypriots to create an idiosyncratic sort of literacy, which may have interacted other traditions to east and west but was crucially also distinctively different from them (Steele 2018, 39–44). To do this they must certainly have had access to those other traditions, but the

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Figure 2.24. Detail of a reproduction of the early Enkomi tablet ##001, showing the ‘ka’ sign middle-left.

direct ways in which they interacted and learned from them is more difficult to reconstruct. At the heart of all this was one crucial problem for the Cypriot writer, namely that, while common methods of writing clearly involved using a stylus with a shallow rounded point that easily sank into clay, it was inescapable that in order to render Cypro-Minoan script they would have to draw some lines. The signs of this script were originally adapted from signs of the Aegean linear tradition that were drawn elaborately with long, thin lines, some curved and some straight. Even the earliest surviving tablet (the ‘CM0’ tablet from Enkomi, ##001) shows evidence of this tension, with signs constructed with long, thin lines but showing a reluctance to draw the stylus through the clay even though it was probably a bladed type (most clearly in the sign resembling a round wheel-shaped ka of the Aegean scripts, where the circle is made with multiple incisions rather than a smooth rounded stroke; see Fig. 2.24 above, and Steele 2020, 11). While CyproMinoan signs sometimes could be drawn, the norm in clay documents of all kinds was to use impression or a combination of impression and drawing. Wherever the idea to use impression (or ‘punching’) as such a vital component of writing grew from, we can at least be reasonably certain that it was not inspired by Aegean writing. Meanwhile, the prevalence of using impressions and the angling of the stylus to create different wedge-shapes in cuneiform writing — traditions of which Cypriots must have been aware — hardly looks like a coincidence. The exposure of Cyprus to cuneiform writing traditions is evident even in the earliest period of Cypriot literacy, when cylinder seals become a common item from the end of the Middle Bronze Age onwards. Some Cypro-Minoan document types themselves show parallels with ones from the Near East, as we have mentioned in some of the cases discussed here. It is also significant that Cyprus played a role in international Bronze Age diplomacy, necessitating some familiarity with Akkadian cuneiform even if some scribes writing it may have been itinerant ones from the Near East. Contrary to Palaima’s assertion than Cypro-Minoan writing at Ugarit was immune to cuneiformization, it is at Ugarit that we see the clearest evidence of Cypriots

adopting cuneiform writing techniques: the signs of tablet ##215 are made almost exclusively by angling and rotating the stylus, with drawn lines at an absolute minimum (to the extent possible to make the signs distinct). It can be no coincidence that this is extremely close to the methods employed by Ugaritian scribes writing in Ugaritic cuneiform, as demonstrated so conclusively by Ellison (2002; 2015). The only difference was the shape of the implement used, a round tool coming to a shallow point rather than a flat-ended implement with a square-shaped cross-section for making wedges. Cypro-Minoan writing on Cyprus strikingly shows that similar techniques were widely used in clay documents, and most evidently in the ‘CM2’ tablets from Enkomi. The very idea of cuneiformization in Cypro-Minoan is a phantom. The evidence for interactions between Cypriot and cuneiform writing traditions is compelling and undeniable, but this does not mean that features of cuneiform writing were somehow imposed on Cyprus, as the verb ‘cuneiformize’ suggests. The surviving CyproMinoan clay tablets examined in this paper are the product of multiple complex and dynamic interactions with mainland writing practices and culture, ones that involve experience and understanding of a range of features including document types, formatting, writing implements, and methods of forming signs; but they also involve creative reimagination of those very practices, combining some aspects of cuneiform writing, such as ways of shaping/arranging clay tablets and positioning the stylus in respect to the tablet surface, with altogether un-cuneiform aspects, such as the rounded/pointed shape of the stylus and the maintenance of script sign shapes that necessitate drawing lines or curves. What is more, this adaptation and ‘remixing’ of cuneiform writing practices is not something unique to Cyprus. People often recast and reinterpret the meanings of writing practices and inscribed objects they encounter through their own adaptations, as Calomino’s discussion of Roman coinage in this volume clearly demonstrates. What we see in Cypriot responses to cuneiform writing practices is very much the sort of thing also going on within the ‘cuneiform world’ proper at sites like Ugarit, where experimentation with stylus shapes, use of curves and circles and other ‘un-cuneiform’ features are also seen. Far from seeing cuneiform culture or practices as a single package, it is important to recognize that they were subject to the agency of local writers to suit their socio-cultural context and specific requirements. While Cypro-Minoan writing practices and the specifics of its writers’ engagement with elements of cuneiform are particular to this case, the way in which elements were picked and chosen, adapted and combined with elements of other traditions, is very much in line with what we see on the continent, and it would be misleading to assume that the boundaries of the ‘cuneiform world’ should be drawn at the shores of the Mediterranean.

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Works Cited Boyes, Philip J. 2019. ‘Negotiating Imperialism and Resistance in Late Bronze Age Ugarit: The Rise of Alphabetic Cuneiform’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 29.2: 185–99 ——. 2021. Script and Society: The Social Context of Writing Practices in Late Bronze Age Ugarit (Oxford: Oxbow) Cammarosano, Michele. 2014. ‘The Cuneiform Stylus’, Mesopotamia, 49: 53–90 Cochavi-Rainey, Zipora. 2003. The Alashia Texts from the 14th and 13th Centuries bce: A Textual and Linguistic Study (Münster: Ugarit) Daniel, John F. 1941. ‘Prolegomena to the Cypro-Minoan Script’, American Journal of Archaeology, 45.2: 249–82 Dassow, Eva von. 2004. ‘Canaanite in Cuneiform’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 124.4: 641–74 Dietrich, Manfred, and Oswald Loretz. 1988. Die Keilalphabete: Die phönizisch-kanaanaïschen und altarabischen Alphabete in Ugarit (Münster: Ugarit) Ellison, John L. 2002. ‘A Palaeographic Study of the Alphabetic Cuneiform Texts from Ras Shamra/Ugarit’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Harvard University) ——. 2015. ‘The Scribal Art at Ugarit’, in Epigraphy, Philology, and the Hebrew Bible: Methodological Perspectives on Philological and Comparative Study of the Hebrew Bible in Honor of Jo Ann Hackett, ed. by Jeremy M. Hutton and Aaron D. Rubin (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature), pp. 157–90 Ernst-Pradal, Françoise. 2019. Scribes d’Ougarit et paléographie akkadienne: les textes juridiques signés, Ras Shamra-Ougarit, 27 (Leuven: Peeters) Ferrara, Silvia. 2012–2013. Cypro-Minoan Inscriptions, i: Analysis; ii: Corpus (Oxford: Oxford University Press) ——. 2013. ‘Writing in Cypro-Minoan: One Script, Too Many?’, in Syllabic Writing on Cyprus and its Context, ed. by Philippa M. Steele (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 49–76 ——. 2016. ‘Writing Away: Mobility and Versatility of Scribes at the End of the Bronze Age’, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 35.3: 227–45 Goren, Yuval, Shlomo Bunimovitz, Israel Finkelstein, and Nadav Na’aman. 2003. ‘The Location of Alashiya: New Evidence from Petrographic Investigation of Alashiyan Tablets from El-Amarna and Ugarit’, American Journal of Archaeology, 107.2: 233–55 Karageorghis, Vassos. 1976. ‘Le quartier sacré de Kition’, Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et BellesLettres, 1976.2: 229–45 Knapp, A. Bernard. 2013. The Archaeology of Cyprus: From Earliest Prehistory through the Bronze Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Masson, Émilia. 1972. ‘Les répertoires graphiques chypro-minoens’, in Acta Mycenaea: Proceedings of the Fifth International Colloquium on Mycenaean Studies, Held in Salamanca, 30 March – 3 April 1970, ed. by Martin S. Ruipérez (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca), pp. 99–111 ——. 1973. ‘La diffusion de l’écriture à Chypre à la Fin de l’Âge du Bronze’, in Acts of the International Archaeological Symposium ‘The Mycenaeans in the Eastern Mediterranean’, Nicosia 27th March – 2nd April 1972, ed. by Vassos Karageorghis (Nicosia: Department of Antiquities, Cyprus), pp. 88–100 ——. 1974. Cyprominoica: Répertoires, documents de Ras Shamra, essais d’interpretation, Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology, 31.2 (Göteborg: Åström) ——. 1978. ‘Deux fragments de tablettes chypro-minoennes trouvés a Enkomi en 1953 et 1969’, Journal de savants, 1978: 49–86 Nougayrol, Jean, and Claude F.-A. Schaeffer. 1956. Le Palais Royal d’Ugarit, iv (Paris: Imprimerie nationale) Palaima, Thomas G. 1989. ‘Cypro-Minoan Scripts: Problems of Historical Context’, in Problems in Decipherment, ed. By Yves Duhoux, Thomas G. Palaima, and John Bennet, Bibliotheque des Cahiers de l’Institut de Linguistique de Louvain, 49 (Louvain-la-Neuve: Peeters), pp. 121–87 Papasavvas, George. 2003. ‘Writing on Cyprus: Some Silent Witnesses’, Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus, 2003: 80–94 Payton, Robert. 1991. ‘The Ulu Burun Writing-Board Set’, Anatolian Studies, 41: 99–106 Postgate, J. Nicholas. 2013. Bronze Age Bureaucracy: Writing and the Practice of Government in Assyria (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Rainey, Anson. 1996. Canaanite in the Amarna Tablets: A Linguistic Analysis of the Mixed Dialect Used by the Scribes from Canaan (Leiden: Brill) Robson, Eleanor. 2014. ‘Tracing Networks of Cuneiform Scholarship with Oracc, GKAB and Google Earth’, in Archaeologies of Text: Archaeology, Technology and Ethics, ed. by Morag Kersel and Matthew T. Rutz (Oxford: Oxbow), pp. 142–63 Schaeffer, Claude F.-A. 1951. ‘Reprise des recherches archéologiques a Ras Shamra-Ugarit. Sondages de 1948 et 1949 et campagne de 1950’, Syria, 28.1/2: 1–21

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Smith, Joanna S. 2001. ‘Bone Weaving Tools of the Late Bronze Age’, in Contributions to the Archaeology and History of the Bronze and Iron Ages of the East Mediterranean: Studies in Honour of P. Åström, ed. by Peter M. Fischer (Vienna: Austrian Archaeological Institute), pp. 83–90 ——. 2003. ‘Writing Styles in Clay of the Eastern Mediterranean Late Bronze Age’, in ΠΛΟΕΣ… Sea Routes… Interconnections in the Mediterranean, ed. by Nicholas Stampolides and Vassos Karageorghis (Athens: University of Crete and the A.G. Leventis Foundation), pp. 277–89 Soldt, Wilfred van. 2011. ‘The Role of Babylon in Western Peripheral Education’, in Babylon: Wissenskultur in Orient und Okzident, ed. by Eva Cancik-Kirschbaum, Margarete van Ess, and Joachim Marzahn (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 197–211 Steele, Philippa M. 2012. ‘The Diversity of the Cypro-Minoan Corpus’, in Études mycéniennes 2010: actes du XIIIe colloque international sur les textes égéens, ed. by Pierre Carlier, Charles De Lamberterie, Markus Egetmeyer, Nicole Guilleux, Françoise Rougemont, and Julien Zurbach (Pisa: Fabrizio Serra), pp. 537–44 ——. 2014. ‘Distinguishing between Cypriot Scripts: Steps towards Establishing a Methodology’, Kadmos, 53: 129–48 ——. 2018. Writing and Society in Ancient Cyprus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) ——. 2020. ‘Material Entanglements of Writing Practices in the Bronze Age Aegean and Cyprus’, in Exploring Materiality in the Bronze Age, ed. by Louise Steel, special issue of Sustainability, 12: 1–17 Stieglitz, Robert R. 1971. ‘The Ugaritic Cuneiform and Canaanite Linear Alphabets’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 30: 135–39 Symington, Dorit. 1991. ‘Late Bronze Age Writing-Boards and their Uses: Textual Evidence from Anatolia and Syria’, Anatolian Studies, 41: 111–23 Valério, Miguel. 2016. ‘Investigating the Signs and Sounds of Cypro-Minoan’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Barcelona) ——. 2017. ‘Script Comparison in the Investigation of Cypro-Minoan’, in Understanding Relations Between Scripts: The Aegean Writing Systems, ed. by Philippa M. Steele (Oxford: Oxbow), pp. 127–61 Vita, Juan-Pablo. 2015. ‘Language Contact between Akkadian and Northwest Semitic Languages in Syria-Palestine in the Late Bronze Age’, in Semitic Languages in Contact, ed. by Aaron Michael Butts (Leiden: Brill), pp. 375–404 Wiseman, Donald J. 1955. ‘Assyrian Writing-Boards’, Iraq, 17: 3–13

Gilberto da Silva Franci s co

3. T  he Brygos Painter’s Miswritten Signature on the Lancastre pelike

Introduction

The goal of this paper, then, is to demonstrate that the material aspects of writing are as important as its grammatical or literary content. In a sense, I am suggesting that the materiality of writing allows viewers to grasp fully the meanings embedded in it. Thus, the case study analysed here — a signature on a pelike — attests to Philippe Bruneau’s (1974, 33) characterization of epigraphy as ‘the meeting point between Philology and Archaeology’ — which is to say, between the linguistic and material dimensions of written language.

Traditionally, the inscriptions on ancient Greek pottery have been interpreted based primarily on their linguistic content. In this paper, I seek a more comprehensive understanding of these texts by considering the meanings associated with their material forms and verbal properties, following the lead of several previous studies.1 Since my theme is broad and there are many ways of approaching it, I first outline the objectives of this approach. I then interpret a set of inscriptions on ceramics, particularly Attic vases of the sixth and fifth centuries bce, in order to shed light on the writing process in this context. Of course, writing at the time was used in many contexts other than Attic ceramics, as scholars such as Lilian Jeffery (1961) and Jeffrey Hurwit (2015) have discussed. Nevertheless, Attic workshops of the period were the environment in which the experience of writing and, in particular, the signing of produced pieces, was consolidated as a practice (Immerwahr 1990). I then offer a detailed analysis of an Attic a red-figure pelike from the Manuel Lancastre Collection in Portugal as a special case involving the manipulation of writing on ceramics that demonstrates the salience of the material aspects of the medium, such as the style and type of vase, for understanding the text.



1 See, for instance, Lissarrague 1992; 2013; Francisco 2008. For recent approaches to the material aspects of writing on pottery and clay tablets in other contexts, see Lougovaya and Steele and Boyes in this volume.

The Types of Writing on Greek Vases Often, one of the uses of the writing on ceramics was to characterize the potter and the painter of vases,2 a use that manifested the historical dynamic regarding the hierarchical relationship that the ancient craftsmen maintained between the inscriptions and the figures on Attic vases. Among the many vases with figures that have survived, inscriptions appear on a relative few, usually in the form of signatures. Moreover, though figures began to reappear, following their disappearance at the end of the Bronze Age, on Protogeometric pottery



2 This perspective informs, for instance, the study of the authors of the signatures; thus, in reference works such as Beazley — the ABV (Beazley 1956) and ARV and their supplements (Paralipomena — Beazley 1971 — and Addenda — Burn and Glynn 1982) — signatures play a key role.

Gilberto da Silva Francisco  •  is Assistant Professor at the Federal University of São Paulo (UNIFESP), São Paulo, Brazil; editor of the journal Heródoto; member of the UNIFESP Research Group on Classical Antiquity and its African-Asian Connections and the Laboratory of Studies on the Roman Empire and the Ancient Mediterranean (LEIR-MA) at the University of São Paulo; Scientific Member of the French School of Athens (EfA). New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 53-64 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133897

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in the tenth century bce,3 inscriptions do not appear until nearly two centuries later (Hurwit 2015, 71–72). At this time, they were clearly an accessory element ‘competing’ for space with the decorative elements that filled the undecorated areas around the main figures (Francisco 2008, 85–86). Also noteworthy in this context is the fact that many artisans were largely or completely illiterate. Their illiteracy, on the one hand, helps to explain the many instances of inscriptions with unusually spelled words and even nonsensical texts and, on the other, may have promoted a kind of distancing from the practice of writing. In terms of statistics, of the roughly eighty thousand Attic vases currently known to have survived (Scheibler 1983, 9; Keuls 1989b, 228; Sapirstein 2013, Appendix 1, n. 3), a recent survey (AVI) sets the number of those with inscriptions at around eight thousand. The overall corpus includes (1) a small subset of vases (approximately 10 per cent, though more specific quantitative studies are needed) with inscriptions of diverse linguistic content, (2) a relative handful of vases on which inscriptions, ranging from comprehensible to nonsensical or imitations of letters, serve aesthetic purposes, and (3), the majority of vases (approximately 90 per cent) adorned with figures but no inscriptions. *** The types of inscriptions produced by ancient Greek pottery workshops were quite diverse. Those written before firing — that is, the painted (dipinti) inscriptions and signatures — are the primary focus of this paper. They include inscriptions that provide the names of human characters (and at times, objects), spell out utterances from the mouths of figures, and describe the images; kalos inscriptions linked to the practice of pederasty in Athens; nonsensical inscriptions (again, groups of letters with no recognizable linguistic meaning and apparently serving an aesthetic purpose); dedications (though most such inscriptions were instead graffiti incised after firing); musical notation; onomatopoeic expressions; public inscriptions such as those on Panathenaic amphorae and vessels that officials representing the polis used for measurements and timekeeping; and inscriptions that were covered over later in the manufacturing process.4 Regarding authorship inscriptions, it is important to note at the outset that, though these inscriptions appear on the pieces being produced in many Greek workshops by the eighth century bce (cf. Powell 1991,

3 Specifically, the earliest known such figure — a horse — appears on a Protogeometric Attic amphora (Kerameikos 560); see Papadopoulos 1994, cat. E2, fig. 15. 4 For an overview of the types of inscriptions, see Boardman 2003, 110; Francisco 2008, 131–32.

128; Williams 1999, 37; Hurwit 2015, 71), the evolution of this phenomenon can be followed in greatest detail in Attica, where, in terms of sheer numbers, the evidence for these inscriptions is most abundant (Hurwit 2015, 77), especially for the Archaic period. In the Classical period, however, a clear decline in the production of red-figure vases is observable (Hurwit 2015, 85; Bolmarcich and Muskett 2017, 157). In the Attic workshops, signatures appear on only a small fraction of the items produced, 1 per cent according to Hurwit (2015, 79–80).5 While most of the signatures were added before firing, quite a few bear incised graffiti added after the firing process (Cohen 1991). In either case, an important consideration is, naturally, the motivation for adding them. Notably, the signatures generally seem to have been part of a planned layout, appearing either in places on the ceramics devoid of other decoration or closely related to the figures. Thus, for instance, the signatures on the Little Master Cups also serve an aesthetic purpose.6 Regarding their linguistic nature, the visible and legible information of the signatures indicates the individual or individuals who produced the piece and his or their specific role. The most common signature inscriptions use the verbs ποιέω (make) and γράφω (draw, paint) to describe these roles. These words appear at times individually (e.g. ἐποίησεν, ἔγραψεν; ‘made’, ‘painted’) and at other times together on the same vase, either to identify the distinct activities of two individuals or in formulae that ascribe both actions to a single individual (e.g. ἔγραψεν κ’αποíησεν, ‘painted and made’). Some signature inscriptions include additional elements, such as the pronoun με/ἐμέ’ (e.g. μ’εποíησεν, ἒγραψεν ἐμέ; ‘made me’, ‘painted me’). Other verbs also occasionally appear instead of ποιέω or γράφω, such as κεραμεúω (‘make ceramics’; Sparkes 1991, 65). In whatever form these verbs appear,7 they describe the actions involved in the production of ceramics, specifically, the processes of ‘throwing’ and of painting or drawing. The distinction between these two verbs was probably maintained, at least to some extent,8 but the situation was more complex, for the semantic range of the verb ποιέω seems to have extended beyond the 5 For an overview of the signatures, see Villanueva-Puig 2007; Hurwit 2015, 71–96. 6 For the signatures as an aspect of the visual arrangement, see Hurwit 2015, 90. 7 The aorist past tense predominates in these inscriptions, though there are examples of the imperfect tense as well as incorrectly spelled verbs. For grammatical commentary on the signatures on Greek and especially Attic vases, see Musseis 1971, 270; Trendall 1987, 54; Cohen 1991, 61 and 81; Tosto 1999, 173. 8 Some vases ascribe the pottery and painting/drawing work to the same artisans and others to two artisans (Hurwit 2015, 77 and 80).

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actual production of the vase (in this case, the action of throwing, in contrast with the action of writing or drawing described by γράφω), to include the act of drawing and painting, the supervision of the production, and even ownership of a pottery workshop (Keuls 1989a, 151–52; Villanueva-Puig 2007; Sapirstein 2013, 117). Thus, based on their use in ceramic workshops, ποιέω and γράφω cannot be regarded as merely distinguishing the actions of potters from those of painters. In fact, the former is more common than the latter in the authorship inscriptions. The vases to which an author has been ascribed number approximately ten thousand. These pieces represent a small portion — how large a portion remains a matter of considerable debate — of a type of production that may have been relatively common (Sapirstein 2013). Nearly 440 signatures have been identified on black-figure ceramics and fewer on red-figure ceramics (Bolmarcich and Muskett 2017, 157), among which the verb ἐποίησεν is linked to sixty names and ἔγραψεν to twenty-seven signatures and sixteen names (Villanueva-Puig 2007). The verb ποιέω, therefore, seems to have been preferred by the authors of the inscriptions to describe the activities that took place in Attic ceramic workshops, apparently reflecting the preference of the artisans themselves. As noted, this verb can be inclusive of the range of activities carried out in workshops or exclusive in describing one of these activities (i.e. throwing).

A pelike with Brygos’s Signature The broader perspective described above can facilitate the interpretation of a specific object and its unique features. My interest here is in a signature on a red-figure Attic pelike from the Manuel Lancastre Collection in Lisbon, Portugal dating to the early fifth century bce (Figs 3.1 and 3.2).9 Rui Morais and Rui Centeno (2015, 9), writing in the catalogue for the collection, observed that, ‘Among the pieces of highest artistic and documentary value, a red-figure pelike signed by the Brygos Painter stands out.’ This pelike was mentioned for the first time in a fairly recent publication (Rocha-Pereira 2007), having been absent from previous publications (e.g. Rocha-Pereira 1962) and lists of works by the Brygos Painter (e.g. ARV; Cambitoglou 1968; Tzachou-Alexandri 2001, 106 nn. 74–76).10 The signature on the pelike ascribes its manufacture to the potter Brygos, reading ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ (Brygos made [this vase]), while the painting on it has

9 See Rocha-Pereira 2007, 92–93 (cat. 16); Jesus 2010, pl. 2a–b. 10 All of the drawings are by the author and show the inscriptions decontextualized.

Figure 3.1. Attic red-figure pelike with Brygos’s signature. Manuel Lancastre Collection, Lisbon. Drawing by author.10

Figure 3.2. Signature of Brygos on an Attic pelike; Manuel Lancastre Collection, Lisbon (Appendix 2: 1). Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Rocha-Pereira 2007, 92.

been ascribed to the Brygos Painter on account of its style, thus confirming the closeness of the two artisans, who seem to have worked together often. The name was assigned to this painter because of his close association with Brygos, though some scholars have argued that the potter and painter were, in fact, the same individual (e.g. Cambitoglou 1968, 11–12; Robertson 1992, 93). The consensus opinion, though, was voiced by Robertson (1992, 101) in a discussion of the interactions among collaborating artisans — potters and painters such as Douris and Python, or Makron and Hieron — who observed of the intense collaboration between the

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potter Brygos and the Brygos Painter that ‘The Brygos Painter puts the name of Brygos on a fair number of vases, but never, on present evidence, his own [name]’.11 The distinction between the potter named Brygos and the Brygos Painter gradually emerged over the past century-and-a-half. Both Aschbach (1870, 90) and Furtwangler and Reichhold (1904) referred to the ‘Brygos Painter’. However, the characterization of Brygos as a painter was still common at this time (Heydemann 1866; von Urlichs 1875; Architect 1877; Rayet 1878, 120; Gonse 1879; Rayet and Collignon 1988, 187–97). In the twentieth century, the debate about Brygos narrowed. The ARV, for instance, the Brygos Painter is representative of Brygos’s workshop, while Beazley coined the expression ‘Brygos Painter’s circle’.12 However, it became apparent that the signatures associated with Brygos were executed by multiple collaborators (see Appendix 2).13 The identity of the individual or individuals responsible for the Lancastre pelike has not been established with certainty. The technical information section in the entry on the vase in the catalogue of the collection mentions the Brygos Painter (Rocha-Pereira 2007, 92–93; 2017, 106), but the comments on the piece refer to ‘the Brygos Painter or one of the artists who worked with him at the workshop of the potter Brygos’. In point of fact, it has not been proved beyond a doubt that the Brygos Painter is responsible for the painting on the pelike or the written information on it. Notably, publications that mention the Brygos Painter emphasize the link between him and the inscriptions bearing his name.14 It is also important to keep in mind that no reliable biographical information on Brygos has surfaced to date. Accounts of the demographics of the artisans active in Attica have noted that the name apparently indicates — as is the case with some other Attic potters — foreign descent. Specifically, the name suggests the ethnonym Brygoi, a people of ancient Thrace, leading some to suggest that Brygos may have been a Thracian slave (Cambitoglou 1968, 7; Immerwahr 1990, 88; Sparkes 1991, 67; Webster 1973, 46). The name Brygos and the painters with whom he collaborated are associated with approximately two hundred vases, on sixteen of which his name is or appears to be the grammatical subject of the verb ποιέω (e.g. Βρύγος ἐποίησεν, ‘Brygos made [this vase]’; Appendix 2). Including the Lancastre pelike, seventeen signatures 11 See also Cambitoglou 1968, 7. 12 For references to more recent studies on the Brygos Painter, see Tzachou-Alexandri 2001, 105–06. 13 For the process linked to signatures in the context of collaborations in Brygos’s workshop, see Kurtz 1982, 46–47. 14 For instance, Jesus 2010, 41 and 45; Morais and Centeno 2013, 69; 2015, 9–10.

are currently associated with Brygos, since one of the sixteen vases just mentioned (ARV 570; AVI 6180) includes what seem to be two signatures (Appendix 2: 12, discussed in detail presently). The number of items associated with Brygos has gradually increased over time. Thus, in the early twentieth century, Tonks (1904, 101–05) reported nine vases with Brygos’s signature; in 1963, Beazley listed thirteen signatures in ARV2; and, more recently, Robertson (1992, 93) calculated the figure of sixteen vases (listed with the seventeen signatures in Appendix 2). Further, twelve of these signatures (Appendix 2: 1–2, 5–10, 13–16) are well preserved, and the content relevant to the present discussion (i.e. the name Βρύγος and the verb ποιέω) is in good condition in every instance but one (Appendix 2: 14, in which only one letter of the verb is preserved). A combination of factors (vase type, technique, position of the inscription, and painter) reinforces the similarities among the signatures. In another instance, only the name is preserved, with a notable variation, Βρύκος (Appendix 2: 4); the vase type, technique, and location of the inscription on the vase fragment point to Brygos’s workshop as its place of origin and link the signature, despite the appearance of a κ in place of the expected γ, to him. Some of the signatures (Appendix 2: 3, 11, 12) are preserved on quite small fragments, in which cases, again, other factors help to link them to Brygos. In three cases (3, 11, and 14), the signatures, in addition to being preserved on cup handles using the same technique used for the other pieces, appear on parts of vases ascribed to painters, who, according to scholars, collaborated with Brygos. Finally, there is the especially problematic cup (Appendix 2: 12) with two fragmentary signatures, one on its foot and another on its handle. The painter is unknown, and it is uncertain whether its two fragments belonged to one cup with two signatures or to two cups. Taken together, these signatures indicate that, of the two most frequent activities of ceramists, pottery-making and decorating with glazes and drawings, Brygos’s workshop (like other Greek workshops of the period) emphasized the former activity by evoking the broad semantic field of ποιέω rather than the more limited connotations of γράφω. Brygos’s workshop provides a context for thinking about the issue of materiality in relation to inscriptions since, beyond Attica, their possible meanings could vary considerably. Thus, vases produced in this workshop have been found not only in Attica but also in Etruria, including Vulci, Tarquinia, Cerveteri, and Capua. Modern scholars even named a fifth-century tomb in Capua after Brygos in recognition of a kylix bearing his signature (Appendix 2: 8; Beazley 1945; Williams 1992). I emphasize that a purely linguistic interpretation of the meaning of Brygos’s signature points to specific

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actions. Nevertheless, the materiality of the signature on the pelike can provide the basis for a reconsideration of the meanings associated with it. To begin with, the inscription occupies a narrow space amid the figures that dominate the available space on the vase’s two panels. One panel shows Hermes interacting with a female figure that could be Athena or one of the Horae, and the other shows two more goddesses who appear to be Horae.15 The continuity between the panels includes the theme (the Horae are associated with Hermes in myth), the figures’ clothing and orientation, and their physical similarity. In the first panel, an inscription — the only one on the pelike — was inserted in a space between one of the female figures and the edge of the panel after the layout of the images was complete. Therefore, as is the case with a great deal of other Attic pottery, the inscription — at least in its physical state — is a secondary element. It was neither planned beforehand nor inserted with a clear aesthetic purpose that might link it to the figures but simply placed where it would fit.

Βρύγος ἐποίησεν? The inscription ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ (Figs 3.1–3.2), as discussed, contains the verb ποιέω written with an apparently novel form of π. Surveys of Archaic inscriptions16 reveal no similar examples of this letter, which is characterized by two oblique lines of a similar length united by a vertex with a horizontal line above. I interpret this form, not as a distinctive way of writing the letter, but as the result of an accident: as he wrote this part of the inscription, the artisan’s mind wandered, and he began to write a form of γράφω rather than the intended ποιέω. The two oblique bars united by a vertex at their tops, I suggest, reflect better the spelling of the letter gamma, which follows the initial epsilon in the aorist form ἔγραψεν. After noticing his mistake, by my interpretation, the artisan then converted the gamma into a somewhat awkward π and completed the word ἐποίησεν.

This interpretation opens up some interesting perspectives, beginning with that of the artisan. That is, the choice to use one verb over another shows thought about which aspect of the production of the pelike, the making of the ceramic vessel or the decoration of its surface, deserves emphasis. The presence of mistakes in writing is, of course, not surprising,17 and the Brygos Painter is known for apparent departures from the usual grammar and word and letter forms in contemporary vase inscriptions. Thus, Immerwahr (1990, 89) contrasted the Brygos Painter’s apparently thorough knowledge of the Greek language with his ‘rather coarse’ use of letters, which includes an almost complete avoidance of φ (with the unaspirated π used instead; Boardman 1975, 9; Immerwahr 1990, 88). He also used unusual spellings of the names of the characters in the inscriptions and, often, nonsensical strings of letters (Immerwahr 1990, 89). Even some of the signatures on works that he and closely associated painters produced include apparent spelling mistakes (Appendix 2: 2, 15–16). In the context of the collaboration between potters and painters, the presence of only one name on a vessel implicitly valorised one of the collaborators as the most significant, the one who ‘made’ it (bearing in mind the wide elasticity of ποιέω). Therefore, in many situations, vases were painted by an artisan who included an inscription naming another artisan. In other words, painters commonly wrote the names of potters or other individuals as the subject of the verb ποιέω (Hurwit 2015, 86). The selection of the verb ποιέω (rather than γράφω) and the reference to another person reflect certain features of the production and marketing environment for ancient Greek ceramics. That is, the unique set of circumstances that attended the production of the vase informed the inscription of Brygos’s name on the Lancastre pelike as the primary artisan (Hurwit 2015, 86). *** Compared with the other Brygos signatures, the one on this pelike has some distinctive features. First, the other signatures linked to Brygos are found on cups, this being the most common artefact produced by the artisans in the Brygos Painter’s ‘circle’. Thus, in ARV2 (368–85), Beazley identified 170 cups ascribed to Brygos. These were also the main artefacts produced by the painters linked to this ‘workshop’, specifically, the Brygos Painter and his circle, the Castelgiorgio Painter, the Painter of the Yale Cup, the Painter of Munich 2676 and his circle,

15 For a detailed account, see Rocha-Pereira 2007, 92–93. Regarding the connection between the Horae and Hermes in myth, both Philostratus the Athenian (Life of Apollonius of Tyana v. 15, first century ce) and Philostratus the Elder (Imagines i. 26, third century ce) describe the goddesses as nurturing the god in his infancy. Paralleling the pelike, a marble relief found on the Acropolis in Athens dating to c. 600 bce depicts Hermes leading the Horae along with Eniautos Daimon, i.e. the New Year spirit (Cashford 2015, 115, fig. 5.8). 16 In addition to the extensive surveys carried out by Jeffery 1961 17 See, for instance, Perpillou 1992 (with bibliography) and and Immerwahr 1990, Boardman 1995, 202 provides a concise examples in Immerwahr 1990, 67, 71, and 82; Mannack 2012, 47 survey of Attic ceramics from c. 625 to 475 bce. and 49; Hedreen 2015, 176; Chiarini 2018, 4–5.

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Figure 3.3. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 95.57 (Appendix 2: 5). Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Cambitoglou 1968 pl. I, 1.

Figure 3.4. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Los Angeles, J. P. Getty, 86.AE.293 (Appendix 2: 9). Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: CVA The J. Paul Getty Museum 8, fig. 17; pls 425–26.

Figure 3.5. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G152 (Appendix 2: 13). Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Wegner 1973, pls 17c, 18–20, 29c, 40c.

Figure 3.6. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; Oxford, Ashmolean, 1911.615 (Appendix 2: 15). Drawing by author. For photo, see: Barret and Vickers 1978, pl. I.

Figure 3.7. Signature of Brygos on an Attic cup; London, British Museum, E65 (Appendix 2: 8). Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Cambitoglou 1968, pls 8, I (I), 9 (A–B), 1, 4–4.

under discussion is, in fact, his work, it is a vase shape with which this artisan seems not to have been very familiar. Second, the signatures were painted in black gloss on the unpainted areas of the vases, mostly on handles, except in the case of the Lancastre pelike, on which the signature was written in purple-red over black gloss. The uniqueness of this signature thus extends to its material attributes despite its adherence to the standard pattern of name and verb of action seen on many vases. The name ‘Brygos’ precedes the verb ποιέω, the two words either running together (Figs 3.4–3.7) or being separated by a space (Fig. 3.2) or two points (Fig. 3.3). The signature on the pelike is distinct from other Brygos signatures with respect to the context and type of vase in addition to being inscribed using a distinct technique, so the writing style confirms the status of the vase as a unique product of this workshop. Scholars have not yet grasped fully, I suggest, the significance of these facts for the operation of the workshop associated with Brygos. The forms of some of the letters vary within this small group of inscriptions. Thus, while β, γ, ο, ν, and η are stylistically consistent,18 ρ is written either with a long stem and a semicircle (Figs 3.2 and 3.5) or with a small oblique stem linked to the junction of the semicircle and the long stem (Figs 3.3–3.4, 3.6–3.7). The more common form of υ, with two oblique stems united by a vertex at the lower end (Figs 3.3–3.7), appears alongside a form with one elongated stem (Fig. 3.2). Likewise, σ is written either as three or four oblique stems united by vertices (Figs 3.2–3.6 and 3.7, respectively). All of these variations are attested elsewhere in the corpus of inscriptions from this period (see below, n. 15). Among the inscriptions on the vases that Brygos’s workshop produced, the variation extends beyond the signatures. Thus, for instance, a vase on which the signature includes a four-stem σ (Fig. 3.7) also has inscriptions identifying the figures (ΖΕΥΧΣΟ and ΧΡΥΣΙΠΠΟΣ) that have the same letter form as well as a simple ρ without the oblique stem, while the other form of ρ appears in the signature on the same vase (Fig. 3.8). By way of further example, a cup ascribed to the Brygos Painter contains inscriptions naming two figures (ΠΙΛΙΠΟΣ [sic] and ΚΑΛΛΙΣΤΟ), the former including a form of π that differs significantly from the one that appears

the Painter of the Oxford Brygos, the Foundry Painter and his circle, the Briseis Painter and his circle, the Dokimasia Painter and his circle, the Painter of Agora D42, the Painter of Louvre G265, and the Painter of the Paris Gigantomachy (ARV 368–424). The other vase shapes are less numerous. Specifically, seven skyphoi, three kantharoi, four kantharoi (possibly), thirteen rhyta, two kyathoi, four neck amphorae, twenty-one lekythoi, 18 In some cases, η seems to show a distinctive bend in the three horizontal stems, but a more detailed visual analysis of the piece one squat lekythos, three oinochoai, one kalathoid vase than can be conducted using photos would be necessary to with a spout, and one plate (ARV2, 368–85) have been dismiss the possibility that this shape is merely an artefact of the connected with the Brygos Painter. Thus, if the pelike reproduction of the images consulted for the present study.

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Figure 3.8. Inscriptions on an Attic red-figure cup signed by Brygos, 490–480 bce; London, British Museum, E65 (Appendix 2: 8). Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Cambitoglou 1968, pl. 2, fig. 1.

Figure 3.11. Signature of Amasis on an Attic black-figure olpe, c. 540 bce. Paris, Musée du Louvre, F30. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Beazley 1951, pl. 52, 2–4.

Figure 3.12. Signature of Exekias on an Attic black-figure type B amphora, 550–540 bce. Paris, Musée du Louvre, F53. Drawing by author. For photo, see: CVA, Louvre 3, III. He, pls 19.1–3, 20.1–4. Figure 3.9. Inscriptions on an Attic red-figure cup signed by Brygos, 490–480 bce; London, British Museum, E68. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Cambitoglou 1968, figs 3–4.

Figure 3.13. Signature of Nikosthenes on an Attic blackfigure Nikosthenic amphora, 530–520 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, F102. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Vidali 1997, A2, 12, pl. 10. Figure 3.10. Inscriptions on an Attic red-figure cup signed by Brygos, c. 490 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G313. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Pottier 1922, pl. 135.

consolidated in Attic signatures in the sixth and fifth centuries bce at workshops linked to such influential artisans as Amasis, Exekias, Nikosthenes, Hermogenes, Pamphaios, Euphronios, Kaliades, and Khakhrylion (Figs 3.11–3.18).19 At the same time, another form of π was in use that features two vertical stems of similar size (Fig. 3.9). It can be found in inscriptions on the products of Brygos’s workshop as well as signatures that antedate Brygos. An example is ΕΠΙΚΤΕΤΟΣ ΕΓΡΑΣΦΕΝ (‘Epiktetos painted this’; note the aberrant spelling of the verb) (Figs 3.19–3.20). In this case, the π may again be a mistake — one that went uncorrected. In fact, the same artisan elsewhere made a similar mistake, improperly inserting a sigma, in spelling the name of his collaborator, ΠΙΣΤΟ/Σ/ΧΕΝΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕ (Pistoxenos made [me/this vase]).20 On another cup by Epiktetos, a π replaces the γ in the verb γράφω, with

in the signature, which has two vertical stems of the same size, while the form of λ is very similar to that of υ in the signatures produced by the Brygos Painter and others in his workshop (Fig. 3.9). Also, the letters in some of the inscriptions produced by this workshop seem quite compressed (σ with two stems; see, for example, Fig. 3.10), possibly because the writing was done in haste. This variation is apparent in the writing of π on the Lancastre pelike, which is unlike that in the other signatures linked to Brygos and, indeed, has no parallel in this period. This fact suggests the possibility that, rather than being the product of a particular style, the unusual form was a mistake identified and corrected during the production of the vase. The π used in signatures with the verb ποιέω usually have three 19 This π appears in many authorship inscriptions of the fifth century bce, including the second half of the century, for vertical stems, one of which is significantly smaller instance on the pieces from Polygnotos’s workshop (Immerwahr than the others, as is seen in the earliest known signa1990, 110 and pl. 32, 131–32). tures, which date to the eighth and seventh centuries 20 The signature is on a red-figure skyphos at the British Museum, E bce (Hurwit 2015, 72, figs 33 and 73). This form was 139.

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Figure 3.14. Signature of Hermogenes on an Attic blackfigure lip cup, 550–545 bce; Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 95.17. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: CVA Boston 2, pls 92, 1–2; 93, 3.

Figure 3.15. Signature of Pamphaios on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–475 bce; London, British Museum, E815. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Boardman 1975, fig. 96.

no apparent effort having been made to correct the error (Fig. 3.19). This variation in the signatures suggests that the environment in which they were inscribed was characterized by a certain lack of knowledge of spelling and/or orthographic conventions. In the case of the artisan who wrote the inscription on the Lancastre pelike, though, a certain consistency is observable in the spelling of the words in the signatures amid the many variations produced by the workshop that scholars have documented (Boardman 1975, 9; Immerwahr 1990, 88–89). Equally important, the leading figure in this workshop, whose name overshadows the group of individuals who contributed in various ways to the production of the ceramics, was the individual associated with the complex concept that the verb ποιέω represents. This situation contrasts with that at the workshop of the Attic vase painter Epiktetos, whose name frequently received emphasis, individually or in connection with the persons named as the subject of the verb ποιέω on various pieces, including Pistoxenos, Hischylos, and Python (Ilyina 2001, 159; Stansbury-O’Donnell 2011, 234, n. 10).

Final Remarks Figure 3.16. Signature of Euphronios on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–490 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G105. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Pappas 2008, fig. 1.

Figure 3.17. Signature of Kalliades on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–450 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G115. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Pottier 1922, pls 107–08.

Figure 3.18. Signature of Khakhrylion on an Attic red-figure cup, 500–450 bce; Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 95.33. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Gjerstad and others 1977, pl. 74, 4–5.

Brygos’s signature on the Lancastre pelike contains some common features and some distinctive, even unique ones. Thus, the preference for the verb ποιέω and the identification of a worker, which reflect the complexity of the production setting, are typical of the pottery-vase production in Athens in the sixth and fifth centuries bce. On the other hand, among the signatures associated with Brygos, this signature is unparalleled in terms of the writing technique (purple-red over black gloss), vase type (a pelike), and location (on the bulge). The tension among the artisans responsible for the various features of a finished Greek vase are reflected in the pattern of usage of the verbs γράφω and ποιέω. It remains unclear whether the painter of the Lancastre pelike was the Brygos Painter, but the foregoing discussion has clarified the relationships among the individuals who worked in workshops such as Brygos’s. The Brygos Painter is considered one of the great ‘artists’ of his time, more specifically, in the words of Tzachou-Alexandri (2001, 105), ‘one of three more important painters of red-figure cups of the late Archaic period’. He has been recognized as such at museums and in specialized bibliographical sources since the nineteenth century. However, his name has not come down to us; his workshop omitted it, emphasizing instead the name associated with the verb ποιέω. Brygos, for his part, was linked to the production of vases in collaboration with several painters, providing an explicit unity of authorship

3 . T h e B rygo s Pai nt e r’s Mi sw ri t t e n S i gnat u re o n t he Lancast re p el ike

for the vases bearing his name. On the other hand, for the Brygos Painter and another member of his circle, the Foundry Painter, the ‘nonsense’ inscriptions, such as ΜΝΟΝΕ and ΝΟΕΝΔΝΙ, can be understood as personal marks (Tzachou-Alexandri 2001, 99 and 107) and, thus, as a clue to the identity of the individuals responsible for the decoration on the vases.21 As the comparison of the inscriptions by the Brygos Painter’s with those of Epiktetos shows, the artisans in many workshops made spelling mistakes and ill-formed letters in their vase inscriptions.22 Epiktetos constantly misspelled the verb γράφω and some other words (Boardman 1975, 9; Immerwahr 1990, 88–89). The artisans employed, in turn, various ways of correcting their errors. A correction that converted a γ into a π indicates a certain level of ‘spelling consciousness’ not yet seen elsewhere. The full complexity and meaning of these features of ceramics production become apparent upon consideration of the material aspects of writing, including the inscription on the Lancastre pelike. Signatures linked to Brygos recur on cups, usually on the handle but also on the foot. This layout distances the written information (the name and activity of an individual who stands for the production process as a whole as the subject of ποιέω or γράφω) and the figures and designs that also decorated the vase. The vases produced in these workshops included other types of written information, such as the names of the characters in the paintings, in which cases the images and writing are mutually reinforcing (see Appendix 2: 3, 8, and 13). The nonsensical and kalos inscriptions also share space with the images on the cups, though rarely with Brygos’s signatures. In fact, between the vases signed by Brygos, the Lancastre pelike is the only example of a signature in the area where are the figures on the vase, though it was not executed so as to establish a complex relationship with them. Rather, the inscription and figures share the same panel, on which the former plays a rather discreet role. In any case, this signature was created with a particular programme in

21 Athens 5898; see n. 5 above for a similar use by the Sappho Painter. 22 For instance, among the more than eight thousand AVI inscriptions, approximately three hundred mistakes have been identified.

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Figure 3.19. Signature of Epiktetos on an Attic red-figure plate, 520–510 bce; New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1981.11.10. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: De Montebello 1994, 319, no. 37.

Figure 3.20. Signature of Epiktetos on an Attic red-figure plate, 520–510 bce; Paris, Musée du Louvre, G7. Drawing by author. For the original photo, see: Pottier 1922, pl. 89.

mind, as indicated by its distinct colour, technique, size, and position as well as the standard spelling of ποιέω. Since there is no evidence of any attempt to correct the spelling of a word on any of the other vases by Brygos on which irregular forms appear, the special attention paid to the signature on this pelike seems related to its material conditions. Positioned uniquely beside the images, the inscription on the pelike attracts the viewer’s attention. Therefore, the correction of the mistake may reveal, aside from ‘spelling consciousness’, an awareness of the aesthetic role that writing played under certain conditions.

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Appendix 1. Notes on the Epigraphic and Literary Citations in Greek (1) The literary quotations and words in the inscriptions in the philological commentary are presented in Greek characters (lowercase) with diacritics. (2) The inscriptions are presented in Greek characters (uppercase) without diacritics. (3) Epigraphic symbols [ ] lacuna; lacuna with reconstitution ( ) omitted in error / / included in error

Appendix 2. List of Vases with Brygos’s Signature 1. Lisbon, Manuel Lancastre Collection

pelike (body)

2. Athens, Acropolis Museum, 5791 (ARV 369.5; AVI 0211) 3. Athens, National Museum, Acr. II, 293 (ARV 398; AVI 1331) 4. Athens, National Museum, Acr. II, 294 (ARV 398; AVI 1332) 5. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 95.57 (ARV 398; AVI 2648) 6. Florence, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, 3921 (ARV 372.31; AVI 3553) 7. Frankfurt, Stadel Institute, St V.7 (ARV 386; AVI 3740) 8. London, British Museum, E 65 (ARV 370.13; AVI 4473) 9. Malibu, Getty Museum, 86.AE.293 (AVI 5018) 10. New York, White-Levi Collection (AVI 5756) 11. New York, Private Collection, Central Island (AVI 3108) 12. Paris, Cabinet des Médailles, 570, 578, 580, 722(?) (ARV 570; AVI 6180) 13. Paris, Musée du Louvre, G 152 (ARV 369.1; AVI 6490) 14. Paris, Musée du Louvre, G 151 (ARV 406.8; AVI 6489) 15. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, 1911.615 (ARV 399; AVI 5925) 16. Würzburg, Martin-von-Wagner-Museum der Universität, L 479 (ARV 372.32; AVI 8111)

cup (handle)

Brygos Painter (?), 500–475 Unattributed, 500–475

cup (handle)

Brygos Painter, 500–475 Β[- - - - - - - - - - - - -]

cup (handle)

Unattributed, 500–475

ΒΡΥΚΟΣ [- - - - - - - -]

cup (handle)

Unattributed, 500–575

ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ

cup (handle)

Brygos Painter, 500–475 ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ

cup (handle)

Close to Castelgiorgio ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ Painter, c. 480 Brygos Painter, ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ 490–480 Briseis Painter, 480–470 ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ

cup (foot) cup (handle) cup (handle) cup (handle) cup (handle, foot) cup (handle)

Painter of Fourteenth Brygos, 490–480 Painter of Fourteenth Brygos (?), 500–475 Unattributed, c. 500

ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ [Β]ΡΥΓΟΣ (Ε)ΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ

ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ [- - - - - - - - - - - - -]ΣΕΝ

ΒΡ[- - - - - - - - - - - -]; ΒΡΥ[- - - - - - - - - - -] Brygos Painter, 500–490 ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΣΕΝ

cup (handle)

Briseis Painter, 490–480 ΒΡΥΓΟΣ Ε[- - - - - - -]

cup (handle)

Oxford Painter of Brygos, 500–475 Brygos Painter, c. 490

cup (handle)

ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠ(ΟΙ)ΕΣΕΝ ΒΡΥΓΟΣ ΕΠΟΙ(Ε)ΣΕΝ

3 . T h e B rygo s Pai nt e r’s Mi sw ri t t e n S i gnat u re o n t he Lancast re p el ike

Works Cited Architect. 1877. ‘“Peace” and “War”’, The Architect: A Weekly Illustrated Journal of Art, Civil Engineering and Building, 18: 153–54 Aschbach, Joseph. 1870. Die Animier und Römische Dichterin Proba, Ancient History Pamphlets, 12 (Vienna: K. K. Hof. und Staatsdruckerei) Barrett, Anthony A., and Michael Vickers. 1978. ‘The Oxford Brygos Cup Reconsidered’, The Journal of Hellenic Studies, 98: 17–24 Beazley, John D. 1945. ‘The Brygos Tomb at Capua’, American Journal of Archaeology, 49.2: 153–58 ——. 1951. The Development of Attic Black-Figure (Berkeley: University of California Press) ——. 1956. Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters (Oxford: Oxford University Press) ——. 1971. Paralipomena: Additions to ‘Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters’ and ‘Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters’ (Oxford: Clarendon) Boardman, John. 1975. Athenian Red Figure Vases (London: Thames and Hudson) ——. 1995. Athenian Black Figure Vases: A Handbook (London: Thames and Hudson) ——. 2003. ‘Reading Greek Vases’, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 22.1: 109–14 Bolmarcich, Sarah, and Georgina Muskett. 2017. ‘Artists’ Signatures on Archaic Greek Vases from Athens’, in Artists and Artistic Production in Ancient Greece, ed. by Kristen Seaman and Peter Schultz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 154–76 Bruneau, Philippe. 1974. ‘Sources textuelles et vestiges matériels, réflexion sur l’interprétation archéologique’, in Mélanges helléniques offerts à Georges Daux, ed. by Philippe Bruneau and others (Paris: De Boccard), pp. 33–42 Burn, Lucilla, and Ruth Glynn. 1982. Beazley Addenda: Additional References to ABV, ARV2 & Paralipomena (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Cambitoglou, Alexander. 1968. The Brygos Painter (Sydney: Sydney University Press for Australian Humanities Research Council) Cashford, Jules. 2015. ‘How Hermes and Apollo Came to Love Each Other in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes: Imagination and Form in Ancient Greece and Modern Psyche’, in Ancient Greece, Modern Psyche: Archetypes Evolving, ed. by Virginia B. Rutter and Thomas Singer (New York: Routledge), pp. 101–46 Chiarini, Sara. 2018. The So-Called Nonsense Inscriptions on Ancient Greek Vases: Between ‘Paideia’ and ‘Paidiá’ (Leiden: Brill) Cohen, Beth. 1991. ‘The Literate Potter: A Tradition of Incised Signatures on Attic Vases’, Metropolitan Museum Journal, 26: 49–95 De Montebello, Philippe. 1994. The Metropolitan Museum of Art Guide (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art) Francisco, Gilberto da Silva. 2008. Grafismos gregos: escrita e figuração na cerâmica ática do período arcaico, Revista do Museu de arqueologia e etnologia da Universidade de São Paulo, Suppl. 6 (São Paulo: Imprensa Oficial) Furtwängler, Adolf, and Karl Reichhold. 1904. Griechische Vasenmalerei: Auswahl Hervorragender Vasenbilder (Frankfurt: Bruckmann) Gjerstad, Einar, Yves Calvet, Marguerite Yon, Vassos Karageorghis, and J. P. Thalman. 1977. Greek Geometric and Archaic Pottery Found in Cyprus, Acta Series in 4°, 26 (Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Athens) Gonse, Louis. 1879. L’Art ancien à l’exposition de 1878, ii (Paris: A. Quantin) Hedreen, Guy. 2015. The Image of the Artist in Archaic and Classical Greece: Art, Poetry, and Subjectivity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Heydemann, Heinrich. 1866. Iliupersis auf einer Trinkschale des Brygos (Berlin: Enslin) Hurwit, Jeffrey M. 2015. Artists and Signatures in Ancient Greece (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Ilyina, Yulia. 2001. ‘Early Red-Figure Pottery from Berezan’, in Northern Pontiac Antiquities in the State Hermitage Museum, ed. by John Boardman, S. Sergei L. Solovyov, and Gocha R. Tsetskhladze (Leiden: Brill), pp. 159–68 Immerwahr, Heinrich R. 1990. Attic Script: A Survey (Oxford: Clarendon) Jeffery, Lilian. 1961. The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece: A Study of the Origin of the Greek Alphabet and its Development from the Eighth to the Fifth Centuries. B.C. (Oxford: Clarendon) Jesus, Carlos A. M. 2010. ‘The Construction of the Image of Peace in Ancient Greece: A Few Literary and Iconographic Evidences’, Synthesis, 17: 25–46 Keuls, Eva C. 1989a. ‘New Light on the Social Position of Vase Painters int Late Archaic Athens’, in Mélanges Pierre Lévêque, iii: Anthropologie et Société, ed. by Marie-Madeleine Mactoux and Evelyne Geny, Annales littéraires de Besançon, 404 (Paris: Les belles lettres), pp. 149–68 ——. 1989b. ‘Archaeology and the Classics: A Rumination’, in Classics: A Discipline and Profession in Crisis?, ed. by Phyllis Culham and Lowell Edmunds (Lanham: University Press of America), pp. 225–30 Kurtz, Donna. 1982. The Eye of Greece: Studies in the Art of Athens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press)

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Lissarrague, François. 1992. ‘Graphein: écrire et dessiner’, in L’Image en jeu: de l’antiquité à Paul Klee, ed. by Christine Bron and Effy Kassapoglou (Yens-sur-Morges: Cabédita), pp. 189–203 ——. 2013. ‘La place des mots dans l’imagerie attique’, Pallas, 93: 69–80 Mannack, Thomas. 2012. ‘Greek Decorated Pottery I: Athenian Vase-Painting’, in A Companion to Greek Art, ed. by Tyler J. Smith and Dimitris Plantzos (Malden: Blackwell), pp. 39–61 Morais, Rui, and Rui Centeno. 2013. ‘Notícia sobre quatro vasos áticos da Coleção D. Manuel Lancastre’, Portvgalia, n.s., 34: 69–81 ——. 2015. Vasos gregos da Coleção D. Manuel de Lancastre (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade de Coimbra) Musseis, Gerard. 1971. The Morphology of Koine Greek as Used in the Apocalypse of St John: A Study in Bilingualism (Leiden: Brill) Papadopoulos, John K. 1994. ‘Early Iron Age Potters’ Marks in the Aegean’, Hesperia, 63: 437–507 Pappas, Alexandra. 2008. ‘Remember to Cry Wolf: Visual and Verbal Declarations of Lykos Kalos’, in Orality, Literacy, Memory in the Ancient Greek and Roman World, ed. by Anne Mackay, Orality and Literacy in Ancient Greece, 7 (Leiden: Brill) Perpillou, Jean-Louis. 1992. ‘“Badly miswritten” ou de la manière d’écrire des peintres de vases’, Revue des études grecques, 105.502–03: 557–60 Pottier, Edmond. 1922. Vases antiques du Louvre, 3e Série (Paris: Hachette) Powell, Barry B. 1991. Homer and the Origin of the Greek Alphabet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Rayet, Olivier. 1878. ‘Exposition universelle. L’art grec au Trocadéro’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, 2: 105–25 Rayet, Olivier, and Maxime Collignon. 1988. Histoire de la céramique grecque (Paris: Decaux) Robertson, Martin. 1992. The Art of Vase-Painting in Classical Athens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Rocha-Pereira, Maria Helena. 1962. Greek Vases in Portugal (Coimbra: University of Coimbra) ——. 2017. Obras de Maria Helena da Rocha Pereira IV: arte antiga (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade de Coimbra) Rocha-Pereira, Maria Helena. 2007. Vasos gregos em Portugal: aquém das colunas de Hércules (Lisbon: Instituto Português de Museus) Sapirstein, Philip. 2013. ‘Painters, Potters, and the Scale of the Attic Vase-Painting Industry’, American Journal of Archaeology, 117.4: 493–510 Scheibler, Ingeborg. 1983. Die Griechische Toepferkunst: Herstellung und Gebrauch der antiken Tongefäße (Munich: Beck) Sparkes, Brian A. 1991. Greek Pottery: An Introduction (Manchester: Manchester University Press) Stansbury-O’Donnell, Mark. 2011. Looking at Greek Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Tonks, Oliver S. 1904. ‘Brygos. His Characteristics’, Memoirs of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, n.s., 13.2: 65–117 Tosto, Vincent. 1999. The Black Figure Pottery Signed Nikosthenes Epoiesen (Amsterdam: Allard Pierson Museum) Trendall, Arthur D. 1987. The Red-Figured Vases of Paestum (London: British School at Rome) Tzachou-Alexandri, Olga E. 2001. ‘Le stamnos d’Athènes no 5898 du Peintre de Brygos’, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique, 125.1: 89–108 Urlichs, Ludwig von. 1875. Der Vasenmaler Brygos und die Ruland’sche Münzsammlung: Siebentes Programm des von Wagner’schen Kunstinstituts (Würzburg: Stahel’schen Buchdruckerei) Vidali, Stamatoula. 1997. Archaische Delphindarstellungen (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann) Villanueva-Puig, Marie-Christine. 2007. ‘Des signatures de potiers et de peintres de vases à l’époque grecque archaïque et de leurs interprétations’, Mètis, n.s., 5: Dossier: Tekhnai/Artes: 27–50 Webster, Thomas B. L. 1973. Athenian Culture and Society (Berkeley: University of California Press) Wegner, Max. 1973. Der Brygosmaler (Berlin: Wasmuth) Williams, Dyfri. 1992. ‘The Brygos Tomb Reassembled and 19th-Century Commerce in Capuan Antiquities’, American Journal of Archaeology, 96.4: 617–36 ——. 1999. Greek Vases (London: British Museum Press)

Julia Lougovaya

4. A Lesson in a Desert Quarry A Material Approach to a School Ostracon

The word ὄστρακον, ‘ostracon’, originally designated the shell of a shell-animal, be it a turtle or a mollusc (Chantraine 1974, 833, s.v. ὄστρακον et ὄστρειον).1 It is evidently related to ὄστρεον, from which the English ‘oyster’, German ‘Auster’, Dutch ‘oester’, and Russian ‘устрица’ ultimately derive. Eventually, ὄστρακον came to mean any shell or sherd, in particular a sherd of a ceramic vessel and even the ceramic vessel itself.2 In modern languages, however, ‘ostracon’ usually refers not just to a potsherd, but to an inscribed sherd. Thus, the Oxford English Dictionary states under ‘ostracon’: ‘A potsherd (or occasionally: a piece of limestone) used in the ancient world as a writing surface, esp. for votive or hieratic purposes or (in Greek cities) for voting in an ostracism. Frequently in plural.’ It is, of course, the practice of ostracism in Classical Athens with which the word ostracon is most commonly associated. There, when a man of standing was perceived as potentially dangerous for the democracy, he could be voted into exile through a procedure in which pottery sherds inscribed with the names of such individuals were used as ballots. If enough votes were cast against a candidate, he was banished from Athens and Attica for ten years, while keeping his possessions and civic





1 This publication is a product of Collaborative Research Centre 933 — Material Text Cultures. Materiality and Presence of Writing in Non-Typographic Societies (Subproject A09 ‘Writing on Ostraca’). CRC 933 is funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG) under Project Number 178035969 — SFB933. 2 See, for example, Aristoph., Eccl., 1033 or Lys. iii. 28. Jar notations from the Athenian Agora recording the weight of the jar refer to the latter in the genitive case as ὀστράκου; see Lang 1976, 65, for a discussion and list of references to twelve such items in her catalogue.

rights. The material used for the ballots, the ostraca, gave the name to the voting process, ostracophoria, literally ‘carrying of the sherds’, and to the practice of temporary banishment, ostracism.3 Thousands of such ballot-ostraca were discovered during excavations both in the Agora (Lang 1990) and especially in the Kerameikos (Brenne 2018) in Athens. That using pottery sherds for writing was not a novel idea in Athens when the practice of ostracism was introduced is attested by a couple of sherds inscribed with short messages — brief requests to do or bring something — that date to the sixth century bce (Lang 1976, 8, B1 and B2). Similar texts ranging from short communications to various lists or accounts are also known from later periods (Lang 1976, 8–11, B3–B21; Johnston 1985). Although it is somewhat misleading, these texts were traditionally referred to not as ostraca but as graffiti, primarily in order to distinguish them from ostraca used in Athenian ostracism. While continuously attested over centuries, the overall volume of these non-ostracism ostraca in Athens is not large, which suggests that ceramic sherds were not the default material for writing brief texts, and perhaps not even a common one. Various tablets, such as wax or whitened wooden tablets, but also sheets of lead or leather were probably the likeliest choice for short-form writing;

3 There is a vast amount of scholarly literature on ostracism in Athens; among recent works particularly important are Brenne 2001; Siewert 2002; and the spectacular edition of the Kerameikos material in Brenne 2018; for a brief description of the practice, cf. Kristensen 2013, with further references to major works.

Julia Lougovaya  •  ([email protected]) Researcher in the Department of Ancient History and the Institute for Papyrology at Heidelberg University New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 65-76 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133898

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these materials, however, do not survive well in the wet climate of the Aegean.4 Turning to Egypt, one finds that the pattern of usage and distribution of writing materials there was different from other areas of the Mediterranean. Longer texts were inscribed predominantly on papyrus, which was produced there; with limited access to wood, shorter texts could be written on papyrus, too, but there was also an established tradition of using pottery sherds or flakes of limestone for short-form writing. It is thus with Egypt that ostraca in the papyrological sense, that is, as sherds of broken pottery or pieces of limestone that served as a writing surface, are associated. Thousands were and continue to be found inscribed in the multitude of languages in use in Egypt over its long history, from Egyptian hieratic, demotic, and Coptic to Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Meroitic, Arabic, and more. Increasingly ostraca from outside of Egypt, especially from such areas as North Africa or Palestine, are coming to light. As a rule, they are inscribed in ink, but there are occasional examples of incised sherds,5 and irrespective of the mode of their inscribing it has become normative in modern scholarship to call them ostraca (e.g. Dana 2015; Sarri 2018). Although there are differences in how sherds were used for writing in different places, cultural environments, and periods, some common features or tendencies are observable.6 Thus, since texts on ostraca tended to be short, there was a prevalence of such text-types as receipts, lists, or short communications ranging from personal letters to orders and requests.7 Formalities characteristic of a given type of text, such as the date, the greeting, or the closing formula, could be more





4 For the use of lead and ceramic sherds for writing messages outside Egypt, see Dana 2015; 2021; Wilhelm 1909, esp. 239–49, remains a useful survey of literary and epigraphical evidence for the use of wooden tablets and boards; for interesting recent finds of wooden tablets in mainland and Aegean Greece, cf. Papasavvas 2003; West 2013. An overview of various kinds of tablets used for writing is also provided in the contribution of Nicola Reggiani in this volume. 5 For example, P.Gascou 16 (200–550? Africa Proconsularis; TM 701138) or O.Brit.Mus.Copt. 1, p. 17 pl. 13.3 (seventh century, prov. unknown; LDAB 6568) are incised ostraca which come from areas where the majority are written in ink. I provide reference numbers from the Trismegistos Database (TM), , for documents, and from the Leuven Database of Ancient Books (LDAB), [accessed 1 March 2023] for literary and paraliterary texts preserved on papyri, ostraca, or tablets at their first appearance in the article. Unless specified otherwise, all dates are ce. 6 For a useful overview of scribal practice on ostraca, see now Torallas Tovar 2022, which was published too recently to be engaged with in this paper. Cf. also Dana 2021. 7 Outside Egypt, messages on ostraca are similar in this respect to those on lead, cf. Dana 2015; 2021, 328–62.

condensed when inscribed on an ostracon than on a papyrus.8 The geographical space in which ostraca circulated also tended to be more limited than that of papyri. For example, Aramaic letters preserved on ostraca found in Elephantine came from Syene, a city located on the Nile opposite the island (Folmer 2020), while Roman ostraca in the Eastern Desert travelled mostly between neighbouring forts (Cuvigny 2018a, 210–11). And common references to the recent past or the near future with such words as ‘today’, ‘tomorrow’, or ‘yesterday’, suggest the immediacy of communication and a limited chronological span envisaged for messages on ostraca (Lemaire 2011; Folmer 2020). Using sherds of broken pottery for writing may have been influenced by a variety of factors.9 Sherds were more readily available than papyrus, and resorting to them often indicates an increased need for writing which could not be met by the more limited and expensive access to papyrus. For the same reason, sherds may have been preferred for texts that, once read and acted upon, were disposed of, such as shopping lists, road-passes, or requests. As Roger Bagnall (2011, 133) aptly notes, ‘[o]straca thus occupied a part of the field of everyday writing where brevity of text and brevity of lifespan overlap.’ On the other hand, the small format combined with physical durability could be desirable properties for short texts meant for keeping, even if not long-term. The payment of taxes would create precisely such circumstances in which a text would warrant preservation for a certain period of time, and indeed tax receipts constitute the biggest group of documents inscribed on ostraca (Bagnall 2011, 130–34). Endurance and ease of display could render a ceramic sherd or a flake of limestone also attractive for inscribing a relatively short text meant for repeated use, such as, for example, a recitation, which may well have been the case with late antique ostraca inscribed with liturgical texts (Bucking 2007, esp. 32–33; Lougovaya 2020). Although there survive numerous sherds inscribed with apparent educational material, the use of ostraca in schools was neither ubiquitous nor chronologically consistent. Few ostraca dating to the Hellenistic period can be securely associated with an educational environment, but they become increasingly better attested in the Roman and especially late antique period (Lougovaya 2019). If the availability of sherds were the main criterion for their choice in a school context, we would expect especially high numbers of them used for practising

8 The comparison of the epistolary styles of Aramaic letters from Elephantine written on ostraca with those on papyri in Folmer 2020 furnishes an excellent illustration of this tendency. 9 For the use of ostraca in various historical contexts, see contributions in Caputo and Lougovaya 2020.

4. a   le sso n i n a d e se rt quarry

letters at the most elementary levels. This, however, does not seem to be the case, as very rudimentary exercises do not outnumber other types of learning material, such as syllabaries, lists of words, or copies of short passages.10 It may have been that writing on a sherd was not very easy and thus only students at a certain level could manage it; it is also possible that habit and local practice rather than cost were a factor in choosing the material.11 Indeed, the concentration of ostraca inscribed with school texts corresponds to the areas of extensive use of sherds for other kinds of texts, such as the area of Thebes in Upper Egypt or military camps and quarry settlements in the Eastern Desert. Even in those circumstances where writing on sherds was a common practice, properties afforded by the material could be appreciated differently depending on the writer. Thus, a learner could use sherds to practice writing because they were readily and freely available, even if harder to write upon than a papyrus, or because they were simply the local default material for short-form texts. A teacher, on the other hand, could opt to write on a sherd because it offered a suitable surface for a model to be consulted and copied by the students (Cribiore 1996, 64). Which of these was the case for a particular piece can be determined only by considering both textual and material aspects of an ostracon. Thus, it is often not only the type and content of the inscribed text, but its physical and extra-textual characteristics, such as the shape of the sherd, the quality of the handwriting, the format and so on, that indicate at what stage in the educational process or by whom the ostracon was produced.12 Contextualization of the artefact, when possible within the archaeological site where it was discovered, as well as within the larger historical context may help define further the circumstances of its creation and use.13 In this paper,

10 This picture, however, can be owed to the fact that sherds inscribed with alphabets or disparate letters from Egypt might be less likely to be published than those with more extensive exercises. On the other hand, the situation seems to be curiously reversed for the ostraca from outside Egypt, in particular the Black Sea littoral, where a majority of what appear to be school exercises on ostraca contain letters of the alphabet, cf. Dana 2009. 11 Cribiore (1996, 63–64) cautions against associating ostraca with poorer students or the earliest stages in education; see also her table demonstrating the distribution of types of exercises by materials on p. 73. 12 Introduction to this volume offers a useful survey of recent scholarship that focuses on the materiality of ancient texts and discusses its benefits. 13 In their contribution to this volume, Philippa M. Steele and Philip J. Boyes use a similar holistic approach in a comparative analysis of two sets of Cypro-Minoan tablets to help reconstruct the socio-cultural contexts in which the inscribed texts were created and acted upon.

I examine an ostracon found in Mons Claudianus in the Eastern Desert of Egypt and inscribed with a school text as a case study in which a combination of material and textual approaches reveals, or at least suggests, the story of its making in a way that the text alone would not. Excavations at Mons Claudianus in the Eastern Desert of Egypt, where the Romans quarried granodiorite under the auspices of the army, have yielded over nine thousand ostraca, about 10 per cent of which have been published.14 Most of these are documentary and date to the second century of the Common Era, but there is also a handful of literary and paraliterary texts. Many of the latter are likely to have come from an educational environment and, as Walter Cockle, the editor of the pieces, notes (O.Claud. I 169), they make ‘it clear that a school master was giving elementary instruction at Mons Claudianus’. Almost all stages of the primary curriculum are attested: there are ostraca inscribed with alphabets (O.Claud. I 179–81), syllables,15 lists of monosyllabic words,16 sententiae (O.Claud. I 184–87), a metrical pangram (O.Claud. I 182),17 and anecdotes (O.Claud. II 413). In some cases, a hand of a pupil could be discerned, while others are likelier to be products of a teacher’s hand and may have served as models for the students.18 It is possible that the teacher, or teachers, also engaged in composition or the compilation of texts, since some ostraca display both literary competence and confidence in writing (O.Claud. II 409–12). Among the apparent educational material, one artefact, inv. 7861 published as O.Claud. II 415 (second century; LDAB 4632), stands out (Fig. 4.1). It is an unusually large ostracon (23.6 cm in height, with the upper diameter 20 cm and the lower diameter 9.4 cm), which features a panel depicting a bust of a man, a long list of words inscribed in six columns, and several numbers. The unusual form of the sherd, traces of the tools used to cut and inscribe it, the layout of writing and its content make it possible to discern how the sherd was prepared, inscribed, and even interacted with after

14 For an overview of the site, cf. above all Bülow-Jacobsen 1996 and Bingen 2016; for bibliography, consult [accessed 1 March 2023]; for published ostraca, see O.Claud. I–IV. 15 To my knowledge, there are three ostraca inscribed with series of syllables, all unpublished. Of the two mentioned in O.Claud. I, p. 169 (inv. 5108 and 5632), inv. 5632 is not a syllabary but a list of words. 16 These ostraca, inv. 5651 (LDAB 10473) and 7773 (LDAB 10474), are partially transcribed in Huys and Thomas 2005, 216. 17 For metrical pangrams, including the one from Claudianus (pangram ‘b’), in school contexts, see esp. Perale 2019. 18 For a detailed discussion of teachers’ and students’ hands, see Cribiore 1996, 97–118.

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Text  Col. 1  Πλού̣ [των?]   traces of 2 or 3 lines   Col. 2 πρῶτοι παῖδες πύκται 4 Πείσα πλῆθος πόθος Πάρις 8 ποιμήν πόθεν πλοῦτος πῆχις 12 πλοῖον πεῖλα πρύμνα πρῷρα 16 πόντος πίναξ πρῳρ[ε]ύ̣ ς πρίσ[ ̣ ]̣ ς 20 π [̣ - - -] 4 l. Πίσα, πεῖσα ed. pr. 11 l. πῆχυς, πήχις l. πήχεις ed.pr. 13 l. πίλα 19 πρίσ[τη]ς? ed.pr. ad lin.

Col. 3 Πηλεύς Περσεύς Πειθώ πλάκες πόδες πέντε πίσσα Πρόκνη παχύς πείνεις περνῶ πηγή Πενθεύς ποιεῖς {ι} πόρω πίσσος πάρδος ⟦ - - -⟧ πη̣ ρός

Col. 4 Πλουτεύς πέρνα πέρδιξ πεύκη πλεκ[- - -] πριμ̣ [- - -] πίθος πόρος παίζις πέριξ Πᾶνες πῶλοι πῶρος πέλμα πνείγη πνικτόν πάνθηρ Πρωτᾶς ιη

Col. 5 [- - -]ς [- - -]ος [- - -]γοι [Πα]μεῖν [π]ῶμα [- - -]ρ̣ ος [- - -] ⟦π ̣ - - -⟧ πόρνην

Col. 6 Πρωτῦ[ς] πυλώ[ν] πέπων πωλε̣[ῖς?] πόνο̣ [ς] πήλη̣ [ξ?] πλίνθος πενθάς πεσσός πέπτης πυρρός Παῦλος Πάκις πυ̣ ρός πορδαί πέλυξ πάλη πέρσις πέρσην ιθ

Col. 7 πτηνόν Πούπλεις πέραν ⟦ - - -⟧ πο̣ ρθμεύς πλῆκτρον Πάρθος πέτρα πέδαι πίπερ Πέργη Ποπλᾶς Πρεῖσκος Πρεισκᾶς πύλη πύργος πόσεις πύξος πυξίς πτ̣ῦξον

3 πειθώ ed.pr. 5 πόκες ed.pr. 10 l. πίνεις 15 l. πόρρω? 16 l. πίσος?

9 l. παίζεις 15 l. πνίγη

4 l. Παμῖν 5 [πῶ]μα ed.pr. 8 π[- - -] ed.pr.

1 l. Πρωτεύς? 6 πηλ ̣ ̣ ed.pr. 10 l. πέπτεις, πεπτῆς ed.pr. 11 or Πύρρος 13 πάκις ed.pr. 14 π[  ]̣ ρος ed.pr. 18 Περσίς ed.pr. 19 l. πέρσειον, Πέρσην ed.pr.

2 l. Πούπλιος 13 l. Πρῖσκoς 14 l. Πρισκᾶς 17 l. πόσις

ιθ ρα

Translation Col. 1 Plouton? Col. 2 First; children; boxers; 4Pisa (or ‘obedience’); multitude; desire; Paris; 8shepherd; wherefrom; wealth; cubit (or ‘cubits’); 12ship; mortar (lat. pila); stern; prow; 16sea; tablet; bowman; pris- (sawyer?); 20 - - Col. 3 Peleus; Perseus; Peitho (or ‘persuasion’); 4slabs; feet; five; pitch; 8Procne; thick; you drink (2 sing.); I sell; 12spring; Pentheus; you make (2 sing.); far(?); 16pea (?); panther; ⟦word deleted⟧; maimed Col. 4 Plouteus; ham; partridge; 4pine; plek- (something twisted?); prim-; large jar; 8passage; you play (2 sing.); round about; Pans; 12foals; tufa (lat. porus); sole (of a shoe); chokes; 16stifled; leopard; Protas; 18 Col. 5 [- - -]; [- - -]; [- - -]; 4Pamin; cup; [- - -]; [- - -]; 8⟦word deleted⟧; prostitute (acc.) Col. 6 Protys (or Proteus?); gateway; gourd; 4you sell (2 sing.); hard work; helmet(?); brick; 8sad (or ‘mourner’); game piece; you cook (2 sing.); red-haired (or Pyrrhus); 12Paulos; Pacis; wheat; flatulence; 16axe; wrestling; sacking; fruit of persea; 2019 Col. 7 winged; Publius; across; 4⟦word deleted⟧; ferryman; plectrum; a Parthian; 8rock, 19; shackles; pepper, 101; Perge; 12Poplas; Priscus; Priscas; gate; 16tower; drink (or ‘husband’); boxwood; box; 20fold! (or ‘close!’ 2 sing. imperat.)

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the inscribing. My analysis below largely follows these stages, as I examine material and textual features of the sherd under the headings ‘The Sherd and its Layout’, ‘The Words’, and ‘The Numbers’, before considering how, taken together, they may shed light on the identity and circumstances of the person who produced it. For the convenience of discussing the ostracon, however, I also reproduce the text of the word list, which follows the edition in O.Claud. II 415, except where indicated in the apparatus; in ambiguous cases where it is unclear which of two or more homonymous words is meant, the more common one is preferred, but in a few cases several options are given.19 Changes to readings were based on examination of digital photos kindly given to me by Adam Bülow-Jacobsen. In the meantime, they have become publicly available online through papyri. info at https://papyri.info/dclp/63424.

The Sherd and its Layout Whoever prepared the sherd for inscribing, put considerable effort into it. Having taken a large part of an amphora, he sawed off the upper part of its neck, just below the handles, and carefully broke off the rest of the neck where it fans into the shoulders. He then turned the piece upside down and carved with a chisel or similar tool the outlines of what looks like a bust of a man, which he then painted, adding an inscription on the man’s neck (or the stand of the bust?). There are traces of four or five short lines, but only in the first line the letters πλου̣ can be discerned. They might be part of the name Πλού[των] (Pluton) or Πλου[τεύς] (Pluteus), god of the underworld, or Πλοῦ[τος] (Plutus), god of riches, but also a male name in Egypt. The letters can conceivably be from the verb πλου[τεῖν] (to be rich) or some other related word, but since they are associated with a male head, they are likelier to be a name, whether of a person or a deity. All around the neck of the amphora six columns of dissyllabic words beginning with the letter pi (π) are written. Examination of the layout of the columns leads me to believe that the person who inscribed them — who possibly was the same one who prepared the sherd — first mapped their position on the ostracon. He did that by inscribing six columns of pi’s, probably starting with the columns adjacent to the image panel and placing the vertical lines formed by the pi’s approximately at equal distances and parallel to each other. Because of the conic-frustum shape of the sherd, however, there was extra space left on the top of the sherd where two

19 The commentaries in the edition in O.Claud. II 415 discuss a wider spectrum of possibilities.

Figure 4.1. Ostracon O.Claud. II 415, Qift, archaeological storeroom EAS Claudianus no. 7861. Front view. Photo © Adam Bülow-Jacobsen.

columns to the left of the image met with the three columns to its right. Only a shorter column could fit there, and it is thus likely that column 5 was inscribed last (Fig. 4.2). Although mapping the columns might have been particularly important on the Claudianus ostracon because of its shape, writing out the initial letters in a word list beforehand is not unique. This sequence of inscribing is attested by a papyrus codex from Chester Beatty Library, SB XII 10769 (third century, prov. unknown; LDAB 5508), which contains a list of words arranged alphabetically and by the number of syllables. The initial letters of the words were first written out on each page, or perhaps even throughout the entire codex. In some cases, the first letters were left unexpanded probably because the writer could not think of enough words starting with a given letter and containing the required number of syllables. Not surprisingly, for example, only four trisyllables in xi were inscribed (ll. 118–21) while six lone xi’s were left

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The Words

Figure 4.2. Ostracon O.Claud. II 415. Columns 4, 5, and 6. Qift, archaeological storeroom EAS Claudianus no. 7861. Photo © Adam Bülow-Jacobsen.

as placeholders for the words that never came to the writer’s mind (ll. 122–27). The shortcomings of his vocabulary, or imagination, are further made manifest by the four planned but uninscribed trisyllables in zeta (ll. 70–73), and three each for trisyllables in eta (ll. 78–80), iota (ll. 87–89), and chi (ll. 181–83). On the other hand, he opted to inscribe more trisyllables in rho than had been planned and thus was forced to squeeze in two extra words to the side of the column (ll. 141–42).20 The alignment of the first letters and the crowded endings of some words in the columns in the word list in P. Bingen 17 (mid-fourth–mid-fifth century, prov. unknown; LDAB 5736) suggest that the writer of that papyrus also began by writing only the first letters of the words.21

20 For detailed analysis of the process of inscribing of this alphabetic list, cf. Clarysse and Wouters 1970, 207–09, and Plates VI–X for the photographs. 21 A black and white photo is published in P.Bingen, Pl. 10; for the colour photo, cf. the exhibition catalogue Willems and Clarysse 2000, no. 248.

Having designed the layout of the text to come, our writer set out writing a list of words, all containing two syllables and starting with the letter pi. What was the purpose of it? The Greek school curriculum began with students learning the letters of the alphabet and then practising their combinations into syllables, which helped them learn possible even if meaningless combinations of letters. After that, they turned to studying how syllables formed actual words, for which purpose they wrote and read lists of words. To alleviate the transition from syllables to words, the words were usually arranged in groups according to the number of syllables they contained; sometimes they were inscribed with syllabic divisions and alphabetized by the first letter (Cribiore 1996, 40–43; Johnson 2015). For example, P.Bouriant 1 (fourth century, prov. unknown; LDAB 2744) opens with a list of twenty-four monosyllabic words in alphabetic order and then proceeds to di-, tri-, and tetrasyllables, which are grouped in series of (mostly) four words with the same initial letter. A codex in the Chester Beatty Library mentioned above has a similar arrangement, except that the series for each letter contain varying numbers of words.22 After practising to syllabify, write, and read words, students could proceed to forming sentences and, consequently, be able to communicate in writing. Working with lists of words thus marked a crucial stage in acquiring basic literacy, a fact which likely accounts for a relatively high number of word lists in papyrological evidence (Cribiore 1996, 73–74). What makes the Claudianus list stand out is that all its words begin with the same letter, thereby forming an exceptionally long series. Another remarkable feature of the list is the choice of words. Most word lists beyond monosyllables feature proper names with a marked preference for mythological ones, followed by common nouns and sometimes adjectives, normally in the nominative singular (Huys and Schmidt 2005). Verbs and especially inflected forms of either names or common nouns are rare and seem to appear for a reason.23 While the Claudianus list includes mythological and proper names and nouns of a type found in word

22 For the edition of the codex, see Clarysse and Wouters 1970. Its beginning, which likely contained monosyllables, does not survive; for a possible reconstruction of the booklet, consult the diagram on p. 204 of the edition. 23 Cf. Huys and Baplu 2009, 37, for the explanation of the forms σῶσον and χάριν in P.Bouriant 1 by the fact that each of them appear as the first word of Menandrian monostichs which follow further on in the papyrus and are arranged alphabetically by the first letter of the first word.

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lists elsewhere (see below), it diverges from them in comprising words of various registers — from poetic to quotidian — and in including plural forms of nouns and adjectives, finite verbs, adverbs, and prepositions. Several thematic categories can be discerned (words are listed in order of their appearance on the ostracon):

Wood and woodworking: possibly πρίσ[τη]ς (sawyer24); πίσσα (pitch); πεύκη (‘pine’ or something made of pine or wood in general); πέλυξ (axe); πύξος (boxwood). Architectural entities often of stone: πυλών (gateway); πύλη (gate); πύργος (tower). One may add that the word πόνος (hard labour) can surely describe working in the quarries.

Mythological Characters

Food and Utensils

Πάρις (Paris), Πηλεύς (Peleus), Περσεύς (Perseus), Πειθώ (Peitho, unless πείθω, ‘persuasion’), Πρόκνη (Procne), Πενθεύς (Pentheus), Πλουτεύς (Pluteus) and Πᾶνες (Pans). All these names were probably associated with widely known mythological stories, but the last one is of special significance in Mons Claudianus since Pan, Egyptian Min, had been a tremendously popular deity in Ptolemaic and early Roman periods in the Eastern Desert (I.Pan; Cuvigny 2013 and 2018b), even if in the second century his cult began to wane (Cuvigny 2021, 465–72). The plural form, Πᾶνες, might be owed to the numerous shrines dedicated to Pan in the area, but, also, and perhaps likelier, to the fact that the singular is not a disyllable.

Food commodities: πέρνα (ham); πέπων (gourd); πυρός (wheat); πέρσην (l. πέρσειον, a fruit of the persea tree); πίπερ (‘pepper’, a word especially appropriate for the Eastern Desert, through which imported pepper travelled from India to the West); πόσεις (if it stands for πόσις, ‘drink’).25 Utensils: πίθος (large storage jar); πῶμα (cup); πυξίς (box).

Personal Names

Πρωτᾶς (Protas), Παμεῖν (Pamin), Πρωτῦς (Protys, unless a mistake for Πρωτεύς, Proteus, in which case it should be classified with Mythological Characters), Παῦλος (Paulus), Πάκις (Pacis), Πύρρος (Pyrrhus, unless πυρρός ‘red-haired’) Πούπλεις (Publius), Ποπλᾶς (Poplas), Πρεῖσκος (Priscus), Πρεισκᾶς (Priscas). Publius, Paulus, Pyrrhus and Priscus are very common names; the rest are attested primarily in Egypt, with a Παμῖν (as opposed to a more common spelling Παμῖνις) appearing in O.Claud. IV 694, line 2 (c. 98–117), a list of temperers (φαρμαξάριοι), who worked in the smithies associated with the quarries (O.Claud. IV, pp. 11–12). The sole papyrological attestation of the name Πρεισκᾶς outside our list also comes from Mons Claudianus, O.Claud. IV 831, line 4 (c. 98–117), where it appears in a list with other men who received iron chisels. A  Πρωτῦς might be attested in a letter, O.Claud. III 515, line 10 (144/145).

Animals

πάρδος (panther); πίσος (pea); πέρδιξ (partridge); πῶλοι (foals); πάνθηρ (‘leopard’ or another spotted felida); πτηνόν (a winged creature). It is difficult to say

whether any of these were of particular significance in the desert. Water Transport

πλοῖον (ship); πρύμνα (stern); πρῷρα (bow); πόντος (sea); πρῳρεύς (bowman). Although Mons Claudianus

lies not on the water, water transportation was crucial for life in the Eastern Desert and especially for the transportation of the quarried stones, in particular of the grey granodiorite which was used for such projects as Trajan’s Forum or the Pantheon in Rome. From the quarries at Claudianus, extracted and often preliminary shaped blocks or columns would be transported first through the desert to the Nile, then on ships down the Nile to Alexandria, where it would be transferred to different ships for the crossing of the Mediterranean.

Words Possibly Associated with Quarrying Activities 24 πρίσται are listed in O.Claud. IV 666, l. 2, and 686, l. 6, among

Units of measurement: πῆχις (l. πῆχυς or πήχεις, ‘cubit’ quarry personnel. As Adam Bülow-Jacobsen, the editor of the quarry documents, explains, they ‘must have been engaged in or ‘cubits’); πόδες (feet). sawing planks and beams for scaffolding, cranes, rollers, etc.’. Stones or objects made of stone: πεῖλα (l. πῖλα, lat. 25 For foodstuffs at Mons Claudianus, cf. van der Veen 1998; pila, mortar); πίναξ (‘board’ or ‘tablet’ of either stone 2001; van der Veen and others 2018; for an overview of the or wood); πλάκες (slabs); πῶρος (lat. porus, tufa); archaeological evidence in the Eastern Desert for the trade in πλίνθος (‘brick’ or ‘stone tile’); πέτρα (rock). pepper, see esp. Tomber 2008.

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Verbs

πείνεις (l. πίνεις, you drink); περνῶ (I sell); ποιεῖς (you make); παίζις (l. παίζεις, you play); πωλεῖς (you sell); πέπτης (l. πέπτεις, you cook); πτῦξον (‘fold!’ or ‘close!’). With the possible exception of περνῶ, all are

quite common, and it is remarkable that most verbs are in the second person singular indicative.

How do these categories and the criteria upon which the words are chosen compare to other word lists surviving on papyri, ostraca, and tablets? While the choice of the comparanda is necessarily limited to those lists that preserve disyllables beginning with the letter pi, it is noteworthy that all of them have overlaps with the Claudianus list (the bold font marks the overlaps and numbers in brackets give their ratio to all the disyllables in pi preserved in that list): P.Genova II 53 (first century, prov. unknown; LDAB 4302): πυρός, πύλος, πύξος (two out of three). P.Bouriant 1: Πηλεύς, Πενθεύς, Περσεύς, Πρωτεύς (three out of four, unless Πρωτῦς in col. 6, l. 1 of the Claudianus ostracon is a mistake for Πρωτεύς). P.Bingen 17: Πέτρος, Παῦλος, πόντος, Πούπλος (for Πούπλιος), Πρόκλος (three out of five). O.Crum 525 (fourth–fifth century, Tentyris; LDAB 2117): Πάνθος, Πάρις, Πέλοψ, Προῖτος, Πηλεύς (two out of five).26 WT Barbara 2 (seventh century, prov. unknown; LDAB 6747): Παῦλος, Πρόκλα (one out of two).27 The comparison suggests that the overlapping words, especially the names of mythological characters, were an educational staple, which students throughout centuries practised over and again regardless of how often they would have used them outside class. The ostracon from Mons Claudianus, however, combines these ‘school’ words with those which were particularly relevant to the everyday life of a desert-quarry worker, while also including words which may have been called to the writer’s mind by a thematic proximity or a phonetic similarity. There are clusters of words written in sequences, for example, in column 2, πόθος — Πάρις — ποιμήν (desire — Paris — shepherd) could all be connected with the story of Paris; three words pertaining to water transportation, also in column 2, πρύμνα — πρῷρα — πόντος (stern — bow — sea), come together, too. There are further pairs of words, in which the second is related or sounds similar to the first. Thus, πνικτόν (something stifled) in column 4

follows πνείγη (l. πνίγη, chokes), both cognate with the verb πνίγω, ‘to stifle’ or ‘choke’, or ‘to cook in a close-covered pot’; the words πύξος (boxwood) and πυξίς (box of boxwood) at the end of column 7 are also semantically related. The word πέρσις (sacking) in column 6 is followed by πέρσην, which stands, I believe, not for the accusative of Πέρσης, ‘a Persian’, or Perses, a rare name, but for the nominative πέρσειον,28 an edible fruit of the persea tree, which was native to Ethiopia and cultivated in Egypt from the Pharaonic period (van der Veen 2001, 196; Kramer 1995, 220). In this case, the connection between the two words is phonetic. A very common personal name Πρεῖσκος is followed by the much rarer name Πρεισκᾶς, which happens to be attested at Claudianus (see above). The groupings create an impression that the writer was not copying, or at least not just copying, the words from another list, but rather trying to come up as he wrote, with one word pulling the next one by some association, as he aimed to produce as many words as possible. It is because of this effort that he included disyllabic nominative plural forms of words, which are monosyllabic in the singular, such as παῖδες (sing. παῖς), πλάκες (sing. πλάξ), πόδες (sing. πούς) and Πᾶνες (sing. Πάν).

The Numbers Below columns 4 and 6 our writer recorded the number of words in the columns using the conventional alpha-numeric notation, ιη (18) and ιθ (19), respectively (Fig. 4.2); there may have been numbers below columns 2 and 3, too, but the ceramic is broken there and any numbers that might have been written would now be lost. To the right of column 7 one finds ιθ (19), written between the words πέτρα and πέδαι, and ρα (101), slightly below it (Fig. 4.1). The first number corresponds to the number of words in this column and the second is, as the editor of the piece notes, the total number of words inscribed in all columns, after deletions (O.Claud. IV 415, note to col. 7, l. 10). The last point is important: that the words were calculated after the list was finalized is made clear by the record of ιθ (19) near column 7, in which one of the original twenty entries had been crossed out (l. 4), bringing the number of words to the recorded nineteen.

28 The change of the nominative endings of the second declension ιος/ιον into ις/ιν, where the [i] sound can be rendered by ι, ει, or η, is extremely common in papyri of the Roman period and is 26 The improved re-edition of this ostracon is in Huys and Schmidt attested in our list by the name Πούπλεις for Πούπλ(ε)ιος. For 2001. 27 For the edition, see Rom and Harrauer 1982. the phenomenon, cf. Gignac 1981, 25–29.

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There is, however, a discrepancy: adding all the words that the editor prints or indicates as once inscribed results in a total of 103, not 101 (in the ed.pr., columns 2 to 7 have twenty, eighteen, eighteen, nine, nineteen, and nineteen words, respectively and not counting deleted entries). A closer examination of column 5, the shortest on the list, helps account for the recorded total. Despite the fact that a large part of it is missing, Cockle rightly recognized nine entries (Fig. 4.3). Τhe word in line 8, however, is struck out, perhaps because the writer realized that it did not fit the space limited on the right by the pi’s of the next column. This deletion — because the deleted word would not have been counted — brings the total down to 102, still leaving an extra word to account for the recorded sum of 101. One notes that the last word in column 5 is inscribed diagonally in relation to the rest; its first letter is significantly smaller than all other initials and is not aligned with them; as the word bends down, the letters become larger, all contributing to the impression that it was added below the last cancelled entry in line 8. If it was added after all other words had been counted, it would not be included in the sum, and this would account for the recorded total of 101. But lest the argument be circular, there should be another reason to suppose that the word was inscribed later than the rest. That reason, I think, is to be found in the word itself, πόρνην, ‘a prostitute’, written in the accusative and positioned so as to begin near the word παίζις, l. παίζεις (you ‘play’, ‘frolic’, or ‘make sport of ’) in the column to its left (col. 4, l. 9), thereby forming a clause παίζις πόρνην (you frolic with a prostitute).29 Since no other word on the list is in the accusative and the word πόρνη would be disyllabic in the nominative as well, the use of an oblique case was probably intentional. Making the word πόρνη into the direct object of παίζις produced a clause that must have felt like a good joke. We can try now to bring together all we have gleaned from considering material and textual properties of the ostracon with the context provided by other findings in Mons Claudianus. The amount and range of types of educational material found at the site demonstrates that a teacher or teachers familiar with the conventional curriculum gave instruction in writing and counting there. One of the assignments must have been to write up a list of disyllables that start with the letter pi, probably with the encouragement to come up with as many as possible, or perhaps with a stated number of at least a hundred. One student took the task seriously:

29 For παίζω with acc., cf. LSJ s.v. II.2, and for possible sexual connotations of the verb παίζω, cf. Henderson 1975, esp. 157; for prostitution in the Eastern Desert, see Cuvigny 2003, 383–95; Cuvigny 2010.

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Figure 4.3. Ostracon O.Claud. II 415. Column 5. Qift, archaeological storeroom EAS Claudianus no. 7861. Of the nine entries in this column, that in line 8 was cancelled and the last word (πόρνην in l. 9) was added after the list had been completed. Photo © Adam Bülow-Jacobsen.

he sought out a large piece of an amphora, shaped it to a nice form, decorated it with a drawing, and outlined the columns by writing the initial pi’s of the words to come. He then started on the list, drawing perhaps from lessons in which he encountered mythological names and literary words, but mostly from his own environment, that of the Roman quarry site in the Eastern Desert. It was clearly not easy: not only would he include very similar words and the names of people in the camp, but also disyllabic plurals of monosyllabic singulars. A few times he had to strike out what he had written, perhaps because he realized that the word was not in fact disyllabic or because it did not fit the space. Once done, he counted the words, possibly writing under each column except the short one, the column total, as well as the final sum of all the words, 101.30 We cannot know if he showed it proudly to the teacher, but it is tempting to imagine, following the editor, that the piece ‘stood for public display in the classroom’ (O.Claud. II, p. 268), though probably not as a model, for which

30 Note that the pupil who inscribed a late antique school tablet (seventh–eighth century, prov. unknown; LDAB 6657) with several alphabetic sequences and a list of syllables consisting of twelve columns, seven entries each, recorded the number of syllables, eighty-four, cf. van Minnen 1995.

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it had too many mistakes, but rather as an example of a student’s efforts. If so, then possibly later he himself, or another pupil, made a jest of it by adding the word πόρνην in the column on the back.31 Finally, can we guess the identity of the student?32 The shaping of the amphora points to a person in possession of tools to do so. It is noteworthy that purposefully shaped ceramic fragments, along with the evidence for cutting pieces out of larger parts of vessels, are well attested in Mons Claudianus, but find few parallels among ostraca from the sites occupied chiefly by military personnel (Bülow-Jacobsen 2009, 14–17; Tomber 2006). This suggests that some workers employed at the quarrying sites had the tools, ability, and interest in enhancing the shape of a writing support. The writer of our list simply went a bit further and put a truly earnest effort into his piece. Since the image was first carved before being painted, it seems likely that all the preparatory stages were carried out by the same person who had the tools to saw off and cut the sherd and to carve the picture. All this combined with the predominance of words associated with activities in

31 It is difficult to ascertain whether the added word is inscribed in the same or a different hand. 32 For discussion of handwriting and other distinctive paratextual features as potential clues to a person’s level of education, identity, and career path, cf. Ast 2018.

the quarries in the list points to a quarry worker as the person responsible for the entire artefact. He must have been an adult who learned his craft but was not educated in letters as a child. In the remote environment of the Eastern Desert forts and quarry camps, the need for writing was probably higher than in settled communities elsewhere.33 Thousands of ostraca found in the camps show that it may have been difficult to get a head of lettuce or have a chisel sharpened without sending a note about it. Those who could live and work without writing before coming to the desert perhaps found themselves suddenly at a notable disadvantage. Since the importance of the quarries at Mons Claudianus and the scale of work conducted there must have necessitated not only the presence of the military, but also the production of a large volume of written documentation, there must have been educated people at the camps who could teach, or there might have even been professional teachers dispatched to the sites. In either case, the Claudianus word list suggests that an interest among professional craftsmen in acquiring elementary literacy was being addressed.

33 For the significance of writing in Roman soldiers’ everyday life, cf. most recently Speidel 2018; for various degrees of literacy attested by the ostraca from the military camps in the Eastern Desert, see Fournet 2003, and for ostraca inscribed with educational material from one of the forts, the praesidium of Didymoi, cf. Lougovaya 2022.

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Works Cited Ast, Rodney. 2018. ‘Telling Them by their Hands: What Paleography Has to Offer Prosopography’, in The Materiality of Texts from Ancient Egypt, ed. by Francisca A. J. Hoogendijk and Steffie M. T. van Gompel (Leiden: Brill), pp. 27–34 Bagnall, Roger S. 2011. Everyday Writing in the Graeco-Roman East (Berkeley: University of California Press) Bingen, Jean. 2016. ‘The Imperial Roman Site of the Mons Claudianus (Eastern Desert of Egypt)’, Diogenes, 61.1: 7–17 Brenne, Stefan. 2001. Ostrakismos und Prominenz in Athen, Tyche Supplement, 3 (Vienna: Holzhausen) ——. 2018. Die Ostraka von Kerameikos, Kerameikos, 20 (Wiesbaden: Reichert) Bucking, Scott. 2007. ‘Scribes and Schoolmasters’, Journal of Coptic Studies, 9: 21–47 Bülow-Jacobsen, Adam. 1996. ‘Archaeology and Philology on Mons Claudianus 1987–1993’, Topoi, 6.2: 721–30 ——. 2009. ‘Writing Materials in the Ancient World’, in The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology, ed. by Roger Bagnall (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 3–29 Caputo, Clementina, and Julia Lougovaya (eds). 2020. Using Ostraca in the Ancient World, Materiale Textkulturen, 32 (Berlin: De Gruyter) Chantraine, Pierre. 1974. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque: Histoire des mots, iii: Λ-Π (Paris: Klincksieck) Clarysse, Willy, and Alfons Wouters. 1970. ‘A Schoolboy Exercise in the Chester Beatty Library’, Ancient Society, 1: 201–08, 210–35 Cribiore, Raffaella. 1996. Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, American Studies in Papyrology, 36 (Atlanta: Scholars Press) Cuvigny, Hélène. 2003. ‘La société civile des praesidia’, in La route de Myos Hormos: l’armée romaine dans le désert Oriental d’Égypte, ed. by Hélène Cuvigny, Praesidia du désert de Bérénice, 2 vols (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale), ii, pp. 361–97 ——. 2010. ‘Femmes tournantes: remarques sur la prostitution dans les garnisons romaines du désert de Bérénice’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 172: 159–66 ——. 2013. ‘Hommes et dieux en réseau. Bilan papyrologique du programme Praesidia du Désert Oriental Égyptien’, Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, , 157.1: 405–42 ——. 2018a. ‘Les ostraca sont-ils solubles dans l’histoire ?’, Chiron, 48: 193–217 ——. 2018b. ‘La toponymie du désert Oriental égyptien sous le Haut-Empire d’après les ostraca et les inscriptions’, in Le désert oriental d’Égypte durant la période gréco-romaine: bilans archéologiques, ed. by Jean-Pierre Brun, Thomas Faucher, Bérangère Redon, and Steven Sidebotham (Paris: Collège de France) ——. 2021. Rome in the Egypt’s Eastern Desert (New York: New York University Press) Dana, Madalina. 2009. ‘Alphabets et exercices scolaires dans deux cités du Pont ouest: Istros et Tyras’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 171: 71–82 ——. 2015. ‘Connecting People: Mobility and Networks in the Corpus of Greek Private Letters’, CHS Research Bulletin, 3.2 [accessed 1 March 2023] ——. 2021. La correspondance grecque privée sur plomb et sur tesson: corpus épigraphique et commentaire historique, Vestigia, 73 (Munich: Beck) Folmer, Margaretha. 2020. ‘Hi Aḥuṭab: Aramaic Letter Ostraca from Elephantine’, in Using Ostraca in the Ancient World, ed. by Clementina Caputo and Julia Lougovaya, Materiale Textkulturen, 12 (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 145–63 Fournet, Jean-Luc. 2003. ‘Langues, écritures et culture dans les praesidia’, in La Route de Myos Hormos: l’armée romaine dans le desert Oriental d’Égypte, ed. by Hélène Cuvigny, Praesidia du désert de Bérénice, 2 vols (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale), ii, pp. 427–500 Gignac, Francis. 1981. A Grammar of the Greek Papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Periods, ii: Morphology (Milan: Istituto editoriale cisalpino, La goliardica) Henderson, Jeffrey. 1975. The Maculate Muse: Obscene Language in Attic Comedy (New Haven: Yale University Press) Huys, Marc, and Nele Baplu. 2009. ‘P.Bouriant 1, fol. I–V: Re-edition and Commentary of the Syllabic Word-Lists’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 169: 29–57 Huys, Mark, and Thomas Schmidt. 2001. ‘The Syllabic Name-Lists on “O.Crum” 525 (UC Inv. 32222) Re-edition and Commentary’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 134: 145–62 ——. 2005. ‘A Toronto Ostracon with a List of Monosyllables (2718 Pack2): Re-edition with Commentary’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 152: 209–17 Johnson, William A. 2015. ‘Learning to Read and Write’, in A Companion to Ancient Education, ed. by W. Martin Bloomer (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell), pp. 137–48 Johnston, Alan. 1985. ‘A Fourth Century Graffito from the Kerameikos’, Mitteilungen des deutschen archäologischen Instituts. Athenische Abteilung, 100: 293–307

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Kramer, Bärbel. 1995. ‘Arborikultur und Holzwirtschaft im griechischen, römischen und byzantinischen Ägypten’, Archiv für Papyrusforschung, 41: 217–31 Kristensen, Karen Rørby. 2012. ‘Ostracism’, in The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, ed. by Roger S. Bagnall, Kai Brodersen, Craige B. Champion, Andrew Erskine, and Sabine R. Huebner (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell), pp. 4965–66 Lang, Mabel. 1976. Graffiti and Dipinti, The Athenian Agora, 21 (Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens) ——. 1990. Ostraka, The Athenian Agora, 25 (Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens) Lemaire, André. 2011. ‘Judean Identity in Elephantine: Everyday Life according to the Ostraca’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. by Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns), pp. 365–73 Lougovaya, Julia. 2019. ‘Literary Ostraka: Choice of Material and Interpretation of Text’, in Proceedings of the 28th International Congress of Papyrology, Barcelona 2016, ed. by Sofia Torallas Tovar and Alberto Nodar (Barcelona: Universitat Pompeu Fabra), pp. 274–84 ——. 2020. ‘Greek Literary Ostraca Revisited’, in Using Ostraca in the Ancient World, ed. by Clementina Caputo and Julia Lougovaya, Materiale Textkulturen, 32 (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 109–41 ——. 2022. ‘Learning to Write and Read at Didymoi: A Diachronic Approach’, in Networked Spaces: The Spatiality of Networks in the Red Sea and Western Indian Ocean; Proceedings of the Red Sea Conference IX, Lyon, 2–5 July 2019, ed. by Caroline Durand, Julie Marchand, Bérangère Redon, and Pierre Schneider (Lyon: MOM Editions), pp. 493–506 Minnen, Peter van. 1995. ‘Late Antique Schooltablet at Duke University’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 106: 175–78 Papasavvas, George. 2003. ‘A Writing Tablet from Crete’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts. Athenische Abteilung, 118: 67–89 Perale, Marco. 2019. ‘Notes on Metrical Pangrams’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 209: 74–77 Rom, Brigitte, and Hermann Harrauer. 1982. ‘Ein Wachstafel mit alphabetisierten Namen’, Chronique d’Égypte, 57: 303–08 Sarri, Antonia. 2018. Material Aspects of Letter Writing in the Graeco-Roman World, 500 bc-ad 300, Materiale Textkulturen, 12 (Berlin: De Gruyter) Siewert, Peter (ed.). 2002. Ostrakismos-Testimonien, i, Historia Einzelschriften, 155 (Stuttgart: Steiner) Speidel, Michael A. 2018. ‘Soldiers and Documents: Insights from Nubia. The Significance of Written Documents in Roman Soldiers’ Everyday Lives’, in Literacy in Ancient Everyday Life, ed. by Anna Kolb (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 179–200 Tomber, Roberta. 2006. ‘Ceramic Objects’, in Mons Claudianus 1987–1993: Survey and Excavations, iii: Ceramic Vessels and Related Objects from Mons Claudianus, ed. by Valerie A. Maxfield and David P. S. Peacock, Fouilles de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale du Caire, 54 (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale), pp. 289–305 ——. 2008. Indo-Roman Trade: From Pots to Pepper (London: Duckworth) Torallas Tovar, Sofía. 2022. ‘Notes on Ostraca and Scribal Practice’, in Novel Perspectives on Communication Practices in Antiquity: Towards a Historical Social-Semiotic Approach, ed. by Yasmine Amory and Klass Bentein (Leiden: Brill), pp. 39–53 Veen, Marijke van der. 1998. ‘A Life of Luxury in the Desert? The Food and Fodder Supply to Mons Claudianus’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 11: 101–16 ——. 2001. ‘The Botanical Evidence’, in Survey and Excavation Mons Claudianus 1987–1993, ii.1: Excavations, ed. by Valerie A. Maxfield and David P. S. Peacock, Fouilles de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale du Caire, 43 (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale), pp. 174–247 Veen, Marijke van der, Charlène Bouchaud, René Cappers, and Claire Newton. 2018. ‘Roman Life in the Eastern Desert of Egypt: Food, Imperial Power and Geopolitics’, in Le désert oriental d’Égypte durant la période gréco-romaine: bilans archéologiques, ed. by Jean-Pierre Brun, Thomas Faucher, Bérangère Redon, and Steven Sidebotham (Paris: Collège de France) West, Martin. 2013. ‘The Writing Tablets and Papyrus from Tomb II in Daphni’, Greek and Roman Musical Studies, 1: 73–92 Wilhelm, Adolf. 1909. Beiträge zur griechischen Inschriftenkunde (Vienna: Hölder) Willems, Harco, and Willy Clarysse. 2000. Les empereurs du Nil (Leuven: Peeters)

II.

Texts on Portable Objects — Coins, Rolls, Codices, and the Authoritativeness of Texts

Dario Calomino

5. Inspecto nummo… The Materiality of Coin Imagery and Inscriptions in the Roman World*

The popular episode of the New Testament in which Jesus says: ‘Render to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God’,1 is one of the very few literary references to a Roman coin being examined not to check its value or the fineness of its metal alloy, but to look at its designs and inscriptions. This is pointed out by St Augustine in the short preamble used to introduce the passage in his commentary: ‘Inspecto nummo Dominus dicit’ (having observed the coin, the Lord says).2 Millions of coins were struck every year in the territories controlled by Rome across the Mediterranean and were exchanged within every segment of the population, both in the urban areas and in the countryside (Howgego 1995, 62–64). And yet, while we have abundant literary testimonies on the use and value of money, we hardly ever come across information on what these coins looked like and on whether or not their designs and texts were noticed and understood





* Please note that all images included in this chapter are enlarged to facilitate the reading; the actual size is indicated in the captions. Acknowledgements: A. Brown, Portable Antiquities Scheme, British Museum; A. Capano, Museo Nazionale dell’Alta Val d’Agri; V. Drost and J. Olivier, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (BnF); A. Dowler, British Museum Department of Coins and Medals, London (BM); J.-P. Ducemin, Université Lille 3; H. Horsnaes, National Museum of Denmark, Copenhagen (NMD); F. Kemmers, Goethe University Frankfurt am Main; C. Klages, Rheinisches LandesMuseum, Bonn; M. Matzke, Historisches Museum, Basel (HMB); M. Tursi, Heritage Auctions, London; U. Wartenberg, American Numismatic Society, New York (NY.ANS); J. Wienand, Technische Universität Braunschweig. 1 Matthew 22. 18, 19. 2 Augustine, Expositions on the Psalms, cxv. 8. 7–9: ‘Inspecto nummo Dominus dicit: “Reddite Caesari quae Caesaris sunt, et Deo quae Dei sunt”: Imago sua redditur Caesari, imago sua reddatur Deo.’

by the majority of people. This lack of evidence could be interpreted as an indication that, whenever coins were meant to convey messages, they had little or no impact on the Roman ‘public’. But was this actually the case? Were coins perceived exclusively as money or as visual and textual media too? And how did people engage with them, both materially and, perhaps, even emotionally? By addressing these questions this chapter aims to contribute to the discussion on the materiality of texts in the ancient world through the lens of coinage, considering both literary and archaeological sources. In the first part, I will give an overview of the scholarly debate on the reception of coin imagery and inscriptions in the Roman world. In the second and third parts, I will examine two categories of numismatic evidence (graffitoed and defaced coins), which can shed light on how people in Rome and in the provinces altered coins either to use them as carriers of messages or to react to the messages that they conveyed.

The Impact and Reception of Coin Imagery and Inscriptions in Ancient Rome One of the major challenges of assessing the impact of Roman visual arts and media on their contemporary audiences is to understand the role of coins in communication, a topic that has been variedly discussed by three generations of scholars.3 This debate rests within the broader investigation of the relation between ‘agency’ 3 For an overview, see Elkins 2009 and Kemmers 2022. One of the key questions of this discussion, which I am not going to address here, was whether or not coins were used as an instrument of political propaganda.

Dario Calomino  •  ([email protected]) Associate Professor at Verona University, Department of Cultures and Civilizations New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 79-94 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133899

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(who), ‘medium’ (in which channel), and ‘audience’ (to whom) in the mechanisms of communication and media-interaction in the Roman world, which has been so effectively theorized, among others, by Noreña (2011, 250). This field of studies is also very relevant to the discussion on the materiality of ancient written texts that seeks to understand to what extent they engaged with the reader and what their visual impact on the viewer was.4 In principle, coins had indeed a greater potential to attract the audience’s attention than any other categories of media featuring written texts, because they always featured images too. The design, or coin type, was the only indispensable element of the die’s impression,5 and was intrinsically complementary to the coin inscription (legend), so the ways in which both elements were paired and interacted with each other need to be considered to assess their impact on the audience. Additionally, as part of the broad family of ancient inscribed tools and utensils (instrumentum domesticum), coins were portable objects for everyday use that often enjoyed extraordinary longevity. The fact that they were constantly being handled, touched, and sometimes manipulated, would trigger an unparalleled physical and even personal relation between object and user, potentially enhancing the material impact of their texts and images. However, the extent to which coins were deliberately aimed at engaging with the Roman public has been variedly questioned, and the possibility that coin users would even bother to look at their designs has been largely denied.6 Coins were not primarily communicative visual media. Unlike imperial letters and decrees, or honorary monuments displayed in public squares or colonnade streets, or even funerary inscriptions that were meant to be read by the members of the community to inspire the commemoration of the deceased, coins were not designed to inform, to advertise, or to promote. As a medium of exchange and payment, they had an economic function that superseded any additional role that they may play in the communication sphere. In this respect, numismatics is a discipline that, for obvious reasons, has never overlooked the study of the ‘material support’ of ancient texts: metal composition, besides weight and diameter, are the





4 See Petrovic 2016 and the Introduction to the present volume. 5 Most of the earliest coins produced in the Mediterranean world, both by the Greek cities of the Anatolian coast and by Lydian and Persian kings between the late seventh and the first half of the sixth centuries bce, did not carry any inscriptions at all; the seal of authority, a symbol or a basic mark of identity (sometimes even just an indistinct punch impression), would suffice as grantor of their monetary validity. Cf. Konuk 2012, 45–47. 6 The key points of the debate on this view are clearly explained in Burnett 1987, 66–71.

primary elements of characterization of ancient coins, while the other essential feature defining their status as currency, the seal of authority, was in principle only instrumental in granting their legal validity, without necessarily conveying additional messages. But the intrinsic nature of coins as money does not imply that they could not express values other than the monetary one, and that they did not engage with viewers at different levels of understanding and interaction. As currency, coins changed hands continuously, and there was no potential restraint to their circulation but the territory of the town or of the state within which they were accepted as legal tender: no doubt the issuing authorities did exploit their communicative power using them also as carriers of messages. These characteristics certainly enhanced their potential to reach an audience incomparably larger than any other media, but at the same time limited the extent to which their messages could be addressed to a tailored public, as opposed to monumental written texts whose display in a certain physical setting, especially in public spaces, was almost as important as their contents (see the contribution by Naomi Carless Unwin in this volume). Again, because coins were very small, portable, and largely imperishable objects, there is no spatial dimension or physical context in which they belonged and acquired a specific significance, or played a designated role, unless they ceased to be used as currency (demonetized) and were deposited either as votive offerings in a sanctuary or as part of the grave goods in a tomb (see van Heesch 2008, 51–53, for a recent overview). Within a non-monetary sacred and/or ritual context, the original meaning of coin messages may not matter anymore if their designated recipients, the human community, were no longer involved; or it may acquire a different and more ‘personalized’ meaning when they ceased to serve as money and turned into ex-voto or ‘Charon’s obols’.7 The interpretation of coins that were pierced and worn as talismans, lucky charms, or ornaments, poses similar questions. Were they chosen and reused for their designs and legends or merely as status symbols? Could their meaning be misunderstood, reinterpreted, or even manipulated when used in a different context and within a different society, perhaps centuries after their issuing date?8

7 Selectivity of themes (such as Pax, Salus, Felicitas, and Roma) has been noticed in the deposition of coins in some funerary contexts, but more statistical analysis is still needed in this field of research; cf. Elkins 2009, 42; Kemmers 2022, 345–46. Among the vast literature on this topic, see recently Doyen 2012, xii–xiv for a methodological discussion. 8 On this topic, see a recent overview by Perassi 2011. For further examples of circumstances in which coins could be reused, see Rowan 2011 with bibliography.

5 . i nspecto nummo…

These questions will not be addressed here, though; instead, I shall focus my analysis on the materiality of coin imagery and inscriptions as it can be inferred from reconstructing the interaction between issuing authority and currency users, in order to draw an interpretive framework devoid of bias.9 The most problematic aspect of this investigation might actually concern the choice of reliable sources that we can interrogate. The fact that ancient authors hardly ever described Roman coins has led some scholars to downplay the receptivity of coin users, as if they were only interested in their economic value;10 in fact, this simply indicates that the traditional approach relying mainly on the evidence provided by the literary sources is inadequate. Until the last quarter of the second century bce, the development of coin imagery and inscriptions was also not particularly noteworthy. During the first 150 years of production, the name Roma was the only epigraphic element alongside numerals featuring as value marks, and a limited range of iconographic themes (mainly protecting deities) were adopted.11 The introduction of the denarius during the Second Punic War marked a further simplification and standardization of types. Admittedly, these deserved little or no comment by the ancient authors, unless particularly unusual typologies were introduced. The best example is Tacitus’s well-known digression on the classes of Roman republican coins that the German tribes were more inclined to accept in transactions, the old and ‘well-known’ serrati and bigati.12 Both epithets were arguably informal nicknames reflecting the material and visual perception of these coins in daily use. The former defined the unusual shape of an apparently random group of denarii issues that were modified in order to look like a cogwheel, with serrated edges, for reasons that we ignore (Burnett 1987, 23; Woytek 2012, 323–24). The latter referred to a reverse design showing a Victory driving a biga, a notable variation on the otherwise unchanging array of types adopted on denarii and their fractions from



211 bce to around the 130s bce.13 On the other hand, literary texts also obliquely reflect how some of the most enduring designs, such as the Janus and prow combination on either side of republican asses, had become fully embedded into Roman everyday life. In Ovid’s imaginative interrogation of the ‘key-bearer’ god about the genesis of these designs, we sense the common man’s perception of such long-standing and unoriginal traditions. Janus’s response is a long erudite explanation about the significance of the ship within the Roman historical and mythical background, whose memory may have been forgotten by most of the audience. Conversely, his comment on the meaning of the Janus’s head type denotes the poet’s frustration over the monotony of the old republican coinage repertoire: ‘Under the double image […] you might have recognized myself, if the long lapse of time had not worn the type away.’14 The contrast with the level of complexity of texts and designs with which Roman coins became endowed in the late Republican period, and increasingly after the establishment of the principate, could not be greater. Roman coins issued after the end of the Macedonian wars, in the second half of the second century bce, began to convey more sophisticated ideological messages, no longer simply communicating Rome’s authority, but also asserting its international leadership, as well as reflecting the political status of its ruling class, its military achievements, and the social tension within its ranks (Burnett 1987, 21–23; Woytek 2018, 359–60; 2022). Also, these coins circulated mainly without boundary restrictions across all territories in the Mediterranean world, affecting the range and diversity of peoples who used them, which surged exponentially. Since around the 130s bce, the personalization of coin messages being used by ambitious moneyers as a means for self-promotion generated an incredible variety of designs and legends, which eventually became characteristic of the imperial production too (cf. Woytek 2018, 378–80). If the paucity of literary references to this new visual language is indeed surprising, it must be viewed against the broader tendency to largely omit descriptions of much more prominent visual media of the empire such as statues, monumental inscriptions, and even buildings (cf. Cheung 1998, 60–61). Very few surviving texts describe coins of the imperial age. The famous passage of the Gospels commented by Augustine is also one of the very few episodes narrated by an

9 Examples of demonetized coins will be mentioned in this contribution only to compare similar ways of engaging with coin messages before and after they slipped out of circulation. Furthermore, due to the often great longevity of coins, especially Roman ones, sometimes it can be hard to determine when exactly a specimen was demonetized and, if it was intentionally altered (i.e. graffitoed or defaced, see below), whether such alterations were made while the coin was still being used as money. 10 Crawford 1983, 54–55. Cf. Wolters 1999, 308–15, for a critical 13 The habit of naming certain categories of coins after their reverse discussion, providing a comprehensive list of examples. designs (such as victoriati and quadrigati), especially when these 11 For a comprehensive overview of the development of coin deviated from the standard types, is documented in Plin., HN, iconography in the Republican period, see Woytek 2022. xxxiii. 13. 46. Cf. Woytek 2012, 325. 12 Tac., Germ., i. 5. 14 Ovid, Fasti, i. 231–54.

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ancient author in which a coin was described to explain the meaning of the message it conveyed. Jesus used a denarius to challenge the Pharisees to acknowledge their allegiance to Rome in quite the same way as they were accustomed to using coins featuring Roman symbols. Moreover, in his provocative question (‘whose image is on the coin, and whose inscription?’), Jesus showed that the imago et supescriptio were, in this case, even more meaningful and binding characteristics of the coins than their intrinsic value. However, some have interpreted this episode as proving that only one side of the coin did appeal to the audience, the obverse featuring the imperial portrait, again because the mark of sovereignty that guaranteed coinage’s legal value was the only aspect that mattered (Crawford 1983, 47–58). It is indeed undeniable that the imperial portrait was the first and most impactful feature of the coin for the Roman audience: as the most immediate symbol of power, it was a straightforward image to identify and understand for illiterate people who might have struggled to interpret some of the reverse designs.15 Yet this power was not only of juridical and political nature; it also embodied the charismatic aura of the emperor so much so that his coins could be seen almost as an extension of his own personality and be regarded with appreciation or disdain depending on his popularity among the people.16 Infamous emperors appear to have more loosely inspired this kind of moral association in common parlance. So, according to Statius, an as Gaianus was a wretched coin because it recalled the memory of Caligula (Gaius) and of his ruinous reign.17 Similarly, the philosopher Epictetus is said to have regarded Nero’s coins as rotten, to be discarded, as

opposed to Trajan’s coins as ones to be cherished, like the emperor that they celebrated.18 Sometimes ritual practice may confirm that it was common to assign a moral value to coins on the basis of the reputation of the emperor that they represented. Augustus was praised as the champion of the Roman people during his life and subsequently remembered as the best of all emperors after his death. Suetonius recounts that coins used to be thrown into the Lacus Curtius in the Roman Forum every year in fulfilment of a vow for his well-being,19 and it is possible that the coins of Augustus himself were endowed with such favourable auspices that it became natural to choose them for offerings in tombs and sanctuaries. This is suggested, for instance, by the analysis of the coins found at the sacred springs of Bourbonne-les-Bains in Gaul, where it seems that a selection was made between two emperors within a large number of halved bronze coins from Nemausus, featuring the heads of Augustus and Agrippa together (back-to-back). The practice of halving and reusing old coins became very common towards the end of the first century bce, after the reform of coinage had reduced the weight standard of bronze denominations, so that from an old heavy copper as one could obtain two lighter ones.20 At Bourbonne-les-Bains, a striking imbalance has been recorded among coin depositions between the halves featuring Agrippa and those featuring Augustus, largely in favour of the latter; so one could envisage that people preferred to offer ‘the better’ half to the gods — even though Agrippa was deemed a national hero, too (Sauer 2005, 116–21). Overall, the priority given to the imperial image on the obverse of Roman coins might also be a consequence of the prominence of the role of ‘agency’ over that of ‘audience’ in the mechanisms of communication, as ancient authors inevitably reflected the view of the issuing authorities rather than that of the populace. The reception of these messages by the people and their reaction to their meaning must be searched for in the material evidence and in the archaeological data. This means looking at the context in which coins were recovered, to search for possible clues on the categories of people that used them; and subsequently also at the ways in which coins were altered in antiquity to endorse or to contest their messages. While on this latter aspect the evidence is poor and often hard to interpret, the study of coin imagery in context has progressed hand in hand with the level of accuracy in

15 It is emblematic, for example, that many gold aurei of the Julio-Claudian period found in India (cf. Turner 1989) were methodically slashed with a deep cut on the obverse portrait. In my opinion the aim of this mark was to annul and override the Roman authority by which they had been issued, so they could be introduced into the local markets, possibly as bullion. This procedure, which was certainly easier and cheaper than casting and recycling the metal, suggests that local traders, probably unable to read Latin legends and to understand the images of gods and personifications on the reverse, focused on the imperial head on the obverse as a symbol of the authority that needed to be visually obliterated. When in doubt, both the obverse and the reverse were slashed on coins that featured an imperial bust on either side (the emperor and his wife). Cf. Calomino 2016, 194–95. 16 Still, the significance attached to reverse designs, which were often endowed with ideological and moral values of crucial importance for the principate, was meant as an integration, or also an expansion, of the same message of ‘charismatic’ power embodied by the imperial portrait. Burnett 1987, 69. 18 Arrian, Discourses, iii. 3. 3–5. 17 Statius, Silvae, i. 22. This expression may have also reflected the 19 Suetonius, Divus Augustus, lvii. 1. fact that bronze coins of Caligula were loosely regarded as very 20 See Buttrey 1972, also showing that the practice of halving poor in value after his assassination, either because many were asses became so common that Horace used it as a metaphor to defaced, or perhaps even demonetized. Cf. Calomino 2016, 63. describe the separation of two fraternal friends.

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the publication of site finds: as a result, we now have a totally new perception of how Roman coins used to address their public. The turning point in this field of research has been the shift in focus from the analysis of visual and textual messages on coins as an expression of the Roman policy, to the study of patterns of diversification and circulation of these messages depending on the geographical areas and the archaeological contexts in which coins were found. The concentration of issues characterized by select typologies of reverse designs in certain regions of the empire and in sites having a clearly defined function has showed that the Roman authorities supplied stocks of coins communicating specific messages to areas where they could target equally specific categories of audience, mainly in the provinces.21 The clearest evidence of this practice is the pattern of circulation of Hadrian’s asses struck in 119 ce, which show the personification of Britannia on the reverse: they are found almost exclusively in that province (Walker 1988), which proves that the design was created specifically for those issues with the aim of addressing the local audience. Among the categories of coin users that were targeted by their messages, the main recipients were the troops, both because of their crucial role in the political and economic strategy of the republic and the empire, and because a very large portion of the state expenditure was destined for their wage. For these reasons, and because military camps and settlements are generally easier to identify and investigate than other typologies of archaeological sites, stray finds from ‘military’ sites represent our most substantial source for investigation. Among the legions stationed near the limes (Britannia, Germany), which needed regular coin supply from Rome and other imperial mints, especially in bronze, the case study that has shed most light on the practice of audience targeting is that of the legionary fortress of Nijmegen in the Netherlands. Coins sent to this site in stocks are characterized by a surprisingly high concentration of issues featuring military designs (Kemmers 2006). This pattern is confirmed by the comparison with other military settlements along the Rhine: coins celebrating Victory, Security, and Peace prevailed in Germany after a period of turmoil and conflict in 71 ce — but not in Italy, whereas Virtus dominated on the coins shipped to these regions after the suppression of the revolt of Saturninus against Domitian by the legions of Lower Germany (90–91 ce), as a token of gratitude for their loyalty (Kemmers 2006, 237–40). These examples show that some of the designs that were part of the mainstream production of the imperial mints were 22 21 See in particular Elkins 2009, 34–35 and 42–43.

selected and shipped to certain destinations where the message that they conveyed had a specific audience to target.22 So the imperial strategies of communicating through coins did not hinge exclusively on the creation of visual languages designed to further the imperial ideology, but also on the selection and dissemination of ideological messages along well-defined communication channels (cf. Kemmers 2006, 240–41). The importance of this discovery rests also in the fact that the mechanism of ‘audience targeting’23 arguably implied that the moneyers were expecting, at least in principle, some level of awareness of the look and of the meaning of coins by their intended recipients, the targeted audiences themselves.

Writing on Coins While this new approach to the study of coin iconography has provided a theoretical framework for speculating on the extent to which the Roman public was accustomed to receiving and perhaps even to expecting coin designs deliberately tailored to their social and cultural background, the evidence for their actual engagement with the messages conveyed by coins, whether or not these had a specific target, relies on the study of numismatic materials showing signs of intentional alterations made in antiquity. Research in this field is based on a very small sample of case studies and, above all, it is mostly hampered by the lack of contextual evidence to interpret behaviours that depended almost entirely on personal choices and the free will of individuals. I will consider two categories of behaviours depending on the attitude of the authors of such alterations, whether ‘constructive’ or ‘destructive’: writing on coins and defacing coins (cf. also Elkins 2009, 45–46). A constructive and mostly positive way of engaging with coins consisted in writing on them. I shall not consider countermarks in this context, because they were almost entirely a product of state, military, or civic authorities rather than of individuals, and they had essentially practical purposes linked to the monetary function of the coins. To appreciate how individuals interacted with coins to express their personal thoughts, and to comment on the meaning of coin images and texts, one can look instead at the evidence for the habit of scratching graffiti on them. This practice seems to

See also Hekster 2007, for a broader discussion. 23 Cf. Hekster 2003 considering also other imperial ‘strategies’ to target the audience, such as diversifying coin designs per denominations of different value circulating among different segments of the population.

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Figure 5.1. AR denarius of Hadrian: Rome, 118 ce (LON-F67AFA; photo courtesy Portable Antiquities Scheme: 18 mm).

Figure 5.2. AV aureus of Augustus: Spain c. 18–16 bc (obverse, photo courtesy F. Kemmers, drawing by K. H. Engemann, Institute of Archaeology, Goethe University Frankfurt am Main: 20 mm).

coins.24 Besides, not all the examples of graffiti on coins conveyed messages that commented on or interacted with the coin type and legend. In some cases we find numerals, which may have been inscribed to reuse a coin for a different function, either as votive offerings or as game tokens (cf. Kemmers and Scholz 2017, 126–27 nn. 33–34). However, in many cases numerals probably had a practical purpose associated with the denomination value of the coins or with counting procedures.25 The interpretation in these circumstances is never straightforward, though, as is the case with a very unusual specimen found in London, published in the database of the Portable Antiquities Scheme.26 This is a denarius of Hadrian struck in 118 ce, which was marked with IIIV, possibly the number eight either in retrograde writing or simply broken up into two numbers as three and five (Fig. 5.1). Certainly, one cannot rule out possible alternatives, such as reading it as two separate numbers (II and IV, given the slightly larger gap in-between) with a different meaning, or even as letters, albeit in this case the meaning would be even more obscure. What is most unusual about this graffito is its position on the flan, not in the field on either side of the coin, but on its thickest edge. This may suggest that the numeral served for accounting purposes, if one envisages that this specimen was being stocked within a cylindrical pile of denarii. The interpretation of non-numerical texts inscribed on coins is also often very controversial. In many instances coins only served as a medium to convey personal messages that were in no way associated with their designs and legends. This is the case especially with graffiti featuring personal names, which represent by far the largest category of examples. Etching a name on a coin was probably a playful way of claiming ownership, particularly in the genitive, as on one very legible aureus of Augustus found at Trier, which was inscribed with IVLI (Fig. 5.2) (Kemmers and Scholz

have been exceptionally rare and is also very poorly documented, partly because graffiti can fade and become illegible due to coin wear, and partly because it is often awkward to discern intentional graffiti from 24 See a recent overview in Stahlke 2020. The categories defined for the study of graffiti on other supports, especially those on walls, accidental scratches, as well as to determine whether do not always apply to coins, too. The earliest attempt to establish they are ancient or modern. One can find a parallel a taxonomy of numismatic graffiti is in Lenormant 1874, which still with the loose habit of writing on modern banknotes, remains the most comprehensive study on this topic, although it either to simply mock the issuing authority or to have looks exclusively at the Greek world. His categories were arranged thematically: religious, amorous, personal names, ‘whims’, and one’s own say on politics and economy. On coins this uncertain. More recent studies have suggested that a different practice was inevitably restrained by their size and the range of categories should be adopted: ownership, dedications, hardness of their metal surface, as compared to writing personal messages, and accounting; cf. Savio and Struffolino 2005, on paper money. Graffiti were normally engraved 59 n. 3, with further literature. The survey of examples that I am on the flat surface of the flan, in the ‘field’. There is presenting here does not claim to be exhaustive. no comprehensive study on this topic, especially 25 See for instance SNG Copenhagen, Cyprus 73: H, perhaps the Greek numeral 8. Cf. also Cahn 1944, 57–58 and, more recently, regarding Roman coins, and there also is no univocal Gambash and others 2013, 101–02, with further bibliography. taxonomy to identify different typologies of graffiti on 26 [accessed 1 March 2023]; Allen and others 2015, 305, no. 15.

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2017, 125–26, fig. 4). In this particular case, the graffito could also be deliberately allusive to the imperial portrait, since Augustus himself was a Iulius by adoption, so the owner of the coin may have played with his homonym, perhaps to express affiliation to the emperor. Personal names were often written also in the nominative case (cf. Kemmers and Scholz 2017, 124–25, figs 1–3), which recalls the loose habit of inscribing on the walls to ‘preserve the memory […] by engraving […] names on brass or marble’, to put it in Plutarch’s words.27 This practice is well attested also on Greek coins and happens to provide a very useful resource for onomastic studies (Manganaro 1983), especially when personal names reveal the cultural or ethnic background of the owner — which is the case, for instance, with Aramaic graffiti inscribed on tetradrachms of Alexander the Great found in Egypt (Torrey 1937; see also Elayi and Lemaire 1998). On Roman coins found in the provinces, personal names might indicate the local origin of the owner and their ethnic descent, like the name ATRIOS, probably a Gallic version of the Latin Atrius, inscribed on a republican denarius found at Groß-Rohrheim in Germany (Kemmers and Scholz 2017, 124–25, fig. 1). Another remarkable example is the Greek graffito I Φ ΓΟΥΝΘΙΟΥ preserved on a pierced aureus of Postumus found in eastern Europe (possibly in the region of modern Ukraine and Moldova),28 which seems to indicate the name of a member of the East Germanic elites (Gounthios). Other than just markers of ownership, these examples could also be interpreted as indicators of status of members of the local aristocracies living under the aegis of Rome or, as in the second case, in Barbaricum territory (Bursche 2013, 163, fig. 27). The latter inscription may also be somehow associated with the design of the coin, because it was engraved on the reverse that features the jugate busts of Sol and Selene, perhaps to show devotion to the gods.29 The most interesting examples of graffiti on coins are the ones that established a connection with the function of the coin or with the message that it communicated. In the former category we can count graffiti featuring names of deities on coins that were very probably used as offerings in votive depositions, sanctuaries,

or sacred areas. This phenomenon is known, again, especially from Greek coins. Some examples show a very clear connection between the god and the imagery of the coins, as on a didrachm of Croton held at the Bibliothèque nationale in Paris, which features a tripod and the graffito ‘sacred to Apollo’ (HIAPON TO AΠO) deliberately associated with the design.30 This practice seems to be only occasionally attested on Roman coins, but perhaps simply because it has not been studied as methodically as on Greek ones. Some examples show that the name of a deity could be invoked (MINERVA) and sometimes the votive deposit where the coin had been offered was specifically indicated, too (FORTVNAI STIPE).31 A parallel to the habit of writing dedications on coins used as gifts for the gods can be found in the practice — more sporadically documented, of accompanying the donation of a coin as a present with a dedication to the person that was meant to receive it. This is attested on particularly large and attractive specimens, like the silver tetradrachm of Agrigentum held in Paris, which was inscribed with ‘my beloved, beautiful Sykoi’ (ΦΥΛΟΝ ΣΥΚΟΙ ΚΑΛΑ), and recalls the supposed habit of exchanging medallions as gifts.32 In such circumstances, there is no reason to believe that the coin had been demonetized: it may well have been treasured for both its intrinsic value and the sentimental value it had acquired. An even rarer category of graffiti on coins includes inscriptions that commented on their designs and legends. These examples are much harder to spot because the interpretation of more sophisticated texts is often awkward and controversial. Sometimes the meaning of the words in the legends is obscure because these could be abbreviations or monograms.33 Besides, texts that did not have any practical purpose, and especially frivolous ones, were probably less common anyway. A puzzling graffito is featured on the reverse of a gold multiple of Maxentius (showing the goddess Roma enthroned), which was part of a large hoard concealed in Sicily (Partinico) after 308 ce: it reads VITIVM (Fig. 5.3), which can be interpreted either as a ‘foul’ in the weight or metal of the coin (sometimes meaning ‘dross’,

30 Cf. Manganaro 1983, 10–11, also discussing other examples. 31 Kemmers and Scholz 2017, 126, with previous bibliography 27 Plut., De curiositate, 522. (especially Babelon 1901, 679–80). 28 Currently in the collection of the Ossoliński National Institute 32 A prestige gift or part of a donative was probably the gold in Wrocław, the coin was probably found in the territory of the medallion of Constantine in the Beaurains hoard (France) Chernyakhiv Culture. Although it may have been reused as a featuring XIId scratched on the obverse (indicating the rough pendant centuries after the issuing date, it has been suggested amount in denarii of a standard purse) and the name in genitive that it was pierced already in the third century ce; cf. Degler 2017. of Vitalianus etched on the reverse. He was probably a regimental 29 Considering the popularity of the cult of Sol among the soldiers, commander and the beneficiary of the medallion (and owner of this would tie in well with the hypothesis that the two letters the hoard); cf. Casey 1994, 129–32. preceding the name (I and Φ) referred to the Legio X Fretensis (the ι standing for the Greek numeral ten and the φ as the initial 33 See for instance the letters ΓΡIΑ on a bronze coin struck at Ninica Claudiopolis in Cilicia in the name of Maximinus; SNG of Fretensis), which was involved in the war between Gallienus vA 5777. and Postumus in 265–268 ce; Degler 2017.

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Figure 5.3. AV quaternion of Maxentius: Rome, c. 308 ce (private collection; photo courtesy V. Drost: 35 mm).

Figure 5.4. AR tetradrachm of Nicomedes III: Bithynia, 111 bce (obverse, NMD RP 2753.1; photo courtesy Royal Danish Collection Copenhagen; photo R. H. Nielsen: 34 mm).

Figure 5.5. AR denarius of Mark Antony: Asia Minor, c. 41 bce (London Coin Galleries 2015; obverse, photo courtesy M. Tursi: 19 mm).

although no apparent defect can be spotted) (Drost and Gautier 2011, 162–63, no. 144), or also as ‘sin’, ‘guilt’, or even ‘outrage’, implying a moral condemnation of the emperor and his behaviour. Politically motivated texts are indeed attested and represent the best examples of spontaneous manifestations of the audience’s feelings and opinions. The temptation to target the symbols of power, which is well documented on wall-graffiti, affected coins too, even if only occasionally. A wellknown episode from literature is the alteration of a tetradrachm of King Nicomedes III of Bithynia (issued in 111 bce), held in the Royal Collection of Copenhagen (SNG Copenhagen, Bithynia 649). The obverse is inscribed with REX HPMISCVLVS on either side of the portrait (Fig. 5.4). This hybrid Graeco-Roman creation, intentionally macaronic, aimed to ridicule Nicomedes as the ‘Little-Hermes King’. Interestingly, the palaeographic analysis suggests that the graffito was made much later under the Roman rule, possibly in the second or third century ce (Stolba 1993). Another

episode documents a disparaging message written on the obverse of a denarius of Mark Antony, struck by a mint travelling with his army in Asia Minor in 41 bce.34 The graffito reads KAX (Fig. 5.5), which could be interpreted as the initials of a longer word, the prefix of the verb καχάζω or the related substantive καχασμός, which mean respectively ‘laugh loud’ (cackle) and ‘loud laughter’. These were probably onomatopoeic forms deriving from the transliteration of the sound ‘ha, ha!’ into χα, χα!, which, placed before the mouth of the portrait, seem to invite the reader to ‘sneer at Mark Antony’ — something like our LOL (Laugh Out Loud)? The use of Greek suggests that the graffito was scratched in the East, where the coin had been minted; alternatively, it could allude to Antony being mocked as a ‘Graecophile’ (Calomino 2016, 36). Both these last two examples denote a level of historical knowledge and literacy beyond average. Furthermore, if the Bithynian coin was inscribed so long after its issuing date, it must have been put aside and treasured as a souvenir. Some evidence of coin collecting in antiquity, such as Augustus’s renowned habit of donating ‘old pieces of the kings and foreign money’ as gifts during the Saturnalia,35 is indeed a further indicator of interest in coins not merely as currency but also as ‘speaking’ objects, at least among the upper classes. Lastly, an entire group of graffiti denoting interest in the cultural significance of coins by the Roman public fall within the religious sphere and can be loosely regarded as expressions of personal faith. In the late Imperial period this was much about the contrast between the traditional Roman religion and the new Christian faith, a clash in which the ideological use of symbols was the most common language in the streets.36 The earliest episodes of which we are aware are attested on third-century coins, although it is possible that graffiti were etched many decades after their issuing date. Interestingly, in more than one example, in spite of the fact that pagan deities were mainly depicted on the reverse, Christian symbols were engraved on the obverse of coins near the emperor’s image, perhaps to signify that he was to be Christianized.37 For instance, a number 34 Cf. RRC 516/5. 35 Suetonius, Divus Augustus, lxxv. 1. 36 The best surviving example of anti-Christian propaganda is indeed a graffito found on a wall of the Pedagogium on the Palatine Hill, the desecrating image of Alexamenos being mocked for worshipping ‘his’ Christian God, a donkey-headed human figure nailed on a cross. Väänänen and others 1966, no. 246. 37 This echoed the practice of cross-carving the forehead of the statues of Roman emperors and of pagan deities to ‘exorcize’ them, which became widespread especially in Asia Minor; cf. Calomino 2016, 200–01, with further references.

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of graffiti were engraved on either sides of Caracalla’s bust on a large bronze medallion struck at Cyzicus in Mysia (probably around 214–215 ce), but not on the reverse showing the emperor paying homage to Hades-Sarapis enthroned.38 To the left of the imperial bust there is a Christogram (XP, for XPICTOC) over a lunate sigma, as the initial of CΩTHP (saviour); to the right, A and ω, echoing Revelation 1. 8: ‘I am the A and the Ω –, says the Lord, who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty’; below the Latin word PAX (peace), retrograde; so this all together reads: ‘Christ, the Saviour, the beginning and the end, peace’ (Fig. 5.6).39 Episodes of ‘counter-propaganda’ in support of the declining pagan traditions are also known. One example is particularly meaningful because of the close connection between the symbolism of the coin and the message expressed through the graffiti. This is a specimen of the bronze series struck in the name of Julian the Apostate that featured a bull on the reverse and the legend SECVRITAS REIPVB(LICAE) (safety of the state). That these issues embodied the spirit of Julian’s religious programme to restore and revive the pagan traditions, at least in the collective imagination (cf. Howgego 1995, 74), can be inferred from an episode narrated in the Historia ecclesiastica by Socrates Scholasticus (iii. 17): when Julian visited the very Christianized Antioch in Syria, people contested him ‘shouting […] that his coinage had a bull and that the world was overturned’. Non-Christians might have seen these issues as symbols of opposition to the new religion, and the existence of pierced specimens in museum collections suggests that they were worn in antiquity as pendants, possibly already towards the end of the fourth century ce rather than much later, when paganism had been forgotten. One specimen held in the Historisches Museum of Basel features the graffiti ΝΙCΑΣ (sic) FELIC (nicas feliciter) repeated on both sides, wishing ‘may you happily conquer’ (Fig. 5.7) (Dürr 1954). This slogan can be interpreted both in a literal way, to salute the emperor’s military campaign against the Parthians, and more symbolically as an endorsement of his religious policy. The person who wrote the message showed not only awareness of the ideological significance of these issues, but also the willingness to play with the visual elements that characterized this particular coin: it is indeed possible that it was chosen because the name of the mint of provenance, Nicomedia, abbreviated in the

38 The medallion is held in the collection of the British Museum; SNG vA 7379. 39 Abdy and Dowler 2012, 79–80; Abdy 2016, 165–66. For a broader discussion and another similar example, see Calomino 2016, 202–03.

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Figure 5.6. AE medallion of Caracalla: Cyzicus, c. 214–215 ce (obverse, BM.1906,1010.1; photo courtesy British Museum: 42 mm).

Figure 5.7. AE nummus (‘maiorina’) of Julian: Nicomedia, 361–363 ce (HMB inv. 1953.1; photo courtesy HMB Alwin Seiler: 30 mm).

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Figure 5.8. AV Visigoth tremissis of Justinian I: Spain, 565 ce (reverse, NY.ANS.2014.45.1; photo courtesy American Numismatic Society: 15 mm; [accessed 1 March 2023]).

exergue as NIK, also recalled the notion of victory (Nike), and was framed between two palm branches (cf. RIC 122). Interestingly, graffiti on coins attest that the desire to assert one’s own faith was still strong in the first half of the sixth century ce. A number of early Byzantine gold issues show signs of ‘Christianization’ of pagan images (cf. LRCDOC, p. 35.), in spite of the fact that Christianity was by then firmly the official state religion. On some Visigothic imitations both a cross and a Christogram were marked on either sides of a Victory (Fig. 5.8).40 The ideological contraposition between the image of Victory and the symbols of Christ recalls the memorable dispute between the Prefect of Rome Symmachus and the Bishop of Milan Ambrose on the removal of the Altar of Victory from the Senate in ce 384, as an attempt to preserve Rome’s religious traditions (cf. Sheridan 1966). Etching the symbols of Christ on either side of Victory may be actually intended as a direct visual association between them to signify the triumph of Christianity.

Defacing Coins Regardless of how intelligible the visual language of coins was, the fear of damaging and undermining the validity of the official state currency, especially of denominations in silver and gold, and particularly among the lower classes, must have been a strong deterrent against making alterations to them. This premise is all the more true if we consider 41 examples of more ‘destructive’ ways of engaging with coins, such as defacement and mutilation. Coins were only exceptionally defaced, particularly if the aim was to 42

40 For a sample of Christian graffiti on gold late Roman and Byzantine coins, cf. Holzer 1945.

intentionally obliterate or delete the message that they conveyed. Yet, this phenomenon is attested and has been extensively studied, partly because it involves a strong component of spectacularity, and mostly because it could be part of a wider process of official annulation of the acts and decisions of a political authority that was no longer legitimated. This is what modern scholarship regards as damnatio memoriae to define a series of sanctions formally passed by the Senate and the imperial authority to condemn the memory of predecessors, but this expression is often also loosely used to refer to individual acts of mutilation or destruction of monuments of condemned emperors. The distinction between ‘official’ and ‘unofficial’ acts of condemnation is indeed crucial, especially in the approach to the study of defaced coins.41 The only acts of defacement that can be meaningful to our discourse on the materiality of texts fall within the latter category. At any rate, very few episodes of damnatio memoriae that affected coinage in the Roman world can be definitely interpreted as the implementation of formal decrees issued by the central or the local authorities. Cassius Dio recalls two occasions on which coins of a disgraced emperor were involved in the condemnation of his memory by senatorial or imperial decision, those of Caligula and of Geta.42 In both cases they are said to have been withdrawn and melted down, which suggests that ‘invisible’ sanctions were preferred over more visually impactful ones, like those that often affected monumental media such as statues (being pulled down and removed) and especially inscriptions (being erased). Minted metals were too precious to be wasted, so only coins struck in copper alloys were exceptionally altered as a result of damnatio memoriae. Not surprisingly, the target was the obverse, where the emperor’s portrait and his name (again, the imago et supescriptio) were mutilated or accurately erased on a large number of specimens. This type of procedure is attested only in the imperial provinces, though, which suggests that local governors and administrators, or perhaps also the military authorities dislocated along the borders, were directly responsible for these actions. Bronze civic issues of Nero, Domitian, Commodus, Geta, and Maximinus Thrax produced in the provinces of Achaia, Macedonia, Bithynia et Pontus, and Asia were altered to erase the face and the name of the emperor, although on a very small scale and inconsistently.43 The

The most recent work on this topic, including references to all previous major publications, is Calomino 2016. On the role played by coins in this phenomenon, see also Hostein 2004. Cassius Dio lx. 22. 3 and lxxviii. 12. 6. 43 Calomino 2016. Another episode that belongs in this category was the erasure of the name of Sejanus, Tiberius’s prefect of the praetorian guards, whose name was erased from the reverse legend of civic issues at Bilbilis, in Tarraconensis; cf. Calomino 2016, 41–45.

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main reason why these sanctions were much more popular in the provinces is that the volume of coin production in the provincial cities was incomparably smaller than in the imperial mints, so the process of withdrawal from circulation of the issues of a condemned emperor was much more feasible there from a practical point of view. Conversely, individual acts of defacement were random events that could potentially affect any category of coins, imperial as well as provincial, and also in any denominations and metals. They were arbitrary actions that did not have to follow specific instructions and that depended on the personal thoughts and feelings of individuals. Besides, they could also target emperors or other members of the ruling class that had not suffered from damnatio memoriae, simply as an expression of personal discontent (Calomino 2016, 189–207). In this category we can recognize examples of how the audience would interact with coin messages to challenge and contest their significance. We can start with an example of how people engaged with religious symbols featured on coins, which ties in well with the episodes of graffiti etched on coins in support or against the Christian faith, as discussed above. The most powerful emblem of Christianity on Roman coins was, again, the Christogram, which was adopted as the main reverse type on a large series of bronze coins issued in the name of Magnentius, the Gallic usurper who reigned in 350–353 ce.44 A considerable proportion of surviving specimens in collections, as well as from excavations, have their flan pierced above the symbol in order to display it while using the coin as a pendant, and although this practice was most common in the early medieval period, it seems plausible that it started already in the fourth century (cf. Moorhead 2006, 107) (Fig. 5.9).45 In this perspective, the complete erasure on the reverse side of one specimen of these issues to obliterate the Chi-Ro (Fig. 5.10) can be arguably interpreted as an act of rejection of Christianity.46 Again, because this coin was found among the grave goods of a tomb (fourth-century necropolis of Nempont-Saint-Firmin in France), the defacement could have a ritual significance that may be unrelated to the intended meaning of the reverse design, but it is also possible that the coin was altered while it was still in circulation and being used as currency. The face of Magnentius on this specimen is also mutilated, perhaps because he was deemed responsible for the adoption of the Christian symbol on Roman coinage: a good example of how the significance of reverse designs could be as 44 For the type, cf. LRBC 19. 45 Cf. also Calomino 2016, 200–03, and Calomino 2013, 218, fig. 27, with further discussion. To my knowledge, there is no published survey of the finds of pierced specimens of the Magnentius ChiRho issues; the PAS database currently includes around forty entries (information provided by A. Brown). 46 Duchemin 2012, 167–73 (cat no. 47), with further discussion.

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Figure 5.9. AE nummus of Magnentius: Gaul/Germany, c. 353 ce (Forum of Grumentum inv. 269285 — Grumento Nova (PT); photo courtesy A. Capano: 26 mm).

Figure 5.10. AE nummus of Magnentius: Gaul/Germany, c. 353 ce (necropolis of Nempont-Saint-Firmin — Hauts-de-France; photo courtesy J.-P. Ducemin: 27 mm).

Figure 5.11. Brass dupondius of Nero: Rome, 64/65 ce (Rheinisches LandesMuseum Bonn no. 6783: 29 mm).

meaningful as the imperial image on the obverse, and closely intertwined with its charismatic power. Still, the majority of episodes attested on Roman coinage were acts of defacement of the issuing authority. In quite the same way as graffiti, they can be interpreted as ‘comments’ of political nature aiming to insult or to mock the emperor and members of his family. Nero appears to

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Figure 5.12. Brass dupondius of Nero: Rome, 64 ce (CNG eAuction 336, October 2014, lot 254; photo courtesy Classical Numismatic Group London: 30 mm).

Figure 5.13. Brass sestertius of Maximinus Thrax: Rome, 236 ce (private collection Munich, ex Lanz Auction 10, December 1977, lot 792; photo courtesy J. Wienand: 30 mm).

Figure 5.14. AE coin of Julia Domna: Emesa, 215/216 ce (CNG eAuction 335, July 2015, lot 305: photo courtesy Classical Numismatic Group London: 30 mm).

hang down behind the neck.47 Most of the defaced coins were simply slashed to disfigure him, but more original options are also attested. See for instance a dupondius struck in Rome on which Nero’s name was erased and his portrait re-engraved to make him resemble one of his successors, either Vitellius or Vespasian (Fig. 5.12): rather than an attempt to counterfeit a coin of a condemned emperor, this was probably a way of trading the memory of his reign with that of the current one (Calomino 2016, 70–71). Among the examples of manipulation of coins to deride a disgraced emperor, there is one that stands out for its gruesome taste and the ‘artistic’ skills of its author. The victim was Maximinus Thrax, who was murdered with his son by his own soldiers under the walls of Aquileia in the spring of 238 ce. Ancient authors report that ‘their bodies were thrown out for anyone to desecrate and trample on, before being left to be torn to pieces by dogs and birds. The heads of Maximinus and his son were sent to Rome’.48 Taking inspiration from this scene, either an eyewitness or someone who was particularly impressed by the narrations of these events decided to completely re-carve a sestertius of Maximinus to re-enact his decapitation and the desecration of his corpse. Both the imperial bust on the obverse and the image of Victory on the reverse were altered to represent Maximinus’s head stuck on the tip of a pole; on the obverse a worm and a bird were also engraved, the former popping out of the emperor’s brain, the latter pecking at his eyeballs (Fig. 5.13). The fact that another specimen suffering from a very similar type of defacement was found at Ostia does not mean that this was the result of an official sanction, but perhaps that a group of people who watched this slaughter, maybe soldiers, decided to commemorate it in the same way (Calomino 2016, 175–76). If the evidence of defacement on Roman imperial coinage shows that the emperor’s portrait was always the main target, examples of reverse designs being altered or mutilated are attested in the coinage of the provincial cities. This reflects the different nature of civic coinage compared to the production of state mints: even though Roman provincial coins too bore the imperial portrait on the obverse, their reverses featuring the city’s name, its symbols, and most distinctive imagery, were the true expression of the community’s identity and administration. Defacing the reverse of local coins could therefore be motivated by religious or political reasons reflecting the beliefs and inclinations of the provincials. Even when these episodes affected more than one specimen of the same issue, the number of defaced coins is still too small to be definitely interpreted as a result of official sanctions passed by the civic

have been the favourite victim of popular scorn and the emperor that stimulated the most inventive creations. On more than one occasion his portrait was tooled to make him look bald with a ponytail (Fig. 5.11), which probably alluded to his peculiar hairstyle arranged in tiers 47 Suetonius, Nero, li. 1. Cf. Zedelius 1979. of curls, sometimes also having his hair grow long and 48 Herodian viii. 5. 9.

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administrations. The first example involved bronze coins of Julia Domna struck at her hometown of Emesa in Syria, in 215/216 ce. All the defaced coins belong to one particular issue, featuring an image of the altar of the cult of the sun god Elagabalus (cf. BMC Syria 9–12); the mutilation consisted of two deep cuts across the flan on the reverse, forming an X pattern on the altar (Fig. 5.14). The community of Emesa was most renowned for its cult, and Domna was part of a prominent family of priests of the god. Therefore this action appears to have been deliberately aimed at targeting the cult and its connection with the Syrian empress, but surprisingly not her son Caracalla, whose issues featuring the same image were not defaced. This aspect, alongside the fact that a substantial proportion of known specimens were not defaced, makes the interpretation of this phenomenon particularly problematic. This could be an act of dissociation from the cult, executed with zeal, perhaps in a rival community, but not on a scale that would entail the intervention of the local authority. Or it could be the result of ritual mutilation that was part of the process of demonetization of coins, prior to the deposition in a sacred context, perhaps being dedicated to the god Elagabalus himself.49 Either way, this episode denotes the will of an individual or of a group of people to manifest their feelings for a very iconic symbol of religious aggregation. In a similar civic environment we find another case of defacement of a reverse design on bronze coins. Again, this affected only one particular issue within the production of a very prolific mint, at Cibyra in Phrygia. The defaced coins were issued in 225/226 ce, during the reign of Severus Alexander, in the name of his mother Julia Mamaea. The reverse showed a togate male figure standing next to an ox and holding a long staff.50 While the design was not altered (Fig. 5.15), the reverse inscription was partly erased on a number of specimens: the word KAICAPEΩN, normally associated with the civic name KIBYPATΩN, was removed (Fig. 5.16). This appears to be an act of protest against the Caesars, the imperial family, which bizarrely targeted the reverse design instead of the imperial bust of the empress. Still, the male figure on the reverse was probably the emperor in the guise of a priest, offering a sacrifice, which might explain why the erasure was performed in particular on these issues rather than on any other ones featuring the same legend but a different image. Perhaps a citizen of Cibyra wanted to express his disappointment with one or more aspects of the imperial policy towards his hometown by detaching the city’s name from that

49 Unfortunately, the context from which these specimens come from is not known; Calomino 2016, 197–98. 50 Cf. BMC Phrygia 69, which is the only specimen presenting signs of defacement of the imperial portrait, too (cf. Fig. 5.13).

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Figure 5.15. AE coin of Julia Mamaea: Cibyra, 225/226 ce (NY.ANS.1973.191.38; photo courtesy American Numismatic Society: 29 mm; [accessed 1 March 2023]).

Figure 5.16. AE coin of Julia Mamaea: Cibyra, 225/226 ce (BM.1903,0204.111; photo courtesy British Museum: 30 mm).

Figure 5.17. AE coin of Geta: Dardanus, 198–209 ce (BNF.634: photo courtesy Bibliothèque nationale de France: 25 mm; [accessed 1 March 2023]).

of the Augusti, to assert the identity (and the cultural independence?) of the community, in contraposition with the government in Rome (cf. Calomino 2016, 169–71). The aim to express civic identity and pride also lies behind one last episode of defacement on a Roman provincial coin of Geta (198–209 ce). This time the mint

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of origin was Dardanus in Troas, but the city’s name on the reverse was partly erased and recarved to change it: only the final letters [ΔΑΡΔΑΝ]-ΙΩΝ were spared, while the initial ones were replaced with ΙΛΙƐ, so the new legend reads ΙΛΙƐΩΝ (Fig. 5.17). The civic name was probably altered by a citizen of Ilium reclaiming the historical leadership of Troas for his hometown over their neighbours from Dardanus. The two communities were divided by a fierce antagonism that rooted in their mythical past and the reverse type associated with the altered legend, featuring Ganymedes, was not chosen randomly: the boy was believed to be the son of the founding hero Dardanos in one version of the myth, or the son of Tros, the founder of Ilion, in another one. So the coin was tooled with the intent of claiming the ‘ownership’ of Ganymedes as a symbol of Ilium’s superior pedigree. These forms of local rivalry were typical of Greek civic culture especially under the empire and it is not surprising that a coin was chosen to voice such sentiments, because the provincial cities regularly used their coinage as a medium for self-promotion and rank-recognition (Hostein 2020). In this contribution I have tried to define various levels of interaction between the messages disseminated through coins in the Roman world, resulting from the combined agency of texts and imagery, and their users. As currency, coins fulfilled their economic function no matter what message they carried. On the other hand, as valuable travelling ‘speaking’ objects, they had the unparalleled potential to deliver the message emanated

by the political authority directly into the hands of the people, but also to allow people to use them as carriers of their own messages and talk through them. Coins were, above all, the most deliberate symbols of public identity in the ancient world (cf. Howgego 2005, 1), but the ways that individuals engaged with them on a visual, tactile, and even intellectual level could be very personal, depending on one’s own beliefs and sentiments. The extent of the impact that coin messages had on their audience is very hard to assess, and there is also very little evidence to document the ‘material’ relation existing between coins and their users. It is indeed necessary to look for unusual ways of engaging with coins to find such evidence. Both the habit of writing on coins and that of defacing coins fall within this category. While erasure and mutilation were always practices through which individuals manifested their feelings and beliefs in close connection with the messages conveyed by the coins, graffiti texts could simply be personal names or messages scratched on metal to last, using coins purely as a medium for their ubiquity and durability, regardless of their significance. The alteration and reuse of coins in their ‘afterlife’, after being demonetized, is much better documented, but this analysis has focused primarily on the lifespan of coins as monetary objects to discuss the ambivalent nature of coinage as both a medium of exchange and of communication: a peculiarity that may have also contributed to trigger unusual forms of material interaction between coin texts and designs and their audiences.

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——. 2020. ‘Campanilisme et humour en Troade au iiie siècle de notre ère. À propos d’un graffiti sur une monnaie de Dardanos’, in Detur dignissimo: Studies in Honour of Johan van Heesch, ed. by Fran Stroobants and Christian Lawers (Brussels: Cercle d’études numismatique), pp. 327–35 Howgego, Christopher. 1995. Ancient History from Coins (London: Routledge) ——. 2005. ‘Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces’, in Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces, ed. by Christopher Howgego, Volker Heuchert, and Andrew Burnett (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 1–17 Kemmers, Fleur. 2006. Coins for a Legion: An Analysis of the Coin Finds from the Augustan Legionary Fortress and Flavian Canabae Legionis at Nijmegen (Mainz: Von Zabern) ——. 2022. ‘Coin Iconography and Social Practice in the Roman Empire’, in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Imagery and Iconography, ed. by Lea Cline and Nathan T. Elkins (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 339–57 Kemmers, Fleur, and Markus Scholz. 2017. ‘Ein spezifischer Wert: Ein republikanischer Denar mit graffiti aus GroßRohrheim’, in Iucundi acti labores: Festschrift für Egon Schallmayer anlässlich des 65. Geburtstags, ed. by Udo Recker (Darmstadt: Theiss), pp. 124–28 Konuk, Koray. 2012. ‘Asia Minor to the Ionian Revolt’, in The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage, ed. by William E. Metcalf (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 43–60 Lenormant, François. 1874. ‘Les graffiti monétaires de l’antiquité’, Revue numismatique, 15: 325–46 Manganaro, Giacomo. 1983. ‘Graffiti monetali e onomastica greca’, Jahrbuch für Numismatik und Geldgeschichte, 33: 9–20 Moorhead, Sam T. N. 2006. ‘Roman Bronze Coinage in Sub-Roman and Early Anglo-Saxon England’, in Coinage and History in the North Sea World, c. 500–1250: Essays in Honour of Marion Archibald, ed. by Barrie Cook and Gareth Williams (Leiden: Brill), pp. 99–109 Noreña, Carlos. 2011. ‘Coins and Communication’, in The Oxford Handbook of Social Relations in the Roman World, ed. by Michael Peachin (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 248–68 Perassi, Claudia. 2011. ‘Monete amuleto e monete talismano. Fonti scritte, indizi, realia per l’età romana’, Numismatica e antichità classiche, 40: 223–76 Petrovic, Andrej. 2016. ‘The Materiality of Text: An Introduction’, in The Materiality of Text: Placement, Presence and Perception of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity, ed. by Andrej Petrovic, Ivana Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas (Leiden: Brill), pp. 1–28 Rowan, Clare. 2011. ‘Slipping out of Circulation: The Afterlife of Coins in the Roman World’, Journal of the Numismatic Association of Australia, 20: 3–14 Sauer, Eberhard. 2005. Coins, Cult and Cultural Identity: Augustan Coins, Hot Springs and the Early Roman Baths at Bourbonneles-Bains (Leicester: School of Archaeology and Ancient History, University of Leicester) Savio, Adriano, and Stefano Struffolino. 2005. ‘Esempi di bilinguismo in legende monetarie’, Acme, 58.2: 58–76 Sheridan, James J. 1966. ‘The Altar of Victory: Paganism’s Last Battle’, L’Antiquité classique, 35.1: 186–206 Stahlke, Friederike. 2020. ‘Les graffiti sur les pièces d’or romaines : une recherche sur un marquage secondaire’, Bulletin de la Société française de numismatique, 75.9: 346–52 Stolba, Wladimir. 1993. ‘Ein bithynisches tetradrachmon mit spätrömischem graffito aus Kopenhagen’, Nordisk Numismatisk Årsskrift, 1992–1993: 5–11 Torrey, Charles C. 1937. ‘Aramaic Graffiti on Coins of the Demanhur Hoard’, Numismatic Notes and Monographs, 77: 1–13 Turner, Paula J. 1989. Roman Coins from India (London: Spink) Väänänen, Veikko, Heikki Solin, and Marja Itkonen-Kaila. 1966. Graffiti del Palatino, i: Pedagogium (Helsinki: Tilgmann) Walker, David R. 1988. ‘Roman Coins from the Sacred Spring at Bath’, in The Temple of Sulis Minerva at Bath, ii: Finds from the Sacred Spring, ed. by Barry Cunliffe (Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology), pp. 281–358 Wolters, Reinhard. 1999. Nummi signati: Untersuchungen zur römischen Münzprägung und Geldwirtschaft, Vestigia, 49 (Munich: Beck) Woytek, Bernhard. 2012. ‘The Denarius Coinage of the Roman Republic’, in The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage, ed. by William E. Metcalf (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 315–34 ——. 2018. ‘The Depth of Knowledge and the Speed of Thought. The Imagery of Roman Republican Coins and the Contemporary Audience’, in TYΠOI: Greek and Roman Coins Seen through their Images; Noble Issuers, Humble Users?, ed. by Panagiotis P. Iossif, François de Callataÿ, and Richard Veymiers (Liège: Presses universitaires de Liège), pp. 355–87 ——. 2022. ‘Coin Iconography and Social Practice in the Roman Republic’, in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Imagery and Iconography, ed. by Lea Cline and Nathan T. Elkins (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 315–38 Zedelius, Volker. 1979. ‘Nero calvus? Antike Veränderungen an Bronzemünzen des Kaisers Nero’, Das Rheinische Landesmuseum Bonn, 2: 20–22

Nicola Reggia n i

6. What Is a Book? The Ideology of Materiality in Ancient Greek and Roman Writing Technology

This chapter discusses the development of book writing in the Graeco-Roman world from a socio-historical point of view and in terms of its complex connections with the theoretical value of setting down written signs according to different formats and materials.1 In ancient Greece, before becoming a common, everyday practice that was criticized as such by conservative authors, the production and writing of books were considered sacred means of preserving, maintaining, and protecting special traditions that were otherwise transmitted orally. Such texts were entrusted to scroll-like supports (mainly leather/parchment or papyrus rolls), which later became the preferential means of fixed authority and authorial ‘publication’. These were ideologically and technically opposed to codex-like supports (bound sets of tablets or sheets), which were used to temporarily write down a provisional sketch of a discourse or to archive data for quick and easy reference and use. The interplay between the two, which led to the rise of the ‘codex’ as the preferential means of literature and authoritative writing from Late Antiquity to modern-day ‘books’, will be the end point of a voyage that aims to trace the origins and the initial meaning of what is a habitual



1 For a general discussion on the materiality of ancient texts, see the Introduction to this volume. The history of the book in Classical Antiquity has been discussed from several viewpoints and the relevant contributions are mentioned in my bibliographical references. I add here the very recent Del Corso 2022, which develops a broad analysis of the archaeology and history of the book in the Graeco-Roman world and also touches on some topics I will be dealing with in the following pages. I completed my contribution well before Lucio Del Corso’s book was published, thus unfortunately I could not take account of his important insights into the matter; however, I gladly refer to it as the most relevant and updated reference study on the issues covered in the present chapter.

practice, now seemingly threatened in part because of the rise of new digital technologies.2 Today, books are an everyday technology, and writing a book is a customary practice, perhaps even too much so. Virtually anyone can write and publish his or her own book, and we are all aware of the consequences this has on quality. Yet this was already an issue in the classical past. By the late fifth century bce, book writing was such a widespread activity in Athens that conservative authors like Aristophanes and Plato fiercely criticized its popularity. For example, Aristophanes’ famous parody of the chresmologos, the oracle-monger, in the Birds (957–91), contains many references to ‘the book’ (λαβὲ τὸ βυβλίον, i.e. ‘take the book!’ is repeated five times in fifteen verses), which is presented there as a compulsive source of authority for oracular speech, a current issue at the time.3 His fragmentary play Tagenistai (fr. 490 K), in turn, includes

2 This paper is a re-elaboration of my talk, ‘Why to Write a Book? Origins and Meaning of an Everyday Technology in Ancient Greece and Rome’, delivered at the first Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies regional conference ‘Technologies of Daily Life in Ancient Greece’ (Swansea University, 2–3 July 2015), and includes themes and topics from Reggiani 2010 as well as from chapter 7 in Reggiani 2019a. I am grateful to the editors of this volume for allowing me to resume my arguments in this chapter, the scope of which also falls into the framework of the PRIN 2017 Project ‘Greek and Latin Literary Papyri from Graeco-Roman and Late Antique Fayum: Texts, Contexts, Readers’ (P. I. Lucio Del Corso, University of Salerno), research unit at the University of Parma (coordinator Nicola Reggiani). 3 Baumgarten 1998, 42–44; Dunbar 1998, 364–71 (esp. 364–65); Henrichs 2003, 216–22; Dillery 2005, 194–95 (negative value of the term chresmologos) and 218 (mistrust in the interpretations of the prophecies). For the historical context: Bowden 2003; Fantasia 2003, 242–43; Dillery 2005, 213 and 220. On the issue

Nicola Reggiani  •  ([email protected].) Research Fellow of Papyrology at the University of Parma (Italy) New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 95-107 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133900

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a statement about a man who has been destroyed either FGH).9 Pausanias (ix. 31. 4), in turn, recounts that the by a book or by Prodicus, or by one of the ‘idle talkers’, Boeotians dwelling around Mt Helicon showed him a that is, the Sophists.4 It was the Sophists, in fact, who very old lead tablet (‘mostly defaced by time’) containing the text of Hesiod’s Erga. The transitory use of lead contributed a great deal to the dissemination of book tablets is attested by commercial letters and contracts culture as a means of enhancing ‘popular’ knowledge and who promoted a new and different use of text, from the regions of the Mediterranean and the Black one exemplified by Isocrates’ sentence λόγον διέδωκα Sea (sixth–fifth centuries bce, see Fig. 6.3),10 while the γράψας (I wrote and published my discourse) (Antidosis dedicatory context cannot but remind us of the votive 193. 5). We shall return to this later with reference to pinakes with therapeutic descriptions attested at the sanctuaries of Asclepius around the Mediterranean Plato and the underlying issues at stake. up until the Roman era.11 Medical knowledge is well Back then, the standard book format was the roll (or scroll, biblos), typically made of papyrus, which, known to have been transmitted orally, and such tablets by the Hellenistic era, was the main writing support held annotations that record the cures practised by temple physicians.12 throughout the Mediterranean.5 A roll could contain both literary works and documents, either in the Most noteworthy is the way in which such writing primary form of a proper roll or in the secondary form materials interacted with scroll-like supports as time of a tomos synkollesimos or ‘glued-together’ roll, that is, went by, as the general difference in format and material one comprised of individually written sheets cut from reflected theoretical discrepancies in intended use. So, ‘primary’ manufactured rolls and eventually glued for example, the opposition between the two ways of together.6 This, however, was not the only or earliest writing framed the tradition surrounding Philip of Opus, who, according to Diogenes Laertius (iii. 37), book format: the use of bound waxed wooden tablets (deltoi, pinakes, or the like)7 for taking notes or archiving transcribed Plato’s Laws on papyrus (certainly on data is well attested. An ancient Near Eastern custom,8 papyrus rolls), which had until then been preserved at the tablet was connected to the original purpose of the Academy on wax tablets (ἐν κηρῷ). Although it may writing — that of recording oral discourse and assisting seem odd that the entire text of the Laws was written short-term human memory — serving as an ephemeral on wax tablets (Dorandi 2007, 22), we know from other material manifestation of thought. Waxed tablets appear sources that Plato, like other ancient authors (Dorandi in Greece as early as the time of the Homeric poems 2007, 13–28), took notes on deltoi (tablets).13 The episode should therefore be interpreted as the copying of an (as in the tale of Bellerophon’s letter in Iliad vi), while the proverbial phrase ‘tablets of the mind’ (δέλτοι ‘interim’ text — one that stemmed from Plato’s oral φρενῶν), meaning memory (Nieddu 1984), indicates teachings and was meant to be kept private — for this cultural interplay clearly enough. Tablet-like the purpose of long-term, unchanging conservation supports flourished in the Archaic and early Classical and diffusion (‘publication’).14 Long before Plato, Greek world, and the use of particular materials seems however, transcriptions in book-roll format must have to have been limited to ritual environments. Thus in the Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi (320–21), we read that the Delians transcribed the Homeric Hymn to Apollo 9 Aloni 2006, 97–98. On Pindar, see also Tarn Steiner 1994, 88 on a whitened tablet (εἰς λεύκωμα) and dedicated it in (compared with the poetess Andromache who ‘gave a golden the temple of Artemis. Similarly, Pindar dedicated his book to Delphi when she won a prize at the Isthmia’ according seventh Olympic poem (composed for the victory of to Plutarch, Mor., 675b). On temple dedications as a means of assessing authorial ‘copyright’, see Perilli 2007. Diagoras of Rhodes in 464 bce) in the temple of Athena 10 On these texts in general, see Demetriou 2012, 24–63, with earlier Lindia χρυσοῖς γράμμασιν, which most likely means ‘on bibliography. On lead as a material of potential reuse, cf. Thomas a golden tablet’ (schol. Pind., Ol., 7. 1 = Gorgo, 515 F 18 1992, 82.



11 Strab. viii. 6. 15. 5–10, on Epidaurus, Cos, and Trikka; cf. the iatrikon grammateion and the pinakia attested in epigraphic lists from the Asklepieion of Athens in the fourth century bce (IG II2 1533 116–17; IG II2 47 18). See Perilli 2007, 55–71. For of authenticity, see the case of the second Delphic oracle before Salamis being transcribed instead of referred to by voice (Hdt. a different, yet interestingly comparable case of dedicatory vii. 142. 1; Dillery 2005, 217). inscriptions on consecrated objects, see Sherry Lee’s chapter in 4 Also Ran. 943, and further satirical passages on Euripides’ private this volume. library: cf. Santamaría Alvarez 2008, 65–71; Denniston 1927, 12 On this topic, cf. now Reggiani 2018, 131–33. On medicine and 117–19. writing, cf. Marganne 2004, 15–34. 5 See Blanck 2008, 158–59; also Turner 2002, 6–9. 13 Quint., Inst., i. 8. 64; D.H., Comp.verb., vi. 25. 33. 6 See Clarysse 2003. 14 The classical material dichotomy between rolls and tablets also 7 On formats and uses of ancient tablets cf. Degni 1998. finds its archaeological illustration in a famous red-figure kylix 8 Skeat 1976, 21–22; Irigoin 2009, 4; cf. van Regemorter 1958, for an painted by Douris at the beginnings of the fifth century bce: example. the scene, depicting a music class, features — among other

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Figures 6.1–6.2. The two sides of a red-figure Greek kylix by Douris: papyrus roll and wax tablets in practice during a music class (c. 490–485 bce; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Antikensammlung). Images from the Beazley Archive, © University of Oxford.

been extremely rare, exceptional, sacred, and aimed primarily at fixing a fluctuating oral tradition in an authoritative way. This is clear from the concerns about the canon of the Homeric poems (cf. Ael., VH, xii. 14), transcribed from their oral state onto leather15 (?) rolls under the Peisistratid tyranny in Athens.16 The creation of an Athenian canon with several interpolations that served the ideology of the tyrants is symptomatic of their concern for the written text, through which they wished to author a nationalized epic poem.17 It is in this same way that we must read the tyrants’ attention to the authenticity of the collection of oracles, another of the Peisistratids’ propagandistic writing endeavours. The story of the expulsion of Onomacritus, who was charged with editing the collection but then caught forging some passages, is significant.18 Given that







Figure 6.3. Greek commercial letter on lead tablet (Ampurias, Spain, fifth century bce; Archaeology Museum of Catalonia). © Generalitat de Catalunya.

characters — a teacher dictating from a papyrus roll (showing the clearly legible incipit of Homer’s Odyssey: cf. Sider 2010) and oracles were usually transcribed on tablets (Tarn Steiner a pupil transcribing or annotating on wax tablets (Figs 6.1–6.2). 1994, 80–86), in both cases — the Homeric and the 15 The use of leather rolls was an ancient Near Eastern tradition, cf. Hdt. v. 58 (Ionic use of goat and sheep skins, diphtherai, oracular — transcription was a way of fixing an oral before papyrus); D.S., ii. 32. 4 (Persian use of skins for official tradition that had formerly drawn its authority from chronicles). On the writing support of the Homeric poems, orality itself and granting it a new, different authority.19 cf. Irigoin 2001, 8–19, and 2009, 9. The cultural oddity of ‘sacred books’ such as these 16 Irigoin 2001, 8–19, and 2009, 9 thinks that Hipparch bought is apparent in the case of the oracular collection, the poems from the Homerids of Chios already transcribed on leather rolls, but this is unlikely due to the tradition regarding the which was transfigured by the sources into a bizarre interpolations. The Ὁμήρου ἔπη that he first brought to Attica tradition about the inscribed skin of Epimenides the ([Plat.,] Hipparch., 228b–c) must have been the ‘Homeric songs’ in their oral form, the same that Kynaetos would sing in Syracuse at the end of the same century (Hippostr. 568 F 5 FGH: τὰ Ὁμήρου ἔπη). See Thomas 1992, 29–51; Aloni 2006, 98. Hdt. v. 90 and 93; Crahay 1956, 13–14 and 257–58; Shapiro 17 Aloni 1984; 2006, 101–18. On the interpolations, see e.g. Davison 1990; Baumgarten 1998, 60–61; Dillery 2005, 186–92. Writing 1955; Schnapp-Gourbeillon 1988; West 2001, 179–81; Aloni 2006, prophetic texts was another common practice in the Near East esp. 93–108. (cf. Grottanelli 1982). 18 Hdt. v. 90. 2; vii. 6. 3–4; cf. Shapiro 1990, 338–39; Prandi 1993; 19 For a different, yet interestingly comparable case of written Baumgarten 1998, 48–52; Bowden 2003, 256–74; Dillery 2005, inscription and transcription as a means of authoritativeness, see 178–81; Reggiani 2014. On the political use of the oracles, see Naomi Carless Unwin’s chapter in this volume.

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Figure 6.4. Orphic ritual golden tablet (mid-fourth century bce; the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles). Courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Figure 6.5. Fragments of the Derveni papyrus, containing a commentary to an Orphic cosmogony (Derveni, Greek Macedony, c. 340–432 bce; Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki). Image from Wikimedia Commons under public domain.

seer (Reggiani 2014 and 2019b). Had leather rolls been in common use in those times, there would have been no need to imagine one of them as made from human skin. Clearly referring to an earlier time, Euripides still recalls parchments containing Delphic oracles (fr. 627 K.: εἰϲὶν γὰρ εἰϲὶ διφθέραι μελεγγραφεῖϲ | πολλῶν γέμουϲαι Λοξίου γηρυμάτων, ‘there are black-written skins, full of the words of Loxias’, i.e. Apollo).20 I use the expression ‘sacred books’ deliberately. The sacredness of converting an oral tradition into writing 20 Jeffery 1990, 50 and 100; Dillery 2005, 225.

is well demonstrated by the religious tradition of the so-called hierai bibloi, ‘sacred writings’ of mystery cults21 and oracular literature (Bremmer 2010, 329–33), which consist of transcriptions of the hieroi logoi, the sacred oral traditions frequently mentioned by Herodotus.22 Although the term biblos pertains to the roll format, there is evidence that in their earliest stages these had been committed to other supports, such as copper or tin tablets.23 Most interesting is Pausanias’s tale (iv. 27. 5) of Messenian priests transcribing ancient and precious ritual texts that had been recorded on tin foil onto papyrus rolls in order to preserve and publicize them. His story clearly shows the interplay between the two writing formats,24 with the older one characterized by the desire to maintain marginality/exclusivity, oral authority, and initiatory knowledge not intended for circulation or public use (Henrichs 2003). A similar claim has been made with regard to the difference between Orphic texts on tablets — the well-known golden leaves (see Fig. 6.4)25 — intended for ‘internal’, mystical practices as personal ‘handbooks’ to the Netherworld, and those appearing on rolls, such as the Derveni papyrus (a roll containing a commentary on Orphic cosmogony and dating to the second half of the fourth century bce, found carbonized in a Macedonian tomb near Thessaloniki, see Fig. 6.5),26 which were intended for ‘official’, religious use (Calame 2011). Orphism was indeed a ‘religion of the book’ as it was based on the spiritual authority of the written word. It was criticized as such by Plato (Resp., 364b–365a), who referred to the religious traditions of Orpheus and Musaeus as the βίβλων ὅμαδον (hubbub of books) and as standing in opposition to the poetry of Hesiod and Homer.27 The process here is identical to the one recorded apropos the composition of some of the books of the Corpus Hippocraticum, specifically, the volumes of the treatise entitled Epidemics, some of which were allegedly compiled by Hippocrates’ son Thessalus and 21 Orpheus: Eur., Hipp., 927; Dionysos: BGU VI 1211; Sabatius: Dem., Cor., 259. See Henrichs 2003, 212–16 and 222–31; on Orphic writing tradition also Tarn Steiner 1994, 194–201 (without much functional distinction between ‘books’ and tablets). Material evidence is provided by P.Derveni and P.Gurob 195 (Henrichs 2003, 213 n. 17 and 233 n. 87. See at least Piano 2016 and Hordern 2000, respectively). 22 Hdt. ii. 48. 3; li. 4; lxii. 2; lxxxi. 2; also ii. 46. 2 and xlvii. 2; cf. Henrichs 2003, 235–39. 23 Copper: the sacred text of the Mysteries of Dionysos and Demetra at Lerna (Paus. ii. 37. 3; Henrichs 2003, 243); tin: the sacred text of the Mysteries of the Megaloi Theoi at Andania in Messenia (Paus. iv. 20. 4 and xxvi. 8; Henrichs 2003, 245–47). 24 See Henrichs 2003, 245–47. 25 e.g. Pugliese Carratelli 2001; Henrichs 2003, 244. 26 Cf. now Piano 2016. 27 See Tarn Steiner 1994, 198. Interesting notes on Orphic literary trends in Santamaría Alvarez 2008, 72–78.

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others by Hippocrates himself. The latter were headed τὰ ἐκ τοῦ μικροῦ πινακιδίου (from the small tablet)28 in keeping with the tradition that the father of medicine transcribed the medical pinakes of the Asklepieion of Cos (Plin., HN, xxix. 4. 4–8) in offhand, rough annotations that were later adjusted for publication (in papyrus rolls), and which thus freed them from the temple’s ‘copyright’ while imposing on them a new kind of personal/‘scientific’ authority.29 What we have sketched thus far gives us a better understanding of the criticism directed at the spread of the book as an everyday technology in late Classical Athens.30 Although Aristophanes’ remarks are clearly meant as parody, they attest to the same situation that Plato will later criticize on more theoretical grounds. As is known, it is Phaedrus, composed in around 370 bce, that contains Plato’s most articulate objection to writing. In it, the philosopher contends that the spoken word is living and animate, while writing is a fixed and static copy of it (εἴδωλον) and useful only as a reminder for those who already know it (e.g. 275c–d). On the same wavelength, Alcidamas sets the ῥήτωρ δεινός (terrific orator) in contrast to the ποιητὴς λόγων (discourse-maker) in his treatise Against the Authors of Written Discourses (mid-fourth century bce) (fr. 15. 34. 2), in which he stresses that writings are mere copies, images and imitations of spoken words (εἴδωλα καὶ σχήματα καὶ μιμήματα λόγων: fr. 15. 27. 2). In his view, too, writing makes sense only as a mnemonic tool.31 Clearly the issue at stake is the new role of writing as a source of knowledge rather than as a simple aid to human memory and use, that is, the previous function of tablet-like materials! We have already mentioned the role of the Sophists in this shift.32 Beside facilitating more private and repeated reading, the ‘book’ became the main means of ‘publishing’ philosophical and rhetorical teachings and thus recovered the traditional meaning of the roll as an authoritative form of writing, but now transformed into a proper publishing practice,33

28 Gal., Diff. resp., vii. 855 K.; cf. Hipp., Epid., vi. 8. 7. 29 On this, see Reggiani 2018 and 2020. 30 The distrust for books per se ought to be distinguished from a wider cultural attitude, i.e. the distrust for the authority of the written word. This idea emerges from a number of further sources, e.g. Herodotus’s (i. 51) description of the gold and silver vessels he saw at the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi, which he describes as a gift by King Croesus of Lydia from over a century earlier. Thus, Herodotus preferred to believe in the oral account of his guide at Delphi rather than accept the evidence of the words inscribed on the vessels themselves, which reported that these were offered by the Lacedaemonians. 31 See Friedlaender 1979, 147–49. 32 For details, see Santamaría Alvarez 2008, 65–71. 33 On publishing culture in late Classical Athens, cf. Turner 2002, 16–24, and Kleberg 2002, 27–30.

in which the book, namely, the papyrus roll, became a source of authority and knowledge in itself. The importance that the Sophists granted to the written word is most likely due to the inadequacy of orality for their didactic activities; as teachers of political virtues, they sought the power to control the logos and discuss it in an effective manner. Their interest in texts focused mainly on wordplay, rhetorical virtuosity, and erudite ostentation, but also on actual analyses of language. Plato’s critique is directed at these very same points. As Socrates states throughout the Phaedrus, the only intellectual requirements for speech and thought are διαίρεσις (the subdivision of ideas according to their natural articulation) and σύνοψις (the cumulation of scattered concepts in one idea). The other instruments of oratory — ‘the things which can be found in the written books on rhetoric’ (Phaedr., 266d) — are inadequate because it is not a matter of techniques, but of complex knowledge (Scollo 2013). This book practice or even fashion was specifically Greek (mainly Athenian) and was introduced along with its material means — papyrus rolls — to Rome between the third and second centuries bce as a possible consequence of the change in ruling class, i.e. the rise of the Hellenizing Scipiones who promoted Greek cultural models (Cavallo 1989b, 322–24 and 327; 1992). On the other hand, the Romans were traditionally confident in the typology of the bound set of wooden tablets, the codex, a Latin term derived from caudex (trunk),34 an idea that they probably drew from the Near East via the Etruscans. Seneca (Breu. uit., xiii. 4. 3) attests to the traditional use of wooden public tablets called codices. In a passage dated to 164 bce, Cato makes it clear that the text of at least one of his orations was preserved on a wooden codex.35 The tabulae censoriae, which record the official registrations of individuals, are represented as large tablet codices on the altar of Domitius Ahenobarbus (prior to 107 bce) (Fig. 6.6). The codices librariorum that the people burned in the Senate during Clodius’s funeral in 52 bce were most likely wooden books as well (Ascon., p. 33 Clark). When Suetonius (Diu. Iul., lvi. 6) tells us that Caesar, when sending war reports to the Senate, in the second half of the first century bce, preferred the form of memorialis libellus to that of transuersa charta, he probably means that Caesar did not use papyrus rolls written against the fibres as was currently the practice, but replaced them with small codex pages. We may read this as a reaction against the Hellenizing use of rolls; Caesar recovered the traditional tablet format regardless of the

34 Roberts and Skeat 1987, 12–14; Cavallo 1989a, 696–708; 1989b, 319–21; 1992, 98–99. 35 De sumptu suo, fr. 173, ap. Fronto, Ad Antoninum, i. 2. 9.

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Figure 6.6. Altar of Domitius Aenobarbus (Campus Martius, Rome, ante 107 bce; Paris, Louvre): the censitor with the tabulae censoriae. Picture from Wikimedia Commons under public domain.

Figure 6.7. T.Vindol. 21: Latin letter on wooden tablet, folded like a codex (Vindolanda, northern Britain, first–second centuries ce). Picture from Vindolanda Tablets Online, © Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents, the British Museum.

material.36 If we consider the fact that etymologically libellus derives from liber, ‘wooden book’, we may

36 Roberts-Skeat 1987, 18–19 claims that memorialis libellus means a (papyrus) notebook; cf. also Cavallo 1992, 190–91; Kraft 2008, 19 n. 58; contra: van Haelst 1989, 19–20.

wonder whether Caesar actually did send his reports on wooden tablets, as Cavallo (1992) has postulated. Meanwhile, in the second century bce, another writing material spread throughout Rome: parchment.37 A typical Eastern product, it was most likely introduced to Rome in 170–168 bce during the papyrus shortage caused by the invasion of Egypt by Antiochus V of Syria. In the first century bce, Horace (Sat., ii. 3. 1–2; Ars, 386–90) speaks of literary authors using parchment (membrana) for writing drafts.38 In the following century, we find comparable statements by Persius (Sat., iii. 10–11) and above all Martial (Epigr. xiv. 7) and Quintilian (Inst., x. 3. 31. 2–6), from whose words we learn that bound parchment sheets were used in the manner of wooden tablets (pugillares membranei) and, just like these, greatly facilitated the deletion and rewriting of texts. Parchment notebooks composed of small folded

37 On parchment and its ancient uses, see Johnson 1969; Reed 1972; Burkert 1995, 29–33; Del Corso 2003, 10; Blanck 2008, 86–88; Irigoin 2009, 8. 38 Cf. also Mart. xiv. 7; Roberts and Skeat 1987, 15–23; van Haelst 1989, 18–19.

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Figure 6.8. SB XXVI 16551 = SB XXVIII 16911: parchment notebook with a register of dike workers (Fayum?, Egypt, first half of the third century ce; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Ägyptische Museum und Papyrussammlung). © Staatliche Museen zu Berlin – Ägyptisches Museum und Papyrussammlung, Photo: Berliner Papyrusdatenbank P 7358+7359.

and bound sheets were also used for documentary and professional but still private purposes, as attested in the second century ce by two complementary sources: the Egyptian papyri (SB XXVIII 16911, a small parchment memo book with notes of payments, see Fig. 6.8),39 and Galen, who repeatedly mentions medical prescriptions or recipe collections written on folded parchment sheets (ptuktides diphtherai). In Comp. med. loc., xii. 423. 13–15 K, he refers to a recipe that his colleague Claudianus took ἐκ π⟨τ⟩υκτίδι διφθέρᾳ (from a folded parchment) that belonged to another doctor — something very close to P.Ryl. I 29 and PSI VI 718, two parchment sheets of the third and fourth centuries ce containing medical prescriptions (see Fig. 6.11).40 Similarly, in Indol., 33–35, Galen describes his collections of prescriptions preserved κατὰ δύο διφθέραϲ π〈τ〉υκτὰϲ (in two folded parchments) that perished in the fire of 191 ce.41 We may consider these 39 Published by Poethke 2001, now attributed to the early third century ce. 40 Cf. Andorlini 1994, 413. 41 Cf. also Indol., 37. On Galens Rezeptbücher (Galen’s prescriptionbook) see the broad contribution by Jördens 2021 (I am grateful to Professor Jördens for having allowed me to read her article in advance before publication).

a sort of Roman counterpart to the wax tablets used by Greeks for drafting and archival purposes. The writing material ought to be seen as secondary to the format itself. Thus, in the marginal areas of the Roman Empire, where neither papyrus nor parchment was readily available, people in conservative environments such as military outposts recovered the traditional wooden support in very peculiar shapes. I refer, of course, to the famous tablets from the Britannic outpost of Vindolanda, first/second-century ce letters written in ink on thin wooden sheets, often folded into a codex format (see Fig. 6.7).42 Also interesting is that official writings (declarations, legal acts — e.g. wills — not surprisingly related to Roman citizens) on wax tablets did survive the Imperial period, even in Egypt.43 So far, so good: the dichotomy between tablet-like materials meant to serve as private supports for oral communication44 and scroll-like materials meant to serve as public sources of literary authority or even 42 Cf. Bowman 1975; Blanck 2008, 68–70. 43 See Meyer 2004; Eckardt 2018, 23. 44 A third everyday writing medium particularly widespread in Classical Antiquity, namely, the potsherds known as ostraka, lie somewhat outside this dichotomy; on their peculiarities, see Julia Lougovaya-Ast’s chapter in this volume.

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Figure 6.9. P.Bodmer 2: papyrus codex with John’s Gospel (Panopolis, Egypt, first half of the third century ce; Fondation Martin Bodmer, Université de Genève). Image from Bodmer Lab under Creative Commons CC-BY-NC 4.0 licence.

knowledge is pretty clear. In the first century ce, however, Martial records a remarkable innovation in some of his epigrams, in which he mentions classical texts (Homer’s poems, Vergil’s Aeneid, Cicero’s collected works, Livy’s History of Rome, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, along with his own books of epigrams) written on small parchment codices (pugillares membranei). He explicitly promotes these new products as suitable for travel reading,45 though one gets the impression that they are refined curiosities (Vergil’s edition contains a portrait of the author) tailored to the taste of educated members of the middle class. Nonetheless, papyrological evidence from Egypt offers some comparable data from the first two centuries ce: fragments of parchment codices containing literary works and a papyrus letter (P.Petaus 30, 183/184 ce) referring to an itinerant bookseller who offers parchment products, most likely codices. These are attested side by side with samples of papyrus codices, which belong to the same typology of support, but adopt a material more easily found in Egypt. The number of both increases ever more rapidly in the following centuries. It has been well shown that

‘the most momentous development in the history of the book until the invention of printing’ (Roberts and Skeat 1987, 1), namely, the transition from the papyrus roll to the parchment codex (the direct ancestor of modern books) as the preferential means for writing books in Late Antiquity, was a matter of ideology rather than technology. Scholars have advanced numerous theories to explain why the parchment codex replaced the papyrus scroll: the difficulty of reading the latter, production costs, the availability or non-availability of the raw material, the problem of perishability, the ease of creating and consulting collections of canonical texts (Skeat 1976, 35–36; 1994; Roberts and Skeat 1987, 45–53). All these theories have by now been systematically discarded and replaced by two hypotheses based on ideological premises. The traditional view, which culminated with Colin Roberts and Theodore Skeat, stresses Christianity’s role in the shift to a format that had been reserved for ‘books’ meant for everyday use and that represented an ideological opposition to the older pagan culture embodied by the roll.46 A more comprehensive and convincing explanation outlined by Guglielmo Cavallo posits a ‘push from the bottom’, that is, the rise of the middle class to power.47 According to Cavallo, the codex became a symbol of cultural redemption; it emerged from the use of wooden/ waxed, papyrus, or parchment ‘tablets’ in schools, and developed into pocket-sized economic editions of classical texts, and finally into Hellenistic-Roman literature and handbooks, all of which were addressed to middle-class readers of Roman background. Strikingly, Roger Bagnall (2009, 91–95) sees Romanization as the reason behind the Christians’ adoption of the codex. Centuries earlier, the book-roll had been a quasi-sacred object, an authoritative, material incarnation of oral speech. As time went by, it became ever more closely associated with a particular kind of ‘highbrow’ culture, a different type of authority, no longer religious but cultural, literary, and iconized as such, first by Sophistic culture, then by the Alexandrian philologists, who cherished the book as a container/preserver of a specific, established work, and rejected, by contrast, by the Christians. In this respect, it is vital to recall that Alexandrian philologists annotated literary texts copied on papyrus rolls since their critical editions were meant to preserve the authority of the original works. Although defining a codex as a proper ‘book’

45 Mart. i. 2: ‘hos eme, quos artat breuibus membrana tabellis’ (buy those, which parchment contains in small tablets) and xiv. 7: ‘pugillares membranei’ (parchment tablets), 184: ‘Homerus in pugillares membranei’ (Homer in parchment 46 Roberts 1954; Skeat 1976, 24–28 (earlier history of the theory) tablets), 186: ‘Vergilius in membranis’ (Vergil in parchments), and 28–30 (the two main hypotheses of the theory); McCormick 188: ‘Cicero in membranis’ (Cicero in parchments), 190: ‘Titus 1985; Roberts and Skeat 1987, 35–74 (updated in Kraft 2008, Liuius in membranis’ (Livy in parchments), and 192: ‘Ouidi 35–74); more recently Winsbury 2009, 25–26. A relevant example Metamorphosis in membranis’ (Ovid’s Metamorphoses in of a Christian papyrus codex is illustrated in Figure 6.9. parchments); cf. Roberts and Skeat 1987, 24–29; van Haelst 1989, 47 Cavallo 2002 (I ed. 1975); 1984 (= Cavallo 2005, 209–12); 1994, 20–21. 619–22 and 645–47.

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was still somewhat problematic in the third century ce (in Ulp., Dig., xxxii. 52. praef., the author, discussing an inheritance issue, feels compelled to provide a highly detailed account of what can be defined as libri; cf. also Paul., Sent., iii. 6. 87),48 the scroll was completely abandoned in favour of the codex by the end of antiquity.49 The old dichotomy was replaced by a new one based on material rather than format. From this point on, we see parchment codices associated primarily with strongly canonized, literary manuscripts, and papyrus ones as the norm for informal, cursive, less polished hands, definitely intended for private/ practical use (as workbooks, handbooks, etc.) rather than for the dissemination of texts or their preservation in libraries.50 The real ‘revolution’, as Cavallo (2002, 93–94) points out, lay in the association drawn between the literary manuscript (which hints at a conservation purpose) and the parchment codex, which, along with the papyrus codex, but unlike the roll, had previously been associated with private/practical writings. It is in this very fact, rather than in the generic transition from roll to codex, that we must see reflected the social, ideological, and religious changes of Late Antiquity. The ‘highbrow’ production of codices containing the works of ancient authors both in the West and the East goes along with the need to preserve a disappearing cultural heritage of which people (especially in the Byzantine world) wished to present themselves as heirs. This was a world in which the theoretical pillars were the Christian and the imperial laws (Cavallo 2002, 126–29), the contents of which had hitherto been presented in the codex format as handbooks for life and work.51 Once these spheres were turned into institutions, the 48 Roberts and Skeat 1987, 30–34; cf. Kraft 2008, 34, for further references to books in late antique law. The passage in ii Timothy 4. 13, in which St Paul asks to bring τὰ βιβλία, μάλιστα τὰς μεμβράνας (the books, in particular the parchments) does not offer a context clear enough to state that in his time parchment codices were regarded as proper books, as Skeat 1979 believed (cf. McCormick 1985, 155 n. 16; Cavallo 1994, 615). 49 A nice snapshot of this transition is offered by the wooden ‘books’ from Kellis: a wooden codex containing Isocrates’ orations (P.Kell. III 95 — Fig. 6.10) and a wooden codex containing a private register of accounts (P.Kell. IV 96), both dating to the fourth century ce. In these cases, the tablets are not waxed and incised but inscribed in ink. Here, the phenomenon is certainly favoured by the geographical isolation of the place. See Blanck 2008, 66–68. 50 Cavallo 2002, 91; Crisci 2003. It is also a matter of size: parchment codices are narrower and taller, papyrus ones are nearly square (Blanck 2008, 121). 51 The image of the Gospel (and of the Christian reinterpretation of the Bible) as a handbook for life and the liturgy is from van Haelst 1989, 34; for law handbooks, see PSI XI 1182 (fourth century ce), part of two parchment codex sheets of Gaius’s Institutiones, with Latin text and Greek interlinear and marginal annotations.

Figure 6.10. P.Kell. III 95: wooden codex with an anthology of Isocrates’ orations (Kellis, Dakhleh Oasis, Egypt, fourth century ce). Image from [accessed 1 March 2023]

Figure 6.11. PSI VI 718: page from a parchment notebook with medical recipes (Hermoupolis Magna, Egypt, fourth century bce; Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana). © MiBACT — any further reproduction with any means is forbidden.

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decision to preserve the original codex format must have seemed natural and even obvious (if not ideologically meaningful as a mark of newness and separation from the preceding world)52 to a ruling elite of middle-class extraction with a technical-professional education. The parchment codex thus became the institutional means of ‘preserving’ classical literature, while the papyrus codex remained associated with private/practical writings and reserved for low-quality books meant for everyday use. To conclude, writing a book is a complex matter, one that involves material and ideological issues. The answer to our initial question, ‘what is a book?’, is thus twofold. The book acts both as a preserver/support

52 In 332 ce, when Constantine decided to provide the new churches in Constantinople with sacred texts, he requested fifty parchment codices of the Bible from Eusebius of Caesarea’s scriptorium. An instance of them should be the Codex Sinaiticus (Cavallo 2002, 109 and 114–15). For St Jerome, membrana was already a synonym for the Bible (In Gal., i. 3. 8–9 = 26. 353A Migne; cf. Cavallo 2002, 109).

and disseminator of knowledge. These two spheres were well differentiated in ancient times, as reflected by different choices in the format and material of books. Over the course of several centuries, however, these two roles merged into a single object: the book as we conceive it today. We are presently facing a ‘digital revolution’ that seems to threaten the very existence of the book as material object. Recalling what Guglielmo Cavallo wrote in 1975, namely, that the diffusion of telecommunications is recovering an oral dimension and heading towards a ‘neo-archaism’ in which the book may come to be a means of fixing and preserving texts, should we posit that we are currently facing a return to an earlier condition and its same two ways of comprehending the book?

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Works Cited Primary Sources Dunbar, Nan (ed.). 1998. Aristophanes: Birds (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Fantasia, Ugo (ed. and trans.). 2003. Tucidide: La Guerra del Peloponneso, libro II (Pisa: ETS) Secondary Sources Aloni, Antonio. 1984. ‘L’intelligenza di Ipparco. Osservazioni sulla politica dei Pisistratidi’, Quaderni di storia, 19: 109–48 ——. 2006. Da Pilo a Sigeo: poemi cantori e scrivani al tempo dei Tiranni (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso) Andorlini, Isabella. 1994. ‘Precisazioni sulla data di alcuni testi di medicina in forma di codice’, in Proceedings of the 20th International Congress of Papyrologists, ed. by Adam Bülow-Jacobsen (Copenhagen: Tusculanum Press), pp. 410–13 Bagnall, Roger S. 2009. Early Christian Books in Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press) Baumgarten, Roland. 1998. Heiliges Wort und Heilige Schrift bei den Griechen: Hieroi Logoi und verwandte Erscheinungen (Tübingen: Gunter Narr) Birt, Theodor. 1882. Das antike Buchwesen in seinem Verhältniss zur Litteratur (Berlin: Hertz) Blanck, Horst. 2008. Il libro nel mondo antico, ed. by Rosa Otranto (Bari: Dedalo) Bowman, Alan K. 1975. ‘The Vindolanda Writing Tablets and the Development of the Roman Book Form’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 18: 237–52 Bowden, Hugh. 2003. ‘Oracles for Sale’, in Herodotus and his World: Essays from a Conference in Memory of G. Forrest, ed. by Peter Derow and Robert Parker (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 256–74 Bremmer, Jan N. 2010. ‘From Holy Books to Holy Bible: An Itinerary from Ancient Greece to Modern Islam via Second Temple Judaism and Early Christianity’, in Authoritative Scriptures in Ancient Judaism, ed. by Mladen Popović, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism, 141 (Leiden: Brill), pp. 327–60 Burkert, Walter. 1995. The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press) Calame, Claude. 2011. ‘Funerary Gold Lamellae and Orphic Papyrus Commentaries. Same Use, Different Purpose’, in ‘Orphic’ Gold Tablets and Greek Religion: Further along the Path, ed. by Radcliffe G. Edmonds III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 203–18 Cavallo, Guglielmo. 1984. ‘La nascita del codice’, Studi italiani di filologia classica, 78: 118–21 ——. 1989a. ‘Libro e cultura scritta’, in Storia di Roma, iv: Caratteri e morfologie, ed. by Aldo Schiavone (Turin: Einaudi), pp. 693–735 ——. 1989b. ‘Testo, libro, lettura’, in Lo spazio letterario di Roma antica, ii: La circolazione del testo, ed. by Guglielmo Cavallo, Paolo Fedeli, and Andrea Giardina (Rome: Salerno), pp. 307–41 ——. 1992. ‘Le tavolette come supporto della scrittura: qualche testimonianza indiretta’, in Les tablettes à écrire de l’Antiquité à l’Époque Moderne: actes du colloque international du CNRS, Paris, Institut de France, 10–11 octobre 1990, ed. by Élisabeth Lalou, Bibliologia, 12 (Turnhout: Brepols), pp. 97–105 ——. 1994. ‘Discorsi sul libro’, in Lo spazio letterario della Grecia antica, i.3: La produzione del testo: i Greci e Roma, ed. by Giuseppe Cambiano, Luciano Canfora, and Diego Lanza (Rome: Salerno), pp. 613–47 ——. 1998. ‘Scritture ma non solo libri’, in Scrivere libri e documenti nel mondo antico, ed. by Guglielmo Cavallo, Edoardo Crisci, Gabriella Messeri, and Rosario Pintaudi, Papyrologica Florentina, 30 (Florence: Gonnelli), pp. 3–12 ——. 1999. ‘Tracce per una storia del libro e della lettura tra antichità e medioevo’, in La cultura materiale antica: aspetti, problemi e spunti per la scuola d’oggi, ed. by Giancarlo Reggi (Lugano: Sapiens), pp. 29–48 ——. 2002. ‘Libro e pubblico alla fine del mondo antico’, in Libri, editori e pubblico nel mondo antico: guida storica e critica, ed. by Guglielmo Cavallo (Rome: Laterza), pp. 81–132 ——. 2005. Il calamo e il papiro: la scrittura greca dall’età ellenistica ai primi secoli di Bisanzio, Papyrologica Florentina, 36 (Florence: Gonnelli) Clarysse, Willy. 2003. ‘Tomoi Synkollesimoi’, in Ancient Archives and Archival Traditions: Concepts of Record-Keeping in the Ancient World, ed. by Maria Brosius, Oxford Studies in Ancient Documents (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 344–59 Crahay, Roland. 1956. La littérature oraculaire chez Hérodote, Bibliothèque de la Faculté de philosophie et lettres de l’Université de Liège, 138 (Paris: Les belles lettres) Crisci, Edoardo. 2003. ‘Papiro e pergamena nella produzione libraria in Oriente fra IV e VIII secolo d.C. Materiali e riflessioni’, Segno & testo, 1: 79–127

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Davison, John A. 1955. ‘Peisistratus and Homer’, Transactions of the American Philological Association, 86: 1–21 Degni, Paola. 1998. Usi delle tavolette lignee e cerate nel mondo greco e romano (Messina: Sicania) Del Corso, Lucio. 2003. ‘Materiali per una protostoria del libro e delle pratiche di lettura nel mondo greco’, Segno & testo, 1: 5–78 ——. 2022. Il libro nel mondo antico: archeologia e storia (secoli VII a.C. – IV d.C.) (Rome: Carocci) Demetriou, Denise. 2012. Negotiating Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean: The Archaic and Classical Greek Multiethnic Emporia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Denniston, John D. 1927. ‘Technical Terms in Aristophanes’, Classical Quarterly, 21: 113–21 Dillery, John. 2005. ‘Chresmologues and Manteis: Independent Diviners and the Problem of Authority’, in Mantikê: Studies in Ancient Divination, ed. by Sarah Iles Johnston and Peter T. Struck, Religions in the Graeco-Roman World, 155 (Leiden: Brill), pp. 167–231 Dorandi, Tiziano. 2007. Nell’officina dei classici: come lavoravano gli autori antichi (Rome: Carocci) Eckardt, Hella. 2018. Writing and Power in the Roman World: Literacies and Material Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Friedlaender, Paul. 1979. Platon, i: Eidos – paideia – dialogos, ed. by Dario Faucci (Florence: La Nuova Italia) Grottanelli, Cristiano. 1982. ‘Profezia e scrittura nel Vicino Oriente’, La Ricerca Folklorica, 5: 57–62 Haelst, Joseph van. 1989. ‘Les origines du codex’, in Les débuts du codex, ed. by Alain Blanchard, Bibliologia, 9 (Turnhout: Brepols), pp. 13–35 Henrichs, Albert. 2003. ‘Hieroi Logoi and Hierai Bibloi: The (Un)written Margins of the Sacred in Ancient Greece’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, 101: 207–66 Hordern, James. 2000. ‘Notes on the Orphic Papyrus from Gurôb (P.Gurôb 1; Pack2 2464)’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 129: 131–40 Irigoin, Jean. 2001. ‘Homère, l’écriture et le livre’, Europe, 79.865 (May 2001): 8–19 ——. 2009. Il libro greco dalle origini al Rinascimento, ed. by Adriano Magnani, Studi e testi di papirologia, n.s., 3 (Florence: Istituto papirologico ‘G. Vitelli’) Jeffery, Lilian H. 1990. Local Scripts of Archaic Greece, rev. edn with supplement by Alan W. Johnston (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Johnson, Richard R. 1969. The Role of Parchment in Greco-Roman Antiquity (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan) Jördens, Andrea. 2021. ‘Galens Rezeptbücher’, in Le médecin et le livre: hommages à Marie-Hélène Marganne, ed. by Antonio Ricciardetto, Nathan Carlig, Gabriel Nocchi Macedo, Magali de Haro Sanchez (Lecce: Pensa Multimedia), pp. 463–84 Kleberg, Tönnes. 2002. ‘Commercio librario ed editoria nel mondo antico’, in Libri, editori e pubblico nel mondo antico: guida storica e critica, ed. by Guglielmo Cavallo (Rome: Laterza), pp. 25–80 Kraft, Robert A. 2008. The Gestation of the Codex, or from Scroll and Tablets to Codex and Beyond [accessed 1 March 2023] Marganne, Marie-Hélène. 2004. Le livre médical dans le monde gréco-romain, Cahiers du CEDOPAL, 3 (Liège: Université) McCormick, Michael. 1985. ‘The Birth of the Codex and the Apostolic Life-Style’, Scriptorium, 39: 150–58 Meyer, Elizabeth A. 2004. Legitimacy and Law in the Roman World: Tabulae in Roman Belief and Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Nieddu, Gian Franco. 1984. ‘La metafora della memoria come scrittura e l’immagine dell’animo come deltos’, Quaderni di storia, 19: 213–15 Otranto, Rosa. 2000. Antiche liste di libri su papiro (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura) Perilli, Lorenzo. 2007. ‘Conservazioni dei testi e circolazione della conoscenza in Grecia’, in Biblioteche del mondo antico: dalla tradizione orale alla cultura dell’Impero, ed. by Angela M. Andrisano (Rome: Carocci), pp. 36–71 Piano, Valeria. 2016. Il papiro di Derveni tra religione e filosofia, Studi e testi per il Corpus dei papiri filosofici greci e latini, 18 (Florence: Olschki) Poethke, Gunther. 2001. ‘Ein Berliner “Notizbuch” aus Leder’, in Begegnungen: Antike Kulturen im Niltal, ed. by Caris-Beatrice Arnst, Ingelore Hafemann, and Angelika Lohwasser (Leipzig: Wodtke und Stegbauer), pp. 399–403 Prandi, Luisa. 1993. ‘Considerazioni su Bacide e le raccolte oracolari greche’, in La profezia nel mondo antico, ed. by Marta Sordi (Milan: Vita e pensiero), pp. 51–62 Pugliese Carratelli, Giovanni. 2001. Le lamine d’oro orfiche: istruzioni per il viaggio oltremondano degli iniziati greci (Milan: Adelphi) Reed, Ronald. 1972. Ancient Skins, Parchments and Leathers (London: Seminar Press) Regemorter, Berthe van. 1958. ‘Le codex relié à l’époque néo-hittite’, Scriptorium, 12: 177–81 Reggiani, Nicola. 2010. ‘Dalla magia alla filologia: documenti su libri e biblioteche nell’Antichità’, Papyrotheke, 1: 97–135 [accessed 1 March 2023]

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——. 2014. ‘La pelle di Epimenide: un corpus di scritture mantiche nell’antica Grecia?’, Hormos, 6: 105–28 ——. 2018. ‘Prescrizioni mediche e supporti materiali nell’Antichità’, in Parlare la medicina: fra lingue e culture, nello spazio e nel tempo; atti del convegno internazionale, Parma 5–7 settembre 2016, ed. by Nicola Reggiani, Studi sul mondo antico, 4 (Florence: Le Monnier), pp. 128–44 ——. 2019a. Papirologia: la cultura scrittoria dell’Antichità (Parma: Athenaeum) ——. 2019b. La pelle di Epimenide: una raccolta di scritti oracolari nell’antica Grecia (Parma: Athenaeum) ——. 2020. ‘ΛABE THN ΓPAΦHN! Book Format, Authority and Authorship in the Ancient Greek Medical Papyri’, in Proceedings of the Second Prolepsis Conference ‘Auctor est aequivocum’, ed. by Elena Barile, Roberta Berardi, Nicoletta Bruno, Martina Filosa, and Luisa Fizzarotti (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 165–73 Roberts, Colin H. 1954. ‘The Codex’, Proceedings of the British Academy, 40: 169–204 Roberts, Colin H., and Theodore C. Skeat. 1987. The Birth of the Codex (London: British Academy) Santamaría Álvarez, Marco A. 2008. ‘Dos tipos de profesionales del libro en la Atenas clásica: sofistas y órficos’, in Est hic varia lectio: La lectura en el mundo antiguo, ed. by M. Pilar Fernández Álvarez, Emiliano Fernández Vallina, and Teresa Martínez Manzano, Aquilafuente, 146 (Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad), pp. 63–81 Shapiro, H. Alan. 1990. ‘Oracle-Mongers in Peisistratid Athens’, Kernos, 3: 335–45 Schnapp-Gourbeillon, Annie. 1988. ‘Homère, Hipparque et la bonne parole’, Annales: économies, sociétés, civilisations, 43: 805–21 Schubart, Wilhelm. 1921. Das Buch bei den Griechen und Römern (Berlin: De Gruyter) Scollo, Paola. 2013. ‘I sofisti, il libro e la critica letteraria. Un ruolo fondamentale nel processo di diffusione del libro’, InStoria, 66 ( June 2013) [accessed 1 March 2023] Sider, David. 2010. ‘Greek Verse on a Vase by Douris’, Hesperia, 79: 541–54 Skeat, Theodore C. 1976. La produzione libraria cristiana delle origini: papiri e manoscritti, ed. by Manfredo Manfredi (Florence: Istituto papirologico ‘G. Vitelli’). Original edition 1969. ‘Early Christian Book-Production: Papyri and Manuscripts’, in The Cambridge History of the Bible, ii: The West from the Fathers to the Reformation, ed. by G. W. H. Lampe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 54–79 and 512–13 ——. 1978. ‘Two Notes on Papyrus’, in Scritti in onore di Orsolina Montevecchi, ed. by Edda Bresciani, Giovanni Geraci, Sergio Pernigotti, and Giancarlo Susini (Bologna: CLUEB), pp. 373–78 ——. 1979. ‘“Especially the Parchments”: A Note on 2 Timothy iv.13’, Journal of Theological Studies, 30: 173–77 ——. 1990. ‘Roll versus Codex: A New Approach?’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 84: 297–98 ——. 1994. ‘The Origin of the Christian Codex’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 102: 263–68 Tarn Steiner, Deborah. 1994. The Tyrants’ Writ: Myths and Images of Writing in Ancient Greece (Princeton: Princeton University Press) Thomas, Rosalind. 1992. Literacy and Orality in Ancient Greece (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Turner, Eric G. 1987. Greek Manuscripts of the Ancient World, ed. by Peter J. Parsons, 2nd rev. edn (London: Institute of Classical Studies) ——. 2002. ‘I libri nell’Atene del V e IV secolo a.C.’, in Libri, editori e pubblico nel mondo antico: guida storica e critica, ed. by Guglielmo Cavallo (Rome: Laterza), pp. 3–24 West, Martin L. 2001. Studies in the Text and Transmission of the Iliad (Munich: De Gruyter) Winsbury, Rex. 2009. The Roman Book (London: Duckworth)

III.

Texts on Monuments and Buildings — Spaces and Contexts of Ancient Inscriptions

Irene Salvo

7. W  omen in Trouble, and the Habit of Objectifying a Text in the So-Called Confession Inscriptions*

This chapter hopes to offer new insights into Greek religious mentality in the Imperial period, and into some of its gendered and material aspects. The aim of this research is, firstly, to explore how women in situations of distress intended to benefit from using a ritual practice to deal with troubles in life; secondly, to try to identify whether gender shaped the socio-psychological mechanisms behind the habit of objectifying a text — that is, erecting an inscription; and finally, it aims to highlight the visual and material aspects of prayer as a communication method between the dedicators, their civic communities, and the divine agents. The sources under analysis are a particular group of Greek epigraphic documents, the so-called confession inscriptions,1 a series of stone stelai dedicated in sanctuaries in western Anatolia. They are attested in the regions of north-east





* I initially approached this topic for a talk at the 2015 Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America in New Orleans. I then presented a first draft of this chapter in February 2020 at the University of Stockholm; I would like to thank Hedvig von Ehrenheim and Lena Sjögren for their warm hospitality and all the seminar participants for their questions and comments. I also thank Nicole Belayche and Georg Petzl for sharing their insight and resources when in April 2020 I had no access to libraries because of the Covid-19 lockdown. I am warmly grateful to Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini for their brilliance and patience. The responsibility for any errors remains mine alone. 1 Main corpora: Petzl, Beichtinschriften; Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl.; Herrmann and Malay 2007; Malay/Petzl, Lydia. New texts have been published in various journals, in particular Epigraphica Anatolica. Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl. collects a total of 175 inscriptions.

Lydia, Phrygia (from the sanctuary of Apollo Lairbenos near Motella), and south-east Mysia, and are dated from the first to the third centuries ce. Building upon previous studies on their socio-cultural features, especially on the religious mentalities expressed in these texts, the chapter will look at them as objects interlaced with human actions. Materiality will reveal situated stories of social and divine interactions. The main line of argument intends to demonstrate that a praxeological perspective dissolves any gender specificity that may emerge from these inscriptions.

The Stones: Patterns of Dedication Although these texts may seem to constitute a niche field of research, they have attracted substantial attention from ancient historians of religion and culture. An exhaustive overview of the bibliography on them is beyond the scope of this chapter, but it is useful briefly to survey the main characteristics of these stones and their patterns of dedication, as well as to recall a few scholarly ideas upon which my argument is built, and that I wish to develop further. Confessions inscriptions from Lydia and Phrygia show that if sickness, misfortune, property damage, or death occurred to a woman or a man, or to one of their family members, this was often considered a form of divine retribution for a wrongdoing, a sin against the gods, or a violation of purity or cultic rules. To appease this divine wrath and re-establish a situation of harmony, the transgressions had to be confessed in public. The result was an inscription that exalted

Irene Salvo  •  ([email protected]) Lecturer in Greek History in the Department of Cultures and Civilizations at the University of Verona New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 111-126 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133901

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the gods and their powers. Offering information on specific events, these inscriptions reveal the religious attitudes of individuals and groups frequenting rural sanctuaries. Texts may vary in length and complexity, although a recurrent structure characterizes them: after an acclamation of the gods, the divine punishment that had been meted out is explained, with details of the fault committed; this is followed by the way in which atonement was achieved, while information on the dedication of the stele and the exaltation of the gods come at the end as the climax. The stelai vary in size and state of conservation, with most of the markers being about one metre high; they may present a tympanum and a tenon, and a figurative relief can sometimes complement the text. There is an ongoing debate over the label ‘confession’ initially given to these documents in the early twentieth century (cf. Steinleitner 1913; Pettazzoni 1936). Different definitions wish to underline other facets, such as expiation, repentance, propitiation, reconciliation, or exaltation of divine power. Some scholars have stressed how these documents testify to ‘records of divine justice’ or ‘records of divine punishment’ (see Versnel 2002; Chaniotis 2012, 216). Others have emphasized their function as ‘stelai of exaltation’ (Belayche 2006b, 68) or otherwise as ‘propitiatory stelai’, especially when considering those with figurative representations of parts of the body (Buckler 1914, 169; Hughes 2017, 151). Since ancient phenomena often cannot be described according to our thought categories, but simultaneously can be understood only if expressed in our terms, in this chapter, I am using the label ‘confession inscriptions’ to stress the act of sharing details about a personal circumstance, as well as for scholarly convenience, without any reference to, or implication of, a Christian mentality and its concept of sin.2 Frequently, the crimes, consciously or unconsciously committed, are offences of a legal or religious nature, such as theft, unpaid debts, assault, slander, treachery, fraud, adultery, sorcery, perjury, disregard of purity regulations or divine orders, unfulfilled vows, and sacrilege. When an ill-fated condition was considered to be the result of divine punishment, the local sanctuary was consulted for help. Scholars have highlighted how problems for the affected individual could include fear of gossip and loss of face, so the gods revealed what had provoked their anger, as well as what rituals of atonement could appease them, via oracles, dreams, or messengers (Chaniotis 2004a, 4; Gordon 2004;



2 See also Potts 2017, 21, who favours ‘confession stelai’ for their emphasis on culpability. A brief overview on the study of these texts is in Belayche 2006b, 66–67. See also Petzl 2019, 4–7 for a bibliographical update.

Belayche 2019). Angelos Chaniotis noted that ‘the belief in the effectiveness of “divine justice” relied entirely upon narratives of its implementation’, and that the erection of the stele constituted a public and visible proof of the imminent punishment (Chaniotis 2004a, 22). The setting up of the inscriptions in a sacred space allowed them to reach a wider audience through oral performance (Chaniotis 2012, 224). As for the image above the text, Richard Gordon (2016, 245) has noted that it ‘acts often as additional information to or commentary on the narrative’. A single stele, therefore, managed to encapsulate three dimensions of religious experience and social communication: material — as a physical object, visual — thanks to the figurative representations, and oral — through the reciting of the inscribed text. Chaniotis (2004a, 30–42) has also underlined the mechanisms at work behind the erection of the stele, in particular the role of sanctuary personnel, and how the priests would intervene in the resolution of quarrels and disputes, especially in small villages in rural areas. The priests acted as mediators between mortals and the gods, and they could take care of inscribing the confession on behalf of non-literate people. These texts, then, provide evidence for the prominent role of priests as arbitrators in legal disputes among villagers, sometimes with the payment of a fee in the form of money or property estates, often in cases in which the culprit of minor crimes had escaped the clutches of secular authorities (see also Belayche 2012). Nicole Belayche (2008, 182) has rightly emphasized that the exaltation of the god represents one of the most original aspects of this particular experience of the divine. Moreover, while the presence of text and image together could have had various functions, it is particularly the function of intensification that characterizes these documents: ‘the object-stele materialises the text that carries it’, testifying that the gods have demanded its setting up, and the monument is in itself a eulogy to them, not just a votive object.3 According to Gordon (2004 and 2016, 233), these stelai ‘constitute part of a system of stylised communication of significant events in their several localities, for which the temple served as a focal point’. He emphasizes the role of gossip and family relationships in exposing acts committed unknowingly or absent-mindedly, as well as the ‘interplay of narrative, memory, and religion’ (Gordon 2016, 250). In brief, the function of the monument seems to have been publicly to celebrate the power of the local gods. Although these documents may appear a contingent



3 Belayche 2008, 182–84 (quotation is my translation from the original French).

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product of a specific time and space, they bear witness to a socio-religious phenomenon that is in fact widely attested in the ancient Mediterranean. Indeed, the core idea is that divine powers observe everything and punish evildoers, even when they have operated in secrecy. Hittite prayers from the second millennium onwards prove that ethical or ritual transgressions were considered the origin of illness or misfortune (Pettazzoni 1936; Ricl 1995a), and our texts confirm the idea, common in Greek religious mentality, of shared culpability within a family (Chaniotis 2004a, 2). Many scholars put an emphasis on the committed fault and interpret the physical presence of the stelai as marking a series of events — after a punishment or a confession or a propitiation. In this chapter, rather than investigating whether the stele constitutes an end point, the conclusive act at the end of a process, I ask whether the stelai could have had some value per se. Focusing our attention on the agents erecting these stelai, and their habitual thinking patterns without intentional cognition, can help us to a better understanding of the construction of texts as material objects.

Did Gender Matter? Looking at the agents behind these epigraphical objects, a key question concerns whether gender altered the patterns of the dedications described above, and if yes, how. Previous scholars have primarily analysed what kind of religious mentality and ritual practices underpin these inscriptions (e.g. Belayche 2006a; 2006b; 2007; Chaniotis 2004a; 2009; Rostad 2006; Schnabel 2003), while other studies have focused on these texts as evidence of medical or legal aspects, the social construction of emotions, or the diffusion of literacy and the wealth status of dedicators (e.g. Chaniotis 1995; 1997; 2012; de Hoz 2006). Only a few studies so far have paid attention to identifying gendered nuances. Bain (2014) has explored the legal liability of women and the legal position of widows in these texts. Gordon (2016) has highlighted women’s agency in relation to the narratives shaped by the temple, and how women tried to use the ‘temple-script’ to help their family to recover from various difficult circumstances. He identifies five main areas of women’s agency: 1) committing a fault and being responsible for misfortunes in their families — with men sometimes intervening in the narratives; 2) contravening purity rules; 3) erecting the inscription on behalf of another guilty family member; 4) settling conflicts; and 5) trying to ignore the central role of the temple and its priests (Gordon 2016, 239–49). The present contribution intends to explore women’s agency within their social communities more deeply

by analysing these texts as material objects used in a routinized way. Women appear as mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, widows, slaves, or concubines. They are involved in stories of disease, perjury, theft, gossip, sex, fertility problems, and more. Of 175 inscriptions published to date, about 28 per cent of the stelai were dedicated by women and 43 per cent by men, while 5.1 per cent were dedicated by mixed-gender groups; in about 23 per cent of cases the text is too fragmentary to give any information on the gender of the dedicator. Caveats are essential, however, to remind us that crude gender statistics might be misleading, and not just because of the fragmentary and scattered state of the evidence on religious epigraphy. The erection of these stelai was often an enterprise underpinned by more than one individual.4 For instance, Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 102 was dedicated by a husband because of his wife’s perjury, while Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 141 was dedicated by a wife on behalf of her late husband who did not want to donate to the temple one of his pigs that had been stolen and subsequently recovered. Notwithstanding women erecting stelai on behalf of others, and vice versa, as well as uncertain and fragmentary texts that are open to the interpretation of the reader, the data available are at any rate valuable for investigating women’s approach to, and their use of, this ritual practice. In what follows, I present a selection of examples and themes involving women, and try to detect to what extent ritual habits rather than the gender variable were underpinning female agency. A first example that allows the reconstruction of possible scenarios of life circumstances and distress is offered by this text: μεγάλοι θεοὶ Νέαν Κώμην κατέχοντες·|{2crescent}2| ἔτους σλαʹ· Μηνοφίλα | ὑπὸ Πολυχρονίου τοῦ υ|ἱοῦ χολιασθεῖσα καὶ τοῖς | (5) θεοῖς ἐνευξαμένη ἰς τὸ | εἱκανοποηθῆναι αὐτὴν, | καὶ κολασθέντος αὐτοῦ | καὶ εἱλασαμένου τοὺς θε/ούς, ἐκέλευσεν αὐτὴν | (10) στηλλογραφῆσαι τὰς δυνά|μεις τῶν θεῶν. (Great are the gods possessing Nea Kome! In the year 231. Menophila was provoked to anger by her son Polychronios and prayed to the gods to get satisfaction. After he was punished and the gods were appeased, they ordered her to record the power of the gods on the stele.)5 This inscription testifies to a quarrel between a mother and her son, and to the fact that a filial relationship

4 For groups of people living in the same village but from different households, see Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., nos 148 and 169. 5 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 47, 146/147 ce, Lydia.

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was managed with the involvement of the divine, and most probably through the mediation of the priests. The mother may have cursed her own son because of an economic dispute, such as a contested inheritance, or another family matter. Although there is no explicit reference to a cursing ritual as in other texts,6 the verb ἐνεύχομαι (adjure, implore) in line 5 recurs in the Greek Magical Papyri in a spell that can be used for various rituals of malign magic (PGM III. 107, 108, 145, 147). Menophila might have implored the gods to punish her son, using a cursing spell as a means of communicating with the divine. The order to ‘materialize’ the event in a stele comes from ‘immaterial’ deities in order to prove their visibility and agency in the human, material world. The reification of the communication with the divine into an object had to be delivered in a timely fashion, in the specific moment ordered by the god. Procrastinating about the execution of the divine request could have worsened the situation, as we can see from a stele offered by Stratonike, who put off the repayment of one modius of sacred wheat and then suffered a disease in her right breast.7 The case of Stratonike shows how women were involved in the borrowing and lending of money or other goods. Those with property could be held especially accountable for crimes concerning their household, and widows took over the legal liability of their husbands (Bain 2014, 78–81). In the case of an unresolved debt, a theft, or any other offence, the widow was therefore responsible for taking care of the situation: identifying the problem, consulting with the sanctuary personnel, invoking divine mercy, performing the ritual of public confession, and, finally, erecting the stele. A similar example of procrastination is in Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 62, a stele dedicated by Prepousa, a freewoman of a priestess of Men Axiottenos, who failed to dedicate a stele to the god as a thanksgiving for the healing of her son. As a consequence of her delay in recognizing the power of the god, which was thought to be greater than that of doctors, she was punished with a sickness befalling her father. Delay in responding to the gods’ call is at the centre of another stele showing how Trophime procrastinated over taking up cultic service as ordered by the god, and was struck down with insanity:

προσελ|θεῖν ἐκολάσετο αὐτὴν καὶ μα|νῆναι ἐποίησεν· ἠρώτησε οὖν Μη|τέρα Ταρσηνὴν καὶ Ἀπόλλωνα Τάρσι|ον καὶ Μῆνα Ἀρτεμιδώρου Ἀξι|(10)οττηνὸν Κορεσα κατέχοντα, | καὶ ἐκέλευσεν στηλλογραφη|θῆναι νέμεσιν καὶ καταγρά|ψαι ἐμαυτὴν ἰς ὑπερεσίαν | τοῖς θεοῖς. (In the year 203, on the 6th of the month Artemisios. Trophime, daughter of Artemidoros Kikinnas, had been called by the god to his service, but did not want to come quickly, so he punished her and made her insane. She consulted Meter Tarsene and Apollon Tarsios, and Men Artemidorou Axiottenos who rules over Koresa, and (the god) ordered that the punishment should be recorded on a stele and that I should devote myself to the service of the gods.)8 Trophime appears as a woman who finds herself bound to serve within the cult of three gods because she ignored or postponed the service to one god.9 The service to the gods, and the act of dedicating herself to the sanctuary as cult personnel, recalls the consecration of slaves and free-born children to the Phrygian Apollo Lairbenos (see Ricl 1995b; 2009; Akıncı Öztürk and Tanrıver 2008). It also shows the idea of being a slave and a faithful servant of the divinity (Versnel 1998, 204).10 In the case of Trophime, service in the sanctuary would not seem to leave much scope for individual agency. The change of subject in these texts makes evident the interference of priests in the elaboration and formulation of the inscribed confessions (see Chaniotis 2009, 5). Moreover, Trophime’s mental illness could have necessitated that she received help from her family or friends in order to overcome her challenging condition. Indeed, another key theme concerns the prominence of cooperation and mutual support between women. One stele offers an example of how the wasting of time by a woman was atoned by her sister: Διεὶ ἐγ Διδύμων Δρυῶν | Μηνοφίλα Ἀσκληπιάδου | κολασθεῖσα ὑπὸ τοῦ θε|οῦ εὔξατο πίνακα· ἐχρο|(5) νούλκησε καὶ οὐκ ἀπέ|δωκε· συνευξαμένης|τῆς ἀδελφῆς Ἰουλίας ἐ|πεζήτησε ὁ θεὸς στήλ|λην ἣν ἀπέδωκε εὐχαρισ|(10)τοῦσα τῷ θεῷ ∙ ἔτους ∙σ∙π∙ζʹ∙, μη(νὸς) | Δαισίου ∙λʹ∙

ἔτους σγʹ, μη(νὸς) Ἀρτεμεισίου ϛʹ. ἐ|πὶ Τροφίμη Ἀρτεμιδώρου Κι|κιννᾶδος κληθεῖσα ὑπὸ τοῦ | θεοῦ ἰς ὑπηρεσίας χάριν μὴ | (5) βουληθοῦσα ταχέος



6 See the index of Greek words in Petzl 2019, 78 and 81 for ‘imprecate curses upon’: ἐπαράομαι in Petzl, Beichtinschriften, nos 20.2 and 44.[2]; ἀρὰς ἔθηκεν in Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 69.10. 7 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 63, 132/133 ce, region of Kollyda, Lydia.

8 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 57, 118/119 ce, area of Kula, Lydia. 9 The identity of the god who summoned her in the first place is unclear (Petzl 1994, 69); cohabitation of gods in a particular local territory characterizes imperial Anatolia (Belayche 2005). 10 Cf. Horsley 1983, 28 on service after receiving a call from God in the New Testament.

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(To Zeus from Twin Oaks; when Menophila, the daughter of Asklepiades, was punished by the god, she promised (to offer) a tablet. But she procrastinated, and did not fulfil her vow. As her sister Iulia had joined in (Menophila’s) prayer, the god requested that she (set up) a stele, which she now offers, giving her thanks to the god. In the year 287, on the thirtieth day of the month Daisios.)11 Menophila, in the first instance, failed to thank the god in a timely manner after having been healed from a leg injury. The time spent not fulfilling her vow possibly caused a relapse of the disease. At this point, Menophila, perhaps still convalescent, asked her sister Iulia to go to the sanctuary and dedicate a stele. Iulia could take care of the vow not only because she was a close family member, but also because she shared in the praying ritual with Menophila. An alternative explanation to Menophila being unable to dedicate the stele herself because she was convalescent is that she was dead, having suffered a second punishment for the unsolved vow, and therefore Iulia was prompted to act to avoid any further adversity falling on the family.12 In both scenarios, however, the reification of the vow and its material dimension in the form of a stele was the essential action needed to appease the god. A similar connection between vow and confession is in another stele, in which Aphphias inscribed a confession after having put off the fulfilment of a successful vow to Men Axiottenos who bestowed on her a child.13 Procrastination, gynecological dysfunctions, and family relationships are also at the core of the following text: [ -]ΕΝΙΙ[.]ΔΙ̣Σ ̣ | [3–4]Α εἰς θεοὺς Τα|[ζην]ούς˙ καὶ ἐπιζη|[τη]σάντων αὐτῶν, | (5) κο̣ λασθείσης τῆς | θυγτρὸς αὐτῆς Ἰ|[ο]υλίας ἰς τὰ σπλάν|[χ]να ναδεξαμένης | αὐτῆς τὴν μητέρα | (10) ἀπέδωκεν

ἡ Ὀνησί|μη θεοῖς Ταζηνοῖς καὶ | ἐστηλλογράφησεν | καθ᾽ ὃ ἐπεζήτησαν οἱ | θεοί. Ἔτους τκζ´. ([…] towards the Tazenian gods, and as, after the claim, her daughter Iulia was punished in her insides because she had stood bail for her mother, Onesime rendered (the debt) to the Tazenian gods and wrote down (the events) on a stele according to what the gods had demanded. In the year 327.)14 The gods punished the daughter who gave the security money for her mother, who owed an unresolved debt. The punishment ‘in her insides’ could indicate a gynecological illness or a reproductive dysfunction. As the two women were intertwined in the payment of the debt, so were they linked in the execution of the divine punishment. The mother, however, is the agent responsible for recording how well gods remember their debtors, and how mercilessly they can punish them, transforming her individual case into a warning to the community. The question of whether Iulia was healed after the erection of the stele remains open. At the same time, the stele as an object might have acted as a warning to any insolvent debtors, as a votive prayer for Iulia’s recovery, and as a thanksgiving after her healing. Potts (2017) has highlighted how confession texts, especially those with images of body parts and anatomical votives, were the product of a ‘common intellectual world’, and possibly even shared workshops. Particularly considering the ‘expiatory intent’ of Anatolian votives, the tablet promised by Menophila in the text quoted above shows that the same mentality could produce confession stelai as well as simpler votive tablets, and that therefore a ‘hierarchy of propitiatory epigraphy’ could exist (Potts 2017, 30). However, without the need to suppose a hierarchical relationship between related practices, worshippers may have resorted to one form of devotion or another, consecutively or simultaneously, to achieve the same aim. Stelai by women affected by a bodily disease and seeking a curative remedy in the act of dedication are worth exploring further. Petzl, Beichtinschriften, nos 75 and 122 can be considered indicative examples of sick female dedicators:

11 SEG 54. 1225 = Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 125, 202/203 ce, area of Silandos, Lydia. Trans. slightly modified from Malay and Sayar 2004. On cooperation between women, see also Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 59 with Salvo 2017, 139–41. 12 Mylonopoulos in EBGR 2004 [2007] no. 179. Γλυκία Ἰουλί|ου τοῦ Ἀγρίου | κολασθεῖ|σα ὑπὸ 13 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 65, late second/early third century ce, τῆ|(5)ς Ἀναείτιδος | τῆς ἐγ Μητρὼ τ|ὸν γλουθροῦν north-west Lydia: Μηνὶ Ἀξιοττηνῷ Ἀφφιὰς | Γλύκωνος εὔξατο, εἰ | ἐ|π̣ιζητήσασα ἀν̣[έθ]|ηκεν. τεκνώσει· γεναμένη[ς] | τῆς εὐχῆς παρήλκυσε̣, | (5) καὶ ἐκόλασε αὐτὴν καὶ | ἐκέλευσε ἐνγράψαι | τὰς δυνάμις τοῦ θεοῦ. (Aphphias, (Glykia, daughter of Iulius, son of Agrios, has the daughter of Glykon, promised a vow to Men Axiottenos if ever she could bear a child. When her prayer was fulfilled, been punished by Anaitis en Metrō on her she put off (solving her vow). He punished her and ordered to inscribe the power of the god). Other stelai on procrastination of male as well as female dedicators: Petzl, Beichtinschriften, nos 63, 71; Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., nos 164, 141.9 (ὑπερχρόνον, 14 Malay and Petzl, Lydia, no. 178 (text and translation) = Petzl, overdue); 151; 171.3. Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 168, 242/243 ce, Lydia.

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buttock, and having consulted (the goddess) has dedicated this.)15 [ ]ν´ ἔτος·(?) | Ἀφιὰς Θεοδότου | εὐχαριστῶ Μητρὶ | Λητῷ, ὅτι ἐξ ἀδυνά|(5)των δυνατὰ πυεῖ, | κὲ κολα̣θ̣ῖσα̣ ἰς̣ τὸν γλουθρ̣ ὸ|ν(?) Μητρὶ Λητῷ εὐχήν. (In the year [2]50 (?). I, Aphias, daughter of Theodotos, give thanks to Meter Leto, because she makes possible impossible things. Having been punished on my buttock, I offer this ex-voto to Meter Leto.)16 These two texts have been analysed by Cadwallader (2018) in comparison with a new document from the sanctuary of Apollo Lairbenos: [ ]ω ̣ | [ (?) ὑπ’ αὐτ]ῆς̣ ̣ τὸ̣ ν γλου|[ . ]ρό̣ (ν)· παρανγέλλω μη|(4)δένα καταφρονεῖν, ἐ̣|πὶ ἕξει τὴν στήλλην | ἐξενπλάριον. Vacat (Punished by her (?) on the buttocks; I exhort that no one should treat (sc. the deity) with contempt, since the stele will serve as a warning example.)17

(Cadwallader 2018, 189–90). The stele reaffirms in gratitude the restoration of the man’s mobility, his role, and his whole community (Cadwallader 2018, 199). Although this interpretation is well argued, it does not seem entirely convincing. It certainly may be possible that the dedicator of this stele was a man, but it remains unclear why the delivery of a warning and exemplary advice hints specifically at masculinity. Cadwallader maintains that in these texts it is rare to find women explicitly ‘charged (and/or permitted) to warn — even if one can readily understand that the sheer display of propitiatory dedication functions as a warning’ (Cadwallader 2018, 189). However, the lack of parallels does not seem to offer enough of a basis to determine the gender of the dedicator, given the large number of fragmentary texts for which it is not possible to identify the gender of the person offering the stele. In other confession texts in which the term ἐξενπλάριον (warning example) appears, two are dedicated by a man and one by a woman, while two more are too fragmentary to establish the gender of the dedicator.18 Among some other texts in which there is warning advice, Cadwallader (2018, 189) notes that in three cases the gods themselves are warning the believers, in nine of them, men, and in two, the gender is uncertain.19 Notwithstanding this higher proportion of male voices, the gender in Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl. no. 150 cannot be considered male with any certainty: it remains uncertain given the difficulty in reading the text, and speculating about it would probably not alter our understanding of this text very much. An additional document worth mentioning is the only confession in verse known so far, in which the male dedicator warns the readers in his poetry:20

While previous scholars have interpreted the divine punishments ‘on the buttock’ in the first two stelai as ‘gynecological problems’ (Chaniotis 1995, 328) or ‘lower abdominal pains’ (Gordon 2016, 245), Cadwallader (2018, 187) follows the interpretative line of Pleket (1981, 178) in which Meter Leto, in Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 122, ‘makes powerless (limbs) powerful again’, and he suggests that the disease is most likely to concern limbs that were impaired in their mobility. I suggest that, although identifying the kind of ailment affecting Ἔτους ρνς´, μη(νὸς) Δαισίου | βʹ. a dedicator contributes to the overall understanding of Ἄνθεμά σοι, Μῆτερ, | τόδε Λεύκιος, Ἀνδιρη/νή, | a confession text, the term γλουτός/γλουθρός (buttock) {relief} could have indicated different illnesses in each of the [Τατι(?)]ανὸς τίθεμαι στηλλο[γρα/φῶν] inscriptions it recurs, since an all-encompassing labelling ὑ‹γ›ίην, might conflate various possible infections, diseases, or 3 ἣν τὸ πρὶν οὐκ ἀπ[έ/δω]κα, ποδὸς βάσιν, ἀλλ’ pains in the area of lower abdomen, back, hips, and ἰδέ· | [δισ]σοὺς pelvis, from diarrhoea to a herniated disc and sciatica. σῇ δυνάμ(ε)ι γλύψας | [ε]ὐ̣θεσίην τίθεμαι· Cadwallader hypothesizes that, since the final admonition sounds rare if coming from a woman, this stele from the sanctuary of Apollo Lairbenos was set up by a male dedicator who held an influential 18 Male dedicator: Petzl, Beichtinschriften, nos 111, 120. Female public position, and whose masculinity and public dedicator: Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 112 (παραγγέλλω used in power were weakened by a mobility impairment conjunction with ἐξοπράρειο[̣ ν], example). Gender unknown:

Petzl, Beichtinschriften, nos 106, 121. See also Chaniotis 2009, 124 n. 47; Gordon 2016, 233 n. 13. 19 Gods: Petzl, Beichtinschriften, nos 37, 106, 117. Men: Petzl, Beichtinschriften, nos 9, 10, 106, 107, 109–11, 120, 124. Identity 15 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 75, second/third century ce, Lydia. uncertain: 121, 123. 16 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 122, second/third century ce, Phrygia. 20 On the materiality of epigrams, see the chapters by Day, Lee, and 17 Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 150, late second/early third Scicolone in this volume. century ce, Phrygia. Trans. adapted from Petzl 2019, 50.

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5 δέξο, | μ̣άκαιρα θεά, τὸν ἐμὸν μόγον, | ᾧ βασανισθεὶς εἰς [ὑ]γί̣ ην (?) | ζώω, σοὶ χάρις ἀθανάτη. 7 μ̣αν̣ ̣|θάνετ ̓, ἄνδρες, ὅσοι μακάρων̣ | [ὕ]πο δα‹ρ›δάπτεσθε, μη̣ ̣ δέπο|τ(ε) ἀρνεῖσθαι τὴν θεόν, ἀλλὰ | σέβ(ε)ιν, 9 Ἀνδιρηνῆς γὰρ θεῖον | γένος· ἄν τις ἀπειθῇ, πείσε|ται ὅσσα τ ̓ ἐγώ ἑξάκις ἄλλα κα̣/κ̣ά.

(In the year 156, on the second of the month of Daisios. To you, Mother Andirene, I, Lucius [Tati?]anos, set up this votive offering showing on the stele a healthy print of a foot, which I did not offer up in the past. But behold: by sculpting two (sc. legs) for your power, I establish a good relationship. Accept, blessed goddess, the distress which I live through, having suffered tortures in health (?); for you my gratitude (is) everlasting. You people, who, under the blessed, are being devoured, learn never to oppose the goddess but to worship (her), for Andirene’s race is divine. If anybody refuses compliance, they will suffer six times what I have suffered in further evils.)21

This marble stele presents to the viewer a depiction of two legs around which the text is engraved (Fig. 7.1). The image seems to be directed to the goddess, while the text explains the facts to fellow mortals who might find themselves in similar situations. Lucius Tatianos failed to dedicate a votive offering when he first fell ill; therefore, he now offers a double relief, as if interest was added as a penalty (Renberg 2018). The two legs might also indicate that he suffered twice as much as he would have if the first vow had been expedited piously and promptly, or it could represent an old illness in his limbs alongside a relapse, now both healed. The male dedicator is warning other men not to follow the example of his disobedience. Both the sender and the addressees of the message on the stele seem to be limited specifically to the male gender. However, the choice of the term ἄνδρες (men) for ‘human beings, mankind’ might be determined by the poetic style of this confession and by metric reasons, since in the inscriptions from Lydia it recurs mostly in funerary epigrams. Moreover, in the final verses, the indefinite pronoun τις (l. 17) opens the admonition to everyone and anyone who visited the sanctuary and interacted

21 Malay and Petzl, Lydia, no. 188 = Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 171, 71/72 ce, Karakoca, Lydia. Trans. after Malay and Petzl, Lydia modified. Greek text presented in verses. See Petzl 2019, 66, with previous bibliography, for details on the restoration of the text.

Figure 7.1. Stele to Meter Andirene, from Karakoca, Lydia, 71/72 ce. Reproduced with the permission of Hasan Malay (Malay and Petzl 2017, 183).

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and dedicated an act of praise, because I have been healed.)24

Figure 7.2. Stele to Apollo Bozenos, from Kula, Lydia. Second– third centuries. Photo courtesy of Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Antikensammlung / Johannes Laurentius, CC BY-SA 4.0.

with the stele — without an exclusive gendered focus. It seems questionable, therefore, whether we can identify a subgroup of warning inscriptions, and analyse gender patterns and ratios within this subgroup. The use of warning tones about the δύναμις (power) of the gods, their potency and authority, characterizes several confession texts, with the intention of counselling and alerting any user of the stelai.22 In the text mentioned above with an explicit warning clause dedicated by a woman, Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 112, [Eut]ychis confessed that her transgression was to walk unintentionally in a sanctuary space, and twice through the village, while being in an impure state (ἄναγνα).23 Similarly, Antonia links her illness to falling foul of purity rules: Ἀντωνία Ἀντωνίου Ἀπόλ|λωνι θεῷ Βοζηνῷ διὰ τὸ ἀ|ναβεβηκέ̣ ̣νε με ἐπὶ τὸν χο|ρὸν ἐν ῥυπαρῷ ἐπενδύτῃ, | (5) κολασθῖσα δὲ ἐξωμολο|γησάμην κὲ ἀνέθηκα εὐλο|γίαν, ὅτι ἐγενόμην ὁλόκ̣[ λ]|ηρος.

Above the text, a relief shows Apollo Bozenos with a double-axe on a horse (Fig. 7.2). The god riding towards the right stands out over the inscription. The material surface shared by the visual and written communication devices creates a dialogic exchange between the two. Apollo’s divine grandeur dominates above the individual, human story told by the text. The freedom and swiftness of his mobility are enhanced by the fact that he is riding a horse. This movement contrasts with the impediments constraining Antonia: she fell sick after entering a space that was forbidden to her while wearing dirty clothes, and an illness may well have made her unable to move, or it could have made her bedbound. Restrictions and regulations on the movement of individuals in or around sacred spaces are frequently transgressed and then interpreted as the cause of a misfortune.25 The combination of text and image functions as testimony to divine atonement making possible healing and restoration of freedom from the constraints of illness. Actions accomplished at the wrong time, and purity concerns in relation to menstruation, might have been at the centre of the following stele: Παννυχὶς κολασθε|ῖσα ὑπὸ Μητρὸς Λαρ|μηνῆς διὰ τὸ λούσασ|θε τῇ ἰκαδι, καὶ βάλασα | (5) αὐτῇ εἰς τοὺς ὀφθαλ|μοὺς αἰγίλωπα καὶ πάλιν | ἔδωκέ μοι τὴν ὁλοκλη|ρίαν, καὶ εὐχαριστῶ Μη|τρὶ θεῶν Λαρμηνῇ καὶ μαρ|(10)τυρῶ αὐτῇ τὰς δυνά|μεις. (Pannychis was punished by Meter Larmene because she had taken a bath on the twentieth day, and (the goddess) struck her (i.e. Pannychis’s) eyes with a lachrymal ulcer. And she gave me back my health, and I thank the Mother of the Gods Larmene and testify to the manifestations of her power.)26

(I, Antonia, daughter of Antonius, (dedicated the stele) to the god Apollo Bozenos, because 24 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 43 (undated), north-east Lydia. I went up (to the temple) with a filthy garment. 25 Cf. e.g. Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 6, SEG 57. 1187 = Petzl, After I had been punished, I made a confession Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 144, and Malay and Petzl, Lydia,

no. 119 = Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 161, where male and female dedicators had entered or had taken a walk in sacred precincts ἄθετος (unsuitably, in an unsuitable state), because they were not following the requirements thoroughly for a certain cult, for example in regard to clothing and purity rules, or 22 Contra Cadwallader 2018, 189: ‘But it is extremely rare to find because it was not appropriate to approach the sanctuary on that a woman charged (and/or permitted) to warn — even if one specific day. can readily understand that the sheer display of a propitiatory 26 Malay and Petzl, Lydia, no. 159 (text and translation) = dedication functions as a warning.’ On the term δύναμις in Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 159, Roman Imperial confession texts, see Pleket 1981; Chaniotis 2009, 144 with previous period, Sanctuary of Thea Larmene on the Toma (Doma) bibliography; Petzl 2019, 79–80: index of Greek words s.v. δύναμις. Mountain, Lydia. Trans. after Malay and Petzl, Lydia and Petzl, 23 See Gordon 2016, 143–44 on women and the temple-script on Beichtinschriften Suppl.; see ibid. for more detailed commentaries. purity matters.

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Malay and Petzl (2017, 159) note that the twentieth day probably does not indicate a day of the month in general, but implies a reference to the menstrual cycle, and that therefore in this region of Lydia a prohibition might have existed preventing women from taking a bath on this day of their cycle. Since, however, the twentieth day falls in the luteal and secretory phase of a women’s menstrual cycle, when the uterine lining is thickening, and conception is unlikely, this phase prior to menstruation does not seem a particularly polluting or dangerous time for women. If, then, we put aside matters specifically linked to sexed bodies, it is interesting to wonder why taking a bath on the twentieth of the month would constitute a transgressive act attracting divine punishment. Could this case of negligence be connected to a religious festival or rite? An alternative interpretation might be that εἰκάς (twentieth) refers to a day in a local calendar or festival when it was forbidden to take a bath. Our confession text comes from the excavations at the sanctuary of Thea Larmene, on the Toma mountain, south-west of Saittai, which was active from the second century bce until the fourth century ce.27 In honour of Larmene, who is invoked in our text as Meter Larmene and Meter Theōn Larmene, a ritual calendar or ceremony might have forbidden baths on certain days of religious significance. In other stelai, both men and women are punished in relation to mistakes around the performance of purification ablutions that should have been carried out on fixed days: cultic lustrations had to be performed at specific sacred times and follow set requirements.28 In Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 72, Apollonios lost his life for not having performed the ablution on the date scheduled by Meter Anaitis.29 In Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl. no. 126, a priestess, Rufilla, had to perform a cathartic ablution to please the deity; she returned to a state of σωφροσύνη (soundness of mind), after having being punished many times.30 In Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl. no. 163, a husband, Titianos, conducted the cathartic bath on his wife, Tatias, but then they did not respect a further ritual rule when they arrived home (the stele breaks off

27 See Malay and Petzl 2017, 155–57 on further details on the archaeological surveys. 28 See Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 29.5 with Petzl 2019, 14; Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 72.5; Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 126; Malay and Petzl, Lydia, no. 123 = Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 163, and SEG 57. 1193 with Chaniotis in EBGR 2007 [2010] no. 4; cf. in TAM V, 1, 351 and 490 the association of οἱ κατ̣αλουστ̣ικοὶ (members of a guild performing ceremonial ablutions). 29 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 72.4–8, 162/163 ce, Lydia: Ἐπὶ κατελούσετο καὶ οὐ|κ ἐτήρησε τὴν προ|θεσμίαν τῆς θεοῦ, | (8) ἀπετελέσετο αὐτόν (Since he performed a ritual ablution and did not observe the fixed date (ordered by) the goddess, she killed him). 30 See Petzl 2019, 23 for more details.

here).31 However, these ceremonial baths are denoted by the verb καταλούομαι (perform cathartic ablutions) rather than λούομαι (bathe).32 In the case of Pannychis, one could advance the hypothesis that washing her body at an unsuitable ritual time could have provoked divine anger, or that her bathing could have been a mere body washing rather than a ceremonial bath. Pannychis might have bathed on a day during a festival in which the norm was to abstain from washing, or from contact with water, and had therefore not respected the correct ritual sequence. The forbidding of washing for magico-religious reasons is attested in anthropological literature.33 In ancient Greek medical writings, Hippocrates advises ἀλουσία (abstinence from baths) as part of a therapeutic treatment for white phlegm (Hippocrates, Diseases, ii. 71). Similar customs were familiar among philosophers: a line from the Greek comic poet Alexis depicts the Pythagoreans enduring ‘limited food, dirt, cold, silence, sullenness, and no baths’.34 Pannychis might have had to stay unwashed for medico-religious, philosophical, or mystical reasons. In Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 108, Gaius Antonius Apellas was punished because he did not want to participate in τῷ ̣ μυστηρίῳ (the mystery rite), even though the god had summoned him to do so. Considering the variety of individual and collective religious experiences in imperial Asia Minor,35 one can easily imagine that Pannychis could have been part of a group of worshippers that followed festival ceremonies and cultic practices shaped around a rigorous bodily regime and way of life. Pannychis’s eye ailment could, perhaps, be explained as being linked to a mistake concerning a rite of abstinence, after she consulted the priests and sanctuary personnel of the goddess.36 Atonement as well as glorification of the divine are expressed in material form both verbally and visually. The eyes depicted above the text on the top of the stele seem not only to recall the suffered punishment, but also to stay wide open as if to testify to the manifestations of the goddess’s

31 See Petzl 2019, 59 for more details. 32 See Graf 2011, 104, on the ambivalence of washing the body and purification. 33 Albeit outdated, see Frazer 1906–1915, on washing forbidden for hunters of gum in Laos (i, 115); for Mexican searchers of a sacred cactus that induces ecstasy (i, 124); for women in north-eastern Africa during their husband’s absence (i, 122); for the weatherdoctors so that they remain dry to get dry weather (i, 271). 34 Athenaeus iv. 61: μικροσιτίαν, ῥύπον, ῥῖγος, σιωπήν, στυγνότητ᾿, ἀλουσίαν. 35 See Belayche 2013, 39, for an analysis of the epigraphic evidence from the second century ce: ‘Ces cérémonies appelées μυστήρια apparaissent plutôt comme des moments cérémoniels réservés à des happy few.’ See Belayche and Massa 2021 on the ‘mystérisation’ of religious practices with references to mysteric rites. 36 See Chaniotis 1995 on eye diseases in confession inscriptions and Chaniotis 2004a, 22–34 on the role of priests.

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powers — to quote the text — and her ability to spot and track down any ritual transgressors, thus embodying the believer and the divine at the same time.37 As well as being linked to inaccuracies in ritual procedures, pain and healing could have been interlaced with matters of faith and belief. A stele in this regard that also offers a further example of how texts and images contributed to the fruition of the monument as an object, is Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 12: Διὶ ἐγ Διδύμων Δρυῶν Κ. Βάσσα κο|λασθεῖσα ἔτη δʹ καὶ μὴ πιστεύουσ|α τῷ θεῷ, ἐπτυχοῦσα δὲ περὶ ὧ|ν ἔπαθα, εὐχαριστοῦσα τὴν τήλλην|(5) ἀνέθηκα, ἔτους τληʹ, | μη(νὸς) Περιτίου ηιʹ. (For Zeus from Twin Oaks. I, Claudia Bassa, was punished for four years and still didn’t believe in the god. But after I benefited from what I suffered, acknowledging gratefulness, I consecrated the stele. In the year 338, on the 18th of Peritios.)38

Figure 7.3. Stele to Zeus from Twin Oaks, from Mt Toma, Saittai, Lydia. Musées Royaux d’Art et d’Histoire, Brussels. 253/254 ce. Reproduced with the permission of Georg Petzl (Petzl 2019, 12).

The stele has a pediment with three palmettes as acroteria, and, above the text, a relief on two levels shows four frontal figures. On the upper level of the image, from left to right (Fig. 7.3), a bearded priest holds a crown in his right hand and touches a skeptron with his left, while on the other side of an altar a female figure seems to be offering a rounded object, perhaps incense (Belayche 2008, 190): she is Claudia Bassa, the dedicator. On the lower level, two male figures of smaller dimensions raise their right hands. Louis Robert (1983, 522) interprets them as spectators of the ritual scene; the eulogy to the god needs to be performed publicly in front of an audience, and their gesture serves to show their piety as well as their faith in the power of the god. Richard Gordon (2016, 248) notes that the jubilant population and the centrality of the priest reaffirm the discourse of the temple and its influence. The central focus of the stele, however, seems to be Claudia Bassa and her ritual gesture. Gian Franco Chiai (2008, 80) reads the image as a medium of religious communication, and the text as though it was the actual ritual speech recited in front of the altar during the ceremony; the smaller figures could be members of Claudia Bassa’s family — they must participate in the rite, considering

37 See Hughes 2017, 174–75 on eyes in these stelai as embodiment of ‘divine omniscience.’ See Potts 2017, 28 on eyes in confession inscriptions and ex-votos, ‘portrayed frontally as disembodied organs’. Cf. Malay and Petzl, Lydia, no. 161, a dedication to Larmene with the depiction of two pairs of eyes as ex-voto for the healing of two female relatives. 38 Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 12, 252/253 ce, Mt Toma, Saittai, Lydia.

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the risk that they could also be punished by the god. The image, then, does not merely have a decorative function, but communicates to the viewer that on that spot a ceremony took place. It seems convincing to interpret the figures on the lower level as family members rather than bystanders to the rite. The temporal length of the divine punishment, four years, might imply a reference to a prolonged state of fragile health, during which Claudia Bassa did not make recourse to divine expertise.39 The benefits that she may have achieved from the sufferings afflicting her, in an Aeschylean πάθει μάθος (learning by suffering), could empower her new faith. The procedure of setting up a stele seems to add material form to the transformation that took place in Claudia Bassa’s faith: the personal as well as social picture of a now pious and diligent believer was engraved in stone. The selected documents call for a few overarching considerations. This line of inquiry started by asking whether gender mattered. Scholars tend to consider female dedicators as a separate group, with its own needs and behavioural characteristics. While it is paramount to investigate women in inscriptions in their own right, since this kind of evidence provides unique insights into their lives, it is equally essential to analyse gender in relation to the specific requirements and mechanisms of a ritual. In the case of confession inscriptions, the significance of gender differences seems to appear rarely. However, the absence of distinctive gender peculiarities does not render the analytical question rhetorical. Posing gender as a question allows the highlighting of individual women’s stories that would otherwise risk being subsumed when dedicators are considered as a homogenous group. Furthermore, considering that in ancient Anatolia women and men were often constrained within clearly distinguished social roles, the space of the dedicatory ritual, as well as the material visibility of the ritual action, facilitated partaking of a common ground of adversities and resolutions. Most of the time, women were agents of culture following a prescribed practice in the same ways as agents of a different gender. The absence of significant gender markers becomes more evident when we take into account the interaction between agents and objects. Where gender seems not to have mattered, what did count was the establishment of a habit.

39 On doctors and priests in these documents and on religious concurrence, see Chaniotis 1995; Petzl 2006; Chiai 2006–2007; Petzl 2019, 18–19. Cf. SEG 57. 1185 = Petzl, Beichtinschriften Suppl., no. 145.12–16 with EBGR 2007 no. 66, a confession to Men Motylleites in which emerges Onesimos’s lack of faith in the deity, who in the end is the only one who managed to heal him twice.

Praxeology and Confessions: A Brief Note To understand better how gendered agents engaged with confession inscriptions in their material dimension, i.e. as objects encompassing texts and images, a glance at praxeological theories could help analyse motives and social patterns underpinning individual identities. Praxeology can be defined in short as the study of human practices, especially those that are accomplished routinely.40 It is impossible to offer an overview of practice theories and their influence on historical writing, but I will make a first attempt at pinpointing how they can contribute towards explaining the phenomenon of inscribing confessions. With regard to rituals, the work of Pierre Bourdieu helps focus our attention on the significance of the social background of practices and rites. In his words, ‘rites take place because and only because they find their raison d’être in the conditions of existence and the dispositions of agents who cannot afford the luxury of logical speculation, mystical effusions, or metaphysical anxiety’ (Bourdieu 1977, 115). Agents are ‘producer and reproducer of objective meaning’, and they usually do not know all of the ‘conscious intentions’ of what they are doing, and there are levels that remain obscure to them (Bourdieu 1977, 79). A fuller treatment of his theory of habitus in relation to ancient historical facts would require more space than is achievable here. For the purpose of this chapter, it suffices to stress that, according to Bourdieu, members from the same community and social class share pre-established principles and generative structures that inform practices. In the case of confession inscriptions, the question of what kind of social fabric underlies religious mentality has greatly intrigued scholars working on these documents. There is a debate on whether they can be better explained within a Judaeo-Christian tradition (see, on the scholarly literature, Belayche 2006a; Rostad 2002; 2005; Schnabel 2003). As we have already noted above, another key component of these documents, and the connected ritual practice, is their function as votive offerings as part of a healing process for which the immortals are responsible (see Potts 2017). However, and notwithstanding maintaining the validity of previous interpretations, a praxeological perspective can highlight the ways in which the stelai were chiefly material objects dedicated within a procedure habitual in that region, whose steps and layered meanings were often more implicit than consciously understood by the dedicators. The powerful effect of

40 See Dickmann and others 2015 on how to apply praxeological theories to the study of antiquity. On rituals and habits in the Roman period, see Rüpke 2020.

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crafting a story into stone is exemplarily illustrated by Petzl, Beichtinschriften, no. 61: Tatiane had promised to Men Axiottenos that she would offer a bull for her sister, but since she was not able to fulfil the vow, after an oracular consultation with the god, it was decided that the dedication of the stele could replace the flesh and bones bull. The relief above the text depicts the god with two lions on both of his sides and a bull on his right. As Belayche (2008, 184) notes, images were mostly displayed on the upper level, and, therefore, when the stones were fixed on the ground, the images ended up being in the most visible section. The relief of a bull, then, was substituted for a real sacrificial offering in a very noticeable and persuasive way. Objectifying a bull illustrates the habit of objectifying into stones the relationship with the gods. Moreover, a routinized ritual offered a handy solution in a state of procrastination, as well support in a situation of distress and possible lack of clarity of mind. Materiality and intentionality of practices can be studied further. As Cadwallader (2018, 183) has noted, ‘a spectrum of human emotions ranging from sorrow and shame to liberation and belief is found to be embedded in a complex of material realia.’41 Although one might question whether belief can be considered an emotion, it is undoubtedly noteworthy to highlight the need for feelings to acquire a material dimension.42 Praxeological theories on purposeful human actions can again shed additional light on our understanding of these artefacts. Confession stelai were tools that were geographically and chronologically specific, but they may also represent a unique example of adaptations of agents using material things. If we pay attention to their materiality, the representations of gods and human bodies on the stelai become the place to inscribe mental and emotional states as well as situations of body health and routines of social behaviour. Inscriptions did not just carry symbolic and religious meanings; their very physical presence was itself intrinsically valuable. Elements like the combination of images, texts, and objects, the number of stelai at one sanctuary over a certain period of time, or the dimension of the stones, served to make public, visible, and concrete the efforts of the dedicators towards reconciliation. From the interaction between human and non-human beings and objects arose the self-definition of ritual actors within a framework of routinized patterns and automized uses of traditions. To close the circle, reflexive habits and cultural routines underlined mental patterns and wishes. Bourdieu’s concept of habitus shows

41 On the tactile dimensions of these stelai as objects, see also Hughes 2018. 42 On emotion and fear of gods, see Chaniotis 2012.

that just as habitus is incorporated through rituals, rituals are structured by the habitus. The confession inscriptions did not simply constitute the conclusive moment of exalting the gods, or of a propitiatory affirmation of divine justice; they testified to actions that became encoded in the mentalities of historically determined agents who performed those ritual actions following collectively routinized patterns. At the same time, the result of these habitual patterns, i.e. the stelai, contributed to the creation of a narrative of the self, and its relationship with the supernatural. It is finally worth stressing that habitus as ‘systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures, that is, as principles of the generation and structuring of practices’ is a constituent of a precise environment and class (Bourdieu 1977, 72). Our inscriptions also reflect the habits of a particular environment — that of rural communities around sanctuaries.43 The users of the same sanctuary had available to them a system that structured their response to adverse circumstances. Their habits shared the wish as well as the condition of being transitioned ‘from hopelessness to hopefulness’, as is stated in the text of Malay and Petzl, Lydia, no. 39.

Conclusions The title of this chapter was intended to pay homage to the work of Judith Butler (1990) on the performativity of gender on the one hand, while on the other, aiming to emphasize how these inscriptions tackled situations of distress. Habit also offered a range of polysemy, if meant as epigraphic habit as well as in a praxeological sense. The accent on the process of objectifying a text served to bring materiality to the fore. I hope to have shown that the so-called confession inscriptions are a source for tracing the history of attitudes and practices of ancient women and men. They provide us with a magnifier of the social dimension of ritual actors and objects. Involved in, or protagonists of, various confessions, women do not seem to appear as a separate group on their own: they emerge as active and resourceful agents of a culture that operated within a recurrent framework. After the death of the husband, widows became the new heads of households, with the power to negotiate delicate economic or legal matters. Women supported other women in pernicious situations, as Iulia helped her sister. Each inscription can offer a snapshot into a woman’s life and her interactions with family members, priests and sanctuary personnel, and the entire village community. Women in despair found 43 See on villagers, Chaniotis 2004b; on literacy, de Hoz 2006.

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help at local sanctuaries. If we consider secular and divine systems of justice as complementary, these texts may shed new light on the autonomy and social agency of women in the Imperial period, as having equal standing with men in the creation of a shared socio-cultural environment. The process of self-construction on

stones, however, seems to be more intensely shaped by routinized patterns of use and action than by gender factors. Routines and habits in dealing with suffering and problems were entrenched in the social fabric, and provided a key ingredient in the construction of mentalities and behaviour.

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Works Cited Akıncı Öztürk, Esengül, and Cumhur Tanrıver. 2008. ‘New Katagraphai and Dedications from the Sanctuary of Apollon Lairbenos’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 41: 91–111 Bain, Katherine. 2014. Women’s Socioeconomic Status and Religious Leadership in Asia Minor (Minneapolis: Fortress) Belayche, Nicole. 2005. ‘“Au(x) dieu(x) qui règne(nt) sur…”. Basileia divine et fonctionnement du polythéisme dans l’Anatolie impériale’, in Pouvoir et religion dans le monde romain: en hommage à Jean-Pierre Martin, ed. by Annie Vigourt, Xavier Loriot, Agnès Berenger-Badelet, and Bernard Klein (Paris: Presses université Paris-Sorbonne), pp. 257–69 ——. 2006a. ‘Rites et “croyances” dans l’épigraphie religieuse de l’Anatolie Impériale’, Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique, 53: 73–115 ——. 2006b. ‘Les stèles dites de confession: une religiosité originale dans l’Anatolie impériale?’, in The Impact of Imperial Rome on Religions, Ritual and Religious Life in the Roman Empire, ed. by Lukas de Blois, Peter Funke, and Johannes Hahn (Leiden: Brill), pp. 66–81 ——. 2008. ‘Du texte à l’image: les reliefs sur les stèles “de confession” d’Anatolie’, in Image et religions dans l’Antiquité grécoromaine, ed. by Sylvia Estienne, Dominique Jaillard, Natacha Lubtchansky, and Claude Pouzadoux (Naples: Centre Jean Bérard/École française d’Athènes), pp. 181–94 ——. 2012. ‘“Un châtiment en adviendra”. Le malheur comme signe des dieux dans l’Anatolie impériale’, in La raison des signes: présages, rites, destin dans les sociétés de la méditerranée ancienne, ed. by Stella Georgoudi, Renée Koch Piettre, and Francis Schmidt (Leiden: Brill), pp. 319–42 ——. 2013. ‘L’évolution des formes rituelles: hymnes et mystèria’, in Panthée: Religious Transformations in the Graeco-Roman Empire, ed. by Laurent Bricault and Corinne Bonnet (Leiden: Brill), pp. 17–40 ——. 2019. ‘Ces dieux qu’on interroge. Sur des faits oraculaires dans les textes dits de confession’, in Hommage à Jean-Louis Ferrary: Philorhômaios kai philhellèn, ed. by Anna Heller, Christel Müller, and Arnaud Suspène (Genève: Librairie Droz), pp. 233–48 Belayche, Nicole, and Francesco Massa. 2021. ‘Introduction’, in Les mystères au iie siècle de notre ère: un tournant?, ed. by Nicole Belayche, Francesco Massa, and Philippe Hoffmann (Turnhout: Brepols), pp. 7–22 Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice, trans. by R. Nice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Buckler, William Hepburn. 1914. ‘Some Lydian Propitiatory Inscriptions’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 21: 169–83 Butler, Judith. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London: Routledge) Cadwallader, Alan H. 2018. ‘Bodily Display and Epigraphical Confession at the Sanctuary of Apollo Lairbenos: An Examination of Emotional Responses’, Journal of Epigraphic Studies, 1: 183–201 Chaniotis, Angelos. 1995. ‘Illness and Cures in the Greek Propitiatory Inscriptions and Dedications of Lydia and Phrygia’, in Ancient Medicine in its Socio-Cultural Context, ii, ed. by Philip J. van der Eijk, Herman F. J. Horstmanshoff, and Petrus H. Schrijvers (Amsterdam: Rodopi), pp. 323–44 ——. 1997. ‘“Tempeljustiz” im kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien: Rechtliche Aspekte der Sühne-Inschriften Lydiens und Phrygiens’, in Symposion 1995: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte, ed. by Gerhard Thür and Julie Vélissaropoulos-Karakostas (Cologne: Böhlau), pp. 353–84 ——. 2004a. ‘Under the Watchful Eyes of the Gods: Divine Justice in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor’, in The GrecoRoman East: Politics, Culture, Society, ed. by Stephen Colvin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 1–43 ——. 2004b. ‘Von Ehre, Schande und kleinen Verbrechen unter Nachbarn: Konfliktbewältigung und Götterjustiz in Gemeinden des antiken Anatolien’, in Konflikt, ed. by Frank R. Pfetsch (Heidelberg: Springer), pp. 233–54 ——. 2009. ‘Ritual Performances of Divine Justice: The Epigraphy of Confession, Atonement and Exaltation in Roman Asia Minor’, in From Hellenism to Islam: Cultural and Linguistic Change in the Roman Near East, ed. by Hannah M. Cotton, Robert G. Hoyland, Jonathan J. Price, and David J. Wasserstein (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 115–53 ——. 2012. ‘Constructing the Fear of Gods: Epigraphic Evidence from Sanctuaries of Greece and Asia Minor’, in Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World, ed. by Angelos Chaniotis (Stuttgart: Steiner), pp. 205–34 Chiai, Gian Franco. 2006–2007. ‘Il villaggio ed il suo dio: considerazioni sulla concorrenza religiosa nelle comunità rurali dell’Anatolia in età imperiale’, Mythos, n.s., 1: 137–63 ——. 2008. ‘Medien religiöser Kommunikation im ländlichen Kleinasien’, in Medien religiöser Kommunikation im Imperium Romanum, ed. by Günther Schörner and Darja Šterbenc Erker (Stuttgart: Steiner), pp. 67–91 de Hoz, Maria Paz. 2006. ‘Literacy in Rural Anatolia: The Testimony of the Confession Inscriptions’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 155: 139–44

7. Wo m e n in T ro u b l e , an d th e H ab i t o f Ob jecti f y i ng a T e xt i n the S o - Calle d Co nf e ssi o n Inscrip tions 12 5

Dickmann, Jens-Arne, Elias, Friederike, and Friedrich-Emanuel Focken. 2015. ‘Praxeologie’, in Materiale Textkulturen: Konzepte – Materialien – Praktiken, ed. by Thomas Meier, Michael R. Ott, and Rebecca Sauer (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 135–46 Frazer, James G. 1906–1915. The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, 12 vols (London: Macmillan) Gordon, Richard L. 2004. ‘Raising a Sceptre: Confession Narratives from Lydia and Phrygia’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 17: 177–96 ——. 2016. ‘Negotiating the Temple-Script: Women’s Narratives among the “Confession-Texts” of Western Asia Minor’, Religion in the Roman Empire, 2.2: 227–55 Graf, Fritz. 2011. ‘Baptism and Graeco-Roman Mystery Cults’, in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, ed. by David Hellholm, Tor Vegge, Øyvind Norderval, and Christer Hellholm (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 101–18 Herrmann, Peter, and Hasan Malay. 2007. New Documents from Lydia (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften) Horsley, Greg H. R. 1983. New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity, iii (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press) Hughes, Jessica. 2017. Votive Body Parts in Greek and Roman Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) ——. 2018. ‘The Texture of the Gift: Religious Touching in the Greco-Roman World’, Body and Religion, 2: 88–112 Malay, Hasan. 1988. ‘New Confession Inscriptions in the Manisa and Bergama Museums’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 12: 147–52 Malay, Hasan, and Georg Petzl. 2017. New Religious Texts from Lydia (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften) Malay, Hasan, and Mustafa H. Sayar. 2004. ‘A New Confession to Zeus “from Twin Oaks”’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 37: 183–84 Pettazzoni, Raffaele. 1936. La confessione dei peccati, ii.3: Siria, Hittiti, Asia Minore, Grecia (Bologna: Zanichelli) Petzl, Georg. 1994. Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasiens (BIWK), Epigraphica Anatolica, 22 (Bonn: Habelt) ——. 2006. ‘God and Physician: Competitors or Colleagues?’, in Medicina e società nel mondo antico, ed. by Arnaldo Marcone (Florence: Le Monnier Università), pp. 55–62 ——. 2019. ‘Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasiens: Supplement’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 52: 1–105 Pleket, Henri W. 1981. ‘Religious History as the History of Mentality: The “Believer” as Servant of the Deity in the Greek World’, in Faith, Hope and Worship: Aspects of Religious Mentality in the Ancient World, ed. by Hans S. Versnel (Leiden: Brill), pp. 152–92 Potts, Justine. 2017. ‘Corpora in Connection. Anatomical Votives and the Confession Stelai of Lydia and Phrygia’, in Bodies of Evidence: Ancient Anatomical Votives Past, Present and Future, ed. by Jane Draycott and Emma-Jayne Graham (London: Routledge), pp. 20–44 Renberg, Gil. 2018. ‘Review to Malay, Hasan, and Georg Petzl. New Religious Texts from Lydia, Wien 2017’, Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2018.12.10 Ricl, Marijana. 1995a. ‘The Appeal to Divine Justice in the Lydian Confession-Inscriptions’, in Forschungen in Lydien, ed. by Elmar Schwertheim (Bonn: Habelt), pp. 67–76 ——. 1995b. ‘Les katagraphai du sanctuaire d’Apollon Lairbenos’, Arkeoloji dergisi, 3: 167–95 ——. 2009. ‘Legal and Social Status of Threptoi and Related Categories in Narrative and Documentary Sources’, in From Hellenism to Islam: Cultural and Linguistic Change in the Roman Near East, ed. by Hannah M. Cotton, Robert G. Hoyland, Jonathan J. Price, and David J. Wasserstein (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 93–114 Robert, Louis. 1983. ‘Documents d’Asie Mineure. 2. Zeus des Chênes Jumeaux’, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique, 107: 515–23 Rostad, Aslak. 2002. ‘Confession or Reconciliation? The Narrative Structure of the Lydian and Phrygian “Confession Inscriptions”’, Symbolae Osloenses, 77: 145–64 ——. 2006. ‘The Religious Context of the Lydian Propitiation Inscriptions’, Symbolae Osloenses, 81: 88–108 Rüpke, Jörg. 2020. ‘Establishing Self-World-Relations in Socio-Religious Practices. Looking at Roman Religious Communication’, ARYS: Antigüedad; religiones y sociedades, 18: 19–50 Salvo, Irene. 2017. ‘Owners of their Own Bodies: Women’s Magic and Reproduction in Greek Inscriptions’, in Women’s Ritual Competence in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. by Matthew Dillon, Esther Eidinow, and Lisa Maurizio (Farnham: Ashgate), pp. 131–48 Schnabel, Eckhard J. 2003. ‘Divine Tyranny and Public Humiliation: A Suggestion for the Interpretation of the Lydian and Phrygian Confession Inscriptions’, Novum Testamentum, 45: 160–88 Spiegel, Gabrielle. 2005. ‘Introduction’, in Practicing History: New Directions in Historical Writing After the Linguistic Turn, ed. by Gabrielle Spiegel (London: Routledge), pp. 1–31

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Steinleitner, Franz. 1913. Die Beicht im Zusammenhange mit der sakralen Rechtspflege in der Antike (Leipzig: Kommissionsverlag der Dietrichschen Verlagsbuchhandlung) Varinlioğlu, Ender. 1989. ‘Eine Gruppe von Sühneinschriften aus dem Museum von Usak’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 13: 37–50 Versnel, Henk S. 1998. Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion, i: Ter Unus: Isis, Dionysos, Hermes; Three Studies in Henotheism (Leiden: Brill) ——. 2002. ‘Writing Mortals and Reading Gods: Appeal to the Gods as a Strategy in Social Control’, in Demokratie, Recht und soziale Kontrolle im klassischen Athen, ed. by David Cohen and Elisabeth Müller-Luckner (Munich: Oldenbourg), pp. 37–76

Naomi Carless U n wi n

8. E  pigraphy and the Power of Precedence in Asia Minor

Inscriptions are primarily considered within the historical Text as Historical Monument context of their erection, which is more often than not presumed to be (close to) the date of their composiInteraction with inscriptions as physical testaments to periods past is most explicitly demonstrated when they tion. What is more difficult to quantify, and thus less are utilized in new contexts or consciously preserved frequently discussed, is the longer-term reception of these texts as monuments within the civic landscape, or during architectural remodelling or reconstruction. their reutilization in later contexts. Inscriptions would At Sardis, the Lydian history of the city was comremain in situ for decades, in some cases centuries, memorated during the Imperial period through the after their initial engraving; how communities in the repurposing of a bilingual Greek-Lydian inscription. The stone was incorporated into a purposefully conancient world continued to perceive or interact with structed monument, which also included three archaic them can for the most part only be speculated. They were physical artefacts of earlier times, recording civic statues of two lions and an eagle.2 The content of the decrees, laws, correspondence, etc., but it should not text does not appear to have been of any particular be presumed that their significance remained stable. significance; it recorded the dedication of a certain The mobilization of older documents in circumstances Nannas son of Dionysikles, translated in Lydian as separate from their composition should be viewed within Nannas Bakivalis, to Artemis.3 It was the fact that the their contemporary historical and material setting. In inscription was in Lydian, and apparently of some antiquity, that gave it its value.4 The inscription was many cases it appears that it was their very antiquity repurposed and served to actively commemorate the that gave them their value; the texts were turned into commemorative monuments, functioning as remnants Lydian past of the city. of times past. This paper focuses on two ways in which In this instance, the positioning of the text in the epigraphic record engaged with history during conjunction with the statues offers a glimpse of the the Hellenistic and Imperial periods in Asia Minor: potential value of such a monument in an imperial instances of the reuse of inscriptions, and the processes context, as a way to commemorate the distant (Lydian) involved in the (re-)inscription of older texts in a new history of the city. The exact circumstances of its context, sometimes centuries after their original date. Such practices reveal the importance of inscriptions as material monuments in the civic landscape, with their significance linked to their perceived historical I would like to thank Alison Cooley for her valuable comments on an earlier draft of this paper, and the two anonymous authority.1 reviewers for their insights. Research for this paper was

1 On epigraphy as the display of authority, with discussion of monumentalization, see Ma 2012. See also Woolf 1996; Cooley 2012. For the afterlife of another form of epigraphic medium, coins, and interaction with them, see Dario Calomino in this volume.

undertaken as part of a Leverhulme-funded project, ‘The Materiality of Graeco-Roman Festival Culture’, based at the University of Warwick. 2 See Shear 1931; Rojas 2014, 182–84, figs 2–3; 2019, 35–39. 3 Sardis 6. 2. 20; 7. 1. 85. 4 Rojas 2014, 184.

Naomi Carless Unwin  •  ([email protected]) is a Research Fellow at the University of Warwick New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 127-140 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133902

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construction remain unknown, though this repurposing of an older text appears to fit into a wider antiquarian trend under the Roman Empire. Veneration for the past can be detected in cities across the Greek East as communities sought to assert their lineage and adherence to tradition, in particular in the religious realm. But this was an active mode of engagement, which reflected the contemporary concerns of the community and the image they wanted to project of themselves, especially in an environment when political autonomy existed in name only.5 Other examples of reuse would have been similarly prompted by the perceived relevance of the texts, which in part was accrued by their antiquity but also their resonance in the present. The Molpoi inscription from Miletos records the ritual regulations related to the procession from the city to the sanctuary of Apollo at Didyma.6 The text itself is thought to be the Hellenistic engraving, c. 200 bce, of an archaic statute, inscribed on a tall stele (2.54 m) of blue marble (Herda 2006, 21). According to the reconstruction of A. Herda, the inscription was originally displayed in front of the walls of the Hellenistic portico of the Delphineion. What is more interesting for our purposes is the reuse of the stone as part of the walls of the rebuilt colonnades of the Delphineion in the second century ce.7 The continued pertinence of the contents of the inscription would have been part of this, with the procession from Miletos to Didyma maintained during the Imperial period. Indeed, the Sacred Way appears to have been monumentalized, and the route perhaps more formalized, under the empire. A Latin inscription set up by Trajan at the so-called Younger Gate at Miletos, which led to the Sacred Way, recorded that the emperor ‘executed and dedicated the road essential for the rites of Apollo Didymeas’.8 A similar text, in both Latin and Greek, was discovered



5 See Alcock 2001; see also Rojas 2019 for the different modes of engagement with the past in Anatolia. 6 Milet I. 3, 133; CGRN 201. See Herda 2006; cf. Chaniotis 2010. 7 Herda 2006, 28–29; he dates the rebuilding to the reign of Hadrian or Antoninus Pius and notes the cuttings on either side of the stone, which indicate its incorporation into the walls. 8 Milet II. 3, 402, ll. 1–10: ‘Imp(erator) Caes(ar) divi Nervae f(ilius) | Nerva Traianus Aug(ustus) Germ(anicus) | pontifex max(imus) trib(unicia) pot(estate) co(n)s(ul) | III p.(ater) p(atriae) viam necessariam|[s]acrs Apollinis Didymei | intuitus et in hoc quoq(ue) | utilitates Milesiorum exci|sis collibus conpletis | vallibus instituit con | [sum]mạ vit dedicavit’ (The Emperor Caesar Nerva Trajan Augustus Germanicus, son of the divine Nerva, pontifex maximus, with tribunician power, consul three times, father of his country, began, executed, and dedicated the road essential for the rites of the Apollo Didymeas, respecting the needs of the Milesians, with the cutting of hills and the filling of valleys).

at Didyma.9 This apparently involved the paving of the route, at least where it began in Miletos and the last stretch at Didyma.10 The imperial conduct of the procession may not have been exactly the same as earlier incarnations; however, the antiquity of the celebration was a way of establishing its prestige. A number of stops along the route were outlined in the Molpoi text for the singing of hymns and the offering of libations, for instance the place of the Nymphs and that of Hekate. One stop, referred to in the text as ‘next to the statues of Chares’, was confirmed with the discovery of a large number of seated archaic statues along either side of the route.11 Such place markers and monuments along the Sacred Way were a way to make the historical credentials of the procession manifest; the reuse of the inscription should similarly be interpreted, as a physical indicator at the start of the procession of its antiquity. The decision to inscribe what is thought to be an archaic-era text in the Hellenistic period in itself reveals Milesian reverence for the past; the reuse of the stone in the imperial building further indicates that the inscription as object was valued for its antiquity. Straying briefly outside Asia Minor, a similar motivation can be detected behind the incorporation of the Gortyn Law Code into the vaulted walkway in the Imperial-era Odeion.12 The boustrophedon inscription is thought to date to the mid-fifth century bce; it was preserved and reconstructed in the Roman structure, perhaps in the late first century bce or first century ce, with care taken to reconstruct the blocks in the correct order.13 Again, the antiquity of the text and the blocks themselves, perhaps more than the pertinence of the laws recorded, appear to have prompted its preservation in a prominent civic institution. In a society that placed a high value on tradition, the Molpoi stone was a physical testament to the history of the Milesian procession to Didyma, awarding its contemporary incarnation the authority of precedent. A sense of continuity with the past was paramount. A further parallel can be sought in the list of names 9 I. Didyma 55–56. 10 See Slawisch and Wilkinson 2018, 103–07, 132. 11 Milet I. 3, 133 (CGRN 201), l. 30: παρὰ Χαρέω ἀνδριᾶσιν. Herda 2006, 327–50, suggests that they were repositioned in antiquity, perhaps in another example of the repurposing of ancient artefacts; cf. Greaves 2010, 184–90. Slawisch and Wilkinson 2018, suggest more generally that the route of the Sacred Way may have changed and been ‘re-invented’ at different points in antiquity. 12 ML 41. 13 See Keyser 1987 on the numerals engraved on the blocks in the late first century bce to aid with reconstruction.

8. e pi graphy and t he pow e r o f prece d e nce i n asia minor 12 9

inscribed on the anta of the Hellenistic temple at the Korykian Cave in Cilicia (Fig. 8.1). It is thought to record the chronology of priests at the temple, although another suggestion is a list of donors.14 There are three lists in total, one late Hellenistic in date (A), the other two imperial (B and C).15 List A is the best preserved, and on the basis of the letter forms, appears to have been inscribed collectively in the Augustan period; however, the list dates back over a period of at least 214 years, serving as a physical manifestation of the sanctuary’s history.16 The final name on list A was a certain Archelaos, son of Archelaos, who has been identified with the king of Cappadocia of the same name; Archelaos had been awarded this title in 36 bce by Mark Antony, and subsequently had his position confirmed by Augustus (Hicks 1891, 256; Gotter 2008, 90–91). As Archelaos is the last name on the list, there may have subsequently been a break in the office, or in the recording of the office-holders (presuming they were in fact priests) (Gotter 2008, 90–91). The decision to inscribe this so-called priest list turned this civic record into a civic monument, incorporated into the temple where it could be accessed by citizens and visitors alike. Whether the list was meant to be read is not the primary factor in interpreting this text; its force came from its permanence as a visual record of the temple’s chronology, linking the past with the present. Its continued import can be traced in the Imperial period by the resurrection of the practice: two additional columns of names were engraved on the adjacent sides of the anta. The two imperial lists are much more fragmentary; however, it does appear that they were meant to interact with the Augustan list, creating a sense of continuity. The palaeography indicates that different hands were at work for different entries, often working somewhat haphazardly and with an irregular layout (Hicks 1891, 256; Heberdey and Wilhelm 1896, 72). But the material presence of the Hellenistic list

Figure 8.1. Part one of the drawing of the name lists from the Korykian Cave. Heberdey and Wilhelm 1896, 73.

gave the later imperial additions historical weight; they were meant to be viewed together.17 The engraved lists at the Korykian Cave were used to visually date the history of the temple. Similarly, the Lindian Chronicle from Rhodes was the retroactive inscription of the dedications made at the sanctuary of Athena Lindia, some dating back to the time of Kadmos and Minos (Higbie 2003, B III–IV, ll. 15–22). It is not known how these records were previously preserved, whether they were inscribed in another location, or were kept in a city archive; certainly, a level of creativity must be speculated, at least in the case of the Lindian Chronicle.18 But these texts at least claim to be authentic, and there is no reason to suppose that this was questioned in antiquity; one wonders whether their very physicality added to their authority. The practice of retrospective inscription is encountered in a number of contexts in

14 An argument in favour of a priest list is the β marked next to certain names, perhaps indicating a second year in office; see Heberdey and Wilhelm 1896, 72; Gotter 2008, 90 n. 8. Hicks 1891, 256, favoured the view that it was a list of contributors to the building. Cf. the priest list inscribed on the anta of the temple 17 Although beyond the scope of this article, it should also be noted of Augustus in Ankyra in the early stages of the first century ce, that the lists were subsequently incorporated into a later church with details of their benefactions: Mitchell and French 2012, built over the temple site; attempts were made to keep the blocks 138–50, no. 2. in order, though not all were visible. See Sitz 2017, 183–87. 15 Heberdey and Wilhelm 1896, 71–79, no. 155; cf. Hicks 1891, 18 According to the opening decree, two men were to be selected nos 27–28. to conduct research ‘from the letters and from the public records 16 Gotter 2008, 90 n. 9, notes that there remains some uncertainty and from the other evidence whatever may be fitting about the about the period of time covered as the ending of certain lines offering and the visible presence of the goddess’ (Higbie 2003, A, have been lost; it is possible that further entries indicated a ll. 6–8). Cf. the comments of Higbie 2003, 206–10 on the lack of second year in office with a β. division between the ‘mythological’ and ‘historical’ past.

13 0 n ao m i c a r l e s s u n w i n

Figure 8.2. Imperial copy of a Hellenistic letter of Seleukos II to Olympichos (I. Labraunda 1B–2). Labraunda Archive (LabArP:1951:714).

the ancient world; the choice of medium as well as the contents of the texts have to be considered together to understand their role in civic commemoration.

(Re-)Inscription and Re-engagement with the Past It was not uncommon in the ancient world for older documents to be inscribed at a time later than their composition.19 We should be wary about calling this a process of re-inscription, as we cannot be certain that an inscribed version of these texts originally existed. Only in instances where we possess multiple versions of the same document can we confidently speak of re-inscription; for instance, the Imperial-period copy of a letter of Seleukos II to Olympichos from Labraunda in Karia (I. Labraunda 1B and 2) (Fig. 8.2). An earlier version had been inscribed, apparently soon after its composition c. 246 bce, on the anta of the temple of Zeus (I. Labraunda 1); it was one of a series of correspondence between various Hellenistic kings, the local dynast Olympichos, and the city of Mylasa, 19 See the categories discussed by Chaniotis 1988, 256–57.

which were inscribed in a similar time frame in the second half of the third century bce (I. Labraunda 1–7).20 The later copy, which can be dated broadly to the Imperial period on the basis of letter forms, was inscribed on a thin plaque; the original location of its display is not known, though its find-spot in the Oikoi offers one possibility. It can be presumed that the Hellenistic inscription was still visible on the temple when the later copy was made, though it is possible that the structure had experienced earthquake or other damage in the interim. The imperial copy was thus a duplicate, deployed in a new context. It was one of a number of texts inscribed on what Crampa describes as plaques during the first two centuries ce, to adorn walls, or to stand as stelai.21 The value of the text was redefined centuries after its original publication, perhaps to comment on or provide historical context for current events; the use of a plaque could have aided in its portability/viewability. Unfortunately, we do not know whether other letters from the same era were reutilized in a similar way.22 It is common for the documents inscribed later than their composition to be related to prominent dynasts or kings. It is interesting to note that a number of such inscriptions recall the period of Persian domination in Asia Minor.23 Returning to Sardis, an inscription dated to the second century ce on palaeographic grounds actually preserves a text of a much older date. It records the dedication of a statue of Zeus by Droaphernes, hyparch of Lydia, in the thirty-ninth year of the reign of Artaxerxes, so 367/366 bce (Estremo oriente 235; SEG 29. 1205). The motivations for its inscription almost five hundred years later remain obscure; as V. Sergueenkova and F. Rojas note, such documents are often suspected of being forgeries as a result.24 This need not be the case, though in either scenario, the prestige of prominent historical figures was being mobilized. In other instances, the decision to re-record earlier 20 See also the recently discovered inscription that forms part of this sequence, which was originally displayed on the temple: Carless Unwin and Henry 2016. 21 See I. Labraunda 57. 22 J. Crampa I. Labraunda II, p. 83, proposed that I. Labraunda 53 and 54 could be imperial copies of original fourth-century bce texts; the inscriptions are fragmentary, though references to the Hekatomnid dynasts, including Maussollos, Idrieus, and a festival, might support this suggestion. 23 See now Sergueenkova and Rojas 2017, on the relevance of Persian precedents in the civic life of Asia Minor. 24 Sergueenkova and Rojas 2017, 272. Another document they discuss is the inscription from Magnesia-on-the-Maeander (I. Magnesia 115), dated to the second century ce, and purporting to be a letter from King Darius to Gadatas, recognizing the venerability of the local cult of Apollo. The authenticity of the document has long been disputed: see Sergueenkova and Rojas 2017, 272 n. 14.

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decisions appears to be directed towards establishing the antiquity of a particular circumstance or honour. At Tralles, for instance, the asylia boundary of the sanctuary of Dionysos was rooted in the past by the inscription of an earlier decree, dated by the regnal year of Artaxerxes III and the satrapy of Idrieus, on a later boundary stone. The letter forms suggest a date in the first century ce, while the text itself dates c. 350 bce.25 The display of a centuries-old document was a quick way to add historical weight to the contemporary boundary limit, while at the same time advertising royal distinction shown towards the community. The Persian kings were invoked as a mark of both the antiquity of these events and the prestige involved for the community. In this sense, the honour bestowed by Persian royalty mirrors more generally the prominence of later Hellenistic kings and Roman emperors in the epigraphic record, with a wealth of documents related to royal or imperial interaction or favour. In a number of instances, such documents were retroactively collected and curated, with distinct groups of texts placed on prominent public buildings, whether civic or religious. They are often referred to as ‘archives’, though it has long been noted that the terminology is inaccurate; such selections were far from complete collections of official records or correspondence but were specifically chosen for the purpose of public display.26 At the Phrygian site of Pessinous, for instance, a series of letters thought to be from Eumenes II and Attalos II to the priest Attis, dated to the mid-second century bce, were inscribed together at a later date (I. Pessinous 1–7);27 on the basis of letter forms, this process of inscription has been placed in the late first century bce.28 In this instance, the documents were all private correspondence, addressed to the priest rather than to the city; the nature of their content also suggests that the contents of the letters were not originally meant for the public, relating as they do to Attalid aims to expand their influence in Galatia.29 The

25 I. Tralleis 3. See Thonemann 2009, 390–93 on the authenticity of the document, on the basis of the dating system used. 26 Sherwin-White 1985, 74. Buildings did exist in a number of cities for the deposit of ‘original’ documents, which come closer to the modern understanding of an archive. Copies of the inscribed texts would have been kept there, and we can presume that was where older documents were accessed for the purpose of later inscription. On the question of falsified documents, see n. 24 above and Chaniotis 1988, 256–57. 27 Cf. Welles 1934, nos 55–61; Virgilio 1981; SEG 31. 1088. The author of the first letter is widely thought to be Eumenes II, though Virgilio does not entirely rule out Attalos I. 28 See Welles 1934, 241; Virgilio 1981, 20; I. Pessinous, p. 2. 29 Chaniotis 1988, 256, includes the letters in his category of re-recorded texts for which older versions did exist, though this is unlikely; see the comments in I. Pessinous, p. 2 n. 6.

successive kings Eumenes II and Attalos II apparently enjoyed a personal relationship with the priest Attis, who sought to assist them in their endeavours. The reason for the public display of these letters over a century later has been much discussed, though most interpretations relate to the governance of the temple in the late first century bce and the assertion of priestly authority at Pessinous. It seems that there had been a general diminishment in the status of the sanctuary by the end of the first century bce. According to Strabo (xii. 5. 3), the priests at Pessinous had in ancient times acted as dynastai, or local rulers; he also writes that the sanctuary had been built up by the Attalid kings in the second century bce, with a temple and stoai of white marble. This had changed by the time Strabo himself was writing, and he continues that ‘at present the prerogatives of these (priests) have been greatly reduced’.30 C. B. Welles (1934, 247) linked the decision to make public this historic private correspondence to this change in status, writing that the loss of ‘independent political activity’ might have led the priests ‘to recall to visitors that their predecessors had corresponded with kings’. B. Virgilio perceived a more targeted agenda, echoed by B. Dignas, suggesting that the letters were a way to establish the political autonomy of the temple in the era of Roman rule,31 serving as ‘modelli di comportamento’ (models of behaviour) to the Roman rulers.32 There was the further prestige bestowed on the temple and its personnel as a result of this direct correspondence with the Attalid kings.33 The inscription of the correspondence was executed as part of a coherent design. Documents I. Pessinous 1–5 were inscribed on the same block, arranged in two columns; I. Pessinous 7 was inscribed on a second marble block of the same height, 60 cm, while another incomplete block, for which the original height is not preserved, contained I. Pessinous 6. C. B. Welles (1934, 241) suggested that they originally belonged to one course of the same building. Unfortunately, the original location of these texts cannot be reconstructed, though

30 οἱ δ᾿ ἱερεῖς τὸ παλαιὸν μὲν δυνάσται τινὲς ἦσαν, ἱερωσύνην καρπούμενοι μεγάλην, νυνὶ δὲ τούτων μὲν αἱ τιμαὶ πολὺ μεμείωνται, τὸ δὲ ἐμπόριον συμμένει. (The priests were in ancient times dynasts, I might call them, who reaped the fruits of a great priesthood, but at present the prerogatives of these have been much reduced, although the emporium still endures.) See Dignas 2002, 229–32. 31 Virgilio 1981, 119–28, esp. 127–28; Dignas 2002. 32 Virgilio 1981, 127; cf. Dignas 2002, 232; I. Pessinous p. 2. 33 Another Attalid letter has been published in the last decade, which is dated by the editors c. 160 ce; see Avram and Tsetskhladze 2014. Cf. Thonemann 2015, who prefers a date in the late 180s bce. It was not inscribed as part of the dossier of other letters; it was engraved on a marble slab and records a letter by the future Attalos II to military katoikoi settled in the vicinity.

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the material of the blocks, and their similar dimensions, the agora, with the documents arranged roughly would suggest that the structure was a public building; geographically and spaced so they did not extend one contender would be the temple of Kybele, or the too far above or below eye level (see Carless Unwin temple built by the Attalids (if they were not one and 2017, 177–78). In other instances, the location of texts the same) (Welles 1934, 241; I. Pessinous, p. 3). Read high up on buildings, with few concessions in terms together, the correspondence was meant to assert the of the size or layout of the lettering, suggests that they authority of the priests at the sanctuary by reference to were not meant to be read by passers-by;37 one can the antiquity of their role and previous royal recognition think, for instance, of the Hellenistic documents from of their status. The dossier of correspondence appears Labraunda, related to the dispute between the sanctuary to be harking back to the time when the priests of the and Mylasa over the right to administer the sanctuary (I. Labraunda 1–7).38 The associated documents were sanctuary were treated as men of consequence by the Attalid kings, and was perhaps meant to assert the inscribed variously on the antae of the temple of Zeus continued significance of Pessinous. and Andron B; it would have been virtually impossible One must wonder about the process of comfor the higher of the documents to have been read mission and the intended audience: it can perhaps from the ground (see Fig. 8.3). Without wading into the thorny issue of literacy rates, the majority of be presumed that the temple authorities, including viewers would not have had the ability or inclination the priests, had an interest in the public display of to attempt to read the documents in full. The value of this historic correspondence. Yet who was meant to the texts, however, appears to be in their materiality; read them? Maybe the local civic bodies, who may they were a testament to this historic incident and have been challenging the authority of the priests; or the Roman authorities who in their own way were a physical assertion of Mylasan jurisdiction over were encroaching on the autonomy of the sanctuary. Labraunda. People did not have to read them to know Without being able to establish the original context what they contained; they just had to know they were there. In this case, the visibility of the text was more of the inscription of the letters, it is difficult to state anything with certainty; though the choice of material important than readability, and I would venture that of an apparently private nature, displayed on a public it was a minority of visitors who read the texts in full. building a century later than its composition, does One of the better-known dossiers is the so-called ‘archive wall’ at Aphrodisias. A number of texts, copies seem pointed. During the Hellenistic and Roman period, the of letters from different Roman emperors and other practice of inscribing thematically grouped texts on official documents, were inscribed on the wall in prominent buildings was relatively common; favoured the north parodos of the theatre. The dates of the buildings were those of religious importance, primarily documents cover a period of a number of centuries, temples,34 or others that were regularly frequented, often from the late Republic to the reign of Gordian III. It theatres or bouleuteria.35 Such structures had the benefit has been proposed that they were inscribed in the of being readily accessible, including by international early stages of the third century ce, though again we visitors to the cities or sanctuaries concerned; thus the cannot be sure what prompted this decision.39 It also texts inscribed on them would be widely seen (Davies appears that the texts were inscribed in two phases, 2003). The question of whether they were meant to be with the bottom course added at a later date.40 Their 36 read, however, is more difficult to establish. In some intended visibility can be asserted: they were located cases, attempts do appear to be made to arrange the texts at the main entrance to the theatre, and citizens and so that they were accessible; for instance, the dossier of texts at Magnesia-on-the-Maeander related to the attempts of the city to gain stephanitic status for their 37 Cf. the comments of Sherwin-White 1985, 70, on the gradation civic festival in honour of Artemis Leukophryene in of letter forms in the Priene ‘archive’, though this is ‘by no means 208 bce (I. Magnesia 16–87; Rigsby, Asylia nos 66–131). the rule’. Reynolds 1982, 33, notes that the heights of the letters are reduced in the lower registers, but that it is not immediately The positive responses of the various kings and cities obvious. were inscribed together in one of the stoai bordering

38 See above and n. 19. 39 Reynolds 1982 and Kokkinia 2015–2016 both support a date of c. 224 ce for the original phase; Bowersock 1984 preferred a date of c. 198 ce. 34 For example, the texts confirming the asylia of the temple at Teos 40 Reynolds 1982, 36, noted a difference in letter forms between the were inscribed on the walls of the temple of Dionysos in the lower course, containing letters of Gordian III, and those above. Hellenistic period: Rigsby, Asylia nos 132–61. Cf. the comments of Bowersock 1984. Kokkinia 2015–2016, 35 For example, the documents detailing the benefaction of 19, suggests that docs 7 (the Triumviral decree), 11 (Letter C. Vibius Salutaris were inscribed on the south parodos wall of of Stephanos to Plarasa/Aphrodisias), and 20–21 (letters of the theatre at Ephesos; I. Ephesos 27. Gordian III) were inscribed as part of the second phase. 36 For discussion around this issue, see Rhodes 2001.

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Figure 8.3. Reconstruction of the south anta of Andron B, showing the positions of the remaining inscriptions. J. Blid and N. Carless Unwin.

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visitors to Aphrodisias alike would have walked in front of the dossier on their way to take their seats. It is an impressive display, and the letters are all uniform and easily legible; J. Reynolds also noted traces of red colour, which may indicate the text was painted. This may have aided their readability, though Reynolds (1982, 36) comments that the application of colour may not have been uniform;41 she also notes (1982, 33) that it is not clear whether the passage would have been adequately illuminated when the vault was in situ. It is difficult to discern the motivating factor behind their organization as they are not displayed chronologically or necessarily thematically.42 The contents of the letters all broadly relate to Roman recognition of Aphrodisias’s liberty and the special favour shown to the city; to the left of the wall was a senatus consultum, dated 39/38 bce, which recorded official confirmation of the privileges of the city and the asylia of the sanctuary of Aphrodite (Reynolds 1982, doc. 8). The various other documents refer to different stages of imperial recognition of the freedom of Aphrodisias and other privileges, confirmed by successive emperors. The earlier correspondence dates to the Triumviral period, including letters from Octavian recording his liberation of Aphrodisias (Reynolds 1982, docs 7–13);43 in one he notes that ‘this one city I have taken for my own out of all Asia’ (Reynolds 1982, doc. 10, ll. 3–4). This close relationship with Rome was subsequently reasserted in the second century under Trajan and Hadrian; there is further correspondence from Commodus and joint letters from Severus and Caracalla (Reynolds 1982, docs 14–18). A letter of Severus Alexander, dated c. 224 ce was also included, and Reynolds suggests that this may originally have served as the final item in the ‘archive’; the later correspondence, dated to the reign of Gordian III, was subsequently inscribed below and on the nearby analemma (Reynolds 1982, 131. Gordian III: docs 20–24). The collection of inscribed texts was carefully curated as an advertisement of the city’s prestigious history and

special relationship with successive emperors;44 but the precise way in which the wall was designed, and what prompted it, remains elusive. At the top of the wall, above Column 4, roughly in the centre, the texts are distinguished by a title in larger letters, ΑΓΑΘΗ ΤΥΧΗ (‘to good fortune’) (Reynolds 1982, 36). C. Kokkinia (2015–2016, 46) has suggested that this was fundamental to how visitors were meant to approach the dossier: attention was initially drawn to the centre, starting with the letter of Octavian to a figure called Stephanos (doc. 10), then followed by other documents which expressed ‘in pithy rhetoric the Romans’ preference for their city’. The surrounding texts supplemented these central documents and elaborated on the message that Aphrodisias was especially favoured by Rome. It was not necessary to read them in their entirety, though that was certainly an option if one had the time and disposition; rather, it was the overall visual impact of the wall that gave the collection its value. The force of such curated dossiers appears to have been related to their physicality and permanence; they essentially served as lieux de mémoire in the urban landscape (Nora 1989). The content of the documents was of course relevant, celebrating particular events in the history of a community, or settling a dispute or the rights to territory; however, the decision to inscribe the documents appears to derive from an impetus to memorialize and monumentalize. The functions of the epigraphic medium were distinct from other forms of public record, which would have been stored in civic archives on perishable materials; civic inscriptions, on the other hand, were inherently public and monumental.45 Such inscribed dossiers in effect became a touchstone in the civic landscape, to be pointed at and referred to, used to recall a prestigious event or substantiate a point; whether the documents were frequently read need not detract from this function. The recent publication of two new fragmentary letters from Aizanoi, written in the reign of Julius Caesar but inscribed in the Imperial period, can be listed alongside the number of inscriptions inscribed

44 This is reinforced when we look at other correspondence with Hadrian inscribed elsewhere at Aphrodisias, including another version of doc. 15, related to a tax on nails; see Reynolds 2000. 41 A fragment from doc. 8 showed colour only in the initial letters of Four letters are preserved, inscribed on a marble slab, which paragraphs. appears to have originally been attached to a wall. Reynolds 42 Reynolds 1982, 37, noted that they were arranged to fill the (2000, 8) suggests that they were carved by a single hand, ‘in space in a ‘satisfactory way’, without carrying over part of any the style developing over the first half of the 2nd c. AD’. They document from one column to the next. Cf. the comments and relate to a number of issues; in addition to the tax, they discuss reconstruction of Kokkinia 2015–2016. the funding of an aqueduct and the financial responsibilities of 43 It is interesting that docs 12–13 were not actually addressed to appointed high priests. Aphrodisias: doc. 12 preserves a letter from Octavian to Ephesos, 45 See Woolf 1996, 24. See also Davies 2003; Cooley 2012. For while doc. 13 is a letter from Octavian/Augustus to Samos. We the ways in which different media could be used for different can only speculate about how Aphrodisias came to acquire such purposes and modes of communication, see the contribution of correspondence, as it is unlikely to have been kept in their own Nicola Reggiani in this volume. civic archive.

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Figure 8.4. View from the north of the temple of Zeus, Aizanoi. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-617).

retroactively. They further permit us to reconsider the long-known dossier of texts from the city, dated to the Hadrianic age, and examine whether the weight of the past was again mobilized to help establish a precedent in a contemporary dispute.

The Aizanoi Dossier Re-visited: Mobilizing the Past in the Present

P1–4). In addition, a set of boundary markers has been discovered, delimiting the borders; according to these markers, the kings Attalos I and Prusias I had centuries earlier awarded land divided into kleroi to the god and the city, on which revenue could be raised through levies (MAMA IX, P5, C8–C9.).46 As they relate, Hadrian, in the third year of his consulship, and in the thirteenth year of his tribunate power, ‘restored the boundaries of

In the Phrygian city of Aizanoi, a series of correspondence 46 On the anachronistic reference to Aizanoi as a city in the third century bce, see Dignas 2002, 86–87; cf. 89: ‘The donation dated to the reign of Hadrian was inscribed on the of land by Attalus and Prusias must have been made in more walls of the temple of Zeus, related to the protection specific terms than the expression “god and city” reflects. The of sacred lands (Figs 8.4 and 8.5). Four letters remain grant to the temple might well have received full approval of the as part of the Hadrianic sequence, which served to surrounding settlements but it would not have been addressed to settle the disputed status of these lands (MAMA IX, a non-urbanized group of people.’

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Figure 8.5. View of the interior pronaos wall, showing the positioning of the Hadrianic correspondence. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-626).

the land given to Zeus, the founder, and the city of the Aizanitai’ (MAMA IX, P5, ll. 2–5, 11–12. Cf. C8–C9). The Hadrianic documents reveal that the Hellenistic land boundaries had been forgotten over time, or were difficult to establish; the Roman authorities were called upon to adjudicate and reaffirmed the earlier system of kleroi and levies. The longest letter, in Greek, is that of the proconsul Avidius Quietus to the city, dated 126 ce: the city had consulted the Roman authorities to help establish the size of the kleroi and gain the upper hand in dealing with the tenants not paying rent. As the proconsul writes (MAMA IX, P1 (A), ll. 2–4): Ἀμφισβήτησις περἱ χώρας ἱερᾶς ἀνατεθείσης πάλαι τῶι Διί, τρειβομένη πολλῶν ἐτῶν, τῆι προνοίᾳ τοῦ μεγίστου αὐτοκράτορος τέλους ἔτυχε.



(The controversy over sacred lands once dedicated to Zeus, which has been going on for many years, has now found an end through the forethought of the greatest emperor.)

Avidius Quietus writes that Hadrian had resolved the ‘strife and suspicion’, and that he himself had contacted the imperial surveyor Hesperus to select appropriate surveyors. The remaining three letters are in Latin, and provide copies of the correspondence between Hadrian, Avidius Quietus, and the procurator Hesperus regarding the issue (MAMA IX, P2–P4, B–D). Somewhat oddly, the final letter was left unfinished; we can speculate that this was related to the use of the Latin language and a reduced audience able to read it (see Kokkinia 2004, 50). Again, there are questions over who commissioned the engraving of the texts on the temple, and who was meant to interact with them. As C. Kokkinia has noted (2004, 51), while they do reveal a process

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of deliberation over what to do with the land, they nowhere specify what the rights of the temple were, or the size of the kleroi going forward; this could have necessitated the erection of the boundary markers, which took place two years after the date of the letters themselves, in 127–128 ce.47 But the authority of the emperor, consulted via the governor, was a clear means of settling the dispute, and it was this adjudication that was being written in stone. The main beneficiaries were the temple and the city who would have raised revenue on the disputed land; it seems likely that it was the authorities in charge of the land who would have pushed for the record of the letters to mark the resolution of the issue.48 In this context, the two recently published letter fragments attributed to Julius Caesar, dated to 46 bce, are of considerable interest.49 Although incomplete, they relate to the protection of the sacred land of Zeus, and are apparently related to an earlier, previously unknown episode in this same saga. The inscription of the letters was not contemporary with their composition; the style of the lettering suggests a date in the second century ce.50 It seems possible that these earlier letters were displayed when the issue surrounding ownership of sacred lands had again reared its head and the Hadrianic letters were engraved.51 Again, it is possible that the materiality of the inscriptions was being exploited as a way to add weight to the contemporary settlement of Hadrian in favour of the temple. The decision to inscribe the Hadrianic correspondence on the temple building itself is significant. The letter from Avidius Quietus in Greek and the three Latin letters were inscribed on the inner face of the right anta wall of the pronaos. They were presented in a row, from left to right, roughly at eye level, as part of a carved frieze that runs the length of the wall, both on the inner and exterior face (visible on Fig. 8.4). The

inscribed blocks are framed by a moulded border that projects out from the wall, with a Maeander pattern band running underneath (Fig. 8.5). They would have been readily visible to individuals permitted to enter the temple. Such a feature of the temple walls was part of their original construction; we can wonder whether it was intended for the display of important texts. Other texts are preserved, inscribed in the same framed frieze on the exterior wall, recording a series of letters of the Panhellenion in honour of the distinguished citizen of Aizanoi, Ulpius Eurykles (MAMA IX — from left to right — P8, P6, P7 = IGR IV, 576, 574, 573; LW 867, 868, 869); though it is notable that one document, from the emperor Antoninus Pius to the Panhellenion, is inscribed outside of the frame, at the very edge of the anta column (MAMA IX P9 = IGR IV, 575; LW 866). The original location of the fragments of the letters of Julius Caesar are less secure; the stones are described as ‘Platte’, quite narrow in depth and of bluish-grey marble. They share many similarities with orthostates from the ‘Tempelplateaus’, or the temple pedestal, leading M. Wörrle to suggest that they originally formed part of this structure (Wörrle 2009, 444; cf. SEG 59. 1479). The temple itself is Domitianic in date,52 which would also offer a terminus post quem for the inscription of the Julius Caesar letters.53 If they did originally form part of the temple, it is tempting to consider their engraving as a result of the same impetus that led to the inscription of the Hadrianic correspondence, or at least that the letters of Julius Caesar were inscribed to be read in conjunction with these later documents. Together, they provided a (selective) history of the dispute regarding the administration of temple lands, establishing the authority of the temple to collect levies on the land, as originally allotted by the Hellenistic kings and later defined by the Roman authorities. The inscribed documents served as an archive of sorts, though far from comprehensive; we have to wonder where the letters of Julius Caesar had been stored previously, or whether earlier inscribed copies had existed. The second-century ce dossier, however, allowed observers to trace the history of the dispute, and served as a physical testament to the authority of the temple. The inscribed monument was an immutable record, and sought to draw a line under the dispute, deciding it definitively in favour of the priests.

47 See MAMA IX xl. 48 Kokkinia 2004, 53, suggests that it may have been the governor who arranged for their inscription, as a way to advertise his connection to the emperor; I prefer to see the dossier as resulting from local initiative. On provincial initiative for the inscription of official documents, see Cooley 2012. 49 Wörrle 2009; 1 and 2 were newly published fragments; he also connected a third previously published fragment with these letters on the basis of letter forms. 50 The date favoured by Wörrle 2009. The letter forms appear quite narrow: the delta and alpha are elongated, extending vertically; the alpha has a broken-bar, the rho has volutes, and the upsilon has a crossbar. 52 See Posamentir and Wörrle 2006 for the reconstruction of the 51 Different hands, however, appear to have been at work: the temple dedicatory inscriptions. temple correspondence is generally neater, with squarer letters 53 An original location as part of the temple may also be suggested and apices; there are some similarities (rho with volutes and the by their find-spots: Fragment 1 was found in a wall to the northbroken-bar alpha) but as many differences (upsilon without a west of the temple; Fragment 2 was found in an excavation to the crossbar, floating bar of the epsilon). south-eastern corner of the temple. See Wörrle 2009.

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Concluding Remarks The practices of reuse or retroactive inscription indicate that there was a perceived value attached to the past in the civic landscape; references to earlier events could provide a new relevance or import to contemporary events, bestow prestige, or provide legitimacy. The texts were not solely a memorial to times past; they were also active in the present as a way to frame or contextualize contemporary concerns, with historic events referenced to provide depth to current-day issues. The materiality of these documents, their ‘hard physicality’, should equally not be overlooked.54 They served as physical testaments to the past and the antiquity of the city, or as solid demonstrations of the longevity of relationships or previous adjudications. Even if their inscription was later, the remobilization and monumentalization of older documents turned them into markers in the civic landscape, to be pointed at and referred to, though not necessarily regularly read. The medium was, in this sense, the message, with inscriptions on stone becoming a common means by which a community could visibly commemorate and communicate its history and establish a sense of precedence.

54 Petrovic 2019, 10, quoting Tim Ingold 2012.

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Works Cited Alcock, Susan E. 2001. ‘The Reconfiguration of Memory in the Eastern Roman Empire’, in Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History, ed. by Susan E. Alcock, Terence N. D’Altroy, Kathleen D. Morrison, and Carla M. Sinopoli (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 323–50 Avram, Alexandru, and Gocha R. Tsetskhladze. 2014. ‘A New Attalid Letter from Pessinus’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 191: 151–81 Bowersock, Glen W. 1984. ‘Reviewed Work(s): Aphrodisias and Rome. Documents from the Excavation of the Theatre at Aphrodisias by Joyce Reynolds and Kenan T. Erim’, Gnomon, 56.1: 48–53 Carless Unwin, Naomi. 2017. Caria and Crete in Antiquity: Cultural Interaction between Anatolia and the Aegean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Carless Unwin, Naomi, and Olivier Henry. 2016. ‘A New Olympichos Inscription from Labraunda: I. Labraunda 137’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 49: 27–45 Chaniotis, Angelos. 1988. Historie und Historiker in den griechischen Inschriften (Stuttgart: Steiner) ——. 2010. ‘The Molpoi Inscription: Ritual Prescription or Riddle?’, Kernos, 23: 375–79 Cooley, Alison. 2012. ‘From Document to Monument. Inscribing Roman Official Documents in the Greek East’, in Epigraphy and the Historical Sciences, ed. by John K. Davies and John Wilkes (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 159–82 Davies, John K. 2003. ‘Greek Archives: From Record to Monument’, in Ancient Archives and Archival Traditions: Concepts of Record-Keeping in the Ancient World, ed. by Maria Brosius (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 323–43 Dignas, Beate. 2002. Economy of the Sacred in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Gotter, Ulrich. 2008. ‘Priests – Dynasts – Kings. Temples and Secular Rule in Asia Minor’, in Practitioners of the Divine: Greek Priests and Religious Officials from Homer to Heliodorus, ed. by Beate Dignas and Kai Trampedach (Washington, D.C.: Center for Hellenic Studies), pp. 89–103 Greaves, Alan M. 2010. The Land of Ionia: Society and Economy in the Archaic Period (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell) Heberdey, Rudolph, and Adolf Wilhelm. 1896. Reisen in Kilikien (Vienna: Gerold) Herda, Alexander. 2006. Der Apollon-Delphinios-Kult in Milet und die Neujahrsprozession nach Didyma: Ein neuer Kommentar der sog. Molpoi-Satzung (Mainz: Von Zabern) Hicks, Edward L. 1891. ‘Inscriptions from Western Cilicia’, Journal of Hellenic Studies, 12: 225–73 Higbie, Carolyn. 2003. The Lindian Chronicle and the Greek Creation of their Past (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Ingold, Tim. 2012. ‘Toward an Ecology of Materials’, Annual Review of Anthropology, 41: 427–42 Kokkinia, Christina. 2004. ‘Ruling, Inducing, Arguing. How to Govern (and Survive) a Greek Province’, in Roman Rule and Civic Life: Local and Regional Perspectives; Proceedings of the Fourth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Roman Empire, c. 200 B.C. – A.D. 476), Leiden, June 25–28, 2003, ed. by Luuk de Ligt, Emily A. Hemelrijk, and H. W. Singor (Leiden: Brill), pp. 39–58 ——. 2015–2016. ‘The Design of the “Archive Wall” at Aphrodisias’, Tεκμήρια, 13: 9–55 Levick, Barbara, Stephen Mitchell, J. Potter, and Marc Waelkens. 1988. Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, ix: Monuments from the Aezanitis Recorded by C. W. M. Cox, A. Cameron and J. Cullen (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies) Ma, John. 2012. ‘Epigraphy and the Display of Authority’, in Epigraphy and the Historical Sciences, ed. by John K. Davies and John Wilkes (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 135–58 Mitchell, Stephen, and David French. 2012. The Greek and Latin Inscriptions of Ankara (Ancyra), i: From Augustus to the End of the Third Century ad (Munich: Beck) Nora, Pierre. 1989. ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire’, Representations 26: Memory and CounterMemory: 7-24 Petrovic, Andrej. 2019. ‘The Materiality of Text: An Introduction’, in The Materiality of Text: Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Text in Classical Antiquity, ed. by Andrej Petrovic, Ivana Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas (Leiden: Brill), pp. 1–25 Posamentir, Richard, and Michael Wörrle. 2006. ‘Der Zeustempel von Aizanoi, ein Großbau flavischer Zeit’, Istanbuler Mitteilungen, 56: 227–46 Reynolds, Joyce M. 1982. Aphrodisias and Rome: Documents from the Excavation of the Theatre at Aphrodisias Conducted by Professor Kenan T. Erim, together with Some Related Texts (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies) ——. 2000. ‘New Letters from Hadrian to Aphrodisias: Trials, Taxes, Gladiators and an Aqueduct’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 13: 5–20 Rhodes, Peter J. 2001. ‘Public Documents in the Greek States: Archives and Inscriptions, Part II’, Greece & Rome, 48.2: 136–53

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Rojas, Felipe. 2014. ‘Antiquarianism in Roman Sardis’, in World Antiquarianism: Comparative Perspectives, ed. by Alain Schnapp (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute), pp. 176–200 ——. 2019. The Pasts of Roman Anatolia: Interpreters, Traces, Horizons (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Sergueenkova, Valeria, and Felipe Rojas. 2017. ‘Persia on their Minds: Achaemenid Memory Horizons in Roman Anatolia’, in Persianism in Antiquity, ed. by Rolf Strootman and Michael J. Versluys (Stuttgart: Steiner), pp. 269–88 Shear, Theodore L. 1931. ‘The Lion Group at Sardis’, The Art Bulletin, 13.2: 127–37 Sherwin-White, Susan M. 1985. ‘Ancient Archives: The Edict of Alexander to Priene, a Reappraisal’, Journal of Hellenic Studies, 105: 69–89 Sitz, Anna. 2017. ‘The Writing on the Wall: Inscriptions and Memory in the Temples of Late Antique Greece and Asia Minor’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Pennsylvania) Slawisch, Anja, and Toby C. Wilkinson. 2018. ‘Processions, Propaganda and Pixels: Reconstructing the Sacred Way between Miletos and Didyma’, American Journal of Archaeology, 122.1: 101–43 Thonemann, Peter. 2009. ‘Estates and the Land in Early Hellenistic Asia Minor: The Estate of Krateuas’, Chiron, 39: 363–93 ——. 2015. ‘Pessinous and the Attalids: A New Royal Letter’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 194: 117–28 Virgilio, Biagio. 1981. Il tempio stato di Pessinunte fra Pergamo e Roma nel II–I secolo a.C. (C. B. Welles, Royal corr., 55–61) (Pisa: Giardini) Welles, Charles Bradford. 1934. Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period: A Study in Greek Epigraphy (New Haven: Yale University Press) Woolf, Greg. 1996. ‘Monumental Writing and the Expansion of Roman Society in the Early Empire’, Journal of Roman Studies, 86: 22–39 Wörrle, Michael. 2009. ‘Neue Inschriftenfunde aus Aizanoi V: Aizanoi und Rom I’, Chiron, 39: 409–44

IV.

Texts that Move through Media — Body and Text

Jessica Lamont

9. Inscribed Materialities: Greek Curse Tablets

Approaching Materiality Inscribed

newest hegemon.2 But Bitte’s funerary epigram captures moments quieter than these, scenes removed from the world of tribute, treaties, and battle. An elegiac couplet unlocks sentiments both raw and tender, and emotion would have been compounded by the sculpted image on the stele, now lost (Fig. 9.1). The monument’s base provides a case study for the ways in which text could engage with materiality in Greek antiquity, particularly how a performative ritual text might draw meaning from the very medium on which it was inscribed. Bitte’s epigram introduces several themes addressed in this chapter — in addition to the volume as a whole, particularly the thoughtful pieces by Joseph Day and Sherry Lee — and is, so to speak, good to think with. First, engaged by the text, we as readers become the mourners: we, too, are confronted by Bitte’s absence and a torment of tears, δακρυτὸν ἄχος. Though parts of this couplet conform to conventions of Greek funerary epigram,3 much stands out as remarkable. The absence of any male allows the scene to centre upon a girl and her bereft mother — a rare glimpse into the otherwise silent world of women in classical Aigiale, the northernmost polis on Amorgos. But something else is rather exceptional about this ‘speaking’ epigram: the monument’s awareness of its own materiality. Instead

Ἀντὶ γυναικὸς ἐγὼ Παρίο λίθο ἐνθάδε κεῖμαι μνημόσυνον Βίττης μητρὶ δακρυτὸν ἄχος (Instead of a woman, here I lie of Parian marble, a remembrance of Bitte — for her mother, an ache of tears.) SEG 15. 548 = CEG I. 153, Aigiale Bay, Amorgos, c. 450 bce1 A monument to loss, this inscribed stele base preserves the memory of Bitte — a girl who died all too young on the island of Amorgos in the mid-fifth century bce. Historically Bitte lived and died in a period of great change: these were fast-paced years in which the Aegean was transforming administratively and economically. Toward the beginning of the fifth century, the island would have watched as Persian, Phoenician, and Egyptian ships sailed ominously from Asia Minor to the Greek islands during the first Persian invasion of Greece; two decades later the Persian presence had vanished from the Aegean and, by the 430s, the poleis of Amorgos were paying annual tribute to Athens — the Aegean’s

1 My gratitude extends to the editors for the invitation to contribute to this book, despite the many changes it underwent over the years; I thank the peer-reviewers, whose comments helped the chapter in various ways. With much fondness, I also thank Giulia Oskian for her company at the Archaeological Museum of Amorgos in 2017, where together we first worked through Bitte’s beautiful epigram.



2 En route from Rhodes to Naxos: Lind. Chron. D 1–59 in Higbie 2003, Hdt. vi. 95–96. Within the Delian League, Amorgos was assessed as a single entry for the first time in 434/433 bce, even though the island contained more than one polis; it was assessed not within the island district, but in the district of Caria: IG XIII. 278 col. VI, L.10 (434/433 bce); 279 col. II, L.41 (429/428 bce). 3 Cf. the older CEG 401 from nearby Naxos. Christian 2014, 35–36; Tsagalis 2008, 278–80.

Jessica Lamont  •  ([email protected]) is Assistant Professor of Classics at Yale University New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 143-157 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133903

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Figure 9.1. Inscribed base of grave stele erected to Βίττη, c. 450–440 bce. Found by Línos Politis in Aigiali Bay (Chora, Amorgos Museum, inv. K 34). 0.15 m H; 0.83 m L; 0.34 m W. Photograph by author.

of warm, soft flesh, we, like Bitte’s mother, are left with a memorial of cold, hard stone — of marble, in fact, from the island of Paros, Παρίο(υ) λίθο(υ). Remarkably, this inscribed monument references the fact that it is made of Parian marble, a costly commodity quarried and shipped from dozens of miles away, imported to Amorgos by sea. The incised monument records, proclaims, its materiality. The speaking first-person narrator, ἐγώ (I), is positioned immediately beside the genitive Παρίο(υ) λίθο(υ); the viewer is therein led to recite three words, ἐγὼ Παρίο λίθο (I am of Parian stone).4 And so not only is Bitte collapsed into Parian marble but, in confronting the epigram, the viewer too claims to be of Parian marble (ἐγὼ Παρίο λίθο), and is forced to consider the monument’s materiality through the inscribed narrative. The speaking first-person narrator, ἐγώ, is in apposition to μνημόσυνον (a remembrance), and positioned immediately beside Παρίο(υ) λίθο(υ). The epigram thus works to collapse text, material, and viewer into this μνημόσυνον of stone. Any number of phrases could have served in lieu of Παρίο(υ) λίθο(υ) (ˇ ˇ – – –), but the choice to include this particular term, descriptive of the medium, was quite deliberate. Here the monument’s reference to its material constitution disrupts the reader and calls attention to the fact that this is in fact not Bitte,



4 On dialogic or audience-oriented grammar, especially the deixis of person, see Day, this volume.

but a mass of marble; materiality here betrays the monument’s artifice. The phrase Παρίο(υ) λίθο(υ) also invites reflection upon the chaîne opératoire that brought the monument into being, from raw material to finished object, in addition to the deployment of materials both for their aesthetic qualities and their power to signify. Parian marble was one of the best and most sought-after stones in the Archaic and Classical Greek world. With its fine-grain, translucent crystal structure, the stone’s luminosity made it a commodity coveted by sculptors, architects, and consumers alike. Parian marble was a top-notch ‘name brand’, as it were, and in Bitte’s memorial is overtly advertised as such. But the materiality of this monument, heralded through incised text, does still further work. The Parian marble acts as an agent of displacement, shifting Bitte from a girl of Amorgos to a μνημόσυνον of foreign stone; here the material medium enforces and exacerbates distance, estrangement, and bereavement. A number of transferences have now occurred by way of text and monument: Bitte is no longer alive but dead, she is not within the city but outside of it, interred in the necropolis (where her monument stood), and she is no longer of Aigiale, or even Amorgos more broadly, but of foreign stone — Parian marble. The reference to the monument’s materiality thus invites engagement with the marble’s procurement, trade, value, and manufacturing, while also juxtaposing the raw material with issues of status, absence, and

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the emotions of loss. The visual, aural, and material combine to capture Bitte now, in death, as image, text, and medium. Over the years Bitte dissolves time and again, always to be revived through the ventriloquized reading of the viewer, and whatever image was once cut or painted upon that same Parian stone.5 Bitte’s epigram demonstrates some ways in which materiality can be approached for inscribed Greek objects during the Classical period, the rough chronological window between 500 and 320 bce. The complementarity of Bitte’s epigram and monument heightens the emotional tenor of interactions between passers-by and object, as Day so ably demonstrates in Chapter 12. Bitte’s epigram is, furthermore, a text, but a text whose use and ‘meaning’ derives in part from its materiality, in addition to its semantic content. Combining text, material medium (Parian marble), and iconography (now lost, but likely a representation of Bitte), the monument raises questions not only about the association between word, image, and object, but also about the relationships between human and object agency. An approach grounded in materiality affords access to these interactions, while also providing a set of conceptual tools for exploring how materiality helped shape human experience in Greek antiquity. Rich though the topic is, the rest of this chapter leaves behind funerary epigram as a locus of inquiry — but not the context of the grave, or the meaning that materiality could inflect upon inscribed texts of the Classical period. We turn from marble to a different material, lead, and other types of incised emotional texts, curses and binding spells. The ways in which individuals interacted with the materiality of objects, and understood material media to have agential meaning, is well illustrated by the corpus of Greek curse tablets, the majority of which were inscribed on lead. Like Bitte’s monument of Parian marble, the physicality of the lead medium produced certain effects upon the composers of curse texts, and even came to inform the broader ritual itself, this chapter suggests. Let us consider the following inscribed curse text, which dates to the Classical period and hails from the city of Athens. The judicial curse relates to an upcoming court case, and the first five lines read: a.1 [Φ]ερέν[ικο]ς πρὸς τὸν Ἑρμῆν τὸν χθόνιον καὶ [τὴν Ἑ] κάτην χθονίαν καταδεδέσθω· Γαλήνην, ἥτις Φερεν[ί] κωι, καταδέω πρὸς Ἑρμῆν χθονικὸν καὶ Ἑκάτην χθονίαν κατα[δ]-



5 On reading as voice inhabiting another’s body, a form of ventriloquism, see Connor 2000.

έω· καὶ ὡς οὗτος ὁ βόλυβδος ἄτιμος καὶ ψυχρός, οὕτω ἐκε(ῖ)νος καὶ τὰ ἐκε(ί)νω ἄτιμα [κ5 αὶ ψυρχὰ ἔστω καὶ τοῖς μετ’ ἐκε(ί)νο(υ) ἃ περὶ ἐμο(ῦ) λέγοιεν καὶ βο(υ)λευοίατο (Pherenikos must be bound before Hermes Chthonios and Hekate Chthonia! I bind down Galene, who is with Pherenikos, before Hermes Chthonios and Hekate Chthonia — I bind [her] down. And just as this lead is worthless and cold, so too may that man and his affairs be worthless and cold, and for those with that man, whatever they might say or plan concerning me!) DTA 107: Attica, early fourth century bce While SEG 15. 548 from Amorgos aimed to commemorate, memorialize, and preserve, this ritual text is decidedly concerned with obliteration. The passive imperative καταδεδέσθω commands that Pherenikos must be ‘bound down!’ in the presence of Hermes and Hekate; so too the woman Galene. Recovered in Attica, DTA 107 is an incised lead curse tablet from the early fourth century bce. It is one of over five hundred such tablets known from Athens, with hundreds more recovered from across the Mediterranean world and beyond. Unlike the funerary monument of Bitte, this second text was folded up, nailed shut, and interred underground — never was it meant to be exhumed or opened, let alone read or recited by passers-by. But the two inscriptions are not entirely different: materiality provides a thread connecting the lead tablet to Bitte’s marble memorial. Here is another text that explicitly references the material from which it is made — another ‘signposting’ of the material’s agency by the text itself. Two qualities of the lead (ὁ βόλυβδος = μὀλυβδος) are singled out: it is ‘cheap’ or ‘worthless’ (ἄτιμος), and it is ‘cold’ (ψυχρός). The reference to the lead’s cheapness invites engagement with the object’s procurement, status, and value — which contrasts sharply with Bitte’s Parian marble. The haptic quality of the material’s coldness is also flagged. These same properties, i.e. worthlessness and coldness, are then analogically called down upon Pherenikos, the spell’s target, and those who support him in court (DTA 107. 4–8). Worthless and cold though it may be, we shall return to DTA 107 shortly. First, it is important to note that texts inscribed on lead tablets were, like Bitte’s epigram, obviously texts — but texts whose uses and meanings derived in part from their materiality, in addition to (or, sometimes, rather than) their semantic content. Materiality provides a means of fusing text and ritual object. The study of Greek inscriptions has often focused on the semantic content of writing and, in so doing, has occasionally overlooked important properties

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inherent to the object itself. The object was always more than the text it carried, with regard to physical form, material constitution, and archaeological context, as other authors in this volume have shown. Ultimately this chapter demonstrates that the lead medium on which curses came to circulate was significant for its material properties — the ashen colour of the lead, its coldness, its heaviness, and its cheapness — and that the material became so meaningful to the practice by the fourth century that its properties were transferred to the victim as part of the curse itself. The lead medium thus served as a semiotic vehicle for the intentions of the incised spell; the material features of the lead became exploitable objectives of the curse, and held agency over the target. With an approach rooted in materiality, we can observe a shift in ancient thinking about curse practice during the Classical period. It seems that by the fourth century bce, lead became the material par excellence for curse-writing rituals in Attica; this happened in part because of the material properties of the lead itself, which could even stand in for the curse text. This shift was also contingent upon the expanding technology of writing, the spread of literacy, and social attitudes toward the written word in Athens — all of which combined to create a haptic engagement with the lead medium and the message it conveyed to the Underworld. As all examples under consideration are aniconic, we are forced to concentrate on the medium’s material as described by its text (lead, Parian marble). In other words, here I am interested in how incised objects, primarily lead curse tablets, reference the material or substance from which they are made, and then harness and transfer these properties to the spell’s target for the purpose of cursing. The angle from which the volume’s broader theme — the materiality of text — is approached is thus rather straightforward: here materiality is primarily understood as the quality and physical characteristics of the object’s composed matter or material. The processes of creating lead curse tablets, manipulating them, incorporating other materials and text upon them, and depositing them — i.e. the full life cycle of the object — are also important facets of the objects’ materiality. This chapter, like the volume more broadly, is much indebted to earlier treatments of materiality theory. It seems worthwhile to review the contours of these studies here as they relate to this project, if in brief. The past few decades have seen much interest in studies of materiality. In the wake of the ‘material turn’ in archaeology, and the disciplines of classics and art history more broadly, materiality-based perspectives provide a fruitful framework for bringing material, visual, and textual evidence into dialogue with one another. This also holds true for the material dimensions and sensory

properties associated with ancient writing practices — indeed, the study of Greek and Roman inscriptions has been a great beneficiary of this material shift. Now the physical display and archaeological context of inscriptions are deemed vital parts of an object’s history, as is the interaction between an inscribed text and its viewer (recall the monument of Bitte). During the time this chapter was under review, for example, a volume came to press examining many of these same topics (Petrovic and others 2019). Missing from this impressive book is discussion of the thousands of ‘magical’ inscriptions from antiquity: curse tablets, incised curse effigies (so-called voodoo dolls or kolossoi), Graeco-Roman amulets, charakteres incised in architectural spaces, etc. Such texts were not uncommon in the ancient city, and concerns of materiality played an important role in their constitution, circulation, and efficacy; this chapter aims to fill that small lacuna. The topic has of course been treated in other fora, notably in Gabriella Bevilacqua’s Scrittura e magia (2010) and Dietrich Boschung and Jan Bremmer’s Materiality of Magic (2015). In the latter volume, attention must be called to the excellent chapter by Jaime Curbera, which informs my own chapter in many ways, especially regarding the production of lead katadesmoi. This current piece expands upon Curbera’s treatment of the lead used in Attic curse tablets (2015, 97–98), and does so using several curse texts as guide. Also in 2015, Richard Gordon wrote an important article discussing the ways in which the material base of a lead curse tablet could affect its text. Gordon’s chapter, like that of Curbera, has proven deeply illuminating; yet as Gordon’s main focus lies in defixiones of the Roman Imperial period, work might still be done on texts of earlier periods — which indeed produced the ritual phenomena inherited by the later magic-makers of the Latin West. Gordon’s arguments find much support in the 2018 chapter of Celia Sánchez-Natalías, which explores many of the same Latin texts; the volume in which her chapter resides is another witness to the ‘material turn’ of social history, and ancient magic in particular. Finally, David Frankfurter has called for materiality’s inclusion within broader ‘mediation[s] of religion and religious ideas’ (2019, 660); his comprehensive 2019 volume demonstrates how material objects articulated and motivated ritual practice, and were much more than just the artefacts or by-products of it.6 Though varied, these approaches to materiality are united by the underlying notion that a relationship exists between humans and objects, and that this

6 Frankfurter takes issue with Boschung and Bremmer (2015), noting that most of the volume does not address the materiality of magic, so much as ‘the artifactual materials of magic’ (2019, 660).

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connection is not unidirectional — things have and exert agency.7 One approach that proves especially instructive for the study of curse tablets is Lambros Malafouris’s Material Engagement Theory (MET), which hinges upon the notion that material objects are central to the mind’s structure and the formation of mental processes.8 According to Malafouris, individuals cannot develop independently from the material world around them, but are cognitively implicated in the lives of the objects that they make and interact with; material artefacts are integral to internal cognitive processes, in other words. Malafouris applied MET to the study of Mycenaean Linear B texts, incised on clay tablets at the end of the Bronze Age. The tablets’ medium allowed short administrative tabulations to be scratched on the surface of the soft clay before it hardened. This process not only transferred information onto an external material object by way of incised text, but it also sculpted the way that information was understood and processed — from the physical properties of the clay used to produce the tablets, to the spatial methods of recording used therein (Malafouris 2013, 73). Material Engagement Theory recasts these objects as more than texts to be translated, emphasizing instead the human–material interactions involved in producing the tablets and communicating information across late Bronze Age communities. This approach appeals for application to curse tablets because it considers the cognitive processes used in producing objects — the tactile manipulation of media as material objects — and the bearing that this has upon the perception and processing of information, as well as upon the text itself. It underscores the notion that the medium’s material — in our case, a sheet of lead — actively informs and influences the brain’s way of making sense of ritualized cursing (Malafouris 2013, 44). Well before the curse was incised upon the lead strip, the physical properties of the tablet (the





7 This holds especially true for objects deemed ‘magical’; the agency and influence of such ritual objects was inherent to their very existence. See Gell 1998, 100–01 on the relationship between magic, indexicality, and the strength of desire. 8 Renfrew and Malafouris 2010; Malafouris 2013. Malafouris’s cognitive approach was informed by earlier work in materiality/ object agency theory, beginning most famously with that of Alfred Gell — to whom most studies of materiality and object agency are indebted. Malafouris, along with Colin Renfrew, with whom he worked, also engaged with the work of Andy Clark, especially the concept of a ‘constant cognitive feedback loop’ (1998; 2008). On materiality and its relationship to the immaterial see Gell 1977; on objects (primarily for Gell, art objects) as systems of active with power to alter the spaces around them, see Gell 1998, 6, 25–50. On how this thread develops in terms of the immaterial’s relationship to materiality, see Daniel Miller 2005, 29–35.

availability of surface space for writing, the direction the text had to follow, the colour and feel of the lead) sculpted the nature of the information the text might contain. The ways in which the lead medium came to influence the perception and efficacy of the binding spell (‘and just as this lead is worthless and cold, so too may that man and his affairs be worthless and cold!’) finds explanation in this cognitive model. Relevant too is Christopher Tilley’s earlier notion of metaphor as a structural mechanism of thought and mental processes, rather than simply a flourish of language (Tilley 1991, 16). Also important is the social dimension of curse rituals — the fact that they circulated in and across living and breathing communities. Social-processual approaches to materiality intervene to remind us that individuals’ mental processes involve not only things; according to Tim Ingold, humans and objects are connected by way of a ‘meshwork’ in which connections transpire like network nodes in a continuous process of becoming (Ingold 2013, 98, 132). A popular variant on Ingold’s ‘meshwork’ theory, at least in the field of classical archaeology, is Ian Hodder’s notion of ‘entanglement’ — the entanglement of objects, texts, images, and people. In Hodder’s application of the term, everything relies upon everything else, with people and objects ‘stuck’ to one another in entangled or entrapped relationships (Hodder 2012, 52, 94). In collapsing the conceptual barriers between people and things, these approaches all insist upon the immersive nature of human engagement with the material world. Finally, as this study concerns the creation and ritualized use of curse tablets, it relies inherently upon Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of praxis — in which individual thought and behaviour are subconsciously constituted by actions undertaken in daily life — and Catherine Bell’s phenomenological application of praxis theory to ritual behaviours (‘ritualization’) (Bourdieu 1977; Bell 1992, 74, 80–81, 172–73). The work of Bourdieu and Bell underpin the broader ritual dimensions of this study, even if neither addresses materiality directly in the way of Malafouris, Ingold, or Hodder. This chapter is indebted to all of these studies, and draws upon aspects of each in addressing the materiality of inscribed lead curse tablets. With this groundwork in place, let us turn now to the tablets themselves. Our focus remains on the lead medium, and considers the chaîne opératoire from raw material to charged ritual object. In addition to demonstrating the workings of Greek curse tablets, the following section shows how the physical properties of the lead medium came to influence the broader curse process by the end of the Classical period.

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Materialities of Lead Curse Tablets Materiality-based approaches prove especially helpful for the study of curse tablets as early literary sources say little about these objects. It is Plato who first provides the ancient Greek term for binding curses, κατάδεσμοι, from the verb καταδέω (I bind down). The term was surely well known outside intellectual circles, emerging in various forms in the incised texts themselves. Plato associates the sale of katadesmoi, in addition to purifications, initiations, and bewitchments, with groups of itinerant ritual consultants, ‘begging priests and seers’, ἀγύρται δὲ καὶ μάντεις. These shadowy specialists were said to knock on the doors of the wealthy hoping to sell their wares and services (Pl. Resp. 364b–c). Little is otherwise known of these supernatural experts, and the ritual wares that they trafficked.9 Fortunately, a rich material record supplements the reticent literary sources. Small sheets of lead incised with names, binding spells, prayers, and petitions for justice, curse tablets have been found in large numbers across Attica and the broader Mediterranean. The beginnings of curse tablets in the Greek world have been to the western settlements of Sicily and Magna Graecia, as it is from Selinous and Himera that the earliest curse tablets have emerged; these date to the early fifth century bce.10 Selinous was an apoikia of Megara Hyblaea, situated on the south-western edge of Greek Sicily; scholars have suggested that the prominent Phoenician presence in western Sicily in the sixth century bce raises the possibility that Carthaginian or Levantine influence may have catalysed the Greek practice (Bremmer 2010, 17–18; though evidence for this is, in my opinion, far from obvious). Another important piece in the puzzle was the spreading technology of writing in the Greek world. Curse tablets could only have come into existence once the Greek alphabet and some degree of literacy were sufficiently widespread, so as to permit the writing-down of spells and maledictory texts. Curses were recorded upon a variety of materials in antiquity. Lead seems to have been the medium of choice, and preserves especially well in the archaeological record; but curses were also written on ceramic, wax, wood, and papyrus — media particularly vulnerable to processes of decomposition (Gager 1992, 3 nn. 8, 9). An

argument might be made that curses were composed just as frequently upon materials other than lead, but it is lead that best survives the centuries. Yet we know that curses were also incised upon pots and pieces of pottery in Athens, but in drastically smaller quantities than those incised on lead — ceramic and lead otherwise preserve at the same rate in the archaeological record.11 This suggests that there was something about lead itself that made it particularly fitting for use in curse praxis, especially in Attica. Why lead? Scholars have grappled with this question for more than a century, and produced a number of explanations. We need not seek a single justification, of course; it is clear that several factors were at work, from the social to the economic to the material. In Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World, John Gager listed several reasons for the use of lead in the production of curse tablets.12 One was the material’s malleability. Lead is soft and pliable; it is easy to cut, hammer, incise with text, fold, and puncture. Lead is also foldable; the option for the text to be covered up or closed-off from view was not afforded by media such as ceramic or wood. These functional properties appealed for use as a writing support, and also allowed for easy shaping — lead could be moulded into a thin tablet with little difficulty. The physical form into which most tablets were shaped, thin sheets of hammered lead, made them easily portable. A small, clean drill hole in the upper left corner of a tablet from Classical Athens — drilled prior to the incision of text, and distinct from the perforation caused by the nail — may have served as a suspension hole for carrying the tablet (Fig. 9.2). This would have allowed for the effortless, organized transport of several lead sheets at once, strung together with wire or thread like a supernatural keychain.13 These lead pieces were usually flattened out before they were inscribed; a reference in an Attic curse tablet to a μολυβδοκόπος (DTA 100), the person tasked with cutting and flattening the lead into a tablet suited for text, shows that this was a common part of the process (Curbera 2015, 101). Sometimes, however, the lead was not re-melted or hammered-out flat. Curses could be incised directly onto melted offcuts, as seen in an irregularly shaped lead piece from Classical Athens

11 For a newly published curse bowl from fourth-century Salamis and comparanda, see Chairetakis 2018. On this broader topic, see 9 See Faraone 1985; 1989, for indirect references to oral binding now Lamont 2021 , Polinskaya 2021.. spells (but not curse tablets) in fifth-century Athenian theatre. 12 Gager 1992, 3; the great majority of extant curses are incised on 10 These emerged from Selinous’ sanctuary of Demeter lead or lead compounds. Malophoros and Buffa necropolis, and are currently the earliest 13 Also preserved in the Wünsch collection were a number of known Greek curse tablets (Willi 2008, 317–21; Curbera 1999, uninscribed lead tablets found together with a lead stylus; one of 159–86; Lamont 2023, Chs 1-2). Cursing was a ritual practice long these blank lead tablets (Curbera 2015, 113, fig. 12, top tablet) has established in the Near Eastern and Egyptian worlds, and oral a pronounced hole near the top edge, which could be another versions of so-called ‘conditional’ curses predate the late sixth example of a suspension hole. century bce in the Greek-speaking Mediterranean.

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(Fig. 9.3).14 This heavy, thick piece of lead was not flattened or levelled-out, nor were its jagged edges trimmed before the incision of text. This made writing on the rough surface extremely difficult. Accordingly, the text is shallowly incised and very faint. The unusual and constrictive shape of the lead also caused the text to be incised across both sides of the tablet in different directions; it is opisthographic. Some curses were incised upon ‘reused’ objects, such as a lead staple within the Wünsch collection (DTA 156–57). Jaime Curbera convincingly suggests that this staple was recovered from ‘a rubbish tip among broken vases (or in a grave […]) and used […] for writing without even bothering to flatten it. The use of lead and the fact that only names were inscribed hint that this was a curse tablet’ (Curbera 2015, 102–04). Here the lead was what mattered, and perhaps the staple’s utility as an instrument for ‘binding down’ broken ceramic sherds. There is even evidence that lead tablets, once shaped to size and flattened, could themselves be recycled and reused. The pliability of the lead allowed previous texts to be rubbed out and erased from the surface, though traces of these earlier spells are often visible beneath the later ‘top’ inscriptions.15 It is thought that the process of depositing tablets in graves also afforded an opportunity to ‘re-stock’ or recycle supernatural supplies for future spells (Ogden 1999, 19). Curbera (2015, 108) suggests that composers of curse tablets would dig up and reuse their own tablets: ‘[a]fter a period of time, enough for the curse to have the desired effect, the magicians may have thought it useless to leave them in the ground and dug them up to be used again.’ Lead, then, appealed for use in curse tablets because it was pliable and well suited for writing and, it turns out, for reuse and rewriting. Another important consideration, especially in Attica (whence roughly half of all early Greek curse tablets come), was the abundance, availability, and cheapness of lead as a writing medium. The Laurion silver mines in south-eastern Attica provided a ready supply of lead, which was itself a by-product of silver smelting; put another way, every silver mine was also a major source of lead. This helps account for the emergence of lead curse tablets in Attica by the mid-fifth century bce, and their great floruit in the fourth century bce. These were the periods in which the Laurion mines were quite productive, and lead readily available. Vogl, Curbera, and colleagues have demonstrated through lead isotope analysis that the ‘large number of investigated Attic curse tablets together with the dating information

Figure 9.2. Attic lead curse tablet with drill hole, c. 400 bce. Found by Maria Petritaki near Agios Ioannis Rentis (Piraeus Museum). Photograph by author.

Figure 9.3. Attic lead curse tablet of irregular shape: melted lead offcut. c. 400 bce. Found by Maria Petritaki near Agios Ioannis Rentis (Piraeus Museum). Photograph by author.

for the Attic curse tablets (fourth to third century bce) points to the exploitation of a single silver-lead source in the Laurion ore district’.16 During the earlier fifth and fourth centuries bce, it seems that the Laurion mines also produced the lead tablets used for oracular consultation at Dodona (see book’s Introduction);

14 cf. DTA 33 and DTA 34, two lead offcuts that were flattened out in 16 Vogl and others 2018, 1121 and passim. Conclusions show that preparation for writing; their shape is similar to that of MΠ 11952 production continued in Attica through the third century bce, above, but they are otherwise much thinner and lighter. which forces a down-dating of Faraone’s claim that the steady supply 15 DTA 8, 12, 16, 23, 67, 84, 90, 125, 138, with Curbera 2015, 106–08 of Laurion silver (and lead as a by-product of silver smelting), See now Curbera and Lamont 2023, nos 3-24.. begins to dwindle after the fourth century bce (Faraone 2012, 117).

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this suggests that as a raw material lead itself could be exported and traded great distances in the Classical Greek world, and used for the task of writing — from divination to cursing (Vogl and others 2018, 1111, 1122). Lead need not have come from the mines directly, of course. It could have been taken from intermediary sources in the public realm, such as water pipes; one later recipe from the Greek Magical Papyri instructs those looking to ‘silence, subject, and restrain’ an enemy to ‘take lead from a cold-water pipe and make a lamella and inscribe it with a bronze stylus […] and set it with a person who has died before their time’ (PGM VII. 396–404). Lead’s relatively low melting point also allowed for easy recasting. In this regard, that curses were written on lead seems unsurprising and perhaps unremarkable. The practice might be seen in relation to the spread of writing, as lead was in use as a writing medium since the Archaic period. Indeed, Christopher Faraone has argued that the perceived ‘upswing’ in Athenian cursing during the fourth century bce is in fact an echo of the inroads made by literacy and writing, rather than a collective increase in superstition or sense of risk. In other words, the increased number of Attic curse tablets during the fourth century — like contemporary inscriptions on stone — reflects the dissemination of writing as a more broadly accessible technology.17 This proves relevant for another reason. It was only the expansion of writing, and the writing of curses on lead, that afforded an intimate familiarity with lead’s material properties (coldness, heaviness) and its cheapness or ready availability. The incising of curses on lead became so habitually familiar — in the sense of Bourdieu’s praxis theory and Bell’s concept of ritualization — as to metaphorically instantiate the desired effect of the curse upon its victim. Certain physical properties of the lead were soon considered especially fitting for ‘binding’ and conveying an enemy to the realm of the Underworld. Here we need not speculate — a handful of fourth-century Attic curses cite the importance of lead to the ritual practice: 1. DTA 107a.4–5: καὶ ὡς οὗτος ὁ βόλυβδος ἄτιμος καὶ ψυχρός, οὕτω ἐκενος καὶ τὰ ἐκενω ἄτιμα [κ]|αὶ ψυρχὰ ἔστω […] (And just as this lead is worthless and cold, so too may that man and his affairs be worthless and cold!)

(And just as this lead is useless, so too many the words and deeds of those written here be useless!) 3. DTA 105b.1–2: ὡς οὗ[το]ς ὁ μόλυ[βδ]ος ψυχρὸς καὶ ἄ[θ]υμος [οὕτως καὶ τὰ τῶν ἐνταῦθα γεγ]|ραμμένων ψυχρ[ὰ ταὶ ἄθυμα ἔστω] καὶ ἔπη καὶ ἔργα κ[αὶ γλῶττα .......] ( Just as this lead is cold and lifeless, [so too may the] words and deeds [and tongues of those herein] written be cold [and lifeless!]) We have already encountered DTA 107, but DTA 105–06 also emphasize the lead support as an exploitable and expressive material for use within curse practice. Several physical properties of the lead are invoked for transfer to the spell’s target: its coldness, worthlessness, and lifelessness. Here materiality conveys force and meaning. For example, DTA 105 bids that the words and deeds of its victims become ψυχρά and ἄθυμα (‘cold’ and ‘lifeless’) like the lead undergoing incision. The adjective ἄθυμος could recall the lead’s ashen colour, which resembled the hue of human skin in or approaching death.18 The composer of the curse would have felt the lead’s chill as he pressed the stylus into the soft metal, and its inert coldness could recall the corpse(s) with which curse tablets were often buried.19 Benedetto Bravo (1987, 198–203) argued that curse tablets were buried in tombs on account of the contact that they provided with the dead. The physical proximity held analogical significance; like the use of lead, the placement of a curse with a dead body extended the metaphor that the victim of the spell was to be rendered ἄθυμος — ineffective, lifeless, and inert. DTA 107 also harnesses the lead’s coldness for supernatural exploitation, along with another feature of the material, its ‘cheapness’ or ‘worthlessness’ (καὶ ὡς οὗτος ὁ βόλυβδος ἄτιμος καὶ ψυχρός, οὕτω ἐκενος καὶ τὰ ἐκενω ἄτιμα [κ]|αὶ ψυρχὰ ἔστω, DTA 107a.4–5). The adjective ἄτιμος is interpreted in the sense of without (-ἀ) price or value (τιμή), ‘worthless’.20 But, as I have shown elsewhere, something else seems to be at play here (Lamont 2021). Perhaps ἄτιμος was intended to be more polyvalent than this — the adjective can be double-edged. The Greek term had another meaning in contexts of litigation, where it signified someone legally

2. DTA 106b.1–2: καὶ ὡς οὗτος ὁ μόλυβδος ἄχρηστος, ὣς ἄχρηστα 18 As noted by Aristotle, apud Plin., HN, xi. 114. 275. εἶναι τῶν ἐνταῦθα γεγραμμένων | καὶ ἔπη καὶ ἔργα 19 Arrington (2018, 16) has recently demonstrated the physical

importance of ‘touch’ in funerary ritual; he notes that ‘touching the dead helped the living understand and accept the transformed state of the body’. 20 cf. Hom., Od., xvi. 431; Xen., Vect., iv. 10. e.g. Gager 1992; 17 Not a social or emotional shift in the Athenian collective: Eidinow 2007. Faraone 2012, 115–16 On this topic see now Lamont 2023, 178-80..

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‘deprived of civic rights’ (Hdt. i. 173; Soph., El., 1214; Dem. xv. 33, xxi. 32; Lys. xii. 21; cf. ἀτιμία). As this curse was occasioned by a judicial context, targeting Pherenikos in addition to his advocate in court (σύνδικος), it is likely that ἄτιμος was meant in both the material sense of ‘worthless’ (indicative of the lead’s value) and also the legal sense of ‘disenfranchised’ — an optimal outcome for an opponent in court. Thus the spell may have cheekily meant something like, ‘just as this lead is ἄτιμος (worthless) and cold, so too may that man and his affairs be ἄτιμα (deprived of civic rights in court) and cold!’ This expression (οὕτω ἐκεῖνος καὶ τὰ ἐκείνω ἄτιμα […] ἔστω) can be found in contemporary Athenian law, where it refers to civic disenfranchisement. A fourth-century law quoted by Demosthenes employs ἄτιμος ἔστω (let him be disfranchised) in the final clause (Dem. xxiv. 50): ἐὰν δέ τις τῶν προέδρων δῷ τινι τὴν ἐπιχειροτονίαν, ἢ αὐτῷ τῷ ὠφληκότι ἢ ἄλλῳ ὑπὲρ ἐκείνου, πρὶν ἐκτεῖσαι, ἄτιμος ἔστω. (and if any Commissioner shall allow the question to be put for anyone, whether for the person fined or for another on his behalf, let him be disfranchised!) In both DTA 107 and Dem. xxiv. 50, each composed in fourth-century bce Athens, the present active imperative ἔστω occurs with ἄτιμος/ἄτιμα in a legal/ judicial context. It seems that this was a site in which the composer was toying with the tablet’s materiality and the language of the curse itself. The worthlessness of the lead was transferred to the curse’s target, along with a wish for the most punishing of juridical penalties: the loss of civic rights. The similia similibus motif observed in DTA 105–07 takes another form in DTA 96–97, which use the lead to target the victims’ faculties of speech: 1. DTA 96.12–14: ἡ γλῶσσ’ αὐτοῦ |μόλυβδος γένοι|το. (May his tongue become lead!) 2. DTA 97.7–8, 21–23, 39–40: ἡ γλῶσσα αὐτοῦ |μόλυβδος γένοιτο […] ἡ γ[λ]ῶσ|σα αὐτῶν καὶ ἡ ψυχὴ μόλυ|βδος γένοιτο […] ἡ γλῶσσα αὐτῆς μό|λυβδος γένοιτο (May his tongue become lead! May their tongue and soul become lead! May her tongue become lead!) Here the lead’s heaviness is implicated in the spell, and metonymically willed upon the tongues of the victims. The tongue is a common anatomical target

in curses aimed at courtroom opponents; implicit is the idea of silencing the victim by way of binding or restraining his faculties of speech. The victim would lose the ability to speak or communicate articulately if his tongue became heavy and lead-like, as it were, and he would thus be forced to keep silent with testimony suppressed. Lead is referenced in several other curse tablets, too; targets are bound down ‘in lead’ (DTA 55, NGCT 79), and the act of writing ‘on lead’ could be noted in the spell itself (SGD 124). These texts demonstrate that lead’s ready availability, value (cheapness), and other material properties (coldness, heaviness, lifelessness) were recognized and harnessed by curse writers, and then willed upon the spells’ victims. The lead came to metonymically embody the spell’s desired intention. The process of production — of cutting, hammering, manipulating, incising, folding, piercing, and depositing the lead tablet — left an indelible mark upon curse-writers. By the early fourth century bce, lead had become an important part of ritualized cursing praxis. The popularity of lead as a choice cursing medium in Athens helped propel its use outside the Attic polis, too.21 Curbera and colleagues have demonstrated through lead isotope analysis that a group of tablets from Tanagra, Megara, and Melos ‘were all made from Laurion lead, perhaps brought to these places by itinerant Attic magicians’; in fact, much of the lead in circulation in the Greek mainland during the Classical period can be traced through isotope analysis back to the Laurion silver/lead mines.22 With an abundance of lead and a demand for binding spells, Athens likely cornered the market on curse tablets during the Classical period, and solidified the use of lead as an essential part of the practice. The spread of curse practice beyond Attica then came with the notion that lead was intrinsic to the ritual itself.23 Some lead curse tablets were even left uninscribed — presumably their spells were pronounced orally rather than committed to writing — but the lead tablets were still pierced by nails and deposited underground.24 Here the lead medium came to substitute for the written curse; the ritual could be effective without text incised upon the lead tablets, in other words, so long as the lead itself was present in the ritual.

21 During the Hellenistic and Roman periods, ‘lead was almost exclusively used for magic texts’: Vogl and others 2018, 1116. 22 In the Wünsch collection, DTA vii–ix: see Curbera 2015, 98 with n. 5; Vogl and others 2018. 23 So too Eidinow 2007, 141; Curbera 2015, 98. 24 Two of the tablets from the hippodrome at Carthage were uninscribed (Pintozzi and Norman 1992, 12) and many of those from the shrine to Sulis Minerva at Roman Bath in England (which contain tin alloy, Tomlin 1988, 117–22).

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Figure 9.4. Attic lead curse tablet, c. 350–300 bce. Found in a grave in Piraeus in 1872. Republished by Curbera from within the Wünsch collection (DTA 67). Written from right to left (retrograde); drawing courtesy of Jaime Curbera.

tablet’s surface.27 Here the materiality of text could serve as a powerful tool for cursing: the script itself could be distorted to express the intention of the spell. Thus, by scrambling the letters in the name of the target, the target himself would become scrambled. By reversing the direction of the script, the target himself would become ‘reversed’ or confused. Let us explore two examples of this phenomenon from the fourth century bce.28 Found in a grave in Piraeus in 1872, DTA 67 dates from 350–300 bce and was recently restudied by Curbera from within the Wünsch collection (DTA 67.8–11, Fig. 9.4). Written from right to left (retrograde), the text asks: ὥσπερ ταῦτα ψυχρὰ καὶ ἐπαρίστερα|οὕτως τὰ Κράτητος τὰ ῥήματα ψυχρὰ [καὶ |ἐπαρί]στερα γέν[οι]το κα[ὶ] τῶν μετ’ ἐκ[είνου | πάντων] […] ( Just as these [words] are cold and backwards, so too may the words of Krates become cold and backwards, and [the words] of all those with him!)

Figure 9.5. DTA 108, Attic lead curse tablet, fourth century bce. Koumanoudis 1869, 333.

Lead could be metaphorically significant for other reasons, too. Lead’s ability to melt was ritually exploited by later Latin curses from the sanctuary of Mater Magna in Mainz (70–130 ce).25 The grim wishes of these tablets were communicated to the Underworld by way of their melting-down in a sacrificial firepit behind the temple. Gordon notes that the manipulation of these lead tablets during the ritual came to influence the spell itself, as the texts request, ‘may their limbs melt (liquescant) just as this lead shall melt (quatmodum hoc plumbum liquescat), so that it shall be their death!’26 Here another material property of lead, its meltability, was made to matter in later cursing praxis of the Latin West. The incision and formulation of text upon the lead tablet was another site for engagement with materiality. Once the thin metal strip was cut and shaped, a stylus was used to inscribe a binding formula or, at the very least, the targets’ names upon the

25 Blänsdorf 2012. 26 Gordon 2015, 164–65 n. 67, with other examples from Blänsdorf 2012, no. 12.

The primary goal of this judicial curse is that of reversal. This is expressed materially by the script, which was written from right to left, and again by the text semantically. The text’s backward direction was referenced by the curse itself; just as the words run from right to left, it is wished that Krates’ lawcourt speech will likewise emerge backward and confused, i.e. from right to left (ἐπαρίστερα).29 Characters were manipulated and incised in a way that mirrored the desired effect of the spell upon its victim. At work is the phenomenon of analogical or sympathetic magic, in which the twisting of a victim’s name was meant to distort or invert the victim himself and his affairs. Another Attic text, DTA 108, captures the same phenomenon at work in a slightly different way (Fig. 9.5). Here two female names in the nominative case were incised in large upside-down letters, with one name also written retrograde: DTA 108A.3–4, B.1–4: Δήσω ἐγὼ κ|είνην ὑπὸ Τάρταρον ἀερόεντ[α] B.1 δεσμοῖς ἀργαλείοις σύν θ’ Ἑκάτει χθον|ίαι

27 For such a bronze stylus, found with blank lead tablets, see Curbera 2015. 28 Rabehl 1906, 7; Poccetti 2002, 47–48; in his excellent discussion, Gordon 2015, 165–72 calls the phenomenon ‘pseudo-paragraphia’. 29 cf. DTA 110.

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upside down Σωσίκλεια. Βιττώ. καὶ Ἐρινύσιν ἠλιθιώναις.30

(I bind her under murky Tartarus in bitter bonds, with Hekate Chthonia — SOSIKLEA BITTO — and the bewildering Furies!)

[πο]τῶι: ‘I bind them all in lead and in wax and in water/ wine/thread/blood and in idleness and in obscurity and in ill-repute and in defeat and among tombs!’ (DTA 55.17–19).32 Though removed in time and space from the Classical curses under consideration, the Greek Magical Papyri capture an array of spoken incantations, ritual actions, and materia magica employed during the cursing process; these included chants, recited and repeated oral formulae, wax figures, yarn, animals, flowers, and more. The papyri spells also note the presence within cursing praxis of ousia, bits of hair, fingernails, or clothing — the very essence or ‘being’ — from the person being cursed, especially in erotic curses (e.g. PGM IV. 296–335, cf. Ap., Met., iii. 17). A curse tablet from the Athenian Agora was found to contain several strands of brown hair, which likely assisted in ‘targeting’ the spell against the woman Tyche (Agora Inv. IL 1737; Jordan 1985, third century ce). Two curse tablets from Rome included pieces of folded cloth within the tablet, which presumably belonged to their victims.33 Such organics rarely survive in the archaeological record, but once formed important parts of the ritual process. In this way, too, materiality as it relates to the object’s archaeological context proves informative. Toward the end of the binding ritual, the lead tablet was often folded and, in the Classical period, pierced with a nail. Hundreds of nailed tablets demonstrate that nailing the lead was an important part of the process, and could become an inherent part of cursing praxis much like the lead sheet.34 Ancient nails were usually made of iron, and could pierce more than one tablet. Figure 9.6 shows a Roman iron nail from the first century bce that pierced five lead curse tablets; toward the head of the nail, lead fragments are still affixed in place.35 No source explains just why this violent act transpired, but it likely aimed to fix the curse to its target, and restrain

The first woman, Sosiklea, is probably the target of the spell, and her name appears upside down. The identity of the second woman, Bitto, is unclear, but she was likely the commissioner of the spell; her name appears upside down and is also reversed, incised from right to left. The formatting of the text gives the impression that Sosiklea and Bitto are colliding into one another — in text, like in life, they are presented in confrontation. Indeed, Koumanoudis first noticed this when preparing his 1869 edition of the text, well before the tablet entered the Wünsch collection. He eloquently wondered why ἀντιπαρετάχθησαν τὰ δύω ὀνόματα ὀρθὰ ὡς πετεινάρια μαχόμενα (the[se] two names were placed against each other, like fighting cocks?).31 Fighting cocks, indeed. The scribe positioned these two names in a way that signified through the text itself the bewildering, disorienting effects the spell was meant to call down. Furthermore, both inverted names are positioned directly above the Ἐρινύσιν ἠλιθιώναις (the bewildering Erinyes). I suspect that this juxtaposition of text was also a deliberate choice on the part of the scribe, positioned to give the appearance that these two names — upside down and, in the case of Bitto, from right to left — were indeed confounded and scrambled, as though acted upon by the ‘disorienting Erinyes’ who populate the line directly below them. Such orthographic manipulations, what Gordon (2015) calls ‘pseudo-paragraphia’, aligned the spell’s intentions (expressed semantically) with the materiality of the text. These sorts of textual flourishes appear frequently in the fourth century bce, the time by which writing was becoming familiar to a larger portion of the population. Like the spells harnessing lead as part of their supernatural arsenal, textual orthography was another way of materially expressing the malediction’s goals. 32 ἐμ [βρό]τωι is probably the best restoration: Hesych. β 1203 ed. Latte s.v. βρότον· τὸ αἷμα […] σημαίνει τὸν ἐκ φόνου After the text was inscribed, scrambled or not, other λύθρον, Schol. Il. 14.7 οὐ πᾶν αἷμα βρότος, ἀλλὰ τὸ ἀπὸ βροτοῦ materials could be added into the ritual. For example, πεφονευμένου. For ἐμ [μί]τωι, see Parker 2005, 127. one Attic curse tablet mentions the presence of organic 33 Bevilacqua and others 2012, 230, figs 9–10; Gordon 2015, 160 n. 46. materials within the binding ritual such as wax and a 34 The nail became so central to cursing praxis that occasionally it liquid (water or wine), or possibly ‘magic thread’ or was just ‘thrown into’ the rite without puncturing the lead tablet; ‘blood’ if we accept ἐμ [μί]τωι or ἐμ [βρό]τωι over ἐμ SGD 42 for example was just folded around a nail, so too SEG

30 The text given here incorporates Curbera’s cleaning and re-editing of the texts in Berlin, as helpfully relayed in Zerhoch 2015, 351–52. It thus differs slightly from Wünsch’s 1897 editio, copied by much recent scholarship, e.g. Eidinow 2007, 387–88. 31 Koumanoudis 1869, 333.

49. 1302. Nails: see the verb ἐπεγκροσω in an Attic curse from the early fourth century bce, which anticipated the physical act of striking the tablet with a nail (Lamont 2015); another Attic curse tablet, DT 49. 17–18, instead uses the verb καταπατταλεύω for the act of nailing down; DTA 97 thrice employs the violent formula κέντησον τὴν γλῶσσαν (stab the tongue!). 35 On nails, see Sánchez Natalías 2018, 50; Gordon 2015, 158–61; Curbera 2015, 105.

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with a nail also physically damaged the incised names, a symbolic harming of the target’s person, and sealed shut the tablet’s contents. Finally, incised lead curse tablets were deposited in subterranean locales — graves, wells, fountains/baths, and the shrines of chthonic deities — in order to access powerful agents associated with the Underworld. The majority of early Greek curse tablets have emerged from funerary contexts, and several were even placed into the hand of the corpse itself.37 The grave and its corpse were surely understood as conduits of sorts, through which the curse could be conveyed to the Underworld. This explains why curse tablets were also deposited in wells, fountains, and cisterns — the point was to get the message to a subterranean locale, where the spell could be acted upon by chthonic deities.38

Conclusion

Figure 9.6. Iron nail, first century bce. Lead fragments from five pierced curse tablets affixed to head of the nail. Baltimore, Johns Hopkins Archaeological Museum, inv. JHUAM 2011.06. Photo courtesy of Johns Hopkins Archaeological Museum.

or pin-down the victim’s will, speech, or abilities.36 The nails would have emphasized the notion of binding, as they literally pegged, pierced, or restricted the individuals named on the tablet. Piercing the tablet

36 cf. the role of nails in connection with the personified goddess Compulsion: ‘Savage Compulsion always strides in front of you, carrying beam nails (clavos trabalis et cuneos) and pegs in her brazen hand, not without the immovable clamp and lead for melting down (liquidumque plumbum)’, Hor., Od., i. 35. 17–20; cf. Hor., Od., iii. 24. 4–7.

Greek curse practice, we might conclude, was very much concerned with materiality. In examining lead curse tablets, this chapter drew upon different theories of affect and materiality to highlight the ability of objects to act upon humans through their material and sensory properties. Lead curse tablets drew their composers into their affective environments, and reveal to modern audiences the entangled relationships between material, text, context, and agency. Lead became the material par excellence for curse writing, not only because of its abundance in Attica, but also for the material properties of the medium itself. The Classical period saw the emergence of more texts that engage with what we today think of as an object’s materiality, its physicality. As the technology of writing became less of a novelty, and literacy expanded and spread, a dawning awareness of the medium’s materiality emerged in curses of fourth-century Attica — where the practice of curse-writing proliferated. Lead, like Parian marble, was a material that mattered deeply for conveying meaning in Greek ritual practice. Materiality-based perspectives provide a framework for putting material, visual, and textual evidence into dialogue, with insights that extend well beyond the semantic meaning of the inscribed text.

37 Jordan 1985, 207. Corpses holding curse tablets in right hand: SGD 1–2, with new material in Kroustalis and Tsaravopoulos 2008. 38 However, see Bravo 1987, 198–203; Johnston 1999a, 85 argues instead that the dead themselves enacted the invocations/ instructions of the curse upon the named victim(s). Again, we should assume a variety of explanations for a practice so decentralized and unregulated as cursing.

9. i nscri b e d mat e ri ali t i e s: gre e k cu rse tablets

Works Cited Arrington, Nathan. 2018. ‘Touch and Remembrance in Greek Funerary Art’, The Art Bulletin, 100.3: 7–27 Bell, Catherine. 1992. Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Betz, Hans Dieter. 1992. The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, including the Demotic Spells, 2nd edn (Chicago: University of Chicago Press) Bevilacqua, Gabriella. 2010. Scrittura e magia: un repertorio di oggetti iscritti della magia greco-romana (Rome: Quasar) Bevilacqua, Gabriella, Olimpia Colacicchi Alessandri, and Maria Riti Giuliani. 2012. ‘Tracce di ousia in una defixio dalla via Ostiense: un lavoro multidisciplinare’, in Contextos màgicos/Contesti magici, ed. by Marina Piranomonte and Francisco Marco Simón (Rome: De Luca Editori d’Arte), pp. 229–36 Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice, trans. by Richard Nice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Blänsdorf, Jürgen (ed.). 2012. Die defixionum tabellae des Mainzer Isis- und Mater Magna- Heiligtums: defixionum tabellae Mogontiacenses, Forschung zur Lotharpassage 1, Mainzer archäologische Schriften, 9 (Mainz: Generaldirektion Kulturelles Erbe (GDKE), Direktion Landesarchäologie) Boschung, Dietrich, and Jan Bremmer (eds). 2015. The Materiality of Magic, Morphomata, 20: Internationales Kolleg Morphomata (Paderborn: Fink) Bravo, Benedetto. 1987. ‘Une tablette magique d’Olbia Pontique, les morts, les héros et les démons’, in Poikilia: Études offertes à Jean-Pierre Vernant, Recherches d’histoire et de sciences sociales 26 (Paris: Éditions de l’École des hautes études en sciences sociales), pp. 185–218 Bremmer, Jan. 2010. ‘Manteis, Magic, Mysteries and Mythography: Messy Margins of Polis Religion?’, Kernos, 23: 13–35 Chairetakis, Yannis. 2018. ‘Cursing Rituals as Part of Household Cult: A Fourth Century bc Inscribed Bowl from Salamis’, in Popular Religion and Ritual in Prehistoric and Ancient Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean, ed. by Giorgos Vavouranakis, Konstantinos Kopanias, and Chrysanthos Kanellopoulos (Oxford: Archaeopress), pp. 137–42 Christian, Timo. 2014. Gebildete Steine: Zur Rezeption literarischer Techniken in den Versinschriften seit dem Hellenismus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht) Collins, Derek. 2008. Magic in the Ancient Greek World (Malden: Blackwell) Connor, Steven. 2000. Dumbstruck: A Cultural History of Ventriloquism (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Curbera, Jaime. 1999. ‘Defixiones’, in Sicilia epigraphica: atti del convegno internazionale, Erice 15–18 ottobre 1998, ed. by Maria Ida Gulletta (Pisa: Scuola Normale Superiore), pp. 159–86 ——. 2015. ‘From the Magician’s Workshop: Notes on the Materiality of Greek Cure Tablets’, in The Materiality of Magic, ed. by Dieter Boschung and Jan N. Bremmer (Leiden: Brill), pp. 97–122 Curbera, Jaime, and Jessica Lamont. 2023. ‘Classical and Hellenistic Curse Tablets from the Athenian Agora’, Hesperia, 92.2: Dickie, Matthew. 2003. Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World (New York: Routledge) Eidinow, Esther. 2007. Oracles, Curses, and Risk among the Ancient Greeks (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Faraone, Christopher. 1985. ‘Aeschylus’ Humnos Desmios (Eum. 306) and Attic Judicial Curse Tablets’, Journal of Hellenic Studies, 105: 150–54 ——. 1989. ‘An Accusation of Magic in Classical Athens (Ar. Wasps 946–48)’, Transactions of the American Philological Association, 119: 149–60 ——. 1991. ‘The Agonistic Context of Early Greek Binding Spells’, in Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic & Religion, ed. by Christopher Faraone and Dirk Obbink (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 3–32 ——. 1992. Talismans and Trojan Horses: Guardian Statues in Ancient Greek Myth and Ritual (Oxford: Oxford University Press) ——. 1995. ‘The “Performative Future” in Three Hellenistic Incantations and Theocritus’ Second Idyll’, Classical Philology, 90.1: 1–15 ——. 2010. ‘Kronos and the Titans as Powerful Ancestors: A Case Study of the Greek Gods in Later Magical Spells’, in The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations, ed. by Jan Bremmer and Andrew Erskine (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press), pp. 388–405 ——. 2012. ‘The Problem of Dense Concentrations of Data for Cartographers (and Chronographers) of Ancient Mediterranean Magic: Some Illustrative Case Studies from the East’, in Contextos màgicos/Contesti magici, ed. by Marina Piranomonte and Francisco Marco Simón (Rome: De Luca Editori d’Arte), pp. 103–10 Faraone, Christopher, and Dirk Obbink (eds). 1991. Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic & Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Frankfurter, David (ed.). 2019. Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic (Leiden: Brill) Gager, John. 1992. Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World (Oxford: Oxford University Press)

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Gell, Alfred. 1977. ‘Magic, Perfume, Dream’, in Symbols and Sentiments: Cross-cultural Studies in Symbolism, ed. by Ioan Lewis (London: Academic Press), pp. 25–38 ——. 1998. Art and Agency: Towards a New Anthropological Theory (Oxford: Clarendon) Gordon, Richard. 1999. ‘“What’s in a List?” Listing in Greek and Graeco Roman Malign Magical Texts’, in The World of Ancient Magic: Papers from the First International Samson Eitrem Seminar at the Norwegian Institute at Athens, 4–8 May 1997, ed. by Hugo Montgomery, David R. Jordan, and Einar Thomassen (Bergen: Norwegian Institute at Athens), pp. 239–78 ——. 2015. ‘Showing the Gods the Way: Curse-Tablets as Deictic Persuasion’, Religion in the Roman Empire, 1.2: 148–80 Graf, Fritz. 1997. Magic in the Ancient World, trans. by Franklin Philip (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press) Harris, Edward. 2004. ‘Notes on a Lead Letter from the Athenian Agora’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, 102: 157–70 Higbie, Carolyn. 2003. The Lindian Chronicle and the Greek Creation of their Past (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Hodder, Ian. 2012. Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships Between Humans and Things (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell) Ingold, Tim. 2013. Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture (London: Routledge) Johnston, Sarah Iles. 1999a. ‘Songs for the Ghosts: Magical Solutions to Deadly Problems’, in The World of Ancient Magic: Papers from the First International Samson Eitrem Seminar at the Norwegian Institute at Athens, 4–8 May 1997, ed. by Hugo Montgomery, David R. Jordan, and Einar Thomassen (Bergen: Norwegian Institute at Athens), pp. 83–102 ——. 1999b. Restless Dead: Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University of California) ——. 2008. Ancient Greek Divination (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell) Jordan, David. 1985. ‘Defixiones from a Well near the Southwest Corner of the Athenian Agora’, Hesperia, 54: 198–252 ——. 2000. ‘A Personal Letter Found in the Athenian Agora’, Hesperia, 69: 91–103 Koumanoudis, Stephanos. 1869. Ἀρχαιολογική ἐφημερíς: ἐκδιδομένη της Ἀρχαιολογικής Ἐταιρείας, 1869: 333 Kroustalis, Evangelos, and Aris Tsaravopoulos. 2008. ‘The Late Classical Cemetery of the Ayios Dionysios Rail Station in Piraeus’, in Funerary Practices in Central and Eastern Europe (10th c. bc – 3rd c. ad), ed. by Valeriu Sîrbu and Radu Stefănescu (Istros: Muzeul Brăilei), pp. 131–52 Lamont, Jessica. 2015. ‘A New Commercial Curse Tablet from Classical Athens’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 196: 159–74 ——. 2021. ‘Cold and Worthless: The Role of Lead in Curse Tablets’, TAPA, 151.1: 35–68 Lamont, Jessica. 2023. In Blood and Ashes: Curse Tablets and Binding Spells in Ancient Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Malafouris, Lambros. 2013. How Things Shape the Mind: A Theory of Material Engagement (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press) Miller, Daniel (ed.). 2005. Materiality (Durham, NC: Duke University Press) Münsterberg, Rudolf. 1904. ‘Zu den attischen Fluchtafeln’, Jahreshefte des österreichischen archäologischen Instituts in Wien, 7: 141–45 Ogden, Daniel. 1999. ‘Binding Spells: Curse Tablets and Voodoo Dolls in the Greek and Roman Worlds’, in Witchcraft and Magic in Europe: Ancient Greece and Rome, ed. by Valerie Flint, Richard Gordon, Geog Luck, and Daniel Ogden (London: Athlone), pp. 3–90 Parker, Robert. 2005. Polytheism and Society at Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press) ——. 2011. On Greek Religion (Ithaca: Cornell University Press) Petrovic, Andrej, Ivana Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas (eds). 2019. The Materiality of Text: Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity, Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy, 11 (Leiden: Brill) Pintozzi, Lisa, and Naomi Norman. 1992. ‘The Lead Curse Tablets from the Carthage Circus’, Archaeological News, 17: 11–18 Poccetti, Paolo. 2002. ‘Manipolazione della realtà e manipolazione della lingua: alcuni aspetti dei testi magici dell’antichità’, in Linguaggio, linguaggi, invenzione, scoperta: atti del convegno, Macerata-Fermo, 22–23 ottobre 1999, ed. by Ruggero Morresi (Rome: Il calamo), pp. 11–59 Polinskaya, Irene. 2021. ‘Inscribed Ceramic Bowls and Other Curses from Classical and Hellenistic Olbia’, in Curses in Context III: Greek Curse Tablets of the Classical and Hellenistic Periods, ed. by Christopher Faraone and Irene Polinskaya, (Athens: Papers and Monographs from the Norwegian Institute at Athens), pp. 135–204 Rabehl, Walter. 1906. De sermone defixionum Atticarum (Berlin: Driesner) Renfrew, Colin, and Lambros Malafouris (eds). 2010. The Cognitive Life of Things: Recasting the Boundaries of the Mind (Cambridge: McDonald Institute) Sánchez Natalías, Celia. 2018. ‘The Medium Matters: Materiality and Metaphor in Some Latin Curse Tablets’, in Material Approaches to Roman Magic: Occult Objects and Supernatural Substances, ed. by Adam Parker and Stuart McKie, TRAC Themes in Roman Archaeology, 2 (Oxford: Oxbow), pp. 9–16 Tilley, Christopher. 1991. Metaphor and Material Culture (Oxford: Blackwell)

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Tomlin, Roger. 1988. ‘The Curse Tablets’, in The Temple of Sulis-Minerva at Bath, ii: The Finds of the Sacred Spring, ed. by Barry W. Cunliffe, Oxford University Committee for Archaeology Monograph, 16 (Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology). pp. 4–277 Tsagalis, Christos. 2008. Inscribing Sorrow: Fourth-Century Attic Funerary Epigrams, Trends in Classics Supplementary Volumes, 1 (Berlin: De Gruyter) Vogl, Jochen, Martin Rosner, Jaime Curbera, Uwe Peltz, and Burkhard Peplinski. 2018. ‘Lead Isotope Analysis in Magic Artefacts from the Berlin Museums’, Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences, 10.5: 1111–27 Voutiras, Emmanuel. 1998. ΔIONYΣOΦΩNTOΣ ΓAMOI: Marital Life and Magic in Fourth Century Pella (Amsterdam: Gieben) Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Ulrich von. 1929. ‘Kronos und die Titanen’, Sitzungsberichte Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1929: 35–53 Willi, Andreas. 2008. Sikelismos: Sprache, Literatur und Gesellschaft in griechischen Sizilien (8.-5. Jh. v. Chr.) (Basel: Schwabe) Zerhoch, Sebastian. 2015. Erinys in Epos, Tragödie und Kult (Berlin: De Gruyter) Ziebarth, Erich. 1934. Neue Verfluchungstafeln aus Attika, Boiotien und Euboia, Sonderausgabe aus den Sitzungsberichten der Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-historische Klasse, 33 (Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften)

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Sean   V. Leatherbury

10. F ormulating Faith on Objects and Buildings The ‘Light, Life’ Formula in Late Antiquity

Introduction In the last decade or so, the material supports of ancient texts, and the ways in which those supports shaped the production (writing) and reception (reading or viewing) of texts, have been recognized as critical areas of study that have been ignored by previous scholarship. A great deal of ink has been spilled of late on issues of textual visuality and materiality.1 However, there remains much to do, especially on texts written in miniature on smaller objects rather than on public monuments or buildings.2 This paper engages with a late antique text that crosses boundaries between media, a short, two-word verbal formula that packs a punch in spite of its brevity: φῶς ζωή (light, life). Most popular in the sixth century ce, this Christian formula, which usually appears in a cross-format that joins the two words together by their central omegas, refers to the words of Christ in the Gospel of John, delivered to a mixed crowd of believers and sceptics at the Temple in Jerusalem: ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life (τὸ φῶς τῆς ζωῆς)’ ( John 8. 12). Earlier in the gospel, the narrator foreshadows Christ’s proclamation: ‘In him (Christ) was life, and that life was the light of all humankind’ ( John 1. 4). As a formula, for Christians, it proclaims the hope of the faithful for salvation through the figure of Christ, who sacrificed himself to cleanse humankind of sin.



1 See e.g. Eastmond 2015; Bedos-Rezak and Hamburger 2016; Berti and others 2017; Petrovic and others 2018; Leatherbury 2019. 2 On these, Leatherbury 2017a.

To date, the formula’s relative frequency in the material record, as well as the apparent simplicity of its Christian message, has obscured the particulars of its range of meanings, especially as it moves between different material supports.3 After briefly considering the long history of words written to form shapes, as well as the rise of early Christian verbal symbols for holy figures such as Christ, this paper focuses on the ‘light, life’ cross-text as it appears on several kinds of surfaces: on small, hollow gold cross pendants, traditionally dated to the sixth and seventh centuries ce, on textiles, and on church mosaic pavements. The formula does appear in other contexts, as on liturgical patens and processional crosses, on small bronze crosses that may have been votive offerings, and on other objects worn on the body such as rings and buckles.4 This essay does not present a full catalogue of extant examples, as some of these have barely been discussed. Instead, it seeks to interrogate the especially personal valence of the text, which is most clearly visible on the cross pendants. While the magical or pseudo-magical properties of inscriptions, especially those written onto jewellery, have been taken up previously, the distinct ways in which formulae operated when worn on the body, or encountered in the physical landscape, have largely remained obscured. By tracing the ‘light, life’ formula between objects and buildings, we get a glimpse of the flexibility and adaptability of texts for different contexts in Late Antiquity, but also the features that moved with the formula as it migrated from bodies to 3 For an early consideration, Leclercq 1939. 4 e.g. Dodd 1973, 26; Mango 1986, 234–35, no. 64; Kondoleon 1994; Fourlas 2017.

Sean V. Leatherbury  •  ([email protected]) Assistant Professor, School of Art History and Cultural Policy, University College Dublin New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 159-172 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133904

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Figure 10.1. Marble relief fragment with scenes from the Trojan War, reverse with ‘Theodorus’ magic square inscription, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. First half of the first century ce. Photo courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, CC0.

of the so-called Tabulae Iliacae, a group of small stone tablets with Trojan War imagery, written in the ‘magic square’ arrangement that allows readers to ‘choose their own adventures’, as Michael Squire has put it.6 This magic square can be deciphered in several different ways, all of which read: ‘The Iliad of Homer, the art (τέχνη) of Theodorus’ (Fig. 10.1). These poems have sometimes been grouped under the category technopaegnia (‘art games’), poems arranged as patterns or as puzzles that demand the audience’s active involvement with reading words and deciphering meanings, which could be related to the form of the poem (e.g. Simmias’s works) as well as to the artistic brilliance of the poet (Theodorus’s technē). In Late Antiquity, writers continued to draw upon the visual experimentation of these traditions, further

buildings and back, reminding us that a text sometimes could convey a relatively stable set of meanings even as it was written onto wildly different materials.

Late Antique Words as Images By the fourth century ce, Greek and Roman authors had been playing with the forms of texts for many centuries. Some of the poets most famous for their formal experimentation include Simmias, the fourth-century bce poet known for his patterned or figured poems (carmina figurata), which take the form of the poem’s subject (e.g. ‘Axe’, or ‘Egg’);5 and the otherwise unknown Theodorus, responsible for at least some of the poems on the backs

5 Ernst 1991.



6 Squire 2011.

10. fo rmu lat i ng fai t h o n o b ject s and b uildings

exploring the graphic possibilities of the word. Most well known today are the fourth-century poems of Optatian Porphyry, which delight in their visuality and materiality in both word and image.7 One of Optatian’s poems, a celebration of the emperor Constantine’s glory, can be read in the usual way, from left to right and top to bottom, and begins with a suggestion of hidden, colourful ‘signs’ in the poem: ‘The heavenly signs will be revealed by reading the cinnabar (minio)’.8 However, within this longer carmen cancellatum (cancelled poem) is an in-text verse in the shape of a trireme with a Christian symbol, the Chi-Rho (an abbreviation for Christos, Christ’s name in Greek, and the emblem of Constantine’s victory over Maxentius and others), as well as ‘VOT XX’, an allusion to the celebration of the emperor’s vicennalia in 326 ce. Later poets would Christianize the tradition of the technopaegnia even further: in the sixth century, the poet Venantius Fortunatus composed a number of pattern poems in the shapes of crosses that were also meant to be read from inside out, celebrating the Christian god as Logos (‘the Word was God’, John 1. 1).9 Formulations such as monograms were commonly used on jewellery and in architectural spaces, displaying the letters of patrons’ names in visually complicated ways.10 Even in less explicitly literary contexts, late antique artists played with the images of letters connected to that all-important Christian symbol, the cross. While we might think of the cross as the Christian symbol par excellence today, it only rose in popularity from the fourth century onwards. Earlier, Christian communities had embraced other symbols for Christ, such as the fish and the anchor:11 both are seen in a third-century epitaph from the Rome, with the fish simultaneously acting as a symbol for Christ as the fisher of men (Matthew 4. 19), and as an acronym, ΙΧΘΥΣ, standing for ‘Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour’ (Fig. 10.2).12 By the fourth century, though, the Chi-Rho (which we have seen already within Optatian’s poem) and the cross were seen not only as reminders of Christ’s gruesome death, but also of his victory over death and the promise of salvation.13 As a symbol, the Chi-Rho especially serves as a visual as well as a verbal articulation of Christ that could stand in for the figure himself, sometimes flanked by the letters alpha and omega, another abbreviated verbal reference to Christ as the beginning and end of all things (Revelation 1. 8).



7 Squire 2015; 2017a; 2017b; Squire and Whitton 2017; Squire and Wienand 2017. 8 Polara 1973, i, 72–75; 2004, 169–75. 9 Graver 1993. 10 Eastmond 2016. 11 Jensen 2000. 12 ICUR 2, 4246; generally, Dölger 1922. 13 Garipzanov 2018; on the uses of crosses on magical objects such as amulets, Sanzo 2016.

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Figure 10.2. Epitaph of Licinia Amias with fish and acronym of Christ’s name (ΙΧΘΥΣ), from the area of the Vatican necropolis, Rome. Early third century ce. Photo by MarieLan Nguyen, in the public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

‘Light, Life’ between Media In the first centuries after the birth of the Christian religion, Christians used abbreviations of names (which became symbols in their own right) to denote sacred figures with expansive histories and significances. Not only did these allow the reduction of the biographies of figures such as Christ to several letters (‘sacred names’, nomina sacra), they also enabled a greater range of the faithful to read and remember the range of concepts associated with his name, also serving as devotional aids or cues for certain prayers that would be recited aloud.14 It is in this context of short arrangements of names and phrases that we should place the ‘light, life’ formula. While the technical term ‘formula’ might seem to indicate the phrase was so common as to have little meaning, in fact formulae could convey powerful significances precisely because of their familiarity to a wide range of audiences of various degrees of literacy.15 In the first centuries ce, the ‘light, life’ formula appears to have been used primarily in funerary contexts east and west, though notably in inscriptions in Greek.16

14 Heath 2010. 15 See e.g. Leatherbury 2016. 16 Peterson 1926, 37–41, who argues for an origin in Syria or Palestine.

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Figure 10.3. Inscription from the south-east corner of the city wall, Aphrodisias. Late fifth–early sixth centuries ce. Photo courtesy of Charlotte Roueché.

The earliest attested epigraphic instance of the ‘light, life’ formula is a funerary inscription in the catacombs of Rome. Dated to the year 238 ce, the Greek inscription memorializes the life and death of an eight-year-old boy: Heraclitus, one who was most beloved by God, lived eight years and thirteen days; he was ill for twelve days. He died eleven days before the Kalends of May, when Pius and Pontianus were consuls. Aurelius Xanthias, father to a child so sweet, of light and life (φωτὸς καὶ ζωῆς).17 Outside of the funerary sphere, and several centuries later, the formula pops up as an acclamation — without the connective καί (and) — in several inscriptions from Aphrodisias in Caria, a city in modern Turkey that flourished in the late antique period. The first occurs on a base of a statue of Flavius Anthemius, praetorian prefect of the east from 405–414 ce, found in the South Agora of the city.18 On the side of the base to the right of the statue dedication, a roughly carved cross that seems to radiate light is flanked by two inscriptions: to

the left, written in two lines, ‘light | life’; and to the right, three letters, chi, mu, and gamma, probably the acronym Χ(ριστὸν) Μ(αρία) Γ(εννᾷ) (‘Mary bore Christ’). The script and scale of these texts is very different from those of the dedication on the front of the base, suggesting that they were carved later, perhaps towards the end of the fifth or beginning of the sixth century (on the dynamics of accumulated inscriptions on statue bases, see also Angliker and Bultrighini’s Introduction to this volume). A second example from the same city, also possibly of late fifth- or early sixth-century date based on its script, was carved onto a block at the entrance to a small gateway in the south-east corner of the city walls: written around a large cross, the words ‘light, life’ are again arranged in two lines (Fig. 10.3).19 In a related arrangement, another formula appears on a facing block at the entrance to the same gate: Χριστὲ νίκα (‘Christ, be victorious!’). While both of these instances of the ‘light, life’ formula appear in connection with the cross, the words of the formula are still conceived of within the linear layout of most carved or painted inscriptions, with one word placed on each line. Writ large in a more or less traditional format, the ‘light, life’ acclamation

17 ICUR 1, 13, n. 8; mentioned by Leclercq 1939. 18 Roueché 2004, no. VIII.144; Reynolds and others 2007, no. 4.310. 19 Roueché 2004, no. VIII.139; Reynolds and others 2007, ii. no. 12.401.

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was placed in two relatively prominent spaces in the cityscape of Aphrodisias — on the base of a statue of a very important official, and at the entrance to one of the city gates, albeit a minor one — indicating that it was meant to be read, either as a blessing for the public benefit of the city, or, alternatively, as a more personal invocation publicly displayed. The use of the formula as an acclamation was not unique to Aphrodisias, but occurs at a range of sites in the eastern Mediterranean, suggesting a more widespread understanding of the power of the short text.20 By the sixth century, the formula had gained a new format that strengthened the connection between text and symbol, both referring to Christ. This new popularity may have been related to the inclusion of John 8. 12 (‘the light of life’) in the regular celebration of the liturgy, as well as the connection between light, life, and the cross in hagiographies, which sometimes record received visions of shining crosses.21 On a small gold cross pendant, only 2.2 cm in height, now in the Milan Archaeological Museum, the words ‘light, life’ written in gold wire are shaped as a cross, connected by the shared omega in the centre (Fig. 10.4). The words are presented as decontextualized from the passage in the Gospel of John, which refers to the ‘light of life’ possessed by Christ’s followers, reducing the themes of the passage to two words. Here, instead, we have phos and zoe both in the nominative case, which are closer to the words of John 1. 4 (the text of John 8. 12 instead uses the genitive form of zoe). The cross in Milan, made of thin gold sheets placed over a core of bone, was excavated in the early 1960s from the sixth-century fort (kastron) at Caesarea Maritima, on the coast of modern-day Israel, its gold material clearly chosen for its preciousness as well as its reflective properties.22 The cross speaks of ‘light’ in word and in material, drawing on the conceptual language of Greek and Roman visions of the divine to present Christ as a shining being, just as he is presented in contemporaneous church mosaics.23 By integrating the text with the cross — as two-dimensional frame, and as three-dimensional object — the goldsmith has constructed an elegant statement of faith that speaks volumes even though it does not include any figural images. The cross was found buried with a round silver amulet that featured an image of the Annunciation on one side, and the popular motif of the Holy Rider on the other, the latter paired with an inscription that invoked the help of the

Figure 10.4. Gold cross pendant excavated in Caesarea Maritima (labelled ‘no. 8’), now in the Milan Archaeological Museum. Sixth–seventh centuries ce. Photo by Giovanni Dall’Orto, CC BY, via Wikimedia Commons.

‘most high’, suggesting that both items of jewellery were seen to ensure the protection of their wearers.24 The presence of the bone at the centre of the cross, whose source (animal or human) has not been determined, but which may have been a relic, points to the object’s function as an apotropaic pendant meant to be worn close to the heart to protect its wearer.

Cross Pendants with the ‘Light, Life’ Inscription While the side of the Milan cross with the inscription is on display today, when worn, the ‘light, life’ text would have rested against the wearer’s chest. The more extravagant side of the cross, the one that would have been seen by most viewers, features a border elaborated with a beaded motif, filigree ivy leaves on the arms, and a central inset stone, missing in the Milan example but originally a semi-precious stone or pearl (for a similar cross front, see the gold cross labelled ‘9’ in Fig. 10.4). It must be said that other pendants that resemble the Milan cross in form and decoration lack inscriptions, and that people buying or commissioning the crosses could choose whether or not they wanted a cross with an inscription, suggesting that the formula served a particular purpose. While the Milan cross is related formally to gold crosses

20 For examples in the Golan region, Gregg and Urman 1996, nos 99, 121; at Gerasa in modern Jordan, SEG 7. 909. 21 Discussed by Teteriatnakov 1995, 7–8. 22 CIIP II 1690. 23 As in the church of the monastery of St Catherine on Mt Sinai in Egypt, see Leatherbury 2016. 24 See the discussion of Walter Ameling in CIIP II 1690.

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Figure 10.5. Mould for a cross, now in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, Richmond. Sixth–seventh centuries ce. Photo by David Stover, courtesy of the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, Richmond, Adolph D. and Wilkins C. Williams Fund.

without inscriptions, we should consider it to be part of a group with other inscribed crosses of different forms, as the crosses with texts on them worked in a distinctive way to express their wearers’ hopes for salvation. No other extant cross with the ‘light, life’ formula is identical to the cross now in Milan, but several related examples survive, including two hollow crosses which feature woven patterns on their fronts, both larger than the Milan cross. The first of these, now in Geneva, is 4.6 cm in height (without the top loop), and like the example in Milan, is made from three components: the front, back, and side border.25 On its front, the Geneva cross once bore a central stone or piece of glass, and each arm is adorned with a line of woven gold wire down its centre. Our formula appears on the reverse in gold wire, inscribed in letter forms similar to those on the Milan cross, if larger. Unfortunately, the cross lacks the secure provenance of the previous example, and was purchased on the Zurich art market in the late 1980s. A second example, now in Berlin, is close in size to the Geneva cross (4.3 cm in height without the top loop), and its front features a similar central stone and woven pattern.26 The inscription on the reverse is more

25 Ostuni 2011. 26 Elbern 1965, 28–29; Stiegemann 2001, 310–11, no. 525; for a third smaller example in Paris, Coche de la Ferté 1970, no. 16.

ornate than that on the Geneva cross, with small ivy leaf-shaped space fillers between the letters, a variant of the hederae distinguentes, ivy leaves used to punctuate inscriptions. As the vertical stroke of the phi (of phos, ‘light’) descends towards the central omega, it runs into one of these leaves, turning into a serif. A bronze mould now in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts provides us with some additional insight into the production of the outer layers of these crosses, whose inner cores were either hollow or, as in the Milan/Caesarea cross, of bone (Fig. 10.5).27 Originally attached to a flat surface by nails, the mould, whose height is 5.7 cm, would have allowed a jeweller to turn a thin gold sheet into a half of a cross with a beaded border (not dissimilar to that of the pendant cross from Caesarea), and with each letter framed by a circle. Other differences are present: the words are slightly misspelled, with a central omicron instead of an omega,28 and, oddly, the arrangement of some of the letters seems to break the neat arrangement of the text on the cross — for example, the zeta of the word zoe is turned at an odd angle that puts it out of alignment with the final eta. The other side of a cross produced with this mould may have been blank, which would make the inscribed side the front of the pendant. However, it is possible that the opposite side was instead decorated with figural designs in gold wire and enamel, or that it bore a central stone, turning the mould-made side into the reverse of the pendant. When examined as a group, the pendants with the ‘light, life’ cross-text almost always present the text on their reverse sides, concealing the message of the text from most viewers and at the same time allowing the wearer to maintain bodily contact with it. Other more elaborate gold cross pendants adopt the same arrangement. What is striking is that while these crosses are different from each other in size, shape, and decoration — each is unique in terms of surviving examples — the ‘light, life’ formula is consistently placed on the reverse side of the objects. A brief survey of five of the fancier extant crosses illuminates both the formal range of the group as well as the standard placement of the inscription on the reverse. A cross typologically related to the Milan, Geneva, and Berlin crosses, now in the Dumbarton Oaks Museum in Washington, D.C., 4 cm in height including the loop on top, features a (now missing) central stone and birds, including ducks and a male peacock, made out of blue and green enamel

27 Richmond, Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, no. 66.78.4; Kondoleon 1994. 28 A frequent feature of Byzantine Greek; for other examples with this spelling, Kondoleon 1994, 285.

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Figure 10.6a–b. Gold cross pendant, now in the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Byzantine Collection, Washington, D.C.; a: front with birds in enamel; b: reverse with inscription. Late sixth century ce. Photos courtesy of the Dumbarton Oaks Museum.

(Fig. 10.6a–b).29 Small green teardrops at the edges of each arm of the cross suggest the birds inhabit a landscape setting. The inscription on the reverse of the cross is written in gold wire in a more rounded, broad script than on the Caesarea cross, the phi of phos (light) turning into an ivy leaf, and the central stroke of the omega growing two small leaf-shaped serifs, a cousin of the tiny ivy leaves on the cross in Berlin. Apparently belonging to a group of sixth-century pieces of jewellery found in Constantinople, the cross is a rare example of enamel work to survive from the early Byzantine period. A larger hollow cross associated with a long golden chain meant to be wrapped around the torso survives in the collection of the Römisch-Germanisches Museum in Mainz.30 This pendant, 6.9 cm in height, is the most bejewelled of the extant examples, its front featuring a central mother-of-pearl cabochon, blue and green glass cabochons imitating sapphires and emeralds on the arms, and colourless glass teardrops at the end of each arm. On the back, the ‘light, life’ formula appears in a spare fashion, the letters without serifs spaced out

29 Washington, D.C., Dumbarton Oaks Museum, BZ.1958.40; Ross and others 2005, 136, no. 179H, pl. XCVII. 30 Brown 1984, especially 7–11.

to take advantage of their slightly larger canvas. Because it is paired with a long chain referred to as a body or breast chain, it is likely that this cross was owned and worn by a woman. Like the cross in Milan, which contained a piece of bone, this object contained a fill, in this case of lime.31 This substance does not seem to have fulfilled a structural purpose, so may also have been considered a sacred substance, perhaps sourced from a holy site and installed in the pendant to connect its wearer to a particular place permanently. The Mainz cross presents an interesting mix between showy front and spare back, the latter decorated with vegetal ornamentation. Some of the other more elaborate crosses also make use of imagery from the natural world, including a gold cross 6.7 cm in height that was found in Kerch, Crimea (Fig. 10.7).32 On this cross, the ‘light, life’ formula appears on the reverse, while a small garnet cross is inset into the front. The flaring arms of the cross pendant are decorated with palmettes that are oriented

31 Brown 1984, 10. 32 Now in the British Museum, BM 1923,0716.66; Dalton 1924; Andrási 2008, 62, no. 86; a cross pendant of similar vegetal form, though smaller and made of lead, was found in Ascalon, CIIP III 2357.

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Figure 10.7. Detail, reverse of gold cross pendant with inscription, found in Kerch, Crimea, now in the British Museum, London. Seventh century ce. Photo courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum, CC BY-NC-SA 4.0.

Figure 10.8. Detail, reverse of gold pendant with inscription, now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of J. Pierpont Morgan, 1917. Sixth–seventh centuries ce. Photo courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, CC0.

towards the central garnets, evoking the valence of the cross as the Tree of Life.33 The cross from Crimea is constructed of two gold sheets, and a sandy soil was found in the hollow cavity at its centre, suggesting that, like the cross in Mainz, it originally contained material with a link to a holy place such as the tomb of Christ in Jerusalem, from which, according to the account of the anonymous pilgrim from Piacenza, pilgrims took earth as a blessing (eulogia).34 This particular pendant evoked Christ’s death in form, material, and contained matter, the dark red of the garnets perhaps reading as the blood that flowed from his wounds, as well as his promise of resurrection, made personal for the wearer of the cross. Like the cross found in Kerch, two further gold cross pendants make clear the adaptability of the form for patrons who might have wanted versions of the cross that were more unique than the more widely produced, though still expensive, versions of pendants such as the Caesarea cross. A round pendant now in New York, on a delicate woven gold chain hung with two amethysts and an emerald, originally would have framed a cameo or

other semi-precious stone.35 On its reverse, the formula appears framed by a cross whose ends have begun to curl inwards, as if they are elaborate serifs (Fig. 10.8). Between the arms of the cross, triangular feather- or leaf-like shapes emphasize the radiant character of the form. This particular pendant conceals even the shape of the cross: viewers looking at the wearer would only see a round stone or cameo in a gold setting. By veiling the cross entirely, the necklace potentially heightens the personal and protective power of the object for its owner. While it is smaller in size (only 4.2 cm in height), a sixth-century cross thought to be from Cyprus, now in the Freer-Sackler Galleries in Washington, D.C., features a portion of the popular Trisagion (ThriceHoly) hymn written on two gold strips in niello letters on one side, and a much more simply produced ‘light, life’ text incised on the other (Fig. 10.9a–b).36 Scholars have assumed that the side with the formula is the front, and the side with the hymn the back, primarily because the inscription of the hymn appears to be

33 Teteriatnakov 1995. 34 Antoninus Placentinus, Itinerary, 18, ed. Geyer 1898, 171; trans. Wilkinson 1977, 79–89.

35 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, no. 17.190.1660, H: 2.5 cm; mentioned by Kondoleon 1994, 285 n. 5; another similar example now in Munich, Sammlung C.S. Inv.-Nr. 6001, see Fansa and Bollmann 2008, 183, cat. 147. 36 Washington, D.C., Freer Gallery of Art, F1910.23; Teteriatnakov 1995, 6–7.

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Figure 10.9a–b. Gold cross pendant, reported to be from Cyprus, now in the Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., Gift of Charles Lang Freer. Sixth century ce. Photo courtesy of the Smithsonian Institution.

more roughly produced, the two gold strips with associated with a gold chain), or if they were paired niello letters inserted into the frame of the cross in a with other pendants.37 The afterlives of the crosses messy fashion that obscures the third ‘Holy’ (Hagios) are equally unclear, as only two of the gold crosses of the start of the hymn. The inscribed formula on discussed here have documented find-spots, the the other side is finely incised, its letters enlivened cross from Kerch in the British Museum, and the by the radiating pattern of lines that originate from cross from Caesarea, discovered buried together the ends of the arms, converging around the central with a group of metal objects in the fort at the site. Related crosses made of less precious stuff have omega. If the Trisagion is in fact on the back, then on been found in archaeological contexts, though the Freer-Sackler cross, ‘light, life’ has finally moved these are varied: for example, a small bronze cross to the front of the pendant cross. This example perhaps emphasizes the flexibility of pendant with the formula on its reverse, and four the ‘light, life’ formula as it moves into more public view images on the front — two angels on the horizontal on the cross’s front. However, it likely is exceptional, cross-arms, and Christ and the Virgin Mary on the a one-off commission that allowed the owner to verticals — was found in the debris of a late antique wear two texts connected to the salvific promise of house at Horvat Hermeshit in Israel.38 The other the tripartite Godhead (Father, Son, Holy Spirit) on gold crosses appear to have been purchased on the art market, but seem likely to have come from the body. Generally, the formula is positioned on the burials, as do the less precious versions, such as a back rather than the front of these types of pendants, silver pendant cross found in a burial at the site of which illuminates the personal nature of the salvation Balatonfuzfo-Szalmassy in Hungary, with a circular hoped for by their wearers. Across the many different forms and sizes of these sixth- and seventh-century piece of glass inlay on the front and the ‘light, life’ cross pendants, produced at a number of sites in the formula on the back.39 As private objects precious to eastern Mediterranean and reflecting a range of classes their wearers, the pendant crosses lived on as grave of patrons, the usual placement of the formula on the goods after the deaths of their owners. back should encourage us to consider more seriously the private valence of the text. We do not know much about the ways in which their owners would have worn the crosses, including 37 For similar crosses, Balogh 2018. the length or ornamentation of the chains on which 38 CIIP IV/1 2703. they hung (though the example now in New York is 39 Garam 2001, Funde 60; Balogh 2018, 33.

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Figure 10.10. Textile roundel with Greek inscription, from Egypt, flax and wool, 1 ½ × 1 ¼ in. (3.8 × 3.2 cm), now in the Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the Egypt Exploration Fund. Fifth–sixth centuries ce. Photo by the Brooklyn Museum, in collaboration with Index of Christian Art, Princeton University, CC BY.

Figure 10.11. Detail, floor mosaic of a monastic refectory, Hura. Later sixth century ce. Photo courtesy of Zev Radovan/Bible Land Pictures.

From Bodies to Buildings

examples survive of the formula written as a cross outside of jewellery, but the handful of extant inscriptions on textiles and in the floor mosaics of Christian spaces suggests a common understanding of the formula as it featured on garments as well as on buildings. On a small linen and wool roundel from Egypt and now in Brooklyn, possibly from a tunic, the formula appears in a similar circular format and size as it did on the round pendant now in New York (Fig. 10.10).40 Written in white on a grey background, and with an embellished circular frame, the inscription preserves the cross-format familiar from the gold pendants. Wherever on the textile the roundel was placed, it would have been part of a larger programme, and would not necessarily have been immediately noticeable to others besides the wearer, potentially rendering it an intensely personal motif (and a reminder for us of other similar objects in more perishable media, such as textile, that no longer survive). Similarly, when it appears as a cross-text on mosaic pavements, the formula appears in spaces of restricted viewing. In the floor mosaics of the refectory of a monastery at Hura in the Negev Desert, discovered during a salvage excavation, a central rectangular panel frames the dedicatory inscription of the pavement, which records the mosaic’s completion under the hegumenos of the monastery, Elias, and dates the work to the later sixth century (596 ce) (Fig. 10.11).41 Around the dedication are a number of motifs that frequently appear in Christian mosaics of the period, including amphorae and vessels overflowing with fruit or flowers, related to the Christian hope for plenty in life and afterwards under the beneficence of God, as well as knots, including the so-called Solomon’s knot, which are often thought to have functioned as protective or apotropaic devices. In the bottom centre of the frame, oriented in the same direction as the main inscription, the cross-text appears in a framed roundel and surrounded by a circular border of triangles, formally close to the frame of the textile roundel. While the letters are written using the same off-white limestone tesserae as the ground of the mosaic, their setting against a black background and the border of radiating triangles emphasize ‘light’, while the flowers and birds that appear elsewhere in the border evoke ‘life’. Though it is legible, the small size of the cross-text, its placement in a border, and its location in a monastic dining hall would have limited its audience. Two other extant examples of the cross-text in mosaic suggest that it continued to have a more private, personal reception than other texts. The first, in the freestanding, three-aisled baptistery at Hippos (Susita)

Very occasionally, the ‘light, life’ formula moved from miniature pendant crosses to larger formats and more public contexts. But even then, the text preserved 40 New York, Brooklyn Museum, 15.440; apparently unpublished. something of its precious, private valence. Not many 41 IAA Press Release 2014.

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in the Golan region, is also viewer-limited, though writ slightly larger. The mosaics, completed in the year 591, feature identical cross-texts in the two lateral apses.42 At the site today, the mosaics have been reburied carefully, and so are not visible, but excavation photos reveal the appearance of the original inscriptions. Written simply in black tesserae on an off-white ground, the cross-texts were not framed, appearing in a rather simple and spare manner. While the letters are of a good size and would have been legible even to those standing a bit of a distance from the apses, their position outside of the central space of the building suggests that they were intended for more discreet viewing. In their position within a baptistery (a photisterion), the texts draw upon the rich connection between light and baptism, allowing the recently baptized neophytes (‘new lights’) to recognize the significance of their commitment to the Christian faith. The second cross-text, written in red on a white ground, is more exposed, as it is placed at the transition from the narthex to the nave of a small church at Anane in southern Lebanon, dated to 541 ce by inscription.43 The text is unframed, like the Hippos example, but appears in the distinctive cross-shape. Like the dedicatory inscription of the church, the cross-text is oriented to the west, which suggests that it was meant to be read as a final benediction by those leaving the space. Despite its prominent location, its relatively small size and lack of a distinctive frame ensured that it did not read as too public a text. Due to their placement on the exteriors of bodies (on textiles) and buildings (in floor mosaics), these cross-texts were more immediately noticeable to a larger number of viewers than their cousins on the reverse sides of the cross pendants. The examples in mosaic at Hura, Susita, and Anane would have been encountered by viewers as they walked upon them, a tactile mode of engagement that personalized texts in public spaces. As they were writ small, and without elaborate frames, they receded into the background more than did the longer texts written into the floors of Christian buildings, which typically named and gave credit to the patrons (on texts written in more private spaces within churches, which stood in as substitutes for patrons’ bodies, see the chapter by Nowakowski in this volume).44 Even in the public space of the church,

42 Yeivin 1955. 43 Alpi and others 1998. 44 On donor inscriptions, which often scream for attention, see e.g. Leatherbury 2017b.

the cross-texts evoked the realm of the personal through their small size, position in restricted areas (as at Hura and Susita), and discreet or non-existent frames, all features which encouraged viewers to engage with them intimately.

Conclusion When used as a cross-text, especially in late antique Syria and Palestine in the sixth century, the ‘light, life’ formula possessed an amuletic character intimately tied to its visual presentation. While the forms of the cross pendants would have identified their wearers as Christians, and celebrated Christ’s victory over death, the text was something more private, a fact emphasized by the flexibility of the types of pendants as well. Certain shared features emerge across these types, including ornament (vegetal, identifying the cross as the ‘Tree of Life’, or geometric, to stress its radiance), and material (gold and gems , strengthening the emphasis on ‘light’), the use of the cross as container for a sacred substance, and, most significantly, the placement of the cross-formula on the reverse of the object. The cross pendants bearing the ‘light, life’ formula likely functioned as amulets, protecting the wearer and even guaranteeing their salvation.45 In the case of the golden cross pendants, the material supercharged the formula, enabling it to radiate light in text as well as reflective material (on a similar link between text and material, see the chapter in this volume by Lamont on lead curse tablets; also the editors’ introductory chapter). The cross-frame and the ‘light, life’ inscription are identical in shape, creating a formal simultaneity between text, format, and frame.46 Integrating text and frame, as well as material, the cross-text reduced Christ to five artfully arranged letters, opening up a range of significances for readers and viewers and promising happy lives and afterlives for the faithful, a promise that they kept physically and spiritually close to their hearts. The engagement encouraged by the cross-text travelled across media, from pendant crosses, to textiles, and to mosaics. In the journey from bodies to buildings, the formula grew in size, but retained an element of the personal, functioning as a site for private reflection in public spaces.

45 On amulets and their powers, see the work of Richard L. Gordon generally, e.g. Gordon 2015; also Sanzo 2016; Faraone 2018. 46 On inscription frames, Leatherbury 2017b; 2018.

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Works Cited Primary Sources Antoninus Placentinus, Itinerary = Itinera Hierosolymitana, saeculi IIII–VIII, ed. by Paul Geyer, Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum latinorum, 39 (Prague: Tempsky, 1898) Polara, Giovanni (ed.). 1973. Publilii Optatiani Porfyrii, Carmina (Turin: Paraviae) ——. (ed. and trans.). 2004. Carmi di Publilio Optaziano Porfirio (Turin: Unione Tipografico-Editrice Torinese)

Secondary Sources Alpi, Frédéric, Sławomir Kowalski, and Tomasz Waliszewski. 1998. ‘Une église byzantine découverte à Anâne (Liban Sud)’, Syria, 75: 231–43 Andrási, Júlia. 2008. ‘86. Pendant Cross’, in The Berthier-Delagarde Collection of Crimean Jewellery in the British Museum and Related Material, ed. by Dafydd Kidd and Bary Ager, British Museum Research Publication, 166 (London: British Museum Press), pp. 62, 110 Balogh, Csilla. 2018. ‘A Byzantine Gold Cross in an Avar Period Grave from Southeastern Hungary’, in Lebenswelten zwischen Archäologie und Geschichte: Festschrift für Falko Daim zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Jörg Drauschke, Ewald Kislinger, Karin Kühtreiber, Thomas Kühtreiber, Gabriele Scharrer-Liška, and Tivadar Vida, Monographien zum RGZM, 150 (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums), pp. 25–42 Bedos-Rezak, Brigitte, and Jeffrey F. Hamburger (eds). 2016. Sign and Design: Script as Image in a Cross-Cultural Perspective (300–1600 ce) (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press) Berti, Irene, Katharina Bolle, Fanny Opdenhoff, and Fabian Stroth (eds). 2017. Writing Matters: Presenting and Perceiving Monumental Inscriptions in Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Berlin: De Gruyter) Brown, Katharine R. 1984. The Gold Breast Chain from the Early Byzantine Period in the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum (Mainz: Verlag der Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums) Coche de la Ferté, Etienne. 1970. Antiker Schmuck vom 2. bis 8. Jahrhundert (Bern: Hallwag) Dalton, O. M. 1924. ‘A Gold Pectoral Cross and an Amuletic Bracelet of the Sixth Century’, in Mélanges offerts a M. Gustave Schlumberger (Paris: Guenther), i, pp. 386–91 Dodd, Erica Cruikshank. 1973. Byzantine Silver Treasures (Bern: Abegg-Stiftung) Dölger, Franz Joseph. 1922. IXΘYΣ: Der heilige Fisch in den antiken Religionen und in Christentum (Münster: Aschendorff) Eastmond, Antony (ed.). 2015. Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) ——. 2016. ‘Monograms and the Art of Unhelpful Writing in Late Antiquity’, in Sign and Design: Script as Image in a CrossCultural Perspective (300–1600 ce), ed. by Brigitte Bedos-Rezak and Jeffrey F. Hamburger (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), pp. 219–35 Elbern, Victor H. 1965. ‘Neuerwerbungen spätantiker und byzantinischer Goldschmiedekunst für die frühchristlichbyzantinische Sammlung’, Berliner Museen, 15.2: 26–34 Ernst, Ulrich. 1991. Carmen figuratum: Geschichte des Figurengedichts von den antiken Ursprüngen bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters (Cologne: Böhlau) Fansa, Mamoun, and Beate Bollmann (eds). 2008. Die Kunst der frühen Christen in Syrien: Zeichen, Bilder, und Symbole vom 4. bis 7. Jahrhundert (Mainz: Von Zabern) Faraone, Christopher. 2018. The Transformation of Greek Amulets in Roman Imperial Times (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press) Fourlas, Benjamin. 2017. ‘IV.114. Kreuz’, in Spätantike und Byzanz: Bestandskatalog Badisches Landesmuseum Karlsruhe Objekte aus Bein, Elfenbein, Glas, Keramik, Metall, und Stein, ed. by Falko Daim, Benjamin Fourlas, Katarina Horst, and Vasiliki Tsamakda (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums), pp. 143–45 Garam, Éva. 2001. Funde byzantinischer Herkunft in der Awarenzeit vom Ende des 6. bis zum Ende des 7. Jahrhunderts, Monumenta Avarorum archaeologica, 5 (Budapest: Magyar Nemzeti Museum) Garipzanov, Ildar. 2018. Graphic Signs of Authority in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, 300–900 (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Gordon, Richard L. 2015. ‘From Substances to Texts: Three Materialities of “Magic” in the Roman Imperial Period’, in The Materiality of Magic, ed. by Dietrich Boschung and Jan N. Bremmer (Paderborn: Fink), pp. 133–76

10. fo rmu lat i ng fai t h o n o b ject s and b uildings

Graver, Margaret. 1993. ‘Quaelibet Audendi. Fortunatus and the Acrostic’, Transactions of the American Philological Association, 123: 219–45 Gregg, Robert C., and Dan Urman. 1996. Jews, Pagans, and Christians in the Golan Heights (Atlanta: Scholars Press) Heath, Jane. 2010. ‘Nomina sacra and sacra memoria before the Monastic Age’, Journal of Theological Studies, n.s., 61.2: 516–49 Israel Antiquities Authority (IAA) Press Release. 2014. ‘An Impressive Byzantine Period Monastery with a Spectacular Mosaic Floor Was Exposed at the Entrance to Hura in the Northern Negev’, April [accessed 5 November 2018] Jensen, Robin M. 2000. Understanding Early Christian Art (London: Routledge) Kondoleon, Christine. 1994. ‘Cross Mold’, in Anna Gonosová and Christine Kondoleon, Art of Late Rome and Byzantium in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (Richmond: Virginia Museum of Fine Arts), pp. 284–85 Leatherbury, Sean V. 2016. ‘Reading and Seeing Faith in Byzantium: The Sinai Inscription as Verbal and Visual “Text”’, Gesta, 55.2: 133–56 ——. 2017a. ‘Writing (and Reading) Silver with Sidonius: The Material Contexts of Late Antique Texts’, Word & Image, 33.1: 35–56 ——. 2017b. ‘Writing, Reading and Seeing between the Lines: Framing Late Antique Inscriptions as Texts and Images’, in The Frame in Classical Art, ed. by Verity J. Platt and Michael Squire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 544–81 ——. 2018. ‘Framing Late Antique Texts as Monuments: The Tabula Ansata between Sculpture and Mosaic’, in The Materiality of Text: Placement, Presence, and Perception of Inscribed Text in Classical Antiquity, ed. by Andrej Petrovic, Ivana Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas, Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy, 11 (Leiden: Brill), pp. 380–404 ——. 2019. Inscribing Faith in Late Antiquity: Between Reading and Seeing (London: Routledge) Leclercq, Henri. 1939. ‘Phos-Zoé’, in Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, ed. by Fernand Cabrol and Henri Leclercq (Paris: Letouzey et Ané), xiv, cols 755–58 Mango, Marlia Mundell. 1986. Silver from Early Byzantium: The Kaper Koraon and Related Treasures (Baltimore: Walters Art Gallery) Ostuni, Giustina. 2011. ‘69. Croix Pectorale’, in Antiquités paléochrétiennes et byzantines, iiie – xive siècles: collections du Musée d’art et d’histoire, Genève, ed. by Marielle Martiniani-Reber and Laura Maggioni (Geneva: Musée d’art et d’histoire), pp. 154–55 Peterson, Eric. 1926. Eis Theos: Epigraphische, formgeschichtliche und religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht) Petrovic, Andrej, Ivana Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas (eds). 2018. The Materiality of Text: Placement, Presence, and Perception of Inscribed Text in Classical Antiquity, Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy, 11 (Leiden: Brill) Reynolds, Joyce, Charlotte Roueché, and Gabriel Bodard. 2007. Inscriptions of Aphrodisias [accessed 1 March 2023] Ross, Marvin A., Susan A. Boyd, and Stephen R. Zwirn. 2005. Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Medieval Antiquities in the DO Collection, ii, 2nd edn (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks) Roueché, Charlotte. 2004. Aphrodisias in Late Antiquity: The Late Roman and Byzantine Inscriptions, 2nd rev. edn [accessed 1 March 2023] Sanzo, Joseph E. 2016. ‘Wrapped up in the Bible: The Multifaceted Ritual on a Late Antique Amulet (P. Oxy. VIII 1077)’, Journal of Early Christian Studies, 24.4: 569–97 Squire, Michael. 2011. The Iliad in a Nutshell: Visualizing Epic on the Tabulae Iliacae (Oxford: Oxford University Press) ——. 2015. ‘Patterns of Significance: Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius and the Figurations of Meaning’, in Images and Texts: Papers in Honour of Professor E. W. Handley, CBE, FBA, ed. by Richard Green and Mike Edwards (London: Institute of Classical Studies, University of London), pp. 87–121 ——. 2017a. ‘Optatian and his Lettered Art: A Kaleidoscopic Lens on Late Antiquity’, in Morphogrammata/The Lettered Art of Optatian: Figuring Cultural Transformations in the Age of Constantine, ed. by Michael Squire and Johannes Wienand (Paderborn: Fink), pp. 55–120 ——. 2017b. ‘POP Art: The Optical Poetics of Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius’, in Towards a Poetics of Late Latin Literature, ed. by Jaś Elsner and Jesús Hernández Lobato (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 25–99 Squire, Michael, and Christopher Whitton. 2017. ‘Machina sacra: Optatian and the Lettered Art of the Christogram’, in Graphic Signs of Identity, Faith, and Power in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Ildar Garipzanov, Caroline Goodson, and Henry Maguire, Cursor mundi, 27 (Turnhout: Brepols), pp. 45–108 Squire, Michael, and Johannes Wienand (eds). 2017. Morphogrammata/The Lettered Art of Optatian: Figuring Cultural Transformations in the Age of Constantine (Paderborn: Fink) Stiegemann, Christoph (ed.). 2001. Byzanz, das Licht aus dem Osten: Kult und Alltag im Byzantinischen Reich vom 4. bis 15. Jahrhundert (Mainz: Von Zabern)

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Teteriatnakov, Natalia. 1995. ‘The Hidden Cross-and-Tree Program in the Brickwork of Hagia Sophia’, Byzantinoslavica, 56.3: 689–99 Wamser, Ludwig (ed.). 2004. Die Welt von Byzanz: Europas östliches Erbe; Glanz, Krisen und Fortleben einer tausendjährigen Kultur (Munich: Archäologische Staatssammlung – Museum für Vor- und Frühgeschichte) Wilkinson, John. 1977. Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades (Warminster: Aris & Phillips) Yeivin, Shmuel. 1955. ‘Archaeology in Israel (November 1951-January 1953)’, American Journal of Archaeology, 59: 163–67

Paweł Nowakowski

11. ‘And the Word Was Made Flesh’ Greek and Aramaic Inscriptions as Substitutes for the Physical Presence of Benefactors in Eastern Christian Sanctuaries*

The present paper interprets select cases of dedicatory inscriptions and images of benefactors from early Christian churches in Syria, Palestine, and Arabia outside of the regular frame of social, interpersonal communication. In particular, the importance of their position in space and their role as ‘epigraphic avatars’ in constructing the ‘imagined’ presence of the body of the benefactor in sacred areas will be highlighted, as alternatives to the expected aims such as ‘reading’ and ‘viewing’. Inscriptions are not merely the texts and their contents. It is difficult to point to a different written source, whose materiality is so explicitly expressed and has an equally strong impact on the viewer and reader. Inscriptions’ features contributing to this status are, inter alia, the quality and dimensions of stone (or tesserae in the case of mosaics), the shape and ornamentation of the lettering, distinctive script characteristic of the language chosen, and last but not least the arrangement of inscribed slabs or mosaic panels in the space physically accessible to viewers. A study of the spatial context of some inscriptions and images, and the comparison of the contents of inscriptions from areas of limited access with those easily accessible to ordinary followers, reveal that some texts (and among them especially the names of benefactors deprived of any dedicatory formulae or commemorative narration) were intentionally set in proximity to or directly on the ‘sources of holiness’ (reliquaries, altars, enclosures, etc.), even if this meant that they would be almost totally inaccessible to the majority of the local population.1 This seems to be at

* While writing this paper the author was a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Oxford, Faculty of History, supported by the Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity project (ERC Advanced Grant 340540, directed by Bryan Ward-Perkins). The

odds with the general aim of epigraphy as the ‘written word’, unless the people who commissioned them saw these texts (especially the names) as substitutes for their real, physical selves, which through the perpetual direct contact with sanctity ensured profits both on earth and in afterlife. This would reflect the emphasis which early Christianity placed on physical contact with holiness (e.g. in the cult of relics where many miracles were wrought by touching the physical remains of a holy figure, but also in the Eucharist understood as the consumption of the body of Christ). In this volume, Sean Leatherbury demonstrated that the formula φῶς ζωή (Light, Life), derived from the Gospel of John, was placed on pendant crosses on the side directly touching the body of the wearer, and on garments. This was apparently meant to ensure a similar corporeal transmission of holiness: this time from the Scriptures via an inscribed text onto the bodies of the believers (see p. 164). But such a belief would also find parallels in pre-Christian religions alongside other manifold paper draws upon preliminary remarks from the author’s talk ‘Ossa loquuntur: Labelling Reliquaries and the Transmission of the Communal Memory of Martyrs in Late Antique Anatolia and the Near East’, given at the International Medieval Congress, Leeds, 3–6 July 2017, in the session: ‘Relics at the Interface between Textuality and Materiality, c. 400–c. 1200, II: Inscribing the Relics’, organized by Elisa Pallottini, Janneke Raaijmakers, and Julia Smith. The author is grateful to Sergey Minov for consulting the Syriac evidence. 1 See Yasin 2015b, 136, 140: ‘So far we have not yet adequately grappled with how to interpret the imagery on early Christian reliquaries in light of the fact that in most cases it was undoubtedly rarely, if ever, visible once the relics had been translated and deposited in a church. […] Relics in late antique churches would have been sealed off, present but invisible and immobile, locked away by metal clasps, plaster seals, heavy stone lids, or intact pavement panels.’

Paweł Nowakowski  •  ([email protected]) University of Warsaw, Faculty of History New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 173-194 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133905

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aims of votive inscriptions (all of them far from merely ‘reading’ or ‘viewing’). They created links among the ritual, commemoration, and recreation of the social hierarchy through a specific way of the depiction of the attendants, while labels established links between depictions and specific people. They were testimonies to devotion, validated the prayer, and gave recognition to the power of the entity they addressed.2 As for figural depictions of benefactors, their role as avatars of living people is probably much better discernible than that of the names alone. A good example is the floor-mosaic from the church of Sts Kosmas and Damianos in the complex of John the Baptist in Jerash.3 The complex lies to the west of the episcopal church of the city. It consists of three adjacent churches, the north of which was dedicated to the ‘Holy Unmercenaries’ (i.e. Sts Kosmas and Damianos as physicians who did not charge their patients for treatment), as its dedicatory inscription tells us.4 The inscription also gives us the date of the completion of the paving of the church as the month of Peritios of the year 595 of the era of the province of Arabia (sc. roughly February 533 ce). It is supposed that the church was abandoned or converted into a secular building no later than the late sixth century, as at that time the south church of this complex, dedicated to St George, was fitted with spolia from the other two churches. Perhaps this saved some of the figural images from the church of Kosmas and Damianos from eighth-century Iconoclastic interventions, common in the region.5 The main building inscription is embedded, as is usually the case in Roman Arabia, in the carpet mosaic of the nave, in front of the steps of the chancel. Importantly, the inscription is flanked by two square panels containing representations of two main contributors to the construction or refurbishment of the shrine (Fig. 11.1). The left-hand one, with its upper part (head) damaged and now restored, shows a man between two pomegranate trees, wearing an undergarment with long sleeves over





2 See the case studies presented in Gaifman 2008 with further bibliography, and Keesling 2003 (especially for the dedicatory inscriptions on votive statues). For the ‘function of sacrificial representations in religious communication’, see also Klöckner 2017. On other manifold aspects of the agency of inscribed texts (such as the creation of a ‘personal valence’, or expressing the ‘hopes for salvation/statements of faith’ of the commissioners, the reader is also advised to consult the chapter by Sean Leatherbury in this volume (pp. 159–72). 3 For a convenient description of the complex, see Michel 2001, 245–51, nos 88–88c. 4 I. Gerasa 314 = SGO IV 21/23/08 = Meimaris and Makrigianni 2008, no. 12. 5 The Middle Eastern Iconoclasm and its impact on the shape of mosaic floors has recently become an object of particularly scrutinized research. See Peleg 2012; Schick 2015; Sahner 2017; and Reynolds 2017.





which he has a tunic with wide short sleeves, and an orange and red mantle (identified as planeta or phelonion by Franklin Biebel and John Crowfoot, and as paenula by Peter Baumann), probably his ecclesiastical service vestment. He is twisting his body towards his left to swing a burning censer. The labelling inscription names him Θεόδωρος παραμονάριος (Theodoros, the paramonarios) (Fig. 11.2). On the opposite side one finds a better-preserved image of a woman wearing a greyish tunic with no belt, but with decorative bands (clavi) and squarish medallions, covered by a red-orange cloak (palla; we find a person dressed in a similarly decorated tunic on a mosaic panel in the church of Elijah at Jerash, but in a different posture, labelled Σορεγ, see Piccirillo 2008, 281). She has a brooch under her neck, a necklace around it, earrings, and a hairnet. Frontally shown, with her hands raised, the lady is labelled Γεωργία Θεοδώρου παραμοναρίου (Georgia, [wife or daughter] of Theodoros, the paramonarios) (Fig. 11.3).6 The two panels are, of course, meant to be viewed together. The composition makes an impression, as if Theodoros and Georgia were eternally guarding and flanking the pathway to the altar, and perpetually celebrating holy rites: Theodoros by swinging the censer, and Georgia by taking the posture of an orant. This closely resembles the cases of the use of inscriptions as a way of ‘cheating’ the gods into thinking that a ritual is perpetually taking place in the Greek ex-votos.7 Surprisingly, the building inscription between Theodoros and Georgia has no clear reference to them as the actual donors who raised funds for the construction or restoration of the church,8 and just mentions Bishop Paulos, the overseer of the undertaking. Therefore, it is primarily the visual composition of the two panels, and their short labels, which record the efforts and

6 For a description of the iconography of these panels, see Biebel 1938, 331 and Baumann 1999, 241 (Georgia), 244–45 (Theodoros), see also: Crowfoot 1941, 132; Piccirillo 2008, 288–89 (and 276–77: colour images). 7 See Gaifman 2008, 88. Also Klöckner 2017, 217–19: who suggests that some votive reliefs depicting animal sacrifice may actually ‘pretend’ that a ritual depicted took place, thus ‘upgrading the offering’, and could be commissioned by people unable to afford themselves to sacrifice living animals. 8 The inscription says only that through the veneration of Kosmas and Damianos ἕκαστος πρ[ο]σφέρων ἀγάλλεται (every donor is gladdened, covering so the failures of his life), but no names are given. The name of the donor is, however, hinted in the wordplay in the last three verses: ἴκοντος αὐτοῦ τοῖς σοφοῖς ἐπιτάγμασιν | ἀνδρὸς ἀρίστου, οὗ μαθήσει τοὔνομα | τοῦ Προδρόμου σώζοντα τὸ ἐπώνυμον (An excellent man follows his wise commands. You will learn that his name conceals that of (St John) the Forerunner). The point is that the Greek name of the founder, as we learn it from the panel with his image, Theodoros (sc. ‘The gift of God’), is roughly a semantic equivalent of the Semitic name Ioannes/John (sc. ‘Yahweh is gracious’).

11. ‘and t he wo rd was made fles h ’

Figure 11.1. East end the nave of the church of Kosmas and Damianos at Jerash. Courtesy of Marlena Whiting.

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Figure 11.2. Theodoros (the church of Kosmas and Daminos at Jerash). From: Piccirillo 2008, 276. Courtesy of the Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land, Mt Nebo, and the American Center of Oriental Research, Amman.

Figure 11.3. Georgia (the church of Kosmas and Daminos at Jerash). From: Piccirillo 2008, 277. Courtesy of the Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land, Mt Nebo, and the American Center of Oriental Research, Amman.

11. ‘and t he wo rd was made fles h ’ 17 7

expenditures of Theodoros and Georgia. Thanks to their those located in enclosures of limited access (especially position, the images capture the couple’s presence at within the presbyterium), those put directly on objects of cult, and those carved in pilgrimage sanctuaries and the altar suggestively recreating their participation in remote places in the wilderness (especially in holy caves a ritual over and over again, and were perhaps meant frequented by Christian visitors). to channel the benefits of staying in proximity to the sacred chancel directly onto them. The church of Kosmas and Damianos also houses images and short dedicatory inscriptions of other donors Inscriptions Set in Buildings, in Holy in panels scattered over the nave.9 In this case, the distance Enclosures of Limited Access from the presbyterium, and their schematic shapes, reveal their inferior importance to that of Theodoros and Georgia, Among the sites where dedicatory inscriptions were undisputed ‘hosts’ of this sanctuary. Sadly, we do not have found within the presbyterium enclosure, I would like many similar visual compositions in the region, as many to focus first on those where the names of benefacof them were removed in the seventh and later centuries. tors were placed inside or on the border of reliquary A noteworthy example are the images of two women, pits.12 Examples are sourced from four sites where one of them probably tossing coins, the other bringing an the configuration of the sacred space is augmented offering, from the church at Kissufim (Kibbutz Magen/ by a careful placement of inscriptions: the so-called Tell Jamma)10 where, however, the two women are shown church of St Theodore at Khirbet Beit Sila in Wadi between columns of the north aisle, so their connection al-Mahbus, c. 10 km to the north-west of Jerusalem, with the most sacred sector is very loose. At the same time the church of Stephen the First Martyr at Horvath the severe damage taken by the floor-mosaic of the nave Be’er-Shema (Khirbet al-Far) near Gaza, the church prevents us from getting insight into the composition of at Khirbet Hesheq near Diokaisareia (Sepphoris) in panels adjacent to the chancel screen. Similarly, a mosaic Galilee (possibly dedicated to St George or Sergios), band richly decorated with images of donors, some of and the church of St Basilios at Rihab between Bostra them carrying different objects, sited immediately next and Jerash in Jordan. Khirbet Beit Sila offers us five texts.13 The main to the dedicatory inscription in front of the choir in the church of St Stephen at Umm al-Rasas/Kastron Mefa’a, dedicatory inscription was laid out partly within a is heavily reshaped by iconoclasts, and many details of tabula ansata outside the chancel enclosure, and as such it was easily accessible to all visitors to that church its original composition escape us.11 Below, however, I would like to focus on cases where (Fig. 11.4). It gives an account of the deposition of no image was needed to symbolize the presence of the unnamed relics, or of its annual celebration14 which donor or visitor in a holy place, and the same role was took place on 10 November of an unspecified year: apparently taken over by the carved name of the benefactor alone. This peculiar function of some inscriptions † ὑπὲρ σωτ[ηρίας κ(αὶ) ἀ]ντιλήis suggested by their placement and contents. We often μψεως Πέτρου [τ]οῦ πρεfind them close to the most holy places inside churches, σβυτέρου∙ ἐξ ὧν παρίσχespecially behind the chancel screen, in proximity of the altar, or even on objects of cult themselves, for example reliquaries. This made them accessible to a very limited 12 Sacred areas within Christian cultic buildings were not the number of readers, but, as we shall see, they were not only sites where inscriptions gained the status of texts of limited access. See the similar conclusions by Sean Leatherbury really meant to be read by humans. Their contents, often regarding the inscriptions from mosaic floors in monastic entirely omitting the account of the pious deeds of the refectories (p. 168). people mentioned, also makes them very difficult to be 13 For the floor-mosaics, see Batz 2012, 387–94; Madden 2014, seen in terms of ordinary dedicatory inscriptions. We 27–28, no. 24. A provisional discussion of the three main will discuss three main groups of such inscriptions: inscriptions, and a brief description of other finds, were offered

already by Batz in 2002 (cf. SEG 52. 1662–64, and Batz 2004 [in Hebrew] = SEG 55. 1724). The entire epigraphic dossier of the church is now thoroughly presented in the edition by Leah Di Segni (2012 = SEG 62. 1678). 9 For example, I. Gerasa 311, † | Κύριε | ὁ θ(εὸ)ς τοῦ ἁγίου | Κοσμᾶ κ(αὶ) Δαμιανοῦ | ἐλέησον τὸν τριβοῦνον | Δαγισθε͂ον καὶ πρόσ|δεξε 14 See CIIP IV/1 2749 where Walter Ameling follows Di Segni’s observation that the relics deposited need not be those of τὴν αὐτοῦ | προσφο|ράν († O Lord, God of St Kosmas and St Theodore, and hence the church could be dedicated to Damianos, have mercy upon the tribune Dagistheos, and accept a different saint (if any). Ameling also questions Di Segni’s his offering!). interpretation that τὰ καταθέσια is here the plural form of τὸ 10 For this site, see CIIP III 2542–47, and Madden 2014, 98–100 καταθέσιον (a repository for the dead), which would suggest the (with further bibliography). presence of at least two reliquaries. In his opinion τὰ καταθέσια 11 See Piccirillo and Alliata 1994; Ognibene 2002; also Michel 2001, may denote ‘the yearly celebration of the κατάθεσις of the relics’. 388–94, no. 144c; and Piccirillo 2008, 218–33.

178 pawe ł n owa kow s ki

Figure 11.4. Khirbet Beit Sila (mosaic of the east end of the nave). From Batz 2012, 381.

4 εν αὐτοῦ ὁ ἅγιος Θεόδ ωρος ἐποίησεν τὴν προ σθίκην τῆς ἐκλεσίας κ(αὶ) τὴ ν κώνχην κ(αὶ) γήνοντε τὰ κατα 8 θέσια  μη (νὶ) Νοεμ βρίῳ δ εκάτῃ

(† As a vow for the salvation and succour of Petros the presbyter. From what St Theodore granted him, he made the extension of the church, and the apse (konche), and (the yearly celebration of?) the deposition (ta katathesia) took place on the 10th day of the month of November.)

The inscription contains vital information about the history of the church, and all the details important to the mortals: it mentions the principal donor boasting about his generosity, the name of the saint venerated, and the date of the deposition of this saint’s relics. As such, it was placed in the freely accessible zone. One has to cross the sacred boundary of the chancel screen, to find the other inscription, set in a very different place, and with very different contents. It was simply carved on the plaque of the altar’s base (probably, the second altar in this church, contemporary to a major restoration of the building), inside a flat sunk field fitted with a central hole with four smaller holes encircling it (Fig. 11.5).15 In her edition of this inscription, Di Segni (2012, 412) suggests that the hole was used to access a reliquary concealed beneath the plaque. However, no

(CIIP IV/1 2749 = SEG 52. 1662 = Di Segni 2012, 409–11, no. 1; trans. L. Di Segni, slightly 15 This inscription and the base date from the second stage of the existence of the church, probably in the second half of the sixth adapted) century, when the entire altar and its reliquary were replaced. On

reliquaries of the church, see Batz 2012, especially pp. 380–84 and 396, and Comte 2012, 148–53.

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Figure 11.5. Khirbet Beit Sila (hole under the altar). From: Batz 2002, 49, Fig. 11.

reliquary was found there, and one of the excavators, Shahar Batz (2012, 383), suggests that a metal decorative object could be placed in the hole. Or, perhaps, it was merely a socket for fixing the supportive central pole for the altar (cf. Batz 2012, 382 and his comments on a similar pole supporting the original altar in this church). Batz’s reasoning is convincing, since a reliquary was in fact set in a socket adjacent to the eastern edge of the plaque, on the floor level. The inscription carved on the plaque records a plain prayer for the repose of Petros, Ioannes, Maria, Anastasia, another Maria, and Andreas: ὑπ{π}(ὲρ) μν(ήμης) κ(αὶ) ἀναπαύσ(εως) τῶν ἀδελφών ἡμῶν Πέτρου, Ἰωάννου, Μαρίας, Ἀναστασίας, Μαρίας κ(αὶ) Ἀνδρέου τῶν φιλοχρίστον.

(As a vow for the memory and repose of our Christ-loving brothers Petros, Ioannes, Maria, Anastasia, Maria, and Andreas.) (CIIP IV/1 2746 = SEG 52. 1663 = Di Segni 2012, 412–13, no. 3; trans. L. Di Segni, slightly adapted)

There is no mention of the saint, nor any date, nor any detailed description of the offering, but they were

not needed here. These people almost certainly did not offer money for the restoration. They were rather the deceased relatives or friends of the benefactor, and on whose behalf his donation was also made.16 Hence, there was no need to publicize their names to a larger, earthly audience. For the same reason, the accessibility of this inscription was very poor, but, again, its aim was different than that of ordinary commemorative inscriptions in the nave: it was targeted at God and the martyrs whose relics were stored beneath the altar, and who were meant to intercede for these people. Essentially, this text was not just ‘a text’ per se. By their carved names (or their ‘epigraphic avatars’) the deceased supplicants were perpetually recreating their physical presence next to the most holy place in the church. Tightly packed around the altar’s pole, they were eternally adoring this life-giving source. Their presence was literal, 16 For a refutation of an earlier interpretation, that the inscription records the names of martyrs buried under the altar, see the comments by Walter Ameling in CIIP IV/1 2746. The first person mentioned, Petros, may be the founder of the church whom we saw in the mosaic inscription from the east end of the nave, and who is mentioned in the inscription from the base of the pulpit (see Di Segni 2012, no. 5).

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not just imagined. Elsewhere in this volume, Sean Leatherbury noted how the inscribed word could powerfully substitute figural images (see p. 163), while similar functions of carved votive inscriptions and images of sacrificial processions were also observed by scholars studying the classical Greek sacrifice. For example, Anja Klöckner noted that images on votive reliefs ‘perpetuate the gifts’ and ‘represent the donors’,17 while Milette Gaifman similarly showed that inscribed votive offerings ‘make the devotion of named individuals perpetual at a specific site’, based on the dedications to the Nymphs, such as the Andrachos’s relief from the Asklepieion in Athens, reliefs from a cave at Penteli, and others.18 The most interesting feature of this installation is, however, the fact that the names are carved on the bottom of a flat sunk field. Di Segni assumed that the niche was used to collect holy oil flowing out of a reliquary, and points to descriptions of similar installations mentioned by Cyril of Skythopolis and Anthony of Choziba.19 In his narration on the burial of St Euthymios (ch. 42) Cyril mentions a funnel or a crucible (χώνη)20 fixed on the lid of the tomb of Euthymios, and possibly penetrating into the cavity of the grave. It may have been used to infuse oil, so that it could get contact with the saint’s body, be sanctified, and recovered back as a remedy to all kinds of afflictions, although, strictly speaking this rite is not mentioned by Cyril. He rather vaguely refers to the funnel in the context of ‘many benefits’ produced by the tomb, without specifying if these were the results of the direct contact of oil with the body of the saint: The archbishop, who had sent the tombstone in advance with a silver funnel and surrounding railings (προπέμψας τήν τε ἐπικειμένην πλάκα μετὰ τῆς ἀργυρᾶς χώνης καὶ τὰ κυκλοῦντα κάγκελλα), came down to the laura and translated the precious remains to the place prepared, carrying them with

17 Klöckner 2017, 215. 18 Gaifman 2008, 85, 99–100. 19 Di Segni 2012, 412: ‘The slab has a central hole that gave access to a reliquary located under the altar; beyond its eastern border was another niche for a reliquary […] The projecting border of the slab prevented oil from spilling onto the presbytery floor.’ The author cites Cyril of Skythopolis, Vita Euthymii, chs 42, 52, 54 (ed. Schwartz 1939, 61, 75–76) and Anthony of Choziba, Miracula BMV, ch. 6 (ed. Houze 1888). Marie-Christine Comte (2012, 152) also speculated if the hole in the centre of the base at Khirbet Beit Sila could be used to collect holy effluents from the reliquary. 20 Richard Price (1991, 58) in his translation of the Life of Euthymios termed it ‘crucible’. I alter the term to ‘funnel’ throughout the cited passage, following Di Segni’s interpretation.

his own hands. After laying them to rest securely, so that no one could open the tomb and carry off the remains, he laid the tombstone in place, fixing the funnel above the breast (ἐπέθηκεν τὴν πλάκα πήξας τὴν χώνην ὑπεράνω τοῦ στήθους αὐτοῦ). This funnel, from then till this day, pours forth every kind of benefit for those who approach with faith (ἥτις χώνη ἀπὸ τότε μέχρι τῆς σήμερον ἀναβλύζει παντοδαπὰς εὐεργεσίας τοῖς μετὰ πίστεως προιοῦσι) (trans. Price 1991, 58 modified) Cyril’s chapter 52 mentions anointments with ‘oil from the tomb’, but says nothing on the method of its production, and chapter 54 gives another instance of anointments with ‘oil from the tomb’, and drinking ‘the liquid from his inextinguishable lamp’, brought outside the monastery as a remedy to an illness caused by a demon, but it does not touch upon the way this oil was made either. In the other passage, the Miracles of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Choziba (ch. 6), we read a story about a tomb of several monks exceeding in piety, who enjoyed a special παρρησία (freedom of speech) before God: ἥτις καὶ ἀνέβλυσεν ἀπαύστως ἔλεον ἰαμάτων ὥστε καλύπτειν τὴν πλάκα τὴν ἐπάνω τῆς θήκης· ἀλλ’ ἐπειδὴ ὁ ἐχθρὸς καὶ λυμεῶν τοῦ γένους ἡμῶν ἀεὶ φθόνει τοῖς ἀγαθοῖς χαρίσμασι τοῖς δωρουμένοις τῇ ἀνθρωπίνῃ φύσει παρά τε θεοῦ καὶ τῶν ἁγίων αὐτοῦ, παρεσκεύασέ τινα κανδηλάνπτην πρὸ τοῦ κρούσματος κατελθεῖν ἐπισκεψόμενον τὴν κανδήλαν τῶν ἁγίων· ὅς εὑρὼν ταύτην ἐσβεσμένην προσῆλθε τῇ θήκῃ προσκυνήσων· καὶ σκοτινοῦ ὄντος τῆς πλακὸς τῆς θήκης πεπληρωμένης τοῦ ἐλαίου τῶν ἁγίων, τὴν ἐσθήτα καὶ τὴν ὄψιν σὺν τῷ πώγωνι κατήρδευσε τοῦ ἐλαίου· καὶ ἐνεργηθεὶς πρὸς λύπην ἐκ τοῦ ἐχθροῦ λαβὼν κατέχεεν τὸ τῇ χώνῃ τῶν ἁγίων σταυρέλαιον καὶ ἀπὸ τότε οὐκέτι ἀνέβλυσαν οἱ ἅγιοι τὸ ἔλαιον τῆς ἰάσεως, ὥστε πάντας λυπηθῆναι τούς τε πατέρας καὶ τοὺς ξένους· πολλὰς γὰρ ἰάσεις καὶ θεραπείας ἐπετέλουν διὰ τοῦ ἐλαίου οἱ ἅγιοι. (This tomb was tirelessly pouring out the oil of healings, in a way that it was covering the upper tombstone. However, as the enemy and corrupter of our kind always envies the good blessings which are bestowed upon mankind from God and his saints, he incited one lighter of church lamps to descend (to the crypt) before the signal for the liturgy was given, intending to check the candle of the saints. He, having found the candle being extinguished, approached the tomb bowing to

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venerate it. And, as the plaque of the tomb was in total darkness, and was all full of the oil of the saints, he soaked his clothing and his face with his beard in the oil. And, incited to grief by the enemy, he took and spilt the oil of the cross (σταυρέλαιον) which was in the funnel (χώνη) of the saints, and from then on the saints have never again poured out the oil of healing. Hence, everyone was gravely saddened, both the Fathers and visitors (ξένοι), because the saints had wrought many healings and cures through this oil.) (Anthony of Choziba, Miracula Beatae Virginis Mariae, ch. 6; ed. Houze 1888)

Negev, between Gaza and Elousa.21 This inscription is on a framed mosaic panel set in the floor of the presbyterium, touching the reliquary pit (Fig. 11.6). The text reads: τῷ οἴκῳ σου πρέπει ἁγίασμα, Κ(ύρι)ε· (branch) τὰ σὰ ἐκ τον σῶν σοι προσφέρωμε ν· ὑπὲρ σωτηρίας Ἀλαφων καὶ Ἐμέ 4 σωνος καὶ Σαβῖνα καὶ Θεοδώρας· ὁ θ(εὸς) τοῦ ἁγίου Στεφάνου, μνήσθη τι τὸν δοῦλόν σου Στεφάνου πρεσβυτ(έρου)

(Holiness becometh Thine house, O Lord (Psalm 93. 5). We bring before Thee Thine of Thine. As a vow for the salvation of Alaphon, and Emeson, and Sabina, and Theodora. O God of St Stephen, remember your servant, the presbyter Stephanos!)

According to Di Segni, the production of holy oil through a χώνη could also be performed at Khirbet Beit Sila, where ordinary oil could be poured into a reliquary through a funnel. There, it gained contact with the relics and was similarly sanctified. Having filled the casket, it spilt on the altar base slowly filling (SEG 46. 2010 = Tzaferis 1996, no. 9; trans. in the sunk area. From there it was collected by the V. Tzaferis, modified) clergy. If it was so, this would mean that whenever the rite was performed, the names of the deceased As both the altar and the inscription are within the same supplicants were submerged and bathed in holy frame, surrounded by an additional broad mosaic band, oil, bringing even greater blessing onto the souls of they make a strong impression of belonging to the same, these names’ bearers. One could say that in a way the strictly delimited sacred area. This also emphasizes the closeness and direct contact of the names and supplicants were symbolically subjecting themselves the relics. At the same time, an inscription from the to this submersion. However, this interpretation need not be right. nave, the one meant to be read by the members of the First of all, there is no reason to question the plausible community, gives full details of the person involved in identification of the central hole of the plaque as the the actual supervision of the construction, and dates it socket for the altar’s pole. Secondly, although it is to the episcopate of Bishop Makedonios.22 The same beyond doubt that at least the plaque covering the pattern resurfaces at the third site I mentioned, Khirbet tomb of the holy monks at Choziba was periodically Hesheq near Diokaisareia/Sepphoris in Galilee.23 Here the reliquary pit in the south pastophorion adjoins to submerged in oil produced by the sepulchre, neither Cyril nor Anthony account the miraculous production a votive inscription (Fig. 11.7a and 11.7b) conveying a of oil as happening on the base of an ordinary altar, with the use of a common stone reliquary. In each case, it is the tomb of a prominent ascetic which is the source of holiness. Perhaps, this could be extrapolated 21 For a description of the site, see three papers by Dan Gazit and to the type of fixtures we just saw at Khirbet Beit Sila, Yeshayahu Lender (1991; 1992; 1993), and Madden 2014, 43–45, but this is just an assumption which finds no direct no. 49. For inscriptions, see SEG 46. 2004–2011 and BE (1997) evidence in sources. Nonetheless, even if the rite of 659; (2000) 675; (2015) 679. The dedication of the basilica to St Stephen is probably rightly inferred from the invocations of submersion of the altar’s base was not performed the God of St Stephen: in the inscription which we discuss here, there, this does not change the fact that the names and in one more text which is in a much worse condition (SEG of the supplicants were incised as close to the altar 46. 2011), even though another inscription, SEG 46. 2005, says as possible. that ‘this is the shrine of the Trinity’, Τριάδος δόμος οὗτος. A similar, although less spectacular, inscrip- 22 See SEG 46. 2009 = Tzaferis 1996, nos 6 and 7. tion recording the names of a group or benefactors 23 The site has so far yielded five mosaic inscriptions. For a description, see, for example, Aviam 2004, 205–40; Madden and supplicants, placed next to the altar’s base was 2014, 148, no. 218 (with further bibliography). The excavations unearthed in the church of St Stephen at Horvat were recently taken up again by Jacob Ashkenazi and Mordechai Be’er-Shema (Khirbet al-Far) in the north-western Aviam, under the auspices of the Kinneret Institute for Galilean Archaeology, and a new report will follow soon.

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Figure 11.6. Horvat Be’er-Shema/Khirbet al-Far (mosaic of the presbyterium and the reliquary pit). From: Gazit and Lender 1992, 36.

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Figure 11.7a. Khirbet Hesheq (mosaic of the reliquary pit in the southern apse). From: Di Segni 1990a, 381. Courtesy of Jacob Ashkenazi and Mordechai Aviam (Kinneret Institute for Galilean Archaeology).

Figure 11.7b. Khirbet Hesheq (mosaic of the reliquary pit in the southern apse, after the most recent restoration). Courtesy of Jacob Ashkenazi and Mordechai Aviam (Kinneret Institute for Galilean Archaeology).

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Figure 11.8. Church of St Basilios at Rihab (mosaic of the presbyterium and the reliquary pit). From: Piccirillo 1981, tav. 55. Courtesy of the Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land, Mt Nebo, and the American Center of Oriental Research, Amman.

prayer on behalf of a deacon and his family, some still alive and some already deceased: † ὑπὲρ σωτηρίας Δημητρίου διακ(όνου) (καὶ) Γεοργίου υἱοῦ (καὶ) ἀναπαύσεος Σόμαδ(ος) πατρὸς (καὶ) Δημητρίου (καὶ) Θεοδώρας πάπ(π)ων 3. πάπ(π)ων Ashkenazi, τ(έκν)ων Di Segni († As a vow for the salvation of Demetrios the deacon, and of Georgios, (his) son, and for the repose of Somas, (his) father, and of Demetrios, and Theodora (his) grandparents.) (SEG 40. 1445 = Di Segni 1990a, no. 2 = Ashkenazi 2020, 136 including a new reading of line 3; trans. L. Di Segni, lightly adapted) As we can see, the inscription does not give any details of the presumed offering made by this family. Neither the date nor the actual supervisor nor Demetrios’s possible role in the construction of the church are mentioned. That he had the entire church constructed, we learn from the main building inscription laid out on the mosaic of the nave, i.e. in the freely accessible zone.24

24 See SEG 40. 1444 = Di Segni 1990a, no. 1. Thanks to new excavations conducted at the site, it was also possible to uncover yet another mosaic inscription, a seven-line one, situated in the

A slightly different layout for the inscription of the presbyterium’s floor was used in the church of St Basilios at Rihab, a town sited between Bostra and Jerash. There, the inscription is executed as a single line on a mosaic band inserted into the floor immediately before the raised base of the altar, also fitted with a reliquary slot (Fig. 11.8).25 The phrasing applied is, however, very similar to the inscriptions we saw above: † ὑπὲρ σωτηρίας Ζώης δι(α)κ(ονίσσης) κ(αὶ) Στεφάνου κ(αὶ) Γεωργίου κ(αὶ) Βάσσου κ(αὶ) Βαδαγίου κ(αὶ) Θεοδ(ώ)ρου κ(αὶ) τοὺς διαφέ[ροντας κ(αὶ) ὑπὲρ ἀναπαύσ(εως) τῶν] γ(ο)νέ(ων) († As a vow for the salvation of the deaconess Zoe, and Stephanos, and Georgios, and Bassos, and Badagios, and Theodoros, and his household, [and as a vow for the repose of the] parents) (Piccirillo 1981, 70–72 = Avi-Yonah 1947, 69). We can compare this with the main dedicatory inscription placed in front of the steps of the chancel screen.26 It tells us again the names of all the supplicants, enumerated together with one more person, a certain Prokopios, already deceased (this is apparently one of οἱ διαφέροντες from the presbyterium inscription). But in addition, it informs the reader about the character of the offering (the foundation and completion of the north aisle and documenting complex family relations of the donors, see Ashkenazi 2020, 137–38. 25 For a description of the site, see Michel 2001, 212–14, no. 73. For inscriptions, see also Sartre-Fauriat 2000, 310–11, Comte 2012, 243–45, and SEG 50. 1518. 26 See Piccirillo 1981, 71–72 = Avi-Yonah 1947, 69–70, cf. SartreFauriat 2000, 310–11 and SEG 50. 1518.

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Figure 11.9. CPA inscriptions from Khirbat al-Kursi (mosaic in the presbyterium). From: Piccirillo 1988, pl. 52. Courtesy of the Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land, Mt Nebo, and the American Center of Oriental Research, Amman.

church), that the church was dedicated to a St Basilios (probably the martyr of Skythopolis) under Polyeuktos, metropolitan of Bostra, and at the end the year of the dedication is also recorded. In some cases, which is an issue I can only briefly touch upon here, it is also the language of the presbyterium inscriptions, which makes their dissimilarity to the commemorative inscriptions of the nave even sharper. For example, in the late sixth- or early seventh-century monastic martyr shrine from Khirbat al-Kursi in the suburbs of Amman (Philadelphia),27 in addition to the Greek, and fully informative, dedicatory inscription of the nave,28 we find a Christian-Palestinian Aramaic inscription in the mosaic floor of the chancel, split into two sections due to the damage taken by the floor (Fig. 11.9). This takes the shape of simple invocations of Jesus on behalf of a certain Šūmaš, probably identical with 29

27 For the church, see Michel 2001, 288–90, no. 109. 28 See SEG 38. 1660 = Piccirillo and ‘Amr 1988, 366.

the (deceased?) father of two benefactors mentioned in dedicatory floor-mosaic inscriptions in the nave:29 ]‫]†[ܡܪ ܝܣܘܤ ܐܬܪܚܡ ܥܠ ܫܘܡܫ   [† ܡܪ )?(ܝ‬ ] ‫ܣܘܤ ܡܫܚܐ ܐܬܪܚܡ ܥܠ ܫܘܡܫ‬ ([†] O Lord Jesus, have mercy upon Šūmaš! [† O Lord (?)] Jesus Christ, have mercy upon Šūmaš!) (Puech 1988, 385) The fact that the commissioners of this mosaic band chose Christian-Palestinian Aramaic over Greek, may But note that Puech interpreted the word ‫ ܫܘܡܫ‬as a personal name, though it had not been attested earlier. I also suppose that he wrongly identified the person as one of the benefactors from the Greek dedicatory inscription, a certain Sommaseos (see Puech 1988, 384: ‘Le nom propre Šwmš/Šūmaš (‫)ܫܘܡܫ‬ est nouveau en christo-palestinien et la grande inscription grecque dans la tabula ansata précise même son statut, “le prêtre Sommaseos”.’). It is, however, more probable that this ‘Šūmaš’ is father of two other men mentioned in inscriptions from the nave.

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corner of a mosaic cross is not clear.31 To keep the long thing short, the Aramaic text which occupies all the other quarters delimited by the cross was first read from the drawing by Michael Avi-Yonah as ‫ܡܪܝ ܝܘܚܢܐ ܝܘܢܐ ܟܗܢ‬ (My Lord John. The priest Jonah), the former probably being a saint, the latter a benefactor or supervisor of the paving. Although in the latest revision of the text Michael Zellmann-Rohrer (SEG 63. 1556) argues that the name previously identified as Jonah may actually read ‫( ܢܘܢܢܣ‬Nonnos), or ‫( ܢܩܘܣ‬Nikos), this does not change the fact that a benefactor or a local priest put his name within the chancel enclosure to ensure his perpetual contact with holiness. In all these cases, therefore, we see the same pattern: a very cohesive inscription with a prayer for the salvation of the living or the repose of the deceased is placed within the enclosure of the presbyterium in such a way that it touches the reliquary pit or lies at the feet of the altar. The scarcity of information and the fact that this inscription is difficult to access by ordinary members of the community strongly point to a function different than the commemorative one. Below, we shall see the same phenomenon in inscriptions on small objects.

Names of Benefactors Placed Directly onto Stone Reliquaries Figure 11.10. Greek and CPA inscriptions from the church at Umm al-Rus near Beit Jimal (mosaic in the presbyterium). From: Vincent 1899, 454.

Although small stone boxes shaped as ordinary sarcophagi were a very popular type of reliquary used in the late antique East, it appears that the practice of carving inscriptions on their sides or lids was not widespread.32 We can conclude so based on the fact that just a fraction

point to the fact that they wanted to give it a flavour of a more personal text, meant to be read by Christ alone, and ensure that his ‘voice’ would be perpetually 31 The Greek text reads ΚΥΡΟΥ | Ἰωάννου. Félix-Marie Abel (1919, 244–48) understood it as the name of St Kyros, here followed echoed in the chancel, near the altar. The names of by his companion John (both venerated in Alexandria). So did donors recorded in Christian-Palestinian Aramaic also Françoise Halkin (1951, 71 and 1941, 306–07) and Bellarmino appeared in a now lost bilingual inscription from the Bagatti (1983, 133–35). Conversely, Robert Stewart Macalister presbyterium of the church at Umm al-Rus near Beit Jimal (1899, 200–04), attempted to correct the first word to κύριος (Lord). Michael Avi-Yonah (1933, no. 326), comparing the and Eleutheropolis in the Judaean Hills, which recently contents of the Aramaic and Greek inscription, and modifying 30 resurfaced in the scholarly discussion. Sadly, as it is Stewart Macalister’s supposition, also suggested that the Greek known only through a drawing of disputed accuracy term was probably a variant spelling of κύριος (> κῦρος). This (Fig. 11.10), it is difficult to draw definitive conclusions would correspond to ‘Lord John’ (‫ )ܡܪܝ ܝܘܚܢܐ‬in the Aramaic regarding its contents. Even the meaning of the seemingly part of the text as the epithet of a cleric or a saint. Avi-Yonah’s transcription and interpretation were accepted by Yiannis simple Greek text displayed in the lower right-hand

Meimaris (1986, 101, no. 597), Pau Figueras (2013, 159), and Andrew Madden (2014, 134–35, no. 199). Hondius in the eighth volume of the SEG hesitates between the name Kyros and the epithet κύριος. Louis Robert in the Bulletin épigraphique (1952, 30 The inscription is now lost, but the reports of the late nineteenth173) suspended judgement. century surveyors (Vincent 1899, Stewart Macalister 1899) clearly indicate that it was placed in the floor of the presbyterium, 32 One could possibly think of inscribed Egyptian stone vessels, found commonly throughout the Achaemenid Empire as well as on both sides of a jewelled cross shown on top of vines growing also exported to Syria and Palestine in earlier periods (see Shaw out of a kantharos. By 1922 the inscriptions had been irrevocably 2010), as a parallel to this practice, but the number of inscribed lost (Mallon 1922, 504). See CIIP IV/1 3316, SEG 63. 1556, and stone reliquaries is in fact too low to draw any justified conclusions P. Nowakowski, The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity database regarding the cultural patterns which influenced their origin. record E03580.

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of more than 260 extant reliquaries of this type bear any kind of inscription.33 Nonetheless, the carved reliquaries that we have do prove that the general pattern we saw above also applied in their case. As objects containing martyrs’ relics (be it contact or corporal ones), reliquaries themselves were considered as sources of sanctity. Therefore, when allowed, benefactors were also eager to put their names onto them, and also in their case we can see the trend for using the names of benefactors, as embodiments of their perpetual presence. In the now most comprehensive catalogue of Middle Eastern reliquaries published by Marie-Christine Comte (2012), the bulk of the reliquary inscriptions are just the names of donors and basic votive formulae (ὑπὲρ εὐχῆς).34 Usually they say nothing on dates, have no references to bishops who performed the rite of the deposition of relics, or any other description of the circumstances of the donation, while all these details are often meticulously listed in inscriptions from mosaic floors, and sometimes also in inscriptions from stone reliquaries from different areas.35 A good example to illustrate this trend is the inscription from a reliquary lid from Khirbet Ma‘asub near al-Bassa and Tyre in west Phoenicia, first published by Étienne Michon in 1905, now in the Louvre Museum.36

The text has no references to relics of saints stored inside the box. Instead, the inscription records only the name of the donor who probably commissioned the making of this casket, and his provenance: † ὑπὲρ σωτ(ηρίας) Ἠλία διακˋόˊ(νου) υἱοῦ Ἰαννοῦ Σά[β]α κώμ(ης) Τιριας †

(† As a vow for the salvation of Elias, the deacon, son of Ioannes Sabas, from the village Tiria. †) (Duval and others 1996, 321–22)

Remarkably, the formula is the same as that which we saw in reliquary pits and presbyterium inscriptions. Apparently, its author was not interested in informing fellow Christians about the identity of the saint (or saints) venerated, but wanted to emphasize the identity of the benefactor or supplicant, and ensure that his presence next to the reliquary would be perpetually secured. In some cases, however, we do find reliquaries with complex inscriptions, also recording the names of saints. But even then, the description of the holy figure is often limited, while the largest part is occupied by the names of benefactors and supplicants. This is, for example, the case of the dedicatory inscription from a limestone reliquary of unknown provenance, first published by Leah Di Segni in 2007 in the catalogue of the then exhibition at the Bible Land Museum in Jerusalem (inv. no. BLMJ 6279).37 No more than one line carved on one of the wide front faces of the chest, informs the reader, in a very concise way, that the reliquary contains relics of St Sergios. At the same time five lines on the other front face and a side face say that the object was offered as a vow for the salvation of a certain Anyson, and lists at least seven other supplicants:

33 Already in 1993 Erica Hunter noticed that late antique inscribed reliquaries constitute just a fraction of all the finds, and that they rarely name the saints whose relics were kept inside these caskets. In her comments on an inscription from a reliquary from Khirbet Khalid, recording only the names of two stonecutters who made the box, she says (Hunter 1993, 309): ‘Paradoxically, the names of the two masons have remained for posteriority, providing a striking contrast to the unknown martyr whose bones were held by the reliquary.’ Twelve legible inscriptions, mainly from stone reliquaries, are now discussed by Marie Christine Comte in her chapter on the practice of inscribing reliquaries in the Middle East (2012, ch. 7: ‘Les reliquaires inscrits’ = pp. 99–108). However, Comte’s work is based primarily on reliquaries of known provenance while some finds of disputed origin can be added, for example, the reliquary from the Bible Land Museum in Jerusalem, which I discuss below, and the reliquary put on display in the Benaki Museum in Athens (Drandaki 2011, Front face (Inscription A): 130–31, no. 90). Two more are hinted at by Gaby Abousamra (2015). Adding reliquaries from Asia Minor (see, for example, † θήκη τοῦ ἁγίου Σεργί[ου]· Nowakowski 2018, 57–60) further increases the number. ὑπὲρ σωτηρίας Ἀνύσωνος 34 See Comte 2012, nos Idlib mus 1, Hama mus 2, M. Noman 1, and τοῦ φιλοχρίστου τοῦ ποισαντος p. 101 (= IGLS IV 1781) — not numbered, p. 102 (= Michon 1905, 576) — not numbered, p. 106 (= Martiniani-Reber 2000, 106) — not numbered. († Reliquary (theke) of St Sergios. As a vow for 35 For a stone reliquary from Sebasteia in eastern Asia Minor with a the salvation for Anyson, the Christ-loving, detailed inscription recording the circumstances of the donation who made (this).) of the object, and the deposition of relics of several saints, see Schneider 1939, 393 = Bittel and Schneider 1944–1945, col. 80 and pl. 29,2 = Nowakowski 2018, no. ARM/02/01. See also BE (1941) 143; (1958) 484. 36 Michon 1905, 576 = Buschhausen 1971, 315, no. C68 = Duval and others 1996, 321–22 and fig. 13a–b = Comte 2012, 246–47. See 37 Di Segni (ed.) in Goodnick Westenholz 2007, no. 75. See also also BE (1997) 631, SEG 46. 1803, and P. Nowakowski, the Cult of SEG 57. 1860 and P. Nowakowski, the Cult of Saints in Late Saints in Late Antiquity, database record E01727. Antiquity, database record E02938.

188 pawe ł n owa kow s ki

Figure 11.11. Reliquary from Khirbet Khalid with a Syriac inscription. From: Hunter 1991, 164, pl. III. Courtesy of Erica Hunter.

Side face (Inscription B): [μνήσθητι, Κ(ύρι)ε (?), Μαρί]ας κ(αὶ) Δανιὴλ [κ(αὶ) - - - κ(αὶ) Ἀθα]νασίας κ(αὶ) Σεργίου κ(αὶ) Πέτρου τοῦ μαρμαραρίου κ(αὶ) Ἀναί[α] ([Remember, O Lord (?)], Maria, and Daniel, [and - - -, and] Athanasia, and Sergios, and Petros, the marble-mason, and Anaias.) (Di Segni (ed.) in Goodnick Westenholz 2007, no. 75 = SEG 57. 1860)

still a poorly explored domain,39 we do have an example which closely follows the form of the Greek inscriptions. The label does not mention the name of the saints but emphasizes the role of the benefactor followed by the artisan who ‘made’ the object (Syriac: ‫ — )ܥܒܕ‬this time, given its position in the text, the word seems to denote an actual artisan rather than a donor. This close parallel is the reliquary found at Khirbet Khalid, a site located approximately 20 km from Jarablus, on the west bank of the Euphrates. It was first published by Erica Hunter in 1991 (Hunter 1991 = Hunter 1993, 308–09; cf. Abousamra 2015, 25). She describes the object as a limestone chest (W. 0.65 m; L. 38.5 m; H. 38.5 m). Although the lid is lost, we can suppose that the box also took the shape of a small sarcophagus (Fig. 11.11). A Syriac inscription is carved on one of the narrow side faces, is aligned vertically (a practice not uncommon in Syriac epigraphy), and was originally painted red: 4

‫ܪܚܡ ܡܪܢ‬ ‫ܥܠ ܟܪܝܣܛܦܪܘܣ‬ ‫ܘܥܠ ܣܟܠܘܢܐ‬ ‫ܕܥܒܕ ܐܡܝܢ‬



(Have mercy, Our Lord, upon Christophoros, and upon sklwn’ who made (this)! Amen.) (Hunter 1993, 309–10, trans. E. Hunter)

The editor makes two important remarks on the contents of this inscription. Firstly, she understands two words given in lines 2 and 3 as the names (respectively Christophoros and sklwn’) of two stonemasons who made (‫ )ܥܒܕ‬the reliquary. But, strictly speaking, ‫ ܥܒܕ‬is a singular verb, most likely referring only to the second person mentioned. His designation (the word ‫)ܣܟܠܘܢܐ‬ is unlikely to be an enigmatic personal name. ‫ܣܟܠܘܢܐ‬ (saḵlōnā) is a diminutive form, and a derivative of ‫ܣܟܠ‬, ‘to be silly, foolish’, or ‘to do wrong, evil things’. Therefore, this seems to be a self-derogatory term, the ‘little foolish one’ or the ‘little wrong-doer/sinner’, and I am tempted to translate the inscription as follows: ‘Have mercy,

A particularly interesting element is the mention of Anyson as the maker (ὁ ποιήσας). He was probably the benefactor who ‘made the vow’/‘made the offering’, not the artisan who made the reliquary and cut the inscription.38 Petros, the marble-mason, whose name appears in the second part of the inscription was possibly a local entrepreneur who contributed to the offering through his work or, perhaps, even made the casket with his own hands and identified himself by his profession. Again, the habit of placing such texts onto reliquaries appears to be cross-lingual. Although Syriac and Christian- 39 Comte lists just one example of a reliquary inscribed with a Syriac text, now kept in the Istanbul Archaeological Museum Palestinian Aramaic inscriptions from reliquaries are (see Comte 2012, 101 and my comments in the Cult of Saints in

38 In some cases, the verb ποιέω (to make) and its participles clearly refer to donors, not artisans. See, for example, Nowakowski 2018, no. PHR/01/01 = von Domaszewski 1883, 175, no. 20 (Bozüyük near Dorylaion in Phrygia, central Anatolia).

Late Antiquity database, under E04558; unusually, this inscription lists the names of the saints whose relics were enclosed in the ̈ casket: ‫ܫܠܝܚܐ ܫܡܥܘܢ ܟܦܐ ܘܬܘܡܐ‬ ‫ܐܝܬ ܒܗܢܐ ܓܠܘܣܩܡܐ‬ ̈ ‫( ܫܠܝܚܐ ܘܫܡܥܘܢ ܕܣܛܘܢܗ ܘܣܗܕܐ ܛܘܒܢܐ‬In this reliquary (glūsqmā) are the Apostles: Shimon Kephas, and Thomas the Apostle, and Symeon of the Pillar, and blessed martyrs). For comments on other reliquaries with Syriac inscriptions, see Abousamra 2015.

11. ‘and t he wo rd was made fles h ’ 189

Figure 11.12. Graffiti from Rusafa. From: Ulbert 1986, Taf. 53. Courtesy of Thilo Ulbert.

Our Lord, upon Christophoros, and upon the sinner who made (this)! Amen.’ Christophoros was, thus, the name of a benefactor, while the stonemason probably preferred to introduce himself as an anonymous sinner. More importantly, Hunter is struck by the fact that the name of the martyr venerated was not carved on the chest.40 This proves that the inscription was not made for the human audience who would like to learn the name of the holy figure, or for the record. Its purpose was not informative or commemorative (in the human, earthly sense).41 Instead, it was meant to address God and an unnamed saint, while the name of the benefactor and the ‘signature’ of the stone-cutter were in fact embodiments of their contact with the holy relics.

40 Hunter 1993, 309. 41 Similar conclusions are reached by Sean Leatherbury in his discussion of formulae from pendant crosses. He noticed that the formulae were consistently placed on the reverse, invisible to people facing the wearer. This is apparently another case of an inscription not meant for human readership, where the function of ‘conducting’ holiness to the body through direct contact was more important than visibility. See pp. 163–64 in this volume.

Graffiti in Pilgrimage Centres and Holy Caves: Constructing the ‘Presence of the Absentees’ The practice of substituting one’s presence at a holy site with inscriptions is also manifested by graffiti from pilgrimage destinations. In this case, pilgrims visiting holy sites either themselves scratched their names on walls and elements of architecture in chambers and passageways, or they had this rite done in delimited areas through the hands and with the permission of the staff of a given sanctuary (probably for a fee or a donation — one can hardly imagine that access to the holiest places would not have been strictly controlled by the clergy). Often, the decisive factor must have been simply the accessibility of space, but sometimes the choice of place for a visitor’s graffito is clearly not accidental. For example, in Basilica A at Rusafa, Greek, Syriac, and Arabic graffiti42 were found on a plastered wall of a room adjacent to the reliquary chamber almost certainly housing the relics of St Sergios (Fig. 11.12).

42 For an edition of the Greek and Arabic graffiti, see respectively Römer 1986 and Khoury 1986. As far as I know, the Syriac graffiti are still unpublished. See also Yasin 2015a and Sack 2015.

190 pawe ł n owa kow s ki

The room with relics was located at the east end of the north aisle of the basilica, and could be accessed from another chamber where visitors scratched their names on the wall separating it from the actual martyrion. Among the graffiti, we find a complex invocation on behalf of an entire family, and probably friends or neighbours of a pilgrim:

Κ(ύρι)ε ὁ θεὸς τῶν δυνάμεων μνήσθε[τι - - -] Σεργίου καὶ τῶν πα[τ]έρων αὐτοῦ καὶ θυγ[ατρὸς - - -] καὶ τῆς ἀδελφῆς αὐτοῦ Α…α καὶ . [- - -] 4 καὶ τοῦ ἀνδρὸς αὐτῆς (O Lord, God of the Powers, remember [- - -] Sergios and his ancestors, and (his) daughter [- - -] and his sister A[- - -] and [- - -] and her husband!) (Römer 1986, no. 14, see also SEG 37. 1460)

of the excavations (Politis 2012a),43 we have three finds from the cave and its nearby area: (1) a female name on the wall at the entrance to the cave: Ζινοβία Νεστασίου (Zenobia, daughter of Nestasios/Anastasios) (Politis 2012a, 414–15, no. 19: ed. Y. Meimaris and K. I. Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou), accompanied by (2) an Arabic graffito invoking the Compassionate and Merciful God on behalf of one Ğarīr (p. 417, no. 1, ed. M. C. A. Macdonald), and an inscribed clay lamp (p. 418, no. 3, ed. R. G. Hoyland). Other graffiti can be seen, for example, on columns in the church. It is, however, symptomatic that the graffito of Zenobia, placed as close as possible to the holy site, is limited to just the name of the visitor. The number of similar holy places is much bigger. It seems that the practice of carving graffiti at these extraordinary sites was so popular because it created an opportunity for ordinary visitors to create their ‘epigraphic avatars’ in a similar way the opulent donors did by inscriptions in reliquary pits and on mosaic panels inside the presbyterium. The latter, however, had to follow generous donations, whilst graffiti inexpensively and efficiently ensured the supplicants’ perpetual physical contact with holiness without the need of constructing churches by themselves, or getting access to the chancel zone. Our knowledge of this phenomenon is continuously expanding with new finds. As recently as in 2018, a new lot of visitors’ graffiti from the so-called underground chapel of St Salome at Horvat Qazra near Eleutheropolis was published by Walter Ameling, Robert Hoyland, and Dirk Koßmann (CIIP IV/2 3791–3805), based on the re-examination of the site in 2014. The editors also offered new readings of texts already known, first published by Leah Di Segni and Joseph Patrich in 1990, and further commented on in the relevant SEG entries (40. 1450–61). The sanctuary of Salome is located in a first/second-century ce burial complex which was adapted as a Christian shrine, and was frequented by local Christians between the fifth and the eleventh centuries, many of them being Arabic speakers.44 Invocations (in Greek, Christian-Palestinian Aramaic, and Arabic) address St Salome, a woman, according to Christian apocryphal writings (the Infancy Gospel of James), attending to the Virgin Mary after she had given birth to Christ, and it is the dedicatee who makes the site especially interesting. We have very little evidence for her cult in the late antique period;45

Here the names scratched on plaster not only immortalized the presence of the actual visitor to the shrine (apparently Sergios mentioned in line 2), but were also a means to enable a ‘virtual pilgrimage’ to people of his kin who, for various reasons, never left their village. The meta-textual understanding of the text carved, and its physical contact with the wall and the holy relics behind it, caused the actual embodiment of the presence of even the absentees around this holy place. This was, of course, a natural and logical development of the idea of substitution of the donor’s (or actual visitor’s) presence. If a plain text could re-enact his or her presence, piety, and prayers, even if he or she himself had left the holy area, in the same way the presence of people who were never there could be imitated (or embodied) by their names without the physical act of approaching the holy site. Thus the ‘presence of the absentees’ was constructed. Sometimes names of visitors were not placed in proximity of relics, but in places associated with a saint’s life. This is, for example, the case of the recent finds from the monastic church built in front of the Cave of St Lot (an Old Testament Patriarch) at Deir ‘Ain ‘Abata near Zoara/modern Ghor es-Safi on the south-east shore of the Dead Sea. Christians and subsequently Muslims venerated the cave as the biblical place of the sojourn of Lot. A three-aisled basilica was built in front of the cave (termed area F.III by the excavators), so that the holy space was accessed directly from the 43 See also Politis 2010 and Politis 2012b. north aisle, through a passageway in the east wall of the 44 For the first exploration of the site, see Kloner and others 1990, 29*–30*. north pastophorion. Among the informal inscriptions 45 A feast of Salome (25 April) is recorded in the Georgian Church published in the so far most comprehensive report Calendar of Ioane Zosime, compiled at the Mar Saba Monastery

in the mid-tenth century, but heavily drawing upon earlier liturgical calendars of Palestine and the Church of Jerusalem (see

11. ‘and t he wo rd was made fles h ’

it is also not clear why her cult sprung at Horvat Qazra. Perhaps a tomb of an ordinary person named Salome was identified there with the presumed tomb of the saint. In one of the graffiti (CIIP IV/2 3796) a ‘deacon of St Salome’ is mentioned, which implies that an institutionalized form of her cult existed either in the underground tombs, or elsewhere in this area. Anyway, the case illustrates a local need for a small holy site where one could place his or her name, and imitate the practice of embodiment, as it was realized in the greatest sanctuaries.

Conclusions: A Peculiar Symbolism of the Inscribed Name The examples discussed above strongly suggest that the seemingly basic function of dedicatory inscriptions, the commemoration of one’s deeds and the act of publicizing them to a wide audience, could sometimes give way to a different aim: the embodiment (or, perhaps, we can even term it ‘incarnation’) of the benefactors’ and supplicants’ presence at a holy site. In these cases, the inscribed name, like in the figure of speech called pars pro toto, becomes a representation of a living, breathing man or woman, and its eternal and uninterrupted physical contact with the sacred is believed to allow its bearer to draw benefits he or she

would get by perpetually staying himself or herself in the shrine, touching the altar or holy relics. This peculiar transposition of benefits, caused by the ‘incarnation’ of the written or inscribed word recalls the relation between the divine Word, Logos, and its incarnation as the human flesh, which lies at the heart of the Gospel of John, being particularly emphasized in its introductory lines. Inscriptions alone are perhaps too little to answer the question whether their authors had this passage in mind while they were carving their names as avatars of their presence in holy places, but one must remember that some biblical sayings are indeed cited in secondary literature as possible inspiration for the commissioners of inscriptions.46 One must, however, remember that the practice of the embodiment of donors’ or supplicants’ presence in a sanctuary through the carving of their names is much earlier, and is independently found in many ancient religions predating Christianity. In the case of polytheistic graffiti, we do have examples of names which were executed on walls to eternalize their bearers’ visit to such holy places47 or to an unusual location, for example a cave, possibly also considered as a sacred site.48 Here we can also see a direct continuation of the pre-Christian understating of inscribed ex votos. This warns us about a very complex nature of all the epigraphic evidence which can never be subject to any historical analysis without a detailed study of its context and placement.

46 An excellent parallel is the formula φῶς ζωή (Light, Life) discussed by Sean Leatherbury in this volume, certainly based on passages containing these two words in John 8. 12 and John 1. 4 (see p. 159). Furthermore, a view exists that the practice of devotional building of churches, which often had little in common with the actual needs or number of a given community, may have derived from a saying of Jesus recorded in Matthew 16. 18 — ‘And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ This could be interpreted as a kind of a statement that the construction of a church was a way to ensuring salvation to its founder. Cf. also the parable on the wise man who built his house on a rock and was saved, in Matthew 7. 24–27. 47 See Łajtar 2006 for pagan supplicants’ graffiti with προσκυνήματα (written records of the act of veneration) from the temple of Hatshepsut (Deir al-Bahari/Luxor in Egypt). 48 A good case of pagan graffiti and charcoal inscriptions executed for unknown purpose on a particular site, are the texts from the cave Latsida ston Keramo, situated in a gorge in south-central N. Aleksidze, The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity, database record Crete, near the villages of Khamaitoulo and Lamnoni, dating E03720). Salome is also depicted on a labelled painting in a from approximately the mid-first century bce to the early third ruined church at Kilise Alanı near Gürses (close to ancient Myra century ce (see Litinas 2014 and BE (2015) 589). in south Anatolia), see Borchhardt 1975, 418 and BE (1976) 663.

191

192 pawe ł n owa kow s ki

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Three Faces of Monotheism ( Jerusalem: Bible Lands Museum) Halkin, Françoise. 1951. ‘Inscriptions grecques relatives à l’hagiographie. IV La Palestine’, Analecta Bollandiana, 69: 67–76 Hunter, Erica C. D. 1991. ‘An Inscribed Reliquary from the Middle Euphrates’, Oriens Christianus, 75: 147–65 ——. 1993. ‘The Cult of Saints in Syria during the Fifth Century A.D.’, in Biblica et apocrypha, orientalia, ascetica: Papers Presented at the Eleventh International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford, 1991, ed. by Elizabeth A. Livingstone (Leuven: Peeters), pp. 308–12 Keesling, Catherine M. 2003. The Votive Statues of the Athenian Acropolis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Khoury, Raif Georges. 1986. ‘Die arabischen Inschriften’, in Die Basilika des Heiligen Kreuzes in Resafa-Sergiupolis, ed. by Thilo Ulbert, Resafa, 2 (Mainz: Von Zabern), pp. 179–80 Klöckner, Anja. 2017. ‘Visualizing Veneration: Images of Animal Sacrifice on Greek Votive Relief ’, in Animal Sacrifice in the Ancient Greek World, ed. by Sarah Hitch and Ian Rutherford (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 200–22 Kloner, Amos, Yospeh Drori, and Joseph Naveh. 1990. ‘The Cave Chapel of Ḥorvat Qaṣra’, ‘Atiqot: Hebrew Series, 10: 29*–30* [summary in English] Litinas, Nikos (ed.) with a speleological presentation by Kostas Foteinakis and Kaloust Paragamian. 2014. Inscriptions of the Cave ‘Latsida ston Keramo’, Tyche Supplementband, 8 (Vienna: Holzhausen der Verlag) Łajtar, Adam. 2006. Deir el-Bahari in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods: A Study of an Egyptian Temple Based on Greek Sources, Journal of Juristic Papyrology, Supplements, 4 (Warsaw: Raphael Taubenschlag Foundation) MacMullen, Ramsay. 1982. ‘The Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire’, The American Journal of Philology, 103: 233–46 Madden, Andrew M. (ed.). 2014. Corpus of Byzantine Church Mosaic Pavements in Israel and the Palestinian Territories (Leuven: Peeters) Mallon, Alexis. 1922. ‘Le sanctuaire byzantin de Beit Djemal’, Biblica, 3: 502–07 Martiniani-Reber, Marielle. 2000. ‘Note sur un sarcophage reliquaire byzantin conservé au Musée d’art et d’histoire’, Genava: revue d’histoire de l’art et d’archéologie, 48: 99–106 Meimaris, Yiannis. 1986. Sacred Names, Saints, Martyrs and Church Officials in the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Pertaining to the Christian Church of Palestine (Athens: National Hellenic Research Foundation, Center for Greek and Roman Antiquity) Meimaris, Yiannis, and Nikoleta S. Makrigianni. 2008. Ἔρνος κύδιμον Παλαιστινῆς γαίης ᾿Aνθολογία ἐπιγραφῶν Παλαιστινῆς καὶ ᾿Aραβίας (Athens: National Hellenic Research Foundation, Center for Greek and Roman Antiquity) Michel, Anne. 2001. Les églises d’époque byzantine et umayyade de Jordanie (provinces d’Arabie et de Palestine), ve–viiie siècle: typologie architecturale et aménagements liturgiques (avec catalogue des monuments; préface de Noël Duval; premessa di Michele Piccirillo), Bibliothèque de l’antiquité tardive, 2 (Turnhout: Brepols) Michon, Étienne. 1905. ‘Antiquités gréco-romaines provenant de Syrie conservées au Musée du Louvre’, La revue biblique, 2: 564–78 Nowakowski, Paweł. 2018. Inscribing the Saints in Late Antique Asia Minor, Journal of Juristic Papyrology, Supplement, 34 (Warsaw: Raphael Taubenschlag Foundation)

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Ognibene, Susanna. 2002. Umm al-Rasas: La chiesa di Santo Stefano ed il problema iconofobico (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider) Peleg, Yuval. 2012. ‘Iconoclasm in Churches and Synagogues in Judea’, in Christians and Christianity, iv: Churches and Monasteries in Judea, ed. by Noga Carmin, Edward Levin, Carl Ebert, and Michael Gugenheim, Judea and Samaria Publications, 16 ( Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority), pp. 483–94 Piccirillo, Michele. 1981. Chiese e mosaici della Giordania settentrionale ( Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press) ——. 2008. The Mosaics of Jordan, 3rd edn (Amman: American Center of Oriental Research) Piccirillo, Michele, and ‘Abd al-Jalil ‘Amr. 1988. ‘A Chapel at Khirbet El-Kursi – Amman’, Liber annuus, 38: 361–82 Piccirillo, Michele, and Eugenio Alliata (eds). 1994. Umm al-Rasas (Mayfa’ah), i: Gli scavi del complesso di Santo Stefano ( Jerusalem: Studium Biblicum Franciscanum) Politis, Konstantinos D. 2010. ‘The Monastery of Aghios Lot at Deir ‘Ain ‘Abata in Jordan’, in Byzanz: Das Römerreich im Mittelalter, ed. by Falko Daim and Jörg Drauschke (Mainz: Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum), pp. 155–80 —— (ed.). 2012a. Sanctuary of Lot at Deir ‘Ain ‘Abata: Excavations 1988–2003 (Amman: Jordan Distribution Agency), pp. 393–416 (Greek inscriptions, ed. by Yiannis Meimaris and Kalliope I. Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou), pp. 417–19 (Semitic inscriptions, ed. by Sebastian Brock, Sheila Canby, Omar al-Ghul, Robert G. Hoyland, and Michael C. A. Macdonald) ——. 2012b. ‘The Sanctuary of Lot at ‘Ain ‘Abata in Jordan’, in Christ Is Here! Studies in Biblical and Christian Archaeology in Memory of Michele Piccirillo, OFM, ed. by Lesław D. Chrupcała, SBF Collectio maior, 52 (Milan: Edizioni Terra Santa), pp. 355–82 Puech, Émile. 1988. ‘Les inscriptions christo-palestiniennes de Khirbet el-Kursi – Amman’, Liber annuus, 38: 383–89 Reynolds, Daniel. 2017. ‘Rethinking Palestinian Iconoclasm’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 71: 1–63 Römer, Cornelia. 1986. ‘Die griechischen Graffiti’, in Die Basilika des Heiligen Kreuzes in Resafa-Sergiupolis, ed. by Thilo Ulbert, Resafa, 2 (Mainz: Von Zabern), pp. 171–77 Sack, Dorothée. 2015. ‘St Sergios in Resafa: Worshipped by Christians and Muslims Alike’, in Religious Identities in the Levant from Alexander to Muhammed: Continuity and Change, ed. by Michael Blömer, Achim Lichtenberger, and Rubina Raja, Contextualizing the Sacred, 4 (Turnhout: Brepols), pp. 271–82 Sahner, Christian C. 2017. ‘The First Iconoclasm in Islam: A New History of the Edict of Yazīd II (AH 104/AD724)’, Der Islam, 94: 5–56 Sartre-Fauriat, Annie. 2000. ‘Georges, Serge, Élie et quelques autres saints connus et inédits de la province d’Arabie’, in Romanité et cité chrétienne: permanences et mutations; intégration et exclusion du ier au vie siècle; mélanges en l’honneur d’Yvette Duval, ed. by Françoise Prévot (Paris: De Boccard), pp. 295–314 Schick, Robert. 2015. ‘The Destruction of Images in 8th-Century Palestine’, in Age of Transition: Byzantine Culture in the Islamic World, ed. by Helen C. Evans (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art), pp. 132–43 Schneider, Alfons Maria. 1939. ‘Eine Reliquiarinschrift aus Sivas’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 39: 393 Shaw, Ian. 2010. ‘Inscribed Stone Vessels as Symbols of the Egypto-Achaemenid Economic Encounter’, in Commerce and Economy in Ancient Egypt: Proceedings of the Third International Congress for Young Egyptologists, 25–27 September, 2009, ed. by András Hudecz and Máté Petrik (London: Archaeopress), pp. 107–11 Stewart Macalister, Robert A. 1899. ‘A Byzantine Church at Umm er Rus’, The Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement, 31: 200–04 Tzaferis, Vassilios. 1996. ‘Greek Inscriptions from the Ancient Church at Horvat Be’er-Shema’, Eretz Israel, 25: 75*–85* Ulbert, Thilo (ed.). 1986. Die Basilika des Heiligen Kreuzes in Resafa-Sergiupolis, Resafa, 2 (Mainz: Von Zabern) Vincent, Louis H. 1899. ‘Encore l’église d’Oumm er-Roûs’, Revue biblique, 8: 452–58 Yasin, Ann Marie. 2015a. ‘Prayers on Site: The Materiality of Devotional Graffiti and the Production of Early Christian Sacred Space’, in Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, ed. by Antony Eastmond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 36–60 ——. 2015b. ‘Sacred Installations: The Material Conditions of Relic Collections in Late Antique Churches’, in Saints and Sacred Matter: The Cult of Relics in Byzantium and Beyond, ed. by Cynthia Hahn and Holger A. Klein (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks), pp. 133–51

V.

Texts that Move through Media — Greek Literary and Inscriptional Epigram

Joseph  W. Day

12. Elegy, Epigram, and the Complementarity of Text and Monument*

The relationship between ‘literary’ elegy and elegiac epigram in Archaic and early Classical Greece has been much discussed; but scholars have not sufficiently explored the sixth-century epigraphic adoption of elegiac forms and wording from the perspective of materiality, that is, how it affected the relationship between epigram and inscribed object. I argue that elegiac epigrams complemented their objects more effectively than their hexametric and iambic forebears did. Elegy, having evolved at least partly in intimate situations like symposia, developed features that, when transferred to epigram, helped produce desired responses in passers-by who gazed at the inscribed object and read its inscription. I consider three such features in verse epitaphs on grave monuments, where elegiac form first appeared and gained popularity epigraphically: dialogic grammar, emotional heightening, and the framing of images. Dialogic or audience-oriented grammar, typical of elegy, served well in epigrams to anticipate and complement interactions between passers-by and inscribed objects. Emotional language borrowed from elegy functioned as an incitement to sadness or pity for an emotional bond that death severed, and it did so in ways that can complement an image of the deceased. Elegy loves striking visual images, which it often frames with dialogic and emotional passages that guide an audience’s responses. On grave monuments featuring figured art, elegiac epigram borrowed elegy’s ways of framing images in order to guide viewers toward specific emotional responses.

Such ways of complementing and guiding the interactions of passers-by with inscribed objects continued even when epigram moved to a different medium, from stone to scroll, but their function shifted. In literary epigram, the materiality of the object is a fiction, one that authors, sometimes playfully, often cleverly, helped readers construct mentally with language that had some of its roots in the epigraphic practices discussed here (see Bing 1995). The two other chapters in this section of the volume, ‘Texts that Move through Media — Greek Literary and Inscriptional Epigram’, explore aspects of this fictionalization of materiality. Sherry Lee examines Nossis’s evocation of physical dedications and an apparently historical social-ritual context behind them. Federica Scicolone concentrates on deixis, a topic also treated here; she considers how literary epigram adapted epigraphic deixis to ‘render the materiality of inscriptions into a verbal simulacrum of reality’ (this volume, p. 232).1

* Heartfelt thanks to Drs Angliker and Bultrighini for organizing the 2018 Boston AIA panel and shepherding the publication process, and thanks too to Brepols’s anonymous reviewers. The winter storm in Boston kept me from delivering my paper, but Prof. Eva Stehle kindly read it for me. I also thank audiences who commented helpfully on other versions at Stanford University (25 April 2016), the University of Virginia (30 March 2017), and the University of Tennessee at Knoxville (22 March 2018). 1 I think of reading and viewing as a performance, but I leave the readers and contexts of reading rather undefined here. Elsewhere I relate their encounters to ritual (esp. Day 1989 and 2010), as do Lee (on Nossis’s epigrams and the Locrian Adonia) and Scicolone (esp. on Inscr. Métr. 86–87) in this volume.

Joseph W. Day  •  ([email protected]) Emeritus Professor of Classics at Wabash College (Indiana, USA) and frequent senior associate member of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 197-213 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133906

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The Beginning of Elegiac Epigram

epigram’?4 Answering this question has led to many assessments of the relationship between ‘literary’ elegy and epigram in Archaic and early Classical Greece. For me, the key issue is this: Does the prevalence of elegiac metre point to a superficial, mainly formal debt of epigram to elegy, or was there a deeper relationship, an aligning of epigram with elegy, not only as texts on paper and stone, but also as culturally efficacious performance?5 Aloni mentions three answers that have been given to our initial question. The first and second suggest a more superficial relationship, although each can be pushed further and joined to others; the third points to something deeper. First, the structural answer. The elegiac couplet constituted, in Aloni’s (2009, 170) words, ‘a short strophe, able neatly to contain a unit of meaning’.6 Pentameters pick up and complete or vary the points of hexameters; and they mark a couplet’s closure with their built-in metrical symmetry, sometimes reinforced by internal rhyming (see Nagy 2010, 16–20; Estrin 2019, 302–03). Pentameter rhyming is much rarer in epigram, but it does exist (e.g. CEG 41 = IG I3 1211); and, certainly, couplets offer a closed unit of convenient length for conveying the basic information that epitaphs and dedications must convey, although the units can be extended into strings. Still, this structural observation, while true, does not carry enough explanatory power to account for the prevalence of elegiac form in epigram, at least not by itself. Second, the sympotic answer. The composition and (re-)performance of shorter elegies by participants in symposia guaranteed that a wide range of people, not only professional poets, controlled elegiac verse form and phraseology (see Bowie 1986).7 And these people were the patrons of most private inscribed dedications and grave markers. Ewen Bowie (2010, 322–23) sees an essential link between sixth-century sympotic elegy and elegiac epigram. To be sure, Bowie (1986, 27–34; 2016) also recognizes the existence of larger-scale, narrative elegy performed at public festivals; and such elegy perhaps influenced (or was related reciprocally to) ambitious civic epigrams for war dead, especially in the period of the Persian Wars.8

When Greeks began writing verse on objects tough enough to survive to our day, those metrical inscriptions (or epigrams) were composed in dactylic hexameters or iambic trimeters, or they trended toward those patterns (see Oswald 2014; forthcoming). Dating to the eighth and early seventh centuries and incised on pottery vessels generally associated with drinking, several of them expand a prose ownership formula (‘I am the object of So-and-so’) into anti-theft curses like the apparently playful one on ‘Nestor’s cup’ (CEG 454; see Węcowski 2014): ‘Whoever drinks from this cup, Aphrodite’s desire will seize him.’2 These primordial verse inscriptions on pottery, however, are as rare as they are precious. The epigram ‘habit’ took off, slowly at first, in the seventh century with inscriptions on stone and bronze monuments. Most of these poems served either as dedications on offerings to gods set up in sanctuaries, or epitaphs on grave markers standing in cemeteries. Again, the epigrams were hexametric or, less commonly, iambic. Elegiac metre came later but rapidly gained momentum. — In fact, the growth was so rapid and widespread that it may tell us something about the oral dissemination of some kinds of ‘literary’ elegy, the explosion of poets’ names into traditions like ‘Solon’ (see Aloni and Iannucci 2016), or the ‘taking off ’ of written poetic texts and concomitant expansion of literacy.3 But I keep my sights fixed on epigram here. — Sepulchral epigrams in elegiac couplets first appeared in the second quarter of the sixth century; in the third quarter, they outnumbered hexametric epitaphs; thereafter, they completely dominated in some places and soon everywhere (see Bowie 2010, 378–84). Except for a couple of outliers, elegiac dedications got a slightly later start, becoming as popular as hexameters in the fourth quarter of the sixth century and dominating from the early fifth. A few hexametric and iambic inscribed epigrams always turn up; but, from the late Archaic period throughout the rest of antiquity, elegiac metre was the overwhelming favourite. And after epigram leapt from stone to scroll, elegiac form dominated throughout the long tradition of literary epigram.

Questions and Answers



The obvious question is, to borrow Antonio Aloni’s (2009, 170) phrasing: Why ‘does the elegiac couplet come to prevail as the metre most widely used in

2 The publication of Hakesandros’s cup (Besios and others 2012, 339–43, cat. 2) sparked renewed interest; see Strauss Clay and others 2017. 3 Simon Oswald (email of 5 March 2017).



4 See also Aloni and Iannucci 2007, 29; Bowie 2010, 322; Lougovaya 2004, 66–74; Wallace 1984. 5 Bakker 2016 illustrates how influence could run from epigram to elegy. Anderson 2018 warns that, in some matters, epigram did not simply borrow from poetry; composers developed solutions, designed to be written, for the genre’s own ‘performance’ concerns. 6 See also Aloni and Iannucci 2007, 29; Friedländer and Hoffleit 1948, 66; Kauppinen 2015, 4–5 with n. 12. 7 See also Aloni 2009, 171–78; Aloni and Iannucci 2007, 67–74; Lougovaya 2004, 73–74. 8 Compare, e.g. Simonides’ Plataea elegy (10–18 West2) and such epigrams as SEG 56. 430 and IG I3 503/504, respectively nos III and IV at Tentori Montalto 2017, 92–108.

1 2 . E l egy, E pi gram, and t he Co mple me ntari t y o f Te xt and Monument 199

Bowie (1986, 22–27) rejects, however, the association of sepulchral epigram with another non-sympotic genre, threnodic elegy, funeral song or lament, a genre whose existence he denies. There is, however, a long history of making this association.9 Nevertheless, although festival and perhaps threnodic elegy made themselves felt in epigram, widespread familiarity with elegy among symposiasts surely contributed much to the late Archaic popularity of elegiac epigram. Third, the pragmatic answer. In Aloni’s (2009, 170) words: ‘Finally, at the level of communication, the elegiac medium may express […] authoritative points of view, with a strong pragmatic impact on listeners, or readers in the case of epigram.’ The emphasis on communicative force is welcome and closest to my own concerns, but neither Aloni nor others have sufficiently explored the implications of such an approach for the relationship between elegiac epigram and inscribed monument, that is, for the materiality of these texts. I should like to begin such an exploration here. I have long participated in what this volume’s introduction aptly calls ‘the material turn in the study of ancient texts’, mainly by investigating relationships among epigram, inscribed object, and physical location (Day 1989; 2010; 2017; 2019a; 2019b). However imperfectly, I have sought to reconstruct the dynamics or pragmatics of people’s encounters. What happened when a person in a given physical context looked at an inscribed object and read or heard its verse inscription? What were the effects of the encounter? In particular, how did text, object, and context complement each other in producing those effects? Especially, what did the texts contribute to that experience? For example, did they ‘frame’ it by naming the anticipated or hopedfor effects, or by alluding to them with traditionally referential poetic language? I argue here that the adaptation of forms and wording from literary elegy enabled elegiac epigrams to complement monuments more effectively than their hexametric and iambic forebears had. Elegy, having evolved at least partly in the intimate situation of the symposium, developed features that, when adapted to epigram, helped produce desired responses in passers-by who stopped to behold the inscribed object and read its inscription. I consider three such features in epitaphs, where elegiac form first gained popularity: dialogic grammar, emotional heightening, and the framing of images. These features are hardly absent from other



9 See Cassio 1994, 106–13; Day 1989, 24–27; 2007, 30–31, 38–41; Faraone 2008, 127–37; Hanink 2010, 26–28. See also Aloni 2009, 169, 178–79; Aloni and Iannucci 2007, 14–19, 49–53, 67–85; Anderson 2018, 88–92, 101–02; Gentili 1988, 32–35; Nagy 2010, 33–39.

Archaic poetic genres, but they largely entered epigram in association with elegiac metre and continued to cluster in elegiac inscriptions. I conclude that these adaptations from elegy go far in explaining the rapid rise of elegiac epigram.

Dialogic Grammar First, then, dialogic — or more broadly, audience-oriented — grammar. I refer to wording, especially the deixis of person (‘I, you, they’, etc.), originally designed to fit the face-to-face communication of Archaic poetic performance, or to make such a situation vividly present, sometimes in re-performance. In epigrams, this language served equally well to fit and shape — or at least prompt one to imagine — the interaction of passers-by with an inscribed object. To be sure, dialogic features had been present in iambic and hexametric texts from epigram’s earliest days, and they continued in all metres. The two commonest in epitaphs are identifying the inscribed object with the first person and modifying it with the proximal deictic ὅδε (this one). Two epitaphs from Corfu provide examples. A column capital carries a single hexameter (c. 575–550; CEG 146 = IG IX. 12 4 881): στάλα Ξενϝάρ͜εος τοῦ Μhείξιός εἰμ᾿ ἐπὶ τύ|μοι (the stele of Xenwares, son of Meixis, I am upon the tomb). The first of three hexameters on a stele begins (c. 600; CEG 145 = IG IX. 12 4 880): σᾶμα τόδε Ἀρνιάδα […] (this (is) the marker (sêma) of Arniadas […]). The proximal deictic τόδε identifies the stele as standing in the immediate presence of readers and hearers (see Bakker 2016, 200–02). As to the first person, scholars no longer accept the ‘speaking object’ at face value as an aspect of primitive animism; rather, they consider it dialogic in that it locates the inscribed object in the presence of the beholder or reader, thereby reflecting that person’s perspective. Perhaps the composer imagined people interacting with the object as if in conversation with it; and they, reading out loud, lent their voices to it as performers of poetry playing a role (Day 2010, 45–47, 112–13).10 Some consider this first-person role-playing a symptom of ‘object agency’, by means of which early writers transferred agency to an object, and the object in turn interacted with those who saw, used, or read it; Jessica Lamont explores aspects of such agency in her chapter in the present volume.11

10 See also Bakker 2016, 199–204; Christian 2015, 28–45; Meyer 2005, 18–19, 68–76; Svenbro 1993; Wachter 2010. 11 Whitley 2017 applies the thinking of Gell 1998 to early Greek writing. See also Cairns 2016, 319–39; Elmer 2005, 12–13; Estrin 2019; Licciardello 2022 (esp. 55–69).

200 j o s e p h   w. day

μέχρις τ͜έο κατάκεισθε; κότ᾿ ἄλκιμον ἕξετε θυμόν, ὦ νέοι; οὐδ᾿ αἰδεῖσθ᾿ ἀμφιπερικτίονας […]; (How long will you lie around? O young men, when will you get a courageous spirit? Aren’t you ashamed in front of our neighbours […]?) (After Gerber 1999a, 19)

Figure 12.1. ‘Kroisos’s grave marker’, from Olympos and Phoinikia, Attica, now Athens, National Archaeological Museum, 3851 and 4754. c. 540. Photo: © Erin Babnik.

From the beginning, elegiac epitaphs exhibited a more varied and lively interaction between speaking and hearing roles, and much of this variety reflects literary elegy. To cite one kind of literary example: the poet or speaking voice directly addressing an audience in exhortation is one of elegy’s standard modes (see Faraone 2008, 44). The military poems of Callinus and Tyrtaeus are full of both first-person plural verbs (sometimes hortatory) and vocatives or second-person plural verbs (sometimes imperative) directed at audiences, e.g.: Tyrtaeus 10. 13–14 West2: θυμῷ γῆς πέρι τῆσδε μαχώμεθα καὶ περὶ παίδων θνήσκωμεν ψυχ͜έων μηκέτι φειδόμενοι. ([L]et us fight with spirit for this land and let us die for our children, no longer sparing our lives.) (Gerber 1999a, 53) Callinus 1. 1–2 West2:

Solon, at 4. 30 West2, speaks authoritatively in his own voice: ταῦτα διδάξαι θυμὸς Ἀθηναίους με κελεύει (these things my spirit commands me to teach the Athenians). Theognis regularly addresses his interlocutor Kyrnos, but the juxtaposition at verse 237 is striking: σοὶ μὲν ἐγὼ […] (to you I […]). As Christopher Faraone (2008, 60, 87) puts it, elegiac ‘exhortations […] call attention to the situation of performance before an audience by using […] various forms of deictic language’, which can ‘give the vivid impression that we are present at the symposium’.12 From a performance perspective, the deixis fit in a symposium, where ‘I’ and ‘you’, ‘we’ and ‘they’ made immediate physical or social sense. The deictic variety of elegiac epitaphs13 seems indebted to elegy. When read in a book, such an epigram conveys an ‘impression’ of interaction between passer-by and monument; but when read in front of that object, the deixis fit the immediate situation, often dramatically complementing the monument and its context. One or more aspects of this variety are regular enough to be called ‘normal’ in elegiac epitaphs, while in early non-elegiac epigrams such grammar is extremely rare. Most famously, a speaking voice — generally that of the monument — addresses passers-by in the second person.14 Kroisos’s epitaph provides a valuable example, because the apparently accompanying kouros survives (base block, Attica, c. 540–530?; CEG 27 = IG I3 1240 = Tentori Montalto 2017, 35–38, no. 3; Fig. 12.1): στε̃θι ∶ καὶ οἴκτιρον ∶ Κροίσο | παρὰ σε̃μα θανόντος ∶ hόν | ποτ’ ἐνὶ προμάχοις ∶ ὄλεσε | θο̃ρος ∶ Ἄρες. (Stand and pity by the sêma of Kroisos (who) died, whom furious Ares destroyed one day in the front ranks.)

12 See also Strauss Clay 2016. 13 See Baumbach and others 2010, chapters by Thomas A. Schmitz (25–41), Michael A. Tueller (42–60), Gjert Vestrheim (61–78). See also Licciardello 2022, 35–90; Tueller 2008, 12–56; Scicolone in this volume. 14 Compare CEG 13, 27, 28, 34, ?99, 108; cf. 117, 159. Non-elegiac, all fifth-century (probably reflecting elegiac practice): CEG 110, 150, 162, 174.

1 2 . E l egy, E pi gram, and t he Co mple me ntari t y o f Te xt and Monument 2 01

The imperatives echo exhortatory elegy. The emotional one, οἴκτιρον (pity), will be discussed later. The other, στε̃θι […] παρὰ σε̃μα (stand by the sêma), perfectly complemented the physical experience of interacting with the monument. Atop a mound beside a busy road (see Pearson 2016), the kouros commanded the visual attention of passers-by, drawing them into a brief halt to gaze at the statue. First-person verbs in elegiac sepulchral epigrams are more varied than the ‘speaking object’. In Phrasikleia’s epitaph, which can in some ways be compared to Bitte’s (SEG 15. 548 = CEG 153, with Lamont’s chapter in this volume), the first person seems close to that ancient form; but it is difficult to say whether someone reading aloud — as Greeks did — conferred voice on the surviving statue or the young woman15 (kore base, Attica, c. 540?; CEG 24 = IG I3 1261; Fig. 12.2): σε̃μα Φρασικλείας· | κόρε κεκλέσομαι | αἰεί, ἀντὶ γάμο | παρὰ θ͜εο̃ν τοῦτο | λαχο̃σ’ ὄνομα. (Sêma of Phrasikleia. I shall be called maiden (kourê) always, having received this name as my lot from the gods instead of marriage.) The ambiguity about the speaking voice complemented the situation of viewers: they interacted with an object that was both like the deceased (a young woman attired as a bride) and unlike her (she died before marriage, the kore is made of stone, it echoes the iconography of Persephone) (see Day 2019a, 240). Other first-persons seem closer to elegy, but they often prompt questions as do, for example, verbs of lament. In one very fragmentary, probably elegiac epitaph (base block, Athens, c. 525?; CEG 43 = IG I3 1213), ὀλο] φύρομαι (I lament) may be an utterance of the mother, who is mentioned in the previous line (see Lougovaya 2004, 41–42, 69).16 If she does speak, vocal readers lent their voices to her grief, as a singer plays a role in performance; but they spoke in front of her son’s image and/or symbols of his athletic victories, at least that is a reasonable deduction from the cuttings on top of the base for what must have been two columns with a stele between (see Kissas 2000, 48–50, A16). Such objects would show how great her loss was and thus justify her lament.

15 For the deceased speaking, see CEG 80, 87, 89, 99, 104, 108 (below), 131, 171, possibly 20 (see CEG comm.); IG XII. 4 1241 (if elegiac); IG VII 53 = Tentori Montalto 2017, 162–64, no. C = ‘Simon.’ 16 Page FGE. Non-elegiac, all fifth-century (probably reflecting elegiac practice): CEG 114, 119, 166, 176. 16 For the mourner speaking, compare CEG 74, 136, 161; nonelegiac, apparently, IG XII. 3 255 = Oswald 2014, 84–85.

Figure 12.2. Aristion of Paros, ‘Phrasikleia’s grave marker’, from Markopoulo and Merenda, Attica, now Athens, National Archaeological Museum, 4889. c. 540. Colour reconstruction (2010): Liebieghaus Skulpturensammlung, Frankfurt, Polychromy Research Project, Frankfurt am Main, since 2014 loan from Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich, Leibnizpreis 2007, O. Primavesi. Photo: © Liebieghaus Skulpturensammlung, Frankfurt a. M. — Vinzenz Brinkmann — ARTOTHEK.

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Figure 12.3. ‘Cenotaph in southwestern cemetery, on harbour road’, Arta (ancient Ambrakia), in situ. c. 500. Photo: © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (N. 3028/2002 and N. 3081/2002), Ephorate of Antiquities of Arta, by Seth Estrin. By permission: Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports —Archaeological Receipts Fund.

In the epigram on the cenotaph at Arta, on the contrary, ὀλοφύρομαι is deictically open (c. 500; Tentori Montalto 2017, 85, no. I = SEG 41. 540A; Fig. 12.3): ἄνδρας [τ]ούσδ᾿ [ἐ]σλοὺς ὀλοφύρομαι, hοῖσι Πυραιβο̃ν ︙ παῖδες ἐμετίσαντ᾿ ἀ[λ]κινόεντα φόνον, [?︙] ἀνγε̣[ λ]ί̣αν μετιόντας ἀπ᾿ εὐρυχόροι[ο ⏑ –⏓ ︙] [missing pentameter and hexameter, with line-break] πατρίδ᾿ ἀν᾿ ἱμερτὰν πένθος ἔθαλ̣λε̣ τότε. ︙ τόδε δ᾿ἀπ᾿ Ἀνπρακίας, Ναυσίστρατο‹ν>, αὐτὰ παθόντε, ︙ Καλλίταν τ᾿ Ἀΐδα δο̃μα μέλαν κατέχΕ. κα|È μὰν Ἀραθθ͜ίονα καÈ Εὔξενον ἴστε, πολῖταΕ, hος μετὰ το̃νδ᾿ ἀνδρο̃ν Κ̣ὰρ ἔκιχεν θανάτου. ︙ vacat

Also truly, citizens, know that Aratthion and Euxenos, together with these men, the Ker of death overtook.) ‘I lament these excellent men’, ‘these’ referring to names further on in the text. Although some scholars believe the monument speaks, I take the first-person as open in the sense that any passing reader spoke in his or her own voice.17 A reader activated and embodied the role of authoritative mourner, the city’s poet-spokesperson addressing fellow townspeople, as verse 9 makes explicit: ‘O citizens!’ That reader/mourner’s vocal authority complemented the monument’s physical authority, derived from its large size (12.40 m long, 2.50 high), elaborate form (with broad torus moulding), and prominent location beside the road to the harbour just outside a city gate. The stunning inscription itself enhanced that authority: six-centimetre-tall letters along the top row of blocks, stoichedon (letters arranged in vertical columns), and boustrophedon (one continuous, hundred-foot-long line running back and forth) (see

(I lament these excellent men, for whom the Pyraibians’ sons devised grievous slaughter as they accompanied an embassy from [?a city] of wide places, [-----] at that time in the beloved fatherland 17 Aloni and Iannucci 2007, 49–51; Anderson 2018, 88–106; Cassio grief blossomed. 1994, 106–13; Day 2007, 38–42; 2019a, 238, 242; Tentori Montalto 2017, 87; Tueller 2008, 40–41. Contra Cairns 2016, 329–35; And these two from Ambrakia, having Graninger 2014, 231 n. 20; Lougovaya 2004, 68–70; and especially suffered the same fate, Nausistratos see Estrin 2019 for a sophisticated effort to relate elegiac genre, and Kallitas, the dark house of Hades the materiality of text and monument, and emotional impact. confines. See also Licciardello 2022, 83–86. Hansen 1974, 160 sees open deixis in CEG 43 (above).

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Day 2007, 39; 2019a, 237–42). I return later to open first-person verbs of lament. Once passers-by gained a voice, the way was open to dialogue between them and the monument, in which the visual interaction between object and viewers was complemented by an explicit interaction between two voices in the text. Dialogue epigram did not become common until later (see Kauppinen 2015), but the beginning goes back to the fifth century with four elegiac texts, two of them epitaphs.18 One is the fragmentary CEG 120 (base block, Demetrias, c. 450?; LSAG2 pl. 11.8): σφίξ, hαίδ[α]ο κύ̣ ον, τ̣ί̣ν̣’ ε̣[ c. 4? ]|οπι̣ν̣[..(.) φυ-] λάσεις ∶ hεμέν[α c. 2? ]|ρο[ c. 6 ]δο[.] ἀπ̣ ο̣ θιμ[ένο]; | ξεῖ[̣ ν(ε) (⏔) –⏔ –⏑ ἀπο]|φ̣θ̣[ιμένο(ιο) (⏑)⏑ –⏓ ∶] [–⏔ – ¦ ⏔ – –⏑⏑ –⏑⏑ –]. This is likely a dialogue between a passer-by and a now lost sphinx mounted on a column planted in the inscribed block. That wayfarer questions the statue: ‘Sphinx, dog of Hades, whom […] do you guard, sitting [on the grave’, perhaps, ‘of one] (who) has died?’ Little of the Sphinx’s answer remains, but it perhaps began ‘O stranger’ and picked up the question’s language. CEG 108 (= IG XII. 9 285 = IV2 2. 977 (partial); Dell’Oro 2018, 80–81, figs 2a and 2b) is more deictically complex, as well as metrically unorthodox (stele, Eretria, c. 450?): χαίρετε τοὶ παριό|ντες, ∶ ἐγὸ δὲ θανὸν | κατάκειμαι.∶ δεῦρ|ο ἰὸν ἀνάνεμαι, ἀν|ὲρ̣ τίς τε̃δε τέθαπ|πται· ∶ ξε̃νος ἀπ’ Αἰγ|ίνες, Μνεσίθεος δ’ ὄν̣|υμα. καί μοι μν̣̃εμ’̣ ἐπέ̣|θεκε φίλε μέτερ Τιμ|αρέτε [?∶] τύμοι ἐπ’ ἀκροτ|άτοι στέλεν ἀκάματον,̣ | hάτις̣ (or hο̃ [= ο(ὗ)] τις) ἐρεῖ παριο̃σι δια|μερὲς ἄματα πάντα· Τ|ιμαρέτε μ’̣ ἔσστεσε φίλ|οι ἐπὶ παιδὶ θανόντι. (Be happy, passers-by! But I have died (and) lie beneath. Come here (and) read what man is buried here: ‘A stranger from Aigina, Mnesitheos by name.’ And my dear mother Timarete placed a memorial over me, on top of the tomb an untiring stele,

18 CEG 286 (= IG I3 533) and 429 (= SGO Ι. 01/12/05) are dedications. See, however, Licciardello 2022, 48–54.

which (or where one) will say to passers-by continuously for all days: ‘Timarete set me upon her dear son (who) died.’) Dialogue is ‘implicit’ here (Tueller 2010, 54–56). Technically, only the deceased speaks, addressing wayfarers, but his words stage their encounter with the stele and reading of the epigram (Bakker 2016, 205–08). Mnesitheos commands them to read in order to answer the question he imagines they ask (verse 2): ‘What man is buried here?’ The answer follows, imagined as a passer-by reading (3): ‘“A stranger from Aigina […]”’ Verse 7 is again a quotation, ‘“Timarete set me […]”’, but who speaks? Verse 6 seems to emphasize that the object does: ‘(the stele) which will say […]’ The second letter of 6 is difficult to decipher, however; it may equally make verse 7 a reader’s utterance, as 3 is: ‘where one will say […]’ (Svenbro 1993, 48–52). In either case, CEG 108 includes multiple voices: that of the deceased, a question (indirect) of passers-by, a reader’s answer, and the voice of the stele (perhaps assumed by a reader).19 Literary elegy offered a varied repertoire of audience-oriented deictic grammar, and sympotic elegy in particular was explicitly dialogic: symposiasts were familiar with chains of short elegies, each extending or answering its predecessor (see Aloni 2009, 174, 183–84; Faraone 2008, 71–92). I cannot prove causation, of course, but it is plausible that composers of epigrams adapted elegiac models of dialogic grammar because it produced texts that eloquently reflected, or actively complemented, or optimistically imagined encounters of passers-by with inscribed monuments, more so than was typical of earlier epigrammatic language. To be sure, lyric poetry exhibits interactive or audience-oriented deixis too (see D’Alessio 2009, 115–20), but there is almost no metrical evidence of lyric’s impact on epigram. When we add this to so many people’s comfort with elegy and dialogue from symposia, the route of influence from elegy into epigram, as well as its reason, seems evident.

Emotional Heightening A second elegiac feature that enhanced the complementarity of epigram and inscribed object, one that could dramatically activate readers’ and viewers’ engagement with that object, was a heightening of emotional tone with explicitly emotional language, which, as seen in the preceding section, can be couched

19 I shall discuss this stone in detail elsewhere. Dell’Oro 2018, 80–85 confirms hο̃ τις in v. 6, and suggests other alternate readings of letters, none relevant here.

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in dialogic grammar. Angelos Chaniotis (2012) has been studying emotional and emotive language in Greek inscriptions, but he focuses on later periods. Here, we may witness epigraphical emotion at birth, and elegy was a midwife, if not a parent. Certainly, emotion is no stranger to elegy. In Callinus 1 West2, mentioned earlier, the speaker addresses a series of emotional rhetorical questions to his audience: ‘Young men, when will you get a courageous spirit? Have you no shame?’20 Archilochus’s consolatory elegy 13 West2 is full of expressions of grief, although in the end it advises stern endurance (Gerber 1999b, 89): κήδεα μὲν στονόεντα (verse 1, mourning and lamentation); οἰδαλέους δ’ ἀμφ’ ὀδύνῃς ἔχομεν | πνεύμονας (4–5, our lungs are swollen from pain); αἱματόεν δ’ ἕλκος ἀναστένομεν (8, we bewail a bloody wound). In epitaphs, we have seen verbs of pity and lament, sometimes coupled with other emotional expressions as in the Arta epigram, and they are effectively confined to elegiac texts; I return to them in the next section. A different emotion, expressed by words with the base φιλ- (phil-), also plays an important epigraphic role. The adjective φίλος (philos, sometimes used substantively) marks the deceased or mourner as a family member or friend.21 Many a mother burying a child is φίλη μήτηρ as in the elegiac CEG 25 = IG I3 1241, where the deceased son is also philos (stele base (with relief stele, capital, and sphinx), Attica, c. 540–535; Anderson 2018, fig. 28a–c): μνε̃μα φίλοι με[…c. 7–9… (⏑) - ⏑ (:)] | πατὲρ ἐπέθεκε θανόντ̣[ι (:)], | χσ̣ ὺν δὲ̣ φίλε μέτερ : vacat | [ -⏑⏑ -⏑⏑ -] (A memorial for dear (?son) […] | his father set up for (him who) died, and together dear mother […]) To the extent philos was more than a strong possessive and carried real emotional force,22 meaning something like ‘dear’, it is exceptional in that it appears widely in non-elegiac epitaphs, even earlier ones such as the iambic CEG 26 = IG I3 1265 (stele, Attica, c. 540–530?; LSAG2 pl. 4.31): τόδ᾿ Ἀρχίο ᾿στι σε̃μα : κἀ|δελφε̃ς φίλες […] (this is the sêma of Archias and his dear sister […]).23

20 21

22 23

Unlike the adjective, abstract nouns built on the phil-base, meaning ‘dear friendship’ or ‘love’, are limited to elegiac texts or those ‘trending elegiac’ (Oswald 2014). One late fifth-century elegiac epitaph has φιλία (CEG 92 = IG I3 1329) and another φιλότης (CEG 97 = IG I3 1295 bis; Anderson 2018, fig. 20), both expressing the loving friendship joining companions to a female deceased. Seven earlier texts — several published recently, not all epitaphs — throw the noun φιλημοσύνη (philêmosynê) into the spotlight, and they suggest a close association between elegy and epigram.24 In elegy, friendship is especially important in the Theognidea, often concerned with the emotional bond joining sympotic companions. Philos and the verb φιλέω play significant roles, as when one laments an exile’s lack of φίλος καὶ πιστὸς ἑταῖρος (friend and trusty companion; verses 209 and 332a West2). Those outside the group are untrustworthy and rejected as philoi, and our noun appears in such a context, at pentameter end (284): μήθ᾿ ὅρκῳ πίσυνος μήτε φιλημοσύνῃ (do not rely on their oaths and claims of friendship (Gerber 1999a, 215)). That is the only literary attestation of the word. Albio Cassio (2007, 16) argues that it was an Ionic coinage designed to fit the elegiac pentameter, and his argument relies in part on the word’s epigraphic appearances. We shall see that, in all seven cases, the word ratchets up the emotional tone and enhances the complementarity of text and object. Our first example, from Akraiphia in Boiotia, is especially important, since the elegiac epitaph accompanies a surviving relief (stele, c. 520–510; SEG 49. 505A; Fig. 12.4):25 Μνασιθείο : μνε̃μ᾿ εἰ|μὶ ἐπ᾿ ὀδο̃ι : καλόν· | ἀλά μ᾿ ἔθεκεν : Πύρι|χος : ἀρχαίες : ἀντὶ | φιλεμοσύνες. (Of Mnasitheos I am a memorial, beautiful, by the road. ‘But of course’ (Anderson 2018, 218 n. 307), Pyr(r)ichos set me up ‘in place of long-ago’26 love (or friendship).)

non-elegiac emotion may be influenced by elegiac practice: CEG 49, 59, 84, 114, 119, 128, 139, 174 (στῆθί τε κἀποίκτιρον). 24 See Anderson 2018, 209–28; Cassio 2007 (SEG 59. 466); Dettori 2010 (SEG 60. 499); 2017. Anderson and I, although with different focuses, developed our ideas about phil-words with Compare Tyrt. 10. 15–18; 11. 1–6 West2. knowledge of each other’s work. Family (probably): CEG 18, 25 (twice), 26, 35, 46, 70, 84, 89, 94, 25 See Anderson 2018, 217–22; Andreiomenou 1999 (SEG 49. 505); 108 (twice), 137, 138, 147, 154; IG XII. 4 1241 (twice?). Friends 2000; 2006 (SEG 56. 508); 2012; Cassio 2007 (SEG 59. 466); (possibly): CEG 51, 52, 59, 74; cf. 112, 143. Difficult to decide: CEG Dettori 2010 (SEG 60. 499); 2017, 121–22; Estrin 2016; González 30, 44, 115, 141. See González González 2019, 77–91. González 2019, 86–90; Lougovaya 2004, 57–60; Oswald 2014, Epitaphs with philos containing other emotion words: CEG 46, 106–08. 51, 59, 84, 154; IG XII. 4 1241. 26 Estrin 2016, 195; cf. Anderson 2018, 212 n. 288, 218 n. 308; Other early non-elegiac emotion is rare: CEG 144 (if σ[τοναχά] Andreiomenou 1999, 90 n. 61; 2006, 44, 46; Knoepfler 2009; is accepted); SEG 48. 1067 (ποθέσαισα); CEG 470 = 16a and IG Dettori 2010, 125–27. XII. 4 1241 are more likely elegiac than not. Later (after c. 525)

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Mnasitheos’s epitaph reveals the impact of Ionicizing elegy in a non-Ionic area (Cassio 2007, 9, 14–17; Kaczko 2018, 32–37). The script is Boiotian: e.g. chi resembles an angular psi. In Mnasitheos’s name, both alpha and EI reflect Boiotian dialect. Outside the name, however, we find, in addition to Ionic-poetic philêmosynê, Attic/ Ionic etas (written as epsilons in the archaic Attic manner) and Ionic psilosis (ἐπ᾿ ὀδῷ, not ἐφ᾿ ὁδῷ). The composer maintained intact the dialect form in which the elegiac couplet was born in Ionia and the islands, while retaining a local character in the orthography and the name of the deceased.27 Most relevant here is the emotional impact of epigram and image combined. The relief represents an erômenos (contra Anderson 2018, 219–22), young, nude, and attractive, smelling a flower and holding a rooster (both typical love-gifts). For those who accept the representation as an idealized biographical portrait of Mnasitheos, the epigram complements the relief literally, confirming and particularizing its message (Andreiomenou 1999, 106–19; 2006, 44–53): the mnêma calls itself ‘beautiful’, a quality that applies to both image and boy; philêmosynê probably refers to a homoerotic bond that joined Mnasitheos as erômenos and Pyrrichos as erastês. No matter how biographically we interpret the visual and verbal representations, however, reconstructing their joint emotional impact, their full complementarity, requires a viewer- and reader-oriented approach like Seth Estrin’s (2016). Reading the text guides the emotional response of a viewer — imagined as a potential erastês — in a particular direction, namely, toward a feeling of pain for an attractive beauty and mutual love that are tantalizingly present visually (the erômenos has accepted the gifts), but not present in reality. Text and image together thereby prompt passers-by to experience something of Pyrrichos’s feeling of loss, when he conjured up a memory-image of the Mnasitheos who had been there before, but now no longer was. Passers-by can only experience a ‘beautiful mnêma’ of Mnasitheos, like Pyrrichos’s memory, present and desirable visually, but a cold ‘replacement’ for a warm emotional bond, ἀντὶ φιλεμοσύνες (in place of love; cf. ἀντὶ γυναικός in Bitte’s epitaph, discussed in Lamont’s chapter). Epitaph and relief, an object agent (‘I am […] set me up’), animate a heightened emotional connection among themselves, viewers/readers, deceased, and mourner. Such intense interaction of text and image has points of contact with dialogues between verbal and visual art as articulated by literary scholars. Lucia Athanassaki

27 If the artist (SEG 49. 505B), Φίλοργος (Cassio 2007, 8–11), was Φίλεργος in Athens, he had stylistic and perhaps biographical connections to Ionia. See Andreiomenou 2012.

Figure 12.4. Philourgos, ‘Mnasitheos’s grave marker’, from Akraiphia, Boiotia, now Thebes, Archaeological Museum of Thebes, 28200. c. 520–510. Photo: © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (N. 3028/2002 and N. 3081/2002), Archive of the Ephoreia of Antiquities of Boiotia. By permission: Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports — Archaeological Receipts Fund.

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(2016; also 2011 and 2012), for example, discusses the enriched experiences of viewers of art familiar with the stories from poetry, and those of poetic audiences who had viewed the stories in art. Philêmosynê appears in two other elegiac epitaphs of comparable date. First, on a stele base from Attica, a father commemorates his children (Liopesi, c. 530?; IG I3 1266 = CEG 32 = Kissas 2000, 57–59, A23; Anderson 2018, fig. 25a–b): σε̃μα τόδε : Κύλον : παίδοι⟨ν⟩ | ἐπέθεκε{ν} : θανό⟨ν⟩τοι⟨ν⟩ : μ⟨ν⟩̃εμα | φιλεμοσύνες : hιμ̣ [̣ c. 4 ]ο.[- - -] (Kylon set this sêma over his two children (who) died, a memorial of love […]) Here, μνῆμα φιλημοσύνης begins the pentameter and highlights familial affection. That hemistich moves to pentameter end in our second epitaph, on a stele fragment from Skiathos (c. 500–475; SEG 48. 1170 = IG XII. 6 2 897; Johnston 1998, pl. 70): τῶ]ι̣ μ̣ε Λυκο̣ φρον̣|[ί]δηι Πελυεσ(σ)ίωι̣ | [ἐ]νθάδ᾿ ἔθηκεν vv | [.]εύκων τῶι Σαμ[ί|ω]ι μνῆμα φιλημο|σύνης. ([.]eukon set me here for Pelyessios, of the (group) Lykophronidai, a Samian, a memorial of friendship/love.) (After Johnston 1998)

φιλημ[οσύνης] (in return for/in place of great friendship (or love)). Texts on two smaller fragments belong to the earlier part of the couplet. Someone perhaps inscribed the pot to mark it as a gift to a friend or lover, who later dedicated it (Dettori 2010, 128–30); and the type of vessel suggests a sympotic context of original composition or inscription, as well as reading (see Anderson 2018, 211–12, fig. 23a–b). The vase thus attests to an early link among symposium, elegiac inscription echoing sympotic elegy, and — as Emanuele Dettori (2010; 2017) argues — intimate friendship or love. The other three items may suggest the same set of associations, although there is nothing explicitly sympotic about them. Second, from southern Attica, is a graffito on living rock, a single wavy line 1.43 m long (c. 550–500?; Matthaiou and Rossiou 2010–2013; Fig. 12.5): [-?- Ε]ὐ̣θυδίκο χαρίε̣ν Κλε̃βις̣ τάδ᾿ ἔγρα⟨φσ⟩εν ἀνφοῖν χαὐτο̃ μνε̃μα φι̣ λεμοσύνες. (Kleibis wrote these (sc. γράμματα (letters)) as a pleasing (charis-filled) memorial (mnêma) of the philêmosynê of Euthydikos and himself both.) (After Anderson 2018, 222–24) An elegiac distich lurks here, but with imperfect metre: an initial dactyl may be lost to abrasion on the rock, and the pentameter’s first half lacks a long syllable. The pentameter ends, however, with what we have seen is a conventional hemistich, μνῆμα φιλημοσύνης (a memorial of friendship (or love)), here an emotion joining two men. Our third example, from Metapontion, appears on a mirror, an intimate gift from one woman to another. The text is prose or ‘quasi-metrical’ (Anderson 2018, 211 n. 286, fig. 24), ending with a Doric-dialect version of our pentameter flourish (c. 500, or fifth century; SEG 52. 961): Μακόνιον28 ἔδοκε Χσενοτίμαι δο̃ρον, μνᾶμα φιλεμοσύνας (Makonion gave (this) gift to Xenotima, a memorial of friendship (or love)). Philêmosynê perhaps literally characterized the giver (Dettori 2010), but here and elsewhere the affection was surely mutual (Anderson 2018, 216, 226; see Dettori 2017, 121). Fourth and last, probably from Athens, is a text on an amphoriskos for scented oil, another intimate gift, this one from a man to a woman (c. 600–550; Dettori 2017, figs 1–4): Φερεκλείδες : ἔδοκεν : Μελανθίδι : με μνε̃μα φιλεμοσύνες (Pherekleides gave me to Melanthis, a memorial of friendship (or love)). Again, our hemistich

This philêmosynê refers to a bond joining, not family, but male members of some group. The emotional tone is high in Mnasitheos’s monument: philêmosynê asserts an intense attachment between mourner and deceased, but it also carries ‘emotive’ force by inciting readers and viewers to share the mourner’s pain for a bond that death severed. Philêmosynê meant something similar in the two other epitaphs, and its emotive force was perhaps comparable, but we cannot know since no figured art survives. Our focus is on philêmosynê in epitaphs, but the word’s four non-sepulchral uses are older, as a group, and they suggest that the meaning and force of epigraphic-elegiac philêmosynê ‘moved through media’, crossing boundaries between types of object and inscriptional genres, expressing an emotion comparably implicated in grave monuments and other interpersonally important things, perhaps originally all gifts. The earliest example comes from the Samian Heraion, incised on the rim of a dinos, a vessel for mixing wine (c. 600; CEG 458; LSAG2 pl. 63.1). One fragment preserves the terminus of an elegiac pentameter, possibly a parallel 28 Contra SEG’s masculine Μακονίōν. See Anderson 2018, 213; for the final phrase of Mnasitheos’s epitaph: με]γάλης ἀντὶ Dettori 2010, 131.

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Figure 12.5. ‘Rupestral graffito’, Kamariza Lavrion, Attica, in situ. c. 550–500. Photo: courtesy Angelos P. Matthaiou. As at A. P. Matthaiou and I. Rossiou, Horos, 22–25 (2010–2013), 178, fig. 2.

seems to close a prose inscription, although one can scan the latter part as a pentameter (Anderson 2018, 214–15). The emotional tone of these non-sepulchral texts is elevated. They express intimate feelings with a word belonging to an elegiac poetic register (even if embedded in prose or imperfect verse), at least some (perhaps all) of them marking love gifts, two on objects that were treasured and used later in respectful ways (the dinos as a dedication, the mirror as a grave gift). Furthermore, the mnêma of the rupestral graffito consists in ‘these’, the letters written on the rock (compare Langdon 2015, nos 1–7, 10), and it is labelled χαρίεν (filled with beauty and pleasure), an apt describer of the curvy line of writing and a reader’s hoped-for response to it (Day 2017). An emotion-word thereby enables the text as text to complement the text as material object; but the complementarity may run deeper. ‘Charis-filled’ could also describe the love or friendship of philêmosynê (see Anderson 2018, 224). Guided by the text, a reader/viewer enjoying the writing experienced something, however faint an echo, of the affection that bound Kleibis and Euthydikos. Our survey of philêmosynê suggests three conclusions. First, the word belongs to elegiac tradition, perhaps

originating in sympotic elegy, but especially at home in elegiac (or quasi-elegiac) inscriptions. Second, philêmosynê elevates the emotional tone by calling attention to a friendly, loving, probably reciprocal relationship and implicating it in the material objects. Third, in inscriptions, ‘emotional’ moves toward ‘emotive’ to the extent that readers perceive in their response to an object an echo of a remembered, perhaps now lost, bond of philêmosynê. The word guides the response. This was true of Mnasitheos’s epitaph, and perhaps similarly of the Liopesi and Skiathos couplets. It was true of the Attic rupestral graffito, a kind of gift, insofar as the writing generated charis that would also characterize a relationship of philêmosynê. It was also true of the gift tags, if the objects, because of their visual qualities or the memories they stirred, evoked emotions comparable to those of a reciprocal philêmosynê.

Framing Images As we have seen, dialogic grammar and emotional language, surely influenced by literary elegy, enabled elegiac

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[εἴτε ἀστό]ς τις ἀνὲρ εἴτε χσένος | ἄλοθεν ἐλθόν ⋮ Τέτιχον οἰκτίρα|ς ἄνδρ’ ἀγαθὸν παρίτο, ⋮ ἐν πολέμοι | φθίμενον, νεαρὰν hέβεν ὀλέσαν|τα. ⋮ ταῦτ’ ἀποδυράμενοι νε̃σθε ἐπ|ὶ πρᾶγμ’ ἀγαθόν. ([Whether] some fellow (is) [a citizen] or a foreigner come from elsewhere, let him pass by having pitied Tet(t)ichos, an excellent man, (who) perished in war (and) lost his fresh youthfulness. Having taken your fill of lamentation for this, go on to an excellent deed.)

Figure 12.6. ‘Sepulchral relief stele’, Athens, Kerameikos Archaeological Museum, P1132. Βefore c. 550. Photo: courtesy Hans R. Goette.

epigrams to complement various objects and monuments, especially those bearing figured art, in interesting ways. When epigram united those two features by couching in dialogic contexts specific names for the emotion to be elicited from passers-by, it framed the responses of viewers even more forcefully. That is, texts invited them to respond in a particular way, and, to the extent an image generated such a response, the framing was successful. Although no stele survives, the earliest epitaph from Attica offers a probable example of such framing (stele base, c. 575–550?; CEG 13 = IG I3 1194 bis = Tentori Montalto 2017, 31–35, no. 2, 229; LSAG2 pl. 3.19):

Much here echoes Archaic poetry, elegy in particular: the ethical concern in ‘excellent man’; the suggestion of emulation in ‘go on to an excellent deed’; the structural parallelism of the pentameters. I highlight audience and tone. The antithesis ‘citizen/foreigner’ in the first hexameter defines all addressees, and each pentameter contains a command directed toward them: third-person in the initial one (‘let him pass by’); second-person in the other (‘go on’). A face-to-face speech situation is imagined, a performance between a place ‘come from’ and one to ‘go on to’. There, in front of the monument, a speaking voice urges passers-by authoritatively to imitate Tettichos’s excellence. As to emotional tone, the participles in both pentameters join the intended responses to the commands: ‘pass by having pitied’; ‘go on having taken your fill of lamentation’. Contemporary relief stelai like Athens, Kerameikos P1132 (Fig. 12.6) suggest the likely appearance of Tettichos’s: a nude youth, in profile to the right, possibly carrying a weapon and/or staff. Passers-by encountering such an image in a roadside graveyard recognized that a man commemorated as in his youthful prime had died, but their response would be unfocused. Although they perhaps felt the pain of loss experienced before Mnasitheos’s stele, Tettichos’s epitaph guided viewers in a somewhat different direction. The first couplet asks everyone for ‘pity’ (οἰκτίρας) and hints at why pity is deserved by calling Tettichos ἄνδρ’ ἀγαθὸν (excellent man), poetic code for a war casualty, one who experienced a καλὸς θάνατος (beautiful death) (Day 1989, 18; see Tyrtaeus 10 West2 below). The text thus complemented, even mirrored, a beautiful relief figure, and the two could evoke a response of pity for the destruction of supreme courage as well as youthful beauty. Kroisos’s epitaph (above) guided those viewing his kouros similarly with its command οἴκτιρον (pity); but Tettichos’s poem, expanding into a second couplet, leads readers toward an intensified emotional response that could complement the impact of an image on viewers who, unsatisfied with a quick glance, halted for a sustained gaze at the representation of one truly

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beautiful in death. The second hexameter confirms the hint in ‘excellent man’: he did perish in battle, a loss characterized as the destruction of a youthfulness like that depicted on the stele. Passers-by were led from a less to a more intense response, from pity to ‘lament’ (ἀποδυράμενοι), a feeling like that of people close to Tettichos in life, but also a political grief so intense it could lead strangers to emulate the dead hero. Four other Attic elegiac epitaphs are more explicit in their framing: they identify the intended emotional response as a viewer’s reaction to the (now lost) figured art. Kleoites’ epigram illustrates one pattern (stele base, Attica, c. 500?; IG I3 1277 = CEG 68; Jeffery 1962, pl. 41.c–d): παιδὸ̣ ̣ς ἀποφθιμένοιο Κλ̣εο̣ ί̣ τ̣ ο̣ το̃ Μεν|εσαίχμο ⁝ μνε̃μ᾿ ἐσορο̃ν οἴκτιρ᾿, ὃς καλὸς | ὂν ἔθανε. (Of the deceased Kleoites son of Menesaichmos, pity as you look at the mnêma (of him) who was beautiful (and) died.) The second-person imperative and its dependent participle are juxtaposed, ἐσορο̃ν οἴκτιρ(ε) (you, while looking, pity!); and a relief image no doubt depicted a ‘beautiful’ youth. Smikythos’s epitaph illustrates a deictically different pattern (stele base, Kerameikos, c. 510?; IG I3 1219 = CEG 51; Anderson 2018, fig. 22a–b): οἰκτίρο προσορο̃[ν] | παιδὸς τόδε σε̃μα | θανόντος ⁝ Σμικύθ[ο], | hός τε φίλον ὄλεσε̣|ν ἔλπ’ ἀγαθέν. (I pity as I look on this sêma of a boy (who) died, Smikythos, who ruined his loved ones’ good hope.) In the epitaphs of Kroisos and Tettichos, the speaking voice addresses passers-by, as an elegiac performer addresses audiences, with demands for a response. So also in Kleoites’ epitaph and one other (IG I3 1204 = CEG 28), but here it is specifically a response to viewing. In Smikythos’s epitaph (and cf. IG I3 1273 bis = CEG 470 = 16a29), viewers claim that response for themselves: οἰκτίρο προσορο̃[ν] (I, while looking, pity). As readers of the Arta epigram do, they implicate hearers in their reaction just as a poetic performer speaking in the first person does. Literary elegy offers parallels for such deictically and emotionally charged framing of audience response, sometimes with a verb of ‘seeing’, and they point to something deeper than merely formal borrowing by epigrammatists.

29 Probably elegiac; see Matthaiou 1986, 32. Peek 1976, 93 n. 1, restores an unpublished fifth-century epitaph from Arkadia: οἰκτίρο τόδε σᾶμα [ἐσορο̃ν---.

At Simonides 91 West2, seeing a grave monument triggers the speaker’s pity (= AP 7. 511 = 75 Page FGE): σῆμα καταφθιμένοιο Μεγακλέος εὖτ᾿ ἂν ἴδωμαι, οἰκτίρω σε, τάλαν Καλλία, οἷ᾿ ἔπαθες. (Whenever I see the sêma of Megakles (who) died, I pity you, poor Kallias, for what you have suffered.) This couplet is often categorized as an epigram, perhaps originally inscribed. I hesitate to disagree, since archaeologists frequently defeat epigraphers’ expectations, but the verses probably derive from a consolatory elegy.30 Still, the lines reflect epigram and thus suggest a reciprocal relationship between elegy and epigram. Other literary parallels owe nothing to inscriptions, however; they show that the original flow of influence was from elegy to epigram. Solon speaks of ‘seeing’ the thing that causes emotional distress in fragment 4a West2: γινώσκω, καί μοι φρενὸς ἔνδοθεν ἄλγεα κεῖται, πρεσβυτάτην ἐσορῶν γαῖαν̣ [Ἰ]α̣ονίης κλινομένην […] (I know, and pains lie within my heart, as I look on (ἐσορῶν) the oldest land of Ionia (Athens) tottering, that […]) (After Gerber 1999a, 117) At Theognis 53–58 West2, after complaining about the reversal of social roles, the speaker asks, rhetorically and emotively, whether anyone can stand ‘looking on these things’: Κύρνε, πόλις μὲν ἔθ᾿ ἥδε πόλις, λαοὶ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι, οἳ πρόσθ’ οὔτε δίκας ᾔδεσαν οὔτε νόμους, ἀλλ’ ἀμφὶ πλευραῖσι δορὰς αἰγῶν κατέτριβον, ἔξω δ’ ὥστ’ ἔλαφοι τῆσδ’ ἐνέμοντο πόλ͜εος. καὶ νῦν εἰσ’ ἀγαθοὶ, Πολυπαΐδη· οἱ δὲ πρὶν ἐσθλοὶ νῦν δειλοί. τίς κεν ταῦτ’ ἀνέχοιτ’ ἐσορῶν; (Kyrnos, this city is still a city, but the people are definitely different, they who formerly knew neither justice nor laws, but wore out goat hides about their sides and lived outside this city like deer. And now they are ‘good’, Polypaides, while those who were previously

30 Inscribed: Cairns 2016, 329; Cassio 1994, 107–08; Sider 2016, 141 n. 2, 146 n. 14. Epigram, but not sepulchral or even inscribed: CEG 470 = 16a comm.; Gentili 1968, 62–63. Elegy: Aloni and Iannucci 2007, 52; Bowie 1986, 23; Page at ‘Simon.’ 75 FGE.

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‘excellent’ are now ‘base’. Who can endure looking on (ἐσορῶν) these things?) (After Gerber 1999a, 183) Solon 4a and Theognis 53–58 appear to come from sympotic elegies, and they exhibit the dialogic grammar and emotional heightening that were typical of older elegy and moved from it to epigram. We understand why composers of epigrams borrowed these features: they enabled texts to frame the encounters of passers-by with words that fit their experiences and guided their responses to what they were seeing. But did elegy offer specific encouragement for the features’ migration to epigram? Perhaps it did. Elegy has a love of striking visual images, which it often frames with dialogic and emotional passages that guide an audience’s responses, sometimes with, as we have seen, verbs of ‘seeing’. Solon 4a is a short fragment, but it began a poem that probably contained strong images of social discord, hinted at in the ‘tottering’ land. Theognis vividly depicts the social revolution in his image of current ‘good’ people as previous bumpkins who dressed in goatskins and lived like deer. Did such poems suggest to epigrammatists a model they could adapt to brief texts designed to accompany monuments, especially sculpted or painted images? If they did, we can say elegy bequeathed a third feature to epigram: the framing of striking images at least partly with the other two, dialogic grammar and emotional heightening. This was not merely formal borrowing: an effective feature of oral poetic performance was adapted to the ‘performance’ of vocal reading while viewing.31 Besides the examples cited, who can forget Tyrtaeus’s image of the defeated warrior in poem 10 West2 (verses 3–10), a refugee with his mother and father, wife and children, begging, poor, treated badly, disgracing his line, without honour? An ethical and emotional contrast introduces that image (1–4): τεθνάμεναι γὰρ καλὸν ἐνὶ προμάχοισι πεσόντα ἄνδρ’ ἀγαθὸν περὶ ᾗ πατρίδι μαρνάμενον· τὴν δ’ αὐτοῦ προλιπόντα πόλιν καὶ πίονας ἀγροὺς πτωχεύειν πάντων ἔστ’ ἀνιηρότατον […] (It is a fine thing for a brave man to die when he has fallen among the front ranks while fighting for his homeland, and it is the most painful thing of all to leave one’s city and rich fields for a beggar’s life […]) (Gerber 1999a, 51) 31 For comparable approaches to framing, see Platt and Squire 2017.

The exhortation that follows the image points back to it with the deictic οὕτως (thus) and draws a conclusion from it (11–13): † εἶθ’(?εἰ δ᾿)† οὕτως ἀνδρός τοι ἀλωμένου οὐδεμί’ ὤρη γίνεται οὔτ’ αἰδὼς οὔτ’ ὀπίσω γένεος, θυμῷ γῆς πέρι τῆσδε μαχώμεθα […] (If then there is no regard or respect for a man who wanders thus, nor yet for his family after him, let us fight with spirit for this land […]) (Gerber 1999a, 51–53) After more exhortations to fight, the poet urges younger warriors not to abandon their elders (13–20), and there follows a second image (19–27): an older warrior with stiff knees, white hair, and grey beard, breathing out his life in the dust, holding his bloody genitals in his hands, naked. The image evokes a comment about its visual-emotional impact (26): αἰσχρὰ τά γ’ ὀφθαλμοῖς καὶ νεμεσητὸν ἰδεῖν (shameful things for the eyes and a cause for wrath to see). Then comes a contrasting image of a young man, θηητὸς ἰδεῖν (wondrous to behold, 29) alive, beautiful even dead (27–30). Finally, the concluding exhortation (31): ἀλλά τις εὖ διαβὰς μενέτω […] (so then, let one plant himself firmly and hold […]).32 With dialogic and emotional language, elegy offered composers of epigrams tools easily adapted to the framing of physical viewing. It also encouraged them to employ those tools by modelling their use with striking verbal images.

Conclusion Epigrams tend to complement the objects on which they are written. They do so in their form as integral, often decorative aspects of the object (see Day 2017; Pappas 2017), but also in their content, my concern here. Even early hexametric and iambic texts exhibit complementarity. Graffiti on vases identify the object as ‘I’ and name it, its owner, and the penalty for using or stealing it. Epigrams on monuments refer to them in the first person and indicate who erected them, where they stood, and something about their function, e.g. as a mnêma or sêma. Other patterns were available such as ‘Here lies […]’ for epitaphs, but naming the

32 For images in military exhortations, see also Tyrt. frs 11 (v. 21 has the same command), 12, and 19 West2.

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object and something about it predominated. Epigrams were not simply documents inscribed on convenient surfaces; they presented themselves in relation to their objects, as Antony Raubitschek (1968) insisted in an early articulation of the ‘material turn in the study of ancient texts’.33 Epigram’s adaptation of elegiac language and performative sensibility enhanced that complementarity. Simply naming objects, persons, and functions yielded to a more complex articulation of the interaction between object and passer-by, a higher emotional tone, and the guiding of viewers toward desired responses. This in part explains why the elegiac couplet established itself in the sixth century and thereafter reigned as the dominant epigraphic metre. It also explains the origin of many of the descriptive or ecphrastic features that continued to characterize epigram after moving from its traditional epigraphic to a new literary medium, a topic explored in the following two chapters.

33 For a recent exploration of this ‘material turn’, see Dietrich and Fouquet 2022.

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Kauppinen, Saara. 2015. Dialogue Form in Greek Verse Inscriptions with Some Non-Inscriptional Parallels, doctoral thesis, University of Helsinki (Helsinki: Unigrafia) Kissas, Konstantin. 2000. Die attischen Statuen- und Stelenbasen archaischer Zeit (Bonn: Habelt) Knoepfler, Denis. 2009. ‘No. 266. Akraiphia’, Revue des études grecques, 122: 467 = Bulletin épigraphique, 2009: 266 Langdon, Merle K. 2015. ‘Herders’ Graffiti’, in AΞΩN: Studies in Honor of Ronald S. Stroud, ed. by Angelos P. Matthaiou and Nikolaos Papazarkadas, 2 vols (Athens: Greek Epigraphical Society), i, pp. 49–58 Licciardello, Flavia. 2022. Deixis and Frames of Reference in Hellenistic Dedicatory Epigrams, Trends in Classics, 125 (Berlin: De Gruyter) Lougovaya, Julia. 2004. ‘An Historical Study of Athenian Verse Epitaphs from the Sixth through Fourth Centuries bc’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Toronto) Matthaiou, Angelos P. 1986. ‘Δύο ἀρχαϊκὲς ἀττικὲς ἐπιτύμβιες στῆλες’, Horos, 4: 31–34 Matthaiou, Angelos P., and Irini Rossiou. 2010–2013. ‘Ἐπιγραφὴ χαραγμένη σὲ βράχο στὴν Kαμάριζα Λαυρίου’, Horos, 22–25: 175–78 Meyer, Doris. 2005. Inszeniertes Lesevergnügen: Das inschriftliche Epigramm und seine Rezeption bei Kallimachos, Hermes Einzelschrift, 93 (Stuttgart: Steiner) Nagy, Gregory. 2010. ‘Ancient Greek Elegy’, in The Oxford Handbook of the Elegy, ed. by Karen Weisman (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 13–45. Also available at: [accessed 23 March 2023] Oswald, Simon. 2014. ‘Trends in Early Epigram’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Princeton University) ——. Forthcoming. ‘Metrics in Greek Verse Inscriptions’, in The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Latin Meter, ed. by Andrew Becker and Joel Lidov (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Pappas, Alexandra. 2017. ‘Form Follows Function? Toward an Aesthetics of Early Greek Inscriptions at Methone’, in Panhellenes at Methone: Graphê in Late Geometric and Protoarchaic Methone, Macedonia (ca. 700 bce), ed. by Jenny Strauss Clay, Irad Malkin, and Yannis Z. Tzifopoulos, Trends in Classics, 44 (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 285–308 Pearson, Cameron G. 2016. ‘Kroisos in Context: Sixth-Century bce Tumuli in Southern Attica’, presentation at the Archaeological Institute of America, San Francisco, 7 January Peek, Werner. 1976. ‘Grabepigramm aus Selinus’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 23: 93–94 Platt, Verity, and Michael Squire (eds). 2017. The Frame in Classical Art: A Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Raubitschek, Anton E. 1968. ‘Das Denkmal-Epigramm’, in L’épigramme grecque: sept exposés suivis de discussions, Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique, 14 (Vandœuvres-Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 1968), pp. 3–36 Sider, David. 2016. ‘Simonides’ Personal Elegies’, in Iambus and Elegy: New Approaches, ed. by Laura Swift and Chris Carey (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 140–54 Strauss Clay, Jenny. 2016. ‘How to Construct a Sympotic Space with Words’, in The Look of Lyric: Greek Song and the Visual, ed. by Vanessa Cazzato and André Lardinois, Studies in Archaic and Classical Greek Song, 1, Mnemosyne Supplement, 391 (Leiden: Brill), pp. 204–16 Strauss Clay, Jenny, Irad Malkin, and Yannis Z. Tzifopoulos (eds). 2017. Panhellenes at Methone: Graphê in Late Geometric and Protoarchaic Methone, Macedonia (ca. 700 bce), Trends in Classics, 44 (Berlin: De Gruyter) Svenbro, Jesper. 1993. Phrasikleia: An Anthropology of Reading in Ancient Greece, trans. by Janet Lloyd (Ithaca: Cornell University Press) Tentori Montalto, Marco. 2017. Essere primi per il valore: gli epigrammi funerari greci su pietra per i caduti in guerra (VII–V sec. a.C.), Rivista di cultura classica e medioevale, 16 (Pisa: Fabrizio Serra Editore) Tueller, Michael A. 2008. Look Who’s Talking: Innovations in Voice and Identity in Hellenistic Epigram, Hellenistica Groningana, 13 (Leuven: Peeters) ——. 2010. ‘The Passer-by in Archaic and Classical Epigram’, in Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram, ed. by Manuel Baumbach, Andrej Petrovic, and Ivana Petrovic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 42–60 Wachter, Rudolf. 2010. ‘The Origin of Epigrams on “Speaking Objects”’, in Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram, ed. by Manuel Baumbach, Andrej Petrovic, and Ivana Petrovic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 250–60 Wallace, Malcolm B. 1984. ‘The Metres of Early Greek Epigrams’, in Greek Poetry and Philosophy: Studies in Honour of Leonard Woodbury, ed. by Douglas E. Gerber (Chico: Scholars Press), pp. 303–17 Węcowski, Marek. 2014. The Rise of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Whitley, James. 2017. ‘The Material Entanglements of Writing Things Down’, in Theoretical Approaches to the Archaeology of Ancient Greece: Manipulating Material Culture, ed. by Lisa C. Nevett (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press), pp. 71–103

Sherry (Chiayi) Lee

13. From Courtesans, to Goddesses* The Materialization of Ritual Practice in Nossis’s Votive Epigrams

As a literary genre, Hellenistic epigram has its roots in commemorative inscriptions on funerary monuments and votive offerings from the Archaic and Classical periods which recalled memories of past events, engaging viewers in the present.1 As epigram gradually developed into a hybridized literary form that remained in dialogue with inscription while absorbing elements of other poetic genres — particularly the sympotic and erotic themes of its twin, elegy, but also epic and other influences — the conceit of commemoration continued to define it both thematically and formally.2 Around the third century bce, during which literary epigram began to flourish among Hellenistic poets, this inherited monumentalizing function allowed epigram to play







* This paper originated as a term essay for a seminar on Greek festivals which I was extremely fortunate to take while an undergraduate at Yale University. I wish to thank Jessica Lamont, the instructor of this course, for her encouragement, kindness, and guidance in the early stages of preparing this article, as well as the editors of this volume for their boundless patience and thoughtful feedback throughout the entire process. I am deeply grateful to Barbara Graziosi, Daphne Martin, and Davide Napoli for attentively reading earlier drafts and giving comments that greatly improved the final version. Finally, I thank the anonymous reviewers for their suggestions. 1 Hellenistic epigram should be understood not as a literary form that must be sharply distinguished from an inscribed prehistory, but rather as being continuously shaped and influenced by inscribed epigram; both, in fact, share many of the same conventions and poetic language. On literary and inscribed as contextual and historical categories for epigram, see the introduction of Baumbach and others 2010, particularly on the phenomena of delapidarisation and literarisation, and Garulli 2019. 2 On the interpretative significance of the monument, topography, and interplay with the viewer/reader for inscription, see the Introduction to this volume (20-21).

with notions of fictional history and root itself in imagined landscapes. Literary epigram could take on the form of dedicatory inscriptions or epitaphs, claiming to have arisen from real occasions and to accompany real monuments. In short, by playfully redefining the referential language of inscription, epigram collapses the act of reading a text into the experience of viewing a material object. It not only invents a physical and historical identity for itself, but also announces the presence of an entire landscape in which readers, finding themselves suddenly transformed into passers-by, are invited to experience the text as something tangible. Among those writing in the first generation of Hellenistic poets was Nossis, a native of the Greek colony of Epizephyrian Locri on the Ionian coast in Magna Graecia. She is credited with having composed twelve epigrams, written entirely in elegiac quatrains and in the Doric dialect, featuring elements of the Aeolic of Sappho, whose work Nossis claims to rival.3 Seven of these epigrams purport to be dedicatory inscriptions for votive objects offered to goddesses by female worshippers or for women’s portraits on pinakes, which may also be interpreted as dedications in the context of the entire epigrammatic collection. A significant portion of her corpus is thus preoccupied with the inscription — and description — of material artefacts of ritual. Much has been made of the distinctively ‘female’ or ‘feminizing’ voice of Nossis, who appears intimately invested in the lives of the female dedicants whose votive objects she 3 On the relationship between Nossis and Sappho, see Bowman 1998 and Skinner 1989. On Nossis’s poetic use of both Sapphic dialect and her own native dialect, see Coughlan 2020, 608–19. On the authenticity of A.P. 6. 273, see Skinner 1989, 5 n. 1.

Sherry (Chiayi) Lee  •  ([email protected]) is a PhD candidate in Classics (Literature and Philology) at Princeton University. She received a dual BA/MA in Classics from Yale University in 2018. New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 215-228 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133907

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commemorates.4 She mentions men only twice — once in a commemorative poem for Locri’s victory over its longtime enemies, the Bruttians, whose captured arms affirm Nossis’s disparaging portrayal of them as κακῶν (cowardly) in contrast to her ὠκυμάχων (battle-swift) fellow-townsmen (A.P. 6. 132); and once in a dedicatory tribute to Rhinthon, the inventor of a type of tragic burlesque known as φλύακες (A.P. 7. 414). All of this throws into even sharper relief her prevailing concentration on women — and specifically, female dedicants — with what Marilyn Skinner (2005b, 112) has labelled a uniquely ‘woman-identified’ perspective. What has received little attention, however, is the relationship between Nossis’s interest in female dedicants and the significance of female-centred rituals at Locri, as demonstrated by archaeological evidence. Taking the materiality of ritual practice as my guiding line of inquiry, I will analyse a group of Nossis’s votive epigrams together with the material culture and sacred topography of Locri as evidence of a Locrian celebration of the Adonia. In doing so, I argue that the sacred experiences catalysed by this cult inform the narrative decisions and perspective that we find in Nossis’s votive epigrams. Of the votive epigrams of Nossis that have survived, three epigrams (A.P. 9. 332, 9. 605, 6. 275) deserve particular attention as sources of insight into the ritual life of Locri and the identity of Nossis herself. They form a distinct group, linked by multiple thematic similarities: all three epigrams describe dedications to Aphrodite, who is mentioned in the first verse of each poem, and are composed on behalf of fellow Locrian women — specifically hetairai, as I argue — who offered these dedications in Aphrodite’s temple. What the epigrams reveal about their author, the votive objects, their dedicants, the site of dedication, and the context in which they all perform ritual actions suggests a unique social milieu, one in which close relationships between citizen women and prostitutes may develop. Such an experience, I argue, would have been facilitated by the celebration of the Adonia, a socially inclusive, female-only Greek ritual whose presence at Locri is significantly supported by the city’s archaeological and historical evidence.5 Behind Nossis’s apparent affinity with hetairai lies a world of communal, religious experience that we as readers can access by ‘viewing’ the votive objects that materialize in the language of these epigrams and by treating the epigrams themselves as products of ritual.



4 See Furiani 1991 and Skinner 2005b. 5 For discussion of the evidence for a cult of Adonis at Locri, see Barra Bagnasco 1994 and Torelli 2013.

We turn now to the first of these epigrams, which describes a statue of Aphrodite dedicated by the prostitute Polyarchis: ἐλθοῖσαι ποτὶ ναὸν ἰδώμεθα τᾶς Ἀφροδίτας τὸ βρέτας ὡς χρυσῷ δαιδαλόεν τελέθει. εἵσατό μιν Πολυαρχὶς ἐπαυρομένα μάλα πολλάν κτῆσιν ἀπ᾽οἰκείου σώματος ἀγλαίας.

(Let us women go to the temple of Aphrodite and look at her statue, how skilfully it is finished with gold. Polyarchis erected it, having acquired great profit from the beauty of her own body.)6 (A.P. 9. 332)

With the very first word of this epigram, the feminine participle ἐλθοῖσαι, Nossis signals immediately that her intended audience is exclusively female. This internal audience consists of the collective female recipients of her exhortation (ἰδώμεθα, ‘let’s look!’), among whom she includes her own narrative voice. Having invoked this bond of solidarity between herself and her fellow townswomen, she directs them to admire a particular dedication, a gilded wooden statue (τὸ βρέτας) of Aphrodite erected by Polyarchis in the goddess’s temple. The description of the funding of the statue’s commission reveals that Polyarchis is a hetaira or prostitute who has converted her earnings into an ornate votive offering. Her name, too, perhaps hints at the nature of her profession (‘starting off many times’) and emphasizes the productive relationship between her body and her offering. This act of dedication at once recalls and reproduces its original influence: from her own body, Polyarchis has created the body of the goddess to whom she is indebted for her success as a hetaira. Nossis’s poetic reconstruction of the statue, finely crafted and adorned with resplendent gold, must also evoke the exquisite beauty of Polyarchis, whose physical body is rendered here in the material of the statue. Nossis’s female companions are thus encouraged to admire Aphrodite’s body through a statue that, through a sort of metonymic relation, embodies Polyarchis and invites appreciation of her body as well. This aesthetic ‘doubling’ forces the internal viewer’s perception (and the reader’s imagination) of the votive object to operate on two levels: she must acknowledge both the divine dedicatee who has bestowed fruitful beauty upon Polyarchis and the hetaira dedicant who reciprocates by creating a statue resembling them both. The relationship between Aphrodite and the Locrian dedicants is further developed in the following epigram, in which a woman named Callo dedicates a portrait-tablet

6 All translations are mine.

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that perfectly reproduces her appearance. The votive object is also situated in the temple of Aphrodite, as the first line again reveals: τὸν πίνακα ξανθᾶς Καλλὼ δόμον εἰς Ἀφροδίτας εἰκόνα γραψαμένα πάντ᾽ἀνέθηκεν ἴσαν. ὡς ἀγανῶς ἕστακεν· ἴδ᾽ἁ χάρις ἁλίκον ἀνθεῖ. χαιρέτω, οὔ τινα γὰρ μέμψιν ἔχει βιοτᾶς.

(Callo dedicated the tablet (pinax) in the home of blond Aphrodite, having had her portrait made entirely like herself. How gentle she looks as she stands. See how much her grace blooms. Let her rejoice, for she has no blame in her life.) (A.P. 9. 605)

Callo’s portrait is here described as a pinax, a votive object that holds a special significance at Locri for its iconographic representation of women and their ritual activities, as well as of the mythic narratives of Persephone and Aphrodite. Callo (‘Beauty’) appears to be a speaking name that nods to the dedicant’s profession as a hetaira. In urging the addressee to gaze upon the image of Callo, whose loveliness appears to ‘bloom’ beneath our eyes, Nossis engages her audience once more in a collective erotic appreciation of a hetaira’s body. The epigram, like the pinax, effectively serves as an advertisement of Callo’s charms. This particular act of dedication stands in contrast to the previous epigram, in which Polyarchis links her form to Aphrodite’s by dedicating a statue that imitates the goddess rather than herself. Instead, the pinax-epigram for Callo seems to belong to a practice of dedicating portraits of (and by) hetairai in sanctuaries, perhaps inaugurated in the fourth century bce with the gilded portrait statue of the courtesan Phryne in the temple of Apollo at Delphi.7 This epigram is also consistent in both tone and subject matter with three other epigrams by Nossis on pinax-portraits of Locrian women who are not identified as hetairai (A.P. 6. 353, 6. 354, 9. 604). These epigrams similarly remark upon a striking resemblance between image and subject, as well as the portrait’s ability to vividly convey the subject’s positive qualities: gentleness (ἀγανὸν τὸ πρόσωπον, A.P. 6. 353. 1; τᾶς ἀγανοβλεφάρου, A.P. 9. 604. 2), as in Callo’s epigram; sweetness (μειλιχίως, A.P. 6.353.2; τό τε μείλιχον, A.P. 6. 354. 3); and wisdom (τὰν πινυτάν, A.P. 6. 354. 3). Aphrodite reappears even more vividly in the third and final epigram, this time directly interacting with the votive object: χαίροισάν τοι ἔοικε κομᾶν ἄπο τὰν Ἀφροδίταν ἄνθεμα κεκρύφαλον τόνδε λαβεῖν Σαμύθας·

7 See Keesling 2006, 71–72.

δαιδάλεός τε γάρ ἐστι, καὶ ἁδύ τι νέκταρος ὄσδει, τοῦ τῷ καὶ τήνα καλὸν Ἄδωνα χρίει.

(It is fitting that Aphrodite rejoiced in taking an offering from the hair, this hairnet here, of Symaetha; for it is skilfully made and has a certain sweet smell of nectar, that nectar with which she also anoints beautiful Adonis.) (A.P. 6. 275)

The epigram imagines Aphrodite’s reception of the hairnet that Nossis’s implied audience is viewing, juxtaposing that historical moment with the object’s immediate proximity to them, as indicated by the deictic τόνδε. Although the hairnet is identified explicitly as a dedication (ἄνθεμα), this epigram departs from the conventional narrative of dedicatory inscription. Unlike the other two epigrams, there is no verb of dedication, reference to a temple, or description of the object’s presentation as a votive to a chosen god. Instead, Aphrodite is imagined to have taken the hairnet directly from Symaetha’s own hair, claiming it as a prize for herself and thereby converting it into a votive. This reconfiguration of the dedicatory act relies on a vivid narrative elision: Symaetha has dedicated her own hairnet to Aphrodite, so the epigram envisions the goddess receiving it directly from the girl’s hair. By omitting the intermediary of the temple and compressing the dedicatory process, the epigram also collapses the distance between goddess and devotee to convey the success of Symaetha’s dedication. The referentiality of τόνδε, describing the hairnet, therefore enacts a sort of narrative metalepsis, allowing the moment of dedication and the moment of reception to coincide. The first word of the epigram, χαίροισαν, describes Aphrodite’s imagined delight in response to the hairnet and confirms from the outset that the dedication has already achieved its aim: evoking pleasure in the goddess. This conspicuously anticipates the conventional perspective of the dedicatory inscription, which expresses the rendering of χάρις to the god as an aspiration, a necessary precondition for the god to fulfil the dedicator’s request. Aphrodite’s delight, described as a fitting response (ἔοικε) to the craftsmanship and perfume of the hairnet, here serves as both a proleptic justification and an invitation to Nossis’s audience to admire the object as well. Like the subjects of the previous two epigrams, Symaetha’s name reveals important information about her identity. She shares her name with at least two other prominent literary courtesans: the Megarian prostitute named in Aristophanes’s Acharnians, whose abduction by Athenian drunkards allegedly contributes to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, and the prostitute featured in Theocritus’s second Idyll, who performs magic to regain the affections of her former

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Figure 13.1. Left panel of the Ludovisi throne, Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano, Palazzo Altemps. Approximately 460 bce. Photo courtesy of the Museo Nazionale Romano, Palazzo Altemps. Courtesy of the Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali (su concessione del Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali e per il turismo — Museo Nazionale Romano.)

lover.8 I would argue that the choice of a κεκρύφαλος or hairnet for the votive object may also contribute to Symaetha’s characterization as a hetaira in this epigram, as Fischer (2013, 237 n. 106) has already briefly suggested. Headdresses like sakkoi and kekryphaloi were of course worn by all kinds of women; they appear frequently on the women depicted on the Lokrian pinakes, of which some types are distinguished only by the presence or absence of sakkoi on their subjects (Marroni and Torelli 2016, 31). Although such headdresses therefore belonged to both citizen women and hetairai, they may have been especially associated with the latter group at Locri, as demonstrated by the imagery of the Ludovisi throne (Fig. 13.1), a marble tablet carved with reliefs that originated in Locri and dates to about 460 bce.9

8 See Dickie 2001, 100–01, who demonstrates decisively that the Symaetha of Idyll 2 is a courtesan and would have been recognizable as such to Theocritus’s readers. 9 See Guarducci 1985 and Gullini 1982, who both link the Ludovisi throne to the Marasà temple but disagree on where within the temple it would have been located.

Its central panel depicts the birth of Aphrodite, flanked by two devotees; the right-hand panel depicts a fully clothed and veiled matron, while the left-hand panel features a nude hetaira wearing only a sakkos. Evidence from fifth-century Attic red-figure vase paintings also demonstrates a consistent association between hetairai and sprang frames, which they used to produce hairnets and other small textiles (Fischer 2013; Jenkins and Williams 1985, 416). Perhaps, analogous to this Athenian phenomenon, Symaetha has made the kekryphalos herself, which would continue the theme of a creative link between devotee and votive object present in the other two epigrams. Symaetha’s decision to offer her hairnet to Aphrodite is therefore consistent with the headdress’s involvement with hetairai, especially as devotees of Aphrodite, both at Locri and elsewhere. One final and crucial element of this epigram, the reference to Adonis, will receive more detailed discussion later in this chapter. As the final verse reveals, the hairnet serves not only as a site of ritual interaction between Symaetha and Aphrodite, but also as a relic of Symaetha’s devotion to Adonis. The fragrant scent of the hairnet is said to recall the ‘nectar’ with which Adonis’s body is anointed, although the question of who anoints Adonis — Aphrodite or Symaetha — is left deliberately ambiguous. These details allude to Symaetha’s participation in the Adonia, a ritual in which women lamented Adonis as Aphrodite’s consort and worshipped both deities. Symaetha’s participation in the cult of Adonis further reinforces her identity as a hetaira, given that the festival was notably frequented by both hetairai and citizen women. The interpretative implications of this reference to a Locrian Adonia will be examined below; for now, I turn to a rhetorical feature shared by all three of the dedicatory epigrams we have surveyed, one that unites the diverse votive objects and individuals that they represent. In these epigrams, Nossis elides the identities of dedicant and dedicatee, drawing out an intimate ritual link between prostitute and goddess that arises from the materiality of the votive objects described therein. Paying close attention to the staged materiality of these epigrams enables us to appreciate the extent to which material concerns underlie their language and determine their narrative movement. Collectively, these epigrams stage a series of encounters between the reader/ viewer and the assemblage of votive items housed in the temple of Aphrodite. They function simultaneously as inscriptions that ‘announce’ the existence of the objects and as records of the objects’ reception by the reader/ viewer, an act that is re-performed with every reading. Having cast the reader as a member of her retinue, Nossis-as-character introduces her followers to the votive objects and the stories of their dedicators within the narrative of the epigrams. On the extradiegetic level, Nossis-as-author carefully orchestrates the reader’s

13 . F ro m Co u rt e sans, to Goddes s es 2 19

Figure 13.2. Map showing the eastern boundary of Epizephyrian Locri, including the extramural temple and U-shaped stoa at Centocamere, and the intramural Marasà temple. After Barra Bagnasco 1994, 232, fig. 1. Reproduced with the permission of the Casa Editrice Le Lettere (a disposizione agli aventi diritto.)

perception of and interaction with these objects by invoking the senses of sight and smell. She repeatedly appeals to the visual effect of the votive objects, explicitly directing the focus of the reader’s attention — and the internal viewer’s gaze — from one item to another. ἰδώμεθα (‘let’s look!’), Nossis encourages her cohort in A.P. 9. 332. 1. In A.P. 9. 605. 3, she instructs an individual addressee: ἴδ’ (‘look’). Through her descriptions, she prompts the reader to focus on specific details of the votive objects, such as the skill involved in their creation (forms of the word δαιδάλεος appear in A.P. 9. 332. 2 and A.P. 6. 275. 3). Likening the fragrance of Symaetha’s hairnet to the nectar used to anoint Adonis’s body in A.P. 9. 605 stimulates the reader’s imagination of a pleasurable scent that must draw upon familiarity with the odour of incense, enriched by sensory experiences of religious rituals, and yet seems to transcend mortal perception. In fact, the scent defies exact description in the epigram, as signalled by Nossis’s use of τι (A.P. 6. 275. 3). References to the temple of Aphrodite (A.P. 9. 332.1, A.P. 9. 605. 1) allow us to envision a setting in which we can situate these votive objects in relation to

one another. Collectively, these epigrams prompt us to imagine a space and then to place the dedications inside of it, where they elicit sensory responses from the viewer. It is likely no accident that A.P. 9. 332, which contains Nossis’s invitation to the temple of Aphrodite, is dedicated to the most eye-catching votive object: the glittering, gilded statue of Polyarchis, which would likely be the first to grab a viewer’s attention upon entry. Considering materiality thus helps us to better understand Nossis’s poetic techniques and narrative decisions, and to observe how she manipulates epigrammatic conventions to create a physical experience. By giving the votive objects a sensory definition, Nossis causes them to materialize for the reader beyond their usual engagement in the conceit of inscription. Before proceeding to the questions at the heart of this analysis, we must first briefly survey the religious landscape of Locri as an aggregate of its various sacred landmarks, in which we can better envision the ritual context of these votive (or mock-votive) epigrams and draw parallels with material culture (Fig. 13.2). Locrian women were deeply involved in religious cults,

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Figure 13.3. The Marasà temple (photographed in 2009). Photo by Jacopo Werther, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

as attested by the evidence of numerous sanctuaries represented along with their respective symbols and found both within and outside the city walls. At a cave mythological scenes. Three sites of worship connected known as the Grotta Caruso, located near a spring to to Aphrodite have been proposed: two extramural sanctuaries, (1) the shrine at Centocamere/Marasà the north of the city, Locrian women offered korai in honour of Pan and the Nymphs (Maclachlan 2009, Sud associated with the so-called U-shaped stoa (a site 206). Although we lack archaeological evidence for a of ritual banqueting), which was later converted into a Locrian cult of Hera (Schindler 2007), Nossis writes a house known as the Casa dei Leoni during the fourth dedicatory epigram (A.P. 6. 265) in which she and her century bce, and (2) the aforementioned temple at Mannella where the pinakes depicting both goddesses mother dedicate to Hera a linen robe that they have woven together, a collaborative ritual act that strongly were found, although it was devoted principally to the resembles the practice of weaving garments for deities worship of Persephone; and one intramural sanctuary in the ancient Greek world, as we know was done for within the eastern border of Locri known as the Marasà temple, which began life as an oikos in the seventh Athena in celebration of the Panathenaia. century bce and was rebuilt as an Ionic temple in From among the various female cult activities of Locri, two goddesses, Aphrodite and Persephone, the fifth (Fig. 13.3).10 The Marasà temple was divided emerge as particularly prominent and celebrated. The from the other ritual structures devoted to Aphrodite extramural shrine and temenos of Persephone were at Centocamere by the city walls. The Locrian ritual located between the hills of Mannella and Abbadessa, near which the deposits of the famous Locrian pinakes were unearthed in the archaeological excavations by 10 Torelli 2013 (see especially 1314–19) observes that the Marasà temple takes precedence over the shrine at Centocamere/Marasà Paolo Orsi (1909). Though they are uninscribed, the Sud which preceded the Casa dei Leoni, based on its autonomy iconographic programmes featured on these pinakes have and centrality in the worship of Aphrodite. The Marasà temple is proved invaluable for investigating the cultic associations the single formal temple in Locri dedicated to Aphrodite, while of Aphrodite and Persephone, who are both distinctively the extramural shrine functions merely as an accessory structure.

13 . F ro m Co u rt e sans, to Goddes s es 2 2 1

topography of Nossis’s time, then, would have been defined by a temple to Persephone outside the city, to the east, and a temple to Aphrodite within the city and on the coast, to the west. The Marasà temple’s assignment to the worship of Aphrodite has been debated due to the lack of inscriptions and the extreme paucity of votive objects associated with the site. Several features, however, including its architectural similarities with the temple of Artemis in Syracusan Ortygia and its use of Syracusan limestone, suggest that it was rebuilt to commemorate Syracuse’s deliverance of Locri from Rhegium in 477/476 bce (Torelli 2013, 1313 and Schindler 2007). The report of Justin (xxi. 3) that the Locrians had vowed to prostitute their daughters in the temple of Aphrodite in exchange for salvation — regardless of whether or not this vow was, in fact, fulfilled — also supports her identification with this temple, which functioned as the formal centre of her worship within the city. When considering the shape of the ritual landscape of Locri by the third century bce — Nossis’s time — the relationship of the Marasà temple to Aphrodite becomes even more significant. Around the middle of the fourth century bce, during the period in which the exiled tyrant Dionysius the Younger resided at Locri, the shrine at Centocamere was destroyed and replaced with the Casa dei Leoni;11 ritual functions at the U-shaped stoa, too, were discontinued. The shrine at Centocamere, therefore, had been completely displaced and was in fact defunct by the time of Nossis.12 Given the displacement of these two extramural sanctuaries of Aphrodite by the third century bce, we must turn to the Marasà temple as the primary site of Locrian cult activity for Aphrodite and — assuming a real-world referent for the temple in Nossis’s epigrams — the most plausible candidate for the ναόν (temple) and δόμον […] Ἀφροδίτας (home of Aphrodite) referenced in A.P. 9. 332 and A.P. 9. 605, respectively. Having situated the epigrams of Nossis in the ritual environment of her native Locri, I turn now to two critical observations from the literary scholarship on these poems that, in my view, deserve attention. Both have been insufficiently unexplored by scholars, yet raise a number of issues that are crucial for understanding and interpreting Nossis’s poetry, particularly in its ritual context. First, many have remarked on the presence of

hetairai in Nossis’s epigrams and the tone of praise that she adopts towards them, rejecting any social stigma that might be associated with their profession (e.g. Skinner 1991, 27; Barnard 1978, 211–12), as when she claims that Callo ‘has no blame in her life’ (οὔ τινα γὰρ μέμψιν ἔχει βιοτᾶς, A.P. 9. 605. 5). Nossis’s open admiration of prostitutes, as well as the possibility that these votive epigrams might reflect real commissions, has called into question the identity of the poetess herself. Some have gone so far as to suggest that Nossis herself was a hetaira (e.g. Reitzenstein 1893, 142; Gow and Page 1965, ii, 436). Others, however, maintain that Nossis was a woman of high social standing (e.g. Cazzaniga 1972 and Skinner 2005b, 114–15). The evidence adduced for this argument is the aforementioned A.P. 6. 256, in which the poetess calls herself παιδὸς ἀγαῦας Νοσσίδος (the noble child Nossis) in the context of dedicating a robe to Hera jointly woven with her mother, whose own name is accompanied by a genitive matronymic, Κλεόχας — though it should be noted that the use of matronymics is also associated with courtesans (McClure 2013, 76–77).13 Under this interpretation of Nossis as a socially elevated woman, feminist literary scholars tend to marvel at her positive attitude toward the Locrian hetairai, interpreting their consistent appearance as the dedicants in her votive epigrams as a lack of ‘consciousness of her own social or moral superiority, which may be contrasted with the presumed hostility of respectable Athenian women toward the former courtesan Neaera, as alleged by the male speaker of [Demosthenes] 59.110–11’ (Skinner 2005b, 122). Such readings position Nossis as a sort of proto-feminist who deliberately depicts hetairai in a favourable and sympathetic light in defiance of some broader societal prejudice. This conclusion, however, does not account for the social and cultural contexts in which women of high standing in Locri would have encountered and even perceived themselves to be in community with hetairai. Regardless of who Nossis the author ‘really’ was (and it may not be possible or productive to conclusively determine her membership in either category), it is evident that the character of Nossis that emerges from her epigrams is playing with differences in status and social register, demonstrating familiarity with the ritual practices of both prostitutes and women in positions of public prominence. Presumably, the word ἐλθοῖσαι with which A.P. 6. 275 begins is a unifying call,

11 See Barra Bagnasco 1994 for evidence of continued ritual activity in the Casa dei Leoni associated with the Adonia, a view 13 The view that this epigram provides evidence of matrilineal supported by Schindler 2007; Montagnani 2008, 11–12; and Torelli descent among the Locrians has been debated: Skinner 1987 2013. Redfield 2003, 222 suggests that the Casa dei Leoni may also refutes this idea, while Cairns 2016, 349 argues in favour of it, have served as the residence of Dionysius the Younger, based on citing Polybius, Hist., xii. 3. 6–8 on Locrian matriliny, as does its grandeur. See also Redfield 2003, 278–90 for a discussion of the Redfield 2003, 289–91, who hypothesizes that the Locrians ancient accounts of Dionysius the Younger’s impact on Locri. practised a unique form of matriliny in which wealth was 12 Barra Bagnasco 1994, 234. transmitted through males and status through females.

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rather than an insistence on a distinction between the attested during fifth- and fourth-century bce Athens character of Nossis, alongside her female companions, but is known to have been widespread throughout and prostitutes like Polyarchis. In what contexts, then, Greece. Literary and historical evidence indicates its might Nossis have come to know such hetairai prior worship in numerous periods and locations, from late to composing these dedicatory epigrams, whether seventh-century bce Mytilene (Sappho’s fragmentary fictional or actually commissioned, for their offerings cult songs for Adonis), to Hellenistic Alexandria (Theocritus’s Idyll 15), to second-century ce Byblos in the temple of Aphrodite? We may begin to answer this question by returning (Lucian’s On the Syrian Goddess). Various practices to the final line of A.P. 6. 275, the dedicatory epigram for in different configurations are associated with the Symaetha’s hairnet. Multiple scholars have remarked on Adonia, including ritual lament, the creation of the the appearance of Adonis in this verse, which describes ‘gardens of Adonis’ by planting fast-growing fennel or him being anointed with nectar by a syntactically lettuce seeds in ostraka, ritual prostitution, the ascent ambiguous τήνα (she). The commentary of Gow and of female devotees to their rooftops, a pannychis, and Page (1965, ii, 438), in a note on the verb χρίει (anoints), funereal offerings to Adonis. Evidence for any of these mentions that its use of the present tense would be practices at Locri is obscure, although various scholars justified on the grounds that ‘the anointing of Adonis have convincingly argued that the Casa dei Leoni is a yearly event and takes place at the Adonia’. Skinner likely served as the site of the Adonia, noting that the (2005a), too, declares that the reference to Adonis four thousand fragments of broken amphorae found must ‘allude to Symaetha’s celebration of the Adonia’ nearby may have served as the ostraka in which the and provides evidence that ‘by Nossis’ lifetime Adonis gardens of Adonis were grown.15 The note on incense had also been recognized as Aphrodite’s erotic partner’. and anointing in the commentary of Gow-Page on A.P. Both conjectures, however, begin and end with the 6. 275 is corroborated by the significance of incense allusion to the Adonia; no further attention is devoted as a widely used ritual accoutrement in the cult of to exploring the consequences that participation in Adonis. In Idyll 15, Theocritus includes Syrian myrrh a Locrian cult of Adonis might bear on interpreting among the offerings to Adonis (v. 114); Bion’s Lament Nossis’s epigrams. Barra Bagnasco (1994, 231 n. 2) for Adonis instructs Adonis’s mourners to anoint his goes furthest, suggesting that the epigram might serve body with various perfumes and Syrian oils (v. 77), as evidence that Nossis was part of a female thiasos before despairing that they have been destroyed along that celebrated the cult of Adonis. It is precisely the with Adonis: ‘Let all perfumes perish; your perfume implications of this suggestion that I wish to examine has perished, Adonis’ (v. 78).16 Besides its aetiological connection to Myrrha, the mother of Adonis, incense here. If this epigram indeed refers to the Adonia, we is particularly associated with rites for Aphrodite and may profoundly revise our understanding of Nossis’s with marriages, as thymiateria or incense burners relationship with the Locrian hetairai, reconsidering are frequently included in red-figure nuptial scenes the available evidence for celebrations of the Adonia at Locri. The existence of an Adonia would allow us to (Reitzammer 2016, 53). Incense burners also appear as reinterpret Nossis’s epigrams as ‘remembering’, directly regularly occurring motifs on the Locrian pinakes, as or indirectly, real experiences shared by Nossis and her well as on the right-hand panel of the Ludovisi throne. fellow townswomen in an exclusively female cult context. Although precise knowledge of the ritual proceMoreover, we would be able to situate the various objects dures of a Locrian Adonia eludes us, this information mentioned throughout the epigrams — the kekryphalos, nevertheless invites us to consider the role of hetairai the pinax, and the statue — within the material culture as cultic participants in unison with the citizen women of Locri, and understand them as products of a ritual collaboration enabled by the Adonia and reflected in the broader worship of Aphrodite. 15 Barra Bagnasco 1994; Montagnani 2008; and Torelli 2013 locate Broadly speaking, the Adonia was an annual private aspects of the Adonian rites in different parts of the Casa dei Leoni, suggesting that the pannychis might have transpired in ritual attended by both citizen women and hetairai that its courtyard, a hierogamia in the women’s quarters, and the commemorated the death of the youth Adonis who, exhibitions of the gardens of Adonis on the roof. The house according to mythology, was the result of the incestuous may have also served as the residence for priestesses of Adonis. union of Myrrha and Cinyras and the cause of a fierce A parallel at Byblos for the use of a public building for the rivalry between Aphrodite and Persephone, who both rites of Adonis is found in Lucian’s On the Syrian Goddess, 6; another parallel at Argos is found in Pausanias (ii. 20. 6), who fought to possess him.14 The Adonia is most securely

calls it an oikema. Torelli 2013, 1318 points out that oikema can mean ‘brothel’ as well as ‘house’, a label that gestures toward the participation of hetairai in the rites of Adonis housed there. 14 Reitzammer 2016 surveys the various practices of the Adonia cult 16 ὀλλύσθω μύρα πάντα· τὸ σὸν μύρον ὤλετ̓ Ἄδωνις (Bion, Epitaph. as well as both ancient and modern treatments of it. Adon., 78).

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of Locri. Ritual prostitution appears to have taken As ritual performers, female worshippers in the place at the Adonian rites in Byblos (Luc., Syr. d., Adonia role-play as Aphrodite, re-enacting her mythol6), but sexual licence need not have been a binding ogized laments and sympathetically mourning the loss component of the rites at Locri. The most distinctive of her bridegroom. The women at once identify with feature of the Adonia, universally, was the opportunity the goddess and forge a bond with their companions it afforded women of all social backgrounds to associate as a collective. This elision of identities ‘analogizes the freely with each other in a manner that would not have woman to a goddess to support her claim to subjectivity been possible outside of these temporarily assembled and active desire’ (Reitzammer 2016, 25–26, quoting festival communities, removed from male participation Stehle 1996, 225) — precisely, I believe, what Nossis and the institutional gender constraints of the state.17 accomplishes in her poetry, reflecting the practices of the Locrian worship of Aphrodite. This ritual licence for Within the unique context of these rites, women were permitted the ‘freedom to choose with whom they would female worshippers to temporarily assume the role of celebrate, to bond further with women they knew and Aphrodite is most fully realized in the Adonia, mirroring liked, as did the citizen woman and hetaira in the Samia’ the narrative and occasionally syntactic ambiguity (Dillon 2002, 167).18 Menander’s comedy Samia (The between dedicant and goddess that appears in Nossis’s Girl from Samos) offers a depiction of a remarkable epigrams. We recall how the epigram for Symaetha’s friendship forged between a citizen wife and a hetaira hairnet (A.P. 6. 275), the only poem in Nossis’s oeuvre through a celebration of the Adonia. It is, of course, to allude directly to the Adonia, captures from both a focalized through a male perspective and exaggerated for divine and a mortal perspective the sensual experience comedic effect, but it nevertheless references the kinds of encountering Adonis, through an object bearing the of relationships that could be formed between women latter’s scent. Just as Aphrodite anoints the wounds of of disparate social standings under the purview of this her deceased lover with nectar, her followers mourn festival. An iconographic illustration of this attitude Adonis with fragrant perfumes. As the iconography can be found on the two side panels of the Ludovisi of the Ludovisi throne demonstrates, the broader worship of Aphrodite at Locri, into which the Adonia throne, which was described earlier in the discussion is subsumed, already integrates the participation of of A.P. 6. 275: on the left, a naked hetaira wearing only a sakkos plays the double pipes (Fig. 13.1); on the both citizen women and hetairai. In the context of right, a fully clothed matron uses an incense burner. the Adonia, both hetaira and citizen woman achieve This extraordinarily balanced image of two women greater closeness to the goddess and therefore to each in diametrically opposite social positions, united by a other through their devotion to Adonis. central image of Aphrodite and holding ritual instruments I turn now to the status of hetairai at Locri outside associated with her, underscores the idea that both of the Adonia. It seems likely that Locri maintained a women belong to the goddess’s protection. This, perhaps, generally accepting attitude toward prostitutes, given reflects how Locrian citizen women and hetairai might their idiosyncratic and longstanding sacred associations have perceived themselves in relation to one another with the city. Ritual prostitution19 is readily observed at in a communal cult context. Matron and hetaira are portrayed as equally capable of accessing the goddess through religious devotion; their social differences are 19 I use the phrase ‘ritual prostitution’ rather than ‘sacred meaningfully represented without an apparent value prostitution’ here to ground my discussion of prostitution in judgement. With all of this in mind, we may infer that votive and festival contexts. The notion of ‘sacred prostitution’ has been much-maligned and debated by scholars (see especially the Locrian Adonia would have likewise furnished Budin 2008). Budin denies that such a practice in which ‘the such occasions to access friendship and community sale of a person’s body for sexual purposes where some portion with prostitutes that correspond to the hetaira-positive (if not all) of the money or goods received for this transaction perspective expressed in Nossis’s epigrams. belongs to a deity’ (2008, 3) existed in ancient Greece. In

17 i.e. in contrast with the Thesmophoria, the other exclusively female festival widespread throughout Greece but organized by the state and celebrated on its behalf. The contrast between the Thesmophoria and the Adonia would have persisted at Locri as well, given the discovery of a curious altar in the region near the Marasà temple connected to tubes that was identified as the site of a Thesmophorion (see Redfield 2003, 209). 18 Dillon 2002 also points to Diphilos’s Theseus and Painter and Alkiphron’s Letters as literary depictions of hetaira participation in the Adonia.

particular, the existence of sacred prostitution at Locri in connection with the votum of 477/476 bce is controversial, on which see Sourvinou-Inwood 1974 and Redfield 2003, 411–16; Torelli 2013, 1316 critiques the contemporary scholarly denial of sacred prostitution at Locri and Corinth. It is undeniable, however, that prostitution is significantly connected with the worship of Aphrodite at Locri, extending beyond mere literary construct. Elsewhere, too, evidence of hetaira worship of Aphrodite points to a broader conception of ‘ritual prostitution’, such as a number of dedicatory epigrams in the Palatine Anthology on the offerings of hetairai to Aphrodite and various monuments dedicated from the earnings of hetairai (on which see Keesling 2006).

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a number of non-Athenian celebrations of the Adonia, questions regarding how best to define each goddess’s including at Paphos, Byblos, and Cyprus. In Pindar’s cultic personality and evaluate one’s significance in relation to the other.20 Scholarly consensus interprets Pythian 2, which is dedicated to Hieron of Syracuse, the appearance of both goddesses in the pinakes as the saviour of Locri during its conflict with Rhegium evidence of a complementary relationship between the in 477/476 bce, Cyprus and Locri are likened to one another. The poem suggests a cultural link between two in overseeing a marriage cult: Persephone presides the two cities based on their shared practice of ritual over marriage as a legitimate union and safeguards the prostitution (in both cases a practice possibly derived children that result from it, while Aphrodite represents from Near Eastern origins), as Currie (2010) has sexuality more broadly, both within and outside of argued. Cyprus was a prominent site of worship for marriage (Sourvinou-Inwood 1978; Schindler 2007; both Aphrodite and Adonis, a Cyprian native whose Mackin 2018, 212–13). When we read these pinakes for associations with Adonis and the Adonia, the cult is identified with that of his father Cinyras; ritual joint identities of Persephone and Aphrodite begin prostitution in Cyprus was apparently celebrated on to take on new meaning. One pinax type (subtypes appointed festival days, which ostensibly would have included the festivals of both of these gods (Currie 9/1, 9/2, and 9/3) features a goddess seated before an 2010, 283–85). The Λοκρὶς παρθένος (Locrian maiden) ornate table, opening a chest or basket that rests upon mentioned in Pindar’s Pythian 2. 19 has typically been it; inside the partially opened container, a small child interpreted as a reference to the Locrian cult and temple sits propped up against a cushion.21 Sourvinou-Inwood of Aphrodite, where the Locrian girls were allegedly (1978, 116–18) argues that this iconographic schema prostituted as a thank-offering to the goddess according represents the cultic presentation of Locrian children to the votum. This temple of Aphrodite at Marasà, given by their parents to a kourotrophic deity, adducing its location near the coastline, exhibits similarities with the stylistic parallel provided by the Albani relief, many other cults of Aphrodite that were established which may also have originated in Locri. This ritual near ports and harbours so that disembarking merchants is understood to be modelled on the myth of Adonis, could avail themselves of the prostitutes’ services (Clark who is represented in the pinax by the child inside the 2015, 20). Given these parallels with potentially related chest. If the goddess is Persephone, acting in the role cults of Aphrodite and the local history of Locri, we of Locrian kourotrophos, she can be read as reprising may conclude that Locrian hetairai, far from being her involvement in the adoption of Adonis, whom stigmatized or marginalized from society, instead Aphrodite entrusted to her in a basket, an act which occupy a role in the community that was historically planted the seeds of the goddesses’ eventual quarrel. The ritual presentation of Locrian children would thus authorized for political and sacred reasons. This may contribute to the worship of Adonis at Locri, continually have further facilitated potential friendships between hetairai and citizen women and, in fact, contributed evoking Persephone’s own participation in his myth to the blurring or conflation of these social categories as well as her relationship with Aphrodite (Schindler during the Adonia. This ritually sanctioned ambiguity, 2007; Dillon 2002, 234). The fact that the goddess might I suggest, may also account for the hetaira-sympathetic also be identified with Aphrodite suggestively points voice of the narrator in Nossis’s epigrams and our own to her involvement, too, in the adoption of Adonis, as difficulties in ascertaining the social background of well as in a girl’s sexual development in marriage, as she Nossis herself. becomes first a bride and then a mother (Marroni and Given that ritual experiences inform Nossis’s votive Torelli 2013, 101–02). Against this ritual backdrop, the epigrams, it is interesting that she makes no mention of Adonia’s commemoration of Adonis, a youth possessed Persephone in her poetry, but instead overwhelmingly in turns by Persephone and Aphrodite, would acquire privileges Aphrodite, the goddess housed inside a unique and powerful resonance in a city ruled from the city, mentioning Hera (A.P. 6. 265) and Artemis within and without by these same goddesses. At (A.P. 6. 273) each only once. The cultic presence of the same time, the specifically Locrian relationship Persephone at Locri is most extensively documented between Aphrodite and Persephone would itself be in the famous terracotta pinakes associated with her temple at Mannella, which were produced during the late sixth and early fifth centuries bce. These pinakes, 20 Prückner 1968, who argues that Aphrodite took precedence which depict nuptial rituals and mythological scenes, over Persephone at the Mannella temple, contends that many of the figures in the pinakes that had originally been assigned to feature distinctive images of both Persephone and Persephone should be restored to Aphrodite, an argument that Aphrodite. The presence of Aphrodite in a cult devoted has generally been disregarded. primarily to Persephone, as well as the existence 21 For these pinax subtypes, see Lissi Caronna and others of several iconographically ambiguous pinakes that 2004–2007, 577–83, figs 46–48. See also Marroni and Torelli 2013, could be identified with either goddess, have raised 74–75.

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reinforced and enhanced by the celebration of the Adonia. During Nossis’s time, with the cult activity of Locri concentrated at its extremes and divided between the worship of the two goddesses, the celebration of the Adonia’s mythological aition would have played out on the level of sacred topography as well as in ritual performance. In analysing these two bodies of evidence for a Locrian Adonia — one literary, the other material-cultural — and allowing a dialogue to emerge between them, I hope to have yielded a richer understanding of Nossis’s epigrams as artefacts of local ritual and contemporary Locrian society in their own right. My readings of these texts have been defined by a focus on their materiality, which yields two lines of insight: first, we may analyse how these epigrams conventionally identify themselves as inscribed texts that depend upon the presence of another object; second, we may interrogate the items of material culture that are referenced within the texts themselves, examining their real-world counterparts for the kinds of ritual occasions that they signify. By convention, such epigrams continually reference the objects on which they are inscribed (e.g. through deictic language); the particular occasion for which they are inscribed (e.g. votive or funerary); the agents who inscribed and dedicated the object; and other objects that are near the inscribed object, form a collection with it, or are otherwise linked through the moment of dedication. It is impossible to read such epigrammatic texts in isolation or as ‘pure’ literary transmissions; we are constantly reminded of and compelled to describe a relationship between the text and the object that it evokes. As has been amply discussed in the Introduction to this volume, an inscription must be understood, as one element in a network of signifying parts, to have a material existence within a distinct sacred and/or social context — a principle that holds true even, and perhaps especially, in the case of epigrams that stage their own materiality and embody their objects through the text itself. A focus on the materiality of text also enables us to recognize that the text itself is an artefact and should be read for its socio-cultural context; as a (notionally) object-bound text, the epigram operates in connection to specific occasions and other objects which supply it with meaning.22 This inherent referentiality to material culture found within the texts themselves directs us to look outward and beyond, to the temples and dedicatory objects of Locri, in order to retrieve the context demanded for, and by, the epigrams

22 On the materiality of text in the history of book writing in the Graeco-Roman world, see the chapter by Reggiani in this volume, which analyses the relationship between the medium and the ideological purpose of a text.

themselves. By analysing the epigrams and Locrian material culture together as products and documents of a contemporaneous ritual discourse, we may better understand the context from which they both derive and in which Nossis’s epigrams may be re-situated. Under this mutually informed reading of material and text, we may conduct a richer analysis of the material objects that are indexed across the three dedicatory epigrams surveyed in this chapter: the temple of Aphrodite, named as the dedicatory site in A.P. 9. 332 and A.P. 9. 605; the gilded statue of Polyarchis; the pinax-portrait of Callo; and the kekryphalos of Symaetha. These items, embedded in Locrian ritual practices, communicate information about the identities of their dedicants, as do the epigrams that describe them. For example, the epigram for Symaetha’s hairnet does not explicitly identify Symaetha as a hetaira, as the epigram for Polyarchis does. Symaetha’s name and the symbol of the hairnet, however, with its socially recognizable association with prostitutes, constitutes its own kind of code which ‘clues in’ the reader/viewer as to what kind of woman would dedicate a hairnet at a temple for Aphrodite. As a series, these dedicatory epigrams evoke a collection of votive objects, and by relation, a community of prostitute dedicants with whom Nossis was connected and whose centrality to the world of female worship at Locri she describes. Together with the other items of Locrian material culture that allude to the Adonia and its place in the broader worship of Aphrodite — the pinakes depicting Persephone, Aphrodite, and female worshippers; the reliefs upon the Ludovisi throne which iconographically balance the prostitute and the citizen woman; the potsherds and other material evidence for the celebration of the Adonia at the Casa dei Leoni — the objects dedicated by Polyarchis, Callo, and Symaetha generate a ritual context from which the epigrams of Nossis also derive. In evaluating these epigrams as artefacts of the community created by a Locrian Adonia, we may consider what kinds of social action they refer to as well as what kind of social action they themselves constitute. These readings allow us to see Nossis as a ritual participant in the Locrian Adonia, rather than as an isolated literary figure who should be understood primarily within the context of Greek literary history, and to observe how she fashions herself as such in her poetry. We may restore Nossis to a fuller understanding of her ritual environment, collected from the references she makes to locally and culturally specific objects and landmarks in her epigrams. Consequently, we may also position Nossis as a historical figure within our archaeological and historical picture of Locri during the Hellenistic period. By taking more seriously the ‘fiction’ of materiality in these epigrams, we may reconsider the objects they discuss as part of a putative ‘archaeological’

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record of evidence for the Locrian Adonia and for female cult more generally. Engaging the ritual context of the Adonia in our understanding of Nossis’s epigrams would resolve a number of questions previously unaddressed in literary scholarship and enhance our understanding of her female-focused narrative voice. We would be able to read these epigrams as a rare, female-focalized account of these exclusively female cults, which provides an insightful contrast to male literary perspectives (such as that of Aristophanes and Menander).23 By expressing desire for the hetairai she describes and imputing this desire to the reader as well, Nossis evokes sacred and interpersonal bonds with women who represent an integral part of Locrian society. Her readers, in turn, are permitted to access these relationships through contemplation of their votive objects. Regardless of whether they were transmitted as ‘literary texts abstracted from their original commemorative function’ or were intended ‘primarily for private circulation among the members of a tightly knit circle’ (Skinner 2005b, 113), these epigrams must be understood as grounded in real ritual experiences from which their subjects — the worship of Aphrodite and Adonis, the admiration of hetairai — were drawn. We now hear that first rallying cry ἐλθοῖσαι (‘let us go, women!’), with which Nossis potentially began this series of votive epigrams, as an affirmation of the exclusively female,

23 On the expression of female agency in inscription, see the chapter by Salvo in this volume, which explores the confession inscriptions of the Imperial period as products of social relationships and ritual routines. See especially the discussion of SEG 54. 1225 (114-15), an example of a collaborative dedication undertaken by one woman on behalf of another, though Salvo ultimately finds that female involvement in the confession inscriptions is commensurate with, and not distinct from, that of men.

socially inclusive community formed under the unique circumstances of the Adonia. These epigrams may even be interpreted as Nossis’s idiosyncratically Locrian response to Sappho’s fragmentary ritual lamentation song for Adonis, presumably also composed in the context of the Adonia. Rather than exhorting a chorus of girls to ‘beat their breasts and tear their clothes’ (καττύπτεσθε, κόραι, καὶ κατερείκεσθε κίθωνας) as Sappho does (fr. 140a), Nossis leads her female audience to appreciate a different dimension of the Adonia and the broader worship of Aphrodite, rooted in the votive objects dedicated to Aphrodite by the hetairai of Locri. The community of the Locrian Adonia is defined by a dynamic of collaboration and intimacy between goddess and worshipper, prostitute and citizen woman, epigrammatist and dedicant — all ritually significant relationships that Nossis articulates and promotes in writing dedicatory epigrams about hetairai. Ultimately, reading Nossis as a participant in the flourishing female cult activity of her native Locri allows us better to define the label given to her in an epigram by Antipater of Thessalonica (A.P. 9. 26): θηλύγλωσσος (woman-tongued). In addition to reading Nossis as ‘one who spoke like a woman’ or ‘one who spoke specifically to women’ (Skinner 2005b, 114), we can explore the contexts and occasions in which such speech could have arisen in the first place.

13 . F ro m Co u rt e sans, to Goddes s es 2 2 7

Works Cited Barnard, Sylvia. 1978. ‘Hellenistic Women Poets’, Classical Journal, 73.3: 204–13 Barra Bagnasco, Marcella. 1994. ‘Il culto di Adone a Locri Epizefiri’, Ostraka: Rivista di antichità, 3.2: 231–43 Baumbach, Manuel, Andrej Petrovic, and Ivana Petrovic (eds). 2010. Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Bowman, Laurel. 1998. ‘Nossis, Sappho and Hellenistic Poetry’, Ramus, 27.1: 39–59 Budin, Stephanie. 2008. The Myth of Sacred Prostitution in Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Cairns, Francis. 2016. Hellenistic Epigram: Contexts of Exploration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Cazzaniga, Ignazio. 1972. ‘Nosside, nome aristocratico per la poetessa di Locri?’, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, classe di lettere e filosofia, 3rd ser., 2.1: 173–76 Clark, Nora. 2015. Aphrodite and Venus in Myth and Mimesis (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars) Coughlan, Taylor. 2020. ‘The Poetics of Dialect in the Self-Epitaphs of Nossis and Leonidas of Tarentum’, Classical Philology, 115.4: 607–29 Currie, Bruno. 2010. Pindar and the Cult of Heroes (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Dickie, Matthew W. 2001. Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World (London: Routledge) Dillon, Matthew. 2002. Girls and Women in Classical Greek Religion (London: Routledge) Fischer, Marina. 2013. ‘Ancient Greek Prostitutes and the Textile Industry in Attic Vase-Painting ca. 550–450 B.C.E.’, Classical World, 106.2: 219–59 Furiani, Patrizia L. 1991. ‘Intimità e socialità in Nosside di Locri’, in Rose di Pieria, ed. by Francesco de Martino (Bari: Levante), pp. 177–95 Garulli, Valentina. 2019. ‘The Development of Epigram into a Literary Genre’, in A Companion to Ancient Epigram, ed. by Christer Henriksén (Hoboken: Wiley), pp. 267–86 Gigante, Marcello. 1974. ‘Nosside’, La parola del passato: rivista di studi antichi, 29: 22–39 Gow, Andrew Sydenham F., and Denis Lionel Page. 1965. The Greek Anthology: Hellenistic Epigrams, 2 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Guarducci, Margherita. 1985. ‘Due pezzi insigni del Museo Nazionale Romano: Il “Trono Ludovisi” e l’Acrolito Ludovisi’, Bollettino d’arte, 33–34: 1–20 Gullini, Giorgio. 1982. ‘Il Trono Ludovisi: un’ipotesi’, in Aparchai: nuove ricerche e studi sulla Magna Grecia e la Sicilia in onore di Paolo Enrico Arias, ed. by Paolo E. Arias, i (Pisa: Giardini), pp. 305–18 Gutzwiller, Kathryn J. 1997. ‘Genre Development and Gendered Voices in Erinna and Nossis’, in Dwelling in Possibility: Women Poets and Critics on Poetry, ed. by Yopie Prins and Maeera Shreiber (Ithaca: Cornell University Press), pp. 201–22 ——. 1998. Poetic Garlands: Hellenistic Epigrams in Context (Oakland: University of California Press) Jenkins, Ian, and Dyfri Williams. 1985. ‘Sprang Hair Nets: Their Manufacture and Use in Ancient Greece’, American Journal of Archaeology, 89.3: 411–18 Keesling, Catherine. 2006. ‘Heavenly Bodies: Monuments to Prostitutes in Greek Sanctuaries’, in Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World, ed. by Christopher A. Faraone and Laura K. McClure (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press), pp. 59–76 Klinck, Anne L. 2008. Woman’s Songs in Ancient Greece (Montreal: McGill Queen’s University Press) Lissi Caronna, Elisa, Claudio Sabbone, and Licia Vlad Borrelli (eds). 2004–2007. I ‘pinakes’ di Locri Epizefiri: musei di Reggio Calabria e di Locri, Atti e memorie della Società Magna Grecia, 3 (Rome: Società Magna Grecia) Mackin, Ellie. 2018. ‘Girls Playing Persephone (in Marriage and Death)’, Mnemosyne, 71.2: 209–28 Maclachlan, Bonnie. 2009. ‘Women and Nymphs at the Grotta Caruso’, in Mystic Cults in Magna Graecia, ed. by Giovanni Casadio and Patricia A. Johnston (Austin: University of Texas Press), pp. 204–16 Marroni, Elisa, and Mario Torelli. 2016. L’obolo di Persefone: immaginario e ritualità dei pinakes di Locri (Pisa: Edizioni ETS) McClure, Laura K. 2013. Courtesans at Table: Gender and Greek Literary Culture in Athenaeus (London: Routledge) Montagnani, Simona. 2008. ‘Riflessioni sul ruolo della donna a Locri Epizefirii: cultualità femminile e mondo dorico in una prospettiva di “Gender Archaeology”’, Quaderni di donne e ricerca, 10: i–46 [accessed 1 March 2023] Orsi, Paolo. 1890. ‘Gerace Marina. Scoperta di un tempio ionico nell’area dell’antica Locri’, Notizie degli scavi di antichità, 9: 248–67 ——. 1909. ‘Locri Epizefiri. Resoconto sulla terza campagna di scavi Locresi’, Bollettino d’arte, 3: 406–28, 463–82 ——. 1912. ‘Locri Epizephyrii’, Notizie degli scavi di antichità: supplemento: 3–54 Prückner, Helmut. 1968. Die lokrischen Tonreliefs (Mainz: Von Zabern) Redfield, James M. 2003. The Locrian Maidens: Love and Death in Greek Italy (Princeton: Princeton University Press)

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Reitzammer, Laurialan. 2016. The Athenian Adonia in Context: The Adonis Festival as Cultural Practice (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press) Reitzenstein, Richard. 1893. Epigramm und Skolion: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Alexandrinischen Dichtung (Giessen: Ricker) Schindler, Rebecca K. 2007. ‘Aphrodite and the Colonization of Locri Epizephyrii’, Electronic Antiquity: Communicating the Classics, 11.1 [accessed 1 March 2023] Skinner, Marilyn B. 1987. ‘Greek Women and the Metronymic: A Note on an Epigram by Nossis’, Ancient History Bulletin, 1: 39–42 ——. 1989. ‘Sapphic Nossis’, Arethusa, 22: 5–18 ——. 1991. ‘Nossis Thēlyglōssos: The Private Text and the Public Book’, in Women’s History and Ancient History, ed. by Sarah B. Pomeroy (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press), pp. 20–47 ——. 2005a. ‘Nossis and Women’s Cult at Locri’, in Gender and Diversity in Place: Proceedings of the Fourth Conference on Feminism and Classics, May 27–30, 2004, University of Arizona, Tucson, Arizona, ed. by Marilyn Skinner [accessed 23 April 2023] ——. 2005b. ‘Nossis Thelyglossos: The Private Text and the Public Book’, in Women Poets in Ancient Greece and Rome, ed. by Ellen Greene (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press), pp. 112–38 Sourvinou-Inwood, Christiane. 1974. ‘The Votum of 477/6 B.C. and the Foundation Legend of Locri Epizephyrii’, Classical Quarterly, 24.2: 186–98 ——. 1978. ‘Persephone and Aphrodite at Locri: A Model for Personality Definitions in Greek Religion’, The Journal of Hellenic Studies, 98: 101–21 Stehle, Eva. 1996. ‘Sappho’s Gaze: Fantasies of a Goddess and Young Man’, in Reading Sappho: Contemporary Approaches, ed. by Ellen Greene (Berkeley: University of California Press), pp. 193–225 Torelli, Mario. 2013. ‘Adone a Locri: l’oikema arcaico locrese di Afrodite a Marasà Sud’, in L’indagine e la rima: scritti per Lorenzo Braccesi, ed. by Flavio Raviola, Maddalena Bassani, Andrea Debiasi, Elena Pastorio, Hesperìa, 30 (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider), pp. 1311–32

Federica Scicolone

14. S trategies of Ocular and Imaginary Deixis in Greek Epigrams

This paper examines strategies of ocular and imagination-oriented deixis in selected Greek epigrams that describe and interact with their (real or imaginary) monumental supports and contexts of display. It investigates the interplay between these two types of deictic procedures with a twofold purpose. First, it underscores the progressive phantasmatic detachment from real-life devotional contexts in Hellenistic literary epigrams that imitate the epigraphic conventions. Second, it explores the different ways in which mimetic fiction can inform the production of inscriptions, especially beyond the Hellenistic period, thus affecting ancient audiences’ perception of the materiality of inscribed texts. Such interchange between ocular and phantasmatic deixis, as it emerges from the selected case studies, will allow me to argue that the human experience of verse-inscriptions and their materiality in commemorative and votive contexts can be modified through strategies of literary fiction, in a similar way as Hellenistic literary epigrams were influenced by the epigraphic tradition.1 Greek epigrams are in constant dialogue with their material contexts of display. These texts came into existence around the eighth century bce as short inscriptions engraved upon various objects mostly for votive, commemorative, and honorific purposes.2

1 On this interaction, see esp. Meyer 2005; Bettenworth 2007; Schmitz 2010. 2 See e.g. Gutzwiller 1998, 1–14; Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 283–91. On the history of the term and on its early attestations, see also Puelma 1996, 123–39; Meyer 2005, 30–31; Baumbach and others 2010, 6–8. For a general overview on Greek epigram and for its bibliography, see also Bing and Bruss 2007; Kanellou and others 2019, esp. 1-11.

From the end of the fourth century bce epigrams began to be composed also for the papyrus roll: inscribed epigrams were quoted in prose works and later evolved in the form of literary poems, mainly in elegiac couplets, which were conceived as fictional products and arranged into literary anthologies.3 Circulating separately from the objects to which they originally (or imaginatively) referred, literary epigrams raise issues of mimesis and literary fiction that affected the subsequent production and interpretation of real-life inscriptions.4 In their transition from the inscribed to the literary form, Greek epigrams draw attention to their (real or imagined) contexts of display by means of deictic language. Deixis — from the Greek δεῖξις (display, reference), and δείκνυμι (to show, to point out) — is the system of lexical and grammatical demonstrative devices that relate a communicative act to the spatio-temporal context in which this is performed.5 In the archaic song culture’s transformation into a Hellenistic culture of reading, deictics provide

3 Cf. Meyer (2005, 14, and 101) and Petrovic (2007), who anticipate the process of ‘literarization’ of epigram, and thus the social awareness of the epigrammatic genre as the development of a pre-existing phenomenon, to the passage between the fifth and fourth centuries bce. On this, see also Garulli 2012, 29–30. 4 In addition to the scholars mentioned above, see also Santin and Foschia 2016; Henriksén 2019; Petrovic and others 2019. 5 According to Levinson (1983, 54), deixis is ‘the single most obvious way in which the relationship between language and context is reflected in the structures of language themselves’.

Federica Scicolone  •  ([email protected]) is a Research Fellow in Classics at the University of Pavia. New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 229-243 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133908

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the necessary orientation to reconstruct the effaced materiality of epigrams.6 In doing so, deixis allows readers to have an immersive sensory experience of the material contexts to which epigrams point, and to re-enact the votive or commemorative gestures represented in these texts. More specifically, this work is concerned with strategies of demonstratio ad oculos (ocular deixis) and Deixis am Phantasma (imagination-oriented deixis), which have been identified by the psychologist and linguist Karl Bühler (1934, esp. 102–40): the first type, ocular deixis, is the reference to what the audience could see and perceive through the senses; the second type, imagination-oriented deixis, points to something that the poet is inviting the audience to imagine. Deixis am Phantasma is performed by means of what Bühler identifies as deictic ‘displacement’: through this process, the here and now of the communicated message is transferred ‘to the realm of the somewhere or other of pure phantasy, the realm of the here and there of memory’.7 Already in the second century ce the grammarian Apollonius Dyscolus (Syntax, i. 96, ii. 11–17) made the distinction between δεῖξις τῆς ὄψεως (deixis of the eye) and δεῖξις τοῦ νοῦ (deixis of the mind):8 in this way the existence of two types of pointing gestures towards extra-textual referents, belonging respectively either to the speaker’s immediate environment, or to his or her imagination and memory, was acknowledged. The study of deictic language is particularly relevant to the progressive literarization of poetry that was originally performative, since the presence of deixis ‘marks an objectification of performances into texts, establishing a break between production and performance’ (Depew 2000, 76–77). Such processes of ‘decontextualization’ and ‘entextualization’ (Bauman and Briggs 1990, 73–74), and the material connotations of texts that ‘move’ across media and types of performance, are reflected in the shift from an ocular use of deixis — i.e. referring to the material dimension of the performance — to the use of imagination-oriented deictics to refer to a fictional representation of the real world, as this is imagined by the poet and depicted within the text. Nevertheless, the border between these two types of deixis should be conjured up as a permeable one, as they can both contribute within





6 See also Angliker’s discussion in the Introduction to this volume on the main aspects besides missing material context, such as emotional impact and interaction between inscription and reader-viewer, that prompted scholarly interest in the materiality of texts. 7 Bühler 1990, 142. On deictic displacement in his theory, see Bühler 1934, 133–35; 1990, 150–52. 8 On this, see Cosgrove 2011, 77–80.

the same text to the audience’s sense-making process. To cite an example of this in the genre of hymn, let us compare the first two stanzas of the inscribed Cretan hymn to Zeus-Kouros from Palaikastro, dating to third century ce but reinscribed from a late classical (fourth–third-century bce) original, with the final part of the Hellenistic literary Hymn to Demeter by Callimachus. This is the text of the initial stanzas of the hymn to Zeus-Kouros:9 5

Ἰὼ μέγιστε κοῦρε, χαῖρέ μοι, Κρόνειε, παγκρατὲς γάνος, βέβακες δαιμόνων ἁγώμενος˙ Δίκταν ἐς ἐνιαυτὸν ἕρπε καὶ γέγαθι μολπᾶι,

τάν τοι κρέκομεν πακτίσι μείξαντες ἅμ’ αὐλοῖσιν καὶ στάντες ἀείδομεν τεὸν 10 ἀμφὶ βωμὸν οὐερκῆ ἰὼ μέγιστε κοῦρε κτλ.

(Io! most mighty youth, I salute you, son of Κronοs, almighty splendour, who stand as leader of the company of gods! Come to Dikta at this New Year’s day and take delight in the music, which we weave for you with harps, adding the sound of oboes, which we sing having taken our stand around your well-walled altar. Io! most mighty youth etc.)

(Text and trans. Furley and Bremer 2001, i, 68–69; ii, 1–2) And this is the final part of Callimachus’s Hymn to Demeter (ll. 118–23 and 134–38): παρθενικαί, καὶ ἐπιφθέγξασθε, τεκοῖσαι˙ Δάματερ, μέγα χαῖρε, πολυτρόφε πουλυμέδιμνε. 120 χὠς αἱ τὸν κάλαθον λευκότριχες ἵπποι ἄγοντι τέσσαρες, ὣς ἁμῖν μεγάλα θεὸς εὐρυάνασσα λευκὸν ἔαρ, λευκὸν δὲ θέρος καὶ χεῖμα φέροισα

9 Ed. pr. Bosanquet and Murray 1908–1909, 339–65. Hymn in six stanzas composed in ionici a maiore, with the final stanza in ionici a minore. Stele now preserved in the Heraklion Museum. IC III 2.2 in Guarducci 1942, 12–17, esp. 12 on the third-century ce dating of the inscription, based on the letter forms. See also Furley and Bremer no. 1.1 (2001, i, 66–76 and ii, 1–20, esp. i, 69–70 and ii, 4 on dating).

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ἡξεῖ καὶ φθινόπωρον, ἔτος δ’ εἰς ἄλλο φυλαξεῖ. […]   χαῖρε, θεά, καὶ τάνδε σάω πόλιν ἔν θ’ ὁμονοίᾳ 135 ἔν τ’ εὐηπελίᾳ, φέρε δ’ ἀγρόθι νόστιμα πάντα· φέρβε βόας, φέρε μᾶλα, φέρε στάχυν, οἶσε θερισμόν, φέρβε καὶ εἰράναν, ἵν’ ὃς ἄροσε τῆνος ἀμάσῃ. ἵλαθί μοι, τρίλλιστε, μέγα κρείοισα θεάων.

([  ] maidens, and repeat the refrain, women: ‘Welcome Demeter, who feed many, who bring many bushels.’ As the four white horses draw on the holy basket, so will the great, wide-ruling goddess come to us bringing a white [i.e. propitious] spring, a white summer, winter and autumn, and guard us till another year. […] Hail, goddess, and save this city in concord and prosperity, and produce a good return in the fields: feed our cattle, bring forth fruits and crops, bring the harvest and nourish peace, so that he who has sown may reap. Be favourable to me, thrice-invoked, most powerful of goddesses.) (Text and trans. Hopkinson 1984, 71–73)

to the Kouretes’ first hymnic performance, which was intended to hide the wails of Zeus with music and vigorous dancing. The ocular description of this performance, which is particularly evident in lines 7–10 (e.g. τοι κρέκομεν πακτίσι, ([the music which] we weave for you with harps); στάντες ἀείδομεν τεὸν ἀμφὶ βωμὸν οὐερκῆ (we sing having taken our stand around your well-walled altar)), points to the original ritual and cultic framework of the hymn, a mythical moment that the audience is prompted to recollect through the reference to physical elements from the hymn’s actual performance (and re-performance) setting.11 Ocular deixis, thus, represents the medium through which an imagination-oriented deictic gesture is performed, i.e. the mythical past shared by the community and the god is epiphanically evoked and re-enacted in the mind of subsequent readers and viewers (Depew 2000, 63).12 In a literary context, a shift from the externally referential to the phantasmatic modes of deixis seems to be exemplified, as noted by Calame (2004, 439–43), in Callimachus’s Hymn to Demeter: here the voice of the chorus, which denotes a communal involvement in the ritual performance connected to the cult of Demeter (ll. 121–23: ἁμῖν μεγάλα θεὸς […] ἡξεῖ (to us the great goddess will come)), is progressively appropriated by the poet’s own persona, as indicated by the final ἵλαθί μοι (be gracious to me) in line 138.13 In this way, the text of Callimachus’s Hymn is lifted out of its interactional setting and presents itself as a literary product in which strategies of ocular deixis, such as the reference to the ‘holy basket’ (κάλαθος) in lines 1 and 120, are employed to point to elements that do not belong to any particular ritual performance connected with the

The inscription from Palaikastro opens with a specific address to Zeus as son of Kronos and κοῦρος (youth), which is Zeus’s one and only title in the hymn. This has been interpreted as evidence of a Minoan cult of Cretan Zeus as a young masculine deity, which would find support in the discovery of a chryselephantine statuette of a beardless young man (Furley and Bremer 2001, i, 76, fig. 1.1; c. 1500 bce) in the same area in which the inscribed hymn was found (modern Roussolakkos), and whose cult may have survived in the much later Palaikastro hymn.10 At the same time, by invoking Zeus as κοῦρε in the refrain, the hymn seems to recall Zeus’s mythical birth and childhood in Crete, where he was entrusted to the Kouretes by Rhea to protect him from the infanticide Kronos (Hes., Th., 468–84; 11 As pointed out by Furley and Bremer 2001, ii, 12, based on the excavations of the Cretan site it is possible to observe that the cf. Call., Jov., 50-54). The reader is taken on an imaginary precinct was originally enclosed by a wall. journey to Zeus’s first visit to this site as an infant and 10 On the Kouros statuette (now in the Archaeological Museum of Sitia), which is c. 0.50 m high and was discovered during the excavations undertaken in east Crete between 1987 and 1990 by members of the British School at Athens, and on its relationship with the hymn, see MacGillivray 2000, 123–30; on the Minoan interpretation of the hymn, see also Thorne 2000, 149–62. Cf. Etym. Magnum s.v. Δίκτα: ἐνταῦθα δὲ Διὸς ἄγαλμα ἀγένειον ἵστατο. Contra see Alonge 2011, esp. 230–33 on the possibility that this copy of the hymn was recorded for antiquarian memorialization and for ‘the reassertion of local tradition and local pride’ (232), and not for reperformances of the hymn in the Imperial period. Cf. D’Alessio 2017, 250–51; Barbantani 2018, 106–07.

12 See also Furley and Bremer 2001, i, 17–18; Alonge 2011, 232–33. Similar strategies of phantasmatic estrangement from real-life devotional contexts are explored by Lee in the present volume in her analysis of Nossis’s dedicatory epigrams, which are examined as sources of remarkable insights into the poetess’s contemporary religion; see especially AP 6. 275 (5 HE), where the olfactory experience of Samytha’s nectar-scented offering of her hairnet to Aphrodite is mentioned to evoke the perfume of the nectar with which Adonis is anointed by Aphrodite, another mythical moment that the reader is prompted to imagine. Similarly, in the Palaikastro hymn the reader’s imaginative digression on a specific moment of a mythical narrative (i.e. Zeus’s arrival at Dikta as an infant) is triggered by the ocular description of elements from the real-life dimension of cultic performance. 13 See also Falivene 1990, 122–25. On the Hymn to Demeter, see further Bing 1996, 29–42.

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Figure 14.1. Squeeze of the inscription SGO 01/10/01 from Ceramus, Caria, Hellenistic/Imperial period (as in E. Varinlioğlu, Ep. Anat. 3 (1984), pl. 5c. © Dr. Rudolf Habelt GmbH).

cult of Demeter.14 Decontextualization through writing and the manipulation of ocular deictic indicators to perform imagination-oriented gestures may have well affected the cognitive experience of the literary hymn on the part of its audiences. In turn, the same Hellenistic readers might have experienced active participation in cultic performance contexts, where they encountered inscribed texts; it is reasonable to think that their religious behaviours and role in the cultic performances could be affected and modified by the reading of literary hymns in which, for instance, an initial choral voice is later transformed into a first-person individual manifestation, to which all readers could relate.15 The shift from ocular to imagination-oriented deixis, which characterizes the literary development of cult hymns, successfully applies to Greek epigrams interacting with their contexts of display. By means of this shift, literary epigrams render the materiality of inscriptions into a verbal simulacrum of reality, which is detached from and replicable beyond the texts’ material contexts. This assertion is relevant to the birth of a theory of fiction in antiquity, whereas ancient audiences were asked to believe a narrative that both writer and reader acknowledge to be similar to the truth, but factually untrue.16 A cognitive-oriented model applied to the study of deictic language, and based on the assumption that real-life artefacts and their imaginary or mythological subjects could be perceived as different ontological entities, may represent, thus, a valid approach to the materiality of inscribed and literary epigrams.

14 On more recent attempts to restate the importance of the performative dimension of Callimachus’s Hymns, see e.g. Petrovic 2011 and 2012. 15 On the possibility that the emotional impact of archaic inscribed epigram on the reader was prompted by formal features, such as the use of the elegiac metre, see Day’s contribution in this volume. 16 Morgan 1993, esp. 180 and 225, in his discussion on fictionality in the genre of the Greek novel.

In order to show the implications of the described deictic shift for the epigrammatic genre, I examine some Hellenistic and imperial instances of inscribed epigrams, SGO 01/10/01, Inscr. Métr. 49, and Inscr. Métr. 86–87, in combination with three Hellenistic literary epigrams, respectively ascribed to Posidippus (52 AB) and Callimachus (Ep. 15 and 5 Pf.). Following a holistic approach to the study of deixis, in my examination of these texts I explore traditional devices of reference, such as demonstratives and indexicals, as well as figurative language, focusing for instance on the figure of the adynaton, and other devices of presence and absence, such as speaking voices and poetic personae. The study of these linguistic devices can shed light on our understanding of how deixis, in an enlarged sense of the term, negotiates the roles of those participating in the communication situation described by the epigram. The materiality of the objects and spaces evoked by these epigrams is important for their reception because it contributes to transform the audiences’ reading experience and to shape their religious behaviours as partakers in the epigrams’ (real or imaginary) contexts of performance. On the one hand, the selected literary epigrams display the shift from ocular to imagination-oriented deixis, and thus towards a stronger awareness of mimetic fiction on the part of the audience. On the other hand, the inscribed epigrams provide evidence that poetic fiction affects the production of real-life inscriptions beyond the Hellenistic period and can modify the way in which ancient audiences construed the materiality of inscribed texts. The first epigrammatic pairing that I examine consists of SGO 01/10/01, an elegiac inscription from Ceramus (Caria), and of Posidippus’s epigram 52 AB, both referring to a sculpted artefact and the accompanying time-measuring device (a sundial). SGO 01/10/01 (Fig. 14.1) was inscribed on a column-like base with a central dowel hole for a sculpted representation of Hermes, which was dedicated by Philistos in the

1 4 . st rat egi e s o f o cu lar and i magi nary d e i xi s i n gre e k ep igrams 2 33

Hellenistic period and provided with a gnomon or a sundial.17 The monument was plausibly rededicated by a certain Theon, as suggested by the imperial prose text inscribed above Philistos’s epigram: Θέων Ἀλεξανδροεὺς εὐξάμενος ἐκόσμησε (Theon from Alexandria artfully arranged this as a vow).18 This is the text of Philistos’s epigram: ἔστασέμ με Φίλιστος ἐπάκοον ἐσθλὸν ὁδίταις Ἑρμᾶν τοῖς ὁσίọις ἄγγελον εὐτυχίας· ἔνθεν ἰσαμερίας ἀτρεκὴς δρόμος, ἁλίου εὖτ’ ἄν ἀκτὶς ἀκροτάτου λάμπηι ὑπὲρ Κασίου.

(Philistos erected me, Hermes, the noble listening (god), as messenger of good luck for the pious travellers. From here starts the exact course lasting an equal time [i.e. the equinox?], as soon as the beam of Helios shines over the summit of Casion.)19

The ‘noble listening’ Hermes (ἐπάκοον ἐσθλόν […] Ἑρμᾶν, ll. 1–2) is the speaker of the epigram, who has been dedicated as a ‘messenger of good luck for the pious wanderers’ (ὁδίταις […] τοῖς ὁσίοις ἄγγελον εὐτυχίας, ll. 1–2).20 The initial claim to universal validity of Hermes’ role, who is expected to be propitious to any prospective traveller, reveals its deictic specificity in the final couplet of the epigram: the dedication builds on a sensory impression, as it describes the exact place on the column in which the sun was visible for the first time (supposedly on the day of the

equinox) over the summit of the Casion (perhaps the Casion hill, east of Alexandria?).21 The deixis within the epigram, which exploits the traditional attributes of the god Hermes as a marker of poetic authority, draws attention to the frame of ocular perception by pointing to elements that pertain to the materiality of Philistos’s dedication. The ocular deictic ἔνθεν (thence, from that point) in line 3 characterizes both the sundial and the speaking Hermes as belonging to the same spatio-temporal frame of reference of the dedication. By deploying indicators of ocular demonstration, the epigram develops a twofold interaction with its extra-textual referents: first with its material support, consisting of both Hermes’ sculpted representation and the gnomon-sundial on the column; and second with the spatial settings in which the dedication was originally placed and at a later stage relocated, in Ceramus. Furthermore, the reference to a moment of time (the equinox) which is not ever-present, but rather a cyclical moment lying both in the past and in the future, adds further complexity to the temporal frame of reference of the epigram. The deictic ἔνθεν turns this elusive moment of time into space, as it is here that the equinox occurs: in light of this, the epigram displays a double invocation of presence (with reference to space) and absence (with reference to time, i.e. to the equinox). The sundial, thus, condenses multiple places into a single one, as it follows the course of the sun and signals its appearance at a given location in space; in doing so, it represents a materialization of ungraspable time. The context-relatedness of real-life funerary epigrams is problematized by Posidippus in his epigram 52 AB, which is about the tomb of Timon, also provided with a sundial, and Timon’s daughter, Aste. Here Posidippus plays out the ambiguity of inscription-like poems to provide the audience with a tool to think about fiction in the literary development of inscribed epigrams:

17 As suggested by the second, smaller hole on the base (see Varinlioğlu 1984, pl. 5d). An epigraphic parallel for the erection of a sundial is provided by SGO 18/14/01, an epigrammatic pairing from Sillyon (Pamphylia, on the southern coast of modern Turkey), dating to the second century ce, on the funerary monument dedicated by Kidramyas to honour the memory of his wife Zobalima. On this, see Angiò 2016, 311–21. Τίμων, ὃς σκιό[θηρον ἐθή]κατο τοῦθ᾽, ἵνα μετρῆι 18 As observed by Varinlioğlu (1984, 133; 1986, 23), the prose text above the epigram is in a script with lunate sigmas, dating to the ὥρας, νῦν ἴδ᾽ ἐκ[εῖ κεῖται ὑπαὶ πεδίον· Imperial period, while the epigram has square sigmas, which Ἄστη παῖς θ[εραπεύει, ὁ]δοιπόρε, τὴν ἔλιφ᾽, εἵως could suggest a Hellenistic dating. ἐνδέχετ᾽ ἐλπ[ίδ᾽ ἔχειν π]αρθένον ὡρολογεῖν· 19 Text in accordance with SGO 01/10/01 (Merkelbach and Stauber 1998, i, 33–34). See also SEG 34. 1069. Varinlioğlu (ed. pr. 1984, 133–35, pl. 5; 1986, 22–24, IK 30.11) and Lane Fox (2008, 262 n. 23, quoted below) read the Κασίου in the epigram as a reference to Mt Casion (now Jebel al Aqra) in northern Syria and interpret 21 Crampa (1988, 606) interprets the mention of Casion hill as a the term ἰσαμερία (= ἰσημερία) as ‘a day with equal halves, simple representation of the East, and the entire subordinate divided by the sun above Mount Casion at midday’. Cf. Crampa clause as a ‘poetic paraphrase for the sunrise’. The Egyptian (1988, 606), who excludes the presence of a sundial combined provenance of the stone, which is suggested by the toponym with the statue of Hermes on top of the column-like base and Κασίου in line 4, would be supported by the imperial prose sees only an indication of a specific point ‘i.e. (the place of) the text above Philistos’s epigram: the Θέων (Theon) mentioned column, where the sun is visible for the first time on the day of here could be identified with the renowned Alexandrian the equinox’. mathematician and astronomer from the fourth century ce, who 20 On ‘listening gods’ see Guarducci 1974, 67–69. See also Paus. may have ‘embellished’ (ἐκόσμησε) and rededicated in Ceramus 7. 22. 2–3 on the ‘listening’ oracular image of the ‘Hermes of the Philistos’s original dedication. On this, see Varinlioğlu 1986, Market’ at Pharae, in Achaia. 23–24.

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ἀλλὰ σὺ γῆρας ἱκοῦ, κούρη· παρὰ σήματι τούτωι σωρὸν ἐτέων μέτρει τὸν καλὸν ἠέλιον.

This is Inscr. Métr. 49, which is on Isidora of Thebes (Bernand 1969, 221):24



ἄφθιτος, οὐ θνητή. — θαυμά̣ [̣ ζω], | τίς δ’; — Ἰσιδώρα. — |

(Timon, who [set] up this sun[dial] to measure the hours, see, he now [lies] there, underground. His daughter Aste, whom he left behind, [looks after him], passer-by, as long as there is hope that the maid will read the hours. But do you reach old age, young girl. Next to this tomb for years on end measure the beautiful sun.)

τίς πόλις; — αἱ μεγάλαι Θῆ[βαι]. | — τίς ἀνήρ; — Θεόδωρος. — | ὦ στήλη, μικρά γε, λέγεις δ’ | ὅτι παντὸς ἄριστον | ἀνδρῶν, θηλειῶν, πόλεων, | ὅσον ἄχθο[ς ὑ]πέστης.

(Text and trans. Austin and Bastianini 2002, 74–75) Posidippus employs strategies of demonstratio ad oculos to transfer the function of the sundial to the parthenos Aste, namely the daughter of the deceased Timon.22 The girl, in fact (perhaps represented as a statue set upon Timon’s burial place?),23 is asked to measure out time (ὡρολογεῖν, l. 4) just like the sundial does (ἵνα μετρῆι ὥρας, ll. 1–2). Strategies of temporal deixis, condensing future and past dimensions, are at work in the epigram and result in an adynaton or impossibility in the closing lines (Nagy 2015): the girl cannot grow old, although the speaker commands her to do so (ἀλλὰ σὺ γῆρας ἱκοῦ, κούρη, l. 5) because as long as the sun shines she cannot ever finish to measure its radiance next to Timon’s tomb. The imaginary passer-by, who is invited to see (ἴδε, l. 2) the place where Timon lies (ἐκεῖ, l. 2), faces the paradox of a contradictory close, in which the ‘finiteness’ of old age contrasts with the ‘infiniteness’ of the passage of time. The ocular deictic τούτωι (this) in line 5 (cf. l. 1), which in a real-life verse inscription would suggest the physical proximity and shared perception of Timon’s σῆμα (tomb) on the part both of the speaker and of the interlocutor, in this case the girl, in Posidippus’s epigram takes the reader through a fictional dimension in which Aste will approach old age despite being a girl for eternity. The language of reference to the materiality of text can be exploited to stage a metapoetic self-reflection on the promise of the poetic message to transcend its own medium, and on its failure to do so. This is what emerges from the analysis of the second epigrammatic pairing: Inscr. Métr. 49, in hexameters and dating to the second–third centuries ce, is here compared with Callimachus’s Ep. 15 Pf., as they both problematize the suitability of the poetic medium to convey the intended commemorative message.

22 Cf. the bronze maiden on Midas’s tomb, Pl., Phdr., 264c–d = PMG 581. 23 On this interpretation, see Bowie 2002, 161; Angiò 2015, 215–20; Nagy 2015.

((Here lies) an imperishable woman, not a mortal one. — I am amazed; but who is she? — Isidora. — What is her city? — The great Thebes. — Who is her husband? — Theodoros. — O stele, albeit small, tell that the best of everything, of men, of women, of cities, such is the burden that you undertook.)

And this is Callimachus’s Ep. 15 (40 HE; AP 7. 522): Τιμονόη. τίς δ’ ἐσσί; μὰ δαίμονας, οὔ σ’ ἂν ἐπέγνων, εἰ μὴ Τιμοθέου πατρὸς ἐπῆν ὄνομα στήλῃ καὶ Μήθυμνα τεὴ πόλις. ἦ μέγα φημὶ χῆρον ἀνιᾶσθαι σὸν πόσιν Εὐθυμένη.

(Timonoe. Which Timonoe are you? By the gods, I would not have known you, had not the name of your father Timotheus come next on the stele, and Methymna, your city. Euthymenes, your widowed husband, is full of grief: that’s for sure.) (Trans. Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 318–19)

Both epigrams problematize the role of inscribed texts as sources of information and knowledge of the deceased among the reading audience. The epigram’s self-reflection on the limits of its own medium is performed in the form of a dialogic interaction between the passer-by and the inscribed funerary stele. The process of reading-deciphering the inscribed signifiers is dramatized in Inscr. Métr. 49 through the contrast between the small size of the funerary stone (μικρά γε, l. 3) and the greatness of Isidora’s personal narrative, a ‘burden’ which the stone nevertheless consented to carry (λέγεις δ’ ὅτι παντὸς ἄριστον […] ὅσον ἄχθο[ς ὑ]πέστης, ll. 3–4). This contrast is also emphasized in Callimachus’s Ep. 15: here the passer-by stresses the inadequacy of Timonoe’s name alone for identifying the

24 Ed. pr. Peek 1932, 53–54 with pl. 8; SEG 8. 371; see also Bernand 1969, 220–22, with pl. LXIV that seems to reveal the reading ἄφθιτης at the beginning of l. 1. The end of each hexameter is marked on the stone by the sign < . Now in the Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria.

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Figure 14.2. Tomb of Isidora, necropolis of Tuna el-Gebel, Hermopolis Magna, Egypt, second century ce (© Project Tuna elGebel — Lower Saxony State Museum, Hanover).

woman,25 and therefore relies on the additional information inscribed on the stele (ἐπῆν […] στήλῃ, ll. 2–3) in order to identify the ‘Timonoe’ with whom he imaginatively interacts. In Ep. 15, neither the deceased nor the tomb reply to the passer-by; Callimachus’s epigram transposes the deixis of true dialogue into the world of mimetic fiction, by displaying the emergence of a Hellenistic focus on the internal dialogue of the speaker; in turn, the composer of Isidora’s epigram readjusts the conventions of fictional dialogue, as staged by Callimachus and other Hellenistic epigrammatists, to fit real-life epigraphic communication.26 Indeed also Inscr. Métr. 49 may be interpreted as an inner dialogue of the beholder, who is portrayed in the act of reading aloud the information inscribed on Isidora’s tomb, rather than as a proper exchange between two different interlocutors. The development of literary fiction, which operates in the transition from a real-life context to a text that generates its own context, contributes to the success

25 Possibly implying the presence of a carved portrait of Timonoe on the tomb, as suggested by Weisshaüpl quoted in Gow and Page 1965, 196. 26 Cf. Künzle 1933, 77.

of the audience’s sense-making process also in the real-life dimension of inscribed epigrams. In the third and final example I compare Inscr. Métr. 86 and 87, an epigrammatic pairing from the tomb of Isidora in the necropolis of Tuna el-Gebel (Hermopolis Magna) dating to the second century ce (Fig. 14.2), with Callimachus’s Ep. 5 Pf. (14 HE), preserved by Athenaeus (7. 318b), on a speaking nautilus shell dedicated by Selenaia. This is Inscr. Métr. 86, which was painted to the left of the entrance door to Isidora’s funerary chamber (Fig. 14.3a–b):27

ὄντως αἱ Νύμφαι σοι ἐτεκτήναντ’, Ἰσιδώρα, Νύμφαι τῶν ὑδάτων θυγατέρες, θάλαμον. πρεσβυτάτη Νίλοιο θυγατρῶν ἤρξατο Νιλώ κόγχον τευξαμένη, βένθεσιν οἷον ἔχει,

27 First recorded by Graindor 1932, 97–108; Gabra 1941, 67–71. On the tomb and its inscriptions, see later discussion in Bernand 1969, 342–49; Larson 2001, 191–93; Venit 2016, 91–95; Lembke 2018. For full bibliography on this pairing, see Raimondi 1998. Line 5 was added to the left margin of the text and is no longer visible, due to deterioration of the wall surface. Complete text can be seen in Graindor 1932, pl. I.

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Figure 14.3a–b. Photos of Inscr. Métr. 86, painted to the left of the entrance door to Isidora’s burial chamber (© Project Tuna el-Gebel — Lower Saxony State Museum, Hanover).

5 πατρὸς ἐνὶμ̣ ̣ με|γάροισι θεηδ̣ῆ̣ | οἷον ἰδέσθαι Κρηναία δέ, Ὕλα σύνγαμος ἁρπαγίμου, κείονας ἀμφοτέρωθεν ἅτε σπέος, ἧχι καὶ αὐτὴ πηχύνασα̣ Ὕ̣λαν καλποφόρον κατέχει· κρεινάμεναι δ’ ἄρα χῶρον Ὀρειάδες ἱδρύσαντο 10 ἱερόν, ὡς αὑτῶν μηδὲν ἀφαυρὸν ἔχῃς.

(In truth it was the Nymphs, daughters of the water, Isidora, who built the chamber for you. Nilo, the eldest of the daughters of the Nile, began by fashioning a shell, such as she holds in the depths, such one might see, a marvellous thing, in her father’s palace. And Krenaia, mate of Hylas who was snatched away, (built) the columns on both sides, like the grotto where she herself keeps Hylas the jar-holder, taking (him) in her arms. And the Oreads, having chosen the spot, founded a sanctuary, so that you may receive from them nothing less than the best.)

referents of ocular deixis, the poem invites the reader-viewer to perform an act of imaginative supplementation. In doing so, the epigram sets out the mythical framework in which Isidora’s deification took place (perhaps following her death by drowning in the Nile?).28 The reference to the Nymphs and to the story of Hylas’s abduction by them29 places the sensory experience of Isidora’s θάλαμος (l. 2), which here is a metaphor for the ‘burial chamber’,30 in the authoritative and living tradition of myth. The house-tombs of Tuna el-Gebel display a frequent use of Greek myth and imagery as a powerful eschatological metaphor, which constructs a meaningful code-switching between Egyptian and Greek visions of the afterlife (Venit 2016, 87–108, esp. 87, 90, and 95). Indeed abduction by the Nymphs in Isidora’s inscription could conflate the Egyptian tradition concerning the apotheosis of people who drowned in the Nile with the Greek practice of

(Trans. Larson 2001, 192, modified) 28 On the Egyptian burial custom for those drowned in the Nile, Isidora’s burial chamber belongs to the arcosolium tomb type, namely an arched recess placed within the walls of a larger architectural structure. Within the arcosolium there is Isidora’s brick klinē, the ‘shelf’ or ‘banquette’ where the mummy of the woman laid on its back, on whose lower façade a lion-footed couch was painted. The epigram openly refers to the material setting of the chamber, as it mentions the ceiling above Isidora’s burial shelf, fashioned as a huge half-shell in relief and white stucco, and the two spiral columns framing the niche on the front (Fig. 14.4). Such architectural elements are described as the work of the Nymphs and the Oreads, who also founded the sanctuary to commemorate Isidora, and therefore as tangible products of divine craftsmanship. By pointing to

see Hdt. 2.90: ‘When anyone, be he Egyptian or stranger, is known to have been carried off by a crocodile or drowned by the river itself, such an one must by all means be embalmed and tended as fairly as may be and buried in a sacred coffin by the townsmen of the place where he is cast up; nor may any of his kinsfolk or his friends touch him, but his body is deemed something more than human, and is handled and buried by the priests of the Nile themselves.’ For further discussion, see Graindor 1932, 97–112. 29 The mythical account of Hylas’s abduction by the Nymphs is first referred to by Theoc. 13 and A.R. 1. 1207–39 who, however, do not mention Krenaia (cf. A.R. 1. 1228–29 ἡ δὲ νέον κρήνης ἀνεδύετο καλλινάοιο | νύμφη ἐφυδατίη). 30 The term is traditionally used with reference to the ‘bridal chamber’ of young women who have died unwed, which in funerary contexts is represented by the image of the tomb instead of marriage. On this see Peek 1955, 683, no. 1250a, as well as 183, no. 710, and 261, no. 947; Griessmair 1966, 70–71.

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immortalizing the prematurely deceased who had been kidnapped by the Nymphs (Wypustek 2013, 160).31 In this way, the social and religious relevance of what is perceived through the senses, namely Isidora’s grotto-like niche and its marine decoration, is restated over what can be reconstructed through imagination. Mythical narrative and the imagery of the deadly watery locus are intertwined with the materiality of the epigram to suggest a multilayered commemoration of Isidora’s Greek god-like status within an Egyptian funerary context.32 Previous literary treatments of the myth further contribute to this process. The ‘haptic viewing’ of Hylas in Krenaia’s arms, intended here as the audience’s visual/ sensory awareness of the bodily encounter between Hylas and the Nymph,33 which is inferred by the participle πηχύνασα (embracing) in line 8, seems to be informed by the similar image of the young boy on the Nymphs’ lap in Theocritus’s literary account of his abduction (Theoc. 13. 53 Νύμφαι μὲν σφετέροις ἐπὶ γούνασι κοῦρον ἔχοισαι); similarly, the hapax καλποφόρος qualifying Hylas as holding the pitcher in line 8 of Inscr. Métr. 86 is reminiscent of the reference to the κάλπις in A.R. 1. 1207 and 1234, which is the other earliest account of Hylas’s mythical episode. Thus, the literary tradition around the myth of Hylas informs the viewer’s sensory perception of Isidora’s inscription, which in turn reverberates both through the experience of its spatial context (the funerary chamber with its decoration) and through the imagined materiality of Hylas’s myth. Questions arise as to the impact of this perceptual experience on ancient audiences: which are the cognitive implications of setting Isidora’s narrative and the visitor’s encounter with her funerary chamber into a mythical framework? How is the bodily sensing of the columns, stucco shell, and the whole sanctuary affected by the narrative of agency and active participation of mythical characters in the building of the chamber? The interweaving of the perceptible (the tomb’s physical elements) with the imperceptible (the mythical narrative), which is mediated through the poetic text, enhances the viewers’ immersive engagement in Isidora’s funerary cult by suggesting the divinization of the woman and her assimilation to the Nymphs. A further confirmation that such process has taken place comes from the second epigram of the pairing,

31 See also Raimondi 1998; Lembke 2018, 185–90. 32 Cf. Raimondi 1998, 117; Thomas 2000, 16–18, who interprets the space of the niche with its decorative elements as a sacred architecture, forming a grotto-like sanctuary for the deceased. 33 On this notion in the context of the viewers’ experience of artworks, see Platt and Squire 2017, 79.

Figure 14.4. View of Isidora’s decorated niche, with relief shell and painted couch (© Project Tuna el-Gebel — Lower Saxony State Museum, Hanover).

Inscr. Métr. 87, painted to the right-hand side of the entrance door to the funerary chamber (Fig. 14.5a–b):34 5

οὐκέτι σοι μέλλω θύειν, θύγα[τερ, μετ]ὰ κλ̣[α]υ̣θμοῦ, ἐξ οὗ δὴ ἔγνων ὡς θεὸς ἐξεγένου. λοιβαῖς εὐφημεῖτε καὶ εὐχωλαῖς Ἰσιδώραν, ἣ νύμφη Νυμφῶν ἁρπαγίμη γέγονεν. χαῖρε, τέκος˙ νύμφη ὄνομ’ ἐστί σοι, ἰδέ τε Ὧραι σπένδουσιν προχοαῖς ταῖς ἰδί[α]ις̣ ̣ κατ’ ἔτος· ̣ ατον ἄνθος ἐλαίης, χειμὼν μὲν γάλα λευκόν, ἀλεί̣ φ ναρκίσσωι δὲ στέφει ἄνθει ἁβροτάτωι˙ εἶαρ δ’ αὐτομάτης πέμπει γόνον ἔνθα μελίσσης,

34 First recorded by Graindor 1932, 108–12; Gabra 1941, 71–72; Bernand 1969, 350–57; Larson 2001, 191–93; Venit 2016, 91–95. As observed by Graindor (1932, 109), the first line is repeated at the end of the elegiac couplets as a refrain.

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10 καὶ ῥόδον ἐκ καλύκων, ἄνθος Ἔρωτι φίλον˙ καῦμα δ’ ἄρ’ ἐκ ληνοῦ Βάκχου πόμα καὶ στέφανόν σοι ἐκ σταφυλῆς, δῆσαν βότρυας ἀκρεμόνων. ταῦτά νυ σοί˙ τάδε πάντα ἐτήσια ἔνθα τελεῖται τεθμὸς ἅτ’ ἀθανάτοις˙ τοὔνεκα δ’ αὐτὸς ἐγὼ 15 οὐκέτι σοι μέλλω θύειν, θύγατερ, μετὰ κλαυθμοῦ.

(No longer shall I come to make sacrifice, daughter, with lamentations, now that I have learned that you have become a goddess. With libations and vows praise Isidora, who as a numphê was snatched away by the Nymphs. Greetings, child! Nymph is your name, and the Horai pour you their libations throughout the year. Winter brings white milk, the rich flower of the olive, and crowns you with the delicate narcissus flower. Spring sends here the produce of the industrious bee and the rose from its bud, flower beloved to Eros. Summer heat brings the drink from the vat of Bacchus and a crown of grapes for you, having tied the clusters from the branches. These things are for you. All these will be performed here annually, as is the custom for the immortals. Therefore, no longer shall I come to make sacrifice, daughter, with lamentations.) (Trans. Larson 2001, 192–93, modified)

The speaker of this epigram is Isidora’s father who, as denoted by l. 1, emphatically repeated at the end of the poem, is rejoicing for the daughter assimilation to the Nymphs and her imagined divinization. As mentioned in line 4, Isidora has been snatched away as a νύμφη, a marriageable maiden in the flower of her youth, and therefore will remain so for eternity:35 this trope is highly reminiscent of the adynaton of the young Aste in Posidippus’s epigram 52 AB, in which the parthenos was asked by the speaker to reach old age while measuring the hours for eternity. The speaker places extra emphasis on the libations that should be poured every year on Isidora’s sepulchral site in order to commemorate her, following the orderly succession of the three seasons which correspond to

Figure 14.5a–b. Photos of Inscr. Métr. 87, painted to the right of the entrance door to Isidora’s burial chamber (© Project Tuna el-Gebel — Lower Saxony State Museum, Hanover).

35 The expression in l. 5 νύμφη ὄνομ’ ἐστί σοι, and the emphasis that it conveys on the ‘name’ qualifying the maiden’s status after death, recall the similar phrasing and emphasis on the ὄνομα of the deceased in the epitaph on Phrasikleia (CEG 24, Attica, midsixth century bce), who also died prematurely and unmarried: σε̃μα Φρασικλείας· κόρε κεκλέσομαι αἰεί, / ἀντὶ γάμο παρὰ θεο̃ν τοῦτο λαχο̃σ᾽ ὄνομα.

1 4 . st rat egi e s o f o cu lar and i magi nary d e i xi s i n gre e k ep igrams 239

ancient Egyptian conventions.36 The prescription to pour the seasonal libations throughout the year and to perform these sacred rites as carefully described by Isidora’s father, is restated in the final part of the epigram (ll. 13–14), and particularly emphasized by the future form with passive meaning τελεῖται:37 the reference to the annual commemorative ceremony of the deceased, according to the τεθμός (custom) for the immortals, has the effect of taking the readers back to the performative dimension of Isidora’s cult and to the sensory experience of her funerary chamber, where the goddess-like status of the young woman should be acknowledged and celebrated periodically by the living ‘as if ’ she were truly a deity. On the one hand, Inscr. Métr. 86 transfers the sensory experience of the chamber to the realm of myth and belief in Isidora’s deification: by performing Deixis am Phantasma through the employment of ocular deictic strategies, the epigram prompts the onlookers to interpret the sculpted architectures and decoration observed in the chamber as the product of divine intervention and workmanship. On the other hand, the language of demonstratio ad oculos in Inscr. Métr. 87 restores the real-life framework of cultic celebration, by appealing to the cyclic nature of the offerings bestowed in the three seasons mentioned, as well as to the most appropriate rituals to honour the newly achieved divinity of Isidora. In the perceptual experience and interpretation of her burial place, the ‘goddess-like status’ of the deceased is now construed from a ritualistic perspective, rather than from the perspective of traditional myth and beliefs, which are evoked by the imagination-oriented deixis of Inscr. Métr. 86. The figure of Isidora represents the medium through which the divine is made closer to the human, and therefore more understandable, as the second epigram on ritual prescriptions and libations seems to suggest. The epigrams on Isidora provide evidence that the language framing the experience of the supernatural in funerary contexts significantly affects the way in which ancient audiences construed human and divine entities, and in turn may have shaped their religious behaviours. The real-life experience of Isidora’s funerary chamber and of the shell that decorates it may have been informed by the type of lifelike fiction that Callimachus stages in

36 Although in Ptolemaic Egypt the division of the year in four seasons was known, as observed by Bernand (1969, 353), the Egyptian year was conventionally divided into the inundation season (akhet), the growing season (peret), and the harvest season (shemu), following a representation of the seasons that is informed by the agricultural cycle. This was a widespread motif in funerary decoration. On this, see Bochi 2003, 159–63. 37 Cf. Bernand 1969, 356 with n. 6 for alternative translations of this verbal form as a present tense.

his Ep. 5 Pf. (14 HE).38 Here a nautilus shell dedicated to Arsinoe-Aphrodite in her shrine on Cape Zephyrium (between Alexandria and Canopus) comes alive and describes its former existence as a mollusc: 5

κόγχος ἐγώ, Ζεφυρῖτι, παλαίτερον, ἀλλὰ σὺ νῦν με, Κύπρι, Σεληναίης ἄνθεμα πρῶτον ἔχεις, ναυτίλος ὃς πελάγεσσιν ἐπέπλεον, εἰ μὲν ἀῆται, τείνας οἰκείων λαῖφος ἀπὸ προτόνων, εἰ δὲ Γαληναίη, λιπαρὴ θεός, οὖλος ἐρέσσων ποσσὶν–ἴδ’ ὡς τὤργῳ τοὔνομα συμφέρεται– ἔστ’ ἔπεσον παρὰ θῖνας Ἰουλίδας, ὄφρα γένωμαι σοὶ τὸ περίσκεπτον παίγνιον, Ἀρσινόη, μηδέ μοι ἐν θαλάμῃσιν ἔθ’ ὡς πάρος–εἰμὶ γὰρ ἄπνους– 10 τίκτηται νοτερῆς ὤεον ἁλκυόνος. Κλεινίου ἀλλὰ θυγατρὶ δίδου χάριν, οἶδε γὰρ ἐσθλά ῥέζειν, καὶ Σμύρνης ἐστὶν ἀπ᾿ Αἰολίδος.

(Long ago, O Zephyritis, I was a shell; but now you, Cypris, have me, a first offering from Selenaia: I, the nautilus, used to sail upon the sea, if there was a breeze, stretching my sail from my own forestays, but if there was Calm, bright goddess, rapidly rowing with my feet — so that my name befits my deed — until I fell on the shores of Iulis, that I might become for you a much admired toy, Arsinoë, nor in my chambers any longer as before — for I am lifeless — may be laid the egg of the damp halcyon. But give grace to the daughter of Kleinias; for she knows to do good deeds and is from Aeolian Smyrna.) (Trans. Acosta-Hughes 2002, 287, modified)

Selenaia’s nautilus shell dialogically addresses the dedicatee Arsinoe-Aphrodite (σὺ νῦν με […] ἔχεις, ll. 1–2; σοί, l. 8; δίδου, l. 11), namely the deified wife of Ptolemy II Philadelphus. After expanding upon its former sailor-like nature in the first half of the epigram,39 in the second part of the poem the speaking shell displays the cognitive skills to remember and regret its former life, as well as to enjoy its present role as dedication (Gutzwiller 1992, 195–96). Such psychological depth contributes to provide an enhanced fictional portrait of the speaking object, which is well suited to the Hellenistic taste for experimentation with mimetic fiction. Like in Inscr. Métr. 86, where the reference to Hylas’s abduction

38 I print the text of Gow and Page 1965 (14 HE). See discussion in Acosta-Hughes 2002, 286–88. 39 The description of the nautilus is informed by Aristotle’s description in HA 525a22–25 and 622b5–15, on which see Gutzwiller 1992, 195–97.

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allows the reader-viewer to construe the materiality of the relief decoration as part of a mythical framework, in Callimachus’s epigram, too, a fictional narrative informs the readers’ (imagined) sensory experience of the nautilus shell and their understanding of the devotional act that it represents. The self-declarative account on the life of the votive object testifies to the way in which Callimachus’s literary fiction, as well as his poetizing use of myth and traditional religious values, innovate the conventions of inscribed epigrams. The devices of demonstratio ad oculos and Deixis am Phantasma describe respectively more perception-oriented and imagination-oriented types of interaction with what is outside the text. The analysed case studies have shown that, as with the genre of cult hymns, the shift from ocular to imagination-oriented modes of deixis in Greek epigram responds, on the one hand, to the disappearance of the texts’ original epigraphic setting, and on the other hand, to the progressive literarization of these genres of performative poetry. By providing a context for the readers’ experience of the epigram, imaginary deictics perform an important cognitive function, since they construct ‘different orders of knowledge’,40 i.e. they provide readers with different ways of gaining access to the meaning of the text by appealing to the literary tradition, common imageries, shared beliefs, memory and imagination. In other words, strategies of Deixis am Phantasma allow readers to orientate themselves in the understanding of the portrayed narrative and characters as part of a fictional scenario alone, which may inform the (actual or imagined) perceptual experience of the text.

40 Elmer 2005, 27; cf. Bakker 2010, 153–57.

Given these conditions I suggest that the development of a theory of fiction in antiquity, which led readers to construe referents of imagination-oriented deixis (grounded in the realm of myth, poetic creativity, and storytelling) sometimes even in the use of ocular deictic strategies, affected the way in which ancient audiences continued to perceive the materiality of texts in epigraphic contexts of display. The analysis of the selected epigrammatic instances from epigraphic and literary dedicatory and funerary contexts has suggested that there is still much scope for investigating the role of literary fiction and its impact on the epigraphic practice and on cultic performance contexts, in the increased awareness that ‘the orderliness assumed by traditional religion is illusory’ (Bulloch 1984, 229), as Callimachus’s religious poems seem to suggest. In this context, referential language plays a crucial role in shaping the audiences’ subjective experiences of the encountered epigrams and of the religious gestures that these texts represent: deictic indicators can direct the readers towards either ocular or imagination-oriented interpretations of the invoked materiality, based on whether the material referents described are anchored or not to the perceptual experience of any reader. By adopting a cognitive approach to the role of deixis in inscribed and literary epigrams that engage with their own materiality, we would deepen our understanding of the bridge between religious and literary belief in a Hellenistic context and its impact on the subsequent epigraphic production.

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Works Cited Primary Sources Austin, Colin, and Guido Bastianini (eds). 2002. Posidippi Pellaei quae supersunt omnia (Milan: LED) Bernand, Étienne. 1969. Inscriptions métriques de l’Égypte gréco-romaine: recherches sur la poésie épigrammatique des Grecs en Égypte (Paris: Les belles lettres) Furley, William D., and Jan M. Bremer (eds and trans.). 2001. Greek Hymns: Selected Cult Songs from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period, 2 vols (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck) Gow, Andrew S. F., and Danys L. Page. 1965. The Greek Anthology: Hellenistic Epigrams, 2 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Hopkinson, Neil (ed. and trans.). 1984. Callimachus: Hymn to Demeter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Pfeiffer, Rudolfus (ed.). 1949–1953. Callimachus, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press)

Secondary Sources Acosta-Hughes, Benjamin. 2002. Polyeideia: The Iambi of Callimachus and the Archaic Iambic Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press) Alonge, Mark. 2011. ‘Greek Hymns from Performance to Stone’, in Sacred Words: Orality, Literacy and Religion, ed. by André Lardinois, Josine Blok, and Marc van der Poel (Leiden: Brill), pp. 217–34 Angiò, Francesca. 2015. ‘Epitymbia 52–54’, in Der Neue Poseidipp: Text Übersetzung – Kommentar, ed. by Bernd Seidensticker, Adrian Stähli, and Antje Wessels (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft), pp. 215–24 ——. 2016. ‘A Sundial for a Deceased Woman: Two Epigrams from Pamphylia (I–II A.D.)’, in Dialect, Diction, and Style in Greek Literary and Inscribed Epigram, ed. by Evina Sistakou and Antonios Rengakos (Berlin: De Gruyter), pp. 311–21 Bakker, Egbert J. 2010. ‘Pragmatics: Speech and Text’, in A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, ed. by Egbert J. Bakker (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell), pp. 151–67 Barbantani, Silvia. 2018. ‘A Survey of Lyric Genres in Hellenistic Poetry: The Hymn. Transformation, Adaptation, Experimentation’, Erga-Logoi, 6.1: 61–135 Bauman, Richard, and Charles L. Briggs. 1990. ‘Poetics and Performance as Critical Perspective on Language and Social Life’, The Annual Review of Anthropology, 19: 59–88 Baumbach, Manuel, Andrej Petrovic, and Ivana Petrovic (eds). 2010. Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Bettenworth, Anja. 2007. ‘The Mutual Influence of Inscribed and Literary Epigram’, in Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram: Down to Philip, ed. by Peter Bing and Jon S. Bruss (Leiden: Brill), pp. 69–93 Bing, Peter. 1996. ‘Callimachus and the Hymn to Demeter’, Syllecta classica, 6: 29–42 Bing, Peter, and Jon S. Bruss (eds). 2007. Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram: Down to Philip (Leiden: Brill) Bochi, Patricia A. 2003. ‘The Enigmatic Activity of Painting the Seasons at an Easel: Contemplative Leisure on Preemptive Measure?’, Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt, 40: 159–69 Bosanquet, Robert C. 1908–1909. ‘The Palaikastro Hymn of the Kouretes’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 15: 339–56 Bowie, Ewen L. 2002. ‘Addenda et corrigenda ad editionem minorem Posidippi Pellaei quae supersunt omnia’, in Il papiro di Posidippo un anno dopo: atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Firenze, 13–14 giugno 2002, ed. by Guido Bastianini and Angelo Casanova (Florence: Istituto papirologico ‘G. Vitelli’), p. 161 Bulloch, Anthony W. 1984. ‘The Future of a Hellenistic Illusion: Some Observations on Callimachus and Religion’, Museum Helveticum, 41.4: 209–30 Bühler, Karl. 1934. Sprachtheorie: Die Darstellungsfunktion der Sprache ( Jena: Fischer) ——. 1990. Theory of Language: The Representational Function of Language, trans. by Donald F. Goodwin (Amsterdam: Benjamins) Calame, Claude. 2004. ‘Deictic Ambiguity and Auto-Referentiality: Some Examples from Greek Poetics’, Arethusa, 37.3: 415–43 Cosgrove, Charles H. 2011. An Ancient Christian Hymn with Musical Notation: Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 1786; Text and Commentary (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck) Crampa, John. 1988. ‘Compte-rendu d’E. Varinlioğlu, Die Inschriften von Keramos’, Gnomon, 60: 603–09

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D’Alessio, Giovan Battista. 2017. ‘Performance, Transmission and the Loss of Hellenistic Lyric Poetry’, in Imagining Reperformance in Ancient Culture: Studies in the Traditions of Drama and Lyric, ed. by Richard Hunter and Anna Uhilig (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 232–61 Day, Joseph W. 2000. ‘Epigram and Reader: Generic Force as (Re-)Activation of Ritual’, in Matrices of Genre: Authors, Canons, and Society, ed. by Mary Depew and Dirk Obbink (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), pp. 37–57 Depew, Mary. 2000. ‘Enacted and Represented Dedications: Genre and Greek Hymn’, in Matrices of Genre: Authors, Canons, and Society, ed. by Mary Depew and Dirk Obbink (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), pp. 59–79 Elmer, David F. 2005. ‘Helen Epigrammatopoios’, Classical Antiquity, 24: 1–39 Falivene, Maria Rosaria. 1990. ‘La mimesi in Callimaco: Inni II, IV, V e VI’, Quaderni urbinati di cultura classica, 63: 103–28 Fantuzzi, Marco, and Richard Hunter. 2004. Tradition and Innovation in Hellenistic Poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Gabra, Sami. 1941. Rapport sur les fouilles d’Hermoupolis ouest (Touna el-Gebel) (Cairo: Imprimerie de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale du Caire) Garulli, Valentina. 2012. Byblos Lainee: epigrafia, letteratura, epitafio (Bologna: Pàtron) Graindor, Paul. 1932. ‘Inscriptions de la nécropole de Touna el-Ghebel (Hermoupolis)’, Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 32: 97–119 Griessmair, Ewald. 1966. Das Motiv der mors immature in den griechischen metrischen Grabinschriften (Innsbruck: Universität Wagner) Guarducci, Margherita. 1942. Inscriptiones Creticae: opera et consilio Friderici Halbherr collectae, iii: Tituli Cretae Orientalis (Rome: Libreria dello stato) ——. 1974. Epigrafia greca, iii: Epigrafi di carattere privato (Rome: Istituto poligrafico dello stato) Gutzwiller, Kathryn J. 1992. ‘The Nautilus, the Halycon, and Selenaia: Callimachus’s Epigram 5 Pf. = 14 G.-P.’, Classical Antiquity, 11.2: 194–209 ——. 1998. Poetic Garlands: Hellenistic Epigrams in Context (Berkeley: University of California Press) Henriksén, Christer (ed.). 2019. A Companion to Ancient Epigram (Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell) Kanellou, Maria, Ivana Petrovic, and Chris Carey (eds). 2019. Greek Epigram from the Hellenistic to the Early Byzantine Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Künzle, Pietro. 1933. ‘Sopra un epigramma alessandrino’, Rivista di filologia e di istruzione classica, 11: 76–77 Lane Fox, Robin. 2008. Travelling Heroes: Greeks and their Myths in the Epic Age of Homer (London: Allen Lane) Larson, Jennifer Lynn. 2001. Greek Nymphs: Myth, Cult, Lore (Oxford: Oxford University Press) Lembke, Katja. 2018. ‘Ein weiblicher Antinoos? Heroisierung in Tuna el-Gebel’, in ‘…denn das eigentliche Studium der Menschheit ist der Mensch.’: Beiträge aus der Ägyptologie, der Geschichtswissenschaft, der Koptologie, der Kunstgeschichte, der Linguistik, der Medizin und ihrer Geschichte, der Musikwissenschaft, der Philosophie, der Politikwissenschaft, der Provenienzforschung und der Rechtsgeschichte zu Ehren Alfred Grimms anläßlich seines 65. Geburtstags, ed. by Barbara Magen (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz), pp. 179–98 Levinson, Stephen C. 1983. Pragmatics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) MacGillivray, Alexander. 2000. ‘The Great Kouros in Cretan Art’, in The Palaikastro Kouros: A Minoan Chryselephantine Statuette and its Aegean Bronze Age Context, ed. by Alexander MacGillivray, Jan Driessen, and Hugh Sackett (London: British School at Athens), pp. 123–30 MacGillivray, Alexander, Jan Driessen, and Sackett, Hugh (eds). 2000. The Palaikastro Kouros: A Minoan Chryselephantine Statuette and its Aegean Bronze Age Context (London: British School at Athens) Merkelbach, Reinhold, and Josef Stauber. 1998–2004. Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten, 5 vols (Stuttgart: Teubner) Meyer, Doris. 2005. Inszeniertes Lesevergnügen: Das inschriftliche Epigramm und seine Rezeption bei Kallimachos (Stuttgart: Steiner) Morgan, John R. 1993. ‘Make-Believe and Make Believe: The Fictionality of the Greek Novels’, in Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, ed. by Christopher Gill and Timothy P. Wiseman (Austin: University of Texas Press), pp. 175–229 Murray, Gilbert. 1908–1909. ‘The Palaikastro Hymn of the Kouretes’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 15: 357–65 Nagy, Gregory. 2015. ‘Echoes of Sappho in Two Epigrams of Posidippus’, Classical Inquiries, 19 November 2015 [accessed 1 March 2023] Peek, Werner. 1932. ‘Griechische Epigramme aus Aegypten’, Bulletin de la Société royale d’archéologie d’Alexandrie, 27: 53–62 ——. 1955. Griechische Vers-Inschriften, i: Grab-Epigramme (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag) Petrovic, Andrej. 2007. Kommentar zu den simonideischen Versinschriften (Leiden: Brill) Petrovic, Andrej, Ivana Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas (eds). 2018. The Materiality of Text: Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity (Leiden: Brill)

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Petrovic, Ivana. 2011. ‘Callimachus and Contemporary Religion: The Hymn to Apollo’, in Brill’s Companion to Callimachus, ed. by Benjamin Acosta-Hughes, Luigi Lehnus, and Susan Stephens (Leiden: Brill), pp. 264–85 ——. 2012. ‘Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo and Greek Metrical Sacred Regulations in Gods and Religion’, in Gods and Religion in Hellenistic Poetry, ed. by Annette Harder, Remco F. Regtuit, and Gerrigje Wakker (Leuven: Peeters), pp. 281–306 Platt, Verity, and Michael Squire. 2017. ‘Getting to Grips with Classical Art: Rethinking the Haptics of Graeco-Roman Visual Culture’, in Touch and the Ancient Senses, ed. by Alex Purves (London: Routledge), pp. 75–104 Puelma, Mario. 1996. ‘Ἐπίγραμμα – epigramma: Aspekte einer Wortgeschichte’, Museum Helveticum, 53: 123–39 Raimondi, Valentina. 1998. ‘Gli Epigrammi per Isidora: una ripresa del mito di Ila in ambito egiziano’, Appunti Romani di Filologia: studi e comunicazioni di filologia, linguistica e letteratura greca e latina, 1998: 93–120 Santin, Eleonora, and Laurence Foschia (eds). 2016. L’épigramme dans tous ses états: épigraphiques, littéraires, historiques (Lyon: ENS Éditions) Schmitz, Thomas A. 2010. ‘Epigrammatic Communication in Callimachus’ Epigrams’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, 50: 370–90 Thomas, Thelma K. 2000. Late Antique Egyptian Funerary Sculpture: Images for this World and the Next (Princeton: Princeton University Press) Thorne, Stuart. 2000. ‘Diktaian Zeus in Later Greek Tradition’, in The Palaikastro Kouros: A Minoan Chryselephantine Statuette and its Aegean Bronze Age Context, ed. by Alexander MacGillivray, Jan Driessen, and Hugh Sackett (London: British School at Athens), pp. 149–62 Varinlioğlu, Ender. 1984. ‘Epigramm aus Keramos’, Epigraphica Anatolica, 3: 133–35 ——. 1986. Die Inschriften von Keramos, IK 30 (Bonn: Habelt) Venit, Marjorie Susan. 2016. Visualizing the Afterlife in the Tombs of Graeco-Roman Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Wypustek, Andrzej. 2013. Images of Eternal Beauty in Funerary Verse Inscriptions of the Hellenistic and Greco-Roman Periods (Leiden: Brill)

Michael Squire

15. Afterword*

The first decades of the twenty-first century have witnessed a profound shift in the study of ancient inscriptions — and indeed in scholarly approaches to ancient writing at large. Traditionally, those who have concerned themselves with Graeco-Roman inscribed objects have prioritized the ‘what’ of the text communicated: a chief aim has been to decipher — by extension, often also to conjecture or emend — the words mediated through, in, and by the inscription, in turn isolated from a given object. As academic field, the study of epigraphy has revolved first and foremost around this idea of inscribed semantic content; indeed, since at least the late eighteenth century, in a project monumentalized in compilations like the Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum, Inscriptiones Graecae, or Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, a whole scholarly industry has revolved around the quest to publish extant inscribed texts in isolation from the materials that originally contained them. By contrast, a new generation of scholars and students have come to champion the idea that the significance of an ancient inscription extends well beyond its ‘words’ — that meaning might lie as much in the form of an object inscribed (including its context, materials, or visual or for that matter tactile aesthetics) as in its inscriptional content; indeed, that such division between form and content may often be superficial, reductive, or anachronistic — revealing more about the logocentric concerns of the modern academy than about the cultural histories of writing in the ancient world.1



* My thanks to Ilaria Bultrighini and Erica Morais Angliker for sharing the stimulating chapters of this volume in advance of its publication, and for the invitation to offer a short response. 1 The bibliography is immense — and much of it has already been surveyed in the editors’ Introduction (esp. pp. 19–32): two particularly important recent interventions come in

This shift in academic approach is profound. So how might we contextualize it? Of course, on one level such concern with the materiality of ancient writing forms part of a larger ‘material turn’ in the humanities, itself bound up with (amongst other things) the ecological anxieties of the contemporary age.2 On another level, this shift comes at a time of a profound change in the technology of writing and communication — brought about by the digital revolution begun in the late twentieth century, and accelerating apace in the first decades of the twenty-first.3 Unlike others (including a number of authors in this book), I am not convinced that digitalization ‘strips’ texts of their material dimension

the edited volume of Petrovic and others 2019 (with Andrej Petrovic’s brilliant introductory chapter), and in the open-access publications of De Gruyter’s ‘Materielle Textkulturen’ series, derived from a collaborative research project at the University of Heidelberg (SFB 933: [accessed 1 March 2023]). My own thinking about the problem has benefited from the insightful critiques of numerous earlier scholars, including e.g. Clairmont 1970, xvii n. 1; Koortbojian 1996, 317 n. 8; Hope 1997, 251; Papalexandrou 2001, 259–60; Blanshard 2007, 20–21. 2 On the ‘material turn’, see the early stimulating essays in Bennett and Joyce 2010. For insightful analysis of the significance within the study of classics, not least classical material and visual cultures, see Platt 2016 and Gaifman and Platt 2018. 3 My views have profited from the likes of van der Weel 2001 and Hammond 2016. It needs hardly saying here that this digital revolution has had a profound effect on the study of Greek and Latin epigraphy. Among other landmark digital projects related to ancient inscriptions, one might think of ‘Attic Inscriptions online’ (begun in 2012: cf.  [accessed 1 March 2023]) — important not only for its grand ambitions of eventually including over twenty thousand Athenian and Attic inscriptions, but also for making so many inscribed Greek texts accessible in English translation, and in many cases providing a link to online images of inscribed objects.

Michael Squire  •  ([email protected]) is Laurence Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Cambridge and a Fellow of Trinity College New Approaches to the Materiality of Text in the Ancient Mediterranean. From Monuments and Buildings to Small Portable Objects, ed. by Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini, AMW, 4 (Turnhout, 2023), pp. 245-253 FHG DOI 10.1484/M.AMW-EB.5.133909

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— that this shift in academic perspective comes despite rather than because of a contemporary cultural politics. Rather, it seems to me that one effect of the digital revolution has been to raise precisely the question of what is lost and gained in the transition of a text from one mode of display to another. Consider the case of the e-book. For some, the rise of new electronic formats smacks of something compromised — above all, in the optics, haptics, or even smell of the printed book.4 For others, e-books and the devices increasingly marketed for consulting them are a force for liberation: an electronic text can now be read in different fonts or font sizes (depending on preference, need, even time of day), for example; multiple texts can be stored and consulted with ease; indeed, texts can be searched for a particular word or idea with a simple press of a button or click of hypertexted link. Put another way, it seems to me that the very translation of texts into digital code throws a spotlight onto their material (or otherwise) dimensions: it has spurred a sensitivity — as indeed, yes, for some an anxiety — about the sorts of material modes required for reading, interpreting, and responding to a written stimulus. As the editors explain in their introduction, the current book follows hot on the heels of others dedicated to the ‘materiality of texts’ in Classical Antiquity. Each of the chapters in this volume makes an important case in its own right about the material aspects of an inscribed object. As a collective anthology, though, the book seems to me to have championed two overriding points. The first lies in the sheer range of materials included under the banner of ‘texts’. Where, as academic field, ancient epigraphy has tended to focus on the monumental, the editors have here brought together specialists in a wide range of media: alongside those concerned with texts inscribed onto marble and stone (consider the contributions by Salvo, Carless Unwin, and Day, for example), we find contributors dealing with a plurality of inscriptional materials, ranging from coins to papyrus scrolls and codices, as indeed from clay tablets to painted vases and potsherds, from mosaics to precious amulets. At the same time, chapters are sensitive precisely to the interstices between epigraphic and literary texts — when it comes to approaching Hellenistic and imperial Greek epigram (in the fifth section of the book), but also in using ancient authors to probe shifting cultural intellectual historical attitudes



4 On this issue of ‘Sensational Books’, note the exhibition of the same name at the Bodleian Library in Oxford between May and December 2022 ( [accessed 1 March 2023]).

to the act of writing.5 No less important is a second aspect: namely, the chronological and geographical span encompassed within the ‘Ancient Mediterranean’ of the book’s title, stretching as it does not only from the Bronze Age to Late Antiquity, but also from the Greek mainland to the eastern Mediterranean and beyond.6 Appropriately enough, perhaps, this multiplicity of subjects, periods, and cultures is itself paralleled in the diversity of contributors themselves — a diversity not just in disciplinary training and academic backgrounds, but also in national traditions. One consequence of the approach that the book has championed is the need to think harder about not just who engaged with inscribed objects, but also how they did so — indeed, how objects might themselves condition modes of response. Where modern classicists often posit an ideal sort of reader (most often forged in their own image), we can be sure that, throughout antiquity, literacy was always a minority skillset; by extension, that reading an inscribed message might be less important than seeing, feeling, or otherwise sensing it.7 Already in fifth-century Athens, we find inscribed texts talking about civic inscriptions as something first and foremost to be ‘looked upon’;8 much later, in his late antique commentary on Virgil’s Aeneid, Servius could muse on the interconnections between seeing and reading — hence, in Servius’s discussion, Virgil’s own switching between these verbs when describing

5 As, for example, in Reggiani’s chapter — in which soundbites from ancient authors, from the Archaic period to Late Antiquity, are used to analyse the development of shifting ideological answers to the question ‘What is a book?’. 6 Consider the chapter by Steele and Boyes, for example, with its comparative interest in materials from Enkomi in Cyprus and Ugarit in Syria, or indeed the Greek and Aramaic inscriptions introduced in Nowakowski’s chapter. 7 On the vexed question of literacy levels, the classic contribution was Harris 1989, with early response in Corbier 1991 (reprinted in Corbier 2006, 77–90), and the other essays in Humphrey 1991. One thinks here of example of Hermeros in Petron., Sat., lviii.7, who, although otherwise poorly educated, nevertheless claims to ‘know the language of stones’ (lapidarias litteras scio; cf. e.g. Horsfall 1989, 202–06). Also relevant are extant literary passages — in particular those acted out on the Attic stage — that imagine an illiterate response to epigraphic writing: most famous is a fragment of Euripides’ Theseus (TrGF 382 = Athenaeus x. 454b–c), itself imitated by at least two other playwrights: cf. Slater 2002, 118–25; Pappas 2011, esp. 47–49; Gagné 2013, esp. 299–304. 8 e.g. IG I3 84 26, datable to 418 bce, and specifying that it was erected for anyone ‘wanting to look upon it’ (σκοπεῖν τῷ βουλομένῳ): cf. Thomas 1989, 61 n. 151 for other examples; more generally on how ‘The power of writing for the Greek city-state lay not so much in its ability to store records and open the way to bureaucracy as in its potential for the publication in its fullest, archaic, sense of open-air public display’, cf. Thomas 1994 (quotation from p. 34) and 1992, esp. 74–100.

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the scenes inscribed on the bronze doors at Cumae.9 For someone like me, whose research interests centre around Greek and Roman visual and material culture first and foremost, the point has a particular relevance for thinking about the art historical significance of writing within the historical interpretation of ancient objects.10 Whether or not a sixth-century viewer of the Archaic Samian korai today housed in Paris and Samos could decipher the letters of the dedicatory inscriptions inscribed on the hem of the figures’ veils (‘Cheramyes dedicated me as an agalma to Hera’: Fig. 15.1), they might appreciate the figurative significance of its inscribed grammata.11 Within the history of Greek vase-painting, too, the earliest uses of writing seem to have functioned as an extension of the graphic figurations of imagery: consider a famous Corinthian aryballos from the early sixth century, in which the hexameter inscription frames and echoes the very figurative dance to which it refers (Fig. 15.2).12 Later, in the context of the Roman Empire, inscriptional objects could harness their material capacity to communicate something quite independently of whether or not their texts could be read: the cultural historical phenomenon of what has been branded the Roman ‘epigraphic habit’ rests precisely on the point.13 Another, no less important, take-away of the book lies in the degree to which ancient writers and readers seem to have been sensitive to the material physicality of script. So much so, indeed, that we often find the means of textual display being harnessed for semantic









9 Servius ad. Aen., vi. 34 (Thilo and Hagen 1923–1927, ii, 11), with e.g. Squire and Whitton 2017, 45–48. 10 For one decisive scholarly intervention, see the essays in Newby and Leader-Newby 2007. There is an abundance of bibliography: on Greek material, see now the essays in Dietrich and Fouquet 2022; on Roman materials, see e.g. Squire 2022 and Elsner and Squire forthcoming (both with bibliographic overviews). 11 As Dietrich 2017, esp. 302–09 has shown (discussing Samos, Vathy Museum, inv. 1750), a prime function of the script here, inscribed in letters from bottom to top, seems to have been to underscore a semblance of motion (as the figure draws up the fabric), while also revealing fabricated folds within the sculpted drapery. Cf. also Dietrich 2018 and Dietrich and others 2020. 12 Wachter 2001, COR 17 (= Corinth, Archaeological Museum, C-54-1), with Osborne and Pappas 2007, 145–47 and Smith, 2016 148. On the ‘graphic’ pictorial functions of Greek script on Attic pottery, see the chapter by Da Silva Francisco in this volume; fundamental is the work of the late François Lissarrague (e.g. Lissarrague 1985; 1990: esp. 125–35; 1992: esp. 191–97; 1999; Gerleigner and Lissarrague 2022); cf. also e.g. Henderson 1994; Slater 1999; Steiner 2007, esp. 74–93. 13 On the Roman ‘epigraphic habit’, see MacMullen 1982, along with e.g. Woolf 1996, Cooley 2002, and Corbier 2006. The paradigmatic example of a Roman monumental inscription designed first and foremost for visual impact rather than reading (albeit an aspect still too often underplayed by scholarship) is Augustus’s Res gestae: cf. Elsner 1996, along with e.g. Cooley 2009.

Figure 15.1. Archaic kore from the Heraion in Samos, c. 570–560 bce. Samos, Vathy Museum, inv. 1750. Photograph: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Athen (D-DAIATH-1985/466; photograph by Robin Rehm).

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Figure 15.2. a) Two views of the ‘Pyrwias’ Corinthian aryballos, c. 580–570 bce. Corinth, Corinth Archaeological Museum, inv. C-54-1. Photos I. Ioannidou and L. Bartziotou/American School of Classical Studies. b) Fold-out drawing of the same vase. After J. Boardman, Early Greek Vase Painting: 11th-6th Centuries bc (London: Thames and Hudson, 1998), fig. 363.2.

Figure 15.3. Simias, ‘Wings of Eros’ (Anth. Pal. 15. 24), probably early third century bce. Typeset by Christine Luz (reproduced by kind permission).

effect. Lamont’s chapter offers a brilliant case study, focused around fourth-century bce curse tablets made from lead. Here the metal object that carried the curse served to provide an effective touchstone for ritual intervention; indeed, the essential idea of magic to which such tablets appealed is instantiated through the magical analogies that the curses summon

up between the material lead tablet (in all its ‘lifeless’, ‘heavy’, ‘cold’ objectivity) and the human subjects that they target. The point here — and Lamont frames her article around examples in other media like Parian marble and wax — is that the very materiality of an inscribed object might bestow it with an agency that is supplementary to whatever textual message its inscription might convey. Understandably enough, an overriding concern of the book has been on approaching different sorts of ancient inscribed objects. Still, the ramifications of the volume — above all, its concern with the material fabric of ancient textual cultures — will also be felt in classical philological circles. Nicola Reggiani’s chapter offers a compact history of the ‘book’ in Classical Antiquity — charting first the rise of the papyrus scroll (over materials like wax tablets, for example), and then, in Late Antiquity, the supremacy of the parchment codex. Increasingly, though, classical philologists are appreciating the extent to which classical literature was itself shaped by the material parameters of its composition and publication.14 Here I am thinking not just about literary conceits that are dependent on modes of writerly presentation: consider the case of Hellenistic so-called technopaegnia composed in the mimetic shape of the objects to which they refer (e.g. Fig. 15.3),15 or for that matter the acrostichs and telestichs of Hellenistic Greek and Latin verse poetry.16 Rather, I am also thinking of recent readings of letter collections, for example, that put particular store on the hermeneutics of the physical scroll — not least its paratextual means of staking spatial markers within an 14 Crucial here are the essays in Johnson and Parker 2009 — not least the brilliant contribution of Habinek 2009. 15 On Greek technopaegnia, see e.g. Ernst 1991, 54–94; Strodel 2002; Guichard 2006; Männlein-Robert 2007, 140–54; Luz 2008 (revised in 2010, 327–53); Squire 2011, esp. 231–36; 2013; Kwapisz 2013; 2019. On the vexed issue of the ‘original’ and subsequent manuscript presentation of these poems, see e.g. Strodel 2002, 48–130 and Guichard 2006, 85–89. Such figure-poems were also written in Latin: quite apart from extant graffiti (consider the famous four-line Latin graffito in snaking elegiac couplets from Pompeii IV.5: CIL 4.1595/CLE 927; cf. e.g. Wojaczek 1988, 248–52; Kruschwitz 2008, 256–57; more generally, Langner 2001, esp. 27–29), and Optatian’s later Latin imitations of Greek examples (Carm. 20, 26, 27; cf. e.g. Squire 2017, esp. 36–41, with further bibliography), compare Laevius’s calligrammatic poem on a Pterygium Phoenicis in the first century bce (cf. Morel (ed.) 1963, 60–61, frg. 22, with discussion in Courtney (ed.) 1993, 119, 136–37 and Ernst 1991, 95–96). 16 For discussions, see e.g. Vogt 1966 and Courtney 1990, with selected further bibliography in Squire 2011, 224–28. Where there was once profound scepticism in the scholarly detection of such lettered play (cf. e.g. Fowler 1983, 298: ‘I await the men in white coats’), today the business of tracking acrostichs is booming (e.g. Gale 2019; Robinson 2019a; 2019b; Mitchell 2020; Abad del Vecchio 2021; Tamás forthcoming).

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anthology.17 When it comes to a late antique poet like Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius, a figure introduced in passing at the beginning of Leatherbury’s chapter, there can be no denying that the whole project of poetic composition has been made to revolve around the opulence of physical display — facilitated above all by the parchment codex, so that each of Optatian’s gridded poems, or carmina cancellata, can now occupy a single folio (e.g. Fig. 15.4).18 Optatian’s pictorial-poetic creations — at once looking back to a canon of classical precedent, while also anticipating so many of the concerns of early Christian and Mediaeval writers — make for an appropriate note on which to close this book. Classicists have long

dismissed Optatian’s oeuvre as inane and trivial, despite its major influence in the Carolingian world.19 Perhaps inevitably, recent interest in the materiality aesthetics of ancient texts has coincided with a major reevaluation of Optatian’s artistry — as both a poet and (in the poet’s own frequent boasts) a painter.20 Whatever else we make of Optatian’s work, it reflects a cultural preoccupation with precisely the physicality of textual display, no less than the capacity of written letters collectively to summon up images, figures, and patterns, each working in non-lexigraphic ways. Was there ever an ancient author more attuned to the materiality of text, or for that matter the intersections between literary artefact and epigraphic modes of display?

17 See especially Whitton 2015, in the context of the second book of Pliny’s Epistles. 18 For bibliography on Optatian (active in the first decades of the 19 Typical is Bardon 1975, 453: ‘Le texte même est dépourvu de tout fourth century ce), see Leatherbury’s chapter in this volume intérêt qui ne soit de curiosité: il témoigne de la décadence d’un (pp. 160–61): for a range of new approaches, from different art et d’une culture.’ For an overview of scholarly reception, see disciplinary perspectives, see the chapters in Squire and Wienand Smolak 1989 along with Squire 2017, 25–30. 2017. Specifically on the importance of the codex to Optatian’s 20 One of the most important interventions was Rühl 2006 (84): oeuvre, cf. Squire 2017, 33–35. More generally on the rise of late ‘Die Materialität der Zeichen, die normalerweise beim Lesen antique ‘graphicacy’ — ‘a specific mode of visual communication zurückgedrängt wird, ist hier gerade Verständnisprinzip und of conceptual information and abstract ideas by means of nontritt gleichberechtigt neben die Signifikatsfunktion.’ Cf. Squire figural graphic devices, which may comprise inscribed letters, 2017 — and on Optatian’s declared outdoing of Apelles (the words, or isolated decorative symbol’ — Garipzanov 2015, 16, most famous painter of all Classical Antiquity!), see Squire 2016 further developed in Garipzanov 2018. on Carm. 3 (as illustrated in Fig. 15.4).

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Figure 15.4. a) Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius (‘Optatian’), Carm. 3, as presented in the sixteenth-century Codex Guelferbytanus 9 Augustaneus (labelled ms. W by Giovanni Polara), fol. 5r. Reproduced by kind permission of the Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel. b) Typographic presentation of the same poem (text after Polara 1973, typesetting by Aaron Pelttari). After Squire and Wienand 2018, 29.

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Index

Page numbers in bold refer to figures, maps, and graphs Adonia (festival): 26, 197 n. 1, 216, 218, 221 n. 12, 222–26 Adonis (deity): 216 n. 5, 217, 218, 219, 222, 223, 224, 226, 231 n. 12 Agios Ioannis Rentis, Greece: 149 Agora D42, Painter of: 58 Agrigentum, Italy: 85 Agrippa: 82 Aizanoi, Turkey: 134, 135, 136, 137 Akkadian language: 38–39, 44, 49, 50 Akraiphia, Greece: 204–05 Alašiya, Cyprus: 38–39 Alcidamas: 99 Alexander the Great: 85 Alexandria, Egypt: 71, 102, 186 n. 31, 222, 233, 239 Alexis (poet): 119 Amarna Letters: 38–39 Ambrose of Milan, St: 88 Amorgos, Greece: 143–44 amphorae: 54, 58, 59, 69, 73, 74, 168, 222 amulets: 22, 146, 161 n. 13, 163, 169, 246 Amurru, kingdom of: 39 Anane, Lebanon: 169 Andirene, Meter (deity): 117 Anthony of Choziba: 180–81 Antioch, Syria: 87 Antiochus V, king of Syria: 100 Antoninus Pius, emperor: 128 n. 7, 137 Apellas, Gaius Antonius: 119 Aphrodisias, Turkey: 21 n. 10, 132, 134, 162, 163 Aphrodite (deity): 26, 134, 198, 216–26, 231 n. 12 Aphrodite-Arsinoë: 239 Apollo (deity): 85, 98, 99 n. 30, 130 n. 24, 217, 225 Apollo Bozenos: 118 Apollo Didymeas: 128 Apollo Lairbenos: 111, 114, 116 Apollo Tarsios: 114 Homeric Hymn to: 96 Apollonius Dyscolus: 230 Aquileia, Italy: 90 Arabia: 25, 173, 174

Arabic language: 66, 189, 190 Aramaic language: 25, 66, 85, 185, 186, 188, 190 Archelaos, king of Cappadocia: 129 Archilochus: 204 Ares (deity): 200 Aristophanes: 95, 99, 217, 226 Arta, Greece: 202, 204, 209 Artaxerxes III, king of Persia: 130, 131 Artemis (deity): 96, 127, 221, 224 Artemis Leukophryene: 132 Asclepius (deity): 96 Asia Minor: 24, 86, 119, 127–38, 143 Assyria: 20, 25 n. 44, 44, 45 Athena (deity): 57, 96, 220 Athena Lindia: 129 Athenaeus: 235 Athens, Greece: 23, 54, 60, 65, 95, 97, 99, 143, 145, 146, 148, 151, 206, 209, 222, 246 Acropolis of: 57 n. 15 Agora of: 65 n. 2, 153 Asklepieion of: 96 n. 11, 180 Kerameikos of: 65 Odeion of: 128 Peisistratid Tyranny in: 97 Attalos I, king of Pergamon: 135 Attalos II, king of Pergamon: 131 Augustine of Hippo, St: 79, 81 Augustus (Octavian), emperor: 82, 84, 85, 86, 129, 134 Avidius Quietus: 136, 137 Babylonia: 38–9, 44 Balatonfuzfo-Szalmassy, Hungary: 167 balls, clay: 36, 43 baptism: 169 Basilios of Skythopolis, St: 185 Bath, UK: 151 n. 24 bathing, ritual: 119, 181 Bellerophon: 96 Bion: 222 books see codex supports

2 56 i n de x

Bourbonne-les-Bains, France: 82 Briseis Painter: 58, 62 Britannia (deity): 83 Bronze Age: 19, 22, 35, 36, 38, 50, 147, 246 Bruttians: 216 Brygoi: 56 ‘Brygos Painter’: 53–62 Byblos, Lebanon: 39, 222, 223, 224

curse tablets: 20, 25, 143–54, 169, 248 cursing, ritual: 114, 146, 147, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154 cylinders, clay: 36, 43, 44, 50 Cypro-Minoan language: 22, 35–37, 39, 41, 43, 45, 47, 48, 49, 50 Cyprus: 22, 35–39, 43, 49, 50, 166, 224 Cyril of Skythopolis: 180, 181 Cyzicus, Turkey: 87

Caesarea Maritima, Israel: 163, 164, 167 Caligula (Gaius), emperor: 82, 88 Callimachus: 230–31, 232 n. 14, 234, 235, 239, 240 Callinus: 200, 204 Canaanite language: 39 Cape Zephyrium, Egypt: 239 Capua, Italy: 56 Caracalla, emperor: 87, 91, 134 Caria, Turkey: 130, 162, 232 Carthaginians: 148, 151 n. 24 Cassius Dio: 88 Castelgiorgio Painter: 57 Cato: 99 Ceramus, Turkey: 232, 233 Cerveteri, Italy: 56 charms: 80, 217 Chi-Rho symbol: 161 Choziba, Palestine: 180–81 Christograms: 87, 89 Cibyra, Turkey: 91 Cicero: 102 Cilicia: 129 Cinyras: 222, 224 Claudia Bassa: 120, 121 Claudianus: 101 Clodius: 99 codex supports: 19, 24, 69, 70, 95, 99, 101, 102, 103, 104, 248, 249 coins: 19, 79–92, 177, 204, 246 defacement of: 23, 88–92 graffiti on: 83–88, 89, 92 Commodus, emperor: 88, 134 confession inscriptions: 24, 111–23, 226 n. 24 copper: 38, 82 alloys of: 88, 98 Corfu, Greece: 199 Corinth, Greece: 223 n. 20, 247–48 Cos, Greece: 99 countermarks: 83 courtesans see hetairai Crimea, Ukraine: 166 Croesus, king of Lydia: 99 n. 30 Croton, Italy: 85 Cumae, Italy: 247 cuneiform: 22, 35–39, 41, 43–47, 49–50 curse effigies (kolossoi): 146

damnatio memoriae: 88–89 Dardanos (hero): 92 Dardanus, Turkey: 91 Deir ‘Ain ‘Abata, Israel: 190 deixis: 26, 144 n. 4, 197, 199, 200, 202 n. 17, 203, 229–40 Delphi, Greece: 99 n. 30, 217 Demeter (deity): 230–32 Demeter Malophoros: 148 n. 10 Demosthenes: 151, 221, 225 Diagoras of Rhodes: 96 Didyma, Turkey: 128 digital revolution: 104, 245–46 Diogenes Laertius: 96 Dionysius the Younger (tyrant): 221 Dionysos (deity): 131 diplomacy: 38–9, 44, 49, 50 disenfranchisement, civic: 151 divination: 44, 150 Dodona, Greece: 150 Dokimasia Painter: 58 Domitian, emperor: 83, 88, 137 Domitius Ahenobarbus: 99 Douris (Attic potter): 55, 96 n. 14 Droaphernes, hyparch of Lydia: 130 education: 23, 65–74, 102, 104 scribal: 38 Egypt: 20, 23, 38, 39, 66, 67, 69, 71, 72, 85, 100, 101–02, 103, 143, 168, 235, 236–37, 239 Elagabalus (deity): 90, 91 elegy: 26, 197–211, 215 Elephantine, Egypt: 66 Elias (monastic hegumenos): 168 Elousa, Israel: 181 Emesa, Syria: 90 Enkomi, Cyprus: 22, 36, 37, 38, 39–43, 47, 50, 246 n. 6 Epictetus: 82 epigrams, Greek: 20, 21, 25–27, 102, 116 n. 20, 117, 144–45, 197–211, 246 descriptive: 229–40 votive: 215–26 epigraphy: 20–21, 22, 24, 36, 37, 45, 53, 62, 81, 111, 113, 115, 122, 127–38, 162, 173, 179, 188, 190, 191, 197, 204, 206, 209, 211, 229, 235, 240, 245, 246, 247, 250 Epiktetos (Attic vase painter): 59, 60, 61 Epimenides: 97

index 2 57

epitaphs: 161, 197, 198, 199–201, 203–10, 215, 237 n. 33 Erinyes (deities): 153 Ethiopia: 72 Etruscans: 99 Eumenes II, king: 131 Euphrates, river: 44, 188 Euphronios (Attic vase painter): 59, 60 Euripides: 96 n. 4, 98, 246 n. 7 Euthymios, St: 180 Exekias (Attic vase painter): 59

Horvat Hermeshit, Israel: 167 Horvat Qazra, Israel: 190–91 Horvath Be’er-Shema, Israel: 177, 181, 182 Hura, Israel: 168, 169 Hurrian language: 44 Hymns, Homeric: 96–97

Flavius Anthemius: 162 ‘Foundry Painter’: 58, 61

Janus (deity): 81 Jerash, Jordan: 174, 175, 176, 177, 184 Jerusalem: 159, 166, 177 jewellery: 25, 159, 161, 163, 164, 165, 168 John, Gospel of: 25, 102, 159, 163, 173, 191 Julia Domna, empress: 90, 91 Julia Mamaea: 91 Julian, emperor: 87 Julius Caesar: 99–100 Justin Martyr: 221 Justinian I, emperor: 88

Galatia: 131 Galen: 101 Ganymedes: 92 Gaza, Palestine: 177, 181 gender: 24, 111, 113–21, 122, 123, 223 Germany: 83, 85 Geta, emperor: 88, 91 GI-wa (Ugaritian scribe): 38 Gilgamesh, Epic of: 38 Gordian III, emperor: 132, 134 graffiti: 22, 25, 189–91, 210 on coins see under coins grammar, dialogic: 26, 39, 57, 197, 199, 200, 203, 204, 207, 208, 210 granodiorite: 67, 71 grave goods: 80, 89, 167 Groß-Rohrheim, Germany: 85 Hades-Sarapis (deity): 87 Hadrian, emperor: 83, 84, 128 n. 7, 134, 135, 136, 137 haptics: 145, 146, 237, 246 Hekate (deity): 128 Hekate Chthonia: 145, 153 Helicon, Mount: 96 Hera (deity): 220, 221, 224, 247 Hermes (deity): 57, 145, 232–33 Hermogenes: 59, 60 Hermoupolis Magna, Egypt: 103 Herodotus: 98, 99 n. 30 Hesiod: 96, 98 Hesperus, procurator: 136 hetairai: 26, 216–18, 221–26 Hieron (Attic vase painter): 55 Hieron of Syracuse (tyrant): 224 Hippocrates: 98, 99, 119 Hippos (Susita), Israel: 168, 169 Hischylos (Attic vase painter): 60 Hittite Empire: 38 Homer: 21, 98, 102, 160 see also Hymns, Homeric Horace: 82 n. 20, 100 Horae (deities): 57

iconoclasm: 174, 177 incense: 120, 219, 222, 223 Isocrates: 96, 103 n. 49

Kadmos (hero): 129 Kaliades: 59, 60 Kerch, Ukraine: 165–66, 167 Khakhrylion: 59, 60 Khirbat al-Kursi, Jordan: 185 Khirbet Beit Sila, Israel: 177, 178, 179, 180 n. 19, 181 Khirbet Ma‘asub, Syria: 187 Kissufim, Israel: 177 Korykian Cave: 129 Kouretes: 231 Krenaia (nymph): 236, 237 Kybele (deity): 132 Labraunda, Turkey: 130, 132 Larmene (deity): 118–19, 120 n. 37 Laurion, Greece: 149, 151 law codes: 128 lead: 19, 25, 53, 66 n. 4, 96, 97, 145–54, 165 n. 32, 169, 248 Leto, Meter (deity): 116 libations: 128, 238, 239 Linear A: 35, 41 Linear B: 147 Liopesi, Greece: 206, 207 literacy: 23, 36, 37, 38, 39, 49, 50, 54, 70, 74, 82, 86, 113, 112, 132, 146, 148, 150, 154, 161, 198, 246 livers, ivory: 44 Livy: 102 Locri, Epizephyrian: 26, 215–26 London, UK: 84 loom weights: 19 Louvre G265, Painter of: 58 Ludovisi Throne: 12, 218, 222, 223, 225

258 i n de x

Lydia: 24, 80 n. 5, 117, 119, 127, 130 Macedonia: 88 Macedonian Wars: 81 magic: 22, 25, 114, 119, 146, 147 n. 7, 149, 151, 152, 153, 159–60, 161 n. 13, 217, 248 Magical Papyri, Greek: 114, 150 Magna Graecia: 26, 148, 215 Magnentius, emperor: 89 Magnesia-on-the-Maeander, Turkey: 130 n. 24, 132 Mainz, Germany: 152, 165, 166 Makedonios, bishop: 181 Makron (Attic potter): 55 marble, Parian: 143–6, 154, 248 Mark Antony: 86, 129 Martial: 100, 102 Material Engagement Theory (MET): 147 material turn: 19–27 Maxentius, emperor: 85–86, 161 Maximinus Thrax, emperor: 85 n. 33, 88, 90 measurement: 54 units of: 71 medicine: 96, 99, 101, 103, 113, 119 Megara, Greece: 151 Megara Hyblaea, Italy: 148 Melos, Greece: 151 Menander: 223, 226 Menophila: 113–14, 115 menstruation: 118, 119 Meroitic language: 66 Metapontion, Greece: 206 Milan, Italy: 163, 164, 165 Miletos, Turkey: 24, 128 Min see Pan (deity) Minerva (deity): 85 Minoans: 37, 231 see also Cypro-Minoan language Minos (legendary king): 129 moneyers: 81, 83 Mons Claudianus, Egypt: 23, 67, 70, 71–74 mosaics: 19, 25, 26, 159, 163, 168–9, 173, 174, 177, 178, 179, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 190, 246 Motella, Turkey: 111 Munich 2676, Painter of: 57 Musaeus: 98 Muslims: 190 Mylasa, Turkey: 130, 132 myrrh: 222 Mytilene, Greece: 222 Nannas, son of Dionysikles: 127 Nempont-Saint-Firmin, France: 89 Nero, emperor: 82, 88, 89, 90 Nicomedes III, king of Bithynia: 86 Nicomedia, Turkey: 87 Nijmegen, The Netherlands: 83

Nikosthenes (Attic vase painter): 59 Nile, river: 66, 71, 236, 237 Nilo (nymph of the Nile): 236 Nîmes (Nemausus), France: 82 Ninica Claudiopolis, Turkey: 85 n. 33 Nossis: 26, 197, 215–26, 231 n. 12 numismatics see coins Nymphs (deities): 128, 180, 220, 236–38 oil, miraculous: 180–81 Olympichos: 130 Onomacritus: 97 Optatian Porphyry: 161, 248 n. 15, 249–50 oracles (oracular): 95, 96 n. 3, 97, 98, 112 orality: 95, 96–97, 98, 99 n. 30, 101, 102, 104, 112, 148 n. 9, 151, 153, 198, 210 Oreads: 236 Orpheus (hero): 98 Orphism: 98 orthography: 60, 153, 205 Ortygia, Italy: 221 Ostia, Italy: 90 ostraca: 19, 22, 23 school: 65–74 ostracism: 23, 65 Ovid: 81, 102 Oxford Brygos, Painter of the: 58, 62 palaces: 38, 39, 236 Palaikastro, Greece: 230–31 Palestine: 45, 66, 169, 173 Pamphaios: 59, 60 Pan (deity): 71 Panathenaia (festival): 54, 220 Paphos, Cyprus: 224 papyrus: 19, 23 n. 32, 24, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 101–04, 148, 153, 229, 246, 248 parchment rolls: 19, 22, 24, 95, 98, 100–04, 248, 249 Paris (hero): 71 Paris Gigantomachy, Painter of the: 58 Parthians: 87 Partinico, Italy: 85 Pausanias: 96, 98, 222 n. 16 pederasty: 54 Peitho (hero): 71 Peleus (hero): 71 Peloponnesian War: 217 pendants: 19, 25, 85 n. 28, 87, 89, 159, 163–69, 173, 189 n. 41 Penteli, Greece: 180 Pentheus (hero): 68, 71 Persephone: 201, 217, 220–21, 222, 224, 225 Perseus (hero): 68, 71 Persian Wars: 198 Persius (hero): 100 Pessinous, Turkey: 131–32

index 259

pharaohs, Egyptian: 39, 72 Philip of Opus: 96 philology: 19, 20–21, 23, 53, 102, 248 Phrygia: 24, 91, 111, 131, 135 Piacenza, Italy: 166 pillars: 22 Pindar: 96, 224 Piraeus, Greece: 152 Pistoxenos (Attic vase painter): 59, 60 Plato: 95, 96, 98, 99, 148 Plutarch: 85 Pluto (deity): 69 poetry: 98, 116, 198 n. 5, 199, 203, 205, 208, 221, 223, 224, 225, 230, 240, 249 Polyeuktos, metropolitan of Bostra: 185 Pompeii, Italy: 22, 248 Posidippus (poet): 232, 233, 234, 238 Postumus, emperor: 85 pottery: 23, 53–57, 65–66, 148, 198 Protogeometric: 53–54 potsherds: 22, 23, 65, 101 n. 44, 225, 246 praxeology: 24, 111, 121, 122 praxis, theory of: 147, 148, 150, 151, 152, 153 Prepousa: 114 Procne: 71 Proteus (hero): 71 Prusias I, king of Bithynia: 135 Punic War, Second: 81 Pythagoreans: 119 Python (Attic vase painter): 55, 60 Qatna, Syria: 39 Quintilian: 100 relics: 163, 173, 177, 178, 179, 181, 187, 188 n. 39, 189, 190, 191 reliquaries: 19, 25, 26, 173, 177, 178–79, 180, 181–84, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190 Rhea (deity): 231 Rhegium, Italy: 221, 224 rhetoric: 99, 121, 134, 204, 209, 218 Rhinthon: 216 Rhodes, Greece: 96, 129, 143 n. 2 Rihab, Jordan: 177, 184 ritual: 21, 24, 26, 44, 80, 82, 89, 91, 96, 98, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 119, 120, 121, 122, 128, 143, 145, 146, 148, 152, 153, 154, 174, 177, 197, 216–26, 231, 239, 248 ritualization: 147, 150, 151 Roma (deity): 85 Roman Republic: 81, 83, 85, 132 Rome, Italy: 79, 88, 90, 91, 153, 161 catacombs of: 162 Forum: 82 Pantheon: 71 Senate: 88, 99 Trajan’s Forum: 71

Roussolakkos, Greece: 231 Rusafa, Syria: 189 Saittai, Turkey: 119 Salome, St: 190–91 Samos, Greece: 134 n. 43, 247 sanctuaries: 21, 24, 25, 80, 82, 85, 96, 99 n. 30, 111–12, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 122, 123, 128, 129, 131, 132, 134, 148 n. 10, 152, 177, 189, 190, 191, 198, 217, 220, 221, 236, 237 Sappho: 215, 222, 226 Sardis, Turkey: 24, 127, 130 Saturnalia: 86 Saturninus, revolt of: 83 Scipiones: 99 Sejanus: 88 n. 43 Selene (deity): 85 Seleukos II, king: 130 Seneca: 99 Sepphoris, Israel: 177, 181 Sergios, St: 177, 187, 189 Servius: 246 Severus Alexander, emperor: 91, 134 Sicily: 85, 148 signatures: 20, 53–61, 62, 189 Simmias: 160 Skiathos, Greece: 206, 207 Socrates: 99 Socrates Scholasticus: 87 Sol (deity): 85 Solon: 198, 200, 209 Sophists: 96, 99, 102 squares, magic: 160 Statius: 82 stelai: 24, 44, 111–22, 128, 130, 143, 144, 199, 201–09, 230 n. 9, 234, 235 stone monuments: 19–22, 24, 25, 26, 111, 127, 128, 134, 137, 138, 144, 145, 173, 197, 198, 201, 203, 233, 246 Strabo: 131 Stratonike: 114 styli: 37, 42, 44, 45 see also tools Suetonius: 82, 99 Sulis Minerva (deity): 151 n. 24 sundials: 232–4 Syene, Egypt: 66 syllabaries: 67 Symmachus: 88, 198 symposia: 197, 198, 199, 200, 203–06, 207, 210, 215 Syracuse, Italy: 97 n. 16, 221 Syria: 22, 25, 35, 36, 87, 90, 91, 100, 161 n. 16, 169, 173, 186 n. 32, 188, 222, 233 n. 18, 246 n. 6 Syriac language: 189 tablets, clay: 19, 22, 35–50, 53 n. 1, 246 tablets, curse see curse tablets tablets, golden: 98

26 0 i n de x

tablets, lead see curse tablets tablets, marble: 21, 218 tablets, wooden: 65, 66 n. 4, 71, 95, 96, 99–101 Tabulae Iliacae: 21 n. 10, 160 Tacitus: 81 talismans: 80 Tanagra, Greece: 151 Tarquinia, Italy: 56 temples: 26, 96, 99, 112, 113, 118, 120, 129, 130, 131, 132, 135, 136–37, 152, 216–17, 218 n. 10, 219–21, 222, 223 n. 18, 224, 225 Teos, Greece: 132 n. 34 Thebes, Egypt: 23 n. 32, 67, 234 Theocritus: 217, 218 n. 9, 222, 237 Theodorus (poet): 160 Theognis (poet): 200, 209 Thessalus: 98 timekeeping: 54 tombstones: 22, 180 tools: 20, 35, 37, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 48, 50, 67, 69, 74, 80 Trajan, emperor: 82, 128, 134 Tralles, Turkey: 131 Trier, Germany: 84 Troas, Turkey: 91 Troodos, Cyprus: 38 Trophime: 114 Tros (hero): 92 Troy (Ilion), Turkey: 91, 92 Tuna el-Gebel, Egypt: 235, 236, 237

Tyre, Lebanon: 39, 187 Tyrtaeus: 200, 208, 210 Ugarit (Ras Shamra), Syria: 22, 35, 36–39, 43, 44–49, 50, 246 n. 6 Ulu Barun shipwreck: 44 Umm al-Rasas, Israel: 177 Umm al-Rus, Israel: 186 vases: 19, 22, 23, 27, 53–61, 62, 149, 206, 210, 246, 247, 248 black-figure: 55 red-figure: 23, 53, 54, 55, 97, 218 Venantius Fortunatus: 161 Vergil: 102, 246 Vespasian, emperor: 90 Victories (deities): 81, 90 Vindolanda, UK: 101 Vitellius, emperor: 90 votives: 20, 21, 26, 65, 80, 84, 85, 96, 112, 115, 117, 121, 159, 174, 180, 181, 187, 215–19, 221, 224–26, 229, 230, 240 Vulci, Italy: 56 wax: 44, 65, 96, 97, 101, 102, 148, 153, 248 Yale Cup, Painter of the: 57 Zeus (deity): 115, 120, 130, 132, 135, 136, 137, 231 Zeus-Kouros: 230

Archaeology Of The Mediterranean World

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