Reading the Landscapes of the Rural Peloponnese: Landscape change and regional variation in an early 'provincial' setting 9781407311203, 9781407340906

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BAR S2504 2013 STEWART READING THE LANDSCAPES OF THE RURAL PELOPONNESE

B A R

Reading the Landscapes of the Rural Peloponnese Landscape change and regional variation in an early ‘provincial’ setting

Daniel R. Stewart

BAR International Series 2504 2013

Reading the Landscapes of the Rural Peloponnese Landscape change and regional variation in an early ‘provincial’ setting

Daniel R. Stewart

BAR International Series 2504 2013

ISBN 9781407311203 paperback ISBN 9781407340906 e-format DOI https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407311203 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

BAR

PUBLISHING

CONTENTS List of Figures List of Boxes List of Tables Acknowledgements

iii iv iv vi

I. Introduction I.1 Research Context I.2 Organisation of the Study

1 2 4

II. Data Sources and Approaches II.1 Survey Archaeology Survey Theory Survey Method Data Comparability Site Definition and Classification II.2 Historical Sources II.3 The Intellectual Framework Landscape(s) Landscape and Geology Landscape as Economy Cereal Crop Agriculture Viticulture Oleoculture Pastoral Activities Landscape as Economy: Conclusions II.4 Landscapes of Interaction Modelling Rural Identities

5 6 7 10 11 11 14 17 17 18 19 20 22 25 27 28 28 31

III. Land Use and the Peloponnese III.1 Methodology Metadata Survey Comparison III.2 Intensive Surveys The Laconia Survey Laconia Survey Summary Conclusions for Laconia Survey (Hellenistic) Conclusions for Laconia Survey (Roman) The Methana Survey Methana Survey Summary Conclusions for Methana Survey (Hellenistic) Conclusions for Methana Survey (Roman) The Berbati-Limnes Survey Berbati-Limnes Survey Summary Conclusions for Berbati-Limnes (Hellenistic) Conclusions for Berbati-Limnes (Roman) The Asea Valley Survey Asea Valley Survey Summary Conclusions for Asea Survey (Hellenistic) Conclusions for Asea Survey (Roman) The Southern Argolid Survey Southern Argolid Survey Summary Conclusions for Southern Argolid (Hellenistic) Conclusions for Southern Argolid (Roman) The Pylos Regional Archaeological Project Pylos Regional Archaeological Project (PRAP) Summary Conclusions for PRAP (Hellenistic) Conclusions for PRAP (Roman) III.3 Conclusion

33 33 33 34 38 39 40 41 42 45 46 47 4 50 51 52 53 54 54 56 58 60 61 63 64 66 66 69 71 71

i

IV. Regional Narratives IV.1 Scales of Narration Defining Historical Narration Defining Scales IV.2 Extensive Surveys Achaea Sikyonia Eastern Arcadia Megalopolis Messenia IV.3 The Peloponnese in Regions Northeast Northwest Southeast Southwest Central IV.4 Conclusion

73 73 73 74 76 77 77 78 79 80 80 82 84 84 85 86 87

V. Inter-regional Narratives V.1 Moving from Small to Large V.2 The Peloponnese as a Whole The Hellenistic Peloponnese The Roman Peloponnese V.3 Mediterranean Trends Greece in Context The Nature(s) of Mediterranean Contacts

90 90 90 90 95 99 99 100

VI. Processes of Interaction VI.1 Cultural Interaction VI.2 The Nature of Cultural Interaction in the Peloponnese ‘Local-Local Interaction ‘Local-Neighbour’ Interaction ‘Local-Foreign’ Interaction VI.3 Conclusion: Scales of Interaction

103 103 103

VII. Conclusion VII.1 Survey Comparison and Usability VII.2 A New Interpretive Framework VII.3 Processes of Interaction VII.4 The Contextualised Peloponnese

112 112 112 114 114

Appendix: Intensive Survey Data Laconia Survey Data Methana Survey Data Berbati-Limnes Survey Data Asea Valley Survey Data Southern Argolid Survey Data Pylos Regional Archaeological Project Data Ancient Agricultural Authors

115 117 120 122 123 124 127 128

Bibliography

135

104 107 109 111

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Figures Figure 1. Agricultural year, based on CIL VI 2305 and Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 162.

6

Figure 2. Intensive surveys in the Peloponnese used in this study. Areas are approximate.

8

Figure 3. Laconia Survey area. After Cavanagh, et al., 2002, Ill. I.14. Courtesy British School at Athens.

40

Figure 4. Laconia Survey sites overlying geology. After Cavanagh et al. 2002, pocket map. Courtesy British School at Athens.

43

Figure 5. Methana survey area. After Mee, et al., 1997, fig. 3.1. Courtesy Liverpool University Press.

46

Figure 6. Methana Survey on-site sampling strategy.

47

Figure 7. Methana survey sites overlying geology. After Mee and Forbes, 1997, fig. 2.1. Courtesy Liverpool University Press.

49

Figure 8. Berbati-Limnes survey area. After Wells, et al., 1996, fig. 4. Courtesy Swedish Institutes of Athens and Rome.

51

Figure 9. Berbati survey sites overlying geology. After Higgins and Higgins, 1996, fig. 5.1. Courtesy Swedish Institutes of Athens and Rome.

53

Figure 10. Asea Valley survey area. After Forsén and Forsén, 2003, fig. 3. Courtesy Swedish Institutes of Athens and Rome.

54

Figure 11. Asea valley survey sites overlying geology. After Forsén & Forsén, 2003, fig. 5. Courtesy Swedish Institutes of Athens and Rome.

58

Figure 12. Southern Argolid survey area. After Jameson, et al., 1994, fig. 4.1. Courtesy Stanford University Press.

61

Figure 13. Southern Argolid sites overlying geology. After Higgins & Higgins, 1996, fig. 5.1; Jameson, et al. 1994, figs. 4.23-4.26.

65

Figure14. Pylos Regional Archaeological Project survey area. After Alcock, et al., 2005, fig. 6. Courtesy American School of Classical Studies at Athens.

66

Figure 15. PRAP sites by period. After Alcock, et al. 2005, fig. 2. Courtesy American School of Classical Studies at Athens.

68

Figure 16. PRAP sites overlying geology. Note that L02 to L07 lie outside the geologically surveyed area. After Zangger, et al. 1997, fig. 4. Courtesy American School of Classical Studies at Athens.

70

Figure 17. Approximate locations of extensive surveys discussed in the text.

76

Figure 18. The Peloponnese in Regions.

81

Figure 19. Southern Argolid sites and roads. After Jameson, et al., 1994, fig. 1.27.

105

Figure 20. Asea valley sites and roads. After Forsén and Forsén, 2003, fig.39. Courtesy Swedish Institutes of Athens and Rome.

106

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Boxes Box 1. Survey Metadata as used in the comparison of disparate survey project’s methodologies.

34

Box 2. Laconia Survey Metadata.

39

Box 3. Methana Survey Metadata.

45

Box 4. Berbati-Limnes Metadata.

50

Box 5. Asea Valley Metadata.

55

Box 6. Southern Argolid Metadata.

60

Box 7. Pylos Regional Archaeological Project Metadata.

67

Tables Table 1: Comparison of site classification by select Peloponnesian surveys (surveys are arranged in chronological order from left to right; site categories are arranged in broad hierarchical order from top to bottom by category)

13

Table 2. Some intricacies of Greek viticulture. Modified from (Hanson 1992).

23

Table 3. Periodisation by survey. †Asea survey has one Archaic-Hellenistic period (600-31 BC). * Southern Argolid has a Late Classical to Early Hellenistic (350-250 BC), and a Hellenistic Period (250-50 BC).

36

Table 4. Primary comparative criteria employed by this study.

37

Table 5. Laconia Survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

41

Table 6. Laconia Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers.

41

Table 7. Methana Survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

48

Table 8. Methana Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers.

48

Table 9. Berbati-Limnes range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

52

Table 10. Berbati-Limnes Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers.

52

Table 11. Asea Valley Survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

57

Table 12. Asea Valley Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers.

57

Table 13. Southern Argolid survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

62

Table 14. Southern Argolid site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers.

62

iv

Table 15. PRAP range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

69

Table 16. PRAP site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers.

69

Table 17. Peloponnesian site numbers by survey and period. Number in [square brackets] excludes Southern Argolid Early Hellenistic period. Number in (parentheses) represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. % rounded to the nearest 0.5.

72

Table 18. Extensive surveys discussed in text.

76

Table 19. Achaea survey sites by period.

77

Table 20. Sikyonia survey sites by period. Numbers in (brackets) refers to total including uncertain sites.

78

Table 21. E. Arcadia survey sites by period.

78

Table 22. Megalopolis survey sites by period. † ‘Black-glazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC.

79

Table 23. UMME survey sites by period.

80

Table 24. Northeast region site numbers by survey and period. Number in (parentheses) represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Number in [square brackets] excludes Argolid Early Hellenistic sites.* This represents sites with unclear periodization. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

82

Table 25. Northeast region: number of sites per km2, by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

82

Table 26. Northeast region: ‘Winsorised’ mean site sizes (ha) by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

82

Table 27. Northwest region: site numbers by survey and period, and number of sites per km2. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

84

Table 28. Southeast region: ‘Winsorised’ mean site sizes (ha) by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

85

Table 29. Southeast region: site numbers by survey and period, and number of sites per km2. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

85

Table 30. Southwest region: number of sites per km2 by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

85

Table 31. Southwest region: site numbers by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

85

Table 32. Southwest region: ‘Winsorised’ mean site sizes (ha) by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

85

Table 33. Central region: number of sites per km2 by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys.† This number

86

v

represents ‘black-glazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC. ‡ This number takes into account ‘black-glazed’ sites. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Table 34. Central region: site numbers by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. † This number represents ‘blackglazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC. ‡This number takes into account ‘black-glazed’ sites. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

86

Table 35. Peloponnesian site numbers by survey and period. Number in (parentheses) represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Number in [square brackets] excludes Argolid Early Hellenistic sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. * This number represents sites with uncertain periodization. † This number represents ‘black-glazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC. ‡ This number takes into account ‘black-glazed’ sites. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

88

Table 36. Site sizes by survey and period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers.

91

Table 37. Peloponnesian site continuity among Roman sites, by survey. Italics denotes extensive surveys. Figures in [square brackets] denote Southern Argolid numbers without Early Hellenistic. Figures in (parentheses) denote data without Megalopolis. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

96

Table 38. Percentages of Peloponnesian Hellenistic sites that survive into the Roman period, by survey. Italics denotes extensive surveys. Figures in [square brackets] denote Southern Argolid numbers without Early Hellenistic period. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

97

Table A1. Principal published site gazetteers by survey.

115

Table A2. Primary comparative criteria used by this study.

115

Table A3. Density calculations per survey.

116

Table A4. Abbreviations used in Appendix data.

116

Table A5. Laconia Survey data.

117-119

Table A6. Methana Survey data.

120-121

Table A7. Berbati-Limnes Survey data.

122

Table A8. Asea Valley Survey data.

123

Table A9. Southern Argolid Survey data.

124-126

Table A10. Pylos Regional Archaeological Project data.

127

Table A11. Ancient agricultural authors. Dates are approximate, and represent all potential periods of activity. EANS is the page reference in the Encyclopedia of Ancient Natural Scientists (Routledge 2009).

vi

128-134

Acknowledgements This was a project long in gestation and slow in birth. It arose out of my PhD thesis at the University of Leicester, but in some respects bears little resemblance to that piece of work. There are very many people and organisations to thank. I would like to acknowledge the assistance of the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for the funding to undertake the PhD, and the support of the University of Leicester that facilitated the completion of this book. The work has benefitted from discussions with a wide variety of colleagues at Leicester and elsewhere: Andy Merrills, Huw Barton, Naoise Mac Sweeney, Lin Foxhall, Ian Whitbread, Jeremy Taylor, Colin Haselgrove, Mark Gillings, and Mark van der Enden. Lesley McFadyen (at Birkbeck College), Ben Gourley (most recently of the University of York), and Yannis Lolos (of the University of Thessaly at Volos) were unfailingly helpful and giving of their time. Jago Cooper and Borja Legarra Herrero provided crucial critical voices. Bill Cavanagh and Hamish Forbes at the University of Nottingham provided discussions, critiques, and in some cases, unpublished material. Thanks also to the British School at Athens, the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, the Swedish Intitutes of Athens and Rome, Stanford University Press, and Liverpool University Press for permissions to use modified versions of various images. Especial thanks most go to Professor Graham Shipley, who helped steer this work to delivery with patience and magnamanity, and also my original PhD examiners: David Mattingly (at Leicester) and Robin Osborne (at Cambridge). Obviously any errors or omissions remain my own, and are no fault of their thoughtful and insightful critiques. I do need to single out my parents and brothers, whose unfailing support and carefully timed insults kept me sane. None of this would have been possible without the love, support, and critical prodding of Jennifer Baird, who now knows much more about the rural Peloponnese than she could ever have wanted. Finally, and most importantly, I have to thank my daughter Laurel – now this is done, let’s go see some dinosaurs.

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objects more recognisable. In other words, to lift the interpretative gaze from the shadows to try to understand the behaviours of the communities that inhabited the Peloponnese in the past.

I. Introduction The hope that the great figures of classical antiquity should not forever remain just empty shadows, but that they may be transformed into life, into a body with flesh and blood, this is the one truly interesting and truly enticing issue; to search out in modern Greece—and find—antiquity. (Politis 1871: 3 [CS translation])

This requires a measure of selection and restriction, and in that sense it is the extent, nature and causes of settlement change in the rural Peloponnese in the last centuries of the Hellenistic period and the early centuries of Roman rule (c.200 BC to c.AD 200) that are the focus of this study. Understanding the rural landscape has implications for our readings of certain aspects of cultural change and land use, and can help bridge the gap between necessarily elite-driven historiographical studies and related stratified deposits. This study is not meant to be either a historical narrative on the ‘decline and depopulation’ of Greece or a treatise on survey archaeology. Rather, it is meant to elucidate the complex nature of the rural landscape of the Peloponnese in these periods, and to identify some of the behaviours of the inhabitants of that landscape.

The idea that relics, shadows, distortions, or remains of the behaviours and beliefs of classical antiquity could still be found in Greece, particularly in rural areas, was a common supposition amongst researchers in the mid-19th century. This research, conducted most often by those we would now call anthropologists or folklorists, entailed differentiating Greek society into two broad groups: the rural, largely illiterate peasantry who still clung to their antique superstitions, and the educated urban elite who were able to recognise such continuities, and study them.1 This simplistic and linear notion of cultural continuity has long fallen out of favour in anthropology and folklore,2 but it is an idea that still has currency in archaeology. Within archaeology, the continuity no longer lies in the idyll of the rural peasant economy, but in the recoverable and identifiable material remains of past activity. The notion that within the landscape of modern Greece are echoes, shadows and relics of antiquity is a powerful idea, and foundational, within Classical archaeology.

Landscapes, which are notoriously difficult to define,4 are far from passive backdrops. They are neither the stage nor the scenery for the great or mundane acts of human existence. They are active participants in the human story: shaping, forming, curtailing, and enabling decisions and behaviours of individuals and communities. However, as true as that may be, it does not necessarily follow that all aspects of human-landscape interaction are recoverable or knowable by contemporary scholars. We are constrained not just by the nature of the available evidence but by our own preconceptions. There is a tension between transmission and interpretation, in that our available evidence is a patchy transmission of incomplete data which has been subjected to a wide variety of processes (both cultural and natural), and full of static.5 Our interpretations of that static are far from certain; occasional words, fragmentary phrases, faint echoes and a lot of noise conspire to obscure. Meaning is elusive.

Contained within this idea, yet rarely addressed, is the relationship between the shadow (in this metaphor, the recovered material culture) and what we might think of as the occluding object (the past behaviours that created, used, and disposed of the material culture). How exactly one moves from a two-dimensional silhouette to a rounded, textured object is not always clear, and yet ultimately it is understanding the occluding object that is the aspiration of study. Classical archaeology spends its life in the shadows, and this is perhaps nowhere as evident as when attempting to interpret landscapes. As will be discussed in more detail below, landscape archaeology – especially survey archaeology – is, by its nature, much more indistinct than excavation. It is not that landscapes have less of a temporal dimension, it is that this dimension is not necessarily restrained to the vertical in the way that it can be (but not necessarily has to be) in excavation. Landscapes are blurry smears of nebulous data. The identification and codification of those smears is contentious; the interpretation is often imaginative.3

Objects, landscapes, texts can accumulate or lose meaning through time and space, and I therefore firmly belief that interpretations are created and not recovered. Interpretations are always created within history and are therefore subject to the contingencies of the historical moment, suggesting for me that there is no permanently correct reading of a text or object or a landscape. Part of the problem with this idea is that it can be perceived as a slide into relativism, but there is a distinction between thinking that every interpretation is equally valid, and studying the interpretations themselves. This is at contrast with a kind of dogmatic historicism and positivism that still marks much of the scholarship of classical antiquity.

The aim of this research is to try to collect and collate those smears of data in the landscape, so that the edges of the shadows might be more defined, and the occluding

This study aims to ground the study of landscape interpretation within a discrete body of data, taken

1

Stewart 1989. See, for example, Danforth 1984. 3 Attema and Schörner 2012; Witcher 2012.

4

See below chapter II, and Anschuetz, Wilshusen, et al. 2001; Hicks, McAtackney, et al. 2007. 5 Martindale and Thomas 2006.

2

1

I. INTRODUCTION economic interests (Xen. Hell. 5.2.20, 7.4.35; Thuc. 1.67.1), it has distinct political factions vying for control and/or influence within its boundaries (variously Argos, Corinth, Sparta, Achaia), and it was a space conceived of as restricted to Peloponnesians and governed by internal treaties (Thuc. 1.28.1-2, 5.77.5-7).

primarily from survey archaeology, but also including historical sources and relevant theoretical perspectives. A thread running through the study is a broader gaze on the complex ways these data interrelate and shape interpretation. A particular emphasis is on data from six intensive archaeological surface survey projects conducted in the Peloponnese: the Laconia Survey, the Methana Survey Project, the Berbati-Limnes Archaeological Survey, the Asea Valley Survey, the Southern Argolid Exploration Project and the Pylos Regional Archaeological Project. Comparing survey data (the difficulties of which are discussed in chapter 3 below) from these projects allows unique insights into this region of Greece in the crucial Hellenistic to Roman transition. Comparanda from several non-intensive surface survey projects, in conjunction with literary and epigraphical sources, will be used to elucidate the complex interactions that are evident within the various regions of the rural Peloponnese, between these regions – and beyond in the wider Mediterranean.

These particular circumstances make it an excellent locale for the study of cultural interaction and behaviour, because the history of interaction is so rich within and between the various bounded interests. By the time of the struggles of the diadochoi and intervention of the Romans, the political, economic, cultural and memorial landscapes of the Peloponnese were deeply rooted (if meandering in their courses). This is fertile ground for examining cultural interaction through the lenses of space and place, regionality and scale, landscape and land use. It is this last lens that forms the fulcrum of this study. Land use – or more accurately the observed changes and continuities in land use – helps illuminate the nature of interaction in rural communities. Land use implies settlement patterns, local economic activity ranging from viticulture to subsistence farming, and regional economies, be they market-based or otherwise. 9 How these varying activities interacted in Roman Greece is not entirely clear, yet they are understood to be some of the most important facets of cultural interaction – as evidenced by similar studies covering other areas of Western Europe.10 Land use also implies regional studies, studies that encompass regions, or significant portions of those regions and broad swathes of time.

The Peloponnese forms an ideal location for such a study for a variety of reasons. It is not uncommon for scholars to focus on Athens and Attica as a proxy for the whole of Greece – especially in the Roman period – and a study purely on areas of the Peloponnese provides a counterpoint to that approach. One of the most important reasons behind the choice is that the Peloponnese has been host to several very good archaeological surveys, surveys that have not only been methodologically rigorous but have also published their results. Moreover, it continues to be fertile ground for archaeological investigation, and has a healthy (if strained) cohort of active ephoreias.6

Undoubtedly, studies examining cultural interaction and varying responses to Roman hegemony – be they landscape based or otherwise – have become more and more frequent of late.11 Most importantly, one of the aims of this study is to answer the relatively simple question: is it possible to recognise cultural interaction in the rural Peloponnese through the study of landscapes? A simple question with a wide variety of entanglements, as will be shown. Essentially, it is how the landscape changes, or does not change, over time and across space that forms the backbone of any response to this first, introductory question. In other words, it is not the history of the Peloponnese that is to be written, but a history.

Most important, however, is the fact that the Peloponnese forms a discrete unit, with defined boundaries. These boundaries are largely fixed by its coastline, and the various regions, while admittedly exhibiting unique cultural traits, are similar enough in broad terms to facilitate comparison; the Peloponnese served as a touchstone in antiquity as both a cultural and a geographical unit. Its geographic boundedness was long recognised by the Hellenistic period, and this boundedness helped create a type of regional identity for Peloponnesian communities outside of political, ethnic or cultural unity.7 The Peloponnese, like the poleis of Sicily (Siceliots) and the Islands of the Aegean (nesiotai), was seen as a regional identifier that both transcended and operated alongside individual community identities,8 but unlike the regional identifiers of Sicily and the Aegean it was self-ascribed and not imposed. As Vlassopoulos has shown, the Peloponnese was more than a geographical entity, and more than a toponym for a regionally-bounded cultural or political union – it was a space apart. The Peloponnese is seen as having its own political and

I.1 Research Context One of the cornerstones of survey archaeology in Greece is the refutation of the literature-inspired theory of marked demographic decline in the early centuries of Roman rule in Greece. Broadly speaking, the evidence suggests that the emptied landscape represents a nucleation of population, and not a widespread decline.12 9

Exemplified by the collection Shipley and Salmon 1996; Reger 2007a; Kehoe 2007: esp. 547-557. 10 There are, of course, exceptions to this general rule of neglect – such as Rackham 1983: 291-351; Keay 1991; Foxhall 1996. 11 For example: Creighton and Wilson 1999; Forsell 2001; Goldhill 2001a; Ostenfeld 2002; Trigger 2004. 12 Alcock 1993a; 62-63, 65; Corvisier and Suder 2000: 112-117; Reger 2007: 467.

6

Whose activities from 2000-2010 have recently been made available online: http://www.yppo.gr/0/anaskafes/index.html 7 Bintliff 2008;Vlassopoulos 2008: 2-5. 8 Siceliots: Antonaccio 2001. Nesiotai: Constantakopoulou 2007. On Peloponnesian community identities more broadly, Vlassopoulos 2008.

2

I. INTRODUCTION chronology is far from reliable – even those constructed for the more frequently studied finewares are open to debate. 19 In terms of survey archaeology, this is a problem of particular importance, as few projects attempt to reconcile the different chronological frameworks employed by different survey projects, instead attempting – wholly logically – to focus on local typologies and practices.20

Certainly there is some truth to this version of events, and there is a notable decrease in the number and size of most rural sites from the late Hellenistic into the early Roman period, but recent survey studies have suggested a more nuanced landscape history for some areas of the Peloponnese. 13 So while most studies emphasise settlement change – nucleation and abandonment – they tend to ignore those rural settlements that survive, or the new foundations which occur in the early Roman countryside. Landscapes are described on a period-toperiod basis, rather than interrogated for specific periods.

Compounding these issues for Greece is the variable definition of the term landscape in modern studies. An entire body of literature exists surrounding the conceptual problems relating to this frequently misunderstood term, and most studies indicate an awareness of the problem, without providing a specific definition; in essence, doing little more than underlining the problem of definition.21

Another criticism of survey archaeology as a whole is that the interpretations are based largely on archaeological silence. 14 That is, it is the absence of surface remains in certain periods that define occupational phases. This is a problem that has afflicted survey archaeology for years, and while there are no clear-cut solutions, there is a series of checks and balances that can be applied to the data and can in some way account for such criticisms.15

My underlying assumption is that data from various intensive archaeological field surveys can, in theory, be compared and displayed in a comprehensive, intelligible way. At the time of the publication of the last synthesis of Greek survey data, this was a controversial notion (and in some respects remains so). Since that time, several important regional studies have discussed the utility of such an approach. 22 This was a healthy research standpoint in the late 1980s, a time in which a general reaction against the too-strict tenets of Binford’s processual ‘New Archaeology’ raised some pointed objections about dehumanising the archaeological landscape.23 Rather than swinging the pendulum too far in the opposite direction, however, what is needed is a bridge between the post-processual and processual approaches: an acknowledgement that human behaviour not only colours the surroundings, but also is coloured by those surroundings.

Closely linked to this problem are the questions of cultural superposition and what Chapman calls the ‘palimpsest phenomenon’. 16 The premise of cultural superposition states that the last phases of site occupation will leave more visible surface remains, thereby distorting the importance or interpretation of earlier site history. 17 The palimpsest phenomenon, discussed more fully below (II.1), essentially concerns the problems surrounding an observed increased incidence of sherd scatter, and the variety of possible interpretations. That is, do more sherds equal more population, later deposition, more intensive deposition, or longer occupation, or are they a reflection of some archaeological phenomenon such as differential visibility or formation processes?

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, previous archaeological syntheses have suggested that the Romans did in fact have an effect on the Greek landscape, and that this interaction was intrusive, but not necessarily explicit or intentional. 24 This conclusion, however, is more descriptive than explanatory. What is needed is a discussion of the processes of interaction between peoples and cultures, not just a description of the results. This is the core aim of the present study: not just to offer

Ceramic evidence, as the cornerstone of survey archaeology, is a problem unto itself. Setting aside for the moment issues of formation processes and the vagaries of deposition, several studies on survey archaeology have questioned the role of ceramics as a reliable index of cultural activity. 18 Issues such as differential discard, manuring, contemporaneity, fabric quality, and relationships between producers and consumers of ceramics all cast doubt on the value of ceramics as reliable markers of particular activities. The inadequate attention paid to coarse wares by most research projects also means that for certain periods the constructed

19 John Hayes, pers. comm., Oxford, May 2004. Hayes has said that while the chronologies of some of the coarse wares and finewares of the 1st century AD are fairly well attested, those of the 2nd and 3rd centuries leave a lot to be desired. Hayes also laments the lack of interest in body sherds, stating that there is too much focus on rims and bases. Also noted by Spawforth 1994b; Pemberton 2003; Pettegrew 2007. 20 Woolf 1994b: 419. 21 For example: Alcock 1993a: 6-8; Greene 1995: 221. 22 See, for example, Belcher, Harrison, et al. 1999; Gillings 2000; Antrop, Vermeulen, et al. 2001, and many of the papers within Alcock and Cherry 2004b. Greene also mentions the possibilities of such an approach, Greene 1995. 23 One need only look at the publications of survey archaeology in the American south-west to see how results are interpreted in terms of natural processes, at the cost of human involvement. 24 ‘For all that Roman imperialism in Greece may not have been overly interventionist, it was nonetheless highly intrusive’ Alcock 1993a: 171 (italics in original).

13 Davis 1994; Andreou and Kotsakis 1999; Bintliff, Kuna, et al. 2000; Forsell 2002. 14 Spawforth 1994b: 241. 15 Discussed below, in chapter III. 16 Alcock does not address it in Graecia Capta, but does touch on it in several subsequent articles: Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994; Alcock 1994; Alcock and Cherry 2004a; Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005. See also Chapman 1999. 17 This is essentially a Schiffer-esque rewording of Worsaae’s Law of Stratigraphy – a common-sense principle stating that ‘newer’ material will be found closer to the surface. This can, of course, be complicated by disturbed contexts and post-depositional processes. Trigger 1989: 82-87. 18 See especially Chapman 1999: 65-67; Caraher, Nakassis, et al. 2006.

3

I. INTRODUCTION narration.’ Within these discussions the analyses of the survey data – in conjunction with other types of information – are described. This chapter highlights the need for a re-thinking of the traditional historical and archaeological narratives concerning the Peloponnese, and offers the basis for that re-interpretation – the Peloponnese as a unit exhibits striking internal differentiation, and a variety of localised responses to Roman hegemony.

another description of the rural Roman landscape in Greece, but to strive for a better understanding of some of the processes that led to that Roman landscape and the interactions evident within. I.2 Organisation of the Study Chapter II, Data Sources and Approaches, outlines the interpretive framework of the study. This entails a discussion of the problems and potential relating to archaeological surface survey, the usability of such data, and approaches to historical sources. Furthermore, concepts and theories relating to landscape(s), in a variety of forms, will be introduced. These discussions are set within the broader problematisation of the temporality of the landscape, and archaeology’s role in mediating between different conceptions of time. Accordingly, agriculture and economy (including cereal crop agriculture, oleoculture, viticulture, and transport) are discussed, along with theories relating to cultural interaction. This chapter shows that survey represents the best method for studying these phenomena within regions, while acknowledging the myriad problems still to be overcome by the discipline. While Chapter X does contain the bulk of the theoretical approaches utilised in this study, most subsequent chapters also begin with a brief introduction to relevant means and modes of thinking about particular topics, as these ideas can be best understood within the immediate context of the data they help illuminate.

Chapter IV, Inter-regional Narratives, carries on the idea of interpretive scales, examining the Peloponnese as a whole and in relation to surrounding areas of Greece. The problems inherent in moving from intra- to inter-regional analyses are discussed, followed by a discussion of what the data suggest about the Peloponnese in the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods, and its place within a broader Greek and Mediterranean world. The importance of coastal access becomes clear, and tantalising glimpses of broader pan-Mediterranean connections suggest that there is much more still to be learned. Chapter V, Processes of Interaction, sees a shift in the focus of the analysis, with discussions of predominant trends in, and evidence for, cultural interaction in the Peloponnese. This chapter provides more than just descriptions of the results of such interactions, and suggests some processes behind them – especially as they relate to land use. Three different processes of interaction are examined: ‘local–local, ‘local–neighbour’, and ‘local– foreign’. These serve to highlight the complicated nature of cultural interaction in the ancient world, and the multifocal relationships that may be evidenced in any given landscape.

Chapter II, Land Use and the Peloponnese, outlines the methodology involved in the comparison of the intensive survey data. Short discussions of each of the individual intensive survey projects’ method and presentation of the most relevant data follow, essentially laying the groundwork for the analyses outlined in Chapter III.

The study concludes with Chapter VI, which draws out and summarises the major conclusions, and relates the preceding interpretations to broader issues of time, space and regionality. This study will show the utility and efficacy of the approaches suggested herein for examining and explaining the complex nature of the Peloponnesian landscape.

It is in Chapter III, The Peloponnese in Regions, where the seeds of the research outlined in previous chapters begin to bear fruit. The idea of examining the Peloponnese at different scales of analysis is explored – at the levels of the individual surveys and broader regions – all within the narratology-informed idea of ‘scales of

4

particularly appropriate to individual seasons, but there is a discordant relationship between the rigidity of the polis calendar (most usually based around religious observances) and the conceptual malleability of the agricultural calendar.5

II. Data Sources and Approaches As is the race of leaves, so is that of humanity. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the live timber burgeons with leaves again in the season of spring returning. So one part of man’s race will grow, while another dies. Iliad 6.146-9

The underlying implication of this is that there are differences between the foci of past activities and the recoverable material traces of such: sites of processing and storage, transport infrastructure, and domestic habitation leave the most visible archaeological traces, but they do not necessarily reflect the relative importance to past inhabitants or the amount of time invested in or required of specific behaviours in the past. Most of the year would be spent tending the crops in the field, but, for the most part, we do not study the fields. And yet the mitigation of risk within those fields (and that need not be consciously articulated or economically driven, in a maximalist sense) was perhaps the single most important variable to ancient agriculture.6

The introduction briefly touched on the issue of the temporality of ancient landscapes, and accessing time within landscape archaeology is a fraught issue. Different chronological periods are identified largely on the basis of the presence (or absence) of identifiable and datable ceramics, but these ceramics are most often recovered from a relatively shallow planar surface where the law of superposition does not apply.1 Rather than a vertical slice through time represented by stacked layers of habitation and/or activity, all periods are represented in a single horizontal slice.

Agricultural time and what we might call Western historical time7 are fundamentally different constructions, intersecting occasionally, but conceptually unrelated. Both are broadly sequential, but one is mutable and the other fixed (or at least perceived to be so). The rhythms of the agricultural year are governed by a sequence of activities that may change depending on current conditions, a sequence mitigated by local factors both within and outside of community control. When labour is available may help determine when crops are harvested, as will local weather conditions, the impact of past weather and climate events, and cultural and/or religious doctrines. 8 Historical time, by contrast, is perceived as ploughing inexorably onward, in a regular, predictable, and prescribed way. The relentless march of minutes does not pause for rain or Demeter’s blessing.9

This problem of periodisation, of knowing when is represented and in what proportion, lies at the heart of some central debates in the interpretation of landscapes, as we shall see. But it also serves to obfuscate another aspect of temporality that is rarely addressed. It is broadly accepted that the rural life of ancient Greece was fundamentally agricultural. 2 Nuance is being purposefully ignored here for the sake of clarity, but most inhabitants of, and activities in, the extra-urban landscape focused on agriculture. The implication of this is that the rhythm of rural life was governed by the agricultural year and the seasonality of associated behaviours. 3 In other words, there is a seasonality to behaviour that underlies the archaeological material, and this is, in fact, often elided by the archaeological material itself. The ‘smear’ of archaeology on the landscape forces us to treat that landscape as an undifferentiated whole, rather than as a product of temporally variegated activities, activities with differing material components that are potentially unrelated to their cultural or economic importance.

An appreciation of sequence, conditionality, and flexibility – especially in contrast to rigidity and calendrical schematisation – is essential for understanding the different temporal rhythms of the agricultural year and the impact this might have on understandings of material culture. While the individual sequences or conditions might well be irrecoverable, understanding that the recovered material (even from discretely bounded periods) represents the agglomeration of repetition carried out at different times adds depth to any subsequent interpretations. In other words, in many cases the materials that survey archaeology recovers are not just the evidences of past agricultural activity, or the

The agricultural year itself was driven by conditions, rather than rigid divisions. The nature of an agrarian lifestyle is inherently sequential, but not necessarily calendrical.4 By this I mean that some activities have to take place before later activities (planting before harvesting, for example, or the sowing of barley before wheat (Theophrastus HP 8.6.1)) but the timing of those activities is most frequently driven by local conditions rather than strict definitions of seasonality. There was certainly a concept of seasons and seasonality in antiquity, and certain activities were seen as being

5

On seasons: Hes. Op. 383, 565f.; Hipparchus (quoted in Ptol. Alm. 3.4-6); Thuc. 2.1; Varro (in Plin. HN 18.271). Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 160-164; Foxhall 2000: 488-491. 6 Not a universally accepted position, but one I adopt: Gallant 1991; Sallares 1991. 7 As in Western historical thought and its periodisations, traditionally wedded to the idea of temporal anchors defined by known military or political events. Lianeri 2011. Compare: Grethlein 2010. 8 Foxhall 2000. 9 The potential variability in the structure of time is well-illustrated by Forbes 2007: 264-284.

1

A more specific discussion is below, II.3. In general see Hanson 1995; Foxhall 1996; Pettegrew 2001; Halstead 2002; Reger 2007a: 465. 3 Foxhall 2000; Ingold 2000. 4 Foxhall 2000: esp. 495-6; Forbes 2007: 266-8. 2

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Figure 1. Agricultural year, based on CIL VI 2305 and Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 162. to adopt or adapt advances made in archaeological method and theory en masse. Thus, though regional archaeological surface surveys began in the United States in the formative years of the 20th century,11 it has only been in the last thirty years that Classical archaeology has made substantial use of this technique. Since that time, however, there has been a veritable explosion in its use throughout the Mediterranean.12 In Greece in particular, the number of concurrent survey projects has grown from two in 1975 to twenty-four in 1998. 13 Therefore, as survey data will form the heart of this study, it is necessary to highlight the potential and pitfalls of field surveys.

evidences of seasonality, but the evidences of sequences of action tempered to local conditions. We may not be able to pinpoint years (or even centuries) in our material, but we may be able to identify sequence (see figure 1). In other words, the archaeological record as recovered from the landscape is more than just the product of a series of human behaviours, it is the accreted product of repeated and seasonal human behaviours. This is an important point, as it relates closely to the vexing issue site classification – a topic I’ll return to on page 11. II.1 Survey Archaeology A common criticism of Classical archaeology is that it has an art-historical bias, with some New World archaeologists considering it a sub-field of archaeology in name only.10 Admittedly, the richness of data and length of previous study within Classical archaeology are rarely seen elsewhere, but the field has been historically slower 10

11

Admittedly, though survey projects began in the early 20th century, they did not increase appreciably in North America until post-World War II. The history of survey archaeology in North America is outlined by Trigger 1989: 186-205. 12 From less than 10 published examples of studies drawing on primarily survey data in 1977 to more than 90 such examples in 1999. See Alcock and Cherry 2004a: 1, figure 1.1. The MAGIS database currently lists 381 projects (as of November 2012), but not all of these are strictly survey: http://cgma.depauw.edu/MAGIS/ 13 Alcock and Cherry 2004: fig. 1.2.

Dyson 1988: 143-146; Snodgrass 2002; Terrenato 2002.

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archaeological’ extensive survey and an antiquarian interest in topography is certainly a blurred one, and is in no way related to differences in ancient and modern approaches – examinations similar to (though more sophisticated than) those undertaken by Stuart and Revett are still appearing.19

Survey archaeology has long been considered the ugly sister to excavation, likened frequently to that painful statement about teaching: ‘those who can, dig, those who can’t, survey.’ As a result, for the first fifteen years of dedicated survey archaeology in the Mediterranean most reports were begun with an apologia of sorts. These reports often have a very defensive air, as if the archaeologists involved felt the need to justify their projects, and show that surface survey was useful for more than just locating sites to excavate.14 Thankfully, those days are largely in the past, and the last fifteen years have seen an explosion of survey projects and a surge in interest from all corners of classical scholarship in the findings of those projects. 15 As Susan Alcock’s ground-breaking study16 has shown, much can be done with the regional and macro-level data that these projects provide, and survey does indeed offer a unique view of the archaeological past.

This is not to say, however, that there are no systematic extensive surveys. These do exist, though they rarely have the statistical reliability of intensive survey. From an archaeological perspective, the more recent surveys of this type include Sackett’s Euboea survey, Kirsten’s Akarnania survey, and Lolos’ Sikyonia survey.20 Intensive survey, on the other hand, involves the more or less complete fieldwalking of the countryside or relevant portions thereof in continuous blocks or in samples that produce quantitative estimates of surface artefact distribution. More often than not, this means the collection of large quantities of sherds, and very few small finds. Usually, though not always, intensive survey is focused primarily on gathering detailed information on settlement numbers, size, and land use, utilising a diachronic interdisciplinary approach. In other words, intensive systematic survey produces more reliable statistical data than extensive unsystematic survey. It is largely problem-orientated, and is based loosely on the work of the so-called New Archaeology of Binford and other New World archaeologists. 21 The present study focuses on intensive survey projects (see figure 2). One of the implications of this approach is that frequently survey archaeologists feel a distinct need to divorce their projects from other sources of evidence in order to create an autonomous body of data.22 As much as this has been a successful check on the over-reliance on literary sources, it has also resulted in much of the survey data becoming removed from its overall historical context. Ancient sources, if mentioned at all, are frequently relegated to appendices. Survey has moved from walking in Pausanias’ footsteps to ignoring the man altogether.

This is not to say, however, that survey is without its problems. Like any field of archaeology, once the initial excitement of discovery has passed, a wide variety of methodological and theoretical issues rear their heads. Perhaps even more than excavation, survey and survey data have to be approached with caution, with an awareness of the possible problems and an eye towards their solutions. Survey Theory There are two types of survey actively practised in Greece and the Mediterranean: extensive (or nonintensive) and intensive. 17 The earliest examples of survey in Greece were extensive, non-systematic surveys, in that they covered a large area in a discontinuous way, without an eye to the statistical viability of results. Frequently, extensive surveys use ubiquity – simple presence or absence – in the reporting of their data. These surveys often make use of previously published information on sites, covering material ranging from excavation reports to ancient authors. Pausanias might be considered a very early example of extensive survey, in that he covered much of what is now Greece, reporting more what interested him than what was necessarily around him. 18 The distinction between ‘proper

It is important to note at this point that there can be no recipe for intensive survey, no step-by-step instruction except for the most basic and general. Given that it is problem-orientated and undertaken in a wide variety of environments, both ecological and socio-political, survey must be flexible. Still, for intensive survey to be successful, statistical representativeness is necessary, and this means devising a sampling strategy of some sort. In short, the role of sampling is to permit inference of the whole from the part.23 Sampling strategies are as varied

14 A frequently mentioned complaint, best summarized by Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991f: 37. 15 To quote: “a wave of activity in intensive survey has swept across the scene of Greek archaeology.” Snodgrass 1990: 119. 16 Alcock 1993a: 113. More recent synthetic studies of landscape have focused on smaller regions, for example the Tiber Valley in Italy (Patterson and Coarelli 2008; Patterson, Di Giuseppe, et al. Forthcoming), a subset of Laconian territory in the Peloponnese (Cavanagh, Mee, et al. 2005), rural Sikyonia (Lolos 2012), and part of Boeotia (Bintliff, Howard, et al. 2007). 17 On the differences between intensive and extensive survey, and their relative merits, see Cherry 1983; Cherry 1984; Hope Simpson 1984; Hope Simpson 1985. 18 The rural countryside is conspicuous by its absence in Pausanias’ work. It is interesting to note that frequently Pausanias moves from city to sanctuary to city without noting what he passes through. The same

might also be said of Strabo. For discussion, see Arafat 1996. Hutton 2005: 83-126; Stewart 2013 (forthcoming). 19 Stuart and Revett 1762-1814. Contemporary studies which include a strong element of reliance on ancient texts for enumerating an architectural catalogue or topographic study include: Jacquemin 2001; Sanders 2009; Sears 2011. 20 Kirsten 1956; Sackett, Hankey, et al. 1966; Lolos 2012. 21 For a cogent outline of the basics, see Binford 1964; Redman and Watson 1970; Banning 2002. 22 Bintliff 1997: 21. 23 Read 1986: 477.

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Figure 2. Intensive surveys in the Peloponnese used in this study. Areas are approximate.

produce a statistically representative sample of sites of certain types and/or sizes in a given region; and secondly, the procedure should be efficient in terms of its resource use.24 Sampling design presents some peculiar problems, especially as particular sampling strategies work best in particular regions. The spatial distribution of sites appears to vary markedly between, and often within, regions, making it difficult to determine which sampling strategy will yield the best results without knowing the spatial patterning beforehand. This leads sometimes to a danger of circularity, for if a sampling strategy is designed with a certain patterning of sites in mind, should one be surprised when you find that pattern? 25 A sampling strategy must be designed that allows for a high degree of statistical viability but also satisfies the archaeological

as survey projects, and are again largely determined by the questions being asked, time available for the actual survey, and perhaps most importantly, funding. Complete data are the obvious ideal, but they are prohibitively costly to obtain. An understanding of the methodological underpinnings of archaeological field survey are important because so much of the interpretation of landscapes rests on the published data from these surveys, yet crucially, those data are shaped by the assumptions that fed into the survey design. Sampling strategies, fieldwalking methodology, ceramic recording procedures, survey intensity all serve to shape the recorded data in some form. Understanding the relationships between these aspects of archaeological project design and the subsequent interpretations is essential, especially when data from disparate survey projects are being compared.

24

Read 1986: 478. A problem recognized, but largely unresolved, by Schiffer, Sullivan, et al. 1978: 3.

There are two major guiding principles governing sampling strategies: first, the sampling procedure should

25

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requirement. 26 After all, statistics are a tool for archaeological data analysis, not an end unto themselves.

control, and factors within their control. The former include characteristics of the survey environment and the archaeological materials, such as relative abundance, clustering, obtrusiveness, visibility, and accessibility.32 In brief, abundance is defined as the frequency of a site or artefact type; clustering as the degree of spatial aggregation; obtrusiveness is related to the “threshold of archaeological visibility” and is grounded in the notion that particular techniques will favour the discovery of particular archaeological materials; visibility is the extent to which an observer can actually see something; and accessibility relates to the constraints on survey access – such as intractable farmers with sharp metal implements, or maquis.

Traditionally, sampling is said to be predicated on a choice between random and stratified sampling procedures. This choice is further complicated by the need to choose sampling procedures for both the regional and the site level. At the regional level, pure random sampling of areas is obviously counterproductive, and some degree of sampling bias is necessary. Most intensive surveys decide on their sample area by taking into account a variety of factors, such as local history, obvious standing remains, known agricultural and habitation practices, and ancient literary and epigraphic sources.27 At the site level, the debate between random and stratified sampling rages on, and it is enough to simply acknowledge this here without pointing to a victor. 28 As with most things archaeological, context is all-important and ultimately decides the best strategy.

Factors within the control of the investigator are represented by research design – including sampling strategies, survey techniques, and the efficient use of resources. Most of these factors are based on the assumption that the primary survey method is pedestrian fieldwalking. The key factor to note here is that this variability in discovery probability and the myriad responses to these challenges create problems for intersurvey data comparability. This will be discussed in full shortly.

As has been implied, any sampling procedure is already stratified to some degree. The real issue is exactly how stratified a sample is desirable. Any survey that decides to only sample valley floors should not be surprised to discover a lack of hill-side agriculture. That is, the particulars of the environment, history, and culture of a region should all play their part.29

An interesting caveat to survey data and its interpretation should be noted – most interpretation makes use of what can be termed ‘proxy data’. Proxy data are data that indirectly address the specific hypothesis or research question – in other words, they serve as a ‘delegated’ source of information. This is seen most explicitly in terms of environmental reconstruction, whose existence and effects are studied through the ‘proxies’ of past rainfall, tree ring growth, sedimentation and so on.33 They are, by definition, an indirect method and not explicitly diagnostic for the problem at hand. Moreover, they are often not fully quantitative, and provide only limited information. They also require interpretation and verification within their own set of criteria before they can be applied to other areas of study. Perhaps most importantly, before conclusions drawn from proxy data can be accepted as reliable, they require supporting evidence from independent lines of enquiry. Yet, almost despite this, surveys regularly use ceramic proxy data to provide information on settlement size and type, chronology, and land use. This is a vital point that goes largely unacknowledged by most archaeologists – ceramic proxy data are used to construct a chronological framework from within which most interpretation and analysis is carried out, and then the collection of more sherds is used to reinforce both the chronological framework and the subsequent conclusions.34 There is no

For example, the Methana survey deliberately excluded certain areas of the Methana peninsula, largely because they consisted of quite steep, rocky mountains, and were therefore not only unsuited to large-scale agricultural exploitation, but also difficult to access and survey properly.30 This, in essence, stratified their sample before they had even begun, yet did not disqualify the subsequently collected data from a very useful and viable analysis. It is important to remember, however, that often what is represented in the visual presentation of data is ‘survey area’ rather than ‘sample’ area.31 Ideally, every design should have at its core an idea on how to maximise discovery probability, and a tacit understanding that a multi-stage and flexible approach yields the best results. In general, there are several factors that affect discovery probability, and these fall into one of two categories: factors outside the archaeologist’s 26 Sometimes referred to in the literature as the Statistical Precision model Vs. the Discovery model. Read 1986: 491. 27 An example can be seen in the Tarragona survey. Carreté, Keay, et al. 1995. 28 It is interesting to note that even the most statistically-minded surveys often collect a separate ‘grab-bag’ of diagnostic pottery sherds from a site to complement their random samples. Bintliff 1985; Mee and Forbes 1997; Raab 2001. Compare these approaches with those suggested by Read 1986: 483-491. 29 Read 1986: 481. 30 Or as stated by Forbes and Mee: ‘strict adherence to the finer tenets of field survey theory as discussed in the literature at that time might lead to sudden death, or at least serious blood loss’ (1997: 3-4). The Laconia Survey also stratified their sample, but only after testing the areas difficult to access. Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 40-45. 31 Gillings and Sbonias 1999; Gillings and Wheatley 2001; Slapšak 2001.

32

These are outlined in further detail by Schiffer, Sullivan, et al. 1978: 3-14. But see also, Flannery 1982. 33 Greene 2005: 42-44. 34 This ‘tyranny of pot typology’ is described in full by Chapman, and is but a part of a larger problem of over-reliance on classification, as outlined by Renfrew. Chapman 1999: 65-67; Renfrew 2003: 312-313. A related problem is discussed by Alcock, Cherry, and Davis, who outline the problems concerning artefact survivability, and whether or not the

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reports often gloss over any human features. That is, there are practical problems to fieldwalking that are rarely acknowledged, let alone dealt with in any meaningful way. Such problems as personality conflicts between crew, the boredom of walking through the same landscape for eight hours a day, the harshness of the vegetation, the variability in crew experience, skill, or eyesight, or the hangover from the night before are rarely ever acknowledged as creating problems of data recovery.39

obvious solution to the problematisation of ceramic proxy data, but it is worth bearing in mind all the same. Regardless of the particular sampling strategy chosen by a project, once the raw data – the number of sites, artefact density, type of site and artefact – have been collected, all surveys face the same problem, perhaps the core problem of survey interpretation: the palimpsest phenomenon. 35 This affects interpretation at both the intra-site level and the inter-site level. The intra-site problem concerns the difficulties in interpreting an increased incidence of sherd scatter discovered during a survey. Or, more simply, do more sherds equal a more intensive deposition of sherds in the past or later deposition (the discard options), a higher population density in a given area (the nucleation option), or a longer occupation history (the sequential option)? The inter-site version concerns ‘the number and size of coeval occupations within an externally defined chronological period.’36 That is, how do you know what you’ve missed or if what you have found is a representative sample of the whole? Closely related to this is a problem of chronology, in that survey data are usually assigned to broad swathes of time – a site may be ‘Roman’ or ‘Hellenistic’, but is rarely said to be 108-73 BC. So, if one has a hypothetical fifty sites classified as Hellenistic in date, how can one reliably construct the settlement pattern without knowing how many of those sites were actually occupied at any one time?37 Part of the solution, as outlined above, is to focus on different notions of temporality – to move beyond strict linear periodization and look instead at repeated patterns of behaviour tied to seasonality. The broader issue of ‘time perspectivism’, that is, the understanding that observations made at different temporal scales will make different processes apparent to the observer, is central to any understanding of survey assemblages. 38 An understanding of ‘time perspectivism’ doesn’t do away with the problems of palimpsests, but it does shift the focus from ‘event’ to ‘process’.

The flora and fauna of many regions of the Mediterranean seem specifically designed to inhibit surface survey. As one colleague has remarked, ‘everything in Greece is either sharp, thorny, or stings you.’ 40 Vegetal ground cover can often obscure the surface, and it is not unheard of for survey teams to be beset by inquisitive or hostile locals distracting them from staring at the ground. Does this have an effect on survey data? Too few comprehensive studies have been done to monitor the effects of differential experience among fieldwalkers, concentration lapses, or varying ground visibility.41 Coupled with this is a sometimes contradictory relationship between promoting archaeological work and protecting archaeological resources – after all, archaeology is a necessarily destructive process that essentially destroys the evidence (or at least its context) as it collects it. Around the Mediterranean, many nations view archaeological material as a finite resource to be handled carefully.42 This is a situation long recognised in Greece especially, where permits for foreign archaeological schools are limited in number, and are often granted with specific conditions governing the display and conservation of recovered material and the extent of the work to be carried out. 43 The Methana survey’s permit, for instance, restricted the number of people who could take part in the fieldwalking, effectively removing two of the three survey teams they

39 “Archaeology is about uncertainties, ideas, biases, personalities, and the effect of hangovers on data recovery.” James 1992: 307. 40 Ben Gourley, pers. comm., York, July 2004. 41 The Tarragona survey in Spain (Carreté, Keay, et al. 1995: 215-216) actually conducted an experiment whereby they monitored who was picking up what, with the individual experience levels and team composition taken into account. They concluded that differences in sherd discovery were variable, but did not threaten the reliability of the statistical data. Perhaps not, on that one day that people were being checked. However, anyone who has attempted to walk across the Greek landscape has inevitably encountered the maquis, the insects, and the precipitous drops. When one’s attention is focused on not being cut to ribbons, it is hard to look out for sherds. Does this have an effect on data recovery? Absolutely. Is it a tremendously deleterious effect? Nobody knows. Anecdotal evidence from various surveys suggests that walkers are rarely aware of, for example, the peculiarities of their own colour visions or ‘preference’ for seeing certain types of objects. That being said, Shennan and Cherry provide useful data on fieldworker variability. Shennan 1985: 41-42; Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991e: 38-45. An outline for testing the reliability of survey crews can be found in Banning 2002: 217-228. 42 Trigger 1989: 379-382. 43 Kardulias 1994; Cherry 2003: 143-144.

Survey Method The type of survey and the sampling strategy employed are not the only necessary considerations in terms of data analysis and inter-survey data comparability – the actual pedestrian, on the ground, walking of transects can cause problems. It is an unfortunate side-effect of the ‘scientific’ approach of anthropological archaeology that prevalence of sherds from one chronological phase is representative of the main phase of occupation of a site, or simply represents a more archaeologically robust material. Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994: 141. See also Pemberton 2003. 35 The discussion of this phenomenon is most lucidly presented in Chapman 1999: 69-70 and Sullivan 2008. 36 Chapman 1999: 69. 37 A problem of particular annoyance and importance to survey analyses. For broader implications, see Foxhall 2000. This problem is acknowledged by most recent survey publications, see for instance, Catling 2002. 38 Holdaway and Wandsnider 2008: 3.

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massive, almost irreconcilable difference in artefact scatter and deposition; assemblage use may be similar between the regions, but assemblage formation is very different.

had expected to take part, and significantly restricting the scope of that season’s field work.44 Data Comparability Given the above, how can one reliably compare data between surveys? This is, without doubt, one of the most pressing problems for regional studies. The various surveys included here cover different regions with different local histories, environments, and political hurdles, and have different theoretical and methodological underpinnings. Even those surveys that do attempt to address the issue of periodization with tighter chronological controls, for example, have difficulty defining exactly what ‘early Roman’ means. Frequently this has to do with the type of material collected – most sherds will have been exposed to the elements for some time, will not be very large, and will be largely undiagnostic. Furthermore, regions will undoubtedly have different habitation histories, meaning that the appearance of a changing material culture might occur at different periods for different regions. Attica’s ‘Early Roman’ may be Arcadia’s ‘Late Hellenistic,’ in terms of archaeological evidence.45 As mentioned earlier, this is a distinct problem and suggests that there must be a shift away from an exclusive reliance on ceramic dating criteria, or at least an attempt to do so.46

Site Definition and Classification Related to the problem of ‘site’ definition is what one does at the ‘density threshold.’ 50 If a survey chooses a density of 33 sherds/100 m2 to represent a site, what happens to areas where that density is 32, or 30?51 What is the difference, archaeologically, between these situations? How does one reconcile the analytical need of classifying results into meaningful categories with the reality that there may not be much difference between site and non-site?52 Several surveys have attempted to solve this problem by providing graphical depictions of artefact density, but this does not solve the problem, and might be said only to illustrate it.53 In fact, many surveys attempt to address some of the problems inherent in site definition by introducing corrective filters to their data in order to account for variable environmental, post-depositional, or collection conditions. It is not uncommon for surveys in Greece to apply ‘density correction’ statistical filters to their raw data, most commonly to account for differences in field conditions, such as visibility and obtrusiveness (as discussed above in II.1). 54 These filters, though often carefully considered, are rarely fully explained within survey reports. More importantly, it is not entirely clear what effect they have on the reliability of the data themselves – some hold that these filters only serve to multiply subjective errors in data recovery. 55 Experimental studies have repeatedly shown that there is no neat one-to-one correlation between variations in surface conditions and/or collection strategies and the recovery of data.56

Coupled with this are the varied densities of artefact scatter that different surveys encounter. It is on the basis of this artefact scatter that many surveys define what constitutes a ‘site’ and what constitutes ‘background noise.’ Thus, every survey has a different definition of what a site is. The survey project on the 2 km2 Cretan island of Pseira reported almost as many sites as those reported by the 2,500 km2 area survey of the northern Greek province of Grevena – close to 300.47 Surveys in central Greece frequently encounter dense ‘carpets’ of background scatter between sites, often accompanied by a ‘halo’ of increased density immediately surrounding sites. 48 Surveys in the Argolid encounter only minimal background scatter, nowhere near a ‘carpet’, and have yet to find a ‘halo’. 49 What can account for the different levels and types of artefact deposition? Ancient agricultural practices in these two regions are largely acknowledged to be similar, occupation histories are similar, though the lowland area of the Southern Argolid was arguably less densely settled in antiquity, and survey methods and techniques as described by the respective practitioners are not vastly different. Yet there is this

Similarly, variations between surveys in terms of what is counted and how artefact information is recorded is also often not reported within survey publications, and adds another difficulty to data comparison. For instance, early ‘New Wave’ surveys of the 1980s frequently only count the presence of particular artefact types. ‘Grab bag’ 50 The ‘density threshold’ being defined as the artefact density chosen by the investigator to represent a site, as opposed to simply being ‘background noise.’ 51 As in the case of the Keos survey. Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991a: 46. Also discussed in Shipley 2002c: 298-307. 52 The ‘continuously peopled landscape’ of Horden and Purcell 2000: 382-382. 53 For further examples, see Cherry, Davis, et al. 1988; Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991a; Bintliff and Howard 1999; Raab 2001. 54 Select examples of Greek surveys that have applied such filters: Boeotia: Bintliff 1985: 202-207; Gillings and Sbonias 1999; Keos: Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991a: 40-45; Nemea Valley Archaeological Project: Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990: 605, 607-608. 55 Mattingly has produced a concise critique of the uncritical application of such filters, and Millett has studied the issue of mapping distributions of ceramic data, in light of such problems. Mattingly 2000: 10-13; Millett 2000: 57-59. 56 Experimental studies include Shennan 1985; Clark and Schofield 1991; Schon 2002. Implications are discussed in Lock, Bell, et al. 1999.

44

Mee and Forbes 1997: 33. A disturbing story of the destruction of uncatalogued archaeological sites during the expansion of the National Highway in the central Peloponnese can be seen in Cherry 2003: 155. 45 This encompasses two problems, longevity of use and periodization. 46 The alternatives to ceramic dating criteria are not altogether clear. The applicability of other dating methods to surface survey or even improvements to current ceramic dating criteria (be they chemical, stylistic, or depositional) have not been studied, but almost certainly involve increased cost and a host of other problems. Pemberton 2003. 47 Betancourt and Hope Simpson 1992; Wilkie 1993. 48 Bintliff and Snodgrass 1988b; Bintliff 1991. 49 Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994.

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samples (also known as ‘Transect and Grab’ samples)57 are then taken at particular sites, depending on site-level sampling strategies, and these samples are used to assess the reliability and representativeness of both on- and offsite artefact counts, and more importantly, date the predominant components represented.58 However, simple counts of sherd presence, for example, do not necessarily give a reliable indicator of intensity or length of occupation, as differences between sherd size are not recorded. In other words, a ceramic vessel does not break up into a predictable number of sherds – and these sherds will be of variable size – so it is very difficult (if not impossible) to know from numbers alone how many vessels are represented by a given number of sherds. Thus, more recent surveys tend to also weigh a proportion of recovered sherds, in order to try to account for this disparity.59 These variations in methodology are rarely addressed within publications, and frequently are not explained in enough detail to allow for a reconstruction of the exact statistical filters applied.

an interdisciplinary team, a minimum and maximum distance between fieldwalkers, and a flexible strategy. Specific solutions, however, are harder to come by. These are major questions. How can this variability be reconciled: different definitions of chronological phases, variable definitions of what constitutes a ‘site’, differences in reported levels of background noise, and the differential collection and quantification of artefacts and/or ceramics? What effect do the different topographical situations have on the appearance of archaeological material? How does one go about reconciling different post-depositional events – such as the re-use of an area, intensive modern agricultural use, relative abandonment, or urban development?63 These are questions of archaeological classification, about how we order what we find, and there are no easy answers. In fact ‘reconciliation’ of these factors is not really possible. Direct, quantitative, side-by-side survey comparison using existing survey data (or legacy data) is neither feasible, nor, I would argue, necessarily desirable.

Compounding the issue are differences in topographical situations and post-depositional events. For example, will sherd scatter on a terrace be the same as on a relatively unmodified slope, or on a valley floor, or on a plain? Soil erosion on a slope will almost certainly move sherds downhill. Will terraces stop or otherwise inhibit that movement, and if so, do the different scatters visible now reflect different practices in the past? These postdepositional events are largely ignored in surface survey – with the notable exception of the debate surrounding manuring.60 It is widely acknowledged in other fields of archaeology, however, that both natural and cultural postdepositional events can and do affect the picture of archaeological material that we collect.61

All investigations record a range of qualitative and quantitative information: methodologies for direct survey comparison tend to privilege the latter in order to facilitate classification. Indeed, classification is one of the key archaeological concepts, present in every scale of analysis. 64 However, though the form of the data may appear quantitative, in reality this masks a more ambiguous reality: the fact that ‘classification’ is not a value-free objective practice, it is a process that involves privileging categories of information, of choosing between features, highlighting or discounting perceived shared traits. It is a process of narrowing through selection.65

As mentioned above, there are potential problems relating to varying ground visibility and other environmental factors, as varied as weather, soil morphology, and vegetation density. Shennan’s and Cherry’s studies are the only major examples exploring these different factors and their effect on data recovery.62 They note a difference between “field effects” and “walker effects” – essentially, as mentioned earlier, effects outside of or within the control of the investigator respectively. Their conclusions are not universally accepted, but at least they attempt to take these factors into account. In general, they suggest

All archaeologies classify, but the techniques and grammar of classification frequently differ (though the language may not).66 The focus in most archaeologies has been on artefact classification, but survey tends to focus on sites and landscapes rather than artefacts.67 Sites are defined in a wide range of ways within survey archaeology, but each classificatory scheme has two central components: temporal and spatial. The temporal component can be seen in the issue of periodization, as discussed throughout this text. That is, the predominant

57

‘Grab bag’ or ‘Transect and Grab’ samples involve sampling a portion of identified sites at regular intervals within the site boundaries, and collecting the sherds deemed ‘representative’ or ‘significant.’ This usually means bases, rims and handles, as well as any decorated, incised, or otherwise ‘interesting’ sherds. Banning 2002: 113-118, 124. 58 For the problems associated with such methods, see Read 1986; Terrenato 2004. 59 Mattingly 2000: 10-11. 60 Manuring is the process that sees cultural material deposited in the landscape through the disposal of household and animal waste. Essentially summarized by the following: Bintliff 1991; Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994; Ault 1999. See the now essential Forbes 2012. On the historical legacy of Roman manuring practices, see Jones 2012; Shiel 2012. 61 As described by Schiffer 1987; Taylor 2000. 62 Shennan 1985; Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991a.

63 To be fair, these issues are not universally ignored. See, for instance, Cherry 1994: 96-97, 103-105. 64 Adams and Adams 1991; Lucas 2001: 3; Witcher 2012: 11-14. Witcher is essential for this topic in relation to survey archaeology. 65 Adams and Adams 1991: 169, 302. 66 Adams and Adams 1991: xviii. 67 Witcher 2012: 12.

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Town Village Settlement Hamlet Cluster Multiple Farm Villa Estate Elite Residence Farm Farmstead Small Farm Agricultural Field Buildings Habitation Residential Structure Seasonal Sherd Scatter Fortress Fort Tower Watchtower Fortification Guard Point/Post Baths Roadside Inn Storage Industrial Production site Workshop Quarry Press Kiln Wells Spring Inscription Large Sanctuary Sanctuary Small Sanctuary Church Cult Site Religious Memorial Shrine Votives Cemetery Tombs Grave Burial

Southern Argolid YES

Methana

Laconia

BerbatiLimnes

YES YES

YES

YES YES YES

YES YES YES YES

YES

YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES

Generic

YES YES

YES YES YES

YES

YES

YES

YES YES YES

YES

YES

YES

YES

Village

Villa/Estate

Farmstead

YES YES YES

Asea Valley

Urban YES YES

YES

YES

PRAP

YES YES YES YES YES YES YES

YES

Domestic YES YES

YES

YES YES

YES YES YES

YES

YES YES YES

YES YES YES

Special Purpose YES YES

YES YES YES

YES

YES YES

YES

YES YES

YES

YES

YES YES

YES YES

YES YES YES YES

YES

YES

YES

YES YES YES

YES

Religious

YES YES

YES

YES YES YES

YES YES

Funerary

Table 1. Comparison of site classification by select Peloponnesian surveys (surveys are arranged in chronological order from left to right; site categories are arranged in broad hierarchical order from top to bottom by category). Inspired by Witcher 2012: Table 1. Data: Southern Argolid: Jameson, Runnels et al. 1994: 248-252, esp. table 4.5 (p. 249); Methana: Mee, Bowden et al. 1997: 118-174; Laconia: Catling 2002: 187-193, Shipley 2002: 261-263; Berbati: Penttinen 1996: 231-272, Forsell 1996: 286-340; PRAP: Alcock 2005, and online gazetteer; Asea: Forsén 2003: Fig. 7 (p. 21-22), Forsén, Forsén et al. 2003: 77-126.

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contrast, had villages, hamlets, farmsteads, and special purpose sites, defined on the basis of associated architecture and scatter size.73 But though these surveys share some terminology, the specifics are quite different: in Methana, for example, the farmstead is used as a “neutral term” describing relatively small isolated artefact scatters that have 1) modest assemblages, 2) relative isolation, and 3) “agrarian character and setting”. 74 In practice, that meant most sites of a residential character with a scatter size of under 2000m2 were seen as farmsteads. 75 Thus though farms, farmsteads, villas, hamlets, and so forth conjure up a shared set of images and meanings, in reality the individual surveys have defined the bounds of these different categories very differently (for the range of categories, see Table 1; number of sites by size, survey and period can be found in Table 36 below).

periods or duration of occupation as defined through artefact presence (or absence) and relative density. The spatial component has to do with the location of the site within the broader landscape, its extent, the character of its artefact assemblage, and its spatial relationship to other sites. Classification, in and of itself, is rarely questioned; discussions within survey literature about the problems of site definition are not rare. So survey reports talk about villas or estates, or farmsteads or small-holdings, or hamlets or villages, and argue about the density threshold or the character of assemblages required for each category without questioning the categories themselves. Farmsteads are frequently identified as farmsteads not because they have an essentialist or ontologically rigorous ‘farmstead’ nature, but because they are the lowest level of aggregated artefacts in a hierarchical schema of site classification (with ‘off-site’ occupying a place ‘to the side’ of the hierarchy).68

This is particularly important point, as ‘farmstead’ – as a category of site – is one of the most itinerant in the Greek landscape. By this I mean that they move around the landscape between and within periods, and have a wide range of densities, sizes and duration. Moreover, they usually form the building block for broader landscape interpretation. It is the character, relationship, duration and size of farmsteads that drive ideas of ‘continuity and change’ within Greek landscapes. Understanding differences in definition is vital to any comparative interpretation.

That in and of itself would not necessarily pose a problem if it was just a matter of arguing about where to put density thresholds, but the classificatory schemes that exist have evolved from textually-informed readings of archaeological material. Alcock and Rempel have argued that the increased intensification of off-site survey methodology – effectively decreasing the overall surveyed area – is a direct result of the growth in the number of site categories.69 As Witcher has pointed out, the rapid rise of site categories, the pragmatic issue of legacy data, and the increasing importance of Information Technology necessitates a more self-aware understanding of classification within survey archaeology.70

This project proposes that instead of constructing means of comparison by abstracting the individual data, the surveys will instead be deconstructed and stripped of emplotted data. In other words, the site definitions will be ‘reinterpreted’, in as far as possible, to ensure that there are meaningful points of comparison between the surveys. This does mean, however, that the comparisons between intensive surveys are based on both qualitative and quantitative data.

Classification is of especial importance for the current study since classification can either inhibit or facilitate comparison. As Witcher has noted, 71 in order to understand relationships between regions one has to compare, and in order to compare one has to have a common frame of reference. At the moment, however, though terminology may be shared between surveys, the specifics of definition are not. The Laconia survey has a range of site classifications: large site (village, fort), hamlet, cluster of farms, “villa”, large farm, farmstead, large sanctuary, shrine/small sanctuary, spring – but no clear qualitative criteria for their definition, instead relying on the character of the assemblage, the location of the assemblage in the broader landscape, and its relationship(s) vis-à-vis other sites. 72 Methana, by

II.2 Historical Sources Beyond the methodological and interpretive issues of the archaeological data lies the problem of the Classical inheritance: especially in a study concerned primarily with the Hellenistic and Roman past. Undoubtedly, the existence of ancient textual sources available to the Classical archaeologist is something of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, ancient authors often provide a unique insight into ancient events, describing occurrences we would otherwise have no information about. They are

68 Witcher 2012: 16: “[F]ield surveyors have noted that there are problems in defining the archaeological signature of a ‘farm’, but there has been little consideration of whether ‘farm’ is an appropriate category in the first place”. For ‘off-site’ see de Haas 2012; van de Velde 2001: 28-30. 69 Alcock and Rempel 2006. 70 Witcher 2008; Witcher 2012: 13-14. 71 Witcher 2012: 13. 72 Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 43-54; Catling 2002: 187-193. See discussion in: Alcock and Rempel 2006: 30-31. The follow-on project, the Laconia Rural Sites Project, attempted to deal with the issue of

small rural sites: Cavanagh, Mee, et al. 2005; Winther-Jacobsen 2010: 276-280. 73 Mee and Forbes 1997: 37-38. 74 Foxhall 1997: 257. Not dissimilar criteria from the Southern Argolid, Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 248-250. 75 Mee and Forbes 1997: 37. This is based on comparison with the Dema and Vari houses (below, page 20), which is, in itself, problematic. See Winther-Jacobsen 2010, which summarizes, in part: Foxhall 1997; Foxhall 2001; Foxhall 2004.

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view and agenda.78 The works of geographers, historians, and philosophers are all represented, and each must be viewed through a particular lens. A thorough critique and evaluation of these sources lies outside the scope of this study. Suffice it to say that one must approach these sources with a certain amount of caution and a wary eye.

an invaluable source of information, one which many branches of archaeology have had to do without. On the other hand, these ancient sources can present serious interpretive problems. They represent only certain points of view, are often quite biased, and frequently do not match up to what the archaeology suggests.76 After all, archaeologists essentially recover the debris and detritus of past societies, and 1st-century AD Greek and Roman aristocrats tended to find such topics distasteful, to say the least. Moreover, there is not a continuous historical or geographical sequence of sources – some periods are better documented than others, as are some regions.

Despite the varied genres of these authors, and despite the different times and places for which they for writing, one common theme is expressed throughout their works: the depopulation of Greece and the decline of Hellenic culture. 79 In fact, taken as a whole, the picture these sources paint of Greece under the Romans is almost entirely negative. The text that forms the foundation of this view comes from Polybius in the mid-2nd century BC (36.17.5-6):80

That said, the very existence of these documents – be they texts or inscriptions – is a boon, and cannot be ignored. They are without doubt a necessary complement to the archaeology – by no means telling the whole story, but certainly contributing a chapter or two. As such, what is presented here is a brief overview of the relevant sources, and an outline of major points of consideration and concern. It is the aim of this project to incorporate the historical sources into the body of the text, just as one would with archaeological data. Thus, what follows is not meant to be an exhaustive analysis of the sources; rather, it is intended to highlight how the sources are to be approached. Particular problems of interpretation or analysis will be addressed as the sources are brought into the discussion in subsequent chapters.

In our time the whole of Greece has been subject to a low birth rate and a general decrease of the population, owing to which cities have become deserted and the land has ceased to yield fruit, although there have neither been continuous wars nor epidemics. Early works of survey archaeology generally agreed with this picture of Hellenistic and early Roman decline. While recent commentaries on Polybius point out that he is likely referring to a more localised phenomenon, 81 affecting the wealthy elite of society, his general appearance of decline and depopulation lingers in the scholarly imagination. Indeed, his is a theme picked up by numerous subsequent authors. Plutarch in the late 1st century AD, for instance, remonstrates against the decline and abandonment of once-great oracular shrines (De defectu oraculorum 413F-414A), and Strabo (late 1st century BC–early 1st century AD) frequently mentions the desertion of cities in his Geography, saying of Megalopolis in Arkadia, ‘the Great City is a great desert’ (8.8.1).

There are essentially four categories of ‘historical sources’ that are relevant for this study: ancient authors who deal with the landscapes of Greece and Rome, ancient authors who deal with the relationship(s) between Greece and Rome, the category of authors perhaps misleadingly labelled ‘agronomists’, and epigraphical sources. There are, somewhat predictably, overlaps between the first two categories.77

The more philosophical and moral tracts among the sources also talk of this decline. Frequently, they use the land as a metaphor for the decline in moral character and general decay among the citizen body (Dio Chrysostom, Oration, 33.25: late 1st century–early 2nd century AD). Commentary of this sort is not limited to the Greek authors: late Republican and early Imperial Roman sources as varied as Cicero, Ovid, Seneca, and many besides, also comment on the desolation of the land. Sulpicius’ letter to Cicero in 45 BC famously states, ‘Behind me was Aigina, before me Megara, on my right Piraeus, on my left Corinth, towns at one time flourishing, now lying prostrate and demolished before

There is a wide variety of authors – in terms of genre, location, and chronology – who discuss aspects of Roman Greece. Most of their references can be taken as asides, comments made in a text concerning another matter, with Greece used as an example or metaphor. Still, even if one winnows that chaff from the grain, the list of ancient authors who talk extensively on Roman Greece is fairly long. In roughly chronological order, they are: Polybius, Cicero, Strabo, Livy, Pliny the Elder, Tacitus, Dio Chrysostom, Plutarch, Pausanias, Appian, Aelius Aristides, and Philostratus. This list is by no means meant to be exhaustive; these are simply the major extant sources utilised in this study. Of these authors, one can distinguish three main genres, each of which produces a text laden with its own particular point of

78

Pliny the Elder defies easy categorisation, being an encyclopaedist, and thus stands alone. 79 Unfortunately, survey archaeology has often abided by this view. Runnels and van Andel 1987; Bintliff and Snodgrass 1988a. 80 Perhaps one of the most-cited passages relating to Roman Greece. Polybius is making this statement c.140s BC. Translations are from the Loeb editions, unless otherwise stated. 81 See, for instance, Gruen 1984.

76

A point made by many. Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991a; Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994; Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002. 77 Pausanias, for instance, often relates historical events in his narrative of the landscape through which he travels. See also Alcock and Rempel 2006

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one’s own eyes’ (Cicero, Ad Fam., 4.5.4).82 It is worth bearing in mind, however, that the majority of these later authors are using second-hand material. There is a distinction between the desolation of Greece as a rhetorical device and the actual state of affairs in the rural landscape. There need not be a necessary connection between these topoi and the actual state of the rural landscapes of Greece.

Inscriptions, on the other hand, offer a different type of evidence. They are largely bereft of moral invective and do not have as identifiable a bias as the literary texts. They are still, however, a product of their times, and can reflect prevailing attitudes of the day. Epigraphic evidence exists for a large proportion of the areas covered by the archaeological surveys, however, they are quite patchy in terms of chronological coverage and content. While there are examples of inscriptions that cover the entirety of the period under study – that is, c.200 BC to c.AD 200 – most of these do not aid directly in a study of patterns of land use over time. In fact, it is reasonably safe to say that none of the published inscriptions from the Peloponnese does this expressly. However, the inscriptions are useful for other, complementary matters. The people named on the inscriptions often provide an insight into the character of the local population, or at least a segment of it. For instance, there is a marked increase in Roman names appearing on inscriptions around Corinth during the 40s BC, nicely corresponding to the (re-)foundation of the city as a Roman colony. 85 The occurrence of Roman cognomina, or indeed full Roman names, on inscriptions does help reconstruct the spread of Roman influence into the countryside, and the local reaction to the Imperial authority.86 The titles and positions held by those named on inscriptions also give clues as to changing administrative practices, their spread through the countryside, and the identity (both in terms of family and ethnos) of those in positions of power.87

The attitude of these sources may as much reflect the changing nature of the status of Greece as any reality of decline. After all, Greece had gone from the conqueror of Asia to the conquered. The feeling that the loss of Greek freedom in the late 3rd to mid-2nd century BC was something of a fin de siècle can be seen in several of the works. It is not uncommon to find Imperial-era politicians calling upon the Greeks to remember their noble past, to rise above their perceived present moral turpitude. A moral decline, it must be said, whose blame is often laid at the importation of Roman practices:83 The Athenians ran in crowds to the theatre beneath the Acropolis to witness human slaughter, and the passion for such sports was stronger there than it is in Corinth today: for they would buy for large sums adulterers and fornicators and burglars and cutpurses and kidnappers and such-like rabble, and then they took them and armed them and set them to fight with one another. Apollonius then attacked these practices, and when the Athenians invited him to attend their assembly, he refused to enter a place so impure and reckless with gore. And this he said in an epistle to them, and they were surprised, “that the goddess had not already fled the Acropolis when you shed such blood under her eyes.” Philostratus, VA, 4.22

Moreover, the very positioning and placement of inscriptions can provide information on the changing character of the rural landscape. The continuity of inscriptions at some rural sanctuaries, for instance, can be seen to reflect the continuous occupation of the surrounding area – a point of view slightly different from that offered by the literary sources.88 Less of a critique is required of the epigraphic evidence, not because one need be any less wary, but simply because they shall be used more infrequently in this study. Relevant inscriptions will be introduced at appropriate points during the analysis in subsequent sections.

Concomitant with the prevailing theme of decline found throughout these works is a deliberate archaising. The idea that Greece had fallen from a noble past pervades the sources. Dio Chrysostom makes that point particularly clear: ‘it is rather the stones which reveal the grandeur and greatness of Hellas, and the ruins of her buildings’ (Oration, 31.159). Pausanias, perhaps the most valuable source on Roman Greece, rarely discusses events or monuments that post-date the Roman conquest of Greece. Most relevant authors writing during the Principate largely ignore their recent history and focus on the more distant, more heroic past of Hellas.84

Another category of source exists in those that discuss ancient farming and agricultural practices. These authors are usually called ‘agronomists’, though more nuanced studies of their writings suggest that, for the most part, they are doing more than simply preparing handbooks on

82 Seneca states, ‘Do you not see how, in Achaea, the foundations of the most famous cities have already crumbled to nothing so that no trace is left to show that they had even existed?’ Epistles, 14.3(91).10. 83 This example of the conversion of the Theatre of Dionysus in Athens for spectacle is particularly telling. Of course, the spread of spectacle in the Greek East and the conversion of theatres to house these activities is an interesting marker of cultural interaction itself. Welch 2007: 163185. 84 The entire Second Sophistic might be seen as an exercise in archaism, Anderson 1993. Shipley admirably sums up this attitude in relation to the modern study of the Hellenistic period: ‘History should not be a beauty contest or a team sport, neither should it be a parade of the writer’s preferences, though the temptation exists.’ Shipley 2006: 317.

85

For a fuller analysis, see Romano 2000. For Roman names in the Peloponnese, see the recent catalogues Rizakis, Zoumbaki, et al. 2001; Rizakis, Zoumbaki, et al. 2004. The Laconia survey is perhaps the best example of the incorporation of epigraphic material, though the focus was more on the spread of the ‘epigraphic habit’ rather than names. Shipley 1996a. 87 The traditional purview of prosopographical studies. 88 As evidenced by the analysis in Alcock’s fifth chapter. Alcock 1993a: 172-214. 86

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to the character to be achieved by working the land. 94 Roman agricultural writers provide a wealth of information, but it is far from clear whether predominantly Italian agricultural handbooks accurately reflect Hellenistic agricultural practice.95 To begin with, these ‘handbooks’ do not present the full range of farming practice, even within one ‘style’ (most frequently villa or estate-based agriculture) of farming.

agricultural practice.89 The list of known agronomists is extensive, though surviving works (even in fragments) are relatively rare. 90 Most agronomists are known from references or quotations in later works, or just lists of sources: Varro and Pliny between them account for 50 of the 65 known Greek agronomists, and 27 of the 35 Latin authors (see Table A11 in appendix). Theophrastos is an invaluable Greek source in his own right, and for information he provides on agronomy as a field up to his own time: many of the Greek Georgika recorded come from Theophrastan references, and his was a model that was followed by many subsequent authors.

II.3 The Intellectual Framework Landscape(s) A previous section has outlined the potential utility and the myriad hazards embodied in dealing with archaeological surface survey data. These data, however, form but one facet of the information to be utilised in this study, and though they are arguably the most crucial, they do not stand isolated from the other data, but work in concert with them.

Far from presenting a unifying set of data on agricultural practices, however, much of the writings of the ancient agronomists can appear contradictory. Not only do some sources differ on appropriate practice (planting of beans in spring: Verg. Georg. 1.215; cf. Seneca Epist. 86.15, Pliny 18.120), but the very form of them can complicate modern interpretation. Didactic poetry and doxographies form the two most common models of agricultural writing. As a result, they do not reflect manuals for agriculture so much as ideas on farming by armchair farmers. For example, Hyginus’ well-respected agricultural treatise seems to have been a doxography composed from books in the Palatine library he oversaw. Columella reports testing some of Hyginus’ precepts, with mixed results (Col. 3.11.8, 9.14, 11.3.62). 91 Similarly, later compendia like Pliny (1st century), Anatolios Vindonios (4th century), and the Geoponika (10th century) make little effort to judge the efficacy of their own contents. 92 Even Vergil, arguably the most respected ancient authority on agriculture thanks to his Georgics (and that says as much about ‘agronomy’ as a genre as anything else), was known to be unreliable when it came to practical farming. Entire books were written to expand or ‘correct’ some of his poem: for example, Columella book 10 and Pliny’s deconstruction of soils (17.27ff.; cf. Verg. Georg. 2.177-258).93

Thus it is necessary to discuss a critical concept, that of landscape. Regional studies of this sort naturally take as their base unit of explication the term landscape, yet few studies rigorously define this term, or explore its many implications.96 Within Greece in particular, the concept is typically used in minimalist terms, as the unchanging backdrop against which archaeological remains are plotted.97 If this idea is expanded at all, it is to make of the landscape a resource to be exploited, or an obstacle to be overcome. So it is that we have chapters dedicated to the physical environment in most final reports, sections that deal with geology and morphology, but not with how people react to or interact with the conditions that are set by such features.98 Curiously, these regional projects can be progressive in their application of new archaeological techniques, yet stubborn in their adoption of anything other than a cultural-ecology or environmental-determinist approach to their interpretations of the data. 99 Where issues of landscape and meaning are discussed, they are discussed in articles that relate specifically to landscape, and not to regional studies. For instance, Susan Alcock wrote a book on landscape as a marker of cultural memory, yet did not tie the data into a regional analysis drawing on survey data. Instead, she took specific examples of individual sites to illustrate her points, almost as if these sites were

Most of these sources tend to focus on large-scale, estatebased agriculture, and few are specific to Greece. Modern scholars tend to rank Cato, Columella, Varro and Pliny as the most important Roman sources on ancient agriculture (irrespective of their place in the ‘ancient’ canon of such work), with Theophrastos the most important Greek source. Part of that has to do with survival: most Greek sources are known only from later Greek or Latin epitomes or excerpts. However, these treatises are as much moral works and political tracts as agricultural manuals, focusing on the ideal and the virtuous benefits

94

Most notably authors such as Theophrastus, Columella, Varro and Cato. Nicely summarized by Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994: 145-148; Goodchild 2007: 40-45. Again, they vary widely in terms of when and where they were writing: most of these refer explicitly to Italy, and not Greece. See also,Kronenberg 2009: esp. 3-38; Jongman 2003: 105. 95 Garnsey 1998: 205. 96 Perhaps the best example is Cherry’s Keos survey. Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991b; Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991d. 97 Knapp and Ashmore 1999. 98 Three examples of such are to be found in the Methana, Laconia and Southern Argolid surveys. Zangger 1993; James, Atherton, et al. 1997; van Berghem and Fiselier 2002. 99 Compare Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991e: 3-5 and Runnels and van Andel 1987.

89

Kronenberg 2009; Thibodeau 2011. For the most complete list, see the Agriculture/Agronomy index by topic in Keyser and Irby-Massie 2009: 991-992. There are 102 known authors, 65 in Greek. This list has been collected in table A11 in the appendix. 91 Noè 2002: 42, 85. Varro has some notable internal contradictions, though these are more to do with attitudes towards activities and the satirical bent of his work. Kronenberg 2009: 94-129. 92 Dalby 2011: 11-13. 93 Thibodeau 2011: 218-224. 90

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isolated from broader regional influences.100 So it is that we have most of survey archaeology handling landscape either in isolation from other facets of archaeological discourse, or from a strictly ‘scientific’ standpoint. Other fields of archaeology are just as guilty, of course, and it is only recently that archaeologists in any field have begun to pay close attention to this troublesome concept, and have tried to reconstruct social meaning from the disparate material clues.

as a concept embodied by demography, economy, and risk.107 This is not to say, however, that these views of landscape are not useful, only that they do not apply to all studies or all situations – it seems clear that a more holistic approach to landscape and its definition is called for.108 Nor is this to say that the concept cannot be defined for this study. Therefore, the remainder of this section will focus on defining the concept, and some of the crucial ideas that go into its formulation. Suffice it to say at the outset that the concept of landscape is best viewed as a spectrum, with a variety of components that together embody the whole.109 Thus, for the purposes of this study, landscape has been broken down into four constituent parts, each relevant to the study at hand. These four parts also form either explicit or implicit areas of enquiry for each of the survey projects used in this study, thereby forming a broad basis for comparison.

What is needed is some redressing of the imbalance between environment and ecology, on the one hand, and cultural and social meanings on the other. By this I mean a move towards ‘re-peopling’ the landscape, and taking into account the full scope of human activity in a landscape. Landscape is much more than a passive agent in human activity that either facilitates or hinders particular human activities.101 Indeed, humanity can have a complex relationship with the surrounding landscape, one that transcends purely material or physical concerns.

These ideas see landscape divided into geology (and geomorphology), economy, arenas for interaction, and as a touchstone for memory. These divisions represent cultural aspects of past behaviours, such as social memory, economy, social order or hierarchy, identity, transformation, and experience. The definitions of these terms will become clear in the following sections and chapters. Arriving at any single definition that incorporates all of these facets meaningfully is likely impossible. Still, we can begin with a base definition of landscape, from which these ideas can be further extrapolated. Landscape, then, is the physical and cultural backdrop that both colours and is coloured by the totality of human experience, regardless of temporal or spatial constraints.

Anthropology helps to inform this new gaze upon the landscape, and it is from ethnography and ethnoarchaeology that scholars have come to understand that the importance of a landscape, however it is defined, is not necessarily directly related to its obtrusiveness in the archaeological record. 102 The site of Tongariro in New Zealand, for instance, is a mountain sacred to the indigenous Maoris, but one which they are forbidden to set foot upon.103 This presents something of an interpretative challenge, obviously. There are some aspects of the ancient landscape that will have to remain, for the foreseeable future, unknowable. Without direct ethnographic evidence of such culturally meaningful but archaeologically invisible landscape features, we are at a loss to reconstruct the entire picture. Even a partial picture, however, is better than none at all.

Landscape and Geology One of the most remarkable aspects of the landscape of the Peloponnese is its obtrusiveness, the way in which the physicality of the landscape itself often imposes itself upon historical narratives.110 There is a long tradition of geologically-inspired digressions in historical sources. Herodotus’ discussion of the defence of the Peloponnese focuses on the landscape as a fortification itself (8.71-4), and physical descriptions of the topography of various regions around the Mediterranean abound (Egypt: 2.6ff; the continents of Asia, Africa and Europe, generally: 4.36-59; the Bosporus: 4.82ff);111 Thucydides frequently draws in the landscape to his narrative, almost as a participant (or at least an agent) in military actions

There is one central issue that has been skirted around in most discussions of this sort in survey reports, and that is one of definition. Defining ‘landscape’ in such a way as to make it a useable concept for all archaeologists is likely impossible – there are as many definitions as there are ways of thinking about the landscape.104 One of the continuing difficulties with landscape, as a term, results from continued efforts to find an over-arching definition. Thus, the concept has been variously defined: by Johnston as contextual, in both a real and perceived way, as experienced by both observers and participants;105 by Crumley as “the material manifestation of the relation between humans and the environment;”106 and by Willey

107

More properly, Willey and his students, as explained by Bender, Hamilton, et al. 1997: 148. For Willey as one of the originators of this method, see the Introduction in Willey 1953. 108 Crumley 1994. See also Witmore 2007; Holdaway and Fanning 2008. 109 Forbes 2007: 9-49, for a cogent discussion of various approaches to ‘landscape as spectrum’. 110 Reinforced by the introduction to Pritchett’s last volume on Greek topography. Pritchett 1993b: ix, xiv-xxi. 111 On Herodotus and topography, see Pritchett 1993a: esp. ch. 2, 1982: 176-201, 234ff.; Pritchett 1982.

100

Alcock 2002. Van Dyke and Alcock 2003. 102 Ingold 2000: 511-513. 103 Knapp and Ashmore 1999: 11. 104 Called ‘an unstable concept, moving to and fro along a ‘natural continuum’’ in Knapp and Ashmore 1999: 6. 105 Johnston 1998: 56. 106 Crumley 1994: 6. 101

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(Sphacteria: 4.8.6; Mantineia: 5.65-74). 112 Polybius remarks upon the importance of knowing and understanding landscape and topography (9.13.8);113 and of course Strabo structures much of his work around the geography and visible geology of the coastlines he skirts.114

All of this geological activity has resulted in a landscape that is characterized frequently by discontinuous valleys bounded by mountain ranges. Limestones, marbles, marl and flysch and their soil derivatives can all be found on the slopes of these valleys, and at the higher altitudes.121 Coastal areas are frequently characterised by neogene soils, formed most commonly through crustal extension. Alluvial soils are also commonly found along the coastal plains.122 The specific geology of the individual regions of the Peloponnese are dealt with in subsequent chapters, but overall, the nature of the geology of the Peloponnese is one that has come to play a part in the cultural practices of the inhabitants, and as such cannot be ignored.

Beyond historians and geographers, the works of the Roman agronomists often imply an in-depth knowledge of the underlying structures and relative fecundity of different types of land, and their suitability for various agricultural activities. Varro discusses environments best suited to pastoralism (1.7.10), as well as various types of soils and their effects (1.9.5-6, 1.44.1). Columella (1.3.10-12, 2.2.5, 2.2.14-21), Cato (De Agri Cult.: 10-11, 36, 37.2, 54.4) and even the Greek Theophrastus (not strictly an agronomist; HP 2.7.1, 8.7.2, 8.7.7, 8.9.1-3) show similar understandings, even if they disagree on definitions or on which soils are best.115 The point is not that there was necessarily wide-spread agreement, but a tacit understanding that geology, topography and agriculture are inextricably linked.

Landscape as Economy The notion of landscape as economy represents the most prevalent aspect of landscape as represented in survey data, and as such, receives the fullest treatment within this study. Representation of the landscape, however that term is defined, is a threefold issue: the physical landscapes themselves, the people inhabiting the landscapes, and the relationship those people have with the landscape.123 The visibility, archaeological or otherwise, of the third phenomenon is a subject of some debate, but it can be argued that nothing shapes the physical landscape of a culture more profoundly than its economic activities.124

All of this serves to underscore the pivotal role of geology in understanding ancient landscapes. It is important to note that of the various facets of landscape that can be studied, geology forms only one. Still, it is a vital and influential part of that landscape, and elements of this can be seen in how landscape is exploited, as shall be shown.

Events that shape the landscape often conform to Braudel’s three chronological phases (or temporal rhythms).125 That is, they often occur at more than one if not all three chronological scales, with an immediate effect upon the landscape, a mid-term continuous effect emphasised through habitual use, and a long-term effect that is visible, and therefore readable.126

Geologically, the Peloponnese is largely the product of two different, if generalising, processes: regional compression and crustal extension. 116 Regional compression is best observed in the north and west of the Peloponnese, and has resulted in tectonic uplift and the sequence of stepped marine terraces that can be observed along much of the length of the Gulf of Corinth, and has helped form the vast bulk of the northern range of the Arcadian mountains. 117 Crustal extension is responsible for many of the mountain ranges and associated valleys of the southern Peloponnese, especially those of Laconia and Messenia. 118 The Argolid is a slightly different geological formation, composed primarily of volcanic activity and underlying karst (or marble) formations that were originally part of an old continental margin,119 but the wider-ranging crustal extension of the western Aegean has affected this area as well.120

While economy and economic activities may not be unique in their varied but coterminous temporal rhythms – particular monuments, like Tongariro above, might be said to exist in all three phases – economy is arguably the one aspect of human activity that has the most widespread and ‘readable’ effect upon the landscape. Not only are these activities usually of significantly longer duration than other types of human activity, frequently involving repeated and habitual alteration of the landscape over time, but once conscious activity ceases there is usually no effort made to restore the landscape, or remove the effects of economic exploitation from the landscape. Monuments, for instance, frequently see alteration and/or destruction over time, reducing their

112

On Thucydidean topography, see Pritchett 1993b: 1-78; Pritchett 1980: 308ff. 113 A full discussion of Polybian topographical knowledge and understanding can be found in Pédech 1964 and of course Walbank 2002. It is interesting to note the increased influence of geology and topography in books 12 and 39. 114 As discussed in Baladié 1980. 115 Soil types, and the differences noted by Cato, Columella and Varro, are discussed by Spurr 1986: 4-10, 23. 116 Higgins and Higgins 1996: 19-25. 117 Keraudren and Sorel 1987; Stiros 1988; Higgins and Higgins 1996: 40-42, 70-73. 118 Higgins and Higgins 1996: 51-52, 56-57, 60-63. 119 Higgins and Higgins 1996: 40-41. 120 Higgins and Higgins 1996: 22-23, 170-172.

121

Higgins and Higgins 1996: 13-14, 22. Higgins and Higgins 1996: 12-13, 23. 123 Chapman and Dolukhanov 1997: ix. 124 Forbes 2000: 100-105. 125 These are the short-term historical or political événements, the medium-term socially constructed conjuncture, and the longer-term, environmentally based longue durée. Braudel 1972: 20; Knapp 1992: 13-16. 126 In this instance, readable means archaeologically detectable – ease of ‘readability’ refers directly to archaeological visibility. Thomas 1996a: 83-84. 122

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archaeological visibility. 127 Many economic activities leave a permanent, visible (in archaeological terms) trace upon the landscape, a statement confirmed by the prominent place of economy in most studies of landscape archaeology.128

Peloponnese in the Hellenistic period.133 It is not always the case, however, that the physical environment determines the nature or type of crop grown, as there are several examples of communities imposing a crop type on a more ‘difficult’ environment. 134 Terracing around Megalopolis in Arcadia, though similar in form to that of Methana, seems to have been reserved for cereals.135 The presence, or absence, of terracing cannot be used as a marker for particular crops, although some studies of terracing have suggested a preference for certain crop types among certain terrace types. 136 This being said, however, it is reasonable to assert that cereal formed the staple agricultural good, usually within a mixed farming regime.137

However one defines the ancient economy,129 there can be no denying the centrality of the role of economic activities. Roman Greece saw a wide variety of economic activities, most, if not all, of which see their origins in Archaic and Classical Greece. Thus, there are specific economic activities that will be highlighted for this study: cereal crop agriculture, viticulture, oleoculture, and pastoralism/ transhumance. Each will be discussed in turn, with an eye towards their archaeological signatures and evidence of such from survey projects.

Cereal crop production involves a large number of steps, each of which has its own associated material culture, and therefore, its own potentially identifiable archaeological signature. One needs to say ‘potentially identifiable,’ of course, as some evidence for these steps in the cycle are particularly ephemeral and easily destroyed by subsequent activity. 138 The traditional crop production cycle follows six steps: ploughing, sowing, tillage, fertilization, harvesting, and transport.139 The means and tools used to implement these steps can vary by region, and may be used as a marker for identity.140

Cereal Crop Agriculture Agriculture, in its broadest definition, encompasses all methods of production and management of crops, vegetation, and soil. This includes, but is not limited to, the related activities of tillage, fertilization, pest control, harvesting and marketing. Its modern definition, as used by various government agencies in several countries, also includes the activities of feeding, housing, and maintaining of animals such as cattle, dairy cows, sheep, goats, hogs, horses, and poultry and handling their byproducts. 130 The extension of the definition to include livestock and their management produces an unwieldy mass of activities that inhibits, rather than enables, analysis. Moreover, the studies of grape and olive production are sub-fields in their own right. For the purposes of this study, agriculture will be limited to those activities related to ‘cereal crop husbandry’ as opposed to ‘animal husbandry,’ ‘oleoculture,’ or ‘viticulture’, each of which will be dealt with on their own terms.131

In general, agricultural practice for cereals changed little from the Classical period down through the Hellenistic period. The soil would have to first be broken up by an ard plough, usually pulled by draught animals, though depictions of ploughs pulled by groups of labourers are known from the Classical period. 141 Where draught animals or large families were unavailable, furrows could be created by hand with a mattock. The problem, of course, is one of time and scale. Draught animals require an initial expenditure to purchase, and must be fed and watered. Plough cattle were the usual animal of choice in much of Greece, given the unsuitability of the terrain for draught horses,142 and they are relatively inexpensive to keep. However, smaller plots would have to be worked by hand, as cattle are slow and cumbersome, and cannot

In this sense, it can be said that agriculture was the baseline economic activity in the ancient world. Everyone needed to eat, and whether this was accomplished through subsistence level agriculture that produced little or no surplus, or through the ‘agribusinesses’ of large estates, does not alter this fact. Favoured crops, even particular farming practices, can sometimes be regionally dependent. The steep slopes of Methana mean that agricultural terracing is far more common on that peninsula, leading to a distinct preference for olives and vines on the high relief slopes.132 The lower-relief river valley of the Eurotas, on the other hand, exhibits a preference for cereals over vines – a trend that is observable for the vast majority of rural areas in the

133 Rackham 2002: 118-119; Wagstaff 2002; Bogaard, Charles, et al. 2000: 129-134. 134 Krasilnikoff 2008. 135 Roy 1983: 268; Roy 2000: 328-330. 136 Fish 1994: 52-53; Treacy and Denevan 1994: 95-96; Frederick and Krahtopoulou 2000: 92. For a succinct discussion of the problems in identifying ancient terraces, see Foxhall 2007: 61-68. 137 Foxhall and Forbes 1982: 41-90; Foxhall 2007: 57. The main cereals being wheat and barley. Garnsey 1992: 148. 138 Tillage, for instance, involves the upheaval of the growing surface and the destruction of surface traces of seeding or sowing. 139 As informed by White 1970: 86-110, 446-448. 140 There are particular activities that communities are loath to change readily: burial practice, religious custom, grooming kit and toilet practice, and food ways. Food ways include means of food preparation and procurement – including agriculture. No one trait can be used as a marker for identity, but if most or all of these cultural traits differ between regions, it is likely that two different ethnic groups or communities inhabit those regions. Hesse 1995: 198-206. 141 See Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 46. 142 Foxhall 2003: 80.

127

Tilley 1994: 72-75. Furholt, Hinz, et al. 2012. A point made best by Bintliff, Farinetti, et al. 2002: 259-265. The problem of the ancient economy is not new, and involves, essentially, those who support a Finleyan economic model, and those who believe there was no economy, as such, but rather individual activities of an economic nature. Summed up by Davies 2001: 11-62. 130 USDA official webpage: http://www.fas.usda.gov/excredits/freg24560.html 131 In other words, for ‘agriculture’ read ‘cereal crop cultivation’. 132 James, Atherton, et al. 1997: 27-31. 128 129

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means conclusive, it is logical to think that this waste would be used by the inhabitants to fertilize their crops. 150 Manure from animals would also have been collected and stored for later deposition on fields, irrespective of the argument over the archaeological signature of such actions.151 Forbes’ ethnoarchaeological work has suggested that while domestic artefacts do make their way into manure, the majority of household waste is disposed of differently.152 Similarly, he suggests that the incorporation of artefacts into manure is closely related to three factors: 1) the proximity of domestic animals to human habitation, 2) the intensity and concentration of domestic activities in the vicinity of the animals, and 3) incorporation/exclusion is the result of conscious choice, informed by the impact of the inclusions on transportation to the fields.153

perform sharp turns in confined areas when hitched to a plough. Material culture related to ploughing can be quite varied. Much of the plough itself would have been constructed of wood, down to the blade. In some cases a blade-sheath of metal may have been used, but this is not necessary for the blade to break apart the soil. 143 The yoke and associated apparatus would also be of wood and leather, and so also ephemeral in the archaeological record, though metal fittings may survive. The identification of ancient furrows in the modern landscape suggests the traces of the use of the plough, though the plough itself is nowhere to be seen. 144 More definite evidence comes from rural farmsteads, rather than fields, where provisions for the care and maintenance of draught animals suggests the plough rather than the mattock. Hoes, 145 spades, mattocks and other small-scale ploughing tools were also predominantly wooden, though spade-sheaths and fittings may indicate their use.

Harvesting follows, given an appropriate amount of time that varies from crop to crop. This labour-intensive process was almost certainly done by hand, and involves a variety of stages, from the actual cutting of the crop to the initial processing. Using sickles of varying sizes and curved knives, the cereal would be cut and left in the wake of the worker. The cut cereal would then be bundled and tied, before heading to a threshing floor.154 These floors are archaeologically scarce, which is surprising given the overwhelming preference for cereals in low relief areas. Published examples range from simple stone circles around a packed earth floor, to paved stone areas with posts for draught animals.155 The use of a threshing sled is somewhat contentious, with a far-fromsettled debate in the literature arguing either for or against such a device. 156 It does seem likely, however, that by the late 2nd century BC, such sledges were used on larger estates – based on comparanda from southern Italy and Sicily.157

Sowing would follow, with the seed dispersed into furrows by hand from a basket or sack. Tilling would then take place, with a second run of the plough over the sown field, burying the seed to protect it from birds and other pests. Forbes also notes the beneficial moisture retention and aerating effects of tilling on the seeds.146 Fertilization of the field may or may not be done, depending on area, local economies, and the like. This may be either purposeful or not: modern rural Greek fields often have goats wandering over recently ploughed and sowed fields, providing the soil with what might be termed ‘accidental’ fertilization. Purposeful fertilization most likely involved deliberately introducing goats or sheep to ploughed fields, or, more likely, the deposition of night soil (primarily human waste from cesspools and privies) on the fields, a process known as manuring.147 Evidence for manuring is mainly circumstantial, but may perhaps be seen in a higher incidence of sherds on fields, as opposed to surrounding areas – where that incidence of sherds is not taken to represent habitation. It must be stressed, however, that this is by no means certain, and may just be evidence of a higher ‘traffic’ area, leading naturally to a greater accumulation over time, or the result of localised re-use of broken ceramics. 148 Where rural farmsteads have been excavated, as at Vari,149 pits (koprones) for night soil have been found. While by no

Winnowing follows threshing, and was most likely accomplished by throwing the threshed material in the air with a shovel or from a wicker basket. The material is thrown into the wind so the chaff is blown away.158 The remaining grain would then be collected and stored, either for local use or wider distribution. The final step in the agricultural cycle, transport, is a voluminous topic in its own right. Storage and transport vessels are frequently subsumed under the rubric ‘amphora studies’, which is a dedicated sub-field of 150 As suggested by Ault for example in Halieis. Ault 1999: 560-570. Much of the literary evidence is also collected by Owens 1983: 44-50. 151 Forbes 2012: 166-172. 152 Forbes 2012: 165. 153 Forbes 2012: 168-170. 154 Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 50-52. 155 Young 1956: 124; Lohmann 1992: 29-57; Foxhall 2007: 60. It should be noted that some debate surrounds Lohmann’s results. Osborne 1992: 27; Foxhall 2007: 199-200. 156 A quick summary exists in Lohmann 1992: 42. 157 Lohmann 1992: 35-48. 158 Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 55. A process lovingly described by many Greek poets, from Homer (Il., 5.499) to Theophrastus (De Causis Plantarum, 3.11 ff.).

143

Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 46-49. See Wilson 1989: 61-71; Grosman 2001: 145-155. 145 Hoes may be of either the single (makella) or double-pronged (dikella) type. Theophrastus states that the dikella is more suited to breaking up the weeds for a thorough tilling than the ard plough (De Causis Plantarum 3.20.8). 146 Forbes 1976: 5-11. See also note 145 above. 147 See Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994: 148-156; Ault 1999: 549-560; Bintliff, Howard, et al. 2007; Forbes 2012. 148 Pettegrew 2001: 199, 203-5; Forbes 2012: 162. 149 Jones, Graham, et al. 1973: 355-453. The Dema house is perhaps the only other well-published example. Jones, Sackett, et al. 1962: 75-114. The fact that the two best-known examples of such houses date to the Classical period in Attica should be borne in mind. 144

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generally poor condition of the cattle after the summer,169 one has about only 30 days of usable time in which to plough – the animals would simply not survive being over-exploited. This puts the upper limit of a day’s ploughing at 0.2-0.3 hectares per day for draught animals, and significantly less for those unlucky enough to only have a mattock. 170 Factoring in the time constraints imposed by the seasons, sowing would have no more than 20-30 days in which to be completed, leading to a liberal average workable field size of 6.5 hectares. 171 The real figure was probably lower, in the margin of 5-6 hectares for a single family with a single team of draught animals.172 Archaeologically, then, we would expect the majority of identifiable field systems in the rural Peloponnese to conform to this pattern – relatively small in size, and close to a residence.173

Classical archaeology. 159 Knowledge of transport mechanisms in the ancient world, and the broader structures of trade, exchange, and movement, is patchy at best. Largely this has to do with negotiating issues of scale: moving between local and inter-regional mechanisms of transport, on the one hand, and panMediterranean networks, on the other.160 The mechanisms for transport are frequently part of broader economic studies, themselves either predominantly theoretical or particularist. In other words, our knowledge of transport is well-developed for particular nodes in the larger network: amphorae production and distribution,161 certain road networks, 162 some shipping routes, 163 warehousing, 164 payments and credit arrangements. 165 However, when it comes to the finer points within that network – moving produce from fields to processing sites, seasonal or annual storage requirements,166 moving from processing to filling stations, or from filling stations to redistribution points 167 – our knowledge is woefully inadequate. Agricultural products obviously were redistributed, coarsely put, but that’s about the extent of what can be said with certainty.

Viticulture Viticulture is the practice of growing grapes, most commonly for processing into wine. 174 As the second staple in the Mediterranean triad, 175 evidence of viticulture and vine cultivation can be found in almost every area of Greece, and the Peloponnese is no exception. The climate of long warm summers and cool, but not terribly cold, winters, coupled with low humidity and few spring frosts, is ideal for growing grapes. 176 Growing vines and grapes, however, is a process quite unlike that of cereal crop cultivation. In addition to worries about crop yield, long-term concerns over the viability of the stock must take precedence as vineyards are permanent crops, yielding the same type of grape year after year. Moreover, the cultivation of the vine requires a greater degree of skill, or technical specificity 177 , than either cereals or olives. A successful yield necessitates a higher investment of time, patience, and expertise. Columella was right to assert that “the farming of the vine is more complicated than that of any other tree” (Rust. 5.7.1). Indeed, viticulture requires a greater number of decisions – decisions that have a greater effect on long-term viability.178 Vineyard layout, when to prune,

These activities are time- and labour-dependent. The amount and type of labour available decide how much time a particular activity will take, and also how much time one can afford to invest in that activity. Economies of scale affected every agricultural worker, regardless of place or historical period. For most small-scale intensive farmers in the Peloponnese, ploughing can only be done after the autumn rains have softened the summer-baked soil, and must be completed before winter freezes the soil and no moisture is available for the initial germination of the seeds. This leaves a window of about two months for both ploughing and sowing to be completed, depending on where exactly the activity is taking place.168 Given the

159 For example, Koehler 1979a; Peacock and Williams 1991; Whitbread 1995; Koehler 1996; Will 1997; Peña 2007; Lawall 2011. 160 For example, Oliver 2001; Reger 2007b; Paleothodoros 2009; Rathbone 2009. 161 As in, Maniatis, Jones, et al. 1984; Koehler 1996; Will 1997; Panella and Tchernia 2002; Lawall 2005; Lawall 2011. 162 Pritchett 1980; Pritchett 1985; Pikoulas 1992-98; Roy 1997; Pikoulas 1999; Pikoulas 2000; Goette 2002; Forsén 2003b; Pikoulas 2007; Lolos 2009; Marchand 2009; Hadjibiros and Argyropoulos 2011; Palinkas and Herbst 2011. 163 Will 1997; Gibbons 2001; Carlson 2003; Constanza Lentini, Blackman, et al. 2008; Pettegrew 2011. 164 See the database compiled as a result of the “Entrepôts et lieux de stockage du monde gréco-romain antique” research project: http://www.entrepots-anr.fr/p-index_en.htm 165 Chankowski 2011; Gabrielsen 2005; Lo Cascio 2007: esp. 628-629, and associated bibliography; Migeotte 1984; Migeotte 2002. Indirectly: Reger 2007a: 465-466, 468-472, and associated bibliography. 166 Forbes’ ethnographic work has shown that modern Greek peasants from Methana stored two years’ supply of wheat and four of olive oil as a ‘normal surplus’. Forbes 1982; Forbes 1989. 167 Bezeczky 1995; Bresson 2011; Cockle 1981; Lawall 2005; Lund 2011; Ruffing 1999: esp. 104-106. Implied by the existence of ‘oileries’ in North Africa: Mattingly 1993; Mattingly and Hitchner 1993. 168 Less than two months for higher altitudes. Foxhall 2003: 80.

169 Due to the poor condition and relatively low availability of forage and fodder in this time. 170 Forbes 1982: 357. 171 Field size meaning the total area of all parcels of a single family’s land, not necessarily contiguous. Forbes 1982: 358-359. Average workable field size calculated as: (mean ploughed hectares per day) x (mean sowing time). Obviously, there is not much point in ploughing more than you can sow. The mean value for each is a liberal estimate, as this assumes that most of an agricultural worker’s time would be taken up in these activities, and not tending to other matters. If one assumes that each farmstead produced a variety of crop types, including olives, the figure drops to about 3.75-4.25 hectares of cultivable cereals. Forbes 1982: 361-367. 172 Foxhall 2003: Table 1. 173 The issue of farm residence is somewhat contentious; see p.94 below. 174 By far the best material on ancient viticulture (and oleoculture) can be found in Brun’s four volume series. Brun 2003; Brun 2004b; Brun 2004a; Brun 2005. 175 Best summarized by Sarpaki 1992. 176 Unwin 1991. 177 Amouretti 1992: 77-78; Brun 2003: 49. It is also inherently risky: Foxhall 2007: 80-82. 178 Hanson 1992: 166.

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II. DATA SOURCES & APPROACHES

Vineyard Decisions Vineyard Layout Stock

Spacing

Pruning (Yearly) Time

Type

Fertilization (Yearly) Rate

Type

Range of Alternatives and ramifications of Choice

Extrinsic Factors (other than Labour/Capital Investment)

Archaeological Implications

A. Cuttings: less cost/ high failure B. Rootings: more cost/ low failure

Availability of stock? Type of soil?

Durability of vines and/or root balls

A. Close: high return/ more initial capital, labour, yearly costs B. Wide: low return/ less initial capital, labour, yearly costs

Type of soil? Use of draught animals? Interplanting of grain/olives?

Closer spacing implies higher later archaeological visibility, terracing?

A. Early: frost risk, early harvest, more time B. Late: little frost risk/ late harvest, less time

Location of vineyard? Current weather cycle? Market conditions?

Altitude and presence/ absence of terraces may affect identification

A. Severe: less crop, high quality, can’t be rectified B. Moderate: more crop, low quality, requires later thinning

Last year’s crop? Condition of vineyard? Type of wine required?

More pruning requires more care, higher chance of nearby residence

A. Heavy: more crop, more cost, improves vine B. Light: less crop, less cost, weakens vine

Availability of fertilizer? Type of soil? Condition of vineyard? Last year’s crop? Market conditions?

Type and rate may affect sherd scatter/ density and likelihood of local residence

A. Legumes: less nitrogen, less cost, moisture reduction B. Manures: more nitrogen, more cost, weed growth

Access to animals? Type of soil? Current weather cycle?

A. More: more crop, more cost, improves vine B: Less: less crop, less cost

Availability of wood? Density of plantings? Wind/weather conditions?

Extensive trellising may lead to higher up-slope soil erosion and lower visibility

A. Extensive: more crop, more cost, less pests, better moisture retention B. Moderate: less crop, less cost, long term problems

Availability of workers? Size of field? Current weather cycle?

More extensive cultivation aids archaeological visibility

A. Early: less danger, lower quality, more time B. Late: more danger, higher quality, less time

Availability of workers? Size of holdings? Current weather cycle?

Success of harvest will affect longevity of occupation

Stacking/Trellising Type

Cultivation Type

Harvest Type

Table 2. Some intricacies of Greek viticulture. Modified from Hanson 1992.

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II. DATA SOURCES & APPROACHES

combines to make the reliable identification of ancient vineyards somewhat difficult.

type and rate of fertilization, use of trellising, intensity of cultivation, and when to harvest all affect the absolute yield and quality of the grape (see Table 2), as well as the economic success of the landowner.

Most of the remains of ancient vinerows in Greece have been identified on slopes, likely due to three factors: the ability of vines to grow in marginal soil, 185 the direct correlation between labour intensity and number of vines and not acreage (making slopes and terraces as potentially profitable as flat ground), and the difficulty in identifying ancient vineyards in intensively exploited areas.186 It is something of a ‘catch-22’ that, because of the difficulty in assessing the past land use of heavily exploited areas, we only find certain types of ancient land use in areas where there is little or no modern exploitation, thus confirming theories of the preference for terraced agriculture for certain crop types.187 Still, it is logical, given the relatively small size of most holdings amongst rural farmers, and the relatively low intensity of agriculture, that the best land would be used for cereals, while marginal land was used for vines or olives.188

This, in turn, affects the archaeological visibility of ancient vineyards: the longer they are in existence, and the more successful they are, the more likely they are to leave an easily identifiable archaeological trace. Even so, most ancient vineyards are identified on the basis of very few factors: the presence or absence of press beds, 179 and/or the presence or absence of large storage vessels (such as pithoi), 180 and/or the presence or absence of a specific material culture, such as pruning knives, 181 and/or the visibility of ancient vinerows in crop/ parch marks.182 In terms of survey archaeology, this becomes somewhat problematic. Regardless of the sequence of choices decided upon by the viticulturalist (as listed by Table 2), one must always harvest and process the grape. Although the most archaeologically visible aspect of viticulture is the material culture associated with processing and transport, this material culture need not be specific to viticulture. It is interesting to note that there are few discernable differences between the material culture of Greek and Roman viticulture. It is not the tools that change over time, but the choices that the landholder makes in determining how to set up and exploit his crop.183 Stone press-beds are a valuable commodity, and are often removed in the intervening centuries from their original locations. In fact, wine production does not require stone press-beds, or a particular installation, and wooden treading boards can be used to press the grapes directly into a wooden or packed earth floor.184 Indeed, the press-beds themselves may be for olive or other agricultural processing – it is the congruence of multiple categories of evidence that marks the distinction between the different types of processing. Large storage vessels were not particular to wine, so their presence need not indicate viticulture, or only viticulture, and iron blades of pruning knives do not survive on the surface for long – they are usually identified only in excavation. Finally, crop and parch mark visibility is dependent on the time of year, modern land use, and altitude. The higher the observer is, relative to the crop mark, the more visible the trace. Obviously, highly disruptive forms of modern land use, such as well-tended vineyards, industrial installations, or post-Roman terracing will obscure traces of the ancient growing surface. Each of these factors

One factor that may be of some use in identifying possible sites of viticulture is soil conditions. Unlike other crops, the quality of a wine grape is very much dependent on the type and condition of the soil in which the vine is planted. If one is able to detect a shift in soil preference, one may be able to posit an incidence of viticulture.189 Unfortunately, this is highly dependent on the type of grape grown, as particular types of vine seem to prefer different types of soil. 190 The most vital characteristic, however, seems to be good drainage – thus the best vineyards to be found today in Bordeaux are often found on readily drained soils near, but well above, rivers and streams. 191 If, however, one sees in the archaeological record a shift in soil preference, coupled with an increase in certain ceramic forms (such as storage vessels), and a decrease or absence in other forms (such as cooking or table wares), one may be able to suggest an incidence of viticulture. This method, as shall be shown, will be tested on the survey data utilised in this study. Obviously, the 185 Although vines can grow on marginal soil, they still require some depth to that soil in order to root properly. So marginal here refers to the quality of the soil for long-term agricultural exploitation, as opposed to indications of its depth. Unwin 1991: 42. 186 Perhaps the greatest problem – the landscape of Greece has been abandoned and re-inhabited many times in the past 2500 years, with acknowledged demographic cycles of increased population followed by decline. Just who built what when is a seemingly never-ending debate. Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994: 168. 187 A situation in Greece contrasted by the identification of large vineyards, not on marginal ground, in other areas of the Mediterranean. Arthur 1991: 153-159; Carreté, Keay, et al. 1995. It should be noted that there is a quite a far-reaching debate surrounding the prevalence of ancient terraces, some suggesting that they were unnecessary for the posited forms of ancient agriculture, as stone tree-beds or trenching would function just as well. Foxhall 1996: 54-55. 188 An argument supported by Foxhall, who also agrees that small landholders may have used terracing. Foxhall 1996: 65; Foxhall 2007: 68 (but see discussion 61-69). 189 Amouretti 1988: 5-7. 190 Unwin 1991: 44. 191 Unwin 1991: 44.

179

Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 56-57. Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 57. 181 Smith and Secoy 1975: 1050-1055; Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 57. 182 Grosman 2001: 147-154. A summary of the processes of production and their associated archaeological traces can also be found in Brun 2003: 53-83. Large numbers of vines were not practical for small farmers, and it is likely that small scale, local production (if it existed) is archaeological invisible. Implied, but not stated, by: Foxhall 2007: 81. 183 Amouretti 1992: 86. 184 A process also undertaken in some rural parts of Greece today, as the author witnessed in the hills around Stymphalia, Corinthia, in July 2002. See also Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 57. 180

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industrial ‘oileries’ have been found in North Africa,199 and perhaps elsewhere.200

surest method of detecting viticulture is through the recovery of press beds, an archaeological feat that is all too rare.192

The olive tree is one of the hardiest to be found anywhere, and its ability to survive in marginal soils and environments is well documented.201 It not only provided a food crop, but was the primary source of oil, arguably the most important agricultural product of the ancient world. 202 The importance of olive oil to the ancient economy – however one defines that – cannot be overstressed. Its centrality to civic and urban life has been the focus of many studies, and does not need to be repeated here.203

A particular area of difficulty concerns the establishment of vines. Vines, when first planted, require between three and five years of steady maintenance before the first yield. 193 Depending on which source one consults, this either requires on-site residency or a fairly close proximity for the majority of the summer and winter months. 194 Thus, though established vinerows may be maintained by small landholders, one is forced to wonder who is doing the establishing. That is, could small landholders – i.e. not dependent tenants – afford the investment, in capital, labour, and time, necessary to establish vines on small plots of lands?195 The prevailing assumption in the modern literature is that the presence of vines presupposes the involvement of the elite, or some sort of dependent tenant situation. 196 These inferences, however, appear to be based largely on logic, and the assumption that small landowners would simply not be able to afford the investment in capital or labour required in order to establish vines. While there is nothing inherently wrong with these assumptions, the lack of evidence either way is somewhat concerning. This is a question of broad importance for the nature and structure of the rural economy, and one that has no easy answers.

As with most crops, olive cultivation follows a set series of steps: cultivation, harvest, and processing. The intended use of the olive – that is, as a food-stuff or for oil – will determine the nature of the processing. Cultivation of olive trees has more in common with viticulture than cereals, though it usually requires less continuous care than vines. Olives, being trees, usually take up to five years from planting before producing any fruit. 204 Propagation is usually accomplished through cuttings or grafts from existing trees onto wild olive rootstocks, though there are several ancient references to other methods that are not fully understood. 205 Either way, simply planting harvested olives will not produce viable, fruit-producing trees, and the intervention of man is necessary for the growth of a tree or grove.206

Oleoculture The last crop in the ‘Mediterranean triad’ is the olive. Oleoculture is the practice of growing olives, usually in order to produce oil, but also as a food crop.197 As with the vine, evidence for the cultivation of olives can be found in most areas of Greece, though the modern ubiquity of the olive in Greece should not be pushed too far into the past.198 That being said, however, perhaps no other crop in the ancient world came closer to modern definitions of ‘agri-business’ than the olive, as large-scale

Olives can, and do, grow in many different types of environments and in many types of soil. In fact, it has been said that it is easier to grow an olive tree than to kill it. 207 This means, practically speaking, that more often than not ancient olive groves appear on marginal soils, as land of higher fecundity was reserved for cereals. 208 Again, however, this does lead to similar interpretative problems as those discussed above for vines. It is popularly assumed that terraces were used on this marginal land to increase water retention and stability of

192 Pressing does not require stone press beds, as mentioned above. Moreover, those that are recovered may have been utilised for a variety of purposes, and not just wine production. Foxhall 2007: 134-135, 184; Rossiter 1998: 598-599. 193 Amouretti 1988: 6-8; Brun 2003: 27-34; Foxhall 2007: 81. 194 Compare the advice offered by Amouretti with Isager and Skydsgaard, both of whom refer to the same passages of the same ancient sources. Amouretti 1992: 78-79, 83-85; Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 31-33. 195 Modern small land holders are eligible for government and EU grants. Were ancient farmers receiving ‘grants’ from some source, such as the wealthy elite? It seems unlikely. Foxhall 2007: 81-2. 196 For example: Hanson 1992; Brunet 1993; Marangou 1993; Salviat 1993; Renfrew 1996; Foxhall 2007: 81-82. 197 It is unclear just how large a part the olive, as opposed to olive oil, played in any local (i.e. rural) diet. Compare Forbes 1993: 216 and Amouretti 1992: 83-85. See also: Foxhall 2007: 85-96. 198 Obviously, olives were a vital link in the ancient economic chain, but the modern prevalence of olives in the Greek landscape far out-strips any amount of ancient intensity. Rossiter 1998: 599. See especially Forbes’ discussion on the olive in the Southern Argolid, where he suggests that the number of olive trees has been multiplied by more than 73 times in the past 300 years. Forbes 1993: 217. Foxhall largely agrees. Foxhall 2007: 257-260. Sallares has an interesting discussion on the introduction and spread of olive cultivation. Sallares 1991: 17-18, 3233.

199 Some of the larger installations may have been able to produce 18,000 kg of oil in a 90 day pressing season. Mattingly 1993: 492. No such large-scale facilities have been found in Greece, but see Foxhall 2007: 131ff. 200 Runnels and van Andel 1987; Keay 1991. 201 See Mattingly 1988; Mattingly 1994; Hitchner 2002. Curiously, Theophrastus notes that an oar and doorstop made of olive wood took root (HP 5.9.8). True or not, it certainly exemplifies the ancient attitude towards the tree. 202 The extent to which olives were consumed in antiquity is not entirely clear – the greatest profit lies in converting the olive to oil. Forbes 1993: 215-216; Foxhall 2007: 87-91, 93-4. 203 See Archibald, Davies, et al. 2001 and Davies 2001 for a sample of these studies. Foxhall 2007: 138-165. 204 Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 33-35. 205 As discussed in Amouretti 1993: 465. Foxhall 2007: 124-128. 206 Grieco 1993: 299-300. 207 Rackham and Moody 1992: 125-126. 208 It should be noted that the depth, not the quality, of the soil is an integral factor, as the roots of the olive tend to grow laterally. For some discussion see: Rackham 1983; Rossiter 1998; Rackham 2002.

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II. DATA SOURCES & APPROACHES

the soil around the trees.209 This is a far from settled issue within economic archaeology, as the vast majority of existing terraces in Greece appear to be of much more modern date, 210 though not everyone agrees with this interpretation.211 There are several vital questions, largely unanswered, linked to ancient terraces. For instance, how do you date ancient terraces? Was there a need for terracing? Who would have done it? What were the returns? To what extent have later terraces destroyed the readability of the ancient landscape? 212 Some of these answers are likely tied to specific local histories – where Ottoman and Venetian records exist it may be possible to reconstruct those regions where terrace construction was more prevalent, and it does seem that in those periods the more mountainous regions of the interior Peloponnese were simply left to their own devices and saw little investment in the form of terraces.213

soil samples do regularly find olive pips in domestic contexts.217 By far the most common, and most fruitful, use of olives was the milling for oil. Unfortunately, clear unambiguous descriptions of ancient milling operations are hard to come by, and most ancient authors either took it for granted that their audience understood the complex processes involved, or clearly did not understand themselves.218 Coupled with this is the fact that most of the apparatus of milling was made of wood, except for specific parts. The extraction process does follow predictable stages, though the means may differ. The olives are milled or ground into a paste, then this paste is pressed in order to extract a liquid that is water and oil. This liquid is then siphoned into settling tanks of some description, and the oil is removed from the water once it has separated in the tank. The equipment involved is described in various places, and need not be repeated here.219 Suffice it to say there are a variety of methods employable for each of these stages, with quite different designs for milling, pressing, and settling following broadly reliable regionally determined distributions.220 While some areas of the Mediterranean have quite well-known distributions of press-types, that of mainland Greece does not change markedly before the 2nd or 3rd centuries AD.221 In other words, it is very difficult to date olive processing equipment in Greece reliably within historical periods, though in some cases it may be possible to differentiate between Hellenistic and Roman examples. 222 Coupled with this is a further problem of interpretation, as this equipment may have been used for processing grapes – stone-cut settling tanks are neither unique to olive processing nor terribly technologically specific. In fact, it may not be a simple case of ‘either/or’, as the equipment may have been used for processing both types of crops.223

Of course, terraces were not used solely for olive cultivation, but that is their predominant modern use. In short, this makes the reliable identification of the sites of ancient olive groves very difficult, and almost solely reliant on the presence of associated processing equipment. This equipment, as evidenced by modern ethnographic studies, is seldom located in the olive grove, but rather at a separate location, usually close to running water.214 It is not a case of not seeing the forest for the trees, but of seeing trees without forests. Olives can be harvested only on a biennial basis, meaning there is a significant investment in capital and time long before any returns are to be expected. As stated earlier, propagation of olive trees is usually accomplished by cuttings or grafts, as planted olives do not produce fruitbearing trees. 215 Harvesting is usually a fairly simple process – laying baskets on the ground and shaking the tree is the most common method in use today, and ancient depictions can be found on Athenian red and black figure vases.216

As with viticulture, the incidence of storage vessels is frequently the only evidence available to survey projects relating to olive oil. One may be able to posit the existence of olive groves and/or processing in the vicinity through an increased incidence of storage vessels associated with oil. Exactly what number of sherds describes a processing site or grove, as opposed to domestic or other use, is an open question.

Thus, the vast majority of material culture relating to olives comes from the processing, and transport, of the finished product. Processing of olives into a foodstuff required pickling the fruits, usually by soaking them in several changes of water and then soaking them in brine. The extent to which this was done is not clear, though palaeoethnobotanical studies of midden sites and other

209

217

Rackham and Moody 1992: 125; Foxhall 2007: 121-124. Foxhall 1996: 47-49. 211 Lohmann 1992. 212 This debate is best seen in Foxhall 1996; Frederick and Krahtopoulou 2000. There are problems with dating the (usually) dry stone walls of terraces; furthermore, depending on the construction method, the back-dirt may have come from elsewhere, or represent secondary or tertiary deposition. 213 Whitelaw 1991: 405-406. 214 Forbes 1992; but see Foxhall 2007: 138-139, 172. 215 Forbes and Foxhall 1978: 38; Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 35-36 216 Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 40, fig. 2.1; Brun 2003: 137-142.

Sarpaki 1992: 61-63. Forbes and Foxhall 1978: 38; Rossiter 1998: 599. 219 Very good overviews can be found in the collection Amouretti and Brun 1993 and Brun 2003; Brun 2004b; Brun 2004a; Brun 2005. 220 Brun 2003: 194-195, 217-220; Brun 2004a: 5, 8, 181, 187-188, 264, 300-301. 221 The screw press sees a much wider-distribution in mainland Greece around this time. It should be noted that the introduction of a new press type does not mean that the previous methods went out of use, further complicating dating. Brun 2004b; Brun 2004a: 17, 74-79. 222 Brun 2004a: 73-74; Foxhall 2007: 171-177. 223 Rossiter 1998: 600.

210

218

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Pastoral Activities Pastoralism and transhumance are similar and closely related activities, concerning the growth and maintenance of domesticated herd animals, or what might be termed animal husbandry. Pastoralism, or pastoral activities, are usually taken to mean herds that are maintained in close proximity to a permanent residence – modern dairy farms being a good example. 224 Transhumance, on the other hand, involves the movement of these animals between suitable grazing, sometimes covering substantial distances.225 These need to be discussed together as it is quite difficult to tell the difference between the two archaeologically; the line between shepherding and transhumance is a blurred one.

documented, 231 but materially, the economic practice is seen largely through proxies and products. Recent reevaluations of pastoralism and transhumance rely almost exclusively on modern parallels, and interpret these practices in light of what the few relevant ancient sources tell us.232 There is no need to rehash the arguments that have appeared elsewhere in print, 233 but it is useful to summarise the general findings of these studies: (1) in quantitative terms, animal husbandry (beyond the household level) was primarily the province of a wealthy minority; (2) the primary goal was the generation of wealth, not subsistence; (3) animal management strategies employed flexibility as their key component, utilising both cultivated and uncultivated areas of the landscape; and (4) most animals would be based on an agricultural estate for most of the year. 234 While the wealth of those involved is debatable, the other assertions seem logical. Proving or disproving these assertions archaeologically is close to impossible, however, largely due to the ephemeral nature of most animal husbandry practices, as related to survey archaeology. A sheep pen and a shepherd’s crook do not survive the centuries well, and faunal material recovered during survey is difficult to date. 235 Moreover, if one takes into account the local employment of multiple economic strategies, we can see the scanty evidence literally dispersed into the countryside through manuring.236

Animal husbandry was an important economic activity, providing meat, fabric, and in some cases, fuel for lighting. 226 Manure fertilized cultivated land, and some animals are capable of utilising otherwise very marginal land, increasing the profitability of some regions. 227 Material culture associated with weaving, cloth spinning, and other related textile activities is common to most sites. So where are the sources of the material – where are the animals archaeologically? As pointed out by Forbes, this is a subject that has received relatively little attention within survey archaeology. 228 There is, generally speaking, a broad disconnect between the specialist archaeological study of animal remains as seen in zooarchaeology and related fields, and landscape archaeology. Many otherwise significant studies of the ancient rural economy are all but silent on the role of animal husbandry,229 and those that do exist draw heavily on anthropological studies of the Mediterranean and on historical studies covering the medieval and later periods. These studies also, usually without exception, focus solely on transhumance, to the exclusion of other possibilities. Ethnographic studies at leat point to the possibility of sedentary inhabitants keeping large numbers of sheep and/or goats, while also engaging in other agricultural activities.230

Unfortunately, there does not appear to be an answer, archaeologically speaking, as to where to place these pastoralist sites in the landscape, given the paucity of the evidence. The most likely candidates appear in specific areas – in Methana, for instance, there are several small ‘farms’ that occur directly beneath quite steep slopes.237 This is similar to the sorts of areas exploited today for pastoral activities. Yet where do we place the pastoralist or transhumant sites in areas without marked topographical differences? A step forward may lie in analysing the distribution of the smallest sites in surveys, in relation to each other and the larger sites. If it can be demonstrated that these sites are typically farther apart than other sites, it may be possible to show that this is due to the maintenance of large flocks of animals requiring a broad range in order to be

The problem for archaeology comes in reconciling the knowledge that these activities occurred with the almost total lack of related material evidence from survey contexts. The pastoral thread in ancient literature is well224

Chang and Koster 1986: 97. Forbes 1995: 325. The general assumption is that on mainland Greece, long-distance transhumance did not exist. Instead, the characteristic mode was moving flocks a relatively short-range from plains to mountains within a polis’ territory. Forbes 1994; Hodkinson 1988: 51-58; Chandezon 2003: 391-397. Interpretation of evidence differs from place to place and scholar to scholar. Arcadia: Forsén 2003a: 266-267; Southern Argolid: Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 285301. 226 Forbes 2002; McInerney 2010: 21-24, 26-28. 227 Theophrastos, for example, discusses the value of different dungs: HP 2.7.4. 228 Forbes 1995: 325. There are, of course, instances of particularly good examples dealing with the issue, but these are relatively scarce in comparison to studies of other types of economy. Whittaker 1988. 229 See, for instance, the articles and bibliography of Garnsey 1998. 230 Chang 1992; Forbes 1995: 327; Mee and Forbes 1997: 40. 225

231 Broadly: Gutzwiller 2006; McInerney 2010: 244-251, and associated bibliography. In verse: Kronenberg 2009; Thibodeau 2011. 232 See, for example, Thonemann 2011: 178-197. 233 The best discussions appear in Chang and Koster 1986; Chang 1994; Forbes 1995; Forbes 2000. 234 Forbes 1995: 332. 235 Excavated faunal material can be used to determine the ‘purpose’ of animals, through a determination of age at death, seasonality, and diet. Chang 1994; Hansen 1994. 236 Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991a: 45-47; Forbes 2012. Compare with Snodgrass 1994: 199. 237 As noted by Mee, Gill, et al. 1991.

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II. DATA SOURCES & APPROACHES

sustainable.238 This is an idea drawn from site-catchment analysis.239

activities, beyond narrow limits, in the landscape. Perhaps the only certainty is that none of these described activities must be undertaken to the exclusion of the others. In fact, it is not unreasonable to suggest that there is no ‘blue-print’ for how land was used, regardless of the size of the landholder. While evidence exists that suggests that the larger the landholder, the more varied his economic concerns will be,243 contradictory evidence suggests the opposite – that at certain places and at certain times elite mono-cropping was not uncommon.244 It is hoped that by laying out these activities in somewhat materialist terms, with the archaeological traces of each activity as currently understood laid out in clear relief, it may be possible to more easily untangle the various threads of economy within this project’s survey data.

What is important to understand, though, is that regardless how scanty the evidence may appear to us today, these activities did exist, and were quite widespread in antiquity. Just because we cannot reliably place them in the landscape does not mean we can ignore these activities. In fact, it can be argued that this is all the more reason to attempt to theorise about them. Landscape as Economy: Conclusions There are two issues concerning economy that should be mentioned briefly here. These are the issues of ‘farm’ residency and transport. The former is a twofold issue, concerning primarily the interpretation of sherd scatters, and whether our modern impositions of ideas of ‘farms’, ‘farmsteads’, ‘smallholdings’, and similar terms, actually describe the ancient situation – obviously relate to the previous discussion of site classification.240 The second aspect to this concerns whether or not the people who worked the land actually lived on the land.241 It is possible that our notions of how land tenure operated are faulty, and our assignations of ‘farm’ or ‘farmstead’ to sherd scatters of certain size are inaccurate. It is also possible that some of these sites are actually simply activity areas, and do not represent permanent settlements.242 This should be borne in mind for the following sections.

II.4 Landscapes of Interaction As already noted,245 one of the central aims of this study revolves around the notion of cultural interaction – specifically, identifying cultural interaction in the rural landscape. The archaeological markers for such interaction, their implications and interpretation, will be laid out below. 246 Yet before one can state with any assurance that these archaeological phenomena represent some form of evidence that points to cultural interaction, one must show that the intellectual discourse within which these ideas are framed is valid, and clearly understood. The prevailing theoretical framework within which the vast majority of the relevant literature is structured is undoubtedly Romanisation, a term which has come to mean many different things to many different people. In its original use, it was meant to denote a relatively straightforward process of ‘barbarian’ peoples adopting the necessarily dominant – and by implication, superior – culture of Rome.247 This can include the simple adoption of Roman material culture 248 or a change in the selfascription of cultural identity. 249 The process has also been variously defined as representing cultural integration as opposed to political integration,250 or vice versa.251

The other issue, that of transport, is equally important. Though the bulk of survey data relate primarily to domestic ceramic forms, and therefore represents evidence relating to consumption, a significant minority of data also deals with the other end of the economic chain, the evidence for the transport of goods, in the form of transport and some types of storage vessels. Thus, survey archaeologists typically interpret incidences of these sherds as evidence for economic activity relating to production – production that occurs nearby. Certainly, in order for these goods to be transported, they must first be produced, but there is no a priori reason to assume that this production must occur in the vicinity of the sherd scatter.

These variant uses of the term have led to the large corpus of writings dissecting its utility and applicability as a workable theoretical structure. 252 No doubt the

It should be clear that most of this discussion rests somewhere in the realm of supposition. We know that these activities took place. We do not yet know how to interpret the evidence properly in order to read these

243 As suggested by Xenophon’s Oeconomicus, which described many of these activities in relation to one (possibly fragmented) estate. 244 Foxhall 2003, and below. 245 See I.1. 246 See Chapter VI, below. 247 Haverfield 1906. This has been deconstructed by various authors. Hingley 1997; Hingley 2001; Mattingly 2004. 248 Salmon 1982: 159. 249 That is, coming to think of oneself as ‘Roman’. Harris 1979: 147. 250 Lomas 1997: 37. 251 Curti, Dench, et al. 1996: 183. 252 For the best analyses and introductory bibliographies, see Alcock 1997; Woolf 1997; Baker, Forcey, et al. 1999; Cambi 1999; Fentress 2000; Woolf 2001; Mattingly 2002.

238

This idea will be further explained during its application to the survey data. A variety of other criteria would have to be met in order to define the sites to be used for that specific analysis, not just size. 239 As described in Vita-Finzi 1978. It is not quite site-catchment analysis, however, as the nature of survey data does not allow for that full application of that technique. 240 Foxhall 2004. See also V.2 below. 241 Bintliff, Farinetti, et al. 2002; Osborne 1985; Osborne 1992. 242 Hence appellations of ‘Findspot’ and ‘Place of special interest (POSI)’ as opposed to ‘site’ in Berbati, Nemea Valley, and Pylos surveys. Wells 1996; Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997; Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990.

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surround spectacles,260 basilicas are structures associated with provincial administration and therefore represent the adoption of Roman administrative practices and the incorporation of the province into the wider Roman political and judicial institutions, 261 and purpose-built macella and fora, along with the ceramics associated with trade, represent the integration of the provincial economy into that of the empire.262

various ambiguous definitions of the concept have led, in part, to its longevity and widespread use.253 Related to this is the issue of whether Romanisation was promoted as an official imperial policy, or the result of unguided emulation by subject peoples. 254 This has a particular resonance for the poleis of Greece, as there is a long-standing belief that there was a deliberate policy of provincialisation of the area that sees archaeologically recognizable changes in material culture evident by the mid-1st century AD, and gathering pace until the late 3rd century AD.255 As Gruen and Morstein-Marx (writing as Kallet-Marx) have pointed out, the assumed legal structures that formed the basis of an imperial policy of province ‘creation’ simply do not exist as a concerted political framework.256 Instead, the picture that emerges is one that can be best described as context-specific – Roman administrative practice was haphazard in its application and necessarily differed from region to region.

This check-list of emulation can be seen in most studies, yet it fails to engage with the significance of these structures – both in an archaeological and a phenomenological sense. Though the urban centre has been the focus of Romanisation studies since the time of Haverfield, no one has yet answered the question of whether these structures represent a ‘top-down’ imposition by provincial authorities, or projects begun under the aegis of indigenous attempts at ‘fitting in’.263 Beyond this, no one has yet been able to answer whether these structures are the embodiment of a change in cultural values, or simply a veneer of ‘Roman-ness’.

What becomes evident when one starts to unpick the concept of Romanisation is that each of its constituent parts either requires definition, or comes with its own ambiguous theoretical baggage. For example, the process of cultural change is often ascribed to ‘emulation’, without any notion of what that actually entails. 257 Emulation implies a conscious choice, a preference for one form of material culture or cultural trait over another. Yet what drives that choice, or how the range of options may or may not be constrained by availability, is rarely discussed. The underlying assumption is, of course, that it is the elite who are first emulating ‘Roman’ culture, as it is the elite who have the principal access to broader cultural networks that serve to inform their cultural choices.258 Emulation is then assumed to be a ‘top-down’ process – emulation denotes elite emulation. As this is held to be the key component of cultural change, Romanisation is therefore a process that primarily affects, and is affected by, the elite.

It is simply assumed that those further down the economic and social spectrum would experience a diluted version of Romanisation, as they naturally sought to emulate their betters.264 Yet for the vast majority of the population, choices would be controlled by their own access to resources. The spread of those aspects of material culture that are held to be representative of Romanisation may simply represent a lack of choice on the part of the consumer. The basilica may be used because the Roman governor builds it and carries out his administrative and judicial duties within it, not because the locals wish to subscribe to Roman administrative practices. The Market of Caesar and Augustus in Athens may be used because that is the form that imperial patronage takes, not because the locals could not wait to subscribe to the architectural expression of Roman economy. Theatres are indeed converted en masse in the Greek poleis, but the predominant activity within the theatres remains what it always was – spectacle remains an uncommon event in the Greek East.265 Though both amphitheatres and theatres are built in the West, the Greek East is notable for the relative absence of amphitheatres.266

The idea of elite emulation is informed by the setting for the majority of the studies that deal with Romanisation – the urban centre. The extent of Roman influence in a province is measured by the spread of Roman building types, architectural forms, and ceramics as seen within the urban centres of that region. 259 Amphitheatres and converted theatres are presented as examples of the local adoption of the particularly Roman cultural mores that

The further one moves from the urban core, the less applicable the prevailing notions of Romanisation become. Without the flawed ‘check-list of emulation’, how does one assess the nature of cultural interaction in the rural countryside? Previous studies have tended to relegate the rural countryside to a subordinate position

253

A point best made by Mattingly 2002: 537. One cannot help but wonder when the time will come when an apologia for not using Romanisation is no longer necessary. 254 Summarized by Mattingly 2002. 255 A situation implied by the contents of the volume: Hoff and Rotroff 1997. 256 Kallet-Marx 1995: 2-5, 158-160. 257 Mattingly 2004: 6. 258 Woolf 1994a: 117-118. See the recent, and soon to be indispensible, Spawforth 2012, and my own review: Stewart 2012. 259 Hoff and Rotroff 1997 focuses on the urban centre of Athens; Woolf 1998 focuses on the urban centres of Gaul. Spawforth discusses Nicopolis and Athens: Spawforth 2012: 33-36, 59-86.

260

Spawforth 1997: 191-192; Welch 2001; Welch 2007: 163-165. Weinberg 1960. 262 Hoff 1994; Rotroff 1997. 263 Certainly the question has been asked, but never answered definitively Mattingly 2004: 6. 264 A notion used by Woolf in his explanation of the urbanization of Gaul. Woolf 1998: 124-126. 265 Welch 1999: 125-127. 266 Discussed in Dodge 2009. 261

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the notion. As Jones pointed out in her influential book, ethnicity is just one form of identity that societies construct, and expressions of that identity (or identities) tend to be erratic, discontinuous and dynamic. 273 Yet exploring these notions of cultural identity and their expression is crucial to any understanding of past societies.

vis-à-vis the urban core, in terms of Romanisation, simply by stating that the most important people in a society (i.e. the elite) expressed their cultural affiliations in cities (i.e. there is no need to look elsewhere). It becomes a rather neat self-perpetuating system. The use of Romanisation has become much more sophisticated than this simple overview can hope to outline – such as Spawforth’s notion that Romanisation in Greece essentially amounts to a ‘re-Hellenistation’ of the provincial elite along terms defined by Augustus and his circle267 – but it still relies on a flawed premise. That is, there is a distinct (and monolithic) cultural identity that is identifiably ‘Roman’, and that other peoples will emulate that identity, either willingly or under duress. 268 Increasingly sophisticated models of elite emulation have been proposed in recent years – among them WallaceHadrill’s notion of “circulatory acculturation”, where Rome is the beating cultural heart of empire that sucks in cultural difference and spits out homogenised, Romanised forms of re-oxygenated local culture for provincial elites to consume269 – but these models all seek rest on the assumption that culture is driven by those at the top. Or rather, that there is only one culture at operation within a society at any one time.

Cultural identity in this study is taken to represent that collection of cultural traits that, taken together, forms the ‘sense of self’ that defines a distinct group from other groups.274 This definition may be either ‘self-ascribed’ – that is attributed to the group by that group – or a label applied and defined by an external group – perhaps best explained as an ‘us versus them’ mode of thinking. 275 Examples of both sorts of identities can be found in the literature, though it is the latter that is arguably most prevalent. Dio Chrysostom bemoans the failure of contemporary Rhodians to live up to their glorious past (Oration 31.159-60), and by doing so he is ascribing an identity to a particular group; in this instance, one dominated by avarice and selfishness. Cicero dismisses the followers of Clodius as graeculi, ‘Greeklings,’ (Mil. 55), ascribing a derogatory identity to what was no doubt a disparate group. Identity is often best defined by what it is not – a situation typified by Greek responses to ‘the other’, as outlined in a variety of studies. 276 The usefulness, for instance, of maintaining the image of the ‘barbarous Persian’ went beyond simply justifying any polis’s imperial ambitions, it served to define the ethne of the various poleis by what they were not.277

The homogenisation of culture and identity implied by the Romanisation model simply does not agree with the historical and archaeological appreciation of diversity, both among and between cultural groups.270 As Mattingly rightly points out, our desire should be to explore this diversity, not to attempt to construct a unitary solution to cultural identity such as Romanisation. 271 Romanisation arose as a framework for explaining visible changes in material culture and inferred changes in cultural identity, specifically in Roman Britain.272 Within this framework, both Roman and indigenous identities are treated as if they appear on a sliding scale of conformity, with people becoming more Roman and less Laconian, Corinthian or Arcadian. Scholarship has become bogged down in variously accepting, rejecting, or modifying the outmoded unifying theory of Romanisation, when what we should be concerned with is exploring what was at the heart of the concept – different identities in the past and the context(s) of negotiating those identities both within and between groups.

This attitude can apply not just to contemporaneous groups, but can be projected into the past. The reforms of Cleomenes III in Sparta have been linked to his perceived sense of archaic Spartan identity, as constructed by the mythical Lycurgus. Cleomenes, as reported by Plutarch, deliberately wished to restore Spartan prestige by restoring its ‘ancestral customs,’ yet there is a blatant discrepancy between his rhetorical agenda and his actual practice.278 The ancestral identity is being used to define what Cleomenes’ contemporary Sparta is not, as opposed to what it is. Of course, identity itself is a contentious term, and one needs to be specific about the types of identity to be studied. So it is that age, gender, religious affiliation, social status, wealth, and ethnicity have all been the focus

Exploring identity in the past requires that we recognise the complexity, and sometimes contradictory nature, of 273 Jones 1997: 15-39, 106-144. Recent studies of identity of this nature are widespread. See, for example: Whitmarsh 2010; Baird 2012; Rothe 2012. 274 Jones 1997: 13-14. See also Vlassopoulos 2008 275 Hall 1997: 34. 276 Perhaps the best examples are Hall 1989; Miller 1997; and Isaac 2004. 277 Hall 1997: 35-40. Compare with Herodotus, I.56.2 and I.57.3. An attitude sometimes still found in modern sources: Etherington 2011. 278 Which perhaps has more in common with contemporary politics of autocrats, as evidenced by Hellenistic kings. Marasco 2004. Flower 2002.

267

Spawforth 2012: 1-3, 33-55, 229-232. 268 For discussion see, Miller, Rowlands, et al. 1989; Millett 1990; Geagan 1997; Spawforth 2012: esp. 36-55, 169-204; Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 7-28, esp. 35: “[T]he force of the central argument is to align cultural with political change.” 269 Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 17-27, esp. 361, and Spawforth 2012. For a deconstruction of some of these ideas, see Stewart 2012. 270 Sinopoli 1994: 159. 271 Mattingly 2004: 9. 272 Though of course it has been applied to every region of the empire, and even some beyond the borders.

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of study as types of identity.279 While most of these types of identity may be seen as forms of group identity, they can all have an individual component, and negotiating these sometimes contradictory levels of identity is itself often the focus of study. 280 Exploring identity in archaeological field survey, however, necessitates using a less fine-toothed comb. The resolution of the data is such that exploring issues of specifically individual identity is not feasible. Indeed, it is likely not possible to study many of the different aspects of group identity with any confidence, given that the most commonly used archaeological markers are not usually recovered in a secure enough context.

inaccurate, and we are better served by approaching the study with a more nuanced picture of relationships. In this instance, it is more useful to see ‘Greece’ as a disparate collection of territorial units focused on an urban core, each with its own unique history though sometimes belonging to larger groupings. The representatives of Roman imperial policy will necessarily interact with these individual poleis, or groups of poleis,285 in a variety of ways, and not necessarily in a consistent manner. In fact, one might be able to argue that instances of Roman commanders treating the poleis or koina of Greece as single units are few and far between – the majority of their interactions follow a pattern similar to that seen in Pausanias 7.16.9-10.286 In this instance, the Roman general Mummius treats with those who opposed Rome and those who supported Rome in the Achaean War quite differently, and even within those two broad groups there is a perceived variation in what is gained or lost. This reflects the discrepant histories of the various poleis interacting with Rome, and this study will reflect that complex series of relationships.

Modelling Rural Identities Given that we must reconcile the diversity of identities with the nature of the material available for study in a survey context, the scope of what identities are studied through survey is somewhat restricted. The survey material, be it the data itself, the documented metadata, or both, are simply not sufficient to allow for the total modelling of the various types of rural identities that may have existed within any given landscape without recourse to other material.281 However, this does not mean that the survey data cannot contribute to a further understanding of these identities, simply that the study of identity requires the use of as many different categories of evidence as possible, and survey can only ever be one of those categories.

Perhaps the most easily identifiable aspect of cultural identity to be explored in this study is that of change (although incidences of change need not necessarily be evidence of cultural interaction). Survey data – as opposed to excavation data – can be, admittedly, coarse at times, but one thing they are quite good at is identifying patterns of material culture.287 Once patterns have been identified, changes or differences in those patterns can be examined, both within and between regions, and explanations sought. One possible explanation of change is acculturation, but it should be noted that there are others.

What it is possible to study through the survey material is broader cultural and status identities and their changes over time. That is, it should be possible to identify broad groupings in society by ‘slight but significant patterns in the use of material culture’,282 and it should be possible to identify changes to those patterns over time. Similarly, it should be possible to view at least some of the status identities in the landscape, be they wealthy elites, large land-owners, small-holders or dependent tenants, or combination thereof.283 It should be noted, however, that with studies of identity especially, absence in the survey data is not necessarily evidence of absence in the landscape.

Acculturation is often used in the literature as a more benign form of Romanisation,288 but in the present study it is taken to mean the adoption of cultural traits that are different from previously established ‘practices,’ and is not limited by definition to the adoption of specifically ‘Roman’ cultural traits. By defining the term in this way, it is possible to discuss the extent, as well as modes and means, of acculturation. This definition also makes it possible to discuss differences in acculturative practices between regions, as evidenced in the preference for different types of material culture. This will be explored in full in the relevant sections to follow.289

We can approach this material through the lens of discrepant experience, a concept which seeks to redress the imbalance in relationships with and reactions to imperialism. 284 In other words, assuming and using monolithic entities such as ‘Greece’ and ‘Rome’ is

There are several potential methods for addressing identity in rural landscapes. Broadly, these methods focus necessarily on rather broad categories of identity, simply due to the nature of survey evidence – such as cultural

279

For example, age: Harlow and Laurence 2002; gender: Meskell 2001; religious affiliation: Webster 2001; social status: Hingley 1997; wealth: Creighton 2000; ethnicity: Hall 1997. 280 Mattingly 2004: 8-9. 281 A point perhaps best made by Fotiades 1997. Some of these issues of identity and survey have been explored recently by Witcher 2006a: esp. 59-60. 282 Mattingly 2004: 9. 283 ‘Economic’ identities of this sort, and the relationships between them, have been explored for Etruria using survey data by Witcher 2006b. In a broader setting, see also Lozano 2007; Papalexandou 2008. 284 As outlined initially by Said 1993. For archaeological applications see Mattingly 2002.

285 As in the case of the federal leagues or koina. Shipley and Hansen 2006. 286 Explored in full beginning at Kallet-Marx 1995: 52ff. 287 Haselgrove 1985: 7-9. 288 Explored by Terrenato 1998. 289 Especially IV, V, and VI.

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Monuments and their reinterpretation over time can also inform about various aspects of identity. The mountain stronghold and religious site of Ithome came to mean different things for both Messenians and Lakadaimonians. For Messenian-helots of the Classical period, it was a visible marker of past independence, and the most significant religious site in a shared cultural memory. This could be seen in the various helot revolts that repeatedly attempted to regain the site (Thuc. 1.101.2-103.3, 4.3.3, 41.2; Diod. 11-63-4; Paus. 1.29.8, 4.24.6, 7.25.3).298 Post-Leuctra, it was the site of the new polis of the Messenians (Paus. 3.13.2; 4.27.11).299 For the Spartans, of course, the control of Ithome and its sanctuary served to legitimise, in part, their control of Messenia. The continued existence of the sanctuary, even under Spartan domination, represented for the Spartans the tacit approval of the gods in the domination of Messenia.300

memory and the landscape, networks of interaction, monuments and their reinterpretation.290 Studies of cultural memory tend to focus on the ‘use of the past in the past.’291 That is, such studies begin from the perspective of a repeatedly occupied and reinterpreted landscape, a process which has always occurred and is not limited simply to modern scholars’ understandings of the past. Past societies existed within a complex network of interactions, some of which were shaped by their own understandings of their landscapes, and reacted to that understanding. 292 This is most easily seen in archaeological terms through visible markers in the landscape: be they places inscribed with cultural meaning over successive generations, the persistence of specific types of ritual behaviour, or objects with specifically commemorative functions. 293 Of course, these different types of cultural memory are not necessarily exclusive, and neither are they necessarily static. An example can be seen in the northern Peloponnese, with the polis of Sikyon. The Macedonian king Demetrios Poliorcetes famously re-founded the coastal Classical city of Sikyon on an inland plateau in 303 BC, but in order to convince the inhabitants to move he destroyed the remains of the Classical city (Diod. 20.102.2ff.; Paus. 2.7.1; Plut. Dem. 25). Interestingly, however, the elite still favoured the sites of the Classical cemeteries for their burial, despite the fact that they were quite far removed from the bounds of the new city.294

Defining what it means to be Roman is more than simply the presence or absence of Arretine pottery. 301 Cultural identity is more than any one category of material evidence. If the plethora of identity studies in archaeology have shown anything, it is that in order for one to recognise a demonstrable cultural identity in the material record, one needs a multiplicity of artefact categories; categories that, in isolation, are perhaps ambiguous but taken together build a case for a recognizable cultural identity, and therefore allow us to identify change within that category.

Networks of interaction in the landscape can refer to the movements of people within a landscape, and what this might say about perceptions of and understandings of that particular landscape.295 The siting of roads and trackways can be an important marker of these ideas, not just in judging the relative importance of places or the frequency of movement to and from a place (as evidenced in part by the quality and persistence of roads, perhaps), 296 but in the fact that it is significant that any two places should be connected at all. There would have been myriad reasons for the creation and maintenance of such visible connections, from the practical to the ideological, and it can be very difficult to tease out these reasons, but these does not deny the inherent importance of such connections.297

290 Many of these ideas are discussed in Witcher 2006a: esp. 59. See also Stewart 2013 (forthcoming). 291 Van Dyke and Alcock 2003: 1. Pausanias forms a particularly apt example for Roman Greece. On this, see Stewart 2013 (forthcoming) and associated bibliography. 292 Van Dyke and Alcock 2003: 5-6. A modern example can be seen in Tzortzopoulou-Gregory 2010. 293 Meskell 2003: 34-37. Furholt, Hinz, et al. 2012 294 Discussed in detail in Lolos 2012. 295 See Pikoulas 2000: 249-251. 296 For example, on the historical significance of roads between the old enemies of Sparta and Argos, see Tausend 2006: 137-147. On the persistence of roads more generally, Pikoulas 2007. 297 On visible connections between places and associated phenomenological implications see Witcher 2006a: 53-54; Buck Sutton 2001.

298

On Messenian ‘identity’ and Ithome, see also Hall 1997: 180; Luraghi 2002; Luraghi 2008. 299 On the issue of the peculiarities with Pausanias book 4 and its relation to 2nd century AD perceptions of 4th century BC Messenian history, see Alcock 2002: 133-175. 300 Luraghi 2002: 46-48. 301 On pottery as a diagnostic for Romanisation, see Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 102-103.

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As stated in earlier chapters, in order to answer the primary questions of this project several different types of data are used. The historical and epigraphical information is sprinkled liberally throughout the analysis. The archaeological information is supplemented in a variety of ways, primarily in order to make my own theoretical and methodological approaches clear. For example, the creation and presentation of metadata for each intensive survey are set forth before each project, so as to make the individual projects’ goals, research aims, and methodological stance as clear as possible and facilitate qualitative comparison. Most important, however, is the method used to compare the data gleaned from each survey: the same types of information for all of the varied intensive survey projects has been incorporated, and is in the appendix.

III. Land Use and the Peloponnese III.1 Methodology The principal research aim of this study revolves around the rural landscape of the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman Peloponnese. It quickly became evident during the course of research, however, that no study can adequately hope to discuss change (or the lack of it) without examining what preceded the period under study. Thus, the research is framed within a general methodology that encompasses the Hellenistic to Late Roman periods, with particular focus on the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman material. In other words, the broader chronological focus of the study creates the vocabulary with which to describe the specific periods in question.

Metadata Metadata are essentially data about data.3 The term first arose in computer programming languages as a means for individual programmers to document their work, in order to allow others to follow their thought processes and see exactly why certain decisions were made. In recent years, it has found a broader application, as it is a simple means of being clear about what is done and why.

The methodology employed in this study is fairly broadranging, and draws on many aspects of archaeological and historical research. Indeed, it neatly cross-cuts the usually separate fields by attempting to utilise as many different categories of information as possible. In order to study the main research question, that of the changing (or unchanged) nature of rural land use and the processes behind these changes (or continuities), it is necessary to approach the issue from a variety of angles. That is, a multiplicity of information is included in order to make the study as rounded as possible. Archaeological, historical, geographical/geological and epigraphical sources of information are all incorporated. There can be no denying, however, that there is a distinct archaeological bias to this study. The historical and epigraphical information is set alongside the archaeological; this is not to say that the archaeological material is being privileged in some manner, simply that in order to answer the questions asked by this study, the largest category of evidence comes from archaeology.

This is especially useful in archaeology, where being clear about what decisions were made and why has never been a strong point, but can prove to be very useful information. 4 In terms of this study, metadata are particularly helpful. A recognised problem with archaeological survey comparison is the lack of explicitness concerning methodological and theoretical considerations and assumptions, yet these decisions affect every aspect of the survey, from the area(s) surveyed to the interpretation of the data. Metadata, by definition, are descriptive information outlining as plainly as possible how decisions were made. By accumulating these data for the different surveys, one is more easily able to see points of comparison, points of radical differentiation, and points of subtle difference. Most importantly, metadata allow others to immediately view the biases and decisions inherent in any research project and more easily follow the decision-making process.

In terms of archaeology, the information comes largely from field surveys, particularly, systematic, intensive field surveys. These were chosen for several reasons. Primarily, systematic intensive surveys are the most rigorous and reliable in terms of their data collection and sampling strategies, making them amenable to statistical analyses and scientifically relatively sound. 1 Also, although survey archaeology tends to give a more generalist picture of the landscape, rather than illuminate individual site history, it is the best method for identifying regional trends and for comparing those trends between regions and through time. 2 Extensive survey data are therefore discussed as broader comparanda, where applicable, but not as a separate dataset.

Several researchers have written on the form that archaeological metadata should take, but these articles are relatively few and far between. Somewhat pragmatically, this study has adopted a modified version of an existing metadata format, outlining for each survey the relevant information (Box 1.1). As a result of theoretical and methodological diversity between surveys, not all of the information will be included for each survey – the majority of the categories are, however, applicable, and outlined below.

1 As much as this is possible for archaeology, at any rate. For an abstract discussion see Dewar and McBride 1992; Rossignol 1992; Wandsnider and Camilli 1992. 2 A point established early on in the history of survey archaeology in Classical archaeology, and now not much disputed. See Cherry 1983: 375-377.

3 For a more in-depth definition, see Wheatley and Gillings 2002: 8688. 4 A point best made by Flannery’s parable of the Sceptical Graduate Student and Real Mesoamerican Archaeologist. Flannery 1976.

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Survey:

The name of the research project

Dates:

Dates of the research project

Survey Objectives:

The research aims and objectives of the survey

Survey Region: Altitude Range (metres above sea level):

Definition of the geographical region covered by the survey and the methodological consequences (historical, modern, political, environmental boundaries) Range of altitudes covered

Extent (km2):

Size of the survey region

Sampling Strategy (regional-level):

Regional sampling strategies, and off-site sampling strategies

Off-site Recording:

Unit and methodology for off-site recording

Sampling Strategy (site-level):

Site-level sampling strategies for the collection of artefacts

On-site Recording:

Unit and methodology for on-site recording

Transect Sample Fraction:

% of region sampled by survey

Corridor Width:

Walker Spacing:

Width of the individual transect of each walker/crew member. Where none is specified, 1 m is taken to be the default (assuming concentration best within 0.5 m on either side). Distance between walkers/crew members (m)

Field Sampling Fraction:

% of field surface sampled (corridor width/walker spacing)

Site Definition:

Definition of what constitutes a ‘site’

Classification Schemes:

How the individual surveys name and/or number sites

Min/Max Range: Comparative Data for Analysis: Sub-surface Archaeology: Survey Evaluation:

Ceramics: Chronology: Publications: Principal Authors:

Site

Smallest and largest sites identified (for [H]ellenistic, [H]ellenistic-[R]oman transition, and [R]oman periods) Function Criteria for determining site function The type of sub-surface archaeology done, if any Assessing detection probabilities, evaluating the effectiveness of the sample, the reliability of crew observations, bias in the characterisation of finds, variations in collection method, resurvey The collection method, the use of fine wares vs. coarse wares, proportion of diagnostic sherds vs. undiagnostic sherds The chronology used for periodisation of the survey The major publications relating to each survey, for the Hellenistic and Roman periods only The main participants and authors of publications for each survey

Box 1. Survey Metadata as used in the comparison of disparate survey project’s methodologies. The metadata presented here are meant to outline the principal methodological and interpretive frameworks used by the individual survey projects, primarily as a way to make explicit the differences between survey projects, and facilitate easy reference to those differences. These varying methodological and interpretive stances have an effect on the final form of the data, and while each of the survey projects considered herein does discuss its methodology, it was thought that tables that summarise those data would be of benefit to the reader of the present study.

In other words, these metadata aid in the indirect comparison of survey methodology and interpretation. Direct data comparison comes from the data in the appendix, which has been formulated with an eye towards these varying categories. Survey Comparison For purposes of survey comparison, it is necessary to increase rather than reduce the number of data categories

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE for each survey.5 Each survey necessarily groups its data (as presented in the site gazetteer) differently, frequently including multiple levels of information in a single category. In order to facilitate and enable comparison, it was necessary to extract these different levels of information, and try to build a single coherent list of variables to be described for each survey.

not merely a means of description. Rather, it serves to level the playing field between the different archaeological surveys, and is a necessary precondition for analysis.7 Therefore, most of the subsequent analyses will be drawn from the collated information in the database. While perhaps this may seem obvious, it is best to make this unambiguous – any subsequent errors are therefore mine, and not a reflection on the surveys themselves. Moreover, in order to ‘level the playing field,’ decisions have had to be made regarding what data from each survey to include or exclude, and the form in which to express those data within the database. These are all concerns that the discerning reader should consider while evaluating the utility of this approach.

The most important variables included for each survey are the site name/number, the environmental data and the associated ceramics – including type, date and density. Other variables are included in order to make the data as complete as possible, and to facilitate further research. The importance of the ceramic data cannot be overstated. While it is unfortunate that the ‘tyranny of pot typology’ still dominates survey archaeology, railing against such a fact does not mean one can ignore that information. 6 Quite the contrary: as ceramic data form the bulk of what archaeological field surveys collect, they necessarily form the core of the analyses. It is hoped, however, that by directly comparing surveys within this database, one can move away from the tendency to compare published lists of sites with other published lists of sites, and instead compare the actual sherd scatters directly, while taking into account observed variables such as topography, environmental data, survey intensity and method, and the host of other categories of information that inform survey archaeology.

In formulating a methodology that facilitates survey comparison, it was first necessary to take into account the wide variety of problems that have been identified with just such an endeavour. As stated above, the necessity – and indeed, the rewards – of being able to compare information covering a variety of regions is great. It is, in essence, the logical ‘next step’ in survey archaeology. There are reasons, however, why scholars have shied away from attempting to do exactly this. Some of these have been outlined above, framed in terms of survey project design and field methods. It goes without saying that all of these aspects have a direct effect on the nature and types of data collected, and ultimately, on the interpretations of those data.

In short, this study begins its evaluation by comparing scatter with scatter, not site with site, in essence redefining what the published reports state constitute ‘a site’. In this way, the important issue of ‘off-site scatter’, as discussed earlier in II.1, can be incorporated into the discussion. It needs to be stressed that this reduction of ‘site’ to ‘scatter’ is only a first step in the comparison of the data. The individual survey projects’ interpretations regarding those sites, their criteria for assessment and their various methodologies are still taken into account. Indeed, there can be no substitute for the individual surveyor’s judgement of a particular landscape. However, that judgement has to be grounded in archaeologically and historically demonstrable criteria.

The most significant factor that inhibits direct survey comparison is the issue of data compatibility. The differences in project design, sampling strategies and collection methods, post-depositional processes, and land use histories all affect the appearance of the surface scatters. Broadly, however, the problems of data compatibility can be grouped into one of three general categories: 1) problems of space, 2) problems of chronology, and 3) problems of interpretation.8 In terms of spatial problems, some areas are surveyed more intensively than others. This may seem obvious, but it obviously affects interpretation: for instance, if one looks at a distribution map of identified sites, the ‘blank spaces’ on the map may not be areas without sites, but areas without intensive exploration. Moreover, some areas have simply had more coverage than other areas. This is especially true around modern urban centres, whose surrounding landscape naturally sees more ‘traffic’ than rural areas.

One important caveat must be made here. The information regarding sherd scatter and densities comes largely from the published survey reports, and has usually been culled from their published lists of sites. Therefore, moving backwards through the information in this manner may not accurately represent the actual situation in the field, as the analysis is still contingent upon the individual survey’s decisions regarding what is important to publish and what is not. Certainly, this database might be seen to be more about storage and organisation than analysis; but the exercise is 5 As compared to the number of categories included in the individual survey site gazetteers. 6 A point acknowledged by both Read 1986; Chapman 1999; Pemberton 2003.

7 A solution to a problem outlined by Attema and van Leusen 2004: 9798. 8 Outlined in Mattingly and Witcher 2004: 177; Kowalewski 2008; Witcher 2012: 16-26.

35

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Survey Laconia Methana Berbati-Limnes

Archaic 700450 600480 600500

Classical

480-323

Hellenistic Middle 200100 323-100

500-300

300-31

450-300

PRAP

700480 700480

Late 10031

600-31†

Asea Valley Southern Argolid

Early 300-200

480-338 480-323

350-250*

250-50*

323-31

Early 31 BC-AD 200 100 BC-AD 100 31 BC-AD 150 31 BC-AD 150 50 BC-AD 200 31 BC-AD 400

Roman Middle 200400 100300 150300 150300 200400 –

Late 400-600 300-600 300-600 300-600 400-650 400-700

Table 3. Periodisation by survey. †Asea survey has one Archaic-Hellenistic period (600-31 BC). * Southern Argolid has a Late Classical to Early Hellenistic (350-250 BC), and a Hellenistic Period (250-50 BC). within one limited area, such as the Peloponnese, these are less of a problem. Though local coarse wares and ceramic traditions do differ between regions of the Peloponnese, the paucity of interest in the specifics of these local material cultures among scholars means they do not really factor into the construction of any chronology, as yet.12 It is the fine wares and diagnostic pottery that are most commonly used to date most sites and their components, and these allow for the construction of a fairly broad chronology for the entire region. Part of this problem is due to the fact that most ceramic chronologies and typologies are necessarily built upon stratified and datable assemblages from excavations, and as yet, there are few published examples of these for the Peloponnese. The ceramic data as it is currently understood does not seem to suggest that there are great differences in date between the introduction of new forms to disparate regions of the Peloponnese – or more accurately, too few studies have been either undertaken or published to test the veracity of that notion.13

Problems of chronology focus on two main issues: periodisation between different surveys, and coeval occupation. As discussed above, different projects may define their chronological periods in a variety of ways, which can lead to difficulty in direct comparison. More difficult is assessing which sites within a single period were occupied at the same time – the problem of coeval occupation. The Hellenistic period, for example, can cover almost 300 years in some definitions – clearly one should not assume that all of the surveyed sites deemed to be Hellenistic in date were occupied for the entirety of those 300 years.9 Interpretive problems concern the criteria for the definition of what individual projects deem to be a ‘site’, and the theoretical and methodological framework that is used to interpret those sites and groups of sites. In a field where site function is closely linked to perceived surface scatter size, differences in site definition between surveys are critical.10 There are a series of measures that can be taken, however, to account in a small way for these problems. Reducing the survey data back to their raw form – i.e. pottery density and extent of surface scatter – means the researcher can compare like with like, as opposed to comparing differing interpretations and definitions of what constitutes a site. So long as one takes into account the different geomorphological and historical processes in different areas, it is possible to compare different size scatters in a meaningful way.11

The problem of coeval occupation, closely tied to the ‘palimpsest phenomenon,’ has been discussed at length above (II.1). In order to mitigate the effects of this problem, the database includes only sites with occupation histories stretching from the Hellenistic into the Roman period. So while the beginning and end points of the occupation of these sites will certainly all differ, the fact that they were all occupied14 during that vital historical 12

This should not be taken as a reason not to study the coarse or common wares. As they form the bulk of any pottery identified during a survey, there is in fact a pressing need for such study. While an excellent series of rich data have been presented in the periodic “Scientific Meetings on Hellenistic Pottery” (Epistimonikes Synándiseis gia tin Ellinistikí Keramikí), these have yet to be fully explored in a synthetic manner. Several such studies are currently underway, although none are yet available for this study. Pemberton 2003; Shipley 2006: 325, n.27; Slane 2011. 13 Of course, the further one gets from an urban centre, the less reliable this statement becomes. See Millett 1991: 23-26. 14 This is quite an assumption. It is nearly impossible, without excavation, to distinguish between a continuous occupation that covers multiple periods and discontinuous occupation that covers the same periods, but with multiple ‘starts and stops’. Obviously, this study assumes the former for all of the included sites.

Problems of periodisation are more difficult to overcome (see Table 3). For a comparison of regional surveys 9

Discussed in detail by Foxhall 2000. See also Wandsnider 2004. This is, by far, the most crucial problem facing direct survey comparison, and has long been recognized as such. Compare, for example, Rupp 1983: 17-30 and Wright 2004: 128-129. 11 This is not to say that the individual projects’ interpretations are not important, or should be ignored. Rather, reducing sites down to the raw data serves as a check on those interpretations, and facilitates their broader application. Archaeological survey is as much art as science, and the ultimate responsibility for the interpretation of the data must lie with those who collected the information in the first place. See Mattingly and Witcher 2004: 177. 10

36

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Criteria

Definition

Number Survey Project Local Number Period(s) Area (ha) Density Total Sherds Total Tile Hell. Sherds Hell. Tile Roman Sherds Roman Tile Soil Type Site Function Page Reference Comments

Number of site for this study, assigned sequentially per survey project The name of the survey project the site is drawn from The original survey project’s assigned site number The occupational period(s) of the site The area, in hectares, of the site The density of the site as determined by the original survey project’s methodology. The total number of pottery sherds counted per site The total number of tile sherds counted per site The total number of Hellenistic pottery sherds per site The total number of Hellenistic tile sherds per site The total number of Roman pottery sherds per site The total number of Roman tile sherds per site The soil type of each site The site function, as determined by a re-analysis of each site The page reference in each survey’s site gazetteer from whence data was drawn Miscellaneous comments or notes

Table 4. Primary comparative criteria employed by this study. land use processes that affect the appearance of each scatter. As far as is possible, this will be done for each survey included in this study. For example, where coastal sites are being compared to inland sites, the rate and nature of sedimentation will be considered in order to ascertain how that affects artefact visibility.17

transition from ‘independent’ Greece to Roman province should reduce such chronological bias. Information from either side of these periods, i.e. Archaic-Classical and Late Roman, has been used in order to place the data in their proper historical and chronological context. In practical terms, given the above problems, the method employed adheres to certain guidelines, designed with an eye on the efficacy of survey comparison.15

It is important to note that this methodology still relies primarily on the published data. These survey data are presented most commonly as ‘sites’ in the survey reports. Thus, sites with the necessary chronological components were first identified, then traced back to their pottery scatters. So, even though the idea is to not to compare site with site, the scatters are still identified initially on the basis of the published interpretations. However, the interpretations of site function have been stripped away, and reducing things down to this level allows for an understanding of any corrective ‘filters’ that may have been applied to take into account variations in visibility, soil type, and land use history. The primary aim is not to discount the interpretations of the individual surveys, but to reassess them in light of new data. This involves attempting to get the individual data sets to a point where some aspects of the quantified data can be compared directly in a meaningful way. Qualitative comparisons will still be made. The primary criteria for comparison, both quantitative and qualitative, are listed on Table 4.

1. Definition. The eternal problem in survey archaeology concerns problems and differences in definition. Thus, the object of comparison has to be defined. Are sites, interpretations of sites, patterns in sites, or something else being compared? The scope of the comparison should also be defined – that is, what area(s) were chosen and why, what period(s) and why, and, perhaps most importantly, what was not chosen and why. 2. Interpretative framework. In order to account for differences in what some call the ‘mechanics of interpretation’16, only archaeological data sets of a similar type are to be compared. That is, initial comparison is occurring at the level of the artefact scatter; scatter is being compared with scatter – not site with site. This requires, in essence, a reanalysis of the individual scatters, in order to have a common base from which to conduct the comparison.

As artefact scatters are essentially being re-analysed, there are some discrepancies between the published data and this project’s reinterpretations. The most important differences are highlighted within the individual survey summaries below, but one significant point should be made here: the absolute numbers of sites has been reduced in the reinterpretations as presented here. This is due to several factors. Primarily, scatters lacking in published quantitative data were excluded from this comparison, except in exceptional cases (which are noted

3. Incorporation and understanding of bias: different physical landscape dynamics and land use histories. As different geological and ecological areas are being compared with each other, it is necessary to understand the varying geomorphological, post-depositional, and 15

These guidelines have been created after a thorough reading of a wide variety of works concerning this topic. For a sample of the various concerns, most of which have been outlined here, see Cherry 1983; Bintliff, Kuna, et al. 2000; Mattingly 2000; Attema and van Leusen 2004; Mattingly and Witcher 2004; Witcher 2006a; Witcher 2008; Witcher 2012; Kowalewski 2008; Pettegrew 2007; Holdaway and Fanning 2008; Goodchild and Witcher 2010; de Haas 2012. 16 Attema and van Leusen 2004: 97.

17 A variety of tests can be applied to the data in order to determine this, assuming coring data is available. See Banning 2002: 217-228; Cavanagh, Mee, et al. 2005: 286-289; Mattingly 2000: 12.

37

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE a more comparable format. That is, once the higher-level interpretation is stripped away and the data are reduced to their more basic level, it is then possible to compare the survey results.

when they occur). Similarly, sites with exceedingly uncertain dating criteria were also excluded. However, in all cases where this occurred, though this resulted in a difference in the overall numbers of sites, the broad patterning between periods was not affected; a difference of degree, perhaps, but not of kind.

It should be pointed out that this only constitutes a first step in the comparison of the surveys. Once the survey data have been reduced to this stage, one must then incorporate the different variables that affect individual surveys in a myriad of ways. The interpretations of the data should also be taken into consideration at this stage, for it is perfectly reasonable to expect that similar types of habitation will have different archaeological signatures in different areas. However, it is only by getting the data to the reduced stage that such analyses can then be applied evenly across all surveys. This is not an argument in support of ignoring or discounting the surveyors’ interpretations; rather, it is an argument for testing the validity of those interpretations.

‘Density’ proved to be a particularly troubling area of comparison. As this study attempts to include both qualitative and quantitative data in its comparison, it is imperative that that quantitative data from each survey be in as similar a format as possible. Most interpretations of site function are based primarily on the main criteria of sherd density and site size, albeit these interpretations are informed by a wide variety of criteria. 18 Unfortunately, most surveys calculate the sherd density in different ways, essentially leading to a situation where you are trying to compare apples with oranges. A simple example will suffice: the Laconia survey displays the sherd density information as the mean plus or minus the standard deviation19 (expressed as 3.64 ± 3, for example).20 This figure was arrived at by sampling 1 square metre sherd counts at 2 metre intervals along four transects, with the transects laid out along the cardinal points of a compass.21 Thus you arrive at a reliable measure of the density. The Methana survey employed a similar on-site sampling strategy.22 However, that survey expresses the density information in terms of the maximum number from the sampled area, then the mean, with no direct value for the standard deviation (in the form 18/6.2, for example).23

The other significant issue that inhibits survey comparison is that of periodisation. This has been discussed at some length above. This problem cannot be solved without re-examining all of the ceramics used for establishing dates for each of the survey projects included here; unfortunately, some of the survey projects have not been able to retain their ceramic collections, and have redeposited them in the areas from which they were collected.25 Thus, this project has been forced to adopt a rather broad periodisation. Where more specific data exist, these have been included in the tables of data, but discounted for the comparisons between surveys. In other words, the periodisation is determined by the ‘lowest common denominator’ of period definition used in the various intensive surveys. The period definitions utilised can be found in Table 3.

It is necessary to reinforce the caveats inherent in this methodology. It is vital that the ceramic data be available in as detailed a form as possible. Secondly, it is important that the method for calculating site density in the individual surveys is known, and repeatable. These preconditions essentially have determined which intensive survey projects are utilised in this study. With these preconditions met – in essence, by selecting data that meets particular conditions, a method not without its own issues – it is possible to compare survey data in a more direct manner. Moreover, by applying statistical filters such as ‘Winsorising’,24 the data can be viewed in

III.2 Intensive Surveys Given the above, what follows is a discussion of each of the major intensive survey projects included in this study. Preceding each discussion is a table of metadata, followed by a general outline of the particular survey’s methodology and the interpretative problems this may pose. At the close of this survey summary section is a brief statement summarising the individual project’s interpretation of the data.

18

For summary discussions of site function and interpretation see Pettegrew 2001; Foxhall 2004; Witcher 2012. 19 ‘Standard deviation’ (s) is the measure of the spread of values within a dataset, commonly referred to as the dispersion, in relation to the arithmetic mean of those values. It is the square root of the variance. ‘Variance’ is the measure of statistical dispersion of the values in a dataset, indicating how the possible values are spread around the expected value. Where the expected value shows the location of the distribution, the variance shows the scale of that distribution. Shennan 1997: 42. 20 For site N192. 21 Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 43. 22 Mee and Forbes 1997: 35. 23 For MS3. 24 Winsorising is the transformation of outliers in statistical data. A typical strategy is to remove the outliers from the calculation of the ‘Winsorised’ mean, or to set all outliers to a specified percentile of the data (in other words, re-assign their value to the extremes of the accepted range). This analysis has done the former, with the arithmetic mean included for comparison. Welsh 1987. This particular analysis is useful as the large outliers tend to represent large villages or

Following on from this is a discussion of the broad pattern in the landscape, broken down by period. In some cases, this entails a radical change from the published material, as each individual ‘findspot’ for each survey has been re-evaluated using criteria specific to the present study. Thus, the conclusions for each survey project, arranged by period, do not simply represent a restatement of the published interpretations but a re-interpretation based on both the published information and the results of this study. In all cases, this re-interpretation has opted settlements, of which there are usually few per region, and which are by no means the norm. 25 C. Runnels, pers. comm., Stanford, October 2005; T. Gregory, pers. comm., Corinth, July 2004.

38

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Survey:

Laconia Survey

Dates:

1983-1989

Survey Objectives:

• to set in a regional context the excavations of the British School at Athens • to further the topographic knowledge of Laconia • to present the interplay between physical landscape, cultural circumstances, and human society over time. Survey Region: Approximately in the centre of the territory of ancient Sparta; roughly the centre of the modern province. Altitude Range (metres above sea 170 - 830 level): Extent (km2): 70 Sampling Strategy (regional-level):

Transect Sample Fraction:

1. Judgmental sample of both individual and contiguous fields to assess soils and ecology 2. Systematic unaligned transects 3. Problem orientated A judgmental sample of 27 sites outside intensively surveyed areas Sites identified and sampled as individual units; sites taken to be ellipse (B X ab, where a and b denote major axes) 1 square metre sherd counts at 2 metre intervals along 4 transects from a provisional site centre 97 %

Corridor Width:

1m

Walker Spacing:

20 m

Field Sampling Fraction:

5%

Site Definition:

Pottery density shows obvious loci, 90% of sites have diameter of >14 m. Named by zone (A-U, omitting I and O) with ascending numbers; sites 3000-26 are ‘out-of-area’, 4000-4 and 4007-8 recorded but not sampled H: 0.01/3.13; H-R: 0.01/0.54; R: 0.00/0.55

Off-site Recording: Sampling Strategy (site-level): On-site Recording:

Classification Schemes: Min/Max Range:

Comparative Data for Site Function Comparanda from other surveys; ceramic presence/absence; Analysis: ceramic types Sub-surface Archaeology: Limited geophysical survey; cf. ‘Rural Sites Project’ Survey Evaluation:

Chronology:

Limited resurvey of 8 tracts of land, visibility assessed subjectively on 1-5 scale, uncorrected ceramic data Split into functional categories, predominantly fine wares, though coarse wares sampled. Proportion of diagnostic:undiagnostic recorded for fine wares. Based on pre-existing pottery typologies

Publications:

Cavanagh, Crouwel et al. 1996; Cavanagh, Crouwel et al. 2002

Principal Authors:

W. Cavanagh, J. Crouwel, R.W.V. Catling, G. Shipley; P. Armstrong, J. Fiselier, O. Rackham, J. van Berghem, M. Wagstaff

Ceramics:

Box 2. Laconia Survey Metadata.

39

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE for caution, counting as ‘sites’ only those that show evidence for settlement, industrial or agricultural practice, or religious activity (excluding cemeteries). Furthermore, each ‘site’ has to have a modicum of quantifiable information available in order to be counted. This has resulted, generally, in fewer sites per period being counted for this study. Thus, what is presented in the initial tables of data26 for each survey are the numbers of sites per period as determined by this study’s reinterpretation, and in brackets, the total numbers of sites per period, as presented in each survey’s publication. The remaining data on the tables is based on this study’s re-interpretation, and includes maximum and minimum sites sizes, mean site sizes, the ‘Winsorised’ mean, and the median site sizes. Full data for these surveys can be found in the appendix. The Laconia Survey Laconia Survey Summary The Laconia Survey27 was conducted from 1983 to 1989, with the specific goal to present the interplay between physical landscape, cultural circumstances, and human society over time. 28 Specifically, the survey sought to explore the rural territory of one of mainland Greece’s most important cities – Sparta – and in that regard is fairly unique. 29 The survey area was generally located slightly to the northeast of the modern city of Sparta, and is bounded by the river Eurotas on the west, by the lower foothills of the Parnon range in the east, and by various topographical and administrative boundaries to the north and south.30

Figure 3. Laconia Survey area. After Cavanagh, et al., 2002, Ill. I.14. studies, a vegetation and modern land use survey, and geophysical prospection. This was elaborated in the later Laconia Rural Sites Project, which consisted of very focused investigation of a small sample of twenty sites discovered during the survey, with mixed results.33 Though published in 1996 and 2002, the original field survey stands firmly in the tradition of ‘New Wave’ archaeological survey projects of the early 1980s, and, in some places, shows this to its detriment. The postponement of the summative publication for 13 years after the end of fieldwork means that some aspects of the project are quite dated, especially the idea of the ‘site’, the lack of attention to background densities, and the paucity of information regarding the effects of visibility, geomorphology, and modern land use on locating material culture.34 Still, despite these flaws, the Laconia survey remains the ‘gold-standard’ of survey publications, not only for the focused and exhaustive nature of the individual chapters, but also for the inclusion of the raw data,35 which makes this the most easily ‘comparable’ of any of the survey projects in this study.

The survey follows quite closely the model laid down by other ‘New Wave’ archaeological surveys, in that the methodology consists of identifying individual ‘sites’ by walking transects across the landscape systematically at regularly spaced intervals (here, usually 20 metres). Sizeable sherd scatters or areas with large artefact densities were then sampled separately, most frequently in orthogonal transects usually determined by the cardinal directions.31 This resulted in an overall coverage of c.70 km2, and the identification of over 400 significant sherd scatters belonging to various periods.32 The project was one of the first in Greece to make use of multiple types of investigative techniques, integrating intensive archaeological field survey with soil and soil phosphate

The survey interpreted their data as follows: the Hellenistic period begins with an explosion of rural habitations, composed primarily of small sites in the north and larger sites in the southeast. This was interpreted perhaps as an increased orientation on agricultural production, perhaps related to the loss of Messenian territory in the mid to late 4th century BC.36

26 Laconia: Table 5; Methana: Table 7; Berbati-Limnes: Table 9; Asea Valley: Table 11; Southern Argolid: Table 13; Pylos Regional Archaeological Project: Table 15. 27 My sincere thanks go to Professors Cavanagh and Shipley for allowing me access to the database holding all of the site data for the project. Errors in interpretation remain my own. 28 Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 1. 29 With the exception of the Southern Argolid project, every other published rural survey in Greece concentrates on more secondary poleis. 30 Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 5. 31 The full site sampling methodology is outlined in Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 43-45. As with most surveys, the specific methodology was refined over time, meaning that not all ‘sites’ were sampled in the same way. 32 428 scatters, though not all were deemed ‘sites’. 329 ‘sites’ were sampled. Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 40, n.192. See also Shipley 1996c.

33

See Cavanagh, Mee, et al. 2005. For a review, Witmore 2006. To be fair, this is more a result of when the survey was carried out, not any methodological ignorance on the part of the surveyors. For a very cogent discussion of each of these factors see, Schon 2002. 35 These form the bulk of volume 2. Cavanagh, Crouwel, et al. 1996. 36 Shipley 2002c: 310-313, 316-317, 322-324. 34

40

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Period

Total

Max. (ha)

Min. (ha)

All Hellenistic Hellenistic only Hellenistic-Roman All Roman Roman only

75(82) 53(62) 22(23) 52(57) 30(32)

6.40 3.13 6.40 6.40 0.55

0.01 0.01 0.01 0.00 0.00

Mean (ha) 0.34 0.27 0.58 0.30 0.13

‘Winsorised’ Mean (ha) 0.26 0.22 0.25 0.17 0.12

Median (ha) 0.10 0.08 0.16 0.10 0.07

Table 5. Laconia Survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

Laconia:

All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman

Total:

0.0-0.3 ha

0.3-1.0 ha

1.0-5.0 ha

5.0+ ha

TOTAL

56

13

4

2

75

14 25 81

5 5 18

1 0 4

2 0 2

22 30 105

Table 6. Laconia Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers. needs to be a large enough local market for trade and exchange.

However this explosion may be short-lived – perhaps only 100-150 years.37 The Roman period sees a decline in overall site numbers; a trend that is not really reversed in Laconia until well into the Late Roman period, contrary to the pattern elsewhere in Greece which sees increased intensification and proliferation of sites beginning in the 3rd or 4th century AD. 38 The general picture in the Hellenistic and Roman periods is one of a marginal area with low population living in fewer sites spread evenly across the survey area.

Generally, the picture painted by the survey area40 in the Hellenistic period is a disjointed one (Tables 5 and 6).41 There is a marked difference in both type and scale of activity between the regions of the survey area, and, interestingly, these largely correspond to differences in underlying geology. It is unrealistic to suggest that geology is the sole reason for site location or activity, but it must be considered as a contributing factor. Other factors which undoubtedly played a significant role are long- and medium-term socio-political forces. While it is unlikely that the mini-boom of settlement in the north is related to Cleomenes III’s reforms (as Shipley rightly points out), 42 it is important to remember that that particular episode was part of a longer-term process that reflects the relationship between status, wealth and land that characterised much of Spartan politics.43

Conclusions for Laconia Survey (Hellenistic) The Hellenistic period in the survey area begins with an increase in settlement numbers, as compared with the Classical period. Generally speaking, small sites proliferate across the schist soils of the north, and large sites tend to exist on the limestone-derived soils of the southeast. The neogene soils of the west and southeast have the same general number of sites as in the Classical period, but are usually smaller in size.

The biggest interpretive problem regarding the survey, in all periods, is the nature of the area covered. It formed only a small part of the area of Laconia, and excludes any

Unsurprisingly, the sites that persist from the Hellenistic into the Roman period tend to be larger, more established settlements, likely villages or hamlets or small groupings of farmsteads. 39 The finds recovered from these larger sites tend not to cover the full range of economic activities, suggesting strong links to the central ‘hub’ of Sparta. These larger sites occur predominantly in the north and west of the survey area, and are amongst the farthest from the urban core – not entirely unexpected, as one would expect that for settlements to flourish, there

40 Which, it should be remembered, is only 1-2 % of the territorial extent of the modern nomos of Lakonia, and perhaps 0.8 % of the c. 8500 sq. km occupied by the ‘polis of Classical Lakedaimon’. Cavanagh 2002: 421. For the binary structure of the Lakedaimonian polis see Hall 2000. 41 ‘Period’ refers to what are essentially arbitrarily constructed chronological periods. ‘All Hellenistic’ includes all sites that existed in the Hellenistic period, regardless of contemporaneity or length of occupation, whereas ‘Hellenistic only’ refers to those sites that existed only in the Hellenistic period and no later period. Similarly with the categories ‘All Roman’ and ‘Roman only,’ which are defined as every site that existed in the Roman period and only those sites founded in the Roman period, respectively. Practically, this means that there is double counting between some categories, i.e. ‘Hellenistic only’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’. 42 As outlined in Plutarch, Cleom. 23(44).1. Discussed in Shipley 2002c: 321-323. 43 David 1981 esp. 142-162. For Classical parallels, see Hodkinson 2000: 139, 217-219.

37

Shipley 2002c: 310-314. Shipley 2002c: 326-328, 331. This lack of settlement, however, needs to be balanced against the fact that the Laconia survey covered a relatively small area of ancient Laconia. Many regions of Greece, for example, show abundant evidence for Late Roman material along the coasts: Rudolph 1979; Gregory 1985. See also the PRAP discussion below. 39 As defined by the survey. 38

41

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE coastal regions. While Sparta was rarely focused on the sea to the south politically, 44 it is likely that there was marked economic exploitation of coastal regions in all periods. Decline in inland sites may not be reflected in coastal zones, where the opposite may have occurred.45 This problem of rural decline is a perennial one for the Peloponnese as a whole, 46 but is particularly acute for Laconia, where there is a long-running literary tradition of oliganthropia, or ‘shortage of people.’ 47 Famously made a defining characteristic of Spartan society by Aristotle (Politics, 1270 a29-39), the idea repeatedly raises its head regardless of period. It becomes especially important, then, that one attempts to place the changes in settlement size and patterning on a continuum that incorporates both longer- and shorter-term processes. It is also necessary to point out that it was held as a feature of Spartan society, and not necessarily perioikic society, whose settlements would not necessarily be negatively affected by any long-standing issues involving female inheritance48 or decline in absolute Spartiate numbers.49

Though it is difficult to place these sites accurately within the Hellenistic period, broad conclusions can be suggested regarding differences between the Early and Late Hellenistic. There is a general shift in the north in the early Hellenistic period towards sites on schist soils, many sites being quite small in area, with reduced sherd densities. There are fewer sites in the limestone soils of the southeast, but these tend to be larger in area, with denser concentrations of artefacts. This Late ClassicalEarly Hellenistic ‘upturn’ is not uncommon elsewhere in the Peloponnese, and like elsewhere, this growth is shortlived in Laconia.51 These new sites peak in numbers in the Middle Hellenistic, and tend to dwindle by the Late Hellenistic period. Decline is most clearly seen in the north, but appears to have occurred over all of the survey area.52 In short, the Hellenistic period can be summarised as follows: the early emergence of small sites on marginal soils, followed by a decline in numbers and an increase in settlement in the southeast.

The most interesting data come from those sites which exist only in the Hellenistic period. Overall, while there are more settlement sites than in the Classical period, they are of a smaller size. Pottery and small finds relating to domestic activities (i.e. loom weights for domestic textile production, mortaria for food preparation, and so on) suggest that only a small portion of these sites, especially in the north (where schist soils predominate), served as farmsteads or hamlets. The generally smaller size and increased incidence of storage wares suggest a more focused role for these sites. This is perhaps indicative of a shift towards more intensive agricultural production, or at the very least, a short-term emphasis on ‘cash-crop’ agriculture. Schist soils are generally quite poor for long-term agricultural exploitation, but – managed correctly – can be quite productive when used for oleoculture.50

Conclusions for Laconia Survey (Roman) The range of site sizes and the relative proportions of sites in the survey area within different size classes remain very similar to those seen in the Hellenistic period, with the possible exception of very large sites. An examination of ‘Winsorised’ means53 shows that there is an increased incidence of smaller sites, and a general decline in total numbers of sites; again, as with the Hellenistic period this interpretation changes slightly when the survey areas are looked at in isolation. There is a clear reduction in site numbers for the northernmost areas of the survey, but a small increase as one moves towards the centre of the survey area. The west and southeast see the most marked decline in numbers, but it is an observable phenomenon over the entirety of the survey area.54 The Roman period also saw a general decline in the extent of activity, as measured by sherd incidence. Sites are not only typically smaller in area than in previous periods, but also have a lower sherd density, which is suggestive of a decrease in the intensity of activity. While there is some argument concerning the survivability of sherds from different periods, and the general recognisability of Roman ceramics,55 there is no need to place an undue emphasis on those considerations; they should rather be viewed as general correctives that may affect the finer points of the data, not the overall visible trends.

44 It can be argued that Sparta’s world-view was largely focused towards the north and east, as discussed throughout Cartledge and Spawforth 1989. It is possible that this attitude became more acute after the defeat of Nabis in 195, and the impositions of Philopoemen in 188. Livy, 34.35.7, 34.36.2, 38.34.2, 6; Polybius, 21.32.3; Plut. Philop. 16.4. The fate of these coastal cites (and their subsequent transformation into the League of Eleutherolaconians) is summarized in Kennell 1999. 45 Both Pausanias and Strabo focus on the decline of inland Laconia. Paus. 3.10.6, 10.7, 19.6, 19.9, 20.2, 20.3, 21.2, 21.4, 21.5, 24.8; Strabo 8.4.11, 363. For both authors, this is more of a topos than accurate description. See also Baladié 1980, Cartledge and Spawforth 1989: 142. 46 Much of the relevant information is brought together in Hodkinson 2000. 47 Cartledge and Spawforth 1989; Corvisier and Suder 1996. 48 The traditional narrative suggests that the practice of female inheritance led to fewer families amassing more and more land, essentially restricting the wealth of the elite to a privileged few. In a society where wealth was closely tied to the land and to land status, this was a gloomy situation for Spartiate families not lucky enough to be one of these few. Hodkinson 2000: 94-103, 400-406. 49 In fact, one could argue the opposite – the loss of Messenia and the continual problem of maintaining Spartiate numbers likely meant an economic boom, of sorts, for previously dependent perioikic communities. For dependency relations in the Classical period see Shipley 1992. For Hellenistic relationships, see Kennell 1999. 50 As discussed at length above.

51

For an overview, see Bintliff 1997. Shipley 2002c: 311-313. As defined on p. 37 note 24 above. 54 The decrease in existing sites in the north is somewhat mitigated by new foundations. Shipley 2002c: 326. 55 As discussed in Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994. Hinted at by Shipley 2002c: 262, 270. 52 53

42

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 4. Laconia Survey sites overlying geology. After Cavanagh et al. 2002, pocket map. location and soil type simply due to the fact that the geology changes from north to south, and not necessarily due to any purposeful decisions on the part of the Hellenistic and Roman inhabitants. The relative proportion of soil types in the survey area as a whole (see Figure 4) might explain why a higher proportion of new sites should occur on schist rather than neogene or limestone,56 as they make up the largest segment of the underlying geology, but only if one assumes that the inhabitants were unaware of differences in soil type.

There are at least 22 Laconia survey sites that exhibit evidence of both Hellenistic and Roman occupation, and the general assumption is that such evidence represents a continuity of occupation, as opposed to two separate sites occupying the same relative space. These sites tend to be larger than the new foundations of the Roman period, which is not particularly surprising. What is interesting is where those sites are situated. Those in the north are almost all on schist soils (7 on schist, 1 on neogene), those in the southeast are on neogene and limestone (5 and 5 respectively), while there is a preference for schist over neogene soil types in the west (3 and 1 respectively). This may not appear immediately relevant, as this corresponds quite closely to the predominant soil types in those regions, and so may be seen as a predictable occurrence – there is a rough correlation between site

56

Schist soils cover roughly 3/6 of the survey area, neogene 2/6 and limestone/alluvial soils roughly 1/6 of the total. For a full discussion, see van Berghem and Fiselier 2002.

43

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE towards a particular type of agriculture; a type of agriculture that is not occurring everywhere.

However, schist soils are generally seen as less suitable for long-term agricultural exploitation, such as is generally required for cereals, while the neogene and limestone soils are far more suited for such activities. Yet the areas that see the highest decline in sites are those with the ‘better’ soils – the west and southeast – while the north has the highest proportion of surviving sites. In other words, there is a marked preference for the survival of sites on what might be termed more marginal soils. There is, in short, a process of selective survival amongst the sites that survive – and part of that selection process is related to the underlying geology, which, as will be argued, is related to the economic activities of those sites.

The evidence is suggestive of a shift in economy, with, if not a majority, then a significant minority of new sites in some areas exhibiting evidence for intensive agriculture revolving around olive and/or grape production. It is also possible to see other areas not responding to this same trend, with cereals and pastoral activities perhaps remaining the standard form of subsistence. Perhaps it is necessary to posit a cause for this increased preference for soils associated with ‘cash-cropping’. Can this be tied to broader historical events of the Hellenistic and Roman periods? The answer must be both affirmative and negative. The long-term history of Laconia, especially as related to the Hellenistic period, is essentially one of territorial contraction and sweeping reform; reform in terms of citizenship, in terms of landholding and ownership, in terms of attitudes and policies towards its neighbours.59

This trend is also seen in the new foundations of the Roman period – by far the majority of new sites are found in the north of the survey area, and of those only 1 site of 18 is on a soil other than schist.57 Even the new sites in the west, an area typified by larger proportions of neogene formations, are founded on a relatively high proportion of schist soils (4 of 8). It is important to note that one category of evidence is not enough to show definitively what is occurring. What is needed are multiple categories of evidence exhibiting similar trends. In this case, the ceramics from these sites provide further circumstantial evidence. On the whole, there is a shift in relative proportions of ceramics on these sites. Whereas previously the ceramics tend to show a fairly even mix of kitchen/table wares and storage/transport vessels, these sites on schist soils tend to see a decrease in the numbers of kitchen/table wares and an increase in storage/transport vessels. This suggests that a significant proportion of these sites are no longer serving primarily as farmsteads, but rather are becoming processing or packaging sites of particular crops, perhaps on a seasonal basis.58

In a society where wealth and status were tied up with land ownership a contraction in the amount of available land (through both territorial reduction and agglomerative practices amongst a very few elites members of society) might have necessitated a change in how that land was used. How do the elite maintain and/or increase their status when the broader pool of land available has diminished quite significantly? Might not a shift from cereals towards olives or vines be a means to get more from less, and adapt to the changing needs of a new economic reality? This is not to suggest that it was a deliberate decision – far from it. It is more likely that this was a long-term and slow change over several generations. The beginnings of this change can be observed in the Hellenistic period, and its continuation – perhaps elaboration – carries over into the Roman. It is also necessary to emphasise that this shift is not a wholesale shift away from other types of agriculture or economy – certainly the predominant types would remain cereal or mixed crop-cultivation, as well as animal husbandry. What is observable is an increased incidence – a significant minority of sites in east-central Laconia – exhibiting a preference for ‘cash-cropping’, and the reasons lie in the long-term social history of Laconia. The previously mentioned reforms of Cleomenes III (or even those of Agis IV), whatever their historicity or extent, are not the causes of this change – instead, they are emblematic of a changing economic reality and societal tension that can also be read in the changing land use of the region.

These new Roman foundations also tend to be smaller in size, continuing the trend seen in the sites that persist from the Hellenistic to the Roman period. Again, this can be interpreted as either a decreased intensity of activity and/or a smaller local population. A general decrease in the intensity of activity may agree with the interpretation of a shift away from farmstead residence to seasonal activity. The decline in what might be termed ‘domestic’ ceramics and the increase in storage/transport vessels, coupled with the smaller site size, decreased sherd density, and relative privileging of a specific soil type, suggests a significant change in land use. This change in land use is not seen over the entirety of the survey area – far from it – but it is visible in a significant minority of these sites. Also, it is important to point out that it is not a sudden change, rather, it is quite a drawn-out process that has its beginnings in the Hellenistic period. It is not unreasonable to suggest that the sites that match these criteria are being geared 57

K515 occurs on neogene soils. Shipley 2002c: 273-274, 299-301. With caution: Lawson 1996: 122123. 58

59

Discussed generally in Cartledge and Spawforth 1989. More specific studies include Cawkwell 2002 and Marasco 2004.

44

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

The Methana Survey Survey:

Methana Survey Project

Dates:

1982, 1984-1987

Survey Objectives:

• to study changes in settlement and land use from the Neolithic to modern times (6000 BC - AD 1980) • site prospection Natural unit of 50 sq. km of Methana Peninsula

Survey Region:

Altitude Range (metres above sea 4 - 696 level): Extent (km2): 10.5 Sampling Strategy (regional-level):

Off-site Recording: Sampling Strategy (site-level):

1. Judgmental sample of both individual and contiguous fields to encompass topographical and environmental diversity 2. Systematic unaligned transects 3. Problem orientated Simple clicker counts of artefacts

Transect Sample Fraction:

Sites identified and sampled as individual units; sites taken to be ellipse (Br2 - where r is the mean distance from the centre to the edge) 1 square metre sherd counts at fixed intervals along cardinal directions 21%

Corridor Width:

1 m; 2-3 m (visibility/environment dependent)

Walker Spacing:

10 m

Field Sampling Fraction:

10-15%

Site Definition: Classification Schemes:

Initially defined as 5 artefacts / sq. metre; actual density seldom less than 10 MS + site number, in order of discovery

Min/Max Range:

H: 0.006/7.000; H-R: 0.07/1.60; R: 0.01/0.13

On-site Recording:

Comparative Data for Site Function Comparanda from other surveys; ceramic presence/absence; Analysis: ceramic types; architectural fragments; agricultural equipment Sub-surface Archaeology: None Survey Evaluation:

Limited resurvey of 41 of 103 sites

Ceramics: Chronology:

Split into functional categories, predominantly fine wares, though coarse wares sampled. Proportion of diagnostic:undiagnostic recorded for fine wares. Based on pre-existing pottery typologies

Publications:

Mee and Forbes 1997

Principal Authors:

C. Mee; H. Forbes; M. Atherton; H. Bowden; A. Firmin; L. Foxhall; D. Gill; A. Harvey; P. James; T. Koukoulis; A. Morrow; G. Taylor

Box 3. Methana Survey Metadata.

45

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 5. Methana survey area. After Mee, et al., 1997, fig. 3.1.

Methana Survey Summary After an initial reconnaissance in 1982, the Methana Survey Project60 conducted fieldwork in the summers of 1984-1986 with an additional study season in 1987.61 The goals of the project were, broadly, to study changes in settlement and land use from the Neolithic to modern times (6000 BC–AD 1980), and to a lesser extent, archaeological site prospection.62

and practical in archaeological field survey. This is evident in several areas regarding the formulation of the survey methodology. The survey area was initially to be the entirety of the c.50 km2 Methana peninsula, but this quickly became untenable.65 Instead, the survey intentionally excluded certain areas of the Methana peninsula, largely because they consisted of quite steep, rocky mountains, and were therefore not only unsuited to large-scale agricultural exploitation, but also difficult to access and survey properly.66 This, in essence, stratified their sample before they had even begun, yet did not disqualify the subsequently collected data from a very useful and viable statistical analysis.

The methodology employed by the survey was quite similar to other contemporary survey projects in Greece: the systematic sampling of unaligned transects and the recording of artefactual and geological data therein.63 The survey was designed with an eye towards its broader comparability with other projects, in fact one of the Methana survey’s explicit goals was to organise and collect their data in a way that allowed direct comparison with the information collected by the neighbouring Southern Argolid survey.64

The on-site sampling strategy was similar to those employed by the Laconia and Southern Argolid surveys, essentially sampling the sites at regular, pre-determined intervals. The project divided the sites into circles one metre apart, starting from a perceived centre, and aligned along the cardinal directions. Artefact counts were recorded for each circle until the count fell consistently below two per square metre (see Figure 6).67

The publication is to be commended for its open and frank attitude regarding the difference between the ideal

The final report includes all of the relevant data required for survey comparison. While within the individual period discussion the site data are presented as artefact densities – as opposed to sherd densities – the appendices

60 I would like to thank Professor Lin Foxhall for several informative discussions regarding survey methodology and the wider interpretation of the data. As always, errors in observation or interpretation are my own. 61 Forbes and Mee 1997: 3-4. 62 Forbes and Mee 1997: 1, 3. 63 Mee and Forbes 1997: 33-35. Most surveys in Greece employ unaligned transects due to the terrain. 64 Mee and Forbes 1997: 33-34.

65

Mee and Forbes 1997: 33. Forbes and Mee 1997: 3-4. 67 Mee and Forbes 1997: 35. 66

46

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE to see the principal urban area surveyed in a slightly different manner, with a more intensive focus that treated the polis centre as a separate entity from the rural sites. This site sees a slight contraction in size (from 8 ha in the Classical period to 7 ha in the Hellenistic),75 but a significant rebuilding and repair of its fortifications in the Hellenistic period. While there is a slight increase in the number of rural sites in the Hellenistic period, as compared to the Classical, significantly they tend to be both smaller in size and have lower sherd densities than in previous periods. The settlement focus definitely appears to be on the west of the peninsula, with the largest sites occurring on that side.76 There is also a high degree of continuity in site use between the Hellenistic and Classical periods, with several new foundations apparently focusing on agricultural processing (MS106 and MS117). Other new foundations appear to be farmstead types, perhaps used for more than just subsistence level agriculture, but occurring on more marginal land.77

Figure 6. Methana Survey on-site sampling strategy. include the raw counts, allowing for a reconstruction of relative sherd densities.

This pattern, which is not typical for the Hellenistic period, can be tied to the particular historical circumstances surrounding the peninsula. In the 3rd century, some time before 270 BC, Methana became the site of a Ptolemaic garrison. After 270 BC, Methana was renamed Arsinoë, in honour of Arsinoë II.78 The Ptolemaic garrison remained until c.145 BC, and was the last Ptolemaic base in the Aegean. Relations between the garrison and local inhabitants are thought to have been good, because the area prospers. Unlike other areas of Greece, the Early Hellenistic is one of prosperity for Methana.

The survey interpreted their data as follows: in the Hellenistic period, the Methana peninsula was likely host to a Ptolemaic garrison, and the local polis-centre was renamed Arsinoë.68 Rural settlement remained at a fairly consistent level with that of the preceding Classical period, despite a recorded volcanic explosion in the 3rd century.69 These sites are typically small in size, and may have been primarily agricultural processing sites.70 The Early Roman period saw a fall in site numbers, with a shift towards a more dispersed settlement pattern from the 2nd century AD onwards. The presence of one of the earliest Roman bath complexes in Achaea, albeit a small one, suggests that there is some elite patronage of the peninsula.71 Temporary abandonment of sites appears to have occurred around 300 AD, perhaps indirectly due to the Herulian invasion.72

This situation does begin to change somewhat in the late 2nd century and into the 1st century BC. Some Hellenistic sites disappear in this period, but there is no dramatic change in the settled landscape of the peninsula. This suggests a continuing exploitation of the land, similar in manner and extent, for all of the Hellenistic period. The traditional model of population decrease and economic downturn for Hellenistic Greece does not apply.79

Conclusions for Methana Survey (Hellenistic) The Methana survey is a rare example of a combined survey, as it surveyed the principal urban site (MS10) of the peninsula along with the countryside.73 However, there was no significant change in methodology in how the urban site was sampled – it was treated simply as another site. This methodology works well for a site the size of ancient Methana, but would not be viable on larger urban areas.74 Even so, it would have been useful 68

Gill, Foxhall, et al. 1997: 73-74. Gill, Foxhall, et al. 1997: 69, 74. For the volcanic eruption, see Pausanias (2.34.2). 70 Gill, Foxhall, et al. 1997: 72-75. 71 Bowden and Gill 1997: 78-81, on the baths see 81, 142. 72 Bowden and Gill 1997: 82. 73 Mee, Bowden, et al. 1997: 122-127. 74 Differences between rural and urban survey are discussed in detail in Lolos, Gourley, et al. 2007. 69

75

Mee, Bowden, et al. 1997: 123. Although volcanic activity affected the north of the peninsula in the mid-3rd century. Pausanias, 2.34.2. Gill, Foxhall, et al. 1997: 74. 77 MS19/20, MS25, MS196, MS209. MS209 is particularly large and continues into the Roman period. Gill, Foxhall, et al. 1997: 74. 78 IG xii.3.466; IG iv.76. Hiller 1925-26. 79 As identified for the Southern Argolid: Runnels and van Andel 1987: 110; and Boiotia: Bintliff 1985: 147. 76

47

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Period

Total

All Hellenistic Hellenistic only Hellenistic-Roman All Roman Roman only

48(54) 33(41) 15 26(17) 11(17)

Max. (ha) 7.00 7.00 1.60 1.60 0.13

Min. (ha)

Mean (ha) 0.51 0.52 0.46 0.34 0.08

0.006 0.006 0.07 0.01 0.01

‘Winsorised’ Mean (ha) 0.39 0.18 0.25 0.29 0.09

Median (ha) 0.20 0.36 0.40 0.15 0.08

Table 7. Methana Survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data.

Methana:

All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman

Total:

0.0-0.3 ha 32

0.3-1.0 ha 8

1.0-5.0 ha 7

5.0+ ha 1

TOTAL 48

9 9 41

3 1 9

2 0 7

1 0 1

15 10 58

Table 8. Methana Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers. Methana.84 Decrees of this type, which extend some aspects of citizenship rights to non-citizens (proxenia) and may also extend land-holding rights (ges enktesis) are typically referred to in modern literature simply as proxeny decrees.85 Decrees of this sort were famously used by Athens in the 5th century as an instrument of control within the Delian League, but by the 4th and 3rd centuries their use was much more widespread, with an acknowledged political (Xen. Hell. 6.1.4) and economic role (Ps.-Dem. Or. 52.10, IG II2 176) when specific components of citizenship (like enktesis and isoteleia) became included within grants of proxeny. They eventually became another tool in the euergestic relationship between Hellenistic monarchs and subject poleis.86 It is generally thought that grants of proxeny lost their significance after the Roman conquest, but really what the suggests is that grants between ‘ruler and ruled’ are what disappear – relationships between poleis could be, and were, managed through such decrees well into the Roman period.87

Conclusions for Methana Survey (Roman) If the picture painted by Hellenistic Methana is one of general prosperity, that painted by Roman Methana is significantly different. The polis centre sees a significant drop in size, and many Hellenistic sites disappear all together: of 48 that exist in the Hellenistic period, only 15 continue into the Roman, and MS10 contracts to c.5.25 ha.80 Those sites that do survive tend to be larger, as elsewhere, but there is a significant shift towards a more dispersed settlement pattern in the peninsula. Sites in the Roman period have a lower artefact density and are significantly smaller – the mean size essentially halves, from 0.18 ha to 0.09 ha. Still, settlement on the west side of the peninsula fares better than elsewhere, as in the Hellenistic period.81 The temptation is to view this change as an economic and demographic crisis,82 but it need not be so. A shift in land use and landholding patterns could account for the shift in the material culture of the period. While the 1st century BC is an uncertain time for much of southern Greece, the modern tendency to view it as significantly more turbulent than the 3rd and 2nd centuries may be largely the result of an ancient literary topos, and may reflect the lack of varied sources for the earlier centuries.83

This particular proxeny decree, admittedly circumstantial, is suggestive of the changing political landscape of the Peloponnese, and can account for some of the visible changes recovered through archaeological survey. It suggests that traditional patterns of land ownership may have been changing, and suggests that traditional patterns of land use may have changed along with them. It is not too far-fetched to suggest that the perceived change in land use is related to documented changes in land ownership. The peninsula, with its considerable areas of under-utilised land – as evidenced through the drop in

It may be more productive to view the changes in the peninsula as part of longer-term processes, such as changes in the rights of land use. Epigraphic evidence tells us of a late 1st century BC Corinthian with Roman citizenship, Lucius Licinnius Anteros, who is given the right to own land and the right to graze flocks in

84

SEG 37.321 = IG IV 853. On these decrees more generally, see VI.2.2 below and Wallace 1970; Marek 1984; Gastaldi 2004. 86 For example, IG IX 12 4.1750. Interesting, but tangential to this study, is the shift in Athenian use post-Chaironeia. Lambert 2006. 87 Marek 1984: 158-159. See also: Schachter 2007; Schachter and Slater 2007.

80

Table 5, and Mee, Bowden, et al. 1997: 123. 81 Table 6, and Bowden and Gill 1997: 80. 82 As at Keos. Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991b. 83 While certainly Polybius is an invaluable source, it is too much to expect him to be expert in all aspects of each region of Greece. For a discussion of his merits, see Derow 1994.

85

48

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 7. Methana survey sites overlying geology. After Mee and Forbes, 1997, fig. 2.1. limestone soils. The limestone soils in Methana are heavily eroded, quite thin, and the least suitable of all soils on Methana for intensive agriculture.91 Some of these sites also see an increase in the relative proportion of transport/storage vessels, and a decline in ceramics associated with cooking/kitchen types.

sites – would have been an ideal environment for pastoral and/or transhumant activities. It is sometimes stated that these decrees were simply honourific, and that the rights granted were seldom taken up.88 Though the evidence is far from conclusive, there are some instances of later, subsequent inscriptions attesting to the taking up of these rights.89 Moreover, the few synthetic studies of such decrees that exist seem to show that there is an increase in their incidence, over all, beginning in the Mid- to Late Hellenistic period.90 Admittedly, the single example from Methana is not proof of anything, but it is certainly suggestive of wider patterns that may have been occurring, and certainly needs to be taken into account when reconstructing the ancient landscape.

Early Roman Methana is a good example of a local population adapting to broader historical and political trends. In the 3rd century BC the old political elite tied themselves to the Ptolemaic garrison, and in the Roman period they allied themselves with the Romans. Where before the Ptolemaic garrison was a focus for local agriculture and economy, its removal saw the focus perhaps shift to supplying larger urban centres, such as Corinth or even Athens across the gulf – though the exact poleis involved are not clear. This may have necessitated a shift in land use and landholding.

The effect of these changing practices may have been to prevent the use of land by smallholders, and the increased exploitation of marginal areas. The majority of new sites in the Roman period occur on volcanic agglomerates and

91

It should be stressed here that these are quite general comparisons, and are meant to show relative suitability amongst the types listed, not overall suitability. The information for the Methana soils comes from James, Mee, et al. 1994; James, Atherton, et al. 1997.

88

Wallace 1970. 89 Marek 1984: 147-149, 158-159, 388; Gruen 1984: 169-172. 90 Marek 1984: 158-159; Harmond 1957: 73-75.

49

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

The Berbati-Limnes Survey Survey:

The Berbati-Limnes Archaeological Survey

Dates:

1988-1990

Survey Objectives:

• to study the interaction of man and environment through time, from the Middle Palaeolithic 50,000 years ago until the 18th century AD. • to determine the interdependence of site distribution, land use patterns, monument preservation, and the landscape. Survey Region: A natural unit bounded by high mountains on the south, west, and north; arbitrary terminus on the east. Altitude Range (metres above sea 100-700 (estimated) level): Extent (km2): 61 (25) Sampling Strategy (regional-level): Off-site Recording:

1. Judgmental sample of both individual and contiguous fields to encompass topographical and environmental diversity 2. Systematic unaligned transects Simple clicker counts of artefacts

Sampling Strategy (site-level):

Sites identified and processed as individual units

On-site Recording: Transect Sample Fraction:

Artefact counts derived from tract forms; predominantly qualitative recording 40.9%

Corridor Width:

1

Walker Spacing:

5-15

Field Sampling Fraction:

6-10%

Site Definition: Classification Schemes:

• defined qualitatively as discrete artefact scatters distinct from the background ‘Findspots’, abbreviated FS + site number in order of discovery

Min/Max Range:

H: 0.01/2.45; H/R: 0.11/0.53; R: 0.04/0.49

Comparative Data for Site Function Comparanda from other surveys; ceramic presence/absence; Analysis: ceramic types; architectural fragments; agricultural equipment Sub-surface Archaeology: Geological survey and small-scale hand-coring Survey Evaluation:

Visibility assessed through a mean derived from the field teams

Ceramics:

‘Grab sampling’ through a tract; functional and stylistic categories

Chronology: Publications:

Based on pre-existing pottery typologies, which are quite limited for the region Wells & Runnels 1996

Principal Authors:

B. Wells; C. Runnels; A. Penttinen; R. Forsell; E. Zangger

Box 4. Berbati-Limnes Metadata.

50

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 8. Berbati-Limnes survey area. After Wells, et al., 1996, fig. 4. walkers, dependent on visibility.96 While this allows for higher recovery rates of artefacts in areas of poor visibility, it does make it difficult to assess quantitatively the role visibility and vegetation play on surface archaeology. The survey area is 61 km2, of which 25 km2 was surveyed intensively, excluding the villages of Prosimna and Limnes.

Berbati-Limnes Survey Summary The Berbati-Limnes Archaeological Survey was carried out from 1988 to 1990 under the auspices of the Swedish Archaeological Institute in Athens,92 and was followed by the Berbati Valley Project – which focused on sampling particular sites discovered during the survey and reconstructing the agrarian economy of the valley – from 1994-1999.93 The Berbati valley is located on the northeastern edge of the Argive plain, and has several natural passes connecting this plain and the Corinthia, placing the valley in a strategic position along natural communication routes.94 Methodologically, the survey claims to be following closely the model laid down by Runnels et al. in the Southern Argolid survey.95 Thus, it is largely probabilistic with the data comprised of ‘findspots’ recovered from a series of contiguous or nearcontiguous tracts of irregular size, as determined by onthe-ground assessments of vegetation and visibility. This methodology also allows for a flexible spacing between

In terms of comparability, the Berbati-Limnes survey should be easily comparable to the Southern Argolid survey. Unfortunately, neither survey has published all of the data necessary for meaningful comparisons on a strict ‘data-only’ level. In the case of the Southern Argolid, this is due to be rectified in future publications.97 In regards to the Berbati survey, future publications will focus on particular aspects of the history and archaeology of the valley, and will not include the raw survey data.98 This, coupled with the incomplete data in the principal publication, makes direct survey-to-survey comparison quite difficult.99 As a result, the data presented on Tables 9 and 10 show a large discrepancy between that data used 96

Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 219; Wells 1996: 15-16. Runnels 2005. 98 As in Lindblom and Wells 2011. See also: Penttinen (2005): http://www.sia.gr/en/research/field_projects/berbati 99 That being said, re-evaluation of the survey data by others is taking place. See Penttinen 2001 and Hjohlman, Penttinen, et al. 2005.

92

Wells, Runnels, et al. 1990 n.1. 93 Hjohlman, Penttinen, et al. 2005; Lindblom and Wells 2011. 94 Much of the background and methodology of the project is published in Wells et al. 1990, and not reproduced for the final report. 95 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 219-246.

97

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Period

Total

All Hellenistic Hellenistic only Hellenistic-Roman All Roman Roman only

22(28) 18(24) 4 8(22) 4(18)

Max. (ha) 2.45 2.45 0.53 0.53 0.38

Min. (ha) 0.01 0.01 0.11 0.04 0.04

Mean (ha) 0.28 0.26 0.38 0.27 0.16

‘Winsorised’ Mean (ha) 0.18 0.045 0.44 0.26 0.10

Median (ha) 0.07 0.13 0.44 0.26 0.10

Table 9. Berbati-Limnes range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data. Berbati:

Total:

All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman

0.0-0.3 ha 16

0.3-1.0 ha 5

1.0-5.0 ha 1

5.0+ ha 0

TOTAL 22

1 4 20

3 0 5

0 0 1

0 0 0

4 4 26

Table 10. Berbati-Limnes Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers. for this study, and the data as presented in the survey’s final publication (in terms of site numbers). It should be noted, however, that though the project’s data provides these numbers, the project’s interpretations discount most of these sites as being significant.100

Conclusions for Berbati-Limnes (Hellenistic) Epigraphical and textual sources, focused understandably on Argos, led the surveyors to conclude that many of the farmsteads of the Berbati valley were kleroi of the 5th century, with individual sherd scatters representing only a small fraction of the approximately 10 ha total size of the farmsteads.106 The Hellenistic evidence is more ambiguous, however. New sites seem to occur on the periphery of the valley, at a higher altitude, while the numbers of established sites in the centre of the valley seem to decrease – the kleroi system of equal allotments has broken down.

There is one final caveat concerning the Berbati-Limnes results: the geomorphology of the valley is such that sites on soils other than the alluvial fans may be underrepresented. The surveyors note that there has been significant soil erosion, especially in relation to exposed marl soils. So while the settlement pattern appears to be focused very specifically in the region around the modern village of Prosimna, this could be a result of landscape change in the last 2000 years.101

While it is true that the total number of sites is higher at the beginning of this period (c.4th century), this does not seem to indicate increased population, but rather a more dispersed settlement pattern accommodating fewer people overall, perhaps. It may also be indicative of an increase in pastoral or transhumant activities.107 The trend in the 3rd century – indeed through most of the Hellenistic period – is for the development of larger estates through most of the valley. Not all of the sites conform to this, however, and there is some evidence for the resettlement of the western edge of the valley in the 3rd century, perhaps related to the re-emergence of Mycenae as a political entity separate from Argos.108 In other words, the Early Hellenistic period sees a more diversified settlement pattern that is perhaps indicative of a more diversified rural economy than in previous centuries, likely focused on subsistence-based mixed agriculture and pastoralism.

The survey interpreted their data as follows: a major resettlement of the sparsely populated valley occurred in the 5th century BC, apparently when it had fallen under Argive control.102 This ushered in a period of dispersed settlement, albeit with relatively few sites, which was focused on the east of the valley. With the revival of Mycenae in the late 300s, this resettlement expanded westwards.103 However, these new sites did not last particularly long and a large proportion may have been deserted by the end of the 3rd century BC.104 After this time there is essentially only one substantial site in the valley, and this is the pattern that continues into the Roman period. This one large site ‘becomes’ a villa rustica, and the small numbers of sites in the valley at this period are seen as supporting structures.105

100 Though the reasons for this are seldom clear. For more on this, see the review by Cherry 1998: 825. 101 Wells, Runnels, et al. 1990: 212-214; Wells and Runnels 1996: 453454. 1990: 212-214, 1996: 453-454. 102 Penttinen 1996: 280. 103 Penttinen 1996: 279, 281. 104 Penttinen 1996: 281. 105 Forsell 1996: 337-340, 342.

106

Penttinen 1996: 279. Compare with Halieis: Jameson 1992: 135ff. As suggested for northern Greece in Chang 1994. 108 Boethius 1921-23: 422. 107

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 9. Berbati survey sites overlying geology. After Higgins and Higgins, 1996, fig. 5.1. According to the final report, from the 2nd century BC onward there seems to be essentially one site in the valley (FS506), which has been interpreted as a large villa or estate similar to Roman types.109 Other sites were postulated but not found,110 and it certainly seems likely that there should be more than one large site for this period in the valley. Certainly, remains of towers dotted around the valley seem to suggest the presence of more substantial farmsteads. Dates for these towers are not available, though the excavated example at Pyrgouthi shows a late 4th to early 3rd century BC foundation with parts in use well into the Late Roman period.111

most likely either Corinth or Argos as a means of defining the extent of their territorial claims. Conclusions for Berbati-Limnes (Roman) Berbati in the Early Roman period is essentially a period exemplified by discontinuity – almost a transitional phase between the Hellenistic modes of settlement and what was to come in the Late Roman period, though undoubtedly this was by accident rather than design. Early Roman material is scarce, in keeping with archaeological results of many surveys in the Peloponnese.114 The now-excavated site at Pyrgouthi was the only one that seemed to belong to this period, and it was situated above the 300 masl line on the valley slopes.115 However, its use was much different from preceding periods. Gone was the serviceable tower; in its place was a mix of structures built from re-used blocks that strongly suggest mixed pastoral and agricultural activity.116 Elsewhere on the valley slopes, however, activity appears to dry up. In fact, the general archaeological scarcity of anything significant during this period suggests either a mass depopulation of the valley, general impoverishment, or a significant dispersal of existing populations. Arguing from archaeological silence is always dangerous, but the lessening importance of state boundaries in the post civil wars period (ie late 1st century BC)117 may mean that there is a shift from simple

While these need not be the traditional ‘fortified farms’ of the literature,112 they do suggest that: a) there is something worth protecting in the valley, and/or b) the agriculture of the valley is significantly profitable to allow for the construction of such towers, either for storage or for defence.113 Of course, the possibility also exists that these towers have nothing to do with the local agriculture of the valley at all, and represent an investment by some other power, in these circumstances

109

Penttinen 1996: 281. Penttinen 1996: 235-236. 111 This use involves the re-use of blocks and lower courses of masonry. The tower itself appears to have been essentially destroyed by the 1st century BC. Penttinen 2001: 61-62, 91; Hjohlman, Penttinen, et al. 2005. 112 Debate continues regarding whether these towers are true fortifications, or simply for storage. The answer is likely site and context specific – either built for storage but doubling as defensive structures, or vice versa. Compare Lohmann 1993: 138f.; Pikoulas 2000: 306-309. See also the discussion for the Southern Argolid, p.61 below. 113 Penttinen 2001: 114. 110

114

Alcock 1993a: 24-32. Forsell 1996: 336f. 116 Penttinen 2001: 114-116. 117 Alcock 1993a: 120-121. 115

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 10. Asea Valley survey area. After Forsén and Forsén, 2003, fig. 3. pastoral activities to more concerted transhumant behaviour that crosses the polis-border.118

to be careful to see that as far from the norm. It is a development of the Late Hellenistic and Roman period, it is in many respects peripheral to the principal activities of the valley, despite its central location.

Moving through the Early Roman and into Later Roman periods, activity appears concentrated on the valley bottom, with a variety of findspots clustered quite closely together. Mixed in with what appear to be domestic and/or production sites (for example FS501, FS504) are grave sites (FS403, FS507) and larger sites with architecture – including marble column drums, threshold blocks, and pieces of mosaic floor (FS500, FS504).119

The Asea Valley Survey Asea Valley Survey Summary The Asea Valley survey was carried out from 1994 to 1996 under the auspices of the Swedish Archaeological Institute in Athens. Asea is located in the centre of Arcadia, between Tegea and Megalopolis, and has long served as a major thoroughfare between Corinthia and Messenia, as well as Laconia and the north generally. Methodologically, the survey claims to be following closely the model laid down by Cherry et al. in the Keos survey,121 though with emendations. Thus, it is largely probabilistic and comprised of contiguous or nearcontiguous tracts of irregular size. The survey area is 40.2 km2, of which 18.7 km2 was surveyed intensively. The remaining area was explored, however, but in a much more superficial manner.

The most telling conclusion regarding the Berbati valley can be found in Penttinen’s 2001 dissertation. He sees the Berbati valley as perpetually a border area, and whether dominated by Corinth, Argos, or even the relatively diminutive Mycenae, its archaeological record exemplifies that status and agrees with his interpretation.120 Sedentary agriculture is by far the minority interest for most of those who inhabit the valley, with pastoralism or transhumance perhaps forming the bulk of the residents’ agricultural activities. While it is true that large-scale agriculture exists in the valley, in the form of FS506 (and perhaps a few other sites), one needs

This raises immediate concerns regarding the comparability of the information within the survey. Certainly, ground cover and visibility were admitted

118

Certainly the known presence of negotiatores at Argos in the early 1st century BC provides a reason for such a shift. van Berchem 1962: 305; Zoumbaki 1998-1999. 119 Findspots discussed in detail in Forsell 1996: 298-311. 120 Penttinen 2001: 96-99.

121

54

Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991c.

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Survey:

The Asea Valley Survey

Dates:

1994-1996

Survey Objectives:

• to set in a regional context previous excavations • diachronic changes in geomorphology and land use • the influence of road-networks on settlement patterning Survey Region: The valley of Asea, situated between Tegea and Megalopolis; forms one of the main northern thoroughfares out of Laconia. Altitude Range (metres above sea 640-916 level): Extent (km2): 40.2 (18.7) Sampling Strategy (regional-level):

On-site Recording:

1. Judgmental sample of both individual and contiguous fields to assess soils and ecology 2. Systematic unaligned transects 3. Problem orientated Background density determined through clicker counts of sherds and tile Sites identified and sampled as individual units using Keos model, involving 3 different methods: 1. 5 m2 circular sampling units; total collection 2. ‘Grab’ samples from 4 quadrants 3. Single site ‘grabs’ by walkers 1-3 m apart see above

Transect Sample Fraction:

46.5 %

Corridor Width:

1m

Walker Spacing:

10-15 m

Field Sampling Fraction:

10-6.6 %

Site Definition:

3.00 finds/100 m2 (average background noise 0.07 finds/100 m2)

Classification Schemes:

Within zones (A-J), sites numbered sequentially as S x

Min/Max Range:

H: 0.02/1.14; H-R: 0.07/7.90; R: 0.07/7.90

Off-site Recording: Sampling Strategy (site-level):

Comparative Data for Site Function Comparanda from other surveys; ceramic presence/absence; Analysis:

ceramic types; soil(s) analysis

Sub-surface Archaeology:

Soil phosphorus analysis for each site

Survey Evaluation:

Some correction filters applied due to visibility

Ceramics:

Split into functional categories, though fine and medium wares taken as one; coarse wares sampled; no recorded proportion of . diagnostic:undiagnostic Based on pre-existing pottery typologies, with Archaic-Hellenistic taken as one period Forsén 2003; Forsén 1996

Chronology: Publications: Principal Authors:

J. Forsén , B. Forsén , M. Lavento, M. Alram, E. Alram-Stern, T. Carter, A. Karivieri, C. MacKay, R. Frederiksen, W. Yielding

Box 5. Asea Valley Metadata.

55

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE problems,122 but little seems to have been done to account for it. In fact, though the field-walking methodology as presented in the text is fairly standard, the presentation, analysis and interpretation of the results makes comparison difficult. The most important barrier to datalevel comparison between surveys is the Asea survey’s strict adherence to artefact density, as opposed to separate sherd and tile densities.123 Without weights, or separate counts within categories, it is impossible to tell exactly what these densities are representative of.

for any region of southern Greece.131 Therefore, the majority of Hellenistic sites discovered by the survey are identified on the basis of very few sherds from known imported Hellenistic pottery types, and not on the basis of prevalence of material.132 The survey divided its sites into a three-tiered hierarchy, defined on the basis of site size (in hectares): sites larger than 10 ha, sites varying in size between 1-4 ha, and sites between 0.01 and 0.9 ha.133 Generally this translates into: polis centre, village/hamlet, and farmstead, though there are exceptions to this interpretation (especially for thirdtier sites: see Table 12 below.).

Moreover, the data for each ‘site’ are presented without total numbers of pottery and/or tile – simply the ‘type’ sherds are listed. Thus, though one site may have a density of 29.28 artefacts per m2, only 27 sherds and 3 tiles are listed in the site gazetteer (for a site of 0.74 ha).124 This poses distinct problems for comparability between surveys, as there is no way to re-calculate the densities, and the data manipulation is therefore severely constrained. While admittedly many surveys only publish the specifics of ‘type’ sherds, usually total numbers are provided.125

The top-tier site, the polis centre of Asea (S60), is not the focus of this study. It is the rural settlements that remain the means to answer the research questions. Still, the polis of Asea requires some mention, as it is variously described as an independent political entity and a dependent settlement of Megalopolis following the great synoecism in 368 BC (cf. Diodorus 15.72.4 and 15.94.13; Pausanias 8.27.1-7); there is some debate concerning its exact status.134 There is even some debate surrounding whether or not a polis requires an urban core, however small, to qualify as a polis after the Classical period.135 If it is necessary, then S60 is surely it. If not, then the interpretation of the valley must be markedly different.

The survey interpreted their data as follows: the Hellenistic period is characterized, where it can be recognized, by a dispersed settlement pattern. This is attributed to an increasing population, and a necessary shift towards intensive agriculture,126 based on the project’s understanding of Bintliff’s ‘upland boom-bust’ model.127 There is no sudden shift in settlement from the Late Hellenistic to the Early Roman periods.128 This changes within the valley in the late 1st century BC and early 1st century AD. Several sites are abandoned and several new ones of an entirely different character are established.129 These are identified as villae rusticae.130 Overall, the valley has a general history of nucleation interspersed with more dispersed settlement patterns.

Whatever the truth is concerning Asea’s status, it was a fairly major settlement in the Hellenistic period. Indeed, Holmer, on the basis of his pre-WWII excavations, believed it to be a Hellenistic foundation, though this now seems unlikely.136 The survey found evidence of continuous occupation from the Late Archaic to the Roman periods, as well as accompanying continuity in major cult centres attached to the polis.137 Interestingly, there is also evidence of some contraction of this settlement, beginning in the 3rd century and continuing into the Late Roman period.138 This contraction might be

Conclusions for Asea Survey (Hellenistic) The Hellenistic material is very difficult to judge, due largely to the fact that it was not treated as a separate corpus by the project, and instead forms the end-point of the Archaic-Hellenistic period. This is not the fault of the surveyors, as very little is known of local Hellenistic (or Classical or Archaic) pottery it is exceedingly difficult to typologise the survey material. What is needed is a broad corpus of securely excavated material that can form the basis of a local ceramic sequence – this is yet to appear

131

This is a not uncommon problem for survey projects. In other words, the Asea valley survey has a much more ‘intuitive’ approach to identifying predominant periods of sites, relying on the general ‘feel’ of the material in the field to decide the period(s) represented beyond type sherds. While most surveys do have an aspect of this, and one should not deny the intuitive aspect of archaeology, there is usually an attempt to quantify it in some manner. For instance, see Gallant 1986. 133 Forsén 2003a: 260-262. Based on Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 74. 134 Summarized by Roy 1968: 146-147; Nielsen 1996. 135 Although this stance is largely limited to those who disagree with the findings of the magisterial Copenhagen Polis Centre. Their definition of a polis is quite flexible, and can be reduced to two factors: what the Greeks themselves thought constituted a polis, and the relationship – often antithetical – between the urban core and its territory. It should be noted that their study of the polis stops at the end of the 4th century. Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 6-9. This opposition between polis and chora is best described by Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 76-78. 136 Forsén 2003a: 247-249. 137 Forsén 2003a: 260. Cult activity at the major sanctuary (S60/35-36; as defined by the survey) continues into the late 3rd century BC, but is uncertain after this date. 138 Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 307-308. 132

122

Forsén 2003c: 14-15. Forsén 2003c: 18-20. 124 Site S1, Forsén and Forsén 2003a: 86-87. 125 It may be that the issue of side-by-side comparison is resolved not through commonality of methods (which is not only likely impossible, but unwanted), but commonality in publication for specific data categories. 126 Forsén 2003a: 266, 270-271. 127 As discussed in Bintliff 1997: esp. 30-32. 128 Forsén 2003a: 270; Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 307. 129 Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 307-308. 130 Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 309-311. 123

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Period

Total

All Hellenistic Hellenistic only Hellenistic-Roman All Roman Roman only

25(28) 17 8(11) 21(26) 13(15)

Max. (ha) 7.90 1.14 7.90 7.90 1.20

Min. (ha) 0.02 0.02 0.07 0.07 0.10

Mean (ha) 0.91 0.29 2.22 1.08 0.38

‘Winsorised’ Mean (ha) 0.64 0.25 1.63 0.77 0.33

Median (ha) 0.22 0.14 1.15 0.32 0.30

Table 11. Asea Valley Survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data. Asea:

Total:

All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman

0.0-0.3 ha 14

0.3-1.0 ha 6

1.0-5.0 ha 4

5.0+ ha 1

TOTAL 25

2 8 22

2 4 10

3 1 5

1 0 1

8 13 38

Table 12. Asea Valley Survey site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers. polis of Asea, then this distance simply represents the catchment area needed to support settlements of this size. It should be noted that determining political status (such as dependency) from survey evidence alone is problematic at best. Asserting economic dependency (or at least embeddedness) is far more certain.

thought to be a result of the creation of Megalopolis, but instead of levelling off, as might be expected, it seems to continue as a slow, protracted, and (as evidenced from the survey data) continuous decline into the Roman period. In fact, when the data are examined more critically, the survey shows evidence of a persistent dispersed settlement pattern in the valley, with only occasional periods of nucleation – such as that evidenced, perhaps, by the foundation of the urban centre of S60. I would suggest that there are other factors involved in the dispersal of settlement patterning in the valley, beyond simply the creation of Megalopolis, or a reaction to the wars of the Diadochoi.140 It is possible to go further down this line of reasoning, and suggest that what requires explanation is not the valley norm of the dispersed settlement pattern, but those intermittent periods where the norm is reversed.141

The surveyors seem to take it as given that the criterion for the polis status of Asea is the presence or absence of a dominant urban core.146 If this is correct, then their interpretation must be accurate – a general history of nucleation interspersed with more dispersed settlement patterns. However, the survey evidence seems to suggest that the norm for the valley is the opposite – dispersed settlements interspersed with shorter periods of nucleated settlement. Perhaps an alternative explanation would be to view the entire valley of Asea in the Hellenistic period as the polis, regardless of the presence of a dominant urban centre. Instead of this polis being formed from the urban core out, it might be seen as a federated collection of villages and farmsteads, without any dominant urban centre. S60 exists as the place where the business of government was carried out, and the home of the most significant polis shrines, but not as the catalyst that led to the creation of the polis of Asea – it is instead the product. This is supported by the dispersed settlement pattern that seems to persist over various periods, the generally poor track record of S60, and the large 3 to 5 km spacing between second-tier sites. This also agrees with de Polignac’s notion of a polis being defined by its boundaries, not its urban core, though admittedly, evidence of cult at the boundaries of the valley is sporadic.147 This idea is further supported by the evidence of the Roman periods. It should be stressed, however, that this ‘federal’ union is different from what the evidence for the Classical period

The village sites (S15-16, S47, S91) produced similar categories of evidence to the top-tier site: proximity to water sources, on or near roads or trackways, and the prevalence of domestic artefacts, such as bobbins and loom weights, as well as pottery.142 These sites are generally 3 to 5 km from S60 itself. The surveyors take this as confirmation that they are dependent settlements of the larger urban core, and despite the fact that the regional norm for dependent komai tends to be 1 to 3 km – as established for Megalopolis,143 the upper Helisson valley,144 and other adjacent valleys in Arcadia145 – this explanation does make the most sense if S60 really is the urban core of the polis. If there is no urban core for the 140 Circumstances and effects of these wars are well studied by Chaniotis 2005. 141 Contrary to the prevalent approach among survey reports. 142 Forsén 2003a: 262. Finds described pp. 236-239. 143 Roy, Lloyd, et al. 1992. 144 Pikoulas 1999: maps 1-2. 145 As mentioned by Forsén 2003a: 262.

146 Criteria defined by Hansen for Classical poleis. Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 30-32. 147 de Polignac 1995: 9, 150-151; Forsén and Forsén 2003b: 333-334.

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 11. Asea valley survey sites overlying geology. After Forsén & Forsén, 2003, fig. 5. Primarily, as with most of the projects reviewed in this study, there is no abrupt shift from the Late Hellenistic to the Early Roman and much of the material culture seems to continue as before. During the Early Roman period, however, changes in the settlement pattern do appear. In fact, the important watershed for the Peloponnese as a whole may be the creation of the province of Achaia (and its pan-generational fallout) rather than the conquest of 146 and following hegemony. Perhaps the most important change in this period is that the polis of Asea does not seem to exist as an independent political entity, though the valley is continuously occupied.151 Pausanias (8.44.3) certainly mentions that the old urban core lay in ruins in his day, but Strabo (8.3.12) seems to suggest that Asea is a dependent kome of Megalopolis, i.e. an outlying village dependent on that polis. Excavations on the site have produced mixed results.152 The most likely explanation

suggests,148 but it need not run contrary to a loose interpretation of the ‘Copenhagen Law of the Polis’, which states that anything called a polis will have an urban core, even if small.149 Conclusions for Asea survey (Roman) The interpretation of the Roman material from the Asea survey was hampered by several major problems. Generally, there is a paucity of published comparanda, especially for the coarse wares, and visibility within transects was far from ideal.150 No mention of correction filters or other statistical formulae appears in the text, and, as with the Hellenistic material, much of what is presented in the published report rests on a methodology that inhibits untangling the data behind the interpretations.

151

Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 307. Holmberg 1944: 173. Holmberg follows Pausanias and thinks the site is abandoned in the 1st century BC. Restudy of his excavated material found evidence of occupation into the 1st century AD, though this amounts to a lamp fragment and a fibula. It should be noted that 152

148

As collected and discussed in Forsén 2003a: 252-257. Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 39-46. 150 Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 307. 149

58

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE quantities of imported finewares from the Early and Middle Roman periods seems to support this notion, although it should be noted that there is a general dearth of such material from Arcadia in general.161

seems to be that Asea is no longer a polis by the 1st century BC, and perhaps continues to lose population into the 1st century AD, leading to the state of preservation that Pausanias records in the 2nd century. The survey did find Roman material within the urban area of Asea (S60),153 but one cannot necessarily tie that material to any formalised urban occupation of the area – perhaps it is evidence of occasional use, continuing cult practice, or sporadic occupation by family groups of agriculturists or pastoralists, or any combination therein.154

This suggests the region was tangentially tied in to the broader economy of the Peloponnese. Few imports of fine wares in the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods suggest that Asea exists as a localised economy serving localised needs and attracting little outside interest. The new establishments of the Early Roman period, though they grow in later periods and assume a role similar to other large Roman sites in other regions, grew slowly and in an agglomerative fashion that suggests that this was the result of internal processes, rather than as a reaction to external stimuli.

The previously discussed Hellenistic ‘villages’ (S15-16, S47, S91) produced similar patterns to S60: continued occupation of some sort into the Early Roman period, then a significant drop in material from the Middle and Late Roman periods. Taken together, what appears is a picture of reduced population density within the urban ‘core’ and the outlying villages.

This is surprising when one considers that the Asea valley was on one of the major routes from Megalopolis to Laconia, and some of the limited epigraphic evidence suggests that elites from both those areas used the valley as pasture for their flocks.162 It is not clear whether this meant that the flocks were managed by local pastoralists on behalf of regional elites, or whether the Asea valley was used as a route for longer-distance transhumance of flocks.163 Certainly there were known links between the elites from both poleis in the Roman period, so either scenario is plausible.164 Given the traffic that must have passed through the valley, it is unusual that this is not accompanied by evidence of imports. It could be that alluviation along the valley floor – the likely route of the principal road – has destroyed some settlement evidence, but it is unlikely that the rest of the valley would not be representative of broader trends.

Within the valley itself, settlement patterns seem to shift during the Early Roman period. Several sites are abandoned (S54 being the best example), and several new ones of an entirely different character are established (particularly S1, S22-23, S61, S76, S90). These are identified by the project directors as villae rusticae, after the criteria established by Alcock.155 Certainly these new establishments are Roman farmsteads, and grow into significant ones at that, but whether or not they qualify as villae is a matter open to debate.156 These new establishments do share several characteristics: situated on low foothills; close to or on fairly fertile agricultural land, and; close to abundant water sources.157 Some of them also have evidence for ‘elite features’, such as hypocausts158 and mosaics.159 Most importantly, however, is the fact that the floruit of these settlements is the Late Roman period, though they are all established during the Early Roman. The new settlements of the Early Roman period perhaps precipitate a slow ‘bleeding’ of population from the established Hellenistic villages and hamlets towards the larger estates and their dependent small-holdings,160 suggestive of no wholesale shift in practice from the Hellenistic model of small villages and outlying farmsteads to a Roman model of larger villas with small dependent holdings; rather, the change is slow and takes several generations to occur. The lack of significant

It is of this region in general (and Megalopolis in particular) that Strabo (8.8.1-2) uses his famous phrase ‘a great desert.’ While the Asea survey may be the most problematic of the surveys used in this study – in terms of facilitating comparison – it still provides enough information to challenge the generalising assumptions of these two ancient sources. Far from depopulated, the Asea valley is an excellent example of a particular region exhibiting localised changes and evolution over time, almost despite the broader political and social history of the Peloponnese. What happens in the Asea valley is a reaction to and product of the Asea valley and its immediate neighbours – and not the increasing Roman hegemony of the Peloponnese. That being said, both Megalopolis and Sparta may have had an impact on the nature and extent of land use within the valley, especially towards the closing decades of the 1st century BC.

komai need not be dependent on another settlement, and are often treated simply as a ‘size’ category. 153 Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 308. 154 See discussion above, and Garnsey 1988; Forbes 1995. 155 Alcock 1993a: 63-71; Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 309. 156 Certainly the tendency among archaeologists has been to see either many villas in the Greek landscapes, or none, with very little middle ground. For an overview of the debate, see Foxhall 2001; Pettegrew 2001; Pettegrew 2002. 157 At least in modern times. The project recognized that the hydrology of the valley has changed significantly in the intervening centuries. Forsén and Karivieri 2003: 309. 158 S1 and S90. 159 S61. 160 Cartledge and Spawforth 1989: 151-152.

161

Lloyd 1991: 190-191. Inscriptions relating specifically to animal husbandry are scarce. Those that are important, either directly or indirectly, for Asea, Laconia and Megalopolis are: IG V.1.18b, 129, 213, 465, 961; IG V.2.s.v.; esp. IG V.2.86, 456. Broader examples from further afield were collected by Robert and analysed by Georgoudi 1977. 163 Hodkinson 1988: 55-57, 61-63, esp. 66-67; but note the rebuttal in Skydsgaard 1988: 85, n.27. 164 Explored in full in Cartledge and Spawforth 1989: esp. 103, 175. 162

59

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

The Southern Argolid Survey Survey:

Argolid Exploration Project

Dates:

1972, 1979-1982

Survey Objectives:

• to establish the pattern of human settlement over time • to set in a regional context previous excavations • diachronic changes in geomorphology and land use • site prospection and recording

Survey Region:

225 km2 peninsula in the Southern Argolid, south of the Adheres range; roughly comprising the Epharkia Ermionidhos

Altitude Range (metres above sea 0-330 level): Extent (km2): 44 Sampling Strategy (regional-level):

1. Judgmental sample of both individual and contiguous fields to encompass topographical and environmental diversity 2. Systematic unaligned transects 3. Problem orientated

Off-site Recording:

None

Sampling Strategy (site-level):

Sites identified and sampled as individual units

On-site Recording:

Transect Sample Fraction:

Sites < 1.0 ha: random transect determined, samples taken along a 1 m wide corridor. Sites > 1.0 ha: a random number generator used to decide on transect orientation, then a 10 m2 circle was sampled at regular intervals along the transect; repeated 16 to 32 times. 5%

Corridor Width:

1m

Walker Spacing:

5-15 m (visibility/environment dependent)

Field Sampling Fraction:

6.6-20%

Site Definition: Classification Schemes:

Any location with ancient features such as architectural remains, or a concentration of cultural materials having a recognizable boundary Region code + sequentially assigned number

Min/Max Range:

H: 0.004/1.80; H-R: 0.06/22.50; R: 0.01/0.64

Comparative Data for Site Function Ceramic presence/absence; ceramic types; architectural fragments; Analysis: agricultural equipment Sub-surface Archaeology:

Limited soil sampling

Survey Evaluation:

Limited resurvey or ‘site verification’

Ceramics:

Split into functional categories, predominantly fine wares, though coarse wares sampled.

Chronology:

Based on pre-existing pottery typologies

Publications:

Jameson, et al., 1994; Runnels, et al., 1995.

Principal Authors:

M. Jameson; C. Runnels; T. van Andel; D. Pullen; S. Langdon; H. Forbes; E. Zangger.

Box 6. Southern Argolid Metadata.

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 12. Southern Argolid survey area. After Jameson, et al., 1994, fig. 4.1. was not as rigorous or statistically sound as that found in later, ‘second generation’ surveys. Chiefly, this can be seen in the relatively coarse periodisation employed,168 the use of ‘transect and grab’ samples for individual sites,169 the irregular recording of information for some sites,170 the lack of ‘off-site’ data, and its over-emphasis on numerical decline as an explanatory factor in and of itself.171

Southern Argolid Survey Summary The Argolid Exploration Project, frequently referred to as the Southern Argolid Survey in publications (and throughout this study), was conducted primarily from 1979 to 1982, with an initial season of limited intensive survey in 1972 which focused on the area around the Franchthi Cave.165 The survey focused on the area of the Argolid south of the Andheres range, and though significant patches of the area were not open to survey, it intensively surveyed around 44 km2 of the total 225 km2.166

Still, the problems with the survey are largely a product of their time; due to its chronological scope, methodological advancements (for its time), and incorporation of a wide range of environmental data, the Southern Argolid survey represented an important milestone for intensive archaeological field survey in Greece; so much so, in fact, that both the Laconia and Methana surveys’ methodologies were devised with an

The principal aims of the survey were to establish the long term settlement and land use history of this region of the Southern Argolid, and to record as many sites as possible due to the threat from increasing development and agricultural mechanisation.167 As one of the earliest of the ‘New Wave’ archaeological surveys in Greece, the methodology and interpretation employed by the survey

168

See Table 3, above. Discussed Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 224-228. Implicitly critiqued in Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990: 604-606; Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 401. 170 As seen in the site gazetteer and its introductory remarks. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 416-420, 422-526. 171 For example: Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 371-372, 394, 396-397, 399, 404. 169

165

Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 215-216. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 217-218. 167 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 10-12, 218-220. 166

61

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Period

Total

All Hellenistic 350 BC -250 BC 350 BC -50 BC 250 BC -50 BC Hellenistic only Hellenistic-Roman All Roman Roman only

107(144) 64 (80) 23 (23) 14 (21) 101(124) 6(20) 10(29) 4(9)

Max. (ha) 22.50 3.00 5.00 3.00 5.00 22.50 22.50 0.40

Min. (ha) 0.004 0.004 0.01 0.06 0.004 0.17 0.01 0.01

Mean (ha) 0.76 0.28 0.85 0.79 0.48 5.05 3.10 0.19

‘Winsorised’ Mean (ha) 0.54 0.21 0.70 0.66 0.38 1.91 1.07 0.17

Median (ha) 0.20 0.15 0.30 0.37 0.20 0.70 0.34 0.15

Table 13. Southern Argolid survey range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data. S. Argolid:

All Hell. 350 BC -250 BC 350 BC -50 BC 250 BC -50 BC Hell. – Rom. Only Roman

Total:

0.0-0.3 ha 70

0.3-1.0 ha 23

1.0-5.0 ha 12

5.0+ ha 2

TOTAL 107

48 13 5 4 3 73

14 3 6 0 1 24

2 7 3 0 0 12

0 0 0 2 0 2

64 23 14 6 4 111

Table 14. Southern Argolid site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers. eye towards facilitating comparison with this project’s data.172 Thus, its broad methodology is quite similar to that employed by those surveys: systematic walking of unaligned transects (with teams of 5 people, spaced between 5 and 15 metres apart), largely defined on the basis of modern land use, and the sampling of sites recognised within those transects. Site sampling involved imposing orthogonal transects on a site, with orientation determined by a random number generator, followed by sampling at regular intervals along those transects.173

Finally, a word must be said regarding the periodisation of the survey. As can be seen in Tables 13 and 14 above, the periodisation employed by the survey was somewhat unique. It was useful, however, in highlighting the Late Classical–Early Hellenistic jump in site numbers. As such, the discussion of this survey differs from the previous discussions in dividing the Hellenistic period sites quite strictly into four categories: Late Classical– Early Hellenistic, 350 BC-250 BC; Late Classical– Hellenistic, 350 BC-50 BC; Hellenistic, 250 BC-50 BC; and Hellenistic–Roman, 250 BC-AD 200.

The interpretation as presented in the publications of the project are firmly set in the Annales school – the focus is very much on the long-term and the diachronic. This was justified by stating in the main publication that two specialist studies would be forthcoming.174 Importantly for this present study, publication of the second volume of Artifact & Assemblage, which is to deal with the historic periods of the survey (Archaic to Late Roman), has been delayed repeatedly.175 This, coupled with some inconsistencies in the presentation of the data, has made comparison of all sites on a data-level difficult. As such, some accommodations have had to be made with the data, and sites with incomplete information have not been included in this study.

The survey interpreted their data as follows: the Classical period ends with an explosion of small sites in the Southern Argolid. These sites, ostensibly intensive olive oil production sites for the most part, survive for around 100 years only.176 Subsequently, there is a decline in site numbers primarily amongst these same sites, though this decline is also related in part to the abandonment of Halieis, one of the two regional major town sites, and increasing nucleation.177 There is a relatively low level of site continuity into the Roman period, and a continued decline in overall site numbers.178 This is related to broader Argive trends of increased elite land-holding, and a broad pattern of increased estate-based agriculture, with concomitant rural residence, is proposed.179 It is not until the Late Roman period that the Southern Argolid once more shifts towards a more dispersed settlement pattern, with a mix of large estates and smaller farmstead sites.180

172

Laconia: Cavanagh, Shipley, et al. 2002: 39-40; Methana: Forbes and Mee 1997: 3. Though not to the extent that subsequent methodological developments were ignored in order to ease comparison. 173 The size of the intervals was determined by the size of the site being sampled. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 225. 174 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 10, 228. 175 C. Runnels, pers. comm., Stanford, October 2005.

176

Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 382-384, 392-393. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 394-395, 436-437. 178 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 394-395. 179 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 396-400. 180 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 399-400; Forsell 2002: 67-68. 177

62

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE This upturn in site numbers does not last for very long – by 250 BC, 48 of the 61 small sites have disappeared, and only one small site founded in this period continues in use into the Roman.190 Indeed, 64 of the 87 sites founded during this time do not survive. The scale and extent of this Early Hellenistic settlement jump is unique to the Southern Argolid at this time, although some settlement does increase in Laconia as well at around this time, but not nearly to the same degree.191 This is clearly a phenomenon that requires some explanation.

Conclusions for Southern Argolid (Hellenistic) The Southern Argolid represents one of the most striking changes to a rural landscape anywhere in Greece. In the Classical period, the Southern Argolid is a relatively quiet area of Greece, with rural settlement seemingly centred on the poleis of Hermion and Halieis, and only 48 definite sites.181 There is a noticeable increase of small sites along the presumed border between Hermion and Halieis, which the surveyors use as proof of relatively peaceful relations between the neighbouring poleis at this time.182 Overall, however, there is a noticeable continuity (between 70 and 80 percent) with the preceding period and not a significant increase in site numbers.183

While instances of storage and transport vessels do not appear to increase in frequency for these sites,192 it is amongst this class of sites that the majority of press equipment is found outside of major settlements.193 Six of the total nine examples of press equipment may date to this period, and of these, five are either below the 0.30 ha mark, or just above it. Environmental data shows a rise in olive pollen beginning in the late 5th or early 4th century BC.194

This situation changes markedly in the survey’s Late Classical–Early Hellenistic period, which they define as 350-250 BC.184 There is a veritable explosion of sites, more than doubling the total number from the Classical period (107 definite sites in the Hellenistic period, 87 of which belong to this early period). Concomitantly, there is a relatively low level of continuity amongst the Classical sites – only 46 percent of these survive into this period, and markedly, several medium-sized sites (those interpreted as ‘villages’, ‘hamlets’, or ‘cult’ sites) either shrink in size or disappear altogether.185 Surprisingly, the vast majority of the new sites, indeed the vast majority of all sites in this period, are small sites (61 of 87 – see Table 13). These small sites, defined as being between 0.01 ha and 0.30 ha, are most commonly interpreted as being small farmsteads or loci of agricultural processing.186 The majority, based on the recovered ceramic assemblages (or rather, on the recovered diagnostic ceramic assemblages) appear to represent, according to the survey, rural residences of some description, as the full complement of domestic ceramic types are broadly represented.187 In other words, the assemblages appear to be largely household pottery, with cooking/table wares, storage wares, and relatively few instances of transport vessels. Fine wares are relatively rare, which the surveyors use to argue that the predominant socio-economic class of the inhabitants of these small sites is either dependent tenants or smallholders.188 This argument presupposes the acceptance of the idea that these sites represent farmsteads, with an implied year-round or multi-season occupation, and not simply loci of agricultural or other economic activity.189

The proliferation of these sites, the incidences of press equipment and the environmental data all suggest a rural landscape that is being exploited for oleoculture. In short, this seems to be a clear example of agricultural intensification – an intensification, it should be noted, that does not necessarily imply monocropping. Olive trees may have been interplanted with cereals, and transhumance may also have occurred – neither is precluded simply by an intensification of olive production.195 Several factors have been proposed to account for this increased agricultural intensification and specialisation. A general increase in population, as attested by the growth in component sizes amongst some of the medium and large sites during this period, has been suggested.196 The possibility of expanding economic markets in southern Greece, due to an economically depressed Corinth, and political concessions granted to a ‘depopulated’ Laconia have also been suggested.197 As Jameson et al., rightly suggest, this change in rural economy was likely due to a combination of these factors, and expanding markets elsewhere in the eastern Mediterranean.198 It is most likely that it was trade – not just local concerns, but broader networks – that is having the greatest effect on the countryside of the rural Argolid at this time.

181 As determined through an analysis of the gazetteer. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 422-526. 182 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 383-383. 183 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 382. 184 For full periodisation, see Table 3 above. 185 A9, G1, F5, A15, A24 and C17. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 383. 186 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 419-420. 187 Evidence includes: black-glazed skyphoi, lekanai, mortars, lopas, pithoi and amphorae. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 385, and seen in several sites. For rural domestic assemblages in general, and the attendant problems of variability, see Foxhall 2004. 188 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 388-391. 189 Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994.

190

E61. As discussed above, III.2. 192 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 435-438. 193 Sites with evidence of press equipment in Early Hellenistic period, excluding Halieis: E30, E38, A60, E52, A61. Press equipment of uncertain date: E26, B103, E70, G1; or uncertain origin: B6, E50, E81. However, see Foxhall 2007: 195-198. 194 Sheehan 1979: 321-323; Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 167. 195 Forbes 1995: 334. 196 Runnels and van Andel 1987: 326. 197 Discussed briefly in Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 393. 198 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 394. 191

63

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE After this period of increasing dispersed settlement, there is a noteworthy down-turn in rural settlement. This characterises the rest of the Hellenistic period – significant site loss, especially amongst the small sites, and a move towards a more nucleated settlement pattern. It is tempting to read in this a catastrophe of sorts for the rural countryside – where did all the people go, and what happened to drive them from the land that had hitherto been so profitable?

Conclusions for Southern Argolid (Roman) The decline in site numbers evinced in the Hellenistic data continues into the Roman period, with a drop from 37 Late Hellenistic sites to just 10 in the Early Roman era. It is difficult, at first glance, to see the countryside of the Southern Argolid in this period as anything but depopulated and desolate – a steep decline from 107 Hellenistic sites to just 10 Roman sites. A supposed rise in brigandage,205 piracy,206 and cross-border disputes between poleis207 paints a vivid picture of a threatened landscape, abandoned, burned, and denuded. The increase in towers, scattered throughout the landscape, are said by the surveyors to prove this idea.208

Significantly for this period, Halieis is abandoned around 280 BC.199 The loss of Halieis eliminated one of the two major towns of the Southern Argolid, and much of the decline in site numbers for the region can be attributed to a loss of rural sites surrounding that town.200 Indeed, it is important to point out that the striking decline in site numbers need not mean a similar decline in population, but could be explained by a shift towards a more nucleated settlement pattern in areas other than that surrounding Halieis.

However, representing the data in such stark terms209 masks some of the subtler trends that may be visible. Towers, or fortified farms as they are sometimes called, appear all over the Peloponnese in the Late Classical– Early Hellenistic period – in inland areas as well as coastal zones. Not everyone accepts that they are primarily for protection. Excavation at Pyrgouthi in the Berbati valley suggested that particular tower was used for communication and storage primarily, with defence a benefit of such a structure, and necessarily the reason for its construction.210 The work of Sarah Morris on the towers of the Greek mainland and Aegean islands has conclusively shown the link between intensification of particular types of economic activity and the incidence of towers; while acknowledging that some towers were indeed military installations, her work suggests that the majority of towers may represent an increase in the use of unfree labour,211 or at least the increased intensification of economic activities (such as mining, quarrying, and viticulture) whose products or sites required a measure of security and/or monitoring.212 Moreover, border disputes are far from unusual amongst Greek poleis, and new political structures in the Hellenistic period arguable led to a decline in their occurrence.213 In other words, the towers scattered across the Greek landscape are not examples of a breakdown of security between or within regions, but are rather evidence of increased economic exploitation of the landscape – the products of which required protection and storage. None of these factors,

Few sites survive into the Late Hellenistic period: 23 of 87 only. Those that did survive tend to be larger – it is significant that the mean of site sizes jumps from 0.21 ha to 0.70 ha between the Early and Late Hellenistic periods. Similarly, the new foundations of this period tend to be of a similar size: the mean amongst these 14 sites is 0.66 ha.201 This is suggestive of a change in land use from the preceding period, and it has been argued by some that this represents a shift towards estate-based agriculture.202 In other words, the elite are acquiring land, at the expense of small-holders.203 It may also be the case that lessarchaeologically visible means of exploiting the countryside are acquiring a greater significance in this period, such as large-scale pastoralism or transhumance.204 This too may accord with an increase in estate-based agriculture and agglomerative landholding practices amongst the privileged inhabitants of the Southern Argolid. Although the evidence is largely tentative, it does make sense that what is visible in the countryside of the Late Hellenistic period is the result of a variety of socioeconomic practices of this kind, all interacting and feeding back into the further elaboration of this trend over time. Some decline in population, the abandonment of Halieis and its supporting countryside, an increase in settlement nucleation, and changing landholding practices amongst the elite, taken together, can explain the situation in the Late Hellenistic countryside.

205

Plutarch, Aratus 6. The most complete account of the phenomenon occurs in De Souza 1999. 207 The border dispute between Hermion and Epidauros is outlined in Appendix F of Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 598-606. A long-running dispute between Messenia and Laconia can be seen in Syll3 683 and IG V.1.1431. 208 A51, A53, A67, E52, E83, F3. 209 As was done in the final report. Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 396400. 210 Hjohlman, Penttinen, et al. 2005. 211 Morris and Papadopoulos 2005: 164-167. 212 Mining: Morris and Papadopoulos 2005: 171; quarrying: Morris and Papadopoulos 2005: 173-175; viticulture: Morris 2001: 177-180; Morris and Papadopoulos 2005: 340-343. Early suggestions of these links can be found in Osborne 1986. Foxhall’s redating of press equipment (note 129 below) would agree with this interpretation. 213 See Ager 1996: esp. 4-7, 19-26. 206

199

Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 436-437; Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 609. 200 See Figure 13 below. 201 Full data can be seen on Table 14. 202 For interesting warnings regarding such formulations, see Osborne 1992: 24-25. 203 Gallant 1991: 41-45. 204 Forbes 1995: 336-338.

64

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 13. Southern Argolid sites overlying geology. After Higgins & Higgins, 1996, fig. 5.1; Jameson, et al. 1994, figs. 4.23-4.26 therefore, is of sufficient impact to explain the decline in site numbers.

that ceramic knowledge alone cannot account for the noticeable drop in overall numbers. It is a definite trend, if the extent is not quite so dramatic as first appears. The survey attributes this situation to two main factors: the continued aggregation of land in the hands of fewer people, and a shortage of labour. These two factors led to a situation whereby the elite could amass more and more land, yet had too few dependent tenants or labourers to work that land.216 Pollen analysis shows a rise in maquis genera as well as a rise in pine and evergreen oak. All of this is suggestive of the abandonment of agricultural land.217

Part of the problem with the decline in site numbers in the Roman period may be due to the generally poorly understood nature of the local Roman period ceramics. The survey used a cut-off of five diagnostic artefacts per period in order to demarcate a site as exhibiting ‘definite’ occupation. Sites with less than five diagnostic artefacts are ‘indefinite’.214 Hellenistic ‘definite’ sites represent around 86 percent (107 of 124) of the total number of Hellenistic findspots; that is, 86 percent of the total number of Hellenistic findspots have enough diagnostic pottery to assign them a definite Hellenistic occupation (according to the criteria established by the survey). The percentage of definite sites in the Roman period is 34.5 percent (10 of 29 sites). While this is not simply a case of stating that 51.5 percent more is known about Hellenistic pottery than Roman, this is a large discrepancy. This fairly crude figure serves to illustrate the fact that simply less is known about early Roman ceramics, and part of the decline in Roman site numbers may be due to that gap in knowledge.215

This is likely true, in part. The pollen analysis, however, was focused on the area around Halieis, and saw the largest proportion of site loss. Therefore, it is not surprising that in that area, there is a general abandonment of land. It is dangerous to extend that argument to the entirety of the Southern Argolid. Moreover, the idea of ‘estate-based’ agriculture presupposes the existence of estates in the countryside, usually defined by elite residences. These are usually identified, as at Methana, Berbati, Asea, and Pylos by the presence of villa structures,218 monumental features such

Still, while that is an interesting caveat in respect to the overall numbers and their statistical reliability, it is likely

216

Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 399. Sheehan 1979: 322-323; Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 398. 218 Methana: MS57, MS109, MS211; Berbati: 501; Asea: S1, S76, S90; Pylos: E01, G01. 217

214 215

Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 418. A point discussed at some length by Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994.

65

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 14. Pylos Regional Archaeological Project survey area. After Alcock, et al., 2005, fig. 6. as baths, and evidence for aesthetic elaboration, such as marble fittings or mosaic floors.219 This evidence is hard to find in the Southern Argolid, where there are no such rural structures.220

trend that began in the Late Hellenistic. In archaeological terms, there is really only one ‘period’: 250 BC–AD 200. The Pylos Regional Archaeological Project

If these caveats are considered, it becomes evident that a slightly more cautious explanation is required. It is likely that the elite are acquiring more land, but these ‘estates’ do not become the focus of rural elite residence, as at other regions of the Peloponnese. Moreover, the pollen evidence should be used primarily to explain what occurred around Halieis, and not over-extended. Instead, it is perhaps likely that the land around Hermion is being extensively worked, with a shift from the intensive oleoculture of the Early Hellenistic to cereal cultivation, with some instances of ‘cash cropping’,221 mixed agriculture, and pastoralism. In terms of rural residence, the preference amongst all sectors of society seems to be for urban residence. Estates in the Southern Argolid do not translate into villas.

Pylos Regional Archaeological Project (PRAP) Summary The Pylos Regional Archaeological Project (PRAP) was carried out from 1992 to 1994, with a ‘reconnaissance’ season preceding field-walking in 1991.222 2 2 Approximately 40 km of a total 84 km survey area were examined intensively.223 Three different research foci were envisaged for the project: an intensive survey of the land around the Bronze Age Palace of Nestor (site B07); a systematic investigation of areas adjacent to this Bronze Age site; and a survey of the hinterland of the Bronze Age site, to include an inventory and re-examination of already known prehistoric and historic archaeological sites in the area of Pylos.224 Accompanying geophysical and palaeoethnobotanical studies were carried out for select areas.225

In other words, the Roman period is essentially little different from the Late Hellenistic period; the Roman period is largely one of continuity in terms of the economic exploitation of the countryside. There is a decline in site numbers, but this is the continuation of the 219

Forsell 2001: 55-67; Forsell 2002: 67. Foxhall 2007: 198. 221 If Foxhall’s redating of press equipment is accurate. She suggests (probably correctly) that B78, E7, C11, E26, A8, B5, B91, E12, E45, F2 and G12 are either Roman or Late Roman in date – contrary to the assertions of the surveyors. Foxhall 2007: 197. 220

222

Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 391. Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 398-400. 224 Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 396-397. 225 Discussed in Zangger, Timpson, et al. 1997. 223

66

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Survey:

The Pylos Regional Archaeological Project (PRAP)

Dates:

1991, 1992-1994

Survey Objectives:

• to establish the pattern of human settlement over time • to set in a regional context previous excavations at Palace of Nestor • diachronic changes in geomorphology and land use c.84 km2 (c.250 km2 in 1992, reduced in subsequent years) area of western Messenia focused on Bay of Navarino

Survey Region:

Altitude Range (metres above sea c.0-500 m level): Extent (km2): 40 Sampling Strategy (regional-level):

1. Judgmental sample of both individual and contiguous fields to encompass topographical and environmental diversity 2. Systematic unaligned transects 3. Problem orientated

Off-site Recording:

Total numbers of artefacts recorded every 100 m along transect

Sampling Strategy (site-level):

Dense concentrations of artefacts sampled as ‘Places of Special Interest’ (POSI)

On-site Recording: Transect Sample Fraction:

Systematic sampling within an imposed 10- or 20-m grid over entirety of POSI 47.5 % (16 % of original area)

Corridor Width:

1m

Walker Spacing:

15 m

Field Sampling Fraction:

6.6 %

Site Definition: Classification Schemes:

Anomalously dense concentrations of artefacts with definable spatial limits, defined with reference to background material Region code + sequentially assigned number

Min/Max Range:

H: 0.09/18.00; H-R: 0.05/39.81; R: 0.11/11.06

Comparative Data for Site Function Comparanda from other surveys; ceramic presence/absence; Analysis: ceramic types; architectural fragments; agricultural equipment Sub-surface Archaeology:

Limited geophysical survey (resistivity and magnetometry)

Survey Evaluation:

None

Ceramics:

Split into functional categories, predominantly fine wares, though coarse wares sampled.

Chronology:

Based on pre-existing pottery typologies

Publications:

Alcock, et al., 2005; Davis (ed.), 1998; Davis, et al., 1997; Zangger, et al., 1997; http://classics.uc.edu/prap/ S. Alcock; J. Bennet; J. Davis; Y. G. Lolos; D. Stone; M. Timpson; E. Zangger

Principal Authors:

Box 7. Pylos Regional Archaeological Project Metadata.

67

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 15. PRAP sites by period. After Alcock, et al. 2005, fig. 2.

essentially arbitrary and relative character of their definition.

The methodology of the project was very similar to that employed by the project’s directors at Nemea,226 and thus is squarely in the vein of ‘second generation’ survey projects in Greece.227 They field-walked using systematic, non-aligned transects, based largely on existing land use and field boundaries. Walkers were spaced 15 m apart, and total numbers of sherds, tiles, and other artefacts were recorded for every 100 m stretch of the transect. All diagnostic artefacts were collected and are permanently stored in the Museum of Hora. The survey ostensibly conducted a ‘site-less’ survey, treating both off-site and on-site data with equal weight. This resulted in the rejection of the value-laden term ‘site’ for dense concentrations of artefacts and the use of ‘Places of Special Interest’ (POSI) instead.228 In practice, this is essentially a semantic difference – calling these concentrations ‘sites’ or ‘POSIs’ does not change the

The survey intentionally sought to cover as many geological and topographical areas as possible, thus, the nine discrete areas intensively surveyed (see Figure 14, above) include coastal or near-coastal plains (areas I, II, III, V, VI), an upland plateau (IV), a ridge structure (VII) and inland valleys (VIII, IX).229 POSIs were sampled according to an orthogonal grid system, whereby 20 by 20 m or 10 by 10 m squares were imposed on to the concentration of artefacts, and each square was then sampled independently.230 This is a definite improvement over ‘transect and grab’ samples, as a much more nuanced picture of artefact density can be recovered for each site. Results of the survey have appeared in periodic publications in the journal Hesperia,

226

Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990. Alcock, Cherry, et al. 1994: 137-139. 228 Survey methodology discussed in Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 400402 and Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990: 603-608. Interestingly, a distinction all-but-abandoned for the publication of the historic period data. Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 165, n.61. 227

229 230

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Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 163. Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990: 606-607.

III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Period

Total

All Hellenistic Hellenistic only Hellenistic-Roman All Roman Roman only

24(30) 3(6) 21(24) 26(29) 5(5)

Max. (ha) 39.81 18.00 39.81 39.81 11.06

Min. (ha) 0.05 0.09 0.05 0.05 0.11

Mean (ha) 7.14 6.08 7.30 7.34 3.85

‘Winsorised’ Mean (ha) 5.98 0.12 5.97 5.53 2.70

Median (ha) 0.82 0.14 0.82 0.99 3.00

Table 15. PRAP range of size (ha) of sites included in this study. Numbers in brackets represent total number of sites according to published data. PRAP:

Total:

All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman

0.0-0.3 ha 7

0.3-1.0 ha 7

1.0-5.0 ha 3

5.0+ ha 7

TOTAL 24

5 1 8

7 1 8

3 2 5

6 1 8

21 5 29

Table 16. PRAP site sizes by period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers. and in one generalist book aimed at a non-specialist audience.231

state.235 While it may appear that this may be a result of where the project actually surveyed, this conclusion is supported by other data – perhaps most telling is the near absence of Classical period sites along the coast.236

The survey is to be commended on the frequency of publication, and especially on the online database of the raw site data.232 This is a very valuable research tool, but does have its limitations: for one, many of the links to artefact data have now expired, and the site data as presented is uncorrected. Thus, the interpretive leap from the data as presented in the online gazetteer to the interpretations as published is not always clear. Still, the dissemination of the data online is clearly an advance.

Superficially, this Hellenistic ‘surge’ in sites may appear similar to that apparent in other regions of the Peloponnese, notably Laconia and the Southern Argolid.237 However, it is important to note that what is happening in and around Pylos appears to be unique to that area – as demonstrated by three key factors: there is no subsequent fall in site numbers; there is a remarkably high rate of survival of these sites into the Roman period (87.5 percent, or 21 of 24 sites; see Table 38 in V.2 below for comparative rates of survival); and the plethora of small sites (0.0 to 0.3 ha) seen elsewhere simply does not appear in the rural landscape of Pylos – these new Hellenistic foundations are quite large, and continue to be so in to the Roman period (see Table 16). Only 30 percent (7 of 24) of sites in the Hellenistic period are of this small ‘farmstead’ type; the other intensive surveys typically have between 56 percent and 74.5 percent of total Hellenistic sites in this range.238 Indeed, Pylos has a much higher proportion of large (1.0 to 5.0 ha) and major (5.0+ ha) sites than any other survey (41.5 percent of the

The survey’s interpretations of the data and those presented here largely accord. Specific differences are noted in the text below. Conclusions for PRAP (Hellenistic) The Hellenistic period in the Pylos region is characterised by growth, a trend which seems to have begun in the Late Classical period.233 This is not incredibly surprising when the historical circumstances of Messenia are remembered, for it is in the Late Classical and Early Hellenistic periods that Laconia is losing its control of Messenia.234 Interestingly, there is an apparent preference for coastal or near-coastal areas (see Figure 15), suggesting an increased importance in accessibility both along coastal roads and from the sea, and is perhaps material evidence of the stability and renewed economic importance of an independent Messenia and possible Messenian federal

235

Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 161, 165-166, 174. For the possible Messenian federal state see: Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 546; Shipley 2005: 326, 328. 236 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 164-165. Preliminary evidence from Ephoreia projects lends credence to this idea: Stewart 2012b: 44-48. Also seen in the University of Minnesota Messenia Expedition project’s data. McDonald and Rapp 1972: 145. This is discussed below, IV.2.5. 237 Discussed above in chapter 3, in relation to the Laconia and Southern Argolid surveys. 238 See Table for comparative data, but a summary can be provided here. Laconia: 74.5% (56 of 75); Methana: 66.5% (32 of 48); Berbati:72.5% (16 of 22); Asea: 56% (14 of 25); Southern Argolid: 65.5% (70 of 107). Total: 68%.

231 Primary Hesperia articles for periods discussed in text: Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997; Zangger, Timpson, et al. 1997; Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005. Book: Davis 1998; for its intended audience see the preface, esp. xxiii. 232 The Pylos Regional Archaeological Project: Internet Edition: http://classics.uc.edu/prap/ 233 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 161-164. 234 Shipley 1992.

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE

Figure 16. PRAP sites overlying geology. Note that L02 to L07 lie outside the geologically surveyed area. After Zangger, et al. 1997, fig. 4. suggesting at least some rural residence (most likely seasonal, and not year-round).242 Furthermore, relatively high proportions of storage and transport vessels have also been recovered.243 Finds of processing equipment occur either in inland valleys (zone IX) or in coastal sites.244 Finally, palaeoethnobotanical and palynological studies have shown that there is a general increase in olive pollen and a reduction in maquis pollen.245 This is suggestive of increased intensification and agricultural specialisation, primarily geared towards oleoculture.

total number of sites, or 10 of 24).239 Off-site data corroborate this general picture of growth.240 In this period, the exploitation of the rural landscape is clearly a vibrant and growing aspect of Messenian society. It is interesting that this evidence suggest a preference for large, nucleated settlements scattered throughout the landscape, albeit with a preference for coastal sites. This is suggestive of quite particular economic activities. Access to the coast suggests an increased importance in inter-connectivity between sites, and a stable sociopolitical situation. Many of these sites may have served as small-scale ‘ports of trade’, redistributing agricultural products around Messenia, and perhaps beyond.241

The geological and geomorphological data do not preclude this interpretation (see Figure 16). While they are not definitive, they do allow for the possibility of oleoculture – none of the soils that sites or their associated hinterlands occupy would necessarily hinder olive cultivation.246

Inevitably, this raises the question of what products were being redistributed. Recovered off-site ceramic assemblages show the full range of domestic ceramics,

242 See the pottery database on: The Pylos Regional Archaeological Project: Internet Edition: http://classics.uc.edu/prap/ 243 Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 495ff. See the pottery database on: The Pylos Regional Archaeological Project: Internet Edition: http://classics.uc.edu/prap/ 244 I01, I04, A04, L07. 245 Zangger, Timpson, et al. 1997: 593-594, 625. 246 Higgins and Higgins 1996: 12-15; Zangger, Timpson, et al. 1997: 559-576.

239

Again, see Table 34 for comparative data. Laconia: 8% (6 of 75); Methana: 16.5% (8 of 48); Berbati:4.5% (1 of 22); Asea: 20% (5of 25); Southern Argolid: 13% (14 of 107). Total: 12.5%. 240 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 179. 241 Gallant 1991: 175-182. For ‘ports of trade’ or emporia, see Hansen 1997; Reger 2003: 336-339 and of course Polanyi 1963. A database of archaeological, architectural, and epigraphical remains of entrepôts (a related category) can be found at: http://www.entrepots-anr.fr/pdb_en.htm

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE Concomitantly, palynological studies show that there is a decrease in olive pollen after around 100 BC, which Zangger suggests is evidence of diminished land use at this time.251 It should be noted, however, that a decrease in activity is not the same as a lack of activity – there is ample evidence for continued oleoculture, simply at a reduced scale. In other words, there is less intensification (or a centralisation of production, or a lower degree of specialisation), and increase in elite land ownership and perhaps a shift towards less intensively utilised estates.252 This echoes something of the pattern as seen elsewhere in the Peloponnese, although it is much less marked in this area. There is no wholesale abandonment of land, there is simply a slight readjustment.

None of these categories of evidence by themselves are convincing, yet taken together they build a fairly strong circumstantial case. Finds of processing equipment, associated ceramic assemblages that show a fairly high degree of storage and transport vessels, large nucleated settlements and the associate palynological and geomorphological data all suggest a region that is quickly becoming integrated into a wider Peloponnesian economy. The large sites are serving as bases for agricultural workers, who appear to be travelling to the countryside to work, as evinced by the fairly high level of off-site artefact scatter. The resulting agricultural products, some of which are undoubtedly olives, are then processed either within or close to those large sites. The resultant products are then redistributed through these local markets to the wider region of Messenia, and perhaps the Peloponnese and beyond.

Slight increases in rural cult activity, including the appearance of at least one temple (D01) and the re-use of Bronze Age Tholos tombs,253 suggests there is a similar renegotiation of the sacred landscapes of Pylos as well. The data are unfortunately patchy, but there does seem to be an increase in ‘archaising’ tendencies, which perhaps supports an attempt by the elite to legitimise their increasingly wealthy position in society.254

Conclusions for PRAP (Roman) Some of the patterns visible in the countryside in the Hellenistic period appear to endure and are reinforced in the Roman period. The distribution of sites continues to be most marked in coastal or near-coastal zones (see Figure 14), large sites still form a disproportionally large number of the total (50 percent, or 13 of 26), and they are fairly widely distributed.247

In summary, the area of Messenia around Pylos is very much a ‘productive’ landscape in Roman times, in terms of economy. There is abundant evidence of increased wealth and economic vitality (albeit most likely amongst a relatively small proportion of the population), and a marked difference in both the nature and extent of activity in the countryside when compared to other regions of the Peloponnese. Pylos is very much an example of the discrepant regional histories of the Peloponnese, and the need for a more nuanced description of Roman Greece.

In sharp contrast to most of Greece, there is actually an overall increase in site numbers in this period (from 24 to 26, or c.8 percent growth), though this is in large part due to the high level of site continuity from the Hellenistic period (81 percent, or 21 of 26 sites). Amongst the new foundations of the Roman period, there is a slight preference for large (1.0 to 5.0 ha) and major (5.0+ ha) sites, as before. The growth in large sites perhaps suggests that Pylos is exhibiting a similar trend in terms of land ownership as other regions of the Peloponnese – perhaps the elite are acquiring more and more land, though seemingly not at the expense of small landowners or tenant farmers, as they are largely absent from the landscape. The situation in the rural landscape is, in short, becoming more complicated in this period.

III.3 Conclusion This chapter has shown that the various regions of the Peloponnese exhibit different trends, or at least, different reactions – in both nature and extent – to similar trends, over time. It seems that the division of the archaeology into historically defined periods does not necessarily facilitate analysis – in archaeological terms, there is little difference between the Late Hellenistic and the Early Roman periods. Simply looking at absolute numbers, as presented in Table 16, misrepresents the data. When multiple categories of evidence are taken into account, it becomes evident that there is one pattern for Methana, the Southern Argolid and Laconia, and perhaps Berbati, and another for Pylos and Asea, with the former surveys showing a significant proportion of new foundations in

This is supported by the increased elaboration and monumentalisation that can be found in some of these sites.248 G01 is a definite Roman villa, located on the coast, with quite an extensive and elaborate series of features. These include hypocausts, mosaic floors, a separate bath structure, and marble fixtures.249 The finds and features associated with this villa complex extend over 34.90 ha. Simply put, this complex represents a massive amount of investment, and its associated agricultural and industrial features suggests it was a working villa, and not simply a coastal ‘holiday home’.250

251 Although it should be noted that this covers a broad period of 100 BC to AD 1200. Zangger, Timpson, et al. 1997: 594-595. 252 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 183-184. 253 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 189-191. A practice not unique to Messenia. Alcock 1993a: 206-210. 254 Archaism is more fully discussed in Alcock 2002: esp. 40-44; Luraghi 2002: 50-61. As a tool of legitimisation, see Bowie 1974; Goldhill 2001a; Spawforth 2012: 144-1455, in inscriptions: 136, 157.

247

Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 182. This too seems to be supported by on-going work in the region. Stewart 2012b: 55-56. 248 E01, G01. 249 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 183-185. 250 These include press equipment and a structure that is either a fish farm or a salt pan. Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 469-474.

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III. LAND USE AND THE PELOPONNESE the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman period that exhibit similar characteristics. However, viewing these surveys’ results in relative isolation obscures broader patterning, and makes it relatively easy to overstate the importance of some of the evidence. It is only when the disparate data is brought together that some of the larger patterns begin to emerge. It is evident that what is required is a much more nuanced picture of the Peloponnese; an examination of inter-regional trends follows.

72

amongst the jumble of smaller images when viewed from a distance. The notion of data resolution is not new to studies of this sort – it is a well-documented problem.

IV. Regional Narratives Previous chapters have sought to highlight the notion that it is through the comparison of data – archaeological and textual – that one can begin to examine the prevailing notions concerning the rural countryside of the Peloponnese and create historical and archaeological narratives that account for those data.

Individual researcher’s responses to this problem tend to do little to address it; indeed, the most frequent solution is to focus enquiry on a single scale of resolution, most commonly intra-regional. 6 Thus it is common to find studies discussing variability within particular regions over time, but rarely commenting on broader interregional trends from archaeological and historiographical perspectives. Similarly, excavation reports may discuss a single site in some detail, but usually do not link it to broader intra- or inter-regional developments in any great depth.7 This is not meant as a criticism, per se, simply an observation – the ability to produce synthetic work on the scale of a Rostovtzeff is necessarily constrained by the exponentially greater amount of data that scholars are faced with today.8 The Peloponnese, however, affords the opportunity to discuss these ideas within a broader framework – not the magisterial pan-Mediterranean synthesis of Rostovtzeff or Horden and Purcell, 9 but certainly looking beyond the focus of the single survey. This broader framework involves examining the data in light of various ‘scales’ of narration.

Having laid the basis for such data comparison, the following chapters examine how, through the primary lens of the intensive survey data, a critical historiography of existing historical narratives can be facilitated. The principal interpretative thread for this is the concept of ‘scales of narration’, a critical historiographical approach drawn from narratology that seeks to add further refinement to the spatial dimension of settlement history. This should allow for a more balanced reconstruction of the rural countryside that complements (rather than supersedes) traditional historical narratives, which, though useful, have perhaps had an undue influence on the interpretation of the region’s archaeology through time.1 IV.1 Scales of Narration As has been stated earlier (and elsewhere), 2 archaeological survey comes with a particular and varied set of problems – one of the most pressing of these is the coarseness of the resolution of the survey data. Survey offers a generalist approach to understanding the past. It aids in recovering the broad long-term history of what has been termed the ‘silent majority’, 3 but performs relatively poorly when it comes to reconstructing individual site histories on a shorter-term basis.4 In other words, survey data are not terribly illuminating on an individual site basis, but can be quite informative concerning larger scales of enquiry. In Braudelian terms, the short-term événements are seen as best examined through literary and epigraphic texts, and of course through excavation. The longer-term, environmentally based longue durée and the medium-term, socially constructed conjoncture are ideally suited for study through survey material.5

There are two important ideas within the phrase ‘scales of narration,’ that of ‘scale’ and that of ‘narrative,’ and they need to be explained. Just as the theoretical and methodological approaches of the various surveys affect the comparability of the survey data for each specific survey, as discussed in Chapter III above, this notion of ‘scales of narration’ has theoretical and methodological implications for the interpretation of those data in a broader, critical historiographical, sense.10 Defining Historical Narration The notion of ‘historical narration’ or ‘historical narrative’ is not a new one. History has always been contingent upon a narrative of some sort. These narratives, in their simplest sense, might consist purely of the telling of a story – perhaps akin to the epics of Homer, or the digressions of Herodotus. It is possible, of course, to view these narratives in a less superficial way –

This is not to say that nothing can be gleaned from the data concerning smaller-focus geographical areas, simply that the wider the net, the less coarse the resolution of the data appears, in much the same way as popular images involving photomosaics reveal an intelligible image

6

Terrenato 2004. Andrén 1998: 174-175. 8 Rostovtzeff 1941. As Palinkas and Herbst (2011: 34-35) put it: “In the mid-twentieth century it was possible for scholars of the Roman world, whether they concentrated on texts or material evidence, to share common bodies of methodology … Today this is no longer feasible. It is impossible – it has not really been possible for a generation – for any one scholar to master the theory, methodology, exponentially expanding literatures and data-sets of all the disciplines which are now essential to the study of a field like the Roman military.” 9 Horden and Purcell 2000. See chapter 1 (above) for the utility of the Peloponnese as an analytical unit. 10 Critical historiography can be defined as a writing of a history of a region or period, critically informed by ideas of deconstruction and hermeneutics. Cameron 1989a. This exists almost in opposition to traditional ideas of what constitutes historiography within ancient history – that is, a more legalistic approach to the writing of history where texts are interrogated in order to establish ‘facts.’ Crawford 1983. 7

1

Strabo does not mention the economy of the regions he discusses, and this has had ‘knock-on’ effects on interpretation. For example, in his discussion of the Argolid (8.4-8) he gives only a list of towns, distances between them, a few historical observations, but no mention of economy. For a more full discussion, see Baladié 1980: 174; Clarke 2008. On the relationship between ‘tradition’ and archaeological interpretation: Eerkens and Lipo 2007; Witmore 2007: 194-197. 2 Most thoroughly in Banning 2002: 39-74. 3 Shipley 2002a: 180. 4 As evidenced by the mixed results of the Laconia Rural Sites Project. Cavanagh, Mee, et al. 2005. For a review, Witmore 2006. Differences between the disciplines are discussed broadly in Langdon 1995. 5 As discussed by Knapp 1992: 13-16; Foxhall 2000.

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IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES is not the history of an event, period or region but a history of an event, period or region; a history that essentially exists at the same time as other histories and other interpretations that may or may not be explicitly acknowledged.

to imbue them with a more complex and multifaceted character. Narrative theory uses the term ‘narration’ in just such a complex manner, where ‘narrative’ comes to mean the formal apparatus of story-telling. 11 Narrative theory, then, involves the study of such formal aspects as who tells the story, the level of dialogue versus description, the order in which the events are told, and the ratio of scene versus summary, to name a few examples.12

The primary idea to take from these notions is the plurality of interpretations of the past. However, it is important that one maintains a sense of perspective, as it is possible to follow these ideas into an interpretive black hole, one which swallows argument and evidence and leaves nothing behind. The present study explicitly rejects the post-modern idea that there is no such thing as history, or that all historical narratives are simply the reflections of the cultural attitudes of the scholars involved. 18 While there may be a multiplicity of interpretations that make use of similar types of evidence, they are not all necessarily equally valid or applicable. Most modern scholars, for instance, would reject out-ofhand the old 19th-century notions of racism, used to validate the marginalisation of particular groups within society and justified in part through reference to historical evidence. 19 It is both possible and valid to place an interpretive hierarchy on historical explanations, valuing one over another; it is not so valid to adhere to too definitive a stance, however. This is especially true when one is dealing with data from surface surveys.

The principal idea behind this notion of narrative theory, however, is that ‘narrative’ is constructed, and that the construction of this narrative involves choices and interpretation on the part of the narrator. Narrative theory has been used in conjunction with historical research in order to stress the essentially manufactured nature of the historical narratives scholars study.13 Implicit within this application of a literary theory to a wide body of historical research is the idea that more than one narrative is possible, each drawing on similar sources of evidence, 14 just as in the board game Scrabble it is possible to create many different words from the same set of letters. And just like in Scrabble, some created words (or narratives, to carry the analogy through) will be more intelligible than others, and will be more valuable. In other words, when undertaking historical research, a historian needs to interpret existing evidence (textual or otherwise), necessarily involving choices about what to accept or reject, what to stress, what to include or exclude. This interpretation should be done in light of previously interpreted evidence and within a broader framework of culturally constructed, theoretically aware, and methodologically driven ideas. 15 In order to understand culture and its manifestation, researchers need as much information as possible regarding its context – thus historical research should aim to describe, to clarify and to interpret, all on the basis of previously described historical circumstances. These, at least, are the underlying ideas driving the historical enquiry within these pages.16

Thus, in this study, the ‘historical narrative’ is used to mean an interpretation, based upon the current state of knowledge as understood within these pages. It should be noted, importantly, that whatever criteria are employed to construct these narratives, they must be ‘rooted in the ground;’ that is, based on and reflective of the materiality of the past. Defining Scales The other important idea present in the concept of ‘scales of narration’ is that of ‘scale’ itself. Recent archaeological work in the Peloponnese affords the opportunity to examine the (inter)relationships of various areas of southern Greece on a much broader scale, and in greater depth than has hitherto been possible. That is, the nature of the research undertaken facilitates examination on a plurality of levels. ‘Scale’ in this sense means focusing on a range of small to large units of study, and attempting to examine the relationships (if any) between and amongst these units over time.20

At every stage of enquiry there is a requirement for interpretation, and every interpretation consists of a range of decisions – placing a greater value on one thing over another, preferably in an informed and critical manner. The fact that interpretation can be essentially reduced down to a series of choices necessarily leaves that interpretation open to criticism, as other people can easily place different interpretive values upon the same evidence, while ideally stating their reasons for doing so.

The question of ‘scale’ has been important for regional archaeologies since the establishment of large-scale area studies in the 1960s and later. Most scholars – be they archaeologists or historians – tend to use the term

This concept of a ‘historical narrative’ implies that there is not necessarily one interpretation of the past, but a range of possibilities.17 What the historian is constructing

18 An idea frequently found in current post-modernist thinking, such as Thomas 1996b. For a particularly balanced formulation see Cameron 1989b. 19 Though limited in many ways, Bernal offers a good critique of these views for the Classical past. Bernal 1987: 29. See also the series of articles in History and Theory: Zagorin 1990; Lorenz 1998; Zagorin 1999; Jenkins 2000; Zagorin 2000. 20 An idea not dissimilar to that presented in Horden and Purcell 2000: 36-42, 45.

11

White 1973: 26-29. Employed to excellent effect in Luckhurst 2010. 12 Rimmon-Kenan 1996: 8-12. 13 White 1992: 27-29; Currie 1998: 51-53. 14 Currie 1998: 87-91. 15 The work of Clifford Geertz has been especially valuable in formulating these ideas. Geertz 1973. 16 Further application of these ideas can be seen in Ault 2009. 17 White 1992: 38-40, 44-45.

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IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES However, scales are not fixed; they are also inherently relational. They are historically contingent categories of inquiry that may be bounded, material, and verticallyorientated, but not necessarily – they can also be vague, unbounded, and bleed in to the horizontal. Most of the theorisation regarding scale has occurred in geography, with ‘region’ and ‘place’ standing in for different levels of scale. Both region and place are seen as socially produced constructions of spatial differentiation. 26 Following on from geographical theorists, archaeologists and historians have tended to use these terms in the same way, with ‘site’ or ‘centre’ standing in for ‘place’ perhaps, 27 but with ‘region’ remaining as an inherently territorial unit defined by its place on a geographicallydefined scale. The emergence of 'regions' and scales are seen as two elements in the process of spatial differentiation.

unproblematically, largely because it is assumed that the structures of culture, history, and activity are organised both horizontally and vertically. 21 In other words, scale can be studied within literature by focusing on individual genres, individual authors, individual works by authors, down to individual passages. This vertical organisation of knowledge and inquiry is supplemented by horizontal comparanda encompassing, broadly speaking, comparisons from other vertically-scaled approaches to literature. So we can examine a passage in Xenophon’s Hellenica by comparing what we know of the genre in general, or examine the whole of the work specifically the Thucydidean mode of historical writing.22 Within classical archaeology, a similar approach can be seen, sometimes articulated and sometimes implied. Within both disciplines, ‘scale’ is seen as a fixed entity rooted in the material, as a graduated series of bounded spaces of different sizes: a “nested hierarchy” in the words of Leitner. 23 Interpretative problems occur at the boundaries of these scalar categories, but that is a problem of incomplete data rather than a problem of abstraction or theorisation in this conceptualisation.24

It is important to point out that this implies a hierarchisation in interpretation as well as in the organisation of the data itself. The process of spatial differentiation is seen as manifested in the material, but it need not be so. Viewing the ancient world as a scaled entity is essentially only one epistemological approach. The spatial attributes of scale are the results of power relations and struggles, which are themselves inherently relational. Thus the conceptualisations of scales themselves must also be the result of power relations. Regions, both in analytical terms and in the ancient world, were created and destroyed along relational lines, and need not have any necessary material existence, or a continuous material existence, in order to be meaningful. The spatial region of the Triphylia in the western Peloponnese was created by a power struggle between Elis and Sparta in 402 BC, and as a recognisably separate entity had a short life – it was subsumed into the Arcadian League in 368 (Paus. 5.6.11, 6.22.4; Strabo 8.3.11-29). As a means of spatial differentiation it is a blip in the long-term history of the Peloponnese (but see Polyb. 4.77.8-80.1). Despite this, archaeologists have sought to define the boundaries of this region, using local geographic markers, and a sometimes fuzzy approach to periodisation. 28 Yet this means of definition can sometimes bear little resemblance to cultural attitudes: the inhabitants of that region conceived of themselves as

In the context of this study, this involves moving from small-scale localised narratives to broader-scale intraand inter-regional narratives. In practical terms, this means examining the multiplicity of sites 25 within a single survey region, first by examining the individual surveys’ definition of what constitutes a site and their underlying assumptions, then those sites as a series of broad functional groupings, then the survey region as a single generalised entity. This is less a summary of the published reports of these individual projects than a reexamination and re-interpretation of their data in light of comparative material from the other survey projects. These data, it should be noted, were taken back to a form as little processed as feasible, and involved a re-analysis of sherd numbers and site densities, as outlined in Chapter III and seen in the appendix. Once that has been completed for each survey region individually, one can begin to compare site with site, and region with region, essentially moving up an interpretive ladder, increasing the geographical focus at every stage. This is what is meant by ‘scales of narration’: when one views historical enquiry as a sliding scale of focus, with multi-regional enquiry at one end and individual sites at the other, it becomes possible to use the information and data associated with one step on the scale to improve upon or examine the information and data associated with another step. In this sense, creating interpretive narratives at each of these steps becomes a continually evolving but mutually informative process. 21

Paasi 2004: 536-537. See, for example, the papers in Elton and Reger 2007. 22 For example, Osborne 1985; Lewis 2004. 23 Greene 2000: 124-125. 24 Daniel 2007; Smith 2005: esp. 593-594. 25 ‘Site’ in this sense means simply ‘identified discrete sherd scatter’ and is not meant to imply any particular functional interpretation.

26

Krasilnikoff 2008: 282-284. Smith 2005: 601. 28 Osborne 2005. This study uses textual sources from the 5th century BC and later, in conjunction with extensive survey results, to identify the boundaries in the Bronze Age. 27

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IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES

Figure 17. Approximate locations of extensive surveys discussed in the text. Triphylians even when there was no materially manifested spatial expression of that region, and the Survey Project Area (km2) Main Publication occurrence of that ethnikon spreads far beyond the Achaea 480 (3200) (Rizakis, Dalongeville et spatially defined borders of the region. As a culturallyal. 1992) constructed means of social organisation, the Triphylia Sikyonia 360 Lolos 2012 Eastern Arcadia 5000 (Howell 1970) has a different meaning than what might be evidenced in Megalopolis 60 (Lloyd, Owens et al. its material form.29 Messenia

3800

IV.2 Extensive Surveys

1985; Lloyd 1991) (McDonald and 1972)

Rapp

Table 18. Extensive surveys discussed in text. It should now be clear not only that intensive surveys form the bulk of the selected data, but why that decision of selection was taken. They are, however, far from the only archaeological survey data in existence. Several extensive surveys of parts of the Peloponnese have been conducted, and they do highlight similar sorts of activities and trends as evidenced in the intensive data. They also, interestingly, highlight the multivariate and localised responses of the various regions to the changing socio-political situation of the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods.

29

Due to the nature of extensive surveys, their data are not in a form that is directly comparable either with other extensive surveys or with the intensive surveys. 30 That does not mean that they cannot be used, simply that it is harder to reassess the published interpretations of those projects. Indeed, much of the previous work in survey comparison uses both extensive and intensive surveys to discuss broader regional trends – the main criticism of that approach, as discussed in greater depth in Chapter II, is that like is not being compared with like. As such, it was deemed most appropriate to separate the intensive 30

Jones 2000.

76

As discussed above in Chapter II.

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES and extensive surveys, and to relegate the extensive surveys to a much lesser role in terms of contributing to the historical narrative (see figure 17 for extensive surveys discussed below, and table 17 for the approximate size of their study areas). What follows, therefore, are short notes on the published interpretations of the data from several extensive surveys conducted in the Peloponnese. These are not meant to be exhaustive, but rather draw out the information that is most relevant to the present study. Where enough data exist, tables of site numbers per period have been produced; where there is not enough information or the data are unreliable, such tables have not been created. It should also be noted that the term ‘site’ has been used throughout. This term can be particularly problematic within survey archaeology, as some argue it prejudices the interpretation of function associated with a scatter of artefacts.31 No one functional implication is intended, except that each ‘site’ as listed here represents a result of human habitation and/or activity as represented by a discrete scatter of artefacts as recorded within a particular landscape. All of the data included here should be treated as less than definite, and all numbers as conservative estimates – not definitive quantitative assessments. Period

Total

All Hellenistic

34

Hellenistic only

24

Hellenistic-Roman

10

All Roman

18

Roman only

8

impossible to assess either the size or density of any of the reported sites.33 Still, in terms of general trends, some interesting information can be gleaned. The survey seems to support the general trend in decline of sites from the Hellenistic to Roman period, with the majority of new sites in the Roman period occurring in close proximity to the Roman colonies of Dyme and Patras (see table 19). Many of the Hellenistic sites that persist into the Roman period also occur in a similar vicinity, 34 and those that do survive tend to be larger. In all, only 29 percent of Hellenistic sites continue into the Roman period, and overall there is a 47 percent decline in the number of sites between the periods. Broader topographical study showed at least three different means of land division, most likely Roman centuriation, occurring in the area – again, principally around the territory of the Roman colonies.35 The areas demarcated in this manner were not vast, but there does seem to have been a concerted effort in the Roman period not just to manage land, but to improve it – there is some evidence, both archaeological and epigraphical exists for drainage canals in the plain of Dyme.36 In other words, the exploitation of rural wealth was not something that was left to chance; as for most places in the eastern Mediterranean, agriculture and animal husbandry were the basis for, if not economic prosperity, at least economic survival. Exactly who was doing the exploiting is suggested by the centuriation around the Achaean colonies and surviving epigraphical evidence – it was the elite Roman citizens (whether native Greeks or Italian settlers is not clear) of the colonies who had the ability and the desire to re-order the landscape in this way.37

Table 19. Achaea survey sites by period. Achaea The extensive survey of western Achaea was carried out by A. D. Rizakis and others in 1985; extensive work coupled with an epigraphical survey was undertaken in subsequent years. The extensive survey of the countryside was focused initially on western Achaea, in the area around the city of Dyme, and in later seasons moved to cover the territory of Achaea somewhat sporadically, with especial emphasis on the area around Patras.32

Sikyonia The extensive survey of the territory of ancient Sikyon was undertaken by Yannis A. Lolos from 1996-2002, in order to locate and study settlements, communication routes, defensive installations, and any surviving traces of religious and economic activities.38 Definitely Hellenistic material was identified in 22 sites (table 20), 10 of these ‘small’ (0.03–0.5 ha) in size, 7 ‘medium’ (0.5–1.0 ha), and 5 of ‘large’ size (1.0–15.0 ha). Interestingly, among these 22 sites, the Hellenistic period seems to have been the predominant phase in only 2 of the small sites. Only 7 of the Hellenistic sites seem to have been founded in the Hellenistic period: 4 are small, 3 of medium size, and at least 3 of them seem to date to the late 2nd century BC.

The utility of the survey for the present study is fairly limited, due largely to the manner in which the material is presented: little attention is paid to the problems of ceramic chronology, suggesting that some of the project’s identified Roman sites may in fact be Hellenistic, as may some of their Classical sites. Similarly, total numbers of sherds or artefacts for each site are not given, making it

33

Gill 1994: 112. It is possible, of course, that because the principal focus of the survey was around the territories of Dyme and Patras, the fact that most new or surviving sites occur here is an artefact of the survey methodology itself, and not an archaeological or historical reality. 35 Rizakis, Dalongeville, et al. 1992: 125-135; Rizakis 1997: 26-27. 36 Rizakis 1997: 28. 37 Rizakis 1995; Rizakis 1997: 30-33. 38 Lolos 2012: 3-4. 34

31

For a particularly thorough summary of the debate and its implications, see Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991f: 21-22; Bintliff 2000; Tartaron, Pullen, et al. 2006: 474-492. 32 Rizakis 1998. On the city of Patras itself in the Roman period, see Langdon 1991.

77

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES One cannot help but wonder to what effect the refoundation of Sikyon by Demetrios I (in 303 BC) above its Classical coastal site had on the Sikyonian landscape, or what effect the Roman grant of Corinthian territory post-146 BC had on land use in the region. 39 The character of individual sites, do show, amongst some of the smaller sites at any rate (HS-5, HS-43, HS-62, HS137), a shift in land use, perhaps involving viticulture and/or oleoculture. Still, it is not possible to attribute this to a particular historical cause, and overall the evidence seems to support a mixed economy. Interestingly, HS-45 appears to be a shelter – akin to those found in Methana, which were interpreted as being related to transhumance/pastoralism.40

Sikyon.41 Romano dates this most extensive centuriation to the Flavian period, when it seems Sikyon and neighbouring Corinth (now the provincial capital) were linked by a single system of land allotment along the coast. There are particular caveats that should be noted: a) rarely are all sub-periods represented or readily identified, b) even some large periods are less represented than others, lying deeper under the surface, c) there are 47 sites that were broadly dated between the Archaic and Hellenistic periods, but due to the indistinct nature of the material, these sites have not been included in the data presented here.

Period

Total

Period

Total

All Hellenistic

22

All Hellenistic

16

Hellenistic only

13

Hellenistic only

6

Hellenistic-Roman

9 (23)

Hellenistic-Roman

10

All Roman

18 (34)

All Roman

11

Roman only

9 (25)

Roman only

1

Table 21. E. Arcadia survey sites by period.

Table 20. Sikyonia survey sites by period. Numbers in (brackets) refers to total including uncertain sites.

Eastern Arcadia The extensive survey of Eastern Arcadia was carried out by Howell in 1963 and 1964, and was centred on the highland plains around the Classical cities of Tegea, Mantinea, and Orchomenos in an effort to examine the nature of prehistoric habitation.42 It has much in common with other extensive surveys of the period, subscribing very much to the ‘man and his mule’ approach to survey archaeology, recording little ceramic data beyond simple presence or absence. Moreover, as its explicit focus is the prehistoric settlement of the region, the information on the Hellenistic and Roman periods is quite scarce – the majority can be found in Appendix I of Howell’s 1970 ABSA article, and the relevant data have been reproduced in Table 21.

Roman material was found in 34 sites overall, and Roman seems to be the predominant phase in 9 out of the 34 sites. Only 9 Roman sites seem to carry on from the previous (Hellenistic) period, and 9 are new foundations of the Early Roman. The remaining 16 sites have evidence of Early Hellenistic (or earlier) occupation and Roman occupation, and the data are such that it is unclear whether they are refoundations of previously occupied sites, or if evidence for the Late Hellenistic component was simply not found. Still, the Roman period seems to be one of relative prosperity for the Sikyonian countryside. Interestingly, only the sites of the Geometric, Archaic and especially Roman date survived without substantial losses to their next periods. Overall, site continuity was a limited phenomenon in the survey area, which is perhaps suggestive of the dangers inherent in over-exploiting small sites, or particularly niche economic activities. This shift may be related to the centuriation of the coastal region, which recent studies have traced from the east of the Isthmus of Corinth to about 10km northwest of

Thus, wide-ranging settlement information is not provided for any of the sites. The single site exhibiting only evidence for the Roman period and no earlier component is described simply as having ‘a mass of Roman sherds’,43 with no attempt made to categorise the nature of the site, or quantify what ‘mass’ actually means. Still, Howell is hardly to be blamed for this, for this was not the purpose of his work, which was only ever meant to be a preliminary study aimed at increasing interest in this neglected (at the time) corner of the Peloponnese and perhaps stimulating interest in excavation.44

39 Interestingly, centuriation in the Corinthia seems to stop at the Longopotamos river, about 2 km east of the Nemea river. This latter river formed the boundary between Sikyon and Corinth. This is suggestive of differences between ‘local’ (ie Sikyonian) exploitation of acquired land, and the use of the limitatio implied by the lex agraria of 111 BC. CIL I2 585. Lytle 2012: 171-286; Nakassis 2000: 156-158. 40 Above, and Lolos 2012: 43-44, 445.

41 Romano 2010: esp. 163-168. It should be noted that the extent of the centuriation has no apparent terminus: Romano has yet to publish the results of his study beyond 10km northwest of Sikyon. 42 Howell 1970: 79. 43 Howell 1970: 86. 44 Howell 1970: 79. A good example of the notion of survey as a means of site prospection.

78

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES higher artefact density than their Classical counterparts.48 These larger settlements seem to represent large rural farmsteads, and some have been interpreted as villa sites owned by wealthy elites, largely on the basis of Plutarch (Philopoemen, 4.1-3).49 At least three of these sites show evidence of continual occupation from the Archaic to Late Roman periods, and a few lesser Hellenistic sites continue into the Early Roman period as well, suggesting that some but not all Hellenistic farmsteads continued to be exploited for a greater or lesser time in the Roman period.

The limited data seem to show a decline in settlement in the area of the survey, especially in the areas bordering the mountains. The evidence, when plotted, suggests a general contraction of the inhabited and exploited area within the upland valleys. In other words, those sites which persist from Hellenistic to Roman are most likely to be within a relatively close proximity to a larger urban site. However, the data are such that this could be explained by a wide variety of factors and need not represent any archaeological or historical reality. Still, it is interesting that there is only one new site identified in the Roman period, and that there is c.37 percent decline in the overall number of sites from the Hellenistic to the Roman period. This is a pattern that is similarly represented in both the Asea valley data and the information provided by the Megalopolis survey publications

Significantly, there are no new Roman foundations until the Late Roman period (defined as beginning in the 3rdcentury AD for this particular survey).50 In other words, there is a marked decline in the number of sites from the Hellenistic to the Roman periods – though how marked that decline was is not clear. It appears, in other words, that in the early Empire the rural countryside of Megalopolis was under-exploited. The agricultural activity that did take place was focused on those few isolated farmsteads that had existed since at least the Hellenistic period.

Megalopolis Period

Total

All Hellenistic

20 (94)†

Hellenistic only

NA

Hellenistic-Roman

NA

All Roman

28

Roman only

NA

Of course, the lack of sites may be representative of a shift in economic practice, and not necessarily represent the widespread decline and desolation implied by Strabo and Pausanias.51 An emphasis on pastoralism would not necessarily be reflected in the material culture recovered during surface survey, as it could be directed from a limited number of sites and leave a minimal amount of recoverable material. 52 The previously discussed evidence from Asea requires restatement here: the Asea valley was on one of the major routes from Megalopolis to Laconia, and some of the epigraphic evidence suggests that not only were there links between elites from both Megalopolis and Laconia, but these elites also used the valley as pasture for their flocks. 53 If this activity was going on, there is no reason to suppose that the land around Megalopolis itself was not being used in a similar fashion. There is certainly a danger of circularity here, and the data do not support any definitive statements regarding rural Megalopolitan economic activity, but it is a tantalising prospect nonetheless. Evidence from other sources (notably Pikoulas’ extensive survey of southern Megalopolitan territory 54 and the excavation of a villa rustica near modern Kalliani 55 ) suggest that rural settlement in Roman Arcadia saw a decline in medium and large sites, some decline in small sites, with occasional development of villae.56

Table 22. Megalopolis survey sites by period. † ‘Black-glazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC. The Megalopolis survey was carried out from 1981 to 1983, and was not strictly an extensive survey project, since its stated methodology was intensive in nature: certainly focusing on particular parts of the Megalopolitan landscape, but surveying those areas intensively and systematically. 45 However, finding quantitative information on the Megalopolis survey is exceedingly difficult, and though with luck this should be rectified in the future,46 the form in which the data are currently available means that they can only be discussed in the same way as extensive surveys. There are also insufficient data available to produce more than an impressionistic table (see Table 22).47 There are fewer Hellenistic sites than Classical, but those that do exist tend to be both quite large in terms of area – typically covering between 0.25 and 1.0 ha – and have a

48

Roy, Lloyd, et al. 1989: 149. Lloyd 1991: 190. Roy, Lloyd, et al. 1989: 149-150. 51 Strabo 8.8.1-2: ‘The great city is a great desert’. Pausanias’ visit to the city and environs: 8.26.5-39.1, 43.1-44.7. IG V.2.456 shows continued urban existence in the Early Roman period. Konecny, Boyd, et al. 2012: 62-65. 52 Forbes 1995. 53 Explored in Cartledge and Spawforth 1989: esp. 103, 175. 54 Pikoulas 1988. 55 Eckstein and Meyer 1960. 56 Roy 2010: 67. 49 50

45 Teams of 5 people walking 10 metres apart with a methodology in place for both on- and off-site recording of material. Roy 1983: 269; Roy, Lloyd, et al. 1989: 148-149. 46 J. Roy, pers. comm. Liverpool, Dec. 18, 2006. 47 Chart data, such as they are, comes from Lloyd 1991: fig. 5. Discussion of ‘black-glazed’ sites: Lloyd 1991: 188-189. A detailed description of Arcadia in the Roman period, which includes previously unpublished Megalopolitan data, can be found in: Konecny, Boyd, et al. 2012.

79

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES what the natures of those settlements were, or what types of land use were most prevalent in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, is not clear from the data – a recognised situation which formed part of the reasoning behind the implementation of the previously discussed Pylos Regional Archaeological Project (PRAP).

Messenia Period

Total

All Hellenistic

61

Hellenistic only

27

Hellenistic-Roman

34

All Roman

54

Roman only

20

Interestingly, the separate and slightly more intensive ‘Five Rivers’ survey project, conducted in the area around the excavated site of Nichoria, recorded an increase in Roman sites overall: 28 sites in the Roman period versus 8 sites in the Hellenistic.63

Table 23. UMME survey sites by period.

The data from these two projects, when taken together, suggest not only a high degree of settlement continuity between the Hellenistic and Roman periods, but also a very specific local response to the new realities of Roman hegemony, with the area around Nichoria especially flourishing. It would be of great benefit if more could be said about the character of these sites, but unfortunately the data do not allow this. Still, while the lack of specifics regarding these data is unquestionably frustrating, one should not lose sight of the bigger picture: Messenia exemplifies the variety of regional responses – indeed, the variety of regional histories – that exist for the Hellenistic and Roman Peloponnese.

The University of Minnesota Messenia Expedition (UMME or MME) was conducted from 1959 to 1969, and was arguably one of the first relatively ‘systematic’ archaeological surface surveys conducted in Greece. 57 Compared to more recent surveys, the data produced by the project appear quite coarse – but they should be viewed in their proper theoretical and methodological context; the publication of UMME arguably ‘kickstarted’ the Greek survey revolution of the late 1970s and early 1980s, and highlighted the potential of just such an approach.58 The survey was conducted in order to understand more fully the relationship(s) between and amongst Bronze Age (i.e. Early to Late Helladic) sites around the areas of Pylos, Nichoria, and the so-called Palace of Nestor.59 In order to achieve this aim the survey took account of environmental and topographical data, and did not just seek to place ‘dots on a map,’ to borrow a phrase.60 The data are presented in a slightly more comprehensive manner than other extensive surveys; multi-component sites are briefly discussed, and ‘Register B’61 in the final report lists all post-Bronze Age sites in a fairly systematic manner – even including rudimentary size information, albeit sporadically. The dating criteria for the postClassical periods on this particular survey are now quite suspect, it should be noted,62 and due to the fact that the specific ceramic vessels used to date the sites are not discussed, no attempt has been made to correct the dates published in ‘Register B’.

IV.3 The Peloponnese in Regions Given these data, it is possible to move up the next rung of the interpretive ladder, from an intra-regional to a regional scale of narration, by drawing together these data and examining the Peloponnese in regions. These interpretations draw on the intensive survey data as discussed above, as well as extensive survey data and historical sources in order to create as full a picture as possible. The division of the Peloponnese into these five regions is an artificial construct (see Figure 18); a useful interpretive imposition to be sure, but still a division that did not exist in this form in the past. Certainly, the Peloponnese has frequently been viewed as a ‘physically individual’ landscape; 64 one that appears to be divided geographically into zones accessible largely from the coast bounded by mountains and difficult terrain. It has been described as a fist of mountains in the north, with four outstretched fingers to the south – a striking image that encapsulates the essentially divisive nature of the landscape.65 Strabo comments on this ‘dis-integration,’ in its purest sense, that the landscape necessarily imposed on the whole of the peninsula and the poleis found within (8.2.1), 66 and Herodotus famously described the

The data, such as they are (see Table 23), show a decline in sites from the Hellenistic to the Roman periods, although not as marked a decline as has been posited for elsewhere in the Peloponnese: there are just over 11 percent fewer total sites in the Roman period than in the Hellenistic. Interestingly, only 37 percent of these are new foundations, which suggests a strong regional continuity in terms of settlement and land use. Exactly 57

Watrous 1974: 86. Ammerman 1981: 65-66. 59 McDonald 1972: 3-5, 8. 60 Bintliff 2000. 61 McDonald and Rapp 1972: 310-321. It should be noted that the information in the survey gazetteer does not always tally with the information as presented in the UMME discussion. For an example, see Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 161, n.47. 62 Alcock 1993a: 46. 58

63

The results are presented in a slightly haphazard fashion in Lukermann and Moody 1978. 64 Horden and Purcell 2000: 130. 65 G. Shipley, pers. comm., Leicester, Feb. 2007. 66 It is hard to better Strabo’s comparison of the shape of the Peloponnese to the leaf of the plane-tree, but not many people (other than a geographer) would have conceived of the Peloponnese from above.

80

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES

Figure 18. The Peloponnese in Regions. between these points is the southeastern region. A fifth region has been imposed upon the central mass of the Arcadian mountains. Archaeologically, either implicitly or explicitly, surface surveys have abided by these gross divisions and can therefore be grouped concomitantly within particular broad regions. Still, ‘natural’ as these groupings might seem, they are artificial and are meant as hermeneutic tools only – not explanatory factors in and of themselves. The regions are outlined on the accompanying map, but these are not exact boundaries.

Peloponnese in terms of its seven geographically separate peoples (8.73). Pausanias also divides the Peloponnese, splitting its description into coherent, self-contained sections. 67 In other words, the divided character of the landscape was not unknown in antiquity, and it is probably fair to say that it was believed that the landscape of the Peloponnese inhibited rather than facilitated communication by land.68 Yet the decision to divide the Peloponnese into five regions for the present study was not based on ancient literary testimonia but on a combination of geography and archaeology. Geographically, the Peloponnese can, superficially, be divided into sub-regions defined in large part by the continuity of access from the coast within those regions. Thus, where the mountains interrupt the coastal plain, as at Tainaron in southern Laconia, coastal travel is somewhat disrupted. Coastal travel is again interrupted at the southern end of the Kynouria; in 67 68

Moreover, there is a danger of oversimplification or generalising in offering regional summaries of this sort. However, it is a useful tool of analysis that serves to highlight the general differences between regions, and the distinct histories that need to be taken into account for

The Peloponnese is discussed in books 2-8. See also Elsner 2001. Sanders and Whitbread 1990.

81

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES Survey Project

All Hell.

Sikyonia Berbati-Limnes Methana Southern Argolid

22 22 48 107 [43]

Only Hell. 13 18 33 101 [37]

Hell.Rom. 9 (23)* 4 15 6

All Rom. 18 (34)* 8 25 10

Only Rom. 9 (25) 4 10 4

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 18 % (- 30.5%) - 63.5 % (- 78%) - 48 % (- 70.5%) - 90.5 % [-74.5%] (- 96 % [-89%])

Table 24. Northeast region site numbers by survey and period. Number in (parentheses) represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Number in [square brackets] excludes Argolid Early Hellenistic sites.* This represents sites with unclear periodization. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Survey Project

All Hell.

Sikyonia [360] Berbati-Limnes [25] Methana [10.5] Southern Argolid [44]

0.06 0.88 4.95 2.39

Only Hell. 0.02 0.72 3.71 1.91

Hell.Rom. 0.03 0.16 1.23 0.14

All Rom. 0.09 0.32 1.81 0.23

Only Rom. 0.03 0.16 0.57 0.09

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 18 % (- 30.5%) - 63.5% (- 78%) - 63.5% (- 84.5%) - 90.5% (- 96%)

Table 25. Northeast region: number of sites per km2, by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Survey Project

All Hell.

Sikyonia Berbati-Limnes Methana Southern Argolid

NA 0.18 0.39 0.54

Only Hell. NA 0.045 0.18 0.27

Hell.Rom. NA 0.44 0.25 1.91

All Rom. NA 0.26 0.29 1.07

Only Rom. NA 0.10 0.09 0.17

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman NA + 31% (+ 55%) - 25% (- 50%) + 49.5% (- 37%)

Table 26. Northeast region: ‘Winsorised’ mean site sizes (ha) by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. each part of the Peloponnese. Perhaps importantly, due to the fragmented nature of the evidence, this division of the Peloponnese into regions should be seen as a useful framework for future study as well; some regions simply have more evidence available, and as such, have more rounded discussions. Those regions that have only limited information available have been included for the sake of completeness.

numbers, which amounts to 65 percent for the entirety of the region. If one looks just at those sites that exists in either the Hellenistic or the Roman period, this decline rockets to close to 83 percent. Some of this decline may perhaps be attributed to the Mummian destruction of Corinth, which in all likelihood had a ‘knock-on’ effect on the surrounding countryside of the northeastern Peloponnese. This perhaps explains the increase in sites evident in the Sikyonia material. Yet momentous as that event was, it cannot account for the overall trend: decline and apparent depopulation.

Northeast The northeast region of the Peloponnese comprises eastern Achaea beginning roughly at Aegion and including Sikyonia, the Corinthia, and the Argolid. Most of the surveys within this region, be they intensive or extensive, exhibit similar trends – a significant decline in overall site numbers in the Roman period – with the notable exception of the Sikyonia survey, as Table 24 shows.

While it is difficult to discuss in specific terms the character of those sites that either persist or do not, these data seem to accord with the traditional narrative of Late Hellenistic and Early Roman Greece – outside of major urban centres, the rural landscape is fundamentally altered, and at first glance under-populated and underexploited. Table 25 shows that the overall density of occupation within surveyed regions drops fairly dramatically – most notably in the Southern Argolid, which sees a decline from 2.39 sites per km2 to 0.09 sites per km2 – but again, this trend is observable across each of the surveyed regions, with the exception of Sikyonia.70

The vital data missing from this assessment are of course those from Corinth, but preliminary reports from the Eastern Korinthia Archaeological Survey (EKAS) confirm the same general picture;69 the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods are typified by a substantial decline in site numbers. The surveys show a decline of between 63.5 percent and 90.5 percent in overall site 69

70 Due to the unsystematic manner in which the countryside is covered in extensive surveys, they typically exhibit quite low numbers of sites per km2.

Tartaron, Pullen, et al. 2006: 500-501, 504.

82

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES description that is not easily explained. Perhaps a resurgent Corinthia is expanding once more, and exploiting the landscape of the Berbati valley anew. Perhaps the valley’s population intensifies its economic activities after a period of relatively superficial (in archaeological terms) exploitation.

One could say, then, that the northeast exhibits a similar response in site numbers over time. Herein lies one of the most persistent problems with this traditional historical narrative of decline and depopulation: it describes only one facet of the archaeological data. A drop in numbers may indeed mean depopulation and economic decline, but that is not the only possible explanation. When one examines the relative site sizes for these periods, a slightly more complicated picture emerges for the northeastern Peloponnese (Table 26). Within the Berbati valley, there is an observable increase in mean size, both in terms of the overall size of sites (31 percent increase), and in the new foundations of the Early to Middle Roman periods (55 percent increase). The Southern Argolid survey shows an overall increase of 49.5 percent, though a decrease of 37 percent for new Roman foundations. 71 Methana shows a decline across the board, and there are not enough data for Sikyonia, as yet.

The data from Sikyonia also show a marked increase in the exploitation of the rural countryside in the Roman period, if one takes into account those sites that have both Early Hellenistic and Early Roman material, perhaps due to the economic niche Sikyon had managed to carve out for itself during the 100 years when Corinth was ‘uninhabited’. Although, once the Julian colony was refounded Sikyon lost most of the Corinthian territory ceded to it post-146 BC (Strabo 8.6.23, Livy 33.15.1), the data show the area was able to maintain its prosperity, and build upon it. The data for the northeast as whole suggest that the destruction and subsequent re-foundation of Corinth had a ‘ripple’ effect throughout the rural countryside (although note that recent evidence suggests continued investment in the Corinthian countryside – Romano sees centuriation of the surrounding area beginning in the mid to late second century BC). 73 The Berbati material suggests that the loss of Corinth deprived this upland valley of a vital market, leading to a large-scale depopulation of the valley. At the same time, Sikyonia profited by Berbati’s loss. This situation was rectified slightly when the re-foundation of Corinth saw a new wave of exploitation of the countryside, leading to new settlement in Berbati, this time from a different population. Sikyon again seems to have increased its exploitation of its countryside – though this time closer to home. Unfortunately, exactly what form this exploitation took is not clear. The data from Methana corroborate this picture, at least in terms of the trend towards increased specialisation and/or exploitation: while there is certainly a decline in sites, those sites that do persist are focused on a particular type of land use, a much more intensive form that likely revolves around some combination of viticulture, oleoculture, and pastoralism.

These data from the individual surveys, as presented on Table 26, show that settlement is much more varied than the traditional narrative would suggest. Certainly, the sites that continue from the Hellenistic and Roman periods tend to be larger; it is likely that this is partly due to whatever successful economic niche(s) they fall into. Interestingly, the Berbati and Sikyonia material highlights a profound change in land use. In the Berbati valley, the new foundations of the Roman period, though far fewer than their Hellenistic counterparts, are significantly larger from the outset. Depopulation becomes settlement nucleation – the rural countryside of the northeast moves from a dispersed settlement pattern to a nucleated settlement pattern, and this need not translate into significant population loss. As discussed above, Berbati sees a marked discontinuity in ceramic fabric between the Hellenistic and Roman periods, meaning that new sources of clay are being exploited for the locally produced pottery. Once it is noted that the Hellenistic clay beds still existed, and the visible discontinuity in settlement is recalled, the evidence is suggestive of a change in cultural practice, if not population; a period of settlement discontinuity and relative abandonment (or at least, a period of archaeologically invisible economic activity), followed by resettlement and the exploitation of a different clay source (though the previous sources had been in use since the Bronze Age),72 suggests that the valley’s population shrank in the Late Hellenistic period to the point where ceramic production ceased (or produced their ceramics elsewhere), only to recommence production with the early Roman resettlement (perhaps indicative of a return to a more permanent, multi-seasonal form of settlement within the valley). While it is advisable to avoid the ‘pots equals peoples’ temptation, this is suggestive of a demographic and/or economic change of some 71 Part of this discrepancy may be explained by the different lengths of the two chronological periods. 72 Ian Whitbread, pers. comm., University of Leicester, November 2006.

73

83

Nakassis 2000.

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES

Survey Project

All Hell.

Achaea No. of sites per km2

34 0.07

Only Hell. 24 0.05

Hell.Rom. 10 0.02

All Rom. 18 0.04

Only Rom. 8 0.02

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 47% (- 67%) - 47% (- 67%)

Table 27. Northwest region: site numbers by survey and period, and number of sites per km2. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. instance it cannot be explained away as a literary topos (as discussed above in II.2). Yet those areas around the Roman colonies see much less of a decline, and the reordering of the landscape around those settlements suggests that there was a demand within those settlements for agro-alimentary products. Centuriation of the landscape 78 requires an investment of resources, an investment undoubtedly made on the assumption of an eventual return. The survival of larger sites, if the hypothesis above is correct, would perhaps corroborate this idea. These sites would be ideally placed to control and exploit the surrounding countryside, and to funnel these products into the waiting colonial markets. In short, they might act as local points of collection and redistribution, as has been suggested for other areas of the empire. 79 In this instance, the northwest sees a particularly Roman imposition on the landscape. This imposition likely met with mixed success, judging by the fact that Dyme was never a particularly successful Roman colony (in economic terms), and the fact that centuriation is rarely found in the Peloponnese.

Northwest The northwest comprises western Achaea from the western coast to Aegion in the east, and Elis to just north of the Alpheios river valley in the south. This southern boundary is determined by the northern limit of the UMME survey. Although the only data for this region come from the Achaea survey, it is still possible to discuss wider regional trends by incorporating historical and epigraphical sources. It should be noted, however, that the inclusion of the Northwest essentially serves to ‘round out’ the framework for discussion, as significant regional contributions must await the publication and collation of more varied data. Table 27 summarises much of the available settlement information. Achaea sees a decline in site numbers and, as a result, occupation density. The data for the number of sites per km2 are slightly skewed by the large territory covered by the extensive survey (roughly 480 km2).74 On the whole, the picture again conforms largely to the general Peloponnesian trend of decline in overall numbers.

This seems to accord with the picture presented by the urban centres of the northwest. The early decades of Roman rule saw little marked change in the urban topography in Patras; it is only from the Flavian period onwards (interestingly the same period that sees renewed investment in the Corinthian countryside) that the colonia sees more material evidence of Roman involvement. Local elite and colonial authorities invested in significant public building projects, alongside the construction of large urban and rural residences.80

What is significant about these data, and the extensive epigraphical information collected by Rizakis et al.,75 is the duality of the countryside in western Achaea. It readily becomes apparent, upon examining the totality of the evidence, that there are two very distinct populations living in the region: the citizens and colonists of the Roman colonies of Dyme and Patras, and the descendants of the original, pre-Roman, inhabitants of the region.76 It is amongst these pre-Roman communities that most of the site loss is evidenced; it is they who ‘suffer’ the most, in this sense. It is unfortunate that site sizes are not recorded,77 but these too would probably bear out the fact that smaller sites disappear, and that those most likely to survive would be the larger sites whose economy did not depend solely on one niche activity.

Southeast The southeast region covers most of Hellenistic Laconia, bounded by Arcadia to the north, and the Taygetos mountain range on the west. Again, the paucity of survey in this region means that the majority of data comes solely from the Laconia survey, supplemented by some excavation and epigraphical data. Laconia has been discussed at some length already (IV.2.1, above), and the essentially varied character of the region has been shown. As with the northwest, this summary should be taken as a framework for future study, to be expanded as more data become available. This shift in emphasis of land use is not represented in the raw data of total site numbers,

The countryside under the Romans is certainly characterised by under-exploitation of lands, and in this 74

Rizakis, Dalongeville, et al. 1992. Rizakis 1995; Rizakis 1998; Rizakis, Zoumbaki, et al. 2001. 76 Rizakis 1997: 28. Pausanias reports on the various populations involved in the reorganisation of the Achaean countryside to accommodate the colony (10.38.9; cf. 7.18.8). Strabo also patchily mentions some of this (10.2.21; cf. the silence at 9.4.7). Latin inscriptions at Patras have been used to argue in favour of a Latin, or at least Italian, population. CIL III.569-70; Kahrstedt 1950: 560-61. 77 Though they are hinted at throughout Rizakis’ publications. Tableau III.I Rizakis, Dalongeville, et al. 1992: 61-63 includes a ‘villa rustica’ category of settlement, and short discussion follows on p. 71. 75

78

Rizakis, Dalongeville, et al. 1992: 125-126. See, for instance Leveau 1991; Strasser 1997. 80 Langdon 1991, esp. 143-150. 79

84

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES Survey Project

All Hell.

Laconia

0.26

Only Hell. 0.22

Hell.Rom. 0.25

All Rom. 0.17

Only Rom. 0.12

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 34.5% (- 45.5%)

Table 28. Southeast region: ‘Winsorised’ mean site sizes (ha) by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Survey Project

All Hell.

Laconia No. of sites per km2

75 1.07

Only Hell. 53 0.76

Hell.Rom. 22 0.31

All Rom. 52 0.74

Only Rom. 30 0.43

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 30.5% (- 43.5%) - 30.5% (- 43.5%)

Table 29. Southeast region: site numbers by survey and period, and number of sites per km2. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Survey Project

All Hell.

UMME PRAP

NA 5.98

Only Hell. NA 0.12

Hell.Rom. NA 5.97

All Rom. NA 5.53

Only Rom. NA 2.70

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman NA - 7.5% (+ 95.5%)

Table 30. Southwest region: number of sites per km2 by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Survey Project

All Hell.

UMME PRAP

61 24

Only Hell. 27 3

Hell.Rom. 34 21

All Rom. 54 26

Only Rom. 20 5

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 11.5% (- 26%) + 7.5% (+ 40%)

Table 31. Southwest region: site numbers by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Survey Project

All Hell.

UMME [3800] PRAP [40]

0.016 0.600

Only Hell. 0.007 0.075

Hell.Rom. 0.009 0.525

All Rom. 0.014 0.650

Only Rom. 0.005 0.125

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 11.5% (- 26%) + 7.5% (+ 40%)

Table 32. Southwest region: ‘Winsorised’ mean site sizes (ha) by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. downward trend in site numbers and density is not immediately obvious.

which once more show a general trend of decline and depopulation (as seen on Tables 28 and 29). Laconia, in other words, was no stranger to changes in land use, or to widespread modification of the perceptions of landscapes. The historical sources certainly give repeated instances of wide-scale reordering of Laconian territory, be it the loss of central and northern Messenia in 369 BC, Philip II of Macedon’s redrawing of the boundaries of Laconia in 338 BC, the reforms of Agis IV and Cleomenes III, or Pausanias’ description of the extent of Lakedaimonian territory in his day (8.54.1).81 After its enrolment in the Achaean league in 192 BC, Sparta continued to lose territory as perioikic communities became more independent, and the Spartan elite came to be more involved in the pan-Peloponnesian elite networks of the Late Hellenistic and Roman period. 82 How much of this is represented in the

Southwest The southwest region is made up Messenia, from the Taygetos mountain range in the east to the coast in the west, and stretches to the southern banks of the Alpheios in the north, largely corresponding to the area surveyed by the University of Minnesota Messenia Expedition. This region shows a very small decline in site numbers (Table 31) – and this is largely due to the UMME extensive survey. When one remembers that the Five Rivers survey recorded an overall increase, as mentioned above, it may be that the UMME’s recorded decrease is a result of their methodology, and not representative of the landscape history of the region. 83 Regardless, the southwest reacts in a much different manner to other regions of the Peloponnese. There is a higher degree of settlement continuity between the Hellenistic and Roman

81

Fully discussed in Shipley 2000. Kennell 1999. Also seen in the catalogue of Rizakis, Zoumbaki, et al. 2004. 82

83 Many of the problems with the UMME survey interpretations are discussed throughout the text in Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005.

85

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES Survey Project

All Hell.

Megalopolis Asea Eastern Arcadia

NA 0.64 NA

Only Hell. NA 0.25 NA

Hell.Rom. NA 1.63 NA

All Rom. NA 0.77 NA

Only Rom. NA 0.33 NA

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman NA + 17% (+ 24%) NA

Table 33. Central region: number of sites per km2 by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys.† This number represents ‘blackglazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC. ‡ This number takes into account ‘black-glazed’ sites. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Survey Project

All Hell.

Megalopolis Asea Eastern Arcadia

20 (94)† 25 16

Only Hell. NA 17 6

Hell.Rom. NA 8 10

All Rom. 28 21 11

Only Rom. NA 13 1

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman + 28.5% (- 70%)‡ - 16% (- 25.5%) - 31% (- 83.5%)

Table 34. Central region: site numbers by survey and period. Number in brackets represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. † This number represents ‘black-glazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC. ‡This number takes into account ‘blackglazed’ sites. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. reflected in the survey data for the larger region. Indeed, Messenia’s agricultural potential, “good to plough, good to plant” (Tyrtaeus fr. 4.3), had long been recognised. Following a post-Spartan liberation period of conservatism and a focus on self-sufficiency in economic terms, increased western connections from the Late Hellenistic period onwards sought to exploit its primarily agricultural economy.88

periods in this region than in any other, suggestive of a relatively peaceful and non-turbulent transition from independent poleis to province. It may even be possible to suggest that Roman rule brought a fair measure of prosperity to the region, although it may also be possible that the preferred settlement pattern of village and hamlet (as opposed to farmsteads, as seen in other areas of Greece), may have played a hand in this long-term survival.84 Several of the new foundations identified by PRAP also appear to have been ‘villa’ sites, suggestive of a new prosperity – at least amongst those at the top of the social ladder. 85 In this sense, the southwest and the northwest of the Peloponnese exhibit similar situations – the establishment of ‘villa’ sites, which are generally rare in the Greek countryside.86

Central The central region is essentially composed of the mountainous region in the centre of the Peloponnese, incorporating essentially the area left over from the previous discussions, roughly from Kyllene in the north to the Sciritis in the south, and from the eastern edge of Mantineian territory to the tributaries of the Alpheios in the west, excluding the Alpheios valley.

Another trend that seems to be specific to the southwest is the seeming preference for new sites to be located on the coast. There seems to be a longer-term trend for coastal emphasis in site location, and these sites tend to be larger as well. 87 The excellent harbours at Pharai, Pylos and Kyparissia were well known in antiquity, and it could be that these sites are being established to capitalise on those maritime connections (which need not be necessarily for trade out of the region, but also more local transportation). Table 33 highlights some of the important trends in terms of site size, with several of these larger coastal ‘villa’ sites skewing the data. Still, there can be no denying the evident prosperity of the Hellenistic and Roman southwest.

The data for the central region are decidedly mixed – overall, for the whole region, there is a slight decline in site numbers, but it is not nearly as drastic as in other regions (Tables 33 and 34). The Hellenistic period is one of general prosperity, especially for the Megalopolitan area. The Roman period is also one of general prosperity, although there is a decrease in both total site numbers and number of sites per km2. Unfortunately, the ceramics for Megalopolis are such that a large proportion of the locally produced fine-wares can only be dated broadly to the 5th to 1st century BC – the survey categorised these artefact scatters as ‘black-glazed’ sites. If these ‘blackglazed’ sites are taken into account, and if they are all assumed to be Hellenistic in date (which they most likely were not), the interpretation changes markedly.

Messenia’s fertile river valleys and geographic location – bridging east and west – allowed the local economy to flourish following Spartan domination, and this is 84

Alcock 1998: 183. Site G1. Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 188. 87 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 183-184.

88

85

Conservatism and Messenian identity: Halstead 1996: 286-291; Luraghi 2002. The nature of the Messenian economy, generally: Foster 1984: esp. 90-96.

86

86

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES benefit from the new reality of Roman hegemony, and certainly, some are not. But to generalise that the Roman period is essentially a negative one is to reduce the past to the result of a simplistic equation. The job of a historian, whether it is one who draws on textual sources, material culture, or both, is not to reduce the past, but to describe its wide variety.

Most likely, each of the survey areas seems to conform to broader regional trends. Each survey area sees a general contraction in the total area exploited in the Roman period, with upland sites and sites located close to upland areas disappearing between the Hellenistic and Roman periods. In other words, the more marginal land of central Arcadia is the first to be abandoned, or, the first to see less intensive forms of economic exploitation.

Recent renewed emphasis on regions, or sub-regions, by other scholars has shown that more focused study areas can yield interesting information, and question longstanding assumptions regarding the broader area of which these regions form a part. Recent work by Mattingly on Roman Britain in particular has shown that the long scholarly history of research into the topic has created many false assumptions regarding the uniformity of experience of Britons under the Romans.93 A survey of the available evidence for each of the various areas of Britain has shown that the provincial landscapes of Britain were not unlike those examined above for the Peloponnese in their inherent non-conformity to ‘traditional’ historical narratives. Much more nuanced histories emerged from Mattingly’s study, showing the different types of communities and settlement structures that existed and developed within Britain during the roughly four centuries of Roman rule.94 The key point is not so much that previous narrative histories of Roman Britain were wrong, simply that they tended to emphasise conformity over difference, broad trends over individual examples, and it is within the lens of discrepant experience that more nuanced histories may be constructed.95

Interestingly, the data for Asea (the only survey with site information for the central region) show that the Roman sites are typically larger than their Hellenistic predecessors. This could be interpreted in a similar manner to the villa sites of the northwest: these large sites are ideally placed to control and exploit the surrounding countryside through a variety of means, perhaps controlling and focusing on pastoral activity. The data are perhaps suggestive of an emphasis on second and third order sites – the komai or villages that normally supported larger urban settlements and the variety of smaller rural settlement that comprised ancient agricultural activity. One might read the data as suggesting the absorption of smaller, previously separate communities by larger neighbours. Pausanias certainly read the landscape this way (e.g. 8.38.1, the case of Lykosoura, dependent on Megalopolis), 89 but his views on the desolation of the Arcadian countryside need not reflect archaeological reality.90 While the overall picture is of a depressed and under-exploited region, there were patches of development: fragmentary epigraphic evidence points to the involvement of Roman citizens in ‘business’ (ie. the pragmateuomenoi) in various centres in the region.91 Elites from elsewhere in the Peloponnese also seem to be interested in exploiting the region in relation to pastoral activities, most prominently the Euryclids of Sparta.92

As has already been shown for later periods, in the Hellenistic period some areas of the Peloponnese suggest continuity from preceding eras more than change. Though inevitably detailed evidence is lacking for some regions (as has been discussed above), most survey projects conducted within the Peloponnese find that, for the most part, the Classical occupation of the rural landscape appears to continue. The Eastern Korinthia Archaeological Survey, in preliminary reports for example, has found Hellenistic material at many of its Classical findspots, suggestive of a continuity of occupation – though the nature and extent of that occupation may have changed. 96 In Laconia, while the character of settlements change, there is no clear evidence of a decline in site numbers during the Hellenistic period.97 Pylos and Asea also seem to exhibit evidence arguing against a decline – though not evidence contrary to change.

IV.4 Conclusion What this chapter shows is the multifaceted and localised responses that these regions made to long- and mediumterm socio-political processes. The traditional historical narrative of a declining and depopulated Greece in the Roman period requires emendation; the Roman Peloponnese, overall, does indeed show a pattern of decline (around 37 percent, as seen in Table 35), but this numerical decline of site numbers masks a much more complicated situation. Simple loss of numbers does not automatically translate into depopulation or desolation. This study has shown the opposite. The Roman Peloponnese is typified by a series of vibrant communities; it is a place composed of disparate regions with disparate histories. Some of these regions are able to 89 IG V 2, 515C, 516, 544 show that decrees of Lykosoura were kept at Megalopolis. 90 On Arcadia, see: Konecny, Boyd, et al. 2012: 60-61. On Pausanias see: Ault 2009; Stewart 2013 (forthcoming). 91 IG V 2, 515b (Megalopolis), and IG V 2, 268 and 307 (Mantinea). See also Goette 2002. 92 MacKinnon 2007. This phenomenon is discussed in more detail in Chapter V, below.

93 Summary evidence regarding provincial landscapes are discussed in Mattingly 2006: 379-427. 94 A consistent theme throughout the book, but emphasized for rural communities at Mattingly 2006: 427. 95 Mattingly 2006: 16-17, 520-528. 96 Gregory 1998. 97 Shipley 2002c: 274-288, 310-312, 322-326.

87

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES Survey Project

All Hell. 22 22 48 107 [43]

Only Hell. 13 18 33 84 [37]

Hell.Rom. 9 (23)* 4 15 6

Sikyonia Berbati-Limnes Methana Southern Argolid Achaea Laconia UMME PRAP Megalopolis Asea Eastern Arcadia

All Rom. 18 (34)* 8 25 10

Only Rom. 9 (25) 4 10 4

34 75 61 24 20 (94)† 25 16

24 53 27 3 NA 17 6

10 22 34 21 NA 8 10

18 52 54 26 28 21 11

8 30 20 5 NA 13 1

Approx. % Change from Hell. to Roman - 18 % (- 30.5%) - 63.5 % (- 78%) - 48 % (- 70.5%) - 90.5 % [-74.5%] (- 96 % [-89%]) - 47% (- 67%) - 30.5% (- 43.5%) - 11.5% (- 26%) + 7.5% (+ 40%) + 28.5% (- 70%)‡ - 16% (- 25.5%) - 31% (- 83.5%)

Table 35. Peloponnesian site numbers by survey and period. Number in (parentheses) represents only Hellenistic and only Roman sites. Number in [square brackets] excludes Argolid Early Hellenistic sites. Italics denotes extensive surveys. * This number represents sites with uncertain periodization. † This number represents ‘black-glazed’ sites, whose date could be anywhere from 5th to 1st century BC. ‡ This number takes into account ‘black-glazed’ sites. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. evidence of an increase in settlement in the Argeia. Local demographic trends may represent a system of checks and balances on regional populations; decline in one area may result in expansion somewhere else.

Instead, what is seen in these areas in the Hellenistic period is a different sort of change. In western Achaea, as seen in the survey of the territory of Dyme, field data suggest a marked recolonisation of the landscape in the Early or Middle Hellenistic period. 98 For Arcadia there appears to be an increase in small farms that begins at some point earlier than 300 BC at Asea99 and Pylos.100 In Laconia, the evidence also points to an increase in the settlement and exploitation of marginal land with small and medium-sized farms around 300 BC. Similarly in the Southern Argolid, there is a similar phase of dispersed settlement into small rural sites during that survey’s Late Classical–Early Hellenistic period, with increased use of storage pottery. At Berbati in the central Argolid, similar changes were detected, albeit slightly later. There, the evidence suggests a wave of new settlement around the close of the 4th century, and a similar decline in numbers around the close of the 3rd century.101

Several regions exhibit evidence for an increase in elite land ownership, or at least a growth in rural estates. This has been shown already for the Southern Argolid, which has typically larger sites in the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods than Methana or Laconia. 104 Stronger evidence of this trend can be seen in Achaea and Messenian Pylos. At Dyme, several sites have been identified as large farmsteads or villas, and there are a number of structures exhibiting increasing monumentality and elaborate decorative schemes. 105 In Messenia, where the survey evidence suggests the growth of a wealthy landowning class and a similar increased incidence of large sites, definite villa structures appear in the Early Roman period.106 In the Berbati–Limnes valley, the appearance of a single estate-type settlement by c.200 107 BC parallels the decline of small rural sites in the eastern Argolid. Moreover, the relatively high proportion of medium sites (0.30 to 1.00 ha) at Megalopolis would agree with just such an interpretation. 108 Rizakis’ hypothesis that mono-cropping explains the reduction in settlement numbers in Achaea would also support this idea of an increased elite land ownership, and estatebased agriculture in general.109

It may be that this increase in rural settlement in some regions is due to concomitant urban growth. This may be the case in Sparta, where the central polis settlement was expanding in the Early Hellenistic period.102 The town of Dyme in Achaea and its territory appear to flourish in parallel in this period.103 The rise of settlement in Berbati has been linked by the surveyors to the resettlement of nearby Mycenae. It is important to stress, however, that some of these developments have a local, rather than a regional character. Thus, contradictory evidence may exist within a region. This can be seen in the Northeast region, with some localised areas showing growth in the Hellenistic period. Evidence from the Argolid shows that while settlement declines in the Southern Argolid, there is

In general, the archaeological evidence suggests a general observable trend throughout the Peloponnese, though it sees different local expressions, and some areas are 104

Shipley 2002a: 184-186. Rizakis, Dalongeville, et al. 1992: 68-69. For villas, see Rizakis 1997. 106 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 181-184. 107 Penttinen 1996: 229, 271-272, 279-281. 108 Lloyd 1991: 189–190; Roy, Lloyd, et al. 1989: 149; Lloyd, Owens, et al. 1985: 217. 109 Papagiannopoulos and Zachos 2000: 144-145. 105

98

Rizakis, Dalongeville, et al. 1992: 68-69. Forsén, Forsén, et al. 1996: 91. 100 Davis, Alcock, et al. 1997: 455-457. 101 Penttinen 1996: 229, 271-272, 279-81. 102 Kourinou 2000: 89-95, 243-246. 103 Lakakis and Rizakis 1992: 70. 99

88

IV. REGIONAL NARRATIVES seemingly little touched by it. Overall the surveys are suggestive of an increasing development of a landowning elite class and a shift in agriculture and economy in the Peloponnese. Interestingly, this trend is most visible in the Northwest, Southwest, and Central regions of the Peloponnese, perhaps suggestive of a division between east and west. As shall be shown in following chapters, the west is increasingly connected to a wider socioeconomic network that extends beyond the borders of the Peloponnese, and the east appears to lag behind.

89

that, in a particularist sense, smaller areas within broader regions may not conform to the general trend themselves. It is better to view each of the narratives at different scales as a set of hypotheses to be confirmed or rejected: certainly they are not the last word, but let them be examined and tested.

V. Inter-regional Narratives I might almost say that the Peloponnesus is the acropolis of Greece as a whole; for, apart from the splendour and power of the tribes that have lived in it, the very topography of Greece, diversified as it is by gulfs, many capes, and, what are the most significant, large peninsulas that follow one another in succession, suggests such hegemony for it. Strabo, 8.1.3

V.2 The Peloponnese as a whole Taking the Peloponnese, in toto, as an interpretive or analytical unit without further subdivisions is, in a sense, as arbitrary as dividing the Peloponnese itself into five regions (as above, IV.3). This is not to say that there are not justifications for doing so, or that the exercise is not rewarding, simply that the Peloponnese did not ever act as a unified entity. It was always a collection of disparate regions and sub-regions (and localities), defined in a wide variety of ways: by independent poleis and their territories, federal leagues and their member states, or by the proximity of Roman garrisons and coloniae.3

Whereas previous chapters have focused intentionally on the information within the bounds of the Peloponnese, this chapter extends the analysis beyond the shores of Pelops’ island. It begins with a discussion of the necessity of placing smaller regional studies in a broader academic context, and a summation of the data to date. A short discussion of how the Peloponnesian data relate to the wider world of the Greek provinces is followed by an analysis of wider Mediterranean trends, and how they relate to the data as presented here.

While the finer points of the local histories may be lost in such an analysis, there is much to be gained. The Peloponnese does exhibit particular trends through the Hellenistic and Roman periods, and there are tantalising glimpses of the Peloponnese as being a part of wider panMediterranean trends and networks.

V.1 Moving from small to large The previously discussed idea of ‘Scales of Narration’ (IV.1) can be applied to any analytical unit, not just those laid out above. This is not to say, however, that doing so comes without problems. Every step up the interpretive ladder divorces the interpretation from the primary data by another degree; as attention shifts to wider and wider geographical or chronological spans, interpretations almost necessarily become more general, and the individual character of particular regions or microregions is obfuscated.1

The Hellenistic Peloponnese In most scholarship the Hellenistic period has been described as one of change rather than continuity. 4 Certainly, the advent of the Hellenistic kingdoms of the diadochoi and the perceived spread of Hellenic material culture and related ideas into new areas of western Asia are different from social and political events of the Classical period. The evidence presented thus far suggests that, while individual regions may reflect continuity and change to varying degrees, the peninsula as a whole and in the long term exhibits definite settlement and land use change. There are several important qualifications, however, to be made to that statement.

This has become part of the entrenched reasoning behind an abandonment of broad regional studies by some, as they are said to lack the finer detail and resolution of micro-regional studies. The reasons for rejecting these principles, in part, have been provided above (IV.1). It is worth stressing here, however, the views of archaeologists like Andrew Sherratt, who held that the local or regional setting can only be properly understood at a macro-regional level.2 These two virtually mutually exclusive points of view are difficult to reconcile, yet that is one of the outcomes of moving from small-scale to large-scale historical narratives in the ways they are employed here. This is accomplished by privileging neither small-scale nor large-scale interpretations, and by admitting the problems inherent in each. Certain types of enquiry yield certain types of information, which aid in building certain types of interpretations. Contained within these methods, then, are the seeds of their own shortcomings. Pointing out shortcomings, however, is not an excuse for not making an attempt.

First, perceived changes in settlement and land use do not necessarily correlate with known historical, social or political events as described by the textual sources. The survey data represent the rural landscape, it should be remembered, of select areas within broader poleis territories. Most intensive surveys have examined only 15 percent of the territory of their particular polis, for example. 5 Moreover, the literary sources rarely refer to the rural landscape directly, and are most frequently only witnesses to urban activity and trends.

In other words, the benefits outweigh the difficulties caused by this loss of resolution – so long as it is clear

3

Pretzler 2008; Vlassopoulos 2008. Continuity, or change as a continuation of earlier trends, is emphasized in Shipley 2000. 5 See the metadata tables, Boxes 2-7 above in section III.2, for specific survey coverage. 4

1 2

Discussed at length by Tabor 2004. See also Terrenato 2004: 36-38. Sherratt 1996.

90

V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES Survey Project Laconia: All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman Methana: All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman Berbati: All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman Asea: All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman S. Argolid: All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman PRAP: All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman Total: All Hell. Hell. – Rom. Only Roman Number of Sites:

0.01-0.3 ha 56

0.3-1.0 ha 13

1.0-5.0 ha 4

5.0+ ha 2

TOTAL 75

14 25 32

5 5 8

1 0 7

2 0 1

22 30 48

9 9 16

3 1 5

2 0 1

1 0 0

15 10 22

1 4 14

3 0 6

0 0 4

0 0 1

4 4 25

2 8 70

2 4 23

3 1 12

1 0 2

8 13 107

4 3 7

0 1 7

0 0 3

2 0 7

6 4 24

5 1 195

7 1 62

3 2 31

6 1 13

21 5 301

35 50 245

20 12 74

9 3 34

12 1 14

76 66 367

Table 36. Site sizes by survey and period. Note that ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ is a subset of ‘All Hellenistic’, and ‘Only Roman’ numbers exclude ‘Hellenistic-Roman’ numbers. times, the data as presented here simply cannot be tied consistently to that same annalistic, short-term timeframe.

Second, the notion of change is usually taken to be negative. Change is variously equated with population decline,6 loss of autonomy,7 and economic stagnation or collapse 8 for the poleis of Old Greece. Change in this sense implies its occurrence despite the best efforts of the poleis or individuals involved – it was something to be resisted, ultimately futilely and regrettably. However, change need not suggest a negative of any sort, simply something different. Indeed, change can be a positive – increased trade or higher incidences of social mobility might be said to be good things overall. The idea that any historical period was ‘static’ and subsequent periods were not is a fallacy. The past was always a dynamic entity.

Despite these caveats, it is still possible to make some observations regarding the Peloponnese in relation to the rest of southern Greece. As has been outlined above (IV.4), the Peloponnese in the Hellenistic period exhibited all of the outward signs of decline – a drop in site9 numbers, and a demographic shift from a dispersed settlement pattern to one of nucleation. Coupled with this is a literary record that paints a generally negative picture of economic decline, demographic catastrophe, and slide into cultural insignificance (as discussed in II.2 above).

Third, and perhaps most importantly, the evidence of change in the Hellenistic period concerns a long temporal frame. Changes in settlement and land use as identified by surface survey are tied to centuries or half-centuries most commonly, and not particular decades. Textual sources frequently make reference to specific years, or series of years. While certainly change can be rapid at

This is a prevalent topos in both primary and secondary sources that discuss Greece as a whole. The Peloponnese becomes just one element in a larger image of a Greece in decline.10 Within ancient testimonia, the allure of a ‘more glorious past’ inevitably makes recent history or the 9 ‘Site’, again, is not meant in a specifically functionalist sense, simply as an identified sherd scatter, as in Chapter IV above. 10 The image of a depopulated Greece in the Hellenistic period comes from only a few sources. Hellenistic sources include Polybius (36.17.56) and Orac. Sib. 3.52-538; retrospective Roman period sources include Strabo (8.8.1, 14.5.2) and Diodorus (34/5.25.1).

6

Bintliff 1985: 145-147. To be fair, he has since adopted a more nuanced stance. Bintliff 1997; Bintliff, Howard, et al. 2007. 7 Bowie 1974. Also found throughout Walbank 2002. 8 Regarding the fate of Halieis, for example: Runnels and van Andel 1987: 317-319.

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES sherd scatter per component): 1. Major sites (c.5 to 10.0+ ha), which are interpreted as either polis centres or nonpolis urban sites; 2. Large sites (c.1.0 to 5.0 ha), which may be significant estates or villages; 3. Medium sites (0.3 to 1.0 ha), which may be interpreted in a wide variety of ways (religious site/sanctuary, small estate, small village, large farmstead, industrial complex); and 4. Small sites (0.01 to 0.3 ha), which are usually interpreted as being either farmsteads, small industrial production sites, or small religious sites/cemeteries (see Table 36 for a breakdown of site sizes by period, and by survey).21

contemporary present seem somehow ‘less’. 11 Archaeological narratives have often inherited this outlook – not without some justification, it must be said.12 Surface survey is used as a justification for this point of view by some, as shall be seen. The Classical and Early Hellenistic periods are characterised by a preference for a dispersed settlement pattern, a pattern of dispersed rural residence that presupposes a particular type of land use, as evidenced by information gathered through surface survey in other parts of Greece, and other limited archaeological work.13 It is generally claimed that these dispersed sites highlight the widespread nature of private land ownership amongst a significant number of individuals (or individual family groups) and was facilitated by prevailing economic and social conditions particular to the time.14 In other words, the fact that many individuals (or families) had the ability to own land is due to the fact that Hellas was a collection of disparate and individual poleis, each exhibiting, admittedly, exacting citizenship restrictions closely tied to regulations governing who could own land within the territory of a particular polis. 15 Decrees allowing non-citizens to buy land, or extending particular aspects of citizen-rights to non-citizens, were rare.16 A restricted pool of people with the right to own land (if not the ability) necessarily meant that it was harder for elites to amass large amounts of it; at the very least, these large land owners would need to use the local populace as labour or buy large numbers of slaves. 17 Either way, be it individual land owners or tenant farmers, the predominant pattern as seen in the landscape is one of dispersed settlement. Even among the exceptions to this system of diverse land ownership, the pattern as writ upon the landscape is not dissimilar, as our ability to differentiate between small land owner, tenant farmer, and other forms of dependent labour within survey is limited, to say the least.18 While it may be these exceptions that elicit the most scholarly comment and debate – i.e. the instances of systematised economic dependency 19 – that does not mean they are the most prevalent.20

The ‘Major’, ‘Large’, and to a lesser extent ‘Medium’ sites have elicited much less discussion than the ‘Small’ sites. Polis centres or non-polis urban centres draw some discussion in terms of identification, or predominant periods of activity, 22 but few assert that scatters of the order of 10 or more hectares could be anything but a nucleated urban settlement of some description. And while debate surrounding ‘estates’ in the Greek landscape has been lively, this debate focuses primarily on the appropriateness of the term ‘estate’ to various parts of Greece, and the exact nature of the activities that were carried out within such sites. 23 Religious sites are identified largely on the basis of the character of the finds, standing architecture, or ancient attribution (most frequently culled from Pausanias), 24 and while the specifics of these may be debated, rarely do scholars disagree over the initial attribution of a site as ‘religious’ in some form. Perhaps most importantly, as these three categories of sites inevitably form the minority of those that populate the landscape, they have attracted less attention, and therefore less debate. It is the ‘small’ sites that draw the most attention (245 out of 367, or 67 percent, within this study). These small, scattered sites have typically been identified as farmsteads, used by local land owners (or small tenant farmers or other forms of dependent labour)25 for mixed crop cultivation or some type of mono-culture; that is, cereal crop agriculture, oleoculture or viticulture, perhaps with inter-cropping. 26 These identifications have been made on the basis of comparison with textual sources, ethnography, and archaeological comparanda from a few

Within this dispersed settlement pattern, four different types of ‘sites’ are generally noted, typically defined by their size (in terms of artefact density and the area of the

21

This is a similar breakdown to that presented in (Jameson, et al. 1994: 417), though formulated by the Southern Argolid Project in the early 1980s. Most scholars working in Greece have largely adopted these categories, as defined by the Southern Argolid Project, with minor variations – the most significant of which is the shift in range of ‘Large’ and ‘Major’ sites, which were 1.0 to 10.0, and 10.0+ respectively in that publication. Much of the interpretation behind these categories is based upon Whallon’s work in Turkey. Whallon 1979. Many of these ideas were also reproduced in the influential Keller and Rupp 1983: 73-83. Some of the categories of evidence required for the identification of farmsteads are discussed in Osborne 1992. As should be clear from other references, this is still very much an area of lively debate. Witcher 2012 22 Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 70-71. 23 Examine the difference in approach 50 years makes: Young 1956; Carlsen 2002. Some of this debate spills into that covering farmsteads. See JMA 14(1), 2001, and JMA 14(2), 2001. 24 Derks 1997. One must mention the magisterial de Polignac 1995. 25 Osborne 1992. 26 Economy and agriculture, and the associated archaeological signatures, discussed in II.3.

11

Stewart 2013 (forthcoming). For example Lolos 2012: 330. But see Shipley 2002c: 308, 334. 13 Of the kind reported in Deltion and Archaeological Reports, i.e. predominantly rescue excavations. 14 Alcock 1993a: 54-55. 15 While the majority of evidence comes from Attica, it seems to hold true for most other poleis. Foxhall 1992: 156-157. 16 Wallace 1970. The best discussion of the phenomenon can be found in Marek 1984. 17 Osborne 1992: 22-23. 18 Jameson 1992: 145-146; Shipley 2002a: 179. 19 As in the case of Classical helotage in Laconia and Messenia: Hodkinson 2003; the gymnesioi or gymnetes of Argos: Jameson 1992: 138; the katonakophoroi of korynephoroi of Sikyon: Whitehead 1981; Jameson 1992: 138-139; and the konipodes of Epidauros. Plutarch, Greek Questions, 291 d-e. 20 Ste Croix is likely right in saying that they are singled out for mention by ancient sources because they were atypical. Ste Croix 1981: 171, 173. 12

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES excavated sites. 27 Of course, these ‘sites’ represent the base from which these activities were carried out, and therefore only indirect evidence of those agricultural activities. Press beds and stone weights represent areas where processing occurred, not where olive orchards or vinerows were planted. Similarly, with cereals and other grains the small farmstead represents where the farmer and perhaps his family stayed, and conceivably where some processing was carried out, but certainly not where the crops were.28 A small distinction, but a necessary one – whereas the archaeological focus is on these material loci of activities (i.e. ‘sites’), the ancient focus would have been elsewhere.

foreign policy). 31 These new democratic constitutions likely replaced oligarchic regimes of some description, which would lead to the assumption that perhaps these new constitutions also entailed the loss of power among the elite of these cities (though not to the extent of 5th and 4th century Athenian radical democracy). Interestingly, epigraphy suggests that – as in democratic Athens – it was still the propertied elite that were the most politically active. Inscriptions further suggest that many elites were able to increase their political and social power in the Hellenistic period, despite the local and regional political changes.32 Economic networks in many areas of the Greek world also see a change in this period. Delos and Rhodes become major hubs of, if not ‘international’ trade, then regional redistribution. 33 Rhodian amphorae have been found from the Black Sea to the shores of Sicily, and beyond. 34 Corinthian ceramics see a similar increasing distribution, both in terms of how far they travel, and in terms of the number of recovered examples.35 Of course, it is not usually the ceramics themselves that are the object of this trade (finewares perhaps being the exception), but rather the contents.36 The rise in ceramic distribution is mirrored by a rise in the number of shipwrecks.37 Admittedly this may be due to any number of extraneous factors, and not necessarily a rise in longdistance trade, but taken with all of the evidence from ceramics and epigraphy, it does seem to build a strong, if circumstantial, case. While these examples do draw out some debate as to the exact nature, scope and extent of the economic contacts, 38 there can be no denying the general increase in interconnectivity that is evinced by this material.

Minor variations of course exist, and the majority of these have been outlined within the discussions of individual surveys (IV.2ff.). It is the increase or decrease in the numbers of these lower-order sites on which the majority of interpretations are based. Predominantly, it is the number of these sites that falls, while larger sites tend to survive from period to period, though they too may see shrinkage in terms of the area covered by each component per period. Typically, large and major sites rarely disappear from the landscape 29 – though single instances of the loss of one of these sites may actually represent a higher loss of population than any associated with the decline in small sites. Moreover, the decline in small sites need not represent a decline of population, or a reduction in the productive capacity of the landscape, simply a change in visible land use and rural settlement patterns – in truth, it is likely a mischaracterisation of the evidence to suggest otherwise. So the characterisation of the Hellenistic period as one of ‘change’ essentially revolves around some textual sources and their use by modern scholars to imply corroboration in the perceived changes amongst these small sites in the landscape. Before archaeological surveys were being integrated into the debate regarding the nature of Hellenistic Greece, these written sources and recovered inscriptions pointed to changes in society and in the economy of the period. 30 This is basically a correct interpretation – there is indeed change in the Hellenistic period – but this simple statement of change is taken to be proof of decline, and that is wrong.

These changes in the nature of power amongst the political classes and the growth in wider economic networks between disparate areas of the Mediterranean have implications for how the rural landscape is interpreted. Generally, it can be said that status and wealth continue to be rooted in land ownership, and in the ability to produce and distribute large surpluses and the labour of others. Evidence for this continued importance of land comes in the repeated episodes of stasis in the 4th to 2nd centuries BC.39 So, although the emphasis on the creation and maintenance of status is similar to previous periods, the new political and social realities of the Hellenistic period allowed for their expression to be taken to new heights – through the accumulation of land in the hands of fewer and fewer families. Hence, what is seen in the rural landscape of

It is possible to see, for instance, the spread and diffusion of less oligarchic forms of government within various poleis. There are far more regimes of democratic form in the Hellenistic period than in the Classical, and despite the over-arching rule of the diadochoi, there is no real reason to see these civic constitutions as anything but genuine ways to manage civic politics (as opposed to

31

Rhodes 1997. Generally: Ager 1996: 11, 16, 20-26; Salomies 2001: 81-82; for examples, Samos: Shipley 1987: 210-211; Rhodes: Gabrielsen 1997: 36; Delos: Reger 1994: 46-47, 55-57. 33 See Gabrielsen 2001: 215-216. 34 Rauh 1999, but see Lawall 2005; Lund 2011. 35 Edwards 1975: 6-7, 189-191. See also James 2010: 162-182. 36 Greene 2005: 43. 37 Gibbons 2001: 288-290, esp. fig. 10.2. 38 As outlined in Archibald 2001: esp. 384-386. For integrating epigraphy and economy see Davies 1984. 39 Gehrke 1985. 32

27

Pettegrew 2001: 196-203; Foxhall 2004. There are a myriad of formation processes involved in each of these scatters, not least of which concerns the nature of both on-site and offsite activities, and how we interpret each. Pettegrew 2001: 194-196; Pettegrew 2007. 29 Again, it is the exceptions to this rule that draw most comment, such as Halieis: Ault 2005; or the impact of various synoecisms on the surrounding landscape: Cavanagh 1991: 105-110. 30 As in, for example, Rostovtzeff 1941. 28

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES data from Nemea, 48 and around Megalopolis. 49 Achaea sees a different pattern, perhaps due to the influential federal league; around Dyme the Hellenistic contraction begins and ends later than elsewhere.50 There is a similar settlement decline in the territory around Patras area, though this is far from certain.51

many parts of the Greek world may be the material expression of the changing nature of land ownership. The survey data reviewed earlier consistently show the abandonment of land in marginal areas, overall, throughout the Hellenistic period. Contraction of settlement occurs along the outskirts of polis territory, most commonly in the upland regions. 40 Survey also typically shows a ‘thinning’ of the density of sites that survive, with fewer sites per km2 than in the Classical period. This is usually interpreted as corroborating evidence for population decline, but could as easily be evidence for changing patterns of land ownership – especially when we remember that, typically, individual site sizes rise over time in most surveyed areas. 41 Whereas previously the marginal land was worked by small land-owners, tenant farmers, etc., in the Hellenistic period some of these people may have ‘sold up’ and moved elsewhere – perhaps into the larger urban centres, or the medium-sized village sites, as some have suggested. 42 Or perhaps a new way of exploiting these lands was adopted, such as an increase in ‘archaeologically invisible’ economic activities like medium- to large-scale pastoralism and transhumance.43 It could even be that small farmers begin to ‘commute’ to their lands, instead of living on them.44 Most likely, it is a combination of each of these factors that is being witnessed across the Greek landscape, with varying levels of impact in different regions. A decline in overall land ownership among individuals (though not in the amount of land exploited), for example, does not necessarily lead to a decline in the amount of labour required to work that land, just a decline in rural residence. In other words, land ownership may become more aggregated amongst the elite, but that does not mean that land use must change.

Yet collapse in numbers might mean settlement nucleation in some areas and the rise of ‘estate’ agriculture, such as in the Southern Argolid and Berbati, or indeed an apparent population decline, with an adherence to tried and tested ways of working the land, as at Methana and perhaps Asea. It is not enough, however, to take account of local conditions – more general explanations must also be posited. This is difficult for the data as they stand at the moment, as it is unclear whether what is being witnessed is a general observable decline in population and/or a concomitant increase in urbanisation.52 Still, observations related to this general trend (which varies in its specifics) suggest that the root cause of settlement change must be sought from a source other than Rome. Whereas Rome has long been the favourite scapegoat for Hellenic decline, it is doubtful that Roman intervention in the Greek landscape had any effect before the 2nd century BC, and it may only have become pronounced several generations after the defeat of the Achaean League.53 Instead, it is more likely that changing patterns of land ownership among the elite, the continuation of earlier trends of accumulation, and access to broader economic networks on a pan-Mediterranean scale post-Alexander wrought their change among the rural settlements of Greece; it is exogenous change, and not ‘Rome-generated’, at least until the 1st century BC. The specific manner in which these new political and economic relationships were played out in the disparate regions was different, but this is the only explanation that accounts for a general drop in small settlement numbers across Greece, and also accounts for the variety of responses evident in the data.

It should be clear that the picture the data paint is one of both commonalities between regions and regional variation. Some places had longer lasting ‘peaks’ of Hellenistic rural occupation, but a rather larger number of areas saw a collapse of site numbers at least by the Middle Hellenistic period. Interestingly, this ‘drop-off’ occurs at different times for different areas. 45 In the Southern Argolid there is a noticeable fall in the numbers of small farmsteads around 250 BC. 46 The Berbati– Limnes decline in numbers is believed to have happened by 200. Similarly, downturns in or after the Early Hellenistic period are seen at Methana,47 by preliminary

In short, in a pan-Peloponnesian sense, there appears to be a northwest-southeast divide. Throughout the Hellenistic period the evidence seems to speak of an increased inter-connectivity between and beyond some regions of the Peloponnese, while others are increasingly ‘left behind’. The increase in estates, the decline in numbers of small sites, and (as will be shown below) the epigraphy all suggest a changing landscape: perhaps one with an increased differentiation in wealth, not only within regions, but between regions.

40

As shown above, IV.2. Rises in median site sizes: Laconia (Table 5 above); Berbati-Limnes (Table 8, above); Asea (Table 10, above); Southern Argolid (Table 13, above); Pylos (Table 14, above). Fall in median site sizes: Methana (Table 7, above); also suggested by preliminary data from Nemea. Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990: 611, 617, fig. 11. 42 Forsell 2002. Examples may include: Laconia: H45; Asea: S15-16; Southern Argolid: B5, B20; Pylos: K01, G03. 43 As discussed above, II.3. 44 Sutton 1994. 45 Shipley 2002b:43-44; Shipley 2006. 46 Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 383-384, 391, 393-394. 47 Gill, Foxhall, et al. 1997. 41

48

Wright, Cherry, et al. 1990: 616-617. Roy, Lloyd, et al. 1989: 149; Lloyd 1991: 189-190. Lakakis and Rizakis 1992: 68-69; Petropoulos and Rizakis 1994: 190192, 198. 51 The ceramic data are less than secure: Papagiannopoulos and Zachos 2000: 145-146; Mackil 2004: 506-508. 52 As suggested by Alcock 1994: 188. Preliminary data from Sikyon seems to support this idea in relation to Sikyonia and its urban core. Lolos 2012: 330. 53 I am not the first to suggest this: Shipley 2002a: 190. 49 50

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES both environmentally and culturally determined.60 What we might think of as ‘agricultural behaviours’ are not necessarily determined by strict rationality; the broad range of activities within the rural landscape can have different metrics for ‘success’ beyond strict notions of agricultural surplus.61

The Roman Peloponnese As has been shown, the world of the Hellenistic Peloponnese is one of change, though not necessarily decline. The Roman period sees a continuation of that underlying change, with differential responses to Roman hegemony and rule reflected in the various regions of the Peloponnese. Like the earlier period, the Roman Peloponnese is typically described using language very similar to that employed for the Hellenistic period. Indeed, there are many more ancient testimonia for decline and depopulation in this period than for the Hellenistic.54

The lack of an expressed economic rationality, however, need not militate against a deep and rooted local knowledge of the productive capacity of the environment, the steps required to secure productivity, or the ability to exploit challenging landscapes for short-term gain. While the geomorphology of the Peloponnese is fairly well understood, 62 and highlights the potential productive capacity in the rural landscape, 63 the documented exploitation of eschatiai, or marginal lands (frequently located on borders), is highly suggestive of deliberate short-term exploitation. 64 Examples can be seen in the contraction of settlement in the Southern Argolid and the Berbati valley, and is suggested by the Eastern Arcadia extensive survey and Megalopolis results. 65 Levels of continuity between periods in sites of this sort are relatively low – most like a result of the length of time that such marginal lands can be reliably exploited intensively before the law of diminishing returns applies. 66 In some areas a significant minority of new foundations in the Roman period seem to specifically target these marginal lands.

I’ve written elsewhere about the nature of the Roman landscape in this period in some detail, but it is worth revisiting some of these ideas here.55 The decline in numbers of recorded sites seen in the Hellenistic period continues into the Early Roman. The Peloponnese in the Roman period continues to see a downturn in overall site numbers: the archaeological surface surveys included in this study show a drop in overall site numbers by 34.5 percent, from 458 total Hellenistic sites to 301 total Roman sites. 56 Alcock explained this phenomenon through a posited rise in estates, a genuine decline in population levels, and a growth in towns,57 but there are suggestions that some of this may be due to the nature of archaeological reporting. The forthcoming volume on rural Roman villas is set to add several hundred new sites to the rural landscape of the Peloponnese in this period.58

Levels of site continuity over time can provide some insight into stability in landholding patterns. High levels of continuity across periods suggests persistent occupation (if not land use).67 Conversely, low levels of

There is scope for a careful reassessment of this narrative. Certainly, it has already been shown that individual regions of the Peloponnese behave quite differently in this particular respect. Much of what is evident in the landscape are the results of underlying economic and political tensions: the rise of estates in some parts of Greece, the declining levels of population, the abandonment of some land and the reorganisation of others areas, the growth of mid- to large-scale settlements are not explanatory factors. They describe the behavioural results triggered by the fundamental tensions in the Peloponnese, but they do not explain the cause of those tensions – the motivations behind settlement change.

60 A charge not infrequently levelled at studies that seek to incorporate the environment in some manner, as seen in the frequent apologias found in such studies. See, for instance, Rackham 1996: 26-27; Walsh 1999: 7; Halstead 2000: 110-111. Interestingly, Sallares makes no apologies for having a biologically driven approach to historiography. Sallares 1991: 14-16. 61 Forbes 1992: 88-89, 92. See section II.3 above. 62 This study has used a series of IGME 1:5000 geological maps and Higgins and Higgins as a template for geology, and Rackham and Sallares for information regarding historical ecology. Sallares 1991: esp. 50-106, 295-303; Higgins and Higgins 1996; Rackham 1996; Rackham 2002. 63 Geomorphological studies: Laconia: van Berghem and Fiselier 2002: 62-65, some limited problems with colluvium: 62-63; Methana: James, Atherton, et al. 1997: 24-27; Berbati: Zangger 1993; Higgins and Higgins 1996; though for warnings regarding erosion, see Wells, Runnels, et al. 1990; Asea: Lavento 2003: 54-60; Southern Argolid: Jameson, Runnels, et al. 1994: 175, 185-188, 193-194; PRAP: Zangger, Timpson, et al. 1997: 623-626. It is important to note that just because geomorphological changes (especially sedimentation and alluviation) are not a significant factor overall does not mean that no sites are lost due to these activities. Examples of significant geomorphological change that has obscured specific types or periods of occupation can be seen in coastal erosion in some regions, and in the alluvial plains of Helos and Eleia. Higgins and Higgins 1996: 51-55, 65-68. 64 See below, and Krasilnikoff 2008. 65 Southern Argolid: 73% of short-term Hellenistic sites (61 of 84); Berbati: 50% of short-term Hellenistic sites (9 of 18); Eastern Arcadia: 83% of short-term Hellenistic sites (5 of 6). Megalopolis: Roy 2010. 66 The ‘traditional’ two field fallow system (as opposed to the more productive three field system) and limited crop rotation may also have played a role. 67 Acquisition and loss of land should be treated as entirely separate from the exploitation of land, especially the exploitation over

The conditions that underlie this (broadly) demographic change are closely tied to the nature of the agricultural landscape of the Peloponnese, 59 whose conditions are

54

See II.2 above. Stewart 2010. 56 See Table 37, below. 57 Alcock 1993a: 14, 20-24, 30-32, 215-217, 224. 58 The soon-to-be-published conference proceedings of the colloquium “Farms (villae rusticae) and rural economy in Greece during the Roman period”, which was held at the new Archaeological Museum of Patrai (Greece) on 23-24 April 2010. 59 Osborne 2004: 168-169. 55

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES Survey Project

All Hellenistic

Only Hellenistic

Hell.Roman

All Roman

Only Roman

Sikyonia Berbati-Limnes Methana Southern Argolid Achaea Laconia UMME PRAP Megalopolis Asea Eastern Arcadia Total (Extensive)

22 22 48 107 [43] 34 75 61 24 20 25 16 153 (133)

13 18 33 101 [37] 24 53 27 3 NA 17 6 70

9 4 15 6 10 22 34 21 NA 8 10 63

9 4 10 4 8 30 20 5 NA 13 1 38

Total (Intensive) Total

301 [237] 454 (434)

225 [161] 295

76 139

18 8 25 10 18 52 54 26 28 21 11 129 (101) 142 271 (243)

Approx. % Continuity from Hell. among Roman sites 50 % 50 % 60 % 60 % 55 % 42 % 63 % 80.5 % NA 38 % 91 % 49% (62.5%)

66 104

53.5% 51.5 % (57 %)

Table 37. Peloponnesian site continuity among Roman sites, by survey. Italics denotes extensive surveys. Figures in [square brackets] denote Southern Argolid numbers without Early Hellenistic. Figures in (parentheses) denote data without Megalopolis. Data for Megalopolis is such that definitive breakdown by period is not possible. % are rounded to nearest 0.5. Site size and density provide corroborating evidence. 71 Those sites that continue from the Hellenistic into the Roman period tend to be larger; of the 76 for which data exist, 35 are in the 0.01 to 0.3 ha range, 20 are in the 0.3 to 1.0 ha range, with 9 in the 1.0 to 5.0 ha range. As proportions of the total 142 Roman sites, that accounts for 41 percent (35 of 85) of total Roman small sites, 62.5 percent (20 of 32) of total Roman medium sites, and 75 percent (9 of 12) of total Roman large sites. Of the major sites, only one (from a total of 13) did not exist prior to the Roman period. Of course larger sites usually reflect increased community investment, and by extension the distribution of risk amongst a larger population. Their size is a measure of their ‘success’, in crude terms.

site continuity, or discontinuous occupation of the landscape characterised by ‘fits and starts’, suggests a more variable pattern of landholding. It should be stressed however, that these ideas cannot be pressed too far – especially given the coarse resolution of the survey data as regards chronology. 68 Nevertheless, it may be possible to suggest that, even within these parameters, low site continuity may reflect changes in landownership and broader economic stresses on the landscape. As Foxhall has stated, there is a substantial difference between the economic strategies of wealthy households and ‘peasants’: avoidance of risk characterises the latter, while opportunism characterises the former. 69 Alcock used data from four surveys to suggest that continuity between periods was fairly low, around 26 percent for three of the surveys.70

Again, as with the Hellenistic period, it is the ‘small’ sites that see the most fluctuation: continuity is remarkably low, with only 18 percent (35 of 195) of sites surviving into the Roman period. Even if one discounts the potentially skewed Southern Argolid data, the figure is just 25 percent (31 of 125). This suggests that the defining feature of visible landscape exploitation is the 0.01 to 0.3 ha sites, which begin to disappear from the rural landscape in the Mid- to Late Hellenistic period. This decline continues into the Roman period, but is offset somewhat by the high proportion of new sites in the Roman period that fall within this category as well: 76 percent of new foundations in the Roman period (50 of 66) are in this category, with a further 18 percent (12 of 66) in the medium site category of 0.3 to 1.0 ha.

The picture that emerges from the Peloponnesian data is suggests that, overall, the Roman Peloponnese shows some discontinuity from previous periods, which implies changing patterns of land-ownership. The sharp decline in overall sites may be masking broader changes, but those sites that survive this decline and continue into the Roman period provide tangential evidence of adherence to traditional means and modes of distributing the land.

subsequent generations. Though individual examples may show evidence of a correlation between the two, it need not be the case. 68 Continuity is calculated on the basis of sites continuing from the Hellenistic into the Roman periods, therefore the sample is somewhat biased in that the data are skewed purposefully towards those sites which exhibit evidence of both Hellenistic and Roman occupation versus the new foundations. 69 Foxhall 2007: esp. 38-40. 70 Nemea Valley: 29 %; Melos: 25 %; Keos: 25%; Southwest Boeotia: 73%. Alcock 1993a: 57, table 4.

The previous discussion on site classification is relevant here. These sites are most frequently interpreted as rural farmsteads, though they probably represent rural

71

96

See Table 36, above.

V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES

Survey Project Sikyonia Berbati-Limnes Methana Southern Argolid Achaea Laconia UMME PRAP Megalopolis Asea Eastern Arcadia Total (Extensive) Total (Intensive) Total

activities associated with these sites. 77 Interestingly, Foxhall’s study of the material culture associated with a few small sites shows that there is little evidence for onsite agricultural processing on any large scale.78 In other words, there is no one-to-one correlation between size of site or density of rural occupation and agricultural practice. As stated earlier, these sites are not the focus of activity in the countryside, simply the most visible remains of tangential activities related to the agricultural or economic activities in the countryside.

Survivability of Hell. Sites into Roman Period 41 % 18 % 31 % 6 % [14 %] 29 % 29 % 55.5 % 87.5 % NA 32 % 62.5 % 47 % 25 % [32 %] 30.5 % [37.5%]

While it is evident that there is a change in the use of the rural countryside from the Hellenistic period into the Roman, the reasons behind that change are less forthcoming. If the disappearing small sites are the result of changing economic strategies, whose economic strategies were they, what precipitated the change, and how might we measure it?

Table 38. Percentages of Peloponnesian Hellenistic sites that survive into the Roman period, by survey. Italics denotes extensive surveys. Figures in [square brackets] denote Southern Argolid numbers without Early Hellenistic period. % are rounded to nearest 0.5.

The new Roman foundations may hold some clues. Do these sites represent a discontinuity in landholding patterns, but a continuity in elite opportunism? Answering these questions involves examining the underlying geology in an attempt to understand the economic role, if any, of each site, as well as associated ceramic finds, other survey data, and epigraphic evidence. It is necessary to note that the geological categories are quite general, and are based on geological studies conducted by researchers who were not looking necessarily at archaeological questions, and cannot inform us directly about human behaviour.79

residences of some means. 72 Given the presence of domestic pottery (coarse and cooking wares, and perhaps some table wares) and tile, it is likely that the majority are residences of some sort, but the truth of the matter is that interpretation is based on an exceedingly small excavated corpus.73 Rural residence is usually interpreted as reflecting an intensive agricultural strategy, due to the demands of labour such a strategy entails. Halstead sees this as an alternative economic strategy to the ‘traditional’ Greek pattern of nucleated residence and commuting to the agricultural land.74

Most of the Peloponnese is made up of similar broad categories of soil types: limestone formations and soils, schists, conglomerates, marls, neogene soils, alluvial fans, screes and flysch, and volcanic agglomerates. Conglomerates and marls are here lumped together, largely because they tend to be shallow, with a high permeability that results in a low water-retention capacity when compared with other soil types, and a higher, more alkaline pH. Limestone-derived and alluvial soils tend to be deeper, clayey soils with a higher water-retention capacity than other types and a lower, more acidic pH. Screes, schists, and flysch give deeper soils, generally stony with a limited water-retention capacity, with a normal pH range of 5 to 7. Modern studies of land use in the region tend to agree on several broad fronts: Volcanic soils, coupled with slopes of over 15 degrees (as at Methana), tend to be used for olives and vines. 80 Soils formed from conglomerates and marls vary greatly in fecundity, and may be used for most types of agriculture. Limestone-derived and alluvial soils, due to their generally better water-retention, are usually used for

However, the previously assumed link between rural residence and land ownership need not hold.75 The loss of these sites need not represent the loss of the associated households. The purported demographic decline may instead be a shift in agricultural strategies. Moreover, interpreting these sites as ‘farmsteads’ is becoming increasingly problematic. 76 It is quite likely that these small sites represent a variety of rural activities, some emblematic of year-round occupation, others seasonal. Some may indeed represent owner-occupied farmhouse residences, others may be rural storage structures, animal pens, small-scale industrial or agricultural processing sites, or a myriad other options. The lack of an excavated corpus of these sites to serve as comparanda severely limits our understanding of the

77

Foxhall 2001: 217; Foxhall 2004: 266-267. Foxhall 2004: 260-265. 79 Much of this information is discussed above, II.3. It is worth restating that the majority of the geological information comes from Higgins and Higgins 1996, and associated geological reports for individual surveys. Methana: James, Mee, et al. 1994; Mee and James 2000; Berbati: Wells, Runnels, et al. 1990; Laconia: van Berghem and Fiselier 2002; Southern Argolid: Zangger 1992; Zangger 1993. 80 Whitelaw 1991; Forbes 1992; Forbes 1993.

72

Foxhall 2004: 249-250, 266; Foxhall 2007: 36; and Stewart 2010: 225-226. 73 Foxhall 2004: 266-267. See also Chang 1992; Chang 1994; Witcher 2012 74 Halstead 2002. 75 Osborne 1985; Foxhall 2007: 34-35. 76 Pettegrew 2001; Pettegrew 2002; Pettegrew 2007; Pettegrew 2010; Witcher 2012; de Haas 2012.

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES treated as separate issues.

cereal crop cultivation. Soils deriving from screes and schist are most commonly associated with trees and vines. Volcanic agglomerates are categorised by being fairly deep, but stony, and are considered more suitable for trees than for cereals. Obviously, anyone with the will, the time, and the resources can successfully grow whatever they want on any type of land, but as generalist categories they form a decent starting-point.

Still, evidence for intensification in the Early Roman period is interesting, as most studies suggest that it is only in the Late Roman period that economic exploitation of the Greek landscape becomes apparent. 84 Intensification of specific types of agriculture reads like opportunism; 85 what is not clear is whether this is due to external or internal factors.86 The surplus either supports a local demand – most likely from an associated urban core or polis centre – or was meant to exploit broader economic networks – be they inter-regional or supraregional trade.87 The evidence suggesting an increase in rural estates in the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods (where, annoyingly, nomenclature changes from estate to villa) broadly supports this view. However, we should be cautious in linking the rise in villas to increased Roman exploitation of the landscape.

Methana sees 10 new sites in the Roman period, and all but one are on the same broad type of soil, a volcanic agglomerate, with one on alluvium. One of these 10 sites is a bath-house, but 7 of the other 9 have processing equipment of some description, a point that will be of some importance later on. 81 The Pylos project sees 5 news sites: 3 on limestone soils and 2 on conglomerates. Berbati has 4 new sites: all on alluvium. The Laconia survey produced 30 new sites: 6 on neogene soils, 3 on limestone, and 21 on schist soils. Asea has 15 new Roman foundations, 3 on alluvium, 2 on limestone, and 10 on flysch. Finally, the Southern Argolid project discovered only 4 new sites: 2 on neogene soils, 1 on limestone, and 1 on alluvium.

The inclusion of the eschatiai and other marginal lands in this broad pattern of intensification suggests that land ownership is not as radically altered as has previously been suggested. 88 During times of economic stress, a focus on the most productive lands – i.e. those that can most easily support the most varied types of agricultural activity – is the strategy that provides the most security and mitigates risk to the household (almost in an evolutionary sense). And as Foxhall has convincingly argued, the long-term multi-generational success of the household was often the primary focus of ancient economic activity.89 The answer to the question of who is buying or exploiting these lands is to be found in Chapter VI, below. The important point to make at this stage is that all of this evidence, taken together, is suggestive of a higher degree of continuity in the landscape than has previously been considered. Not necessarily a continuity in terms of land use in the core (i.e. not marginal) areas, but a continuity in terms of land ownership. After all, an increase in settlement nucleation does not automatically mean a decrease or change in overall land ownership.90

At first glance, this is not a terribly informative spread of geology. Certainly, the geological information by itself does not inform us about settlement patterns or land use – superficially, in the Roman period all soil types see some new occupation. What is interesting is the extent to which ‘marginal’ land is being targeted. These sites seem do not seem to be targeting areas for cereal cultivation, but rather occur on or near soils that are better suited for olives or vines. As discussed in II.3 above, olives are hardy trees that can grow in some very marginal areas, in quite shallow soils, as the roots tend to grow laterally. Vines require a greater depth of soil, but much more important to their viability is the pH and drainage. 82 Some ceramic evidence and, more controversially, processing equipment support this general argument. 83 This suggests that a proportion of sites in Laconia, Methana, Berbati, coastal Pylos and the Southern Argolid display evidence for a more intensive form of crop production.

The picture that emerges is a discordant one, but the broad thread is one of continuity. The changes – some suggestions of shifting land ownership patterns along coastal areas (including elite consolidation), changes in land use (such as intensification and specialisation, and perhaps increased pastoralism – may be the most visible, but there is a strong undercurrent of continuity. The nature of the survey data itself can obfuscate these finer points. The rural landscape, then, regardless of period, is always a populated landscape in some manner, even if archaeologically there is some difficulty in seeing that.

Individual regions of the Peloponnese behave quite differently over time. Taken as a whole, the Peloponnese conforms to broader patterns of a decline in site numbers, especially amongst small sites. However, when the focus is on regions it becomes apparent that some areas also seem to show an increase in intensification and specialisation of agricultural production. This change in economic strategy need not reflect changes in land ownership; the majority of the evidence is suggestive of continuity. Land use and land ownership need to be

84

81

As above, section III. Levick 2004. 86 Gallant 1991: 170-171, 187-193. 87 For a summation of the arguments see Hopkins 2002. 88 Alcock 1993a: 60-62, 91-92. Her conclusions are largely followed by subsequent authors. 89 Foxhall 2007: 35-42, 248-251. 90 As was shown for Keos. Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991d.

MS114, MS20, MS216, MS218, MS117, MS109, MS118. Obviously, the Hellenistic and Roman inhabitants of the Peloponnese were not expressly aware of differing pH levels, but ethnoarchaeological work and literary studies have shown that ancient agriculturalists were well aware of the importance of soil morphology, and could discern these differences. Forbes 1982; Chapman and Shiel 1991; Whitelaw 1991; Forbes 1992. 83 Stewart 2010: 223-226; but see Foxhall 2007: 133-139. 82

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES direct and indirect trade links going back at least in to the 4th century, and likely earlier.94

V.3 Mediterranean Trends Interestingly, discussion of the peculiarities of the regions of the Peloponnese, and the Peloponnese as whole, has wider implications for even larger regional studies. Much has been made in recent years of the need for broader diachronic and pan-Mediterranean studies, and the best means by which to approach or construct those studies.91 In light of those recent discussions, the continued shift upward in scale is discussed below, with regard to Greece as a whole and the broader Mediterranean.

The evidence for the province of Achaea largely includes the surveys of the Peloponnese, as already discussed, and a handful of other regional archaeological projects: Attica, 95 Boeotia, 96 Euboea, 97 Epirus, 98 Melos, 99 Keos, 100 and Oropos. 101 Synthetic studies are rather thin on the ground, and those that do exist are now quite dated.102 Nevertheless, the evidence overall paints a picture of decline in rural site numbers, and a shift from a dispersed settlement pattern to a more nucleated pattern beginning in the Hellenistic period and carrying on into the Early Roman period. The particularities of each region are of course unique, but the broad picture is similar to that seen in the Peloponnese: increased nucleation, and a marked loss in numbers of small sites.

Greece in Context These various conditions, environments and responses that can or cannot be read in the rural landscape of the Peloponnese are not necessarily unique to that area. Evidence from elsewhere in Greece corroborates many of the central ideas explored thus far: that is, the importance of regionality in understanding local landscapes, and the indivisibility of inter- and intra-regional forces in shaping the overall character of individual landscapes. We have already seen how forces both within and without particular regions contribute to the responses (or lack thereof) of a region and the regions as a whole to changing economic, political and cultural conditions. Assuming that these relationships are unique to one particular part of the Mediterranean world is of course not only presumptuous but erroneous; what is unique is the particular expression of that relationship as seen in the individual rural landscapes.

There have been relatively few studies of this sort carried out for elsewhere in the Mediterranean, but individual surveys from North Africa, Italy, and Spain show quite varied patterns of land use overall. 103 There is not the scope within this study to examine these surveys in detail, but several interesting points can be made. Different regions certainly show evidence of dispersed settlement followed by nucleation, as in the Peloponnese at various periods, but at present it does not seem that anywhere else in the empire saw such a dramatic downturn in rural site numbers as the Peloponnese. North Africa did see some nucleation, but seems to have made a relatively speedy recovery, in terms of rural economy. 104 The Tarragona survey highlighted a very structured landscape, with preference for farmsteads over villas, and a fairly stable rural population (in terms of site numbers) over time.105 Various surveys in Italy show variability in terms of specific rural land use over time, but generally exhibit an increased formalisation of the landscape and a

As alluded to above, evidence from elsewhere in the mainland Greek world supports these assertions (that is, evidence from Macedonia–Epirus, and from the broader province of Achaea, of which the Peloponnese forms a part). Certainly, it is beyond the scope of this particular study to look at this evidence in depth, but a few examples will serve to highlight the similarities, and some of the differences. The province of Achaea was not formally created until after the Battle of Actium, probably by 27 BC. It is likely that, for a brief time, Greece and Macedonia were administered together after 31 BC. 92 Though the major powers in Greece had been humbled in the mid-2nd century BC, the status of Greece within the Roman empire after 146 BC is largely unclear. 93 However, irrespective of the official status of Greece, Roman interest in the region can be proven to extend as far back as the 2nd Macedonian War (200-197 BC), and likely pre-dates those events. Unofficial contacts, of course, extend much further back in time, with evidence of both

94 Koehler 1979b. Also mentioned by no less an authority than Slane 1989: 219. For (suggested) 3rd century Roman interest in Chios, see Derow and Forrest 1982. 95 The study by Lohmann represents one of the few regional archaeological studies of this important region (covering the untypical deme of Atene). Lohmann 1993. 96 Final publication of this important survey is yet to appear. Bintliff 1985; Bintliff and Snodgrass 1988b; Bintliff 1991; Bintliff, Howard, et al. 2007. 97 Sackett, Hankey, et al. 1966; Keller 1985; Keller and Wallace 1988; Keller and Wallace 1990. 98 Wiseman and Zachos 2003; Bowden and Përzhita 2004. 99 Renfrew and Wagstaff 1982. 100 Cherry, Davis, et al. 1991c. 101 Cosmopoulos 2001. 102 For example, for Epirus: Hammond 1967; Oost 1975. For an excellent synthetic study of Neolithic and Bronze Age Greece see Bintliff 1997. 103 For a gazetteer of survey projects in the Mediterranean, see the contents of Keller and Rupp 1983; Barker and Lloyd 1991 and the appendix in Alcock and Cherry 2004b. An online database of Mediterranean surveys can be found in the MAGIS project at http://cgma.depauw.edu/MAGIS/ 104 Barker and Jones 1985; Mattingly 1988; Mattingly 1997a; Mattingly and Witcher 2004; Stone 2004. 105 Carreté, Keay, et al. 1995. Other parts of Spain show broadly similar patterns: Rodriguez, Rodriguez, et al. 1991; Haley 1997.

91 See, for instance, the following effusive reviews of Horden and Purcell: Knapp 2001; Laurence 2001; Nixon 2002. Recent studies with a Mediterranean focus: Reger 2007b; Paleothodoros 2009; Rathbone 2009; Vlassopoulos 2009. 92 For Achaea as a province see: Oliver 1983: 147-153; Alcock 1993a: 9, 14. 93 Unclear, though complicated. Almost certainly there was no process of ‘provincialisation’ prior to Actium, as the undervalued study by Morstein-Marx (then writing as Kallet-Marx) proves fairly conclusively Kallet-Marx 1995: esp. 44-49, 50-51. On the urban expression of ‘provincialisation’, see Marchetti 2001: esp. 148-153.

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES growth in rural villa structures in the Roman period.106 In other words, each of these areas sees a quite different trend under increasing Roman hegemony than the Peloponnese, and Greece as a whole.

grants of political and economic favour from successive Roman governors and officials, both within the province and without.112 Whereas in the Hellenistic period various monarchs competed with each other in granting such favours to the old poleis of Greece, thus creating a system of rudimentary checks and balances,113 under the Romans there was only one such granting body: Rome itself. While elite competition still existed within and between these poleis, it was of a different degree. The agglomerative practices that began in the Hellenistic period could intensify under the Romans.

The implications of this are threefold. First, whatever is causing the visible change in the landscapes of the Peloponnese is affecting almost the entirety of Greece. Certainly, individual regions are affected to different degrees, and at different times, but on a broad scale nowhere really escapes it. Secondly, the suggestion that Rome is a proximate or solitary cause for the change that affects the entirety of Greece, despite long-standing regional differences and prior to the consolidation of the area into a unified political or economic entity, must be false. Why? Because the decline appears to pre-date any direct Roman involvement in the affairs of the region, beginning as it does in some places in the early 3rd century. Rome, Macedonia, and other Hellenistic powers and their conflicts may have exacerbated the situation, certainly, but they are not the sole or original cause. Thirdly, the answer as to why this change occurs is not yet clear. Studies of individual regions highlight the different responses to this broader trend; that is, the nature and extent of any changes – in short, the reaction. Extending this view further simply dilutes this reaction. It is possible at this stage to state what is not causing the changes seen in the rural landscape, and these have been outlined in preceding sections; what is not possible is to point to a definitive cause or group of causes. Explanation must wait.

The Nature(s) of Mediterranean Contacts In other words, regional studies such as this one are the first step towards that broader understanding, on a larger scale and in the longer term; studies of this sort remain a vital, fertile, and as yet a largely unploughed field of academic endeavour. I suspect that the answer to why this decline occurs will be complicated, and will be tied in to larger pan-Mediterranean trends in some manner. More than this, I suspect that the answer(s) will be provided through an extension of regional studies – a fuller study of the particular must serve to illuminate the general.114 Evidence for this belief (and for the moment, it must remain something of a belief, if a carefully researched one) comes from a consideration of the nature of connectivity within the broader Mediterranean. Studies of trade within the Greek East have highlighted the connectivity of various regions of the Mediterranean.115 At the very least, in a material sense it is possible to trace some of the connections between various communities in a superficial manner. Shipwrecks denote the means by which much of these connections were built and maintained, 116 and the widespread diffusion of particular classes of artefact – particularly ceramics117 – testifies to the shared economic interests of some of those within the various urban centres in the Mediterranean.

What does seem likely, though not definitive, is that Rome did have a lasting effect on the landscape of the Peloponnese. While it may not have caused the changes in land use and land holding patterns seen above, it is likely that Rome exacerbated and intensified the processes that began in the Hellenistic period. The patronage by Rome of particular local regional elites placed within the hands of relatively few families a large degree of economic and political influence. The case of Eurycles of Sparta is perhaps the best known – Augustus famously ceded the entire island of Kythera to the Spartan aristocrat 107 – but it is far from the only case. Even discounting the somewhat difficult example of Corinth, 108 families of local elites in Argos, 109 Messenia, 110 and Patras 111 are known to have received

Interconnectivity, of course, extends to much more than simply economy: it covers such things as societal, cultural and political connectivity. 118 Societal connectivity can be seen, at its most general, in not only the continued importance of pan-Hellenic religious festivals, but their continued extension and elaboration over much of the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods.119 Similarly, societal connectivity can be seen in

106 Many Italian surveys are collected and discussed by Witcher 1999; Witcher 2005; Witcher 2006b; Witcher 2006a. Witcher 2008; Goodchild and Witcher 2010; Witcher 2012 Goodchild 2007; Goodchild 2012. Individual discussions include: Arthur 1991; Barker 1996; Attema and van Leusen 2004. 107 The fortunes of Eurycles and his family are discussed in detail in Cartledge and Spawforth 1989: 97-101, 103-104, 110-112; Steinhauer 2010. For Kythera, see Dio. 54.7; IG V 1.1172. 108 Corinth has long been used by both proponents and detractors of the extent of the influence of the Romans on Greece. While Corinth is something of a special case, it does show similar extensions of political and economic right as seen in other poleis. Spawforth 1994a: 211-212; Spawforth 1997: 191-194; Romano 2000: 84-87. 109 For example, Lamprias Statilius: IG IV1.590; Spawforth 1994a: 212214. 110 Discussed, in part, in Alcock 1998: 185-191.

111 For example, the family of Aequanus: Rizakis 1998: esp. 32-40, 8485. 112 Spawforth 2012: 42-55 lists the best-evidenced local elites in Augustan Greece. His study suggests that local elites were willing participants in the Roman ‘provincialisation’ of Achaea: esp. 57-58, 229-232. 113 Discussed in Bringmann 2001; Shipley 2004; Shipley and Hansen 2006. See also Oost 1975. 114 Contra Terrenato 2004. 115 As seen in Horden and Purcell 2000, and the contributions in Malkin, Constantakopoulou, et al. 2009. 116 Gibbons 2001. 117 Koehler 1979b; Slane 1989; Rotroff 1997; Stone 2004. 118 For an early example, see Davies 1984. 119 Mikalson 2006: 208-212; Papalexandou 2008.

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES They can be approached as two different analytical units that can be used to explore similar phenomena, albeit on different levels.

the spread of what might be termed Imperial institutions, such as festivals celebrating the imperial cult.120 In other words, societal connectivity is both created and maintained by the use of existing institutions and through the imposition of new institutions designed to formalise that connectivity. The Imperial cult, after all, was more than just a sign of loyalty to the Imperial household, it was a symbol of belonging to a wider community of cities and individuals.121 In a sense, the spread of Roman hegemony heralded the spread of a wider network of elites, and a limitation and formalisation in avenues available for elite competition. In the 2nd century AD, of course, the Panhellenion provided just such a network.122

The old assertion that Greek poleis are scattered around the Mediterranean like ‘Frogs round a pond’128 applies to much more than just the world of the Classical Greek city-state to which it was originally applied. Indeed, just as those frogs must share the same pool of resources, and occasionally bump into each other while doing so, the analogy can be extended to apply to many communities around the Mediterranean, Greek and non-Greek alike. In other words, the spread of Roman hegemony and control throughout the Mediterranean has implications for all of the communities around the Mediterranean, whether they are in direct or indirect contact with that particular manifestation of imperialism.129

Cultural connectivity is of course closely tied in to societal connectivity, but sees its expression in what modern scholars might term artistic and/or literary endeavours. The existence of a common general mythology between Greeks and Romans, and a perceived shared cultural patrimony, serves to create and maintain this connection.123 The connection of course goes back at least as far as the 3rd century, with Fabius Pictor’s history, Plautus’s comedies, and, later, Cato the Elder’s vitriol. It extends well into the 1st century and beyond; thus Cicero can write lovingly of the East, Horace went to Athens for part of his education, Vergil can draw on Homeric precedents for his great work of Roman mythologising, and Plutarch can write of distinct parallels between Greek and Roman society. Examples are manifold – it is, after all, called Greco-Roman culture for a reason.

To steal a concept from Horden and Purcell, there is a case to be made for ‘Mediterraneanism’,130 for viewing and approaching the Mediterranean as a unified analytical unit. Not necessarily as a means for discussing the various cultures as points on a continuum, but as an explanatory tool that aids in the elucidation of smaller regions. In other words, by taking into account some wider, pan-Mediterranean trends some regional discrepancies may be explained. Differential patterns and rates of change in the rural landscapes of the Mediterranean can be seen as a consequence of increasing Roman hegemony across the Mediterranean – not necessarily as a ‘top-down’ reorganisation of local or regional economies, but as a result of the increasing pressures that a change in panMediterranean power structures brought to bear on local circumstances. As different regions came within the orbit of Roman influence (direct or indirect), competing internal and external pressures resulted in a visibly changed landscape. Local elites, for whom we have the most corroborating evidence, must have come under enormous strain to maintain their economic and political relevance, which may have led to the consolidation of some land within fewer and fewer families. The evidence from the Peloponnese, 131 and elsewhere in the Greek world, 132 suggests that this process may have begun during the Hellenistic period, if not earlier. It is likely that the spread of Roman hegemony exacerbated the process, especially as local civic constraints were removed.133 The increased importance of some broader regional trade networks may have led to the intensification and

Political connectivity can be seen not only in the spread of Roman citizenship124 and the participation of Greeks in wider imperial government,125 but also in the continued existence of pre-Roman forms of political connections between Greek cities, with inter-state arbitrations perhaps being the one of the most visible examples.126 All of these forms of connectivity can be inter-related. The categories of different types of connections are essentially modern impositions: the Panhellenion of Hadrian, for example, had a societal, cultural and political role, and it is very difficult (and ultimately unnecessary) to say where one role ended and another began.127 The Peloponnese and the Mediterranean, then, are inextricably linked in a wide variety of ways: some readable historically and archaeologically, others less so. 120

Carter 2005. As well as a new means of elite competition within cities, and competition between cities. Spawforth 1997; Herz 2005. 122 Spawforth and Walker 1985; Spawforth and Walker 1986; Romeo 2002; Riccardi 2007; Doukellis 2009 Spawfoth 2012: 249-259, for Greek opposition to: 261-264. 123 Scheer 2003: 217-218; Webb 2006: esp. 39-42, 45. For example: Early Roman literature: Feeney 2005; Augustan poetry: Hinds 1998. Much of Spawforth 2012 is built upon this thesis. See Stewart 2012. 124 Habicht 1997. Marchetti 2001; Spawforth 2012: 209-229. 125 Rizakis 2001. 126 Ager 1996. 127 Recent discussions include: Willers 1990: 53-55; Romeo 2002. Many of these ideas are also discussed by Spawforth and Walker 1985; Spawforth and Walker 1986; Spawforth 2012: 249-264. 121

128

Plato, Phaedo, 109b.2. Applied most interestingly in an analytical sense by Cherry 1983. 129 Issues of ‘connectivity’ and their implications for Mediterranean communities are discussed in Horden and Purcell 2000: esp. 124-152. 130 The title of their chapter XII.10 is ‘The Case for Mediterraneanism’. Horden and Purcell 2000: 522-523. 131 As seen in this study, and also suggested by Shipley 2008. 132 Samos: Shipley 1987: esp. 208-218, 221-228; Rhamnous: Oliver 2001: 140-142, 148-150, 153; generally supported for the ‘Hellenistic world’ as a whole by: Davies 2001: 29-31. For ‘constraints’ to elite land ownership, see: Osborne 2002 and, briefly, Osborne 2001. 133 Suggested in part by Geagan 1997; Rizakis 2001. Spawforth 2012: 37-29, building on Ste Croix 1981: 425-426.

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V. INTER-REGIONAL NARRATIVES specialisation of some parts of some regions in terms of agricultural production – certainly the ‘destruction’ of Corinth and the survey evidence as discussed above suggest a broadening of economic ties amongst the polities of the eastern Peloponnese. However, these external pressures must be balanced against localised internal circumstances. The individual landscapes of the Peloponnese are not simply the backdrops upon which is painted the history of Roman expansion and the concomitant economic and societal implications, they are the backdrops upon which is written the evidence of local conflict, local competition, poor harvests, limited famine, demographic success and failure on a local scale. The evidence, in toto, might better be explained as a case for ‘proportional Mediterraneanism’, to coin a phrase; not everything requires an external explanation. It must be remembered that the spread of Roman hegemony and control is not a type of pre-industrial globalisation (though some might disagree134). Some of the ideas relating to cultural interaction, acculturation, and movement of peoples and ideas that have been formulated for modern discussions of the impact of globalisation certainly provide an interesting way to think about the role of various regions of the Mediterranean in wider networks. Ultimately, however, the most rewarding way of approaching these issues is from a local perspective.

134

As discussed in Terrenato 1998; Krausse 2001.

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(one of the strengths of cultural interaction as a framework for discussion is the very fact that it does not assume that interactions are a one-way process). Certainly, change is arguably the easiest form of interaction to recognise in any given landscape, but it is not the only type of interaction present in any given landscape.4 In fact, this study has already shown that the continuation of particular practices as seen in the landscape despite repeated cultural contacts is as informative as occurrences of change. Moreover, not all change is the result of cultural interaction; it can occur for a wide variety of reasons, and it is necessary to distinguish between the root causes.

VI. Processes of Interaction …remember Roman, these are your skills: to rule over people, to impose morality, to spare your subjects and to conquer the proud. Vergil Aen. 851-853. This research was formulated and undertaken in order to examine the rural landscapes of the Peloponnese and gain some understanding of the interaction(s) between the various groups who moved through those landscapes over time. The primary aim was to build not just another descriptive study of the end products of such interactions, but to posit some explanatory factors that could illuminate the processes behind this interaction. This chapter attempts to do just that: to outline the nature, extent, and types of interaction that can be seen in the rural landscapes of the Peloponnese.

Other studies of cultural interaction have, of late, focused on the notion of identity as a marker of interaction. These studies typically focus on particular types of identities, or groups of identities, as markers of interaction; most frequently this entails assessing levels of change over time or across regions. Thus, age, gender, religious affiliation, social status, wealth, and ethnicity have all been the focus of study as types of identity.5 Exploring cultural interaction through the medium of survey archaeology, however, necessitates using a more general approach. Simply put, the resolution of the data is such that exploring issues of specifically individual identity is not practicable; the most commonly used archaeological markers for these different categories of interaction and identity are not recovered in a secure enough context. Yet while individual identity may be unrecoverable, longterm group identity, the identity of communities, and diachronic approaches to aspects of cultural identity can be recovered through survey material, as discussed above in Modelling Rural Identities in II.3.6

VI.1 Cultural Interaction Cultural interaction has become a particularly prevalent topic of study in recent years, often couched in terms of ‘Romanisation,’ ‘acculturation,’ ‘imperialism,’ and myriad other ‘-isms’ and ‘-ations.’ Previous chapters have outlined some of the intellectual developments in how these approaches are utilised within contemporary academic discourse, and need not be restated here. What does need emphasis is the exact meaning of ‘cultural interaction’ as conceived and utilised for this study, and the archaeological implications thereof. ‘Cultural interaction’ means simply contact between peoples of different cultural background. As ever, this seemingly simple definition contains many potentially contentious points, not least of which is the very idea of ‘culture’ and how it is defined. 1 This study generally accepts the notion of culture as being recognisable: certainly permeable, flexible, subject to continued refinement and redefinition, and not necessarily homogeneous within a society, but ultimately a real category that is archaeologically and historically recoverable, at least in part.2 To be sure, it is not ‘culture’ directly that is recovered; it is the indirect material manifestations of people’s particular interactions with their environment as formulated via social institutions that are recovered archaeologically. 3 The inherent assumption, however, is that this evidence sheds light on the structure of culture, and is therefore pertinent.

As it is necessary to reconcile the multiplicity of identities with the character of the material available for study in a survey context, the range of study is somewhat limited. What it is possible to study is broader cultural identity and its nature, extent and changes over time. It is the broad groupings in society, as defined by “slight but significant patterns in the use of material culture”,7 that are identifiable in the material, and it is their character over time that elucidates the nature of cultural interaction in this region. VI.2 The Nature of Cultural Interaction in the Peloponnese Given this particular understanding of cultural interaction, it is possible to discern particular types of interaction in the rural landscapes of the Peloponnese. Before a discussion of those patterns, however, it is

It should also be made clear that notions of interaction as discussed below do not assume any sort of necessary change, or the privileging of one participant over another 1

4 As discussed for various regions of the Roman empire. For example, Britain: Fincham 2002: 78-83, 94-96; Gaul: Wells 2002; Italy: Davis and Sutton 1995; Cambi 1999. 5 For example, age: Harlow and Laurence 2002; gender: Meskell 2001; Rothe 2012; religious affiliation: Webster 2001; Goldhill 2006; social status: Hingley 1997; Whitmarsh 2010; wealth: Creighton 2000; Wootton 2012; ethnicity: Hall 1997; Malkin 2001. 6 A cogent discussion of these issues as they relate to survey is in Witcher 2006a. 7 Mattingly 2004: 9.

A question asked by Goldhill (2001b: 13-20) and, in some ways, addressed by Whitmarsh 2001. 2 See the interesting discussion in the introduction to Laurence and Berry 1998: 1-9. This study also recognizes that it is people that interact, not ‘cultures’; culture is an emergent property that is recognized in general similarities as recovered in material culture. At no point is the simple ‘pots equal people’ equation or culture-historical approach meant to be invoked. Hodder 2004: 23-26, 36-38; Trigger 2004: 47-50, 58-60. 3 As suggested by Foxhall 2003: 75.

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION and ‘local–neighbour’ interactions occur primarily between different groups of culturally Greek peoples. Interactions between Greeks and non-Greeks are discussed under ‘local–foreign’ interactions below.

necessary to issue a few caveats. Primarily, one of the most significant aspects of this research has been to push the inferential capabilities of survey data near to their limits. In the process, it became evident not only that the data can be incredibly informative, but also they are ultimately frustratingly erratic. It is clear that the character of the information is such that definitive statements are simply not possible; certainly, there are suggestions, hints and likelihoods, but the data are such that definitive statements regarding the nature and structure of this interaction are difficult to make.

That being said, in terms of geography or regionality, there is something of a ranking to these interactions, as broader-scale interactions are essentially built upon the structural foundations of more localised interactions, as will be shown below. Thus, each of these three types of interactions take as their starting point the region – that is they are focused respectively on intra-regional, interregional, and supra-regional interactions, though these interactions may be evinced in local evidence. This local evidence is used to interpolate the types of interactions visible in the landscape of a particular region, excluding warfare. This may seem an important exclusion, but it is a necessary one. Warfare, and armed conflict more generally, were certainly persistent types of cultural interaction in southern Greece – especially prior to the battle of Actium – but the extent to which its effects can be read in the rural Peloponnese is not entirely clear. As conflicts and battles are most commonly confined to a single or a few successive years, these individual events will be difficult to find in the survey data – in any event, it is not the purpose of this study to undertake a military or political history of the Peloponnese. 15 In short, this spotlight on regions serves to restrict the focus of these interactions to one place at a time; this framework is meant to be used for a region, and not all regions at once.

It is also clear that interaction as seen in the landscape of the Peloponnese is exceedingly variable from region to region, and over time – even on a superficial level. The two most divergent examples of this difference come from the PRAP and the Berbati-Limnes valley. 8 The former sees a very high degree of site continuity from the Hellenistic to Roman period, and exhibits evidence of contact with a wider Peloponnese and the Roman world as a whole in the Roman period, in the form of villa structures, 9 rural bathhouses built using Roman methods, 10 and a fairly wide sample of non-locally produced pottery. 11 The Berbati-Limnes valley, meanwhile, has a very low level of site continuity in the Late Hellenistic to Early Roman transition, with most sites disappearing altogether.12 It also seems to be a much more isolated area, in terms of contact with the wider Peloponnese in the Roman period – though it does have a villa, there are relatively low levels of imported pottery or cultural contact beyond the occasional.13

‘Local–Local’ Interaction ‘Local–local’ interaction is defined as interaction between groups within a particular region, and most frequently, between members of the same broad cultural group (though not excluding differences in socioeconomic classes, genders, or generations, to name just a few). This broad cultural group is, for the purposes of this study, taken to be the members of particular poleis or related area, be they ‘Corinthian,’ ‘Megalopolitan,’ ‘Asean,’ or ‘Laconian.’ These categories are admittedly coarse, but more specific cultural groupings are not always discernible within the evidence.

There is no over-arching mode of interaction, no one archaeological signature, which can account for this variability. This, in itself, is a noteworthy conclusion, because it necessitates a re-examination of the prevailing historical narrative for the region. This is one of the most interesting aspects to emerge from this study, as the variability evident in these types of interactions provides a framework for examining some of these ideas in a myriad of ways. The evidence assembled thus far suggests that there are three different types of interaction occurring in the landscape: what I am terming ‘local– local interaction, ‘local–neighbour’, and ‘local–foreign’ modes of interaction. It should be stressed that none of these are necessarily exclusive forms of interaction – they could all be operating simultaneously in any one landscape. Similarly, only some or one of these types of interactions could be operating at any one time. Furthermore, there is sometimes a tendency amongst comparable studies to view these types of interactions as representing a hierarchy of some sort,14 and it should be stressed that, in terms of significance, no such hierarchy is here intended. For the Peloponnese, both ‘local–local

Taken as a starting point, however, several things can be said about the nature of ‘local–local’ interaction. Perhaps most importantly, at its most basic level, the survey evidence provides interesting data concerning the interconnectivity of sites within regions; indeed, that is essentially the first level of analysis that surveys undertake – to plot the sites of a given region on a map, literally illustrating the relative positions of one site vis-àvis another. The existence of sites of variable size, from the small ‘farmsteads’ and medium ‘villages’ or ‘hamlets’ to the larger ‘towns’ and ‘urban centres,’ testifies to the network of local relationships that existed within any given region. Certainly, the most important economic consideration of any region was simple

8

See the discussions of Berbati-Limnes and PRAP in III.2 for details. G01, I04. 10 At G01. Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 183-185. 11 Alcock, Berlin, et al. 2005: 184, 200-202. 12 Out of 22 Hellenistic sites, only 4 survive into the Roman period: 425, 504, 506, 522. 13 Villa: 506. Forsell 1996: 338-340. 14 For example, see Creighton 2002; Woolf 2002; Grandjean 2008. 9

15 Chaniotis’ study of Hellenistic warfare and Gruen’s magnum opus on Greek and Roman interaction admirably cover these points. Gruen 1984; Chaniotis 2005.

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Figure 19. Southern Argolid sites and roads. After Jameson, et al., 1994, fig. 1.27. subsistence, but the evidence suggests that meeting basic levels of subsistence was rarely an endemic problem. 16 Rather, the variability of the sites and associated artefacts within the rural landscape suggests that there was a fair amount of specialisation, be that in terms of oleoculture or viticulture, or the presence of religious sites or pastoralism.17 This suggests that agricultural surplus was not only regularly achieved, but relied upon. 18 Site specialisation of this nature is possible only when there is a supporting network of other agricultural sites providing basic foodstuffs, and a market for specialised goods.19

as points of redistribution both within and beyond the region. 21 Beyond that, these larger sites may have also served as residences for non-landowning agricultural workers, and as points of contact for the surrounding smaller communities. The interconnectivity and variability of these sites in the landscape, as evidenced by their associated assemblages, necessitates the existence of broad networks of interaction between peoples inhabiting the same region. Perhaps the best physical evidence of the existence of these local networks and the associated interconnectivity comes in the form of site location. Frequently, large sites are to be found along natural lines of communication. Thus, it is along prominent ridges and especially valley floors that many of these sites are to be found. 22 As natural routes of communication, these geographical features facilitate rather than inhibit contact between people. 23 These sites are larger than surrounding sites because they serve as relatively convenient and accessible centres of contact; ease of access relative to surrounding

The presence of larger sites20 likely served as localised markets for surplus or specific agricultural products, and

16

Not to say it did not occur, simply that it did not occur frequently or continuously. Krasilnikoff 2002: esp. 54-57. 17 Oleoculture/viticulture: For example – Methana: MS109, MS115, MS116, MS117; Southern Argolid: e.g. A60, B103, B100, E70; PRAP: based on pollen analysis Zangger, Timpson, et al. 1997: 594. Pastoralism: Asea: S21, S50 (based on phosphate/soil) analysis Forsén 2003a: 88, 90-91. Southern Argolid: Forbes 1995. Religious sites are plentiful, and are more fully discussed in Alcock 1993a: 172-213; Alcock 2002: 143-146. Some examples include: Laconia: A119, N415, Q360, J215, N430; Asea: S39; Southern Argolid: D12, E32. 18 Indeed, as Wolf suggests, surplus is at the heart of peasant activities, and that requires a market. Wolf 1956: 1065-1067. More recent formulations tend to agree. Gallant 1991. 19 Davies 2006: 76-80; Gallant 1991: 139, 198-199. 20 ‘Large’ sites and other site categories discussed above in V.2. Examples include: Laconia: U511, A118, B111, H45; Methana: MS105, MS108, MS8, MS60, MS67, MS10, MS3, MS9; Berbati: 404; Asea: S39, S22-23, S15-16, S18, S91, S90; Southern Argolid: E6, C37, F4,

E78, B100, G2, E13, A49, F47, E51, B4, B5, C11, E36; PRAP: B07, D02, K05, K01, G02, G03, I01, G01, I04, A04, L04, M05, C04, I03. 21 Perhaps a rather Finley-esque conception, but this role as consumer and redistributive centre does not necessarily preclude any involvement in production, or importantly, contain any assumptions regarding scale. For discussion of some of these issues see Meikle 2002: esp. 237-247. 22 Examples include: Laconia: B111, H45; Methana: MS8, MS60, MS67, MS10, MS9; Berbati: 404; Asea: S39, S22-23, S15-16, S18, S91, S90; Southern Argolid: E6, C37, F4, E78, A49, F47, E51, B4, B5, C11, E36; PRAP: B07, D02, K05, G01, I04, A04, L04, I03. 23 Sanders and Whitbread 1990: 333-334.

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Figure 20. Asea valley sites and roads. After Forsén and Forsén, 2003, fig.39 sites means that more people will be able to travel to (or from) that locale in order to manage the largely rural economic activities that were the life-blood of any polis, irrespective of the lack of any ‘normative’ poleis.24

considerable. Graded surfaces, rock-cutting, and surveying of routes all require a considerable and protracted outlay of resources, and this would not have been done if there were not perceived benefits that outweighed the costs.26

Supporting evidence comes in the form of associated roads and trackways – physical, visible traces of intangible cultural relationships and interactions (Figures 19 and 20 have examples from the Southern Argolid and Asea respectively).25 While important, these interactions should not be over-stressed, as there is admittedly a danger of circularity; people build roads because they serve large sites, and large sites continue to exist because they are served by roads. In other words, large sites persist because of access, yet access is facilitated and maintained due to the resources large sites can commit to such ventures. Still, these resources must have been

The evidence relating to ‘local–local’ interaction is largely economic: it consists of the sites themselves and the associated artefacts. It is possible, however, to infer from the existence of these economically derived networks other types of interactions that were undoubtedly similar in extent, if more ephemeral. The perpetuation of these sites over time, even if reduced in number, necessitates the involvement of the full scope of the human experience – interactions, in modern parlance, that are often termed as being ‘from the cradle to the grave’. The majority of people working in the rural countryside would have spent most of their lives living and working in a relatively small area. It is within this area that they would have been born, grew up, got married, had families, and eventually died. 27 Evidence

24

Cartledge 2002: 16-17; Halstead 2002: 55-57, 66-68. Pikoulas does an admirable job of linking roads and behaviour Pikoulas 2000. Some of these ideas are explored in Witcher 1998. The road network of the Peloponnese and its relation to large sites is discussed in Sanders and Whitbread 1990 and Tausend 2006. The roads shown in these figures date broadly from the Classical to Roman periods, and have been reconstructed on the basis of extensive survey (primarily by Pikoulas and Tausend) and Pausanias’ descriptions. 25

26

Tausend 2006: 189-192. This is frequently termed the ‘lifecycle’, studies of which are becoming more prominent. Recent examples include Meskell 2000;

27

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION In terms of the rural Peloponnese, however, evidence for elite interactions of this sort are not quite as forthcoming as might be expected. Economic contact, or rather proxy evidence of wider economic networks, is certainly evinced through the presence of imported ceramics, but the presence or absence of imports is a fairly limited category of evidence (that is, they are rarely identified in survey data as yet), and does little to illuminate the nature of this sort of cultural interaction. Those interactions that can be illuminated have been discussed specifically for each survey above (IV.2.1-7).

can be seen in the small cemeteries and occasional isolated graves that each of the survey projects discovered. 28 These cemetery and grave sites most usually contain little information allowing for the identification of the character of specific individual relationships or interactions, but their very presence is evidence enough for the existence such interactions. ‘Local–Neighbour’ Interaction ‘Local–neighbour’ interactions are those which take place between the inhabitants of one region, and the inhabitants of another geographically close, region. Almost by definition, these interactions are intrusive – the ‘neighbour’ must be in the region of the ‘local’ in order for these interactions to occur.

Of interest here is epigraphy; specifically, epigraphy related to proxenoi and the extension of land-owning rights to non-citizen elites (ges enktesis). The epigraphic evidence related to the late 1st century BC Corinthian, Lucius Licinnius Anteros, has been discussed previously (see III.2 above). He was given the right to own land and the right to graze flocks in Methana. Similar proxeny decrees are known from elsewhere.34 In fact the incidence of such decrees increases from the 2nd century BC onwards. 35 These documents are specifically for governing (or at least formalising) interaction between individuals from different regions, and highlight some aspects of an economically based cultural interaction. After all, these decrees show that some of the traditional patterns of land ownership are changing, as the ability to both own and exploit land outside of one’s own polis is made more widely available. 36 Perhaps traditional patterns of land use may be changing along with them.

In terms of structure, these interactions are those that take place between the various regions of the Peloponnese, however one chooses to define those regions, and also regions just outside the Peloponnese: Megaris, Attica, Aitolia, Phokis, and the islands. The confirmation for these interactions comes from numerous sources: literary evidence testifies to the contacts between regions (most frequently amongst elites, unsurprisingly), 29 roads and tracks frequently facilitate communication between regions, 30 ceramic studies underscore the existence of broader economic networks that crosscut regions, and epigraphy can highlight some of these wider networks. Perhaps most obviously, many literary sources mention contacts between elites from different regions. Especially in the age of federal leagues, contact between regions was highly structured and formalised. 31 Certainly before the Hellenistic and Roman periods there was a pre-existing network of relationships that facilitated and managed interaction between neighbouring groups, for a variety of purposes, be they economic, religious, or political. This network included religious heralds linking important sanctuaries to individual communities, 32 and economic and political envoys (especially relating to the activities of the Peloponnesian League prior to c.369 BC). 33 Undoubtedly these elite contacts between regions continued in later periods, though not necessarily in the same form, or to the same extent.

The implications of this are interesting, as it suggests that over time traditional networks of interaction are being extended in both nature and extent. Whereas previously interaction between the elites of regions might be governed by kinship diplomacy, xenia, and official embassies, in the Hellenistic period it is possible to see the extension of interaction to include specific economic rights. This suggests that a broader network of interaction, one that looks beyond the bounds of the polis, is being constructed, and that specific means of constructing, maintaining, and negotiating these interactions are being introduced through the extension of proxeny rights to a wider group of people. These inscriptions, of course, only shed light on one stratum of society: the Greek upper class. And it would only have been the upper class who could have taken the most advantage of the dissolution of traditional polis citizenship barriers. By the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods, it seems that oligarchy was the preferred constitution in most poleis, and that meant more concentration of political and economic rights within the

Harlow and Laurence 2002; Gilchrist 2004. Indeed, the entire issue of World Archaeology 2000, 31(3) is dedicated to an archaeological examination of human lifecycles. 28 Examples include: Laconia: A120; Methana: no definite, but potentially MS7, MS8, MS9; Berbati: 403, 505, 507, 509, 520, 521, SM13; Asea: S40, S42, S44; Southern Argolid: E16, F55; PRAP: A01, I06, I17. 29 As seen in Polybius (e.g. 9.42.5-8, 21.20.1-4, 31.8.8), Appian (Mac. 11.1-2, 7), Diodorus (e.g. 19.77.3, 30.2, 31.28). Gruen has an extensive discussion of both formal and informal links between elites from the Hellenistic period, and with Rome. Gruen 1984: 13-131, esp. 48-53, 6976, 94-95. See also Ferrary 1997; Jones 1999; Erskine 2002. 30 An extension of the similar argument above in VI.2.1. Again, see Sanders and Whitbread 1990 and Tausend 2006. 31 For a good overview, see Rhodes 1993. 32 The theorodokoi of various sanctuaries, discussed by Perlman 1984; Perlman 1995: esp. 126-202; Perlman 2000. 33 For broad information on envoys and embassies, see Mosley 1973; Adcock 1975; Jones 1999.

34

Selected examples include: Kythera: IG V.1.936; Laconia: IG V.1.970; IG V.1.1277; IG V.1.1146. For a table of early Roman proxenoi see Harmond 1957: 58-60. 35 Gruen 1984: 166-169; Hodkinson 1988: 52. I do not necessarily subscribe to Gruen’s view that proxenos is the equivalent of patron in these contexts. Tanner has a particularly fine discussion of these, and related, issues. Tanner 2000: esp. 36-39. 36 Hodkinson 1988: 51-55.

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION hands of this class.37 In some ways this was an expression of the entrenched networks of relationships between members of the upper class within and between poleis: and these networks became increasingly exploited for economic as well as political gain. It is likely that the increased incidence of proxeny and enktesis rights is related to the quasi-hereditary networks of Greek elites.38

imposition of local, Spartan cursus honorum. 46 The steadily increasing importance of Sparta, and Laconia more broadly, can be seen in the activities of negotiatores at the export harbours of Gytheion and Boiai.47 Eurycles’ attempt to enroll allotment holders (ie those who worked his land on Kythera) in the ruling aristocracy of Sparta highlights the changing land holding, and land use, patterns in the region.48

We know frustratingly little about these networks, or the prominent families within most poleis beyond their names and honours (in some cases). Rizakis sees these networks as becoming more mobile in the Roman period – that is, the elites themselves became much more ‘transnational’ post-Actium,39 but I think it is possible to push this back to the late second and first centuries BC. It is likely that this class formed the bulk of local governments within the Peloponnese, and both Hellenistic monarchs and Roman authorities sought their approval and support in order to promote their own hegemonies,40 or as Galtung put it, a recognition of their “harmony of interest.”41 It is generally seen as a truism that Greeks were reluctant to seek Roman citizenship, but it is noteworthy that by the 1st century AD there were at least ten elite families in Greece with Roman citizenship: eight of whom were from the Peloponnese.42 The ability of Greek elites to rapidly exploit the newly established Pax Augusta speaks to the pre-existence of these ‘transnational’ networks of elite interaction and mobility.

Larsen has documented instances of property investment within the Achaean koinon and the steady acquisition of land beyond civic borders by local elites. 49 The federal league facilitated, rather than hindered, the accumulation of land, and by extension, wealth. The spread of villae rustica in the Peloponnese is simply the latest phase in a process extending back to the second century BC. Similarly the previously discussed changes in land use as seen in some of the survey data suggest further interactions between regions. The shift towards an intensive form of agriculture, and the incidences of crop specialisation, are suggestive of attempts to supply a broader than local market with relatively high-value agricultural products. Non-elite interactions that are not particularly visible, but for which tangential evidence exists, include transhumance and large-scale pastoralism. This too has been suggested in the relevant survey discussions (IV.2.1ff) above, but should be restated here. Epigraphic evidence records limited instances of transport or pasturage rights between regions.50 While this is far from straightforward, the very impact of large-scale pastoralism on inter-regional relations is important. The fact that border disputes, and even wars, were often sparked by the need of many poleis to exploit the eschatiai of their territories for grazing testifies to the existence of such interactions.51

The family of the Euryclids at Sparta, while hardly representative, are also indicative of the way in which Greek provincial elites could tap into broader economic and political relationships in the new Greece, post Actium. The first Eurycles had enormous wealth (drawn from the Augustan grant of Kythera, property in Asopos, 43 and the porphyry quarries at Krokeai (Strabo 8.5.7)), and used it reshape the urban core of Sparta.44 There is some suggestion that he was consciously aping the ‘restorative’ program of Augustus in his programmatic designs on Sparta.45 The establishment of the epistasia (akin to a procurator) at Sparta set the scene for a radical transformation of the Spartan elite, and the

Further evidence can be seen in the use of xenike hodos (‘road of the aliens’, ‘road leading to foreign territory’, ‘hospitable road’, or ‘road for guest-friends’) for transporting flocks. This is suggested in a passage of Polybius (13.8.7), in which, at the time of war between Sparta and Megalopolis in 204 BC, flocks belonging to Proagoras and some others from Megalopolis were forced to leave Laconia. Chaniotis’ re-interpretation of a Lyttian decree in Crete also suggests that xenikai hodoi could be used for inter-regional transhumance.52

37

It’s unclear whether this was formally promoted by hegemons. Ste Croix 1981: 525, cf. Bernhardt 1998: 60. 38 Bowersock 1965; Spawforth 2012: 33-55. 39 Rizakis 2008. 40 Alcock 1993a: 19, and bibliography. For this class in the Hellenistic period, Ste Croix 1981: 300-326. 41 Galtung 1971: 81. 42 Spawforth 2012: 42-43, and associated notes 179-185. Athens: Lysiades, Antipater of Phyla; Sparta: C. Iulius Eurycles, C. Iulius Deximachus; Argos: M. Antonius Aristocrates; Elis: M. Antonius Pisanus, Ti. Claudius Apollonius; Mantinea: the common ancestor of Iulia Eudia and her husband C. Iulius Strobilus; Epidaurus: Cn. Cornelius Nicatas; Corinth: P. Caninius Agrippa. 43 Lane 1962. 44 Perhaps being responsible for the gymnasium, the theatre, and the renovation of the Persian stoa, as well as the theatre ay Gytheion. Cartledge and Spawforth 1989; Waywell and Wilkes 1999: 440; Spawforth 2012: 120-121. 45 Steinhauer 2010: esp. 77-78.

46

Steinhauer 2010: 77-81. Gytheion: Kougeas 1928, 8-16, ll.1-4; Boiai: SEG 29 383. 48 On this Hupfloher 2000: 125-146 and Steinhauer 2010: 81. 49 Larsen 1971. There is an extensive bibliography on this. See Rizakis 2008: 8, esp. notes 29-31. 50 The problematic epinomia inscriptions. Discussed by Chandezon 2003: 134-256; Morgan 2003: 168ff., and less favourably by Hodkinson 1988: 51-55. 51 The Third Sacred War, though an early instance, is perhaps the most famous example of just how far such disputes could go. 52 SEG XXXV 991B. Discussed in Chaniotis 1999: esp. 195-196. This does seem to be a rare example, it should be noted. 47

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION Perhaps not surprisingly, most of these interactions are built upon the structures of the ‘lower-level’ interactions previously discussed. These are not exclusive categories of interaction, and one type of interaction or framework for interaction can be embedded within the evidence for other interactions. Roads, for instance, facilitate interaction across all three levels – the difference is one of degree, and not of kind.

Supporting evidence for this may be found in grants of isopoliteia and sympoliteia which must have facilitated the movement of flocks and increase in frequency in the Late Hellenistic period.53 Frustratingly, evidence relating to the Hellenistic Peloponnese is scarce, but evidence from elsewhere at least suggests what was happening elsewhere in the Late Hellenistic period, and thus what may have occurred in the Peloponnese. All of this evidence taken together is emblematic of a much larger phenomenon of increasing political cooperation and interaction between the peoples (probably predominantly the elites) of regions over time that facilitated the exchange of and access to complementary resources.

Some of the evidence relating to the importance of these roads can be seen in primarily urban inscriptions and records of letters detailing the requirements of individual poleis’ to maintain sections of road in good order as part of the cursus publicus. The cursus publicus has often been called an ‘Imperial post’, but it was really an infrastructure which facilitated the movement of officials and some goods.57 Cities were required to maintain these roads in good order and ensure they could accommodate wheeled traffic.58

‘Local–Foreign’ Interaction ‘Local–foreign’ interactions are those between regions and other areas or individuals from a predominantly nonGreek cultural background. It should be stressed that these categories of interaction are an interesting way to approach the variability of the survey data, and are not meant to be unqualified classes. The point is not to get bogged down in minutiae relating to definitions of culture or what constitutes a cultural grouping; while these are certainly important points to consider, it is not the place of this study to do so – especially when many of the finer points relating to cultural definition are simply not evident in the relatively coarse survey data. Simply put, it is an interesting, but not necessarily definitive, way to think about Greek and Roman interaction as seen in the rural landscape.

Beyond these ‘lower-level’ structures there are two basic types of ‘local–foreign’ interaction that can be read in the rural landscapes of the Peloponnese: economic and political. In terms of economy, the evidence is similar to that for ‘local–neighbour’ interaction – after all, Rome is essentially just a much more distant neighbour to the Peloponnese. There is some limited evidence for Roman fine wares amongst the ceramics of some sites, and in the 1st century BC we begin to see grants of proxeny being extended to Italian Romans (as opposed to Greeks with Roman citizenship).59 Political interaction can be seen in the centuriation evident around Corinth – a process that required not just Roman land surveyors, but official sanction from the authorities within the colonia.60

Moreover, it should be noted that ‘foreign–foreign’ interaction, an obvious fourth category of interaction, is not discussed here. While undoubtedly non-Greek peoples interacted with each other in the Peloponnese (one can imagine this especially in ports, or for instance at the temple of Aphrodite in Corinth54), the evidence is primarily from cities, and not particularly visible in the rural landscape. Consequently, this category is not discussed here.55

All of the previously discussed evidence from the survey projects point to there being at least four different processes of interaction embedded within both economic and political interactions between Rome and the regions of the Peloponnese, and these modes of interaction crosscut all levels of society and culture. These basic forms of interaction are hegemony, exploitation, resistance, and ignorance.

Most of the evidence for ‘local–foreign’ interaction for the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman period concerns interactions between regions of Greece and Rome. 56 Framing the interaction in this way is not meant to presuppose that Rome is a monolithic entity, or that her representatives are unaffected by such interaction – the focus here, however, is on Greece, and not Rome.

Hegemony has been defined as an ‘asymmetric empowered negotiation’ which results in consensual rule that is still disputed. 61 Morstein-Marx has shown that much of the Roman interaction in the East from the Macedonian wars onwards was built upon just this sort of hegemonic relationship – not overt rule, per se, but the expectation of adherence to a broader Roman agenda.62 Thus, observed changes in the Peloponnese need not

53 isopoliteia: Chios and Aetolia, Syll.3 443; Entella, SEG 30.1121; Hierapytna and Praisos, Staatsv. III.154; sympoliteia: in Achaean League, Polybius II.37.42; Cos and Calymnus, Staatsv. III.545; Stiris and Medeon, Syll.3 647. 54 Strabo 8.6.20-23. Discussed in Beard and Henderson 1997. 55 Do see the excellent Rizakis 2010. 56 As seen, for example, in incidences of patronage, epigraphy relating to negotiatores, the spread of Roman nomina, and the establishment of neokoroi. Patronage: Ferrary 1997; Tanner 2000; Erskine 2002; negotiatores: Derow and Forrest 1982; Shipley and Spawforth 1995; nomina: Rizakis, Zoumbaki, et al. 2001; Rizakis, Zoumbaki, et al. 2004; neokoroi: Burrell 2004.

57

Kolb 2001. Kolb 2001: 97-98; IG V 1.1109: an example of a via publica from Sparta. For discussion of this, see Cartledge and Spawforth 1989: 151152. 59 Argolid: Rizakis, Zoumbaki, et al. 2001: ARG 164; Laconia: Rizakis et al. 2004: LAC 331 (=IG V1 1146, V2 1, 42); LAC 639a, 697a. See also Harmond 1957: 55-61. 60 Romano 2006. For land surveyors in general, see Campbell 2000. 61 Mattingly 1997b: 10-11. 62 Kallet-Marx 1995: esp. 161-183, 335-342. 58

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION Closely allied with this type of resistance is the idea of ignorance. That is, some inhabitants of the Peloponnese perhaps simply chose to ignore anything beyond the bounds of their own communities, or their own cultural group. Much has been made of this type of attitude in literature, especially in respect to the Second Sophistic. In other words, literati seemingly chose to ignore the current political situation and focused instead on the cultural achievements of the Greek past, and retreated, in a sense, into philosophical quandaries. 69 While this is perhaps reductionist, and it is certainly far too simplistic to explain the entirety of the Second Sophistic, a similar idea might be applied to the interactions in the rural Peloponnese.

require a firm Roman directing hand, simply a gentle pressure or the perception of pressure amongst local elites. Interactions of this sort may be part of what is behind the extension of proxeny and ges enktesis to those with Roman citizenship, which may represent a desire to facilitate the involvement of the agents of Roman imperium in the wider Peloponnese.63 Of course, hegemonic relationships can develop into outright domination and exploitation. Certainly the creation of the province of Achaea removes the argument of hegemony. After this time, direct control is certain, if complicated in expression and form. Some interactions as seen in the landscape can take the form of exploitation – a type of interaction whereby local considerations do not necessarily factor into the equation. The tax-farmers of the provinces are concerned with this sort of interaction, with exploiting the resources and economy of the immediate region for their own ends. 64 Exploitation is necessarily intrusive, then, and can be read in the centuriation of the landscapes around the colonies of Corinth and Patras.65 It is, in the end, something that is imposed, albeit continually (re)negotiated; it is, after all, a two-way relationship.66

The important point to note is that these interactions need not be consciously expressed, nor are they necessarily exclusive. And while many of these ideas are speculative, they are testable through future research. The complicated picture that emerges is one of differing interactions, sometimes with competing motives, sometimes operating in tandem. Just what interaction is evident will also depend on what perspective is adopted: hegemony and resistance are frequently two sides of the same coin, and neither precludes the adoption of an opportunistic response on the part of local inhabitants. In other words, each of these types of interactions is tangled up with the others, and though material evidence for one may be more visible at specific times or in specific places, this does not preclude the existence of the others. In short, cultural interaction of this sort is complicated, and is neither uniform in application nor homogeneous in content; it is discrepant, in all of the complexities inherent in that term.70

Affiliated with these types of interactions are resistance and ignorance. Resistance is a common result of unilateral or asymmetrical power relations, and can be expressed in a wide variety of ways. Adherence to tradition, an entrenchment of convention, even outright defiance are all attested reactions to the spread of Roman power. 67 In the Peloponnese, some of these aspects are difficult to read in the landscape, even if there is literary evidence for their occurrence elsewhere in Greece. 68 It may be possible to see specific instances of resistance in the lack of accommodation between Rome and her subjects in the Peloponnese – part of the reason why the low numbers of small sites persist in the Roman period may be simply that the inhabitants of the Peloponnese do not want to accommodate the new political regime. This need not be a conscious choice: with the old power structures of the Peloponnese largely stripped away, the focus may have turned inwards in some places, concentrating on the local conditions and rejecting any wider engagement.

Thus, the structures of ‘local–foreign’ interaction depend on a whole substructure of lower-level relationships. Just because Rome arrives on the Peloponnesian political scene does not mean that old networks of interaction between poleis (or even within poleis) no longer apply. Rather, they continue as they did before, albeit in a changed form. The traditional political and economic roles within a community are created, maintained and negotiated through the same broad cultural avenues as before: the reinforcement of (and redefinition of) tradition, the dissuasion of opposition and innovation, and the repeated reinforcement of status differences, be they defined on the basis of age, wealth, heredity or place of origin. 71 All of these ‘lower-level’ interactions are occurring at the same time as the ‘higher-level’ ‘local– foreign’ interactions, and indeed serve to facilitate particular avenues of interaction.

63

Rizakis 2008; cf. Spawforth 2012: esp. 51-54. Hopkins 2002. 65 It is important to note that exploitation of the landscape did not arrive with the Romans, nor did locals cease to ‘exploit’ the landscape after their arrival. Corinth: Romano 1993; Romano 2000; Romano 2006; Patras: Rizakis, Dalongeville, et al. 1992: 125-135; Rizakis 1997: 2627. 66 Kallet-Marx 1995: 337-342. 67 Mattingly certainly characterizes the landscapes of Greece as one of ‘resistance’. Mattingly 1997a: 130-135. Alcock’s interpretation of the landscape of rural cult as one embodying resistance is also particularly interesting. Alcock 1993b: 160-163. Spawforth, by contrast, sees the emphasis on traditional piety as following the Augustan ‘restorative’ line: Spawforth 2012: 142-206. 68 This is especially evident in Athens. This is often juxtaposed with Corinth, which is often portrayed as thoroughly ‘Roman.’ For example, Welch 1999; Welch 2007: 163ff. 64

Therefore within any one region it is possible to see competing or even contradictory interactions, creating a kaleidoscope of material evidence covering the entire spectrum of possible interactions. One particular type of 69

Anderson 1993; Goldhill 2001a. For discrepant identity, see: Mattingly 2004. For similar formulations elsewhere in the empire, see: Britain: Fincham 2002; Syria: Baird 2006. 71 Shipley 2005. 70

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION and temporality. The actions of named individuals, largely recovered from single instances of a behaviour (the act of inscription) must be read differently from the repeated, multi-generational, anonymous behaviours that create the survey data.

interaction may predominate, but that does not negate the importance or existence of the less frequent or less archaeologically visible interactions. It is useful at this stage to remember that the dominant interpretation of Greece in the Hellenistic Period and then under the Romans remains one of decline and depopulation of the rural countryside, thanks in no small part to the intermittent Roman military intervention of the 2nd and 1st centuries BC. This depopulation, it is supposed, necessarily leads to economic stagnation that is not reversed until the Middle to Late Roman periods.72 The evidence as presented thus far suggests that this is too simple an explanation.

The survey data as presented here provide tantalising glimpses into some aspects of these interactions, and the scales upon which they operate. It is possible to see the level of the individual in the remarkable confluence of survey data, historical testimonia and epigraphy that can be seen in Methana, Laconia and Achaea. The information from these regions allows the recognition of not only a few specific individuals, 75 but more importantly, the lives of individuals in general. It is possible to read in the small sites the subsistence activities of generations of individuals, to read the ebb and flow of lives across a variety of landscapes.

It has already been suggested that there is a fair degree of variation between the regions of the Peloponnese in terms of land use and settlement patterns. If some of this variability represents some form of cash-cropping, the question arises as to who would benefit. It is known from several scattered references that Roman or Italian businessmen, the negotiatores, were operating in Greece from at least the 3rd century onwards. 73 A Late Hellenistic tile stamp from Sparta which refers to the lodging house of the Romans seems to be tangible proof of the presence of these Roman financiers.74 It could be to supply the demands of these men and the broader market that they represented that some changes in land use are observed.

Histories of communities can be seen in some aggregations of artefacts; associated shrines, linked routeways, cemeteries, and the domestic assemblages of villages and hamlets all speak of the populated landscapes of the rural Peloponnese. Irrespective of ‘trends’ and ‘majorities’, these landscapes were always inhabited. It was here that people lived, in the full sense of the term. It is sometimes easy to lose sight of the fact that what archaeology recovers, someone else has left behind; it is predominantly through survey archaeology that aspects of these peoples’ lives in the countryside can be reconstructed.

Similarly, some regions may simply be exploiting similar conditions for a more localised market. It is possible that the broader inter-Peloponnesian network of elites that is emerging from the Late Hellenistic period onwards (as seen in L. Licinnius Anteros and Eurycles of Sparta) are focusing their activities and interactions on a more limited, local scale. Importantly, it is necessary to point out that the landscape is not composed entirely of change: there is a fair degree of continuity, and for most people, life continued much as it always had.

Finally, at the level of the state it is possible to read some of the effects of the changing political histories of the regions upon the landscape, and their broader interactions. Economies, relationships, and networks of contact are all visible in the countryside. From the resettlement of the Berbati valley to the transhumance of Arcadia, it is possible to read something of the political history in the hills, valleys and plains of the Peloponnese. It was there, after all, that Polybius stood, Mummius marched, and Pausanias travelled. It remains for us to travel with them.

VI.3 Conclusion: Scales of Interaction There are, of course, further complications to these different types of interactions. Within each of these different types lies a question of scale and one of time; many of these interactions, and their underlying structures, may exist at the level of the individual, the community, and the state. One of the most pressing problems in utilising the survey data for an examination of these interactions is in differentiating between these different scales. In terms of time, the evidence for these different scales is often drawn from different temporal sources: survey and epigraphy encompass entirely different notions of time 72

As discussed in I and II.2 above. Derow and Forrest 1982. See also: Argos: ILLRP 374; Achaea: ILLRP 370; Mytilene: ILLRP 433; Athens: IG II2 3426. 74 SEG 47.373. See also IG V.1.869 and IG V.1.7 for the ‘Roman’s katalyma’ (‘lodging house’ or ‘inn’). Discussion of the stamp can be found in Shipley 1996b: 223-224. 73

75

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Lock and Molyneaux 2006.

subsequent surveys modified that methodology, devising increasingly complicated algorithms of how best to sample an irregular unit like a ‘site’.3 The PRAP survey eventually rejected this form of on-site sampling altogether, placing an equal emphasis on off-site artefacts, and imposing an orthogonal grid (a type of survey within a survey) on particularly dense scatters. This transparent presentation of the methodology highlights the importance of sampling strategies, and was used to account for the differential levels of artefact recording between surveys.

VII. Conclusion Surprisingly, the Peloponnese of Greece has rarely been treated as a unit of analysis in and of itself, even though it has been the backdrop of many significant historical events, and has played host to many of the most innovative archaeological projects of the last 30 years.1 This project has brought together the data from these projects for the first time, in a comprehensive and comparative manner. It is hoped that if this project has had one main accomplishment, it has been to highlight the wealth of information that is available for the study of the Peloponnese as a whole.

Once a degree of transparency has been established, and the data have been reduced to a less refined state, one can then effectively re-interpret the data, all the time bearing in mind the individual surveyors’ analyses, in order to recast the data in a similar form for each survey. The primary method employed in facilitating this comparison was the cautious use of a battery of statistical tests in order to assess the reliability of any comparison. For example, F-tests of the variances of sherd density and scatter size were performed.4 Statistical theory based on the bell-shaped Normal curve, or even Tchebychev’s Theorem, 5 facilitates these sorts of comparisons, and allow for the application of statistical tests to assess the reliability of any quantitative comparisons, such as ‘Winsorising’.6

VII.1 Survey Comparison and Usability Not only has this project collected the detailed data for six intensive survey projects conducted in the Peloponnese and brought it together in a new framework, it has also shown the utility of just such a means of comparison. One of the first things to become clear during the beginning stages of this project was the importance of comparing data from archaeological surface surveys in a meaningful manner. Due to the wide variability in sampling methodology, collection strategies, periodisation, and interpretive focus, many of the published data from individual surveys were not in a form that was immediately or directly comparable. This posed significant interpretive problems for discussing broader regions that contained multiple survey projects, and is a recognised problem for survey archaeology and historical analysis in general, as discussed. Much of the current academic thinking on the matter focuses on strategies for formulating methodologies for future projects that facilitate, rather than inhibit, comparison of this sort.2

This project has shown the efficacy of just such a method. Moreover, it has successfully incorporated the quantifiable data from the intensive surveys with the more qualitative data of several extensive survey projects in order to build up a more complete picture of the Peloponnese in the critical Late Hellenistic to Early Roman transition. Survey comparability is not just an important consideration for future or on-going projects, but can, to a degree, be accomplished for completed surveys – even those with differing methodologies.

While this is an important and necessary development, it leaves a fairly large body of previously published material in an awkward position. Thus, one of the aims of this project was to propose a method for facilitating a more direct comparison of the data between surveys. This proposed method involved stripping away from the published interpretations and statistical filters of the survey data, and using the data in their raw state to facilitate comparison. At the same time, use of metadata allows for the deconstruction of the individual surveys’ methodologies and interpretive frameworks, and the easy comparison of methodological differences; transparency in reporting and recording methodologies allows greater accuracy in comparison. These metadata highlight some interesting methodological differences between survey projects – even those projects which have similarly framed research designs. For example, the different methods employed in sampling ‘sites’ shows a clear methodological development over time. Whereas the Southern Argolid used ‘transect and grab’ sampling,

1 2

VII.2 A New Interpretive Framework Trying to interpret survey material and the historic comparanda in a more regionally-focused way has highlighted some important problems in how that material had been dealt with in the past. Primarily, that it was often approached in isolation, and would be assessed in light of how well it fitted within the prevailing historical narrative of Hellenistic and Roman Greece. In other words, the data were used to construct a narrative of a small area, then that narrative was interpreted in light of what was understood to be the broader history of Greece. 3

As at Laconia and Methana, Boxes 2 and 3 respectively. Shennan 1997: 87-92. 5 Tchebychev’s Theorem allows for the estimation of the standard deviation without relying on a Normal Distribution – it applies to all data but is less accurate if the data is not Normal. It states that for any data, 75% of the value lies within 2 standard deviations of mean – as opposed to 95% for the Normal Distribution. This theorem is as follows: “For any set of observations, the proportion of values that lie within k standard deviations of the mean is at least 1 - (1/k2), where k = 2, 3, 4 etc.” Lind, Marchal, et al. 2002: 112. 6 ‘Winsorising’ is explained in III.1, above. 4

With the exceptions as noted in: Vlassopoulos 2008. As seen in the contributions to Alcock and Cherry 2004b.

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION period. In the Hellenistic period, the survey data reviewed earlier consistently show the abandonment of land in marginal areas, overall. Contraction of settlement occurs along the outskirts of polis territory, most commonly in the upland regions.9 The evidence also typically shows a ‘thinning’ of the density of sites that survive, with fewer sites per km2 than in previous periods. This is usually interpreted as corroborating evidence for population decline, but could as easily be evidence for changing patterns of land ownership – especially when we remember that, typically, individual site sizes rise over time in most surveyed areas. Whereas previously the marginal land was worked by small land-owners, tenant farmers, etc., in the Hellenistic period some of these people may have simply moved elsewhere – perhaps into the larger urban centres, or the medium-sized village sites, as some have suggested.10 Possibly a new way of using these lands was adopted, such as an increase in ‘archaeologically invisible’ economic activities like medium- to large-scale pastoralism and transhumance.11 Conceivably small farmers begin to ‘commute’ to their lands, instead of living on them. 12 Most likely, it is a combination of each of these factors that is being witnessed across the Greek landscape, with varying levels of impact in different regions. A decline in overall land ownership among individuals, for example, does not necessarily lead to a decline in the amount of labour required to work that land, just a decline in rural residence. In other words, the elite may be acquiring more land, but that does not mean that land use must change, or that less land is exploited.

Certainly, authors were conscious that their data were useful in assessing the validity of that historical narrative,7 but in tying the data to that wider picture, an important interpretive step was frequently skipped: that of the intermediate, regional scale. One of the most interesting aspects of this research has been the application and re-interpretation of the survey data and associated textual sources along a hierarchy of analytical scales. Looking at regions and regionality within the Peloponnese has highlighted the variability of rural landscapes. It is evident that although the traditional historical narrative of ‘decline and depopulation’ 8 is superficially accurate, it has little interpretive or explanatory strength. There is a high degree of variation between the different regions of the Peloponnese, and this variation is the result of a number of factors: local topography, the nature and extent of interaction between regions, local historical forces, and broader regional trends. The tendency to treat ‘Greece’ as a homogeneous unit or monolithic entity leads to an unfair representation of both the data and the historical situation in antiquity. It was always a collection of disparate regions with individual cultural histories, and too many of the finer points of these differences are lost when the interpretive focus is stuck at the level of ‘Greece.’ Recognising and explaining the differences between regions has been one of the most important results of this project, highlighting the need for a re-thinking of the current archaeological and historical narratives concerning the Peloponnese. This idea of variation and its importance has been carried throughout the text, and a structure for the re-interpretation of these narratives has been framed in terms of ‘scales of narration’. These ‘scales of narration’ involve examining the data at the level of the individual survey, the broader region, and the Peloponnese as a whole. Interestingly, the Peloponnese exhibits striking internal differentiation and a variety of localised responses over time.

This trend continues into the Roman period. It seems that the division of the archaeology into historically defined periods does not necessarily facilitate analysis – in archaeological terms, there is little difference between the Late Hellenistic and the Early Roman periods. Taken as a whole, it becomes evident that there is one pattern for Methana, the Southern Argolid and Laconia, and perhaps Berbati, and another for Pylos and Asea, with the former surveys showing a significant proportion of new foundations in the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman period that exhibit similar characteristics: they tend to be on particular types of soils, they tend to have some evidence for processing on site, and they tend to show an increase in the incidence of storage wares, and a decline in table and fine wares. It is not unreasonable to suggest that the sites that match these criteria are being geared towards a particular type of agriculture; a type of agriculture that is not occurring everywhere. This growth in estate-based agriculture that is evident in some regions is a much more nuanced picture of the Peloponnese than that found in previous studies, and highlights the importance of regional (and inter-regional) studies of this sort.

This idea is carried to its interpretive limits, with brief discussion of the Peloponnese as a single unit, and the wider Greek province of Achaea as a whole. It is evident that there are a variety of factors affecting the rural landscapes of the Peloponnese, operating across the entirety of the interpretive scale: that is, local, regional, and Mediterranean trends each leave a mark upon the landscape to varying degrees. The Peloponnese exhibits both a continuity and a connectivity with the landscape history of the rest of the Mediterranean that are both striking in its individuality and intriguing in their similarities. In other words, the individual landscapes within the Peloponnese represent a patchwork of influences and effects, from the intra-regional local to the supra-regional. Thus it is possible to amend, or at least nuance, some of the narrative history of the Peloponnese for various 7 8

9

As shown above, in chapter IV. Forsell 2002. Examples may include: Laconia: H45; Asea: S15-16; Southern Argolid: B5, B20; Pylos: K01, G03. 11 As discussed above, II.3. 12 Sutton 1994. 10

As evinced by Alcock 1993a: 33-37. As outlined in chapter I.

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VI. PROCESSES OF INTERACTION may simply be a shift in the attitude of the wealthy, who are seeking to increase their holdings at a time of uncertainty, or it may be a more purposeful attempt to tap into a new market. Concomitant with this is a possible move towards pastoralism and transhumance in some regions, and, in other areas, a general continuity in the nature of land use – if a decline in extent.

VII.3 Processes of Interaction A frequent charge levelled at survey, and at archaeology in general, is that at its heart it is largely descriptive.13 While description is an important part of the academic process, and of this study, attempts have been made to move beyond simple description to explanation. As such, a framework for explaining the variability in the rural landscapes of the Peloponnese has been proposed, by viewing the material through the lens of processes of interaction.

Proust said: ‘The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.’ This quote encapsulates some of the themes of this project in a rather succinct manner – survey archaeology provides new eyes for an old landscape, helping to establish the range of information required before one can discuss the nature of cultural interaction in the rural landscape. This project marks the beginning of this re-evaluation, an important foundation for future research. Yet even this particular set of new eyes provide a fascinating view into the past; what is beginning to emerge is not the wholesale rejection of the standard interpretation of Roman Greece, but rather a re-evaluation of the standard assumptions and a renewed emphasis on the variation within the Peloponnese.

Cultural interaction in the Peloponnese has been shown repeatedly within this study to be inherently variable in its nature, extent and expression. In order to explain that variability and the structures that create and support it, the Peloponnese was examined through three different types of interaction: ‘local–local’, ‘local–neighbour’, and ‘local–foreign’ interaction. This approach has shown that cultural interaction was exceedingly complicated, and that multifocal relationships are evinced in the recovered material. Cultural interaction is structured through a series of embedded networks, some of which have a higher degree of visibility in the landscape than others, and it is these networks which govern the types and extent of the interactions across any given society. One of the most interesting results of looking at these processes of interaction has been the visibility of some aspects of these largely culturally-defined networks of interactions. Perhaps the best physical evidence of the existence of these local networks and the associated interconnectivity comes in the form of site location. Frequently, large sites are to be found along natural lines of communication. Thus, it is along prominent ridges and valley floors that many of these sites are to be found. As natural routes of communication, these geographical structures facilitate rather than inhibit contact between people. The roads and trackways that connect these sites are visible markers of the types of interactions that some people were involved in, and of the importance that societies placed upon both creating and maintaining those networks. VII.4 The Contextualised Peloponnese Survey looks at regions, or parts of regions, and it is important to remember that the area termed Greece was a collection of regions with discrepant histories. The picture painted by comparing different surveys highlights these regional differences. Particular regions of the Peloponnese are reacting to changing political, cultural and economic circumstances – such as the decline of the successor kingdoms and the coming of Roman hegemony – in a variety of ways. There is a general decline, but tied up with this is some continuity, and even a marked reaction; a shift in agricultural practices occurs that suggests that somebody is attempting to benefit from the new Roman presence in the Peloponnese, by increasing the local production capacity of olive oil and wine. This 13

Compare Ammerman 1981; Banning 2002.

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Appendix: Intensive Survey Data This appendix contains the intensive survey data used to construct much of the analyses in the main text and supplementary tables. Other data for these surveys exist in the principal publications produced for each project. These publications are referenced in the relevant sections of the appendix, as well as in the individual discussions of the survey projects in chapter III. The data here are presented in an easily accessible format, with the same table layout employed for each survey project. A list of common abbreviations utilised in the data tables follows this introduction. This should facilitate an easier comparison of the data. As discussed in chapter 3, one of the primary methods for enabling comparison was reducing the published sites for the Hellenistic and Roman periods back to their original scatters. It should also be pointed out that the data as published for the individual projects are such that the figures presented for sherd counts here represent minimum numbers, and not necessarily totals. Most projects do not err towards completeness in the publication of their data, thus sherd counts represent the minimum numbers present for each period, and not necessarily the total numbers present for each period. Similarly with tiles, few surveys record more than the presence or absence of tile, and even that is not always done regularly. Absence of a number should not be taken to imply the absence of tile, just a lack of data. Numbers in parentheses denote the number of diagnostic sherds, as opposed to the total number of recognizable sherds for a period.

Survey Project

Works Cites

Laconia Methana Berbati-Limnes

Shipley 1996b Mee et al. 1997 B. Wells and Runnels 1996b J. Forsén et al. 2003 Jameson et al. 1994 Alcock et al. 2005 Davis et al. 1997 classics.uc.edu/prap/

Asea Southern Argolid PRAP: 2005 1997 WWW

Table A1. Principal published site gazetteers by survey.

Criteria

Definition

Number Survey Project Local Number Period(s) Area (ha) Density Total Sherds Total Tile Hell. Sherds Hell. Tile Roman Sherds Roman Tile Soil Type Site Function Page Reference Comments

Number of site for this study, assigned sequentially per survey project The name of the survey project the site is drawn from The original survey project’s assigned site number The occupational period(s) of the site The area, in hectares, of the site The density of the site as determined by the original survey project’s methodology. The total number of pottery sherds counted per site The total number of tile sherds counted per site The total number of Hellenistic pottery sherds per site The total number of Hellenistic tile sherds per site The total number of Roman pottery sherds per site The total number of Roman tile sherds per site The soil type of each site The site function, as determined by a re-analysis of each site The page reference in each survey’s site gazetteer from whence data was drawn Miscellaneous comments or notes

Table A2. Primary comparative criteria employed by this study.

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APPENDIX

Survey Project

Density Calculation

Laconia Methana Berbati-Limnes Asea Southern Argolid PRAP

Mean number of sherds per metre2, plus or minus the standard deviation Maximum number of finds per metre2/ mean number of finds per metre2 Finds per metre2 Finds per metre2 Finds per metre2 Sherds per hectare (10,000 metres2)

Table A3. Density calculations per survey.

Abbreviation EH H R H-R P Neo. LS All. VA SD FS H V ST E/V IND MSP LW HM Hyp. Graves Dozer Mod. Vill.

Criteria Period Period Period Period Tile Soil Type Soil Type Soil Type Soil Type Soil Type Site Function Site Function Site Function Site Function Site Function Site Function Comments Comments Comments Comments Comments Comments Comments

Definition Early Hellenistic period Hellenistic period Early Roman period Hellenistic to Early Roman period Presence of, number unknown Neogene soil Limestone-derived soil Alluvium Volcanic agglomerate Sandstone-derived soil Farmstead Hamlet Village Storage/Cistern Estate or Villa Industrial site Mill stone or press equipment present Loomweight(s) present Hoppermill present Hypocaust tiles/piers present Graves have been found on-site or nearby The site has been discovered due to a bulldozer cut Site is within a modern village

Table A4. Abbreviations used in Appendix data.

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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Number

Survey Project Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia

Local Number K299 Q359 E76 F152 J210 R454 R469 F142 F145 K250 M174 M357 M362 N186 Q181 F133 F148 G157 B104 M353 G159 H19 S474 B123 G164 H60 M177 M349 C114 J212 M172 U494 K153 M175 R293 L406 S436 J213

H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.01 0.01 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.04 0.04 0.04 0.05 0.05 0.06 0.06 0.06 0.07 0.07 0.07 0.07 0.07 0.09 0.09 0.10 0.10 0.11 0.11 0.11 0.13 0.14 0.16 1.80 ± 3 No Data No Data 1.00 ± 2 1.79 ± 3 0.21 ± 1 1.28 ± 2 1.77 ± 2 0.75 ± 1 5.79 ± 8 4.22 ± 3 No Data 0.97 ± 1 6.40 ± 7 13.82 ± 10 2.90 ± 4 2.56 ± 3 1.58 ± 2 5.33 ± 5 1.74 ± 2 1.70 ± 2 0.73 ± 1 1.00 ± 1 3.81 ± 3 5.79 ± 5 No Data 2.86 ± 3 1.63 ± 2 11.59 ± 8 3.00 ± 2 4.44 ± 3 1.53 ± 2 2.84 ± 5 9.54 ± 5 1.32 ± 2 2.39 ± 3 2.12 ± 2 1.85 ± 2

Density

Total Sherds 25 17 79 6 16 17 29 33 14 38 32 31 14 106 62 20 10 68 25 26 55 50 31 57 45 35 30 32 134 33 69 44 11 90 6 24 41 17

Total Tile 12 15 7 6 13 10 10 10 3 9 1 – 5 6 7 5 3 7 3 – 14 8 15 7 13 8 7 P 5 9 3 27 11 8 7 7 17 5

Hell. Sherds 8 (4) 13 (3) 40 6 (2) 13 (7) 9 (6) 5 (3) 13 (2) 7 (3) 5 (2) 20 (4) 6 (1) 10 (4) 46 (11) 32 (6) 10 (3) 7 (2) 28 (6) 17 (3) 19 (7) 24 (6) 7 (1) 13 (4) 17 (5) 22 (4) 5 (3) 24 (5) 6 (3) 16 (6) 6 (3) 12 (4) 8 (5) 6 (3) 55 (7) 5 (1) 10 (6) 34 (12) 5 (3)

Hell. Tile 1 10 2 1 – P – 4 1 – 1 – 3 5 5 2 – 5 P – 1 1 – P 1 1 2 P 3 7 2 18 2 1 1 5 4 1

Roman Sherds – 4 – – – – 1 – – 2 – 1 – – – – – 1 – – – 3 1 1 – – – – – 1 – 1 – – – 2 – –

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 1 – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Soil Type Schist Neo. Schist Schist Schist Neo. LS Schist Schist Schist Neo. Neo. Neo. Neo. Neo. Schist Schist Schist Schist Neo. Schist Schist Neo. Schist Schist LS Neo. Neo. Schist Neo. Neo. LS Schist Neo. LS Neo. Neo. Schist

Site function FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS? Cult? FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS

Page Reference 375 406 337 347 363 412 414 346 345 375 389 383 387 395 406 345 345 351 328 388 350 361 418 329 347 357 389 388 330 363 383 424 372 389 410 378 415 363

117

Quern

LW

Midslope

Assoc. Cave

LW

Mod. Vill.

MSP

Comments

APPENDIX

39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

Number

Survey Project Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia

Local Number H32 U491 T471 K407 D85 J229 T470 R281 H17 M327 S466 U519 U511 A118 B111 F140 F137 K141 K233 A100 K242 N192 S475 K419 J222 M348 R423 R472 U488 T467 U516 M321 K204 R422 P284 H45 U490 G252

H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R R

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.18 0.20 0.21 0.24 0.31 0.34 0.34 0.38 0.44 0.45 0.59 0.60 1.44 3.00 3.13 0.01 0.03 0.05 0.05 0.08 0.09 0.10 0.11 0.12 0.15 0.16 0.20 0.24 0.24 0.34 0.36 0.42 0.45 0.52 2.00 6.40 7.00 0.00 5.18 ± 5 3.61 ± 5 1.18 ± 1 2.91 ± 3 5.33 ± 8 3.08 ± 2 1.14 ± 1 No Data No Data 2.28 ± 2 1.22 ± 1 2.64 ± 3 3.87 ± 5 3.44 ± 3 13.33 ± 6 2.05 ± 2 3.04 ± 4 2.47 ± 3 4.92 ± 3 9.39 ± 7 1.78 ± 2 3.64 ± 3 1.97 ± 2 1.22 ± 2 3.22 ± 3 3.12 ± 2 1.25 ± 1 1.19 ± 1 2.02 ± 3 1.41 ± 2 2.63 ± 3 3.58 ± 4 1.09 ± 1 6.75 ± 6 No Data 6.50 ± 1 No Data No Data

Density

Total Sherds 10 77 46 86 98 44 78 164 12 34 348 452 410 126 406 77 17 78 49 34 75 27 37 25 68 101 117 25 14 45 66 191 41 141 655 313 3000+ 21

Total Tile 2 25 18 7 25 6 18 46 3 12 40 22 87 41 20 10 4 12 9 6 10 5 10 9 13 17 6 19 3 21 5 20 24 76 61 92 P 2

Hell. Sherds 9 (3) 11 (6) 8 (3) 45 (8) 29 (12) 17 (8) 16 (4) 24 (9) 7 (2) 17 (9) 33 (7) 20 (6) 42 (22) 48 (22) 35 (27) 11 (3) 5 (2) 17 (4) 6 (5) 7 (4) 15 (8) 10 (6) 8 (2) 5 (2) 12 (6) 48 (10) 11 (5) 7 (4) 7 (6) 16 (5) 22 (7) 57 (22) 9 (5) 50 (11) 6 (4) 122(46) 39 (27) –

Hell. Tile 1 17 3 3 18 1 7 29 P 3 4 8 34 34 14 – 1 6 2 1 3 1 5 – 2 2 2 1 1 2 3 10 13 30 11 31 P –

Roman Sherds – – – – – 1 4 – – – – – 3 – – 19 (6) 5 (4) 8 (7) 23 (4) 22 (13) 5 (4) 15 (9) 7 (3) 8 (8) 14 (5) 17 (8) 7 (3) 5 (5) 9 (4) 9 (3) 15 (8) 13 (13) 10 (8) 31 (2) 7 (5) 39 (18) 46 (23) 18 (7)

Roman Tile – – – – – – – P – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P – – – P – P P P

Soil Type Schist LS LS Neo. Schist Schist LS Neo. Schist Neo. Neo. LS LS Schist LS Schist Schist Schist Schist Schist Schist Neo. Neo. Neo. Schist Neo. Neo. Neo. LS LS LS Schist Schist LS Neo. Schist LS Schist

Site function FS FS FS FS FS H? V? FS FS? H? V? FS? FS? FS? V? Town Town FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS? FS FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS? H? FS? H? H? V? V? Town? Town Town FS?

Page Reference 361 426 422 374 333 364 423 411 361 385 416 436 427 321 325 346 345 372 372 323 372 396 418 374 365 387 412 410 425 423 426 382 388 410 399 355 428 351

118

Querns Thornax? LW, MSP Dozer

LW LW Kiln? Watermill?

IN LW

LW, MSP MSP Sellasia? Fortified

LW

Tower

MSP LW

Comments

APPENDIX

119

Survey Project Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia Laconia

Local Number C167 J220 G165 K403 C168 G161 J228 M350 F136 G163 F144 G155 T510 K298 N191 H29 F72 E56 M352 Q180 C108 A101 K515 T482 K239 M344 K244 N315 U521

R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R

Period(s)

Table A5. Laconia Survey Data

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105

Number

Area (ha) 0.01 0.01 0.02 0.02 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.04 0.04 0.05 0.05 0.06 0.07 0.07 0.08 0.09 0.10 0.10 0.10 0.11 0.13 0.21 0.30 0.32 0.34 0.40 0.40 0.55 No Data 1.67 ± 2 2.89 ± 2 0.55 ± 1 3.19 ± 2 7.38 ± 7 1.57 ± 2 3.16 ± 4 3.97 ± 7 3.77 ± 4 1.26 ± 2 2.55 ± 3 0.37 ± 1 1.07 ± 1 3.17 ± 3 3.18 ± 3 3.26 ± 8 No Data 3.27 ± 4 7.43 ± 5 5.30 ± 4 4.86 ± 4 1.77 ± 2 1.82 ± 2 4.26 ± 6 5.20 ± 5 2.29 ± 2 1.49 ± 2 1.97 ± 2

Density

Total Sherds 43 24 48 20 45 17 21 14 34 16 34 20 20 21 256 43 15 20 29 176 18 11 78 183 27 31 62 27 25

Total Tile 7 4 5 6 P 1 8 2 11 3 13 P 13 6 8 13 4 2 2 8 2 3 7 9 20 12 6 11 6

Hell. Sherds – – – – 2 – – – – – 3 – 1 – – – – – – – – – – – 2 – – – –

Hell. Tile 2 1 – – – – – – – – – – – – P P – – – – – – P – P – 1 – –

Roman Sherds 5 (5) 5 (4) 9 (4) 6 (3) 16 (7) 6 (4) 9 (6) 8 (3) 6 (3) 8 (4) 8 (4) 11 (5) 5 (3) 5 (4) 23 (2) 7 (5) 7 (2) 5 (3) 5 (3) 31 (7) 5 (2) 7 (4) 20 (9) 44 (8) 9 (2) 5 (4) 6 (2) 10 (7) 10 (4)

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – P – P – P – P P – P P P – – P – P P P – P

Soil Type Schist Schist Schist Schist Schist Schist Schist Neo. Schist Schist Schist Schist LS Schist Neo. Schist Schist Schist Neo. Neo. Schist Schist Neo. LS Schist Neo. Schist Schist LS

Site function FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS? FS? FS FS FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS? FS FS? FS FS? FS?

Page Reference 331 362 348 375 331 350 365 387 345 348 346 351 422 374 397 359 344 338 388 406 330 323 375 421 373 387 370 392 436 Kiln?

LW

LW

LW

Hillwash?

LW

Comments

APPENDIX

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Number

Survey Project Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana

Local Number MS72 MS50 MS30 MS51 MS62 MS121 MS18 MS16 MS212 MS120 MS71 MS110 MS210 MS112 MS213 MS214 MS204 MS17 MS123 MS6 MS2 MS101 MS55B MS25 MS5 MS103 MS13 MS106 MS105 MS108 MS8 MS60 MS67 MS69 MS56 MS211 MS53 MS122

H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.006 0.01 0.03 0.03 0.04 0.04 0.04 0.05 0.06 0.08 0.11 0.12 0.13 0.13 0.14 0.18 0.18 0.20 0.20 0.22 0.24 0.28 0.30 0.39 0.43 0.48 0.64 0.71 1.01 1.04 1.23 1.80 2.09 0.01 0.07 0.10 0.11 0.15 11/5.2 No Data No Data 4/2 No Data 25/7.9 37/30 24/9.2 23/7.1 35/16.5 8/2.6 31/21.2 116/80.2 172/28.5 37/8.8 32/6.8 47/22.4 No Data 14/8.9 11/5.5 8/4.4 41/17.6 No Data 29/8.4 11/5.1 No Data 9/4.5 12/3.8 30/9.6 36.4/17 13/5.4 41/10.9 57/21 49/39 21/7.9 32/9.1 14/4.8 19/11.1

Density

Total Sherds 20 1 45 19 4 17 11 23 30 90 42 34 19 84 47 31 63 19 50 34 24 70 71 40 19 147 72 63 20 206 35 222 230 26 40 53 78 74

Total Tile 7 – 15 – – 5 1 10 2 9 8 P 1 2 3 2 2 6 5 1 1 6 1 1 – 10 7 20 3 6 – – 8 – 1 6 1 10

Hell. Sherds 5 (4) 1 (1) 15 (2) 4 (2) 2 (2) 11 (7) 10 (4) 10 (4) 12 (6) 33 (9) 12 (10) 7 (2) 4 (4) 5 (2) 22 (11) 21 (13) 1 (1) 2 (2) 11 (9) 11 (2) 4 (4) 2 (2) 10 (4) 16 (15) 10 (4) 33 (9) 7 (4) 32 (27) 3 (3) 9 (7) 7 (2) 13 (6) 95 (34) 4 (4) 8 (2) 15 (2) 13 (6) 10 (3)

Hell. Tile P – P – – P P – P P P P – – P P – P P – – – – – – – – P P P P – – P – – – –

Roman Sherds – – – – – – – – – – – – 1 1 8 (2) – 3 6 (3) – – – – – – – – – – – – – 2 – 5 (2) 10 (6) 17 (8) 13 (11) 14 (7)

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Soil Type VA VA VA All. VA All. VA All. VA VA VA VA VA VA VA VA LS All. VA All. VA VA VA All. VA All. VA VA VA VA All. All. VA VA All. VA All. All.

Site function FS? ST? Tower Cult FS? FS? FS FS? ST? FS? FS FS FS? FS FS? FS? FS FS FS? FS? ST? FS FS FS FS FS? FS FS FS? H? FS? FS H? V? FS? H? FS? H? V V FS FS? FS FS FS

Page Reference 149 137 136 138 144 160 131 129 171 160 149 156 170 156 171 172 167 130 161 120 119 151 141 134 120 152 128 154 153 154 121 143 146 149 141 170 139 161

120

MSP

MSP

MSP, Fort.

MSP

Fortified

MSP

MSP

MSP

MSP

Tower

Tower Temple?

Comments

APPENDIX

121

Survey Project Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana Methana

Local Number MS209 MS14 MS19 MS52 MS1 MS54 MS7 MS3 MS9 MS10 MS116 MS57 MS205 MS114 MS115 MS117 MS109 MS118 MS20 MS216 MS218

H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R R R R R R R R R R R R

Period(s)

Table A6. Methana Survey Data

39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Number

Area (ha) 0.23 0.24 0.26 0.28 0.36 0.40 0.95 1.29 1.60 7.00 ? 0.01 0.03 0.08 0.08 0.10 0.11 0.13 0.16 0.20 0.35 60/15.5 17/4.0 12/4.3 10/6.8 12/5.0 36/23 20/7.8 18/6.2 26/6.5 50/21.6 No Data 24/16 14/6.1 25/8.3 25/10.4 19/14 No Data 10/3.8 16/12.7 45/35 14/6.5

Density

Total Sherds 64 89 54 94 28 57 83 37 95 313 14 5 23 44 15 35 33 21 34 32 30

Total Tile 2 – 1 5 1 – – 5 3 P 7 1 P 5 6 7 10 3 2 – –

Hell. Sherds 9 (3) 6 (3) 7 (6) 14 (5) 3 (1) 12 (2) 20 (9) 9 (2) 23 (8) 149(84) – – – 3 (3) – – – – 2 (2) 2 (2) 3 (2)

Hell. Tile 1 – – – – – – P P P – – – – – – – – – – – 164(104)

6 (5) 2 (2) 1 (1) 9 (6) 8 (5) 12 (7) 5 (5) 8 (6) 9 (8) 8 (6) 6 (5)

Roman Sherds 17 (12) 8 (7) 14 (12) 29 (18) 1 (1) 9 (4) 12 (5) 11 (7) 19 (10)

Roman Tile – – – – – – – P – P P 1 P P P P P P – – –

Soil Type VA VA LS All. VA All. All. All. All. All. VA VA VA All. VA VA VA VA VA VA VA

Site function FS FS FS FS FS? FS? FS FS? H? H? V? Town FS? Bath FS? FS? FS? FS FS FS? ST? FS? FS FS

Page Reference 169 128 131 139 119 140 121 119 122 122 158 142 168 157 158 158 155 159 132 172 173 MSP MSP MSP

MSP MSP MSP MSP

Bath

Agricultural

Methana?

MSP MSP MSP

Comments

APPENDIX

122

Survey Project Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati Berbati

Local Number 32 523 413 37 412 411 424 525 410 524 510 41 26 309 21 17 15/517 404 425 504 506 522 503 303 501 502

H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H-R H-R H-R H-R R R R R

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.01 0.01 0.01 0.02 0.02 0.03 0.04 0.04 0.04 0.05 0.05 0.09 0.12 0.16 0.24 0.35 0.87 2.45 0.11 0.39 0.53 0.49 0.04 0.06 0.14 0.38 0.70 0.68 0.51 0.53 0.81 1.03 0.60 1.17 1.00 0.96 0.41 0.36 0.91 0.81 1.74 0.64 1.96 3.01 0.77 1.52 1.01 0.47 0.51 0.17 0.87 0.79

Density

Total Sherds – 43 20 – 18 24 39 19 18 15 10 30 52 15 77 40 65 56 24 141 93 49 105 758* 36 65

Total Tile P P – – P P P – P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P – –

Hell. Sherds – 10 (1) 8 (1) 3 18 (1) 24 (2) 19 (3) 15 (2) 6 (1) 13 (1) 6 (1) 14 (1) 26 (5) 15 (1) 40 (4) 18 (1) 21 (1) 24 (1) 14 (4) 36 (6) 44 (6) 11 (1) – – – –

Hell. Tile 2 5 – – 1 2 2 – 1 1 1 7 8 5 16 5 1 3 P P P – – – – –

Roman Sherds – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 10 (2) 25 (13) 31 (3) 6 (2) 25 (11) 2 (2) 13 (6) 18 (6)

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P – P – P P P P

Soil Type LS All. All. LS All. All. Flysch All. All. All. All. LS All. LS Marl Marl All. All. All. All. All. All. All. All. All. All.

Site function FS? FS? FS FS? FS FS FS FS? FS FS? ST? FS? IND? FS? FS FS FS FS FS? H? H? V? FS FS? FS? FS FS FS? FS(E/V) FS 311 326, 390 303 305

236, 288, 195

260, 303

252, 318, 385

265 240, 201 238, 353 240, 291 247, 381 244, 293

233,192, 352

Page Reference 264 236, 197 256 268 256 259 246 238 258 235 263 270, 101

MSP MSP, Villa MSP

MSP; Slag Tower

MSP HM Well

Quern

On a slope

Quern HM

Quern Quern

Comments

Table A7. Berbati-Limnes Survey Data. * total sherd counts given in the Hahn chapter on Early Byzantine to Modern material. Most ‘total sherd’ counts are calculated from the aggregate value of the sample numbers and the textual descriptions provided in the presentation of catalogued material, and are therefore minimum values not true totals.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Number

APPENDIX

Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

123

S15-16† S18† S91† S85 S57 S65 S43 S24 S79 S20 S81 S59 S76 S68 S1 S90

Local Number S21 S32 S50 S14 S29 S13 S31 S92 S17 S45 S80 S83 S48 S38 S55 S33-34 S39 S67 S30 S54 S62 S22-23

H-R H-R H-R R R R R R R R R R R R R R

H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R

Period(s)

3.00 4.00 7.90 0.10 0.13 0.15 0.16 0.17 0.20 0.03 0.30 0.35 0.46 0.68 0.74 1.20

Area (ha) 0.02 0.03 0.03 0.08 0.08 0.09 0.09 0.10 0.14 0.20 0.22 0.29 0.32 0.46 0.76 0.90 1.14 0.07 0.16 0.32 0.50 1.10 3.51 3.06 (avg) 0.11 0.25 0.12 0.20 0.12 0.59 0.09 0.03 0.23 0.09 20.23 0.09 0.29 0.42

0.18 0.20 0.26 0.03 0.15 0.08 0.21 0.59 0.42 0.15 0.20 0.11 0.16 0.12 0.13 0.05 0.03 0.21 0.24 0.29 0.10 0.20

Density

– 1224 8611 245 159 296 196 1001 182 10 702 298 1035 614 2167 5112

Total Sherds* 30 55 76 23 112 70 185 589 586 293 441 314 509 541 980 450 353 143 375 940 507 2216 39 8 10 P 1 P P P P 2 P 2 P P P P

Total Tile P 5 2 3 7 P 4 3 3 4 9 2 5 12 7 5 18 – 13 P 3 2 83 3 11 – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Hell. Sherds‡ 7 1 – 4 2 1 2 7 4 2 10 4 4 18 16 – 3 3 21 2 1 5 4 P P – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Hell. Tile – 2 2 1 P 1 P 3 1 4 P 2 2 10 4 2 1 – P 3 1 P 13 9 15 2 2 2 3 8 13 4 2 4 11 5 11 20

Roman Sherds‡ – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 10 1 6 3 22 P P P 1 – 1 1 – – 2 P 2 P 1 3 3

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P – – P All. Flysch Fl.-All. All. Flysch All. LS Flysch Flysch Flysch Flysch LS Flysch Fl.-All. Fl.-All. All.

Soil Type LS Flysch Flysch Flysch Flysch Flysch Flysch LS All. Flysch Flysch LS Flysch Flysch Flysch Flysch Flysch All. Flysch Flysch All. Fl.-All. V? V? Town? Town FS? FS? FS FS? FS FS Inn? FS FS FS? E/V? FS FS? E/V? E/V?

Site function FS FS FS? FS FS FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS? FS FS? FS H? Cult FS FS FS FS H? V? 91 87 120 119 111 104 89 84 112 87 112 104 114 104 86 119

Page Reference 88 83 90 85 82 85 83 91 104 89 116 116 90 84 110 82 102 104 83 110 106 93

Table A8. Asea Valley Survey Data * maximum number of finds only, as gleaned from the site catalogue (size, density, and catalogued items). † site was sampled much more intensively than other findspots. ‡ Diagnostics only

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Survey Project Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea Asea

Number

Hyp. Hyp.; Kiln

Villa?

Slag

Aphrodision?

LW

LW Slag

Marble Graves; R Cistern

Quern

Temple?

Slag

MSP

Comments

APPENDIX

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Number

Survey Project S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid

Local Number F55 B71 B78 E79 B63 B70 A50 B74 E43 E54 A39 F40 A28 A34 A38 B59 B61 E39 G21 B23 B33 B60 A47 A62 B58 B69 C32 E27 B55 G13 C36 E41 G31 B54 E46 B93 A40 A52

EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.004 0.01 0.01 0.01 0.02 0.02 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.03 0.04 0.04 0.05 0.05 0.05 0.05 0.05 0.05 0.05 0.09 0.09 0.09 0.10 0.10 0.10 0.10 0.10 0.11 0.13 0.13 0.14 0.14 0.16 0.17 0.17 0.18 0.20 0.20 0.28 1.41 2.48 No Data 2.61 No Data 1.28 1.17 2.92 No Data 7.45 No Data 1.84 3.57 No Data 4.04 1.35 No Data 1.48 No Data No Data 0.92 2.07 No Data 1.15 2.50 5.00 No Data No Data 1.95 3.49 1.90 0.94 No Data 3.30 0.89 3.20 2.00

Density

Total Sherds 4 14 89 7 26 37 24 11 57 9 99 8 44 35 42 65 12 22 30 85 12 9 70 22 12 36 74 14 13 82 65 22 171 28 145 27 91 103

Total Tile 7 5 103 MANY 22 5 27 12 56 7 50 5 48 31 40 151 19 5 41 4 8 20 116 5 22 144 91 MANY 3 76 66 54 23 22 96 62 85 93

Hell. Sherds 3 P P P P 36 P 9 P 9 P P P P P P P 10 P P P 5 P – 9 P P 2 P P P 3 6 P P P – 2

Hell. Tile 3 – – P – – – – P – P – – – – P – – – – – – P – – – P – – – – – – – – – – –

Roman Sherds – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P 2 – – – – – – –

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Soil Type All. Neo. Neo. LS Neo. LS All. Neo. LS Flysch LS All. LS All. All. All. All. Flysch LS LS All. All. Neo. All. LS Neo. All. LS All. LS All. All. LS All. LS LS Neo. Neo.

Site function ST? FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS? FS FS FS FS FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS ST? FS FS FS

Page Reference 517 455 457 505 453 455 431 456 494 498 429 514 427 428 429 453 453 493 525 445 448 453 430 434 452 455 471 489 452 524 472 493 526 451 495 461 429 431

124

MSP

Reuse

Walls MSP

Dozer MSP

Walls HM; Walls

HM MSP

MSP

Comments

APPENDIX

39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

Number

Survey Project S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid

Local Number B57 B98 C34 F41 A48 A60 B65 E37 G20 B75 B80 A61 B92 B95 G22 E40 B36 B50 B67 B83 F43 B88 F57 C42 A49 B4 A53 A54 E52 B68 E70 B79 B86 B76 E38 E63 A51 B89

EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.20 0.23 0.23 0.23 0.25 0.25 0.26 0.26 0.27 0.30 0.32 0.33 0.34 0.34 0.34 0.37 0.40 0.40 0.40 0.46 0.46 0.55 0.70 0.94 1.90 3.00 0.01 0.01 0.05 0.06 0.09 0.14 0.14 0.15 0.28 0.29 0.30 0.30 2.18 1.05 1.03 0.95 0.89 1.50 0.68 No Data 1.26 1.06 0.22 6.00 0.63 No Data 0.90 1.00 No Data No Data 1.22 0.73 1.16 0.78 1.74 No Data 1.56 No Data No Data 1.80 No Data 3.29 2.79 1.69 1.49 2.16 No Data 1.80 0.97 2.60

Density

Total Sherds 21 97 24 30 34 75 32 19 39 29 13 83 31 22 71 84 25 15 79 60 76 55 168 62 271 97 17 35 13 55 68 88 36 36 13 138 139 172

Total Tile 90 12 36 8 75 93 45 7 106 83 14 73 36 14 43 16 5 7 8 47 17 56 161 22 103 19 7 27 11 144 129 47 19 46 8 71 37 132

Hell. Sherds P 9 2 P P – P 19 P P 13 – P P P 18 – 5 3 – – – – – 28 P – – 2 P P P 3 – P P 37 P

Hell. Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P – – – – – – –

Roman Sherds – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P – P – – – P – –

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Soil Type LS LS LS All. LS All. All. Flysch LS LS LS Neo. LS LS LS LS LS All. All. All. LS All. All. Neo. All. All. All. Neo. Flysch All. Flysch All. All. Neo. Flysch All. Neo. LS

Site function FS FS FS FS FS FS ST? FS? FS FS FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS? H? H? V? H? V? V? FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS FS? FS? FS FS

Page Reference 452 462 472 514 430 434 454 492 524 456 457 434 461 461 525 493 449 450 454 458 514 459 517 475 431 438 432 432 497 455 500 457 458 456 492 500 431 459

125

MSP; Walls

Walls

MSP

Blocks

MSP; Walls

Walls

Dozer Walls

MSP

MSP; Walls

MSP Walls

Blocks Blocks MSP

MSP; Dozer

MSP MSP

Blocks

Blocks

Comments

APPENDIX

126

Survey Project S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid S. Argolid

Local Number E58 F44 E6 C37 F4 E78 B100 G2 C11 E75 G14 E44 E55 C16 C33 E62 C30 A31 F3 B90 E13 B5 E61 E57 E51 B91 E49 E56 F47 E36 E19 B53 C31 E48 E60

EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H EH-H H H H H H H H H H H H H H EH-R EH-R EH-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R R R R R

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.30 0.82 1.00 1.10 1.40 1.50 1.70 1.70 5.00 0.06 0.15 0.18 0.26 0.30 0.33 0.33 0.40 0.45 0.65 0.90 1.80 3.00 0.03 0.90 2.40 0.04 0.22 0.40 2.20 6.00 22.50 0.01 0.10 0.28 0.40

Table A9. Southern Argolid Survey Data.

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

Number 1.28 0.46 No Data 3.55 3.71 No Data 0.99 No Data 9.00 No Data No Data 0.99 0.99 No Data 0.36 1.24 1.88 1.67 No Data 0.94 No Data No Data 1.29 1.70 0.69 1.71 0.87 0.47 1.64 No Data No Data 4.25 1.74 0.68 2.27

Density

Total Sherds 102 47 16 215 258 20 197 38 1135 30 19 38 51 11 11 66 85 51 66 119 228 209 310 136 175 73 81 51 110 65 – 67 29 58 332

Total Tile 67 54 5 69 132 MANY 67 38 305 11 9 43 70 4 19 86 65 41 12 69 3 3 46 116 47 38 20 19 21 9 – 18 129 22 82

Hell. Sherds P P 1 P P P P P 159 P P 37 P 10 5 P 2 5 P P 3 3 P P P P P P 2 P – – – – –

Hell. Tile – – – – P – – P P P P P – – – – – – P – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Roman Sherds P P – P – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P P P P P P P P – P P P P

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – P – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – P – – P

Soil Type All. All. LS All. LS LS Flysch LS All. LS LS LS All. Neo. LS All. LS All. LS LS LS LS Flysch All. Flysch LS Flysch All. All. All. LS Neo. Neo. LS All.

Site function FS FS H? V? FS? H? V? V? V? Town? Town FS Press Bed FS FS? ST? FS? FS FS FS FS FS FS V V FS FS V? Town? FS FS FS V Town Town FS FS FS? ST? FS

Page Reference 499 514 483 473 508 504 462 519 466 502 524 494 498 468 472 499 471 427 506 460 487 438 499 498 496 460 496 498 515 492 488 451 471 495 499 Walls

Hermion

MSP; Walls

MSP; Walls

Walls MSP

Walls? MSP Fortified?

MSP Eileoi? Mases Walls MSP Walls? Dozer

Walls

Walls

Comments

APPENDIX

127

Survey Project PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP PRAP

Local Number L02 A01 B07 A03 B01 C02 D03 L03 C01 E01 D01 A06 M02 L07 L06 D02 K05 K01 G02 G03 I01 G01 I04 A04 I08 L04 M05 C04 I03

H H H H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R H-R R R R R R

Period(s)

Area (ha) 0.09 0.14 18.00 0.05 0.14 0.17 0.24 0.28 0.37 0.39 0.45 0.56 0.75 0.88 0.98 1.62 3.23 4.64 6.50 7.20 12.00 34.90 38.07 39.81 0.11 1.00 3.00 4.10 11.06 7.96 6.99 1.84 8.18 4.19 15.46 26.98 81.87 24.59 7.27 3.62 20.48 2.12 22.17 8.62 2.16 14.69 3.62 0.77 16.11 2.36 9.92 10.50 15.98 3.08 47.80 5.98 42.09 1.71

Density

Table A10. Pylos Regional Archaeological Project Data

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Number

Total Sherds 67 21 36390 88 142 231 7715 21 660 3486 2937 108 636 2475 98 6709 580 3729 599 856 11092 1265 2324 295 715 67 60 192 380

Total Tile – 1 P – – 2 P 2 P P 5 – – 1 – 3 1 9 – – 3 5 2 P 1 – – – – 118 (4) 36 (21) 18 (2) 73 (40) 4 (1) 66 (1) 1 57 (5) 18 (12) 12 (4) 325(71) 41 (17) 211(79) 7 (2) – – – – 8 (1)

758(438)

2 (2) 5 (1)

238(150)

Hell. Sherds 6 (3) 5 (1) 31 (3) 1 (1) 1 26 (2)

Hell. Tile – – – – – 1 1 2 1 P 2 – – – – – – 5 – – – – – – – – – – – 2 (1) 3 (1) 4 (4) 13 (3) 1 (1) 7 (3)

343(266) 481(311)

Roman Sherds – – – 5 (2) 20 (3) – 150(93) 7 (7) 10 (3) 5 (5) 130(96) 6 (3) 2 (2) 712(45) 2 (1) 14 (5) 72 (9) 25 (6) 16 (13) 98 (20) 209(77)

Roman Tile – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 2 – 2 – – – 2 – – – – – – –

Soil Type LS LS Marl LS Marl Marl Marl LS Marl SD Marl LS Marl LS LS Marl Marl Marl Marl Marl Marl Marl All. LS Marl LS Marl All. Marl

Site function FS FS? Town FS FS FS FS FS FS E/V? FS? Cult? FS? FS? FS FS? H? V? V? V? Town? V? Town? V? Town? Town Town Town Town FS FS H? V? H? V? Town?

Page Reference 2005: 179 WWW WWW WWW WWW 1997: 459 WWW WWW WWW 2005:180 1997: 467 1997: 458 WWW 2005: 179 WWW WWW WWW WWW WWW WWW WWW 1997: 469 1997: 465 WWW WWW WWW WWW WWW WWW MSP

MSP

MSP

MSP, Erana

MSP

Quarry Graves

MSP

Estate? Temple

Graves Palace

Comments

APPENDIX

Table A11. Ancient agricultural authors. Dates are approximate, and represent all potential periods of activity. EANS is the page reference in the Encyclopedia of Ancient Natural Scientists (Routledge 2009). Name

Language

Work(s)

References

Dates

A. Cornelius Celsus

Latin

Encyclopedia

c. 15-35 AD

217-19

Aemilianus, Palladius

Latin

Opus agriculturae

c.375-450 AD

35-6

Agathokles of Khios

Greek

c.325-90 BC

44

Aiskhrion

Greek

Many Cassiodorus (Inst. 1.28.6); Isidore (Etym. 17.10.8) Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.9. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.10. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica

c.325-90 BC

50

Aiskhylides of Khios

Greek

325 BC - 200 AD

50

c.325-90 BC

67

c.330-370 AD

72

c.325-90 BC

76

c.385-355 BC

82-3

c.325-90 BC

93

c.450-335 BC

108

c.323-90 BC

115

c.240-90 BC

131

c.325-25 BC

138-9

c.323-90 BC

141

c.36 BC - 17 AD

158-9

c.350-90 BC

161

c.210-220 AD

163

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Treatise on agriculture; two fragments describe pears (Ath.) and sheep (Ael.)

Amphilokhos of Athens

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture.

Anatolios (Vindonios of Berytus))

Greek

Sunagoge georgikon epitedeumaton Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Atthis (a history); Georgikon Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture

Anaxipolis of Thasos

Greek

Androtion of Athens

Greek

Antigonos of Kume

Greek

Apollodoros of Lemnos

Greek

Treatise on agriculture (both crops and fruit)

Apollonios of Pergamon

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture

Aristandros of Athens

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Melittourgika. Treatise on beekeeping, trees, radishes, winemaking Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture

Aristomakhos of Soloi

Greek

Aristophanes of Mallos in Kilikia

Greek

Arkhelaos of Kappadokia

Greek

Treatise on animals, agriculture and stones

Arkhutas (of Taras?)

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture

Arrianus

Greek

Translated Vergil's Georgics into Greek

128

Ath. (Deipn. 14[650d]); Aelianus (HA 16.32) Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 12-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8); cf. Columella 1.1.9. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Cf. Schol. Nik. Ther. 617. Photios (Bibl. cod. 163); Palladius, Cassianus Bassus (Geoponika) Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.9. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica Theophrastos (F81; CP 3.10.4); Ath. (Deipn. F75, F77, F78) Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.10. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica Arist. (Pol. 1.11 [1258b391259a2]; Varro (RR 1.1.8); Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718) Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.9. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.8. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Has a special interest in botanical portents (Pliny, 17.241-243) Pliny (1.ind.11-15; 11.19; 13.131-132; 14.120, 19.84); Columella (9.13.8-9) Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.7. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica Pliny (1.ind.8-9, 17-18, 37); Varro (RR 2.3.5, 3.12.4); Varro has him as Arkhelaos of Khersonesos, not the king. Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.7. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica; Diogenes Laertios (8.82) has agronomist and philospher as separate FGrHist 143F15

EANS

APPENDIX

Athenagoras

Greek

Attalos of Pergamon

Greek

Attius

Latin

Bakkheios of Miletos

Greek

Bion of Soloi

Greek

C. Iulius Hyginus

Latin

C. Maecenas Melissus of Spoletium

Latin

C. Matius Caluenus

Latin

Caepio

Latin

"Agricultural writer" Treatise on agriculture covering beekeeping, cereals, viticulture and arboriculture Astrologer: Praxidike Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Probably the historian of same name; agricultural writings may have been included within his Ethiopia. Agricultural interests included cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Treatise (doxography) on agriculture, including soil types, feeding of oxen, beekeeping Wrote on zoology (Pliny, 1.ind.9-11) and bees (Serv. Ad Aen. 7.66) 3 books: "The Cook, The Fish Dealer, The Pickler" (Columella 12.4.2, 46.1) Treatise on roses Kepourika: on gardening Peri Georgias eklogoi; likely compiled from Vindonios and Didymos of Alexandria.

Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica (Varro RR 1.1.9; Columella 1.1.10)

c.325-90 BC

175

Pliny (1.ind.10-11, 14-15, 1718); (Varro RR 1.1.8-10; Columella 1.1.8); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica.

138-133 BC

179-80

Pliny (1.18)

c. 30 BC - 75 AD

180-1

Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.9. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica

c.325-90 BC

187

Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718, 28); Varro (RR 1.1.8); FGrHist 668

c.325-250 BC

193

Numerous references in Columella (eg. 3.11.8, 9.14, 11.3.62); Pliny

30 BC - 10 AD

454-5

Pliny, 1.ind.9-11; Serv. Ad Aen. 7.66

30-10 BC

517

45 BC - 5 AD

535

15-35 AD

202

c.50 BC - 75 AD

203

Survives only in the Geoponika

c.500-600 AD

207

Pliny 12.13, 15.49; Ath. Deipn. 3 [82c](on development of a new apple, the malum Matianum); Columella 12.4.2, 46.1 (on storage of wine and agricultural produce) Pliny (21.18); cf. Tac. Ann. 1.74 Pliny (1.19); cf. Columella 10.1.1

Caesennius

Latin

Cassianus Bassus

Greek

Castricius

Latin

Kepourika: on gardening

Pliny (1.19). Could be the C. Castricius T. f. Caluus in CIL 11.600

c.30 BC

211

Latin

Ordinata Graeca: a grammatical work listing names for nuts, apples, pears and figs in Greek and Latin

Macrobius (Sat. 3.19.2, 6, 20.1)

c.1-10 AD

214-5

Treatise on agriculture

Varro RR 2.1.2; Columella 1.1.12. Has advice on the tending of grape vines (Col. 3.11.8, 3.12.5; Pliny 17.199), trees (Col. 5.6.2), times and directions for sowing seed (Col. 2.8.5, 2.10.8), observations on soil (2.1.5), and critiques of others' work (1.1.6, 3.3.2).

fl. 59 BC

815-6

Cloatius Verus

Cn. Tremelius Scrofa

Latin

129

APPENDIX D. Clodius Albinus (of Hadrumetum)

Latin

Georgika

SHA 11.7

d.197 AD

215

D. Iunius Silanus

Latin

Translated Mago's treatise on agriculture (28 books). Pliny cites him as a source for his books on cereals, viticulture, and arboriculture

Pliny (1.ind.14-15, 17-18, 18.22-23)

c.146 BC

458

Dadis

Greek

Treatise on agronomy

Known to Cassus Dionysos (Varro RR 1.1.9-10; Columella 1.1.11)

c.325-90 BC

222

Varro RR 1.1.8; Columella 1.1.9; Pliny 1.ind.8, 10, 12, 1415, 17-18; FGrHist 690

c.360-330 BC

229

c.250-50 BC

237

c.350-450 AD

245

c.325-90 BC

249

Varro RR 1.1.8-10

c.90 BC

265

Varro RR 1.1.8-10, 1.9.7

85-60 BC

267

c.285-90 BC

291

c.325-90 BC

302

c.325-90 BC

303-4

c.325-90 BC

321

c.325-90 BC

321

c.325-90 BC

321

Pliny (1.ind.19)

c.50 BC - 75 AD

329

Geoponika

c.200-250 AD

331

Geoponika

c.100 - 450 AD

332

Deinon (Dion of Kolophon)

Greek

Demokritos, pseudo

Greek

Didymos of Alexandria

Greek

Diodoros of Priene

Greek

Dionysios of Utica, Cassius

Greek

Diophanes of Nikaia

Greek

Epigenes of Rhodes

Greek

Euagon of Thasos

Greek

Euboulos

Greek

Euphronios of Amphipolis

Greek

Euphronios of Athens

Greek

‘Euphyton’

Greek

Firmius

Latin

Florentinus

Greek

Fronto

Greek?

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry among the Persians. Also expert on wild trees (esp. myrtle) Kheirokmeta; On Farming. Material in Geoponika Georgika (15 books) Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Anthology, including Greek translation of Carthaginian Mago's work, and the Greek authors listed by Varro 6-book epitome of Cassius Dionysius' translation of Mago Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture. Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Treatise on agriculture, including horses Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture, arboriculture, and beekeeping Treatise on agriculture; Kepourika: on gardening Georgika (at least 11 books) Treatise on agriculture, with viticulture and vegetable cultivation

130

Diogenes Laertios 9.48; Columella 11.3.2; Ptolemy Phaseis 27 Suda Delta-876; Used extensively by Cassianus Bassus Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); (Varro RR 1.1.9-10; Columella 1.1.9); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica .

Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); (Varro RR 1.1.8-10; Columella 1.1.9); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); (Varro RR 1.1.8-10; Columella 1.1.9); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Varro RR 1.1.9; Columella 1.1.11; Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); (Varro RR 1.1.8-10; Columella 1.1.9); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); (Varro RR 1.1.8-10; Columella 1.1.9, 9.2.4); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Varro RR 1.1.9-10; Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica.

APPENDIX

Geoponika

Greek

Byzantine Encyclopedia on agriculture

in 20 books: astrological weather lore (1), siting, cereals and legumes (2), calendar (3), viticulture (4-8), olives (9), garden and fruit trees (10), ornamental and medicinal plants (11), vegetables (12), pests and vermin (13), poultry (14), bees (15), horses (16), cattle (17), sheep and goats (18), dogs, swine and game (19), and fish (20)

Hegesias of Magnesia on the Sipulas

Greek

Treatise on agriculture, covering large animals

Varro RR 1.1.8-10; Columella 1.1.9; Pliny 1.ind.8

c.300-250 BC

358

Works and Days

Works and Days: fall woodcutting and plowing (383492), winter protection from cold (493-563), spring vinepruning, harvest, threshing, summer drinking and relaxing (564-617)

c.750 - 650 BC

390-1

Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro RR 1.1.8; Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica.

c. 270-216 BC

394

Pliny (1.ind.14-15, 14.120)

c. 325 BC - 75 AD

395

125-60 BC

422-3

c.10-30 AD

450

325-175 BC

469

325-90 BC

469

c.450-335 BC

470

c.250-50 BC

474

380-340 BC

478

c.325 BC - 75 AD

486

c.325-90 BC

489

30-50 AD

453-4

Hesiod

Greek

Hieron II of Syracuse

Greek

Hikesios

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture. Enacted laws covering Sicily's grain supply Treatise on viticulture

Hostilius Saserna & son

Latin

Treatise on agriculture

Iulius Atticus

Latin

Treatise on viticulture

Khaireas of Athens

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture

Khairesteos of Athens

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, viticulture and arboriculture

Kharetides of Paros

Greek

Khrysippos

Greek

Kleidemos of Athens

Greek

Kommiades/(Kosmiades of Delos)

Greek

Treatise on agriculture (both crops and fruit) On Agriculture Georgika; on fruits and vines Treatise on viticulture

Krates (or Krateuas)

Greek

Treatise on agriculture

L. Iulius Graecinus

Latin

de Vineis (“On Vineyards”, in 2 books)

131

includes advice for: staffing a farm (Columella 1.7.4, 2.12.7; Varro 1.16.5, 18.2, 6, 19.1); folk remedies (1.2.25-28, 2.9.6); vines (Columella 3.3.2, 3.12.5, 3.17.4, 4.11.1; Pliny 17.199); fertilising crops (Columella 2.13.1); and operating clay, sand and stone pits (Varro 1.2.22-23) Columella 1.1.4, 4.2.2, 3.11.9, 3.16.3, 4.1.1-6, 4.2.2; Pliny 17.90 Ath. (Deipn.1 [32c]); on thistles: Pliny 20.263; Varro RR 1.1.8; Columella 1.1.8; Pliny 1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 17-18 Varro RR 1.1.8-10; Columella 1.1.8 (as 'Chrestus'); Pliny 1.ind.14, 15, 17, 18 (as 'Chaerestus'). Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica. Arist. (Pol. 1.11 [1258b391259a2]; Varro (RR 1.1.8); Pliny (1.8, 10, 14-15, 17-18) Diogenes Laertios 7.186 Theophrastos (FGrHist 323 F31-36) Pliny 14.120 Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica (Varro RR 1.1.9-10); Pliny 25.8 Columella 1.1.14, 3.3.4-7, 3.12.1, 4.28.2-29, 4.3.1, 6; Pliny 16.241

ca. 950 AD

346

APPENDIX

Latin

De re rustica, in 12 books: siting of property, labour force (1), cereal crops (2), viticulture and fruit trees (3-5), animals (6-7), poultry and bees (89), horticulture (10), manager's duties, astronomical and meteorological calendar (11), household duties, preservation of produce (12)

Leontinos

Latin

Treatise on agriculture

Leophanes

Greek

Mentions soils

L. Iunius Columella (of Gades)

Lysimakhos

Greek

M. Ambiuius

Latin

M. Porcius Cato

Latin

M. Sueius

Latin

M. Terentius Varro

Latin

M. Valerius Messalla Potitus

Latin

Maecenas Licinius

Latin

Mamilius Sura

Latin

Menandros of Herakleia

Greek

Menandros of Priene

Greek

Menekrates of Ephesos

Greek

Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture and arboriculture Treatise on storing wine and other agricultural produce De Agricultura Wrote two agricultural poems: Moretum ("Peasant Salad") and Pulli ("Chicks") De Rebus Rustica, in 3 books: essentials of farming and raising crops (1), animal husbandry (2), specialty products [birds, bees, fish, rabbits](3). Kepourika: on gardening Treatise on storing wine and other agricultural produce Treatise covering cereals, livestock, poultry, viticulture, arboriculture, beekeeping and garden plants Treatise on agriculture covering livestock and beekeeping Treatise on agriculture covering livestock and beekeeping Works, a poem in the Hesiodic style on bee varieties

132

Pliny; Gargilius Martialis; Palladius Aemilianus

c.40-70 AD

456-7

Listed by Photios Bibl. 163 as among the sources for Anatolios (Vindonios of Berytus)) Theophrastos CP 2.4.12; Aetios 5.7.5 Pliny (1.ind.8, 10, 14-15, 1718); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); cf. Columella 1.1.11. Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica

c.200-330 AD

504

c.470-430 BC

504

c.325-90 BC

516

Columella 12.4.2

c. 30 BC - 20 AD

63

Columella 1.1.12, amongst others, asserts he "taught agriculture to speak Latin"

185-149 BC

686-8

Varro RR 3.2.7-14; Pliny 10.52

c.70-40 BC

768

Many

81-27 BC

774-8

Pliny 1.ind.19, 14.66; may be the Messalla of Pliny 14.69

c. 45-15 BC

822

Columella 12.4.2

30 BC - 15 AD

517

Pliny (1.ind.8, 10-11, 17-19, 18.143)

c.55 BC

522-3

Pliny (1.ind.8, 11); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica

c.325-90 BC

543

Pliny (1.ind.8, 11); Varro (RR 1.1.8-10); Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica

c.325-90 BC

544

Varro RR 3.16.18

330-270 BC

545

APPENDIX

Menestratos (II)

Greek

Minius Percennius of Nola

?

Mnaseas of Miletos

Greek

Neoptolemos

Greek

Nestor of Laranda, Septimius

Greek

Oppius

Latin

P. Vergilius Maro of Mantua

Latin

Paxamos

Greek

Persis

Greek

Philiskos of Thasos

Greek

‘Plentiphanes’

Greek

Pompeius Lenaeus

Latin

Pythion of Rhodes

Greek

Pythokles of Samos

Greek

Q. Gargilius Martialis

Latin

Sabinius Tiro

Latin

Sex. Quintilii (Condianus and Valerius Maximus) or Alexandria Troas

Latin

Theophilos

Greek

Theophrastos of Eresos

Greek

Treatise on agriculture "demonstrated" a method for sowing the seed of the Tarentine cypress Treatise on agriculture, including preservation of foodstuffs 'following Mago' Melittourgika (on beekeeping) Alexikepos ("antidote garden"), among others De silvestribus arboribus ("On Woodland Trees") Georgics, in 4 books: cereal crops and weather signs (1), vines and orchards (2), animal husbandry (3), bees (4) Treatise on agriculture (in 2 books (Suda Pi253))) Treatise on agriculture Melittourgika (on beekeeping) Treatise on agriculture (not a plausible Greek name) Translated Mithradates VI's pharmacological writings Treatise on agriculture Treatise on agriculture Treatise on horticulture; incl. arboriculture Kepourika: on gardening Treatise on agriculture Treatise on agriculture "Enquiry into plants" Historia Plantarum; "Plant Explanations" De Causus Plantarum; amongst others

133

Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica (Varro RR 1.1.9-10).

c.325-90 BC

548

Cato 151. Unclear whether he wrote, and if in Latin, Greek or Oscan

c.120-150 BC

557

Varro RR 1.1.9; Columella 12.4.2

c.90-40 BC

559

Pliny (1.ind.11)

c. 325-25 BC

571

Geoponika 12.16.1, 12.17.1617; Cassianus Bassus

c.195-210 AD

572

Macrobius, Sat. 3.18.7, 19.4; Pliny 1.ind.11

c.100 BC - 15 AD

594

Many

42 BC - 19 AD

824-7

Columella 12.4.2; pistaschios: Geoponika 10.12.3

c.90-30 BC

632

c.325-90 BC

637

c.325-90 BC

649

Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica (Varro RR 1.1.9-10).

c.500-90 BC

670

Pliny (1.ind.14-15, 20-27, 25.57)

c.70-40 BC

684

Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica (Varro RR 1.1.9-10).

c.325-90 BC

713

pseudo-Plutarch Para. Min. 41

c.325 BC - 200 AD

713

CIL 7.9047; Medicina Plinii; Cassiodorus Inst. 1.28.5

220-270 AD

343

Pliny 19.177

c.35-10 BC

722

c.140-182 AD

716

c.325-90 BC

797

c.340-286 BC

798-801

Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica (Varro RR 1.1.9-10). Pliny (1.ind.11, 11.19); earned the nickname "Wild-man" (Agrios) for setting up his apiary in the remote countryside

Brothers; agricultural treatise cited by Gargilius Martialis and Vindonius Anatolios. Echoes survive in the Hippiatrika (Hipp. Berol. 1.18) and Geoponika Excerpted by Cassius Dionysos of Utica (Varro RR 1.1.9-10).

Many

APPENDIX

Trebius Niger

Latin

Treatise on natural history

Turranius

Latin

Treatise on agriculture (at least 2 books)

Turranius Gracilis

Latin

Treatise on agriculture or geography

134

Fragments in Pliny discuss a giant octopus that harassed the garum works near the Straits of Gibraltar (9.89-93), remora (9.80), the swordfish and cuttlefish (32.15), and the woodpecker (10.40) Diomedes GL 1.368.24; Columella 5.10.18; Macrobius Sat. 3.19.6 Cited by Pliny: pillars of Herakles (3.3), monstrous fish at Gades (9.11), barley-drink in Andalusia and Africa (18.75)

c.150-130 BC

815

c.50-10 BC

819-20

10 BC - 10 AD

820

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