Pervading Empire: Relationality and Diversity in the Roman Provinces 351512716X, 9783515127165

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Pervading Empire Relationality and Diversity in the Roman Provinces Edited by Vladimir D. Mihajlović and Marko A. Janković

Classics Franz Steiner Verlag

Potsdamer Altertums wissenschaftliche Beiträge

73

Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge Herausgegeben von Pedro Barceló (Potsdam), Peter Riemer (Saarbrücken), Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt) und John Scheid (Paris) Band 73

Pervading Empire Relationality and Diversity in the Roman Provinces Edited by Vladimir D. Mihajlović and Marko A. Janković

Franz Steiner Verlag

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2020 Layout und Herstellung durch den Verlag Satz: DTP + TEXT Eva Burri, Stuttgart Druck: Druckerei Steinmeier GmbH & Co. KG, Deiningen Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-12716-5 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-12738-7 (E-Book)

Table of Contents Vladimir D. Mihajlović / Marko A. Janković Approaching Relationalities and Diversity

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Section 1. Relationalities, Diversity and Intercultural Contacts Uroš Matić On Typhon, Red Men and the Tomb of Osiris Ancient Interpretations and Human Sacrifice in Egypt

15

Alka Domić Kunić From Drunken Kings to Roman Emperors Roman Perception of the Area between the Adriatic and the Danube

29

Inés Sastre Different Forms of Roman Imperialism Social and Territorial Changes in Northwestern Iberia from the 2nd Century BCE to the 2nd Century CE

49

Section 2. Producing Landscape and Architecture Antonio Rodríguez-Fernández The Rural civitas of Vadinienses (León-Asturias, Spain) Landscape, Epigraphy and Local Aristocracies

69

Vladimir D. Mihajlović The Emergence of Roman Provincial Setting Shifting Relationalities in Southeastern Pannonia

89

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Ilaria Trivelloni The Amphitheaters in Roman Cities Urbanistic Correspondence during the Augustan Age in Some Italian Contexts

111

Marko A. Janković Roman Spectacles in Dalmatia and Upper Moesia Army and Amphitheaters in the Social Life of the Provinces

133

Section 3. Entanglements of Humans and Things Martin Pitts Globalization, Consumption, and Objects in the Roman World New Perspectives and Opportunities

155

Siân Thomas Multiple Experiences of Empire in South-West England A View of the Transformation of Identities through Shifting Consumption Patterns of Ceramic Vessels

167

Danijel Dzino / Luka Boršić Transfer of Technology in the Late Republican Adriatic The Case Study of the liburnica

183

Milan Savić / Dimitrije Marković Hannibal – A Roman Soldier Inscriptions on Roman Military Equipment from the Territory of Serbia

201

Section 4. Entanglements of Humans and Divine Entities Francesca Mazzilli Transformation and Continuity of the Rural Sanctuary of Sī’ in the Hauran (Southern Syria) (200 BCE–300 CE) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 Nenad Marković The Burials of the Divine Apis Bulls in Roman Memphis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 Jörg Rüpke Addressing the Emperor as a Religious Strategy at the Edge and in the Center of the Empire. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259

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Ton Derks The Impact of the Empire on Cult Places and Ritual Practices in Roman Gaul and Germany . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 Ghislaine van der Ploeg The Effects of Migration and Connectivity on Religious Identities in the Cult of Asclepius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299 Nirvana Silnović The (Im)Materiality of Divine Agency Small and Miniature Reproductions of Mithraic Icon

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Approaching Relationalities and Diversity Vladimir D. Mihajlović / Marko A. Janković

In the last couple of decades, with development in theoretical and methodological approaches, Roman studies became a dynamic field of debate and interpretative innovations. Many contributions over the past years have changed the ways we think about the Roman world and the worlds entangled with it. However, theoretical perspectives which aim to overcome too much of the generalized, biased and reductive viewpoints of the previously dominant ‘Romanization theory’, themselves often fall victim to strong generalizing. Although many of the fresh approaches enable invaluable improvements in the field of the Roman studies by using theoretically informed views, they usually stick to the sphere of overall and somewhat abstract speculations of interpretational possibilities. Similarly, the usage of ‘new’ theoretical and methodological postulates is more often than not reduced only to declarative form and misunderstood or limited applications. Consequently, it produces equally questionable or problematic interpretations as the ‘Romanization paradigm’. The difficulties also lie in the fact that many scholars within Roman studies do not see as necessary to improve traditional methods and viewpoints. With the belief that highly specified field of research and focus on strictly limited pool of evidence inevitably leads material ‘to speak for itself ’ and provide the answers, the specialists conduct their research and construe interpretations without critical considerations of theoretical basis. For these reasons the volume calls for shifting the focus from grand narratives and general debates towards considering particular and clearly defined case studies that are maximally informed with recent theoretical-methodological approaches. The edition aims to urge for ‘particularistic standpoints’ and deal with narrowly specified problems that are, nevertheless, fully aware, drawn from, and strongly engaged with various theoretical postulates. The publication thus tries to leave behind the practice of covering specific research problems with fashionable grand-narratives, as they often offer unspecific interpretations and vague meanings that could refer to anything and yet explain nothing in particular. To put it simply, the intention of the volume is not to provide a general framework for nesting the particular examples within (by misus-

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ing the references from anthropology and sociology), but to illustrate the diversity of potential perspectives and the variety of reflections of bits and pieces of the ‘Roman world’ we are dealing with. It became more and more obvious in recent years that the state of ‘normal science’ (sensu Thomas Kuhn) in Roman studies is not and will not be reached, regardless of attempts to find a replacement after the largely abandoned ‘Romanization theory’. This situation is not only the outcome of many competing paradigms and ‘thinking movements’ developed recently, but stems from the fact that different questions and phenomena in history could be considered in diverse ways. The heterogeneity of ‘handling’ the past is, of course, caused by various circumstances, in range between inevitable individual (ideological, philosophical, academic etc.) preferences of academics, to the multivocal and multi-experiential character of every society in human history. As much as the contemporary world is not an integral whole, no matter the obvious interrelations of its parts, so much the Roman Empire and its surroundings were composites of interconnected yet fragmented experiences, lives, stories, social groups, religions etc. The past and present, as well as the shared time-space and reflexive bonds they constitute, were/ are comprised of simultaneous multidirectional relations of different actors. Such networking, constituted by involvement of different entities, was/is prone to change and multiple comprehensions and no grand theory will ever grasp the totality of this realm. This is why the guiding thought of the volume is relationality, meaning that humans always establish and shape (and are shaped by) entangling connections that are at the fore of any kind of communal formation. No matter how we define some social structure, it is inevitably built of versatile relations that are actually the main issue of research of the past. However, relationality is not understood here as an exclusive feature of humans, but as a process of situational coming together of various mediators (humans, other species, things, environment, concepts) that constitute any phenomenon (e. g. from single burial or family household to a city or equestrian order). Furthermore, since correlations of any sort are idiosyncratic and only relatively stable, they are in a condition of constant fluctuation and becoming. Transformations and changes are the sole essence of the world, and there is no phenomenon that is immutable, the same, and continually fixed throughout time and space. The inevitability of shifts of relationalities (long and short termed, political, economic, religious, spatial etc.) makes virtually every spatial, temporal and social point completely unique. In simple terms, as constituent mediators drift the mutual relations and are themselves changed, the phenomena they construct are continually re-created and re-emergent. It is our strong belief that Romanists primarily should concern themselves with as-detailed-as-possible investigation and comprehension of such processes: how they were constituted; in what ways they worked; to what extent and manners they were transformed; how they have changed their impact and significance; etc. The collection of essays brought together here attempts to tackle some of the above questions by using diverse case studies that address reshaping of different social as-

Approaching Relationalities and Diversity

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pects, both geographically and chronologically. The variety of engaged approaches is purposeful and intended to illustrate the rich palette of the currently used theoretical-methodological paths that have shown themselves fruitful and inspiring. To make the enterprise easier to both the authors and readers we have defined the clusters of general topics that are recurring and vibrant within the Roman studies. The first of them is Relationalities, Diversity and Intercultural Contacts, dedicated to imperial elites’ perception and discourses, rearrangements and emergence of new political relations and administrative structures. These themes are questioned focusing on understanding the variety of consequences and outcomes the cultural meetings and correlations had produced in several parts of the Empire. The misunderstandings, transitions, social networking and associations with materialities and ideas all contributed to the emergence of new phenomena and constitution of re-wired realities that had very important particular features and modes of functioning, and implicate important consequences for research of the Roman world. The second part, Producing Landscape and Architecture, explores the problems of the construction of space in the specific contexts of the Roman world. Since space, landscape and architecture are dimensions created through relations of people, natural surroundings, objects and other involved actors, investigations of their characteristics and alterations can help us immensely to appreciate the specificities of the Roman past. Various landscape innovations and re-creations of space by architectural interventions were actually directly dependant on relationalities that different agents had in particular temporal and spatial settings. Hence, papers in the section try to address broader questions of relational trajectories, their changes, meanings and implications, by using case studies focused on landscape, building activities and practices associated with them. The third part, titled Entanglements of Humans and Things, is conceived as a collection of chapters oriented towards investigation of consummation practices of various sorts, from utilization of particular classes of things, emergence of new diet and dressing habits, to transfer and transformation of technological knowledge and usage of military equipment. All of these topics are of tremendous importance for the research of social relationalities and changes in the Roman world, especially bearing in mind developments in theorizing human-things/inhuman entanglements. Since societies cannot function separately and apart of objects, materials, (super)natural entities etc., the character of interrelations between people is always articulated/incarnated through the interconnection and interdependence of humans and things (or other entities). In this respect, studying the so-called production, consummation and utilization patterns reveals the networks of connections, ways of interactions and sorts of changes the variety of agents created and underwent within the Roman world. The last part of the volume, Entanglements of Humans and Divine Entities, reconsiders relationalities that different social actors had with the realms of gods and “supernatural” entities. This complex is actualized anew and undergoes promising new insights

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that gradually redefine the notion of religion as a fixed and conservative sphere of life. The contributions that concentrate on different parts and socio-political settings of the Roman imperial structure discuss questions such as: How were links with the gods created, maintained, lived and altered? How were religious landscapes and practices transformed and modified? What was the nature of the connection with entities which were not human or were effectively considered as god-like? How were religious ideas exchanged and mediated? What kind of practices, perceptions and approaches were used, questioned or abandoned? In what ways were these phenomena associated with the socio-political framework of the Roman Empire? The preparation of this volume was a long lasting and patience-demanding enterprise, especially for the authors whom we thank dearly. We address special gratitude to Elisabeth Begemann whose tireless energy and endless efforts have enabled the finalization of all activities and publication of the volume. Our sincere appreciation for the guidance, advice and diligence goes to Jörg Rüpke. For the support, patience and realization of the project we are deeply thankful to Katharina Stüdemann and Franz Steiner Verlag. We thank all the colleagues who painstakingly endured the process of reviews and editing. These were made far easier with the help of Silvia Bekavac, Francisco Beltrán Lloris, Ross Burns, Aleš Chalupa, Anna Collar, John Creighton, Tatjana Cvjetićanin, Lucinda Dirven, Mariana Egri, Carmen Fernández Ochoa, Miko Flohr, Andrej Gaspari, Vedrana Glavaš, Penelope Goodman, Richard Hingley, Maijastina Kahlos, Peter Kovács, Andreas Kropp, Alexandra von Lieven, Peter van Minnen, Blanka Mišić, Neville Morley, Almudena Orejas, Ivan Radman Livaja, Rubina Raja, Ligia Ruscu, Francisco J. Sánchez-Palencia Ramos, Michael Alexander Speidel, Ellen Swift, Joachim Friedrich Quack, Steven Willis, Tony Wilmott, Andreas Winkler, and Greg Woolf. Needless to say, we bear the full responsibility for omissions and errors.

Section 1 Relationalities, Diversity and Intercultural Contacts

On Typhon, Red Men and the Tomb of Osiris Ancient Interpretations and Human Sacrifice in Egypt Uroš Matić

Introduction The word sacrifice originates from the Latin word sacrificum (sacer “holy”, facere “to make”) and designates the act of killing an animal as an offering to a deity.1 Accordingly, human sacrifice is often understood as the killing of a human as an offering to a deity. Therefore, the relatively recent assertion by K. Muhlestein, that “what one scholar may identify as human sacrifice another will label capital punishment”2 indicates that Egyptologists should be more precise. There is a significant difference between the two practices. The term “human sacrifice” is often in Egyptology quite erroneously used for entirely inappropriate contexts. Among these are the depictions of the strangling of Nubians in the tombs of Djehuty – TT 113 and Montuherkepeshef – TT 20 from the reign of Hatshepsut/Thutmose III.4 Nothing in the textual and visual evidence indicates that these men were killed for the gods, although their killing was committed in a ritual setting.5 The so-called “execration pits” with human skeletal remains from Tell el-Dabca 1 2 3 4 5

Carrasco 2013, 210. Muhlestein 2011, 7. The scene is not entirely published until now, but the strangling of the Nubians is described in other publications (Galán 2014, 253). I want to thank Jose Maria Galán and Andrés Diego Espinel for providing information on the scene, together with a photo I could consult in my work. Yoyotte 1980–1981, 37; Muhlestein 2011, 34–35. The motif of the strangling of Nubians is found within the context of the tknw ritual which revolves around the enigmatic tknw figure, depicted being dragged on a sledge and having various forms (shapeless spotted slag, shrouded pear-shaped object or shrouded human figure). There are around 48 thus far known representations of tknw ritual dating from the Old Kingdom to the Late Period, around 43 of which are from the New Kingdom (Theis 2011, 263–265; Katerina 2012, 20– 35). TT 11 and TT 20 are the only examples where the tknw ritual is accompanied by representations of the strangling of Nubians. This has led some scholars to interpret all representations of tknw

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are also not conclusive evidence of human sacrifice.6 Also, the supposedly secure case of killing in a ritual setting from the execration deposit of Middle Kingdom Mirgissa7 is not without problems.8 If weighed against all other evidence, the contexts mentioned above represent exceptions rather than rules. Additionally, as was stressed by J. N. Bremmer, “the ideal analysis should always pay attention to the question of who sacrifices what to whom, where, and when and with what kind of rhetoric”.9 Egyptologists have rarely dared to discuss this topic,10 which has received increased attention only recently.11 Accounts of human sacrifice in ancient Egypt in the works of Greek and Roman authors, on the other hand, have played an essential role in formulating Egyptological interpretations. Thus, H. Junker surveying evidence on human sacrifice wrote: “If one compares it with how frequent representations of human sacrifice are in Philae, the report of Procopius wins by a large probability, and we have to accept that the gruesome rites were celebrated there into the latest periods”.12 Such a straightforward interpretation of Egyptian temple representations has already been subject to criticism.13 Like Junker, J. G. Griffiths writes as a result of his own survey of the sources: “It must be concluded that human sacrifice was practiced in Egypt during the Roman period”.14 Clearly, such statements are based on understanding ancient sources from the Greco-Roman world as valid and historically accurate reports on the actual and real state of affairs in Egypt. As a consequence, a circular argument is formed in which later sources, uncritically taken as valid, are used to interpret earlier sources, which are then in turn used to argue that there is a long continuous line of ritual practices of this nature.15 A good example is already to be found in the work of M. A. Murray:16 Human sacrifice, however, appears to have been practiced in Egypt at all periods. Harvest victims were burnt at Eleithyaspolis (El Kab), Amasis II of the XXVIth dynasty put an

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ritual as being a human sacrifice (Muhlestein 2011, 36). However, if the ritual killing of humans was part of the tknw ritual, one would expect to have it depicted more often (Griffiths 1958, 110–115; Volokhine 2013, 50). Contra Fuscaldo 2010; Muhlestein 2011, 48. Arguments that the population buried in the cemetery were Nubians were also critically assessed (Matić 2014; 2018). The Mirgissa execration deposit is also not a context in which a human was sacrificed to the gods. Even if we accept that the person whose remains were found in association with the deposit was killed in this ritual, then we are dealing more with the use of a “living icon” of the bound enemy than an offering to the gods (Matić 2020). Vila 1963; Ritner 1993, 153–163. Matić 2019. Bremmer 2007, 2. Junker 1911; Griffiths 1948; Yoyotte 1980–1981. Muhlestein 2011. Junker 1910, 70, trans. Matić. Burton 1972, 205. Griffiths 1948, 422. E. g. Yoyotte 1980–1981; Willems 1990, 49. Murray 1913, 68.

On Typhon, Red Men and the Tomb of Osiris

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end to human sacrifice at Heliopolis; Diodorus says that red-haired men were offered up at the sepulchre of Osiris; as the king was the incarnate Osiris, this would mean that human sacrifices were made at the royal graves, probably during the funeral ceremonies. The Book of the Dead also continually alludes to human sacrifice. At Edfu, an altar was found sculptured with representations of offerings in which human beings are the victims. Small figures, carved in the round, are known, which are in the form of bound captives; and show probably the method of binding the victim; the legs are bent at knees, and the feet bound to the thighs; the arms are bent at the elbows and securely lashed to the body.

In line with the general topic of this volume, I will attempt to untangle both the antique and Egyptological discourse on human sacrifice in ancient Egypt by providing answers to the following three questions: 1. Are there elements in the reports of Greek and Roman authors17 that can be found in the earlier ancient Egyptian sources? 2. Are there elements that could have been (mis)interpreted by Greek and Roman authors? 3. Are there elements that are not attested in ancient Egyptian sources? To achieve this end, I will analyze the passages from Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, Porphyry of Tyre, Achilles Tatius and Procopius of Caesarea and compare them to the contemporary and older Egyptian evidence.18 On Typhonians Diodorus Siculus’ Bibliotheca Historica (I.88.4–5), 60–30 BCE, reports that Egyptians sacrificed red oxen (πυρροὺς βοῦς συγχωρηθῆναι θύειν) because red was the color of Typhon who plotted against Osiris and upon whom Isis wreaked vengeance because of the murder of her husband. According to this report, men of the same color were of old also sacrificed (θύεσθαι) by the Egyptian kings near the tomb of Osiris. He adds that of the Egyptians few were red, but rather the majority of foreigners and that this explains the currency the story gained among the Greeks concerning the killing of for17 18

In this paper I will use the designation Greek and Roman authors to refer to those authors who were not native Egyptians and who wrote in Greek and Latin, although they could have originated from other parts of the Roman empire than Greece and Rome, like in the case of Porphyry of Tyre. I will not deal extensively with the Busiris cycle and mentions of human sacrifice in the writings of ancient authors who do not provide sufficient background details. The primary aim of this paper is to investigate if there are elements in ancient accounts on human sacrifice in ancient Egypt which have parallels in Egyptian sources and could, therefore, illuminate the issue. The reader is advised to consult other works which analyze the sources on the Busiris myth in detail (e. g. Griffiths 1948, 409–416).

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eigners by Busiris. Diodorus argues that this is in fact not the name of a king called Busiris,19 but confusion with the name of the tomb of Osiris where men of red color were sacrificed.20 In another place (I.67.11) however, he explains the killing of strangers and the impiety of Busiris as a fictional tale invented because of the disregard Egyptians had for normal customs.21 The passage on the sacrifice of red men is usually attributed to Hecateus of Abdera;22 however there are numerous problems with this assumption, as aside from his accounts, Diodorus used multiple other sources.23 There are several elements from this passage from Diodorus that can be recognized in ancient Egyptian ritual practices. At least since the Old Kingdom, as based on the Pyramid Texts (Spell 244, 249b), we know of the ritual of breaking of the red pots sd dšr wt as a ritual for the destruction of malevolent forces.24 The color red was in ancient Egyptian ritual practices associated with the god Seth.25 Pyramid Text Spell 244 cited above also mentions the slaughter of a bull. Seth transforms into a bull in his attempt to rape Isis, as attested in Papyrus Jumilhac 3.1–3.5, dated into early Ptolemaic period.26 Texts describing rituals are attested on the walls of Ptolemaic temples that date some centuries before Diodorus wrote his work. In the temples of Horus at Edfu and Hathor in Dendera, there are texts describing the slaughter and burning of Seth as embodied in a slaughtered bull (E. III, 178; E. VII, 148; D. X, 53).27 The information Diodorus provides on the slaughter of red oxen could, therefore, have come from Egyptian priests, as he travelled through Egypt even down to Thebes, although his stay there was prob-

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Namely, according to authors such as Pherecydes of Athens (Schol. Apollon. Rhod IV, 1396), Apuleius (De orthographia 2), Herodotus (II.45), Isocrates of Athens (Busiris, cap. 5 to 10), Eratosthenes of Cyrene (fragment in Strabo XVII.1), Diodorus Siculus (I.17), Virgil (Georgies III.5), Ovid (Ars Amatoria I.647–652), Statius (Thebaid XII.155), Plutarch (Parallela min, 38), Apollodorus (Bibliotheca II, v. 11), Hyginus the Mythographer (XXXI and LVI), Servius (Georgies III.5), Busiris was the king of Egypt who slew foreigners at the altar of Zeus and was defeated by Heracles (Griffiths 1948, 409–414). Hopfner 1922, 129–130; Griffiths 1948, 417; Chamoux, Bertrac and Vernière 1993, 164. Burton 1972, 204. Greek historian and skeptic philosopher from the 4th century BCE, either from Teos or Abdera, who served in various capacities at the court of Ptolemy I Soter (323–283/2 BCE) and wrote Aegyptiaca in 305–302 BCE (Bar-Kochva 2010, 94–95; Muntz 2011, 575). Chamoux, Bertrac and Vernière 1993, xxii–xxiii; Muntz 2011. Sethe 1908, 137; Allen 2005, 29. Parallels are found in Pyramid Texts Spells 197 and 364 where it is clear that what is in Spell 244 attested as a personal pronoun is an enemy of Horus, identified by some authors as Seth, but the name of Seth is not attested in these spells. Cf. Schott 1928, 101; for the spells, see Sethe 1908, 113b, 614b, c, (d), 66, 329; Allen 2005, 80, 258. Yoyotte 1980–1981, 45; Ritner 1993, 147–148. Vandier 1961, 114. The dating is based on the paleography of the Demotic notes which provides a terminus ante quem. Several hands writing these were recognized, and they were written over a longer period. One also ought to stress that the papyrus uses a lot of earlier material, Quack 2008, 204–207. For hieroglyphic transcriptions, transliterations and translations (Cauville 1997, 58; Chassinat 1928, 178; Chassinat 1932, 148; Kurth et al. 2004, 266).

On Typhon, Red Men and the Tomb of Osiris

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ably short.28 Therefore, we can safely claim that the sacrifice of red oxen is an element of the account of Diodorus, which has ancient Egyptian attestations as its background. Another interesting element mentioned by Diodorus is the sacrifice of red men near the tomb of Osiris. A. Gardiner, A. Burton, J. Yoyotte and Y. Volokhine have already suggested a possible connection between this information and the Ramesside Dream Book from Papyrus Chester Beatty III (Recto II.1) which describes various characteristics of men associated with Seth, among which are redness of hair and eyes.29 However, the very fragmented Ramesside text does not indicate that such men should be sacrificed. The Book of the Temple informs us that there were regulations of access to the temple based on certain bodily characteristics. Among those who could not access the temple were those of very red skin and every man with the appearance of Seth and Apophis.30 The red men mentioned by Diodorus31 were reputedly sacrificed at the tomb of Osiris which was located at several places: Abaton near Philae, Abydos (Osireion of Seti I and the tomb of King Djer of the first dynasty) and Busiris.32 However, Diodorus clearly states that the tomb of Osiris was at Busiris and that this was the place where people were sacrificed. According to R. K. Ritner, Diodorus either misrepresented execration rituals as an actual human sacrifice or recorded real sacrifices, which were later replaced by execration rituals.33 However, there is a significant difference between misinterpretation of execration ritual for human sacrifice and the idea that there was once human sacrifice, which was later replaced by execration. There is thus far no archaeological or written evidence for the sacrifice of humans to deities which dates before the first attested execration rituals of the Old Kingdom, so at present, we cannot argue that they replaced human sacrifice. There is, however, a well-documented practice of retainer sacrifice from early dynastic Egypt.34 But these retainer sacrifices are not to be related to execration rituals. Nevertheless, Diodorus is quite explicit in referring to the killing of men. This element of his account could be associated with the narrative of Busiris and the killing of strangers, as in the account of the sacrifice of red men Diodorus mentions Busiris as the tomb of Osiris and the place where this was done.35 But one also has to point to the fact that Busiris (modern Abu Sir Bana) has never been

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Muntz 2011, 584. Gardiner 1935, 10; Burton 1972, 204; Yoyotte 1980–1981, 55; Volokhine 2010, 232–233. Quack 2004, 64. He could have been thinking of the Philae abaton, considering that from the Ptolemaic period this was the most important abaton. It also corresponds in its landscape with later Roman Nilotic scenes in which the depiction of the tomb of Osiris is often found as a chapel among trees and vegetation (Versluys 2002, 272–273). Griffiths 1982, 630. Ritner 1993, 148. See e. g. Morris 2014. Burton 1972, 204.

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systematically excavated. We might, therefore, be in for surprise, but in that case, we would deal with an exclusive find, as no similar evidence is thus far attested. Plutarch in De Iside et Osiride, (De Iside, 73), 1st century CE, quotes Manetho and writes that in the city of Eileithya (Εἰλειθυίας πόλει) Egyptians burnt living men (ζῶντας ἀνθρώπους κατεπίμπρασαν) calling them Typhonians. He adds that this was done openly on a special occasion during the dog days.36 However, Plutarch relies on authors writing in Greek. He journeyed to Alexandria in his youth and his teacher in philosophy was named Ammonios and was possibly an Egyptian, judging by his name.37 His reference to Manetho as his source is of particular importance for the credibility of the report, considering that Manetho was an Egyptian priest. Eileithya is the interpretatio graeca for Nekhbet, the goddess of Upper Egypt38 whose cult was based in Nekheb (today El Kab). Nonetheless, there are few secure attestations for burning as a punishment for criminals and rebels, and as treatment of enemies.39 Griffiths40 argued that at some point in time there probably were such practices at El Kab, but until now they are not attested there. Bearing in mind the absence of Typhon-Seth in the Hellenistic cult of Isis, Plutarch had to consult Egyptian sources.41 He states that his source was Manetho. Manetho also reports on the burning alive of

36 37 38 39

40 41

Hopfner 1923, 256; Griffiths 1948, 417. Görgemanns 2017, 8. Von Lieven 2016, 71. Leahy 1984; Theis 2016, 250–251. The Book of the Temple also informs us that the punishment for those who trespassed into the Osirian part of the temple without authority would be execution and placement on the fire altar (Quack 2013, 119). As R. Müller-Wollermann excellently pointed out, the additional problem is that the cḫ brazier is too small for the burning of humans (Müller-Wollermann 2004, 197). The determinative for the word cḫ brazier is often in the form of a table with conventionalized slices of bread (R2 in Gardiner’s sign list) and has parallels in depictions of such tables, e. g. tomb of Menkheperreseneb – TT86 (Erman und Grapow 1982, 223; Montet 1941, 20). Indeed, the representations of these braziers indicate that they are large enough that two geese can be placed on them, but certainly not a human. Another determinative (Erman and Grapow 1982, 223) is used for writing the word cḫ brazier (DZA 21.970.230, False door, Cairo 1385, 3rd dynasty) and it has the form of the bronze brazier of Ramesses II ( JE 85910) found in the tomb (number III) of Psusennes I, third king of the 21st dynasty, in Tanis. It is 24 cm high, 36.5 cm long and 26.5 cm wide. Ramesses II dedicated this to the temple on the occasion of his jubilees. It is a chest-like box resting on four legs and having a flange at the top. Four holes split the lid and eight hollows arranged in three files. The shape of the brazier matches the shape of the determinative used for the brazier (Pino 2002). It is possible that such a brazier is depicted in the agriculture scene on the east wall of the chapel-broad hall in the tomb of Khaemhat (TT 57), an Egyptian official under Amenhotep III. The scene with this object shows a man under a tree next to an object of the same shape (d’Avennes 1878: Pl. III. 9). In the First Demotic tale of Setne Khaemwaset, the cḫ brazier is small enough to be placed above Setne (on the head) (Hoffmann und Quack 2018, 159). The word c ḫ brazier is also attested in Coptic as a furnace or an oven used by a smith or for cooking (Crum 1962, 22). All of this confirms what Müller-Wollermann has pointed out, namely that the braziers we know of are too small for the burning of humans. Griffiths 1948b, 418. Görgemanns 2017, 13.

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Bocchoris, Tefnakht’s successor at Sais, by the Nubian king Shabako.42 It is important to stress the similarity of the accounts of Diodorus and Plutarch, at least where the element of the killing of Typhonian men is concerned. The dog days when, according to Plutarch, Typhonian men were burned alive, were associated by the Greeks with the morning rise of Sirius and with the New Year.43 Therefore, it comes as no surprise that the dog days are mentioned in connection with the killing of Typhonians. Sirius (Egyptian spd t) is, due to secondary phonetic developments, confused with Satet and also visualized as female and sometimes as the goddess Satet, later being associated with Isis.44 Furthermore, Sirius is known in the Greco-Roman world as the dog-star, and from the contact of the Greco-Roman with the Egyptian culture, a stellar concept was developed in which Isis is connected to the dog and is herself depicted on the dog. For example, Isis is depicted on a dog and between two stars on gable of Iseum Campense in Rome.45 On temple sacrifices and maidens According to Porphyry’s De Abstinentia (II.55), 234–305 CE, Amosis abrogated in Heliopolis the law of human sacrifice, as Manetho attests in his book Concerning Antiquity and Piety. Previously, humans were sacrificed to the goddess Hera and examined like pure calves three times a day, but Amosis ordered waxen equivalents to be offered instead.46 The statement that Amosis, most probably Amasis (570–527 BCE), put an end to the practice of human sacrifice and ordered waxen equivalents to be offered instead of humans, could be an echo of Saite juridical reforms.47 The motif of human sacrifice to Hera three times a day is of particular interest. Hera is the Egyptian goddess Mut in interpretatio graeca.48 Where waxen equivalents are concerned, the use of wax

42 43 44

45 46 47

48

Leahy 1984, 201. The Decree of Canopus by Ptolemy III Evergetus states that the inauguration of the New Year is the day of the rising of the star of Isis (Pfeiffer 2004, 63). A Ptolemaic attestation of Satet-Isis is known from the Isis temple in Aswan (Valbelle 1981, 64). The dog is added to the iconography of Isis in the tombs from Akhmim and the earliest example of Isis seated side-saddle on a dog derives from Rome (Temple of Isis in the Campus Martius rebuilt by Caligula 37–41 CE) and the motif is later known in Egypt from coins of Vespasian from 71 CE in Alexandria (Venit 2016, 193). The dog is not associated with Isis in earlier Egyptian tradition. Quack 2003, 58. Hopfner 1922, 73; Griffiths 1948, 420. They are possibly referred to in demotic papyri (P. Bibl. Univ. Giessen 101, 3.7; P. Carlsberg 301; P. Tebtynis in Instituto Papirologico G. Vitelli di Firenze) (Faulkner 1991, 122). According to Diodorus, the reforms of Amasis were primarily administrative, which, according to E. Seidl explains the difference between older and younger early Demotic law (Seidl 1956, 70). Yoyotte 1980–1981, 59; von Lieven 2016, 62.

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figurines in execration rituals in Egypt is well-known.49 One should also consider the Ptolemaic temple depictions of bound prisoners in molds and fire basins as depictions of the destruction of waxen figurines.50 Yet, this passage from Porphyry has caused a controversial Egyptological discussion, as some authors argue that a confirmation of such practices can be found in Late Period papyri (P. Vandier = P. Lille 139, Recto, 5, 7–12; P. British Museum 10252, 3, 21) which mention burning on the brazier of Mut (cḫ n Mw t) in Heliopolis.51 While these texts clearly refer to burning, one has to bear in mind the context of such attestations. In the case of Papyrus Vandier, we are dealing with a story in which the burning of the magicians on the brazier of Mut is the act of vengeance by the magician Merire whom other magicians had wronged.52 This is a literary and not a juridical account. It could be based on actual practice, but this has to remain speculation. In the case of P. British Museum 10252, 3, 21 the ones who are burned are actually the enemies of Re. The enemies of Re are mythical enemies who can be identical with the sinners and enemies of the dead in the texts describing the underworld.53 What is even more interesting is that if one relies on both Plutarch and Porphyry, whom both claim Manetho as their source, living men called Typhonians were burned at El-Kab, whereas the practice of human sacrifice to Hera was ended during Amosis. This is in itself contradictory unless similar practices could have survived in different cities, or there was a big difference between burning Typhonians and sacrificing people to Hera/Mut. Achilles Tatius in The Adventures of Leucippe and Clitophon (III.15), 300 CE, gives a very detailed description of an act of sacrifice in Egypt. The lovers Clitophon and Leucippe, after leaving Tyre in the Levant, end up in Egypt after a shipwreck, and while Clitophon is rescued, Leucippe is sentenced to be sacrificed by the bandits. The bandits were instructed to do this by an oracle with the intention of frightening their enemies. They had a clay altar to which two people led the captive Leucippe with her hands bound behind her. They poured a libation over her head and led her around the altar. The Egyptian priest chanted, with his facial expression signifying a song.54 At a given signal, they all retired from the altar, and one of the young men tied 49 50 51 52 53 54

Papyrus Bremner-Rhind (Apophis Book) of Argeade date mentions placing of a wax figure of Apep on fire so that he may burn before Re and placing on the fire in the furnace of the coppersmith (Faulkner 1933, 46, 6–8; line 23/6–7). Cauville 2012, 229. I thank Carina Kühne for giving me insight in her work on Late Period execration figurines and for her suggestions to consider these Ptolemaic temple representations as representations of execration rituals conducted on wax figurines. Yoyotte 1980–1981, 81–82; Willems 1990, 49. Hoffmann und Quack 2018, 171–172. Zandee 1960, 223–224. Griffiths suggested that this could indicate that we are dealing with an observation of a pictorial representation that is yet to be identified (cf. Griffiths 1948, 421). J. Yoyotte considers such a reading of the passage to be a misunderstanding, as in his opinion, when put into context, the sentence

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Leucippe to four wooden pegs. He then took a sword, thrust it into her heart, and cut open her abdomen below. Then they removed her intestines and placed these on the altar. When they were roasted, they cut these into pieces and ate them. When they finished, the body of Leucippe was placed in a coffin.55 Clitophon observed the sacrifice, but probably could not hear it, thus he assumed that the facial expression of the Egyptian priest indicated that he was singing. In fact, after witnessing the sacrifice of Leucippe, Clitophon goes to commit suicide on her grave, but he finds out that she is alive and that the sacrifice had been staged by the Egyptian Menelaus and a slave Satyrus. None of the elements of this account can be recognized in ancient Egypt and indeed the account has a happy ending, as the sacrifice was a staged act. It is nevertheless interesting that Menelaus and Satyrus staged the act according to an oracle given to the bandits. Procopius of Caesarea in De bell Pers (I.19.32–37), c. 551 CE, writes that the Blemmyes are accustomed to sacrificing even men to the sun and that these “barbarians” held temples at Philae up until his time, but that Justinian decided to destroy them.56 According to the written sources, the Blemmyes had settled in the Dodekaschoinos around 394 CE.57 Although not making the connection explicitly, Procopius of Caesarea mentions the sacrifice of men to the sun by the Blemmyes and their holding of the temples at Philae in the same passage. Bearing in mind the role of the first cataract as the meeting point of the Christian and pagan world in the 6th century CE such an idea would fit well in the image of the ordered Christian world and the terrible practices beyond its borders.58 One should, however, not exclude that this was at the same time a misinterpretation of retainer sacrifices that are well attested in Nubia from this period.

55 56 57 58

explains the position of the narrator as separated by a canal from the place of sacrifice (Yoyotte 1980–1981, 33). Hopfner 1923, 460; Griffiths 1948, 420–421. Hopfner 1924, 707–708; Griffiths 1948, 421. Dijkstra 2012, 241. One should also consider that ancient authors also use the ethnonym Blemmyes for the local populations of Dodekaschoinos, which included other ethnic groups (Obłuski 2013, 146). The Roman government abandoned the areas south of Aswan in Egypt during the reign of Diocletian and the priests who resided in Nubia were then employed by the Nubian rulers (Meroites, followed by Blemmyes and Nobadae) who continued to support the traditional cults. North of Aswan most, if not all, of the temples were closed through lack of support considering the increasing spread of Christianity. Narses, under orders from Justinian, closed the Temple on Philae in the 6th century, because there was no longer a significant political entity south of Aswan which could continue support of this temple (Cruz-Uribe 2010, 506).

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Conclusion Several conclusions can be drawn from the analysis of the ancient sources on human sacrifice in ancient Egypt as written by Greek and Roman authors: 1. Some motifs attested in Greek and Roman authors are known from Egypt. a) Red oxen slaughter, as mentioned by Diodorus, is attested in ancient Egypt in connection with the destruction of an enemy of the king and gods since the Pyramid Texts and had a prominent role in the rituals of destruction of Seth in Ptolemaic temples. b) Red as the color of Typhon/Seth, as mentioned by Diodorus, is attested in ancient Egypt in connection with the destruction of an enemy of the king and gods in the form of breaking of the red pots since the Pyramid Texts. c) Waxen figurines used instead of humans, as mentioned by Porphyry, are indeed attested in ancient Egyptian execration rituals. 2. Some sacrificial motifs are probably (mis)interpreted from temple iconography and other texts. a) The burning of men, as mentioned by Plutarch, could be a (mis)interpretation of temple representations of incineration of bound prisoners or red-colored wax figurines. Considering that Plutarch’s source for his statement is Manetho, it is also tempting, but in no case definite, to relate this to Manetho’s account of Shabako burning alive Bocchoris. The problem is of course that the report from Plutarch has a parallel in the account of Diodorus where the killing of Typhonians is concerned. b) Amosis substituting human sacrifice for wax figurines, as mentioned by Porphyry, could be a (mis)interpretation of the Saite reforms in fusion with the interpretation of the use of wax figurines in execration rituals. It seems that elements that indeed have parallels in ancient Egyptian ritual practices are found only in Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch and Porphyry of Tyre. It is interesting to note that the Book of the Temple which comprises more than fifty identified manuscripts in a very fragmentary state, with most of the extant manuscripts dating to the 1st and 2nd century CE,59 does not mention the ritual killing of humans. The idea that human sacrifice in ancient Egypt was not common during the pharaonic period, but became so in certain areas and cults later60 is therefore not collaborated by Egyptian sources and is instead based on the accounts of Greek and Roman writers. Human sacrifice was widely understood among the Greeks as a marker of barbarity by the latter part of the 5th century BCE.61 In Latin literature, human sacrifice as a motif 59 60 61

Quack 2016, 267–268. Also mentioned in personal communication. Griffiths 1948, 423. Rives 1995, 68–69.

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appears in descriptions of foreign peoples to stress their un-Romanness.62 Greek and Roman authors presented the motif of “human sacrifice” as a custom assigned to the oriental other to their Greek and Roman audience. Already A. Burton63 argued that the statements of Classical authors cannot be considered as prima facie cases for human sacrifice. We nevertheless have to take into account the possibility that at least some of the accounts of Greek and Roman authors could be vindicated by Egyptian evidence in the future. This is especially so because of the similar accounts of Diodorus and Plutarch, the possible Egyptian source in the case of Diodorus and the quoting of Manetho, an Egyptian priest, by Plutarch. However, at the moment the Egyptian evidence we have does not indisputably confirm any of these accounts. Bibliography Ancient Sources Allen, J. P. 2005. The Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts. Writings from the Ancient World 23. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Cauville, S. 1997. Le temple de Dendara Les chapelles osiriennes. Dendara X/1. Le Caire: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Chamoux, F.; Bertrac, P.; Vernière, Y. 1993. Diodore de Sicile Livre I. Bibliothèque Historique. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Chasinat, É. 1928. Le Temple d’Edfou III. Le Caire: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Chasinat, É. 1932. Le Temple d’Edfou VII. Le Caire: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Chauveau, M. 1991. “P. Carlsberg 301: Le manuel juridique de Tebtynis.” In Demotic texts from the Collection The Carlsberg Papyri 1, ed. P. J. Frandsen. Copenhagen: The Carsten Niebuhr Institute of Ancient Near Eastern Studies, The Carsten Niebuhr Institute Publications 15. 103–128. Faulkner, R. O. 1933. The Papyrus Bremner-Rhind (British Museum No 10188). Bibliotheca Aegyptiaca III. Bruxelles: La Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élisabeth. Gardiner, A. 1935. Hieratic Papyri in the British Museum Third Series Chester Beatty Gift Vol I Text. London: British Museum. Hoffmann, F.; Quack, J. F. 2018. Anthologie der demotischen Literatur. Zweite, neubearbeitete und erheblich erweiterte Auflage. Einführungen und Quellentexte zur Ägyptologie 4. Berlin: LIT Verlag. Hopfner, Th. 1922–1924. Fontes Historiae Religionis Aegyptiacae I–III. Bonnae: In Aedibus A. Marci et E. Weberi. Kurth, D. et al. 2004. Die Inschriften des Tempels von Edfu Abteilung I Übersetzungen; Band 2 Edfou VII. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag.

62 63

Schultz 2010, 520. Burton 1972, 205.

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Sethe, K. 1908. Die altägyptischen Pyramidentexte, Erster Band. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung. Vandier, J. 1956. Le Papyrus Jumilhac. Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique.

Literature Bar-Kochva, B. 2010. The Image of the Jews in Greek Literature The Hellenistic Period. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bremmer, J. N. 2007. “Human Sacrifice: A Brief Introduction.” In The Strange World of Human Sacrifice, ed. J. N. Bremmer. Leuven: Peeters. 1–8. Burton, A. 1972. Diodorus Siculus Book I A Commentary. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Carrasco, D. 2013. “Sacrifice/Human Sacrifice in Religious Traditions.” In The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Violence, ed. M. Juergensmeyer, M. Kitts, M. Jerryson. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 209–225. Cauville, S. 2012. Offerings to the Gods in Egyptian Temples. Translated from French by B. Calcoen. Leuven: Peeters. Crum, W. E. 1962. A Coptic Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cruz-Uribe, E. 2010. “The Death of Demotic Redux: Pilgrimage, Nubia and the Preservation of Egyptian Culture.” In Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense Studien zum pharaonischen, griechisch-römischen und spätantiken Ägypten zu Ehren von Heinz-Josef Thissen, ed. H. Knuf, C. Leitz, D. von Recklinghausen. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 194. Leuven: Peeters. 499–506. D’Avennes, A. C. T. E. P. 1878. Histoire de l’art égyptien: d’après les monuments; depuis les temps les plus reculés jusqu’à la domination romaine 2. Paris: Bertrand. Davies, N. de G. 1913. Five Theban Tombs (being those of Mentuherkhepeshef, User, Daga, Nehemaway and Tati). London: Egypt Exploration Fund. Dijkstra, J. 2012. “Blemmyes, Noubades and the Eastern Desert in Late Antiquity: Reassessing the Written Sources.” In The History of the People of the Eastern Desert, ed. H. Barnard, K. Duistermatt. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press. 239–247. Erman, A.; Grapow, H. 1982. Wörterbuch der Ägyptischen Sprache Erster Band. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Fuscaldo, P. 2010. Tell el-Dabca X/2 The Palace District of Avaris The Pottery of the Hyksos Period and the New Kingdom (Areas H/III and H/VI) Part II: Two Execration Pits and a Foundation Deposit. UZKÖAI XXXVI. Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Görgemanns, H. 2017. “Plutarchs Isis-Buch. Hellenisches und Ägyptisches.” In Platonismus und spätägyptische Religion Plutarch und die Ägyptenrezeption in der römischen Kaiserzeit, ed M. Erler, M. A. Stadler. Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 364. Berlin: De Gruyter. 7–20. Griffiths, J. G. 1948. “Human Sacrifices in Egypt: The Classical Evidence”, Annales du Service des antiquités de l’Egypte 48. 409–423. Griffiths, J. G. 1958. “The Tekenu, the Nubians and the Butic Burial”, Kush 6. 106–120. Griffiths, J. G. 1982. “Osiris.” In Lexikon der Ägyptologie Band IV, Megiddo-Pyramiden, ed. W. Helck, W. Westendorf. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz Verlag. 623–633. Junker, H. 1911. “Die Schlacht- und Brandopfer und ihre Symbolik im Tempelkult der Spätzeit”, Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 48. 69–77. Katerina, P. 2012. The Enigmatic “tekenu” An Iconographical Analysis of “tekenu” in Tombs from the Old Kingdom to the Late Period. MA thesis, University of Leiden.

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Leahy, A. 1984. “Death by Fire in Ancient Egypt”, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 27 2. 199–206. Lieven, A. von 2016. “Translating Gods, Interpreting Gods: On the Mechanisms behind the Interpretatio Graeca of Egyptian Gods.” In Greco-Egyptian Interactions Literature, Translation, and Culture, 500 BCE–300 CE, ed. I. Rutherford. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 61–82. Matić, U. 2014. “Nubian Archers in Avaris: A Study of Culture-Historical Reasoning in Archaeology of Egypt”, Etnoantropološki problemi (Issues in Ethnology and Anthropology) 9 3. 697–721. Matić, U. 2018. “‘Execration’ of Nubians in Avaris? A Case of Mistaken Ethnic Identity and Hidden Archaeological Theory”, Journal of Egyptian History 11. 87–112. Matić, U. 2020. “Killing Living Icons? Human Remains from Execration Pits at Mirgissa and Tell el-Dab’a.” In A Closer Look at Execration Figurines Proceedings of the Workshop, 12–14 October 2017 Heidelberg University, ed. C. Kühne, J. F. Quack. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. In press. Montet, P. 1941. “Vases sacrés et profanes du tombeau de Psousennès”, Monuments et Mémoires publiés par l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres Fondation Eugène Piot 38. 17–39. Morris, E. 2014. “(Un)Dying Loyalty: Meditations on Retainer Sacrifice in Ancient Egypt and Elsewhere.” In Violence and Civilization Studies of Social Violence in History and Prehistory, ed. R. Campbell. Oxford and Oakville: Oxbow. 61–93. Muhlestein, K. 2011. Violence in the Service of Order The Religious Framework for Sanctioned Killing in Ancient Egypt. BAR International Series. Oxford: Archaepress. Muntz, 2011. “The Sources of Diodorus Siculus. Book 1”, Classical Quarterly 61 2. 574–594. Murray, M. A. 1913. Ancient Egyptian Legends London: John Murray. Müller-Wollermann, R. 2004. Vergehen und Strafen Zur Sanktionierung Abweichenden Verhaltens im Alten Ägypten. Probleme der Ägyptologie 21. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Obłuski, A. 2013. “Dodekaschoinos in Late Antiquity. Ethnic Blemmyes vs. Political Blemmyes and the Arrival of Nobades”, Mitteilungen der Sudanarchäologischen Gesellschaft zu Berlin 24 141–147. Pfeiffer, S. 2004. Das Dekret von Kanopos (238 v Chr ) Kommentar und historische Auswertung. München und Leipzig: K. G. Saur. Pino, C. 2002. “Bronze Brazier from the Tomb of Psusennes. Egyptian Museum Cairo. JE 85910.” In Egyptian Museum Collections around the World Studies for the Centennial of the Egyptian Museum, Cairo Volume Two, ed. M. Eldamaty and M. Triad. Cairo: The Supreme Council of Antiquities. 957–965. Quack, J. F. 2003. “Zum ägyptischen Ritual im Iseum Campense im Rom.” In Rituale in der Vorgeschichte, Antike und Gegenwart Studien zur Vorderasiatischen, Prähistorischen und Klassischen Archäologie, Ägyptologie, Alten Geschichte, Theologie und Religionswissenschaft Interdisziplinäre Tagung vom 1 –2 Februar 2002 an der Freien Universität Berlin, ed. C. Metzner-Nebelsick. Rahden: Verlag Marie Leidorf. 57–66. Quack, J. F. 2004. “Tabuisierte und ausgegrenzte Kranke nach dem ‘Buch vom Tempel’”. In Papyrus Ebers und die antike Heilkunde Akten der Tagung vom 15 –16 3 2002 in der Albertina / UB der Universität Leipzig, ed. H-W. Fischer-Elfert. Philippika-Marburger altertumskundliche Abhandlungen 7. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. 63–80. Quack, J. F. 2008. “Corpus oder membra disiecta? Zur Sprach- und Redaktionskritik des Papyrus Jumilhac.” In Diener des Horus Festschrift für Dieter Kurth zum 65 Geburtstag, ed. W. Waitkus. Aegyptiaca Hamburgensia 1. Gladbeck: PeWe-Verlag. 203–228. Quack, J. F. 2013. “Conceptions of Purity in Egyptian Religion.” In Purity and the Forming of Religious Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean World and Ancient Judaism, ed. Ch. Frevel, Ch. Nihan. Leiden and Boston: Brill. 115–158.

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Quack, J. F. 2016. “Translating the Realities of Cult: The Case of the Book of the Temple.” In Greco-Egyptian Interactions Literature, Translation, and Culture, 500 BCE–300 CE, ed. I. Rutherford. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 267–286. Ritner, R. K. 1993. The Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Magical Practice. SAOC 54. Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Rives, J. 1995. “Human Sacrifice among Pagans and Christians”, The Journal of Roman Studies 85. 65–85. Seidl, E. 1956. Ägyptische Rechtsgeschichte der Saiten- und Perserzeit. Glückstadt, Hamburg und New York: Verlag J. J. Augustin. Schultz, C. E. 2010. “The Romans and Ritual Murder”, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 78 2. 516–541. Schott, S. 1928. “Die Zeremonie des ‘Zerbrechens der roten Töpfe’”, Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 63. 101. Theis, C. 2011. Deine Seele zum Himmel, Dein Leichnam zur Erde Zur idealtypischen Rekonstruktion eines altägyptischen Bestattungsrituals Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur Beihefte 13. Hamburg: Helmut Buske Verlag. Theis, C. 2016. “Methods of Death Penalty in Ancient Near Eastern Cultures.” In “They Called Me to Destroy the Wicked and the Evil” Selected Essays on Crime and Punishment in Antiquity, ed. S. Nowicki. Kārum-Emporion-Forum 1. Münster: Ugarit Verlag. 247–264. Valbelle, D. 1981. Satis et Anoukis. Mainz am Rhein: Verlag Philipp von Zabern. Venit, M. S. 2016. Visualizing the Afterlife in the Tombs of Graeco-Roman Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Versluys, M. J. 2002. Aegyptiaca Romana Nilotic Scenes and the Roman Views of Egypt. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 144. Leiden: Brill. Vila, A. 1963. “Un dépôt de textes d’envoûtement au Moyen Empire”, Journal des savants 3. 135–160. Volokhine, Y. 2010. “Des Séthiens aux Impurs. Un parcours dans l’idéologie égyptienne de l’exclusion.” In Interprétations de Moïse Egypte, Judée, Grèce et Rome, éd. Ph. Borgeaud, Th. Römer, Y. Volokhine. Jerusalem Studies in Religion and Culture 10. Leiden: Brill. 199–243. Volokhine, Y. 2013. “Observations sur l’anthropoctonie. Le débat sur les ‘sacrifices humains’ en Égypte ancienne.” In Sacrifices humains Dossiers, discours, comparaisons: Actes du colloque tenu à l’Université de Genève, 19–20 mai 2011, ed. Àgnes A. Nagy, Francesca Presceneddi. Geneve: Brepols. 39–64. Willems, H. 1990. “Crime, Cult and Capital Punishment (Mὁalla Inscription 8)”, Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 76. 27–54. Yoyotte, J. 1980–1981. “Héra d’Héliopolis et le sacrifice humain”, École pratique des hautes études, Section des sciences religieuses Annuaire 89. 31–102. Zandee, J. 1960. Death as an Enemy. Studies in the History of Religions V. Leiden: E. J. Brill.

From Drunken Kings to Roman Emperors Roman Perception of the Area between the Adriatic and the Danube Alka Domić Kunić “Let it be said that Timosthenes and Eratosthenes and the still earlier geographers (…) were to a considerable extent ignorant of Italy, the Adriatic Sea, the Pontus, and the regions beyond them on the north” – asserted Strabo in the second book of his Geography that deals with mathematics of geography (Strab. 2.1.41), criticizing older authors who before him wrote on the subject. In the end, Strabo added: “In particular the writers of the present time can give a better account of the (…) peoples both north and south of the Ister” (Strab. 2.5.12), and thus confirmed that the Mediterranean world only gradually became familiar with the oecumene. In time, the amount of information became more numerous and various, although rather tinged with prejudices towards the Others, the “barbarians”. The Greek and Roman world perceived the Others ambiguously. On the one hand, in them it recognized virtues (bravery and skill in arms) that were familiar to itself; on the other hand, however, it attributed to them features inherent to primitive societies, whose Otherness the Greeks and the Romans did not attempt, nor even desired, to comprehend as a different, and not inferior, cultural expression. Such an image was the result of ignorance and lack of understanding of the customs and mode of living of the Others. In consequence, the prejudices rooted in the Greek and Roman attitude towards other members of the oecumene, members of different cultural milieux. Moreover, while the Greeks persisted in xenophobia, perceiving as barbarian all other people (even the Persians who were culturally much superior), Rome displayed its tolerance by gradually accepting the Others in its world. Thus the Roman imperium was strengthened whose borders would be endangered some centuries later by other barbarians attacking its frontiers. It is almost impossible today to obtain a clear picture of both the quantity and the quality of information that Greek and Roman authors utilized since most of the records of the once abundant literary corpus is lost over the course of time. Therefore the information that the preserved works provides us with must be read with considerable

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caution since they are usually lacking a broader context and are thus subject to erroneous interpretations. This paper is not intended to be a thorough analysis of literary sources, of broader context of their narratives, or of their own sources; it will deal with the information alone that Greek and Roman authors passed to their reading audience, and due to which the readers obtained a particular notion of the population that lived in the territory called Illyricum. This paper also mostly deals with the Augustan time and much less with the following period. This is because the Augustan era was the breaking point in which Rome came into possession of Illyricum and gained the opportunity of directly acquainting itself with the population that until then was known only sporadically, partially and often incorrectly. From Augustus onwards, Illyricum became an integral part of the Roman Empire, one of the ingredients in the Roman melting pot. Rome inherited a certain quantity of information from older, mostly Greek, writers, gradually adding its own knowledge and experiences to an already existing corpus. The information were thereafter mainly used as marginal remarks following some principal narrative and were usually subjectively interpreted. For example, Strabo wrote on the Dardanians, once one of the most powerful people in the inmost hinterland of the Adriatic: “The Dardanians are so utterly wild that they dig caves beneath their dung-hills and live there, but still they care for music, always making use of musical instruments, both flutes and stringed instruments” (Strab. 7.5.7), and Claudius Aelian added: “I am informed that the Dardanians in Illyria wash but thrice in their whole life: at birth, at marriage, and at death” (Claud. Ael. Var hist 4.1). The Dardanians dwelled in dugouts, and their customs included ritual washing on the occasion of significant events in their lives. These ethnographic details were, however, interpreted as an expression of sheer barbarism in which the only bright point was the love of music. Ignorance or rather a repudiation of foreign customs resulted in repugnance and xenophobia. Such disposition was the fertile ground for the dramatist Plautus, who derided a certain stranger and his Illyrian clothes – in this case the petasos, a widebrimmed hat with a conical crown: “Faith, this fellow’s surely of the mushroom genus; he covers himself entirely with his top. The countenance of the fellow appears to be Illyrian; he comes, too, in that garb” (Plaut. Trin. 851–853). Within ethnographic interests are also information on the Liburnians that surprisingly do not exude a negative attitude: “(The Liburnians) are ruled by women; and the women are (wives) of free men, but mingle with their own slaves and with the men of the nearby lands” (Ps. Scyl. Peripl 21). Terentius Varro, who sojourned in Liburnia,1 admired the toughness and endurance of Liburnian women. A proximate observation of peculiar Liburnian customs probably dissipated Varro’s prejudices that could otherwise have been caused by ignorance of these customs; moreover, Liburnian customs were used as a positive 1

Varro was in Illyricum as Cosconius’ legionary legate in the 70s BCE (Varro, Rust 2.10.7–9).

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example against an exaggerated vulnerability and spoiled behavior of Roman women of Varro’s times: “It often happens there that a pregnant woman, when her time has come, steps aside a little way from her work, bears her child there, and brings it back so soon that you would say she had not borne it but found it. They have also another remarkable practice: their custom does not refuse to allow women, often as much as twenty years old (and they call them maidens, too), before marriage to mate with any man they please, to wander around by themselves, and to bear children” (Varro, Rust 2.10.8).2 A surprisingly positive opinion of the Others that dwell on the eastern Adriatic coast offers Pseudo Scymnus in his Periegesis, slightly older than Varro: “It is said that the inhabitants of Illyria are very godly, very dutiful and hospitable, that they like to socialize and live a most comfortable life” (Ps. Scymn. Perieg 419–425). Rome inherited from older Greek writers main guidelines for its own perception of the population on the eastern Adriatic; that region was inhabited with pugnacious people who mostly lived on piracy, tended to drunkenness and did not care about fundamental diplomatic rules. The Illyrians were depicted as the community inclined to debauching as early as the 4th century BCE: “Illyrians get drunk and have parties every day, and are completely undisciplined when it comes to food and drink” (Theopompus in Athenaeus 10.334b–c). If Claudius Aelian could be trusted, excessive drinking cost the Ardiaean dynast Agron his life, and the last Illyrian basileus Genthius was characterized as a notorious drunkard: “Immoderate drinking cast Argon (sic!), king of the Illyrians, into pleurisy, and killed him. Likewise Genthius, another king of the Illyrians, was a great drinker” (Claud. Ael. Var hist 2.41); “Polybius claims that the Illyrian king Genthius drank so much that he engaged in a great deal of ugly behaviour throughout his life and was constantly intoxicated day and night” (Polybius in Athenaeus 10.440a).3 Excessive affection for alcohol was not inherent in the population of the southeastern Adriatic only; it was also proper to the outermost northwestern part of the coast – Florus, relaying Livy’s information, scenically described how the Histrians through their own fault lost the war against the Roman legions, and together with it their freedom as well: “Histrian king Aepulo himself, who had been placed upon a horse, from which he frequently fell in his intoxicated and dizzy condition, was with difficulty at last made to understand, when he wakes up, that he was a prisoner” (Flor. 1.26). The tendency towards drinking in the population of Illyricum will vanish from narratives of subsequent Roman historians, to reappear only in Late Antiquity. From that time originate some reports on a beverage common in Pannonia, a kind of beer 2

3

Almost as an echo of Varro’s words, here is the report of Nicholas of Damascus, a younger contemporary of Terentius Varro: “The Liburnians have their women in common, and bring up their children all together until they are five years old. Then at eight years old they match up the children to the men and allot one to each on the resemblance to this father. When he has taken a child he brings him up as his own son” (Nic. Dam. frg. 103d). Livy supports Polybius’ depiction of Genthius: “The violence innate in his character was inflamed by overuse of wine” (Livy 44.30).

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made of barley and called sabaium; there is also a piquancy related to Emperor Valens (328–378 CE) originating from Illyricum, whose excessive revelling in this indigenous beverage apparently earned him the nickname Sabaiarius.4 Pugnacity and bravery were distinct features of almost all inhabitants of the area between the Adriatic and the Danube River, as well as of the other people in Europe – especially of the Gauls and the Germani.5 The ancient Greek pseudo-scientific theory that climate and psycho-physiological features of people living in the concerned environment are mutually conditional, noted already in the Hippocratic treatise On airs, waters and places, was valid even in the Roman times: “Frequent excitement of the mind (sc caused by the changes of the seasons) induces wildness, and extinguishes sociableness and mildness of disposition, and therefore I think the inhabitants of Europe more courageous than those of Asia” (Hippoc. Aer. 6.116).6 The inland areas of Illyricum were a part of Europe that the Mediterranean world regarded as climatically unfavorable: “The Pannonians lead the most miserable existence of all mankind. For they are not well off as regards either soil or climate; they cultivate no olives and produce no wine except to a very slight extent and a wretched quality at that since the winter is very rigorous and occupies the greater part of their year, but drink as well as eat both barley and millet. For all that, they are considered the bravest of all men of whom we have the knowledge, for they possess nothing that makes an honourable life worth while” (Dio Cass. 49.36). Herodian’s impression of the Pannonians fully matches this statement: “Although the men of those regions have huge and powerful bodies and are skillful and murderous in battle, they are dull of wit and slow to realize that they are being deceived” (Herodian 2.9,11). Regarding the Adriatic coast, the climate there is much more favorable for olive and vine cultivation; there was no proper living without olives and grapes for the Mediterranean oecumene. “But although the Illyrian seaboard is such, people in earlier times made but small account of it – perhaps in part owing to their ignorance of its fertility, though mostly because of the wildness of the inhabitants and their piratical habits” (Strab. 7.5.10). Strabo mentioned a significant feature that the Greeks and the Romans associated with the population along the eastern Adriatic coast – piracy. That maritime activity severely threatened

4

5

6

“(Valens) carried on the siege of Chalcedon with great vigour, from the walls of which city insults were hurled at him and he was derisively addressed as Sabaiarius. Now sabaia is a drink of the poorer people in Illyricum, a liquor made from barley or some other grain” (Amm. Marc. 26.8); “(Illyrians) made a drink of barley and called it sabaia; hence Emperor Valens, an Illyrian, was called Sabaiarius, as in Am. Marcell.” (Brietius 1649, 1.2.4); cf. Hieron. Comm ad Isaiam 7.19. Unfortunately, there is no comprehensive ethnographic narrative on the population of Illyricum as there in Caesar’s report of the Gauls and Tacitus’ of the Germani. However, scattered information in several Greek and Roman authors provide a rather accurate picture of the Roman perception of the population between the Adriatic and the Danube. Thus we read in Herodotus: “Soft countries gave birth to soft men – there was no region which produced very delightful fruits, and at the same time men of a warlike spirit” (Hdt. 9.122).

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safe navigation and trading and was one of the principal causes of the first armed intervention of Roman legions on the eastern Adriatic coast. Narratives that refer to the wars that Rome waged against the Illyrian kingdom on the southeastern Adriatic coast in the late 2nd and the early 1st centuries BCE, and shortly after that against the Histrian kingdom in the northwestern corner of the Adriatic, are filled with examples of piratical habits of the local inhabitants. Livy assails “the Illyrians, the Liburnians and the Histrians, savage tribes chiefly notorious for their acts of piracy” (Livy 10.2.4), Eutropius presumably accurately reflects Livy’s lost narrative: “In the consulate of M. Minucius Rufus and P. Cornelius (221 BCE), war was made upon the Histrians, because they had plundered some ships of the Romans, which were bringing a supply of corn, and they were entirely subdued” (Eutr. 3.7), and Appian with a certain amount of awe hints at the ancient Liburnian piracy: “The Liburni were active in piracy in the Ionian Sea and the islands with fast and light vessels, after which the Romans even today call their light and swift double-banked galleys liburnians” (App. Ill. 3.7). A deprecation of piracy was unanimous, and therefore, the understanding of its social background was fully lacking: for the local population, piracy was a habitual mode of earning.7 The Illyrian kingdom thus entered the Roman history in an adverse light, notorious as a community reigned by a woman, where piracy was authorized and where international (diplomatic) precepts were worthless. This first unfavorable impression of the inhabitants of the eastern Adriatic coast was soon confirmed by the Histrians on the northern part of the coast, according to preserved historical accounts of the wars against Rome. However, the following contacts (mostly conflicts) will demonstrate that the Roman adversaries were not only devoted to drinking and pillaging but also that they were distinguished warriors whose bravery and martial art was quite admirable. Roman narratives on the wars in Illyricum are rich in examples of bellicosity and audacity of the peoples who were clashing with the Roman army in the course of several hundred years. It was either because the Romans highly esteemed martial qualities of other nations, or because emphasizing these features contributed to the glory of Roman military commanders as well as to the greatness of Roman supremacy. As battles were fought deeper within the territory of Illyricum, Rome acquired all the better knowledge of the local population, recognizing in it the two above-mentioned main characteristics. These people proved themselves again and again to be worthy adversaries to the Roman weapon, and against the Roman legions, they gained more and more recognizable contours. It is reflected in the narratives of the historical sources 7

It is clearly illustrated by an episode in which Roman envoys appeared at the Illyrian court asking explanation why Italic ships had been attacked (“Teuta, during the whole interview, listened to them in a most arrogant and overbearing manner, and when they had finished speaking, she said she would see to it that Rome suffered no public wrong from Illyria, but that, as for private wrongs, it was contrary to the custom of the Illyrian kings to hinder their subjects from winning booty from the sea”, Polyb. 2.8). Polybius recounted the event from his own point of view – in a typical Greek manner he was scorning the Others, especially abhorring the fact that a woman reigned the Illyrians.

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which testify to frequent and severe wars between the communities in Illyricum and the Roman legions. The table below roughly displays the frequency of warfare in Illyricum, as well as the main features of the peoples with whom the Romans most often crossed arms, seen from the Roman perspective: Time 229–228 BCE

Conflict First Illyrian war (Agron and Teuta)

221 BCE

First Histrian war

219 BCE

Second Illyrian war (Demetrius of Pharos)

Information First direct information on the southeastern Adriatic – the inhabitants inebriate and are engaged in piracy: “For a long time previously they had been in the habit of maltreating vessels sailing from Italy, and now while they were at Phoenice, a number of them detached themselves from the fleet and robbed or killed many Italian traders, capturing and carrying off no small number of prisoners” (Polyb. 2.8); “the Illyrians, the Liburnians, and the Histrians, savage tribes chiefly notorious for their acts of piracy” (Livy 10.2,4); “the Illyrians were a nation formidable both by land and sea” (Livy 54.43). The cause were Histrian piratical activities; the Histrians clashed for the first time with the Roman legions (?). “In the consulate of M. Minucius Rufus and P. Cornelius, war was made upon the Istrians, because they had plundered some ships of the Romans, which were bringing a supply of corn, and they were entirely subdued” (Eutr. 3.7); “As Demetrius thought that the Romans, who had been fighting for three years against the Celts on both sides of the river Eridanus, were entirely preoccupied with this war, he jeopardized the sea with piratical expeditions, enlisting as helpers one of the Illyrian people, the Histri (…) (The Romans) after having settled affairs with the Celts, immediately attacked the pirates with a navy and captured them, and in the following year they fought against Demetrius and those Illyrians who had been his accomplices” (App. Ill. 8.23). The cause were Demetrius’ numerous violations of the treaty of 228 B. C.: “Demetrius of Pharos, oblivious of the benefits that the Romans had conferred on him, contemptuous of Rome because of the peril to which she was exposed first from the Gauls and now from Carthage, and placing all his hopes in the Royal House of Macedon (…) was sacking and destroying the Illyrian cities subject to Rome, and, sailing beyond Lissus, contrary to the terms of the treaty, with fifty boats, had pillaged many of the Cyclades” (Polyb. 3.16).

From Drunken Kings to Roman Emperors

Time 183–180 BCE

Conflict Second Histrian war

From the 170s BCE onward

Continuing conflicts with robbers that threatened the north-eastern Italian frontier

170s BCE

Conflict with the Pannonians (the Segestani?)

178–177 BCE

Third Histrian war (Epulo)

35

Information The cause was the Histrians resisting the foundation of the colony in Aquileia (Livy 40.26); moreover, the Histrians were engaged in piracy: “Apulia (was assigned) to L. Duronius, who was also to command in Histria, because news was received from Tarentum and Brundisium that the fields on the coast were being plundered by pirates from overseas” (Livy 40.18). After the founding of the colony in Aquileia, the northeastern neighbors of Italy (the Carni, the Taurisci, the Norici, the Histri, the Iapodes and the Pannonians – presumably the Segestani) frequently plundered the border cities of Aquileia and Tergeste: “The Iapodes on the far side of the Alps, a powerful and savage people, had within a period of about twenty years twice repulsed Roman attacks, raided Aquileia and plundered the Roman colony of Tergestum” (App. Ill. 18.52); “The Salassi, Taurisci, Liburni and Iapydes, who even before this had been behaving in no decent manner toward the Romans, (…) having more than once invaded and ravaged the neighboring districts, openly revolted at this time, in view of his absence” (Dio Cass. 49.34,2); “Augustus (…) stated in the Senate that he had – in contrast to Anthony’s inactivity – succeeded in saving Italy from the barely conquerable peoples who had so often attacked it” (App. Ill. 16.46; cf. 15.43). The first known conflict with the Pannonians (the Segestani?) – possibly to repulse their predatory foray into the border cities of Italy: “When Cornelius campaigned against the Paeones (= Pannonians) and narrowly avoided a total defeat, the entire Italian population was overcome by great fear of the Paeones, and for a long time later consuls hesitated to undertake military expeditions against them” (App. Ill. 14.41). Epulo arrives drunken on the battlefield: “A few of the Histri, who had taken only a moderate amount of wine were careful to escape; for the rest, sleep was prolonged into death, and the Romans recovered all their property intact, save the wine and food which had been consumed” (Livy 41.4); “(The Histrian) king Aepulo himself, who had been placed upon a horse, from which he frequently fell in his intoxicated and dizzy condition, was with difficulty at last made to understand, when he woke up, that he was a prisoner” (Flor. 2.10).

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Time 171 BCE

Conflict C. Cassius Longinus attacks the Histrians and the Iapodes

168 BCE

Third Illyrian war (Genthius)

156–155 BCE

First Delmataean war

Information The Iapodes who lived south of the mountains were probably for the first time attacked by the Roman legions: “(The deputations from the Carni, the Histri and the Iapydes) informed the Senate (…) that in the middle of his march he (sc. C. Cassius) turned back and invaded their territory, spreading everywhere bloodshed, rapine and fire, nor did they up to that moment know the consul’s reason for treating them as enemies” (Livy 43.5). Genthius is accused of the already traditionally Illyrian piracy; as his predecessors, he also is an excessive drunkard: “(L. Duronius) unhesitatingly threw all the responsibility for the piracy on Genthius, the King of Illyria; it was from his dominions that all the ships had sailed which had ravaged the shores of the Adriatic” (Liv. 40.42); “Genthius began to harass and oppress his people, and his naturally violent temper was inflamed by excessive indulgence in wine” (Livy 44.30). The Delmatae, causing troubles to the Roman allies in the Adriatic as early as 181 BCE, now for the first time came into the direct conflict with Rome: “The Dalmatae attacked the Illyrians under Roman control and did not receive the Roman ambassadors who came to them about these events. (…) The Dalmatae attacked the (Roman) guards and vanquished them; they drove Figulus himself from the camp and chased him along a plain, until he took refuge from them at the river Naro” (App. Ill. 11.31; cf. Polyb. 32.13); “(The Dalmatians) had been abusing some of their neighbors who enjoyed the friendship of the Romans, and when the Romans joined an embassy in their behalf, the Dalmatians returned no respectful answer, and even arrested and killed the envoys of the other nations” (Dio Cass. frg. 69.25); on the problems in 181 BCE: “The Delmatae, as long as Pleuratus lived, submitted to him, but when he died and Genthius succeeded to the throne, revolting from him they took to making war on the tribes on their borders and reduced the neighboring peoples, some of whom even paid them tribute in the shape of cattle and corn” (Polyb. 32.9). Probably from that period date the first information on the Delmatae in Strabo: “(The Delmatae) had as many as fifty noteworthy settlements, and some of these were cities (…). They have the peculiar custom of making a redistribution of land every seven years; and that

From Drunken Kings to Roman Emperors

Time

141 BCE

135 BCE

129 BCE

119–118 BCE

119–118 BCE

Conflict

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Information they make no use of coined money is peculiar to them as compared with the other peoples in that part of the world” (Strab. 7.5,5). First known conflict These conflicts, more and more frequent, will conwith the Scordisci tinue until the 70s BCE. Horrible stories about the Scordisci are preserved in Florus’ excerpt from Livy’s Histories (Flor. 1.39) and in the works of some late Roman authors (cf. Oros. 5.27). Punitive expedition The cause were pirate attacks on Roman Illyria. Rome against the Ardiaei and confronted the Ardiaei as early as during the First the Pleraei Illyrian war. “Because the Ardiaei pestered the sea through their piratical bands, the Romans pushed them back from it into the interior and forced them to till the soil. But the country is rough and poor and not suited to a farming population, and therefore the tribe has been utterly ruined and in fact has almost been obliterated” (Strab. 7.5,6); “the Vardaei, once the scourges of Italy” (Plin. HN 3.22,143). C. Sempronius Tudita- Probably the first conflict with the Liburni (they were nus against the Liburni, also known as pirates), although the direct narrative the Taurisci, the Histri is lacking in historical sources. The sources mention and the Iapodes the Iapodes: “Sempronius surnamed Tuditanus, and Ti. Pandusa fought against the Iapodes in the Alps. It seems that they defeated them” (App. Ill. 10.30); “Consul C. Sempronius at first fought unsuccessfully against the Iapydians, but the defeat was compensated by a victory won through the qualities of D. Iunius Brutus” (Liv. Per. 59; triumph de Japudibus, Inscr It XIII,1,82), and the Histri: “Tuditanus, who conquered the Histri” (Plin. HN 3.19,129). Second Delmataean war The cause was the alleged desire of L. Caecilius Metellus to earn a triumph; there is no mention of a Delmatean guilt for the war: “When Caecilius Metellus was consul, he decided to attack (the Delmatae) as he wanted a triumph, although they had not caused any offence. They received him as a friend and he sent the winter with them in the town of a Salona” (App. Ill. 11.33). Second conflict with Probably to repulse their foray on border cities of the Segestani Italy: “Although the Romans had previously twice invaded the country of Segestica, they took neither hostages nor anything else, due to which the Segestani became very arrogant” (App. Ill. 22.62).

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Time 78–76 BCE

Conflict Third Delmataean war

70s BCE

P. Licinius against the Iapodes

50s BCE 50 BCE

Expedition against the Iapodes War with the Delmatae

48 BCE

War with the Delmatae

35–33 BCE

Octavian’s Illyrian expedition

Information The Delmataean centre Delminium was demolished in 155 BCE, and now their coastal city Salona was seized (cf. Eutr. 6.4; Oros. 5.23). From Sallust’s Histories only this fragment relating to the war is preserved: “savage Delmatae” (Sall. Hist. frg. 3.78). These are probably the Iapodes south of the mountains who were defeated: “Under pretence of surrender, the Iapydes handed over some of their best men to P. Licinius, the Roman proconsul. These were received and placed in the last line, whereupon they cut to pieces the Romans who were bringing up the rear” (Frontin. Str. 2.5,28). Possibly the first attack on the Iapodes north of the mountains, abortive for Rome (cf. App. Ill. 18.52). Punitive expedition on the Delmatae who seized Promona from the Liburni; the outcome was unsuccessful for Rome: “In the period when Caesar had authority over the Celts, these same Dalmatae and some other Illyrians, who were then the most prosperous, occupied the town of Promona from the Liburni (…) (Caesar) sent envoys and called on those who held Promona to hand it over to the Liburni. As they paid no attention to words, he sent a strong military detachment against them, which the Illyrians killed to the last man” (App. Ill. 12.34). A. Gabinius, his camp stormed in a guerilla action, faced defeat; the Delmatae captured the legionary signa: “The Illyrians (sc. the Delmatae) attacked and killed all of Gabinius’ army except Gabinius himself and a few soldiers who succeeded in escaping. They then reached the apex of wealth and, in general, power because of so much booty” (App. Ill. 12.36); “Since the Dalmatae had killed five cohorts under Gabinius and seized the military standards, the success had so overwhelmed them that for as long as ten years they had not laid down their weapons” (App. Ill. 25.71). These military standards will be recaptured by Octavian Augustus 15 years later, of which he boasted in his Res Gestae (RG 29). A combined military expedition: punitive in the case of some coastal and insular communities, the Delmatae and the Iapodes south of the mountains; conquering in the case of the Iapodes north of the mountains, and the Pannonian communities in the western part of the Interfluve. On the insular communities: “The

From Drunken Kings to Roman Emperors

Time

Conflict

12–9 BCE

Tiberius’ Pannonian war

6–9 CE

Pannonian-Dalmatian (Batonian) revolt

39

Information Meliteni and the Corcyreni, who inhabited islands, he completely exterminated, as they had practiced piracy” (App. Ill. 16.46); on the Iapodes: “After the fall of Metulum, the other Iapodes, overcome by fear, surrendered to Caesar. In this manner the Iapodes on the far side of the Alps then first came under the authority of the Romans” (App. Ill. 21.61); on the Pannonians (the Segestani): “Caesar (sc. Octavian Augustus) expressed recognition of their bravery” (App. Ill. 24.69); on the Delmatae: “The Dalmatae, who were isolated from exterior markets and exhausted because of famine, went to meet Caesar (sc. Octavian Augustus) as he was arriving, surrendered to him and begged him for mercy. They delivered 700 children as hostages, as had been requested by Caesar, and also the Roman military standards seized from Gabinius. They had to accept the demand that they pay tribute, which they owed since the period of C. Caesar; from that point onwards they became obedient” (App. Ill. 28.81). The first relevant information on the Iapodes and the Pannonians, and additional information on the Delmatae, passed on by Appian and Strabo (information in Dio Cassius (2nd/3rd century CE) are partly first-hand, and partly extracted from his own sources). Another conflict with the Delmatae; subjugation of the eastern part of the Interfluve and possibly of a portion of the area between the Interfluve and the Adriatic: “(The Pannonian war) – which was important and formidable enough, and on account of its proximity a menace to Italy” (Vell. Pat. 96.2); “(Tiberius) subdued the Breuci and Dalmatians” (Suet. Tib. 9); “Tiberius subdued the Pannonians after ravaging much of their country and doing much injury to the inhabitants, making as much use as possible of his allies the Scordisci, who were neighbors of the Pannonians and were similarly equipped” (Dio Cass. 54.31,3). Some communities in the above-mentioned interspace now for the first time confront the Roman legions. This was not a conquering war, but the crushing of a revolt in already occupied Illyricum: “(The revolt of Illyricum) – the most serious of all foreign wars since those with Carthage” (Suet. Tib. 16); Velleius on rebels: “the Pannonians (especially the Breuci) are fierce warriors” (Vell. Pat. 114.4), and

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Time

Conflict

Information the Pirustae and the Daesitiates are “almost unconquerable on account of the position of their strongholds in the mountains, their warlike temper, their wonderful knowledge of fighting, and, above all, the narrow passes in which they lived” (Vell. Pat. 2.115); rebel leaders are “energetic and capable generals” (Vell. Pat. 115.4).

Since the first armed intervention in the Illyrian kingdom in 229 BCE, Rome was, gradually but unstoppably, expanding its new transmarine possession – first along the eastern Adriatic coast and in the coastal hinterland, and then in the continental part of Illyricum, in the Pannonian Interfluve, the territory between the Drava and the Sava rivers. During the campaigns in the Illyricum, Rome acquired rather good knowledge of the terrain, the way of life of its indigenous peoples, their customs and their methods of fighting. The table shows the chronology and the frequency of wars waged in Illyricum, as well as the main outlines of the Roman perception of the local population. The Delmatae, the Iapodes and the Pannonians gradually leaped out as the principal Roman enemies in Illyricum. Beginnings of warfare with these vigorous communities are dated in the early 2nd century BCE; conflicts extended over almost two hundred years and resulted not only in winning new possessions and expanding the Roman imperium, but also in enhanced knowledge of the inhabitants of Illyricum. The pacification will introduce the local population into the Roman oecumene, and the Romanization will give them the right to be called Roman citizens. Mutual characteristics of all mentioned peoples, recognized by Rome already in first contacts, were bravery and bellicosity; these features last through narratives of almost all written sources dealing with warfare in Illyricum, sometimes indicated between the lines, sometimes explicitly mentioned. A rebellious nature of these peoples (the Romans interpreted their lasting refusal to adapt to the new historical circumstances thus) caused many problems to the Roman state. Appian testifies to this, since he took over the information from the records of Octavian Augustus himself, who waged war in Illyricum from 35 to 33 BCE, and during that time got good insight into local societies: “The greatest difficulties were caused to him (sc. Octavian Augustus) by the Salassi, the Iapodes on the other side of the Alps, and the Segestani, and further the Dalmatae, the Daesii and the Paeones” (App. Ill. 17.49). The Late Roman Republic recognized in these peoples some typical features of barbarians (“savage Delmatae”, Sall. Hist. frg. 3.78; “savage people; most stupid of peoples”, Flor. 2.25; “they were always regarded as war-like people”, Cic. Fam. 11), and Strabo, Augustus’ contemporary, handed down to us more detailed information about their way of life (some of them are quoted in the table), testifying that the Delmatae were worthy adversaries of the Roman legions (“This tribe is one of those which carried on war against the Romans for a long time”, Strab. 7.5,5). The Del-

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matae were a sharp thorn in the Roman side – historical sources mention Delmataean persistent resistance to any kind of settlement, as well as their aggressiveness towards neighboring communities and the Roman legions alike. Even the great Iulius Caesar had considerable problems with the Delmatae, since the very beginning of his proconsulate in Illyricum. After “Dalmatia, in rebellion for one hundred and twenty years, was pacified to the extent of definitely recognizing the sovereignty of Rome” (Vell. Pat. 2.90), the whole southern part of Illyricum was officially called after the Delmatae. Equally troublesome were the Iapodes. Strabo passes on some older information, that they are “a tribe which is at the same time both Celtic and Illyrian” (Strab. 7.5.2; cf. 7.5.4; 4.6.10), “they are tattooed like the rest of the Illyrians and the Thracians” (Strab. 7.5,4), and that “their lands are poor, the people living for the most part on spelt and millet” (Strab. 7.5.4). Rome perceived the Iapodes too as “a war-mad people” (Strab. 7.5,4), “a powerful and savage people” (App. Ill. 18.52), who “formerly were well supplied with strong men and held as their homeland both sides of the mountain and by their business of piracy held sway over these regions” (Strab. 4.6,10), as those that “have been vanquished and completely outdone by Augustus Caesar” (Strab. 4.6,10). Octavian Augustus used victory over this “demanding” enemy on behalf of his own propaganda,8 informing the public of heavy fighting during which he was wounded and of an arduous siege and conquest of the Iapodean center Metulum, after which the remaining Iapodean communities surrendered.9 From the narrative of the bloody fall of Metulum, the principal Iapodean hillfort, one gets an impression of the Iapodes as fierce and fearless warriors and worthy adversaries of the Roman legions. Their contemporaries certainly also had the same impression reading the lines related to the warfare and conquest of Iapodia. Not without reason – extolling martial feature of the enemy, the Roman propaganda machinery contributed to the greatness and importance of Roman victories. The Pannonian land is “mountainous, cold, and subject to snows (…) so that there is a scarcity of the vine, not only on the heights but also on the levels” (Strab. 7.5,10); to this description Dio Cassius added the poor Pannonian climate and barren soil which produced no Mediterranean cultures (olives and vine), but did result in brave men

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The Illyrian campaign was launched in the eve of the decisive conflict between Octavian and Mark Antony, the naval Battle of Actium. Octavian Augustus was wounded twice during the war in Illyricum: under the walls of the Iapodean town of Metulum (App. Ill. 20.56–58; Dio Cass. 49.35.2) as well as besieging Setovia, a Delmataean hillfort (App. Ill. 27.79; Dio Cass. 49.38.4); cf. Suet. Aug. 20; Plin. HN 7.45.148. On the siege and fall of Metulum: App. Ill. 19.54–21.61; cf. Dio Cass. 49.35. Dio Cassius also described the siege and fall of Arduba, a hillfort of the Delmatae, which indicated the end of the great Pannonian-Dalmatian rebellion (6–9 CE) (Dio Cass. 56.15). These narratives bristle with dramatic details (similar to the case of the Gallic Alesia), intending to emphasize the predominance of the Roman army and its commanders over the fierce enemy.

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used to harsh living conditions (cf. Dio Cass. 49.36).10 Dio’s contemporary Herodian appended to that Pannonian image: “Although the men of Pannonian regions have huge and powerful bodies and are skillful and murderous in battle, they are dull of wit and slow to realize that they are being deceived” (Herodian 1.6,9). Appian conveyed most information on the Pannonians, copied from Augustus’ memoirs and the official reports to the Senate on his military campaign 35–33 BCE (App. Ill. 22.62–24.70; cf. Dio Cass. 49.36–37). Appian’s narrative gives details about the social structure and the way of life of the Pannonian communities, and the course of war gives insight into their martial qualities – after the fall of Segestica, the key center in the western part of the Pannonian Interfluve, “Caesar (sc. Augustus) expressed recognition of their bravery” (App. Ill. 24.69). Tiberius Claudius Nero will continue where Octavian Augustus desisted, annexing to the Roman imperium the rest of the Pannonian Interfluve, its eastern part. Now for the first time, we hear about the Breuci: “Tiberius subdued them (…) making as much use as possible of his allies the Scordisci, who were neighbors of the Pannonians and were similarly equipped” (Dio Cass. 54.31.3). The Scordisci had proven to be fierce enemies in the past 150 years, and Dio’s words clearly speak of the severity of the Pannonian communities whom Tiberius confronted them with akin, equally violent warriors. We must regret that Velleius Paterculus did not keep his promise since we are deprived of details that would considerably add to our knowledge of the Roman perception of the population of Illyricum – the Others.11 The Breuci will be the main actors of the last Roman military intervention in Illyricum. Some fifteen years after the Pannonian war, the great Pannonian-Dalmatian rebellion broke out, the majority of the armed resistance carried on by the Breuci together with the Daesitiates. It is the first occasion when the Daesitiates appear on the historical scene – as ferocious warriors who, during the triennial conflicts, have been causing significant problems to the great military force sent to pacify Illyricum. Some of the other powerful Pannonian communities also joined the rebellion: the Maezaei, the Amantini, and the Andizeti; the inevitable Delmatae as well. The report of Velleius Paterculus is mostly concerned with describing war events as well as with extolling Tiberius as the supreme military commander, but even from the brief narrative, one can recognize the then already traditional strength of the resistance of the Pannonian combatants.12 In this

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Dio Cassius was quite well acquainted with Dalmatia and Pannonia alike since he completed two consecutive terms of office there as a provincial governor (223–226 CE in Dalmatia; 226–228 CE in Upper Pannonia) (Dio Cass. 49.36.4). “The Pannonian war (…) was conducted by Nero (sc. Tiberius), a war which was important and formidable enough, and on account of proximity a menace to Italy. In another place I shall describe the tribes of the Pannonians and the races of Dalmatians, the situation of their country and its rivers, the number and extent of their forces, and the many glorious victories won in the course of this war by this great commander” (Vell. Pat. 2.96). Velleius Paterculus is the principal source regarding the rebellion (Vell. Pat. 2.110–116). As a staff officer appointed to Tiberius, he was engaged in the Pannonian stage of the war. His report is the

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context also Velleius promised a separate book about the Pannonians (Vell. Pat. 2.114), but the book, as already mentioned, was not written. The Pannonian-Dalmatian uprising, also known as the Batonian war, was the last Roman expedition in Illyricum. Rome survived it successfully, but not without significant casualties and a precarious outcome. Illyricum, at last, was pacified, and the population once again proved itself to be a perilous enemy – at this time all the more, because at least some of the natives reached a rather high level of competence in Roman warfare and mindset, which made them more dangerous adversaries. But Rome would eventually reverse it to its own benefit. After this war, which was “the most serious of all foreign wars since those with Carthage” (Suet. Tib. 16), Rome at last incorporated into its imperium the area between the Adriatic and the Danube. And just as Rome had better knowledge of the Illyrian territory, Illyricum became more and more acquainted with the Roman way of life. After bloody years of conquering (and punitive) wars and concomitant rough but necessary actions of the Roman government (mass relocations, decimation of the defeated population, coercive recruitment – at least in the beginning), Illyricum was admitted into and embraced the Roman oecumene. Pax Romana brought to the native people all advantages of life under the aegis of Rome. The inhabitants of the until recently troublesome Illyricum grew over time accustomed to the Roman lifestyle, acquiring Roman citizenship and starting to call (and feel) themselves as Romans. The journey was gradual, although not too slow: the local elite, members of the higher social class, recognized the benefits of a good cooperation with Rome, and thus became one of the epicenters of the Romanization of their countrymen. The other, not less important driving force behind the process of Romanization were the young men who were largely recruited for the Roman auxiliary units, and who became Romans after their long-term service in the Roman army – legally as well as culturally. Conscription into the auxilia probably began already after Octavian’s Illyrian war (35–33 BCE), and certainly after Tiberius’ Pannonian war (12–9 BCE); the enlistment of Illyrian young men for the Marcomannic campaign was one of the causes of the great rebellion (6–9 CE). Velleius Paterculus testifies that the conscription in Illyricum was a previously established practice and that the service in the Roman army already showed results: “Now all the Pannonians possessed not only a knowledge of Roman discipline but also of the Roman tongue, many also had some measure of literary culture, and the exercise of intellect was not uncommon among them” (Vell. Pat. 2.110). It seems that Bato the Daesitiate, the leader of the Pannonian-Dalmatian revolt, was a veteran auxiliary soldier; although there is no direct evidence, the whole context of fighting, as well as some remarks in our literary sources, indicate this conclusion. Velleius Paterculus stated that rebellious forces “acted under the orders of energetic and capable generals” first-hand source, the record of a participant and an eyewitness to the described events – although garbled by author’s subjective view of a Roman towards the Others (as it is the case with all other historical narratives here mentioned).

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(Vell. Pat. 2.110), not a mere compliment from the mouth of an active Roman officer who was engaged in the same fighting. The episode of Bato’s capture and bringing before Tiberius is thus depicted: “Bato asked nothing for himself, even holding his head forward to await the stroke, but on behalf of the others he made a long defense” (Dio Cass. 56.16.2) – no trace of the habitual Roman arrogant attitude towards someone who should be labelled a barbarian. Tiberius’ reaction is significant: “He sent Bato, the leader of the Pannonians, to Ravenna, after presenting him with rich gifts; thus showing his gratitude to him for allowing him to escape when he was trapped with his army in a dangerous place” (Suet. Tib. 20). Life of a conquered leader usually ended in the Mamertine prison in Rome, after he was carried through the city in the triumphal procession as the living evidence of the Roman supremacy in war and peace alike. Bato, on the contrary, received a peaceful end in comfortable internment – in my opinion, only a person who already had Roman citizenship could enjoy such privilege. After the final pacification of Illyricum, cohorts and alae of the Pannonians, the Delmatae, the Breuci, the Varciani and the other communities in Illyricum were formed and sent to the distant borders of the Empire; rather numerous epigraphic monuments testify to this. Bravery and bellicosity, the two features continuously existent in Roman historical narratives, firstly aimed against Rome, were now at its service. Young men from Illyricum proved themselves excellent warriors in the service in the Roman army. These features became more and more revealed in the times that followed, and Rome justly valued them. In Domitian’s time, Rome for the first time severely clashed with the barbarians beyond the Danube River – from then onwards the Roman history is full of frequent barbarian attacks on the northern border of the Empire. Provinces along the Danubian limes, with Pannonia among them, will play the leading role in preserving the existence of the imperium – due to its geopolitical position as well as its manpower for the defence of the Empire. All Domitian’s successors were aware of that. Problems with the barbarians quite dramatically worsened during the reign of Marcus Aurelius. Pannonia, still the headmost province towards the barbaricum, bore the heaviest burden in the defence of the Roman Empire against the attacks from the northern bank of the Danube. Invasions from across the limes followed thereafter along almost every part of the Roman borderline; large sections of the Pannonian limes collapsed under frequent incursions, and Pannonia once again was the pivotal guarantor of the survival of the Empire. The crucial role of Illyricum (of which Pannonia was an integral part) is reflected in the fact that from Pannonia (as well as other Illyrian provinces) descended several Roman emperors who in the late 3rd century CE successfully protected the northern border against barbarian assaults. Each of these so-called “barracks emperors” notably contributed to the existence of the Roman Empire.13 “To all of them Illyricum was 13

They are: Traianus Decius (249–251 CE) from the village Budalia (territory of Sirmium), Claudius II Gothicus (268–270 CE) from Dalmatia (or Dardania), Lucius Domitius Aurelianus (270–275 CE) from Sirmium (or Dacia Ripensis), Marcus Aurelius Probus (276–282 CE) from Sirmium,

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their homeland. Although they had little humanity, they were, because they have been hardened by rural life and military service, best for the state” (Aur. Vict. 39.26). Scriptores Historiae Augustae, a collection of thirty biographies of the emperors from Hadrian to Carinus, is filled with records of aptitude, courage and vigor of the emperors originating from Illyrian provinces; let us have a short insight into it: “We have named Claudius, a man of Illyrian birth, as tribune of our most valiant and loyal Fifth Legion, the Martian, for he is superior to all the most loyal and most valiant men of old” (SHA, Claud. 14.2 – on Claudius II); “(Aurelian) was a comely man, good to look upon because of his manly grace, rather tall in stature, and very strong in his muscles; he was a little too fond of wine and food, but he indulged his passions rarely; he exercised the greatest severity and a discipline that had no equal, being extremely ready to draw his sword” (SHA, Aurel. 6.1 – on Aurelian); “Both as commoner and as emperor (Probus) stood forth illustrious, famed for his virtues (…) Many aver that Probus was a relative of Claudius, that most excellent and venerated prince (…); As a youth, Probus became so famed for his bodily strength that by approval of Valerian he received a tribuneship almost before his beard was grown. There is still in existence a letter written by Valerian to Gallienus, in which he praises Probus, then still a youth, and holds him up for all to imitate” (SHA, Prob. 3.1–6 – on Probus); “(Diocletian) was an outstanding man and wise, devoted to the commonwealth, devoted to his kindred, duly prepared to face whatever the occasion demanded, forming plans that were always deep though sometimes overbold, and one who could by prudence and exceeding firmness hold in check the impulses of a restless spirit” (SHA, Numer. 13.1 – on Diocletian). Illyrian lands, as we have just seen, started their historical journey as the area in which dwelt the barbarians, people possessing all the traits that the Greeks and the Romans attributed to the Others, and that were strongly affected by prejudices as a result of ignorance and misunderstanding of the way of life strange to the Mediterranean oecumene. As the result of several centuries of interaction which caused inevitable changes to both parties, Illyricum (and especially its Pannonian part, still exposed to incursions of some other barbarians) entered the Late Roman period as “the land of brave people” (Isid. Etym. 14.4,16), “the land rich in all things (…) The dwelling place of the emperors” (Expositio 57). Let us finish this overview of how perception could radically change over time, with the words of Claudius Mamertinus, an official in the imperial court. Those were the words he uttered in praise of the emperor Maximianus, Diocletian’s co-emperor born in Pannonian Sirmium. Mamertinus’ words best illustrate the final Roman attitude towards a people who entered the Roman history as barbarians, but with the course of time, together with others within the Roman oecumene, obtained equal status with the Romans themselves in the great Roman Empire: “For you were not born and raised in

Diocletian (284–305 CE) from Aspalathos near Salona in Dalmatia, Maximianus (286–305 CE) from the surroundings of Sirmium, and Valentinianus I (364–375 CE) probably from Cibalae.

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some quiet part of the world, a land enfeebled by luxury, but in those provinces whose border, exposed to the enemy (although a beaten one) and always arrayed in arms, has taught them the tireless habit of toil and patience, in provinces where all of life is military service, whose women even are braver than the men of other lands” (Mamertinus, Paneg Gen. 3.3,21–28); “Italy is the master of the world according to the age of its glory, and Pannonia is the same by virtue of its bravery” (Mamertinus, Paneg Max. 2.2,33–34). Following the central theme of the volume, this paper hopes to contribute to our knowledge on the changes that Roman influence brought to western Illyricum, as well as with the way that these changes progressed during the time. The paper intends to show the reciprocity of the changes – on the one part there are local communities which gradually adopted Roman culture (and everything that comes with it), while on the other there is Rome itself, also subject to changes owing to a better knowledge of the indigenous population of Illyricum. Bibliography Ancient sources Ammianus Marcellinus, Rerum Gestarum Libri, 3 Vols. English translation by John C. Rolfe. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1950–1952. Appian, Roman History. Translated by Horace White. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1979. Athenaei Naucratitae deipnosophistarum libri XV, Vol II. Ed. G. Kaibel. Leipzig: Teubner. 1887. Index rerum a se gestarum ili Res gestae divi Augusti. Ed. M. Škiljan. Zagreb: Latina & Graeca. 1990. Cassius Dio Cocceianus, Roman History. Translation by E. Cary. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1914–1927. M. Tullius Cicero, Epistulae ad familiares. Edited by D. R. Shackleton Bailey. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1977. Claudian, De consulatu Stilichonis (On the consulship od Stilicho). English translation by M. Platnauer, in two volumes. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1922. Eutopius, Breviarium ab Urbe condita. Recognovit C. Santini. Leipzig: Teubner, 1979. Eutopius, Breviarium ab Urbe condita. Translated by H. W. Bird. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. 1993. Expositio totius mundi et gentium. In Geographi Latini Minores, ed. A. Riese. Hildesheim, Zürich and New York: Georg Olms. 1995. Lucius Annaeus Florus, Epitome of Roman History. Translated by E. S. Forster. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1929. Iuli Frontini Strategemata. Recensuit R. I. Ireland. Leipzig: Teubner. 1990. Herodian, Historia, in two volumes. English translation by C. R. Whittaker. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1969. Herodotus, Historiae. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1996.

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Eusebii Hieronymi Stridonensis Presbyteri Commentariorum in Isaiam Prophetam libri duodeviginti. Ed. J.-P. Migne. Patrologiae cursus completus. Series latina, vol. 24. Paris: Migne. 1845. Isidori Hispalensis Episcopi Etymologiarum sive Originum Edited by W. M. Lindsay. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 1911. Titus Livy, History of Rome. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1997. Claudius Mamertinus, Panegyricus Genethliacus Maximiano Augusto Dictus. In XII Panegyrici Latini, recensuit A. Baehrens. Leipzig: Teubner. 1874. Claudius Mamertinus, Panegyricus Maximiano Augusto Dictus. In XII Panegyrici Latini, recensuit A. Baehrens. Leipzig: Teubner. 1874. Nicolaus Damascenus, Fragmenta. In Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, ed. F. Jacoby. Berlin: Weidmann. 1923. Orosius, Seven Books on History Against the Pagans. Translated by A. T. Fear. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. 2010. Pliny the Elder, Natural History. Translated by H. Rackham. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1969. Polybius, The Histories. Translated by W. R. Paton. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 2010. Pseudo-Skylax’s Periplous: The Circumnavigation of the Inhabited World. Ed. G. Shipley, text, translation and commentary. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. 2012. C Sallusti Crispi Historiarum reliquiae Edidit B Maurenbrecher Leipzig: Teubner 1891 Scriptores Historiae Augustae. English translation by D. Magie, in 3 vols. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1922–1932. Scymni Chii Periegesis quae supersunt, ed. R. Fabricius. Leipzig: Teubner. 1846. Strabo, The Geography. Translated by H. L. Jones. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1969. Suetonius, The Lives of the Caesars. Translated by J. C. Rolfe. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1928. M. Terentius Varro, On Agriculture. Translated by W. D. Hooper. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1934. C. Velleius Paterculus, Historia Romana. Translated by F. W. Shipley. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. 1967. Victorinus, Works. Translated by R. E. Wallis. In The Ante-Nicene Fathers. Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to A. D. 325, ed. A. Cleveland Coxe. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1899–1926. Vol. 7, 339–360.

Literature Adler, E. 2011. Valorizing the Barbarians Enemy Speeches in Roman Historiography. Austin: University of Texas Press. Barrow, R. H. 1986. The Romans. London: Penguin Books. Bonfante, L. (ed.) 2011. The Barbarians of Ancient Europe Realities and Interactions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brietius, Ph. 1649. Parallela geographiae veteris et novae. Paris: Sebastian and Gabriel Cramoisy.

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Burns, Th. 2003. Rome and the Barbarians 100 B C –A D 400. Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Cornwell, H. 2015. “The King Who Would Be Prefect: Authority and Identity in the Cottian Alps”, Journal of Roman Studies 105. 41–72. Derks, T.; Roymans, N. (eds.) 2009. Ethnic Constructs in Antiquity The Role of Power and Tradition. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Domić Kunić, A. 2003. Plinijeva geografija i etnografija Ilirika (s osobitim obzirom na panonski dio iliričkog prostora). PhD thesis. Sveučilište u Zagrebu. Domić Kunić, A. 2012. “Literary Sources Before the Marcomannic Wars.” In The Archaeology of Roman Southern Pannonia The State of Research and Selected Problems in the Croatian Part of the Roman Province of Pannonia, ed. B. Migotti. Oxford: BAR International Series 2393. 29–69. Dzino, D. 2005. Illyrian Policy of Rome in the Late Republic and Early Principate. PhD thesis. University of Adelaide. Dzino, D. 2008. “Deconstructing ‘Illyrians’: Zeitgeist, Changing Perceptions and the Identity of Peoples from Ancient Illyricum”, Croatian Studies Review 5. 43–55. Dzino, D. 2014. “‘Illyrians’ in Ancient Ethnographic Discourse”, Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 40 2. 45–65. Dzino, D.; Domić Kunić, A. 2012. “Pannonians: Identity-Perceptions from the Late Iron Age to Later Antiquity.” In The Archaeology of Roman Southern Pannonia The State of Research and Selected Problems in the Croatian Part of the Roman Province of Pannonia, ed. B. Migotti. Oxford: BAR International Series 2393. 93–115. Džino, D.; Domić Kunić, A. 2013. Rimski ratovi u Iliriku Povijesni antinarativ. Zagreb: Školska knjiga. Gruen, E. S. 2011. Rethinking the Other in Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kovács, P. 2014. A History of Pannonia During the Principate. Bonn: Habelt. Mihovilić, K. 1999. Grobnica Epulonovih predaka / The Grave Vault of the Ancestors of Epulon. Izložba Katalog / Exhibition Catalogue 55. Pula: Arheološki muzej Istre / Archaeological Museum of Istria. Papadodima, E. 2010. “The Greek/Barbarian Interaction in Euripides’ Andromache, Orestes, Heracleidae. A Reassessment of Greek Attitudes to Foreigners”, Digressus 10. 1–42. Šašel Kos, M. 2015. “The Final Phase of the Augustan Conquest of Illyricum”, Antichità altoadriatiche 81. 65–87.

Different Forms of Roman Imperialism Social and Territorial Changes in Northwestern Iberia from the 2nd Century BCE to the 2nd Century CE1 Inés Sastre 1 Preliminary remarks More than twenty years of research by the “Social Structure and Territory. Landscape Archaeology” group from the Instituto de Historia (CSIC), focused on cultural landscapes as the basis for understanding social formations, have allowed shedding new light on the transformation processes brought about by Roman domination in the Iberian Northwest. In this chapter, I propose a general overview of this process based on two complementary approaches: on the one hand, the changes of the conception that the Roman elite had of their Empire throughout the Late Republic and the Principate; on the other, the transformation in the archaeological record interpreted from anthropological approaches. The Roman conquest of Iberia started with the Carthaginian defeat after the Second Punic War (218–201 BCE). The victory gave control of the southern and eastern regions of the Peninsula. Over the following years, Rome continued a progressive expansion to the northern and inland parts of the so-called Hispaniae, alternating warfare with pacification policy, in accordance with the political trends and power relations in Italy at any given moment. During the 2nd century BCE, the Celtiberian-Lusitanian wars took place in the context of Republican civil strife. The first written information regarding Northwestern populations related to these conflictive moments was marked by the progressive submission of communities between the Guadiana and Duero rivers. It must also be taken into account that Hannibal, during the Carthaginian occupation of 1

This essay is part of the research project HAR2015–64632-P Paisajes rurales antiguos del Noroeste peninsular: formas de dominación romana y explotación de recursos (CORUS), financed by the Ministerio de Economía y Competitividad (MINECO-FEDER), and carried out in Instituto de Historia (CSIC).

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Fig. 1 Map of Northwestern Iberia with main large castros. Author: Brais Currás

Iberia, had undertaken military campaigns in the territories around the Duero valley. Moreover, trade relations along the Atlantic coast had taken place during that period and would continue for the benefit of Roman allies, mainly Gades (Naveiro 1991; López Castro 1995; González-Ruibal 2006; Morais 2007). All these constituted new historical factors which put pressure on the Northwestern communities, following a general drive from South to North and from coastal and western Meseta areas to the inner territories. The Greco-Roman literary sources describe different military incursions starting in the mid-2nd century BCE between the Duero and Miño rivers (Currás,

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Sastre and Orejas 2016; Tranoy 1981). When the Cantabrian Wars began at the end of the first century BCE, there was a distinct difference between the southern-coastal area and the rest (Fig. 1) (Orejas and Sánchez-Palencia 1996; Fernández-Posse 1998: 234; Fernández-Ochoa and Morillo 2015). The Augustan conquest brought about another transformation. The measures adopted meant a direct intervention in territories and communities, creating a brand new administrative system throughout. Therefore, two critical moments of change can be identified in the archaeological record of the Northwest: one is between the 2nd and 1st centuries, with changes particularly visible in the southern-coastal areas; the other after the Augustan conquest, affecting the whole territory. Throughout this process, the foundations of Roman dominion were also diverse. Frequently the variability of Roman provincial landscapes is explained by the diversity of pre-Roman societies and the active role of subjects in shaping provincial cultures. However, a complementary explanation may lie in two very Roman realities: a changing conception of imperial dominion closely related to the political context, and the evolution of nobilitas ideology which served to consolidate the empire. 2 Roman dominion in historical perspective: changing ideas about domination and integration Augustus imposed a unified and homogeneous vision of the Orbis Romanus with an ideology based on the confrontation between civilization (humanitas) and barbarism for justifying imperialism, a “new imperial culture characterized by a capacity of homogenization unknown to date in the Mediterranean world” (Beltrán 2003: 180). These ideas were progressively instilled during the Later Republican period (Woolf 1995: 16; Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 34 ff.), becoming under Augustus the sustenance of the Pax Romana, and reaching their highest point with the Roman oration by Aelius Aristides (Ael. Ar. Orat. 26). In this cosmology, the Empire is a unified territory in which the dominium of the Populus Romanus holds sway. It is a unity in which the principles of Iustitia, Pax and Fides, as well as Humanitas, are paramount, and personified by the Emperor (Hidalgo 2005). The Empire is conceived as a single space – a unified social, political and cultural reality under single domination – that contrasts with the barbarian world. The result is a hegemonic ideology. Humanitas is assumed as a shared feature after the incorporation of communities into the Roman world. These ancient ideas are in the foundations of the modern notion of Romanization, and in the construction of an idealized model of “being Roman”, concealing the rich diversity of the provincial world. All this implies a cultural homogeneity that can explain the archaeological record of many parts of the Roman Empire, but not all of them. Also, too often, this exemplary Romanization model has concealed the rich diversity of Roman provincial cultures, and also the existence of relations of exploitation has been erased.

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The Roman Republican expansion, before the crisis of the Late Republic, did not include this notion of “humanizing” the conquered, nor the Roman Empire as a space of civilization. Before the 1st century BCE, this ideology is hardly evident. This goes hand in hand with the fact that the archaeological record has a very “indigenous” aspect. Roman Republican expansion provoked profound changes that took different forms from what happened from August onwards. And local identity within the transformation processes is the protagonist. Examples are plentiful. Following Häussler for Cisalpine Gaul: Roman presence per se did not result in people ‘imitating’ or ‘emulating’ the conqueror’s culture, but their integration in Roman political and military structures and their involvement beyond their local sphere of influence seems to create the wish to demarcate themselves by a stronger identity. The accelerating state formation processes further stimulated the need to express one’s otherness. Cisalpine ‘estates’ and their élites required new symbols of power and new forms of communicating to display their authority and their collective identity (Häussler 2013: 50).

Massilia, after Caesar’s conquest in 49 BCE, began to show Roman cultural influence, but “Hellenism was not a dying remnant of a culture which was disappearing in favor of Romanization, but a conscious choice on the part of the community and its elite and its cultural traditions were a dynamic and evolving response to the changing context of the Roman empire” (Lomas 2004: 496). Hellenization, as a source for constructing local identities apart from Roman cultural influence, but under Roman political hegemony, has also been emphasized (Wallace-Hadrill 2008; Gualtieri 2015; Buchet 2015). It was the Roman dominion which has initiated the changes, although Roman cultural models were not necessarily taken as references by subjected communities in Italy and other territories. In Hispania, some authors have reflected on this early Roman impact, highlighting the social changes imposed by Roman dominance. Beltrán has coined the concept “early Romanization” (“romanización temprana”) for the changes observed in the Ebro valley: introduction of the use of currency and writing, the proliferation of visual representations, architectural developments, substantial changes in diet and cooking habits and strengthening of city life (Beltrán 2003). The study by Chaves about coin types is also intriguing (Chaves 2008; a similar approach in Termeer 2015). In the southern regions, after the Carthaginian defeat, in a context of stipendiary submission of local communities, a considerable proliferation of coinage and minting centers are documented. The types are so specific and particular that they cannot be related to any known issues (Chaves 2008: 109). They have nothing to do with the existing models before the Second Punic War. In later moments, elements inspired by Roman coinage appear. These coincided with propaganda images linked to certain generals in the context of civil wars. Coinage was, therefore, directly related to Roman expansion and reflected the construction of a power language by local aristocracies. The adoption of

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Roman images did not respond to progressive assimilation of Roman cultural influence, but to the participation of local elites in the struggles for power. It was not a matter of “conservatism” or “resistance”. The key element was the ability of local groups to manipulate their traditions in confluence with the values imported by the conqueror. All this gave rise to a new reality that is neither “indigenous” (in a “pre-roman” sense) nor Roman (in a “classical” sense). It was a new social and cultural field that emerged from local action in the new historical context, marked by imperialist submission. The two ideological forms of understanding domination – political control without cultural assimilation vs. Augustan cultural hegemony – were embedded within the practicalities of Imperial control. Roman dominion in the Republic was based on bilateral pacts with local communities after the surrender, which gave place to irregular fiscal systems that respond to a “war economy” as defined by Ñaco (2003), including compensation payments, bounty, hostages, compulsory conscription, etc. Rome considered the foreigners or the conquered to be “others”, without any attempt of “cultural assimilation”. According to Wallace-Hadrill, it was the end of the Social War that marked a fundamental change: “the Social War destroyed the basis of the dialectic between Roman and non-Roman […], a dialectic which presupposed, and thereby promoted, a separation of identities” (Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 81). These “separated identities” are behind the outright ban of granting citizenship to the members of the civitates foederatae which is inferred, among other sources, by the affirmation of Cicero in Pro Balbo (14.32), about some communities of Transpadania. Contrary to Mommsen’s opinion of the “hardness” of these pacts, Luraschi argued that this was a usual clause of each foedus aequum which implied the respect of the territorial and patrimonial integrity and the legal autonomy of the communities that were integrated into the political hegemony of Rome in an advantageous way (Luraschi 1979: 41). With Augustus, the state exercised direct and globalizing control of space and populations (Nicolet 1988), which were subjected to a systematic strategy: community limits established for collecting tribute and recording property, assessment of the potential of the land’s resources and the capacity that the civitas has to provide tribute, and so on. Roman officers ensured this direct management of the territory and oversaw the census of subjected communities. We must not leave out that the relevant policies of status promotion and citizenship grants developed mainly from Caesar onwards (Beltrán 2017: 179). The dominium Populi Romani vel Caesaris became a systematic and centralized exploitation of provincial territories. The global organization of provincial administration, steeped in hegemonic ideology, allowed for the cultural homogenization traditionally interpreted as “Romanization”. It sounds like a cliché to affirm that Rome did not apply deliberate policies to impose its culture (Beltrán 2017: 19), and effectively the hegemonic ideology from Augustus rendered it unnecessary, but it depended on the circumstances. Tacitus transmits an example of Romanizing policy by Agricola (Tac. Ag. 21), with a Roman ideal to which the local elites aspired:

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The following winter passed without disturbance, and was employed in salutary measures. For, to accustom to rest and repose through the charms of luxury a population scattered and barbarous and therefore inclined to war, Agricola gave private encouragement and public aid to the building of temples, courts of justice and dwelling-houses, praising the energetic, and reproving the indolent. Thus an honourable rivalry took the place of compulsion. He likewise provided a liberal education for the sons of the chiefs, and showed such a preference for the natural powers of the Britons over the industry of the Gauls that they who lately disdained the tongue of Rome now coveted its eloquence. Hence, too, a liking sprang up for our style of dress, and the ‘toga’ became fashionable. Step by step they were led to things which dispose to vice, the lounge, the bath, the elegant banquet. All this in their ignorance, they called civilization, when it was but a part of their servitude.

The two conceptions of the conquered people (subjects to be assimilated to Roman cultural forms, or stranger “others”, alien to Roman traditions) also appear in the Annals in relation to the integration of upper-class Gauls in the Roman Senate. The senators who opposed the Emperor argued: is it a small thing that Veneti and Insubres have already burst into the Senate-house, unless a mob of foreigners, a troop of captives, so to say, is now forced upon us? What distinctions will be left for the remnants of our noble houses, or for any impoverished senators from Latium? Every place will be crowded with these millionaires, whose ancestors of the second and third generations at the head of hostile tribes destroyed our armies with fire and sword, and actually besieged the divine Julius at Alesia. These are recent memories. What if there were to rise up the remembrance of those who fell in Rome’s citadel and at her altar by the hands of these same barbarians! Let them enjoy indeed the title of citizens, but let them not vulgarise the distinctions of the Senate and the honours of office” (Tac. Ann. 11.23).

Claudius turns to the traditional assimilation practices which have provided prosperity: What was the ruin of Sparta and Athens, but this, that mighty as they were in war, they spurned from them as aliens those whom they had conquered? Our founder Romulus, on the other hand, was so wise that he fought as enemies and then hailed as fellow-citizens several nations on the very same day.

And regarding the Gauls: on the whole, if you review all our wars, never has one been finished in a shorter time than that with the Gauls. Thenceforth they have preserved an unbroken and loyal peace. United as they now are with us by manners, education, and intermarriage, let them bring us their gold and their wealth rather than enjoy it in isolation (Tac. Ann. 11, 24).

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From a cultural point of view, the absence of Romanization before Augustus has already been considered. Greg Woolf highlights the limited impact of Roman styles before the last decades of the last century BCE (1995: 9). Moreover, Simon Keay emphasizes the absence of “Romanization” prior to the middle of the 1st century BCE (Keay 1992). But the vitality of local identities was a consequence of the arrival of Rome and the apparent changes that this caused on the conquered populations, as all the above examples show. However, current interpretations of these transformations in provincial territories are genuinely determined by the realities of the Augustan Era. Any transformations happening, therefore, before Augustus, are concealed behind later indigenous evolutions, or are considered as a “formative phase” that necessary gave place to a standard Roman record. However, as Beltrán (2017: 22) asserts, the appropriate point of comparison to assess these transformations is not the situation created in the Principate, but the preexisting one. It is, therefore, necessary to be extremely careful with the use (and abuse) of the terms “indigenous” and “pre-Roman”. Indigenous changes, as those indicated above, can correctly be interpreted as local responses to Roman pressures. 3 The north-western archaeological record in light of the different forms of Roman dominion Let us see the archaeological situations which correspond to these two different forms of imperial dominion in Northwestern Hispania, taking as a point of comparison the pre-Roman archaeological record. The Iron Age communities of the region did not have major chiefdoms or early states as in Hallstatt and La Tène cultures. They were small communities which inhabited castros: independent, self-sufficient and fortified settlements of barely one hectare. They were agrarian communities with a diversified production, which dotted the landscape with no superior structure to order the territory. Their archaeological record is rural and community-centered (Fernández-Posse and Sánchez-Palencia 1998; Parcero 2002). They were rural societies with long-term stability, fragmented spaces inside and between settlements, and marked trends against social hierarchies (Sastre 2008; Currás 2014; Currás and Sastre 2019). 3.1 Late Republican changes The landscape changed dramatically around the 2nd century BCE in the southern and coastal regions. The archaeological evidence from this period represents an apparent breaking away from the Iron Age, and it is marked by a concentration of population and emergence of a new material record which implies prestige ideologies (Fig. 2).

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Fig. 2 Elements of the new archaeological record from the 2nd century BCE onwards. Author Brais Currás (after Silva 1986).

While the largest of the Iron Age castros occupied 2 or 3 hectares at the most, later castros were more than 10 ha in size (Sastre and Currás 2019) They also reveal a very different inner organization. There was an overall plan, with streets dividing space into

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sectors of households. Other archaeological novelties are weapons, including items derived from the Roman army types (falcatae and Montefortino helmets, Quesada 1992; 2003); plastic arts inside settlements, with decorative geometric stone elements (Calo 1994); and warrior statues, perhaps as evidence of new social hierarchies. The first coins in the Iberian Northwest appeared in this period, in the southern area, and began to spread beyond this area only later under Augustus (Centeno 2012). Behind these novelties lay the emergence of a ruling class. Changes in social organization and cultural manifestations were dramatic, and only the presence of Rome could explain it. In fact, the Miño valley, where general Brutus Callaicus turned back his armies in one of the first known Roman incursion of the region, is the northern limit of the most intense changes mentioned (Fig. 1). Beyond, the effect was more reduced and belated (or it takes a radically different form), although it was a process of increasing intensification. In the East, similar processes are documented, with Roman pressure coming from the central Peninsula (Orejas 1996). Nonetheless, since the “format” of these transformations was markedly indigenous, conventional interpretation revolves around the possibility of “endogenous change” – rendering the conspicuous Roman presence as mere coincidence. Thus, González Ruibal writes: The type of ‘romanisation’ in the Northwest is surprising if the criteria used by many researchers are employed: the Galaecians became Roman by carving the sculptures of indigenous warriors (Calo 1994), making jewelry of indigenous tradition (Sastre 2001), indigenous pottery (Bello y Peña 1995: 178) and fortified settlements of indigenous type – indeed – of great size (Fernández-Posse 1998: 210). Personally I believe a more reasonable possibility would have been for Roman customs to be adopted, such as Classical sculpture, Roman jewelry, Roman pottery and flatland settlements (González Ruibal 2006–7: 325; original in Spanish, translation I. S.).

This kind of interpretations, which splits cultural reality between “indigenous” and “Roman” has led to speculations about the beginning of this change in the 4th century BCE, and considered that only under Augustus – or even in the Flavian period – did Rome actually affect the Northwest. Our alternative interpretation, however, is founded on the one hand in our thesis about the historical evolution of segmentary castros. Our research into this matter is underway, but we can confidently affirm that the social structure of castros permitted a successful resistance against forms of social exploitation. It was based on population segmentation avoiding settlement growth, and on control of production avoiding power surpluses (Currás and Sastre 2019). Therefore, it is hard to defend the hypothesis on endogenous process towards the aggregation of population and intensification of production without considering the Roman factor in the process. On the other hand, a parallel can be drawn between the “local flourishing” perceived in the Northwest, and what happened in the same period in other regions of the Empire. Moreover, in the Iberian Northwest, this coincided with the formation

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of a dominant class for the first time. Understanding these elements from the 2nd to 1st centuries BCE exclusively as the result of endogenous processes has conditioned the interpretation of Iron Age society in a somewhat specific and incomplete manner: the Roman-period evidence is used to understand previous realities without considering the effects of imperial domination which had profoundly disrupted the previous historical processes. It is, therefore, only with great caution that continuities might be accepted, particularly because the earlier social formations changed so much. This same interpretive problem is repeated with the effects of the Augustan Era and the ensuing 1st century CE. 3.2 Augustan dominion The measures adopted after the Augustan conquest included a direct intervention in territories and communities, creating a brand new administrative system throughout, and new cultural references for constructing power at a local scale (Orejas and Sastre 1999; Dopico 2006; Sánchez-Palencia et al 2017; Dopico and Santos 2017). There was no significant immigration, there was no colonization, and yet the changes were profound. The main feature of the Roman Northwest was the rural social formations, which have been traditionally interpreted as a “failed Romanization”. In traditional approaches, the rural dimension was directly inherited from the pre-Roman past and implied an underdeveloped stage concerning the urban world. Cities are in such a perspective taken as the sign of historical progress, and therefore, the only factor of change. These interpretations have constrained many provincial landscapes to the helpless category of those which “still are not but can, with time, become”. This teleological vision provides a falsely homogenous view of the Roman reality, and of course, derives from the ancient literary sources. It is well known from literary sources (for example Cicero Rep. 1.39 ff.) that the civitas is a people (populus) with its own laws and a territory over which these laws rule (López-Barja 2007: 178 ff.). This definition did not pre-suppose any specific social organization or settlement morphology, even though in the literary sources throughout the Principate, urbanitas went hand by hand with humanitas. During the later Republic and early Principate, the emphasis was on the urban structures and amenities of the city, leaving the political issues in the background (Lomas 1997). The change can be synthesized in the words that Suetonius attributes to Augustus: marmoream relinquo, quam latericiam accepi (“I found Rome a city of brick, and left it a city of marble”, Suet. Aug. 28). However, the political entity of the civitates remained despite the ideological bias of Imperial writers. As Lomas points out, Pausanias, describing the city of Panopeus, (10.4.1) “pours large measures of scorn on its claims to be a city, saying that since cities, by definition, had an agora, a fountain house, a proper water supply, and

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various other amenities, Panopeus, which did not have these, should only be called a mere village. Nevertheless, he is forced to admit that as an independent member of the Phocian League, Panopeus did indeed have the status of a polis” (Lomas 1997: 23). While in Rome the civic and aristocratic model disappeared with the consolidation of the Principate (and the formalist interpretation of the civitas), paradoxically, a system of imperial control based on that form of political organization expanded in the West (Beltrán 2006). Therefore, the concept of civitas – stripped of the ancient and modern elitist connotations – can be perfectly applied, for example, to strictly rural territories, as long as there were local citizenship, laws to abide by, and an established border around them. In fact, the notion of civitas is a key in understanding Roman domination in the Hispanic Northwest from Augustus onwards. This concept is severely limited when it is merely translated as “city”, and thereby automatically associated with “urban” morphologies. It is well known that the territory was a key part of ancient cities. On the other hand, there is the risk of confusing the aristocratic ideology woven around the urbanitas as a civilized form of living with the administrative system based on local autonomy which removed the need for an extensive bureaucratic system (as it happens in Revell 2009). We must take a step further, and show how the civitas was entirely possible without the city and highlight that the administrative model did not imply a unique type of social formation or a unidirectional historical process. From my point of view, Rome was not concerned with creating central places that could become urbes. The basis of the civitas system was the definition of territories for local elites to be politically active in, following the local law and paying tribute to Rome. Frontinus (De agrorum qualitate Th. 1–2) indicates that the ager per extremitatem mensura comprehensus (“a land defined by the perimeter”) was the most commonly applied technique used to divide the land for tributary reasons (Orejas and Sastre 1999). Since these were hierarchical societies, central cores will appear, but settlement patterns depended more on local initiative than on Rome’s actions. Whether these settlements became cities in the classical sense had to do more with an aspiration within the concept of humanitas and with the social organization of local communities, than with the administrative structure of the civitas. Therefore it is necessary to focus on the territory as a whole instead of searching for capitals using literary or epigraphic toponyms, and rendering maps of the Roman administrative system into simplified networks of dots. With the imposition of an imperial tributary economy in the Northwest, production began to be intensified. Castros gradually disappeared and new settlements rose up in direct relation to good farming lands and/or territorial hierarchies. The layout of the road system became extremely relevant, for it directly conditioned the new territorial power structure (Pérez Losada 2002). Only a minority of the local capitals developed a monumental core (like Aquae Flaviae, current Chaves) or an urban development (like Tongobriga). The predominant settlement pattern implied a rural and dispersed landscape.

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It is within this territorial understanding that we have approached the study of the Augustan edict from the year 15 BCE from El Bierzo (León) (Sánchez-Palencia and Mangas 2000; López-Barja 2010; Wulff 2012). The document reveals the names of some civitates and their role in paying tribute. The civitates of the Gigurri and Susarri, as well as others, like the Lougei, found in contemporary documents (hospitality pacts; Balbín 2006) possibly corresponded to the areas marked in fig. 3. Gold mines which at the time of the edict were still untapped, but would become active during the ensuing century, are also represented. Civitates were populated by castella, which were small rural communities (Orejas and Ruiz del Árbol 2010). However, there are no settlements archaeologically documented which could be clearly identified as cores/capitals during the first part of the 1st century CE. This initial disposition possibly changed during the Flavian reforms. The Roman settlements near the roads are datable from 50 CE onwards, and they probably became central places only under Flavian rule (when the edict was made – 15 BCE – these settlements did not yet exist). In the second century, there is the testimony of a civitas Bergidoflaviensis, or Bergidum Flavium, named as mansio in the Antonine Itinerary (Itin Ant. 425.4), currently located in Cacabelos (León).

Fig. 3 Map of El Bierzo (León): 15 BCE – 2nd century CE. Author: Brais Currás

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Occupation in Cacabelos during the early Empire was common in various rural settlements around a dispersed and unassuming settlement (Díaz 2006–8), but at the moment the only excavated site is La Edrada. This settlement shows urbanism in line with its function as road mansio, with domestic architecture and an early Imperial sewer system, also serving the nearby baths (Rodríguez et al. 2003; Díaz 2006–8). Some local aristocratic families achieved a wide regional projection, and are documented in Tarraco, the provincial capital (RIT 333=CIL II 4248= II2/14, 1194). Possibly, Bergidum Flavium was transformed into a central node for the control of the gold mining operations in this strategically important mining zone of the Hispanic Northwest, under the direct supervision of the administrative staff located in Asturica Augusta, the conventus capital. The mining areas were administered directly by the Roman government (Sánchez-Palencia et al. 2017). They were undoubtedly a spectacular form of exploitation of the land, but they must be understood as one more resource within a global exploitation strategy of these territories (Sánchez-Palencia 2012). The success in the mining of the Northwest was due to the articulation of imperial and local administration. Mining land, which was res fiscalis, was administered directly by the State with an active role reserved for the army. At the same time, the definition of civitates allowed for the imposition of tribute in the form of the workforce. It is highly probable that mine-working was part of the yearly tribute of the civitas inhabitants in that area. For example, Florus (2.33) mentions Asturians as local workforce in the mining areas under Augustus. If this archaeological evidence is compared with the social reality revealed by Latin inscriptions, there is potential for even better understanding of the situation. Most inscriptions in the region have a rough aspect and include simple texts (Fig. 4). The great majority of inscriptions correspond to funerary and votive epigraphy, including names and the usual formulae. This has been interpreted as a symptom of the backwardness

Fig. 4 Funerary inscriptions from Villardiegua de la Ribera and Villalcampo in the Museo of Zamora. Photo: EST-AP

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and poverty of the dedicants. I have defended an alternative view based on the idea that literacy and access to monumental scripture are signs of high status in these rural circles (Sastre 2002). In this context, the limited epigraphic evidence of civic roles and institutions is noteworthy. There was no evergetism and the only honorary inscriptions were related to the army or the imperial administration. This fact has important historical implications: the subtle ideological games which permeated civic power were not needed in these rural societies, just like it was unnecessary to monumentalize civitas capitals. The idea of the monumental city was easy to expand as an expression of imperial power (Asturica Augusta is a nice example, Orejas and Morillo 2013), but the civil relations on which the classical city was founded were another matter. Classical cities were based both on the commitment of the ruling class to community life (only wealthy families were able to afford the expenses of a political career), and on the existence of a citizen body with the right to vote (Pereira 2011). What happened where these conditions did not exist? Pereira set the question out: “in the absence of cities, the foundation of social reproduction was different. Therefore, we should not consider the non-urban societies of Northern Hispania as something that did not become what it should be in principle – like the Baetica or the Narbonensis – but as something different, and this with all its consequences” (Pereira 1984: 276, original in Spanish, translated by I. S.). Peasants remained isolated from political or civic activities. Belonging to a civitas was usually limited to the omni munere fungere found in the Bierzo Edict (i. e. belong to a fiscal circumscription and paying taxes in it). Civitas organization was not based on urban centers, but on regional entities which managed the administration and parceled the territory into vessels for local aristocratic power. The manifestations of this local power differed clearly from the forms of high-class identity in urban contexts while participating in the same hegemonic imperial ideology: “the non-Roman people were never transformed to the Romans, but were creating a new local Roman culture. The Roman culture was reinvented in different local context, allowing the coexistence of imperial context of social changes and the local adoption of the Roman identity” (Jankovic 2014). 4 Conclusions In the Roman Northwestern Hispania we find a provincial tributary peasant society, in the sociological sense of the term, which is clearly reflected in the configuration of a hierarchical rural landscape. Far from being the remnants of a pre-Roman world, this world was also quite distinct from the notion of “Romanization” which historiography has invented. In other words, it was not a land of cities, but a decidedly rural environment which can be perfectly well understood within the historical process of imperial domination before and after Augustus. The archaeological record may have more or less indigenous elements, but it is clearly different from the pre-Roman record regarding set-

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tlement patterns, diverse morphology of the settlements, change in domestic material culture as well as construction techniques. Also, new cultural practices appeared, such as the epigraphic habit. In conclusion: while the traditional model assumes that the cities urbanized the country (centuriations, rural settlements like vici, mirrors of the urbs), in our case study the countryside was structured by itself (Pereira 1984). Bibliography Abbreviations RIT CIL

G. Alföldy, Die römischen Inschriften von Tarraco Berlin: de Gruyter. 1975. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Literature

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Nicolet C. 1988. L’inventaire du monde Géographie et politique aux origines de l’Empire romain. Paris: Hachette. Ñaco, T. 2003. Vectigal incertum Economía de guerra y fiscalidad republicana en el occidente romano: su impacto histórico en el territorio (218–133 a C ). Oxford: J. and E. Hedges. Orejas, A. 1996. Estructura social y territorio El impacto romano en la cuenca noroccidental del Duero. Madrid: Anejos de Archivo Español de Arqueología. Orejas, A.; Morillo, A. 2013. Asturica Augusta: reflexiones sobre su estatuto y su papel territorial (finales del siglo I a. d. C. – principios del siglo III d. C.).” In Debita verba: estudios en homenaje al profesor Julio Mangas Manjarrés, ed. E. García, R. Cid. Oviedo: Universidad de Oviedo. 93–119. Orejas, A.; Ruiz del Árbol, M. 2010. “Los castella y la articulación del poblamiento rural de las civitates del Noroeste peninsular.” In Dialéctica histórica y compromiso social Homenaje a Domingo Plácido, ed. C. Fornis, J. Gallego, P. López Barja, M. Valdés. Madrid: Libros Pórtico. 1091–1128. Orejas, A.; Sastre, I. 1999. “Fiscalité et organisation du territoire dans le Nord-Ouest de la Péninsule Ibérique: civitates, tribut et ager mensura comprehensus”, Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 25 1. 159–188. Parcero, C. 2002. La construcción del paisaje social en la Edad del Hierro del Noroeste Ibérico. Ortigueira: Fundación Ortegalia. Pereira, G. 1984. “La formación histórica de los pueblos del Norte de Hispania. El caso de Gallaecia como paradigma”, Veleia 1. 271–288. Pereira, G. 2011. La economía política de los romanos III Munera civitatium La vida de la ciudad romana ideal. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla. Quesada, F. 1992. “El casco de Almaciles (Granada) y la cuestión de los cascos de tipo ‘Montefortino’ en la Península Ibérica”, Verdolay 5. 65–73. Quesada, F. 2003. “¿Espejos de piedra? Las imágenes de armas en las estatuas de los guerreros llamados galaicos”, Madrider Mitteilungen 44. 87–112. Revell, L. 2009. Roman Imperialism and Local Identities Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rodríguez, P.; Alvarez, J. C.; Lomba, P.; Martínez, M. 2003. “Campaña de excavaciones arqueológicas en La Edrada 2002.” In Actas de las Jornadas sobre Castro Ventosa, ed. J. A. Balboa de Paz, I. Díaz; V. Fernández. León: Ayuntamiento de Cacabelos. 63–82. Sánchez-Palencia, F. J. (ed.) 2012. Minería romana en las zonas interfronterizas de Castilla-León y Portugal (Asturia y NE de Lusitania). Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León. Sánchez-Palencia, F. J.; Mangas J. (eds.) 2000. El Edicto del Bierzo Augusto y el Noroeste de Hispania. Ponferrada: Fundación Las Médulas. Sánchez-Palencia, F. J.; Orejas, A. 1999. “Arqueología de la conquista del noroeste de la Península Ibérica.” In II Congreso de Arqueología Peninsular 4 23–38. Zamora: Universidad de Alcalá – Fundación Rei Alfonso Enriques. Sánchez-Palencia, F. J.; Sastre, I.; Orejas, A.; Ruiz del Árbol, M. 2017. “Augusto y el control administrativo y territorial de las zonas mineras del Noroeste hispano”, Gerión 35. 863–874. Sastre, I. 2002. Onomástica y relaciones políticas en la epigrafía del conventus Asturum durante el Alto Imperio. Madrid: Anejos de Archivo Español de Arqueología. Sastre, I. 2008. “Community, Identity and Conflict. Iron Age Warfare in the Iberian Northwest”, Current Anthropology 49 6. 1021–1051. Sastre, I.; Currás, B. X. (2019). “Aggregation and Dispersal from a Long-term Social Perspective: Rural Landscapes of the Northwestern Iberian Peninsula from the Iron Age to the Early Roman Empire.” In Coming Together: Comparative Approaches to Population Aggregation and Early Urbanization, ed. A. Gyucha. Buffalo: SUNY University Press, Albany 295–320.

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Silva, A. C. F. 1986. A cultura castreja no noroeste de Portugal Paços de Ferreira: Museu Arqueológico da citânia de Sanfins. Termeer, M. K. 2015. “Minting Apart Together: Bronze Coinage Production in Campania and Beyond in the Third Century BC.” In Processes of Cultural Change and Integration in the Roman World, ed. S. T. Roselaar. Leiden: Brill. 58–77. Tranoy, A. 1981. La Galice romaine Recherches sur le nord-ouest de la péninsule Ibérique dans l’Antiquité Paris: De Boccard. Wallace-Hadrill, A. 2008. Rome’s Cultural Revolution, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Woolf, G. 1995. “The Formation of Roman Provincial Cultures.” In Integrating in the Early Roman West The Role of Culture and Ideology, ed. J. Metzler, M. Millet, N. Roymans, J. Slofstra. Luxembourg: Musee National de Luxembourg. 9–18. Wulff, F. 2012. “El Edicto de Bembibre y el modelo de dominación romano en el Noroeste peninsular.” In Romanización, fronteras y etnias en la Roma antigua El caso hispano, ed. J. Santos, G. Cruz-Andreotti. Vitoria: Universidad del Pais Vasco. 499–556.

Section 2 Producing Landscape and Architecture

The Rural civitas of Vadinienses (León-Asturias, Spain) Landscape, Epigraphy and Local Aristocracies Antonio Rodríguez-Fernández

1 Vadinia, a rural civitas The civitas Vadiniensis1 offers an excellent opportunity to explore genuine reactions to Roman domination through its epigraphy. The new administrative system imposed after the Astur-Cantabric Wars (29–19 BCE), as the Edict of El Bierzo shows, established a new basis for an in-depth changing process (HEp 11, 2001, 286; Sánchez-Palencia and Mangas 2000). In this sense, the case of Vadinia is not very different from most of the civitates in Northwestern Iberia as can be seen in a long-term perspective in another place of this volume (see the contribution of Sastre). Named as Vadinia by Ptolemy (Ptol. Geog II.6.50), it was one of the civitatium novem regio Cantabrorum of the conventus Cluniensis described by Plinius (Plin. HN 4.20.110–112), although he only refers to Iuliobriga, the most important one of the populus. Following Martino’s proposal for the fines civitatium (Martino 2002), its vast area embraced a large part of the Cantabric range, next to Picos de Europa, extending through Porma, Esla and Cea valleys (Vadinienses Cismontani) and some Sella’s tributary rivers in the North slope (Vadinienses Transmontani), between the current provinces of León and Asturias (Spain). Traditionally a significant number of researchers tended to explain the civitas Vadiniensis as an example of the rural periphery, being culturally, socially and politically isolated in the mountainous landscape during the Roman Empire. The role played by the Romanization theory has meant denying the cultural change in favor of pre-Roman continuity through the survival of “Castro culture”, with its settlement dynamics 1

This study was undertaken as a part of the research Project “Ancient Rural Landscape of Northwestern Iberia: forms of social domination and exploitation resources”(CORUS: HAR2015– 64632-P) funded by the Ministry of Economy (Spain). I want to express my appreciation to my research group (EST-AP), especially to F. J. Sánchez-Palencia and I. Sastre Prats for their helpful advice and support doing this study.

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and even its social institutions being supposedly represented in Roman inscriptions. As we shall see below, the rough aspect of Vadinia’s epigraphy, commonly incised on eroded boulders taken from the rivers, also helped in creating the impression of the defective or nonexistent level of ‘Roman development’, instead of being interpreted as a cultural phenomenon engaged in a new and different ‘provincial’ context. However, some recent research studies have contributed to break and question this paradigm thanks to the further information provided by newly discovered inscriptions, deeper (though still insufficient) archaeological knowledge and, above all, an objection to the civitas model from a classical and roman point of view (Sastre 2001a). Concerning the last topic, some difficulties in interpreting the inner framework of the civitas (following this traditional or poleis model) in the case of Vadinia have remained: 1. They are based on the denial of the rural countryside as a proper functioning framework, so the civitas is commonly assimilated and confused with urbanism. Our current acquaintance of Vadinia’s settlement clearly shows the total absence of any signs of urbanism for the whole area and lack of a centralized group working as a government or administrative center. Some places where Roman epigraphy seems more concentrated, i e Liegos (4) or Crémenes (6 inscriptions), kept its rural landscape of small and fragmented sites during the early Empire (some of them being identified with fortified sites like Liego’s or Vilayandre’s “castros” respectively). This trend is documented via archaeological surveys in Porma, Esla and Cea valleys (Celis 1985; Gutiérrez 1985; 1986–87; Liz 1996; Sastre and Sánchez-Palencia 2013), although intensive fieldwork and regional scale analysis is needed in order to confirm the analogy with other rural landscapes of Northwestern Iberia which are marked by the lack of urbes in the Roman period.2 The classical model of civitas or poleis assumes an urbs with a dependant ager, and the rural area is understood as an entity whose nature is conceivable only in connection with a center (usually a town or city with Roman features), that regulates its social, economic and political structure (see Perez Losada 2002). As was pointed out by Pereira (1984), this kind of misconception about rural agency explains the great efforts made in looking for Vadinia’s capital but without any result (see Iglesias 1999: 303). The proposals for a location of the caput civitatis have been numerous3 but they are not supported by any data that may prove these speculative attempts. To overcome this difficulty, we should remember that, above all, a model is an instrument to understand the complexity and diversity of evidence better, and not a fixed frame in which everything fits perfectly. Other possibilities are attested in the Corpus Agrimen2

3

Such as the regions of El Bierzo, Valduerna, Valderia (León; Sánchez-Palencia and Fernández-Posse 1985; 1988; Orejas 1996; Sánchez-Palencia 2000: 227–306), Baixo Minho valley (Pontevedra; Curras 2014: 796–885), western Zamora and eastern Tràs-os-Montes (Esparza 1986; Romero 2015) N-E of Lusitania (Ruiz del Árbol, 2001: 351–517; 2005) or western Asturias (Villa 2007). For example: Benia de Onís (Asturias) suggested by Santos Yanguas (2015: 102), Deobriga near Pedrosa del Rey (Mangas and Martino 1997: 326), the “Castro de Morgovejo-La Canalina” and “La Uña” (Peralta Labrador 2003: 129; cf Luengo 1940) or La Corona de Acevedo (Vidal 2015: 385).

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sorum Veterum which testify to the different ways of domination and management of the civic space (Orejas 2002), the role of mobile aristocracies replacing administrative centers (Sastre 2002), or the civitas sine urbe pattern in NE Hispania (Oller 2014). All of these suggest that rural landscapes were finding their ways of self-management. 2. The rejection of the idea of rural civitates is closely connected to the modern conceptions which identify urban centers as synonyms of ‘progress’ and ‘development’ and equal the countryside with poverty and deprivation. The apriorism of the supposed backwardness of peasant countryside assumes the impossibility of successful labor without association with some large urban settlement. As the Vadiniensis case is concerned, behind such a perspective, one can observe two main theories which aim to reach a solution by staying within the ‘classical model’. The first one understands urbanism and civitas as a pairing set and denies the existence of the civitas Vadiniensis before the 2nd century CE (Knapp 1986) since the Vadinieses are for the first time documented as a members of a polis only by Ptolemy (Geog II.6.50). This assumption, based merely on literary sources, contradicts the current dataset provided by epigraphy. At the moment, 45 of a total of 69 funerary inscriptions from the area of Vadinia (see Table 1) show a surprising rate of origines intra civitatem and presumably take pride in sharing (and showing) their civic identity. Usually, the name of the deceased is followed by abbreviated forms like Vad(inienis) in the genitive. All of them implicitly mean civitas as we know from the inscription found in Pedrosa del Rey which explicitly refers to Cor(nelius) Mate(rnus) cives4 / Vad(iniensis) (see Table 1: n. 43 and González 1997: 96–100). Hence, it is important to point out that the feeling of common belonging could arise in spite of rural settlement patterns. It could be even greater than in the promoted Roman urban centers such as the colony of Clunia (the capital of the conventus to which Vadinia belonged) with only ten attested origines intra civitatem (see González 2011: 95). The second theory remarks on the inefficiency of rural civitates and looks for an explanation of their management and financial integration in particular instruments that Rome employed in special circumstances. One of them is the proposal of Mangas and Martino (1997: 336) citing the adtributio of the Vadinienses to another urbanized or higher status community as the means to fulfill fiscal and administrative duties imposed by Rome This view, in other words, indicates that rural settlement could not successfully operate on its own and consequently had to depend on some external and more ‘developed’ civitas. However, there is no clue that such a management tool was indeed applied in Hispania Adtributio in a technical sense, described by Laffi (1966), is only well-attested in Augustan Italy, where some Alpine and peregrinae communities were adtributae to colonies or municipia like Brixia, Verona, Tergeste or Tridentum, according to the Tropaeum Alpinum (CIL V 7817), the tabula Clesiana (CIL

4

The plural cives instead of civis may embrace the dedicant and the deceased, Boderus Sdubleginus, although the grammar mistakes are not a rarity in this rural epigraphy.

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V 5050) and the case of the Langenses Viturii in the Sententia Minuciorum (117 BCE: CIL I2 584). Moreover, the question arises to which legal entity the Vadienienses could be adtributi to after the conquest? Following Laffi (1966: 89): “il centro cittadino da cui dipendono le comunità adtributae è sempre un centro di diritto latino o romano, colonia o municipium”, but in the whole region of the Cantabri any civitas fulfills these requirements in Augustan times. The only case with enough indicators of reaching a privileged status civitatis during the Early Empire and sufficiently close to the Vadinienses was Iuliobriga. However, scholars agree that its promotion to municipium latinum happened during the Flavian age which is corroborated by the mention of tribu Quirina of a flamen provincialis and C Annius Flavus from Iuliobriga (CIL II 4192; Cepeda, Iglesias and Ruiz, 2008: 106–108). Furthermore, recent archaeological data have confirmed that the forum of Iuliobriga located in Retortillo (Campoo de Enmedio, Cantabria) was built after that (Cepeda, Iglesias and Ruiz 2009). That is to say, Vadinia did not have a promoted civitas for adtributio after its integration into the Roman administrative framework. Leaving aside this kind of apriorisms and prejudices, constructed by idealized views on “the Roman city”, we must approach the issue from the perspective of rural civitas in a manner that is not inconsistent with the capacities of self-government and self-management (see Revell 2009: 40–79). In this sense, there are some telling examples from literary sources such as the opinion expressed by Pausanias (X, 6, 1) in his description of the rural polis of Panopeus: “From Chaeroneia it is twenty stades to Panopeus, a city of the Phocians, if one can give the name of city to those who possess no government offices, no gymnasium, no theater, no market-place, no water descending to a fountain, but live in bare shelters just like mountain cabins, right on a ravine. Nevertheless, they have boundaries with their neighbors, and even send delegates to the Phocian assembly”. Despite Pausanias’ initial surprise about Panopeus rural features, the key elements regarding a civitas seem to be: fixed and recognized borders by Roman power (territorial aspect) and an authorized institutional voice (political and legal aspect). Both requirements seemed sufficient to consider a community a civitas regardless of how they were organized. Following Pausanias’ view, some texts of ancient surveyors of the 1st–3rd centuries CE described other ways of organizing conquered territories that differed from the common agri divisi et adsignati and its reticular formation. Specifically, the category of ager per extremitatem mensura comprehensus described by the land-surveyor Frontinus in the late 1st century CE, gives us clues as to how a civitas of peregrini was structured: Ager est mensura conprehensus, cuius modus universus civitati est adsignatus, sicut in Lusitani Salmaticensibus aut Hispania citeriore Palatinit et in conpluribus provinciis tributarium solum per universitatem populis est definitum. Ager per extremitatem implied an assigment of territoria “in block” by Rome to each community. In this way territorial liabilities remained in hands of the civitas and their social elites, like the collection of tributum soli which was imposed by Rome on the whole community. In other words,

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Rome was not concerned about internal structuring, like the apportionment of that fiscal charges or their political system (see Brunt 1981: 168–70). Following the surveyors’ texts, the self-government and self-management were thus possible even in rural landscapes (Orejas and Sastre 1999; Orejas, 2002) and explain the diversity of Romanization responses thanks to the autonomy, local agency and decentralized framework given by Rome: “These include an essentially loose centralizing structure which, from the Augustan period to the 3rd century, allowed the cities a very large measure of self-government within prescribed limits. Incorporation thus involved a process of encouraging the native aristocracies to identify their interests with those of Rome. This was based on the republican tradition of avoiding any excessive administrative commitments which would have resulted from any highly centralized system of direct rule. The net effect of this method of administration was to keep the levels of taxation low, and maintain a remarkably small public service, at least until the Diocletianic reforms” (Millet 1990: 37). Strabo claims that Northern and Northwestern Iberia were pacified and converted into civitates (πολιτικούς) shortly after the end of Astur-Cantabric Wars (Str. III, 3, 8; Pereira 1988: 246–49). Two epigraphical sources have confirmed this literary assessment. The first one, tabula Lougeiorum, found in 1983, reflects a very swift embrace of the new order showing the hospitium made ex gente Asturum conventus Arae / August(a) e / civitas Lougeiorum (HEp 1, 1989, 458). On the other hand, the Edict de El Bierzo (15 CE: HEp 7, 1997, 378) reveals how rapid the taxation was imposed on the Susarri and Gigurri and, above all, it demonstrates an illustrative fact: both communities are named as gentes or civitas with synonymic meaning (lines 15 and 19: ex gente Susarroum … volente ipsa civitate). This means that both terms should not be understood as indicators of the continuity from pre-Roman social formations to the new Roman order, respectively, but in an entirely similar way, where the seeming ethnicity has lost its previous content and has evolved towards new meanings of social belonging, identified at the end with administrative units. Vadinia was not an exception of this integration process, as it was mentioned in respect of the large number of origines intra civitatem attested since the 1st century CE. Its epigraphical dispersion offers an approximate extent of the territorium given to Vadinia, probably in a similar manner as Pausanias described for Panopeus (see Martino 2002; Sastre 2002: 79–82). The assignation of fines and territorium was probably “in block” or per extremitatem if we consider this is the model proposed for the most of rural civitates from Northwestern Hispania (Sastre and Orejas 1999; Sastre 2001a: 124–156) and it is attested by termini measuring the civic space (Ariño 2005; Ariño, Palet and Gurt, 2004: 177–184). Frontinus precisely exemplifies this genus agri with Pallantia, a civitas close to Vadinia and also belonging to conventus Cluniensis (TIR, K-30). Although we lack Vadinia’s termini, and regardless of rural settlement pattern and absence of the capital, there is no reason to think the civitas had no boundaries or full rights over the assigned territory. After all, this kind of epigraphic evidence is not common since it

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was more related to controversiae de iure territorio than with the systematic processes of limitatio set by milestones Moreover, the neighboring civitates peregrinae with similar rural features had this kind of defined borders: an inscription from Piloña (Asturias) dated to the 1st century CE attests the frontier between the Luggoni, located at the edges of conventus Asturum and some unknown civitas of the Cantabri (ERAs 62; Mangas 1983: 169; González 1997: 44–46; Orejas 2002: 401–402). Similarly, the nearby Iuliobriga was confined by 18 termini augustales which separated prata legionis IIII et agrum Iuliobrigensium in the Cantabri’s region between 15 BCE and 5 CE (see Cortés Bárcena 2013: 103–128; 2007) Near Vadinia, C Mocconius Verus made a census (or recensus) of some civitates of Vascones in the late 1st century CE, characterized by dispersal and rural settlement in conventus Cluniensis (CIL VI, 1643; Sayas, 1989). So, despite a great deal of attention given to urbanization studies, we should not overlook the fact that rural landscapes instead of being interpreted as isolated or city-dependant agencies, could constitute actual units as part of the Roman administrative framework. The mountainous landscape of the civitas Vadiniensis did not prevent an efficient organization, an integration into the Roman network of power, nor a conduction of fiscal or civic duties (munera). A key element regarding the inclusión of the Vadinienses into the Roman domination scheme has been pointed out by archaeological fieldwork made by Sánchez-Palencia, Fernández-Posse and Sastre during 2002–2003, which has recently been partly published (Sastre and Sánchez-Palencia 2013). This landscape approach has shown with ample evidence that the Vadinienses were not as insulated as previously thought but fully involved in the activities driven by the main Roman interest in Northwestern Iberia: the gold mining. These kinds of mining operations, which required an extensive network of canals, reservoirs or tunnels carved in the rock (depending on the geological context of gold: Plin. HN 33.66–78; Plácido and Sánchez-Palencia 2012) have left their marks on these mountainous landscapes, with trenches on their slopes and other traces identifiable even today. This research work points to two main areas of gold mining activities in the western and eastern parts of the Vadinienses territory, although further studies will likely show they are not the only ones. The eastern gold mines were documented in the upper reach of Esla river, around the Riaño’s swamp. Some of them are located in the Yuso’s river mouth, in so-called “Los Casares” and “Valdecasares” (Riaño); “Morrón Carretero” (Pedrosa del Rey); “La Cavén y San Pastor” in Majavieja mount and “El Joyo” (both next Barniedo de la Reina) and, in the north side from Riaño’s swamp, “El Joyo de la Gudiella” (Burón; Sastre and Sánchez-Palencia 2013). Normally, the number of epigraphic monuments is the highest in the most developed mining areas of Northwestern Iberia, like El Bierzo, western Zamora, La Valduerna (Sastre, Beltrán and Alonso 2012) or Tresminas (Redentor, 2010). In the case of civitas Vadinia the central concentration point of Roman inscriptions is nearby Riaño with 5 attestations, 4 of them collected from the former place of Riaño’s village (before the construction

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Fig. 1 The opencast mines of so-called “El Reguerón” or “La Roza” next to Isoba (Pueblo de Lillo). Foto: J. Sánchez-Palencia (see Sastre and Sánchez Palencia 2013: 263)

of Riaño’s swamp) and another one from La Puerta, which may be related with the ancient site of Cima La Cueva according to some old reports. All of them (see Table 1: nos. 1, 2, 27, 39, 63) represent individuals of local origin and peregrine status covering the period from the late 1st to the 2nd century CE, i. e. spanning throughout the main phase of gold mining activities in Northwestern Hispania. This small epigraphical sample exposes ways of social relating amongst the aristocracy in the civitas Vadiniensis, relationships inter amici (nos. 1, 63) and groups like Pentilocum (no. 1), Pentiocum (no. 27), Cadaricum (no. 2) or Veliagum (no. 39). Inscription nos. 1 and 63 also mention the origo Vadiniensis. In Pedrosa del Rey there are two attested inscriptions (no. 57: late 1st century CE; n. 43: 3rd century CE), in an intermediate position between the “Morrón Carretero” and “Los Casares-Valdecasares” mines. One of them (no. 43) may reflect an ex(actor) pr(incipis) eor(um) conniventium (Mangas and Martino 1997: 338–39) which offers an interesting example of the decentralized structure mentioned above in regard to the rural civitates. Local elites like Cor(nelius) Mate(rnus) cives Vad(niensis) assumed administrative or fiscal tasks (the munera or the collection of tributum soli) that used to be embraced by ordinary magistracies in urban and classical civitas. The role played by the local elites was fundamental for collecting the local manpower from this rural and fragmented landscape of villages (conniventium), and then send it as a workforce

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to the gold mining activities in Northwestern Iberia. In this sense, we must take into account that all over the mining areas of the Northwestern Citerior province Rome imposed a system of direct rule, where mines remained ager publicus and imperial administration supported by the army used local population for labor as a form of tribute (Sánchez-Palencia et al 2006). In other words, the gold mining operations did not entail a direct enrichment of the populations involved in it (as can be seen in Vispasca tablets or Cathago Nova ingots – see Orejas and Sánchez-Palencia 2002), but a loss of surplus labor. In this mining context, the exactor prinicipis Cornelius Maternus illustrates the critical significance of collaborative elites within the rural frameworks such as Vadinia, acting as intermediaries between the civitas and the imperial authorities. In the eastern gold mining areas, a fragmentary inscription was found in Barniedo de la Sierra, next to the “La Cavén y San Pastor” and “El Joyo” mining operations, although only the peregrine name of Ambadus Palari n[---] was preserved (no. 18). Finally, the “Joyo de la Gudiella” mines could be related to some uncertain “castros” attested in the area, like “Pandiello” and “Peñón de Liegos” (Liegos), although archaeological evidence is still insufficient to draw any conclusion. On the other hand, 100 m north of the aforementioned sites around Liegos were found four inscriptions from the late 1st to 3rd CE century which attest origo Vadiniensis (nos. 15, 53, 54, 55) and two of them express relationships inter amici too (nos. 15, 53). Even closer to these eastern mines the “Castro de la Magdalena” (Burón) and, in front of “Joyo de la Gudiella”, the “Castro of Burón” (Fig. 2: square 1) are documented on rocky outcropping, with no epigraphical finds. The gold mining activities to the west of civitas Vadinia were spread over a pretty small area in the headwaters of the Curueño and Porma valleys: “El Reguerón/La Roza” next to the “Pinzón” stream (Fig. 1), the labor traces near the “Ausente” lake, a large trench in the north scope of “Peña Lázara” and probably connected with a hill water impoundment at the top (Sastre and Sánchez-Palencia 2013: 262–64). Further traces were also found at some points next to the “Ríopinos” stream, and minor traces are recorded in the mountain pass of “Vegarada” (Sastre and Sánchez-Palencia 2013: 264–66). Some ancient sites that apparently followed the tradition of Iron Age fortified settlements of “castros” could belong to Roman era too, as has been noticed at other “castros” involved in Roman gold mining activities of the western Asturias (like the “Castrelo de Pelóu” – Montes et al. 2009, or “Chao Samartín” – Villa 2009; 2010). The “castro” known as “El Castrillón” or “Castriltejón” (Puebla de Lillo, Fig. 2, square 2) might be included in this category because of its immediate vicinity to the “Peña Lazaro” mine and some Roman period traces were found on its surface, although definite conclusions pend on future on-site and off-site fieldwork. The number of Roman inscriptions decreases as altitude rises on the western edges of Vadinia. In all these mining areas there is a single inscription, which was documented in the mountain pass of “San Isidro” and dates to the late 1st to 2nd century CE (no. 9). Although it does not state origo it undoubtedly belonged to this community

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Fig. 2 Settlements and mining operations in civitas Vadiniensis

because of its morphological character which is typically Vadiniensis: inscribed in an irregular and eroded boulder of quartzite, with the typical funerary formula of M(onumentum) and the name (Andotus) only attested in Vadinia (nos. 1, 53), along with the father’s rare name (Arenus: nos. 1, 30, 61). Thus, if we take into account the geographical dispersion of the Vadinienses’ epigraphy as the main factor for interpreting the boundaries, we must consider that the eastern mining area could belong to Vadinia in a much wider extent than Martino (2002) previously supposed. 2 Vadinia and Vadinienses: epigraphy and society The total amount of inscriptions from Vadinia has been increased to 75 after some recent finds (González and Gorrachategui 2013; Martino 2014; Sánchez-Lafuente and Ordóñez 2017), a considerable number in comparison to other rural communities of Northwestern Hispania. However, the key question for interpreting these epigraphical data concerns its social representativeness: does the content of these inscriptions re-

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flect the whole society of the Vadinienses or only that of a higher social rank? From a methodological point of view, we must take into account that rural frameworks have a different pace of cultural change than urban centers. In other words, we must not compare rural settlement patterns with urban realities to draw any conclusions, but interpret them in their specific context, which sometimes requires innovative approaches. According to Sastre (2007), epigraphy in these kinds of rural communities of Northwestern Hispania, where analphfabetism was much higher than in urban settings such as conventus’ capitals, almost exclusively reflects social elites. Unequal access to writing led to social bias in the epigraphic record, which should be taken into account when interpreting this kind of evidence. These underlying circumstances explain the abundant writing mistakes in funerary inscriptions from Vadinia, despite their very typical occurrence: Monimentum (no. 5) or Munimentum (nos. 25, 44, 54, 57) instead of Monumentum (the most common starting formula in Vadinia); writing misconceptions due to phonetic issues like the dative sue instead of suae (nos. 15, 33, 40); inaccuracies related with nominative/genitive and plural/singular forms (nos. 43, 67, maybe 37), with verbal tenses like posit instead of posuit (nos. 13, 53), etc. Beyond this aspect, the set of Vadinia’s inscriptions provides other ways of approaching the issue of social representativeness. This is thanks to its internal coherence and uniform appearance regarding, above all, the unusual choice of material they used for inscriptions. At least 47 of the 69 inscriptions (which is 68 %, while only 11 more of the sample have the texts) are inscribed on large and eroded boulders taken from the headwaters of the rivers, probably with high transport costs (Fig. 3–4). Apart from some isolated cases like the Princeps Albionum from Vegadeo (Asturias; ERAs 14), this kind of epigraphical material is documented only in two more areas of the Roman Empire: the Bagienni in Tanaro Valley (Italia; Menella 1983) and the corpus arround current Belorado (Burgos, Spain; Reyes 2000). The raw aspect of Vadinia’s epigraphic monuments was conceived as strong evidence for a poor attempt of Romanization and, consequently, as a late product of cultural expression which reflects the survival of pre-Roman social relations (González 1997: 111–23). However, recent studies like Sastre (2002: 81) or Martino (2012) have proposed other dating methods for Vadinia, based on funerary formulae, that suggests an earlier date during the early Empire (Fig. 4). Hence, regarding the social representativeness analysis through epigraphy, we must deal with some issues related to the production process of the Vadinienses’ inscriptions. That means avoiding speculative attempts in respect of chronology or social content, which are judged from the Roman (or modern) perspective and which make them look like rough cultural forms surviving from the pre-Roman to Middle ages and associate them with funerary rites available to everyone. A closer examination actually reveals that at least 77 % of Vadinia’s known inscriptions are incised in large quartzite stones, which is one of the hardest rocks and, for this reason, rarely used for Roman inscriptions. Instead of other materials which were more suitable for epigraphic writing

The Rural civitas of Vadinienses (León-Asturias, Spain)

Fig. 3 Vadinia’s inscription sample

Fig. 4 Chronology of Vadinia’s epigraphy

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or more available within a short distance, as e. g. sandstone (with only 16 % of the total amount of Vadinia’s inscriptions), the choice of quartzite could be seen as an indicator of the status of the higher classes (see Sastre 2001b). In fact, despite its hardness, a considerable sample of inscriptions on quartzite rocks have iconographic elements like horse or tree figures which were perhaps connected with some afterlife rites and beliefs (García 1999). The specific nature of the Vadinienses epigraphy can be approached through some estimations of mobility and transport costs. As it is mentioned earlier, the huge and heavy rocks used in Vadinia’s epigraphy cannot be found in the entire rivers’ basins, but only in the upper reaches next to the headwaters, where the power of the water is enough to erode the boulders but insufficient to shift them and reduce their size (Domokos et al. 2014). The catchment areas of these big boulders (from headwaters) are not in proximity of the places where most of the Vadinieses’ inscriptions were discovered, but pretty far away through a mountainous relief. Their potential catchment areas can be defined by two main elements and calculated using different tools of G. I. systems (ArcGIS 10). First, identifying the breakpoints of the topographic profile of the rivers in order to isolate the headwater reach and then calculating the average of accumulative costs of mobility with Tobler function (Tobler 1993) over a DEM of 5 m resolution, from the ancient sites with epigraphical finds to these potential catchment areas (Fig. 5–6).

Fig. 5–6 Mobility costs from ancient sites to main boulder’s catchment areas

This experimental and methodological proposal has been applied only to “Castros” of “Vilayandre” (Crémenes) and “Robledo de La Guzpeña”, with an average of 8–10 and 11–13 hours respectively spent, without considering other friction factors like plant coverage. Although conclusions can only be drawn after a systematical calculation for every ancient site, these numbers are nevertheless indicative of the severe efforts required just for an initial step of the monument making process. Thus, behind the rough

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aspect of this kind of inscriptions, very far from the Roman models, Vadinia’s epigraphy was more sophisticated than it seems at first glance, and probably exclusive for elites which had enough surplus time or labor in a peasant economy context. From this perspective, the reinterpretation of some issues regarding local institutions or social organizations of the Vadinienses framework must necessarily be determined by the aristocratic and exclusivity bias of epigraphical sources. Very briefly, the elites of the civitas Vadiniensis are presented in different forms of social dependencies: Principes (n. 8, 43). The principes offers an excellent example of the significance of the emergence of collaborative elites after the conquest which was in accordance with the Roman needs at the local level. They were intermediaries and local leaders which made a highly decentralized system possible, based on their control over communal liabilities like roman taxes (tributum soli) or mining workforce requests (operae). Their powers are more related to their control capacity over the subordinates in informal relations of oligarchic context rather than some kind of institutional figures like magistrates (see Mangas 1999; Mangas and Martino 1997). From this view the princeps Cantabrorum attested in the Peñacorada hill of Valmartino (Cistierna, León; n. 8) is another case of the local leader with power and influence in medium scale inside the civitas (1st century CE). The plural genitive Cantabrorum could be an over-expression, or it may describe a sense of belonging instead of a supreme leadership over the whole Cantabri (a populus with no legal or administrative entity). Undoubtedly, he is a civis Vadiniesis in spite of the origo’s lack: incised on a big eroded boulder, found inside the territorium Vadiniensis and, accordingly, with peregrine names only common in this civitas, Doviderus (n. 32, 44; vid n. 22) and Amparamus (n. 54, 69). They were useful instruments in Roman hands thanks to their dominant position, as above regarding the ex(actor) pr(incipis) eor(um) conniventium (no. 43)¸which reflects the long-term continuity of principes in the 3rd century CE. Inter amici relations. In Vadinia’s epigraphy 12 inscriptions (17 %) are dedicated by the so-called amici (nos. 1, 4, 6, 7, 25, 39, 43, 47, 51, 53, 58, 63). This kind of social interactions is usually conceived on a peer-to-peer basis, between individuals of all social classes. However, the aristocratic bias of epigraphical sources let us reinterpret these “friendly relationships” exclusively in terms of ruling classes interactions since they are almost the only social group represented (and visible) on Vadinia’s epigraphy. On this mountainous and fragmented landscape interactions between power groups are indispensable to keep internal cohesion and guarantee social reproduction (Sastre and Sánchez-Palencia 2013: 267–268). This is a similar phenomenon to the one behind the abundant mentions of origo intra civitatem made by the elites proudly integrated into (and benefited from) civitates system (Fig. 7). Ambiguous kinship relatives. 5 inscriptions attest avunculi as dedicants or deceased in funerary inscriptions (nos. 17, 21, 23, 26, 65) and a cognatus once (no. 56). Far for being real kinship relations, they could reflect asymmetrical interactions based on unequal socio-economical dependencies between elite members of the society. In this

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Fig. 7 Vadinia’s epigraphy dispersion: referencies of amiticia and origines intra civitatem

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way, behind the paternalistic appearance of a “relative”, the avunculus could hide other kinds of personal interests, sometimes identified with clientships (Sastre 2001b; 2013). To some extent, these power groups used to identify themselves by reference to an individual whom they were grateful for their privileged status. This trend may appears in 21 plural genitives functioning as a part of their peregrine names like Araum (nos. 23, 50), Arcaedunum (no. 10), Arnunimorum (no. 40), Aroniaecivorum (no. 14), Bedunigum (no. 65), Bodeggun/Boddegun (nos.7, 46, 25), Bodivescum (no. 19), Caddecun (no. 58), Cadaricum (no. 2), Corovescum (no. 11), Doiderigum (no. 4), Veliagum (no. 39), Veronigorum (no. 22), Vironigum (no. 29), Pentiocum (no. 1) and, maybe, Aliomigum (no. 61) or Tamaricum (no. 64). Of these, some clearly are derivative forms of personal names amongst the Vadinienses, constructing this kind of dependent groups of elites by referring to the higher status individual, like Bodeggun/Boddegun related with Bodus/ Boddus (nos. 4, 15, 46, 47, 55) and Boderus (nos. 7, 19, 43, 47), Doiderigum with Doiderus (nos. 7, 17, 26, 46, 51, 64) or Doiterus (no. 57), Pentiocum with Pentius (nos. 29, 37, 51), Pentus (no. 13) and Pentovius (nos. 6, 47), etc. (see Albertos 1986; Sastre 2002). To conclude these reflections briefly, the Vadinienses had certain specific characteristics, but they must also be understood within a broader changing process within the Roman imperialistic dynamics. The changes embraced spatial and administrative organization, mining activities, social hierarchization, new cultural practices and aristocratic identities, which can be fully grasped only by landscape approaches. Otherwise, the rural world will be limited by different preconceptions about “survival” or “isolated” realities, which are the first step to reject other ways of being Roman. Bibliography Abbreviations AE CIL II ERAs ERPLe FE HAE

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The Emergence of Roman Provincial Setting Shifting Relationalities in Southeastern Pannonia Vladimir D. Mihajlović

1 Introduction In the last couple of decades, the issue of the establishment and organization of Roman provinces is seen through the concept of integration of local/regional societal structures with the imperial system. The process is understood as the spread of imperial elites’ networks that included (at the very least) parts of local/regional individuals and groups in the creation of provincial socio-political frameworks. The whole structure was permeated by the Roman conceptualization of power relations (such as e. g. hierarchical order, patron-client ties, defined administrative, legal and military jurisdiction) and imperial classification of people (free/slave/freedmen, citizens/peregrine, senators/equestrians/ordinary citizens, etc.), land (imperial, public, municipal, peregrine, private), social roles and matching rights. Thus, the formation of provincial settings can be conceived as local adaptations of the imperially enforced general framework which produced famously fascinating unity and diversity of the Roman world (see Woolf 1995; 2005). Having in mind the topic of this volume, and recognizing a great potential of the relational argument sparked by postmodern thought and recently amplified by “post-humanism”, I try to push the debate further and address the issue of relationality by using the case study of the integration of southeastern Pannonia with the Roman imperial structure. To do so, I utilize some of the concepts developed in the works of Bruno Latour (2005) and his Actor-Network Theory and Karen Barad (2007) and her Agential Realism, and combine them with the understanding of space defined by Doreen Massey (2005) and further enhanced by John Allen (2016). In simple terms, Barad and Latour argue for relational understanding of the world as co-constituted by actors/mediators1 1

“Mediators transform, translate, distort, and modify the meaning or the elements they are supposed to carry” and “[T]he word ‘translation’ now takes on a somewhat specialized meaning: a relation that does not transport causality but induces two mediators into coexisting” (Latour 2005: 39, 108).

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of human and non-human character alike, which build connections with other actors/ mediators in endlessly dynamic and diverse manners (Latour 2005: 72, 108, 217–218, 240– 241, 247). Depending on the current “plug-ins” each entity creates with other involved entities, the boundaries and nature of some phenomena (or assemblages) are constituted, while simultaneously the properties of all the components of the same phenomenon become determined. However, this does not happen in the form of static and previously strictly defined elements producing a stable outcome, but as an assemblage of mediators in constant and ever-changing flow. Every phenomenon is constructed through active associations of various sorts of entities, and the kinds and qualities of their relationalities make “particular material articulations of the world meaningful” (Barad 2007, especially 139–141). The point I wish to borrow and employ from these perspectives is that non-human entities are not mere reflections, representations, background scenery or passive means utilized by the active humans, but rather important co-entangled participators and enablers of phenomena we study (cf. Van Oyen 2015a; 2016a; 2016b; Van Oyen and Pitts 2017). In the same line of relational argument is the work of Doreen Massey (2005) who showed that space is not a pre-given, stable and objectively defined natural container for human actions, but a dimension of reality that is created by and through the relations people built with various features of the world. Massey comprehends space as multiple, never-finished simultaneity of ongoing multidirectional relations created by humans, natural environment elements, things, or other entities. Space is established by the simultaneous dynamic coexistence of social (and other) trajectories in constant flux, while places are particular collections of trajectories within space (i. e. ‘spatio-temporal events’). Space(s) and place(s), as different levels of simultaneous plurality of relations, are pervaded with politics and power: space is an open production of power-geometries, whereas place is the moment within it, characterized by specific manners of intersection of particular social trajectories and power relations (Massey 2005: 9–10, 130–131; Allen 2016: 36–55). Appreciating the possibilities opened by previous theoretical viewpoints, it is worthwhile considering the “establishment of provincial structure” beyond the idea of imposition of pre-set regulatory system backed up by the co-operational local elites and materialized through determined architectural features and practices that laid the stage for “transformation of the locals into the provincial Romans”. Rather, this process could be conceptualized, in all of its complexity and dynamics, as the transformation of previous and emergence of new relationalities of diverse mediators/entities, none of which came in a finished state (as an entirely preconceived and completely defined form) or had absolute precedence over the others. Instead of thinking about the creation of provincial setting only as an outcome of (Roman) people imposing the imperial socio-political system (rule, administration, laws, and their materializations) on other (local) people, we should try to comprehend it through the concept of changeable relationalities constituted of the co-involved entities/mediators of human,

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spatial, non-human material (things) and non-human immaterial (concepts, ideas, value systems, knowledge) nature. The co-dependent actors who could not operate in isolation from others, and were building simultaneous and plural associations, were what constructed the reality of the provincial context. In such a perspective there is no a priori favorization of some (people, administrative-juridical, architecture, material, economic) over other interrelated components, as the effectiveness of each is mutually dependent on others. This does not mean that each of the involved actors/mediators had equal capacities, influence and importance, or that they were ontologically flat entities. Preferably, more powerful or influential positions of some actors/entities were not predetermined, self-explicatory and “natural”, but were produced and emergent exactly depending on relations with other actors. 2 General historical and archaeological context Before proceeding, it is necessary to underline one severe difficulty concerning the issues tackled here. The fact of a minimal academic acquaintance with the early Roman presence in the area of southeastern Pannonia is hard to exaggerate. What little is known was mainly derived from literary sources with extremely rare epigraphic data and nearly completely absent archaeological evidence. The scarce excavations, inadequately or completely unpublished results and materials from older research, and the continuity of habitation on the early Roman sites prevent obtaining a more comprehensible picture, and make the present contribution a speculative consideration of a general interpretational path. The southeastern corner of the Pannonian Plain roughly encompasses what are today the regions of eastern Slavonia, Srem, southernmost parts of Bačka and Banat, and the middle Danube section from Belgrade to the Iron Gates (see Fig. 1). Traditionally, this area is understood as the tribal territory of the Scordisci who are, by using the written sources and La Tène material culture, interpreted as the Celtic tribe that settled in the region after the migratory tide in the 4th and 3rd centuries BCE (e. g. Papazoglu 1978; Šašel Kos 2005). The Scordisci are understood as a tribe of an inherently warlike nature that managed to take over the region and continuously fight the Romans in Macedonia at the end of the 2nd century BCE. However, such a conceptualization is deeply flawed due to the biased nature of the approach that is used for its construction. There is ample evidence that the term was initially (in the second half of the 2nd century BCE) used for the new Roman foes in the vicinity of Macedonia who belonged to the so-called La Tène koine, only to be extended as a general exonym for the area between Roman Macedonia and the Danube in the 1st century BCE. It is highly doubtful that the Scordisci were ever a compact ethnic tribe, and can be instead regarded as a simplified and generalized notion of the enemy constructed according to the well-known principles of ancient “barbarology” (see Mihajlović 2018a; 2019). What precisely lay behind the term,

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how the communities of the area signified with the ethnonym functioned, and how they self-identified, we know extremely little of and can only speculate. Away from the ethno-deterministic idea of the Scordisci, and regarding the period of the 2nd to 1st century BCE, there are very good indications of the establishment of a new societal order that included the emergence of continuously occupied settlements, previously unknown in the area in such numbers and characteristics. Some of them were enclosed by the earthen walls with wooden palisades and encircled with trenches, encompassing the surface areas around 1 ha or up to 5 ha, and none surpassing an area of 10 ha.2 These habitation spaces can be viewed as the primary social, political and economic focal points (or the communities of the first order), which means that the main relations between the people were going on exactly within and among populations of such settlements.3 Consequently, they might have been the main building blocks for any interactions of larger scale, i. e. acted as the main hubs in the network of regional interrelations. Taking into account the mutual spatial proximity in a form of the strings of settlements along the rivers, some of them might have constituted the settlement clusters that functioned as larger political entities (Fig. 1 nos. 1–3, 4–7, 9–12, 13–17, 19–23). The important aspect here is that there are (so far) no indications of any clearly hierarchical order among the settlements, both in general and inside particular settlement clusters. It is true that archaeological investigations have been extremely limited and may yet provide surprises, but available evidence shows no evident differences of the settlements regarding the size, construction, spatial organization, dwelling and storage facilities or excavated materials (Mihajlović 2019: 210–219, 242–250, 294–302, 307–311). Although there are few exceptional finds and some specific features in some of them, generally speaking, none is prominent enough to be qualified as a tribal capital or a political seat of the late Iron Age oppidum type. This is of course not to say that they were mutually completely equal and without important respective specificities, but that none of them was obviously differentiated (by any of the currently known criteria) to allow for the supposition of a hierarchically regulated settlement pattern and centralized social structure.4 Instead, there is a solid ground to argue for mainly heterarchical social relations, meaning that the individual differences in status, economic, professional, or other positions and repute could and most probably did exist, but were not structured as an institutionalized division of hierarchically organized categories or classes (detailed review and discussion in Mihajlović 2020). This possibility is corroborated by funerary evidence as well (Mihajlović 2019: 219–242, 2 3 4

I am referring only to the cases in which the sizes are known or at least roughly approximated, i. e. 16 out of 27 cases given in Fig. 1 (see Mihajlović 2019; 2020). It is important to note that some of the open settlements could have been equally significant, large, economically diversified and regionally connected as the enclosed ones – see Dizdar 2016. Although for the sites on the left bank of the Danube, in the Iron Gates (Fig. 1, nos. 19–23), such possibility has been recently put forth (Rustoiu, Ferencz and Drăgan 2017). However, at the moment, this supposition is far from certain due to still limited and inconclusive evidence.

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302–307). Hence, whereas it is highly probable that there were people who had greater power and influence within their communities, and there were settlements that could be more prosperous or important in certain regards (e. g. agriculture, trade, crafts, military, religion, etc.), no unambiguous indications show that these societies resembled markedly and institutionally hierarchized organizations such as Mediterranean societies (i. e. Roman state, Greek poleis, “Hellenistic” kingdoms), or centralized structures such as the late Iron Age oppidum-polities in Gaul and “kingdoms” in Britain. Simply, whereas it is quite possible that powerful individuals and groups existed, and that some settlements were more prominent, no evidence currently suggests stable and continuously functioning hierarchical patterns that would point to the “big men” or “central place” societal models.

Fig. 1 Geographical distribution of the enclosed late Iron Age settlements in the area of study

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3 The Roman Empire and southeastern Pannonian communities: establishing relations The world of relatively heterarchical communities, organized around (comparatively) small enclosed settlements that possibly carried out the constitution of larger socio-political entities, was what met the Roman imperial system in the last three decades BCE. The historical accounts of contacts with the Roman world and eventual integration of the area are slim and general, lacking the details which could shed more light on the exact chain of events. In a nutshell, it is known that from the 70s BCE the Roman presence was ever increasing (see Šašel Kos 2005: 311–374, 492–502; Dzino 2010; Egri 2014; Džino and Domić Kunić 2018: 79–81) and that during the reign of Octavian Augustus southeastern Pannonia came under imperial rule after the Illyrian (35–33 BCE) and Pannonian (13/12–11/9 BCE) wars (Dzino 2010; 2012; Šašel Kos 2015; Radman Livaja 2012; Kovács 2014: 1–40). As for the rare specificities, Dio Cassius (49.37.5) mentions unnamed allies of Octavian who sent him boats via the Danube and Sava to Segestica, but opinions differ whether these were the populations of Noricum (Šašel Kos 2005: 441) or the “Scordisci” (Papazoglu 1978: 338–339; Kovács 2014: 26; Mirković 2017: 20). The same author (Cass. Dio 54.20.3) says that the Scordisci, together with the Thracian Dentheletae, attacked Roman Macedonia in 16 BCE, but in another passage (54.31.3) states that Scordisci were the allies of Tiberius during his Pannonian operations in 12 BCE. Velleius Paterculus (2.39.3) informs us that Tiberius added the Scordisci to Roman control by arms, while Strabo (7.3.2; 7.3.11; 7.5.2; 7.5.10–12) most probably mixes the information of older provenance with the state of affairs from his own time without providing particularities regarding the inclusion of the Scordisci into the Roman Empire. As for communities under different names that can be broadly connected to the region generally ascribed to the Scordisci, Suetonius (Tib. 9.2) and Dio (54.28.2; 54.31.2) mention fights with Breuci in the Pannonian war, and this population was definitely subdued after the Dalmatian-Pannonian insurgence of 6–9 CE (Dzino 2010: 137–155; Kovács 2014: 31–35; Šašel Kos 2015). One of the inscriptions from the Sebasteion of Aphrodisias mentions the ethnos of Andizetes, which suggests that the people of this name, living around the mouth of Drava and Danube, were incorporated during the Augustan conquest of the region (Dzino 2010: 155; Kovács 2014: 58–62). Festus (Brev. 7) notes that “after the Amantini between the Sava and Drava had been laid low, the area adjoining the Sava and environs of Pannonia Secunda was obtained”. Since he gives this information after stating the subjugation of Bato and the Pannonians, it might indicate that the region of Srem was included only after the uprising (see Dzino 2012: 471–472). In summary, written accounts mention the Scordisci and (conditionally) related ethnonyms in a very general and unspecified manner, and the only certainty is that the populations behind these names were integrated into the Empire in the Augustan period. It remains elusive if this happened exclusively by the armed conflicts or, at least

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in some instances, through the transformation of previously allied relations. Taking into account the more familiar cases of the Roman frontier zones, as well as some hints in the written accounts, it might be expected that southeastern Pannonia underwent dynamic changes that involved hostilities and diplomacy, foes and allies, pro- and anti-Roman factions, all over a longer period, on multiple levels and in a range of varieties (see Dzino 2012; Džino and Domić Kunić 2018). When archaeological evidence of the pre-incorporation period is concerned, there are few instructive examples of the establishment of relations between the Roman imperial agencies and some actors from the local Pannonian communities. The coinage of Apollonia and Dyrrachium found in the area of lower Sava and the middle Danube (Fig. 2) is taken as a possible indication of mercenary activities starting already from Pompey’s affairs in Illyricum in the middle of 1st century BCE (Ujes-Morgan 2012). If indeed these coins were obtained as a payment of mercenary troops or a reward for allies, they might indicate the creation of personal connections of the martial part of southeastern Pannonian communities with representatives of the Roman army, which in turn suggests mutual familiarization and potential further horizontal spread of bilateral relationalities. Although nothing more is currently known, the possible joint operations, the introduction of regular or occasional payments, and a new type of currency undoubtedly had a potential to alter both inter-regional and internal relations, not just in terms of economy but also socio-political dynamics, construction, reproduction and maintenance of status relations (see Egri 2018).

Fig. 2 Coin finds of Apollonia and Dyrrachium (according to Ujes-Morgan 2012: Fig. 2, 378–382)

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Something similar is true for imported Roman bronze vessels found in funerary contexts and (some of the) settlements in the region (Fig. 3). Although opinions differ on whether these items testify to the commercial/trading or the “middle ground diplomatic”/allied interrelations and if they are to be dated in an earlier (La Tène D2 – pre Augustan) or later (second half of the 1st century BCE) period (Rustoiu 2005; Mihajlović 2014; Dizdar and Radman Livaja 2015; Dizdar 2016; Egri 2017; 2018), they, in any case, reflect some connectivity and reciprocal dynamic between the individuals/ smaller groups of the southeastern Pannonian and Roman worlds. Earlier, it has been argued for their role as tokens of formation of personal relations of the (chiefly) allied/ mercenary kind, created through a ritualized gift exchange in the course of pioneering interactions that set the stage and actively shaped further interplay between the parties involved (Mihajlović 2014). It is, however, possible to amplify the previous supposition that the bronze vessels were incarnated signs, symbolic articulation of supra-regional alliances and material reification of critical political connections, by recognizing their more dynamic character. By invoking the theoretical introduction from the beginning of the paper, it is not far-fetched to suggest that these kinds of objects were instrumental in constructing and continuing various relationalities: not merely as a symbolic manifestation of the relations in question, but as an active material component in the lives and deaths of the people they were engaged with. Being associated in specific manners with their owners (through the endowment as an act of mutual respect and recognition), and being related to particular situations of their people’s involvements (of allied, mercenary or clientage nature), the bronze vessels had a potential to bring into existence those relationships. Since they were the mediators in establishing biographies of their possessors as people with special supra-regional connectivities and personal histories, in a sense, these objects made their owners what they were. The bronze vessel invoked and concretized certain aspects of their owner’s personality, which in turn enabled the given individual to emerge in a distinctive light. Although reputation, influence, importance or other social powers derived from foreign relations/engagement could, of course, be achieved and communicated in other ways as well, the one which was built by associations with peculiar types of objects gave to such capacities a very special feature as it made them real through unique material components. Hence, the imported bronze vessels were the mediators inside the particular associations that facilitated the becoming and definition of a person’s identification, social positioning, influence, repute, convivial role (see Egri and Rustoiu 2008) and, possibly, (warrior) professionalization (see Mihajlović 2018b and cf. Egri 2018). Consequently, the bronze vessels (and other objects of similar nature) were not the simple instruments of prestige and material articulation of relationships, but actually the active participators in both the structuring of multifaceted connectivities and the social differentiation of individuals within the communities of southeastern Pannonia (Mihajlović 2014: 203, 206–207). Thus, it is possible that they provided one of the components for a gradual constitution, definition, and promotion of separate social

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Fig. 3 Finds of Roman bronze vessels (according to Mihajlović 2014; Dizdar 2016; Rustoiu, Ferencz and Drăgan 2017)

categories of people that enjoyed or (at least) aspired to some privileges based on their specific well-connectedness (cf. Egri 2018). Furthermore, these objects accompanied their possessors into the graves as an integral element of the last rite of passage and ultimate (i. e. life to death) transformation, which further indicates their prominent part in the “technology” of defining various stages of individual personhoods. Taking all of the above into account, the Roman bronze vessels from these archaeological contexts can be regarded as clear examples of actants in a network of (imperial-regional/ local, intra-regional and local) relationalities, that were not a mere passive outcome and a symbolic “side effect” of separate and independent political, social and economic processes, but were actively engaged and deeply entangled fibers of such kinds of associations. This in turn resolutely suggests that relations between (parts) of Roman imperial structure and (parts) of southeastern Pannonian communities should be comprehended as vibrant networks that involved more than just two kinds of human groups (i. e. “Romans and natives”) and their respective social structures, and instead included much more complex, diverse and multidirectional associative phenomena comprised of mediators of various kinds.

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4 The Roman Empire and southeastern Pannonian communities: relational integration and transformation Although the historical records is insufficient, and the archaeological evidence is slim and generally lacking, it is known that at one point after the Pannonian war (12–11 BCE) or the Dalmatian-Pannonian (Batonian) revolt (6–9 CE) the area of study was reorganized according to the principle of peregrinae civitates (Kovács 2014: 1–40, 93–106; Fig. 4).5 This can be seen as a radical modification made to the previous local socio-political arrangements, as it is highly likely that the territorial divisions and administrative ordering of such units differed significantly in comparison to the situation before the Roman intervention. There is no indication that newly established administrative units followed the older socio-political and spatial logic.6 The mutual relations of the previously mentioned late Iron Age settlement clusters is not known,7 and their distribution only partially coincides with the supposed territories of the Roman civitates (see Figs. 1 and 4). However, no matter how the late Iron Age communities functioned and defined themselves before their integration into the Empire, it was after the structuring of civitates peregrinae that they were obliged to identify with the given imperial classifications that became their official determinants in dealings with imperial authorities. The creation of administrative order that imposed the strong juridical and socio-political tie between the precisely delimited land, people attached to it, collective name that signified both, and the given legal status, marked the substantial modification in collective self-perception and identification of the population affected by such rearrangements, not to mention the new modes of functioning under such circumstances (see Ando 2011; 2014). If the pre-Roman southeastern Pannonian world had operated according to the presumed heterarchical dynamics, the integration into the Roman Empire and all of its social divisions, legal and administrative classifications and specific types of social interactions, certainly dissolved the earlier order by introducing new principles of relational structuring. The establishment of civitates peregrinae represented the overall transformation of relationalities both internally, among the local populations, and externally, towards the various parts of the imperial superstructure (see fn. 6). These shifts meant the initiation of previously nonexistent vertical (hierarchical) positioning, 5

6 7

The precise periods of the constitution of particular civitates are not known. The administrative units of Andizetes and Amantines were certainly constituted after 9 CE, but possibly even earlier. As for the rest of native administrative communities, the earliest epigraphic data comes from the second half of the 1st and 2nd century CE (see Kovács 2014: 11–22). For parallels elsewhere in the Empire see e. g. Orejas and Sastre 1999: 171, 175–176; Laurence 2001; Roymans 2004: 4, 205, 209, 253–258; Whittaker 2009: 196; Džino 2010: 161, 163–167, 181–182; 2014; Roncaglia 2013; Häussler 2013; Sastre in this volume. They might form separate tighter entities comprised of several settlements, but also larger and loose interests groups – if they ever operated according to territorial principle.

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Fig. 4 The civitates peregrinae in southeastern Pannonia and northern Moesia

the diversification of horizontal associations, and the enabling of multidirectional interconnections of formerly unprecedented modes and scale (facilitated by the global imperial networking, see Pitts and Versluys (eds.) 2015). One of the earliest illustrative cases in the area of study is the (now lost) tombstone commemorating a boy from the civitas Amantinorum, a hostage enlisted in the second centuria (of hostages?) who met his death far from home, in a river in or around Emona.8 The youth was most probably taken in political fosterage according to the usual Roman imperial practice, sometime during or after the suppression of the Batonian revolt (Šašel Kos 2005: 455–458). Particularly revealing here is that such a custom was likely to create bonds (between the hostages and the actors of imperial authorities) that subsequently came in handy for the creation and maintenance of the imperial structure through long-lasting personal relations and connectivities. Furthermore, from the perspective of “relational constellations” (sensu Van Oyen 2016a), the setting up of the epigraphic monument (most likely above the cenotaph) is equally instructive as the employment of material means and text to commemorate the boy testify to the importance of objects in forming and cultivating various types of interconnections. The physicality of the tombstone played a pivotal role as a mediator in the constituted relations, starting from the family (father), kin (cognates) and clan (gens Undius) affiliations and social positioning (all of them probably were the members of local elite

8

[S]cemaes(?) Liccav[i] / f(ilius) Amantinus ho[b]/ses(!) anorum dec[e]/m gente Undius / centuria secun/da in flumen per/i(i)t Hemona posu/ere Liccaus pate/r Loriqus et Lica/ios cognati.

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circles), to the new administrative entity of civitas Amantinorum and connections to an institution of hosts in the imperial town of Emona. Hence, the monument did not simply commemorate and represent the deceased Scemaes but was constructing his persona in a very specific way, as an individual entangled in diverse webs and relationships which shaped the reality of newly constituted provincial life and space. At the same time, these relations were coming into being as a concrete dimension of reality precisely thanks to the physical aspect enabled by the tombstone. The monument participated in installing all of the mentioned relations as it played a role of their public enacting and thus made them tangible and palpable. Being in the landscape as a new sort of object, unknown in the late Iron Age setting, it consistently generated various kinds of relationships as ongoing and evoked local, regional and imperial levels of connections and institutions. In other words, as a mediator in creating the different sorts of associations, this object was directly involved in the becoming of provincial socio-political structure. The organization of new spatio-socio-political units implied hierarchization that was in line with the general imperial ranking order. The management of civitates was most probably left to a limited number of selected principes coming from the local communities, while higher authority was in the hands of praefecti civitatium who were the senior personnel of the military units/stations in the immediate proximity or close distance to the civitates (cf. Dzino 2010: 163–165; Grbić 2014: 306–311). This kind of organization introduced the novelties in the previous constellation of relationships as it granted greater capacities to the limited group of people who acted as a separate and privileged class of local leaders. The process actually meant that some individuals or smaller groups (such as families, clans, interest or professional collectives) were associating with the representatives of the imperial system (as probably was the case with the family or entire gens of the mentioned Amantinian boy), as well as the accompanying legislative frameworks, customs and materialities, which enabled them the positioning as more potent/influential participators in the emerging relational networks (see e. g. Woolf 2002). The compelling evidence for such a scenario in southeastern Pannonia can be found in epigraphic material concerning exactly the native community of Scordisci: judging by the dedicatory inscription supplementing an honorary statue, sometimes in the 70s–80s, the praefectus of the civitates of Scordisci, Breuci and Iasi was the primuspilus Q. Gavius Fronto (Kušan Špalj 2015: 53–54, 152),9 who (most probably) was not of a local origin. On the other hand, according to the tombstone of T. Flavius Proculus, erected at the end of the 1st or the beginning of the 2nd century, he was both princeps and praefectus of the same civitas, and obviously of indigenous background (Grbić 2014: 9

Q(uintus) Ga[vius] Q(uinti) f(ilius) Pvb(lilia) (tribu) / Fronto pr(imus pilus) leg(ionis) XIII / Gem(inae) praef(ectus) civitativm / Scordisc(orum) et Brevco(rum) / et Iasorvm beneficio / imperatoris traslatvs / svccessionibvs in leg(ione) IIII / Macedonic(a) dedicavit / Bachylvs lib(ertus) eivs.

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288, no. 205).10 Although in the case of Fronto the placement of vast territories and a numerous population of indigenous communities under the jurisdiction of the legionary officer might indicate extraordinary measures in the context of some (frontier) turbulences (cf. Kovács 2014: 70–83), Proculus’ example clearly shows a local social climber who took the role previously reserved for military ranks coming from the central imperial milieu (cf. Slofstra 2002: 27). All of these processes were inseparably linked with the land classification, delimitation, allotment, and ownership changes. The southeastern Pannonian example of such affairs is known from the inscribed demarcation slab dated to the 1st century, that testifies to the attribution of (part of) the land from village Iosista (in the vicinity of Bononia on the right bank of the Danube) to the praefectus of ala I civium Romanorum (Mirković 2017: 220). The changed ownership was not only an act of rewarding an imperial military agent, but the transfer enmeshed with other aspects of shifting relationalities such as the settlement of veterans, affirmation of the new layer of the local elite, conversion of the legal status of the parcel from public to private, tangible delimitation between the two, the advance of new modes of economy and way of life (i. e. probable appearance of the villa estates), landscape transformation and engagement of new materialities. On top of that, the mere manner of announcing and communicating the changed condition of the ager by inscribed slab acted similarly to the mentioned tombstone of Scemaes: as a mediator and enabler of materialization of legal and power relations, spatial differentiation of property and jurisdictions, administrative categories, social conventions, institutions, statuses of various social actors (village, military unit, officer), etc. Along with all the previous, the shaping of southeastern Pannonia as a provincial environment through shifts of relationalities is evident in the settlement pattern as well. After the integration with the imperial structure, many of the older entrenched settlements ceased to exist. The earthen fortification of Gomolava (Fig. 1, no. 18) was not repaired after the fire whose traces were found at the site. Although the destruction cannot be conclusively linked to Roman actions, the fact remains that life in the settlement was notably reduced (to its foothills) and then ended by the end of the 1st century ( Jovanović and Jovanović 1988: 80, 97, 187–202). In the case of Vinkovci (Fig. 1, no. 14) it has been noted that the Roman town of Cibalae was set in the area away from the Iron Age enwalled settlement that apparently ended its existence (see Dizdar 2016). A similar situation is presumed for Osijek (Fig. 1, no. 1) where the town of Mursa started to develop in the vicinity of the previous late Iron Age settlement (Majnarić-Pandžić 2005: 69–70). At other sites in the Bosut valley (Fig. 1, nos. 13, 15, 16, 17) no traces of intensive occupation in the early Roman times have been found, and it is generally be-

10

T Fl(avius) Proculu[s] pr(inceps) praef(ectus) Scor(discorum) / an[n(orum)] XXXXI / h(ic) [s(itus)] e(st) T Fl(avius) [D]ulcis / pater fil[i]o / pientissimo fecit.

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lieved that all shared a similar fate of abandonment (Majnarić-Pandžić 1984; Popović 1992: 102). In other instances, such as the sites along the Danube (Fig. 1, nos. 3–5, 9–12; Fig. 5), it is supposed that the Roman military outposts were created in the very places of the enwalled settlements, but the exact dynamic and chronology of this process is currently unknown. It is certain that they eventually became the camps of auxiliary units or legionary detachments and thus acquired a primarily military character (Radman Livaja 2012: 166–171), whereas in the case of Cornacum it is probable that such a function was combined with the role of the central place of the homonymous civitas. Simultaneously with the mentioned developments, new residential sites started to emerge and gradually became the leading provincial towns. Sirmium is mentioned as the Roman settlement targeted by the Pannonian insurgents already in 6 CE, and it played the part of the Roman strategic point in nearly all critical events during the rebellion (Radman Livaja 2012: 164–165; Šašel Kos 2015; Mirković 2017: 21–22). In the absence of conclusive archaeological evidence of the town’s initial occupation ( Jeremić 2016: 304–305), this piece of information illustrates well the immediate changes in the region featuring the establishment of new habituation places that involved Roman settlers as important actors of the process. What is more, Sirmium might have been the site of a very early military presence (Radman Livaja 2012: 164–166) and the “capital” of civitas Sirmiensium et Amantinorum which probably became an integral part of the later (Flavian) colonia (Mirković 2017: 18, 23). A similar scenario is plausible for other settlements in the area of southeastern Pannonia such as Mursa, Cibalae and Bassiane (Fig. 5), all of which evolved into important towns from the 2nd century onwards (see Šašel Kos and Scherrer eds. 2004). The crucial importance of all the discussed instances is that the settlement pattern had been transformed during the 1st century as the former focal points either completely lost their significance and were abandoned/reduced, or were converted into habituations directly linked to the army or civilian centers. Such a situation strongly advocates that the production of space had changed and created novel topologies of power. The unfolding political, economic and cultural relationalities were comprised of diverse human actors (of local and imperial background), altered approaches to landscape, pervasive Roman imperial conceptions (in administrative, legal, social, economic, military and other terms – see Ando 2011; 2014; Mihajlović 2018a) and previously unfamiliar materialities. Operating in a synergic manner, these associations had established new places as “specific modes of intersection of particular social trajectories and relations” (sensu Massey 2005). Most obviously, the former settlement pattern of a generally heterarchical modus operandi was gradually replaced by the provincial structure constituted of hierarchized, stratified and diversified spatio-cognitive phenomena. Newly created places were relational intersections imbued with various kinds of power, and judging by the better-known analogies elsewhere in the Empire (Szabo 2007; Reddé 2015; Creighton 2006; Derks in this volume), it can be expected

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Fig. 5 The early Roman settlements in southeastern Pannonia

that architectural shaping and shifting of such sites determined their character by giving them the fixed material component. A similar role and importance is also valid for movable materialities such as specific kinds of objects, technological knowledge, ideas of consumption and meanings of particular sorts of things (cf. Pitts 2014; Van Oyen 2015b; 2016a; 2017), as well as for preferable/correct modes of behavior and praxis (e. g. Revell 2016: 65–80, 106–110). Unfortunately, in the case of southeastern Pannonia, these processes have limited corroboration as there are only very rough and vague estimations of frequency, usage, and specificities of the early Roman materialities, including the virtually unfamiliar architecture of towns, rural settlements, and military stations. It is generally presumed that imported pottery and the production of “Romanized” shapes with a smaller share of “Latènoid” forms were strongly linked to the “markedly Roman” settlements such as Sirmium, while the introduction of Roman types and technology into traditional late La Tène ceramic production went forward in an unsystematic manner at the sites where the native population continued to live (Dautova Ruševljan and Brukner 1992: 200–202, 208–209). Beyond doubt, such estimations need more careful and nuanced analysis (see Egri 2013) since they imply a strict division between urban (Roman) and rural (native) cultural environments and echo the traditional oversimplified ideas about provincial context. On the other hand, as Pitts (2014) and Van Oyen (2015b; 2016b) have demonstrated, certain patterns in the occurrence of kinds and types of objects might show us particular relational constellations which were inextricably entangled with and enabled the structuring of capacities, roles, features and power of diverse

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phenomena in the provincial settings. Some of the regularities discerned in archaeological material could suggest that specific associations of people, things and environment (in a synergic, feedback and co-constitutive manner) articulated power/social positioning and complementary production of space, which were in turn imbued with related ideologies (apropos urban/rural life, social, cultural and economic hierarchy and power, rights and legal capacities, etc.). In other words, the provincial settlements and space, their character, function, and capacities, were enabled and came into existence by the specific configuration of mutual relationalities among the engaged mediators which included various types of human, material, conceptual/cognitive, natural/ landscape and spatial entities. 5 Concluding remarks The emergence of provincial structures in the Roman Empire was not about political system projected and imposed onto space, nor was it about the mere administrative reorganization of space which dictated or enabled the political order. Rather, the issue at hand was the simultaneous co-constitution of new settings through the process of changing relations. These involved both imperial political-administrative conceptions and their human actors, and individuals of the local communities who, as mediators, joined the network of relations concurrently bringing and adapting their interests and goals. Inevitably, various kinds of materialities were also included, by which and through which the features, capacities, and limits of the new phenomena were determined. In this light, the creation of provincial structure ceases to be comprehended only as the imposition of ready-to-go imperialistic order that passivized the subjects and turned them into static imperial artifacts. Although it is beyond doubt that power relations were immensely disproportional and that the imperial actors had ways and interests to organize and order newly integrated territories and people according to their matrices, worldviews, and conceptual frameworks, the process must have included specific relationships between people (as well as between people and things) that incarnated the general imperial features at the local level. Thus, the generating of provincial settings cannot be reduced only to compulsion to pre-designed frameworks (although to a certain extent this is indubitably the case, cf. e. g. Laurence, Esmonde Cleary and Sears 2011: 34–36, 61, 80–86), but it has to be envisioned as the unfolding through recombination and creation of new relationalities. Nevertheless, this is certainly not to say that all of the interconnected actors had leveled and mutually similar roles and capacities since the asymmetrical power distribution directly influenced the shaping of relational frameworks. Under such circumstances, it is essential to emphasize that the created networks of assemblages/phenomena tended to spread, discipline and determine the roles and sorts of associations of newly engaged actors. In other words, we can count on intentional or at least intended

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dissemination of the assemblages/networks favored by the ruling structures, which thus obtained the role of hegemonizing relational constellations. In turn, they were pulling in new actors and were constantly negotiated, redefined, and reconfigured through ever fluctuating and changing webs. Consequently, there was no stable form of Roman Empire and imperialism, nor did there exist static and immutable categories (of social, political, economic or cultural kinds), but instead material and immaterial actors/mediators that participated in diverse work-nets (sensu Latour 2005: 132 and Van Oyen 2015a; 2016b) and assembled throughout time, space and situations various phenomena of only relatively stabilizing character. Bibliography Ancient sources Dio Cassius, Roman History Vols. V–VI, Books 46–55, trans. Earnest Cary, Herbert B. Foster. Loeb Classical Library 83. Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1917. Strabo, Geography Vols. II–III, Books 3–7, trans. Horace Leonard Jones. Loeb Classical Library 182. Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1923–1924. Suetonius, The Life of Caesars I, trans. J. C. Rolfe. Loeb Classical Library 152. Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1979. Velleius Paterculus, Res Gestae Divi Augusti, trans. Frederick W. Shipley. Loeb Classical Library 152. Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1924.

Literature Allen, J. 2016. Topologies of Power: Beyond Territory and Networks. London and New York: Routledge. Ando, C. 2011. “Law and the Landscape of Empire.” In Figures d’empire, fragments de memoire Pouvoirs et identites dans le monde romain imperial IIe s av n e – VI e s e n e, ed. S. Benoist, A. Daguct-Gagcy, C. Hoët-van Cauwenberghe Lille: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion. 25–47. Ando, C. 2014. “The Ambitions of Government: Territoriality and Infrastructural Power in Ancient Rome”, communication given at Ohio State University, College of Arts and Sciences (31 January 2014). (https://cpb-us-w2.wpmucdn.com/u.osu.edu/dist/a/49661/files/2017/08/ Ando-Infrastructure-OSU-281eltz.pdf) Barad, K. 2007. Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning Durham and London: Duke University Press. Creighton, J. 2006. Britannia: The Creation of a Roman Province. London: Routledge. Dautova Ruševljan, V.; Brukner, O. 1992. Gomolava: The Roman Period. Novi Sad: Vojvodjanski muzej. Dizdar, M.; Radman Livaja, I. 2015. “Continuity of the Late La Tène Warrior Elite in the Early Roman Period in South-eastern Pannonia.” In Waffen – Gewalt – Krieg, ed. S. Wefers et al. Langenweissbach: Beier & Beran. 209–227.

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Dizdar, M. 2016. “Late La Tène Settlements in the Vinkovci Region (Eastern Slavonia, Croatia): Centres of Trade and Exchange.” In Boii – Taurisci, ed. M. Karwowski, P. C. Ramsl. Wien: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. 31–48. Dzino, D. 2010. Illyricum in Roman Politics 229 BC–AD 68. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dzino, D. 2012. “Bellum Pannonicum: The Roman Armies and Indigenous Communities in Southern Pannonia 16–9 BC.” In Actes du Symposium International Le Livre La Roumanie L’Europe Tome III, Troisième section – Latinité Orientale, ed. R. Savard et al. Bucarest: Editura Biblioteca Bucureştilor. 461–480. Džino, D. 2014. “The Formation of Early Imperial Peregrine civitates in Dalmatia: (Re)constructing Indigenous Communities after the Conquest.” In The Edges of the Roman World, ed. M. A. Janković, V. D. Mihajlović, S. Babić. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 219–231. Džino, D.; Domić Kunić, A. 2018. “A View from the Frontier Zone: Roman Conquest of Illyricum.” In The Century of the Brave: Roman Conquest and Indigenous Resistance in Illyricum during the Time of Augustus and his Heirs, ed. M. Milićević Bradač, D. Demicheli. Zagreb: Filozofski fakultet Sveučilišta u Zagrebu. 77–87. Egri, M. 2013. “Early Presence of sigillata in Indigenous Sites from Pannonia and Moesia Superior – Comparative Models of Consumption.” In Seeing Red: New Economic and Social Perspectives on Terra Sigillata, ed. M. Fulford; E. Durham. London: Institute for Classical Studies. 284–298. Egri, M. 2014. “Enemy at the Gates? Interactions between Dacians and Romans in the 1st Century AD.” In The Edges of the Roman World, ed. M. A. Janković, V. D. Mihajlović, S. Babić. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 172–193. Egri, M. 2017. “Connectivity and Social Change. Roman Goods Outside the Empire (100 BC–400 CE).” In The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, ed. T. Hodos. London and New York: Routledge. 537–552. Egri, M. 2018. “Violent Edge of the Roman Empire and the Emergence of Men in Arms. The Case of Southern Pannonia.” In Violence in Prehistory and Antiquity, ed. E. Nemeth. Kaiserslautern und Mehlingen: Parthenon Verlag. 93–116. Egri, M.; Rustoiu, A. 2008. “The Social Significance of Convivality in the Scordiscian Environment.” In Funerary Practices of the Bronze and Iron Ages in Central and South-Eastern Europe, ed. V. Sîrbu, D. L. Vaida. Cluj-Napoca: Editura Mega. 83–93. Grbić, D. 2014. Tribal Communities in Illyricum: Pre-urban Administrative Structures in the Roman Provinces between the Adriatic and the Danube. Belgrade: Institute for Balkan Studies SASA (in Serbian with English summary). Häussler, R. 2013. “De-constructing Ethnic Identities: Becoming Roman in Western Cisalpine Gaul?” In Creating Ethnicities & Identities in the Roman World, ed. A. Gardner, E. Herring, K. Lomas. London: Institute of Classical Studies. 35–70. Jeremić, M. 2016. Sirmium, City on the Water: Urban and Architectural Development from the 1st to the 6th century. Belgrade: Archaeological Institute (in Serbian with English summary). Jovanović, B.; Jovanović, M. 1988. Gomolava: Late La Tene Settlement. Novi Sad and Belgrade: Museum of Vojvodina – Archaeological Institute (in Serbian with English summary). Kovács, P. 2014. A History of Pannonia during the Principate. Bonn: Dr Rudolf Habelt Gmbh. Kušan Špalj, D. 2015. “History of the Roman Settlement Aquae Iasae.” In Aquae Iasae: Recent Discoveries of Roman Remains in the Region of Varaždinske Toplice. Zagreb: Archaeological Museum. 53–54. Latour, B. 2005. Reassembling the Social An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Laurence, R. 2001. “The Creation of Geography: An Interpretation of Roman Britain.” In Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire, ed. C. Adams, R. Laurence. London and New York: Routledge. 67–94. Laurence, R.; Esmonde Cleary, S.; Sears, G. 2011. The City in the Roman West c 250 BC – c AD 250. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Majnarić-Pandžić, N. 1984. “Zur Problematik der Befestigten Siedlungen aus der Spät-La-TèneZeit in Slawonien”, Opuscula archaeologica 9. 23–34. Majnarić-Pandžić, N. 2005. “Investigations into the La Tène Period in Northern Croatia: 1970– 2003.” In Celts on the Margin Studies in European Cultural Interaction 7th Century BC – 1st Century AD Dedicated to Zenon Woźniak, ed. H. Dobrzańska, V. Megaw, P. Poleska. Krakow: Institute of Archaeology and Ethnology of the Polish Academy of Sciences. 67–75. Massey, D. 2005. For Space. London: SAGE. Mihajlović, V. D. 2014. “‘Objects in Action’: Towards the Anthropology of Exchange of Roman Bronze Vessels in the Middle Danube Region.” In The Edges of the Roman World, ed. M. A. Janković, V. D. Mihajlović, S. Babić. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 194–218. Mihajlović, V. D. 2018a. “Imagining the Ister / Danube in Ancient Thought and Practice: River, the Scordisci, and Creation of Roman Imperialistic Space”, Etnoantropološki problemi 13/3. 747–780. Mihajlović, V. D. 2018b. “Do Warrior Burials Make a Martial Society? Reconsideration of the Late Iron Age Karaburma Necropolis (Danube-Sava Confluence).” In Violence in Prehistory and Antiquity, ed. E. Nemeth. Kaiserslautern und Mehlingen: Parthenon Verlag. 39–67. Mihajlović, V. D. 2018c. “Roman Imperialism and the Construction of Dardanian Collectivity.” In Reflections of Roman Imperialisms, ed. M. Janković, V. D. Mihajlović. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 181–213. Mihajlović, V. D. 2019. The Scordisci between Ancient and Modern Interpretations: a Question of Identity in (Proto)history. Novi Sad: Faculty of Philosophy (in Serbian with English summary). Mihajlović, V. D. (2020). “Confusing Iron Ages: Communities of the Middle Danube Region between ‘Tribal Hierarchy’ and Heterarchy.” In Alternative Iron Ages: Social Theory from Archaeological Analysis, ed. I. Sastre, B. X. Currás. New York and London: Routledge, 218–256. Mirković, M. 2017. Sirmium Its History from the First Century AD to 582 AD. Sremska Mitrovica and Novi Sad: Faculty of Philosophy – Historical archive “Srem”. Orejas, A.; Sastre, I. 1999. “Fiscalite et organization territoriale dans le Nord-Ouest de la Peninsule Iberique: Ciuitates, tributation et ager mensura conprehensus”, Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne 25. 159–188. Papazoglu, F. 1978. The Central Balkan Tribes in Pre-Roman Times: Triballi, Autariatae, Dardanians, Scordisci and Moesians. Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert. Pitts, M. 2014. “Reconsidering Britain’s First Urban Communities”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 27. 133–173. Pitts, M.; Versluys, M. J. (eds.) 2015. Globalisation and the Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Popović, P. 1992. “The Scordisci from the Fall of Macedonia to the Roman Conquest.” In Scordisci and the Native Population in the Middle Danube Region, ed. N. Tasić. Belgrade: Institute for Balkan Studies SASA. 35–52. Radman Livaja, I. 2012. “The Roman Army.” In The Archaeology of Roman Southern Pannonia: The State of Research and Selected Problems in the Croatian Part of the Roman Province of Pannonia, ed. B. Migotti. Oxford: BAR International Series 2393. 159–189. Reddé, M. 2015. “Les capitales des cités gauloises, simulacra Romae?” Gallia 72/1. 1–17.

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Revell, L. 2016. Ways of Being Roman. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Roncaglia, C. 2013. “Client Prefects?: Rome and the Cottians in the Western Alps”, Phoenix 67/3– 4. 353–372. Roymans, N. 2004. Ethnic Identity and Imperial Power: The Batavians in the Early Roman Empire. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Rustoiu, A. 2005. “Dacia and Italia in the 1st Century BC. The Trade with Bronze Vessels During the Late Republican Period (Preliminary Study).” In Trade and Civilization Transylvania in the Frame of Trade and Cultural Exchanges in Antiquity, eds. C. Cosma, A. Rustoiu. Cluj-Napoca: Editura Mega. 53–117. Rustoiu, A.; Ferencz, I. V.; Drăgan, A. 2017. “Dacian Fortified Settlements in the Iron Gates Region During Late Iron Age (2nd Century BC – 1st Century AD).” In Iron Age Fortifications on the Tisa-Dniester Space, Proceedings of Saharna Summer Colloquium July 14th-17th, 2016, eds. A. Zanoci et al. Brăila: Editura Istros a Muzeului Brăilei “Carol I”. 187–208. Šašel Kos, M.; Scherrer, P. 2004. The Autonomous Towns of Noricum and Pannonia, Pannonia II. Ljubljana: Narodni muzej Slovenije. Šašel Kos, M. 2005. Appian and Illyricum. Ljubljana: Narodni muzej Slovenije. Šašel Kos, M. 2015. “The Final Phase of the Augustan Conquest of Illyricum”, Antichità Altoadriatiche 81. 65–87. Slofstra, J. 2002. “Batavians and Romans on the Lower Rhine: The Romanisation of a Frontier Area”, Archaeological Dialogues 9/1. 16–38. Szabo M. 2007. “La basilique de Bibracte”, Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 151/2. 853–876. Ujes-Morgan, D. 2012. “1st Century BC Drachms of Apollonia and Dyrrhachium in the Territory of the Scordisci. A Prologue to the Roman Conquest of the Balkans.” In HPAKΛEOYΣ ΣΩTHPOΣ ΘAΣIΩN: Studia in honorem Iliae Prokopov sexagenario ab amicis et discipulis dedicata, ed. E. Paunov, S. Filipova. Tirnovi: Faber Publishers. 367–387. Van Oyen, A. 2015a. “Actor-Network Theory’s Take on Archaeological Types: Becoming, Material Agency, and Historical Explanation”, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 25. 63–78. Van Oyen, A. 2015b. “The Roman City as Articulated through Terra Sigillata”, Oxford Journal of Archaeology 34/3. 279–299. Van Oyen, A. 2016a. “Historicising Material Agency: from Relations to Relational Constellations”, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 23. 354–378. Van Oyen, A. 2016b. “Networks or Work-Nets? Actor-Network Theory and Multiple Social Topologies in the Production of Roman terra sigillata.” In The Connected Past Network Studies in Archaeology and History, ed. T. Brughmans, A. Collar, F. Coward. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 35–56. Van Oyen, A. 2017. “Finding the Material in ‘Material Culture’. Form and Matter in Roman Concrete.” In Materialising Roman History, ed. A. Van Oyen, M. Pitts. Oxford & Philadelphia: Oxbow books. 133–152. Van Oyen, A.; Pitts, M. 2017. “What Did Objects Do in the Roman World? Beyond Representation.” In Materialising Roman Histories, ed. A. Van Oyen, M. Pitts. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 3–19. Whittaker, D. 2009. “Ethnic Discourses on the Frontiers of Roman Africa.” In Ethnic Constructs in Antiquity: The Role of Power and Tradition, ed. T. Derks, N. Roymans. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. 189–206. Woolf, G. 1995. “The Formation of Roman Provincial Cultures.” In Integration in the Early Roman West: The Role of Culture and Ideology, ed. J. Metzler, M. Millet, N. Roymans, J. Slofstra. Luxembourg: Dossiers d’Archéologie du Musée National d’Historie et d’Art IV. 9–18.

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Woolf, G. 2002. “Generations of Aristocracy. Continuities and Discontinuities in the Societies of Interior Gaul”, Archaeological Dialogues 9/1. 2–15. Woolf, G. 2005. “Provincial Perspectives.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Augustus, ed. K. Galinsky. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 85–105.

The Amphitheaters in Roman Cities Urbanistic Correspondence during the Augustan Age in Some Italian Contexts Ilaria Trivelloni When considering Roman cities and their transformations and changes, issues such as distribution, fragmentation of space and functional organization, immediately come to mind to those who deal with the studies of ancient urban planning. Space, architecture, and therefore landscape, are parts of reality that are continuously articulated and diversified according to the cultural background to which even the smallest of cities of the Roman Empire were subjected. The usage of archaeological data allows for a comparison of different urban centres in order to understand, although incompletely, the transformations of the urban landscapes over time. The cases of the Italian cities discussed in this paper, show various interventions and alternations of space according to architectural innovations particularly linked to the Augustan age. The final decades of the 1st century BCE and the beginning of the 1st century CE constituted a period of significant social and political change which has markedly influenced the urban planning of Roman cities. The peace introduced after the battle of Actium in 31 BCE brought economic and political stability in Italy and the Empire, became an incentive for the renewal of the urban areas, and was noticeably articulated through monumentality of the public spaces. This period of “re-construction” of Italian cities was the result of general rearrangements of urban life that can be traced back to the beginning of the century. The profound changes in the political and juridical structures, starting with the Lex Iulia de Civitate and the Lex Pompeia de Transpadaniis, were directly connected to a monumental and architectural renewal that undoubtedly belonged to an earlier situation. The wars at the beginning of the first century BCE and Sulla’s domination were the reasons for the re-planning of urban city areas, with particular attention to the geographical configuration of the landscape (Sommella 1988: 110–112). After that, the phenomenon of renovatio urbis carried out at the end of the first century BCE by Augustus, involved small cities and local realities throughout ancient Italy.

Fig. 1 Bing aerial image with localization of the Roman cities analyzed in the paper (by the author).

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The impact of the princeps’ policies concerned many aspects of Roman society, but from the perspective of “urbanology” the main impression includes the “building race” that engaged all Italian cities. In this light, the renovatio urbis of the Augustan age often consisted of various architectural improvements and a monumentalization of public spaces: building of aqueducts, restoration of city gates, renovation of the main roads, enlargement of the forum areas, and creation of public spaces for leisure time such as baths, theaters and amphitheaters. Consequently, several urban settlements increased urban sectors with the construction of buildings for “leisure time”, and it seems that within such projects an amphitheater became the exemplary urban component. The structural complexity, the enormous proportions, the possibility of dividing and allocating it to specific uses and functions are the aspects that permit the consideration of amphitheater as true ludic microcosm within the macrocosm represented by the city. The ideally conceptualized correspondence between an amphitheater and the urban way of life required, in particular, a space in which such a large structure could be accommodated and well organized in all of its parts. Although it is impossible to consider all the elements that defined the position of an amphitheater and fully grasp the original conditions that directed the choice of the site, geology, landform and road system were three aspects that can be understood as unavoidably and directly linked to the construction of such huge buildings. Hence, the main line of inquiry in this paper is the connection between amphitheaters and landscape in the cities primarily located in central Italy (Fig.1). The discussed settlements were linked to consular roads or other major road systems, and benefited from the renovation during the Augustan age evident in the increase of monumentality and rebuilding or construction of public spaces. For these reasons, the central Italian cities offer a very convenient case study for understanding the ties between urbanity, public space, amphitheaters and wider landscape context. 1 The amphitheater as a symbol of social power Before starting the analysis of specific urban settlements, it is important to consider the social implications of amphitheaters in Roman society. This sort of buildings was the symbol of specific ideology, power and social authority, which is particularly well illustrated by many epigraphic sources testifying to the private donation of citizens who, de sua pecunia, guaranteed the construction of an amphitheater or theater. Several amphitheaters that were built during the Augustan age or in the first half of the 1st century CE were the results of private donations, and the economic situation of the benefactors could determine the way in which the structures were built. For example, in Assisi, Decianus appointed his sister Petronia Galeonis in fideicommisso to build such structures as the opus amphitheatri (CIL, XI 5406; for details see Gregori 1984: 969–979). Another case at Luceria speaks of one Marcus Vecilius Campus who

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sua pecunia loco privato suo amphitheatrum et maceriam circum curavit (EAOR III: 73 = AE 1937, 64). Moreover, Caius Salvus Capitonis built the amphitheater in Venusia (CIL, IX 465). At Urbisaglia, Lucius Flavius Nonius Bassus pecunia sua solo suo amphitheatrum faciendum curavit (AE 1961,40 = AE 1969/70, 183a [also 183b] = AE 1995, 434). Another inscription reminded that Quinto Noevius Cordus Suetorius Macro, the praefectus praetorii that Emperor Caligula forced to suicide, amphiteatrum testamento dedit in Alba Fucens (AE 1957, 250). At this point, it is instructive to consider that (at least) two of these inscriptions mentioned explicitly the place of the construction: loco privato suo in the case of Luceria, solo suo for Urbs Salvia. Although these are the only two inscriptions giving the cited formula, it is crucial to point out that at the end of the construction these buildings (even if a private citizen built them) would automatically become public (i. e. the property available to use by all citizens).1 It is interesting to note that of the two amphitheaters built in a private area, one was inside the city and the other was within the suburban area (Fig.2). This fact indicates that the position of a private property intended for a construction was not a secondary factor: only the areas not densely urbanized allowed for such huge constructions and were also favorable from an economic and logistical point of view. The archaeological survey of Luceria, at the end of the 1950s, revealed very interesting data. It is well known that the amphitheater was located in the eastern part of the city. The hypothesis is that the town developed on three hills and a flat area on the eastern side, and that all three hills were probably included within the city walls. The urban plan extended around a wide area of about 240 m ASL high that is clearly visible from the flat alluvial territory that surrounds it. The estate of Marcus Vecilius Campus was within the eastern urban area that was well suited to accommodate an amphitheater thanks to a natural depression in which the arena and part of the cavea were implanted The archaeological surveys from the 1950s and 1980s also identified some other structures below the Lucerian amphitheater. These structures were traced back to residential purposes and their use dated to the Republican age (Degrassi 1957: 182 n°2831; Lippolis-Mazzei 1991: 264–265; Greco 2008: 450; Marchi 2013: 335; Legrottaglie 2015: 219 and no. 23). Unfortunately, in the absence of excavation data, it is not possible to assume with certainty their housing function (Fig. 3). The use of these facilities could have been managed by the same Vecilius Campus, or they could have been rented to 1

Such cases are frequently accompanied with the formula donavit et dedicavit. Following the act of offering, the building was no longer the property of the benefactor, even if he had proceeded to the construction loco suo. The only known exception is the case of the first permanent amphitheater erected by Statilius Taurus in Rome, in the southern Campus Martius – even after its dedication to the community, the building seemed to operate more as private than public. As evidenced by inscriptions found in the family columbarium, the slaves and liberti who belonged to the Statilii managed the amphitheater. Therefore, it seems that after its completion, Statilius Taurus continued to provide privately for the proper functioning of the object.

Fig. 2 On the left, the urban settlement of Luceria. The asterisk indicates the amphitheater inside the urban limit (by Lippolis 1999, re-elaborated). On the right, the ancient city of Urbs Salvia where the amphitheater [*] sits outside the urban city wall (by Sommella 1988, re-elaborated)

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Fig. 3 Structures below the amphitheater of Luceria (Degrassi 1957)

others. It cannot be excluded that this was the property of a third party, which had afterwards been acquired by Vecilius Campus for the amphitheater that he intended to donate to the colony and Augustus. It is also possible that these residential structures had been damaged by different circumstances, and were no longer functional. This could have opened up the way for a new use of the locus for the construction of an amphitheater.2 Concerning the physical landscape, at Urbs Salvia the situation is similar to Luceria. The position of the amphitheater was determined by the geo-morphological situation of the terrain: the north-western part is adapted to the dip-slopes that gradually descend towards the valley, in a NW-SE direction (Perna 2006: 49). In regard to the urban development of this area it is interesting to mark that the building was located outside the walls and near the tombs which were packed along the consular road that led to the city gate (e. g. Perna 2006: 52–53). It is not possible to define the owners of

2

Although these suggestions have no chance to be answered without epigraphic and archaeological evidence to corroborate the hypotheses, from an urban point of view the transformation of private loca into places used for public amphitheaters has its own relevance.

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funeral monuments, or to identify the ownership of the area, and the only property reference concerns the amphitheater of Nonius Bassus. Regardless of the many unknown circumstances, the considerations of the urban landscape and morphology of the area in question can play an important role and allow us to review certain loci as the most suitable for placing amphitheaters. It is interesting to note that, both in Luceria and Urbs Salvia, it was possible to take advantage of the natural characteristics of the soil, while the constructive systems were subjected to the morphology and geology of the area. As mentioned above, these factors were not of secondary importance, especially when considering the advantages in both economic and logistical terms. From a chronological point of view, the amphitheater was the last type of structure introduced for the purposes of spectacular entertainment, as the periodically performed spectacula required only temporary structures (the use of fora as sceneries is known for gladiatorial spectacles – Vitr. 5.1.1). The introduction of specific constructions inside the urban topography certainly was not easy due to some constraints. First, it was necessary to find a place that could accommodate such a massive structure and needed to be well organized in all its parts. The amphitheater could host thousands of people, which in some cases exceeded the number of inhabitants of a town.3 In such a situation, it was not enough to have an adequate space for the construction alone, but also an area that could accommodate other functional buildings and necessities for the spectacula such as the ludi gladiatorii. Moreover, the structure probably required a readily available water supply, fundamental for cleaning all the inner settings and latrinae. Additionally, the position of the amphitheaters had to be favorably connected to the urban and extra-urban areas. Hence, as many cases suggest, in the cities of old foundations and extensive building history, the amphitheaters were usually located outside the walls. On the other hand, in the cases of amphitheaters situated inside the urban perimeters, they were often set close to the city walls and in proximity both to one of the gates and to the main communication route. Their position, inside or outside the city, was primarily related to the historical background. Traditionally it is presumed that at the beginning of the first century BCE the position of an amphitheater was preferably inside the city, as it would be easier to defend in the case of sieges. Nevertheless, this view does not include several buildings of the first half of the first century BCE placed outside the urban limit, such as the amphitheater of Cumae (Bomgardner 2000: 58–59; Caputo and Regis 2009: 722). Neither

3

As it is shown by the incident between the citizens of Nuceria Alfaterna and Pompeii concerning munera gladiatoria, known both from epigraphy (e. g. CIL IV 3882, 9973) and literary sources (Tac. Ann 14.17). The terminus of 59 CE for the construction or enlargement of the Nuceria’s amphitheater – after closing Pompeii’s building in the aftermath of the tragic conflict – is a suggestive hypothesis (Golvin 1988: 116–117; 60–65 CE according to Fresa 1974: 111–116; contra Johannowsky 1983: 839 no. 10).

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is possible to assume that it was only during the Augustan age that the amphitheaters could be erected outside the cities because the sense of space opened up beyond urban walls since the fear of attacks and sieges decreased (as proposed by Mansuelli 1970: 213). To the contrary, several amphitheaters that belong to the Augustan age or the first century CE (such as those in Alba Fucens, Lupiae, Luceria, Venusia, Gumentum or Ancona) were built within the city-walls. 2 The amphitheaters along the via Flaminia: a few examples From a topological point of view, the elements that could define the choice of the position of an amphitheater principally involve landform, geology and road systems, in addition to those related to adequately large space both for the building and accompanying features. Furthermore, even if the introduction of opus caementicium changed the way of construction in Roman architecture, the analysis of the building techniques, in relation to the physical geography, has revealed that the predominant intent usually was to adapt the building to the morphology of the chosen area and, where possible, to exploit the geological formations. These common principles can be found in many Italian cities and even several “leisure buildings” originating from different epochs. As an illustrative example, one can refer to the buildings of cities of the Regio VI, along via Flaminia and via Flaminia Nova. They could explain, on the one hand, the sensibility that Roman architects had for the ancient landscape, and on the other, the sense of renovatio urbis started with Augustus. These cities benefitted from the renovation of the road systems based on the Flaminia and, consequentially, all the centers started to increase their monumental aspects through the restoration or construction of public spaces and monumental “free time architecture”. As Strabo stated (5.2.10) “[…] πολεις …ορῶν ά͗ξιαι λόγου κατ’ α͗υτην μὲν τήν Φλαμινίαν οδ͑ όν οι͑τε Όκρικολοι … Ναρνία … Κάρσουλοι […]”. The city of Carsulae was part of the Augustan program and become one of the main centers on the Flaminia road. The settlement developed mainly on the east and the west side of the main road that crosses the center from north to south. Carsulae still presents several problems concerning the extension of the ancient urban city area since large parts are undiscovered or abandoned. Archaeological surveys, supported so by aerial photos, seem to have identified the urban defensive systems which is not yet investigated (Ciuchini 2004: 119–125). It can be assumed that in the case of Carsulae the choice for the location of the amphitheater is mainly related to the landform and geology, along with the proximity to the via Flaminia. Namely, the importance of the Martani Mounts should be considered together with the limestone on the eastern part, the travertine that dominates the entire valley, the underground waters and the importance of the karst valley in which some urban structures took place. In one of these karsts, the amphitheater was built quite close to the forum area (Fig. 4). That could confirm the willingness

Fig. 4 Base mapping and analysis of the lithological formations. In the middle: limits of karst valley where are the constructions of the theater and the amphitheater (*) (by Ciotti 1976, re-elaborated). On the right, image of Carsulae with the theater and amphitheater (on the left side) and the Forum area (on the right side).

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to adapt the structure to the landscape and to fill a deep depression, between the forum area and the Martani Mounts. Such a situation could explain the particular position of the amphitheater close to the most important city areas (see also Ciotti 1976: 38). The discussed pattern also concerns the theatre: both theater and amphitheater shared simultaneous conception as the outcome of unique urban project. The imperfect alignment between the two buildings can be seen in the light of an adaptation to the ground, i. e. as a solution imposed by the geomorphology. Moreover, a cross street of the via Flaminia connected the theater and amphitheater directly with the consular road. In this context, the water supply, used for cleaning, was probably guaranteed by a cistern immediately on the north side of the amphitheater (Ciotti 1976: 42–43). At Interamna Nahars, another center in the south of modern Umbria along the Flaminia Nova, the amphitheater was located inside the defensive walls, built on the southwest corner of the urban area (Fig.5). It seems that the entire neighborhood changed due to the presence of this huge monument, especially the blocks in its immediate vicinity (Sisani 2006: 197; concerning the problem of the spatial overspill see Goodman 2016: 316). It was built in order to be well connected to the road system: one of the main axes of the structure corresponds with one of the axes of the urban communication grid. It should be noted that Carsulae and Interamna are the only two documented cases in Umbria where the amphitheaters are built within the city-walls.4 Another center that went throughout the program of renovation is Hispellum. While the city was established uphill, the amphitheater was located outside the city walls, in a valley, and was probably built in the first half of the 1st century CE. The spectacula building was very close to the sanctuary of Venus under the Villa Fidelia5 which was restored during the Augustan age, probably simultaneously with the construction of the theater (Sisani 2012: 436–437). It seems that the aim was to create a focal point for the citizenship by the construction of the theater, at the basis of the sanctuary, and the amphitheater farther east, towards the city. This valley was chosen not only for ideological reasons of connecting with the feasts in honor of Venus (Sisani 2006: 113), but also for the morphological and geological situation,6 and the potential provided by previously unoccupied space. Moreover, the possibility to reach the valley easily contributed to its successful employment: a suburban road connected the entire complex sanctuary-theater-amphitheater with the city center through gates on the southwest side. The presence of a water source7 and underground waters are other elements that certainly played a huge role in choosing the site for amphitheater. The water is funda-

4 5 6 7

For the hypothesis on defensive system in Carsulae see Ciuchini 2004: 119–125. For a recent study of the area see Occhilupo 2014; Camerieri, Manconi 2010: 31–37. The amphitheatre was built in a flat area of alluvial nature, about 200 m ASL. (http://storicizzati. territorio.regione.umbria.it/Static/GeologiaKmz/GeologiaKmz/Index_kmz.htm). The water source on the edge of the road to Etruria might have some role in the organization of the cult in that place (Cèbeillac-Gervasoni 2000: 483).

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Fig. 5 The Roman city of Interamna Nahars. The dotted lines describe two urban axes that connect both the amphitheater and the theater (Sisani 2006, re-elaborated).

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Fig. 6 Google Earth image with the overlapping geological deposits kml file format from ‘Regione Umbria – Direzione Ambiente, Territorio e Infrastrutture, Servizio Geologico e Sismico’. City of Spello (on the right). SAA: limestone; h: antropic deposit; MAI: limestone outcrops; a3b: screes; b2: alluvial deposits. In the rectangle: the amphitheater [*] and the area of Venus sanctuary under the modern Villa Fidelia. Below, the area of the sanctuary (by Sisani 2006)

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mental to various functional purposes: cleaning of the structures at the end of the spectacula, running of the fountains8 or nymphaea, ablutions of gladiators before the games, cleaning the toilets that were inside, etc. In conclusion, the morphological and geological characteristics of the soil, the available space and the abundant presence of water were used to facilitate a new suburban fulcrum (Fig. 6). 3 The water supply system The water distribution system connected to functioning of amphitheaters is not at the moment adequately addressed.9 Otherwise, it seems appropriate to remember that all amphitheaters must have had drainage systems associated with latrinae which usually followed the passages into the cavea. As Paolo Chiolini (1959: 124) has noted: “we cannot think about a thousand people who stay inside an amphitheater or theater for many hours without any sort of public services, even if primitive”. Indeed, in self-supported structures, the possibility to use radial compartments permitted the easy distribution of spectators inside the cavea, and consequentially the realization of other services. Thus, the latrinae were often placed along the interior corridors or within radial compartments close to the bottom of a building. However, even though this sort of services should have existed, their recognition within the archaeological remains is challenging: in many cases the latrinae are simple holes in the floor distributed along the internal corridors and outflowed directly to the public sewage system linked to the building.10 In the analysis of amphitheaters, it has been noticed that several structures were preferentially erected near watercourses, usually at a distance of a few hundred meters. Generally, it is challenging to assume the relationship between the watercourse and the building, although it is possible to suppose that the proximity permitted an easy draining of sewages facilitated by natural slope towards the river. The cases of Spoletium and Mevania provide exactly such an example (Fig. 7). The Tessino River bordered the northeast side of Spoletium in the area where the amphitheater was located and where disposal and drainage systems were also found (Pietrangeli 1939: 65; 8

9 10

Two decorated niches used as fountains were in the ambulacrum of the Roman theater of Naples. The traces of the lead fistulas also remained in situ. In this sense also come to mind the salientes mentioned in the inscription in the amphitheater of Verona, dedicated by Licinia, mother of Quinto Domizio Alpino (CIL, V 3222). Recently a conference dedicated to water disposal systems in the ancient world was held in Aquileia (6th–7th April 2017). Today, only in very few cases is there archaeological recognition of this type of infrastructure within buildings for shows. One that can still be seen in situ is the latrine of the Circus Maximus placed along the upper ambulacrum (Buonfiglio et al 2014: 188). In Verona’s amphitheater the presence of latrinae is hypothesized, based on a comparison with those found in the Roman theater (Bolla 2012: 30). In other cases, the public baths were in adjacent structures, as in the case of the theater of Suessa Aurunca and amphitheater of Tibur.

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Fig. 7 On the right: Roman city of Mevania. On the left side: Roman city of Spoletium (by Sisani 2006, re-elaborated)

Golvin 1988: 119). On the other hand, the harbor-city of Mevania was established at the confluence of Tinia and Clitunno Rivers, where the river valley is at a low-point.11 Although the amphitheater is currently recognizable only thanks to the depression of the ground, the investigations carried out at the end of the 18th century had mentioned walls in blocks, perhaps part of the podium.12 In any case, the amphitheaters of both Mevania and Spoletium are outside the cities near the urban defensive walls, they were localized near the rivers, and their position was determined by the road system (the via Flaminia Nova in Spoletium, leaping over the bridge on the Tessino, and the ancient Flaminia in the case of Mevania). The situation was similar in the case of Ocriculum due to the presence of the Tiber River and the road system based on via Flaminia (Fig. 8) Ocriculum had a great urban development, especially during the Augustan age renovatio urbis, when the whole lower part of the city was founded (Pietrangeli 1978: 168–169), and the theater and amphitheater were built Specifically, the amphitheater was erected immediately outside the hypothetical city walls. It was a half-supported structure: one part was laid on a hill in the western side of the tuff-deposits area, while the supporting part of the structure was constructed on the east side that descended towards the Tiber. 11 12

In addition, during the Augustan age, the nearby harbor area was expanded in the course of strengthening and consolidation of its harbor functions (Camerieri, Manconi 2010: 27). Which is known of thanks to the Alberti’s reports from 1785 (Tosi 2003: 370).

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Fig. 8 The Roman city of Ocriculum (Sisani 2006, re-elaborated)

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4 The case of Asisium As demonstrated in the previous sections of the paper, the position of amphitheaters was never fortuitous, and even if other factors (such as the economic potentials of the builder) could determine the manner of construction, the principal determinants remained geology, landform and the road system. The programmatic axes of the urban topology were becoming part of the principal connection between the city and amphitheater, and in the cases of positioning close to a consular road, the amphitheater always had a direct communication with it. Asisium, for example, shows an urban planning development strongly connected with the topography of the area, which is not uniform. The city had a perfect position thanks to an important road that constituted the principal city-axis from east to west (Fig. 9, A). Moreover, the position was very well suited by the main urban and suburban roads in connection with the via Flaminia and the center between Perusia and Hispellum. The amphitheater was constructed immediately outside the city walls in the NE, as a half-supported structure: half dug into the soil and half-built with the load-bearing walls.13 The northeast side was carved into the limestone of Subasio Mount, while the self-supporting portion of the SW-SE side was conditioned by the steep terrain (since the building was placed in the steepest point, in the lower part of the mountain). Nevertheless, there is a noticeable correspondence between the way of construction and the geo-lithological situation of the area: the structure is located exactly halfway between a lithological level called Scaglia Rossa and one that is the Unità Sintemica di Solfagnano of the Super-Sintema Tiberino of Pliocene age.14 In other words, the dip slope separates two geo-lithological natures and, specifically, the amphitheater was located between the limestone formation and alluvium deposits (Fig. 9, B). Assisi is exceptional in this sense because it shows that the solutions adopted for the construction were in accord with geological features of the land. Of course, it is not possible to consider that only Umbria and cities along the Flaminia owned amphitheaters during the Augustan age. However, they explain well the increase in number and size of public structures as well as the general sense of changing the urban forms by creating conspicuous monumental areas. This change went on, not by chance, with the reconstruction of via Flaminia that Augustus remarked as one of the major works during his reign (RGDA 20, 5).

13 14

For a complete analysis of the construction method, see Tufani 1999. http://storicizzati.territorio.regione.umbria.it/Static/GeologiaKmz/GeologiaKmz/Index_kmz. htm.

Fig. 9 Asisium. Urban settlement (by Sisani 2006). Google Earth image; overlapping geological deposits kml file format from ‘Regione Umbria – Direzione Ambiente, Territorio e Infrastrutture, Servizio Geologico e Sismico’. In black: amphitheater (*) and the dip slope.

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5 Conclusions Most of the amphitheaters were built along the roads. They grew up as a new focus of urban daily life, frequently changing the topography of the area. In many cases, archaeological remains have proved the presence of previous structures, mostly private buildings, destroyed for the construction of an amphitheater.15 From the point of view of urban spatial organization, the transition from dwelling (and, in general, private structures) to buildings for spectacula determined the change of both meaning and function. Furthermore, it is unlikely that such a change concerned only the parts of a city occupied by the new structures. Instead, it is necessary to consider that a structure of such a size involved a large part of the city, in diverse manners, starting with its construction. During the construction phase, it was necessary to build a large number of urban and suburban road connections for the arrival of materials, especially if it was not possible to extract them directly from the site or its immediate surroundings.16 Furthermore, it was necessary to provide, along the perimeter of the building site, a system of entrances divided between the main ones (for the passage of chariots) and those of secondary importance (for pedestrians), all of which had to be related to external roads (Giuliani 2006: 249). The existing roads or roads created ex novo were used to connect the construction site both with the urban plant and with the material storage. This kind of problems “is not to be underestimated, because the study of urban planning cannot be limited to the lines of the city walls, but it must comprehend the whole system of external relations and reciprocal urban settlements”17 (Mansuelli 1970: 181). The case of Alba Fucens nicely illustrates this idea. Its amphitheater was built in the southern part of the city center, inside the urban city walls. Even in this case, the construction area is not accidental. Thanks to the masterful analysis of Fabio Piccarreta (1990: 15–28) it is now possible to comprehend the morphological aspects of the archaeological site and the exploitation of the petrographic and geologic substrates. The amphitheater covered part of the rock and leaned against the defensive wall. The analysis of the city walls has excluded the possibility that the southern entrance of the building existed before: the gate was instead created as an easier access point for foreign spectators, in order to prevent any sort of disorder inside the city.

15

16 17

Private structures below amphitheaters are attested at Alba Fucens (Pesando 2012: 114), Pompei (Pesando – Guidobaldi 2006: 20), Tibur (Giuliani 1970: 245), Tarentum (Lippolis 2002: 164), Rusellae (Torelli et al. 1992: 504), Eporedia (Ramella 1995: 134–136), Civitas Camunnorum (Mariotti 2004: 74–75 and no. 8). The amphitheater of Marruvium covered, instead, a Roman cemetery used until the last years of the 1st century BCE. In these terms, it constitutes a terminus ante quem non for the construction of the amphitheater (Di Stefano et al. 2011: 301–309). In this sense, in the most favorable positions certainly were the buildings located close to waterways, as e. g. Spoletium or Mevania. This possibility also exists in the cases of Verona or Mediolanum, the latter being really close to fluvial harbor. For the position of theaters and amphitheaters in the cities see also Frèzouls 1990.

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The examples mentioned above show how the Roman architecture was firmly connected to the surrounding landscape and how the ancient builders were aware of the landform that surrounded them. Numerous techniques were implemented in order to adapt the structure to the ground as well as to adapt the ground to the construction needs. Thus, it would appear that it is necessary to link within the topographical analysis the two realities: the urban city planning and the landscape, this last considered not only as the morphological part but also the geo-lithological one. The analysis of the amphitheaters shows how these important constructions involved the city for its construction. To use the words of Cairoli Fulvio Giuliani, buildings are like “living organisms” (Giuliani 2006: 249) that reveal their dynamism already in the construction phase or, it would be better to say, since the project phase. Bibliography Abbreviations AE

L’Année Épigraphique, published in Revue Archéologique and separately (1888–) ATTA Atlante Tematico di Topografia Antica BA Bollettino di Archeologia BTCGI Bibliografia Topografica della colonizzazione greca in Italia e nelle isole tirreniche CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (1863–) EAOR Enciclpedia Anfiteatrale dell’Occidente Romano FA Fasti Archeologici INGV-SGA Istituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia – Istituto di Storia Geofisica Ambiente MEFRA Mélanges de l’École française de Rome – Antiquité Ancient Sources Res Gestae Divi Augusti, ed. Vincenzo Ussani, trad. E. Malcovati. Roma: Edizioni Roma. 1938. Tacite Annales Livres XIII–XV, trad. Pierre Wuilleumier. Paris: Les belles lettres. 1990. The Geography of Strabo, vol. V, ed. G. P. Goold, trad. H. L. Jones. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 1988. Vitruvius. On Architecture, vol. II, ed. G. P. Goold, trad. Frank Granger. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 1985.

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Literature Bolla, M. 2012. L’arena di Verona. Verona: Cierre Edizioni. Bomgardner, D. L. 2000. The Story of the Roman Amphitheatre London: Routledge. Buonfiglio, M.; Ciancio Rossetto, P.; Le Pera, S.; Marcelli, M.; Schingo, E. G. 2014. “Nuove acquisizioni dai sondaggi eseguiti in Piazza Navona.” In Piazza Navona, ou Place Navone, la plus belle & la plus grande: du stade de Domitien à la place moderne, la place moderne, histoire d’une évolution urbaine, ed. J.-F. Bernard. Roma: École française de Rome. 71–85. Camerieri, P.; Manconi D. 2010. “La centuriazione della valle Umbra da Spoleto a Perugia”, Bollettino di Archeologia Online Volume speciale. 15–39. Caputo, P.; Regis, C. 2009. “L’anfiteatro cumano e le cavità artificiali di Cuma.” In Cuma: atti del 48 Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia: Taranto, 27 settembre-1 ottobre 2008. Taranto: Istituto per la storia e l’archeologia della Magna Grecia. 717–738. Cèbeillac-Gervasoni, M. 2000. “Chronique des travaux.” In Les élites municipales de l’Italie Péninsulaire de la mort de César à la mort de Domitien: classes sociale dirigeantes et pouvoir central, ed. M. Cèbeillac-Gervasoni. Roma: École française de Rome. 473–488. Chiolini, P. 1959. I caratteri distributivi degli antichi edifici: gli edifici romani, gli edifici del Medio Evo. Milano: Hoepli. Ciotti, U. et al. 1976. San Gemini e Carsulae. Milano: C. E. Bestetti. Ciuchini, P. 2004. “Carsulae: alcune notazioni in merito ai resti della cinta di fortificazione e delle tracce da foto aerea ad essa riferibili”, Archeologia Aerea. Studi di Aerotopografia Archeologica 1. 119–126. Degrassi, N. 1957. “Luceria”, FA 13. 182. Di Stefano, V.; Leoni, G.; Villa, D. 2011. “L’anfiteatro romano di Marruvium: forme architettoniche. Da Marruvium romana alla Civitas Marsicana.” In Il Fucino e le aree limitrofe nell’antichità. Atti del III Convegno di Archeologia in ricordo di Walter Cianciusi Castello Orsini, Avezzano, 13–15 Novembre 2009, ed. A. Campanelli. Avezzano: Archeoclub d’Italia, Sezione della Marsica. 301–309. Fresa, M.; Fresa, A. 1974. Nuceria Alfterna in Campania. Napoli: Fausto Fiorentino. Frèzouls, E. 1990. “Les monuments des spectacles dans la ville: théâtre et amphithéâtre.” In Spectacula I Gladiateurs et amphithéâtres Actes du colloque tenue à Toulouse et à Lattes les 26, 27, 28 et 29 mai 1987, ed. C. Domergue, C. Landes, J-M. Pailer. Lattes: Edition Imago. 77–88. Giuliani, C. F. 1970. Forma Italiae XIV Tibur Pars Prima. Roma: De Luca. Giuliani, C. F. 2006. L’edilizia nell’antichità Roma: Carocci Editore. Golvin, J. C. 1988. L’amphithéâtre romain Essai sur la théorisation de sa forme et de ses fonctions. Paris: Diffusion de Boccard. Goodman, P. J. 2016. “Urban Peripheries.” In A Companion to Roman Italy, ed. A. E. Cooley. Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley Blackwell. 308–329. Greco, E. 2008. Magna Grecia. Roma: Laterza. Gregori, G. L. 1984. “Amphitheatralia I”, MEFRA 96.2. 961–985. Guidoboni, E. et al. 2007. Catalogue of Strong Earthquakes in Italy (461 B C -1997) and Mediterranean Area (760 B C -1500) INGV-SGA: http://storing.ingv.it/cfti4med. Johannowsky, W. 1982. “Nuovi rinvenimenti a Nuceria Alfaterna.” In La regione sotterrata dal Vesuvio Studi e prospettive Atti del convegno internazionale 11–15 novembre 1979. Napoli: Università degli Studi di Napoli. 835–847. Legrottaglie, G. 2015. “…et maceriam circum it. L’arena di Lucera e gli anfiteatri con recinto”, ATTA 25. 215–230.

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Lippolis E. 1999. “Lucera: impianto e architettura della città romana”. In Lucera Topografia storica, archeologia, arte, ed. E. Antonacci Sanpaolo. Bari: Adda Editore. 1–29. Lippolis, E. 2002. “Taranto. Forma e sviluppo della topografia urbana.” In Taranto e il Mediterraneo Atti del Quarantunesimo convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia (Taranto 12–16 ottobre 2001). Taranto: Istituto per la storia e l’archeologia della Magna Grecia. 119–169. Lippolis, E.; Mazzei, M. 1991. “Luceria”, BTCGI 9. 261–269. Mansuelli, G. A. 1970. Architettura e città Problemi del mondo classico. Bologna: Alfa. Marchi, M. L. 2013. “Deduzioni coloniali e interventi urbani di età augustea nella Regio II (Apulia et Calabria)”, Paideia 68. 327–348. Mariotti, V. 2004. “Il quartiere degli edifici da spettacolo.” In Il teatro e l’anfiteatro di Cividate Camuno Scavo, restauro e allestimento di un parco archeologico, ed. V. Mariotti. Firenze: All’Insegna del Giglio. 69–74. Occhilupo, S. 2014. “Nuovi dati dal santuario umbro di Villa Fidelia. Fasi preromane e soluzioni architettoniche”, Bollettino Storico della città di Foligno 35–36 (2012–2013). 267–290. Perna, R. 2006. Urbs Salvia. Forma e urbanistica. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Pesando, F. 2012. “Alba Fucens fra case e abitanti”, Quaderni d’Archeologia d’Abruzzo, 2/2010. 113– 120. Pesando, F.; Guidobaldi, M. P. 2006. Pompei, Ercolano, Oplontis, Stabiae. Roma: Laterza. Piccarreta, F. 1990. “Alba Fucens. Le cave dei fondatori”. BA 3. 15–28. Pietrangeli, C. 1939. Spoletium (Spoleto): Regio VI-Umbria. Roma: Istituto di Studi Romani. Pietrangeli, C. 1978. Otricoli Un lembo dell’Umbria alle porte di Roma. Narni: Cassa di Risparmio di Narni. Ramella, P. 1995. Eporedia: città romana dell’Italia Trnspadana. Ivrea: Bolognino. Sisani, S. 2006. Umbria, Marche. Roma: Laterza. Sisani, S. 2012. I rapporti tra Mevania e Hispellum nel quadro del paesaggio sacro della Valle Umbra. In Annali della Fondazione per il Museo Claudio Faina XIX Il Fanum Voltumnae e i santuari comunitari dell’Italia antica (Atti Orvieto 2011). Roma: Quasar. 409–446. Sommella, P. 1988. Italia antica L’urbanistica romana. Roma: Jouvence. Torelli, M.; Masseria, C. (eds.) 1992. Atlante dei siti archeologici della Toscana. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Tosi, G. 2003. Gli edifici per spettacoli nell’Italia romana. Roma: Quasar. Tufani, A. 1999. L’anfiteatro romano di Assisi. Assisi: Accademia Properziana del Subasio

Roman Spectacles in Dalmatia and Upper Moesia Army and Amphitheaters in the Social Life of the Provinces Marko A. Janković

In almost every aspect of Roman spectacles, parallels with the Roman army are already drawn and argued for, not only at specific sites, but also in general. The amphitheater buildings, in their early Caesarean phase, show some resemblance to military camps (Welch 2007) and military units were definitely involved in erecting some of these objects (Golvin 1988; Bomgardner 2000; Wilmott 2008). In Roman frontier zones, amphitheaters were built just outside legionary camps, and at some of them even the dedicatory inscriptions have been preserved (Bomgardner 2000; Cambi 2006; Laurence 2011). The program of the spectacles also usually strongly resembled military scenes – gladiatorial combats of warriors, equipped and dressed (and during the first centuries, even named) as traditional Roman enemies – Gauls, Dacians, Samnites ( Janković 2014a). On some, though not common occasions, sponsors of the spectacles even staged reenactments of important battles from the Roman past (Wiedemann 1992). However, for the purpose of this paper, I will focus on specific aspects of amphitheaters built in the provinces of Dalmatia and Upper Moesia. Despite the fact that these two provinces had different paths in becoming part of the Roman Empire,1 and that their internal development was largely different, I will try to explore the connections between the two legions stationed in these provinces (Legio IIII Flavia Felix and Legio VII Claudia pia fidelis), amphitheaters built in the vicinity of their camps and the role they might have had in the everyday life of people living in these provinces. I do not aim to solve all the questions in a single space-limited paper, but I do hope that I will be able to raise questions that are going to be relevant in explaining, at least partially, cultural contacts and exchanges that occurred in the context of amphitheaters. 1

For the history of the conquest of Dalmatia see Wilkes 1969; Dzino 2010; Džino and Domić Kunić 2013. Details on the conquest and organization of Moesia can be found in Mirković 1968; Mócsy 1974; Mladenović 2012.

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The Roman army was traditionally treated by scholars as a kind of ambassador of Roman culture (Mattingly 2011). Its presence, diversity, and connections with different social groups that “followed” it (like traders, builders, craftsmen and administrative personell), was seen as a perfect means for introducing important features of Roman culture throughout the Roman Empire, or even beyond its frontiers. The traditional theoretical framework (i. e. the concept of Romanization) understood soldiers as an important means in the process where the local populations, previously conquered, were slowly turning into Romans (Hingley 2005; Mattingly 2011). However, since the end of the 20th century, Romanization was heavily criticized from various theoretical and practical standpoints (see Mihajlović 2019). Some of these critics also addressed the role of the Roman army in that process (e. g. Webster and Cooper 1996; Mattingly 1997; Webster 2001; Hingley 2005). The academic community mostly abandoned the idea that Roman social, political, economic or any other kind of superiority, reflected through the army, was the sole and essential factor in setting off cultural changes. Still, we cannot neglect the fact that some cultural transformations, as a result of a meeting of two (or more) parties which were simply different in social, economic, technological or political ways, were happening (for different provinces see Woolf 1998; Roymans 2004; Curchin 2004; Oltean 2007; Madsen 2009). In the event of changed political and social contexts, invoked permanently by the presence and activities of imperial elements, people changed their political and social circumstances of everyday lives, and one of the results of such changes was introducing and maintaining a whole specter of new identities in almost all aspects of life (Revell 2009; Janković 2011; 2018). The number of identities that were negotiated and maintained depended on various conditions which included the changed circumstances, but also a whole series of factors like the history of relations, technological and cultural development and affinities, political organization or even some personal choices of the parties involved. One of the important aspects of visible changes was undoubtedly monumental architecture and the erection of public buildings in forms, techniques and materials which were previously unknown and thus represented a novelty in the conquered provinces (Revell 2009). The public buildings like basilicas, forums, markets, etc. were used as places of communal gathering and most of these places offered a variety of goods that could appeal to wider provincial populations, essentially in the cases where people could indulge their need for socializing and entertainment (Edmondson 2002; Janković 2018). Here, I argue that such edifices had an important role in integrating local populations in the everyday life of Roman cities, and that they could be the meeting points which offered opportunities for intercultural exchange, introducing new activities and practices or forming new specific “tastes” important for negotiating different identities.

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1 Roman army and amphitheaters in Dalmatia and Upper Moesia Contact between the Roman army and local populations of Dalmatia, especially in its coastal area, was frequent long before the final conquest of the territory. The Roman army fought local populations in a series of wars (229–168) until the coastal area was partially incorporated into the Roman empire. Still, we cannot exclude other forms of contact in the long period before the incorporation of the area. Lastly, the Roman army was engaged in the final conquest of the eastern Adriatic coast and its hinterland, as well as in organization and controlling the province in the aftermath (Džino 2010). At the beginning of the common era (6–9 CE), Roman military units were active in suppressing the Batonian rebellion (Džino 2009; 2014). Beside the Roman legions, a great number of other auxiliary units and detachments are confirmed in Dalmatia. However, since the subject of this paper is the relation between amphitheaters, military units and local populations, I will concentrate on those units that were stationed or confirmed within the immediate vicinity of the amphitheaters of Salona, Burnum and Viminacium.

Fig. 1 Amphitheatres in the province of Dalmatia – Burnum and Salona

At the site of Burnum (modern Kistanje) an amphitheater was located just outside the walls of the legionary castrum, in close vicinity to an auxiliary camp and the civil settlement. Military structures were probably raised in the time of Augustus and the civil settlement obtained the status of municipium in the time of the Flavian dynasty (Cambi et al. 2007). The units that were engaged in the construction of the first buildings at Burnum were Legio XX Valeria Victrix and Legio XI Claudia Pia. Both legions were dispatched from Dalmatia, and the reformed Legio IIII Flavia was installed at Burnum in 69/70 CE. Soldiers of this legion stayed at Burnum until 86 CE, when the unit was relocated to Upper Moesia (Campedelli 2011). After the departure of the 4th legion, legio VIII Augusta, or at least some of its detachments, was stationed in Burnum

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(Miletić 2008). Its presence was confirmed in the time of Antoninus Pius (Campedelli 2011). Across the Krka river, the civil settlement of the local population was also discovered (the Puljani hillfort). Initially, Burnum was erected at the “boundary” of the local groups of Delmatae and Liburni (Glavičić and Miletić 2009). First archaeological excavations at Burnum were conducted in 1912–13 by the Austrian Institute of Archaeology and then as late as 1973–74 by the local Museum of Drniš. Only with the beginning of the 21st century, more intensive research began (Cambi et al. 2006; 2007). At the same time, first excavation at the Burnum amphitheater began in 2003, although the site had been known for a long time (Bulić 1879). Since then, large-scale research has been conducted in the area, covering not only the systematic excavations of different parts of the site, but also a geophysical survey that provided valuable insight into the landscape of Roman Burnum and its surroundings (Cambi et al. 2006; 2007; Miletić 2007; Glavičić and Miletić 2009; Campedelli 2011; Boschi and Giorgi 2012). The researchers argued that the first phase of the amphitheater began probably during the age of Claudius while the XI legion was stationed in Burnum, and that soldiers of the IIII Flavian legion finished the construction shortly before they were dispatched to Upper Moesia in 86 CE (Glavičić and Miletić 2007; Cambi et al. 2007). The initial phase of the amphitheater, when most of the building was constructed, was dated thanks to small findings, especially coins, to the Claudian age. The later phase consisted of a partial reconstruction of the amphitheater and an expansion of the sitting area. A number of bricks stamped with legio IIII Flavia seals, but also the dedicatory inscription, helped scholars to date this phase to the age of Vespasian, namely 76/77 CE (Glavaš 2011; Miletić 2011). Although a certain amount of small findings and coins from the Augustan (end even late Republican) era were discovered, there was no evidence of eventual earlier construction at the site. The Burnum amphitheater had four entrances on its axis with vaulted passages and funneled walls. Its dimensions were similar to the amphitheater of Salona (outer dimensions 130 × 117 m, arena 44 × 33 m), but the construction technique was rather different. The builders used natural karst slopes as a construction element, so the amphitheater had no underground passages and chambers (Cambi et al. 2007; Glavičić and Miletić 2009). It is interesting that the place for the altar was discovered in the northwestern area, so it was assumed that some dedication once stood in that place. Probably the most important find (at least for the purpose of this paper) is the monumental dedicatory inscription from 76–77 CE, naming emperor Vespasian as a benefactor (Glavičić and Miletić 2009). The inscription shows that the emperor financed and dedicated the amphitheater to his faithful legion (which he already titled Flavia Felix). Since most of the findings from the amphitheater are not fully published, and the spectators’ area was only partially excavated, researchers cautiously assume that Burnum amphitheater to seat between 6000 and 10000 spectators (Cambi et al. 2006; 2007; Glavičić and Miletić 2009). The other site in Dalmatia where the amphitheater was discovered is Salona. For more than a century of research, many inscriptions with the names and status of Ro-

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man soldiers were found within the city. Legionary beneficiaries in Salona were confirmed from a dozen of different legions stationed all over the Empire, but also soldiers from auxiliary units, like those from cohors VIII volontariorum civium Romanorum, cohors III Alpinorum equitata or cohors I Belgarum (Matijević 2009; 2011; 2012). Still, Roman legions were never stationed in the city of Salona. The closest legionary fort was installed in Tilurium, some 30 km north of Salona, in its hinterland. The site has been excavated since the end of the 20th century and the results were published in a series of papers (Sanader 1998; 2003; Sanader and Tončinić 2010; Sanader et al. 2014). Within the fort, Legio VII Claudia pia fidelis was stationed from the beginning of the 1st century (16–17 CE) until its relocation to Viminacium. Still, recent research into the area of the Cetina river and its valley between Tilurium and Salona resulted in the discovery of a series of possible military installations much closer to Salona. The author of the research results argues that between those two important Roman sites (Salona and Tilurium), no less than two auxiliary military camps and two other smaller military sites were discovered (Cesarik 2018). Still, we do not have precise date for these military sites, since most of it is confirmed by the analyses of satellite images and field survey – no archaeological excavations were conducted, nor any other chronologically indicative material was found so far. It is also important to stress that there are indications of the existence of a Tilurium amphitheater, but the site was never archaeologically explored (cf. Sanader 2016: 43 n.11). Scholarly efforts to bring light to the Roman spectacles within the territory of the province of Dalmatia were begun in the second half of 19th century. Some of the very first archaeological excavations in the Balkans were conducted in Salona, near the modern-day Croatian city of Split, particularly on the sites where the Salonitan amphitheater and gladiatorial necropolis once stood ( Janković 2011: 703). During the 20th century, the amphitheater of Salona and findings related to gladiatorial spectacles were the subject of many research projects and publications (Dyggve 1933; Suić 1976; Cambi 1979). Particularly since the beginning of the 21st century, efforts were intensified thanks to the fact that more findings were unearthed, but also due to the extensive excavation campaigns of other amphitheaters in Croatia (Sanader 2001; Jeličić-Radonjić 2008; Jeličić-Radonjić and Sedlar 2009; 2011; Jeličić-Radonjić and Pereža 2010; Janković 2011). The first synthesis on the Salonitan amphitheater was published by Danish architect Eynar Dyggve, where he minutely describes the basic architecture of the monument and reconstructs its possible designs and capacities (Dyggve 1933). However detailed, Dyggvе’s book was largely outdated in the second half of the 20th century and new research was conducted and published since then. Now we have enough information to describe not only the architecture, but also parts of the activities that took place when the amphitheater was in use. The amphitheater of Salona was probably finished during the Flavian dynasty, due to its basic similarities with other amphitheaters of the era, including Rome’s grandest – the Colosseum ( Jeličić Radonjić 2008). Originally, the monument was situat-

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ed outside the city walls, but on the axis of the old city (Urbs vetus). The authors of the most relevant research on the topic assume that construction began in the time of Augustus, or in the Julio-Claudian era, and that the amphitheater was finished in the time of Flavian dynasty. In the reign of Marcus Aurelius, c. 170 CE, the city of Salona expanded and its walls incorporated the amphitheater, using part of it as an enclosure. The outer dimensions of the amphitheater were 124.75 × 100.65 m, and the arena was built over 64.3 × 40.2 m, so it had space for 16,000 (Wilkes 1969) to 20,00 spectators (Dyggve 1933). The northern part was planned for the seats and lodges of the city magistrates, while the southern part was reserved for the governor of the province. Dyggve argued that the Nemesea were built underneath the southern side. This assumption was further strengthened when inscriptions dedicated to Nemesis were found, the goddess who was particularly popular among gladiators, within the city of Salona and its vicinity (Dyggve 1933). Although the Salona amphitheater was not as closely related to the military as Burnum and Viminacium were, it is important to note that some of the military units were engaged in its construction (or maintenance). The inscription found at Brač Island, some 10 km south of Salona, names a centurion Titus Flavius Pompeius as superintendent and Vibius Vibianus as consular protector of a masonry workshop where the stone for the construction of the amphitheater was processed. The centurion was attached to cohors III Alpinorum Antoniniana (Kirigin 1979: 129). Additionally, there are some indications of other Roman amphitheaters possibly existing in the province of Dalmatia. Some of them, like the amphitheater of Iader or Aequum, are known from different written historical documents, while others are assumed only by indirect relations to some other findings, like the statues and altars of Nemesis, or other evidence of spectacle organization (see Buovac 2011). After 86 CE, when Moesia was divided into Upper and Lower Moesia, the legions previously stationed in the province of Dalmatia were transferred to the newly founded province of Upper Moesia. Legio VII Claudia pia fidelis was assigned to the province capital of Viminacium sometime earlier,2 while the other – Legio IIII Flavia Felix was moved to Singidunum in 86 CE. Both forts were erected at the right bank of the Danube river, along the limes, and activities of both legions were confirmed through various epigraphic monuments, but also by the stamp seals on bricks used for various building objects in Upper Moesia ( Jordović 1995; Bojović 1996; Wilkes 2005). Situated in a plain on the right bank of the Mlava river, the city of Viminacium was developed by the legionary fort of VII Claudia pia fidelis, gained the status of municipium in the time of Hadrian, and was promoted to colony by Gordian III. The permanent stone fort was probably built in the 1st century CE by the soldiers of VII Claudia pia fidelis, together with the settlement that was developing more rapidly since the be2

The exact date of legio VII Claudia pia fidelis transfer is the subject of an ongoing debate. Various scholars argue that the legion was moved after 42 CE (the Scribonian rebellion), but propose different dates of the event (e. g. Mirković 1968, Wilkes 1969, Zaninović 1984, Maršić 2010)

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ginning of the 2nd century, after the conquest and establishment of the province of Dacia (Spasić-Đurić 2002; Korać et al. 2014). Although some authors proposed that the legion IIII Scythica was placed at a temporary camp at Viminacium, there is no archaeological evidence of it so far (Spasić-Đurić 2002: 21). Since the 1970s, extensive excavation campaigns were set in motion and significant parts of fortification, civil settlement and especially necropolises were unearthed, presented and published (SpasićĐurić 2002). At Viminacium, the only currently known amphitheater of Upper Moesia is located. Similarly to Burnum, this edifice was also taken note of (and only partially excavated) more than a hundred years ago (Valtrović 1884), but it was thoroughly excavated only during the last decade (see Bogdanović and Nikolić 2015; 2017; Bogdanović et al. 2018). This amphitheater also had two different building phases, one at the beginning of the 2nd century CE when a wooden construction was erected, and later, a stone built amphitheater with wooden stands from the end of the 2nd century. The first wooden building was placed just outside the northwestern corner of the legionary fort where VII Claudia pia fidelis was stationed. The second, stone built amphitheater had a slightly broader spectators’ area then the wooden one, for about 7,000 people. The object had monumental entrances with adjacent rooms and passages connected to the arena. At the northern part of the amphitheater, an altar dedicated to the nymphs was discovered together with various findings of figurines and lamps, so that researchers argue that this was a place for religious rituals (Bogdanović et al. 2018). Thanks to detailed excavations and precise documentation, we are now able to discuss different aspects of spectacles at Viminacium. A great number of finds, including terracotta lamps, various molds and other objects related to gladiators were discovered in the last ten years (Vujović 2011; Bogdanović and Vujović 2015). On the other hand, animal bone remains from the amphitheater were collected and analyzed, giving us a very good picture of different activities that included wild and exotic animals (Bogdanović and Vuković 2013). Apart from the amphitheater of Viminacium, more are assumed at a number of Roman sites. Singidunum and Naissus are currently “the best” candidates in Upper Moesia for this kind of edifice. Different archaeological and architectural interpretations were proposed and abandoned over the years, but so far, none of the sitea was ever archaeologically investigated (Vujović 2011). At the same time, a great number of findings related to gladiatorial spectacles was discovered throughout the territory of the province, including gladiatorial representations on different objects, like lamps, terra sigillata, bricks and even mosaics (Vujović 2011). The legionary fort of IIII Flavia at Singidunum was excavated only partially due to the fact that most of it lies beneath Austrian and Ottoman horizons and the modern city of Belgrade. Still, scholars were able to reconstruct some main features of the castrum and surrounding areas (Kondić 1974; Bojović 1975; Popović 1997; Pop-Lazić 2002; 2005; 2013; Nikolić and Pop-Lazić 2005; Crnobrnja 2005). Singidunum gained

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municipal status during the reign of Hadrian or Trajan, and became a colony during the 3rd century CE. The civilian settlement developed south and southeast of the military fort until it was devastated in the 5th century CE, probably during the Hunnic invasion in 441. During the years, a number of public and civilian buildings were discovered – private houses (Bojović 1975), luxurious objects (Cvetković-Tomašević 1981), public baths (Bojović 1977), sewer systems (Simić and Mićović 2010) –, but no amphitheater was ever found. Still, some of the authors previously allowed for the possibility of an amphitheater near Singidunum, once Legio IIII Flavia was moved from Dalmatia to Upper Moesia (Vujović 2011). 2 Amphitheaters as a common ground To sum up, we are dealing with three amphitheaters in the provinces of Dalmatia and Upper Moesia which show a closer connection to the army. All three of them were of similar size, but of different architectural designs, built outside the city walls (Salona) or military camps (Burnum and Viminacium) at their earliest phases. Two of them were built in the imminent vicinity of Roman legionary fortresses (Burnum and Viminacium) and accordingly labelled as “military amphitheaters”, as many others throughout the Empire (Golvin 1988; Bomgardner 2000; Welch 2007; Wilmott 2008). An interesting fact is that the legions of VII Claudia pia fidelis and IIII Flavia were transferred from Dalmatian to Upper Moesian camps after the pacification of the province of Dalmatia. Still, as I stated before, it is not my intention here to definitely relate specific legions with specific sites of amphitheaters or to find a recipe for discovering potential future sites. I am simply outlining the obvious fact that amphitheaters were built at the sites where a heavy presence of the Roman army was confirmed, and where soldiers were very employed in their construction. Further, I would like to propose a slightly different purpose for these sites, which could explain some other aspects of pastime, and not only for Roman soldiers, but for local populations too. Military features of the amphitheaters and their relations to soldiers are, in some cases, unquestionable. It was stated many times in different studies that during the Republican era, especially after Marius’ reforms, the military had an important role in different aspects of spectacles. Some of the ancient texts inform us that Marius introduced some of the gladiatorial styles of fighting to the army and some recruits received their training in gladiatorial schools and arenas (Welch 2007). Furthermore, some of the first stone-built, permanent amphitheaters were built for soldiers and veterans (Pompeii), sometimes by active generals as in the case of the amphitheater of Statilius Taurus in Rome, that was actually raised on the Campus Martius where, traditionally, the army was gathered (Welch 2007: 71). Sometimes, active soldiers were used for constructing the amphitheaters, as in Dalmatia where the stamped bricks of the Legio IIII Flavia were discovered at the Burnum amphitheater site or with regard

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to the inscription from Brač where we have information that an active centurion of the Roman army supervised the construction of the Salona amphitheater (Kirigin 1979: 129). Early types of gladiators were named after Rome’s enemies, and they were sometimes equipped with the arms of Roman soldiers ( Junkelmann 2000; Janković 2014a). I have already tried to outline the importance of activities seen as a pastime in processes of cultural changes after the Roman conquest of the Balkans, namely Upper Moesia, in some previous papers (see Janković 2012; 2018). It is my opinion that some of those processes proceeded more smoothly and spontaneously if not “forced” by an official administration, or through the simple glorification of Roman power. Now, I would like to suggest that structures like amphitheaters could serve as a place of “common ground” where people from different social, economic, legal or other contexts could interact in a more easy way, and as a result of those interactions, some extent of social reproduction and cultural exchange were to be expected. Similarly to some other public buildings (like for e. g. public baths), amphitheaters were definitely new to the people of the provinces in the Balkans when they were introduced for the first time. However, the amphitheaters discussed in this paper were constructed in the time of the Claudians (Dalmatia) and at the beginning of the 2nd century (Upper Moesia). Despite the fact that earlier objects were not discovered, we cannot completely exclude the possibility of their existence. The early phases of temporary, wooden constructions were confirmed at a number of sites throughout the Empire (Bomgardner 2000), and until the age of Augustus and the Julio-Claudians, spectacles were often organized in large public spaces like forums (see Welch 2007). During the Flavian era, many amphitheaters were also renovated, adapted or rebuilt, sometimes additionally decorated and rededicated (Laurence, Esmonde Cleary and Sears 2011). Consequently, we are not able to speak about the relations between early amphitheaters and surrounding settlements and populations, but we can observe them through the phases in which they reached their full shape – large, stone built objects that seated a great number of people, who mostly went there to enjoy their pastime or to witness specific social and sometimes religious displays of power. Those buildings, together with Roman forts and adjacent sites and objects, transformed the landscape previously known to local populations. Monumental public buildings like amphitheaters, could become a matter of prestige among the cities in the province. The urbanism of Italian cities, which naturally developed much earlier than those in the provinces, was reproduced throughout the Empire, and in some parts (like Britain and Spain), amphitheaters became a very desirable feature (Laurence, Esmonde Cleary and Sears 2011: 280). Furthermore, the heavy presence of military units probably influenced the urban shape of the cities in the provinces, and sometimes veterans procured the construction of amphitheaters so they could “recreate” a more familiar world for themselves (Laurence, Esmonde Cleary and Sears 2011: 280). In that fashion, the dedication of the Burnum amphitheater, which names the emperor Vespasian as benefactor, must have been an important

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issue for the soldiers stationed there. Those soldiers and civilians that had no amphitheater in their cities or near the camps, had to go to other, farther cities in order to enjoy the spectacles. Such examples are mentioned more than a few times in classic texts, but probably the best known is one concerning the riot in a Pompeian amphitheater in 69 CE, when Nucerians who came as spectators were attacked and the result of the riots was the official senatorial ban of spectacles for the next ten years (Futrell 2006; Bomgardner 2000). The rules and customs of spectacles showing gladiatorial fights, exotic animals or public executions were also a new fashion. If we assume that the program of the spectacles in Dalmatia and Moesia was similar to those in other parts of the Empire, we can also assume that the people of the provinces witnessed fights between gladiators who were named after traditional Roman enemies, hunts of exotic animals, or the public punishment of criminals who transgressed against the Roman order (Wiedemann 1992; Kyle 1998; Janković 2014a). The display of power, through the program of the spectacles, even if adapted for local needs and tastes, was deliberately designed and planned. Still, the program was just part of that display and every participant had a specific and precise role to play in it. Organizers, performers, support staff and even spectators had precise positions within the spectacle. All of the spectacles, regardless of the specifics of local programs, were actually a constant, though somewhat subtle, display of Roman power and glory, personalized by the sponsor of the spectacle. When discussing the provincial setting, the organization of spectacles is yet another complex issue. In Rome, the organization was more strict: the sponsor was the Emperor himself or a member of the imperial family. In cases where the sponsor was someone else, it is confirmed that he was actually acting in the name of the Emperor. Such strict rules are probably the direct consequence of the Republican custom of using spectacles in political campaigns. The spectacles were extremely popular and the sponsor gained the recognition and support of the spectators, thus the Emperors tried to control such political usage and monopolize it by barring other political figures from financing them. Still, the situation in the provinces is somewhat different. Sponsors in the provinces were usually members of Seviri augustales who took care of the imperial cult, or civilian officials who celebrated important dates of the Roman calendar (Bomgardner 2000: 114). Since the organization of spectacles was very expensive and sometimes seen as a burden for the provinces, two consequences were possible – one, that the choice of the sponsor was looser, and two, that the program of spectacles was more modest than in Rome. Findings from Epidaurus and Salona could imply both. A ceramic mold with the representation of gladiators was found in Salona, and it also bears the name of Mescenius Ampliatus, a liberated slave who organized the spectacles (Buljević 2004). Further, inscriptions found at Salona and Epidaurus mention not only different parts of the program like athletics and boxing matches, but in both cases the sponsor are women – Terencia Pantera in Salona and Novia Iustila and Novia Basila in Epidaurus (Cambi 1979: 289).

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While the Salona inscription is brief and we only learn of athletics organized by Pantera, the other inscriptions are much more informative in describing the organization. Both women are close family members of one Publius Aelius Osilianus, whom the city of Epidaurus honored by letting his family set up a statue and organize the spectacles. Members of the family also made gifts to decurions and augustales for that purpose. The information gleaned from these inscriptions implies that the choice of sponsors in Dalmatia was looser, in these cases, the benefactors were women, which is not exclusive, but is certainly unusual. We do not have a defined “set of rules” for the provincial organization of spectacles, but we can recognize and discuss some aspects. In the case, for example, of the Salona inscription, gifts were made to the city officials, which might imply that such a custom was common when organizing spectacles. Thus, the organization followed a set of rules, though these were relaxed, to an extent, in the provinces. However, it is unquestionable that such events increased the social status of the benefactors. Not only was the hierarchy of organization repeatedly confirmed by defining the social positions and relations (e. g. between city and provincial officials and benefactors of the games), but the spectacles also served to promote the imperial power and the cult of the Emperor in provincial contexts. Such customs or rules could be imposed to make sure that the benefactors spent their own monies, but that in all cases the patronage of the Emperor was visible. And while the Emperor was seen as the ultimate benefactor who made the spectacles possible, the sponsors also enjoyed its results. They were able to put on display their fortune, social status and their reputation for everyone to see it. Such events could lead to better social and political positions within provincial society. Besides gladiatorial fights, venationes and beast hunts were also an important part of the spectacle’s program (see Kyle 1995). Animals in the arena were no less important than were the gladiators. Exotic species were usually transported from the other parts of the world – Cilician panthers, African lions, Egyptian crocodiles or Indian elephants. Those strange and ferocious animals were displayed as symbols of Roman superiority over untamed, wild lands at the edges of the Empire. Similar to gladiators bearing the names of Gauls, Samnites or Dacians, those animals were supposed to remind the spectators of far lands conquered by Roman weapons, but also of civilization conquering nature. It is important to note that the remains bones of leopards and bears were found at the Viminacium amphitheater, which could imply that hunts were definitely part of the spectacles program there (Vuković 2012; Vuković Bogdanović 2018). Specially equipped hunters usually fought wild animals, but sometimes convicts were executed ad bestias, by letting them fight hungry animals without weapon or protection. The role of the army in procuring the wild animals for show has been confirmed in various ancient texts and inscriptions. Special military units were assigned throughout the Empire to hunt, but also to keep the wild animals in vivariums. The term of ursarii or the ad leonas title connected to soldiers also testifies to their activities (Epplet 2001). At the Lower Moesia city of Montana, inscriptions imply that the soldiers of

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the legio I Italica, the legio XI Claudia pia fidelis3 and sailors of the Moesia fleet were all involved in procuring and transporting European bison for the spectacles dedicated to the 900-year-jubilee of the city of Rome (Epplet 2001: 213; Vagalinski 2009: 158). For that reason, we cannot exclude the possibility that military units in Dalmatia and Upper Moesia were heavily engaged in hunting and keeping the animals needed for the spectacles. Notes on soldiers of the legio XI Claudia pia fidelis as hunters, though from the period later than their sojourn in Dalmatia, could imply that such activities may not be unfamiliar to them even in earlier periods. Another part of the program was the public executions in the amphitheaters that put on display convicts executed ad gladius, but also as complex “fatal charades” consisting of different mythological and historical reenactments (Coleman 1990). Once again, the Empire condemned those who were convicted for the crimes against the state and used their deaths not only for entertainment, but also as public “lessons” for all potential criminals. We must assume the active role of the army when it comes to public executions. First, some of the convicts were prisoners of war, defeated, captured and imprisoned by the soldiers of the Roman army. Secondly, ancient texts assure us that the soldiers sometimes played the role of executioners in such public displays (Futrell 2006). Lastly, prisoners of war and other convicts were kept at military camps until their punishment in the amphitheaters (Le Roux 1990). Soldiers and military units were playing an important role in soliciting animals and people alike for the spectacles, securing the implementation of the performances. Another important aspect of amphitheaters is the strict regulation of the sitting area, based on social hierarchy in provincial societies. First, specially constructed and separated lodges were designed for the sponsors and city/provincial officials (Bomgardner 2000; Welch 2007). Seviri augustales, priests, Roman soldiers or senators were all separated and had their own places within the arena. The poor, non-citizens, slaves and even woman were seated at a distance from the more exalted spectators, usually at the upper areas of amphitheaters, where most of them were standing during the spectacles. The whole set of rules and some laws (like the lex Iulia theatralis of Augustus) were applied regarding the social, economic and political status of the spectators (see Edmondson 2002). Such a division was reproducing the social relations within a society, and constant repetition and insistence on a clear separation was probably used to outline the status of the spectators, but also to “keep control” over the events in amphitheaters. Regardless of status or sitting place, spectators also used the amphitheater as a place where they could send political message. The satisfaction and dissatisfaction with the spectacle could be crucial in creating a general opinion of and eventual support for the benefactor. Many examples show the results of spectacles that went wrong, i. e. where the spectators were not satisfied with what they were watching, like the disastrous elephant hunt organ3

Legion of XI Claudia was located at the camp of Durostorum at the beginning of the 2nd century.

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ized by Pompey, where the result was that Pompey left the city and Caesar gained an important advantage in his political campaign (Shelton 2001: 6). Furthermore, spectators were generally also socially distanced from the performers – gladiators, beasts and convicts. Gladiators, despite their extreme popularity, were perceived generally as among the infames social group (Hope 1998). Together with actors and prostitutes, they were seen as people using their body for entertainment, so that the rest of the citizens remained at a social distance from them (Gardner 1993; Duncan 2006). The position in the amphitheater reproduced the position within the society, with all its consequences, limitations and benefits. Such reproduction could be important in two directions – on the one hand, it was used to stress the differences between the classes, and on the other, it was used to integrate the society as a whole against those who were there just to entertain. Roman power and superiority over those conquered and humiliated at the center of the arena, could be easily displayed and used as a shared experience, regardless of the social positions of the spectators. Considering the amphitheaters within the provincial context with all previously discussed features, it is important to outline that these structures could be perceived as places where cultural exchange and social interaction were intense. Social reproduction was displayed publicly and therefore available for acceptance (or resistance). Different customs, patterns of behavior, goods and materials were seen as means of constructing different identities that could be negotiated and further modified in different manners. Still, the frequency of gladiatorial spectacles is debatable, especially in the provinces. Most of the time, spectacles were organized during the festivals and at important dates of the Roman state calendar (Bomgardner 2000). We can only assume that such expensive events were even less frequent in the provinces. The building and maintaining of such monumental objects were usually long and also an expensive process, so the question of its usage has to be raised here. The purpose of the provincial amphitheaters for most of the year, when no spectacles were organized, is most intriguing. Some authors, considering that the military was closely related to building and using some of them, proposed that these objects were used as training and parade grounds for the army (Golvin 1988: 154). Information about such events are more than scarce and we can only assume that it could have been used for different types of display. Different types of military skills could have been exercised but also have been available for others to see. In that way, civilians from all social contexts would have been able to watch and comprehend the might and glory of the Roman military units, which would have been perceived as a spectacle, inspiration for new recruits or even a reminder of the glorious days for the veterans.

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3 Concluding remarks I am fully aware of the scarcity of my arguments, and consequently, very cautious of presenting final conclusions for this paper. Dealing with specific aspects of life in the provinces, I tried to focus on a circumstance that some of those aspects were not, at least not directly and visibly, forced on people. In the context of pastime and leisure, engaging in specific activities and making different choices regarding everyday life may be more relaxed actually. Local people could decide to choose some of those customs and choose to participate in them exclusively because they saw them as appealing for a number of reasons, not necessarily connected to their political identities. The concept of Bourdieu’s tastes (Bourdieu 1984), by which he explains that tastes are not natural, but arbitrary and related to the classes, could be applied to the case of the amphitheaters. Choosing different activities, practices, goods and other objects could be used as a means for constructing different tastes, which were further used to self-define social classes of local populations ( Janković 2018). As stated before, amphitheaters were places of intense social interactions, where the cultural exchange was more probable and social reproduction constantly attested. At the same time, public exposure of different behavior patterns, accessories attached to various social groups and classes could make them more desirable. In such a setting, it is more than possible that different groups and persons constructed their specific “tastes” which again were used in negotiating various local identities. Different social classes constructed mutually different tastes, but at the same time, as a collective, they maintained their identities crucially distinctive when compared to the Others – in this case, gladiators in the arena. Thus, the amphitheaters were at the same time places where differences were stressed at every possible moment, but also places aggregating unity and a sense of belonging to a greater collective group. I hope that, at least partially, I succeeded in the main aim of the paper – to raise some new questions concerning some already known archaeological situations. Again, the lack of specific types of data strongly influenced the limitations of this paper, especially in terms of interpretation. Focusing on the relations that local communities were building toward spectacles and amphitheaters as places of common ground, might give us some of the answers we seek, in order to understand the specifics of contacts, relations and changes made by all involved parties in the Balkan provinces of Rome. In the context of spectacles, the Roman army could be perceived not only as constructors of amphitheaters and keepers of the order when it comes to the organization and realization of the performances, but also as initiator of its broader popularity in the provinces. We can discuss the reasons for the earliest amphitheaters’ construction, whether they were purposely built for the army exclusively or were meant for the broader audience from the very beginning, but we can also assume their importance in their later phases when civilian settlements were developing and thriving in their vicinities. Soldiers were engaged in building some of the amphitheaters, but they were

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also active in most of the aspects of the spectacles – they were procuring wild beasts, convicts and some of the gladiators, they were keeping them, sometimes even within their own camps and they were also engaged in keeping the order during the spectacles. On the other hand, a possibility that objects were used for military trainings and parades between the spectacles and made their skills, equipment and even discipline available for everyone to see, could only enhance their visibility among the local population. In that context, amphitheaters represent an excellent meeting point where the communication between the Roman army and the local population could be more intense and also more relaxed. The reproduction of social relations, cultural exchange or exposure of various behavior could heavily influence the assembling of local tastes and identities. The amphitheaters are not the only objects where those processes could be unfolded, but they are certainly one of the important ones, where the presence of the army could catalyze some of them. Acknowledgments This paper is a result of the project “Archaeological Culture and Identity at the Western Balkans”, no. 177008, funded by the Ministry of Education, Science and Technological Development of the Republic of Serbia. Bibliography Bogdanović, I.; Nikolić, S. 2015. “Recent Excavations on the Amphitheatre of Viminacium (Upper Moesia).” In Proceedings of the 22nd International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies (Ruse, Bulgaria, September 2012). Sofia. 547–555. Bogdanović, I.; Nikolić, S. 2017. “In the Beginning There Was a Timber Construction … The Wooden Amphitheatre of Viminacium.” In Columna Traiani – Traianssäule Siegesmonument und Kriegsbericht in Bildern Beiträge der Tagung in Wien anlässlich des 1900 Jahrestages der Einweihung, 9 –12 Mai 2013, ed. Z. Mitthof, G. Schörner. Wien. 87–94. Bogdanović, I.; Vuković, S. 2013. “A Camel Skeleton from the Viminacium Amphitheatre”, Starinar 63. 251–267. Bogdanović, I.; Vujović, M. 2015. “The Terracotta Lamp in the Shape of a Gladiator’s Helmet from the Viminacium Amphitheatre”, Arheološki vestnik 66. 317–331. Bogdanović, I.; Rogić, D.; Vuković-Bogdanović, S. 2018. “The Amphitheatre of Viminacium.” In Roman Limes and Cities in the Territory of Serbia, ed. M. Korać, S. Pop-Lazić. Belgrade. 44–49. Bojović, D. 1975. “Prilog urbanoj istoriji Beograda u periodu rimske dominacije”, Godišnjak grada Beograda XXII. 5–25. Bojović, D. 1977. “Rimske terme u parku na Studentskom trgu u Beogradu”, Godišnjak grada Beograda XXIV. 5–20. Bojović, D. 1996. “Le camp de la legion IV Flavia a Singidunum.” In Roman Limes on the Middle and Lower Danube, ed. P. Petrović. Belgrade. 53–68.

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Section 3 Entanglements of Humans and Things

Globalization, Consumption, and Objects in the Roman World New Perspectives and Opportunities Martin Pitts Does globalization offer valuable perspectives for Roman archaeology and history, and does it offer new ways of understanding the Roman world and its material culture? In April 2011, a multi-disciplinary panel of experts was convened over two days in Exeter to provide a critical exploration of these questions. The overwhelmingly positive answers, tempered with healthy qualification and caution, can be found in the edited book, Globalisation and the Roman world World history, connectivity and material culture (Pitts and Versluys 2015a, abbreviated hereafter as GRW). While GRW offers a broad exploration of globalization’s potential, a specific aim of the editors was to examine the concept’s value for dealing with the ever-growing mass of archaeological material culture from the Roman world. Our intention was to spark new dialogues over the role of objects and connectivity in recent narratives on Roman imperialism. In this way globalization ought to serve as an alternative perspective, not a new master narrative that would solve all the problems of Roman archaeology and history in one fell swoop (Pitts and Versluys 2015b, 21, cf. critique in Mihajlović and Janković 2018). Since the publication of GRW, the debate has moved on considerably, with the benefit of clearer hindsight on the strengths, weaknesses and potential applications of globalization’s conceptual apparatus, as well as the appearance of new perspectives, not least in the form of an ambitious 60+ chapter handbook on archaeology and globalization (Hodos et al. 2017). In light of these developments, my aims in writing this paper are not to restate the arguments of GRW, but rather to provide a retrospective discussion on the unfolding debate on globalization and deep history, and to explore potential future directions of the concept in Roman archaeology, with particular attention to the themes of consumption and material culture.

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1 Globalization and the Roman world: critical perspectives I begin by briefly clarifying some of the complications associated with using a term such as globalization to describe the Roman world. After all, globalization is a polarizing term that comes with much unhelpful baggage, and as such, it is important that archaeologists and historians should engage with and develop those aspects that are most relevant to their disciplines. To strip away misapprehensions and false starts, the first hurdles to overcome relate to application. How can a concept coined to describe modern circumstances be useful to understand the Roman empire? Does the Roman world meet the eligibility criteria for globalization, as developed in the literature of globalization and deep-history (e. g. Jennings 2011 for archaeology, and Hopkins 2002 for history)? As Rob Witcher points out that “if an empire spanning parts of Europe, Africa and Asia and characterized by the mass production, exchange and consumption of a shared material culture does not qualify as a form of globalization, then it is improbable that any other pre-industrial example qualifies either” (Witcher 2017: 634). However persuasive, Witcher’s comment remains an observation and not a full justification. To go further, there are three important points to bear in mind from the outset when considering the application of globalization ideas to the deeper past: 1. While globalization as a concept in the social sciences was first developed to describe what sociologists assumed to be the unique characteristics of the modern world, they lacked the deep historical knowledge and inclination to test this assumption. As such, to productively use globalization concepts to understand ancient contexts we must first distil the core essence of the concept – that it should be “about putting connectivity and its implications at the centre of historical analysis” (Versluys 2017a: 598), and separate this essence from associated attributes and conditions that may not have always existed in the past (e. g. capitalist economics, ultra-fast travel, and technologies for instantaneous communication); 2. Globalization is a process, and as such, we do not need full planetary interconnectedness (which is yet to be achieved in the 21st century) to be able to apply it to a particular period of history. To describe a historical scenario as meeting the condition of being globalized, therefore, does not require it to be literally global, but it does imply the existence of intense forms of connectivity operating at a certain pan-regional scale. This has knock-on implications for the appropriate analytical resolution and methodologies of research projects addressing ancient globalizations; 3. Describing the Roman world as globalized does not get us very far in itself unless it can be a useful point of departure for new understandings. Moving on from point 3, the important question, therefore, is how should globalization provide a framework for new understandings of the Roman world? One pertinent criticism of GRW was that it did not explicitly resolve the “threshold” problem of whether

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globalization is a theoretical framework or a historical phenomenon (Van Oyen 2015). The simple answer to this question is that it is both – that studying globalization as a historical process requires its own dedicated theoretical and methodological apparatus (for further details, see Foster 2006). In general terms, it follows that globalization may be studied from two basic and complementary positions. The first is from the standpoint of global history, from which Rome might be understood to have originated as a glocalization of Hellenistic culture on the periphery of a Eurasian network (cf. Witcher 2017: 635). From the perspective of big picture deep history, one fruitful direction of future research might be to define and examine the dynamics and characteristics of globalizations (plural) in different historical epochs ( Jennings 2011; 2017). This macro-perspective is vital, for example, to deconstruct notions of Roman globalization as a precedent for the problems of modernity, and to counter the claims of post-colonialists that projecting the study of globalization into the distant past naïvely lends legitimacy to the Western globalization project (Hingley 2015; cf. Witcher 2017: 635). Indeed, while such criticism is based on a simple misapprehension that globalization is synonymous with global capitalism, a premise that is debunked by an in-depth historical perspective on globalization, it is a misapprehension that admittedly needs to be challenged more often (Nederveen Pieterse 2015: 18–25). The second general standpoint from which to productively study globalization is to examine the impact of connectivity within or at the edges of particular globalizing periods or networks. Examining globalizing processes within the Roman world, for example, does not necessarily require the use of the term “globalization” so long as its methodological apparatus are applied. Walter Scheidel’s examination of imperial connectivity is a case in point of how globalization perspectives may be explored implicitly, leading to novel findings (Scheidel 2014). Pushing harder with this line of thought, Miguel John Versluys makes a provocative case for a new Romanization 2.0 in which, drawing explicitly on globalization thinking, connectivity and material culture take center-stage in the redefinition of an old concept (Versluys 2014). For all the value in comparing the dynamics of Roman globalization with those of the present and other eras, it is the intersection of globalization with debates on Romanization and the interpretation of material culture that (I believe) have the most potential to lead to exciting new developments in Roman archaeology. 2 Methodological pay-offs: is globalization more than just “good to think with”? I have outlined below five reasons why globalization is more than just “good to think with” for Roman archaeologists. Here it should be stressed that these benefits are largely compatible with many current approaches to the Roman world and its material culture, and indeed, may come about without explicit recourse to using the word “globalization”. Nevertheless, since these developments have largely failed to emerge

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on their own, I believe that globalization has particular value as a catalyst to the debate in the short- to medium-term, in order to bring about a more fundamental paradigm shift in how Roman archaeologists approach issues of connectivity in the analysis of material culture. 1. Globalization fosters an explicit shift away from the methodological nationalism and “container thinking” that continues to form an implicit and routine element of scholarship on the Roman empire; 2. Globalization de-centers Rome in favor of a more complex polycentric conceptualization of the Roman world, and its flows of people, ideas and objects; 3. Unlike recent postcolonial studies, which have so far tended to privilege the diversity of (implicitly) disconnected local responses to Roman imperialism, globalization shifts the analytical focus back to bigger-picture phenomena, that crucially consist of networks of localities connected by flows of objects, styles, commodities, people and ideas; 4. Unlike imperialism, which forms the basis of many current theoretical approaches to the Roman world, globalization does not assume the existence of any a priori structures that may act to constrain interpretation from the outset, thus allowing for the identification and agency of pan-regional networks that may have originated independently from the Roman state and its neighboring polities; 5. In doing justice to points 1–4, the application of globalization thinking requires objects to be pushed to the very forefront of historical inquiry – since it is only through the movement of objects, styles and materials that globalization may be reliably and consistently investigated throughout the connected localities that make up the Roman empire. Expanding on these points, the first two perhaps constitute the most fundamental advantages of globalization as conveyed in GRW (as summarized by Van Oyen 2015). Privileging connectivity encourages a decisive shift away from the “container thinking” which has dogged studies of the Roman empire for over a century, in which the Roman world has been artificially broken down it into bounded chunks that have been all too often analyzed in isolation, and driven by the boundaries of modern nation-states (Point 1). Likewise, de-centering Rome in explanatory mechanisms means allowing for the existence of a more complex polycentric empire in which nodes once considered geographically peripheral with respect to Rome (e. g. cities and military bases in the provinces) could exert influence independent of the “center” (Point 2). While it is undoubtedly possible to benefit from these concepts through the study of material-cultural change within the context of a single site, locality or region (e. g. Sweetman 2007; Pitts 2008), this can only be a partial first-step, since it does not entirely escape the trap of “container-thinking” that a full-blooded application of globalization should entail. For this reason, Roman archaeologists must do more to confront the methodological nationalism that reifies categories such as “Roman Britain” and “Roman

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Spain” (for example) as somehow worthy of study largely in isolation from the rest of the Roman world (apart from, of course, the city of Rome and/or Roman Italy as the perceived center of power). What does it mean to move beyond “container thinking” in methodological terms? On the one hand, it is true that the connectedness of a given place or settlement in the Roman world may be illuminated with relative ease through the application of existing knowledge of the provenance of widely-circulating materials, styles and artifacts, and the comparison of strontium and oxygen isotopes in human skeletal remains. At the same time, a site- or locale-centered approach can only shed partial light on the ways in which its connectivity may have mattered. For example, how do we know that the combinations and uses of imported artifacts at the site are wholly local or regional, or whether they reflect parallel uses and practices in neighboring provinces? This information would be good to know to really put a site in its imperial context, but the answers can only be found by undertaking detailed comparative research. As such, the value of globalization as a new methodological framework will be best demonstrated by genuinely cross-provincial studies that reveal new insights through the joined-up analysis of material from multiple localities in different, but connected provinces and regions (Point 3). Point 3 is ably demonstrated by, for example, the brief studies on the transmission of the epigraphic habit and bathing architecture in the Roman empire by Laurence and Trifilò (2015), which outlines how a “global” perspective focused on connectivity can shed new light on material selections and divergences in different provincial settings. For example, the epigraphic habit of parts of Roman North Africa, stressing the commemoration of older individuals, looks very different to that of Roman Italy in which youth was emphasized – not due to some unusual demographic imbalance, but through a combination of regional tradition and the manner in which the epigraphic habit was transmitted to North Africa. Crucially, Laurence and Trifilò (2015) highlight the fundamental role of connectivity in the transformation (particularization) of the epigraphic habit by Roman military communities, who seem to have been largely responsible for the transmission and universalization of this divergent practice in North Africa. Likewise, my own work on the circulation and consumption of standardized fine wares in Gallia Belgica and Germania Inferior has significantly changed my interpretation of the equivalent pottery vessels in southern Britannia (Pitts 2017b; 2019). From the benefit of a cross-provincial perspective, what once appeared to be a distinct local reaction to imperial domination of communities in the environs of Colchester and St. Albans (e. g. Pitts 2008) now makes better sense in the context of forms of cultural practice and object use that originated in the pre-Roman period and cross-cut multiple communities on both sides of the Channel, long after Roman conquest. Local choices and combinations of objects were not simply “local” but framed by parallel practices and choices made in neighboring regions. This study demonstrates how some degree of pan-regional awareness mattered in the selection of (seemingly) mundane kinds of objects (pottery), in revealing multiple local “styles of consumption” (cf. Woolf 1998: 176) that simultaneously

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referenced a pan-regional milieu. Crucially, while this shared milieu undoubtedly benefitted and changed as a result of the increased connectivity that came with the onset of the Roman era (e. g. roads, cities, shipping and military supply networks), its existence seems to have been largely independent from imperial networks. The examples considered above highlight the roles of “global” or pan-regional networks – one as an indirect consequence of the extension of Roman military power in the provinces, and the other as a phenomenon that originated and developed largely independently of the Roman state. These are good examples of how globalization perspectives can shed new light on how state institutions impacted on culture and society in the provinces, as well as the existence of non-state networks that flourished in the highly-connected Roman world. A nuanced approach to globalization should, therefore, take into account the dynamics of connectivity in a given scenario, rather than assuming the a priori importance of particular institutions (e. g. the Roman state), mechanisms (e. g. the annona; taxation), relationships (e. g. core-periphery; power asymmetries), processes (Romanization) and geo-political structures (e. g. imperialism) at the outset (Point 4). In this way, some of the perceived problems of globalization can turn into assets (Van Oyen and Pitts 2017a), i. e. uncertainty over where agency lies, and the seemingly paradoxical character of globalization as both process and condition (Morley 2015). At the root of such uncertainty is the acknowledgement that globalization can manifest itself in very different ways in different historical eras. Rather than applying a single notion of globalization to the past in a procrustean manner, it is important to recognize that the character of past globalizations was not uniform, and is ultimately to be determined through future research. The recognition of pan-regional networks of people and things that did not owe their existence to the Roman state is an important correction to scholarship that increasingly tends to assume a dichotomy between the manifestations of Roman imperialism on one hand, and that of atomized local societies who must either retain their pre-Roman heritage and traditions or merge them with those of the new order (e. g. Millett 1990, 100, cf. “landscapes of opportunity” and “landscapes of resistance” in Mattingly 2006 and 2011). Some of these points are in part recognized by David Mattingly (2006: 17, my emphasis and annotation), writing at a time before concern with globalization had become more commonplace in Roman studies: There was undoubtedly cultural change in Britain and this was equally clearly related to Rome’s global dominance. A key characteristic of globalization is that geographical constraints recede and people refashion their identities in awareness of this situation [cf. Waters 2001, 5]. Even before the conquest, Britain was being drawn into a new cultural milieu centred on Rome. However, as with Romanization, globalization will prove no better a concept in seeking to understand Britain under Roman rule, if we use it to emphasize conformity rather than investigate diversity. If anything, globalization highlights the unintentional and random impacts of Roman culture on provincial societies.

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This quote is revealing in many respects. It highlights several implicit assumptions of older paradigms that run contrary to putting connectivity at the center of analysis, as well as some important glimpses into the pay-offs of globalization. That the book was the first in the Penguin History of Britain Series highlights the naivety and pervasiveness of methodological nationalism as recent as 2006 – as if projecting modern nation-state boundaries into the pre-nation-state era is a legitimate and unproblematic methodology (to give due credit to the author, it is important to stress the subtitle of the book is “Britain in the Roman Empire”, not “Britain and Rome”). Aside from its implicit framing of Britannia as a cultural container in dialogue with Rome, Mattingly perceptively highlights the capacity of globalization to reveal the fuzzy and indirect consequences of Roman imperialism, and, in a round-about way, to shed light on the creation of both shared and discrepant experiences. While it is true that 20th-century accounts of Romanization may have over-emphasized conformity relative to investigating diversity as Mattingly claims, it follows that Roman archaeologists must be careful to avoid the trap of the opposite position, i. e. to over-emphasize diversity relative to investigating conformity. Appropriately conceptualized and applied, globalization may be an ideal concept to redress this balance. If globalization applied to the Roman world is as much about the unintentional and indirect consequences of imperial connectivity as it is the more direct impacts of violent conquest and provincial administration, how should these phenomena be investigated? This brings us to the related questions asked of the contributors of GRW: what new theoretical and methodological apparatus are required for the concept to be applied in a more practical sense? 3 Consumption, globalization and the material turn: methodological applications and future directions A sophisticated approach to ancient material culture and consumption that draws upon globalization thinking requires new ways of working between different analytical scales, from global to local, in-between and back again. More specifically, archaeologists must not only be able to contextualize site-specific information with data from neighboring provinces, but to also carry out simultaneous analysis of multiple local contexts in different regions, in order to properly characterize the degrees of intensity and interruptions in the flows of objects that connected them (Pitts 2017a: 507). This requires researchers to go beyond the site-based perspective that is still the starting point for most archaeological research. At the same time, it is not always necessary to undertake a full-scale analysis of the Roman world and its neighbors that may be desirable to do justice to the macro-scale implicit in studying globalization as a process in its entirety – an endeavor which inevitably requires large teams of researchers and specialists (Laurence and Trifilò 2015: 99–101). To this end, the themes of circulation

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and consumption – loosely defined in terms of the use and disposal of objects and commodities after production – have long been recognized as fruitful lines of enquiry for situating local experiences in the larger framework of the Roman empire (e. g. Woolf 1998; Wallace-Hadrill 2008). Since several of the major consequences of Rome’s globalized condition include an increased volume of traded goods, larger networks of circulation, intensified local production, and a proliferation of standardized objects that occurred in increasingly differentiated styles and functions (Van Oyen and Pitts 2017a: 3; Greene 2008), it follows that circulation and consumption have considerable potential to illuminate the pay-offs of applying globalization concepts to the Roman world (Pitts 2015). Methodologically speaking, it does not matter if a globalization-informed approach to consumption is based on individual artifact categories or styles (e. g. lamps, pottery cups of a particular design or shape), or whole assemblages (e. g. of households, graves or parts of settlements). Two important provisos include a) an appropriate scale of analysis to examine the impact of connectivity beyond individual localities and bounded regions, and b) an appropriate depth of analysis that enables local patterns of consumption to be explored in detail and with respect to other localities, going beyond the perspective of “dots on a map” and the various complexities concealed by such top-down macro-studies. Another important variable is the role of archaeological material culture in the narratives and explanations of consumption patterns. Material culture has been used in a largely “representative” way in Roman archaeology and history, in which objects and artifactual patterning gain historical value insofar as their ability to stand for abstract phenomena such as Romanization (e. g. terra sigillata and villas), social identity (e. g. fibulae and epigraphy), or economic growth (e. g. shipwrecks and amphorae production). To an extent, this is also true of the arguments made for the existence of globalization in the Roman world, in which moving objects play no small part, as a collective embodiment of the empire’s immense connectivity. The “representative approach” is not necessarily wrong or inherently flawed, and it has undoubtedly led to many profound new understandings of the Roman empire in which material culture plays a prominent role. Nevertheless, there are many reasons why it is good to question the assumptions inherent in representative thinking, especially within a sub-discipline like Roman archaeology in which ancient written sources have traditionally framed understandings of material culture. New perspectives and explanations may be instead realized by attempting to answer the question of what objects did in the past, rather than assuming that objects represented something at the outset of research (see in particular the contributions in Van Oyen and Pitts 2017b). One way of questioning representation and putting objects at the center of inquiry in Roman archaeology and history is to return to the important question of object function and the extent to which the physical properties of objects created affordances that inclined people towards particular uses and/or interactions with material culture

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(Swift 2017). Since a function is often overlooked in studies of consumption, use-wear studies and experimental archaeology can, for example, make especially valuable contributions to characterizing degrees of local or shared practice in the use of standardized objects and the analysis of different styles of consumption. However, it is the more explicit marriage of globalization thinking with aspects of the so-called “material turn” that I believe have the most potential to enhance the possibilities for new insights into the Roman world, its people and material culture (Van Oyen and Pitts 2017b). What does privileging connectivity and object-centered analyses actually entail? Problematizing an object’s function and range of affordances is certainly a powerful way forward (Swift 2017). But if our interest is in understanding the role of objects in cultural dynamics, style needs to be given equivalent emphasis. The question of an object’s genealogy – both functional and stylistic – can open up many new possibilities. Why did Roman-period objects and “objectscapes” look the way they did in given moments and scenarios (Versluys 2017b)? This is a question of tremendous importance for understanding how material culture worked in the connected Roman world. One may hypothesize that a simple consequence of surging connectivity across such a large area was that people would have encountered many more different styles of objects, a significant proportion of which would have been made in different parts of the empire. What was the impact of this new situation? According to Alfred Gell (1998: 216; cf. Gosden 2005: 195), the appearance of objects is governed not so much by culture or ethnicity, but rather relationships with other objects of similar style within the same “inter-artifactual domain”. One may therefore further hypothesize that the great Roman-period intermingling of objects could be envisaged in terms of a single super “inter-artifactual domain”, perhaps from c. 200 BCE onward. According to Gell’s theory of how material culture changes over time, it is not difficult to imagine how a new super inter-artifactual domain created the framework for more-or-less synchronous material changes across the empire, variously described as “Augustan cultural revolution” (Wallace-Hadrill 2008; cf. Jiménez 2017), or with less specificity, Romanization. There are many further questions and future directions that may follow on from a concern with connectivity, the inter-artifactual domain and the genealogy of objects. What was the impact of “universal” styles and standardized objects on people in different localities, and why were some circulating universal designs or design-attributes selected for local replication, but not others? To what extent did local objectscapes develop in isolation, or through reference to pan-regional objectscapes and social practices? Why did some repertoires of objects, such as terra sigillata pottery, become universalized in a very specific series of standardized designs across the Roman empire, whereas other technologically-similar repertoires with different shapes and appearances maintain highly “rooted” or particularized social distributions, such as Trier black-slipped ware (e. g. Van Oyen 2016: 93–113)? What was the relationship between the longer-term evolution of objects and objectscapes and the intensity of connectivity in the Roman world? Was the maintenance of more-or-less universal styles of

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objects, buildings and visual culture (for example) dependent on minimum levels of connectivity and human mobility? Here phenomena such as the gradual changes in the design of terra sigillata in the Roman northwest that resulted in a shift away from open plates and hemispherical cups in the mid-first century CE to deeper dishes and bowls by the beginning of the third century CE deserves much further scrutiny. Did this change simply reflect the gradual particularization of terra sigillata as its production moved north, and its declining outputs and markets became increasingly rooted in a more disconnected Roman northwest? This paper ends, as it began, by asking questions about globalization and material culture. Roman archaeology and history have much to gain by exploring these questions, since globalization as a concept offers a powerful means of approaching the vastness of the Roman world, and material culture provides the most reliable means of illuminating ancient globalization. As Chris Gosden (2005: 196) observed, “one of the mysteries of things is that they take an infinity of forms, but often also have marked resemblances with one another”. This is especially true of things in the Roman period. By taking steps towards understanding the mysteries of the Roman inter-artifactual domain, Roman archaeologists will surely find themselves in the new and exciting territory. By way of final comment, it would be remiss of me not to briefly address some of the perceived risks and potential pitfalls of following this new path. For some readers, putting objects and connectivity at the center of analysis may seem a bit too much like fetishizing material things at the expense of a more human dimension. To offer some reassurance, it is important to stress that what I am proposing in this paper is, in essence, a re-balancing rather than replacement of approaches. Aiming to unlock the unrealized potential of archaeological evidence ought to lead to better understandings of the complex relationships between objects and people. Recent work on Roman diasporas, for example, sheds new light on these complexities (e. g. Eckardt 2010), as well as the limitations of examining only the direct evidence for human mobility, as a tiny subset of a much bigger database of material evidence from the Roman world. Rather than denying the role of human agency in the past, as Greg Woolf (2017: 216) puts it, “taking things seriously allows us to put people into perspective”. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Marko and Vladimir for organizing IIERW 3, and for their kind invitation to the conference in Petnica. I am especially grateful to Miguel John Versluys, and two anonymous peer-reviewers for their comments on a draft of this text. This paper was written alongside the drafting of a book manuscript addressing the circulation and consumption of standardized objects in the territories of Britannia, Gallia Belgica and Germania Inferior, which impacts on the arguments made here in no small measure (Pitts 2019). All errors remain my own.

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Bibliography Eckardt, H. (ed.) 2010. Roman Diasporas Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire. Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 78. Portsmouth, Rhode Island: Journal of Roman Archaeology. Foster, R. J. 2006. “Tracking Globalization. Commodities and Value in Motion.” In Handbook of Material Culture, ed. C. Tilley, W. Keane, S. Küchler, M. Rowlands, P. Spyer. London: Sage. 285–302. Gell, A. 1998. Art and Agency An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gosden, C. 2005. “What do objects want?”, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 12. 193–211. Greene, K. 2008. “Learning to Consume: Consumption and Consumerism in the Roman Empire”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 21. 64–82. Hingley, R. 2015. “Post-colonial and Global Rome: The Genealogy of Empire.” In Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, ed. M. Pitts, M. J. Versluys. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 32–46. Hodos, T. et al. (eds.) 2017. The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization. London: Routledge. Hopkins, A. G. 2002. “The History of Globalization – And the Globalization of History.” In Globalization in World History, ed. A. G. Hopkins. London: Pimlico. 11–46. Jennings, J. 2011. Globalizations and the Ancient World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jennings, J. 2017. “Distinguishing Past Globalizations.” In The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, ed. T. Hodos et al. London: Routledge. 12–28. Jiménez, A. 2017. “Standard Time. Typologies in Roman Antiquity.” In Materialising Roman Histories Beyond Instrumentalism and Representation, ed. A. Van Oyen, M. Pitts. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 75–84. Laurence, R.; Trifilò, F. 2015. “The Global and the Local in the Roman Empire: Connectivity and Mobility from an Urban Perspective.” In Globalisation and the Roman World World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, ed. M. Pitts, M. J. Versluys. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 99–122. Mattingly, D. J. 2006. An Imperial Possession Britain in the Roman Empire. London: Penguin. Mattingly, D. J. 2011. Imperialism, Power and Identity Experiencing the Roman Empire. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mihajlović, V. D; Janković, M. A. 2018. “Reflecting Roman Imperialisms.” In Reflections of Roman Imperialisms, ed. M. A. Janković, V. D. Mihajlović. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 1–29. Millett, M. 1990. The Romanization of Britain An Essay in Archaeological Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morley, N. 2015. “Globalisation and the Roman Economy.” In Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, ed. M. Pitts, M. J. Versluys. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 49–68. Nederveen Pieterse, J. ³2015. Globalization and Culture Global Mélange. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Pitts, M. 2008. “Globalizing the Local in Roman Britain: An Anthropological Approach to Social Change”, Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 27. 493–506. Pitts, M. 2015. “Globalisation, Circulation and Mass Consumption in the Roman World.” In Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, ed. M. Pitts, M. J. Versluys. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 69–96.

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Pitts, M. 2017a. “Deep Histories of Globalization and Europe. Beyond Eurocentrism.” In The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, ed. T. Hodos et al. London: Routledge. 505–508. Pitts, M. 2017b. “Gallo-Belgic Wares: Objects in Motion in the Early Roman West.” In Materialising Roman Histories Beyond Instrumentalism and Representation, ed. A. Van Oyen, M. Pitts. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 47–64. Pitts, M. 2019. The Roman Object Revolution Objectscapes and Intra-cultural Connectivity in Northwest Europe. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Pitts, M.; Versluys, M. J. (eds.) 2015a. Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pitts, M.; Versluys, M. J. (eds.). 2015b. “Globalisation and the Roman World: Perspectives and Opportunities.” In Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, ed. M. Pitts, M. J. Versluys. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 3–31. Scheidel, W. 2014. “The Shape of the Roman World: Modelling Imperial Connectivity”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 27. 7–32. Sweetman, R. J. 2007. “Roman Knossos: The Nature of a Globalized City”, American Journal of Archaeology 111. 61–81. Swift, E. 2017. Roman Artefacts and Society Design, Behaviour and Experience. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Van Oyen, A. 2015. “Globalisation and Material Culture: The Road Ahead”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 28. 641–646. Van Oyen, A. 2016. How Things Make History The Roman Empire and Its terra sigillata Pottery. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Van Oyen, A.; Pitts, M. 2017a. “What Did Objects Do in the Roman World? Beyond Representation.” In Materialising Roman Histories Beyond Instrumentalism and Representation, ed. A. Van Oyen, M. Pitts. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 3–19. Van Oyen, A.; Pitts, M. (eds.) 2017b. Materialising Roman Histories Beyond Instrumentalism and Representation. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Versluys, M. J. 2014. “Understanding Objects in Motion. An Archaeological Dialogue on Romanization”, Archaeological Dialogues 21. 1–20. Versluys, M. J. 2017a. “The Global Mediterranean. A material-cultural perspective.” In The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, eds. T. Hodos et al. London: Routledge. 597–601. Versluys, M. J. 2017b. “Discussion. Object-scapes. Towards a Material Constitution of Romanness?” In Materialising Roman Histories Beyond Instrumentalism and Representation, ed. A. Van Oyen, M. Pitts. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 191–199. Wallace-Hadrill, A. 2008. Rome’s Cultural Revolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Witcher, R. E. 2017. “The Globalized Roman World.” In The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, ed. T. Hodos et al. London: Routledge. 634–651. Woolf, G. 1998. Becoming Roman The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Woolf, G. 2017. “Roman Things and Roman People.” In Materialising Roman Histories Beyond Instrumentalism and Representation, ed. A. Van Oyen, M. Pitts. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 211–216.

Multiple Experiences of Empire in South-West England A View of the Transformation of Identities through Shifting Consumption Patterns of Ceramic Vessels Siân Thomas 1 Introduction The landscape of the south-west peninsula is diverse, characterized by the three large upland areas of Exmoor, Dartmoor and Bodmin Moor (Todd 1987: 3–5), and a long coastline with high cliffs that run from Minehead on the north coast of Somerset round to Dartmouth on the south coast of Devon. Deep river valleys cut through the landscape, most notably along the south coast, created by the flooding of the lower sections of river valley systems during the sea level rises in the Holocene period (Webb 2006: 22–28). This diversity would have had a profound impact upon the communities living within the south-west, presenting challenges for large-scale political cohesion. Despite these difficulties, current scholarship has the south-west peninsula united as the tribal lands of the Dumnonii, whose territory ran westwards from the River Parrett / Axe in Somerset to the south-westernmost tip of Cornwall (Millett 1990: 67; Mattingly 2006; Todd 1987: 205–234). The Roman military arrived in Dumnonia in the mid-50s CE, when the Second Legion constructed a fortress at Exeter (Bidwell 1980). Yet the region has largely been ignored by researchers, with the lack of developed urban centers, villa estates, temple sites and the low level of engagement with imported ceramics and other materials from the Roman world having been interpreted through the Romanization model to suggest that the south-west peninsula was never fully integrated into the province of Britannia (Manning 2002: 35; Mattingly 2006; 402–408; Thorpe 2007). However, the last few decades have witnessed a paradigm shift within Roman studies with more emphasis now being placed on material culture and its use in social practice, in an attempt to gain new insights into the meanings ascribed to objects. It is now recognized that objects play an active role in the creation and expression of identity in both the present and the past (Appadurai 1989; Gosden and Marshall 1999; Gosden 2005). Understand-

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ing the way in which material was consumed throughout the Roman provinces allows for a more nuanced view of the people who lived and died within the Empire through the use of material culture (Eckardt 2014; Pitts 2010: 125). This focus on objects allows the impact of the Roman conquest of the south-west to be explored through the relationship between its inhabitants and the material culture they used. This paper will focus on the ceramic assemblage from the region as vessels have often been overlooked in studies of identity. Ceramics played a role in social practice, through which power relations were re-formed and strengthened. Pitts (2005: 50) has suggested that practices such as feasting were a vital part of this during the Iron Age and Romano-British period and that certain ceramic forms would have allowed these practices to take place, something he calls “consumption technology”. Using this model, any change in the preferences of ceramic forms would then indicate a shift in social practice and consequently, a change in power relations and the formation and maintenance of identities. Analysis of consumption patterns then has the potential to inform on changes in social practice and how identity was renegotiated through time. It is not just the forms that give an insight into the way identity was shaped, the choice of fabrics is also important. Moore (2007: 95) suggested that the exchange of materials sourced from certain prominent or important places within the landscape helped to reinforce social ties. The use of the objects produced from these materials would have helped reinforce a sense of regional identity, strengthening the place of these communities within the wider societal networks. There was more to the continued extraction and use of specific clay types than simply the technological properties of the clay, and it can be suggested that the clay played a particular role within society and the continued use can be seen as fundamental to the maintenance of society (Wood 2011: 322). In this chapter, I will examine the ceramic assemblages from sites in the south-west to highlight how consumption patterns changed from the Late Iron Age through the Romano-British period. I will show that new forms were used by certain communities after the Roman conquest, with a particular emphasis on tablewares and drinking vessels. These forms indicate a change in dining practices, away from the traditional communal eating and drinking customs, likely stimulated by contact with the military and the wider world. These changes show that new identities were formed through the use of new ceramic forms. This change was not widespread though, with a number of communities shunning new dining forms and imported fabrics, instead opting to consume vessels in locally sourced fabrics, which appear to have been imbued with special meaning and so provided a tie to their Iron Age past. These differing consumption patterns evident through the region show that these communities had different experiences of empire, with some transforming their identities in light of the conquest, while others strove to strengthen their ties to the past. These differences, in fact, indicate that the peoples of the south-west cannot be thought of in terms of one unified tribe, but

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smaller separate groupings, some of whom can be suggested to have lived beyond the bounds of the Roman Empire. 2 The Late Iron Age in the South-West The settlement pattern of the Late Iron Age is based around small enclosed settlements, likely housing extended families, with very few open settlements known, Higher Besore and Goldpark being the best-known examples (Nowakowski 2011; Gibson 1992). Cunliffe (2005) suggested a two-tier hierarchical model of society based on settlement morphology, with the promontory forts, hillforts and multiple enclosure forts being home to the elite, while the rounds, hillslope enclosures and unenclosed sites were of lower status. The relatively low numbers of excavated sites do not allow Cunliffe’s model to be proven, but at the same time, it does not allow any other model of settlement hierarchy to be determined. The development of an elite within the south-west during this period is though supported by the material culture, with an increasing amount of high-status metal work and items of personal adornment being recorded in the region. These items include decorated mirrors, brooches, chariot fittings and weaponry fittings, such as the scabbard mount from St Mawgan-in-Pydar, Cornwall (Thriepland 1956) and the copper alloy baldrick ring inlaid with red enamel (CORN-BA177A3) found near Helston, Cornwall (Tyacke 2011: 72). The metal work, particularly the increase in items relating to horses, suggests a change in the political structures of the region from the Middle Iron Age. Horses are thought to have been symbols of the elite in the Later Iron Age, in particular of a warrior class, as well as being obvious symbols of wealth (Creighton 2000). This elite class is most visible in the cist cemeteries of the region, with all except the mirror from Holcombe, Devon, having been recovered from excavations at sites such as Stamford Hill, near Plymouth and Harlyn Bay on the north Cornish coast (Cunliffe 1988; Whimster 1977). The ceramic evidence suggests this change may have begun in the late second century BCE. Up until this point, the dominant ceramic tradition were the South-Western Decorated wares, which originated at the end of the fourth century BCE (Quinnell 2011: 237). Petrological analysis has shown that pottery produced in this tradition was made from clays sourced from six areas located throughout south-western Britain. This included a source on the Lizard peninsula in Cornwall from where the unique gabbro clays were extracted (Gent and Quinnell 1999: 53; Peacock 1969a; 1969b). Towards the end of the Late Iron Age these wares ceased to be produced and a new ceramic tradition, Cordoned ware, was introduced in Cornwall. Radiocarbon dates from excavations at Higher Besore/Truro College have though shown that this was being produced by the late second century BCE and continued in use throughout the Romano-British period (Quinnell 2011: 239). In contrast to the ceramic rich record in Cornwall, it had been thought that the communities in Devon were largely aceramic until

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the Later Iron Age when South-Western Decorated wares began to be used on sites in eastern Devon (Gent and Quinnell 1999: 52–53). Recent excavations have shown that this picture can no longer be supported and Middle and Late Iron Age ceramic use has been documented on several sites in south and western Devon. A new fabric, Late Iron Age Plain ware dating to the first century BCE, has also recently been recognized at a handful of sites in Devon, including Aller Cross (Hughes forthcoming). The data collected through excavation over the last 100 years shows that only coarse fabrics were produced and utilized during the Late Iron Age. Towards the end of the Late Iron Age, imported ceramics began to appear in the region. These imported vessels are a small number of amphorae, two of which were found at the site of Carn Euny (Christie 1978). Both of these are Dressel 1A types, dating to the 2nd to 1st centuries BCE and are known to have contained wine (Roman Amphorae: an online resource 2014). In the past, the presence of amphorae in Late Iron Age assemblages has been interpreted as indicating the high social standing of the communities or individuals they were associated with. Access to the trade of prestige goods, such as wine, was thought to symbolize the social power of the individuals who consumed them (Haselgrove 1982: 82). However, the low quantities of such goods entering Britain suggest that imports such as wine were luxury items and so not necessarily tied to the creation and maintenance of social hierarchies. The importance placed on such goods may have been the obvious connection to the Roman world and the long-distance trade routes, rather than the power of the individual purchasing them (Haselgrove 1996: 174–175; Pitts 2005: 145). In the south-west though, where imported ceramics are limited to the small number of amphorae, contact with the Mediterranean may well have been used to reinforce the social position of these communities within the wider region, with the wine perhaps being shared around the wider community. The low levels of these vessels in the archaeological record indicates that these items were not regularly consumed, and it may be that these sherds represent a single purchase event. The forms consumed during the Iron Age show that communal eating from large pots, namely jars, was normal practice, see Fig. 1. Tablewares; dishes and plates, and drinking vessels; flagons, beakers and cups, are absent from the excavated assemblages across the region (see Cool 2006: 53, 155–157). Bowls do begin to occur in the record during this period though but should not necessarily be considered as part of the suite of tablewares, as these examples are not shallow forms but are often much larger and deeper and so had the capacity to hold a large amount of food as evident with some of the Cordoned ware bowls (Threipland 1956: 59). The Late Pre-Roman Iron Age saw a shift in dining practices on a number of sites within the south-east of England, with drinking and dining forms gaining in importance (Pitts 2010). These forms were produced in local fabrics, but many were in Gallo-Belgic fabrics, which highlights the growing links the south-east was enjoying with the Roman world (Perring and Pitts 2013: 128). The lack of such assemblages in the south-west and the very low levels of imported ceramics may show that contact with the Roman world was limited, although

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Fig. 1 Chart shows the form types consumed in the south-west during the Late Iron Age by form type

it is more likely that these communities did have access to such goods but chose not to consume them as the presence of the amphora sherds shows that trade with the Mediterranean world was possible. This would have helped to preserve traditional practices, with little outside influence to introduce new ideas and forms of ceramics. 3 The Romano-British Period The change that began in the Late Iron Age gathered pace after the Roman conquest, which is reflected across the material record. The use of items of personal adornment increased dramatically, beginning in the immediate aftermath of the conquest. I have argued elsewhere that decorated brooches were consciously used by some communities within Cornwall at this time in the renegotiation of identity, helping people to navigate their way through the new power structures effected by the conquest (Thomas 2016). Coinage, not common in the Iron Age, also began to be utilized very quickly after the conquest. Their distribution along trade routes shows that it was the merchants who drove the spread of coinage across the region, after the military introduced them. The conquest of the region would have opened it up to merchants who would have taken advantage to establish new trade routes. The spread of coinage in such a short space of time suggests that merchants moved into the area to trade with the local communities very quickly after the establishment of the fort network across the region (see Thomas 2018). The increase in ceramic use by local communities at this time shows that these merchants took advantage of the proximity of settlements to the coast and river networks, as well as the new road network established through Somerset and Devon by the military. The number of fabrics traded into the region increased considerably, with

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Continental as well as British fabrics being consumed. The use of these different fabrics differed across the region, with a more diverse range being consumed in Devon, compared to Cornwall and Somerset. In the century after the conquest fabrics circulating in the region increased from 9 to 33, with 26 types being consumed in Devon to 18 in Cornwall. Of the 40 different fabrics known from the region in the mid to late Romano-British period, 33 are found in Devon while 22 are known from Cornwall. Just under 57 % of the total assemblage for the late period comes from sites in Devon, while 39 %, most of which is local gabbroic ware, comes from sites in Cornwall. By the 2nd century CE several local ceramic industries had been established in Devon and Somerset, the Exeter greyware, South Devon ware and South West Black Burnished ware industries for example, with their vessels being traded across the region (Holbrook and Bidwell 1991). The fact that these ceramic industries appeared in Devon coupled with the fact that a more diverse range of fabrics was being consumed implies that something different was happening here. The data suggests that a market economy developed within the east of the region, centered on Exeter and the roadside settlements that developed along the Fosse Way, such as Pomeroy Wood and Woodbury (Fitzpatrick et al 1999; Silvester and Bidwell 1984; Weddell et al. 1993). The road network meant markets and communities were far more easily accessible to merchants, with increasing trade leading to an upsurge in demand of such goods. In comparison, the continued dominance of gabbroic wares in Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly suggests trade with communities in these areas continued to be conducted along coastal and riverine routes, with no formal central market places developing. The lack of North Gaulish wares in Cornwall, with only one Terra Nigra cup present, suggests different trade routes may have been used to reach the far south-west, although it may be that communities in Cornwall did not favor these products, preferring to consume other fabrics instead, particularly the local gabbroic fabric. The forms consumed changed dramatically after the conquest with tablewares and drinking vessels becoming increasingly popular, a trend seen across Britain (Evans 1993; Cool 2006). Of these new vessel forms, it is those associated with dining that were the most popular. Bowls are the most numerous of the dining forms consumed with a greater range of bowl forms now present, including small bowls suitable for serving individual portions, for example the Samian Drag. 30 and 31 types. Bowls of larger size, the Trethurgy type 9 bowls for instance, were though still consumed by a number of communities and so were unlikely to have been used for individual servings (Quinnell 2004: 116). It is the presence of dishes and plates though that shows a change away from communal eating towards individual servings. Within the region plates only occur at sites within Devon and Cornwall, while dishes are a little more widespread. Mapping these two forms shows that their distributions are restricted in comparison to the general distribution of other tablewares within the region, which were utilized on a wide range of sites while dishes and plates tend to be located on sites thought to be of higher status sites, see Fig. 2. For example, the roadside settlements of Shortlands

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Land and Woodbury and the villa site of Honeyditches have numerous dishes in their assemblages (Bidwell 2016: 115–159; Silvester and Bidwell 1984: 39–47; Silvester 1981). The appearance of drinking vessels indicates that the change in social practice during the Romano-British period was not solely linked to the way food was consumed. It is likely that during the Late Iron Age jars were used for consumption of drink, with them being passed around among those present at the meal. The adoption of beakers and cups, in particular, show this changed with some communities now favoring the use of individual drinking vessels. The numbers of these vessels are overall low, accounting for only 11 % of the total ceramic assemblage for the early Romano-British period, and again mapping shows they are restricted, appearing on similar sites to the dishes and plates, see Fig. 2. The map shows that more communities in Cornwall adopted new drinking practices in comparison to new ways of eating, with a greater number of sites in north and the far south-west of Cornwall having produced beakers and cups.

Fig. 2 Map shows the distribution of tableware and drinking vessel forms in the early Romano-British period across the south-west. Sites that did not have either of these forms within their assemblages are also shown

Analysis of these forms through time shows that this picture is not static and consumption patterns changed through time. During the early Romano-British period only the inhabitants of sites of higher status, as suggested by the wealth and diversity of their assemblages, consumed tablewares or drinking vessels. These include the roadside settlements of Shortlands Lane, Pomeroy Wood and Woodbury in Devon, as well as the high-status rounds of Carvossa and St Mawgan in Cornwall and the hillfort of Norton

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Fitzwarren in Somerset (Morris 2013; Fitzpatrick et al. 1999; Weddell et al. 1993; Carlyon 1987; Threipland 1956; Ellis 1989). It is possible that access to these vessel forms was socially controlled, with only elite members of society being permitted to consume them. In Scotland, Hunter (2001) was able to show that access to certain goods, Samian ware for example, was controlled by a small number of people. While Samian is not as common in Scotland, several lower status sites have produced small amounts of Samian vessels while higher status sites had far more present within their assemblages. Hunter (2001: 293) suggests that this indicates the control over such goods by the elite, with items passing down to lower status communities through the social ties that bound society together. He also demonstrated that the items in these fabrics were chosen as they could be easily fitted into pre-existing social traditions, feasting for example (Hunter 2001: 303). This is where the patterns evident in the south-west differ as a drinking vessel and tableware forms were not utilized in the study region during the Iron Age. The idea of serving and eating individual portions was new to the region and appears to have arrived shortly before the invasion of the south-west, at a time when communities in other areas of Britain were already familiar with these concepts and had begun to produce these forms in local fabrics as well as utilizing imported fabrics (Pitts 2005; 2010). It would appear though that access to these forms and the alteration in social practice was controlled by elites, with only a few of the lower status communities having access to drinking vessels and tableware forms or imported ceramics. The data shows that only 16 of the 36 lower status sites produced tableware and drinking vessel forms during the early Romano-British period and only five of these sites produced fabrics imported from the continent, which was limited to either Samian ware or Terra Nigra. In comparison, all the 25 higher status sites produced examples of these forms, as well as a wider range of continental fabrics. By the later Romano-British period, this picture had altered, with tableware forms increasing in number while drinking vessel numbers dropped, a trend again evident in other areas of Britain (Evans 1993; Cool 2006). The increase in the number of bowls and dishes that were consumed during this period is responsible for the significant increase in the amount of tablewares within the data at this time. The change in the number of dishes utilized between the early and later periods is quite dramatic, with 480 consumed during the mid to late period, with 94 % of these being found in Devon. Mapping the distribution of tablewares and drinking vessels shows that their distribution pattern altered, see Fig. 3. The number of sites consuming tablewares increased, particularly in Cornwall, where the number of sites using these forms more than doubles. At the same, although overall the numbers of drinking vessels drop, the distribution patterns of these vessels change with several communities utilizing these vessels for the first time, while others who previously consumed them ceased to use them. The increase in the number of tableware forms suggests that the change in eating habits that began in the aftermath of the Roman invasion had become a normal part of daily

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Fig. 3 Map shows the distribution of tableware and drinking vessel forms in the late Romano-British period across the south-west. Sites that did not have either of these forms within their assemblages are also shown

life for many communities within the region, particularly those in Devon. Looking at the site types that produced these vessels, it is now clear that tablewares were no longer socially controlled and have been found across all site types. It is unlikely that many, in the east of the region, thought of these forms and the way of eating as new or alien by this time. The Cornish communities though continued to consume these forms in imported fabrics, suggested in the discussion below to be a conscious way of showing these practices were exotic. The drop in drinking vessels during this period, although a national trend, may suggest that drinking from cups or beakers had fallen out of fashion. There is an increase in glass vessels elsewhere (Cool 2006), but this is not evident in the region and any organic containers do not survive in the acidic soils. Communities likely returned to consuming drink from jars as they had likely done during the Iron Age. Drinking vessels were only found on higher status sites during the later Romano-British period and so drinking from cups and beakers was then something only higher status member of society continued to do during this period. The distribution maps in Fig. 2 and 3 show that the majority of these vessels are found in close proximity to the road network, or on sites close to the coast of a major river, and so were accessible to most communities. It is then possible that the lack of these vessels on lower status sites was a conscious choice rather than due to restricted access to these forms.

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The change in the make-up of these assemblages shows that social practice altered during the Romano-British period through contact with the military and the wider world. The data shows a greater engagement with new fabrics and forms by communities in Devon and Somerset in comparison to those within Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly. There appears to have been only limited engagement by the elite with these new ceramics to the west of the Tamar, while a deeper and more long-lived change took place to the east. This perhaps reflects the fact that these peoples were not one united tribal entity but were, in fact, smaller political groupings, with the River Tamar acting as a boundary between them. 4 The Social Life of Clay The idea of the River Tamar as a boundary can be further evidenced through the choices of clay used to produce ceramics by communities in Cornwall. For many past societies, the landscape in which they played out their daily lives was shaped by spiritual powers. The geological elements that made up these landscapes, such as clay, held symbolic meanings that were deeply embedded in all aspects of everyday life (Boivin 2004: 2; Saunders 2004: 123). The process of transforming these raw minerals into artifacts is also heavily laden with symbolic meaning for such societies. The temper used in Neolithic pottery produced in Orkney has been suggested to have been deliberately chosen from certain stone sources to reinforce communal ties ( Jones 2002). Items produced with these minerals then embodied symbolic meanings and the beliefs of these societies and could be used to link communities together and strengthen ties to the landscape in which they lived. The gabbroic clay formations within Cornwall are limited to a small area on the Lizard peninsula, in the far south-west of the region. These clays were utilized from the Neolithic period until the 8th century CE for the production of ceramic vessels (Harrad, 2003: 11; Wood 2011: 22). The longevity of use indicates that it held special meaning to the communities who utilized it, which were widespread across Cornwall, with very little gabbroic fabrics moving eastwards beyond the River Tamar. Analysis of gabbroic ceramics dating to the Bronze and Iron Ages indicate a diachronic shift in the mineral content of the fabrics (Harrad 2003: 13–14). The specific use of clays with certain mineral quantities indicates that it may have been the minerals within the clay that were imbued with different meanings with clays being picked to reflect these altering beliefs. A recent analysis of gabbroic ceramics focused on the Late Roman and Early Medieval transition. Petrographic testing showed that the clay mixture was unique to each site, with the gabbroic clays being mixed with local clays. The amount of gabbroic clay present changed over time, with Late Roman ceramics containing much higher amounts in comparison to those from the Early Medieval (Wood 2011). Wood (2011)

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suggested that the use of gabbroic clay was important to these communities as it reinforced a sense of regional identity, with the local clays used being linked to a more local identity. The mixing of gabbroic with local clays demonstrated by Wood (2011), is not isolated to her case study sites but is now becoming more widely recognized and is generally classed in reports as Gabbroic Variant fabric. Sites such as Atlantic Road and Penhale Round have produced ceramics in gabbroic variant fabrics (Reynolds forthcoming; Nowakowski and Johns 2015). If gabbroic clay is indeed a marker of regional identity, then its continued dominance throughout the Romano-British period would suggest that the Roman conquest had a negligible effect on the social and political networks of communities within Cornwall. At the time of the conquest, Gabbroic fabric accounted for 92 % of the ceramic assemblage. This altered during the early Romano-British period with this figure dropping to 83 % and by the late Romano-British period it drops further to 78 %. This is due to the increasing consumption of imported fabrics, the most popular of which is South East Dorset Black Burnished Ware (SEDBB1), a utilitarian coarse ware fabric. Looking specifically at the new drinking and dining forms the vast majority of these were consumed in imported fabrics with very few ever being produced in gabbroic fabric. The only plates known through excavation were all in imported fabrics, while only 6 of the 31 dishes and 5 of the 28 cups are in the gabbroic fabric, see Table 1. The exception to this is bowl forms, the majority of which are gabbroic ware types, which as discussed above have their origins in the Late Iron Age. The fact that gabbroic was not heavily used to produce these new forms suggests that for these communities’ Tab. 1 Table shows the forms associated with dining and drinking consumed within Cornwall during the Romano-British period Form Type Beaker Bowl

Gabbroic

Imported Fabric

Total

MNV

% of Assemblage

MNV

% of Assemblage

31

4,00 %

31

4,00 %

62

472

57,00 %

122

14,00 %

594

Butt Beaker

7

1,00 %

0

0,00 %

7

Cup

5

1,00 %

23

3,00 %

28

Dish

6

1,00 %

25

3,00 %

31

Flagon

6

1,00 %

23

3,00 %

29

Mortarium

1

0.20 %

33

4,00 %

34

Plate

0

0,00 %

29

3,00 %

29

Platter

1

0.20 %

4

0.40 %

5

Tankard

0

0,00 %

1

0.20 %

1

57

65.40 %

169

34.60 %

821

Total

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gabbroic clay had a very specific meaning that was tied to their ancestral past, which continued to bind them together throughout the Romano-British period. The consumption of these new forms in imported fabrics allowed these communities to separate new dining habits from the more traditional practices bound up in the use of the gabbroic fabric. The fact that imported fabrics were favored for these new forms also shows that these vessels were not selected in order to reinforce traditional practices but that they were new and exotic items. Contrary to what Hunter (2001), showed for Roman material in Scotland, the communities in Cornwall actively highlighted their new dining habits by purposeful consumption of tablewares and drinking vessels in imported fabrics. 5 Discussion It is clear from the ceramic assemblages from the south-west of England that change did occur across the entire region after the conquest, although this had begun in the Late Iron Age, with the invasion likely increasing the pace of change. The expression of this change can be seen in both the new fabrics being produced and traded into the region as well as the new forms that were introduced into the region at the time of the conquest. The appearance of tablewares and drinking vessels shows that new ways of eating and drinking were introduced that now focused on the individual and their dining experience, rather than communal dining practices dominant in the Iron Age. These new dining practices may indicate that new foods were introduced into the region along with these new vessel forms, which may have further impacted upon the relationship people had with these vessels as well as on their own sense of identity. Jervis (2014: 94–95) has shown that the French incomers to Southampton after the Norman Conquest brought a new repertoire of cooking instruments and vessels with them, which allowed them to continue to cook and eat in a traditional manner. This allowed them to re-form existing relationships with this material and gain back a sense of their previous identity. It is possible that communities in the south-west continued to eat traditional foods, although served in a different manner, which allowed them to continue to replicate previous sensory experiences ( Jervis 2014: 95). This continued consumption of traditional foods would have served as a link to their past and helped keep a sense of traditional identity. The change in food consumption practices would though have been a significant shift in the way they and others viewed them. Eating in this way was a break with traditional practice and would have altered relations with other communities. The continued use of traditional fabrics however, such as gabbroic, would have provided an anchor to the past, allowing them to re-form social ties with wider society and negotiate their new place within the world. The vast majority of these new vessel forms were confined to higher status sites and indicate that access to these vessels was, at least initially, socially controlled.

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During the later Romano-British period these vessel types were consumed in far greater numbers, particularly by communities within Devon. Access to the road network as well as the riverine and coastal networks allowed a market economy to develop in Devon and west Somerset by the mid to late Romano-British period, which would have meant these vessels were more readily available to the communities in these areas. The fact that tablewares and drinking vessels were more popular in Devon though is only partly due to these trade routes. There are differing levels of engagement with these vessel forms evident across the entire region and it is likely that the lower numbers within Cornwall at this time represents the active choice of these communities not to use them as part of day to day cooking and eating practices. The fact that in Cornwall these forms are mainly utilized in imported fabrics also highlights their exotic nature and again the idea that they were never incorporated into daily life, most likely only used for certain occasions. The continued dominance of the gabbroic clays meant it held a special meaning to the inhabitants of the area. The clay can be shown to embody a sense of identity that linked all the communities within Cornwall together and this continued on throughout the period. It allowed the communities to retain a sense of their traditional identity in the face of change after the conquest. This continued dominance of gabbroic ware and the lower levels of engagement with new fabrics and forms by communities in Cornwall is clearly a deliberate choice, while communities in the east of the region actively participated in the consumption of new vessels available to them. The idea that these people were all members of the Dumnonii does not fit with the material evidence and this idea can no longer be sustained. The differing levels of engagement with ceramics by communities suggest that the area was far more complex, with multiple groupings of people who all reacted differently to the coming of Rome. The data indicates that the River Tamar acted as a boundary between those groups in the east and those in the west of the region. It is possible to begin to suggest that this was, in fact, the boundary of the Roman Empire, with everything west beyond the frontier. Although this difficult to confirm through analysis of just one artifact category, it is hoped that this discussion can stimulate debate and so further work in the region, which can no longer be ignored by researchers. Bibliography Appadurai, A. (ed.) 1986. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bidwell, P. 1980. Roman Exeter: Fortress and Town Exeter City Council. Bidwell, P. 2016. “Fifth Century Pottery in Devon and North East Cornwall”, Internet Archaeology 41. http://dx.doi.org/10.11141/ia.41.1 Bovin, N. 2004. “From Veneration to Exploitation: Human Engagement with the Mineral World.” In Soils, Stones and Symbols: Cultural Perceptions of the Mineral World, ed. N. Bovin, M. A. Owoc. London: UCL Press. 1–30.

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Bovin, N.; Owoc, M. A. 2004. Soils, Stones and Symbols: Cultural Perceptions of the Mineral World London: UCL Press. Carlyon, P. M. 1987. “Finds from the Earthwork at Carvossa, Probus”, Cornish Archaeology 26. 103–141. Christie, P. M. L. 1978. “The Excavation of an Iron Age Souterrain and Settlement at Carn Euny, Sancreed, Cornwall”, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 44. 309–433. Cool, H. E. M. 2006. Eating and Drinking in Roman Britain Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Creighton, J. 2000. Coins and power in Late Iron Age Britain. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cunliffe, B. 1988. Mount Batten Plymouth: A Prehistoric and Roman Port. Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, Monograph No 26. Cunliffe, B. 2005. Iron Age Communities in Britain. London: Routledge. Eckardt, H. 2014. Objects and Identities: Roman Britain and the North-Western Provinces Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ellis, P. 1989. “Norton Fitzwarren Hillfort: A Report on the Excavations by Nancy and Philip Langmaid between 1968 and 1971”, Proceedings of the Somerset Archaeology and Natural History Society 133. 1–74. Evans, J. 1993. “Pottery Function and Finewares in the Roman North”, Journal of Roman Pottery Studies 6. 95–118. Fitzpatrick, A. P.; Butterworth, C. A.; Grove, J. C. 1999. Prehistoric and Roman Sites in East Devon: The A30 Honiton to Exeter Improvement DBFO, 1996–9 Wessex Archaeology: Unpublished Report. Gent, T. H.; Quinnell, H. 1999. “Excavation of a Causewayed Enclosure and Hillfort on Raddon Hill, Stockleigh Pomeroy”, Proceedings of the Devon Archaeological Society 57. 1–75. Gibson, A. 1992. “The Excavation of an Iron Age Settlement at Gold Park, Dartmoor”, Proceedings of the Devon Archaeological Society 50. 19–46. Gosden, C. 2005. “Making Sense: Archaeology and Aesthetics”, World Archaeology 33(2). 163–167. Gosden, C.; Marshall, Y. 1999. “The Cultural Biography of Objects”, World Archaeology 31(2). 169–178. Gossip, J.; Jones, A. M. 2007. “Archaeological Investigations of a Later Prehistoric and a Romano-British Landscape at Tremough, Penryn, Cornwall”, British Archaeological Reports British Series 443. Oxford: Archaeopress. Harrad, L. 2003. “A ‘Sacred’ Source? Investigating the Phenomenon of Cornish Clays.” In Re-searching the Iron Age Selected Papers from Proceedings of the Iron Age Research Student Seminars, 1999 and 2000, ed. J. Humphrey. Leicester: University of Leicester School of Archaeology and Ancient History. 11–16. Haselgrove, C. 1982. “Wealth, Prestige and Power: The Dynamics of Late Iron Age Political Centralisation in South-east England.” In Ranking, Resource and Exchange: Aspects of the Archaeology of Early European Society, ed. C. Renfrew, S. Shennan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 79–88. Haselgrove, C. 1996. “Roman Impact on Rural Settlement and Society in Southern Picardy.” In From the Sword to the Plough, ed. N. Roymans Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. 127–188. Hughes, S. (forthcoming). “A Prehistoric and Romano-British Settlement at Aller Cross, Kingskerswell”, Proceedings of the Devon Archaeological Society Hunter, F. 2001. “Roman and Native in Scotland: New Approaches”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 14. 289–309.

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Jervis, B. 2014. Pottery and Social Life in Medieval England Oxford: Oxbow Books. Jones, A. 2002. Archaeological Theory and Scientific Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Manning, W. H. 2002. “Early Roman Campaigns in the South West of Britain.” In Birthday of the Eagle: The Second Augustan Legion and the Roman Military Machine, ed. R. J. Brewer. Cardiff: National Museums and Galleries of Wales. 27–44. Mattingly, D. J. 2006. An Imperial Possession: Britain in the Roman Empire. London: Penguin Books. Millett, M. 1990. The Romanisation of Britain: An essay in Archaeological Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Moore, T. 2007. “Life on the Edge? Exchange, Community, and Identity in the Later Iron Age on the Severn-Cotswolds.” In: The Later Iron Age in Britain and Beyond, ed. C. Haselgrove and T. Moore. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 41–59. Morris, B. 2013. Land at Shortlands Lane Cullompton Devon. Southwest Archaeology: Unpublished Report. Nowakowski, J. A. 2011. “Appraising the Bigger Picture – Cornish Iron Age and Romano-British Lives and Settlements 25 Years On,” Cornish Archaeology 50. 241–262. Nowakowski, J. A.; Johns, C. 2015. Bypassing Indian Queens: Archaeological Excavations 1992– 1994. Truro: Cornwall County Council, Historic Environment Service. Peacock, D. P. S. 1969a. “Neolithic Pottery Production in Cornwall”, Antiquity 43. 145–149. Peacock, D. P. S. 1969b. “A Contribution to the Study of Glastonbury Ware from South-Western Britain”, Antiquaries Journal 49. 41–61. Perring, D.; Pitts, M. 2013. Alien Cities Consumption and the Origins of Urbanism in Roman Britain East Sussex: Spoil Heap Publications Monograph 7. Pitts, M. 2005. “Regional Identities and the Social Use of Ceramics.” In TRAC 2004: Proceedings of the Fourteenth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, Durham 2004, ed. J. Bruhn, B. Croxford and D. Grigoropoulos. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 50–64. Pitts, M. 2010. “Artefact Suites and Social Practice: An Integrated Approach to Roman Provincial Finds Assemblages Facta”, A Journal of Roman Material Culture Studies 4. 125–152. Quinnell, H. 2004. Excavations at Trethurgy Round, St Austell: Community and Status in Roman and Post-Roman Cornwall. Truro: Cornwall County Council. Quinnell, H. 2011. “A Summary of Cornish Ceramics in the First Millennium BC”, Cornish Archaeology 50. 231–240. Reynolds, A. (forthcoming). “Atlantic Road, Newquay: Excavations on a Late Iron Age and Romano-British Coastal Site”, Cornish Archaeology Saunders, N. J. 2004. “The Cosmic Earth: Materiality and Mineralogy in the Americas.” In: Soils, Stones and Symbols: Cultural Perceptions of the Mineral World, ed. N. Bovin and M. A. Owoc London: UCL Press. 123–142. Silvester, R. J. 1981. “Excavations at Honeyditches Roman Villa, Seaton, in 1978”, Proceedings of the Devon Archaeological Society 39. 37–87. Silvester, R. J.; Bidwell, P. T. 1984. “A Roman Site at Woodbury, Axminster”, Proceedings of the Devon Archaeological Society 42. 33–57. Thomas, S. 2016. “From Treasured Items to Trash? The Use of Brooches in Roman Cornwall in the Creation of Identity and Social Memory.” In TRAC 2015: Proceedings of the Twenty-Fifth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, Leicester 2015, ed. M. J. Mandich, T. J. Derrick, S. Gonzalez Sanchez, G. Savani and E. Zampieri. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 111–124. Thomas, S. 2018. On the Edge of Empire: A New Narrative of Society in the South-west of England during the First Century BC to Fifth Century AD. PhD thesis, Cardiff University.

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Thorpe, C. 2007. The Earthwork at Restormel Farm, Lostwithiel, Cornwall: Archaeological Site and Finds Evaluation. Truro: Cornwall County Council, Historic Environment Service. Threipland, L. M. 1956. “An Excavation at St Mawgan-in-Pydar, Cornwall”, Archaeological Journal 113(1). 33–81. Todd, M. 1987. The South-West to AD 1000 London: Longman. Webb, B. 2006. “Land and People.” In England’s Landscape: The South West, ed. R. J. P. Kain. London: Harper Collins. 15–40. Weddell, P. J.; Reed, S. J.; Simpson, S. J. 1993. “Excavation of the Exeter-Dorchester Roman Road at the River Yarty and the Roman Fort Ditch and Settlement Site at Woodbury, near Axminster”, Proceedings of the Devon Archaeological Society 51. 33–134. Whimster, R. 1977. “Harlyn Bay Reconsidered: The Excavations of 199–1905 in the Light of Recent Work”, Cornish Archaeology 16: 61–88. Wood, I. 2011. Changing the Fabric of Life in Post-Roman and Early Medieval Cornwall: An Investigation into Social Change through Petrographic Analysis. PhD thesis, University of Exeter.

Websites University of Southampton (2014) Roman Amphorae: A Digital Resource [data-set]. York: Archaeology Data Service [distributor] https://doi.org/10.5284/1028192

Transfer of Technology in the Late Republican Adriatic The Case Study of the liburnica Danijel Dzino / Luka Boršić

Research into the Roman Empire has made great leaps forward in the last two or three decades, moving from views which privileged the imperial center as the generator of social and other changes into discussions that explore the entanglement of communities and individuals with imperial power, culture, connectivity and their mutual interactions.1 Entanglement with artifacts and technologies within the Roman Empire is another avenue of approach that has gained more popularity only recently. Using different methodologies, most frequently the approach known as Actor-Network Theory, scholarship has begun to explore more substantially different ways in which artifacts and technologies impacted on communities and networks in the Roman empire (Van Oyen 2015; Van Oyen and Pitts 2017; Swift 2017). The transfer of technology and knowledge, in its wider sense, represents an essential element for the understanding of interaction between different social networks that participated in modern and pre-modern globalizing processes and could not be seen isolated from them (Renn 2012; Brentjes and Renn 2016). The transfer of technology is a complex process of communication and social relationality between different communities which is much more complex compared to the usually simplified notion that technological knowledge comes from community A and is adopted by community B. Technological change, which includes technological transfer, is conditioned by different factors, such as changing social needs of the community (Schiffer 2011: 43–53), and cultural attitudes towards change in individual societies which can embrace but also limit and postpone the introduction or implementation of technological changes (Loney 2000). Schiffer (2009: 825–826; 2011: 175–176; Skibo and Schiffer 2008: 125–133) defines the sides participating in technological transfer as

1

This paper is part of the AdriaS (Archaeology of Adriatic shipbuilding and seafaring) project IP2014-09-8211 financed by the Croatian Science Foundation.

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“techno-communities”, the term which will be used in this paper as a useful depictive concept, rather than theoretical framework. Schiffer defines the “techno-communities” as the groups of people that carry out particular activities by employing particular technologies. Each “techno-community” is part of a wider social, political, or ethnic group, and is expected to employ technology in accordance with the needs of these wider groups. As technology is transferred, the recipient “techno-community” adopts it by inventing new functional types whose performance characteristics are more suitable for participating in activities of their own social/political/ethnic group. In this paper, the transfer of technology between techno-communities will be exemplified by the case-study of the Roman adaptation of the type of warship called liburnica (liburna, liburnian). The liburnica is a well-known type of warship widely used in the Roman imperial fleets as the smallest class of warships. We do not have information about the origins of this type of ship before the later imperial period when Appian and Vegetius (App. Ill 3.7; B Civ 2.39; Veg. Mil 4.33) ascribe the origins of the ship to the Liburni, a group of indigenous communities from modern-day northern Dalmatia. The origins of this ship are forgotten in late antiquity (Reddé 1986: 105). Thus, the question of the origins of the Roman liburnica remains wide open, as we are missing information about its origins in contemporary sources from the late Republican period when this ship is mentioned for the first time. It is possible that the liburnica was not originally a Liburnian ship – Appian and Vegetius could be using a simple etymology that connects the development of the ship with a known ethnic group of the same name. Yet, we cannot exclude so easily the possibility that the liburnica was originally a Liburnian ship. The Liburnian communities were known to the ancient writers as able and innovative seamen also connected, together with the neighboring Histri, to the use of a merchant boat made of stitched (laced) planks called serilia (Festus, Gloss Lat s. v. serilia; Varro ap Gell. NA 17.3.4; Kozličić 1993: 32–36). The liburnica has been discussed in scholarship in different contexts in a search for answers such as: when and why was it adopted by the Romans, what was peculiar in its design, and what kind of changes did the Romans introduce to the original model (Panciera 1956; Reddé 1986: 104–110; Zaninović 1988; Kozličić 1993: 22–28, 36–37; Höckmann 1997; Morrison 1996: 263–264, 317; Džino 2003; Medas 2004; Bérchez Castaño 2010). This paper, however, wants to go one step beyond those obvious and certainly justified questions, shifting the focus of the debate from the description of the ship and its origins towards issues such as technological transfer, causality, relationality and entanglement between communities and technologies in the ancient Mediterranean.

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1 The Liburni and the liburnica The Liburni in the classical period inhabited the area of Ravni kotari around modern Zadar and the islands in the Kvarner gulf in modern Croatia. Archaeologically, they represented a distinct Iron Age culture, and their personal names in the Roman times bear similarity with names of the Histri and Veneti in the northern Adriatic, rather than with their other indigenous neighbors such as the Iapodes and Delmatae. The Liburnian communities were distinct from neighboring indigenous peoples in Dalmatia as their settlements show a picture of more visible social complexity and continuing connectivity with Picenum in Italy and Magna Graecia. The Liburnian communities also show internal regional differences in material culture, so some scholars such as Blečić (2007) define the islands in the Kvarner Gulf as part of a distinct Iron Age social network, separate from the Ravni Kotari communities on the mainland (Lo Schiavo 1970; Čače 1985; Batović 1987; Glogović 1989; Chapman et al 1996; Majnarić Pandžić 1998: 306–318, 349–358; Wilkes 1969: 159–162, 192–219; 1992: 56–57, 186–188; Šašel Kos 2005: 182–188; Kurilić 2008; Barnett 2016). In the period between the 4th and 1st century BCE, the material record of the Liburnian communities shows important changes that are visible through deposition of mass-produced Hellenistic artifacts in Hellenistic-type burials, which appear in this period. This could be a sign of new ways in which the Liburnian elites defined themselves in this period – although more evidence is necessary to confirm such claims as Barnett (2016: 84–90) rightly points out. The ancient writers often ascribed to the Liburni colonial fantasies about exotic “Others” – such as the rule of women (Ps.-Scylax 21; Nic. Dam. FGrHist 90 F103d, see Čače 1985: 574–82; Kurilić 2008: 27, 48–51, 59, 77; Dzino 2017: 68–72). The term “Liburni” might have been a general term for the inhabitants of the Adriatic used in early Iron Age contacts with the Greeks, which could explain the conflicts between the “Liburni” and early Greek colonists in the southern Adriatic, mentioned by Appian (B Civ 2.39) and Strabo (6.2.4), far away from the Liburnian homeland (Dzino 2014: 52–55; 2017: 68–72; Čače 2002; Barnett 2016: 71–75). There was no central settlement – it seems that the Liburni were politically unified in a loose confederation, or that each settlement represented a separate political unit (Chapman et al 1996: 274–280, 287– 290; Čače 2006; 2013: 15–20; Barnett 2016: 80–84). It could be speculated that some of the Liburnian communities might have become Roman allies in the later 2nd century BCE, but this is far from certain. What we know for certain is that they were included in a Roman system of alliances in c. mid-1st century BCE (Čače 1991; 2013: 24–25; Cerva 1996; Šašel Kos 2005: 323–324). Appian (Ill. 3.7) described the Roman liburnica as a fast ship of the bireme/δίκροτα class with a distinguishable pointy prow. Usually, the term bireme/δίκροτα is taken to depict a ship with two rows of oars one above the other, with one rower per oar (Morrison 1996: 262; Casson 1971: 53–62). However, the recent study of Tilley (2007), proposes the idea that the prefix bi-/δί- should depict the total number of rowers at the

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rowing bench cross-side, not the number of oar rows on one side of the ship. If he is right, the bireme would be a boat with one row of oars on each side. The term liburnica became the standard depiction of Roman warships in the imperial period when it becomes difficult to distinguish when the term is used in the sources generically and when it refers to a specific class of warship. This is a significant problem when considering later sources which took the term as a general description of a warship or light warship. The earliest mention of a liburnica relates to 58 BCE (Flor. 1.44 [3.9.5]), but in a contemporary context it is not mentioned before the Civil Wars between Caesar and Pompey. Describing the events from 49 BCE, Caesar states: Discessu liburnarum ex Illyrico, M Octavius cum iis quam habebus navibus Salonas perverit. As Čače points out, the word liburnarum relates to the type of ship, not the Liburnian squadron, making this the earliest contemporary mention of liburnicae (Caes. B Civ. 3.9; Čače 2013: 36–38). The next contemporary mention is dated only to c. 23 BCE (Prop. Eleg 3.11.44). The contingent of Liburnian naval allies is specifically mentioned by Caesar (B Civ 3.5) as a part of the Pompeian forces in a combined Liburnian-Achaean squadron commanded by Scribonius Libo and Marcus Octavius. However, Caesar does not specify which kinds of ships were used by the Liburni. Plutarch (Pomp. 64) mentions numerous liburnicae in Pompey’s fleet, but it is unclear whether he refers to light ships in general, from the perspective of his times, or if his source referred to the liburnica as a specific type of ship. The assumption that the liburnica was introduced in the Roman fleets during Pompey’s “War on piracy” in the early 60s BCE is acceptable but needs more evidence (Bérchez Castaño 2010: 70; cf. Reddé 1986: 105–106). Scholars disagree over which existing visual representation from Roman reliefs, paintings and coins shows a liburnica and what its distinguishing marks are (Reddé 1986: 106–110; Orna-Ornstein 1995; Morrison 1996: 248–253; Höckmann 1997). If Tilley is right, this search for the liburnica is founded on incorrect premises, as scholars looked for a ship with two rows of oars instead of a ship that has one row of oars on each side. Nevertheless, the question of the liburnica’s visual representation in antiquity remains an unresolved issue. The Liburnian ships are never mentioned in an original context before their inclusion in the Roman fleets. Λιβυρνικὰ σκάφη in Stephanus of Byzantium’s entry on the Liburni (Steph. Byz. 415.10 s. v. Λιβυρνοί [=FGrHist 1 F93]) is more likely a later addition, although Stephanus cites Hecataeus as a source for some information there.2 Small boats used for the transport of indigenous troops, in the battle of Pharos (the island of Hvar) against the Syracusan fleet in 385/384 BCE do not show characteristics of warships in the existing account of Diodorus Siculus (15.13–14). We are not able to accurately say who the “Illyrians” mentioned by Diodorus were, though he certainly used this term as a label for the indigenous population (Čače 1993/94:

2

This is reminiscent of the use of the term “Illyrians” in Stephanus, cf. Dzino 2014: 47–49.

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44–52; Stylianou 1998: 193–196; Jeličić-Radonić 2005; Kirigin 2006: 64–67; Cabanes 2008: 176–178).3 Some scholars connect this battle with the Greek inscription from the tropaeum found on Hvar, which celebrates a Parian victory over the Iadasinoi – very likely the Liburni from Iader, or an indigenous community from the surroundings of Salona as some authors think. However, other opinions point out that there is no decisive evidence that those two events are connected (BE1953, 147–148 no. 122, see Suić 1975; Čače 1993/94; 1998; Kuntić-Makvić and Marohnić 2010: 75 A2; Cambi 2012; 2013: 9–10; Jeličić Radonić and Katić 2015: 15–17). So, in short, we do not know anything meaningful about the original liburnicae or Liburnian ships before the mid-1st century from the written sources. The current state of evidence about pre-Roman north Adriatic shipbuilding is also rather modest regarding existing prehistoric and ancient visual representations. An image of three ships depicted on the Novilara tablet from western Adriatic coast, dated from c. the 7th–6th century BCE, has been interpreted as the representation of north Adriatic naval traditions either as examples of “original” local traditions, or as the result of ongoing interaction of local with the Aegean ship-building traditions (Bonino 1975).4 However, we know almost nothing about the circumstances and context of the find. The recent analysis of Novilara ships by Tiboni (2009) points out that this representation represents Greek ships in a Greek visual manner, so the idea that these ships show local shipbuilding traditions becomes very problematic.5 The situla engraving from Nesactium in Istria, geographically very close to Liburnia from c. 500 BCE shows a ship with one row of oars and above it either stylized heads of rowers, or another row of oar-holes without oars (Mihovilić 1992; Höckmann 1997: 192–193; 2000: 136–137; Medas 1997: 117–118; 2016: 155–157).6 Yet, the shape of the boat again does not decisively show more details. There is only one known representation of a boat coming from Liburnia. This is a damaged unpublished relief from Varvaria (Bribirska glavica) discovered in 1986, which is difficult to date – stylistically it might be placed in the last centuries BCE. The relief shows a ship penetrating a female fig-

3

4

5 6

There are archaeological indications of conflict between the indigenous population and the Greek colonists at Hvar ( Jeličić Radonić and Katić 2015: 12–13, 33–43). However, the interpretation of the evidence and some conclusions of those authors are problematic and lack a contemporary methodological approach (Kirigin 2016: 306–309). The Croatian scholarship ( Jurišić 1983: 6–9; Zaninović 1988: 46; Kozličić 1993: 22–28) uncritically assumed that some ships from the Novilara tablet are liburnicae, relying on older works of Novak and Nikolanci. However, Italian scholars assess those ships differently – mostly as local Picene ships, or as a battle between the local ships and the Greek vessel (Cobau 1994: 31; Medas 1997: 122; 2016: 146–152; Bracessi 2000). Medas (2016: 152) allows the possibility that it might have been a battle between the Piceni and the people from the other side of the Adriatic who shared similar naval traditions. Contra Medas (2016: 163), arguing that these ships represent unique north Adriatic naval traditions. The term serilia lembos used by Mihovilić has no sense, as the lembos appears only in the 5th/4th century Aegean.

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ure – probably a symbolical representation of a ship entering a port. The relief does not necessarily show a warship, as there is no visible rostrum.7 The other representations of Iron Age ships from the eastern coast of the Adriatic are also problematic. The images of boats from elite mound burial in Ilijak on the Glasinac plateaux in Eastern Bosnia, dated to c. 7th century BCE (Čović 1976: 235–236; 1984: 19–20) do not reveal much more, in the same way as an image on a belt buckle from Prozor in Lika (Central Croatia, c. 3rd–2nd c. BCE, Balen-Letunić 1995/96). These boats are also assumed to represent eastern Adriatic shipbuilding traditions (e. g. Jurišić 1983: 7–10; Kozličić 1993: 20–22); or that the Ilijak boats represent Adriatic shipping traditions (Medas 2016: 152–155) – which is problematic as the representations are very stylized. Underwater research has uncovered 29 underwater finds of boats made of stitched planks from 20 locations in the wider area of the northern Adriatic, including the Italian coast, Venetian lagoons, the Po and the Ljubljanica river-systems (Pomey and Boetto 2019).8 They were all dated from c. the second century BCE onwards. Four of those boats were found in Liburnian waters – three in Zaton (the port of ancient Aenona), and one in Caska on the island of Pag to which should be added two recently discovered boats from Pula at the coast of neighboring Istria (Boetto et al. 2017; Vežnaver 2016: 114–116). The wrecks of north Adriatic stitched-plank boats appear in the period after the Mediterranean shipbuilders adopted the mortice-and-tenon technique of plank assembly. This process started in the later 6th century, and was fully accomplished by the end of the 4th century BCE (Pomey 2010; Polzer 2010; Pomey et al. 2012: 291–295). It is likely that those north Adriatic stitched boats were used on lagoons and for river transport as only the boat Nin 1 and both boats from Pula have a keel. If this is correct, local shipbuilders would have no pressing need for introducing changes in construction of boats that had no need to sail on the open sea, continuing to produce in traditional ways cheaper and easy to make stitched boats (Beltrame 2000: 93–94). It is also important to mention the argument of Mark (2005: 60–62), that ancient shipbuilders were conservative and reluctant towards changes, so it is not surprising that this type of boat survived in the north Adriatic. Such a type of ship construction remains peculiar for the north Adriatic and provides good evidence that North Adriatic communities functioned as a network of “techno-communities” in matters of shipbuilding (Beltrame 2012: 75–84, 126–129; Beltrame and Gaddi 2013: 303; cf. Medas 2016; Gaspari 2017; Pomey and Boetto 2019: 18–19).9 However, these finds

7 8 9

Reproduced, but not discussed in Brajković 2008: 67, pic. 14. See also Krnčević and Milošević 2017: 34–35 pic.18 where the ship is described as “sewn liburnica”. The boat from Zambratija (Istria) does not belong in this group as it is dated by C14 before 500 BCE – probably closer to the turn of 1st millennium BCE (Koncani Uhač and Uhač 2012). Pomey and Boetto (2019: 8–18) recognise distinct ‘north Adriatic’ or ‘Istro-Liburnian’, ‘north’ or ‘north-western’ and ‘continental’ traditions in northern Adriatic area.

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cannot be ascribed to the warships, but rather trade vessels – seriliae, as they are all missing a ram, which was necessary equipment for warships in this period. 2 Lemb and liburnica The liburnica was described in the sources as being originally a type of pirate ship. While not going into the debate about what is piracy and what is not – this term gets easily confused depending on the observer’s standpoint10 – it is easy to refute the notions of “endemic” piracy in the Adriatic, which were present in earlier literature (Dell 1967; Fuscagni and Marcaccini 2002; 2004; Ceka 2004; Prusac Lindhagen 2009).11 There is not much on Liburnian piracy in available sources, apart from a vague note in Livy (10.2.4–7) relating to the year 302 BCE. We cannot fully exclude the existence of piracy in this area, as seen in Appian’s (Ill. 16.47) mention of Octavian’s seizure of the Liburnian ships because of “piracy” in 35 BCE. Whether this was piracy in any form, Octavian’s strategic preparation for war with Antony, as suggested by Šašel Kos (2012: 97), or something else, is impossible to say beyond pure speculation.12 The rise of piracy in the Adriatic should be connected to increased trade that comes as a consequence of the advanced level of connectivity in this area after c. 400 BCE (Džino and Domić Kunić 2013: 80–82). Designated, rightly or not, as originally a pirate vessel the liburnica has in literature often been connected to another type of small ship used for piracy, also related to the eastern Adriatic – the Illyrian lemb (lembos). The liburnica is usually seen as a local version of the lemb. Apart from written evidence coming mostly from Polybius and Livy, it is thought that some images of ships from the coins of the south Adriatic communities represent those lembs. The connection between the Illyrian lemb and the liburnica is made by almost all authorities, who usually simplify identities of communities from the eastern Adriatic coast (Casson 1971: 125–127; Kozličić 1980/81; 1993: 29–32; Morrison 1996: 263–264; Höckmann 1997: 194; 2000: 138; Medas 2004: 131–134).13 There are many problems with identification of the Illyrian lemb and liburnica as the same type of ship, because lemb was a wide term that covered a range of small ships used for civilian and military purposes (Casson 1971: 162–163; Morrison 1996: 203). This type of boat was never connected with the Liburni or the liburnica, but with a different in-

10 11 12 13

See De Souza 1999 for piracy in the Greco-Roman world, Gabrielsen 2003 and Beek 2015 for piracy as a subjective term in the ancient sources. In recent times, only Medas (2016) has argued differently. There is merit in Čače’s (2013: 41) hypothesis that this was the consequence of the Roman decision to end the Liburnian alliance. Medas (2016: 161–162) notices this discrepancy, but still sees the liburnica as an upgraded version of the lemb.

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digenous group from the southern Adriatic called “Illyrians” in the sources. These “Illyrians” or southern Illyrians were indigenous groups developing from the early Iron Age Glasinac-Mati cultural complex in the southern Adriatic and its hinterland. From the c. 4th century, they experienced social transformations seen in the wide adoption of some elements of Greek and Hellenistic material culture and the foundation of the political alliance known in the sources as the “Illyrian kingdom” (Dzino 2012: 78–80, with literature). Its mention in the Adriatic context is limited to the 3rd and 2nd centuries BCE – a century before the first mention of the liburnica (Džino 2003). Finally, it is important to notice that the term lemb continues to be used in the imperial period parallel with liburnica – which we can see well in Appian’s Illyrike (3.7; 7.18), where both of those ships are mentioned separately. The Illyrian lemb might have had a peculiar shape, a cutwater instead of a ram on both sides of the ship (i. e. under the stempost and sternpost) as seen in the ships shown on south Adriatic coinage (Höckmann 1997: 194; 2000: 138; Medas 2004: 132–133). Kozličić (1980/81: 167) however describes these extensions as a depiction of water waves caused by movement of the ship. The analysis of Kozličić (1980/81: 164–175) also points out that the images of ships on those coins display ships of a similar type, but with a difference in ratio between length and width, which in his opinion implies that the images of the ships show both merchant ships and warships. Finally, the reconstruction of the ships from south Adriatic coinage shows that the Illyrian lemb was smaller than the Roman-era liburnica, although it is worth pointing out that images used for reconstruction are not necessarily accurate, and that there is no agreement of which representation of the ship from the Roman times in fact represents the liburnica. Kozličić (1980/81: 170) calculated the length of the warship lemb on the waterline to be 15 m, with a waterline breadth of 4.5 m, while Morrison (1996: 317) sees the ships from Trajan’s column, assumed to be liburnicae, having 18 m length on the waterline with 3 m waterline breadth. It does not seem that these south Adriatic communities invented the lemb. The lemb is mentioned in the 4th century BCE a few times in the Aegean context (Arist. De motu an 710a31–32; Anaxandrides, PCG 2.244, 255; Dem. Or 32.6; 34.10), well before the first mention of south Adriatic Illyrian lembs in the context of the events from 231 BCE, and Pliny the Elder (HN 7.208) ascribes its invention to the Cyrenians, not Illyrians. The initial purpose of the boat was therefore a towing boat, ship’s boat, transportation vehicle, or cargo vessel. However, when the lemb gets transmitted into different “techno-communities”, we can see it as an interesting example of a technological transfer that can be used as a loose analogy to the liburnica. Demetrios Poliocertes used the lembs as moving platforms for catapults and archers during the siege of Rhodes 305/304 BCE (Diod. Sic. 20.85.3; Murray 2012: 115). The use of lembs as carriers for light catapults in this period is also described by Philo of Byzantium (Philo Mechanicus – c. 280–220 BCE) (Poliokertika, D21, 38; Murray 2012: 133, 135, 141–142, 164, 201). The Roman fleet utilized

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the lemb as a scout ship in the First Punic war (Polyb. 1.53.9), and the “techno-communities” of the southeast Adriatic adopted it for a different purpose – a light and fast warship, transport of troops, but also as a suitable ship for intercepting and robbing trade vehicles (Džino 2003: 23–27). This peripheral adaptation was very quickly transferred back to the imperial core of Hellenistic super-powers. King Philip V of Macedon ordered 100 Illyrian lembs to be built for the transport of his troops in 216 BCE (Polyb. 5.101.1–3; Kleu 2015: 46–49). His shipbuilders started to experiment with this ship by enlarging it into a bireme in 214 BCE (Livy, 24.40.2; Kleu 2015: 58 n.259), and fitting it with a ram as best seen in the battle of Chios against the combined fleet of the Rhodians and Pergamon (201 BCE) (Polyb. 16.4.8–12). It seems that the lemb with a ram was called a pristis (Casson 1971: 126–127; Morrison 1996: 263). The lembs were also recorded in different Hellenistic navies at that time (Livy 33.19.10; 34.26.11), but it is not clear whether this relates specifically to Illyrian lembs, their modified version, or modifications of the original Aegean lemb. In this context it is important to notice that the navy of the Adriatic Greek cities at that time, such as Issa (Livy, 31.45.10; 32.21.27), also used lembs, which are much more likely to be influenced by the south Adriatic model. It seems that this modification was ultimately not successful, and the lemb was not mentioned in the sources after the mid-second century BCE in the military context. 3 Transfer of technology There are two questions that should be asked in this context: whether the liburnica was a unique north Adriatic ship adopted and modified by the Romans, or was the transfer of technology in this case more complex than previously thought? It is hard to believe that the attested connectivity of the Liburnian and north Adriatic communities with the wider Mediterranean world circumvented their “techno-communities”. The recent analysis of the Novilara tablet implies that those Mediterranean influences existed quite early and seriously questions the idea of isolated naval traditions in the Iron Age Adriatic, as argued by numerous scholars in the past (Tiboni 2009). This takes off the table the narrative of isolated Adriatic shipbuilding traditions, as with the present state of evidence it is very unlikely that visual evidence from the Archaic period shows the same Illyrian lembs and liburnicae we know from the 3rd century BCE onward (Medas 2004: 137–38; 2016: 162–163). If stitched plank boats could be described as a survival of traditional technology in the north Adriatic, as we can see from underwater wreck-finds, the “original” (i. e. Liburnian) liburnica was already a result of technological changes. Successful warships of classical antiquity could not be constructed by stitching planks, but rather by joining planks with a system of mortises and tenons, the technology that starts to replace stitched-planks between the late 6th and late 4th century BCE providing sturdier construction for ships.

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Perhaps the development of the liburnica can be approached from another angle. The general development of warships in the Mediterranean from the 4th century BCE onwards shows a tendency to use larger ships in the Hellenistic war-fleets. There was a limit to the increasing of size, probably to the class 5 or 6 (quinqueremes and sextaremes), as even larger ships were shown as ineffective (De Souza 2007: 357–360; Murray 2012). This is also shown in the naval warfare of the Roman civil wars where these types of warships conducted major naval operations. The myth that the liburnicae decided the outcome of the battle at Actium (Hor. Epod 1.5; Prop. Eleg 3.11.44; Plut. Anth 62; Veg. Mil 4.33) comes from contemporary propaganda which presented Octavian as an underdog to Antony developing into quite a persistent tradition (Tarn 1931: 193 n.8). The liburnicae were used in this battle as auxiliary ships to warships of larger classes and only occasionally were involved in actual fighting, so it is impossible to maintain the claim that they decided the battle (Morrison 1996: 157–170; Murray 2012: 235–244). However, ancient war-fleets also needed fast ships of smaller size that could be used as support to larger warships. Experimenting with the Illyrian lemb in the 3rd and 2nd century BCE did not give satisfactory results, so that in the 1st century BCE the ships of the Liburnian allies seemingly suddenly became suitable additions to the Roman fleets of the civil wars. Macedonian experiments with enlargement of the Illyrian lemb might indeed have been an impetus for change that suited the Liburnian “techno-community” – to have effective small, fast, and still sturdy enough warships which could be used for protection from piracy, but also for piracy. The Cilician pirates in the early 1st century BCE seized the opportunity at a time when the Romans effectively disbanded their fleets and started to rely on allied ships. The pirates enlarged their ships – originally monoremes (class 1) and the hemioliai (one-and-a-half-ers) and even started to use bireme and trireme-class ships (App. Mith 92; Morrison 1995: 117–119). By analogy, it seems likely that a similar process of enlargement could have occurred in Liburnia at this same time as well, for the reasons mentioned above. 4 Conclusions We are not much smarter about the shape and design of the Roman liburnica or its Liburnian predecessor after this paper, as the sources remain elusive and vague. Yet, it seems that a few points can be made, giving some glimpse in this case-study of entanglement of ancient communities with technologies. We can see that previous assumptions about the liburnica rested on two incorrect premises. The first that the Illyrian lemb and Liburnian liburnica must have been versions of the same ship type or shipbuilding traditions because of geographic proximity. The southern and northern Adriatic in the 1st millennium BCE represented two different (but not entirely separate) regional social networks and the assumption that they must have had common naval

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traditions does not necessarily reflect the actual situation. Archaeology shows Liburnian material culture as a reflection of a separate social network spreading over the northern Adriatic and its hinterland, while the south Adriatic communities belonged to a different network which is in scholarship described as the Glasinac-Mati archaeological complex (Dzino 2012, with literature). The second incorrect premise is that a north Adriatic shipbuilding tradition existed as a discrete and isolated technological system that did not participate in ongoing dialogues between local “techno-communities” and changes in shipbuilding design in an increasingly connected Mediterranean by maintaining local traditions. This certainly does not mean that local traditions might not be preserved, as we could see in the continued use of stitched boats – ancient “techno-communities” were not pressed by the idea of progress, the decision whether to follow existing traditions or adopt changes was impacted by a number of different factors. There are two mutually exclusive possibilities which might explain this technological transfer, mentioned at the beginning of the paper. First – the Roman liburnica was not a Liburnian ship at all. The sources connecting it with the Liburni are several centuries older than the first mentions of the liburnica and they could be using a simple etymology that connects the development of the ship with a known ethnic group of the same name. The name of this ship could have developed for different reasons – perhaps the Roman shipbuilders used some technological features used in the construction of north Adriatic ships (Medas 2016: 145–160), or connected new shipbuilding technology with the Liburni in some other way (e. g. they adopted the existing technological improvements first). This would explain the absence of contemporary sources from the time when the liburnica appears, which connected the ship with the Liburni. The other possibility that the liburnica was indeed an upgraded version of the existing Liburnian ship seems to be more convincing. The lack of mention of the origins of this ship in the earliest sources could be explained by the fact that the origins of the ship were widely known and there was no need to mention its origins to the readers. The development of new, fast boats in Liburnia could have happened in the period when new social groups developed in this area in the later Iron Ages, so technological innovation might have been caused by the new elites’ needs (Schiffer 2011: 43–53). Archaeologically confirmed changes in material culture, which started to prioritize mass-produced Hellenistic imports from c. the 4th century BCE reflect substantial changes in the ways the Liburnian communities and their elites defined themselves. Increased communal needs for imported artifacts is a valid cause for improving naval capacities regardless of whether they were used for trade, piracy or both of those kinds of naval enterprises. A very similar situation developed in the southern Adriatic, so adaptation of the lemb by southern Illyrian communities probably occurred along the same lines. It is also important to ask how the adoption of a new warship design might impact communities that adopted it. In the case of the south Adriatic communities, the use

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of an efficient small boat, together with other reasons, could indeed have influenced these communities so that they transformed their economy and began to look more seriously at profits coming from piracy. The development of the liburnica could also play an important role in the transformation of the Liburnian communities as it made them desirable naval allies for the Romans and thus an additional factor in their fast inclusion in Roman imperial networks. Finally, the fact that naval warfare became obsolete in the Mediterranean after the battle of Actium, made the Roman imperial “techno-community” prioritize smaller and faster ships, so it is no wonder that the liburnica became a main ship in the imperial fleets. From this case-study we can see that technological transfer is a two-way process which includes the adoption and adaptation of new technology for different purposes, which suited different “techno-communities”. The technological transfer is a constant and active negotiation driven only by the requirements of the community, not necessarily the same requirements as we might think of in the 21st century. It comes as an outcome of causality and social relationality. An auxiliary small and fast boat, the lemb, was redesigned into a pirate boat, which was again turned into the ship used in the navy of Mediterranean super-powers, such as Macedonia. The story of the liburnica remains partly untold due to a lack of sources. Yet, it was certainly not a product of a simple transfer from “ancient” north Adriatic traditions to the imperial core. Rather, it was a product of several centuries of development influenced by global changes and the needs of local communities – as we have seen the liburnica might have been “branded” as a new type of ship as late as the early 1st century BCE. The example of the liburnica shows that technological exchange did not necessarily originate in imperial cores, but comes as an outcome of dialogue between different “techno-communities” from “center” and “periphery”. The design of the Roman liburnica was an outcome of causality and social relationality – versatile social relations between different communities (Liburni, Romans, southern Illyrians, Macedonians) and larger social networks (south Adriatic, northern Adriatic, Aegean) generating constant change. The process of development and change in the design of this warship was stopped only when wider Mediterranean social networks became synonymous with the Roman empire. The liburnica suited the needs of the imperial military “techno-community” and its further changes and developments were conditioned by that factor only. These changes and developments led over several centuries to a new type of ship – the Byzantine dromos, but that is a very different story.

Transfer of Technology in the Late Republican Adriatic

Fig. 1 Places and localities mentioned in the paper

Fig. 2 Indigenous groups mentioned in the paper

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Hannibal – A Roman Soldier Inscriptions on Roman Military Equipment from the Territory of Serbia Milan Savić / Dimitrije Marković 1 Introduction The presence of the Roman army on the territory of today’s Serbia is archaeologically confirmed by the material culture, primarily by archaeological remains of fortresses, veteran settlements, civilian canabae (Vujović 1998: 234), as well as parts of military equipment. The epigraphic evidence consists of various inscriptions on bricks, stelae, lamps, votive monuments, ceramic dishes and the like (Mirković 1968: 56–70; Grbić 2007: 221). However, pieces of military equipment with inscriptions are an interesting phenomenon. In this paper, special attention will be paid to this material. Inscriptions on this type of material are not a novelty, since evidence shows there was textual marking of equipment among the Greek hoplites (Sekunda and Hook 1999: 26; Sekunda and Hook 2000: 63; Vasilj, Čunjak and Paponja 2012: 214), Alexander the Great’s phalanx (Sekunda and McBride 1984: 28), the ancient Chinese army (Li et al. 2011), etc. It could be found in the Middle Ages and is also recorded in the units of modern armies. In the period of the Roman Republic and Empire, inscriptions were engraved, punctured or stamped, and may have contained names of owners of weapons, craftsmen who made them, names of military units, some apotropaic texts (MacMullen 1960: 33–39), political slogans, etc. It should be noted that most of those inscriptions are found on preserved metal parts of weapons, but a much larger number should have existed on wooden and leather pieces of military equipment, where it was much easier to make engravings, as the leather sandals from Vindolanda illustrate (van Driel-Murray et al. 1993: Plate VI, XI). We should also have in mind the possibility of writing in certain colours. Of course, such examples are very rarely found due to the deterioration of the material (Bishop and Coulston 1993: XLV/4a, b, c).

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This paper aims to see if this type of material can serve as a tool for a better understanding of processes and changes that inevitably took place in this period. This will be done by discussing earlier interpretations of the inscriptions, which were taken from the literature, position of the signings, equipment itself, as well as the whole context of findings. All of those segments will serve to raise questions about the transgenerational connection of soldiers through equipment, difference of labelling characteristics between Early Empire “common soldier’s” and Late Antiquity “high ranking” material, a sense of emphasizing one’s personal possession and beliefs, self-propaganda, transformations those objects went through in their lifetime and other. 2 Material The analyzed material consists of a total of 17 findings of weapons and military equipment with inscriptions from the Roman period which originate from the territory of today’s Serbia. They cover a broad chronological framework and are dated in the period from the 1st to 4th century CE, keeping in mind that only two of them are dated to the 2nd and 3rd century. Defensive weapons stand out, first of all helmets, while the remaining equipment includes military belts, parade pieces of armor, swords, and one metal phalera. The context of most of the findings is uncertain since almost all pieces of equipment were found by accident. The overview of the material, that is, all of the inscriptions and their readings will be given in Table I, so as not to burden the main text1. Tab. 1 Inscriptions on Roman military equipment from the territory of Serbia Period

1

No.

Piece of equipment

Original inscription

Transcription

Reference Milošević 1980: 37, no. 4; EDH HD HD003487 (letzte Änderungen: 18. April 2017, Feraudi)

1

Helmet

C LVPI COR PRI CAI CLAMI

C(enturia) Lupi cor(nicularii?) pri(mi) CAI C(ai)(?) Lami(?)

2

Helmet

FLAVI C PIMI

Flavi (centuria) Primi

Milošević 1980: 37, no. 4; AE 1981, 709a

3

Helmet

TREBIANA | VETTI

Trebiana | Vetti(i)

CIL III 12031, 6

4

Helmet

Ɔ TAVRI T ALFIVS

Ɔ(centuria) Tauri T Alfius

CIL III 6336

5

Helmet

LVCI

Luci(i)

Vujović 1998: 20

All of the transcriptions given in Table I were reviewed by Professor Snežana Ferjančić from the Department of History, Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade

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Hannibal – A Roman Soldier

Period

I century

II century

No.

Piece of equipment

Original inscription

Transcription

Reference

6

Metal falera

COH VI | TRACV | TVR VE[- – -] | IVLI

Coh(ors) VI | T(h) racu[m] | tur(ma) Ve[- – -] | Iuli(i).

Kondić 1994, Fig. 1

7

Gladius scabbard

ANIVALVS | LAIIII

Anivalus | l(evis) a(rmaturae) IIII.

Vujović 2001: 126

8

Military belt

C VALERIVS CRESCES Ɔ VERI

C Valerius Cresce(n)s (centuria) Veri.

Popović 1994: 270

9

Military belt

7 AXSI

7(centuria) Axsi(i).

Popović 1994: 273

10

Helmet

Ɔ IIII IVL | M I EVC

Ɔ(centuria) IIII Iul(ii) | M I() Euc().

Vujović 2008: 47; OPEL II 124–125; AE 2008, 1180

a. III century

11

Parade armor b. plate

AVR HERCVLANVS

Aur(elius) Herculanus.

G VII C G AVGVSTI S

[Le]gio VII Claudia [le]g(atus) Augusti S.

c. MARTINI F XX

12

13

IV century

14

Helmet

Helmet

Helmet

a.

+LLAT | LAT

b.

V

a. αΥεΙΤΟΥ εΡΓΟΝ Γο Κ Λ Γρ ΙΒ

Martinianus f(ecit ?) XX Not enough information

Vujović 2011: 88, Slika 83

Αὐείτου ἔργον

ManojlovićMarijanski 1964: 13, 22, Tab. X/1–2; Dana 2018: 21

b.

ΔΙΖΖωΝ ΥΓΙεΝωΝ ΦΟΡΙ

Διζα/Διζας ζῶν ὑγιένων φόρι

a.

VICIT

Vicit

b.

INIANA

(Lic)iniana

SEHRINVS

?

c.

Popović 1993: 29–31; AE 2000, 1858 a-c (after J. Garbsch, Bayerische Vorgeschichtsblätter 65, 2000: 115, no. 6)

d. XBAΛH8

?

15

Helmet application

Chi-Ro

Chi-Ro

16

Helmet application

Chi-Ro

Chi-Ro

17

Helmet application

Chi-Ro

Chi-Ro

ManojlovićMarijanski 1964: 17, Tab. X/3–5; Vujović 2011: 87

Vujović 2012: 33

The archaeological contexts of the five helmets dated to the 1st century are quite scarce since they were not found by systematic excavation. Two helmets from Sremska Rača were discovered in 1962 while digging up the Sava River basins at Bela Crkva, about 25 km west of Sremska Mitrovica (Sirmium) (Milošević 1980: 35) (Fig. 1, 2; T. I/1, 2). According to Hoffiler (Hoffiler 1911: 184), a specimen kept at the Archaeological Museum in Zagreb was also accidentally found in the Sava river near Sremska Mitrovica

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Fig. 1 Helmet neck guard with a punched inscription FLAVI C PIMI, found in the Sava River, near Sremska Rača (from the photo documentation of the Museum of Srem)

Fig. 2 Helmet with the inscription C LUPI COR PRI CAI CLAMI, found in the Sava River, near Sremska Rača (from the photo documentation of the Museum of Srem)

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(Robinson 1975: 29, Vujović 1998: 19), while the helmet kept in the National Museum in Belgrade originates from another unknown site (Savinova 1996: 255–257) (T. I/4). The only known archaeological context is of the fragment of the neck guard, which was found in the burial in the barracks-workshop of the Kostol fort (Pontes) (Vujović 1998: 16, 20) (T. I/5). One of the helmets from Sremska Rača was defined by H. R. Robinson as the Celtic-Italian type Montefortino, while the other four belong to the Coolus type. All of those specimens have inscriptions on the neck guards (T. I/1–5). All of them are punctured, and all of them were written in the same formula – the name of centuria, centurions (given in genitive case) and the name of the owner, which was a common notion in that period (Nicolay 2007: 167). On the one from Pontes, only the first name is visible, but, being highly fragmented, it is possible that it had the aforementioned formula too. A fragmented decorative copper sheet phalera was excavated in the Roman military camp in Karataš (Diana) (Vujović 1998: 136–137) (T. I/6). The inscription is punctured and executed in a formula similar to the 1st-century helmets. The suggested reading stands for the name of Ve[---] Iulius, a horseman of the cohors VI Thracum, who was stationed in the mentioned camp at the end of the 1st century (Kondić 1994: 71–75; Vujović 1998: 136–137; Ferjančić 2018: 303–304). A metal scabbard and the Mainz type gladius, that is chronologically close to the aforementioned material, was, once again, accidentally discovered near today’s Dubravica (Margum) in the middle of the 20th century during the digging of the Danube basin (Vujović 2001: 119). The special significance of this river find lies in the inscription of specific content, carved on the scabbard in two rows (T. I/7). Based on the reading of the inscription, Vujović assumes that the sword belonged to a soldier Anivalus, who served in the auxiliary unit of the light infantry levis armatura (Vujović 2001: 123–126). These were auxiliary units of the infantry, i. e. special units which carried out the duties of border police in that part of the Danube limes (Vujović 2001: 125; D’Amato and Sumner 2009: 86). The last piece dated to the 1st century comes from a deposit from the village of Tekija (Transdierna), which consisted of several pieces of luxury military belts (Mano-Zisi 1957). It was found in 1948 during fieldwork when it was ascertained that the items were stored in a copper vessel underneath a layer of ash at a depth of 3 m. However, apart from this data, a detailed condition of the pieces found is unknown. Inscriptions were registered on two pieces of military belts (Fig. 3, 4; T. I/8, 9). The first one had the name of the soldier Gaius Valerius Cresce(n)s from the century of Verus (Mano-Zisi 1957: 20, 45; Popović 1994: 270) (Fig. 3; T. I/8) punctured inside the outer circle, while the punctured inscription on the second piece is fragmented and more difficult to read. Mano-Zisi sees it as I S X V S, or I S a A K, for which he suggests several translations – the eastern origin master’s name, Isaak; or some different weight markings (Mano-Zisi 1957: 23). On the other hand, Popović reads it from the other side as > A X S I, which seems to be the best solution, associating it with the century of Axius (Popović 1994: 273) (Fig. 4; T. I/9).

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Fig. 3 Silver belt piece with an inscription from Tekija (Transdierna) (from the collection of the National Museum in Belgrade)

The only piece of equipment dated to the 2nd century is a helmet discovered during deep ploughing not far from Sivac in 1958 (Vujović 2008: 15). It belongs to the type of helmets of auxiliary horsemen units, described by H. R. Robinson as type F, i. e. the first variant of the Niederbieber type, and is considered to be a cheaper version of the cohors equitata helmets. Again, the inscription is punctured on the neck guard (T. I/10), and it bears the same formula as the helmets from the 1st century (Vujović 2008: 45–47, Fig. 1/3). Vujović suggests that the lower part of the inscription represents the full name of the soldier from the IIII century of Iulius, with the popular praenomen Marcus, and nomen Iulius2

2

There is a possibility that the letter I stands for a different name, for other variants see: OPEL II, 188 etc.

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Fig. 4 Silver belt sets from Tekija (Transdierna) (from the collection of the National Museum in Belgrade)

(Vujović 2008: 47), while the third part of the name cannot be read with certainty, but most likely represents a cognomen of Greek origin, such as Eucarpus, Eucharis or Eucharistus (Vujović 2008: 47).3 Material dated to the 3rd century consists of one item too – a brass pectoral, which was part of a parade armor (Fig. 5). As is the case with most of the findings, that one was also accidentally found in the village of Ritopek (Castra Tricornia), not far from Belgrade (Popović 1993: 11). In addition to the rich repertoire of the presented motifs and scenes, the special significance of this unique find is represented by three inscriptions, one of which is punctured and two that were carved (T. I/11 a, b, c). Based on their interpretation, Popović assumes that this extremely valuable pectoral belonged to a legate of the Legion VII Claudia named Aurelius Herculanus. The legate’s and legions name are both punctured and located on the front side, whereas the potential craftsman’s name4 – Martinianus – is engraved on the back side (Popović 1993: 29–31). The group of the 4th-century items consists of three Berkasovo type helmets, and three fittings with Christ monogram (T. I/12–17). Berkasovo type helmets were named

3 4

For different variants of names beginning with letters EVC see: OPEL II, 124–125. It is suggested that the letter f stands for fecit.

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Fig. 5 Parade pectoral from Ritopek (Castra Tricornia) (from the collection of the National Museum in Belgrade)

after two accidental finds in the village of Berkasovo, not far from Šid in 1955. They represent outstanding examples of Late Antique military equipment and thus have been the subject of numerous studies (Manojlović-Marijanski 1964; Dautova-Ruševljan and Vujović 2011; Kocsis 2013). The two specimens from Berkasovo were found with two more pairs of bridles beside them, while two silver belt buckles, one silver plate, a silver chain, and several fragments of iron and gold-plated silver sheet were found nearby. Later excavations showed that all of those items were buried as a deposit (Manojlović-Marijanski 1964: 5–6). The Berkasovo 1 helmet had an inscription of apotropaic form on its left ornamental strip, whereas a caption on its right ornamental strip was interpreted by Manojlović-Marijanski (1964) as a mark of the worthiness of

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spent material or another apotropaic message, both of which were in Greek (T. I/13 a, b). On the other hand, the Berkasovo 2 specimen had two punctured inscriptions on the neck guard (the one written in Latin might be a personal name, and the other one in Greek is thought to be yet another mark of worthiness of spent material), as well as a Vicit (Lic)iniana slogan divided on both ornamental side strips (T. I/14 a, b, c, d). Because of the place of finding and the later inscription, the interpretation was that it belonged to a soldier from Licinius’ troops and that it was buried after the battle of Cibalae in 314/316 CE, after which Licinius fled to Sirmium (Dautova-Ruševljan and Vujović 2011: 99). However, since the inscription is incomplete, and the Lic part is missing, one cannot discard other options with certainty. Namely, there are examples throughout the Empire suggesting different possibilities, such as Antoniniana (AE 1983: 0050), Maximinianae (AE 1952: 0186), Constantinianae (AE 1926: 0119), etc. especially bearing in mind that the term Vicit suggests that something has been won, while we know with certainty that Licinius lost this battle. The third helmet was discovered during agricultural works in the village of Jarak, not far from Sremska Mitrovica (Sirmium) in 2016 (T. I/12 a, b). The helmet was found on the left bank of the channel, which is part of the ancient melioration-traffic system. According to those who found it, objects made of a silver sheet were found together with ball-shaped decorative heads and two smaller silver buckles, inside a ceramic vessel – as a deposit. Parts of helmet sheets were bent in the form of a roll (Dautova-Ruševljan and Vujović 2011: 26), and, after reconstruction, two inscriptions were found on the right cheek-piece and right ornamental strip, respectively (T. I/12 a, b). They are both punctured and engraved but consist only of several letters, so their meaning was not interpreted. Lastly, three applications with a printed Christ monogram (T. I/15, 16, 17) come from the monastery site near Gospođin Vir, Viminacium, and Sirmium respectively. A more detailed context of the finding is known only for the one from the monastery site, which was found in a tomb on the left shoulder of an inhumated deceased (Vujović 2012: 33–34). The only known information about the one from Viminacium is that it was found in 1911 at a site called Čair, while the application from Sirmium was discovered during archaeological excavations (Vujović 2012: 33–34). Based on the findings from the Maas in the Netherlands, and the representation of the emperor on a silver multiplicity from the mint in Ticinum, the mentioned applications are defined as part of the late antique helmets (Vujović 2012). 3 Discussion An immediate indicator of processes that took place in these regions could potentially be found on a Coolus type helmet from the National Museum of Belgrade. There is a mention of centuria Tauri on its neck guard, for which a potential analogy can be found

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on a helmet from the river Sava near Zagreb, with the inscription (centuria) Tauri C Mestri Cinna (Savinova 1996: 256). This example could point to the mobility of the units in the Sava valley during the 1st century; however, since the cognomen of the centurion Taurus is quite common, one has to be cautious. The inscription on this helmet has the same pattern as the other analyzed material from the first two centuries. They consisted of names of the unit, centurions (given in the genitive case) and of the owner, often named by a full tria nomina, which is no surprise since soldiers recruited in Italy conducted the first waves of the Roman conquest in these territories. Analogies can be found on inscribed equipment in the broader area of the Roman Empire, dating to the same period (Robinson 1975: 20, 21, 32, 33, 39; Nicolay 2007: 169; Vukelić and Radman-Livaja 2015), as well as in other types of monuments, such as tombstones (Speidel 2014: 330). Mentioning one’s unit is noticeable, since, apart from his name, a Roman soldier was usually identified by his rank, unit, or sub-unit (Speidel 2014: 326), suggesting that military service was of great importance for a soldier’s self-representation (Speidel 2014: 330). An earlier interpretation of this type of inscriptions was given by Brendon Olson (2013), who suggested that the engraved names on the neck guards of the helmets could carry with them a specific desire for commemoration, that is, to represent a memory of a signed soldier, after completing his military service (Olson 2013: 11). However, in the first centuries of the Empire soldiers were obliged by the army to purchase standard military equipment, for which a state loan was approved in advance. A sum was then deducted from their salary in installments (MacMullen 1960: 24; Nicolay 2007: 166). Also, there is evidence which suggests that, in case of necessary repairs or replacements, a soldier was personally responsible. Bearing in mind the previous statement, this points to the idea that the soldier himself was the owner of the weapon (Nicolay 2007: 167). The fact that the inscriptions were punctuated or engraved, often with unintended moves and with extreme shortening of text, suggests that these signings can be looked upon as a means of marking a soldier’s current property, as it was usually returned to the state at the end of service (MacMullen 1960: 23). That was not always the case since there is evidence of soldiers keeping their gear after retirement (Nicolay 2007: 167, 173), so one piece of equipment could have been re-issued and easily worn by different generations of soldiers (Nicolay 2007: 168, 173). Testimony about this practice lies in the examples of helmets with multiple signatures found throughout the empire (MacMullen 1960; Robinson 1975: 39, Figure 81; Miletić 2010: 144; Radman-Livaja and Dizdar 2010: 49) – although not in Serbia. The succession was most common among soldiers within the same unit (Nicolay 2007: 168; Vujović 2008: 45). However, examples from the rivers Sava and Thames show that the same pieces of equipment could have been distributed over time even among different units (Vujović 1998: 11). Occasional stops and breaks of units during marches, and other obligations of soldiers, such as digging trenches, masonry, wood cutting, harvesting, should be mentioned as well since the equipment was removed and set aside in those occasions.

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In that case, as there was a large degree of uniformity, these inscriptions could have been of a functional nature, reducing the possibility of gear mixing. Unlike Early Empire material, which consists of “ordinary soldier” equipment, findings of the Berkasovo type helmets from the territory of Serbia dated to the later centuries are, due to their nature, linked to soldiers ranked higher in the military hierarchy (Manojlović-Marijanski 1964: 35). Instead of clear and uniform patterns, the inscriptions on the later are represented in the form of apotropaic characters, potential political slogans and the craftsman’s name, which suggests a high level of personalization. However, bearing in mind a small number of findings that are presented in this paper, one has to be cautious in drawing conclusions. Enhanced level of personalization is also evident in the findings of three applications with the Christ monogram. Although they cannot be strictly regarded as inscriptions, these findings, known from other parts of the empire as well (Kocsis 2013), and testified on the coins of the Emperors Constantine I and Honorius (Kocsis 2013: 116, Fig. 4, 5, 6), indicate the rise of the importance and spread of Christianity among the army, as well as one’s individual beliefs inside the community. On the other hand, it can be argued that they also have a sort of apotropaic role, in the sense that the very soldier was to be protected in battles by the presence of Christ. A similar apotropaic function can be supposed for the Vtere felix belt sets, which can be translated as “use it with luck” (Galić and Radman-Livaja 2010: 167). Another interesting form of personal propaganda from the material from the 3rd and 4th century can be seen in signings of the names of, supposedly, the craftsman who made the equipment. In the analyzed series, this type of signature is present on the pectoral from Ritopek and the Berkasovo 1 helmet. First of all, we must mention that these are exceptional and unusual examples of Roman weapons, with the outstanding quality of design. Bearing that in mind, we can suppose that they were probably ordered and made by an experienced craftsman. Most likely, craftsmen of such skills were highly valued, which guaranteed the quality of the craft. The signing of a master thus suggests that these inscriptions could have played a role in the advertising and self-promotion since we can imagine that the name of the craftsman, worn by a high-ranking officer, could be seen by other members of the army. On the other hand, these types of signings could serve as a confirmation to the bearer of the item, as well as to everyone else, that it had been made in a particular workshop. An inscription in Greek, translated as Dizon, wear it in health – the work of Avitus (Manojlović-Marijanski 1964: 13) (T. I/13 b) on the Berkasovo 1 helmet was punctured on the inside of the gold-plated framework, which indicates that it was made in the armory by the master himself, which was also a request. The content of such an inscription may have been dependent on the wishes of the one who had ordered it, or it was the result of consultations between the craftsman and the future owner. Thus, it gives us a glimpse of obvious connections that high-ranking members of the military had with preferred craftsmen and workshops.

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The second topic we would like to discuss is making conclusions about one’s identity based on individual archaeological findings, by looking at examples such as military belt pieces from Tekija and helmets from Berkasovo and Jarak. Namely, archaeologists often exclude the lifetime of objects from their conclusions, so their interpretations are based on a certain point in a long process through which an object inevitably passed. For instance, the inscription on the aforementioned Tekija belt piece coincides with the form of the inscription on the Early Empire findings and as such, alongside the belts type, suggests that it belonged to a Roman soldier, which was also the first interpretation (Mano-Zisi 1957: 45). However, the fact that the belt was discovered as part of the buried deposit with other objects made of precious metal suggests that it lost its primary role at some point and that its significance is no longer in the fact that it belonged to a soldier, but that it was made of expensive material. So, addressing this problem from the angle of status rather than identity seems more appropriate ( Janković 2014) since there were eight more luxury belt pieces in the same deposit, which were suggested to have originated from at least two different soldiers (Popović 1994: 273), which, again, supports the notion mentioned above. This is not an isolated case since the three helmets of the Berkasovo type were also found in the context of a deposit compiled of objects made of precious metal. Again, even though they were initially worn by soldiers, they ended up as a sort of stock for the future, since the only thing left from the helmets was its gold plate that was scrapped off, and in the case of the Jarak helmet, even rolled in small tubes. This type of material can, therefore, be recognized as a commodity, as explained by Kopytoff: “an item with use value that also has exchange value” (Kopytoff 1986: 64), where the use value would be its military use, and its exchange value the fact that it was made of precious metal. Moreover, he suggests that “the same thing may be treated as a commodity at one time and not at another. And finally, the same thing may, at the same time, be seen as a commodity by one person and as something else by another” (Kopytoff 1986: 64), a concept here represented by the fact that those deposits could have easily been buried by a local, who only saw the material side of the object. Apart from the simple material side, those objects could, over time, take on more of a social aspect. In the cases of single weapons found in non-military contexts, such as graves, cult places, or accidental findings from the rivers, like the helmets from the Sava river, or gladius from the Danube, assumptions can be made that a veteran kept his weapon after the service, which shifts the role of the object from its initial military to “social use” – as a symbol of wealth and status, as well as a sort of personal memorabilia (Nicolay 2007: 173–174). Thus, as Nicolay says, “we can distinguish between a generalized biography of objects, and the specific history of an individual object” (Nicolay 2007, 174). Finally, we would like to reflect on the possibility of determining soldiers’ ethnicity based on inscriptions on military equipment. For example, in the name of Dizon, from the Berkasovo 1 helmet (T. I/13 b), Manojlović-Marijanski (1964: 22) suggested that the owner of the helmet was of Dacian origin; however, other authors (Ferjančić

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2008: 67, 76, 77; Dana 2018, 21) define the origin of this name as Thracian. We should also point out that those inscriptions are usually fragmented and frequently neglected, which can often lead to multiple interpretations, as is the case with the second inscription on the aforementioned helmet of Berkasovo 1 (Manojlović–Marijanski 1964: 22) or the specimen from Sivac (Vujović 2008: 45–47), where two different authors gave utterly different readings of the same sentence. Speaking about ethnicity, another interesting example is the inscription mentioning Hannibal – Rome’s former nemesis – on the gladius scabbard (T. I/7). This exotic cognomen, although very rare, was not unknown in the Roman world, especially in North African areas. It appears, though in the form of Anobal, on tombstones in Algeria and Aquileia, while Anibal is recorded in Lower Moesia on the site of Tulcea, Romania (Vujović 2001: 124). 4 Conclusions For this paper, we analyzed a total of 17 pieces of Roman military equipment with inscriptions from the territory of today’s Serbia, dated to the period between the 1st and 4th century. Consisting exclusively of parts of “common soldier” equipment, the Early Empire material shows that inscriptions on it served as a way of personalizing the object. By marking it with his name and the names of a superior officer and a unit, a soldier individualized it in a way. He ensured that an until then common object became his property – at least temporarily. Multiple inscriptions of this kind can be seen as a transgenerational connection between generations of soldiers, from both the same and different units, since the same equipment was, again usually, forwarded or sold to recruits after its previous owner retired. Inscriptions on the material from later centuries, bearing in mind that there were only four findings of high army officials’ weapons, have personal apotropaic messages and potential political slogans. Thus, these engravings can be seen as a way of marking one’s personal belonging, along with emphasizing soldiers’ preferences and beliefs among the community. Finally, signed names of craftsmen who made an object can point to a way of self-propaganda, as well as provide evidence that a particular master made the given object. However, archaeologists often exclude the lifetime of those objects and neglect long processes through which they passed. For example, based on the inscription and its form, the belt piece from Tekija was recognized as if it belonged to a Roman soldier, but the fact that it was found in the deposit along with at least one more belt and other precious metal objects, shows that the notion of the community towards a certain object changes over time. What was once important because it was a soldier’s belt is now important because it is made from silver and can mean future material benefits. This idea can be aplied to all of the analyzed material that was found in a sort of buried deposit or non-military context. These examples show that sole inscriptions are not

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enough when talking about ethnicity or identity of an “object-bearer”, but rather the whole context should be taken into account. We believe that this paper can serve as an indicator of possibilities that further studying of inscriptions on military equipment can lead us to. They present a valid way of questioning the transformations that took place in the past and should be regarded as a segment of a much larger epigraphic practice. Inscriptions on military equipment could help us understand changes and processes that took place throughout the Empire. Acknowledgements We would hereby like to thank the organizers of IIERW III conference in Petncia SC for accepting this presentation and providing us with the opportunity to publish our work. Also, we owe a great gratitude to Professor Snežana Ferjančić, Ph. D., for helping us with the transcription of the inscriptions. Bibliography Abbreviations AE CIL EDH

L’Année épigraphique Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Epigraphische Datenbank Heidelberg, https://edh-www.adw.uni-heidelberg. de/home?lang=de OPEL II Onomasticon Provinciarvm Evropae Latinarvm Literature Bishop, M. C.; Coulston, J. C. N. 1993. Roman Military Equipment from Punic Wars to the Fall of Rome. London: Oxbow Books. D’Amato, R.; Sumner, G. 2009. Arms and Armour of the Imperial Roman Soldier from Marius to Commodus, 112 BC–AD 192. London: Frontline Books. Dana D. 2018. Onomasticon Thracicvm Svpplementvm Répertoire des noms indigènes de Thrace, Macédoine Orientale, Mésies, Dacie et Bithynie. Paris: Anhima. Dautova-Ruševljan, V.; Vujović, M. 2011. Kasnoantički šlem iz Jarka. Novi Sad: Muzej Vojvodine. Ferjančić, S. 2008. “Regrutacija gornjomezijskih legija IV Flavia i VII Claudia”, Zbornik Radova Narodnog muzeja XXXVIII. 63–82. Ferjančić S. 2018. Ale i kohorte u vojsci rimskih provincija Mezije i Dakije od I do III veka n e Beograd: Društvo za antičke studije Srbije.

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Galić, M.; Radman-Livaja, I. 2010. “VTERE-FELIX-belt set from Varaždinske Toplice”, Vjesnik Arheološkog muzeja u Zagrebu 39(1). 178–186. Grbić, D. 2007. “Cilices u Singidunumu: Beleške iz vojničke epigrafike i topografije”, Starinar LVII. 221–227. Hoffiler, V. 1911. “Oprema rimskoga vojnika u prvo doba carstva II”, Vjesnik Hrvatskoga arheološkog društva Vol XI. 145–240. Janković, M. 2014. “Negotiating Identities at the Edge of the Roman Empire: Approaches to Identity in the European Iron Age. Integrating South-Eastern Europe into the Debate.” In Fingerprinting the Iron Age, ed. C. Nicolae Popa and S. Stoddart. Oxford and Philadelphia: Oxbow Books. 89–96. Kocsis, L. 2013. “A New Piece With A Chi-Rho From The Roman Collection Of The Hungarian National Museum.” In Acta Archaeologica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 64, ed. P. Langó and I. Holl. Budapest: Hungarian National Museum. 113–129. Kondić, V. 1994. “Two Military Inscriptions from Fortification Diana on the Danube”, Zbornik Narodnog muzeja XV/1. 71–75. Kopytoff, I. 1986. “The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process.” In The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. A. Appadurai. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 64–91. Li, X. J.; Martinón-Torres, M.; Meeks, D. M.; Xia, Y.; Zhao, K. 2011. “Inscriptions, Filing, Grinding and Polishing Marks on the Bronze Weapons from the Qin Terracotta Army in China”, Journal of Archaeological Science 38 (3). 492–501. MacMullen, R. 1960. “Inscriptions on Armor and the Supply of Arms in the Roman Empire”, American Journal of Archaeology 64 1. 23–40. Manojlović-Marijanski, M. 1964. Kasnorimski šlemovi iz Berkasova. Novi Sad: Vojvođanski muzej. Mano-Zisi, Đ. 1957. Nalaz iz Tekije. Beograd: Narodni muzej Beograd. Miletić, Ž. 2010. “Burnum – vojničko središte provincije Dalmacije.” In Nalazi rimske vojne opreme u Hrvatskoj. ed. I. Radman-Livaja. Zagreb: Arheološki muzej u Zagrebu. 113–176. Milošević, P. 1980. “Rimski nalazi u Savi kod Sremske Rače”, Starinar XXXI. 35–40. Mirković, M. 1968. Rimski gradovi na Dunavu u Gornjoj Meziji. Beograd: Arheološko društvo Jugoslavije. Mirković, M. 1974. “Neka pitanja vlade Konstantina i Licinija”, Zbornik Filozofskog fakulteta XII-1. 139–153. Nicolay, J. 2007. Armed Batavians: Use and Significance of Weaponry and Horse Gear from Non-military Contexts in the Rhine Delta (50 BC to AD 450). Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Olson, B. R. 2013. “Roman Infantry Helmets and Commemoration Among Soldiers”, Vulcan 1. 3–19. Popović, I. 1993. Rimski paradni oklop iz Ritopeka. Beograd: Narodni muzej. Popović, I. 1994. “Produkcija srebra u period ranog carstva: lokalni porizvodi i import.” In Antičko srebro u Srbiji. ed. I. Popović. Beograd: Narodni muzej Beograd. 45–54. Popović, I. 2013. “Sirmium i Naissus kao centri izrade, tezaurisanja i distribucije predmeta od plemenitih metala.” In Konstantin Veliki i Milanski edikt 313 Rađanje hrišćanstva u rimskim provincijama na tlu Srbije. ed. I. Popović, B. Borić-Brešković. Beograd: Narodni muzej u Beogradu. 162–172. Radman-Livaja, I.: Dizdar, M. 2010. “Archaeological Traces of the Pannonian Revolt 6–9 AD. Evidence and Conjectures.” In Imperium – Varus and seine Zeit, ed. T. Capelle. Münster: Verlag Aschendorff. 47–58. Robinson, H. R. 1975. The Armour of Imperial Rome. London and New York: Arms and Armour Press – Charles Scribner’s Sons.

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Savinova, V. 1996. “Oružje iz rimske zbirke Narodnog muzeja u Beogradu”, Zbornik Narodnog muzeja XVI-1. 255–264. Sekunda, N., McBride, A. 1984. The Army of Alexander the Great. London: Osprey. Sekunda, N., Hook, R. 1999. The Spartan Army. London: Osprey. Sekunda, N., Hook, A. 2000. Greek Hoplite 480–323 BC. London: Osprey. Speidel, M. A. 2014. “The Roman Army.” In The Oxford Handbook of Roman Epigraphy. ed. C. Bruun and J. Edmondson. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 319–344. Van Driel-Murray, C. V. 1993. “The Leatherwork”, Vindolanda Research Reports 3. 1–75. Vasilj, S., Čuljak, A.; Paponja, A. 2012. Arheološki vodič Hercegovine. Mostar: Federalno ministarstvo obrazovanja i nauke, Knjiga 3. Vujović, M. 1998. Naoružanje i oprema rimskog vojnika u Gornjoj Meziji i jugoistočnom delu Panonije (magistarski rad). Beograd: Univerzitet u Beogradu, Filozofski fakultet, Odeljenje za arheologiju. Vujović, M. 2001. “Gladii from Dubravica: A Contribution to the Study of Roman Swords on the Territory of Serbia.” In Vestigatio vetustatis, ed. M. Lazić. Beograd: Univerzitet u Beogradu, Filozofski fakultet, Centar za arheološka istraživanja. 119–134. Vujović, M. 2008. Rimski šlem iz Sivca. Sombor: Gradski muzej Sombor. Vujović. M. 2012. “Few Contributions On The Late Roman Helmets From Iron Gate”, Vesnik Vojnog muzeja 39. 29–45. Vukelić, V.; Radman-Livaja, I. 2015. “Roman Military Inscriptions from Siscia: An Overview”, Limes XXI Proceedings of the 22nd International Congress of Roman Frontier studies Ruse, Bulgaria, September 2012 Vol 22. 399–405.

Section 4 Entanglements of Humans and Divine Entities

Transformation and Continuity of the Rural Sanctuary of Sī’ in the Hauran (Southern Syria) (200 BCE–300 CE) Francesca Mazzilli

Introduction A growing scholarly interest in religion and temples in the Near East in the Roman period has generated stimulating discussions about identities, as cults and religions are ways of understanding the development of cultures and societies, being their key components in antiquity (Blömer et al. 2015: 1). A common trait in this scholarly discourse has been the emphasis on locality, regionality and the variety of fragmented religious landscape of the Near East (e. g. Millar 1993; Kaizer 2008; Kropp 2010). Some scholars (e. g. Freyberger 1989; 1991; Segal 2013) have, nevertheless, focused on Greco-Roman features of temples in the Near East. The interaction between native and Greco-Roman cultures has been widely discussed and resulted in the local response to Greco-Roman religious traditions on different levels (Bendlin 1997: 52–54; Kaizer 2000: 225–226; Butcher 2003: 335; Blömer et al. 2015; Raja 2017). Conceptual theoretical frameworks of globalization and glocalization may help us understand this dichotomy. Globalization focuses on the interdependent connections between different (religious) localities with their own distinctive and visible (religious) identities where both local and global cultural (religious) traditions were integrated in the Roman provinces (e. g. Pitts and Versluys 2015). Derived from the globalization, glocalization instead, emphasizes the twofold process of adaptation of global (religious) expressions in local (religious) particularities (e. g. Robertson 1992; Roudometof 2016). Even without adopting these conceptual theoretical frameworks, it can be argued that religion and religious identities in the Roman Empire were dynamic: they changed over time (Beard et al. 1998) in response to political and socio-economic circumstances and powers (Frood and Raja 2014; Blömer et al. 2015; Van Andringa 2011). Consequentially, in the study of Roman religion in the Near East, there has been a recent emphasis in considering religion in the geographical, historical, socio-political and cultural context where religion and religious identities developed, as demonstrated in the series Contextualizing the Sacred

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started in 2014 with Brepols publishers. The editors of one of the volumes of the series question and state the difficulty of discussing continuity and change of religion in the Near East and of using these terms in this context (Blömer et al. 2015). They suggest it may be more appropriate to talk about the change of continuities (or continuity of changes) in religion as continuity of religious traditions always implies changes or better adjustments to new impulses, as religion was affected by historical processes (Blömer et al. 2015: 2–3). In line with this recent scholarly focus and with the common thread of the proceeding volume (cultural identities and religion in continuous evolution), this paper aims to consider sanctuaries as dynamic entities triggered by relationalities of different socio-political actors by examining them in their wider socio-political and cultural context. In doing so, it questions the locality and regionality emphasized by scholars when talking about the religion of the Roman Near East. This perspective is even more significant when considering that religion or religious identities were not just flat entities as pointed out earlier. Apart from the scholarly widely discussed Greco-Roman and native dichotomy, this paper also considers the diffusion of religious ideas and traditions across the Near East as a result of interactions between different agents not just in the same region but in the wider context. As Kaizer (2015) explained, interactions amongst different Near Eastern cultures had an impact on the process of acculturation in this part of the Empire. However, explaining this entanglement is an arduous if not an impossible task as archaeologists deal with extremely fragmentary evidence of the result of interactions between people which do not all leave traces that we can detect (a bottom up-analysis). This paper examines the rural sanctuary of Sī’ in the Hauran as it is the main rural cult center in the Hauran, where it is possible to see its development from the pre-provincial to the provincial period, more clearly than in other examples in the region. This has been possible thanks to its preservation to a certain extent and mainly thanks to more than a hundred-year investigation, especially fieldwork undertaken mostly by the French team in the last forty years (Mazzilli 2018: 3, 6–7). Scholars have concurred that the Hauran had a strong local identity, expressed for example, in aspects of sanctuaries, such as architecture and deities (Dentzer-Feydy 1986; 2003; 2010; Bolelli 1986; Wenning 2001; Alpass 2013: 199). Kropp (2013: 44) identified the Hauran as a “residue, a cultural pocket”, outlining the native character of the architecture and statues of the rural sanctuary of Sī’ (Kropp 2010). Also in the edited volume tackling continuity and change in the Roman Near East mentioned above, Dentzer-Feydy (2015), a key member of the French team, discussed this theme by overall emphasizing the local character of the sanctuary in the pre-provincial period. She correctly pointed out that the early phase pre-provincial phase of the sanctuary (Temple 1, the Theatron, Temple 2 and Forecourt 2) were not altered and still in use in the provincial period as the Roman Gate built in 138–235 CE at the entrance of Forecourt 3 leads to Temple 1 and Teple 2, Theatron and Forecourt 2 (Figure 2). At the same time, she argued that a provincial structure on

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Fig. 1 Map showing the location of Sī’ in the Hauran (courtesy of Professor Ross Burns, www.monumentsofsyria.com/atlas)

the north-western corner of Forecourt 3 (Figure 2) with architectural and statue fragments having a Greco-Roman classical style widely used in the Near East was a clear sign of Greco-Roman religious propaganda. Although it was visible from the valley, the provincial structure was, nevertheless, overshadowed by Temple 3 dated to the second half of the first century CE, as the last one was on the top of the rocky outcrop and in the predominant position of the sanctuary (Dentzer-Feydy 2015). This article will offer a new perspective of the study of this sanctuary by discussing its continuity and change in line with recent research studies and challenging the local character identified by scholars. This will be achieved by reassessing the detailed anal-

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ysis of architecture and sculpture of the sanctuary, provided by the French team, joint with the examination of another type of data (epigraphic and sculptural evidence that inform us about gods). Continuity and “locality”? Since the earliest phase of the sanctuary before its actual monumentalization it is possible to question the local character of the sanctuary when looking at the deities worshipped there. Pottery and animal bones with gnawing and butchery marks, dated from the second to early first century BCE, were found on the top of the hill. These finds suggest that Sī’ was already a cult place where sacrifices and religious feasting were undertaken (Dentzer 1985: 70) possibly dedicated to Baalshamin, Seeia, Isis and Zeus Angelos as their cult is referred to in a stele dated to 105–104 BCE recovered in the valley at Sī’ (Milik 2003). Seeia is a deity who embodied the sacred place of Sī’ and protected the area (Denzter-Feydy 1979) as an inscription from the sanctuary states that Seeia stands on the land of the Hauran (PPUAES IV: no. 103; PPUAES III: no. 767). Isis was worshipped outside the walls of the sanctuary and of the region Hauran: in the Greek and Hellenistic worlds in Egypt and also in the capital of the Nabataean kingdom Petra (Milik 2003). Baalshamin was, instead, worshipped in various territories across the Near East (Teixidor 1977: 30–40 passim) – e. g. Palmyra (Dirven 1999: 79; Kaizer 2002: 79), Dura Europos, Hatra, Hierapolis-Menbidj (Collart 1986: 75), and the Nabataean kingdom (Healey 2001: 124). Baalshamin was also venerated by people who wrote Safaitic graffiti (Macdonald 2003b). They were mainly found in the basalt desert in southern Syria, north-eastern Jordan, northern Saudi Arabia, western Iraq, and in smaller numbers, in Lebanon, the Palmyrene area, Palmyra, Dura Europos and its surroundings (Macdonald 1993: 304). Baalshamin was already worshipped in ancient Phoenicia (Teixidor 1977: 29 ff.). Zeus Angelos1 has a Semitic character and could be Nabataean according to Gatier. Some parallels may be found in the Near East (Gerasa, Palmyra and Hatra) as well as in Portus of Rome (Milik 2003: 272). Therefore, out of the four Seeia is the only deity confined to and associated with this specific place. When looking at the gods worshipped in the first phase of the monumentalization of the sanctuary there is a sense of continuity of the cult of two deities already venerated from the earliest phase of the cult site, as Temple 1 and Theatron from the end of the 1st century BCE were dedicated to Baalshamin (PAAES IV: no. 1; PPUAES IV:

1

In the inscription he was called “mlklh[’]” which can be transliterated to Zeus Angelos in Greek (Milik 2003).

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Fig. 2 Plan of the rural sanctuary at Sī’ (reconstructed by the author after Dentzer-Feydy 2015: 315 Figure 23.2)

no. 100) and Temple 2 from the beginning of the 1st century CE was dedicated to Seeia (Denzter-Feydy 1979) (Figure 2). The layout of the sanctuary from the first phase of monumentalization resembles elements used in the religious architecture in the Near East. The circumambulatory layout of Temple 1 (probably a square cella within another cella) (Dentzer-Feydy 1986: 265–266; 2010: 232) has Near Eastern origins (Dentzer 1990) tracing back to earlier examples in the Near East from the Achaemenid Empire (Ball 2000: 342–344). Theatron consists of a forecourt comprising two steps and a portico across the two sides of the inner wall and four steps in front of the temple. In the early 1st century CE, another courtyard (Forecourt 2) was constructed in front of Theatron together with a temple (Temple 2 dedicated to Seeia) to the east of the new courtyard (Figure 2). Previously identified as having a similar layout to Temple 1 (PPUAES II: 385–390), Temple 2 seems to be a small rectangular elevated structure situated at the back of a larger monumental façade facing a courtyard (Dentzer-Feydy 2010: 232). The new courtyard (Forecourt 2) resembles the layout of Theatron but wider. This means there was no change in architectural style and ritual practices from the first building phase started a few years earlier. This format (the reduced cella leading to a courtyard with lateral steps) was re-used for an additional structure named by scholars as Sī’ 8, dated

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fifty years later. This building is in the valley of Sī’, connected to the main sanctuary complex through a sacred way. Dating from the second half of the 1st century CE, Sī’ 8 has a reduced cella that looks like a tripartite chamber (adyton) and directly opens onto a wide courtyard that has steps on the sides. The adyton consists of a small room with two deep lateral niches (Dentzer-Feydy 2003: 73 ff.) (Figure 3). The cella of Sī’ 8 has certain resemblances to Temple 2 as both are reduced with a monumental façade facing a colonnaded courtyard (Figures 2–3).

Fig. 3 Plan of Sī’ 8 (reconstructed by the author after Dentzer-Feydy 2003 Plate 60)

A reduced cella facing a courtyard with steps seems a recurrent pattern throughout the construction of the pre-provincial phase of the sanctuary. However, it was not unique in its genre as it is common in sanctuaries at Dura Europos from where it seems to derive (Dentzer-Feydy 2010: 236). For instance, the courtyard leading to the adyton of the temple of Artemis at Dura Europos, from the first century BCE, presents a theater-like structure, which has five steps on both sides (Downey 1988: 79–86, 89–92, 102– 105 fig. 33, 35, 40). Additionally, although the tripartite adyton is a common provincial feature in the Near East with regional variations (Will 1957), the examples from Dura Europos seem the most similar to the adyton at Sī’ 8 as both are tripartite and not on

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raised platforms and the former seems to be the earliest type of adyta in the Near East (1st century BCE) (Downey 1988: 159 ff). This common thread of continuity rather than a change of the sanctuary from the end of the 1st century BCE to the second half of 1st century CE can be seen in the use over time of the same or similar decorative motifs. The swastika meander design, for instance, appeared from the beginning of the early 1st century CE (on the door frame of Temple 2), in the second quarter of the 1st century CE (on niches of Sī’ 8, Nabataean Gate at Sī’ and in fragments out of context at Sī’ possibly from the provincial structure) (Mazzilli 2018: 79). Although Denzter-Feydy (1986: 265–269, 277) admitted that the architecture of the pre-provincial phase of the sanctuary was related to the architecture from the end of the Hellenistic period in central Syria and southern Mesopotamia, she argued an overall local architectural style. Decorative motifs at Sī’ from this period (e. g. swastika meanders, cable moulding, geometric rosettes consisting of six-petaled rosettes inscribed in slight engraved circles) were already used in the hinterland of the Near East roughly in the mid-2nd and 1st century BCE (Dentzer-Feydy 1986: 267–269; 2003: 95–97). Rosettes with double corollas recovered in the building phase of the second half of the 1st century at Sī’ seem to resemble decorative patterns decorating the ceiling of the northern and southern adyta in the temple of Bel at Palmyra (32 CE) (Seyrig et al. 1975: 130–131, 200 pl. 124. 1–4; Dentzer-Feydy 2003: 98). Vine branches from Nabataean Gate, located between Forecourt 2 and Forecourt 3 at Sī’, decorated with a straight stem with grape bunch and double tendrils or acanthus leaves attached to either side of the stem symmetrically, also resemble, with some variations, decorative motifs from a relief of Ashurbanipal from Kuyunjik in the late Assyrian period and blocks recovered alongside an inscription dated to 44 BCE in a T-shaped structure in the sanctuary of the temple of Bel at Palmyra (Dentzer-Feydy 2003: 95). While in the decorative fragments from Sī’ and Palmyra the wreath consists of alternating leaves and grapes represented in a geometric style, in the Assyrian relief the stem was not straight, unlike the example from Sī’. Although in the examples at Sī’ and Palmyra the stems are straight, the floral motifs are positioned slightly differently in relation to the stem. In the former the floral motifs consist of small leaves and tendrils with large double scrolls, occasionally replaced by grapes; whereas in the decorative fragment from Palmyra they consist of alternating, large acanthus leaves and grapes, both closer to the stem than the floral motifs from Sī’. The tendrils are farther away from the stem than the example at Sī’. Capitals from Temple 2 (called heterodox Corinthian) having chunky acanthus leaves, also curved in profile, cable molding, and, occasionally, human figures on the echinus, resemble the so-called “archaic” capitals at Palmyra (Dentzer-Feydy 1993: 106). The style of these human figures on the capitals is similar to the geometric style of human heads recovered from the debris of Theatron and a human figure with a long tunic from Sī’. Their characteristics (oval human heads with almond-shaped eyes, enclosed by clear-cut defined eyelids, and large ears) belong to the general koiné of the hinterland of the Near East (Mazzilli 2018: 81).

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This group of evidence shows the recurrent architectural and statuary resemblance between Sī’ and the hinterland of the Near East, despite minor variations, where the sanctuary cannot be seen in isolation but in relation with the wider Near Eastern traditions. This resemblance of traditions between the case study and the Near East can be interpreted as a way for the temple’s benefactors to show to visitors of the sanctuary that they belonged to the wider Near Eastern koiné and at the same time a way to express their own identity, their own capabilities to use motifs used elsewhere as well as to distinguish themselves from elsewhere (globalization or glocalization). It also means an entanglement of the religious architectural traditions, not just between the Roman and local but on multiple levels geographically and diachronically. How did architectural style and religious ideas spread across the Near East? It is difficult to trace this type of phenomena because it is a bottom up-analysis. French scholars (e. g. Dentzer 1986: 407–409, 416–417; Sartre 2001: 14; 2005: 2–3) argued that the architecture and art in the Hauran derived from way before the pre-Roman period as result of the long durée, this means a continuity of shared tradition in the Near East over centuries. However, there are also resemblances amongst (almost) contemporary cultures across the Near East, as shown above. The spread of a cultural trait is usually associated with the movement of people. It can also be explained as a result of fashion not transmitted directly by people, like the example of the growth of Jewish names in 17th-century England through the Bible and the rise of Puritans, despite the absence of Jewish people in the country (MacDonald 1993: 383). However, even dissemination of fashion (in the modern example above it would be the Bible) implies the movement of its carrier, most likely carriers, or movement of people who viewed that trait, felt inspired and wanted to replicate that trait. This is most likely the case especially when written sources, like books, were not easily accessible in the Roman empire and internet did not exist. In the case study of this article, people who wrote Safaitic graffiti travelled across the Near East, including Palmyra and more generically the hinterland of the Near East. The sanctuary at Sī’ was the only sanctuary mentioned in the graffiti (Macdonald 2003b). A fragment of a stone vessel with Safaitic graffiti was found in the sanctuary (Macdonald 2003a). Baalshamin is a common deity mentioned in Safatic graffiti (Macdonald 2003b), one of the main gods venerated at Sī’. The names of individuals who commissioned the earliest stele, Temple 1 and Theatron and other dedications at Sī’ in the pre-provincial period also appear in Safaitic graffiti (Mazzilli 2018: 56–60). The Nabataean presence is evident in the hinterland of the Near East as well as in the Hauran (see below the article). Although this does not mean that the people who wrote Safaitic graffiti or Nabataeans were the transmitters of religious traditions or architectural style, it implies that the Hauran was not marginalized, but was integrated into the network of people in movement in the Near East in the pre-provincial period. This may have helped in the circulation of religious ideas and architectural traditions across the Near East. Even if the appearance of similar religious and architectural traits across the Near East were the result of the long durée phenomenon, it still

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implies that the Hauran was not isolated but part of this broader network of long-term traditions across the Near East. Change and “globality”? Going back to the sense of continuity of architectural style at Sī’ from the end of the 1st century to the second half of the 1st century CE, it seems almost broken by the construction of temple 3 although it was part of the phase of expansion of the sanctuary in the second half of the 1st century CE together with Sī’ 8. Temple 3 is situated on an elevated terraced area to the south of the Forecourt 3 which extended from Forecourt 2. It introduces new architectural elements in the sanctuary: it has a different layout from other earlier and contemporary structures and a new decorative style. The temple had a tetrastyle prostyle layout (four standing columns across the front of the temple, forming a portico) (PPUAES II: 393–395; Denzter-Feydy 1986: 280). Capitals with a horn-shaped profile and stylized version of the acanthus leaves were associated with temple 3. They have been considered Nabataean (Dentzer-Feydy 1986: 283) because their profile is typical of Nabataean capitals (McKenzie 2001: 97–99) and they were more widely used in the Nabataean kingdom than elsewhere where they appeared only sporadically (Patrich 1996: 206).2 Another type of capital associated with this building is the floral Corinthian capital which resembles Corinthian capitals from the Nabataean kingdom because both have two crossing stems ending with a flower on the abacus between helices and volutes (Dentzer-Feydy 2003: 84). Furthermore, temple 3 is on a wide elevated terrace preceded by a flight of steps, offering a new path for the ritual procession from the entrance of the sanctuary to temple 3; therefore, it adds a new religious focus to the sanctuary. Capitals associated with Temple 3 from that period have a style widely used in the Nabataean kingdom. Nabataean capitals have been considered a prestigious gift made by the last Nabatean king Rabbel II (70–106 CE) on the basis of the dating of temple 3 (Dentzer 1986: 282–283). However, there is neither evidence of Rabbel II at Sī’ nor an inscription to tell us who actually commissioned temple 3. Freyberger (1998: 51) sustained instead that temple 3 was also dedicated to Seeia as her cult image in Temple 2 would have been visible from temple 3. The layout of temple 3 differs from the Nabataean examples and has, instead, a typical external Greco-Roman layout which is widely used in other temples in the Near East (see Butcher 2003: 356–357; Segal 2008: 2013, for instance) – the introduction of this Greco-Roman feature will be explained when talking about the use of Greek script and names for deities in due course. The 2

Freyberger (1998: 52) and Kropp (2010: 10–11) questioned the identification of horned-shaped capitals as Nabataeans because they have been found elsewhere outside the Nabataean kingdom, although this style dominated in this kingdom and examples outside it are sporadic.

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minor Nabataean influence at Sī’ can be explained by the central economic role of the Nabataeans at Sī’. It is based on the idea that Nabataean coinage was the main currency used in the sanctuary (Kropp 2013: 302) due to their predominance in the sanctuary (Augé 2003). Their economic significance as merchants is well-known in the Near East (Young 2001: 90), including in Damascus and its surrounding territory, which are not far from the Hauran, in the first century BCE (Strab. 16.2.20). Furthermore, the Hauran was a disputed territory between the Nabataeans and Herodians and its earlier kingdoms where occasionally the center of the Hauran, including the territory around Sī’ was temporarily acquired by the Nabataeans, in 84–72 BCE and 30–23 BCE, whereas the southern part of the Hauran, with Bosra as the main center, was permanently part of the Nabataean kingdom throughout the pre-provincial period (Dentzer 1986: 386–395). When looking at other gods venerated at Sī’ from the 1st century CE onwards, inscriptions and reliefs indicate a sense of continuity of the cult of the pre-existing gods and at the same time a change of the latter: this is the case of Baalshamin and Seeia. The cult of Baalshamin was carried out at Sī’ in the provincial period, but he is named differently: Zeus Kyrios or Megistos. Kyrios and Megistos are common epithets associated with Baalshamin (Sourdel 1952: 25–57; Augé and Linant de Bellefonds 1997: 386) and the Semitic deity Baalshamin was assimilated to the Greek god Zeus (Augé and Linant de Bellefonds 1997: 386). At Sī’ four inscriptions were dedicated to Zeus Kyrios. One undated inscription is on a fragment of an ornament amongst the ruins at the entrance of Theatron (PPUAES III: no. 774). An altar dated to the 1st century CE was dedicated to this god, but the place of its recovery is not known (Suw. 1934: no. 15). A fragmentary inscribed altar, found in ruins in Forecourt 2, from the 2nd to 3rd century CE was dedicated to this god (PPUAES III: no. 769). Another altar from the 2nd to 3rd century CE was dedicated to Zeus, but it is not known where it came from (Suw 1934: no. 27). The Roman Gate is dedicated to Zeus in 138–235 CE (PAAES III: no. 431). Only according to the reconstruction by the Princeton University team the second inscription on the architrave from the Roman Gate at Sī’ (138–235 CE) is dedicated to Zeus Megistos (PAAES III: no. 432). Scholars have downplayed this phenomenon of changing names of gods from Semitic to Greek ones, arguing that this is a superficial veneer as gods still maintained their Semitic character, while adopting Greek names (Sartre 1991: 491–496). At the same time, nevertheless, this phenomenon also indicates an inevitable change: naming existing gods with the name of a different god. Should we call it changes of continuities (or continuity of changes)? It definitely implies an ongoing development of religious traditions in the sanctuary, an ongoing transformation of the socio-historical and political context of the place where the sanctuary was placed, and an ongoing transformation of the identity of the people who worshipped in the sanctuary and its benefactors. It is associated with a change from bilingual inscriptions written in Aramaic and Greek to Greek inscriptions only from the 1st century CE (Mazzilli 2018: 68–69). Historical

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political reasons most likely triggered it; the use of Greek script in inscriptions and the appearance of gods with Greek names started in the 1st century CE onwards when the Romans temporarily controlled the Hauran in two short periods (34–37 CE) and (44– 53 CE) and later on in 93/94 CE when it became part of the Roman Empire (Dentzer 1986: 386–395). Greek was, in fact, the main official language in the eastern part of the Roman Empire and its use can be seen as an external manifestation of prestige and of the sense of belonging of the elite, who commissioned these inscriptions and part of the sanctuary, to the Roman Empire (Sartre 1985: 201–202). We can similarly suggest that the Greco-Roman exterior layout of temple 3 at Sī’ mentioned earlier was evidence of socio-political propaganda and prestige of the elite as it was widely used in the Near East (Mazzilli 2018: 110–112). Changing names of deities from Semitic to Greek ones and changing the script of inscriptions from bilingual Aramaic and Greek (used at the end of the second half of the 1st century BCE to the first half of the 1st century CE) to Greek writing only (mid1st century onwards) should also be considered a significant phenomenon, as commissioners of inscriptions made this modification on monumental inscriptions in public places that would have been visible to all and were long-lasting. Dedicators wanted to be recognized by a wider public than the local population and to display their wealth and social status to people both within the local community and the wider Roman Empire. Foreign visitors could have read these dedications. Furthermore, they possibly identified Zeus assimilated to Baalshamin with their own god also named Zeus for the following reasons. First of all, Zeus was one of the most commonly worshipped gods in the eastern part of the Roman Empire, as various Semitic gods, such as Hadad and Bel, were assimilated to him (Gawlikoswski 1988; Will 1986). Secondly, inscriptions at Sī’ do not only mention Zeus Kyrios or Megistos. As seen above, only Zeus appears in a couple of inscriptions. This can suggest the glocality of the sanctuary: its main god Baalshamin/Zeus can stand for multiple gods depending on who read the inscription or knew the meaning of what was written in the inscription. Furthermore, this change of naming deities is also most likely related to the change of benefactors in the sanctuary from the 1st century BCE to early 1st century CE (individuals whose names were also found in Safaitic graffiti) (Mazzilli 2018: 56–60) to the provincial period (individuals with Roman names or Roman soldiers). For instance, in 138–235 CE, the Roman Gate was dedicated by Julius Heraclitos, a Roman name also called after the god Heracles (PAAES III no. 431 and 432). Another individual with a Roman name ( Julianus) dedicated an altar in the sanctuary in the 2nd to 3rd century CE (Suw 1934: no. 27 pl. 8). Furthermore, a legionary of the X Fretensis commissioned an inscribed altar to Zeus (Suw. 1934: no. 15; Sourdel 1952: 28, 64). A soldier from the Cohort I (or II) Augusta commissioned an altar to Zeus, which has been recovered in the forecourt in front of Temple 2 at Sī’ (PPUAES II: no. 769). The phenomenon of changing scripts and names of deities seems to be triggered by the significant presence of soldiers and veterans across the region, who respectively were also benefactors in

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other rural cult centers in the Hauran (Mazzilli 2018: 88 ff.) and occupied the Hauran (Sartre-Fauriat 2005). Sī’ was roughly 25km west of two Roman garrisons, Diyatheh and Sa’ane (Gregory 1996: 179). The phenomenon of a partial change of the pre-existing deity to a new deity (the change of continuities or the continuity of changes) can be suggested for the deity of the place at Sī’. The difference is on how she was represented and referred to over time. The deity is explicitly mentioned as Seeia in inscriptions from the end of the 2nd century BCE to the beginning of the 1st century CE (PPUAES IV: no. 103; PPUAES III: no. 767; Milik 2003) and represented with vine branches and bunches of grapes in the 1st century CE (Denzter-Feydy 1979: 327–330). In the provincial period, instead, this deity is not symbolized in one specific way nor named. The deity was represented with different depictions but can still embody in broader terms the cult of the lands of Sī’, as shown in the following reliefs possibly coming from the provincial structure according to Dentzer-Feydy (2015). They are: a series of blocks representing divine figures sitting reclining amongst acanthus foliage, architectural blocks depicting wreath-like branches, animal heads and large acanthus leaves, a winged female nude bust holding a crown (Nike/Victory) and a relief of a nude male figure, holding the long pine cone-topped thyrsus stick, accompanied by a maenad and a satyr holding a bunch of grapes. Although the last one is a male figure representing Dionysus (Weber 2006: 112–113), he is still a deity of vines which was and still is the main cultivation of the lands surrounding the sanctuary (Villeneuve 1985: 70). A more evident change or continuity of changes is the introduction of new gods worshipped at Sī’; however, Baalshamin/Zeus was still worshipped throughout the pre-provincial and provincial periods, if not jointly with these new deities. They are: Allat/Athena, Atagartis, Heracles and Mithras. The unknown original recovery of most of their inscriptions or depictions makes it challenging to place them and their significance temporarily and physically in the sanctuary. Athena, together with Baalshamin/Zeus, was depicted on an undated altar (Suw. 1934: no. 29). This is a clear example that shows that we cannot talk about either of continuity of pre-existing gods or the change of cults into new gods. Additionally, Athena is also mentioned in an inscription and represented without pre-existing pre-provincial deities of the sanctuary. An inscribed statue’s pedestal mentions Athena (Sartre-Fauriat 2015: 301 n. 46). A divine figure seated near possibly a lion is depicted on a lintel fragment of a provincial structure (Dentzer-Feydy 2015: 322): she may stand for Allat/Athena or Atargatis/Dea as the lion is a symbol of both deities (Starcky 1981: 564 ff.; Drijvers 1986: 355–358). As Athena is the Greek assimilation of the Semitic deity Allat (Starcky 1981) who is worshipped throughout the Near East (Mazzilli 2018: 63), the introduction of another deity widely worshipped in the Near East (Allat/Athena) in the pantheon of the sanctuary at Sī’ only reinforces the globalization of the sanctuary or its glocalization considering the worship of the deity of the place (Seeia) at the same time. This is the

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case with other deities depicted or mentioned in inscriptions in the sanctuary that were worshipped in the Roman Near Eastern landscape. A statue of Heracles was also found at Sī’ (Suw. 1934: no. 48) and he is also worshipped at Palmyra, Hatra (Kaizer 2000) and Dura Europos (Downey 1969), to name a few examples. Additionally, an inscription was dedicated to Atargatis by a centurion of the Herodian army (Sartre-Fauriat 2015: 297 n. 8). She was venerated in Lebanon, Northern Syria, Palmyra, Damascus, Hatra (Iraq) and Khirbet et-Tannur ( Jordan) (Starcky 1981: 564 ff.; Drijvers 1986: 355–358). Two reliefs, one found in Forecourt 2 in front of Temple 2, the other near temple 3 at Sī’, depict a typical illustration of Mithras, the tauroctony representation which consists of a god slaughtering the bull (Will 1952). One of the two reliefs at Sī’ has a Latin inscription D I S, standing for Deo Invicto Soli (Will 1952: 67–68). The fact that this dedication is in Latin can be considered a sort of signature by a member of the Roman legion (Will 1952: 70) since Latin inscriptions are rare in the Near East and often limited to the military sphere (Isaac 2009: 65). This factor together with the well-established presence of Roman soldiers in the territory and their multiple benefactions in the sanctuary can suggest that the cult of Mithras at Sī’ was linked with the presence of the soldiers in the sanctuary – although the cult of Mithras is not only associated with the Roman army as civilians also venerated him in the Roman Empire (e. g. Gordon 2009: 421). Part of this more evident continuity of changes is the provincial structure in the north-western part of Forecourt 3. Its decorative elements and reliefs differ from earlier ones in the sanctuary and are widely used in the Near East in the provincial period. Corinthian capitals of engaged half or quarter columns with a collar sculpted with a meander of swastikas belong to normal Corinthian types developed in the Roman province of Syria (Dentzer-Feydy 1990: 651 ff.). Wreath-type decoration and entire drop-shaped or slightly cut on the top egg-and-dart moldings were common in the Near East in the provincial period (Dentzer-Feydy 2003: 90; Hauran IV: 106–107, 109). Three-quarter figures, folds of supple drapes depicted on reliefs (partially discussed when looking at the cult of the place) and depictions of Victories/Nikes holding a crown were also characteristics in provincial representations from the Syrian-Parthian region (Dentzer-Feydy 2015: 322). The provincial structure at Sī’ has been correctly seen as Greco-Roman religious propaganda also because of its visibility from the valley and the sacred way (Dentzer-Feydy 2015: 324). At the same time, this phase has still a strong focus on and link with pre-existing structures for the following reasons. It has reliefs and floral decorations that can embody the pre-existing deity of the place. This structure is placed at the corner of Forecourt 3 and did not affect the use of other temples or alter their structures. It faces Temple 3, which dominates the sanctuary complex, over also the later provincial structure (Figure 2).

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Conclusion The examination of multiple aspects of the sanctuary at Sī’ (its layout, architectural and sculptural style, gods and benefactors) within its socio-economic and political context can provide a more complete picture of multiple religious identities that this sanctuary represents over time. The study of multi-datasets has shown how the sanctuary is evidence of continuous evolution of the religious identities, of the people who worshipped in this sanctuary over time. Its architecture, gods and benefactors clearly indicate that the sanctuary at Sī’ was not just the result of the continuity or change of pre-existing religious traditions and did not reflect local or Greco-Roman traditions over time. Using these terms or trying to label a sanctuary developed over time with one of these terms would diminish the complexity of what was taking place in the Roman Empire and of the people who worshipped the sanctuary, although the study of the ruins of the sanctuary can only offer a partial reflection of it. We also have to bear in mind that these terms are not products of the Romans but are products of our time that we use to help us explain the complexities of the previous civilizations. Apart from the deity of the place, which is a common custom in the Roman Empire (e. g. Zeus Baitokaike in northern Syria (Bonnet 2015: 146) including the Hauran (e. g. Zeus Phainesios, after the Roman name of the village Phaina at Mismiyyeh) (PPUAES II: no. 800 1), gods and architectural elements of the sanctuary from the pre-provincial to the provincial period appear in other areas of the Near East. Despite her cult from the late 2nd century BCE to the provincial period, the deity of the place did not seem to be the main god of the sanctuary as she was not worshipped in the earliest temple (Temple 1) or she does not appear in various inscriptions throughout time, on the contrary of Baalshamin/Zeus. Even when we look at the apparently same gods worshipped over centuries (Baalshamin/Zeus and the deity of the place Seeia/Dionysus), their representation changes shape or name. This does not mean they were new gods and the pre-existing gods were no longer worshipped. The architecture and the pantheon of the sanctuary also shows the mixture of pre-existing architectural patterns (e. g. reduced cella with courtyard and steps, swastika, vine branch motifs) and pre-existing gods (Seeia, Baalshamin/Zeus) with new architectural patterns towards the end of the pre-provincial period (e. g. Nabataean capitals, Greco-Roman architectural external layout of temple 3) and architectural decorations and gods more clearly in the provincial period (e. g. the provincial structure and Mithras). It is not possible to contextualize the time when Heracles, Atagartis and Athena were worshipped and what kind of role they had in the sanctuary due to a lack of information about their dating and recovery from the sanctuary. The partial diversity of religious traditions over time may reflect the identity of major benefactors over time: individuals having names widely used in Safaitic graffiti in the pre-provincial period, and individuals from the Roman army and those who used Roman names in the provincial period. The architecture, gods and statues at Sī’ show that the Hauran was not a local cultural enclave but that it was integrated into the relationalities of various socio-political ac-

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tors of the Near East from the pre-provincial to the provincial period (e. g. people who wrote Safaitic graffiti, the Nabataeans, cultures from the hinterland of the Near East, Roman soldiers, people with Greco-Roman traditions, people from the Near East). The architecture, gods and statues at Sī’ have demonstrated that Sī’ is an example of the complex process of transformation of religion in the Roman Empire and the versatile nature of sanctuaries to the new and pre-existing external socio-political actors. Bibliography Abbreviations Hauran I Hauran II Hauran IV

Hauran V

LIMIC PAAES III PAAES IV PPUAES II

PPUAES III PPUAES IV Suw 1934

Denzter, J.-M. (ed.) 1986. Hauran I: recherches archéologiques sur la Syrie du Sud à l’époque hellénistique et romaine. Paris: P. Geuthner. Dentzer-Feydy, J.; Dentzer J.-M.; Blanc P.-M. (eds.) 2003. Hauran II: les installations de Sī ’8 du sanctuaire à l’établissement viticole Beyrouth: IFPO. Dentzer-Feydy, J.; Dentzer, J.-M.; Renel, F.; Sartre-Fauriat, A. 2017. Hauran IV Sahr Al-Leja Volume I: le sanctuaire et l’agglomération à l’époque romaine. Beyrouth: IFPO. Al-Maqdissi, M.; Braemer, F.; Dentzer, J.-M. (eds.) 2010. Hauran V: la Syrie du Sud du néolithique à l’Antiquité tardive: recherches récent, 1 Actes du colloque de Damas 2007 Beyrouth: IFPO. 1981–2009. Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae. Zürich & München: Artemis Verlag. Prentice, W. K. 1908. Publications of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria in 1899–1900 III Greek and Latin Inscriptions. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Littmann, E. 1914. Publications of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria in 1899–1900 IV (A-D) Semitic inscriptions. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Butler, H. C. 1919–1920. Syria Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–5 and 1909 Ancient Architecture in Syria II Ancient Architecture in Syria Section A Southern Syria Section. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Prentice, W. K. 1918. Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–5 and 1909 III Greek and Latin inscriptions. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Littmann, E. 1914. Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–5 and 1909 IV (A-D) Semitic Inscriptions. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Dunand, M. 1934. Mission archéologique au Djebel Druze: le Musée de Soueïda, inscriptions et monuments figures. Paris: P. Geuthner.

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Ancient Sources Strabo. Translated by Jones H. L. 1932. Geography. Loeb Classical Library 267. Harvard: Harvard University Press.

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The Burials of the Divine Apis Bulls in Roman Memphis Nenad Marković 1 Introduction After the Roman conquest of 30 BCE, the cultic organization in Egypt again entered a new era under the different foreign regime. The Roman provincial administration is often held responsible for the economic deterioration of the religious infrastructure in Egypt that eventually led to religious changes (e. g. Bagnall 1992: 267; Frankfurter 1998: 27–28, 198–199; Moyer 2011: 270–273; Pfeiffer 2010: 37–38, 49–55, 195; Monson 2015: 27–29). Also, it has been argued that Roman rule brought greater economic prosperity to Egypt (e. g. Rathbone 2007: 705–718; Jördens 2009: 511–514). Consequently, the reality was perhaps less dramatic, and a modified and more balanced picture on the Roman rule in Egypt has started to emerge in recent years (cf. e. g. Klotz 2012; Connor 2015; Medini 2016). Nevertheless, the longue durée decline of the major Egyptian institutions seems to be established by the Ptolemaic administrative policy during the last century of their rule, a time of royal weakness in the countryside, severe dynastic troubles, high taxes, greedy local officials, and numerous uprisings (cf. Manning 2003: 226–241; for indigenous revolts, see Véïsse 2004: 65–73). Significantly, this process inevitably continued into the Roman era. Needless to say, the larger and smaller temples were an integral part of the former Pharaonic and Ptolemaic state structures and it is therefore fully expected that the internal operation and finances of traditional temples came under a strict supervision of the Roman state early after the conquest itself, being one of the main targets of the Augustan reforms. By following specific local models which had existed for centuries before the entrance of the Roman army to Alexandria, the position of traditional temples is essentially adapted to the needs of the new administration apparatus (cf. Capponi 2005: 25–81; Herklotz 2007: 109–116; Monson 2012: 218–227; Vandorpe and Clarysse 2019: 415–416). Broadly speaking, temples remained the key players in the local economy throughout the Roman era (cf. Connor 2015: 352–366). Despite evidence that suggests that traditional temples still kept their land in the 2nd century CE (cf. Monson 2012: 136–137; Winkler 2015: 254–255), the Augustan prefect Publius Petronius (24–21 BCE), the second prefect of Egypt, is

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still being accused of commencing horrendous measures regarding estates that were historically administered by local temple at Tebtunis in the Fayyum (“confiscation”; Capponi 2010: 182; Capponi 2011: 511–512; Moyer 2011: 270; Monson 2012: 131; Winkler 2015: 253–255; Medini 2016: 248), although his role and actions are unclear at best (Connor 2015: 55–102). What is certain is that the petition in question (P. Tebt. II 302 = TM 13462), sent by the priests to the prefect, either Ti. Julius Lupus or L. Peducaeus Colonus in 71/72 CE (Connor 2015: 66), clearly shows that the revenues from the land were indeed important for the ability of the priests to hold their offices and perform duties to the gods (Monson 2005: 85; Jördens 2009: 340–341), although the land was not the temples’ only source of income (Connor 2015: 235–300). Finally, it has been noted that royal donations of new land to traditional temples ceased during the Roman period ( Jördens 2009: 338–343; Monson 2015: 28), but donations certainly continued as late as the reign of Marcus Aurelius when a vineyard near Esna was conferred to the temple of Isis at Philae (cf. Junker 1924). Giving the close relations of the Saite and Ptolemaic kings with various indigenous priesthoods, especially those in major urban centers that were active in every aspect of the economic, military, and political life of Egypt (e. g. Gorre 2009; Agut-Labordère and Gorre 2014), the Roman adjustments were unambiguously founded within an existing administrative framework, generally understood as not being necessarily hostile towards the clergy (cf. Medini 2016: 274). Modern scholars usually insist that the Roman emperor depended far less on the legitimation of his rule by the Egyptian priesthood (cf. Jördens 2009: 41–46). However, this claim does not have a support in numerous surviving depictions of the Roman pharaohs with their full names in hieroglyphs throughout Egypt as late as the reign of Maximinus Daia (305–313 CE) on blocks from the temple of Horus at Tahta in Upper Egypt (Hölbl 2000: 45 with n. 177, 114, fig. 157), which seemingly pertained vital importance for the local priesthood, strongly suggesting the involvement of the provincial authorities in the execution of the temple decoration (cf. Kaper 2010: 195; Minas-Nerpel 2012: 376). Also, the indigenous scribes continued to compose lengthy and stylistically complex hieroglyphic texts on temple walls and other media well into the early 3rd century CE (cf. Klotz 2012a). Still, major and minor changes were inevitable, and the local priesthood was reformed, especially in urban centers, under the influence of social and political developments of the time. The heredity of offices within various temples and the familial nepotism, notoriously flourishing in Pharaonic, Persian, and Ptolemaic times (cf. Johnson 1990: 151 with n. 8), were effectively reorganized under the Roman rule since it was neither possible nor necessary to abolish them. Priests were not allowed to have any profession other than the service of the gods (BGU 5 1210, col. 8, lines 181–182, § 71 = TM 9472),1 implying

1

The onomastic and prosopographical data in Greek language for this study were collected with the help of the digital platform Trismegistos (TM), which gathers metadata about all published textu-

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that the traditional custom of the Egyptian elite to occupy different secular and sacerdotal positions at the same time effectively came to an end. Such actions certainly affected the highest priesthood at Memphis negatively, where an extensive family circle controlled all major temples, their administration, and income during the Ptolemaic period, but effectively disappeared from surviving sources at the beginning of the 1st century CE.2 Ultimately, the priests continued to enjoy privileges comparable to the local urban elite, like exemption from certain taxes and liturgies, and were able to form networks with the gymnasial-metropolitan class (Hickey 2009: 506). Similarly to previous times, the government exhibited a strict control over the inheritance and sale of priestly offices by rigorously charging the installation fee that a man entering the priesthood had to pay, ensuring that proper procedures were followed and determining whether a potential inheritor or purchaser could legitimately hold office, and later developed a more general interest in priestly misconduct that extended to fining priests who failed to properly observe ritual requirements (cf. Swarney 1970: 83–96).3 Together with the installation fee determined according to the rank and type of revenue of the priestly office, the office holder also paid an annual fee in order to maintain his privileged status (Kruse 2002: 713). Several Roman praefecti, such as C. Turranius in 4 BCE or C. Caecina Tuscus between 62/63 CE and 65/66 CE, issued edicts in order to closely investigate and control the status of priests and temple finances, requesting declarations of birth indicating priestly parentage and annual declarations of personnel and inventory (Kruse 2002: 711–716; Jördens 2009: 339–340; Monson 2012: 220–221). However, the basic organization of the priests remained much the same under Roman rule. While the relations between the temple and the village or state administration are kept mainly through Greek documents, the entire inner administration of the temple, as well as the documentation issued by the temple scribe to Egyptian individuals, can be entirely demotic until at least the late second half of the 2nd century CE (Lippert 2010). Finally, numerous surviving translations of Egyptian religious texts into Greek dated to the first two centuries CE might indicate a strong linguistic shift within “a community which adhered to Egyptian cultic traditions while its cultural outlook otherwise was probably dominated by Greek literature and philosophy, mingled with Egyptian heritage” (Quack 2016: 281). Within the general economic and administrative framework described above, most of the traditional religious rituals and practices throughout Egypt certainly continued to flourish under the Romans and despite different changes no apparent decline is visible during the first two centuries CE (cf. e. g. Riggs 2005; Hickey 2009; Clarysse 2010:

2 3

al source material from Egypt dated between c. 800 BC and 800 CE (online accessible through http://www.trismegistos.org). This will be discussed in detail elsewhere. It needs to be noted that the installation fee appeared in records during the Persian period, if not earlier (cf. Fried 2004: 80–86; Agut-Labordère 2013: 1011).

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389–390; Capponi 2011: 508–511; Minas-Nerpel 2012; Stadler 2012a; Stadler 2012b; Klotz 2012b; Connor 2015; Winkler 2015; Smith 2017: 421–537) or even somewhat later (Medini 2016: 273–275), while numerous temples remained local centers of traditional theology (Klotz 2012a). Despite being two relatively small village temples in the Fayyum area, thousands of fragments of narrative, mythological, magical, liturgical, and scientific texts, written in demotic, hieratic, and hieroglyphic scripts, dated to as late as the 3rd century CE, were found inside the temenos of the Tebtunis temple (cf. Ryholt 2005: 146; Quack 2006: 1–7) and in Soknopaiou Nesos, dated mostly from the first two centuries CE (cf. Stadler 2007). Regrettably, we can only imagine what could have been stored in archives of much larger temples, such as those in Memphis, Heliopolis, or Thebes, that are otherwise lost. Surviving documentary, literary, and archaeological evidence strongly suggests a greater retrenchment of the basic spheres of religious practice, which primarily affected the major temple cults in urban centers, had become apparent only in the second part of 3rd and during the early 4th century CE (cf. Bagnall 1992: 267–268; Klotz 2012a: 403–405; Smith 2017: 421–537; contra Medini 2016), ultimately coinciding with the fundamental alternations of socio-political and religious structure across the Roman Empire caused by the fragmentation of political authority, military chaos, and economic crises (cf. Ando 2012: 146–223). At present, the burials of the Apis bulls, the central religious event at Memphis for centuries (cf. Jurman 2010; Meyrat 2014; Marković 2017b), are only hinted in surviving and currently published papyrological evidence, solely presented in Greek language, and so far have been discussed briefly (cf. Schubert 2004; Thompson 2012: 254 n. 79). In addition, they still wait to be archaeologically confirmed since there is no doubt that they had existed once somewhere in the vast Memphite necropolis. Hopefully, the ongoing publication of demotic documents from Tebtunis and Soknopaiou Nesos, as well as archaeological missions in Saqqara and Abusir, might change this dissatisfactory situation. Therefore, this paper aims to revisit the last two known Apis burials under Antonius Pius and Marcus Aurelius, tentatively dated to c. 156 CE and c. 170 CE respectively, along the social status and prosopography of people said to be involved in the organization of the burials, their mutual connections in Memphis, and social structure those interconnections imply. 2 The divine Apis bulls during the 1st and 2nd centuries CE Octavian himself allegedly refused the invitation to visit the divine Apis bull at Memphis, one of Egypt’s oldest capitals and true center of traditional kingship during the Ptolemaic era, by famously saying that he was “accustomed to worship gods, not cattle (θεοὺς ἀλλ᾽ οὐχὶ βοῦς προσκυνεῖν εἰθίσθαι)” (Dio. Cass. 51.16.5; cf. Dundas 2002; Capponi 2005: 5–12; Herklotz 2007: 103–108; Herklotz 2012; Minas-Nerpel 2011). Despite such a claim, the Memphite divine bull, in fact, found the way into his official Pharaon-

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ic titulary, attested on the walls of traditional temples at Dendera and Kalabsha, where the first Roman ruler of Egypt is invoked as “beloved of the living Apis, herald of Ptah, who announced to him a time rich with good things” (mrj sw @p anx wHm PtH sr=f n=f hA.w aSA.w Xr nfr.w; cf. Herklotz 2007: 413–418). Behind such an invitation most likely stood the traditional guardians of the Apis bulls, namely the High Priests of Ptah (traditionally, wr xrp Hmwt, “Greatest Director of Craftsmen”; cf. Maystre 1992: 4–13; Devauchelle 1992; Klotz 2014: 722–723), in order to receive prompt confirmation of their positions in the chaotic political situation after the arrival of the new ruler’s armies and the drama surrounding the suicide of Cleopatra VII (cf. Marković 2015: 38). Evidence for the divine Apis bulls goes back to the establishment of the ancient Egyptian state around 3100 BCE and is attested nearly continuously until the beginning of the 3rd century CE at the latest, with an unsuccessful attempt at reviving the cult in the 4th century CE. On an organisational level, the care of the Apis bulls had been a royal prerogative since at least the mid-18th Dynasty (c. 1350 BCE) onwards (Dodson 1990: 88), always under the general supervision of the priesthood of Ptah in collaboration with the priesthood of the Inundation of the Nile (Nilopolis of Diodorus Siculus) (Marković 2017b: 147). Following the previous experience, the specific cultic rules were, in fact, formulated only during the 26th Dynasty (664–526 BCE) and fused under the 30th Dynasty (380–343 BCE) in a form of a strict manual known today as the Apis Embalming Ritual, preserved on two fragments of a papyrus from the late Ptolemaic period kept in Vienna and Zagreb respectively (Vos 1993; Quack 1995; Meyrat 2014). Ideally, the main events in the life of the Apis bull incorporated into the temple-based performances – birth, installation, death and burial – required personal participation of the ruling king himself or his eldest son in his absence, as well as other members of the royal family and the royal household (cf. Meyrat 2014: 266, 268, 278– 281). Personal involvement in rituals was accompanied by rich royal gifts in the form of vast land holdings, occasional embellishments of the sacred precincts where the divine bulls lived or were buried, and ultimately a large stone sarcophagus.4 These specific rules were consistently respected by all Egyptian and non-Egyptian rulers from Psammetichus I (661–610 BCE) until Cleopatra VII (51–30 BCE) for more than six hundred years before the arrival of Romans (cf. Devauchelle 1994; Devauchelle 2011; Thompson 2012: 106–117; Meyrat 2014: 306–312). The personal absence of the Roman ruler from Egypt heavily disrupted such a tradition in a way only comparable to the policy of the Persian kings in the 6th and 5th centuries BCE (Marković and Ilić 2018) and the first Macedonian king in the 4th century BCE (Bosch-Pushe 2012). While Cambyses II (526–522 BCE) and Alexander III (332– 323 BCE) respectively seem to accept the advice of the members of the priesthood to personally participate in the Egyptian religious ceremonies after their individual 4

A stone sarcophagus was introduced only under Amasis (570–526 BCE). Cf. Gunn 1926.

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conquests of the country, Octavian declined. Albeit considered the symbol of native Egypt, the city of Memphis had a highly negative reputation among the Latin poets of the Julio-Claudian dynasty (Propertius 8.11.34; Lucan 8.536; cf. Smelik and Hemelrijk 1985: 1929), certainly expressing the viewpoint of the contemporary Roman elite. The powerful family of the high priests of Ptah in traditional form disappeared from the surviving records sometimes after 23 BCE (cf. Gorre 2009: 620–621; Marković 2015; Panov 2017: 25–26), perhaps holding the office until the first decades of the 1st century CE at the latest.5 The Memphite priests perhaps changed their official attire afterwards in order to adapt to a new political situation, while the Apis bull remained well known throughout the Roman world (cf. Kater-Sibbes and Vermaseren 1975a; 1975b; 1977). Discovered somewhere at Mit Rahinah, an undated schist statue of Petosiris (Cairo CG 696 = JE 27860 = JE 27953; cf. Borchardt 1930: 38–39, pl. 128; Gorre 2009: 278–280) that probably once stood somewhere inside of the temple precinct of Ptah is dedicated to “Ptah, who is south of his wall, lord of the Two Lands (PtH rsj inb=f nb tA.wj)”,6 and “Apis, son and herald of Ptah (@p sA wHm PtH)”.7 Inscription on the back pillar gives a string of honorific, civil, military, and sacerdotal titles that are purely Pharaonic and suggest social and cultural continuity across the centuries. Stylistically, a statue of Petosiris is similar to the statuary of the indigenous governors of Dendera in Upper Egypt that retained office through the Roman annexation as late as 5 BCE (cf. De Meulenaere 1959; Gorre 2009: 122–150), when they disappear from surviving records. If chronology holds up, this would be at present the last known statue with a hieroglyphic inscription set up by an Egyptian individual at Memphis, suggesting a change and probable rupture in the administrative and social organization from Ptolemaic to the Roman period. Also, it has been suggested that this type of statue disappears after the mid-1st century CE in general (cf. Bothmer 1960: 178–179). There are attestations of several heirs apparent of the Roman emperors in certain engagements and visits to the Apis bulls, like Germanicus in the early January of 19 CE (Speidel 2013a) or Titus in April/May of 71 CE (Marković 2017a). On the other hand, the ruling Roman emperors had never been mentioned as personally present during any of the events regarding the Apis bull despite the fact that several of them, namely Hadrian, Marcus Aurelius, Septimius Severus or Caracalla (Smelik and Hemelrijk 1984: 1943–1944), visited Egypt. That the Apis bulls remained indeed closely attached to the royal domain is suggested by the involvement of Hadrian in solving a riot in 5

6 7

There is a strong possibility that Horimhotep, son of Khahapy B, attested as the High Priest of Ptah on a small ointment or paint container (Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, 48.1381), belongs to the powerful Memphite priestly family of the Ptolemaic era and that he could have been the successor of Pasherienamun II, the last known High Priest of Ptah (appointed by the Roman authorities in 28/7 BCE and disappeared from surviving evidence after 23 BCE) and his cousin, in the late 1st century BCE or the early 1st century CE. Cf. Panov 2011: 101–103. For this epithet of Ptah, see Sandman Holmberg 1946: 208; Staring 2015: 172–173. For this epithet of Apis, see Otto 1938: 26; Dodson 1999: 60–61.

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Alexandria that erupted because a new bull had been “discovered again after an interval of many years (repetus esset post multos annos)” (SHA Hadr. 12.1; cf. Smelik and Hemelrijk 1984: 1935). This statement also suggests a possible break in the succession of the Apis bulls during this time that could be more frequent throughout the Roman period. Besides, the absence of Roman rulers from the temple rituals was effectively bridged by a symbolic representation of “a cultic pharaoh” on the temple walls, the idea relevant for most preserved traditional relief scenes in Roman Egypt (Hölbl 2000: 18, 117; Hölbl 2004: 102–105), which indeed were the subject of political changes that happened in Rome (cf. Minas-Nerpel 2012: 376) as is mentioned above. In practice, the traditional priesthood, now incorporated into the Greek-speaking elite, continued to perform numerous rituals in the name of the absent ruler throughout the country in the same way as their predecessors did for two thousand years (Spencer 2010a: 260; Clarysse 2010: 276–277). Also, the wealthiest local families or even groups of both Egyptian and non-Egyptian origins extended their aid for not only the construction and rebuilding but also maintenance of temple activities during the first two centuries CE (cf. Kockelmann and Pfeiffer 2009; Kockelmann 2010: 214–220; Stadler 2012b: 459), endowment methods that actually long predate the Hellenistic and Roman periods (Spencer 2010b). The burials of the divine bulls in both Lower and Upper Egypt remained still relevant for the local elites. The burials of the Buchis divine bulls in Hermonthis, a town located to the south of Thebes, are well attested during the Roman times and the last one occurred in 340 CE (cf. Grenier 1983: 197–208; Grenier 1988: 69–71; Grenier 2002: 247–258; Grenier 2003: 267–279; Goldbrunner 2004: 78–79, 116–118, 161, 301–302). The Mnevis bulls were apparently still buried in Heliopolis as late as 210/211 CE, although their burials are not attested archaeologically. The chief priest of the imperial cult (ἀρχιπροφήτης τῶν κυρίων Αὐτοκρατόρων Σεβαστῶν) and the official of the temples at Heliopolis and Aphroditopolis (ἐπὶ τῶν ἐν Ἡλίου πόλει καὶ Ἀφροδίτης ἱερῶν), Taseus, together with other priests of Heliopolis, acknowledged the receipt of linen from Maron, a priest of the temple of the gods at Tebtunis (P. Tebt. 2 313 = TM 13473). This receipt is written in Greek with demotic signature, but the demotic signature is left unpublished.8 The situation in Roman Memphis is little known and only briefly studied (Leclère 2008: 87–90; Thompson 2012: 247–257), mainly because the Roman city is poorly preserved and even worse documented. Given the fragmentary and chance nature of surviving evidence, it is hard to trace the coherent history of traditional Memphite cults during the Roman period, although the precinct of Ptah certainly remained active until the first half of the 3rd century CE at the latest (cf. Quaegebeur 1980: 74–76) and life in the city might have been more vivid than surviving evidence permits us to describe. To name just one example, there is no evidence of hieroglyphic 8

For this problem in general see Lippert 2010: 427.

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inscriptions at Memphis after the reign of Augustus, which would be expected in such an important Egyptian city, especially in comparison to the contemporary Thebes (Klotz 2012a). The famous Memphite Serapeum at North Saqqara, the exclusive burial place for the Apis bulls during the millennium and a half, seems to be abandoned at the beginning of the Roman rule (Dodson 2005: 89). As mentioned before, the burials of the Roman bulls have not yet been discovered. In fact, the penultimate Ptolemaic bull, the Apis of the cow Tabastet, discovered in c. 73 BCE at the village of Pagereghor in the Cynopolite nome (Upper Egypt) under Ptolemy XII Neos Dionysus and died in c. 49 BCE at Memphis under Ptolemy XIII Theos Philopator and Cleopatra VII Philopator is the last bull mentioned in the Serapeum inscriptions (cf. Thompson 2012: 282–283). There was at least one more, the Apis of the cow Tapihy/Taihy, who is named in at least two surviving inscriptions dated to 42/41 BCE under Cleopatra VII and Ptolemy XV Caesarion found within the catacombs of the Mother of Apis cows at North Saqqara (cf. Smith, Andrews and Davies 2011: 10), located northwards from the northern gate of the Serapeum. Thompson (2012: 283) suggests that the bull of Tapihy/Taihy may have been the Apis whom Octavian refused to visit in 30 BCE. The place of his internment is still unknown since a stone sarcophagus is missing from the so-called chamber K’, perhaps the last one cut within the Serapeum before the abandonment (Dodson 2005: 88). Furthermore, the excavators of the catacombs of the Mother of Apis cows suggest one or even two further burials introduced there following that of Tapihy/Taihy (Smith, Andrews and Davies 2011: 11), meaning that perhaps two more Apis bulls may have been discovered during the early Roman period. Similarly, the three Buchis bulls were found during the reign of Augustus in the Thebaid (Goldbrunner 2004: 102–103). It is important to point out that there was a break in a succession of the Buchis bulls since the successor of the bull that died in 29 BCE was born only in 13/12 BCE and identified and installed in the forecourt of the Luxor temple on an unknown date afterwards. Similar breaks in the succession of the Apis bulls throughout the Roman period cannot be excluded as was mentioned before. The formal support of the provincial administration towards the divine bulls was institutionalized in the Gnomon of the Idios Logos, a compilation of the relevant rules and laws first issued under Augustus, later modified and supplemented, in many ways functioning as an instrument of public finance (cf. Swarney 1970: 93–94; Capponi 2005: 32–34; Speidel 2013b). Chapter 89 is important for the Apis and Mnevis bulls: it prescribes the obligation of the regular provisions of finest linen garments (στολίσματα) by all Egyptian priests for their burials (BGU 5 1210, col. 9, lines 203– 204 = TM 9472). The bull-burier or ταυροτάφος Nepheras is mentioned in a Greek letter from Philadelphia (Gharabet el-Gerza) in the Fayyum broadly dated to 41–54 CE (SB 14 12143 = TM 14552; cf. Youtie 1977). The parallel title, συνταυροτάφος, is attested on a Greek papyrus fragment from Oxyrhynchus (Bahnasa) in Middle Egypt dated to the reign of Domitian (81–96 CE; P. Oxy. 2 395 = TM 20604). Also, as late as

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the beginning of the 3rd century CE, the priests of Apis (ἱεροτίθηνοι Ἄπιδος ἀειζώου θεοῦ μεγίστου) were paid from the public funding (δημοσίων τραπεζειτῶν) according to their own laws (τοῦ αὐτοῦ νομοῦ) (P. Ross. Georg. 5 15 = TM 27207; P. Ross. Georg. 16 = TM 27208), implying that the specific native regulations had been applied during the Roman period in order to support the cultic organization in Memphis (see below). Indeed, the re-edition of traditional Egyptian sacred laws by Apollonides, presumably a high priest of Memphis, is attested in 86 CE (cf. Capponi 2011: 509 n. 18), which perfectly coincide with the support of the Flavian Dynasty towards the Egyptian cults (Capriotti Vittozzi 2014). 3 The burial of the Apis in SB 6 9346: c. 156 CE? The earliest attested burial of the Apis bull during the Roman period is later. It is mentioned in a Greek receipt regarding the delivery of linen for the Apis of the cow Glameo (Ἄπιδος Γ¢ λαμηοῦς), which was found in the village Bakchias (Βακχιάς) in the Fayyum (P. Lund 4 9 = TM 11881). Notably, this text mentions the Mother of Apis cow by distinctive name for the first time in sufficiently published records after the Ptolemaic times. Two priests of the Sobek temple and the Amun temple respectively, both precincts located in Bakchias, wrote to six people in Memphis, a group apparently serving as members of a committee that was collecting fine linen (βύσσος) for the mummification of the Memphite divine bull. Bakchias, the modern Kom Umm elAthl, is located at the north-eastern part of the Fayyum (Rosetti 2017). The committee itself is composed of three people holding Greco-Roman civic duties and three people obviously connected to the precinct of Ptah. Unfortunately, the date of the text is not preserved since the very end is missing. The current proposed dating to 164/165 CE (cf. BL 3, 105), in fact, has no support in the text itself. The date of the burial thereby could be narrowed down by the committee members mentioned in a perhaps chronologically close document combined with the life expectancy of the Apis bulls. The first name stated in this document is of Glaukias, son of Hermaiskos (Γλαυκίας Ἑρμαΐσκου), who was once a gymnasiarch (γεγυμνασιαρχηκὼς), followed by Asklepiades (Ἀσκληπιάδης), a deputy-gymnasiarch (ἀντιγυμνασιάρχης; cf. BL 5, 65) and ultimately Sarapion (Σαραπίων), once a high priest at the temple of Hadrian (ἀρχιερατεύσας Ἁδριανείου). In the following six lines, there are three double names of apparently Egyptian officials plausibly attached to the temple of Ptah. Hardbes alias Apollonios (Ἁρδβης ὁ καὶ Ἀπολλώνιος) was a successor of orapeia and high priest (διάδοχος τῆς ὀραπείας καὶ ἀρχιπροφητείας), while the man whose name is highly illegible and Pachthinis alias Harimouthes (Παχθεινις ὁ καὶ Ἁριμουθης) respectively were the sacred scribes (ἱερογραμματεῖς). As a result, this document sheds some light on the social structure of Memphis during this period. A former gymnasiarch, Glaukias must have been a wealthy individual

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of high authority and distinction, appointed as a magistrate by the Roman authorities from the local urban elite (cf. Legras 1999: 181–187). Significantly, Glaukias belonged to the privileged social group of Greco-Egyptians who were members of the gymnasial-metropolitan order in the nome metropolis, awarded with a substantial tax reduction and the monopoly on the urban magistracies (cf. Bowman and Rathbone 1992: 120–125; van Minnen 2002; Vandorpe 2012: 263–264; Broux 2013). His family was likely well-established in Memphis since his probable brother might be identified as the scribe who noted delivery of the linen for the burial of next Apis bull, which was also organized again under the auspices of Glaukias himself (see below). Glaukias certainly exhibited the possibility that the gymnasiarchy could be held for a number of years (cf. Lewis 1983). Asklepiades was a member of the same social milieu and is very likely the same individual attested in a Greek document from Memphis dated to September 2, 156 CE as the father of Apollonios (Ἀπολλώνιος τοῦ Ἀσκληπιάδου), owner of a private bank at Memphis (P. Lond. 2 317 = TM 19983). Coincidently, the high priest Sarapion is mentioned in the same document serving at the Memphite temple of Hadrian. His name is also utilized as a chronological determination (διὰ τῆς ἐν Μέμφει Σαραπίωνος τοῦ Ἀρείου ἀρχιερατεύσαντος Ἁδριανείου), only further indicating his high social status in the city. Although the name of his father (Ἄρειος) is not stated in P. Lund 4 9, it is highly possible that he is the same person as the one mentioned in P. Lond. 2 317. The high priest (ἀρχιερεύς) was a city official who was appointed from members of the wealthiest local families and was responsible for the public cult festivities and the imperial cult respectively (cf. Drecoll 1997: 104–105; Capponi 2011: 513–519; Pfeiffer 2012: 91–92). In the case of Sarapion, he certainly participated in the organization of a major native religious festival (the burial of the Apis bull) and served as a priest in the imperial cult (of Hadrian), invoking the ancient cultic organization when the highest priesthood of Ptah involved in the burial of Apis bulls held at the same time the highest position in the imperial cult. For example, the first known Roman high priest of Ptah, Pasherienamun II, was also the priest of Caesar (cf. Marković 2015: 41). The main difference here is an evident detachment of these two cultic practices away from one person by this time. The same document could also help us in dating the burial itself. Keeping in mind that the average age of death for the Ptolemaic Apis bulls was between twenty-two and twenty-three (Thompson 2012: 184) and the next attested burial of a different Apis bull in preparation happened in c. 170 CE (see below), it is conceivable that the burial of the Apis of the cow Glameo occurred around 156 CE, if not earlier. It is important to note that the evidence for the divine bulls in the whole of Egypt is very scarce during this period. Only one shortlived Buchis bull is securely dated between 129 CE and 254 CE, although the burial chambers are found cut within the Bucheum and probably used: the mentioned bull is born in 140 CE and died in 143 CE (cf. Goldbrunner 2004: 104–105). Since literary sources mention the discovery of the Apis bull in 121 CE (SHA Hadr. 12.1), there might have been at least one bull after that one, i. e. the one that died in c. 156 CE.

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As stated before, three men bearing double-names must have been people attached to the precinct of the god-creator Ptah, the home of the Apis bull. The first among them, Hardbes alias Apollonios, deserves special attention for at least two reasons: his name and titulary. His name is obviously Egyptian, belonging to a Horos name type, where the Horos element (Ἁρ-) corresponds to the Apollo element in Greek. So far, there are only four attestations of a Horos type double-name in the Roman era where the Egyptian element is stated first (Broux 2014: 107, 109), while the meaning of the name is still dubious. Similarly, Pachthinis alias Harimouthes also has the Egyptian name, his second name (Ἁριμουθης) being @r-jj-m-Htp (Horos Imhotep; cf. PN I, 245/22; NB Dem, 789). The veneration of Imhotep is well-attested in the Memphite area (Thompson 2012: 194–196), while this specific name was used over several generations of the powerful family of high priests of Ptah during the Ptolemaic period.9 The ἱερογραμματεύς is probably to be equated with the Scribe of Divine Books (sS mDA.tnTr), which is also identified with the πτεραφόρος, and belongs to the higher echelons of the sacerdotal hierarchy (cf. Ryholt 1998: 168–169; Pfeiffer 2004: 78 with n. 61). The ἱερογραμματεῖς were present in the sanctuary of Apis (Ἀπεῖον) on January, 23 171 CE, a couple of months after the preparations for the Apis burial discussed below, during the proceedings regarding circumcision of a priest’s son (BGU 1 347 col. 1 = TM 9069). They were also consulted if the boy was unblemished. The title of Hardbes alias Apollonios is rather intriguing as well. As stated above, he was a successor of orapeia and high priest (διάδοχος οραπεία καὶ ἀρχιπροφητεία). The title ἀρχιπροφήτης most likely designate a high priest of the traditional Egyptian temple in the nome metropolis, but only in the case of Memphis is it linked to the οραπεία (Parsons 1974: 143). Προφήτης in Greek has a direct equivalent in Hm-nTr (god’s servant) in Egyptian (Pfeiffer 2004: 76–77), the highest order of priests within the individual Egyptian temple, while the prefix ἀρχι- indicates a very high rank in the nomenclature of the Greek East (cf. Quass 1993: 19–79). This double office (οραπεία καὶ ἀρχιπροφητεία) is attested in Memphis regularly throughout the 1st and 2nd centuries CE (cf. Bülow-Jacobsen 1979). It was a specifically Memphite office (τῆς ὀραπείας καὶ ἀρχιπροφητείας τῆς Μέμφιδος; cf. below). At present, the earliest surviving attestation is of the already mentioned Apollonides in 86 CE, who is at the same time the best example of how important this double office was in and beyond Memphis (cf. P. Gen. 1 7 = TM 11245; P. Ryl. Gr. 4 676 = TM 18119). The correspondence between him and an unknown Roman high official, perhaps the Idios Logos himself,10 is preserved, found in the Arsinoite nome in the Fayyum, perhaps belonging to the temple of Soknopaiu Nesos (cf. Schubert 2004: 297). In a letter that this unknown senior official sent to the royal scribe of the Arsinoite nome (βασιλικός γραμματεὺς Ἀρσινοείτου), 9 10

Cf. PP III/IX, 5355, 5356, 5357, 5460, 5460a, 5460b. Cf. Schubert 2004: 296. Otto (1905: 240–241) proposed that the sender might be the Alexandrian ἀρχιερεύς, while another solution is proposed by Parsons (1974: 154).

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Apollonides is called ὁ κράτιστος ἀρχιπροφήτης (cf. P. Gen. 1 7, 4–5). In a copy of a letter that the same official sent to Apollonides, preserved attached to the previous one, he probably addressed him as Ἀπολλωνίδηι ὀ[ράπει κα]ὶ ἀρχιπροφήτῃ (cf. P. Gen. 1 7, 13–14). A copy of a letter that Apollonides originally sent to the same official (cf. P. Ryl. Gr. 4 676, 7–22) is preserved attached to a letter this official sent to the royal scribe (P. Ryl. Gr. 4 676, 1–6), which is in fact a shorter version of P. Gen. 1 7, 1–12. It is clear that Apollonides had complained to the higher power that his rights had been violated: contrary to “ancestral customs” (ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἔθος), certain priests were awarded positions without the approval of the ἀρχιπροφήτης. The official wrote to the royal scribe to confirm the rights of the ἀρχιπροφήτης and ordered him to cancel the positions granted illegally. Following his instructions, the royal scribe wrote to the temple in order to restore the previous situation, attaching a letter sent by the ἀρχιπροφήτης (cf. Kruse 2002: 737–739). It is clear that, although the civil authority of the provincial administration became the guarantor of the functioning of traditional clergy, the ἀρχιπροφήτης in Memphis is still the one who had a privilege to approve certain appointments within the temples. The supreme authority of the ὀρᾶπις καὶ ἀρχιπροφήτης over traditional priesthoods is further emphasized in a letter of the strategos Artemidoros to the royal scribe Harpokration alias Hierax about the admission of people to the priesthood, found in Soknopaiou Nesos, dated to February/March of 193 CE (SB 14 11342 = TM 14436), where it is stated that the priests in Egypt (ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ ἱερεῖς) have to obtain a sealed document (χρηματισμός) issued by ὀραπεία καὶ ἀρχιπροφητεία τῆς Μέμφιδος before they are further admitted to their priesthoods or another position (ἱερωσύναι ἢ καὶ ἕτεραι τάξις), which is in line with the activities of Apollonides himself. The reputation of Apollonides was well-known in the second half of the 2nd century CE, when Theophilus of Antioch (died c. 188 CE) mentions him as Ἀπολλωνίδης ὁ καὶ Ὁράπιος, the author of βίβλος ἡ ἐπιγραφομένη Σεμενουθί (Ad Autol. II 6 = FGH III C661, 212–213). The Σεμενουθὶ itself is mentioned in a memorandum on temple affairs dated to after 14 CE (SB 16 1253 = TM 14609) as ἱερατικοῦ νόμου Σεμενοῦτις, thus identified as “priestly law” (Quaegebeur 1980/1981: 229–240). Apollonides obviously knew his rights according to ancestral customs (see above) and probably only prepared a new edition of the juristical text. Since Apollonides bears only one name in the letters stated above, Parsons (1974: 156) was probably right when he suggested that Ὁράπιος in this specific case should be considered as a misunderstanding and corruption of his another title, ὀραπίς, rather than his second name. His conclusion that ὀραπίς is a Greek transcription of the Egyptian title jrj-pa.t (Parsons 1974: 143), usually translated as the hereditary noble or the member of elite (literally “he who pertains to the elite”; cf. Wb II, 415–416), is only briefly contested by Quaegebeur (1980: 54, 74), who argued that this reading is phonetically untenable. Later, he cited jr-rpay as phonetic writing for Demotic rpay in Ptolemaic papyrus P. BM EA 10405 from Saqqara (Quaegebeur 1994: 240–241; cf. Thissen 1980: 165, 167; Muhs 2010: 401– 402). Nevertheless, Quaegebeur had never fully explained his opinion. Thompson

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(2012: 253 n. 60) recently tentatively suggested that the term is likely to be Egyptian, but without any further comment. Certainly, during the Pharaonic, Persian and Ptolemaic times, the jrj-pa.t denoted a high court rank and represents the most important and prestigious honorific title, restricted to a small number of people (cf. Kees 1953: 212, 216, 274). As mentioned above, it is commonly transliterated as rpay, irpAy or irpay in Demotic (cf. EG, 245–246; CDD R [01.1], 3). As already suggested by Parsons (1974: 143), in five Greek translations (CPR 15 2 = TM 9904; CPR 15 3 = TM 9911; CPR 15 4 = TM 9912; SB 1 5231 = TM 13979; SB 1 5275 = TM 13994) of a Demotic contract of sale and cession of a house from Soknopaiu Nesos (P. Deme 3 5 with the Greek part earlier published as P. Lond. 2 262), all dated to November 21, 11 CE, the same word is transcribed as ὀρπάις or ὀρπέει. Schentuleit (2001: 136) explained alternations in Greek: while -ις represents a Greek declension ending used for the syntactic integration of the Egyptian words, the difference in writing is due to the phonetic corruption, and thus to the change, in Greek from α to ε, ι to ει, and omission of ϛ. Three instances of this title ended with -ι (cf. CPR 15 2; CRP 4; SB 1 5231), while this part of the text is not preserved on SB 1 5275. Significantly, it has been proposed that the average number of irregularities in preserved texts increases at the very end of the 1st century BCE and in the first half of the 1st century CE leads to peaks much above the average (cf. Depauw and Stolk 2015: 205). Since there are no further bilingual texts containing the title in question, the possible equation of ὀρπάις and ὀραπίς with jrj-pa.t could be only explained in theory. The title jrj-pa.t is composed of a nisbe form (jrj) from a preposition r (Allen 2014: 112) and a noun pa.t. Furthermore, the consonant j in Middle Egyptian is known as a “weak” consonant and often is omitted in writing (Allen 2014: 23). Finally, the consonant j also shows that a syllable began or ended with a vowel (Allen 2014: 18). In this case, a phonetic non-etymological transcription would be ὀρ[ὀ]πάις. Since irregular writing α instead of ο is attested in the Fayyum during the 2nd century CE (cf. P. Mil. Vogl. 6 264 = TM 12429 from Tebtunis), as well as the omission of α (cf. P. Hamb. 1 71 = TM 11409 from Philadelphia) during the same period, the proposed explanation is rather possible. Since ὀραπίς is only attested in Memphis, together with the common designation of a high priest of the traditional Egyptian temple in the nome metropolis, it is clear that the holder of the ὀρᾶπις καὶ ἀρχιπροφήτης double title was indeed the highest ranking traditional priest in Memphis during the Roman period. 4 The burial of the Apis bull in c. 170 CE The preparations of the next burial are also attested in a receipt regarding the delivery of linen (P. Gen. 1 36 = TM 11230). This document represents a Greek receipt with Greek autograph subscriptions, Demotic autograph subscription and Demotic summary. The structure of the text is the same as in SB 6 9356. A priest from the Fayyum

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village of Soknopaiou Nesos is writing to a committee in Memphis to inform them about the quantity of fine linen that he personally delivered in the name of all priests of the local temple of Sobek lord of the island and other gods (ἱερεῖς Σοκνοπαίου θεοῦ μεγίστου καὶ τῶν συννάων θεῶν; for this temple, see Davoli 2014). Contrary to SB 6 9356, this receipt is securely dated: November 15, 170 CE. The Apis bull is the offspring of the cow Thamois (Ἄπιδος Θαμόϊτος). When the next bull was found is not know at present. The ἀρχιερεύς Ulpius Serenianus certainly held the audience at the sanctuary of Apis on January 23, 171 CE, where an Egyptian priest requested permission for the circumcision of his son, which Ulpius Serenianus granted after consultations he had with members of the traditional temple, including the ἱερογραμματεῖς. This hearing happened only a couple of months after the preparations for the Apis burial mentioned in P. Gen. 1 36. The composition of a committee is the same as for the previous burial. Glaukias, son of Hermaiskos seems to assume the duty of gymnasiarch (γυμνασιαρχήσας) in 169/170 CE again. The next person mentioned is Anoubion, who just become gymnasiarch (Ἀνουβίων ἀποδεδιγμένος γυμνασιάρχης), possibly succeeding Glaukias in the late 170 CE. Anoubion is very likely the same person as the son of Anoubion (Ἀνουβίων Ἀνουβίωνος) attested in 156 CE as the Memphite resident who went through the gymnasium (Μεμφείτης ἀπὸ γυμνασίου) (cf. P. Lund 4 9). His father is named Labois Anoubion, originally from Heliopolis (ἀποίκου Ἡλίου πόλεως Λαβόιτι Ἀνουβίωνος), and his mother is Tnepheros from Memphis (Τνεφερῶτος Μεμφείτῃ). Both of his parents had Egyptian names: lwbj (NB Dem, 722) and &A-nfr-Hr (NB Dem, 1068). Nevertheless, contrary to the previous burial preparations, only a successor of orapeia and the high priest is mentioned by his name. His name is distinctively Egyptian: Φιβις or PA-hb (the ibis; NB Dem, 202–203). Other people are just assumed under the broader expression καὶ τοῖς σὺν αὐτοῖς οὖσι πρὸς κηδείᾳ τοῦ ἱερωτάτου Ἄπιδος Θαμόϊτος (“and to those who take care with them of the holiest Apis of Thamois”). However, four scribes apparently received the linen. One of them is Anoubion, son of Hermaiskos (Ἀνουβίων Ἑρμαΐσκου), plausibly the brother of Glaukias. Two Demotic lines were published by Schubert (2002: 150–151). They contain a personal statement of pA mr-Snj saying that he confirms the delivery of the linen for the burial from the temple of Soknopaiou Nesos. This temple position, usually rendered as λεσῶνις in Greek, was reorganized during the Roman period and designated a member of the priesthood who served as a financial intermediary, collecting specific temple taxes for the priest and making payments on their behalf to the state officials (Monson 2012: 223–227). In this case, the λεσῶνις was responsible for the information on the exact amount of linen that the temple of Soknopaiou Nesos sent to Memphis. He wrote his autograph subscription in Demotic, a preferred language of the inner temple administration, instead of Greek that was usually used (cf. Muhs 2014: 111).

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5 Conclusion After the burial in c. 170 CE, there is no mention of the Apis burial in sufficiently published surviving sources. Two burials discussed here were probably successive ones, implying that the divine bull which died in c. 156 CE was born and discovered either earlier in the reign of Antoninus Pius (138–161 CE) or later in the reign of Hadrian (117– 138 CE). The large quantity of high-quality linen intended for the embalming ritual itself came from traditional temples at the Fayyum (Bakchias and Soknopaiou Nesos). Therefore, the Fayyum priests fulfilled their duty to send the finest linen for the burial of the Apis bull, like it was demanded by the Idios Logos and the Roman provincial administration. The linen was collected by the λεσῶνις in Greek or pA mr-Snj in Demotic, who was responsible for the inner finances of traditional temples. Both receipts were written in Greek, addressed to a committee that was collecting the linen itself. Nevertheless, contrary to the previous times, the burials of the divine Apis bulls apparently came under the supervision of gymnasial-metropolitan urban elites in collaboration with the Egyptian priests. In all surviving examples, a committee was composed of (1) a former gymnasiarch and well respected individual, (2) a current gymnasiarch or his deputy and (3) some other prominent people at Memphis, such as the priest of the Imperial cult, cited before the Egyptian person who held a double office, the ὀρᾶπις (indicating indigenous elite status) and the ἀρχιπροφήτης (a chief traditional priest in Memphis), and several ἱερογραμματεῖς. There could be no doubt that the ὀρᾶπις and the ἀρχιπροφήτης was only a continuation of the office of a high priest of Memphis that was usually perceived as abolished under the Romans (cf. Monson 2015: 27). The ἱερογραμματεῖς were present during the delivery of the linen in order to write down its exact amount. In both known Apis burials from the Roman period, Glaukias, son of Hermaiskos is mentioned as a committee member and his probable brother Anoubion was one of several scribes that received the linen. Therefore, their family must have had a high social status and prominence in Memphis during the reigns of Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius. Acknowledgements The author would like to express his tremendous gratitude to the editors for their kind invitation to contribute to this volume and their enormous patience with various versions of the draft, as well as to two anonymous reviewers for their most useful comments on the initial draft. Finally, special thanks go to Dr. Nemanja Vujičić (University of Belgrade) for helping the author with Greek texts and his comments.

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Ryholt, K. 2005. “On the Contents and Nature of the Tebtunis Temple Library: A Status Report.” In Tebtynis und Soknopaiu Nesos: Leben im römerzeitlichen Fajum Akten des Internationalen Symposions vom 11 bis 13 Dezember 2003 in Sommerhausen bei Würzburg, ed. S. Lippert and M. Schentuleit. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. 141–170. Schentuleit, M. 2001. “Die spätdemotische Hausverkaufsurkunde P BM 262: ein bilingues Dokument aus Soknopaiu Nesos mit griechischen Übersetzungen”, Enchoria 27. 127–154. Schubert, P. 2002. Les papyrus de Genève Volume 1: Textes documentaires. Genève: Bibliothèque publique et universitaire. Schubert, P. 2004. “Continuité et changement des cultes locaux en Egypte romaine à travers trois documents de la collection papyrologique de Genève.” In Les cultes locaux dans le monde grec et romain, ed. G. Labarre. Lyon: de Boccard. 295–303. Smelik, K. A. D.; Hemelrijk, E. A. 1984. “‘Who Knows Not What Monsters Demented Egyptian Worships?’ Opinions on Egyptian Animal Worship in Antiquity as Part of the Ancient Conception of Egypt.” In Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt (ANRW) Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der aktuellen Forschung / Rise and Decline of the Roman World II, Principat, Band 17 4: Religion (Heidentum: Römische Götterkulte, Orientalische Kult in der römischen Welt), ed. W. Haase. Berlin and New York: de Gruyter. 1852–2000, 2337–2357. Smith, H. S.; Andrews, C. A. R.; Davies, S. 2011. The Sacred Animal Necropolis at North Saqqara: The Mother of Apis Inscriptions. London: Egypt Exploration Society. Smith, M. 2017. Following Osiris: Perspectives on the Osirian Afterlife from Four Millennia. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Speidel, M. A. 2013a. “Germanicus’ Visit to Egypt.” In The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, first edition, ed. R. S. Bagnall, K. Brodersen, C. B. Champion, A. Erskine and S. R. Huebner. Chichester and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. 2905–2906. Speidel, M. A. 2013b. “Idios logos, gnomon of the.” In The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, first edition, ed. R. S. Bagnall, K. Brodersen, C. B. Champion, A. Erskine and S. R. Huebner. Chichester and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. 3390–3391. Spencer, N. 2010a. “Priests and Temples: Pharaonic.” In A Companion to Ancient Egypt, ed. A. B. Lloyd. Chichester and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. 255–273. Spencer, N. 2010b. “Sustaining Egyptian Culture? Non-royal Initiatives in Late Period Temple Building.” In Egypt in Transition: Social and Religious Development of Egypt in the First Millennium BCE Proceedings of an International Conference, Prague, September 1–4, 2009, ed. L. Bareš, F. Coppens and K. Smoláriková. Prague: Czech Institute of Egyptology. 441–490. Stadler, M. A. 2007. “Zwischen Philologie und Archäologie: das tägliche Ritual des Tempels in Soknopaiou Nesos.” In New Archaeological and Papyrological Researches on the Fayyum: Pproceedings of the International Meeting of Egyptology and Papyrology Lecce, June 8th – 10th 2005, ed. M. Capasso and P. Davoli. Galatina (Lecce): Congedo. 283–302. Stadler, M. A. 2012a. “Funerary Religion: The Final Phase of an Egyptian Tradition.” In The Oxford Handbook of Roman Egypt, ed. Ch. Riggs. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 383–397. Stadler, M. A. 2012b. “Egyptian Cult: Evidence from Temple Scriptoria and Christian Hagiographies.” In The Oxford Handbook of Roman Egypt, ed. Ch. Riggs. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 457–473. Swarney, P. R. 1970. The Ptolemaic and Roman Idios Logos. Toronto: Hakkert. Thissen, H.-J. 1980. “Ein demotischer Brief aus dem Anubieion”, Serapis 6. 165–169. Thompson, D. J. 2012. Memphis under the Ptolemies. Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press.

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Van Minnen, P. 2002. “ΑΙ ΑΠΟ ΓΥΜΝΑΣΙΟΥ: ‘Greek’” Women and the Greek ‘Elite’ in the Metropoleis of Roman Egypt.” In Le rôle et le statut de la femme en Égypte hellénistique, romaine et byzantine: actes du colloque international, Bruxelles-Leuven, 27–29 Novembre 1997, ed. H. Melaerts and L. Mooren. Leuven: Peeters. 337–353. Vandorpe, K. 2012. “Identity.” In The Oxford Handbook of Roman Egypt, ed. Ch. Riggs. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 260–276. Vandorpe, K.; Clarysse, W. 2019. “Cults, Creeds and Clergy in a Multicultural Context.” In A Companion to Greco-Roman and Late Antique Egypt, ed. K. Vandorpe. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. 405–427. Veïsse, A.-E. 2004. Les “révoltes égyptiennes”: recherches sur les troubles intérieurs en Égypte du règne de Ptolémée III à la conquête romaine. Leuven: Peeters. Vittmann, G. 1998. Der demotische Papyrus Rylands 9 Teil I: Text und Übersetzung Teil II: Kommentare und Indizes. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Vos, R. L. 1993. The Apis Embalming Ritual: P Vindob 3873. Leuven: Peeters. Winkler, A. 2015. “A Contribution to the Revenues of the Crocodile in the Imperial Fayyum: The Temple Tax on Property Transfer Revisited”, Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists 52. 239–263. Youtie, H. C. 1977. “P. Mich. Inv. 855: Letter from Herakleides to Nemesion”, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 27. 147–150.

Addressing the Emperor as a Religious Strategy at the Edge and in the Center of the Empire Jörg Rüpke

Religion is a spatial practice (Knott 2005; 2008; Meyer 2014; Rüpke 2020).1 Religious practices take place in physical space and they thereby create and sacralize religious places. Above all, however, religion is a practice that brings something into a specific place from beyond that place. This “transcendence” is achieved by addressing persons, powers, or objects that either have powers that extend far beyond the time and place in which they are addressed or that are present in the very place in a particularly thorough manner. The specific mode of transcendence depends on the character of the addressee, for instance, in the different cases of ancient Olympian deities or local genii. For Mediterranean religious practices of the imperial age, this space-referential capacity was of particular importance. This chapter will argue that directly addressing the emperor (or emperors) in religious communication or bringing him (or her or them) into such communication as additional beneficients (pro salute) distinct from the divine addressees was a religious strategy developed to exploit this capacity. In scholarly discussions, talk about “imperial cult” focuses attention on the political benefits at the center and the diffusion of the practice from the center to a geographically defined periphery. Following the lead of Simon Price (1984), instead, I will take a bottom-up perspective, inquiring about the options offered by these religious practices to actors at the periphery. Even if the narrative starts at the center, Rome (1), it is a narrative in which the initiatives are taken at the fringes, it is a narrative about giving permanency and visibility to such addresses to the emperor in the form of ded-

1

Work on this chapter has been supported by the ERC Advanced Grant “Lived Ancient Religion” of the European Union, FP 7, no. 295555. In an earlier version, it is included in my Pantheon, Princeton University Press, 2018. I have to thank the editors for the invitation and the audience at Petnica for the intensive discussion. Paul Scade has to be thanked for his intensive work on the English text, financed by the Max Weber Centre for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies of the University of Erfurt.

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ications, monumentalized inscriptions, temples, or foundations for smaller or larger rituals (that is to say, festivals) on the edge of empire (2). This is not to claim that these practices were specific or even exclusive to social or geographical peripheries. Such a claim could be contradicted very easily by noting the participation of members of the imperial family at Rome or of provincial governors. However, such practices were also open to the peripheries and were particularly attractive there, as can be seen from the absolute and relative quantities of the surviving evidence when categorized by location (see e. g. Belayche 2001; Kaizer 2002; Spickermann 2003; 2008; Schäfer 2007; Steimle 2007; Tsochos 2012). It is the specific interaction, imagined as well as real, between the center(s) and peripheries that is of interest here. Thus, my analysis is also concerned with attempts at the center to control such practices (3). Throughout this discussion, I will try to reconstruct motives for engagement in such actions and in the trans-regional communications and institutionalizations that framed and informed these choices. Finally, I will return to specific spatial aspects of addressing the emperor and the locations of the agents involved (4). 1 Introducing new gods It was a certain Gaius Amatius who provided the impetus for the posthumous worship of Caesar, assassinated on March 15, 44 BCE and then cremated in the Forum to the great tumult. Along with some followers, Amatius had an altar erected on the site of the funeral pyre. Amatius had form in this regard. He appears earlier in the historical record, claiming to be the grandson of the popular military commander and multiple consul C. Marius. Although he is said to have been, in fact, a horse- or eye-doctor called Herophilus (the textual tradition is not clear), he amassed many followers in his guise as a relative of C. Iulius Caesar. The latter had difficulty ridding himself of the pretender (Val. Max. 9.15.1. Livy, per 116 speaks of a “son” sprung from the humblest of backgrounds). Even Cicero speaks of him as “Marius” (Cic. Att 14.6–8; April 12–15, 44 BCE). In his role as “relative”, Amatius swore revenge against Caesar’s assassins but was himself removed from the scene by Marcus Antonius before the altar he had set up could come into use. The people, having occupied the Forum after Amatius’ murder, demanded that the altar be dedicated and that the first sacrifices be made to Caesar (App. BC 3.1.2–3). The desire to worship Caesar as a god was evidently widespread and not confined to Amatius and his coterie. Yet such a step involved a risk, as did any invocation of a god. The risk consisted in the possibility of the lack of any divine response, a fact that would have been judged inappropriate or threatening by bystanders. The religious action could also simply be challenged on the basis of the ontological status of the addressee, who might just be a powerless god, a foreign figure, a demon, or even just a dead human – more general atheism was rare in antiquity, even if not unknown to intellectual debate as well as being expressed on a number of tombstones (see in

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general Rüpke 2015). For the episode under scrutiny, the move was challenged for a different reason. A rival entered the contest for power, calling Caesar to his side as a god: quite inopportunely – as yet – for Caesar’s successors. The tradition tells us that the murder of Amatius had to be complemented by character assassination. A good thirty years earlier, the sequence had been reversed. Marcus Marius (Gratidianus) had twice been city praetor and as a nephew of Gaius Marius had been revered in his lifetime by Roman citizens, who made offerings to him of candles and incense. To remember, Plautus, in his comedy Asinaria, has his characters argue about which traditional gods’ name they should use to address their benefactor. They agree that offerings before a statue and an altar will constitute him a god (Plautus, Asinaria 711–18). In response to the addressing of Marcus Marius, Sulla had him seized by Catiline, his legs broken, his eyes put out, his tongue and arms severed while still alive, an incident that was still reported with abhorrence a hundred years later by Seneca in his essay On anger (Sen. De ira 3.18.1–2; see also Gradel 2002: 51). Here again, the involvement of a god in the everyday activities of Roman citizens constituted a risk and could be punished after a change of regime, something that could happen in the blink of an eye. Religious communication with a new addressee was thus easy to set in motion. Just a few conventional signs or activities, either alone or in combination, were enough to make clear the religious dimension. Whether the communication would be judged to be appropriate by those attending or observing was far less easy to foresee. For the initiative did not have to lie with social or political elites. Quite the contrary: as the examples above show, such initiatives could, in various respects, interact with and alter existing power structures. The involvement of living or recently deceased individuals as new addressees in religious communication by their bereaved relatives, whether this was a divine Marius or a divine Iulius, was no less charged a project than the involvement of established deities perhaps belonging to opposing groups or ethnicities. Examples include Isis and Serapis, who were repeatedly established on and then thrown off the Capitoline hill during the years preceding (Varro, ant rer div fr. 46 Cardauns). In those texts that serve us as sources, such moves and countermoves are narrated in terms not only of outcome – perhaps a new cult locale – but also of process. Like for my own argument, it is not in terms of the spread of some type of worship, of “ruler worship” or “imperial cult” (for these concepts, see Cancik and Hitzl 2003; Liertz 1998; Scheid 2004), that these events are important. Rather, they serve as representative instances of a religious strategy also available at the edges of the Empire, namely to involve in local religious communication new addressees from a distance and, above all, from the center. Simon Price’s exemplary analysis of local elites in cities in Asia Minor has demonstrated how conventional and, at the same time, creative such an appropriation could be (Price 1984). However, neither Greek traditions nor the initiative of local notables were preconditions. Analyzing the introduction of new gods of this type in a wider framework of religious communication helps to show the potential of such religious practices, so widely attested throughout the Imperium Romanum (for this

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perspective on religious communication see Tyrell, Krech and Knoblauch 1998; Rüpke 2001a; 2001b; Schörner and Šterbenc Erker 2008; Rosenberger 2013; Rüpke 2014). The initial examples emphasize that religious communication was not restricted to a dialogue between a human actor and a divine addressee but functioned in a much wider social or spatial context. While the religious initiative might distinctly enhance the agency of those who put it into motion, it was essential to win allies for such ventures, perhaps even beyond the circle of already existing family, friends, or followers. Early examples of non-elite initiatives are attested in Italy. Before 15 BCE at Beneventum, the arriviste Publius Veidius Publii filius Pollio remembered in literature for his cruel practice of feeding slaves to moray eels, erected a “Caesareum” for Augustus and the colony (CIL 9.1556; on the individual see Cass Dio 54.23.1–6). Sometime later, at Ferentinum, one Sextus Hortensius Clarus erected not only an “Augusteum” but also a forum and an ancillary building for the citizens. He marked the dedication of the building, erected at his own expense and on his land, with a great banquet (CIL 11.7431; further examples in Hänlein-Schäfer 1985: 89–93). It was social climbers in particular who gained a new quality of public presence by successfully establishing a cult locale or annual ritual (cf. the Japanese emperor cult: Yuge 1985; see also Ladage 1980). The social capital they could earn made them more ready to cover the costs arising from such projects and to commit their own time to performing associated functions. This is demonstrated by the many examples of Augustales (seviri Augustales) in Italy (Silvestrini 1992; Abramenko 1993; Pappalardo 1995; Gasparini 2014) and is underlined by the establishment of priesthoods (often called flamines) in the provinces (see e. g. Bassignano 1974; Alföldy 1973; Campanile 2004; Horster and Klöckner 2013). Many participants stood to gain from the extension of religious activity. 2 Religiously addressing rulers Despite the potential gains, to begin something new in societies that acquired their perceived stability from what had “always been so”, from traditions of action, thought, and speech was also always risky. To imitate the actions of the powerful and successful, of Roman, or, rather, Mediterranean merchants and administrators, was one possible approach for individuals on the periphery, whereby even resistance could occasionally become “cool”. The appropriation of Roman religious practices led to the creation of enormous quantities of inscriptions and temples across the western Roman Empire. For religious communication whose purpose was to open up opportunities for agency and to secure central positions in existing local or provincial societies, it was important that the addressee, the designated “divine” counterpart, should be plausible to onlookers and capable of eliciting their consent. To make this addressee the far-away ruler in Rome doubtless constantly evoked surprise among local audiences thinking in terms of traditional, that is to say local, gods.

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And yet, such a choice had much to be said in its favor when seen against the background of the risks involved in religious communication and the selection of its addressees in general. The Roman ruler’s existence could scarcely be doubted. His power too was undeniable, even if the assertion of its relevance to any particular situation may not have been indubitably plausible in every case. It was presumably more readily disputed by the denizens of distant, wealthy provincial cities or remote rural districts than by Italics, men with Roman citizenship, or those newly subjected. To all, however, the princeps of the moment offered an unambiguous point of reference, a person whose face was here and there to be seen, his name to be read, the effects of his actions to be related (for a general treatment of the emperor’s referentiality see Ando 2003). How relevance was maintained in particular instances of communication (on the concept of relevance in communication theory, see Wilson and Sperber 1994; 2012), and the detail of how the specific male or female addressee was decided upon, depended on a number of factors, including the competence and knowledge evinced by the actors in question, as well as their originality and the local traditions of religious discourse. In what follows I will review some of the options that were available and realized in the 1st and 2nd centuries CE for identifying, addressing, and involving emperors or people close to the emperor in religious communication. These options show the many points of departure in (above all Latin) traditions that enabled, but also limited and shaped, the strategies, and defined and modified what was plausible to local observers, as much as to viewers from the center. As a consequence, the following examples do not aim at being a geographically representative. Instead, they serve a typological purpose, intending to categorize the conceptions of the addressee that was defined as divine in such acts of religious communication. 2.1 Manes The first item on the list does not concern a living emperor, but a future one, already dead. To place dead ancestors in the same category as deities and to employ the same ritual practices in communicating with them was an old Italian tradition (also found in other cultures – see Rüpke 2018, passim). From the first century onwards, starting at the city of Rome, this approach was reflected in the epigraphically attested address of the dead as di manes (see Bettini 2009; cf. Raepsaet-Charlier 2002 on the diffusion and the problems of dating). Against this background, the detailed description of a ritual addressed to a dead emperor-to-be, as well as the wording used, is of considerable interest. These details show just how carefully ritual plausibility and wide social involvement were organized. After the death of Lucius Caesar (17 BCE–2 CE), Augustus’ adoptive son, the town council of the colony of Pisa decided to erect an altar with an annual ceremony for Lucius’ manes. Significantly, even the term di manes, increasingly frequent in contemporary inscriptions, was omitted from most passages of the

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resolution at Pisa (CIL 11.1420 = ILS 139; see also the subsequent resolution after the death of Lucius’ brother Gaius Caesar in 4 CE – CIL 11.1421 = ILS 140). The committee and the clerks involved – Quintus Petillius, Publius Rasinius Bassus, Marcus Puppius, Quintus Sertorius Pica, Gnaeus Octavius Rufus, and Aulus Albius Gutta, all individually named – took as much care in setting out the requirements for the actions to be performed as in designating the addressee: utique apud eam aram quodannis a d X[III k Sept p]ublice Manibus eius per magistratus eosve, qui ibi iuri dicendo pr[ae]runt, togis pullis amictos, quibus eorum ius fasque erit eo die [eiu]s vestis habendae, inferiae mittantur, bosque et ovis atri infulis caerulis infulati diis Manibus eiu[s] mactentur eaeque hostiae eo loco adoleantur superque eas singulae urnae lactis mellis olei fundantur, ac tum demum facta[m] c[eteris p]otestatem, si qui privatim velint Manibus eius inferias mitter[e nive quis] amplius uno cereo unave face coronave mittat, dum ii qui im[molaver]int cincti Gabino ritu struem lignorum succendant adque [peri]nde habeant … (ILS 139.16–26). … and that at the altar every year on the 16th of August underworld offerings should be sent to his Manes in a public ritual by the magistrates or those who are at the head of the jurisdiction, clothed in dark togas, to whom of them on that day full human and divine law will allow to use such a clothing. A black bull and sheep, adorned with dark blue bands shall be sacrificed to his di Manes and these animals should be burned in that place and onto them, one urn each of milk, honey, and oil should be poured. And after this finally permission is given to everybody else, if a private person wishes to send underworld offerings to his Manes as long as it does not exceed the throwing of one candle, one torch, or one crown and as long as those who consecrate the animals girded in Gabine style set alight the heap of wood and then have … (my translation)

What does the text tell us? Those who performed prominent roles in the death ritual had to wear black togas. The ox and the sheep to be slaughtered were similarly to be adorned with black bands, blue-black being regarded as the color of deepest mourning in Rome (on this color system see Rüpke 1993). A pitcher full of milk, honey, and oil each was to be poured over the animals’ cremated remains. Those who lacked the legitimacy of public office were allowed to participate, but they were restricted to a candle, a torch, or a wreath, which they might throw into the burning pyre. Further rules were directly taken from the relevant resolution of the Roman Senate (on the spectrum of relevant aristocratic traditions of ritual performance, see Scheid 1993; 2007; 2009). All, according to the epigraphic version of the resolution from Pisa, was to be recorded in an inscription directly adjacent to the altar. Religious communication with Lucius’ manes was at its most impressive in the annual performance on August 20, but it remained visible beyond that occasion, even if only by the carefully positioned altar, in front of which the burnt offering was also made after the Greek model. Thus, beyond an ephemeral ritual enactment, a ritual tradition or “cult” was established, radically new but at the same time entirely within the established religious categories, as acceptable at Pisa as at Rome.

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2.2 Divus As just illustrated, reflection on what it meant to be human found expression in the emergence of the term di manes. An answer also emerged to the question as to whether and how rulers should be addressed in religious communication. Within the field of positions between human and divine, divus marked an understanding of the transition in terms of a sharply defined distinction. Divus was, formally speaking, a personal title, the word’s use signifying an assertion of the identity of human being and god. In a similar fashion to the way senators during the Republic had discussed whether observed portents were to be considered as prodigies for the res publica, now they were to discuss whether the human being they had themselves observed could have become a god (Várhelyi 2010: 166). At the same time, the fact that the title also occurred in some older names of gods – Diva Palatua, Diva Angerona, Diva Rumina, Bona Diva2 (also Bona Dea) – pointed towards the world of established deities. However, the terminology was far from standardized, even at the center, and could, indeed, even be ambivalent. Cicero himself appears to have used divus as a designation for ancient deities and deus for such new ones as had arisen from the deification of humans, although the textual tradition here is uncertain (Cic. Leg. 2.22 in the reconstruction of the text by Andrew Dyck). In short, when used in relation to a formerly living person, the term divus suggested a perceptible change of status. In Rome, the senators or the heirs of an emperor provided the necessary basis for such a clear-cut switch from human to divine status by performing the consecration ritual (see Kierdorf 1986; Price 1987; Rosenbaum-Alföldi 2015). In figurative and partly also ritual terms, the metaphor of the ascent to heaven was central, whether in the form of a soaring eagle or of a journey on Sol’s chariot (this is still valid in the early 4th century: Rosenbaum-Alföldi 2015). The ascent could be observed and, like the appearance of a new star, a comet in Caesar’s case, or the empty tomb with the rock pushed aside in the case of Jesus, it was empirically comprehensible or could be authenticated by eyewitnesses. The established ritual referred back to ancient narratives, beginning with Romulus, and repeated them reliably and observably. It always took place on the Field of Mars (for the topographical context and development see Albers 2013: 206–211). The organizers always released an eagle, whose ascent everyone could observe. There was always a funeral pyre, even when the corpse had long been disposed of (thus Jaccottet 2013). This theology of ascent or “Ascension” was unsophisticated. However, as we shall soon see, it permitted oversight.

2

E. g. Varro, Ling 7.45; Fasti Praenestini, Inscr It 13 2 139; Ov. Am. 3.637; Fast 5.148; Plin. HN 3.65; Solinus 1.6; Aug. civ 6.10 (Varro).

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2.3 New gods are known gods The alternatives to this sharply marked ascent from human being to god lacked a similar level of control and ritual standardization. The richest associations between (former) human and the divine derived from the conception that the other, and above all the ruler, might be the epiphany of a known god. To incorporate this assumption into one’s own project of religious communication was not only to honor the individual thus identified (in case a malevolent observer wished to raise an accusation of maiestas). In addition, this type of address also opened up a rich spectrum of images and narratives of that god that could be called upon to enhance the plausibility of their project further. However, the opposite direction of transfer may have been more critical in everyday reality: the importance and contingent relevance of an address directed towards a known god might be enhanced by association with personal and political facets of the identified individual. An obvious choice was the figure of Hercules: energetic, a creator of order, and at the same time himself a human being promoted to divine status, Hercules thus stands as an exemplar of the matter at issue here (on Hercules/Herakles, see Jaczynowska 1981; Ritter 1995; Schultz 2000). But the spectrum was broader. It extended from Jupiter, the main political god of the city of Rome, and Zeus, who played a comparable role in many cities of the Eastern Mediterranean world, through the triumphant Dionysos (translated as Liber Pater), to Apollo and Romulus Quirinus. In many instances, the individual affected would suggest such identifications himself, by making a god a particularly important personal addressee, sponsoring temples or games to him or her, or dressing the part. 2.4 Augustus and Augusta Proximity and genealogical reference, epiphany or internal presence of the divine: the possibilities for conceptualizing the relationship with a god were many and varied, while the demand for precision was, on the whole, rare. Here too, individuals resorted to older reflections about the relationships of gods to one another, which had found expression in the copious juxtapositions and subordinations of gods’ names. Ennius mentions Nerio or Nerie Mavortis as well as a Hora Quirini in his epic Annales, written at the beginning of the 2nd century BCE, and Gellius in the 2nd century CE sets out what alternative understandings lay behind these names. The power of Mars? The Nerio in the sphere of Mars? Nerio, wife of Mars? Peaceful Mars?3 Thus, Augustus’ wife Livia was addressed after her death (in the dative, denoting her as the recipient)

3

Enn. ann 99–100 Skutsch; for the interpretation Gell. NA 13.23.7, 15 and 19.

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as Livia Augusti dea, Iuno Livia (Liviae?) Augusti, and Ceres Iulia (Iuliae?) Augusta/ae.4 These were not slips of the tongue but rituals so important to their principals that they were also expressed in epigraphic form. What remained ambiguous in linguistic terms could be clarified figuratively, if, for example, the instigator of the religious communication placed two statues next to one another. (Dea) Roma and Augustus were a favored pairing, while Venus and Caesar were a controversial match. Choice of material might provide nuance that united or polarized observers. The clearly established autonomy of human personality itself provoked questions about its ontological status, its place in an order in which angels, demons, and gods, while frequently invoked and thus known, were enigmatic as far as details were concerned. The utmost variety of local conceptions could lie concealed behind a concept such as “angel”. In a given specific situation, their identification could well prove controversial (for angelos Cline 2011: 75; see also Fauth 2014; Muehlberger 2013). 2.5 Numen and genius Of the possible positioning in the field of the divine, two were frequently chosen and rapidly institutionalized. One of these was the Numen Augusti, a “power of assent” attaching to the Augustus. According to Varro, qualities such as this were assigned above all to Jupiter (Varro, ling 7.85; cf. Livy 7.6.8–11). It now provided a possible formulation for an addressee located beyond a spatio-temporal situation and yet ascribed effective power within it. In its precise imprecision – quite clearly divine yet in an unclear relation to the person of the Augustus, which is to say making no assertion as to his status – this concept was propagated by provincial administrations and elites in the context of prominent religious activity, as, for example, in founding and operating central cult locations (see Fishwick 2002: 234). Theological systematization followed only later, when the concept of numen had already been widely disseminated in connection with Augusti (see e. g. Serv. Aen 1.8; 5.241, Georg 1.21; cf. Pötscher 1978; Fishwick 1991; Fenechiu 2008, the latter with painstaking analysis of pre-imperial sources). In a similar fashion, many actors rapidly appropriated and thus shaped (for the concept of “appropriation” see Certeau 1984) the concept of genius on their own account. It was occasionally used in domestic religious practice in order to capture the notion of a family centered on the father. However, this usage did not become popular until the Genius Augusti became a topos (for the latter Hänlein-Schäfer 1996; Rosso 2014), at which point it was used to capture the binding power of human groups as addressees of religious communication, the common element in all the uses of genii Genii of cohorts 4

ILS 119–121. In Juno and Ceres, two goddesses associated with maternal roles are invoked here; imperial-age theorizing over the “Juno” of every woman (Sen. epist 110.1; Plin. HN 2.16) is extraneous here.

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and legions, and even of detachments (vexillum), were present in military dedications (for an overview Stoll 2001). No such far-reaching power of innovation was assigned to the numen (an exception perhaps in CIL 10.3920 = ILS 6307: numen Capuae). Genius and numen as concepts also remained confined to the Latin language with no trace of any comparable notion appearing in Greek or any other Mediterranean language. 2.6 Pro salute and further strategies of addressing The desire to encourage reflection on the person of the Augustus or his family was, at most, of secondary concern in the choice of such addressees in religious communication. The central strategy underlying the choice lay in the enormous boost to the relevance of communication that brought an empire-wide actor into the local context. Onlookers might well have regarded such a step as “unnecessary”, but such an attitude would not alter the fact that the principal had thereby enhanced the status of his or her petition. In consequence, of course, they would also have to respond to the challenge of giving a suitably lavish form to the act of communication in question. Opting for the emperor raised the threshold of adequacy for such s ritual action. This also applied to cases in which the Augustus or Augusti were not directly addressed by the principals but were included, perhaps along with their family, as the beneficiary of communication with divine addressees: pro salute Augusti … (“for the emperor’s wellbeing”) was a formula frequently used across all religious orientations (Reynolds 1962; this also applies to writers in a Christian context, such as Tertullian (apol 29–30) and Lactantius (e. g. mort pers 34.5), see Kahlos 2011: 261–266). It rendered any more precise description of the projected “wellbeing” unnecessary while permitting extensions such as “unharmed”, “departure and return”, and the like.5 Strikingly, the formula was almost never abbreviated, this occurring only when the principal’s own welfare (salute sua) was indicated. The formula provided an easily recognizable form that was required in view of the complex relationship between actor and beneficiary. The choice unmistakably implied a claim to a relationship with the ruler as a person; its extension to the entire imperial family, the “house of the divus” (domus divina), was accordingly unproblematic (on the emergence of this concept, see Wardle 2009: 480–483; on the formula in honorum domus divinae see Cesarano 2015; generally on the family as domus Saller 1984; Hölkeskamp 2014). This method of including the Augusti in local religious communication was plausible because the rulers were already present in many ways, extending from rare direct communications via letters to town councils or officials to the more common figura-

5

See e. g. the comprehensive list of beneficiaries and principals in CIL 6.225 = ILS 2186: pro salute, itu, reditu et victoria imp(eratorum) …

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tive presence of not only the rulers but also of their growing children. In some cases, for example in imperial villas such as that at Chiragan (Martres-Tolosane in southern France), these were even on view in the form of true-to-age portraits, periodically adapted or exchanged for a portrait of more advanced age. Especially when having such portraits created, local principals or patrons often entered into correspondence with the person to be represented. This served both to ensure the quality of the portrait (and perhaps ascertain the subject’s current likeness) and to draw attention to the personal initiative undertaken (see e. g. Eck 1995). However, in making known their desire to establish a form of religious veneration of the emperor on a permanent basis, it was not only with the center in Rome that city representatives in the provinces, for instance, entered into more intensive communication. Such ventures were at the same time competitive forays against other cities of the region. This was true, especially of the densely urbanized areas of Asia Minor (Price 1984). In the cities of the Greek East, such initiatives were very carefully monitored, not least by organized mutual festival delegations (theoria), and they were judged to be an element of the competition for renown. A delegation from Ptolemais-Barca in North Africa, sent in 154 CE to the feast of the Capitolia established by Domitian, was warned by Antoninus Pius that its visit created a precedent for yet more (unnecessary) competition (Rutherford 2013: 440–441, Text G4). The warning appears to have helped. There were alternative avenues available. The title neokoros, “guardian of the imperial cult”, represented an official distinction in this competition between cities for prestige (Friesen 1993; theoriai: Rutherford 2007; 2013). Coins minted centrally, distributed above all by means of military wages and bearing the portraits of the Augusti, brought the emperor’s figurative presence, which underlay all these activities, into the everyday (Norena 2001; Chancey 2004; Williams 2007). This was an important part of the plausibility of the emperor as a powerful, divine addressee. 3 Controlling religious communication: priesthoods at the edges and the center When it came to religious activity involving new gods identified with the rulers, scarcely any other area was as subjected to the interplay of local actors with their own ideas of the entities thus created. At the same time, scarcely any other area was as exposed to the concern of the political and administrative leadership of the Empire to control the establishment and use of symbols referring to the emperor. The priests of the cults of deceased and deified emperors were the chief instrument for the control of symbols (see Rüpke 1996) and were themselves the objects of contention among both controllers at the center, usually senators, and controllers in distant provinces, such as members of city councils. Evidence for the center is most explicit. In the text of a speech in the

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Senate on September 19, 44 BCE (the so-called Second Philippic), Cicero, the speaker, takes Marcus Antonius, appointed flamen in Caesar’s very last days, sternly to the task. He accuses Antonius of behaving now like the flamen of the god Julius (divo Iulio), setting himself up as the equal of the flamines of Jupiter, Mars, and Quirinus. Cicero’s polemic goes on to ask why Antonius has not yet been inaugurated, ritually introduced into the priestly office and calls for a mechanism of control for the new type of priesthood (Cic. Phil 2.110; on Antonius’ appointment in Caesar’s lifetime CD 44.6.4). The ritual was not in fact brought into being, and the role thus institutionalized, until 40 BCE (Plut. Ant 33.1), whereas the luperci Iulii had already been established by Caesar himself: they were evidently regarded as his priestly “bodyguard”. Their dissolution as early as 43 BCE also saw the end of Antonius’ leading role as their magister (see Rüpke 2008: no. 669 with further sources). As we have seen before, religiously addressing the ruler was something of a risk. The “son of the god”, Divi (Iuli) filius, soon to be called Augustus, regarded the position of the flamen to be so much in need of control that, after Antonius’ death, and probably as early as 29 BCE, he transferred it to his (still young) nephew Sextus Appuleius (CIL 8.24583 = ILS 8963 with Rüpke 2008: no. 687 on the identification), son of a consul of that year. We may assume that it was at this same time6 that the de facto sole ruler established alternative forms for the religious veneration of rulers. The Arval brethren preserved the memory of Romulus and memorialized important moments from the life of the family and the rulership of the Augustus in their rituals (Scheid 1990). The future Augustus oriented the sodales Titii, who had already existed in the Republican age and probably embodied a reference to the ancient tribus Titiensis,7 to an annual cult at the supposed tomb of the mythical Sabine king and five-year colleague of Romulus, Titus Tatius. About twenty years later, Dionysius of Halicarnassus as a newcomer to Rome accepted this public cult as an established fact (Dion. Hal. ant Rom 2.52.5; there too the information about the five years in a shared office). Several decades of dominance assured even risky enterprises. Terms such as fratres, “brethren”, or sodales, “companions”, unlike flamen, left the status of the revered person uncertain. When Augustus died in 14 CE after an unexpectedly long life, recourse was had to the model of the sodales Titii, although with qualifications imposed by Tiberius. Thus the sodales Augustales would follow the pattern set by Titus Tatius, who had enjoined his “companions” to perpetuate Sabine cults: Tacitus’ account in his Annales leaves the actors of 14 CE and their particular positions entirely unclear. The lottery for the twenty-one places included the entire elite and was 6 7

Augustus’ membership and, presumably, thus also his initiative is attested only in August. Gest 7, see Rüpke 2008: no. 1012. The only Republican source is Varro, ling 5.85, where the more precise description until the beginning of the exposition [… augures ab avibus] quas in auguriis certis observare solent is omitted from the tradition of the Codex unicus. Scheid 1990: 252 establishes the connection with the curia.

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only subsequently complemented by the appointment of Tiberius, Drusus, Germanicus, and Claudius, constituting the dynastic core of the Claudians (Tac. Ann 1.54.1). The family had a sanctuary in Bovillae in Latium, which was now monumentalized. Whether there the sodales Augustales exercised any ritual function prior to the completion of construction work is unknown to us. With the lavish equipment of the new locale, including epigraphic membership lists (see Rüpke 2005: 24), the actors involved intentionally blended the gentilician, and thus non-public, character of the sacrarium of the gens Iulia with the cult of divus Augustus, whose statue was erected there (see Tac. ann 2.41.1; similarly Wissowa 1912: 565). Attempts at control, such as the consecratio with its clear-cut change of status were frustrated by such deliberate blending. Maintenance of the cult of the gens Claudia Domitiaque at Antium was subsequently transferred to the same group (thus with Wissowa from Tac. ann 15.23.2). Accordingly, the name was extended to become sodales Augustales Claudiales. These meticulous incremental adjustments carried out by Tiberius did not prevent the sodales from being perceived as a “proper” priesthood. As early as 22 CE Tiberius had to allow the Augustales, as the priesthood of the domus Augusta, the family of Augustus, to host games pledged by the Senate, in common with other highly-regarded priesthoods (Tac. Ann 3.64, esp. 4). The possibilities for both Augusti and senators to assert their positions for the long term were evidently limited. Those limits were to be found both in the perceptions of third parties and in the internal dynamics of the new institutions, even in the readiness (or lack thereof) of individual members of the priesthoods or their dependents and clients to reproduce the detail of titulatures. So the following two centuries saw the parallel emergence of sodales Augustales Claudiales, sodales Flaviales Titiales, sodales Hadrianales, and sodales Antoniniani (for all deified emperors from Antoninus Pius to the Severans). Isolated attempts in the second half of the 2nd century to reduce or centralize this apparatus by establishing a union of personnel between sodalities or a new group of sacerdotes domus Augustae, perhaps a kind of court priesthood, show no signs of long-term success (Rüpke 2005: 1587–1600). The flaminate, that priestly role that, in Rome, appeared largely bereft of an autonomous initiative by virtue of its embedding in the pontifical college (Rüpke 2002), was exceedingly successful in the provinces. In many places in the Roman Empire, the role of flamen (and, for deified female members of the ruling house, the flaminica) became an important opportunity to practice and configure the ruler cult. From Britannia to Africa, Hispania to Syria, members of local elites and those seeking advancement used the chance afforded by religious communication with the divi Augusti (and Augustae) to enhance their own agency and religious experience. Extensive expectations, of course, applied to the office, normally held for a year. It nevertheless provided scope for personal initiatives affecting the spatial and architectural, as well as the ritual, face of these new gods, extending into the realm of “mysteries” (Pleket 1965; Gagé 1981; 1986; Clauss 1999: 339–41; the phenomenon does not feature in the study by Engster 2002, otherwise rich in material). The figure of the flamen, and even

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the lifelong office of flamen perpetuus, became a hallmark of Rome-oriented towns well into Late Antiquity, the office even being held by individuals who saw themselves as Christians ( Jarrett 1971; Alföldy 1973; Fishwick 1981; Christians: CIL 8.450; Marcillet-Jaubert 1987; see in general Boin 2015). As in Rome, its presence could be augmented by groups whose members were seen as priests or magistrates by virtue of their cult role. These Augustales, already mentioned above, were recruited partly from the ranks of arrivistes, freedmen, and partly from existing local economic or political elites. To some extent, they constituted a distinct social class (Di Vita-Évrard 1997; Cébeillac-Gervasoni 2000; Gasparini 2014: 267–272). Again, the evidence from the center should not fool us with regard to the tension mentioned at the beginning of this subchapter. The spatial limits of effective control created a huge discrepancy between the interest in and the success of control. Thus, we need to be very careful in supposing a far-reaching isomorphy of offices, even if the terms (such as flamen) are identical. 4 Conclusion The reference to the ruling Augustus was rich in possibilities. The ruler might appear as a military victor and protector, as the quintessence of piety (when posing as sacrificer), as a generous patron, as a savior during natural catastrophes, as a source of wellbeing. This diversity was reflected far from Rome in individual interventions and donations recorded on building inscriptions, in the Augustus’ presence on military standards or in the form of statues, and images and legends on coins. In these respects, the invocation of an emperor became plausible as it was related to a person perhaps never seen except on coins, yet unambiguously existent. The invocation was also rendered plausible in its special “divine” quality by the minor rituals and major festivals celebrated by Roman administrators and soldiers, as for instance documented in the ferialia of units of the Roman army (Fink, Hoey and Snyder 1940, Fishwick 1988, Reeves 2004; Rüpke 1990: 174–176), or as enacted in a provincial governor’s house (see Haensch 1997; 2006). In this way, it offered every subject of the emperor a reference point that was at the same time individual and socially plausible (further developed by Ando 2001; 2003; 2013; demonstrated for instance for Paul by Maier 2013). However, the increasing sacralization of the Augusti through the images they disseminated and the etiquette by which they formalized access to their persons also increasingly restricted the scope and flexibility of such references (Hekster 2011). The possibility of treating the particular quality of the ruler in reflection and conversation – especially after his death – was to this extent reduced. It was the senators and intellectuals of the Principate who were able to discuss the boundaries of human potential using the emperor as an example, without awaiting the passage of a great interval of

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time8 – a discourse frequently originating in the capital but which could (often successfully) spread to readers throughout the empire. As early as the twenties of the 1st century BCE, the Apulian poet Quintus Horatius Flaccus (Horace), a protégé of Augustus’ Etruscan confidant Maecenas, wondered whether it was a god in human form that had been sent to Rome’s aid. Not until the last lines of his poem does he propose a solution to the puzzle by identifying this savior as the young Caesar (Hor. carm 1.2). The same poet went further a decade later. In the fourth book of his carmina, which may have been published sometime around 13 BCE, he addresses Caesar as a son of the gods, comparing his presence in the city with the light and the spring, and saying that he makes the day fairer and the sun brighter (Hor. carm 4.5.1–8). However, it is above all military successes that are mentioned again and again. Against this background, so the songs relate, Caesar is invoked in prayer with libations of wine and his divine power (numen) revered along with the Lares. To him are compared Castor and Hercules, adoptees of the gods (Hor. carm 4.5.33–6). A bare half-century later, it was self-evident to the historian Valerius Maximus, coming from a social stratum comparable to that of Horace, that a review of world history had to begin with an invocation of the ruling Caesar, the name having long since become generic for the imperial ruler. The foreword to Valerius’ collection of Exempla ends aphoristically with the assertion: “We received the other gods; the Caesars we gave” (Val. Max. 1, pr., see Rüpke 2016; on the limits to the ecumenical view see Nguyen 2008: 72–76). Images of the emperors increasingly characterized the cityscape. Independently of all other considerations, the material used, say, for statues themselves informs us of the agenda: a statue made of gold and ivory had to represent a god. Nobody after C. Iulius Caesar drew on such materials for himself during his own lifetime (Lapatin 2010: 150; see also Pollini 2012). The prominence of religious practices related to the Augusti and their families (on the beginning of dynastic strategies see Hurlet 2009) is unmistakable and can be seen most clearly in the array of great festivals held under the aegis of the public priesthoods. It was the production of calendars in the Roman mode of fasti that permitted this year-round presence to be conveyed to places outside Rome as well, to towns that did not themselves organize all these rituals: the brief entries in small letters to be found in calendars such as that at Amiternum referred to the biographies and successes of the Augusti. Here too, the physical material played a role: the use of marble in particular underlined the significance of these “narratives”. And it was the resistance of the material to the rapid additions and corrections made to these festivals and narratives due to conspiracies, victories, births, and deaths, that turned local patrons against the medium as early as the mid-1st century CE (Rüpke 2011: 140–145). Even the dissemination of epigraphic copies of Augustus’ Res gestae, the introductions

8

See e. g. Seneca, On clemency 1.10.3: no belief in divinity on command. On changes in genres and themes, see also Haake 2011.

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of which presented local Roman elements to everybody as part of the imperial Roman culture (Cooley 2014), was not repeated. The dates of the Roman festivals were, in any case, rarely adopted into everyday local affairs, even in the religious sphere,9 except where legal provisions imposed restrictions, for instance, on the conduct of legal cases. For all the possibilities offered by the new god or gods, in everyday life outside the capital, the emperor was still very far away. Experiences of the emperors were diverse and changing: optimism and disappointment, concrete benefactions or absence in daily life were all part of the local reality. Reference to these new gods was a risky business and always subject to question, whether at the edges of the Empire or in its center. This very specific character of these gods’ “transcendence” was my starting point. The political plausibility of the figure of the ruler could easily be exploited religiously. However, as the religious “transcendence” was also a form of political presence, this resource was competed for and controlled by very different agents, such as social climbers, local notables, or stake-holders at Rome. Once introduced, it needed to be adequate to those towering figures and constant effort was required in order to render the relationship plausible. In many towns, people made such efforts, while in others they did not. The geographical distance was not the criterion. Religiously addressing the imperatores created a spatial network that had its knots at the centers and on the edge of the Imperium Romanum – and even beyond (on the latter see Metzler 1989). This type of religious practices allowed the edges to come as close to the central resource of imperial power as people in Italy or Rome could. Bibliography Abramenko, A. 1993. Die munizipale Mittelschicht im kaiserzeitlichen Italien: Zu einem neuen Verständnis von Sevirat und Augustalität. Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang. Albers, J. 2013. Campus Martius: Die urbane Entwicklung des Marsfeldes von der Republik bis zur mittleren Kaiserzeit. Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert. Alföldy, G. 1973. Flamines provinciae Hispaniae citerioris. Madrid: Maestre. Ando, C. 2001. “The Palladium and the Pentateuch: Towards a Sacred Topography of the Later Roman Empire”, Phoenix 55. 369–411. Ando, C. 2003. “A religion for the Empire.” In Flavian Culture: Culture, Image, Text, ed. A. J. Boyle and W. J. Dominik. Leiden: Brill. 323–344. Ando, C. 2013. “Subjects, Gods, and Empire, or Monarchism as a Theological Problem.” In The Individual in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. J. Rüpke. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 85–111. Bassignano, M. S. 1974. Il flaminato nelle province romane dell’Africa. Roma: L’erma di Bretschneider.

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An exception was widespread acceptance of “1 August”, which was centrally decreed in the cult of the lares in the vici; see e. g. AE 1980: 57.

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Kierdorf, W. 1986. “‘Funus’ und ‘consecratio’: Zu Terminologie und Ablauf der römischen Kaiserapotheose”, Chiron 16. 43–69. Knott, K. 2005. The Location of Religion: A Spatial Analysis. London: Taylor and Francis. Knott, K. 2008. “Spatial Theory and the Study of Religion”, Religion Compass 2 (6). 1102–1116. Ladage, D. 1980. “Soziale Aspekte des Kaiserkultes.” In Studien zur antiken Sozialgeschichte: Festschrift Friedrich Vittinghoff, ed. W. Eck, H. Galsterer and H. Wolff. Köln: Böhlau. 377–388. Lapatin, K. 2010. “New Statues for Old Gods.” In The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations, ed. J. N. Bremmer and A. Erskine. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. 142–151. Liertz, U-M. 1998. Kult und Kaiser: Studien zu Kaiserkult und Kaiserverehrung in den germanischen Provinzen und in Gallia Belgica zur römischen Kaiserzeit. Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 20. Rom: Institutum romanum Finlandiae. Maier, H. O. 2013. Picturing Paul in Empire: Imperial Image, Text and Persuasion in Colossians, Ephesians and the Pastoral Epistles. London: Bloomsbury T & T Clark. Marcillet-Jaubert, J. 1987. “Sur des flamines perpétuels de Numide”, ZPE 69. 207–223. Metzler, D. 1989. “Kaiserkult außerhalb der Reichsgrenzen und römischer Fernhandel.” In Migratio et Commutatio: Studien zur alten Geschichte und deren Nachleben Th Pekáry zum 60 Geburtstag, ed. H-J. Drexhage and J. Sünskes. St. Katharinen: Scripta Mercaturae. 196–200. Meyer, B. 2014. “Lessons from ‘Global Prayers’: How Religion Takes Place in the City.” In Global Prayers: Contemporary Manifestations of the Religious in the City, ed. J. Becker et al. Zürich: Müller. 591–599. Muehlberger, E. 2013. Angels in Late Ancient Christianity. New York: Oxford University Press. Nguyen, V. H. T. 2008. Christian Identity in Corinth – A Comparative Study of 2 Corinthians, Epictetus and Valerius Maximus. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Norena, C. F. 2001. “The Communication of the Emperor’s Virtues”, The Journal of Roman Studies 91. 146–168. Pappalardo, U. 1995. “Spazio sacro e spazio profano: Il Collegio degli Augustali ad Ercolano.” In Functional and Spatial Analysis of Wall Painting, ed. E. M. Moormann. Leiden: Brill. 90–95. Pleket, H. W. 1965. “An Aspect of the Emperor Cult: Imperial Mysteries”, Harvard Theological Review 58. 331–347. Pollini, J. 2012. From Republic to Empire: Rhetoric, Religion, and Power in the Visual Culture of Ancient Rome. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Pötscher, W. 1978. “‘Numen’ und ‘numen Augusti’”, ANRW II 16,1. 355–392. Price, S. R. F. 1984. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Price, S. 1987. “From Noble Funerals to Divine Cult: The Consecration of Roman Emperors.” In Rituals of Royalty: Power and Ceremonial in Traditional Societies, ed. D. Cannadine and S. Price. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 56–105. Raepsaet-Charlier, M. Th. 2002. “Hic situs est ou Dis Manibus: Du bon usage de la prudence dans la datation des épitaphes gallo-romaines”, L’Antiquité Classique 71. 221–227. Reeves, B. M. 2004. The Feriale Duranum, Roman Military Religion, and Dura-Europos: A Reassessment. Ph. D. dissertation, University of Buffalo. Reynolds, J. M. 1962. “Vota Pro Salute Principis”, BSA 30 (ns 17). 33–36. Ritter, S. 1995. Hercules in der römischen Kunst von den Anfängen bis Augustus. Heidelberg: Verl. Archäologie und Geschichte. Rosenbaum-Alföldi, M. 2015. “Die consecratio des Constantius I. und der Sol-Kult”, Geldgeschichtliche Nachrichten 50. 136–141.

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The Impact of the Empire on Cult Places and Ritual Practices in Roman Gaul and Germany Ton Derks

1 Introduction Religion is often seen as a conservative bulwark that strongly resists changes. Reforms are often classified as a thin varnish layer which does not really change the existing structure. In this paper, I will argue that this representation is incorrect, at least as the religion of Roman Gaul is concerned. Much was continuously in motion, from the location of cult places, their spatial ordering and the selection of public cults to the kind of rituals conducted and the range of items deemed appropriate as gifts to the gods. During and immediately after the period of conquest, a distinction could perhaps still be made between the imported cults of the Roman invader and the “native” cults of indigenous communities, but very quickly these became entangled so profoundly that it would be not only very unproductive but also impossible to separate old and new, indigenous and foreign.1 In a paper of this length, it is impossible to present a comprehensive discussion of cult dynamics in the area which concerns us here, the Gallic and Germanic provinces of the empire. After arguing why it is vital to adopt the civitas as a historical unit of analysis, I will try to identify five or six different forms of cult dynamics and briefly explain each of them by an example. I will start with the establishment of new cults in the center of the Gallic civitas capitals, the fora. Next, I will discuss the case of an old tribal cult that was selected by the civitas authorities to become civic and therefore moved places from the countryside to the new civic center, to be followed by a discussion of the changing identity of civic gods under Roman rule. I will also briefly touch upon the disappearance of cults and the emergence of new ones, especially in the countryside. And finally, I will discuss the appearance of new categories of mate-

1

I like to express thanks to my colleague, Joris Aarts, for his comments on an earlier version of this paper.

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rial culture related to new rituals or changing pre-existing ritual practices. In my discussion of all these changes, I will focus on the most spectacular new archaeological, epigraphic and iconographic evidence gathered by archaeologists working in the three provinces of Gaul over the past two decades. For practical reasons, my examples will be drawn mostly from the civitas of the Treveri, for which there is good evidence, but, when appropriate, I will also include material from other communities. 2 Conquest and the re-ordering of the political landscape It is commonly accepted that the success of the Roman Empire was owed mainly to Rome applying the principle of indirect rule. Under the supervision of the central authorities, local communities in the empire were supposed to run their affairs themselves mostly. Thus the burden of administration could be kept to a minimum and the cost of government relatively low. With this approach, the future of the communities was placed in the hands of a few noble families. While these had freedom of action as long as public order was not threatened, we should realize that the design and set-up of the local administration were actively steered from Rome. This can be seen from the striking similarities between the municipal laws of communities widely separated in both time and space, e. g. the Lex Coloniae Genetivae Iuliae from the Caesarian period (Crawford 1996: no. 25), the Lex Flavia de municipibus from the late 1st century CE both from the province of Baetica, and the recently discovered Lex Troesmensium from the ancient town of Troesmis in Moesia inferior dating from the reign of Marcus Aurelius (Eck 2016). Though such documents are unknown for Gaul, we may assume that similar constitutions were effective in the Gallic communities. As these laws stipulate the organization and supervision of cults to be a task of the local government, any study of the religious landscape should take the civitas and the civic cults, i. e. those cults which were organized and paid for by the civitas, as a starting point of analysis (Scheid 2016). The transformation of the old tribal institutions to forms that complied with the Roman model of administration was initiated immediately after Caesar’s conquest. This is splendidly exemplified by the spectacular discovery of a Roman forum-basilica complex in the heart of the oppidum of the Aedui at Bibracte, dating to the period between 50 and 30 BCE (Szabó et al. 2007) and the hemicyclic building discovered in the oppidum of Corent in the territory of the Arverni (Poux 2015: 636–639; Poux and Garcia 2015: 650–653). Assuming, as the excavators do, that such Roman-style public buildings were used as the seat of administration and justice and an assembly space for political meetings respectively, their appearance within oppida reflects the earliest phase of the political transformation in the pre-Augustan period. Elsewhere in Gaul and Germany, the introduction of a Roman administrative system becomes first visible with the Augustan reforms when the centers of political power were moved from the oppida to new urban settlements founded in the plain.

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3 Emperor worship and its dynamics at the provincial and municipal level In the very heart of these new urban centers, new cults were created to forge and express the communities’ new relationships with Rome. I will discuss this presently but would like to draw attention first to the federal sanctuary of the Three Gallic provinces at Lyon. This sanctuary, located on the hill overlooking the confluence of the rivers Rhône and Saone, was dedicated to the cult of Rome and Augustus2 and was inaugurated by Augustus’ stepson Drusus on August 1, 12 BCE.3 It constituted the scene of the annual festival of the provincial imperial cult attended by civic envoys (legati) sent by the nobility of the Gallic communities in the Three Gauls and led by a priest elected from among them. As we learn from the odd historical reference (cf. note 2), the official title of the priesthood as recorded on the bases of statues erected for outgoing priests (sacerdos Romae et Augusti ad/apud aram) (Fishwick 2002, 17ff, esp. 60ff), and the emblematic representation on several series of bronze coins issued by the imperial mint of Lyon (Fishwick 1987: 104–105, pl. 1, 11, 12a, 13–17), the sanctuary’s central element and focus of the rituals was an altar; only under Hadrian was a temple added (Fishwick 1987: 316, 364). Since the modern town has overbuilt the sanctuary, archaeological knowledge of the site is fairly limited. It must have stretched over a considerable area comprising several porticoed (?) terraces at different levels of the slope (Frascone 2011). Nothing remains of the altar itself, which must have constituted the culmination point at the top of the hill; representations of the altar on the coin series suggest that its front side was adorned with reliefs of a corona civica flanked by two laurel trees as well as two dancing Lares, explicit references to the honors the senate had awarded to Augustus for restoring order after the chaos of the civil wars (cf. RG 34; RIC 277; Alföldi 1973, esp. 37). Impressive marble facing fragments decorated with reliefs of garlands probably covered the inner walls of an enclosure wall, foreshadowing in a sense 2

3

Suet., Claud. 2: ara ibi Augusto dedicata; Livy, Per. 139: ara dei Caesaris; Strab. 4.3.2: τό τε ἱερὸν τὸ ἀναδειχθὲν ὑπὸ πάντων κοινῇ τῶν Γαλατῶν Καίσαρι τῷ Σεβαστῷ πρὸ ταύτης ἵδρυται τῆς πόλεως ἐπὶ τῇ συμβολῇ τῶν ποταμῶν: ἔστι δὲ βωμὸς ἀξιόλογος ἐπιγραφὴν ἔχων τῶν ἐθνῶν ἑξήκοντα τὸν ἀριθμὸν καὶ εἰκόνες τούτων ἑκάστου μία καὶ ἄλλος ἀνδριὰς μέγας; Dio 54,32: τῆς ἑορτῆς ἣν καὶ νῦν περὶ τὸν τοῦ Αὐγούστου βωμὸν ἐν Λουγδούνῳ τελοῦσι. According to coins of the altar series: ROM(ae) ET AVG(usto). As for the issue whether the emperor Augustus was worshipped in his lifetime, cf. the pertinent comments by Hänlein-Schäfer (1985: 79–80) and Gradel (2002: 110–111) that Suetonius’ statement (Aug. 52: templa (…) in nulla tamen provincia nisi communi suo Romaeque nomine recepit Nam in urbe quidem pertinacissime absitnuit hoc honore, “he would not accept temples even in a province save jointly in his own name and that of Rome. In the city itself he refused this honor most emphatically”) just regards the state cult in Rome and the cults of the provincial koina. In Lyon, as in all other provincial concilia, the emperor was worshipped in connection with the goddess Roma, whereby his cult was subordinate to that of the goddess. The only exception is the Galatian koinon at Ancyra, where, according to the inscription on the temple’s left anta, Augustus preceded Roma, but this text was posthumously inscribed. In private cults and in civic cults of the municipalities Augustus could be, and was, worshipped in his lifetime by himself. On the date: Fishwick 1987: 97–99.

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the configuration of the Ara Pacis which was inaugurated a few years later (Fishwick 1987: 106/7 ff, pl. 6–7; Darblade-Audoin 2006: 111–113 (no. 334), pl. 119–121). With their position next to the altar of Rome and Augustus, two winged Victories placed atop of columns of Egyptian (!) granite (Fishwick 1987: 111–118: pl. 2, 5) proclaimed the start of a golden age brought to Gaul by the reign of Augustus. In this environment full of symbolic meaning, the highest Gallic elite brought their sacrifices to Rome and the emperor, expressing their own loyalty and that of the communities they represented. The crucial importance of the federal sanctuary becomes clear when one considers the erection of similar altars for Rome and Augustus – though on a more modest scale – in the fora of the Gallic civitas capitals, proclaiming the benefits of imperial rule to the local community. So far, only in the capital of the Treveri have scant remains of such an altar been identified, consisting of a fragment of marble facing with a decoration of oak leaf found in a secondary context (Breitner and Goethert 2008; Goethert 2010). However, thanks to the epigraphically attested municipal priesthoods associated with the imperial cult, we know for certain that at least in half of all Gallic communities a public cult for Roma and Augustus did exist (Fig. 1). It is, therefore, just a matter of time until evidence of the altars themselves will be discovered. As this paper explicitly seeks to discuss the dynamics of a cult, it is essential to note that the cult of Roma and Augustus, both in Lyon and in the local communities did

Fig. 1 Map of the civitates of the three provinces of Gallia Belgica, Gallia Lugdunensis and Aquitania. Shaded: civitates with attestation of a municipal priesthood of Roma and Augustus (map design: Drinkwater 1983).

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not remain unchanged. The honours paid to Augustus at first were gradually extended to other members of the domus Augusta, starting with his wife Livia and his intended successors, among them Gaius and Lucius Caesar. Honorific statues erected in fora and at other frequently visited public spaces must generally be seen in the context of patron-client relationships between the honouree and the civic community. Thus, many of the statues of the imperial family may be understood as payments in return for the benefactions of the emperor and his family.4 In the forum of the Augustan town of Waldgirmes, for instance, five bronze equestrian statues were erected in front of the basilica. Given the date of the foundation (c. 4 BCE) and the abandonment of the town (9 or 16 CE),5 the most important central statue can only have portrayed the emperor Augustus; the excavators assume that the other four statues represented the princes Tiberius and Drusus maior and Gaius and Lucius Caesar (Rasbach 2014; 2015). In the case of Trier, the capital of the Treveri, new evidence confirms the presumptions of earlier scholars regarding the strong ties between this community and the Julian house. The stores of the archaeological museums of Trier and Luxembourg yielded two fitting fragments of a colossal marble head which have been identified as part of a portrait of Augustus’ wife Livia. The image – twice as large as natural size – must have belonged to a statue group of the imperial family erected on a representative spot in the urban center of Trier, for which the forum would be a likely candidate (Krier 2014). With the absence of written evidence in the historical sources or inscriptions, we do not know who was responsible for the erection of the statues in Waldgirmes and Trier, but analogous to better-known examples elsewhere we may assume the council of the local community. While members of the early domus Augusta received honours during their lifetime, the tributes paid at the deaths of some of the imperial princes planted the seeds for a true dynastic cult even before the death of the first emperor, Augustus. After Drusus had been fatally injured in 9 BCE, the soldiers of the legions of his Germanic campaign transferred his body to their headquarters in Mainz, where they erected a honorarius tumulus for their commander.6 By order of Augustus himself, this largest burial monument north of the Alps became the focus point of yearly processions of the Rhine army and public sacrifices by Galliarum civitates (Suet., Claud. 1), i. e. the 60 communities

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5 6

Rosso 2009: 98: “On est dès lors en droit de penser que de tels actes d’évergétisme monumental ont pu susciter en retour une série d’hommages, notamment statuaires …”; “les hommages statuaires individuels décernés à l’un ou l’autre des princes de la jeunesse ont la particularité d’être souvent liés, directement ou indirectement, à l’exercice du patronat municipal ou, plus rarement, d’une magistrature locale à titre honorifique”. For these dates, Becker and Rasbach 2015: esp. 70–72, 124–127, 220–221. For the term honorarius, cf. Lebek 1989: note 8; for the identification of the tumulus with the archaeological remains of the so-called “Eichelstein”, ibid., note 1.

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of the concilium Galliarum.7 Once the monument and the annual ceremonies in honour of Drusus had been established, these determined future developments. After the death of his son Germanicus in 19 CE, the senate ordained that one of the three arches, which it decreed to be built in the latter’s honour, was erected in Mainz near his father’s funerary monument (Lebek 1989). In its decree, the senate praised Germanicus for ordinato statu Galliarum “having put in order the affairs of the Gallic provinces” (Crawford 1996, no. 37: Tab Siar., fr. I, 15). While this may have been one of the reasons why the Gallic nobility was happy to pay tribute to their princely patron, the unintended result was that the foundations for a dynastic cult were laid. Had Augustus’ adopted sons Lucius and Gaius Caesar enjoyed great popularity as future heirs to the throne,8 their unexpected and early deaths in 2 and 4 CE respectively, aroused deep feelings of sorrow across the empire.9 In Gaul, the civitates of the Treveri, Remi and Senones, among others, decided to erect monuments in commemoration of the princes’ deaths (Gallia 37, 1979: 424–425, fig. 19, Neiss 1982; Schwinden 2004; Debatty 2004; Rosso 2009). These memorials are only known through building blocks found in secondary contexts, their precise shape and primary location remains unknown. In the case of the Senones, the tribute took the relatively modest form of two equestrian statues. In Reims and Trier, the remaining blocks are supposed to have belonged to large funerary altars decorated with garlands, which stylistically echoed those on the inner screen wall of the Ara Pacis in Rome. In analogy with better-documented examples elsewhere in the empire, a case has been made that statues and altars were erected in the fora of the new towns as focal points of an annual funerary cult (Van Andringa 2002: 50–51; Rosso 2009: 104). An interesting question is as to what point in time the monuments in Trier, Reims and Sens remained in existence: if they lost much of their value soon after Tiberius’ rise to power, they might have become vulnerable to dismantling in order to make way for new monuments. If the worship of the emperor often included the most important other members of the domus Augusta, a next step was that the cult shifted focus from the present incumbent and his off-spring and future heirs to his deified predecessors. The power of the 7

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For the imperial decree of Augustus, Suet., Claud. 1. The active involvement of the emperor is also clear from Suetonius’ message (loc cit ) that Augustus composed the versed funerary inscription for the tumulus: nec contentus elogium tumulo eius versibus a se compositis insculpsisse. For discussion of the identification of the Galliarum civitates with the concilium Galliarum, Lebek 1989, esp. notes 16 and 63. His view (ibid., 70) that the Gallic and Germanic deputies were to see Drusus as the patron of the Three Gauls is exactly spot-on. While the two princes had traveled through the empire as part of their preparation for their future roles, on occasion replacing Augustus on imperial missions, these journeys and the meetings with local communities related with them had made them also well-known among the provincial population. Cf. Halfmann 1986: 25–28. Cf. the instructive example of the decreta Pisana: CIL XI 1420–1421; Rowe 2002: 102 ff; Segenni 2011.

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present and the future emperor was thus grounded in and legitimized by the past (Cesarano 2015). In the vocabulary of inscriptions, this is expressed by the introduction of the term domus divina. One of its earliest examples in the empire comes from the small town of Nasium (Naix-aux-Forges) in the province of Belgic Gaul. In an inscription on a stone monument erected by the local community, the dedication to the emperor Tiberius is expanded with the formula et pro perpetua salute divinae domus (CIL XIII 4635; CAG 55, p. 412–413). Interestingly, the term domus divina is used here even if, at this point in time, the domus of the divi was still very small and only comprised Julius Caesar and Augustus. For an example of the practical implications of deification for the organization of the cult, we may turn to the Narbonese colony of Vienne. The original building inscription of the classical podium temple in the forum (CIL XII 1845) was attached to the frieze; it was subsequently expanded over the architrave to make clear that Augustus’ wife Livia, after she had been deified in 42 CE, had been literally added to the original recipients of the cult, Roma and Augustus (Fig. 2). This also implies that a cult statue was added to the ones already present in the temple’s cella (cf. Cesarano 2015: 186). Not only the recipients of cult changed, but the architectural order of their cult places transformed as well. Due to their location in presently built-up areas of cities and the modern imperative to preserve any built heritage from antiquity, our knowledge of the oldest phases of the forum complexes is admittedly still minimal. However, there are

Fig. 2 Temple in the forum of the Roman colony of Vienne (Rhône) with clamp holes of bronze lettering of the dedicatory inscription. Reconstructed text: Romae et Augusto Caesari, Divi f(ilio) / et divae Augustae (‘To Rome and Augustus, the son of the Deified, and to the deified Livia’). In the Claudian period, the second line, on the architrave, was added to the original Augustan inscription to include Augustus’ deified wife among the cult recipients (photo author).

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good reasons to believe that the earliest monuments in the fora, just like in the federal sanctuary in Lyon, consisted of altars, classical Italian podium temples making their appearance in the fora only at a later stage. At present, the earliest forum temple we know of in Gaul is the one in the forum of the Roman colony of Augst in Switzerland, which dates back to the Tiberian–Claudian era.10 To conclude our discussion of imperial cults in the newly founded towns, I would like to widen the horizon to include cults of other divinities and draw the attention to the emergence of new cults in the wake of grants of municipal status in the late 1st or early 2nd centuries. These privileges, granted in return for loyalty, seem to have triggered two processes: first, monumentalization and aggrandizement of existing public sanctuaries in order to bring their status in harmony with the community’s new legal position, and secondly, the introduction of new public cults which expressed this change in political status. Dendrochronological and numismatic evidence produced by recent excavations in the great public sanctuary of Hercules Magusanus at Elst, for instance, proves that the enlargement and monumentalization of the temple dates to the early years of Trajan’s reign, precisely the period in which the civitas Batavorum was granted municipal status (Derks 2008: 136–138). While the Batavian example concerns an existing cult, the promotion of the civitas Tungrorum to municipium entailed the creation of a new cult. The change of legal status is reflected in the inscription on an altar set up by a salt trader informing us that a cult for the Genius municipii was initiated, closely associated with the probably already existing cult for Jupiter Optimus Maximus (AE 1994, 1279; Raepsaet-Charlier 1994). Although the altar was found in a secondary context in the periphery of the ancient town, what other place would have been more appropriate for such a cult than the forum? Other examples could be mentioned, but I think the message is clear: the cults and architectural forms of the forum continuously reflected the dynamic relationships between the progressively integrating Gallic communities and the imperial capital.11

10

11

Trunk 1991: 96–99, 154–160. The temple in the forum of Feurs seems to be a little earlier, but has not yet been excavated (Trunk 1991: 98, 246). For discussion of the cult associated with the forum temple of Augst, cf. Hufschmid 2009: 185–191 and Abb. 171–174, with references to the earlier literature. Crucial is the temple altar’s marble facing decorated with reliefs of an oak leaf wreath and eagle as well as a laurel wreath with sacrificial implements (Bossert-Radtke 1992: 37–50, Taf. 14–18), which has been differently interpreted as evidence for a cult of Jupiter or the imperial cult. A combination is also possible. For the gilded bronze lettering of the building inscription, see Speidel 1993. For the general point as well as other examples, cf. Van Andringa 2002: 187 ff., esp. 198 ff.

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4 Civic gods moving house The establishment of new cults was not restricted to the fora of the urban centers. Both in other parts of the town and the town’s immediate vicinity, but also, as we will see, in the countryside new cults made their appearance. Well-known examples in Trier are the extensive complex of sanctuaries in the Altbach valley at the southeastern edge of the town (Gose 1972), and the monumental temple complex on the opposite bank of the river Moselle (Gose 1955). The last-mentioned sanctuary was an Augustan foundation on virgin soil; it was dedicated to the cult of Lenus Mars who had been transformed to the patron deity of the civitas of the Treveri. So far, we know of two other sanctuaries where this god was venerated: one on the Widdenberg in Luxemburg, the existence of which is attested by two votive inscriptions found on the hill (Binsfeld 1974; IAL 135–136), and a large temple complex on the Martberg near Pommern on the Moselle, nearly 100 km downstream from Trier. Because of the Augustan political reforms and the adoption of the cult of Lenus Mars as a civic cult, there was need for a sanctuary in the immediate vicinity of the urban center. From the new suburban location at the other side of the river, the god could perfectly watch over the urban community, with which its sanctuary was clearly associated. Just like Lenus Mars in the civitas Treverorum, there is ample evidence of other gods, who had become, or continued to be, the patron deities of their communities, moving house to the new urban capital of their civitas. (e. g. Mars Mullo in the civitas Riedonum, Mars Camulus in the civitas Remorum). 5 Changing names, status and identity Another form of cult dynamics may be identified in gods changing names, status and identity. The name of Lenus Mars first became known in 1876 when a bilingual verse inscription in Greek and Latin was discovered (IG XIV 2562 = CIL XIII 7661 = ILS 4569 = SEG 46, 1376 = SEG 57, 954; Klein 1897: 112; Merten 1985: 19–23; Derks 1998: 79–80; Binsfeld 1996), engraved on the four sides of a support of what has now been identified as a sundial (Schaldach 2012; Nickel 2013). The poem is a thanksgiving for delivering the dedicator from deadly disease; it invokes the god in Greek as both Lenos and Ares, while in the Latin version he was simply called Mars. This discovery triggered the first systematic excavations at Pommern, which revealed the remains of the sanctuary and produced substantial evidence for the identity of the god as well. Finds of ritually bent swords and of shield bosses dating from the Late Iron Age as well as more than 100 iron lance tips (Klein 1897: 66, 110, pl. V; Nickel et al. 2008: 48–50, 430–431, Abb. 9, 13 and 277; Nickel 2006: 72–73, 75, Abb. 49) suggest that Lenus originally was a tribal war god. This explains why, after the Roman conquest, he was identified with Roman Mars. The identification should not be seen as the product of

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the arbitrary and personal choice of some private individuals, but of an official decree by the municipal council of the Treveri. Moreover, at the moment the Treveri were promoted to the rank of a colony, a Martial flaminate was established, which was in complete alignment with Rome (AE 1929, 173; Krier/Schwinden 1974; Scheid 1991; Derks 2006: 244). If both in the god’s name and the title of the priesthood the name element “Lenus” was retained, this particularly served to distinguish the Mars who acted as the protector of the civic community of Trier from similar Mars deities elsewhere (cf. Derks 1998: 79–80; cf. also below). Against this background, it cannot come as a surprise that Lenus Mars was represented in much the same way as the Roman Mars, as is exemplified by the bronze statuette found in the cella of temple M at Pommern.12 The old tribal gods also changed identity by changing companionship, their cults becoming increasingly interconnected with gods from the Roman pantheon and with emperor worship. The patron god of a community is often invoked not only to protect the community or the private individual dedicator but the emperor and his family as well.13 In religious inscriptions, we find this expressed in various ways: amongst others, by the opening formula in honorem domus divinae, “in honour of the deified house”, followed by the name of the civic god; by the phrase pro salute imperatoris, “for the well-being of the emperor”, preceded or followed by the god’s name; or by the epithet Augustus added to the name of the civic god. While these expressions may be considered variants of the same idea, the geographical distribution of inscriptions in which they occur is distinct, suggesting regional differences in the adoption of emperor worship.14 An example of the first expression is provided by a second inscription from Pommern, engraved upon the flat front side of a capital which served as the support of the actual votive gift, now lost (Merten 1985: 14–19). The dedication to deo Marti Laeno is preceded by the abbreviated formula i(n) h(onorem) d(omus) . The second formula is used by two votive altars erected by expat communities of Gauls who had settled at Xanten on the Rhine frontier. A group of Lingones thanked the patron god from their homeland, Mars Cicolluis, “for the well-being of the emperor

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13 14

Findspot of the statuette: Klein 1897: 103; Nickel et al. 2008; 99. Drawing: Klein 1897: 104, fig. 1; photo: Menzel 1986: Taf. 6.14. It should be noted here that the sanctuary of Pommern comprised several temples implying that other gods than Lenus Mars were worshipped there as well, among them probably Minerva, represented by a lead figurine (Nickel et al. 2008: 63–64, Abb. 17), and Victory, evidenced by two wing fragments of bronze statuettes (Klein 1897: 104, fig. 2; Menzel 1986: Taf. 89.198; Nickel et al. 2008: 107, Abb. 84.5). Given the fact that most finds were discovered in secondary contexts, it seems hardly possible to tell which temple was devoted to which god. The most important temple of the sanctuary is without doubt temple K. The bilingual inscription was found north of temple M (Klein 1897: 112; Nickel et al. 2008: 99, 595). In the religious contexts discussed here, respect is being paid to the emperor, whereas the actual cult recipients are the civic gods of the local community. I use the term “emperor worship” to set such honorific practices towards the emperor apart from a true imperial cult. Raepsaet-Charlier 1993; Van Andringa 2002: 159 ff, who provides relevant distribution maps of the phenomena.

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Nero” (Rüger 1981), whereas the expat community of Remi erected their altar pro salute Neronis for the patron deity of their civic community, Mars Camulus. Both monuments bear reliefs of laurel trees on the sides and a corona civica on the back. The monument by the Remi, in addition, bears the formula o(b) c(ives) s(ervatos), “for keeping the citizens safe” (Fig. 3). The two monuments are thought to have been put up shortly after the discovery of the Pisonian conspiration against Nero in 65 CE. Apparently, the Lingones and Remi responsible for these monuments imagined their patron gods to have saved the life of the emperor and thus to have averted severe perils for the imperial regime as well as the entire Roman citizen body. With their echoes of the Augustan ideology first introduced to Gaul with the foundation of the federal sanctuary at Lyon, these twin dedications demonstrate how profoundly the old warrior gods of the Remi and Lingones had been transformed since their inclusion in the empire: not only had they changed names and status, but they had also adopted a new imperial identity that suited the needs of a civic community which had become a full-blown part of a global power. For the last expression, we turn to the famous silver treasure from the sanctuary of Mercurius Kanetonnessis or Canetonnensis at Berthouville (Lapatin 2014). Votive inscriptions on individual silver pieces consistently mention Mercury as the recipient

Fig. 3 Stone block commemorating the dedication of a temple to Mars Camulus for the well-being of the emperor Nero by the private immigrant community of Remi who had settled at Xanten (?). The laurel trees on the side panels and the corona civica with the text o(b) c(ives) s(ervatos), ‘for keeping the citizens safe’, on the back –which are reminiscent of the Augustan imperial ideology- are proof of how the incorporation of the Remi into the empire had profoundly changed the identity of their civic god. From J. Fink, Der Mars-Camulus-Stein in der Pfarrkirche zu Rindern Römisches Denkmal und christlicher Altar © 1970 Butzon & Bercker GmbH, Kevelaer, www.bube.de

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of the silver objects, either tout court, or with the epithets Kanetonessis or Augustus (CIL XIII 3183). The implication is that the local god who had become associated with Mercury to such an extent that he could be completely identified with him, and could be invoked as the protector of the emperor. In the case of P. Aelius P. Aeli Numitoris libertus Eutychus, who may have been the freedman of an imperial freedman of the emperor Hadrian, one may guess why this occurred, in most other cases the reasons remain obscure. What the examples of these epigraphic formulations demonstrate is how paying tribute to the emperor or the imperial house had become a regular part of the votive practice, not just of the public vota, but also of the private vota of ordinary citizens. 6 The disappearance of “indigenous” cults and the appearance of new ones We have seen how existing cults could change status and identity, but they could also completely vanish. Proving the end of a cult is not as easy as it seems, as it raises the question whether the lack of information reflects the obsolescence or abolition of the cult or the lacunal state of our source material. A case for the first option has been made concerning the column of the Parisian college of boatmen (Van Andringa 2011). Its blocks were reused as spolia in the cathedral of Notre Dame and have been tentatively put together again. According to the Latin inscription on one of the blocks, the pillar was erected under the emperor Tiberius and dedicated to Jupiter Optumus Maxsumus. The combination of iconographic representation and text enables us to identify, amidst Roman gods, indigenous gods like Tarvos Trigaranos, Esus, and Cernunnos (CIL XIII 3026 = ILS 4613). What happened to them? We never hear about them again in other inscriptions and, apart from Cernunnos, there are no parallel iconographic representations. Did they change names and identities, did they continue to be worshipped under another name? Alternatively, did they cease to exist soon after the monument was erected? The opposite also happens. While some pre-existing cults disappeared, other “indigenous” cults were invented. Many scholars are inclined to believe that the cults of gods with a Celtic or Germanic name necessarily and naturally reach back into the pre-Roman Iron Age, but rather than readily taking this for granted, the hypothesis should be tested by archaeological excavation. For a long list of cults of deities with indigenous names, predominantly female, archaeology has been unable to produce even the slightest evidence for a pre-conquest existence. This is true for the two cult places of Nehalennia in the Dutch coastal area (Hondius-Crone 1955; Stuart and Bogaers 2001); it is also true for all four sanctuaries now known of matronae in the German Rhineland (Derks 1998: 119 ff; Biller 2010), as well as for the sanctuaries of Sandraudiga (Bogaers 1955: 34–37; Toorians 1995) and Arcanua in the Southern Netherlands (Derks and De Fraiture 2015), and many more. Do we have to assume that in all these cases the cults

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had pre-Roman roots which we simply have not found? Since none of the above-mentioned sanctuaries has produced any archaeological evidence for a pre-Roman phase, the assumption of cult continuity would mean that in the Iron Age all these cults were anchored at a different place and moved house in the Roman period. With the numbers of cult places we are talking about, this is becoming a very uneasy assumption. 7 New offerings, new rites A final topic I would like to touch upon concerns the relationship between offerings from cult places and ritual practices. A systematic treatment of the topic could begin with listing the different kinds of offerings we find in the archaeological record and try to date them according to their contexts. We could thus perhaps observe a gradual shift in types of offerings that were offered. The second line of investigation is methodological and could concern the behavioral patterns that we distill from these changing trends. To provide an example of what I mean, even a superficial investigation of the data produces important insights. A type of find which may be retrieved in considerable quantities from Late Iron Age levels is weaponry. In sanctuaries in the Roman frontier zone, weaponry continues to be offered until the late 1st century. However, the nature, intensity and modalities of the practice changed significantly over time. The offering of weaponry reached a culmination in the LT C period when large quantities of booty ended up in sanctuaries as thanksgiving for divine assistance for a victorious outcome of a battle. Classic examples are Gournay-sur-Aronde and Ribemont-sur-Ancre (Lejars 1996; Brunaux et al. 1999). If offerings of weaponry continue to be practiced in LT D, the quantities are incomparable (Brunaux et al. 1999: fig. 63) and seem characterized by gifts of personal equipment by individual warriors rather than booty. This latter tradition does not stop immediately after the Roman conquest, but ends somewhere in the late 1st century CE, though significant regional differences in intensity may be observed. Excavations in the sanctuary of Lenus Mars at Pommern brought to light several Roman gladii, bronze fragments of Roman shield edgings and horse gear (Nickel et al. 2008: 584). At the sanctuary of Hercules Magusanus at Empel in the Netherlands, weaponry becomes a prominent category of votive gifts only in the Roman period. Apart from a few small parts of sword grips, Late Iron Age weaponry is absent, but Roman military equipment, including plate armor fittings, swords sheath mounts and apron mounts as well as hackamores, iron bits and other horse gear parts are present in relatively large numbers (Van Driel-Murray 1994). These synchronous differences between the two sanctuaries may be explained by the different intensity of Roman military recruitment among the Treveri and the Batavi, respectively. The cult of Hercules Magusanus became very popular among soldiers of the Roman army. After several generations, when a professional military career in the auxiliary forces of the Roman

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army had become a routine issue, military values lost their prominence, which brought an end to the typical ritual practice of offering parts of the personal military equipment, not just among the Treveri, but also among the Batavi. Another category of votive gifts for which important changes may be noted is coins. The practice of offering coinage began already in the pre-Roman Iron Age with precious gold coins, followed soon after the Roman conquest by the deposition of large amounts of silver and bronze pieces, initially predominantly Celtic issues, but from the last decades BCE on increasingly Roman coinage (Roymans and Aarts 2005). With the monetization of the Gallic communities, all kinds of debts, including those to the gods, could be paid in hard cash. Apart from the coins themselves, this is unequivocally exemplified by a series of graffiti on the wall plaster of the exterior walls of a Gallo-Roman temple at Châteauneuf in the French district of Savoie (Mermet 1993). The graffiti are in fact so-called nuncupationes by which the authors promise to pay the titular deities of the sanctuary, Mercury and Maia, their due share if the dedicator had received the favours he had been asking for. Interestingly, the term used in these scribbles for the payment of the vow, even if the outstanding debt was settled in cash, is the verb sacrificare (AE 1984, 635=AE 1993, 1112b). A more clear proof that in these transactions between man and god money had replaced the original blood sacrifice of a sacrificial animal seems hardly possible! With the Roman conquest, a typical category of finds which was introduced to Gallo-Roman sanctuaries is anatomical votives. There has been much speculation about the origin of this particular votive practice. Some have argued that the first anatomical votives in Gaul were made of wood and that these represent an indigenous Celtic tradition familiar to the one we know from the Italian peninsula. However, recent dendrochronological research on the wooden specimen from the sanctuary at the Seine spring has made it clear that they all are post-conquest (Lavier 2011). In his excavations of the sanctuary of Apollo Moritasgus at Alesia, Olivier de Cazanove and his team have been able to establish a relative chronology of the types of raw material for anatomical votives. Since the wooden votives do indeed predate those in other material (De Cazanove et al. 2012: 116–117), the conclusion must be that the entire tradition was imported from Italy. 8 Conclusions The civitates in the Gallic and Germanic provinces were creative communities who continuously adapted to the changing external circumstances. With their progressive integration into the Roman empire, their cults converged with what was the standard in Rome and among communities of Roman citizens in the provinces without ever completely becoming the same. In this sense, the impact of the empire cannot be underestimated. No cult that existed on the eve of conquest was still the same in the 2nd

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century CE and many others had come into being since. Those established in the fora of the civitas capitals were clearly aimed at forging links with the imperial capital. Cults of patron deities of the civitas were moved to the city and often became associated with the imperial cult. Some indigenous cults disappeared altogether, other cults of deities with indigenous names made their appearance. The divinities of the latter cults seem to have functioned as patron gods of smaller cult communities below the level of the civitas. Whether their appearance was simply a matter of cults that had existed long before and only become materially visible in the Roman period, as is often implicitly assumed, or whether they were new inventions, remains to be seen. Given the profound re-ordering of the landscape in the Roman period with the emergence of new settlement types such as villae, vici and civitas capitals, it seems only natural that many new sanctuaries were founded and many new cults invented as well. My final point is that mobile material culture at cult places has the potential to show a dramatic change in the range of offerings that were deemed appropriate as gifts to the gods. The latter changes are not always religiously motivated, but also relate to broader social changes as a result of the incorporation in the empire. Despite recent scholarly efforts to “decentre Rome” (Nederveen Pieterse 2014), as far as religious changes of civic cults are concerned, Rome in many ways remained the crucial point of reference. At the same time, we must acknowledge that Rome had no master plan and that not all changes can be explained by direct interventions from Rome alone. In the context of a relationship of dependency between the provincial communities and the central imperial power, the former had to rewrite their history and constantly reinvent their religious traditions. Bibliography Alföldi, A. 1973. Die zwei Lorbeerbäume des Augustus. Bonn: R. Habelt. Becker, A.; Rasbach, G. 2015. Waldgirmes Die Ausgrabungen in der spätaugusteischen Siedlung von Lahnau-Waldgirmes (1993–2009) I Befunde und Funde. Darmstadt: Verlag Philipp von Zabern. Biller, F. 2010. Kultische Zentren und Matronenverehrung in der südlichen Germania inferior. Rahden: VML Verlag Marie Leidorf. Binsfeld, W. 1974. “Der Gott auf dem Widdenberg”, Hémecht 26. 216–217. Binsfeld, W. 1996. “Zu der Weihung des Tychikos auf dem Martberg bei Pommern an der Mosel”, Trierer Zeitschrift 59. 83–87. Bossert-Radtke, C. 1992. Die figürlichen Rundskulpturen und Reliefs aus Augst und Kaiseraugst. Augst: Römermuseum. Breitner, G.; Goethert, K.-P. 2010. “Ein Altar für Augustus und Roma in Trier. Zum Neufund einer Marmorplatte mit Rankendekor”, Ausgrabungen und Funde im Bezirk Trier 40. 7–13. Brunaux, J.-L.; Amandry, M.; Brouquier-Reddé, V.; Delestrée, L. P.; Duday, H.; Fercoq du Leslay, G.; Lejars, Th.; Marchand, Ch.; Méniel, P.; Petit, B.; Rogéré, B. 1999. “Ribemont-sur-Ancre (Somme). Bilan préliminaire et nouvelles hypotheses”, Gallia 56. 177–283.

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Rosso, E. 2009. “Les hommages rendus à Caius et à Lucius Caesar dans les provinces gauloises et alpines.” In L’expression du pouvoir au début de l’empire Autour de la Maison Carrée à Nîmes, ed. M. Christol and D. Darde. Paris: Éditions Errance. 97–110. Rowe, G. 2002. Princes and Political Cultures The New Tiberian Senatorial Decrees. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Roymans, N.; Aarts, J. 2005. “Coins, Soldiers and the Batavian Hercules Cult. Coin Deposition in the Sanctuary of Empel in the Lower Rhine Region.” In Iron Age Coinage and Ritual Practices, ed. C. Haselgrove and D. Wigg. Mainz: Von Zabern. 337–359. Rüger, C. B. 1981. “Vindex cum inermi provincia? Zu einer weiteren neronischen Marsinschrift vom Rhein”, ZPE 43. 329–336. Scheid, J. 1991. “Sanctuaires et territoire dans la colonia Augusta Treverorum.” In Les sanctuaires celtiques et leurs rapports avec le monde méditerranéen Actes du colloque de St-Riquier (8 au 11 novembre 1990), ed. J.-L. Brunaux. Paris: Éditions Errance. 42–57. Scheid, J. 2016. The Gods, the State and the Individual: Reflections on Civic Religion in Rome. Translated and with a foreword by Clifford Ando. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Schwinden, L. 2004. “2000 Jahre alt. Das Trevererdenkmal für die Söhne des Augustus (4 n. Chr.). Zur ältesten Monumentalinschrift der Rheinlande”, Funde und Ausgrabungen im Bezirk Trier 36. 29–40. Segenni, S. 2011. I decreta Pisana Autonomia cittadina e ideologia imperiale nella colonia Opsequens Iulia Pisana. Bari: Edipuglia. Speidel, M. A. 1993. “Goldene Lettern in Augst. Zu zwei frühen Zeugnissen der Kaiserverehrung und des goldenen Zeitalters in der colonia Augusta Raurica”, ZPE 95. 179–189. Stuart, P.; Bogaers, J. E. 2001. Nehalennia Römische Steindenkmäler aus der Oosterschelde bei Colijnsplaat. Leiden: Rijksmuseum van Oudheden. Szabó, M.; Timár, L.; Szabó, D. 2007. “La basilique de Bibracte – Un témoignage précoce de l’architecture romaine en Gaule centrale”, Archäologisches Korrespondenzblatt 37. 389–408. Toorians, L. 1995. “From a ‘Red Post’ to Sandraudiga and Zundert”, Oudheidkundige Mededelingen uit het Rijksmuseum van Oudheden Leiden 75. 131–136. Trunk, M. 1991. Römische Tempel in den Rhein- und westlichen Donauprovinzen Ein Beitrag zur architekturgeschichtlichen Einordnung römischer Sakral-bauten in Augst. Augst: Römermuseum Augst. Van Andringa, W. 2002. La religion en Gaule romaine Piété et politique (Ier-IIIe siècle apr J -C ). Paris: Éditions Errance. Van Andringa, W. 2011. “New Combinations and New Statuses. The Indigenous Gods in the Pantheons of the Cities of Roman Gaul.” In The Religious History of the Roman Empire Pagans, Jews, and Christians, ed. J. A. North and S. R. F. Price. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 109–138. Van Driel-Murray, C. 1994. “Wapentuig voor Hercules.” In De tempel van Empel Een Hercules-heiligdom in het woongebied van de Bataven, ed. N. Roymans and T. Derks. ’s-Hertogenbosch: Stichting Brabantse Regionale Geschiedbeoefening – Stichting Archeologie en Bouwhistorie ’s-Hertogenbosch en Omgeving. 92–107.

The Effects of Migration and Connectivity on Religious Identities in the Cult of Asclepius Ghislaine van der Ploeg

Cults of Asclepius have been found across the Roman Empire and the god enjoyed widespread worship in the Balkan provinces and Thrace, where he was especially popular with soldiers and officials. Members of the military were, in general, prolific dedicators. Officers enjoyed high levels of mobility in their professional lives (Collar 2011: 227). They, as well as civic officials, frequently moved around the empire and took with them the familiar gods which they had worshipped previously and supplicated them in the new locality where they were now stationed. People moving to and from Dacia and Thrace have been chosen here to show the effects of migration upon the cult of Asclepius and to explore the relationship between the local and global identities of Asclepius. The impact of Rome, its military, and administrative system is especially visible in Dacia as a result of the significant number of legions and auxiliaries stationed here (De Blois 2007: xviii). These provinces have also been chosen as there was considerable movement of people, specifically from Thrace as a major recruitment source for the military and to Dacia which was repopulated by people from other provinces after the conquest of the region, most notably the 2nd century migration from Asia Minor (Hanson and Haynes 2004: 21).1 While there does seem to have been some worship of Asclepius in Thrace prior to the Roman era, the majority of cult-sites here are dated to the Roman period (Riethmüller 2005: 2.332–3). Dacia, on the other hand, seemingly did not have any cultic worship of Asclepius before the Roman conquest and the cult was only introduced here after the incorporation into the Roman Empire (Riethmüller 2005: 2.457–460). The issue of identity and its display has garnered much attention in modern scholarship. By studying identity, it is possible to examine how, for example, the Roman

1

There were in total thirty-one auxiliary units which had the name Thracum which likely came from Thrace: Haynes 2011: 8.

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Empire and its expansion affected people in the provinces. Coming into contact with a wider Roman identity often led to a re-examination of self (Whitmarsh 2010: 2). It is also important to note that identities are not static but are dynamic and multifaceted phenomena, subject to change depending on circumstances, such as assimilation into the Roman Empire. This chapter aims to examine how people perceived, negotiated, and displayed their identities within the religious context of the cult of Asclepius by investigating dedications to the god. It will explore how cross-provincial connectivity is presented in these inscriptions and how migration and mobility affected these displays of identity. It will be shown that religious elements did not just travel from Rome to its peripheries but also vice versa. Three inscriptions will be examined here, one from Rome and two from Dacia, each showing mobility and connectivity within the cult of Asclepius. This case-study analysis moves away from grander narratives and illustrates some of the ways in which individuals in antiquity reacted to new surroundings or social status and how they transformed the display of their identities to reflect this. Asclepius has been chosen here as the worship of the god was both very popular and widespread during the Imperial era as well as because his cult attracted people from all socio-economic backgrounds, making it possible to incorporate a diverse range of inscribed evidence into this study into individual, fragmented, reactions to the Roman Empire. The main questions that this chapter asks are: How were religious identities displayed within the cult of Asclepius? and How did mobility affect worship? Following general themes discussed in this volume, this chapter examines how people maintained connections with the divine when they migrated to new regions and how they transformed their identities in order to reflect changes in social status and belonging. Useful for understanding why people transferred religious elements from their place of origin to a new location is “place attachment” as recent studies have highlighted the necessity of taking a multidimensional approach to people-place relationships (Manzo and Devine-Wright 2014: 3). Place attachment is “the bonding that occurs between individuals and their meaningful environments” (Scannell and Gifford 2010: 1) and can happen both on an individual and on a group level; in a group context, this takes the form of a symbolic meaning ascribed to a place which is shared by all members (Scannell and Gifford 2010: 2). Lewicka describes how a sense of place is a natural condition of human existence, “an invariant in a changing world”, though she does caution that the strength and type of attachment differs per person (Lewicka 2011: 209). While traditional societies were strongly localised, the potential targets for identification are stretched further through globalisation and this could create attachments to multiple places which include one’s birthplace (Gustafson 2014: 40ff; Lewicka 2011: 211). For this case-study analysis into how religious elements travelled in antiquity, it would, thus, be possible for people to have multiple identities and feelings of belonging for both the Roman Empire as well as for their place of origin.

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1 Thrace and Rome The first inscription examined here was dedicated in Rome in 227 CE and has strong connections with Thrace.2 It was set up by Thracian praetorians and was dedicated to a syncretic version of Asclepius, namely Asclepius Zimidrenus. Asclepius was a popular god to worship in Thrace; there is evidence for his cult all across the province and Riethmüller catalogues forty-four cult sites (Riethmüller 2005: 2.330–4). Zimidrenus himself was a Thracian local god who was often depicted in the guise of the Thracian Rider, one of the most important gods in Thrace (Oppermann 2005: 351). Apollo, Asclepius’ father, had also been twinned with the Rider but this was mainly in the south-eastern part of modern Bulgaria. However, in the area surrounding the city of Philippopolis in the west of Thrace, where these praetorians originally came from, the Thracian Rider was more commonly syncretised with Asclepius (Oppermann 2005: 351). In honore domus divinae / Asclepio Zimidreno cives / Philippopolitanorum quorum nomi/na infra scripta sunt / coh(ortis) I praet(oriae) |(centuria) Coccei / M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Diza Philippopoli vico Cuntiegerum / |(centuria) Valentis / M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Diza Philippopol[i] vico Vevocaseno / M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Cresce(n)s Philippop(oli) vico Vevocaseno / coh(ortis) II praet(oriae) / M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Martinus Philippop(oli) vico Palma / |(centuria) Iuliani pr(ioris) M(arcus) A(u)r(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Bitus Phil(ippopoli) v(ico) Pomp() Burdar / [M(arcus) Au]r(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Maximus Philipp[op]oli vico Stelugermme / [M(arcus) Aur(elius)] M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Maximus Philipp[op]oli vico Tiutiameno / coh(ortis) III pr(aetoriae) / [M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius)] Fl(avia) Vitalis Philippopo[li v]ico Cun[ti]egerum) / |(centuria) Saturnini / |(centuria) Magni / [M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci)] f(ilius) Fl(avia) Vitalis Philippopol(i) vico Zburulo / coh(ortis) IIII praet(oriae) |(centuria) Celeris / C(aius) Val(erius) C(ai) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Valens Philippopoli vic[o] Zburulo / M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) F[l(avia)] Cassius Philippopoli vico Carerino / coh(ortis) VII praet(oriae) |(centuria) Quarti / sp(eculator) M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Diogenes Philippopoli vi[c]o C[3]menos / coh(ortis) VIII praet(oriae) |(centuria) Prisci / M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Diza Philippopoli vico Ardileno / |(centuria) Calventi / M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Diza Philippopoli vico Pupeses / coh(ortis) VIIII praet(oriae) |(centuria) Z[eno]nis / [M(arcus) Au]r(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Chrestus Philippop[oli vi]co Cuntiegero / coh(ortis) X praet(oriae) [|(centuriae) 3]ni / [M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius)] Fl(avia) Artila Phi[lippop(oli) vico] Stairesis / [M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia)] Ota[3]is Philippo[p(oli) vico] Stairesis / |(centuria) Augustian[i] / [M(arcus) Aur(elius)] M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Bithus

2

The inscription was found reused in a late antique wall at the Piazza Manfredo Fanti but was likely dedicated at a sanctuary either dedicated to a number of Thracian gods or one for Asclepius Zimidrenus: Renberg 2006/7: 150.

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Philippopo[li vico] Diiesure / [|(centuria)] Quintiani M(arcus) Aur(elius) M(arci) f(ilius) Fl(avia) Mucianu[s Phili]ppopol(i) vico Lisenon / dedicat(a) VI Kal(endas) Iul(ias) / Albino et Maximo co(n)s(ulibus) (CIL 6 2799) 3

The first five lines of the inscription are inscribed with larger letters in order to draw attention to the fact that this dedication was set up in honore domus divinae, that it was to Asclepius Zimidrenus, and that the dedicators were all praetorians who originally came from the city of Philippopolis. The inscription is visually impressive as a result of its large physical size and because it was carefully inscribed with the dedicators’ names and places of origin appearing in neat rows underneath each other. In doing so, while obviously retaining its nature as a religious dedication, the inscribing and appearance of this inscription recalls that of military laterculi and other membership lists. The dedicating language is Latin and all of the names follow the standard tria nomina system, making clear that these soldiers were Roman citizens. The names are all Marcus Aurelius, bar one Caius Valerius, and by listing them underneath each other, the inscription draws attention to this cohesiveness. Salway has noted that in the eastern empire Aurelius was the most common nomen while in the western part of 3

“In honor of the divine household, to Asclepius Zimidrenus, citizens of Philippopolis whose names are written below: from the cohort I praetoria, the centuria of Cocceius, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Diza of Philippoplis, vicus Cuntiegerus. From the centuria of Valens, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Diza of Philippopolis, vicus Vevocasenus. Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Crescens, of Philippopolis, vicus Vevocasenus. From the cohort II praetoria, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Martinus, of Philippopolis, vicus Palma. From the centuria of Iulianus Prior Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus Bitus Philippopolis, vicus Pomp[…] Burdar. Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Maximus, of Philippopolis, vicus Stelugermme. Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Maximus, of Philippopolis, vicus Tiutiamenus. From the cohort III praetoria: Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Vitalis, of Philippopolis, vicus Cuntiegerus. From the centuria of Saturninus, from the centuria of Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Apollodorus, of Philippopolis, vicus Pecetus. From the centuria of Magnus: Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Vitalis, of Philippopolis, vicus Zburulus. From the cohort IIII praetoria, the centuria of Celer, Gaius Valerius son of Gaius, [from the tribe] Flavia, Valens, of Philippopolis, vicus Zburulus. Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Cassius, of Philippopolis, vicus Carerinus. From the cohort VII praetoria, the centuria of Quartus, speculator Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Diogenes, of Philippopolis, vicus C[…]menus. From the cohort VIII praetoria, the centuria of Priscus, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Diza of Philippopolis, vicus Ardilenus. From the centuria of Calventus, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Diza of Philippopolis, vicus Pupeses. From the cohort VIIII praetoria, the centuria of Zeno, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Chrestus, of Philippopolis, vicus Cuntiegerus. From the cohort X praetoria, the centuria of […]us, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Artila, of Philippopolis, vicus Stairesis. Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Ota[…] is, of Philippopolis, vicus Stairesis. Centuria Augustus Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Bithus, of Philippopolis, vicus Diiesure. From the centuria of Quintianus, Marcus Aurelius son of Marcus, [from the tribe] Flavia, Mucianus, of Philippopolis, vicus Lisenon, set this up on 26th of June. When Albinus and Maximus were consuls”.

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the empire this was Iulius, with Aurelius being a close second (Salway 1994: 134). As it was erected in 227 CE, this meant that it was set up after the universal citizenship law, the Constitutio Antoniniana, of 212 CE. Salway argues that the extent to which this law affected Roman onomastics has been doubted but that the impact can actually be shown via this inscription erected by Thracian praetorians. He contrasts the names listed here, where nineteen of the twenty names, 95 %, are Marcus Aurelius, with another inscription which is dated to July 210 CE (CIL 6.1058; Salway 1994: 134). Here only thirty-nine of the 802 names, less than 5 %, are Marcus Aurelius. This shows the tremendous onomastic impact which the Constitutio Antoniniana had but also indicates that the praetorians might have only become Roman citizens after 212 CE, an interpretation supported by the inclusion of the voting tribe Flavia, and the uniformity of their filiations (Salway 1994: 134). The addition of Flavia following every name is very interesting as it is located in the place where normally the voting tribe would be found. However, there was no tribe Flavia in Rome. This is apparently a fictitious voting-tribe, a so-called pseudo-tribe, and these were often mentioned in inscriptions set up by praetorians who were recruited from the Danubian provinces after 212 CE (Forni 1985; Salway 1994: 134).4 The use of Flavia after their citizen names shows that these soldiers wished to present an as-Roman-as-possible image of themselves probably in order to display and emphasize the fact that they were now Roman citizens. Thracians were generally recruited as auxiliaries before 212 CE but this changed under the Severans when they became one of the primary sources of men for the praetorians. At this time, the majority of soldiers were generally recruited from Pannonia, Moesia, and Thrace (Benefiel 2001: 226). The Roman elements were added to this dedication in order to show the new social status which these men now possessed but also to display the privileged position which they held within the Roman military system as praetorians. The physical layout of the inscription echoes the desire to be perceived as Roman, especially when contrasted to dedications set up to Asclepius Zimidrenus in Thrace. These inscriptions took on a wholly different physical form to this inscription from Rome despite being dedicated to the same god. In Thrace, dedications to Asclepius were commonly erected by individuals and not by groups like in Rome, for example: Αὐρ(ήλιος) Μ¢ [ου]κ¢ιανὸς {Μ¢ [αρ]κ¢ιανὸς} στρατιώτης / πρετ[ω]ριανὸς ἀνεθόμην τῷ / Ἀσκλ¢η¢πιῷ εὐχαριστήριον (IGBulg 5.5818).5

The dedicating language was also different as Greek was commonly used in Thrace and a relief sculpture generally accompanied these inscriptions. This could either depict Asclepius in his traditional guise, namely standing holding his snake-staff and some4 5

Other such pseudo-tribes are Aelia, Aurelia, Antonia, Augusta, Iulia, Septimia, and Ulpia. Forni 1985: 51 ff. lists 300 inscriptions wherein these pseudo-tribes are mentioned. Flavia is mentioned in seventy-two of these, of which twenty-two come from Thrace: Forni 1985: 23. “Aurelius Mucianos Marcianos, a praetorian soldier, set this thank offering up to Asclepius”.

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times accompanied by Hygieia and Telesphorus, or it could show the Thracian Rider. In the latter case, the inscription was the only way by which the god to whom the inscription was dedicated could be identified, as the Thracian Rider was assimilated with almost every god who enjoyed worship in Moesia and Thrace (Dimitrova 2002: 209, 211; Oppermann: 2005 360). Thus, as well as the contents, the outward appearance of the inscription was adapted to suit the praetorians’ Roman environment. The inscription here is dedicated by a group, in Latin, without any form of decoration, and has a similar appearance to other membership lists erected in Latin. However, despite this being the case, the praetorians also kept strictly Thracian elements in the inscription. For starters, the god to whom they dedicated was a Thracian deity and not the standard Greco-Roman version of the god who was found on Tiber Island, where the cult was an offshoot of the one in Epidaurus. The praetorians also took great care to mention the place where they came from, namely Philippopolis, and each individual vicus. Thus, while an effort was made to present the inscription in a very Roman style, local Thracian elements occur throughout. The pseudo-tribes indicate a desire to be perceived as Roman, fitting in with a general trend followed by praetorian soldiers from the Danubian lands. Yet, the inscription still kept important elements which connected the dedicators to their place of origin. Soldiers often retained strong connections with the city where they came from and it was not unusual for veterans to return to their birthplace when they were discharged from the military (Dana 2015: 255; see, for example, IGBulg 4.2236). Also, while all these men were praetorians, they belonged to a variety of cohorts and centuria. As well as their praetorian allegiance, it was their shared socio-cultural background, namely their Thracian origin and Philippopolitan birthplace, which created a sense of communal belonging and identity. While the purpose of the dedication was to demonstrate the Romanness of the praetorians, by keeping these elements, especially their vici, they were also displaying their individuality and showing their backgrounds. In doing so, the praetorians could differentiate themselves from the mass of other soldiers who were a part of the army, a habit which is also visible in funerary inscriptions where many additional elements, for example, age, length of service, and place of origin, were added in order to distinguish an individual from the other soldiers. However, here it could also be used as a tool to differentiate each individual Thracian from each other as the vast majority all bore the same name, and also came from the same town. Adding the vicus could then be a way to display individuality within this group inscription. This dedication, therefore, demonstrates the displays of identity which took place after 212 CE. The praetorians were now Roman citizens and went to great lengths to display and emphasize this, also by creating the illusion of a Roman lineage through the Flavian voting tribe. Its use here served no practical purpose and must solely have been added by the Thracians to showcase their new social status. Despite this, they also kept Thracian elements, such as their places of origin, the inclusion of vici, and by worshipping a regional version of

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the god, strongly connected to the city of Philippopolis. The latter is very important as no worship of this god is known outside of Thrace and Moesia apart from this inscription from Rome. This inscription demonstrates how religious elements travelled from place to place and how they were blended to form a joint Thracian and Roman identity here. 2 Dacia and Africa The second case-study concerns an inscription from Apulum. This was one of the most important cities in Dacia and the legio XIII Gemina was stationed here between 106– 271 CE (Szabó 2015: 115). A dedication was set up to Caelestis Augusta, Asclepius Augustus, and the genii of Carthage and Dacia by an Olus Terentius Pudens Uttedianus which illustrates the effects of mobility, migration, and the display of global and local elements in inscriptions. The connections between the gods mentioned in this dedication will be examined and it will be shown that worship of these deities was a product of the 3rd-century religious world but also part of the epigraphic habit of the time. Caelesti Augustae / et Aesculapio Au/gusto et Genio / Carthaginis et / Genio Daciarum / Olus Terentius / Pudens Uttedi/anus leg(atus) Augg(ustorum) / leg(ionis) XIII Gem(inae) leg(atus) / Augg(ustorum) pro praet(ore) / [p]rovinciae R(a)e/tiae (CIL 3 993) 6

The dedicator, Olus Terentius Pudens Uttedianus, was of African origin, (Condurachi 1975: 190; Rives 1995: 70). In the dedication, Uttedianus states that he was a legate of the XIII Gemina but also that he was a propraetorian legate of the province of Raetia. His term of service was between 198–211 CE. However, nothing more is known about Uttedianus than is mentioned in this inscription (Winkler 1971: 80). Piso believes that the inscription is likely dated to the joint reign of Severus and Caracalla, namely between 198–210 CE (Piso 2001: 37 no. 41). Winkler argues that this inscription was erected by Uttedianus when he left Apulum (Winkler 1971: 81). The worship of Asclepius, Caelestis, and the genius of Carthage was connected to the city of Carthage. Asclepius was an important part of the religious world of Apulum and a sanctuary was dedicated to the god there, dated to the end of the 2nd century/early 3rd century CE.7 Worship peaked here in the first half of the 3rd century CE, which is shown by the number of inscriptions dedicated to the god (Ota 2005: 202). However, Asclepius was also a popular deity in Africa where Uttedianus came from. Cults of 6 7

“To Caelestis Augusta and Asclepius Augustus and the Carthaginian Genius and the Dacian Genius, Olus Terentius Pudens Uttedianus, Augustan legate, of the XIII legion Gemina, Augustan propraetorian legate of the province of Raetia [set this up]”. Two votive plaques mention the construction of two porticoes which were built by two aediles in the sanctuary: P. Aelius Syrus (CIL 3.976) and P. Aelius Rufinus (CIL 3.975).

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the god were found spread across the provinces of Africa Proconsularis, Numidia, and Mauretania Caesariensis. Some of the earliest worship of Asclepius occurred in Proconsularis in the city of Carthage and its surrounding lands and the god had a temple located on the Carthaginian acropolis (Xella 1993: 487; Strabo 17.3.14; App. Pun 7.31; Rives 1995: 40). The cult was not just popular in Proconsularis but also in Numidia, where the most important sanctuary of Asclepius was located within the army camp in Lambaesis ( Janon 1985). The popularity of the cult of Asclepius for soldiers was noted above and dedications were commonly found in and around army camps. Dea Caelestis was the Roman name for the Punic goddess Tanit and Carthage was also the center of her cult in Africa. She was the patron goddess of the city and was assimilated with Juno and Venus here (Piso 1993: 224; Rives 1995: 65ff; Rantala 2017: 148). During the Severan period, an interesting coin was struck in Africa depicting Caelestis. This coinage celebrated imperial favors given by Severus to Africa and to the people of Carthage in particular, whom Caelestis represented symbolically. It showed the goddess sitting on a lion, holding a scepter and a thunderbolt, standing above a rock from which water pours. This iconography generally belongs to the goddess Cybele and not Caelestis (Lichtenberger 2011: 104). The legend reads INDVLGENTIA AUGG IN CARTH and this coin was issued for Severus, Julia Domna, and Caracalla (RIC IV.1 Septimius Severus 193, 266–76B, 759–59A; RIC IV.1 Caracalla 130–1, 415(a– d), 418A, 471; RIC IV.1 Severus for Julia Domna 594; Rantala 2017: 148; Rowan 2012: 78–79).8 The coins are dated to 203–204 CE based on the titulature used here (Mundle 1961: 234). Parallel coinage was also issued in Italy with virtually the same iconography, although the legend instead reads INDVLGENTIA AUGG IN ITALIAM. This very prominent iconography of Caelestis led to a boost in the popularity of the goddess under Severus (RIC IV.1 Severus 125.268, 232.132; Lichtenberger 2011: 105) which is probably why Caelestis was included in the inscription discussed here, as Uttedianus was worshipping a goddess popular in his place of origin (see below) in the place where he was now living. Carthage, thus, housed important sanctuaries of both Asclepius and Caelestis. However, there are indications that the cults enjoyed further connections with each other as, for example, a statue torso of Asclepius was found in a sanctuary dedicated to Caelestis in Dougga (Musso 2010: 126). The cult of Asclepius had been twinned with a Phoenician deity called Eshmun in Carthage at some point during the Classical period. Eshmun originally came from Sidon in Lebanon (Xella 1993: 487) and this connection with Eshmun is vital for understanding the relationship between Asclepi8

This coinage has long been taken as an indicator that Julia Domna and Caelestis were publicly linked, first put forward by Von Domaszewski 1895: 149. However, the inscriptions where these two were put together are few, occur solely in a private context, and also mainly come from Africa, leading Mundle 1961: 230, Rantala 2017: 148, Rowan 2012: 80 to argue that this was not the case. See AE 1998: 1538, AE 1991: 1687, and AE 1915: 80 for these inscriptions.

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us and Caelestis. Caelestis was one of the gods with whom Eshmun was commonly associated in Africa. Through the syncretism of Asclepius and Eshmun, the cult of Asclepius also became linked with that of Caelestis which could be why the two deities were worshipped together in the inscription erected by Uttedianus, this in addition to her being the protective deity of Carthage, Uttedianus’ place of origin (Cadotte 2006: 170, n. 30). As well as being dedicated to Caelestis and Asclepius Augustus, the inscription was also erected to the genii of Carthage and Dacia. Worship of the genii was widespread in a military context and many places within a camp had a genius, for example, the armory or granary (Speidel and Dimitrova-Milčeva 1978: 1542–1543, 1553). During the Severan period, it became a popular habit for senators to add the genius of their place of origin, as well as that of the place where they were currently stationed, to their dedications (Várhelyi 2010: 143). The addition of the genius of Carthage indicates that Uttedianus originally came from Carthage. Várhelyi argues that this habit of adding genius to a dedication reflected a “respect for a local sense of religious space” (Várhelyi 2010: 143). This would fit with Whitmarsh’s argument that people became more aware of their regional identity when they had a global identity to contrast it with (Whitmarsh 2010: 2). Thus, migration to another place could cause people to place importance on cults and religious elements from their place of origin (Gustafson 2014: 40ff). Here, local and global identities are connected via the worship of the genius of these places. Therefore, this inscription displays a very Roman African religious identity, combined with a local Dacian one through the inclusion of the genii of place. Uttedianus was dedicating to his familial gods from Africa, his place of origin, in combination with a divinity local to where he was currently living. Uttedianus, thus, combined various facets of this past and present identity in this inscription. This illustrates how religious dialogues in the Roman Empire did not exclusively happen between Rome and the provinces but also occurred from province to province. The increased connectivity, which was the result of the expanding empire and an improved infrastructure aided this cognitive religious connectivity (on cognitive ownership of place see Boyd, Cotter, O’Connor and Sattler 1996: 125). It is also important to note the role the military had in shaping this connectivity. As the main conquering or pacifying force, they were the ones who expanded the empire and incorporated new regions into it. However, as officers were highly mobile and frequently travelled between regions, the army was also responsible for the transferal of cultic elements, such as what is displayed here. This connectivity, thus, links cults and deities across the empire and its provinces.

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3 Dacia and Asia Minor The last case-study will illustrate connections between Dacia and Asia Minor and will show how migration facilitated the dissemination of cults. An inscription dedicated to the god Glycon was found in the camp of the legio XIII Gemina in Apulum: Glyconi / M(arcus) Ant(onius) / Onesas / iusso dei / l(ibens) p(osuit) (CIL 3.1021).9

It is dated to between 161 and 192 CE. The god Glycon is mentioned in another inscription from the area which is now lost: G[ly]co(ni) / M(arcus) Aur(elius) / Theodo-/tus ius-/so dei p(osuit) (CIL 3.1022). The phrase iusso dei could signal that this inscription was erected following supplication or oracular visit to the god and, as a result, it is possible that these two inscriptions were erected side by side. Both dedicators have Greek cognomina and were likely from Asia Minor (Schäfer 2011: 183). When they moved to Dacia, they brought with them the cults of the gods which they had worshipped in their place of origin and supplicated them anew. The cult of Glycon was established in Abonoteichos in Paphlagonia in the middle of the 2nd century CE by the prophet Alexander (Tacheva 1983: 276). This god was strongly connected to Asclepius as he was worshipped in Abonoteichos as an epiphany of Asclepius and was called “neos Asklepios Glycon” (Petsalis-Diomidis 2010: 32; Lucian Alex. 43; Alexandrescu-Viana 2009: 30). The god was depicted as a snake with an anthropomorphic head, and this form was likely amplification of the Asclepieian snake, further illustrating the connections between the gods (Aronen 1996: 126). The cult, in general, suffers from a lack of literary sources as the only extant one, Lucian’s “Alexander or the False Prophet”, offers a mocking view of the cult, depicting it as vulgar and barbarous, which has influenced scholarship, despite it being a serious cult. Lucian wished to ridicule epiphany and pilgrimage with his work, and the cult of Glycon bore the brunt of this aim (Petsalis-Diomidis 2010: 12–13). The cult was especially popular under Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius though it reached its peak under Severus Alexander (Alexandrescu-Viana 2009: 30) and it spread from Abonoteichos to neighboring Bithynia and Galatia, from there to Thrace and Rome in rapid succession (Carbó Garcia 2010: 940). The cult also reached Dacia, as is illustrated by this dedication, and the migration and movement of people from Asia Minor would have been significant for the diffusion of this cult; people would have taken the god with them when they moved from the Greek East to other provinces (Schäfer 2004: 179). Inscriptions to Glycon were found in Moesia and Dacia and coins were struck bearing the image of the god. The most famous statue of Glycon from the region comes from Tomi, and it has been suggested that there was a public cult of the god here (Constanţa Museum Inv. No. 2003; Tacheva 1983: 276).

9

“To Glycon, Marcus Antonius Onesas, by command of the god, freely placed this”.

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Asclepius was a popular god in Asia Minor and his most important sanctuary was at Pergamum. It is possible that the god’s popularity, as well as his healing powers, made him a suitable candidate for Alexander to twin Glycon with. A direct connection between Glycon and Pergamum is shown through coins depicting the god which were issued in Pergamum (SNG Cop. 485/RPC IV.3197). As the main cult site for Asclepius in Asia Minor, Pergamum had a great status and power making it unsurprising that this sanctuary would be linked to other cult sites in an attempt by the latter to increase their own standing. An inscription from Sarmizegetusa Ulpica in Dacia, where there was also a sanctuary to Asclepius and Hygieia, refers to Asclepius Pergamenos: Aesculapio Pergam(eno) / et Hygiae / sacrum / C(aius) Spedius Hermias / flamen col(oniae) Sarm(izegetusae) / pos(uit) (CIL 3.1417a).10

The explicit dedication to Asclepius Pergamenos shows that the worshipper wished to supplicate a particular version of the god despite being in Dacia, perhaps as a result of the power and importance of the cult at Pergamum. While it is possible that the dedicator was simply honoring a god who had healed him, the other inscriptions discussed here, combined with the 2nd century migration from Asia Minor to Dacia, indicate that it could also be possible that Hermias came from Pergamum and was honoring a god from his place of origin (see the discussion on place attachment above). The inscription to Asclepius Pergamenos could have been connected to this migration, explaining why this dedication was set up here. This not dissimilar to the Uttedianus inscription where he worshipped gods particular to his place of origin as well as the genii of his past and present habitation. In both inscriptions, the dedicators took with them gods from their place of origin and worshipped them anew in their new locality. Schäfer points out that many immigrants placed great importance on where they came from (Schäfer 2004: 181). Therefore, it is possible that this dedicator originally came from Pergamum due to the explicit worship of Asclepius Pergamenos. 4 Conclusion The inscriptions discussed here all show the religious connectivity which existed between Rome and the provinces and also between the provinces themselves. They illustrate how the movement of peoples affected the local manifestations or interpretations of cults and how people combined elements from various places and displayed them all as a cohesive part of their identity. For the Thracian praetorians, it was important to present their dedication in an as-Roman-as-possible fashion, but also to keep ele-

10

“Sacred to Asclepius Pergamon and Hygeia. Gaius Spedius Hermias, flamen of the colony of Sarmizegetusa, set this up”.

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ments from their homeland which included their vici and their regional god Asclepius Zimidrenus. New, fake, Roman elements such as the pseudo-tribes were added to the inscription in order to display a blended local and Roman identity. The Uttedianus inscription and the one to Glycon show in a provincial setting how people worshipped a god from their place of origin and combined this with elements from their new locality. The inscriptions discussed here all illustrate the transformations which identities underwent in antiquity when they met an expanded world and show how important it was for dedicators to retain links with their place of origin by worshipping familial gods in their new locality. This illustrates the themes of social rationalities discussed in this volume, whereby the establishment of connections lies at the core of the creation of social cohesion and belonging. These inscriptions show that religious mobility was a multi-directional phenomenon and that this did not just occur from Rome to the provinces but also vice versa and between provinces. Global and regional cult identities worked together, and these elements could travel both ways, showing that old ideas concerning center and periphery being a one-way cultural exchange are outdated; instead, Rome and the provinces were part of a highly dynamic religious mobile web. This fits with what has been argued by Nederveen Pieterse, who states that Rome was being globalized by globalizing; that the peripheries of empire defined the center as much as happened vice versa (Nederveen Pieterse 2015: 233–234). This meant that there was a constant dynamic and multi-directional exchange of cultures between Rome and the provinces, as can been seen from the inscriptions discussed here. Bibliography Abbreviations AE ANRW AntAfr App. Pun AW CIL Dacia Hesperia IGBulg

L’Année épigraphique Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt. Berlin: de Gruyter 1940-. Antiquités africaines. CNRS Éd: Paris. Appian, Punica, trans. H. White. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1912. Antike Welt: Zeitschrift für Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte. Mainz: von Zabern. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Berlin 1863-. Dacia: revue d’archéologie et d’histoire ancienne Bucarest Éd.: de l’Académie roumaine. Hesperia: the Journal of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Inscriptiones Graecae in Bulgaria repertae, ed. G. Mihailov 1958–70.

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JRS

The Journal of Roman Studies. London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies. Lucian Alex. Lucian, Alexander the False Prophet, trans. A. M. Harmon. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1925. RIC Roman Imperial Coinage. London 1923-. RPC Roman Provincial Coinage. London 1992-. SNG Cop. Sylloge Nummorum Graeorum, Denmark, The Royal Collection of Coins and Medals, Danish National Museum (1942–1979) Strabo Strabo, Geography Vol. VIII, Book 17, trans. H. L. Jones. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1949. ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik. Bonn: Habelt. Sources Appian, Punica, English translation by H. White. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press 1912. Lucian, Alexander the False Prophet, English translation by A. M. Harmon. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press 1925. Strabo, Geography Vol. VIII, Book 17, English translation by H. L. Jones. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press 1949.

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The (Im)Materiality of Divine Agency Small and Miniature Reproductions of Mithraic Icon1 Nirvana Silnović

And when some girl inquires the names of the monarchs, Or the towns, rivers, and hills portrayed, Answer all her questions (and don’t draw the line at Questions only): pretend You know even when you don’t. Here comes the Euphrates, tell her, With reed-fringed brow; those dark Blue tresses belong to Tigris, I fancy; there go Armenians, That’s Persia, and that, h’r’m, is some Upland Achaemenid city. Both those men are generalsGive the names if you know them, if not, invent. (Ov. Ars am. I.219–28; bold emphasis by the author of the article)

1 Introduction In the passage above, Ovid advises a young man to pretend in order to impress a girl and invent interpretations of images that he might not entirely understand. He assures the young man that he knows what the images might represent even when he is not aware of it himself. What could Ovid have meant by that? What processes could have allowed the young man to (unconsciously) recognize what is depicted in the images? Two significant findings might help us answer these questions. Recently, the new fields of neuroaesthetics and neuroarthistory have put much emphasis on unconscious re1

I would like to thank the organizers, Marko Janković and Vladimir Mihajlović, for giving me the opportunity to present my research at the Imperialism and Identities at the Edges of the Roman World 3 conference, and to my anonymous reviewers for their detailed and thoughtful comments on the present paper.

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sponses to visual representations, i. e. the non-conscious mental processes that occur while we are confronted with images (Freedberg and Gallese 2007; Onians 2007; 2016; Stafford 2007). In short, when looking at the towns, rivers, and hills portrayed, the unconscious, so-called saccadic movements of the eye will cause the fovea to move quickly around the visual field, halting for milliseconds on suggestive properties of the image such as “proximity”, “similarity”, “symmetry”, etc., causing the neurons in the brain of the young man to form networks that will search for similar objects in his memory (Onians 2016: 11). By mentally recalling objects that share similar properties (line, color, shape, reflectiveness, etc.) the re-activation of those memories will occur and the young man will be able to come up with the names of those towns, rivers, and hills (Onians 2016: 12). Furthermore, it has been revealed that the same neural mechanisms are activated in our brain when visual objects are, in the absence of the retinal stimulation, only mentally imagined (Cichy, Heinzle and Haynes 2012; Onians 2016: 16). In the preface to their volume on The Materiality of Divine Agency, Beate Pongratz-Leisten and Karen Sonik have argued that “mental and material conceptualizations, here specifically of the divine, are simultaneously and equally associated with the construction and transmission of knowledge and of memory”, and how “mental images are also possessed of cognitive elements and may be emotionally charged or colored” (Pongratz-Leisten and Sonik 2015: viii). The focus of this study is the small and miniature reproductions of Mithraic icons, a separate class of Mithraic objects designed in Moesia Superior or southern Dacia (Gordon 2004).2 Although of miniature size, these tangible and visually perceivable objects will help explain the possible connections between the material and mental images in the particular social and cultural context of the Roman cult of Mithras. Although their function as memory aids has been hinted at in previous scholarship (Gordon 2001; 2004), this contribution goes further and uses the findings mentioned above from neuroaesthetics/neuroarthistory and cognitive science of religion in order to examine the principals on which this might have worked. These findings will allow us to investigate how the individual followers of the cult might have been able, by means of the unconscious mental processes and with the help of these miniature objects, to recall the details of the ritual and the cult’s sacred narrative. In addition, this study will look into the mechanisms that facilitated the creating and maintaining links between the individual follower with that which they considered divine (Lynch 2010).

2

The current paper is based on my Ph. D. dissertation. Parts of it were revised and used for a paper that appears in Silnović 2018: 111–124.

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2 Mithraic Icon and its Miniature Reproductions The Mithraic icon was the focal point of each mithraeum (Beck 2006: 21; Gordon 2007: 398; Dirven and McCarty 2014: 128). The so-called tauroctony, i. e. a sculpture in the round, relief or a wall painting depicting Mithras killing the bull, occupied a dominant position in the rear of the sanctuary. This “dramatic and strikingly memorable image” was, together with its architectural framework, the only standard element of the cult across the Roman Empire (Martin 2005).3 The “ubiquitous presence” of the tauroctony (Martin 2005: 196–197), as well as the wealth of the secondary images found on votive reliefs, sculpture, pottery, etc., points to the centrality of these images for the Roman cult of Mithras.4 It was visual art that served as the cult’s primary means of expression (Beck 1996: 176).5 What was so dramatic and memorable about it? Looking at various tauroctonies from different parts of the Roman Empire makes their remarkable similarity evident. Therefore, it is easy to identify the principal elements. Two main protagonists, Mithras and the bull, are at the center of the composition. A youthful, clean-shaven deity is depicted dressed in Persian attire, consisting of long-sleeved tunic, long trousers with boots, a cloak, and a Phrygian cap. With his kneeling left leg, he is pressing the back of the already slumped bull, while his right leg stretches over the bull’s rump and right hind leg. With his left hand, he grabs the bull by its nostrils and pulls his head backwards, and with his right, he stabs the dagger into 3

4 5

The only experiment so far testing the “memorability”, i. e. the retrieval of details of the Mithraic cult icon from long-term memory was conducted by Griffith 2013. Results showed that longer explanations did not result in better recall of individual details of the scene, but individual details were better remembered if viewers had little or no explanation about the image. As the author admits herself, her experimental design and statistical analysis do not follow the scientific standards, and their validity is thus questionable. However, a recent study investigated the effects of speaking and showed how a well–organized sequence of information structures the gazes of art beholders by making them quicker, more focused, and better connected, Klein et al. 2014. Another study compared the recall memory of artists with those of artistically untrained viewers, demonstrating how the number of correctly remembered pictorial features was significantly higher with the former than with the latter. Similar to these findings, we can assume that cult members were “becoming more skilled at extracting and remembering a greater variety of visual features”, based on their repeated experiencing of the cult image, both visual and verbal (see further in the text), Vogt and Magnussen 2007: 9. Clauss calls the cult of Mithras as “ein Beispiel für den Bilderreichtum der Antike”, see Clauss 2012: 26; Heyner similarly characterized the cult as comprising “einen besonderen Bilderreichtum”, in Heyner 2013: 219. The cult of Mithras is a prime example of how deeply religious belief is “rooted and sustained by material practice”, Morgan 2010. According to Beck, the understanding and knowledge of the Mithraic mysteries were apprehended visually by its initiates, first and foremost through the physical structure of the icon of the tauroctony, Beck 2006: 7. Images also served as a starting point to modern scholars for deducing the origins, reconstructing the myth, and establishing the importance of the cult. For the overview of the scholarship on the topic see Beck 1984; 2004; 2006; Chalupa 2012.

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the bull’s shoulder.6 Mithras’ gaze is directed either directly at the observer or over his right shoulder at the raven perched on his billowing cloak (sometimes standing on the rim of a cave where the event takes place). Youthful torchbearers, Cautopates and Cautes, flank the two main actors of the scene, standing with their legs crossed and holding lowered and raised torches respectively.7 On most of the compositions, Cautopates is on the left side, directly below the figure of Sol (represented as a bust or as a full figure in a quadriga drawn by the horses), while Cautes stands on the right side, below Luna (also represented as a bust or drawn in a biga by oxen). Their attire is similar to that worn by Mithras. A dog and a snake are usually shown striving towards the blood dripping from the bull’s wound, while a scorpion pinches the bull’s testicles. The tauroctony is sometimes further elaborated with additional scenes surrounding the central composition, varying in number and sequence.8 It appears that the tauroctony appropriated various iconographic elements from Greco-Roman art. For example, similarities have been observed between the bull-slaying Mithras and the bull-slaying Victories on the interior frieze of the Basilica Ulpia at Rome; otherwise, the killing of bulls was associated only with mythological heroes like Heracles or Theseus. What made the tauroctony a memorable image is the violation of these iconographic conventions and the addition of unexpected elements: Mithras is depicted astride the bull and looking away from the sacrifice; and the other animals that are present in the scene (dog, serpent, and scorpion) (Martin 2005: 197; Gordon 2017: 424–425).9 The general iconographical consistency and homogeneity of the tauroctony scene, easily recognizable no matter the geographical location within the Empire, indicates its indispensability for each community (Dirven and McCarty 2014: 127–128; Dirven

6 7 8

9

According to G. Palmer, the placement of the wound on the bull’s shoulder is unique to the Roman cult of Mithras, Palmer 2009; it has been suggested that Mithras is not killing, but wounding the bull instead, in Faraone 2013. Sometimes they hold different objects, see Clauss 2012: 93–95. Based on this, we can distinguish between the simple cult icon (showing only the tauroctony) and the complex one (a tauroctony surrounded with additional scenes, found particularly in the German provinces and in the Danube region), Gordon 2007: 398. Gordon established forty-seven side scenes, although their number has probably increased due to new discoveries, Gordon 1980. Dirven further divided the scenes into four thematic groups: events before Mithras’ birth, Mithras’ early life, events leading to the killing of the bull, and events following the killing, concluding that the most popular scenes include the water miracle, Mithras subjugating Sol, and the transitus scene, Dirven 2015: 31–32. According to Mastrocinque, the scenes can be grouped into myths of the origins (left predellas), myths of the bull (central scene and upper predellas), and Sol’s coronation and Mithras’ apotheosis (right predellas), Mastrocinque 2017: 103–203. An overview of the most common scenes is found in Clauss 2012: 65–97; Heyner 2013. Several scholars have searched for prototypes of the tauroctony scene, see Faraone 2013; Boschung 2015; Frackowiak 2017; Arnhold 2018.

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2015: 30; Arnhold 2018).10 At the same time, it is impossible to identify two identical tauroctonies. Variations can be found in the composition, iconographical motifs, and figures depicted.11 Based on this, different regional features and elements of style have been recognized.12 The importance of Mithraic art for the study of local religious and cultural identities, previously taken as “repetitive, provincial, often poorly executed, above all, eclectic and derivative” (Gordon 1998: 227), has been emphasized by the recent post-colonial turn in archaeology.13 Contrary to such claims, it is the uniqueness and innovativeness of the tauroctony scene that has lately been stressed.14 Irrespective of the distinctive local artistic idioms used, another aspect of the unique nature of the Mithras cult reveals itself in the high degree of recognizability of its cult icon, consistency unparalleled in any other cult at the time (Dirven and McCarty 2014: 128, 136).15 An important question arising from its high recognizability pertains to the transmission of its visual elements (Arnhold 2018: 136). The obvious answer is that while the basic elements of the images were set, they could have been further elaborated with various details, and/or additional scenes, according to local conditions (Anrhold 2018: 137). This means that Mithraic communities most likely established some sort of

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Various departures from the “canonical image” personalized images and made them more potent, while the “seemingly shared repertoire” of iconographic motifs and style was used to “invent unique identities or imagined traditions”, according to Dirven and McCarty 2014: 127. Generally, Mithraic art has been described as “stereotypical”, serving as a tool to the cult’s claim to legitimacy (Gordon 1976: 171; Elsner 2007: 250). The wealth of the cults on the so-called “religious market” of the Roman world reinforced their desire for self-definition and self-affirmation, accomplished through uniform iconography, particularly observable in the cult of Mithras, strengthening the sense of a common cultural identity among the cult’s members (Elsner 2007: 250, 255, 258, 268). For example, on the particularities of the Mithraic reliefs from Dalmatia see Vrkljan 2005: 249–258; Miletić 2005: 269–274; on the reliefs from Dacia see Sicoe 2004. On the post-colonial turn in archaeology and provincial art see Scott and Webster 2003; Brody and Hoffman 2014; Alcock, Egri and Frakes 2016. The role of Mithraic art within provincial art has been emphasized by Dirven and McCarty 2014: 125–141. Gordon stresses several aspects in which the killing of the bull by Mithras differs from the rules of civic sacrifice in the Greco-Roman world: the means by which the bull is brought to the killing-place, the place itself, the manner of its death, see Gordon 1998: 49; Martin 2017: 424–425; also Martin earlier in the text. According to Beck, what connected each Mithraic community into one coherent and universal cult was the fact that “Mithraic mysteries, across their axioms, motifs, domains, structures, and modes, communicated symbolically in a peculiar idiom. This idiom is a form of jargon of one of the Graeco-Roman culture’s most pervasive languages, the language of astronomy and astrology” (Beck 2004a: 7). Tauroctony represents an organized and coherent symbolic system, a so-called “star-talk”, representing the map of heavens, i. e. a map of soul’s celestial journey towards immortality (Beck 1976; 1977; 1988; 2004a; 2006). The adherents learned this idiom and how to “read” the tauroctony while attending the rituals in the mithraeum. For a comprehensive overview of the extensive literature on the topic see Chalupa 2012, and various articles in the same volume offering their responses to Beck’s notion of “star-talk”. Recently, Gordon has argued that astronomic/astrological perspective should not be the main starting point in interpreting the material and offers condensation and narrativity as alternative models of communicating the meaning in the cult of Mithras, Gordon 2017.

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communication with each other, sharing the basic knowledge of the Mithraic narrative (Arnhold 2018: 137).16 What is the connection between the cult icon and the objects that are the topic of this paper – the small and miniature reproductions of the Mithraic icon? Before answering that question, several remarks on the small and miniature reproductions of the Mithraic icon should be made. On the occasion of the conference looking into the evidence of the so-called “smallfinds” in the Roman cult of Mithras, held in Tienen (Belgium) in 2001, Richard Gordon identified a new class of Mithraic images – the small and miniature reproductions of Mithraic icon (Gordon 2004: 259–283).17 Depending on their context and function, in the first and hitherto their sole comprehensive study, Gordon distinguished three main classes of these objects: 1) house-reliefs (small and very small reliefs and statuettes, whose dimensions are less than 0.50 × 0.45 m) 2) images-emblems (pottery and various utilitarian objects used in the ritual) 3) images for devotional use: a) stone medallions, b) personal ornaments, and c) gems as private icons (Gordon 2004). Although in their size and number these objects might appear insignificant in comparison with the totality of Mithraic images, they brought into question some important aspects of the cult.18 Gordon raised doubts that there is one single meaning of the iconography of the Mithraic reliefs and the organized Mithraic community as the only form of the cult, while also doubting the “centrality in Mithraic practice of the temple focused upon a cult-relief ” (Gordon 2004: 260).19 This paper goes further and asks what is their relationship with the cult icon, and, consequently, what could have been their function in establishing and maintaining the communication with that which the 16

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It is widely accepted that various Mithraic communities from across the Empire followed a set of standard features, but at the same time “elaborated their own peculiar ideas and beliefs”, Chalupa 2012: 13; Gordon 2001; Arnhold 2018: 127. Dirven and McCarty are of the view that these variations are the result of local artistic traditions and that they do not necessarily express deviant religious traditions, Dirven and McCarty 2014, note 24; Martin doubts that any form of the standardized account of Mithraic myth circulated widely, Martin 1990: 217–224; 2004: 261; 2005: 196; 2009: 287. Taking into account the high degree of recognizability of the tauroctony scene, observed across the Roman Empire, I am more inclined to believe that certain standardized elements were present in each community. “Small finds” refer to the material evidence of everyday life (course-ware, figurines, hobnails, needles, brooches, archaeofloral and –faunal records, timber, pollens, food remains, animal by-products, etc.), whose importance has only recently been recognized in the study of the cult of Mithras, see for example Szabó 2014; Klenner 2016. Gordon considered altogether 214 (46 %) out of 464 tauroctony reliefs listed in the CIMRM, either complete or whose fragments allow the reconstruction of the original dimensions. The total number of small and miniature reliefs is 51, according to Gordon’s analysis, Gordon 2004: 261. More on this issue further in the text.

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initiates considered divine. Due to the limitations of this study, only stone medallions will be taken as a case study (group 3a).20 Even though only a few of them are preserved, their example can give us a hint about the far-reaching implications this class of objects might have had for the imagining and communicating with what initiates considered divine. As Gordon observed, images used for devotional purposes served the needs of the personal or individual cult of piety, and due to their convenient size, they could have been easily carried about and transported to considerable distances (Gordon 2004: 263, 264).21 Four examples of stone medallions are known to us today: two are from northern Dacia (CIMRM 2187, 0.15 × 0.12 m; CIMRM 2246, 0.13 × 0.10 × 0.04 m), the third was found in Lentia (modern Linz (Austria), CIMRM 1415, diam. 0.15 m), while the fourth comes from Caesarea Maritima in Palestine (diam. 0.075 m) (Image 3). These stone medallions share some common features: all are made of marble, they are less than 0.015 m thick, all are of circular or oval shape, and all were, as concluded by Gordon, designed in Moesia Superior or southern Dacia (Gordon 2004: 273). Two of the medallions were found in similar contexts: medallions from Lentia and Caesarea Maritima were found as votives in mithraea, whereby the latter one was affixed to a podium in front of the cult-niche (Gordon 2004: 273; Gordon 2001: 93; Bull 1974: 190; Bull et al. 2017). Since there was no marble in Palestine, the medallion from Caesarea Maritima was most probably imported finished (Bull et al. 2017: 56). The medallions from Dacia might have belonged to veterans who brought them upon their return from posts somewhere along the Danube (Gordon 2004: 274).22 Besides the shared similarity in material, size, and shape, miniature stone medallions seem to share another property: mediocre to poor quality of execution (Gordon 2004: 266). These “cookie-dough-style reliefs”, as tagged by Hijmans, appear almost unfinished in their soft rendering, making its “blurred … figures … little more than shapeless lumps” (Hijmans 2016: 94). As rightly observed by the Hijmans, the style of these reliefs is “one of the most communicative aspects” of them, consciously chosen and “intended to convey articulate and subtly coded visual meanings” (Hijmans 2016: 95, 98). It is important to note their relationship with the main cult icon: regardless of their small size and superficial treatment, the stone medallions contain all of the essential

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However, it would be interesting to examine the broader class of small and miniature reproductions of Mithraic icon, their mutual relationship, and their connection with the main icon. Gordon thinks that 15 % of all Mithraic images were intended for private religious purposes, Gordon 2012: 780. The foundation of the Caesarea mithraeum has been linked to either or both the VIth or Xth Legion, whose presence in the region coincides with the approximate foundation (beginning of 3rd century CE) and the abandonment (beginning of the 4th century CE) of the mithraeum (Bull et al. 2017: 76–77). Besides the army, customs officials belonged to the most mobile members of Roman society. Their importance for the local spread of the cult of Mithras has been already stressed, Beskow 1980; Gordon 1994; Beck 2004b; Gordon 2009a.

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elements of the tauroctony, and they even contain additional scenes placed in the lower register. The scenes on the lower register fields are as follows: scene two and three are the same on all four medallions: they show Mithras and Sol dining, and Mithras ascending Sol’s carriage (the medallion from Caesarea Maritima combines this scene with the image of Mithras catching the running bull, with the reclining figure of Saturnus or Oceanus in front of them). The first scene on CIMRM 1415 is unrecognizable. A lion’s head can be recognised on the first field of CIMRM 2187, while on CIMRM 2246 the upper part of Mithras’ body is depicted. The Caesarea Maritima medallion shows Sol kneeling before Mithras. CIMRM 2246 even has a representation of Mithras taurophorus (Mithras carrying the bull on his back) added to the main scene. In their division of the main field and the lower register subdivided into three fields, medallions follow the so-called Danubian relief scheme (Sicoe 2014). These reliefs are usually composed of a larger central panel, with horizontal upper and/or lower fields (e. g. CIMRM 1935, CIMRM 1958, CIMRM 1972, CIMRM 2018). Thus, in their iconography and composition, they appear identical to the cult reliefs, and since they are all made of stone, they allude to and derive their legitimacy from the cult icon (Gordon 2004: 260). The central placement of the Caesarea medallion, set up directly in front of the cult niche, prompted Bull to conclude that the medallion had a special meaning for the cult members and that it had the central role in the liturgy (Bull 174: 190; Bull et al. 2017: 50, 56). Gordon is right to observe that it could not have been visible from the podia, suggesting that it was dedicated as a personal memento after the long journey from the Danube to Palestine (Gordon 2004: 273). It could have arrived in Caesarea, as Bull suggests, with a member of the cult who helped establish the mithraeum there, and who set it up as a personal votive, maintaining a link with their homeland (Bull et al. 2017: 56). That two out of four medallions were found outside Dacia, placed in mithraea as votives, should not contradict the main argument of this study. After all, these objects might have had a long life, during which they performed different functions (perhaps sometimes even simultaneously). Following the long journey, during which the medallion could have been used for the personal needs of piety, it might have served as a model for a cult icon or other larg(er)-scale images in the newly established mithraeum, where it was then deposited as a votive (Arnhold 2018: 137). 3 (Im)materializing Belief – Images and Ritual Reality In order to fully understand the relationship between the cult icon and the stone medallions, their role in ritual has to be addressed as well as the consequences for the religious experience of the adherents of the cult. Jaś Elsner compared the imagery of the official Roman religion and the cult of Mithras, concluding that Mithraic cult icons embodied both cultic and votive functions (Elsner 1995: 212). The Mithraic cult icon

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represented “a simulacrum of a spiritual journey which these viewers could be reasonably expected to see themselves as making” (Elsner 1995: 88). He further emphasized the exceptional importance of images for the cult of Mithras: Where Roman religious art imitated Roman sacrificial practice, Mithraic ritual imitated the Mithraic cult image. It is this fundamental reversal that catapulted images in the mystery cults into a position of incomparable importance, for the image is no longer parasitic on actuality, but rather, religious practice becomes in some sense mimesis of the cult icon (Elsner 1995: 241).

In fact, during the ritual a mithraeum became a tableau vivant, a living picture wherein the architecture, participants, and ritual acts themselves served to relive the mythical past, thus making the participants contemporaries with the mythic events (Dirven 2015: 45–47).23 Based on the cult’s material remains it is still not entirely clear how the Mithraic rituals evolved, but there is enough visual and archaeological evidence which suggests that the ritual was a mimesis or re-enactment of at least some parts of the myth in which “participants are mimicking the divine” and “the solar journey within the context of a mithraeum” (Beck 2000: 148, 150, 159).24 Some of the rituals included initiation rites (reconstructed from the scenes on the Mainz crater, podium frescoes in the Capua mithraeum, and the graffiti from the Santa Prisca mithraeum)25 and communal meals (numerous scenes representing the shared meal by Sol and Mithras or members of the cult dining together).26 23

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Panagiotidou and Beck (2017: 28) find the evidence too scant to support this hypothesis and are cautious about concluding that every Mithraic community had the same rituals. However, as argued in the text, we can imagine some common traits shared across Mithraic communities. This does not mean that there was no (local) diversity of actual belief, community organisation, and ritual practice, Gordon 2017a: 298–299. According to Gordon, the individual religious entrepreneurs (mystagogues) were those who, as leaders of communities, were responsible for mediating the tradition and for introducing new ideas and interpretations in order to increase the appeal of the cult, Gordon 2013. Due to the limited scope of the article, it is not possible to go into further particularities here. For the detailed discussion of these rituals and the pertaining visual material and archaeological evidence see Beck 2000; Gordon 2009b; Martin 2009; Clauss 2012: 98–109; Frackowiack 2013; Dirven 2016; for the full bibliography on the topic see Chalupa and Glomb 2013. Besides abundant visual evidence, some archaeological finds seem to support the reality of these rites. Since they belong to the so-called “small finds”, they have only recently been taken into consideration. For example, two arrowheads found in the mithraeum in Künzing and Stockstadt may be evidence of the performance of the “Archery of the Father”, Schatzmann 2004: 19; the sword discovered in the mithraeum in Riegel am Kaiserstuhl and the iron crown from the mithraeum in Güglingen appear to have served in the initiation rituals as well, Frackowiack 2013: 234; Hensen 2013: 65. Another fragment of the sword was found in the mithraeum in Tienen (Belgium), Martens 2004: 38–39. For an overview of swords finds in various mithraea and their role in the ritual see Klenner 2014. The importance of the cult meal in the Mithraic ritual has long been recognized, see Vermaseren 1974: 17–21; Hultgård 2004; Klöckner 2011. The scene depicting the shared meal by Sol and Mithras frequently occurs on the double-sided reliefs, showing tauroctony on the obverse, and the shared

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The theatrical performance of the sacred narrative, in which cult members were not only observers but also potentially the participants, probably left a deep impression and it certainly created a lasting memory of the events.27 The performance took place in a space imitating the cave (sometimes in a real cave, if the circumstances allowed), where access to the natural light was limited. Different kinds of artificial lightning effects were deployed in order to accentuate important parts of the ritual and space in which it took place (Clauss 2012: 116–123). The flickering light-effects, with its shadows and reflections, might have increased the intensity of the emotional response of the participants (Clauss 2012: 118–119). Moreover, various accessories like swords and crowns were used (cf. note 23), with some limited evidence indicating that participants might have even dressed up for their roles (Dirven 2015: 38–39).28 Some of these performances were accompanied by sensory deprivations and inflictions of pain, whereby these “voluntary sufferings and humiliations” became real théâtre de terreur (Gordon 2007: 403–404; Gordon 2009b; Gordon 2015: 200–201). Such rituals, involving dramatic episodes, are called cognitively costly rituals (Whitehouse 2004: 55–57). They trigger long-lasting memory effects, leading to a more in-depth understanding of the structure and meaning of such rituals (Whitehouse 2004: 56). Such a reversal of the nature of the cult icon prompted Elsner to name it “the most remarkable and radical change in society that the Western world has seen” (Elsner 1995: 245). Crucial to this change was the transformation of the art from literal to symbolic; the image of the god became a symbol of the god which demanded “mystical viewing”, making a cult icon “a text in its own right – a particular polysemic arrangement and commentary that demands to be read within the ideology of its time and it its own unique way” (Elsner 1995: 88, 124, 218–219).

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meal on the reverse, for example, CIMRM 397, 635, 641, 723–4, 1083, 1137, 1247, 1857–8, 1896, etc. The scene also appears as one of the subsidiary scenes surrounding the tauroctony, for example, CIMRM 966, 1036, 1084, etc. Sometimes it is the members of the cult who are depicted sharing the meal: CIMRM 782, 1175, etc. The podia found at either side of most of the mithraea suggest that the communal meals were shared among the members; one of the most fascinating discoveries related to the communal meals belongs to the mithraeum in Tienen (Belgium): approximately 700 ceramic vessels were found (plates, color coated beakers, jars, and various cooking pots), together with the remains of 242 cockerels, 12 lambs and 8 piglets, suggesting that the meal was organized for at least 100 people, Martens 2004: 43. Although an exceptional example, it nevertheless points to the prime importance of the ritual. According to Gordon, the evocation of mythic narrative and personal participation in them was used to generate subjective experiences over the long term (realising a personal responsibility for the maintenance of the cosmos), and to sustain the religious group that practice it, Gordon 2017b. For a general survey of ancient cultic theaters and ritual drama see Nielsen 2002. Also, see n. 29. For the discussion see Dirven 2015: 38–39, esp. n. 86; particularly interesting is the reverse of the Konjic relief (Bosnia and Herzegovina), CIMRM 1896, were attendants to the Sol and Mithras’ shared meal wear masks of Raven and Lion. However, the evidence is insufficient and some scholars are still hesitant, see Gordon 1980b: 23.

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The mithraeum was indeed a “special world” of a “shared and highly specialized culture” (Gordon 1998: 228, 258). By simultaneously witnessing and participating in the performance, cult members learned about the myth and the distinct visual codes used to represent it, which could only be successfully transmitted through “action, enactment, performance” (Gordon 2009b: 290).29 In fact, the knowledge was encoded and transmitted through both iconic and performative imagery (Martin 2004: 260–261). Recently, a theory of empathetic response to works of art has shown that the same neural networks are activated when an action is observed as when it is executed, meaning that even observation of static images of actions leads to simulation of action in mind, enhancing the emotional resonance it triggers in the brain of the observer, thus enhancing the effectiveness of the images (Freedberg and Gallese 2007). This has significant consequences for the role of the small and miniature reproductions of the Mithraic icon. As mentioned previously, the absence of sacred texts meant that the images had a crucial importance in representing the cult’s fundamental claims (Gordon 2007: 260).30 Mithraic icons and miniature medallions served as “visual catechisms”, evoking the experiences of iconic and performative imagery witnessed at the mithraeum (Gordon 1980; Gordon 1998: 228, 236; Beck 2006: 157–164). The evocative nature of miniature medallions is even more apparent both in terms of their size and in the intentional selection of their style (Gordon 2004: 290; Hijmans 2016: 98). According to Freedberg, the images have the power to affect the viewer not just emotionally, but in ways that have long-term behavioral consequences (Freedberg, 1989: 5). The degree of effectiveness of an image and the response it evokes is directly related to the form and quality of the image. The miniature medallions are even more powerful than the fully elaborated cult icons. The cult icon can attract and guide the imagination more immediately and effectively, but it is their formal qualities that serve as a means of attraction (Freedberg 1989: 187). Miniature medallions offer less exact and less abundant clues to what they represent. This means that the observer will have to draw back on the stock of his visual experiences from the mithraeum, and in his mind, he will construct images based on the memory of things seen (Freedberg 1989: 188, 245). Even in the very schematic representations like the medallions, with the smallest number of cues, it suffices to trigger the assembling of the fragments of previous visual experiences into one coherent image in a process called recognition (Gell 1998: 25).31 29

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Panagiotidou and Beck (2017: 26–27) have also argued that the bodily action in rituals, performance of the ritual in the mithraeum, and a strong, memorable narrative depicted on concrete monumental and iconographic representations enhanced the perception, conceptualization, and recall of one’s participation in the ritual and the associated mental and emotional states. On the role of religious images as a form of communication see Pezzoli-Olgiati and Rowland 2011. Gombrich argued the importance of the power of suggestion: in the reading of images, we supplement what was not given to us by the process of projection, which is triggered by recognition. According to him, no object can represent more than certain aspects of its prototype; others must

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The cognitive and emotional activity involved in the construction of such mental images and their appeal to visual imagination is deeper than observing the “straightforward” icons, and therefore, the effectiveness of the medallions increases.32 In his examination of the psychological and material aspect of religion, Lynch demonstrated that a sacred object could be an object in psychological sense as well, and as such can be “a dynamic focus of subjective associations and feelings in the mental worlds of the religious adherent and that the relationship with the sacred object can affect the psychological structures and feeling-states of the adherent” (Lynch 2010: 43).33 Sperber distinguished between mental representations (memory, belief, intention; in this case memory of ritual and narrative from the mithraeum) and public representations (book, art object, etc.; e. g. Mithraic cult icon, miniature medallions) (Sperber 1996: 32).34 As mentioned earlier in this paper, the experience of mental images and material images is mirrored with similar neural representations in the brain for both (Cichy, Heinzle and Haynes 2012; Onians 2016: 16).35 Moreover, mental images appear even more vivid, and persevere longer, than visual images (Tonelli 2011: 222). Sharing the same iconography with the cult icons, the portable miniature medallions could be carried around and used as memory aids: reminding the user of the sacred narrative and the emotional experiences from the mithraeum, and maintaining the sense of collective identity established within the mithraeum, i. e. acting as social agents (Dirven 2015: 45; Gell 1998: 16–19).36 The power of images (i. e. their effectiveness) is tied not only to what they represent or symbolize but also to the manner in which they inter-

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be supplemented in order to be understood, Gombrich 1960. Furthermore, Gell emphasized that recognition cannot occur spontaneously, but only if there is necessary information (visual recognition cues) supplied it will motivate the construction of the image from the index (cue), Gell 1998: 25–26. “Straightforward” images are cognitively less demanding, and the psychological response they prompt is less involving, Robb 2015: 175. According to Lynch, adherents learned to encounter the material objects in their specific social, material and cultural context (e. g. mithraeum). At the same time, these objects have their own conditions of encounter: they authorize, allow, encourage, suggest, influence, block, make possible, forbid, etc., in ways that are not under the control of the adherents. The agency thus results as an interplay between adherents and the objects, Lynch 2010: 50–51. The communication between the two, according to Sperber, goes in two ways: one from mental to public, the other from the public to the mental, Sperber 1996: 34. The neural networks we use when we imagine something are the same as those used when we see something. The only difference is that, instead of the relevant areas of the visual cortex being fed by sensory inputs through eyes, they are fed by memories, Onians 2016: 113. M. Bal and N. Bryson have argued that there is a strong relationship between reception and particular social groups. Different groups possess different codes of viewing, and members of a particular group gain familiarity as they learn how to operate with these codes. Even more, a particular group defines itself through its ability to manipulate visual codes in distinct ways, Bal and Bryson 1991. Objects are also social beings and can act as social agents, according to Gell. They appear so only in particular contexts, as objects are not self-sufficient agents, but only secondary agents in conjunction with human associates (primary agents), Gell 1998: 16. On the interconnectedness of the social power and the sensory and emotional impact of the objects see Gosden 2005.

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fere with and are integrated into social life (Back Danielsson, Fahlander and Sjöstrand 2012: 4–5).37 When answering the question why some mental and public representations propagate in specific social groups, Sperber explained it in terms of the epidemiology of representations: some representations remain relatively stable due to the common experience and communication (like the one experienced in the mithraeum) (Sperber 1996: 82). 4 Conclusions According to neuroarthistorical research, our brain reacts to the perception of images without us being aware of it (Onians 2016: 14). This type of memory, pertaining to the things we know without being aware of knowing, is referred to in the cognitive sciences as the implicit memory (Whitehouse 2004: 65). The more frequently we are confronted with similar objects, the richer and stronger the neural networks involved will become (Onians 2016: 12). They will form a neural resource, i. e. memory, without us even realizing it (Onians 2016: 10). Similarly, Whitehouse argues that frequent repetition of rituals will lead to implicit memory, i. e. repetitive ritual actions will result in implicit behavioral habits which will take place on a purely unconscious level (Whitehouse 2004: 68).38 This means that the members of the cult of Mithras, by attending rituals, created implicit memory of both iconic and performative imagery. When looking at the miniature medallions, offering only certain cues to the narrative learned in the mithraeum, members would mobilize their memory, and with the help of the mental images, they would recall the narrative and the connected experiences. Miniature medallions are an example of the intricate (unconscious) mental processes that occur in the minds of the adherents when looking at these seemingly simple objects. Their interplay between ritual, sacred narrative, ritual space, and the cult icon enabled perception and ensured communication with that which they considered divine.

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The recent “material turn” in Humanities and Social Sciences has focused on material agency, and how images have the power to evoke social effects, Fahlander 2012; agency can be attributed to “agents that do not appear immediately plausible” see Rüpke 2015: 344. On the social agency of objects see Robb 2015; on the different roles of objects in religious life see Morgan 2010. According to Whitehouse, there are two different modes of religiosity: imagistic and doctrinal (Whitehouse 2004). There is a number of studies dedicated to analyzing the cult of Mithras according to these modes. Beck has shown that the cult of Mithras shows both imagistic and doctrinal tendencies: imagistic in its high level or arousal, in iconic and multivocal technique of revelation, intense social cohesion, exclusivity and small scale, and noncentralized structure, and doctrinal in its high transmissive frequency, implicit memory, learned ritual meaning, dynamic leadership, rapid and efficient spread, and in high degree of uniformity (Beck 2004b); for more on Whitehouse’s modes and the cult of Mithras see Martin 2004; 2005; 2009; Misic 2015. For more on the cognitive approach to the cult of Mithras see Martin 2015, Panagiotidou and Beck 2017.

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Bibliography Abbreviations ANRW ARYS CIMRM RAC JCH JMS JRA JRS

Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt Antigüedad: Religiones y Sociedades Vermaseren, Maarten J. 1956–1960. Corpus Inscriptionum et Monumentorum Religionis Mithriacae I–II Haag: Martinus Nijhoff. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum Journal of Cognitive Historiography Journal of Mithraic Studies Journal of Roman Archaeology Journal of Roman Studies Sources

Ovid, Ars Amatoria, I.219–28. Translation taken from Clarke, J. R. 2006. Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans Visual Representation and Non-Elite Viewers in Italy, 100 B C – A D 315, 10. Berkley: University of California Press.

Literature Alcock, S.; Egri, M.; Frakes, J. F. F. D. (eds) 2016. Beyond Boundaries: Connecting Visual Cultures in the Provinces of Ancient Rome Los Angeles: Getty Publications. Arnhold, M. 2018. “Imagining Mithras in Light of Iconographic Standardization and Individual Accentuation.” In Seeing the God Image, Space, Performance, and Vision in the Religion of the Roman Empire, ed. M. Arnhold, H. O. Maier and J. Rüpke. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. 125–147. Back Daniellson, I. M.; Fahlander, F.; Sjöstrand, Y. 2012. Encountering Imagery Materialities, Perceptions, Relations Stockholm: Stockholm University. Bal, M.; Bryson, N. 1991. “Semiotics and Art History”, The Art Bulletin 73. 174–208. Beck, R. 1976. “A Note on the Scorpion in the Tauroctony”, JMS 1. 208–209. Beck, R. 1977. “Cates and Cautopates: Some Astrological Observations”, JMS 2. 1–17. Beck, R. 1984. “Mithraism Since Franz Cumont”, ANRW II 17 4. 2002–2115. Beck, R. 1988. Planetary Gods and Planetary Orders in the Mystery of Mithras. Leiden: Brill. Beck, R. 1996. “The Mysteries of Mithras.” In Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. J. S. Kloppenborg and S. G. Wilson. London: Routledge. 176–185. Beck, R. 2000. “Ritual, Myth, Doctrine, and Initiation in the Mysteries of Mithras: New Evidence from Cult Vessel”, JRS 90. 145–180. Beck, R. 2004a. Beck on Mithraism Collected Works with New Essays. Aldershot: Ashgate.

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p o t s da m e r a lt e rt u m s w i s s e n s c h a f t l i c h e b e i t r äg e

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From Roma quadrata to la grande Roma dei Tarquini A Study of the Literary Tradition on Rome’s Territorial Growth under the Kings Potsdamer altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge – vol. 70 2019. 352 pages with 17 b/w illustrations 978-3-515-12451-5 softcover 978-3-515-12452-2 e-Book

By the end of the regal period (late 6th c. BC) Rome was by far the greatest non-Greek city in Italy. How she attained her enormous size was a problem for the ancients no less than for the moderns. The former agreed on Rome’s birth (the first city of the 8th c. BC on the Palatine’s 15 hectares) and completion (all the traditional Seven Hills, ca. 400 hectares); everything in-between was a matter of dispute. The latter, while agreeing on the point of arrival, evidenced by the archaic remains of the ‘Servian Wall’, reject the point of departure and so the whole literary tradition on Rome’s growth, pointing out that the Palatine was inhabited much earlier and the Capitol earlier still; another argument is a hypothetical huge (200–300 hectares) ‘proto-urban centre’ on Rome’s site. The aim of this study is to assess the worth of the ancients’ certainty that the Palatine was the city’s cradle and see if their writings preserved dependable information on her growth; the results – Rome was in fact founded on the Palatine and had

one stage of growth between the ‘Romulean’ birth and the ‘Servian-Tarquinian’ achievement – pass well the test of confrontation with the archaeological material. contents Foreword | Introduction | Before the City | Rome’s territorial growth in written sources. 1: The direct dossier | Rome’s territorial growth in written sources. 2: The indirect dossier | Explaining Rome’s birth and growth: literary tradition and archaeological evidence | Appendix A: Varro, De lingua Latina 5.41–56 | Appendix B: Tac. Ann. 12.24.1–2 | Appendix C: Urban pagi and the earliest City | Bibliography | Indices the author Adam Ziolkowski is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Warsaw. His main fields of interest are the history of Archaic and Republican Rome, topography of the ancient City of Rome and Late Antiquity.

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Claudia Beltrão da Rosa / Federico Santangelo (ed.)

Cicero and Roman Religion Eight Studies Potsdamer altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge – vol. 72 2020. 154 pages 978-3-515-12643-4 softcover 978-3-515-12644-1 e-Book

This book gathers eight papers devoted to specific aspects of Cicero’s engagement with Roman religion, and seeks to make a wider contribution to the understanding of Cicero’s work as historical evidence. By engaging with religion as a fundamental factor of social cohesion and political stability, both in his theoretical works and his speeches, Cicero shaped a wide-ranging and ambitious discourse around themes and images that were firmly located in first-century BCE Rome. His contribution also proved very influential in the centuries to come. The volume focuses on the relationship between law, religion, and religious authority in Cicero; the interplay between divine images, ritual contexts, and the conceptualization of the divine; Cicero’s construction of a Greek deity for a Roman audience; the role of religious elements in the shaping of a Roman political identity; the tension between ‘natural

law’ and Roman pietas; the problem of divine and human foresight; the relationship between theoretical views of the gods and late Republican public cult; and the reception, use, and readaptation of Ciceronian theology in the English Enlightenment. contriButors Valentina Arena, Claudia Beltrão da Rosa, Patricia Horvat & Alexandre Carneiro C. Lima, María Emilia Cairo, Maria Eichler, Federico Santangelo, Greg Woolf, Katherine A. East the editors Claudia Beltrão da Rosa is Professor of Ancient History at the Universidade Federal do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UNIRIO). Federico Santangelo is Professor of Ancient History at Newcastle University.

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Pervading Empire addresses the issue of diversity within the Roman Empire and promotes interpretations that go beyond general and often abstract theoretical framings. The baseline of the volume is the notion that reality is created by the endless and multi-directional relations of different human and inhuman actors, and that the sorts and modes of correlations create specific phenomena. The volume offers a variety of theoretically and methodologically well-informed geographical, chronological and thematic case studies, written by estab-

ISBN 978-3-515-12716-5

9 783515 127165

lished and emerging specialists in the field of Roman Studies, on a range of different research questions such as the integration in the Roman world, inter-cultural perceptions, (mis)communications, transfers and exchanges, transformations of social structures and landscape, patterns of consumption and related identities and the dynamics in the sphere of religion among others. Thereby, Pervading Empire demonstrates the complex and fluctuating nature of the Roman world and emphasizes the fertility of such approaches within Roman Studies.

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