Spear-Won Land: Sardis from the King's Peace to the Peace of Apamea 0299321304, 9780299321307

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Spear-Won Land

Publication of this book has been made possible, in part, through support from Boston University and the Loeb Classical Library Foundation, the Anonymous Fund of the College of Letters and Science at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, and the generous support and enduring vision of Warren G. Moon.

Spear-Won Land

r q Sardis from the King’s Peace to the Peace of Apamea

Edited by Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin

The University of Wisconsin Press

The University of Wisconsin Press 1930 Monroe Street, 3rd Floor Madison, Wisconsin 53711-2059 uwpress.wisc.edu Gray’s Inn House, 127 Clerkenwell Road London EC1R 5DB, United Kingdom eurospanbookstore.com Copyright © 2019 The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System All rights reserved. Except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any format or by any means—digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—or conveyed via the Internet or a website without written permission of the University of Wisconsin Press. Rights inquiries should be directed to [email protected]. Printed in the United States of America This book may be available in a digital edition. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Berlin, Andrea, editor. | Kosmin, Paul J., 1984– editor. Title: Spear-won land : Sardis from the King’s Peace to the Peace of Apamea / edited by Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin. Other titles: Wisconsin studies in classics. Description: Madison, Wisconsin : The University of Wisconsin Press, [2019] | Series: Wisconsin studies in classics | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018045777 | ISBN 9780299321307 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Sardis (Extinct city) | Excavations (Archaeology)—Turkey—Sardis (Extinct city) Classification: LCC DS156.S3 S64 2019 | DDC 939/.22—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018045777

To all the members of the Sardis Expedition

Contents

List of Illustrations

ix

List of Abbreviations

xv

Introduction Paul J. Kosmin and Andrea M. Berlin

3

Part I.  City and Empire 1 Inside Out: Sardis in the Achaemenid and Lysimachean Periods Nicholas Cahill

11

Spotlight: Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion Elspeth R. M. Dusinberre

37

Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids William Bruce

44

2 The Archaeology of a Changing City Andrea M. Berlin

50

Spotlight: Continuing Crafts—Antefixes and Roof Tiles Andrea M. Berlin

68

3 Remaking a City: Sardis in the Long Third Century Paul J. Kosmin

75

Spotlight: The Metroön at Sardis Nicholas Cahill

91

4 The Mint at Sardis Jane DeRose Evans

97

Spotlight: Assigning a Mint Jane DeRose Evans

114

Spotlight: Who’s in Charge? Jane DeRose Evans

116

Spotlight: Coins as Evidence of a City’s Economy Jane DeRose Evans

118

5 A Clay Kybele in the City Center Frances Gallart Marqués

120

6 The Temple of Artemis Fikret Yegül

132

7 The Hellenistic City Plan: Looking Forward, Looking Back Philip Stinson

139

Part II.  Cities in a Landscape 8 The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia Christopher H. Roosevelt

145

9 Pergamum and Sardis: Models of Neighborliness Ruth Bielfeldt

165

10 Ephesus: Sardis’s Port to the Mediterranean in the Hellenistic Period Sabine Ladstätter

191

11 Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens Susan Rotroff

205

12 Gordion, on and off the Grid Elspeth R. M. Dusinberre

220

Conclusion A New View of Sardis Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin

235

Sardis’e Yeni Bir Bakış Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin, translated by Güzin Eren

241

Bibliography

249

Contributors

275

Index

277

Illustrations

Plates after page 96

1 The Lydian and Achaemenid empires



2 Plan of Sardis, 2017



3 View of the acropolis of Sardis

4 Plan of the terraces in the city center, ByzFort and Field 49, with Lydian and Hellenistic remains

5 Lydian and Achaemenid Asia Minor, with the course of the Royal Road



6 The Pactolus neighborhood, Persian-era plan



7 Vessels of the mid-fourth century found on the floor of a house in Sector MMS/S



8 Vessels found on the floor of units XIX–XX in the Pactolus neighborhood, c. 300



9 Vessels from lowest levels of the Southern Well in the Pactolus neighborhood, c. 300

10 Vessels for individual dining from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood, c. 275–225 11 Vessels for individual drinking from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood, c. 275–225 12 Utility vessels from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood, c. 275–225 13 Cooking vessels from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood, c. 275–225 14 Vessels from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new northern neighborhood, c. 275–225 15a Shallow hemispherical cups with interior decoration from Phase 2 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood, c. 225–160 15b Imported mold-made bowls from Phase 2 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood, c. 225–160 ix

x

Illustrations

15c Kraters/large ledge-rim bowls with exterior decoration for individual drink service from Phase 2 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood, c. 225–160 16 Field 49: plan showing the major buildings and floors of the first three Hellenistic phases 17 Early Hellenistic pottery from Phase 2 floors in the central excavation zone of Field 49, c. 275–250 18 Early Hellenistic house décor and pottery from Phase 2 levels in the southern excavation zone of Field 49, c. 275–250 19 The Seleucid empire 20 The Seleucid empire: colonial foundations 21 Hellenistic Western Asia Minor, with the courses of the Royal Road and Common Road 22 The “Saw” described by Polybius 23 Battles and colonies in the vicinity of Sardis Plates after page 144 24 So-called Cybele shrine, oblique view 25 “Two Goddess Relief ”, front view 26 Terracotta figurines and plaques from the Theater Deposit 27 Large enthroned Kybele with lion on lap, from the Theater Deposit, front view 28 Artemis temple, looking east, with acropolis and Mount Tmolus 29 Artemis temple, looking northwest, toward the Hermus and Bin Tepe 30 Diagram of Sardis’s archaic-era mud-brick walls as reused in the Hellenistic period 31 The Lydian-era monumental artificial terraces, reused in the Hellenistic period 32 View of excavated Lydian mud-brick fortification, reused in the Hellenistic period 33 View looking south toward the acropolis and the cavea of the poorly preserved Roman theater 34 Diagram of new monumental building in the center of Sardis after the earthquake of 17 CE 35 View of the standing remains of the Roman temple-theater-stadium complex with upper city terraces above 36 Map of “Lydia,” with regional toponyms referred to in the text 37 Map of Lydia showing the locations of Achaemenid-period sites and tumulus groups 38 Map of Lydia showing the locations of Hellenistic sites 39 View of Şahankaya in northern Lydia from the east 40 Philetaerus’s political activities in Pergamum’s vicinity 41 Sightline connecting the sanctuary of Meter Theon at Mamurt Kale with Sardis and Pergamum 42 Ground-level view from the Mamurt Kale temple site toward Mount Tmolus 43 Ephesus and Smyrna: the Hellenistic city layout

Illustrations

44 Hellenistic find spots in Ephesus 45 The regional road network and Hellenistic sites in the hinterland of Ephesus 46 Three silver cups of the third century, probably from Morgantina in Sicily 47 Lydian skyphos, sixth century Figures 1.1 Plan of Sardis in the Lydian era, according to Hanfmann  /  12 1.2 Plan of Sector MMS in the Lydian and Persian periods  /  15 1.3 Terrace walls of Field 49, southern trench  /  16 1.4 Lydian terrace walls at Acropolis North  /  17 1.5 The tunnel leading from the base of the acropolis above ByzFort and Field 49 up to the area below the terrace walls at Acropolis North  /  17 1.6 The theater of Sardis, with destroyed remains of a Lydian house  /  19 1.7 Plan of Sector HoB in the “late Lydian” or Achaemenid period  /  21 1.8 The temple of Artemis, showing the altars of Artemis in the foreground  /  25 1.9 Plan of pre-Hellenistic and Hellenistic phases of the temple of Artemis  /  26 1.10 Lydian stele no. 22, found toppled from its base  /  27 1.11 Hellenistic cobbled pavement on ByzFort  /  29 1.12 A maze of walls in the southern trench on Field 49  /  30 1.13 Aerial view of the central trench on Field 49  /  31 1.14 The north wall of the earlier Hellenistic limestone platform  /  32 1.15 A massive but somewhat mysterious pier or foundation built of enormous limestone blocks  /  33 1.16 Artifacts from a floor belonging with, but outside, the earlier Hellenistic limestone platform or terrace / 34 1.17 Seal from Sardis: lion and bull combat  /  38 1.18 Seals from Sardis: pyramidal stamp, cylinder seal, “weight-shaped” seal, and ring with stone bezel / 38 1.19 Seal from Sardis: suspension device in the shape of ducks’ heads clasping a blue chalcedony pyramidal stamp seal  /  39 1.20 Seals from Sardis: modern impressions  /  40 1.21 Dascylium seals 2, 3, and 4  /  41 1.22 Gordion seals 100, 246, 44, 187, and 153  /  42 1.23 Gordion glass seals 56, 188, 44, 90, 112, 192, 205, and 75a  /  42 1.24 Gordion seals: Achaemenid hegemonic style cylinder; conical stamp with Neo-Babylonian-style worship scene; Egyptian scarab  /  43

xi

xii

Illustrations

1.25 Domestic neighborhood of Pactolus North, with the local villages of Sart Mustafa in the background / 45 1.26 East view of the pair of apsidal buildings in the southern area of Pactolus North  /  46 1.27 North view of units I and II  /  48 2.1 1965 excavation of floor of units XIX–XX in the Pactolus neighborhood  /  52 2.2 Items from lowest levels of the southern well in the Pactolus neighborhood  /  54 2.3 Plan of the two earliest Hellenistic phases in the new neighborhood on the western side of the city / 56 2.4 Early Hellenistic vessels from the theater cavea deposit, c. 300–250  /  58 2.5 Early Hellenistic fish-plates from the theater cavea deposit, c. 275–250  /  59 2.6 Roof tiles in the foundation trench for the monumental Phase 2 wall in the central excavation area of F49 / 60 2.7 Fallen roof tiles on a Phase 2 floor in the central excavation zone of F49  /  62 2.8 Imported pottery from the earliest Hellenistic level in Sector ByzFort, late fourth/early third centuries / 63 2.9 A selection of roof tiles found at the northeastern edge of Sector ByzFort  /  64 2.10 Matched pair of antefixes from Sector HoB, later fifth century, probably from Building C  /  69 2.11 “Busy style” antefixes, variant 1  /  70 2.12 “Busy style” antefixes, variant 2  /  71 2.13 “Busy style” antefixes, variant 3  /  71 2.14 “Busy style” antefixes, variant 4  /  72 2.15 “Schematic style” antefixes, variant 1  /  73 2.16 “Schematic style” antefixes, variants 2 and 3  /  73 2.17 “Heraldic animal” antefixes  /  74 3.1 Excavations of the synagogue in 1963, showing the collapsed piers of the late Roman building  /  92 3.2 Uninscribed anta blocks from the Metroön  /  93 3.3 Anta of Andron B at Labraunda, showing marble anta blocks keyed into gneiss walls  /  94 3.4 The decree of the Sardians  /  95 3.5 Inscription in an unknown language from a pier of the synagogue  /  96 4.1 Royal bronze, probably Sardis, minted for Philip III or Antigonus I between 323 and 310  /  99 4.2 Royal bronze, Sardis, minted for Seleucus I in 282–281, denomination C or D  /  102 4.3 Royal bronze, Sardis or Smyrna, minted for Antiochus I between 280 and 261, denomination C or D  /  104 4.4 Royal bronze, Sardis, minted for Antiochus II between 261 and 246, denomination D  /  104 4.5 Royal bronze, Sardis, minted for Seleucus II between 246 and 241, denomination C  /  105

Illustrations

xiii

4.6 Royal bronzes, Sardis, minted for Antiochus III between 213 and 203 (?), denomination D  /  107 4.7 Civic bronze, Sardis, medium denomination, minted between 240/220 and second century  /  110 4.8 Civic bronze, Sardis, large denomination, probably third century  /  111 4.9 Civic bronze, Sardis, small denomination, third century  /  112 5.1 Andrew Ramage working on the altar of Kybele in Pactolus North  /  122 5.2 Finely modeled head of Kybele, from the Theater Deposit, front view  /  125 5.3 Finely modeled head of Kybele, from the Theater Deposit, back view  /  126 5.4 Earliest examples from the Theater Deposit: small lion and draped lap fragment  /  126 5.5 One of Kybele’s lion companions, from the Theater Deposit  /  127 5.6 Kybele relief with lion companions in her lap and by her feet, front view  /  129 6.1 Artemis temple, Carian lewis on Capital F  /  133 6.2 Artemis temple, view from west toward acropolis  /  135 6.3 Artemis temple, Hellenistic plan  /  136 6.4 Artemis temple, Manes inscription  /  138 8.1 Types of fortified settlements in Hellenistic Lydia  /  160 9.1 Dedicatory inscription to the Tritogeneia Thea from the temple of Athena in Pergamum  /  169 9.2 Andesite column drum pertaining to the temple of Athena with dedicatory inscription to Athena/ Malis in Lydian and Greek  /  170 9.3 Dedicatory inscription in Lydian and Greek  /  171 9.4 Mamurt Kale, temple to Meter Theon during excavation, 1910  /  178 9.5 Mamurt Kale, blocks from the temple of Meter Theon, 2017  /  179 9.6 Mamurt Kale, reconstruction drawing of the sanctuary  /  179 9.7 Mamurt Kale, reconstructed elevation of the Doric temple  /  180 9.8 Mamurt Kale, plan of the Doric temple  /  181 9.9 Honorific statue base of Antiochis, erected by her husband Attalus Philetaerou c. 270 and found in the temple / 182 9.10 Connected genealogy of the Attalids and the family of Achaeus the Elder  /  183 9.11 Attalid Teuthrania monument in Delos: block from the base of Attalus I naming his parents  /  186 9.12 Inscribed block from Sart Mustafa recording the dedication of an altar by Menophilus Menophilou to the phyle Eumeneis and Zeus / 189 10.1 The Sacrilege Inscription  /  193 10.2 Autonomous civic coins from Ephesus-Arsinoeia and Smyrna-Eurydicia  /  196 10.3 Age-depth model for drill cores in the immediate hinterland of Ephesus  /  199 10.4 Stamp of a locally produced Nikandros amphora  /  199

xiv

Illustrations

10.5 The Rock Crevice Temple, presumably a sanctuary of Aphrodite  /  200 10.6 Antefix with “Rankenfrau” (female head with tendrils)  /  200 10.7 The coastal region of Ephesus with Ortygia and Pygela  /  202 11.1 Changes in the symposium assemblage at Athens  /  207 11.2 Changes in the symposium assemblage at Sardis  /  209 11.3 Hemispherical cup with interior decoration  /  211 11.4 Athenian hemispherical cup with portrait of Ptolemy, 280–260  /  212 11.5 Achaemenid cup, late fourth or early third century  /  213 11.6 Two silver Achaemenid cups in the Manisa Museum  /  214 11.7 Portrait of Ptolemy on floor of Athenian hemispherical cup, 280–260  /  216 11.8 Sardian egg-shaped cup with exterior decoration  /  217 11.9 Sardian egg-shaped cup with exterior decoration  /  218 11.10 Athenian West Slope kantharos, 250–225  /  219 12.1 The Citadel Mound at Gordion  /  221 12.2 Map of the greater town of Gordion  /  223 12.3 Gordion, the Eastern Citadel Mound in the Achaemenid/Late Phrygian period, c. 540–330  /  224 12.4 Gordion, the Citadel Mound in the early Hellenistic period, c. 330–270  /  229

Abbreviations

References to classical authors are according to the Oxford Classical Dictionary (3rd edition); references to epigraphic sources follow the abbreviations listed in the Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (SEG). In addition: AD Sachs, Abraham, and Hermann Hunger. 1988–96. Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia. Vienna. BCHP Finkel, Irving, and Bert van der Spek. 2012. Babylonian Chronicles of the Hellenistic Period. Published online at www.livius.org/cg-cm/chronicles/chron00.html. IGUR Moretti, Luigi. 1968–90. Inscriptiones graecae urbis Romae. 4 vols. in 5 parts. Rome. IvE Wankel, H., R. Merkelbach et al. 1979–81. Die Inschriften von Ephesos, I–VII. IGSK Band 11–17. Bonn. IvP

Fränkel, Max. 1890–95. Die Inschriften von Pergamon. 2 vols. Altertümer von Pergamon 8. Berlin.

xv

Spear-Won Land

Introduction Paul J. Kosmin and Andrea M. Berlin

T

he Hellenistic period in the east Mediterranean and west Asia, the three centuries from the conquests of Alexander the Great to the total dominance of Rome, can be characterized by two big historical dynamics: state formation and, to use a convenient shorthand, Hellenization. The first of these, the establishment of entirely new Graeco-Macedonian imperial states in the former territories of the Persian Great Kings, required the top-down design of governing institutions and centers, the selective adoption of previous systems, and the incorporation of indigenous stakeholders.1 The second was a massive acceleration of trends already present before Alexander, as linguistic, demographic, and cultural changes converged on Greek forms while retaining local distinctions.2 In each case, scholarly debates have addressed the tempo or periodization of change, the location of agency, and the relative weighting of continuity and innovation. These two dynamics overlap most profoundly, visibly, and accessibly in the ancient indigenous cities of the Hellenistic east, such as Memphis, Jerusalem, Babylon, and Uruk. These places, with their combination of epigraphic or papyrological documentation, historiographical narrative, and on-the-ground material, have offered significant insight into the transformations wrought by these processes and as a result have been well integrated into broader academic discussions.3 This book, a collaborative project of archaeology, history, numismatics, and landscape survey, hopes to recognize the place of Sardis among these cities and introduce it more fully into these scholarly conversations. Sardis sits beneath Mount Tmolus (Bozdaǧ), beside the Pactolus River (Sart Çayı), and at the southern edge of the fertile Hermus (Gediz) Valley, about 75 kilometers east of Izmir and 450 kilometers west of Ankara. Already settled during the Bronze Age, it appears in the historical record for the first time as the residence and capital of the Lydian kings. Cyrus’s conquest, around 547 or 546 BCE, converted the city

1. See, e.g., Strootman 2014; Thonemann 2013; Manning 2010; Capdetrey 2007. 2. See, e.g., Mairs 2014; Vlassopoulos 2013, 278–320. 3. To name only some of the more recent studies: D. Thompson 2012 (Memphis); Honigman 2014 and Eckhardt 2013 ( Jerusalem); Clancier 2007 and Boiy 2004 (Babylon); Baker 2014 and Kose 2013 (Uruk).

3

4

Introduction

into the main satrapal residence of western Asia Minor (pl. 1).4 It was surrendered to Alexander in 334 and, after more than a generation of chaos, passed into shaky Seleucid control in the late 280s. Almost a century later, the Roman and Attalid victory over Antiochus III at the battle of Magnesia in 189 ended the rule of the Syrian kings. Sardis fell, first to the Attalids of Pergamum in 188, by the terms of the treaty of Apamea, and then to the Roman Republic in 133, by the bequest of Attalus III. The city was badly shaken by an enormous earthquake in 17 CE and was extensively reconstructed with Tiberian funds. The years between Alexander’s conquest and the battle of Magnesia—what we might call the long third century—brought massive urban, political, and cultural changes to Sardis and its region. Yet for a long time only the construction of the Artemis temple and Antiochus III’s 215–213 siege, as attested in the inscribed dossier on the parastade blocks of the Metroön and two lengthy passages in Polybius’s history, stood as testimony to the period’s transformations. The synthetic studies of George Hanfmann, Philippe Gauthier, and Christopher Ratté notwithstanding,5 the 1993 observation of Susan Sherwin-White and Amélie Kuhrt that “Sardis is probably the best (and most neglected) example of the hellenisation of a non-Greek city under Seleucid rule” still holds true.6 In this book we offer a thorough reevaluation of the city in these years, made possible by new discoveries and understandings along three lines: archaeological, textual, and historical. First, and undoubtedly most significantly, a complete reorientation of our archaeological understanding of Sardis has rendered previous accounts of the city invalid. Simply put, Hanfmann and his team had the city inside out: the Pactolus-side settlement they excavated lay outside, not within, the city’s walls. Now, thanks to the work of Crawford Greenewalt Jr., Nicholas Cahill, and their colleagues, we know that the pre-Achaemenid city lay beneath the later Hellenistic and Roman ones. The city plan proposed by Hanfmann (see fig. 1.1) does not, as he claimed, approximate Sardis’s urban form from the Lydian kings until the supposed synoikismos of Antiochus III in 213.7 Instead, his reconstruction fits the exceptional situation after the Persian conquest, when intramural Sardis had been emptied out, presumably by some imperial Diktat, and remained so until the second quarter of the third century BCE. Furthermore, as we shall see, new and focused research has moved the dating of urban destruction levels, refined understandings of the city’s mint, more securely dated monumental and domestic building work, and extended our picture of the city’s chōra. Second, although the historiographical and epigraphic corpora have hardly grown since the discovery of the Antiochus III dossier in 1963, thanks to a hermeneutic paradigm shift it is now recognized that these texts instantiate literary, rhetorical, and ideological agendas far more than a descriptive responsibility. The work of John Ma, in particular, has drawn on speech-act theory to recharacterize royal epistolography as a mode of discursive and definitional control, a framing of imperial domination as voluntary incorporation into a beneficent patrimony.8 Similarly, Monica D’Agostini has identified the artful shaping to Homeric precedent of Polybius’s narrative of Antiochus III’s two-year siege of the pretender Achaeus at Sardis.9 The subordination of these textual sources, so long guidebooks for archaeological interpretation, to the realities in the 4. For the date of Sardis’s fall, see, e.g., Wallace 2016, 178; Kokkinos 2009. The reading of the Nabonidus Chronicle (BM 35832) Obv. 2.16 is unclear, reporting Cyrus’s conquest of either Urartu or Lydia in 548/7. 5. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 109–38; Gauthier 1989; Ratté 2008. 6. Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 180. 7. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 108, 121. 8. Ma 1999. 9. D’Agostini 2014.



Kosmin and Berlin / Introduction

5

ground has permitted both a radical reperiodization of Sardis’s urban history and a more subtle understanding of the empire-city interaction. Finally, the recent boom in Seleucid studies has offered a range of fresh and theoretically informed interpretations of the empire’s institutions, urbanism, and ideology.10 Hellenistic Sardis can now be analyzed, by analogy, comparison, or contrast, with reference to a more finely understood imperial landscape. Accordingly, we established the Hellenistic Sardis Project in 2014 to gain a comprehensive, interconnected understanding of Sardis in these centuries. Participants included, in addition to those represented in this volume, Boris Chrubasik, John Ma, and Bahadır Yıldırım, whose contributions have been pivotal to our progress. This book represents the results of two workshops held at Sardis on 14–16 July 2014 and 12–14 July 2015 and a public conference of preliminary findings held at Harvard on 23–24 February 2017, which focused on the first half of this period, from late Achaemenid times to the Peace of Apamea, the same span that defines this book. This chronological frame derives, evidently enough, from the fate of empires. The King’s Peace of 387, which confirmed Achaemenid rule in western Asia Minor, is a place-holder for the final Persian generations, and so an opening of our story some decades before the Macedonian conquest. The Peace of Apamea (188) marked the final separation of western Asia Minor from imperial heartlands in western Iran and the Fertile Crescent and, even more significantly, the first subordination of Sardis beneath a near neighbor. We hope in the coming years to pursue the project into these Attalid and early Roman times.

qr What is a city, and how do we write its history? An appropriate answer would include, at a minimum, a community of residents and visitors; a political corporation; a religious association; a rivalry of interests, social, political, and ethnic; a set of cultural behaviors; a landscape of public and private places, scenographic sites, and gaps; a knot of civic, supra-poliad, and imperial institutions; an integrated economy of agriculture, trade, production, and slavery; a defensive node and a conquest prize; a disease ecology; an accumulation of memories, histories, and myths; and a locus of affection, loyalty, opportunity, planning, resentment, and fantasy. A city, as an object made amenable for ancient historical or archaeological study, is situated precisely at this concentration of processes, places, and ideas; it is a function of density and intensification, a focus more than a reification or ideal type. Accordingly, the kind of “microhistory” or “thick description” of a city in a period, as attempted in this book, requires a combination of diverse datasets, scales of analysis, and methodologies. For if, as Oswyn Murray claims, “what archaeologists excavate is always an asty and never a polis,”11 then, conversely, the claims of historians can be ungrounded in the realities of space and soil and overly drawn to the political heights. As we shall see, different kinds of evidence at Sardis responded with varied sensitivity, constraint, and immediacy to the exogenous events of the period, and each scholar widens or narrows the window of archaeological inference and historical speculation. By combining the particular datasets examined by archaeologists—with their sensitivity to settings, textures, mechanics, typology, variety, and location—with the wider lens and integration of historical questions our story gains greater force and meaning. Our aim has been to give due space to discrepancies while also recognizing that Hellenistic Sardis and its world were a unified phenomenon.

10. Chrubasik 2016; Kosmin 2014; Plischke 2014; Capdetrey 2007; Ma 2002; Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993. 11. Murray 1987, 341.

6

Introduction

Over the course of this project, we have become ever more aware of the lacks and absences of evidence. We are merely scratching the surface of Hellenistic Sardis and here offer only provisional conclusions in full expectation—indeed, in anticipation—of future refinement and correction. That being said, for intellectual coherence and direction we have preferred the “history of ” Sardis to “history in” Sardis, to borrow Peregrine Horden’s and Nicholas Purcell’s helpful distinction.12 While “history in” may be satisfied with an accumulation of information indirectly or contingently related to Sardis, “history of ” is an intellectual project that attempts to make sense of and model the function, structures, and dynamics of the Hellenistic city and its hinterland as a totality.

qr With these aims in mind, this book is organized into three parts: a first half that investigates the urban history of Sardis, a second half that explores the city’s relationship to its closer and farther hinterland, and, finally, “Spotlights,” scattered throughout, that focus on prominent bodies of archaeological evidence. The first three chapters—Nicholas Cahill’s “Inside Out: Sardis in the Achaemenid and Lysimachean Periods,” Andrea M. Berlin’s “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” and Paul J. Kosmin’s “Remaking a City: Sardis in the Long Third Century”—offer a new archaeological and historical reconstruction of the city in the Achaemenid, early Hellenistic, and Seleucid periods. Nicholas Cahill and Andrea Berlin demonstrate the de-urbanizing of Lydian Sardis in the Persian period, with settlement moving to an extramural suburb and dispersing across the countryside, and then the reinhabiting and redevelopment of intramural Sardis in the first half of the third century. Depending on this archaeological evidence, Paul Kosmin’s chapter suggests a historical context for the urban revival, outlines the city’s political and cultural institutions under the Seleucid monarchs, and explores the bifocal dynamics of Sardis as both a regional center of empire and a Hellenized polis. Four Spotlights focus on some of the data from which this reconstruction is built. Elspeth Dusinberre’s “Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion” and William Bruce’s “Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids” offer evidence for the city’s Achaemenid-period administration and extramural residence and industry, respectively. Andrea Berlin’s “Continuing Crafts—Antefixes and Roof Tiles” illustrates material continuities and decorative changes in the roofing of homes from the Achaemenid period into the Hellenistic one. Nicholas Cahill’s “The Metroön at Sardis” reconstructs the architectural context of the Antiochus III inscriptions. Jane Evans’s “The Mint at Sardis” (chapter 4) reconstructs the city’s imperial and civic coin production from the first Macedonian conquest until the battle of Magnesia. She elucidates the workings of the mint and the contrasting iconographies and cultic associations of imperial and civic coinage. Her Spotlights— “Assigning a Mint,” “Who’s in Charge?,” and “Coins as Evidence of a City’s Economy”—explain the methodological underpinnings of her reconstruction. The following two chapters, Frances Gallart Marqués’s “A Clay Kybele in the City Center” and Fikret Yegül’s “The Temple of Artemis,” explore religious life at the handheld and monumental scales. In chapter 5 Gallart Marqués studies an early third-century deposit of terracotta figurines, found beneath the later theater cavea, for evidence of urban history, religious practice, and cultural memory. In his chapter on the marble temple of Artemis, the city’s only still-standing monument from the Hellenistic age (chapter 6), Yegül presents the evidence for its construction under the first Seleucid monarchs and the dedication of the cult-statue

12. Horden and Purcell 2000, 9.



Kosmin and Berlin / Introduction

7

base by the 220s. He discusses the temple’s strangely archaizing proportions and offers new insights into its significance to both Sardians and Seleucids. Philip Stinson’s “The Hellenistic City Plan: Looking Forward, Looking Back” (chapter 7) closes the first section by reconstructing what we know and what we can infer about the urban profile of this revived Hellenistic city and its survival in or impact on the Roman reconstruction after the 17 CE earthquake. Part II, “Cities in a Landscape,” seeks to locate Sardis within widening circles of control or comparison, beginning in its immediate hinterland. In “The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia” (chapter 8), Christopher Roosevelt musters the evidence for the location, density, and nature of sites in Hellenistic Sardis’s Lydian chōra and considers patterns of agricultural exploitation, military settlement and communication, and rural worship. Moving a little farther out, chapters 9 and 10, Ruth Bielfeldt’s “Pergamum and Sardis: Models of Neighborliness” and Sabine Ladstätter’s “Ephesus: Sardis’s Port to the Mediterranean in the Hellenistic Period,” place Sardis within the key geopolitical triangle of western Asia Minor. The parallel developments, competi­ tive dynamics, and neighborhood politics of Sardis, Ephesus, and Pergamum illustrate the interdependency of Sardis’s urbanistic, dynastic, and military histories with those of Lysimachus’s developing port city and the Attalids’ increasingly potent capital. Finally, Susan Rotroff ’s “Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens” (chapter 11) and Elspeth Dusinberre’s “Gordion, on and off the Grid” (chapter 12) constitute an outer ring of comparison, to west and east. Rotroff uses a single vessel type, the hemispherical bowl, which appears simultaneously in third-century Athens and Sardis, to suggest the specific impact of Hellenistic monarchy on the inhabitants of these two very different cities. Dusinberre’s chapter highlights the dominating role of empire on the urbanism and economy of the Phrygian capital, and the consequences of its sidelining in the Hellenistic period; in contrast to Sardis, Pergamum, Ephesus, and Athens, the decline of Gordion demonstrates this alternative historical trajectory. For each of these ancient urban centers—Athens, Gordion, and, of course, Sardis—empires and their rulers emerge as the prime agents of historical change.

qr We close this introduction with sincere gratitude to all who have made this project possible, beginning with generations of excavators at Sardis, whose care and rigor in digging and recording underpin all of the research presented here. We received generous administrative and funding support from Harvard Univer­ sity’s Weatherhead Center for International Affairs and Department of the Classics, Boston University’s Department of Archaeology and Center for the Humanities, and the Archaeological Exploration of Sardis. We could not have brought about either the conference or this volume without the assistance of Sarah Banse, Theresa Huntsman, Alyson Lynch, and Teresa Wu. We thank Brianna Bricker for new and updated plans, Güzin Eren for the Turkish translation of “A New View of Sardis,” LauraLee Brott for compiling and harmonizing the bibliography, and Tanya Buckingham and Soren Walljasper for the new maps. Through this entire project Bahadır Yıldırım has provided invaluable support. Above all, we thank Nicholas Cahill, the Director of the Sardis Expedition, for his untiring advice, generous support, and friendship.

rq Part I

City and Empire

rq 1

Inside Out Sardis in the Achaemenid and Lysimachean Periods Nicholas Cahill

T

he title of this book, Spear-Won Land, reflects the fundamental importance of the changing relationships between the city of Sardis and the various empires it inhabited. Sardis is famous as the capital of the Lydian kingdom. Under native kings, from Gyges to Croesus, the city grew from a local kingdom to an imperial capital encompassing most of western Anatolia, the largest and most powerful empire of the earlier Iron Age. After its fall to Cyrus the Great, it became a satrapal capital of the Achaemenid empire and remained one of the central powers in the relationships and conflicts between Persians and the west. We understand relatively little about Roman and late Roman Sardis, and much, much less about Lydian Sardis, but the most problematic eras in Sardis’s long history are, oddly, the Hellenistic and the preceding Persian periods. Apart from the temple of Artemis, these are archaeologically much less well attested than either the Lydian or the Roman period. And yet they are critical eras during which Sardis made some of its most important transitions as an urban center, as a node in regional networks of power and exchange, and as a culturally diverse capital with ever-expanding connections. How did Sardis make these great transitions from Lydian imperial capital to satrapal capital to Greek polis? How were dramatic political changes reflected in the urban, rural, and cultural landscapes of the city? The urban topography of Sardis has naturally been one of the major foci of archaeological research at the site over the past fifty-eight years. In his magisterial synthesis of 1983, George Hanfmann argued that the core of Lydian and Persian Sardis lay along the Pactolus, where Herodotus describes the agora in 499 BCE. There Hanfmann had excavated several sectors, including the gold refinery at PN, settlements at PC, and the “Lydian Trench” at HoB, where occupation dates back to the late Bronze Age (fig. 1.1). Hanfmann’s settlement continued up the Pactolus to the sanctuary of Artemis, and then up to the acropolis.1 He argued that the lower city was a rather ragtag assemblage of mud-brick and thatch houses, as described by Herodotus, while the palace was on the acropolis. He suggested that in the early Hellenistic period, Sardis expanded from its Lydian and Persian core along the Pactolus into new regions in the east, including the theater and

1. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 1–108, esp. 68–75; Hanfmann 1980. 11

Fig. 1.1.  Plan of Sardis in the Lydian era, according to Hanfmann (Hanfmann and Mierse 1983). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)



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the (presumably nearby) gymnasium and other Greek civic buildings. He proposed that the early Helle­ nistic rulers continued to occupy the Lydian palace that had been taken over by Persian satraps. His early Hellenistic city was larger than either the Hellenistic and early Roman city, or the late Roman city, or indeed the Lydian city. The discovery in 1963 of the Hellenistic letters of Antiochus III made a profound impression on Pro­ fessor Hanfmann, and he came to believe that King Antiochus’s siege of the city (215–213) was one of the turning points in Sardis’s history.2 He identified destruction levels at PN and elsewhere as belonging to this event and argued that after the destruction, the western portions of the city, including the ancient city core, were abandoned, and that occupation moved decisively east, to the location of the Roman and late Roman cities.3 The old Lydian and Persian city center became a graveyard, until it was finally resettled in the late Roman period. These inscriptions are our first testimony regarding Sardis as a polis, and in his publication of the documents, Philippe Gauthier argued that the brief window of Attalid control in the late 220s would have been a suitable moment for the conversion of Sardis into a polis.4 In a more general way, Hanfmann saw the transition from a Lydo-Persian, Oriental capital to a western, Hellenistic polis as the main trans­ formative event in the urban history of Sardis. This was the assumption, too, in Crawford Greenewalt Jr.’s wonderful article “Sardis in the Age of Xenophon,” which blamed our lack of knowledge of Persian Sardis on “the chance of survival and recovery.”5 His Persian Sardis was basically a continuation of Lydian buildings and institutions, and he stressed the continuity visible in its fortifications, sanctuaries, and graves. And this fits well into our general picture of Achaemenid tolerance; Christopher Tuplin describes the Achaemenids as “relatively favourable to diverse political-administrative arrangements and maintenance of the status quo.”6 We have therefore expected to find a basic similarity between Lydian and Persian eras, and, from our western viewpoint, we expect to find the great transformation at the moment when Sardis was converted from an eastern royal or imperial or provincial capital into a Hellenistic Greek polis. When Hanfmann wrote this synthesis, the expedition had just discovered and begun to excavate the Lydian fortification at Sector MMS. It was not until some twenty years later that we finally realized that we had the city inside out. MMS was not the east wall of a city along the Pactolus, as Hanfmann had suggested, but the west wall of a city lying under the later Roman city. The areas that Hanfmann had believed were the Lydian and Persian city center were in fact outside the Lydian city (pl. 2).7 This has, obviously, led to profound reevaluations of many of our earlier conclusions, a process that is still ongoing. Ly di a n Sa r di s The major feature of Sardis in all stages of the city’s history is the sheer acropolis, whose siege by Antiochus III in 214–213 was one of the most dramatic events in that history (pl. 3). Almost nothing remains today of 2. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 110: “Unquestionably the single most important discovery for the Hellenistic history of Sardis was epigraphic.” 3. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 117; Rotroff and Oliver 2003, Deposit 1, on which see chapter 2 in this volume, by Andrea M. Berlin. 4. Gauthier 1989, esp. 151–70. 5. Greenewalt 1995. 6. Tuplin 2009. 7. Cahill 2008b.

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the Hellenistic and earlier fortifications and buildings on the citadel, thanks to continued use and spoliation during the Byzantine era and extensive erosion, but the impression is certainly consistent with Polybius’s description of this citadel (8.20) as “the strongest place in the world” (ὀχυρώτατος τόπος τῆς οἰκουμένης).8 The lower city in the Lydian period was ranged along the north slopes of the citadel, following ridges on the east and west of the acropolis as natural defenses; the easternmost of these is probably the “Saw,” famous from Polybius’s account (7.15–18) of Antiochus III’s siege (pl. 22). The Lydians reinforced and revetted these spurs with masonry, which supported a wall 10 meters thick rising high atop the western ridge. Where the spurs ended at the Hermus Plain, the Lydians doubled the thickness to fully 20 meters, almost on the scale of the natural ridges themselves, ringing the city with the largest fortification in Anatolia (fig. 1.2).9 One gate, built in gleaming ashlar masonry, opened to the west, toward Smyrna; an ashlar structure on the north side of the city is probably another gate leading out to the Hermus Plain (pl. 2, nos. 63 and 74; fig. 1.2).10 We know little about the houses, streets, neighborhoods, and other buildings within these walls. By the first half of the sixth century, the western edge of the city at least was densely packed, with houses wedged into spaces between earlier-built houses.11 But early remains are so deeply buried under Roman and Hellenistic strata that it is impossible to get a coherent plan of even a small region of the Lydian city through excavation or geophysics. A major elite complex occupied natural spurs of the acropolis at the center of the city. Two of these spurs, Field 49 and ByzFort, had been enclosed in the seventh century or earlier with massive terrace walls, creating a precinct of some 6 hectares or more (pl. 4). The Lydian structures on these terraces have been largely demolished, but the terrace walls, reused blocks of limestone and marble architecture, molded and painted terracotta roof tiles, and luxury objects such as jasper for tableware, fragments of ivory furniture, weapons and armor, and a seal, suggest to me that these two hills, and probably the flattish area behind and between them, formed the palatial center of the Lydian city (fig. 1.3).12 These hills were linked to the palatial complex on the acropolis excavated by Hanfmann at AcN by a tunnel winding up within the cliff (figs. 1.4–5).13 The date of the tunnel is unknown, but it makes better sense as a Lydian feature linking two elite complexes than as a later, post-Lydian one, because this was the one period when these two regions of the city shared a common, elite function. Lydian Sardis extended well beyond its walls. The first Lydian sectors excavated by the present expedition turned out to be outside the city walls, near the banks of the Pactolus River. Upstream from the wellknown PN and HoB, Lydian remains are found in Northeast Wadi, Kagirlik Tepe, and opposite the temple of Artemis on the west bank of the Pactolus.14 Settlement extended at least 600 meters north of the Lydian 8. Excavations on the Acropolis in the 1960s recovered impressive terrace walls and a few other traces of occupation, but most has been lost. 9. Greenewalt 1992, among many preliminary publications; Cahill 2010a. 10. MMS/N and MD2 (Ratté 2011, 108–13). 11. At Sector MMS-I, where earlier and later domestic assemblages are found in earlier and later houses (Cahill 2010b). 12. ByzFort terrace wall: Ratté 2011, 102–7. Field 49 terrace: Greenewalt et al. 1985, 64–67. More recent excavations: Cahill 2011, 359–60; 2012, 213–14; 2013, 147–48; 2014, 124–26; 2015, 419–21; 2016, 154–55. 13. Acropolis North: Hanfmann 1977; Ratté 2011, 99–102, with previous bibliography. Tunnel: Hanfmann 1963, 36–37. 14. Northeast Wadi and Kagirlik Tepe: Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1975, 118–28; Greenewalt 2007, 746. Opposite temple of Artemis: Cahill and Greenewalt 2016, 493–94.

Fig. 1.2.  Plan of Sector MMS in the Lydian and Persian periods. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 1.3.  Terrace walls of Field 49, southern trench. Above, the early Roman phase; below, two limestone and two sandstone courses of the sixth-century Lydian terrace wall. This in turn was constructed on an earlier phase built of massive boulders. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 1.4.  Lydian terrace walls at Acropolis North. Traces of an external staircase show that these are not part of the defenses of the acropolis but probably supported elite buildings. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 1.5.  The tunnel leading from the base of the acropolis above ByzFort and Field 49 up to the area below the terrace walls at Acropolis North, thus joining the city’s two probable palatial regions. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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fortification, as we know from deep corings and a well that produced a vast quantity of Lydian pottery.15 It may well have continued out onto the plain, but cores show that even the Roman-era remains lie under more than 15 meters of sediment.16 Although the fortifications enclosed about 108 hectares, the extramural settlement would have roughly doubled this area. Among the questions we might ask, then, are: How did we get the Lydian city inside out? And how can we avoid getting our urban topography quite so wrong in the future? Some answers can be found by looking at Sardis in the Persian era. We are in a much better position to distinguish Lydian Sardis from Persian Sardis than Hanfmann was because we now have the fixed marker of the Persian destruction in a number of sectors, which he had never identified securely, and we understand the pottery before and after this event much more clearly. The Per si a n Ca pt ur e The capture of Sardis by Cyrus the Great in about 547 was a catastrophe for the Lydians. The city ceased to be an imperial capital and instead became a regional node incorporated into the much larger Achaemenid satrapal system (pls. 1 and 5). Elspeth Dusinberre’s “Spotlight: Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion” in this volume illustrates Sardis’s elevated place within that system. One remarkable aspect of this catastrophe is that it is archaeologically so well preserved and attested throughout the site. Where we have reached these levels—inside the western fortification at Sectors MMS, MMS/N, MMS/S, in the city center at Sector ThSt and probably Sector F49, and at the northern and eastern fortifications at Sectors MD2 and CW6—excavations have revealed burned and demolished houses and other buildings, with casualties of battle and smashed pottery on the floors, soldiers bearing battle wounds, weapons and armor, and other dramatic evidence of destruction (fig. 1.6).17 The Lydian fortification was systematically demolished and buried, and the houses left as smoldering ruins. Although Cyrus boasted of his gentle treatment of Babylon, he seems to have dealt harshly with Sardis. Sardis was sacked by other adversaries and damaged by natural disasters. The Cimmerians captured the lower city in the seventh century and killed King Gyges. The Ionians burned Sardis in 499; Antiochus III sacked the city in 214, after a year’s siege, leaving a rich historical and epigraphic record. In 17 CE an earthquake caused immense damage to a dozen cities in western Asia, of which Sardis was the worst hit. Hanfmann and other scholars have seen the last two events especially as turning points in the urban history of Sardis, catastro­ phes that led to fundamental shifts in the organization of the city and its transformation into a Hellenistic polis and then a Roman metropolis. However, no archaeological traces remain of these catastrophes themselves: no ruined buildings or piles of collapsed masonry as witnesses to cataclysm. The destruction level originally identified as that of Antiochus III has proven to be earlier, and not actually a destruction level at all; the effects of the earthquake are visible in new building programs around the site, but the Hellenistic buildings it destroyed have rarely if ever been identified with any certainty. The widespread archaeological remains of the Persian sack point less to the severity of destruction, therefore, and more to the lack of cleanup afterward. After the destruction, the section of the wall at Sector MMS was rebuilt on the stub of the old (see fig. 1.2). The new wall was a mere 5–6 meters wide, rather than 20 meters, and built in phases. The first phase

15. Greenewalt 1978, 65–66. The pottery contains nothing that need be later than the mid-sixth century. 16. Greenewalt and Rautman 2000, 679. 17. Greenewalt 1992, 1997; Cahill 2010c.

Fig. 1.6.  The theater of Sardis. Above, fill of the second century BCE, creating a cavea more than 100 meters in diameter. Directly below this, the destroyed remains of a Lydian house are being drawn by Cathy Alexander. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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was not long after the Persian destruction; the later, in the late fifth or early fourth century. It was extended by a new glacis, and the area inside the wall was at least partly graded into another glacis.18 This seems like continuity, but at this time the western gate of the city was blocked off, closing the main artery through Sardis. This road had been in use since at least 700, and during the Roman period was again the main thoroughfare through Sardis, spanned by one of the largest Roman arches in the world.19 By the late Hellenistic period, the road seems to have been in use again, to judge by graves of the late second–early first centuries along its course in HoB. But for some unknown length of time during the Persian period, the avenue was blocked, completely changing traffic patterns in and out of the city. We have evidence of settlement just inside the fortification: garbage pits of the early fifth century, and deposits and walls of the fourth century (e.g., pl. 7).20 In most of Sector MMS, however, there are very few strata between Lydian and Hellenistic levels, and one gets the impression of scattered low-density habitation rather than the very closely packed houses that characterized this neighborhood in the mid-sixth century. The situation is similar just inside the northern gate of the city at Mound 2, where we have pottery and lamps from the fifth and fourth centuries, but no buildings or other architectural features. Per si a n Sa r dis: Subur b s Hanfmann was correct in observing a broad continuity of occupation between the Lydian and Persian periods in the areas west of the city where he excavated, and in concluding, based on his sample, that Persian Sardis continued many of the same traditions as Lydian Sardis. This is probably best illustrated at Sector PN (see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids,” by William Bruce). PN shows a real continuity from the Lydian period through the Persian one, interrupted by a number of man-made and/or natural catastrophes between about 600 and 300. But in the early third century, three centuries of occupation here came to an end, houses were abandoned, and the inhabitants presumably moved elsewhere. Sector HoB shows a somewhat similar pattern of occupation (fig. 1.7). Hanfmann argued that the area was abandoned after the Ionian Revolt of 499 and identified a burned layer as the destruction of Antiochus III, the same major events that he saw shaping PN. Restudy of the material has changed that interpretation; it now seems that Building C and the neighboring “Stone Circle” were built around the mid-fifth century and remained in use through the later fourth century, with the area being essentially abandoned by the early third century.21 A remarkable feature here is a layer of burned debris outside Building C, the so-called Stone Circle, which contained debris from a workshop including fragments of a furnace, investment mold fragments, bowl crucibles, props, and other remains from casting a life-size bronze figure, datable to the fifth century.22 The extramural neighborhoods seem to have been quite active in the fifth century, but further up the Pactolus the picture was not so rosy. Neighborhoods that had flourished during the Lydian period were 18. Greenewalt, Ramage, et al. 1983, 1–8; Greenewalt, Ratté, and Rautman 1994, 18–20. 19. Early levels: Greenewalt, Rautman, and Ratté 1995, 12; Greenewalt and Rautman 1998, 493–94. Arch: Cahill 2016, 157–58. 20. Greenewalt, Cahill, and Rautman 1987, 25–26; Dusinberre 1999, Deposits 1–3. 21. I emphasize that these conclusions should be taken with some caution, since the excavation of these areas did not follow the stratigraphy, and our experience has been that it takes a lot of care and concentration to distinguish different building phases and their associated fills. 22. Carol Mattusch is studying this deposit; it is mentioned (although incorrectly dated) in Hanfmann 1962, 7.



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Fig. 1.7.  Plan of Sector HoB in the “late Lydian” or Achaemenid period, showing Building C and the “Stone Circle” containing the detritus from casting a life-size bronze statue in the fifth century. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

abandoned in the Persian era (pl. 2). This can be seen quite distinctly at Northeast Wadi and across the Pactolus, where destruction deposits dating to the mid-sixth century were found, and no trace of subsequent occupation; the habitation area west of the Pactolus was converted into a cemetery.23 North of the modern highway, a well was found with Lydian pottery of the first half of the sixth century, and none from the fifth or fourth centuries, attesting some kind of occupation here until the beginning of the Persian period, but not into it. Lydian occupation strata have been found underneath a number of Persian-period tombs along the Pactolus Valley, again suggesting a transition from habitation in the first half of the sixth century to cemetery in the Persian era.24 It is dangerous to generalize from such tiny samples, but a general pattern seems to emerge: a widespread suburban settlement in the Lydian period, which shrinks in the Persian period to a more focused core around PN. Per si a n Sa r dis: The Cor e Seen from the point of view of the suburbs, life at Sardis appears to have contracted but to have continued without much change, with mixed dwellings and craft production in both PN and HoB. We could easily

23. Cahill 2012, 214. 24. E.g., Tombs 76.1 and 77.1; Greenewalt 1979, 8, 19.

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believe that life as an Achaemenid satrapal capital was fundamentally similar to life as a Lydian capital, though perhaps on a smaller scale. One might expect to find life continuing unchanged in the city center and in the former Lydian palace. Years ago, we expected that if only we could excavate in the center of Lydian Sardis, we might find the Persian palace of Cyrus and Tissaphernes, maybe an apadana, or reliefs like those at Persepolis and Susa. But excavations in the center of the Lydian city have suggested a very different scenario. We have now excavated to Lydian levels in four sectors in the center of the city, and recently with this specific question of the Persian-period occupation in mind. In all these areas we have found a distinctive gap in occupation between the Persian destruction of 547 and the Hellenistic period. From 2006 to 2010 we excavated in the Roman theater, which was built over its Hellenistic predecessors of the third and second centuries BCE (see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin, and chapter 7, “The Hellenistic City Plan,” by Philip Stinson). What we did not expect was to find the remains of another Lydian house, again with the same destruction debris from the middle of the sixth century, about halfway up the cavea. Knowing as we do that this was near the center of Lydian Sardis, it was not a surprise to find occupation here. What was striking was that the house lay almost directly under the fill of the Hellenistic theater. It was covered by the melted remains of its own mud-brick walls, which were eroded to a thin, laminated crust by centuries of exposure (see fig. 1.6). A robber’s trench had removed some of the stones of its walls. It was filled in in the early third century, the source of the terracotta figurines of Kybele discussed by Frances Gallart Marqués in chapter 5 in this volume. But between c. 547 and the early third century, a span of about 250 years, we have no signs of occupation in this area. On ByzFort, a nearby hill, occupation began perhaps as early as the Early Iron Age, and by the sixth century this was a focal point of Lydian Sardis: a magnificent limestone terrace wall that once stood some 12 meters high, part of that palatial complex. There was no sign of the Persian destruction here, but the occupation stops about the mid-sixth century. Here too we find a gap in occupation until the late fourth or early third century, the same era as the first signs of occupation near the theater (see chapter 2). This possible gap in occupation during the Persian period was very much on my mind in 2009, when we restarted excavation on the hill between ByzFort and the theater, called Field 49. Our goal was to understand the long history of this central hill of downtown Sardis, and over the past nine years this sector has produced the most complete sequence of occupation of any sector, from the early Lydian through the early Byzantine eras, including multiple Hellenistic phases, rich early Roman remains unattested elsewhere, and an early Medieval cemetery. The work is very slow, with deep trenches that take years to excavate, and every year our understanding changes in important ways. The Lydian remains are sadly damaged, but we can see traces of the Persian destruction even here: one clear burned floor running between two Lydian walls, with three arrowheads on it; elsewhere, strata of burned earth with pottery of the mid-sixth century; human bones of at least two individuals; weapons, including more than thirty arrowheads of both two-bladed and three-bladed types; part of a suit of iron scale armor. This may not be conclusive, but is consistent with the evidence for destruction elsewhere in the site. Yet despite careful excavation and analysis, the Persian period on this hill remains quite indistinct. At the north end of the hill is a fill dating to the fifth and fourth centuries. Although it contained a fair amount of diagnostic Achaemenid material, this is not an occupation stratum, but something else, perhaps associated with the robbing of some nearby feature. Elsewhere on the hill we do not even find this quantity of Achaemenid material, nor any unmixed strata, walls, or floors that can be dated to this period. Nor is there



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much residual material that can be dated to the Persian era. The situation here contrasts completely with excavations at the edges of the city and in the suburbs, where we find buildings and stratigraphy clearly datable by well-preserved pottery and lamps of the fifth and fourth centuries. This could change with future excavation, of course: every year brings some new surprise. But so far our basic hypothesis that there is a gap in occupation in the city center between the Persian destruction and the Hellenistic period has stood up pretty well. In every case where the stratigraphy is preserved (and this is admittedly a small number of sectors), significant Lydian public buildings and houses in the center of the city were apparently destroyed during the Persian capture c. 547, and that destruction was followed by a period of either abandonment or, at most, greatly reduced presence without clear signs of occupation. And again, it is the contrast between the archaeology in the center and that in the suburbs that is so striking. Archaeologists like to connect the dots. We will never have a statistically significant archaeological sample of any large city like Sardis, so we base our stories on available evidence, and we use that evidence and the questions it raises to direct further research and find more useful dots. Hanfmann based his story on what turned out to be a very biased sample in the suburbs of the city. In trying to rectify that bias, some of our new evidence has turned out to be negative, such as an absence of pottery and stratigraphy in parts of the city. This kind of evidence—like Sherlock Holmes’s dog that didn’t bark in the night—is harder to work with but it is nonetheless essential. This shift from monumental occupation in the center of the Lydian city to small-scale occupation along the banks of the Pactolus makes better sense of Herodotus’s description (5.101) of Sardis in 499 as an undistinguished collection of small reed and mud-brick houses along the riverbanks, not a monumental city of terraces and palaces. Had Herodotus (or his sources) seen limestone terraces and 20-meter-thick fortifications at Sardis, he surely would not have described it as a city of reed houses. I would therefore argue that the Persian period represents a profound discontinuity in the urban history of Sardis. I further suggest that the population was more dispersed in the Persian era, both at Sardis and in Anatolia more generally, a phenomenon reflected in the increased number of rural tumulus groups and small settlements and the decline of major urban centers such as Sardis, Miletus, Smyrna, and Kerkenes Dağ. It is a complex process, here and everywhere, but where Hanfmann and others saw the great shift in Sardis’s urban history as the transition from Oriental, Lydian-Achaemenid capital to Greek polis, I see the major discontinuity in Sardis’s long history in the transition from Lydian capital to Achaemenid satrapal center, which may not have been properly a city at all. This conjecture is strengthened by the wording of the Aramaic text of a bilingual funerary inscription found at Sardis, which refers to bsprd byrt’, “in Sardis, the fortress,” rather than “in Sardis, the city.”25 This may be parallel to the Akkadian terminology used to describe Sardis, the determinatives “kur” in 281 and 274 and “uru” in 254, discussed by Paul J. Kosmin in chapter 3, “Remaking a City.” P er si a n Sa r dis: Sa nct ua r ie s While Sardis may not have been a nucleated, fortified city during the Persian era as it had been in the Lydian, its sanctuaries seem to have flourished, providing a striking contrast to the treatment of the urban core. 25. Buckler 1924, no. 1; Cowley 1921; Kahle and Sommer 1927; Briant 1993, 21–23. Deep gratitude goes to Jeremy Hutton, who offered detailed thoughts on the use of these words.

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The Lydian altar to Kubaba at PN remained in use into the Persian period, but this sanctuary is probably not the one burned by the Ionians in 499.26 William Bruce has shown that the old idea that the Lydian altar was converted into a fire altar is unlikely on both archaeological and historical grounds (see his “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls,” and also chapter 5 by Gallart Marqués). Kubaba’s main sanctuary, however, was probably somewhere near the late Roman synagogue. Fragments of her temple and dedications from the sanctuary were found reused in this late Roman building; they represent the greatest number and concentration of Lydian and Persian sculptures from Sardis.27 They include sculptures of the goddess, a multitude of lions, an inscription in an unknown Anatolian language, and the famous inscriptions of Antiochus III, which were inscribed “on the parastades of the temple which is in the sanctuary of the Mother” (see my “Spotlight: The Metroön at Sardis”).28 These blocks are so concentrated in this late Roman building that we conclude that the sanctuary must have been somewhere nearby, probably outside the Lydian walls, and that it probably remained in use, or at least somewhat intact, until the synagogue was constructed in the fourth or fifth century CE. The spolia date from both before and after the Persian sack, suggesting that a Lydian sanctuary continued and flourished under Achaemenid rule.29 Presumably this was the one visited by Themistocles, where he saw the statue he had dedicated in Athens (Plut. Them. 31). If Themistocles saw a temple—and Plutarch’s account does not specify that he did—it was not the one whose antae bore the famous inscriptions of Antiochus III that so excited Hanfmann. The texts of these inscriptions are of the utmost importance in our understanding of Hellenistic Sardis; I will leave that discussion to others, but the blocks themselves are not uninteresting (see “Spotlight: The Metroön at Sardis”). The major Hellenistic monument of Sardis is, of course, the temple of Artemis (fig. 1.8). Fikret Yegül treats the Hellenistic temple in chapter 6 in this volume; I wish here to recall the earlier history of the cult and sanctuary, for the temple was not built ex novo in the third century. Remains in situ of the preHellenistic phase of the sanctuary are sparse, but they are more plentiful than is sometimes recognized (fig. 1.9). The “Lydian Altar” LA1 is well known; its date is unclear, but somewhere in the later sixth or fifth century.30 Howard Crosby Butler recognized that the sandstone “Basis” in the center of the cella was another early structure predating the temple. It was dated by Hanfmann and others to the Hellenistic period because of two Hellenistic coin hoards. But these are later additions, dropped into vertical joints between stones. The only coin found between horizontal joints is a silver croeseid, probably of the later sixth or early fifth century, compatible with the architectural features of the Basis.31 These two Persian-era structures, the altar and the basis, set the stage for the design of the Hellenistic temple, which was arranged to accommodate these earlier buildings. The superstructures of these or other buildings in the sanctuary must have been taken down, and many were apparently incorporated into the Hellenistic building, which includes large and beautifully cut spolia blocks of marble, sandstone, and limestone in its walls and foundations, demonstrating that there were substantial ashlar buildings here in the Persian era, even if they do not survive.32 26. Contra Berndt-Ersöz 2013. 27. Mitten and Scorziello 2008. 28. Gauthier 1989. 29. Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, nos. 4, 6, 7, 13, 14, 19, 20, 25, 26, 32, 33, 39, 272; Gauthier 1989. 30. Ratté 2011, app. 3, 123–25; Cahill and Greenewalt 2016. 31. Hellenistic hoards: Franke 1961; Le Rider 1991. Croeseid: Bell 1916, no. 223; in general, see Cahill and Greene­ walt 2016, 495. 32. Cahill and Greenewalt 2016, 497–98.



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Fig. 1.8.  The temple of Artemis, showing the altars of Artemis in the foreground. The later altar (LA2), with restored stairs, encloses the earlier, square altar (LA1). Two rows of stele bases flank the approach to the temple. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Building Q, at the entrance to the sanctuary, may also predate the Hellenistic temple. Although Hanfmann believed it was late Roman, its roughly hewn marble walls and the Lydian inscription on one corner block suggest that it could be much earlier than that.33 It has been extensively repaired and maintained, of course, but it is at least a candidate for a Persian building. Among the first things a visitor to the sanctuary would encounter are two rows of stele bases (see fig. 1.8). Some of these bases carried Lydian stelae, fragments of which were found still dowelled into their sockets with lead. Three stelae bearing texts in Lydian were found in the area, one of them “directly in front of one of these bases, and lying flat, face downward, on a level with the top of it” (fig. 1.10).34 Two of these bear inscriptions in Lydian recording that Mitridastas the son of Mitratas established the sanctuary and donated property to it, and calling down curses on transgressors. Other stelae were set on bases around and in front of the Lydian altar LA2. The stelae are difficult to date, as both the Lydian language and Iranian names continue to 33. Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1975, 61; Cahill and Greenewalt 2016, 495–97. 34. Visible in many photographs in the Butler archives at Princeton University. Quotation: Butler 1922, 66; the stele described is Gusmani 1964, no. 22; the other two are nos. 23–24; see Schürr 1997; Yakubovich 2017.

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Fig. 1.9.  Plan of pre-Hellenistic and Hellenistic phases of the temple of Artemis. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

be used into the Hellenistic period, but it is hard to imagine that these Lydian inscriptions bearing Iranian names refer to the new Hellenistic Greek sanctuary. Rather, they should refer to this earlier phase of the sanctuary in the Persian period. One inscription (Gusmani no. 23) records that the sanctuary was dedicated by Mitridastas to both Artemis and Qλdãns, naming Qλdãns first. Qλdãns was once identified as Apollo, but this suggestion was made because of the association of Artemis with Apollo in Greek mythology, and because Artemis and Qλdãns are associated in this and other Lydian inscriptions.35 However, this identification has recently been rejected. Alfred Heubeck long ago linked the name to κοαλδδᾶν, translated by Hesychios as the Lydian word for “king”; and a recent study by Annick Payne suggests that this shadowy figure could be a royal title rather than a name, parallel to the Carian “xñtawati xbidẽñni, Greek βασιλεὺς καυνίος , the ‘King of Caunus.’”36 Could this male figure associated with Artemis be distantly related to the Zeus Polieus who is described as sharing a sanctuary with Artemis in an inscription of 1 BCE?37 This association of Zeus and Artemis in the sanctuary has been the subject of some controversy and probably misunderstanding over the years, but it should not be forgotten.38 These stelae were rather extraordinarily long-lived. Hanfmann suggested that they 35. Payne and Wintjes 2016; Gusmani 1964, 188; Hawkins 2013, 189–90. 36. Heubeck 1959, 21–30; see also Hawkins 2013, 188–90; the comparison and quotation are from Payne (forthcoming), who discovered that earlier transcriptions of Hesychios had mistakenly emended the entry for κοαλδδᾶν. 37. Buckler and Robinson 1932, no. 8, lines 133–34. 38. Butler looked in vain for the sanctuary of Zeus on the north side of the temple (Butler 1922, 114, 123–25; Buckler and Robinson 1932, nos. 8, 22). Hanfmann believed that the two-cella plan dated to the Hellenistic era, and that one

Fig. 1.10.  Lydian stele no. 22, found toppled from its base. (Howard Crosby Butler Archive, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University)

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were set up only in a late Roman reorganization of the sanctuary, but although the ensemble has been rearranged, maintained, and added to over the years, and its current state reflects a major rearrangement in 1970, some of these bases may well date back to the Hellenistic period or earlier. They are set on an axis different from that of the temple, but aligned with that of Building Q, which, as I already suggested, predates the temple, and with that of a building preserved only in a fragment within the perimeter wall of LA2, which seems to predate LA1. And even if the bases were set up here during the imperial period, it is significant that they bore stelae preserved from a much earlier period. And they were still leaded into their original bases when the western part of the sanctuary fell out of use, perhaps in the fourth or fifth century CE. They document the continued interest in and emphasis on the antiquity of the cult of Artemis here, an interest that probably began as early as the Hellenistic period and continued throughout antiquity. A final question about the Artemis sanctuary in the Persian period is whether it contained a statue or some other sort of representation of the goddess. While the only representation of the deity found at Sardis itself, so far, appears on Roman coins, a recently discovered Hellenistic gravestone, found in the 2008 exca­ vations of the Sirkeci metro stop in Istanbul, offers tantalizing new information. The stele, which according to Eva Christof belonged to a priestess of Artemis Sardiane, seems to depict the cult statue or represent her cult image in some form.39 The image, which is also depicted on imperial coins with the cult image of Artemis of Ephesus, indicates that the Sardian Artemis was a nonanthropomorphic composite of a draped stool with feet, a pillow, a pyxis with a female head, and torches. Christof dates the stele to the second half of the second century BCE, and one wonders how far back this representation extended. Was this the goddess whose cult in Sardis was instituted by Mitridastas? Sardis never fails to surprise and confound. R et ur n to t he Cit y Cor e Upon Alexander’s arrival at Sardis in 334, he was met by two delegations: one from the Persian garrison on the acropolis, and one from the Lydian elders of the lower city, reflecting, as Pierre Briant and others point out, the bifurcated nature of Sardis at this time.40 I am tempted to interpret Alexander’s decision to allow the Lydians to use their ancient laws as leading, eventually, to the resettlement of the ancient Lydian city center, which had lain more or less fallow since the Persian sack of 547. Indeed, the date of the earliest true Hellenistic settlement in the city center remains unresolved. In chapter 2 Berlin points out the marked paucity of ceramics of the last quarter of the fourth century and the very early third, whereas buildings and ceramics are found in abundance from the second quarter of the third century on. At ByzFort, the theater, and Field 49, we have distinctive deposits that postdate Alexander’s arrival by a couple of generations, but little or nothing from the period immediately following the Macedonian conquest. The archaeological evidence at present suggests that occupation in the city center was at best sporadic until the consolidation of Seleucid control. In what follows I present a preliminary reading of new excavation results from the heart of the city. I am deliberately cautious about connecting remains with specific people or events, because in the past overeager associations between archaeological phenomena and historical events have led to mistaken conclusions that, as we have seen, influenced the course of research and interpretation for many years. of the colossal heads was that of Achaeus (the only bearded Seleucid in Asia Minor) in the guise of Zeus (Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1975, 75–76; Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 104–5, no. 102). 39. Christof 2013. 40. Arr. Anab. 1.17.3–6; Briant 1993, now republished in Briant 2017, 499–517.



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Moreover, good deposits and comprehensible buildings of the fourth and earlier third centuries are frustratingly rare. On Field 49, floor levels for many of the Hellenistic (and Lydian) phases were above the preserved surface of the hill, so all that remains are foundations cut into earlier levels. Stones were robbed from one wall and rebuilt into another, sometimes more than once, and walls and foundations were dismantled and rebuilt on the same lines, destroying stratigraphy that would offer dates for earlier phases. After almost a decade of excavation, we have fewer than half a dozen patches of floors, and mostly foundations of walls without preserved floors. Each year our interpretations are quite different from the previous year’s, as new information emerges.41 We can make a few general observations, though. At both Sector Field 49 and ByzFort, there was frequent and intense building activity through a good part of the Hellenistic period, much of it large in scale and very probably elite in nature. The first Hellenistic resettlers found very different situations on these two hills. The Lydian terrace on ByzFort probably survived to a considerable height, and its limestone façade continued in use into the Roman period. Here,

Fig. 1.11.  Hellenistic cobbled pavement on ByzFort. The top of the sixth-century Lydian limestone terrace wall can be seen at the left; this stood through the Hellenistic and Roman periods and was only robbed in the nineteenth century. The Hellenistic wall of the room on the right was overbuilt by a late Roman wall. The view of the lower city, and Bin Tepe and the Gygean Lake in the distance, illustrates the desirability of this high region of the city. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis /President and Fellows of Harvard College) 41. For these reasons, the preliminary reports in Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı have been brief and general. These reports are accessible on the Ministry of Culture website (http://www.kulturvarliklari.gov.tr/TR,44760/kazi-sonuclari -toplantilari.html) and on our own (http://sardisexpedition.org/en/publications/kst).

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the earliest post-Lydian occupation is represented by pebbled surfaces at the northeast corner of the hill, built against the Lydian terrace wall and probably dating to the late fourth or early third century (chapter 2). Later Hellenistic surfaces belonging with this wall were more substantial (fig. 1.11). The very top of the hill was graded or eroded in the Roman period, and most earlier remains were lost; only a part of one later Hellenistic building survives here. On Field 49, the earliest Hellenistic phases may just now be coming into focus. In the southern trench, a massive wall or foundation built of rough limestone blocks underlies a later Hellenistic foundation built of fieldstones on the same line (see pl. 16, Phase 1; fig. 1.12). Pottery associated with this earlier phase, however, was scant and not closely datable; the foundation is post-Lydian but cannot be assigned to a particular date. Two conclusions may be drawn, however. First, the wall is oriented to the Lydian terrace, and although no Hellenistic phase of the terrace wall survives, it was probably rebuilt in the earliest Hellenistic phase as well as later in the Hellenistic era. Second, even the earliest post-Lydian buildings were massive and well organized and followed the earlier Lydian alignments of the hill—which, indeed, established the structure

Fig. 1.12.  A maze of walls in the southern trench on Field 49. The round oven in the center belongs to the early Roman period. Immediately under it, running east-west (parallel to the meter stick and just above it) is a late Hellenistic wall; this cuts earlier Hellenistic foundations running north-south, which in turn were built over a large wall or foundation of limestone blocks, on which the meter stick and arrow are set. The date of this latter wall cannot be determined precisely, but it represents the earliest phase of post-Lydian occupation in this trench, perhaps the earliest of the pre-Seleucid era. In the gap in front of this limestone wall, a mud-brick wall encased in burned debris (now excavated away) belongs to the final Lydian phase, a wall of the palace of Croesus. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)



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of the hill for the rest of its occupational history. In contrast, the mud-brick wall belonging to the final Lydian phase was smaller in scale and not oriented to the terrace. In a later phase (see pl. 16, Phase 2), a series of loosely built but massive subterranean foundations seem to have been constructed to stabilize and raise the level of the hill. A set of limestone stairs at the very edge of the trench led to a building in the unexcavated area to the south; in this area we encountered only a floor, perhaps that of an open court. At least two phases of monumental Hellenistic walls are preserved further north, in the central trench on the hill (figs. 1.13–14). Both reused limestone blocks from earlier Lydian buildings, the earlier phase including finely worked faceted moldings and wall blocks of very hard limestone distinctively trimmed with a flat chisel, a type of masonry not found in other Lydian spolia from Sardis. The Hellenistic walls continue the line of the Lydian terrace wall to the south, but remains of occupation immediately outside, from both the Lydian and the Hellenistic periods, show that at this area the outer terrace wall stood further west, and

Fig. 1.13.  Aerial view of the central trench on Field 49. Running across the trench from right to left is the Hellenistic platform or internal terrace, built of limestone blocks reused from earlier Lydian buildings; the right-hand part was robbed out in the Roman era. The blocks of the upper phase (Phase 3 in pl. 16) are smaller, probably cut down to size at least twice, and are set with schist shims to adjust the coursing; they run over an earlier Lydian wall made of massive schist blocks. The phase below (Phase 2 in pl. 16) lacks those shims and is built of larger stones; it turns a corner as it meets the Lydian wall. In the foreground is another Lydian wall, built of finely cut limestone blocks. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 1.14.  The north wall of the earlier (Phase 2) Hellenistic limestone platform, which here included finely worked faceted wall moldings, spolia from the Lydian palace. Above it is a later Hellenistic wall and door. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)



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the Hellenistic walls formed an internal terrace or platform, rather than a terrace per se. Pottery from the foundation trench of the lower Hellenistic phase dates it to the first half of the third century (see chapter 2). A peculiar feature is a colossal, roughly square foundation, about 2.2 by 2.0 meters in area and 1.6 meters high, built of enormous reused limestone blocks (fig. 1.15). This structure also has two phases. In both phases, thick fieldstone wall foundations were built around the limestone pier. The earlier phase of the pier is likely to be contemporary with the first phase of the platform. Outside the structure, a series of floors of the first half of the third century probably belong with the earlier phase; pottery and a coin of Seleucus I suggest a date in the second quarter of the third century (fig. 1.16; and cf. pl. 17, from a slightly later floor, but belonging to the same phase). As in the southern trench, the scale of construction here is massive, oriented to the earlier Lydian terrace, and repeatedly rebuilt on similar lines. The complexity and scale of Hellenistic remains on this hill and, to a lesser extent, ByzFort stand in striking contrast to the almost complete absence of remains here from the previous centuries of Persian control.

Fig. 1.15.  A massive but somewhat mysterious pier or foundation built of enormous limestone blocks. Those of the lower phase at least are reused, with nonmatching clamp cuttings and anathyrosis on an outside, non-joining face. The more roughly set blocks of the upper phase were also a subterranean foundation and indicate a much higher floor level in this phase than is preserved. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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Fig. 1.16.  Artifacts from a floor belonging with, but outside, the earlier Hellenistic limestone platform or terrace: Atticizing black-glazed handleless lekanis, ca. 300–250 (P17.083); terracotta draped woman (?) (T17.012); terracotta die (T17.007); coin of Seleucus I, 281–280 (2017.0039). From the foundation trench of the earlier phase of the platform: tableware jug (P17.066). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

The major question, however, is the date of the earliest Hellenistic settlement in the city center. At ByzFort, the theater, and Field 49, we have few or no structures or closed deposits from the period immediately following the Macedonian conquest, but significant, large-scale buildings and fine pottery from the second quarter of the third century onward. Does the almost total lack of structures and deposits from the first couple of generations after Alexander’s arrival imply that vigorous occupation only returned later? The majority of archaeological evidence at present suggests that occupation in the city center was at most sporadic until the consolidation of Seleucid control. However, in the earliest of our identified Hellenistic phases in the central trench, we find not only reused Lydian blocks (i.e., datable by their workmanship to the first half of the sixth century or earlier), but also large numbers of post-Lydian roof tiles dumped into the foundation trenches for the “platform” (see fig. 2.6), and distinctive limestone blocks with anathyrosis and swallowtail clamps with iron staples, reused in that mysterious colossal foundation (fig. 1.15). The roof tiles are very similar to later Hellenistic roof tiles but cannot be dated closely. In their technical features the limestone blocks are similar to those reused in the temple of Artemis, but likewise cannot be dated more closely without datable local parallels. These roof tiles and blocks could thus belong to either the later Achaemenid period or the earlier Hellenistic one, and they document one or more monumental buildings, presumably on or near this hill. Some ceramics of the late fourth and early third centuries come from this trench, but all are from later contexts, with no architecture or strata in situ. Somewhere in the unexcavated part of this hill, there may be structures of this period that were demolished in the Seleucid phase. This phase remains mysterious, and at present we can only keep it in mind as a problem yet to be solved, and not to be forgotten.



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As Kosmin shows in chapter 3, the decades between Alexander’s arrival and the Seleucid consolidation of control after 281 were particularly chaotic at Sardis, even for this period of upheaval and conflict. Some of the chaos of the archaeology of early Hellenistic phases here may be due to unfinished projects begun by short-lived rulers and their representatives at Sardis during this period. Yet the dearth of ceramics or other material, especially from Field 49, where we have studied the pottery more intensively than anywhere else, argues against an extensive building program during these decades. Following the Seleucid conquest, however, the former Lydian city center was again a bustling zone of large, high-status buildings, inheriting and reusing the ruins of the Lydian palace. And the almost frenetic pace of building and reconstruction hardly ceases until the first century BCE. The other side of the coin is seen in the region along the Pactolus, which had become one focus of set­ tlement at Sardis during the Persian period. In the early third century, occupation seems to come to an end in Sector PN. The destruction level of units XIX and XX, recently redated by Andrea M. Berlin from 214 to the early third century, need not represent a widespread, historical destruction as was originally suggested.42 Rather, the inhabitants seem to have abandoned these houses, salvaged roof tiles and stones from the buildings, leaving piles of broken tiles and areas of destruction debris, and filled in wells. This area then became a cemetery during the Hellenistic and early Roman periods. Like the Persian destruction of 547, the preservation of assemblages in units XIX and XX points to a shift in occupation rather than (or in addition to) a historical destruction: nobody cleaned up the mess. A similar pattern is seen at HoB. This mirror image of settlement inside and outside the ancient city walls during the Lydian, Persian, and Hellenistic periods is undoubtedly oversimplified, but it is consistent with the archaeological data in the city core and provides a model for future investigations. The return may help us understand what Alexander intended when he allowed the Lydians to use their ancestral customs. This shift from nucleated core to scattered, unfortified settlement and back again gives new significance to the Hellenistic period at Sardis. It represents not simply a process of transformation of this capital city into a Greek polis but a more fundamental return to an urban status that had apparently been lost during the centuries of Persian control. But the archaeological evidence so far suggests that this shift does not begin with Alexander but some generations later—perhaps, as Kosmin suggests in chapter 3, as part of a deliberate revival as the Seleucids remade the ancient Lydian imperial city as their own western capital. A Cau t iona ry A ft erwor d Archaeologists and historians work long and hard to understand the vast quantities of pottery, inscriptions, coins, stratigraphy, and ancient texts that form the raw data of our research; yet after decades of research we often achieve only the most patchy understanding of our subject. The Hellenistic Sardis Project of Paul J. Kosmin and Andrea M. Berlin is a welcome opportunity to stand back from our leaves and twigs and look to the forest, connecting objects and places in time and space to create a vivid, four-dimensional, populated story. Excavations since Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times was published in 1983 have produced wellstratified occupation levels in many different parts of Sardis, and our understanding of the ceramics and other material culture of Hellenistic Sardis has changed dramatically since Hanfmann wrote his synthetic account, making possible the current reevaluation of the city and its history. One goal of this volume is to

42. Berlin 2016 and chapter 2.

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extract every conclusion we can from the evidence, revisiting the archaeology and history of the Hellenistic city from various points of view. However, we should keep in mind the limitations of that evidence. Remains of Hellenistic reoccupation are often fortunate but accidental byproducts of trenches aimed at exploring the Lydian fortification on the outskirts of the city, at Sectors MMS, MD2, and elsewhere, and monumental Roman and Lydian building complexes in the city center, at Sectors ByzFort, F49, and F55. We have not conducted a general campaign to understand, for instance, the history of the street system of the lower city. This is a pressing need, and when we do undertake such a campaign, I hope and expect that our views of the urban development of Sardis will be expanded and changed, perhaps dramatically. Until then, we should realize that our conclusions are, like Hanfmann’s characterization of the Lydian city based solely on excavations outside the city walls, very likely to be revised. It is healthy to consider how we come to know what we know, how we achieved those dots in time and space that this book tries to connect, and what we were trying to achieve, rather than just what we actually discovered. Like most long-term archaeological excavations, the history of the Sardis Expedition is replete with carefully planned excavation projects with specific goals and results, but also with chance finds, unexpected setbacks that sometimes turned into opportunities, long-held misapprehensions or misidentifications that were corrected only after many years, and cherished beliefs that directed—and sometimes misdirected—campaigns and publications. We archaeologists ought always to remember the tale of the blind men and the elephant and recognize that we too may draw rational, well-supported, but ultimately mistaken conclusions, as we rely—perhaps inevitably—on too little data about something that is so large and unpredictable.

Spotlight Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion Elspeth R. M. Dusinberre

S

eals used by individuals or offices for ratification, identification, and ornamentation  functioned simultaneously as official insignia and indicators of personal taste.1 They give us a sense of  administrative practices, public identities, and elite sensibilities. In this brief discussion I compare the Achaemenid-period seals of Sardis with the seal impressions of another satrapal headquarters, Dascylium, and the seals excavated from a decidedly non-satrapal site, Gordion, a comparison that brings to the fore the privileged status of Sardis. The seals from the two western satrapal centers reflect the willingness of the polyethnic elite to accommodate themselves to Achaemenid tastes and style. The numerous nonofficial seals from Gordion reveal how the very notion of sealing became a way to signal one’s social standing in these years. Sa r dis The thirty-four Achaemenid-period seals excavated at Sardis demonstrate a variety of choices in shapes and materials.2 Most popular were pyramidal stamp seals, of which there are fifteen. There are also nine rings with sealing faces: three of pure gold, with gold bezels, and six with stones carved in intaglio, generally set on a swivel so the sealing surface could be turned toward or away from the finger. Three seals are roughly cylindrical squat stamps; three are cylinder seals; and the remaining two are seals that were suspended from a bracelet and a necklace (fig. 1.17). The most common material for the pyramidal stamp seals was blue chalcedony, a particularly beautiful, translucent stone. Those ring bezels not made of gold were generally of agate (fig. 1.18).

1. Much of this discussion is adapted from Dusinberre 2010a, 2010b, 2013. 2. For the Sardian tombs of the Achaemenid period, see Curtis 1925; Dusinberre 2003, 128–57, 239–63. For the tombs in general see McLauchlin 1985. For the seals from Sardis, see Curtis 1925; Dusinberre 1997a; 2003, 158–71, 264– 83; 2010a; 2010b. Pyramidal stamp seals: IAM 4521, 4522, 4525, 4527, 4528, 4578, 4579, 4580, 4589, 4591, 4592, 4641, 4642, 5133, 5134; weight-shaped seals: 4523, 4524, 4590; cylinder seals: 4532, 4581, 4643; rings with gold bezels: 4548 (bezel undecorated), 4585, 4636, 4637; rings with stone bezels: 4519, 4520, 4632, 4633 (sealing surface of scarab undecorated), 4634, 4635, 4639; bracelet: 4518; necklace: 4640. 37

Fig. 1.17.  Seal from Sardis (IAM 4523): lion and bull combat. (After Dusinberre 2003, fig. 93; courtesy Istanbul Archaeological Museums)

Fig. 1.18.  Seals from Sardis: pyramidal stamp (IAM 4533), cylinder seal (IAM 4581), “weight-shaped” seal (IAM 423), and ring with stone bezel (IAM 4520). (After Dusinberre 2010b, fig. 31.3; courtesy Istanbul Archaeological Museums)



Dusinberre / Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion

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All the seals excavated at Sardis have settings that show they were worn on the body in a visible spot—on a necklace or a wrist chain, or perhaps pinned to a garment; they were not kept out of sight in a pocket or purse. Many have particularly lovely suspension devices, with elaborate attention paid to the qualities that enhance their value as adornments (fig. 1.19). Their highly visible nature underscores their importance as indicators of individuality; their great beauty suggests that they were meant to be seen as well as used. Theirs was a message to be proclaimed aloud. We know that the city’s officials were of varying ethnic backgrounds. The seals display multiple artistic styles, which indicates that people had real choice in the imagery and style they selected (fig. 1.20). That said, the great majority reflect imperial Achaemenid iconography and were produced in what is called Achaemenid hegemonic style. This style reflects an artistic and sociopolitical network that united the Persian and Persianizing elite.3 The conformity of taste illustrates a certain social cohesion, an identification by class, and participation in an artistic koine that reified imperial authority.4 At Sardis, seals were a citation of power, an affirmation of connection to the Achaemenid heartland expressed in a style linked to the regime.

Fig. 1.19.  Seal from Sardis (IAM 4641): suspension device in the shape of ducks’ heads clasping a blue chalcedony pyramidal stamp seal. (After Dusinberre 2003, fig. 83; courtesy Istanbul Archaeological Museums)

3. The significance of choice in style of seals is amply demonstrated at Persepolis via the seal impressions on the tablets of the Persepolis Fortification Archive; see, e.g., Garrison, Root, and Jones 2001; Garrison and Root, in press; Garrison and Root, forthcoming; and the many dozens of articles by Garrison, Root, and others. Publications with particular significance for considering the seals from Sardis include Garrison 1991, 1996, 1998, 2009; Root 1990, 1991, 1997a, 1997b, 1998, 1999. 4. For the status of at least one seal user at Sardis and the significance of the style, see the arguments in Dusinberre 1997b, 109–15; 2003, 158–71, 264–83.

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Fig. 1.20.  Seals from Sardis: modern impressions. (After Curtis 1925, pl. 11)

Da sc y lium Excavations at Dascylium have unearthed remains of what may be satrapal palaces and the remains of a satrapal archive.5 The archive’s bullae are clay tags with seal impressions on one side and the impressions of papyrus fiber and string on the back of most. Fifty bullae lack papyrus impressions and instead have such a smooth flat surface that they were probably attached to leather or parchment, perhaps in groups of two or more on a single roll.6 Almost half the sealings found at Dascylium present impressions of three royal name seals, two (DS 2, 3) of Xerxes and one (DS 4) of Artaxerxes (fig. 1.21).7 One of the seals of Xerxes (DS 2) was carved in the Achaemenid Court Style, as identified at Persepolis itself: this seal is represented by three impressions, and was the only seal at Dascylium for which the style and the ethnicity of the name match. The other two royal name seals draw on courtly imagery but render it in Achaemenid hegemonic style, a style that may demonstrate a specifically Anatolian production.8 Other seals were inscribed with personal names. People from a variety of ethnic backgrounds—Iranian, Semitic, and Babylonian—used different languages in their 5. This discussion is drawn from Dusinberre 2013. The literature on Dascylium is extensive; directly pertinent to the discussion here are, e.g., Ateşlier 2001; Bakır 1995, 2001; Erdoğan 2007; Kaptan 1990, 1996, 2001, 2002, 2007; and the extensive collection of materials at http://daskyleion.tripod.com. 6. Kaptan 2002, 14; see also Balkan 1959; Kaptan 1990, 1996, 2007. 7. Kaptan 2001, 58. For the languages, see Schmitt 2002. 8. Kaptan’s “Achaemenid Persian koine.”



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Fig. 1.21.  Dascylium seals 2, 3, and 4. (After Kaptan 2002; courtesy Deniz Kaptan)

inscriptions, often employing a language with a different heritage to write the name.9 Notably, the ethnicity of the names generally bore no connection to the style of the seal. As at Persepolis and at Sardis, seal owners could choose among styles and images. And, as at Sardis, the great majority of the seals used at Dascylium (fully 74 percent) bore imagery carved in Achaemenid hegemonic style.10 The bullae were probably not attached to copies of royal letters; rather, the Dascylium documents likely dealt with local/communal bureaucratic and economic issues.11 These might include payments of rations from the storehouse and the arrival and receipt of taxes from the satrapal territory, registered in papyrus or parchment rolls.12 Although we cannot be sure, it seems that the record-keeping practices of Persepolis were exported to Anatolia, while the seals represented by impressions here reveal that artistic flexibility was a potent aspect of governing practice. Gor dion Gordion saw very different circumstances than either Sardis or Dascylium during the time of Achaemenid hegemony (see further chapter 12, “Gordion, on and off the Grid”).13 Gordion was not a satrapal site; it did not appear in Achaemenid administrative texts or figure in the imperial rhetoric of power (visual or verbal). Yet during this period the use of seals at Gordion exploded: twenty-nine Achaemenid-period seals and impressions have been recovered from excavated deposits, a tremendous increase over earlier numbers and a figure that dwarfs later seal counts at the site as well. 9. See Miller 2011, drawing on Röllig 2002, 209. See Lemaire 2001 for inscriptions on the bullae and those on the stelae from the area. 10. Kaptan 2007, 280 and fig. 1. 11. Kaptan 2002, 22–23. 12. Briant 1986, 434–37. 13. Analysis and overview in Dusinberre 2005, with references; the discussion here is largely drawn from Dusinberre 2010b.

Fig. 1.22.  Gordion seals 100, 246, 44, 187, and 153. (After Dusinberre 2005; © Gordion Archaeological Project, Penn Museum)

Fig. 1.23.  Gordion glass seals 56, 188, 44, 90, 112, 192, 205, and 75a. (After Dusinberre 2005; © Gordion Archaeological Project, Penn Museum)



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Fig. 1.24.  Gordion seals: Achaemenid hegemonic style cylinder (seal 100); conical stamp with Neo-Babylonian-style worship scene (seal 73); Egyptian scarab (seal 246). (After Dusinberre 2005; © Gordion Archaeological Project, Penn Museum)

The seals come in a wide range of shapes and materials and exhibit much variety in artistic style and imagery (fig. 1.22). The materials include glass (fig. 1.23), bone, ivory, agate, lapis lazuli, chalcedony, faience, rock crystal, meerschaum, and more, from as far east as Afghanistan and as far south as Egypt. Their style and iconography is as varied as their materials; unlike the seals of Sardis and Dascylium, those from Gordion show little artistic cohesion. The sudden increase in visual repertoire is striking, with distinct and often idiosyncratic imagery. Some of the more glamorous imported sealstones include a worship scene in NeoBabylonian style on a chalcedony conical stamp seal, an Egyptian faience scarab, and a spectacular red agate cylinder carved in Achaemenid hegemonic style with an Achaemenid worship scene (fig. 1.24). It is inscribed in Aramaic: “Seal of Bn’, son of Ztw, (something else).”14 Clearly the mobility of glyptic artifacts, and possibly artists and patrons as well, greatly increased in these years. But while some seals show a taste for Achaemenid imagery, the corpus as a whole shows neither the coherence nor the value of the seals at Sardis, with their consistent iconography, style, and lovely stones. The seals from Gordion make clear the elevated character of those from Sardis—and, by extension, that of the people who worked there and of that famous city herself. 14. Dusinberre 2005, nos. 38 (Neo-Babylonian style), 36 (scarab), 33 (cylinder). For seal 100 (cylinder), see Dusinberre 2008 and references.

Spotlight Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids William Bruce

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ur view of life at Sardis before the Seleucids, and especially in the two centuries during   which the city was under the rule of the Achaemenid Persians, is scattershot: a few house walls   and floors on and just below the slopes of the massive mud-brick wall (in Sectors MMS and MMS/S); a center for bronze working and other crafts outside the wall’s northwest corner (in Sector HoB); and a sizable portion of a single neighborhood on the eastern bank of the Pactolus River (in Sector PN; on MMS and HoB, see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill). Excavation in the Pactolus neighborhood took place every year from 1960 to 1970 (except 1966), uncovering a series of houses, wells, altars, craft installations, and other structures (fig. 1.25). On present evidence, people were living here by the seventh century BCE, and they continued doing so until the early years of the third century—an uninterrupted stretch of approximately four hundred years.1 Over this span of time, some aspects of the Pactolus neighborhood changed. In the era of the Lydian kingdom and empire, it had been at least partially industrial: here Sardians refined electrum into pure gold and silver.2 These activities had already ceased even before the Achaemenid conquest; by the earlier sixth century, people had built houses and an altar to Kybele over part of the refinery installations (pl. 6).3 It is worth noting the absence of definitive evidence for burning or deliberate damage here, especially since the 1. This discussion is based on Bruce 2015. Previous summaries and interpretation of the remains in the Pactolus North sector are Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 37–41; Ramage and Craddock 2000, 72–98; Dusinberre 2003, 58–70. 2. Ramage and Craddock 2000, 81–98; Bruce 2015, 19–82. I believe that the refinery was something of a recycling center, where people extracted gold and silver from obsolete electrum coins and jewelry. The excavated remains are congruent with a small-scale operation in use for only a short period of time (Bruce 2015, 77–82). 3. Ramage and Craddock 2000, 74; Bruce 2015, 99–105. It is not clear whether the first phase of the altar is contemporary with the excavated remains of the refinery or postdates them. Ramage and Craddock (2000, 74) say that “it seems probable that after the altar was built, a clay floor was laid over what may have become obsolete facilities.” I find it difficult to see them as contemporary, since no clear floor level contemporary with both the refinery and the altar was ever found, and it seems incongruous for an altar to have been situated in the midst of an industrial dump. I would rather interpret the altar as a shrine for the later neighborhood established here. 44



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Fig. 1.25.  Domestic neighborhood of Pactolus North, with the local villages of Sart Mustafa in the background. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

conquest by Cyrus produced such evidence and other dramatic remains not so far away, in front of the city wall and gate, as well as inside the city. Certainly before the Achaemenid conquest residents installed an altar here to Lydian Kubaba (called “Cybele” by the excavators; see chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués). The altar was built of roughly cut gneiss and schist; sandstone lions adorned all four corners. A small step on the west side allowed a person to face east when making an offering; ashes, presumably from sacrifices, were found within a boxed-off area formed by a 48-cm-high coping wall and sealed with layers of clay. The altar remained undamaged and in use throughout the sixth century, which suggests that Lydians continued to live here even after Sardis became an Achaemenid holding. Other evidence for the continuation of Lydian religious life after the Persian takeover comes from “puppy dinners.”4 Three such deposits were found in the Pactolus neighborhood; they are identical to the twentythree dinner deposits found in the craft zone northwest of the city wall (in Sector HoB). Each one contained an iron knife and three vessels—skyphos, jug, and cooking pot; inside the pot were the bones of a young canid. The persistence of this particularly Lydian ritual attests to its ongoing significance to those living and working outside the city from Lydian into Persian times. In the first half of the fifth century, new construction here can be related to two datable stratigraphic incidents. First, an enigmatic pair of very large apsidal buildings were constructed to the south of the altar to

4. Greenewalt and Payne 1978.

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Kubaba (fig. 1.26).5 They are roughly symmetrical and separated by a lane 1.3 meters wide. The size is indicated by the better-preserved southern building: its northern wall extended for at least 15 meters (later Roman construction obscures the rest), and the apse was approximately 11 meters wide. The walls were set in deep foundations, in some places more than a meter deep. Together these two buildings dominated an area at least 25 meters wide and at least 15 meters long (probably longer). Each was more than twice as large as the next-largest Lydian structure here. There are no clues as to their specific function, but their size and construction suggest that they were public or official. While their monumental size must indicate some change in the area’s character, other evidence indicates that residential life also continued here uninterrupted. The apsidal buildings were founded in a deep deposit of burned debris and pottery dating to the early fifth century. The conjunction suggests an episode of significant damage, rapid cleanup, and new construction, all of which may relate to the Athenian attack on Sardis in conjunction with the Ionian Revolt of 499. Herodotus (5.101.1–2) provides a vivid description, in which he may be referring to this particular neighborhood, or another very much like it:

Fig. 1.26.  East view of the pair of apsidal buildings in the southern area of the sector, built over by a late Roman villa and street. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College) 5. These were previously identified as “fountain houses” because of a well at the apex of the apse in the southern building (Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 70; Dusinberre 2003, 69–70). Further study showed that this well was built after the apsidal buildings went out of use. This is the so-called Southern Well in PN; for a deposit of pottery from here, see chapter 2 and pl. 9.



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Most of the houses in Sardis were of reeds (οἰκίαι . . . καλάμιναι), and those made of brick had reed roofs. So when one of the soldiers set fire to one house, straightaway the fire spread from one house to another through the whole town (τὸ ἄστυ πᾶν). While the town was burning, the Lydians and the Persians in the city (ἐν τῇ πόλι), cut off on all sides as the fire was consuming the edges and having no way out of the town (ἐκ τοῦ ἄστεος), streamed into the agora and to the Pactolus River, which flows through the middle of the agora, carrying down gold dust from Tmolus, and then issues into the Hermus River.6

The second stratigraphic incident was a massive gravel deposit that covered much of the area. George Hanfmann thought that the gravel might have been a flood inundation from the Pactolus, but specifics of topography along with similar such deposits found elsewhere in the city suggest rather that the gravel came down from the acropolis (see chapter 1).7 Cahill has postulated that under the Achaemenids, regular maintenance of earlier terrace walls on the acropolis ceased, leading to occasional episodes when quantities of eroded conglomerate came tumbling down the slopes. The gravel deposit partially buried the altar, which Sardians then rebuilt in a different configuration. They dug out and carefully set the damaged lions in the sacrificial ash, which was also saved.8 The Pactolus neighborhood comprised several distinct residential compounds, some already established in Lydian times, others newly built in the fifth century. These covered an area of more than 70 by 40 meters to the east, west, and south of the altar. The compounds contained small single-roomed units with shared party walls, modest in size and material, with mud-brick walls upon stone socles that were set directly on the ground (in contrast to the two apsidal buildings; fig. 1.27). The rooms were arranged haphazardly into groups, each with a well and a large open-air courtyard; stone-lined pits provided storage for dry goods. Each compound may have accommodated an extended family. To the east of the altar were a series of ovens, which may have served as a shared cooking area—but much cooking was probably done in compound courtyards using small portable braziers, which were found in abundance. People’s material goods changed very little from the later sixth to the fifth and fourth centuries. The only notable additions were a new style of drinking vessel—the handleless Achaemenid cup—and Athenianstyle wheel-made lamps.9 Otherwise people continued to use household ceramic vessels in the shapes, wares, and decorative styles of Lydian times. This essentially conservative array was enlivened by very occasional imported black-glaze vessels, either Attic or, more often, Ionian Atticizing versions. The numbers reveal their rarity: from c. 500 to 460, fragments of only 64 such vessels were recovered; from ca. 460 to 380, there were just 25 such fragments.10 Perhaps these Sardians could not afford the imports, no matter how modest the items were; but it is also possible that they were fully satisfied with the traditional products of local potters. 6. The translation is mine. 7. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 36. 8. In previous studies it has been suggested that the rebuilt altar may have functioned as a Persian “fire altar” (Ramage and Craddock 2000, 74; Dusinberre 2003, 66–67). I believe that the manner of its reconstruction suggests instead a straightforward continuity of the earlier cult (Bruce 2015, 107–8). Boyce and Grenet (1991, 207n49) proffer their own reasons for disagreeing with the notion that this was remade as a fire altar. 9. The lamp type is Howland 21a. 10. These figures are based on a restudy of all the imported figured and black-glaze vessels saved from PN and initially collected, classified, and published by Nancy Ramage (1997). In 2013 I reexamined all of this material in conjunction with Andrea M. Berlin.

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Fig. 1.27.  North view of units I and II, built over industrial debris from the gold refinery in the sixth century. These units continued in use, through several remodelings, into the fifth century. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

At some point in the fourth century, the apsidal buildings were replaced by more houses, built along the same lines as the already existing structures.11 The neighborhood remained fairly densely inhabited into the beginning of the third century, and the archaeological evidence suggests that the standard of living may have risen a bit. Tile roofs adorned with mold-made decorative antefixes became fairly common: twenty-one such antefixes were found here, and well deposits contained many discarded tiles (see “Spotlight: Continuing Crafts” by Andrea M. Berlin). The amount of imported black-glaze pottery rose slightly; a total of fiftysix vessels dating to c. 380–300 were found. In general, however, people’s household goods were unchanged, as is nicely illustrated by remains from two well-preserved rooms in the northwestern zone of this sector. The walls were themselves built directly on top of earlier Lydian units, evincing the unbroken chain of occupation typical here. On the floor excavators found burned roof tiles, perhaps collapsed in a small house fire; below them were a large number of household vessels and nine coins, of which the latest were seven small bronzes of Ephesus, so-called Ephesian bees, that date from c. 305–288 (on the pottery, see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin, pl. 8; on the coins, see “Spotlight: Assigning a Mint,” by Jane DeRose Evans). What is most striking about this array, which represents a portion of one family’s 11. Bruce 2015, 274–80. The date derives from fourth-century pottery found in fills of the houses built on top of the apsidal buildings. As noted above (n. 5), the “Southern Well” was built partially into the apse of the southern apsidal building.



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essential material goods in the years right around 300, is how very similar it is—in shapes, wares, and surface treatment—to items used for the preceding two hundred years. As with the conquest of Cyrus and the Achaemenid takeover of the city, which seems to have had little effect on people’s material lives (at least in this area), neither the wholesale cataclysm wrought by Alexander nor the following politically chaotic generation brought discernible change. Instead, the ripple effects took a while to show. In this case, they appear sometime in the first quarter of the third century, when, suddenly, the Pactolus neighborhood was abandoned. The area seems to have been largely leveled; excavators found piles of rubble and tiles, presumably from the razing of walls. Wells became trash pits, largely filled with tiles and pottery dating from the mid-fourth to the early third century, as for example the group of vessels from the Southern Well (see chapter 2). After four hundred years of continuous life along the river, the Pactolus neighborhood was deserted, its surroundings used as a cemetery. People did not return to live here until sometime in the fourth century CE, an era when the city’s settlement patterns were again changing in response to the times.

rq 2

The Archaeology of a Changing City Andrea M. Berlin

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ousehold pottery is evidence of life at a long remove from politics. Inexpensive to  produce and continuously necessary for a range of daily activities, from storing commodities to  fetching water to cooking to sitting down for a meal, it is mundane yet curiously powerful. Changes in forms and styles reflect changes in taste, attitude, behavior, and also time. Its abundance, along with its inherently valueless material and everlasting durability, means that it is the category of artifact found more often than all others put together. Broken fragments occur inside foundation trenches of walls and leveling fills of floors; they roll into the corners of rooms and lie forgotten; they are the residue left behind when people move out. Although not intrinsically datable, pottery often occurs alongside objects that are (e.g., coins)—and in such circumstances this banal, broken stuff takes on chronological import. In this chapter I use the evidence of household pottery excavated from nine deposits in and around Sardis, all stratigraphically discrete and most connected with architectural remains, in pursuit of two goals.1 The first is to obtain a view, albeit sketchy and attenuated, of when and how the city changed during the two centuries under study here. The second is to identify, on the basis of these admittedly petty goods, when and how the ideas and attitudes of Sardians themselves changed. My subject is the relationship between the city’s preeminent role in history and the lives of ordinary people who lived there. I use the pottery to bring us at least a little of the way up from ground level, to catch a glimpse of what life was like for people who lived at the edges of power but did not participate in its wielding. The specific deposits are illustrated in the color plates (pls. 7–18). This evidence is a sort of mirror reflecting when and how political changes affected people’s lives and sensibilities—a zeitgeist for the un-rich and non-famous.

1. Throughout this project I have relied on two superb publications: Nancy Ramage’s 1997 study of the black-glaze pottery found at Sardis through 1990 and Susan Rotroff and Andrew Oliver Jr.’s 2003 study of the Hellenistic pottery found at the site through 1994. I could not have managed without them, or without Nicholas Cahill’s memory, acumen, and insight. Many thanks to them, and to all Sardis excavators whose hard work digging, recording, conserving, preserving, and reporting has provided the material and information that undergird this study. 50



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F if t h / F ourt h to E a r ly Thir d Cen t ur ie s B CE : L ife ou t side t he Wa ll s As Nicholas Cahill shows in chapter 1, “Inside Out,” there is little evidence for occupation inside the city walls during the two centuries of Achaemenid rule. It is true that only a small fraction of this area has been investigated archaeologically, but the virtual absence of indicative residual material, such as Achaemenid bowls and imported pottery, is telling. This is especially so in light of the abundant representation of these categories in three zones on the edge of and outside the city: to the northwest, on the slope of the old mudbrick wall (Sector MMS/S); just outside the wall’s northwestern corner (Sector HoB); and along the eastern bank of the Pactolus (Sector PN). Cahill and William Bruce discuss respectively the character of the remains and the types of activities that occurred in MMS/S and HoB (chapter 1) and the Pactolus neighborhood (in Bruce’s “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids”). All were places of uninterrupted occupation from the seventh through the early third century. Architectural remains comprise the founding courses of walls and, from the fourth and early third centuries, a large number of decorative terracotta roof antefixes (see Berlin, “Spotlight: Continuing Crafts—Antefixes and Roof Tiles”). Three domestic deposits give us a picture of the household goods of ordinary Sardian families in late Achaemenid and earliest Hellenistic times. The first, dating to about 350, comes from a house that sat on the outside slope of the old mud-brick wall (in Sector MMS/S).2 On a floor lay six fully or largely reconstructable vessels (pl. 7): a late version of a traditional Lydian wave-line amphora, four plain-ware skyphoi, and a small gray mug. This could have been a drinking service, with the mug used to scoop wine from the amphora and serve it into the skyphoi. All were made locally, their forms and decoration recognizably in the Lydian ceramic tradition. The skyphoi are radically simplified from the elegant, thin-walled, painted cups with high conical feet of the sixth and early fifth centuries, but, like those vessels, these too would have allowed a fourth-century Sardian to drink from a cup with two horizontal handles (see chapter 11, “Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens,” by Susan Rotroff, and cf. pl. 47). A second deposit comes from a single house in the Pactolus neighborhood, discovered in 1965. In two adjoining rooms lay nineteen vessels smashed beneath a single continuous layer of burned roof tiles (fig. 2.1, pl. 8).3 Mixed in with the pottery were nine bronze coins, identified by Jane DeRose Evans as two issues of Alexander III (330–322) and seven small “bees” from Ephesus dating 305–288, thus providing a date for this deposit of c. 300. The vessels are pottery for the table and also a range of practical household activities. For food and drink there were four slipped bowls, two slipped Achaemenid cups, a thin-walled, wide-mouthed juglet, and a plain-ware column krater with a painted red swath. Perhaps the juglet served to dip from the krater and pour into the cups. For utilitarian tasks there were small and large pitchers, a flask, fragments of two storage jars, and a type of large, crude lekythos usually found in graves. 2. Datable pottery from floors and fills beneath this surface includes the following: a fragment of a locally made bowl with projecting rim, very close to Attic versions (cf. Sparkes and Talcott 1970, no. 802, fig. 8, dated c. 380); a kantharos fragment with a narrow circle of rouletting and the beginning of a palmette stamp (Sparkes and Talcott 1970, 122, nos. 673 or 704, pls. 28, 29, fig. 7, dated c. 375–350), and a rim and spur handle fragment of an Attic plain-rim kantharos; the taper of the spur and the rim profile match those of Sparkes and Talcott 1970, no. 706, pl. 29, dated ca. 375–350. 3. On this deposit see Hanfmann 1965, 4; Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 109–12; Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 11–12 (Deposit 1); Berlin 2016.

Fig. 2.1.  1965 excavation of floor of units XIX–XX in the Pactolus neighborhood, strewn with roof tiles and early Hellenistic pottery (c. 300–280). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)



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As with the assemblage from near the wall in Sector MMS/S, many of these vessels are also traditional types and, with the exception of the two imported black-glaze bowls, all were locally made. The jugs, flask, lekythos, and column krater are versions of forms common since the sixth century. For food this family used small, low bowls, some locally made and some imported. Both imported and local bowls are relatively small, suitable for individual settings and portions. For drink they favored Achaemenid cups, a shape that first appeared at Sardis in the later sixth century, shortly after the new regime began. Now, some two hundred years later, old Persian associations may have lingered, but it is also possible that by this much later date Sardians regarded these cups as standard-issue items (on this style of vessel, see chapter 11). The third deposit, also from the Pactolus neighborhood, comes from the lowest levels of the “Southern Well,” one of three that served families living in this district. At the bottom were seven vessels, ranging from mostly to half complete, along with thirty-seven astragaloi and a limestone ballista ball weighing 5.1 kilograms (pl. 9, fig. 2.2).4 Since the vessels are largely intact, they probably hit water, meaning that the well was still usable at the time that they were thrown in. However, the heavy stone ball found at the same level must have gone in first (and sunk), as the vessels could not have survived if such a weight fell on them (or if they fell on it). The combination of evidence suggests a point in time when the well was still usable but nonetheless deployed as a trash bin. There is no evidence for the date beyond ceramic parallels. The low, wide form of the incurved-rim bowls is typical of the fourth and early third centuries, as is the form of the short, shouldered unguentaria. The high conical feet of both the unguentaria and the hemispherical bowl evoke old-fashioned Lydian skyphoi and suggest a date when this tradition was still part of the active repertoire of local potters. The forms of the hemispherical bowl and water pitcher are similar to those of vessels dating to c. 275–250, found elsewhere at Sardis (pls. 10, 12). Overall the Pactolus well group could date around 300, give or take a decade or two. Putting together the pottery from all of these deposits gives us a picture of the household goods of ordinary Sardian families in late Achaemenid and earliest Hellenistic times. What is most striking is the combination of plainness with a recognizably Lydian pedigree. Fabrics, forms, and decoration, the latter essentially confined to the occasional wavy painted swath, evoke long-lived styles. People continued to use older forms of amphoras and column kraters for mixing and serving, and Achaemenid cups or low, twohandled skyphoi for drinking. One difference in these years appears in food dishes. Since the seventh century the standard Sardian food dish had a high-stemmed foot (the so-called fruit stand), but at some point in the fifth century this elegant form was replaced by medium-sized bowls, about 4–5 centimeters high and 12 centimeters in diameter, with low ring feet. Some of these bowls were Ionian and Attic products, decorated with red, brown, or black slip, but most were locally made, sometimes plain, sometimes with a red slip. People could not have used the bowls exactly as they used the stemmed dishes, which had offered a wide, flat surface more akin to a plate. As nothing in the household repertoire now served that purpose, it may be that people used bread as a kind of edible stand-in. Studying all of the fourth-century table vessels saved from the contexts in these areas offers scanty but suggestive data about the components of an individual place setting. There are roughly similar numbers of cups, medium-sized bowls, and very small bowls (“salters,” or “salt cellars”), about 5–6 centimeters in 4. Also found at this level were a molded kantharos rim (drawn in PN 1961 Fieldbook III:174) and a bronze bracelet (M61.094 = M8, cat. 801).

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Fig. 2.2.  Items from lowest levels of the southern well in the Pactolus neighborhood (Sector PN): stone ballista ball (S61.052), two large astragaloi (BI61.029), more astragaloi. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

diameter, which could mean that a typical setting was one cup, one medium bowl, and one small bowl.5 An interesting comparison is to third-century households in Ilium’s lower city: there people had only one small bowl and a drinking cup, an Attic-style classical kantharos with a stemmed foot and two spur handles.6 If style of drinking vessel may be taken as a clue to people’s cultural affiliations, then we can see three choices: Greek at Ilium; Persian (Achaemenid cups) in Sardis’s Pactolus neighborhood; and traditional Lydian (skyphoi) for the Sardian family living by the city’s mud-brick wall. These domestic deposits show us that Sardian household goods did change from the fifth through the early third century, but only in occasional, incremental, and quite minor ways. At some point people began using small, thin-walled cooking jugs in the kitchen, while also retaining the old, thick-walled Lydian cooking pots. The Achaemenid cup joined the skyphos, which meanwhile became less elaborate; the low bowl came to replace the stemmed dish. Once set, the table service of cup plus two bowls remained standard into the early third century. A full generation after Alexander, people’s homes and tables looked much as their parents’ and grandparents’ had. An older cultural currency colored local sensibilities.



5. Berlin 2018, 8–9 and table 3. 6. Berlin 1999, 94.



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E a r ly/ Mid -Thir d t hrough Secon d /Fir st Cen t ur ie s B CE : N e w N eig hb or ho od s inside t he Cit y After several hundred years of occupation outside the city, the second quarter of the third century saw systematic shifts in where people lived and in the cultural valence of ordinary life. The available evidence indicates that occupation ceased outside the walls. In both the Pactolus neighborhood and the craft zone to the northwest (Sector HoB), buildings were razed, with much debris—household pottery, roof tiles—dumped into wells. The comprehensiveness might suggest some coordinated activity, although it is difficult to decide on any particular agent.7 The stone cannonball found in the bottom of the Southern Well in the Pactolus neighborhood (fig. 2.2) may be residue from the volatile years of the first quarter of the third century, when the city underwent at least three sieges and changed hands at least eight times (see chapter 3)—although an occupying army in need of water would hardly be responsible for putting wells out of use. The consistency of evidence from the two extramural areas is striking, however: in addition to the contemporary well fillings, there are no datable ceramics from the years after c. 280/275. At the same time, and equally suddenly, for the first time since the Lydian era domestic occupation resumed inside the old fortification wall. We have evidence of two neighborhoods: one on the city’s western side (Sector MMS/S) and a second on the north (Sector MD2).8 Here people built houses, which, once constructed, they continued to expand and remodel (fig. 2.3). Dating is based on coins found in sealed, stratified fills. In the western neighborhood (MMS/S), two coins come from the second phase of building: one of Antiochus II, 261–246 (1999.0020), and one of Seleucus II, 246–241 (1999.0022). In the northern neighborhood (MD2), where the house had two phases, a coin of the city mint of Sardis (1996.145: C96.8) comes from a fill between an earlier dirt floor and a higher plaster floor.9 The fact that all of these coins come from above the earliest phases supports an initial construction date sometime in the second quarter of the third century. In both areas houses were constructed of fieldstones, with small rooms, exterior courtyards, and cooking ovens. In their earliest phase, interior walls were smoothed with simple mud plaster, painted red. As in the now-abandoned Pactolus neighborhood, houses had tiled roofs with decorative antefixes whose material, size, and workmanship continue the same craft tradition as earlier types, and with some of the same designs, along with a new motif of heraldic animals posed on either side of a verdant tree—an arrangement that perhaps not coincidentally evokes famous eastern imagery (e.g., Babylon’s Ishtar Gate; see further in “Spotlight: Continuing Crafts” and fig. 2.17 there). More striking is the wholly new array of dishes that people now use for eating and drinking (pls. 10, 11, 14; see also chapter 11). New shapes, new sizes, new decorative treatments: it is a sea change. Gone are the small bowls, whether imported or locally made, that had been used for food; gone are Achaemenid cups and low-handled skyphoi. People now dine off individual plates, for which there are two style options. The first 7. I thank Paul Kosmin for this suggestion. 8. The western neighborhood (Sector MMS/S) extended at least an additional 40 meters south-southeast of the structures shown in fig. 2.3. In a trench excavated here in 1994 (MMS/S 94.2), Alberto Prieto found a deep fill of household pottery (lot 30) but no associated architecture. The material is identical to that from the Phase 1 and Phase 2a occupations discussed here. This is probably gradual trash accumulation from a house in the immediate vicinity, suggesting that the neighborhood extended at least as far as grid lines E170/S160. 9. This is the earliest context in which a city coin has ever been found, and the associated pottery offers strong support for dating the inception of such minting around or shortly after the middle of the third century. See further chapter 4, “The Mint at Sardis,” by Jane DeRose Evans.

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Fig. 2.3.  Plan of the two earliest Hellenistic phases in the new neighborhood on the western side of the city (Sector MMS/S). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

is slipped red or brown, with a wide ledge-rim form and stamped palmettes around the middle, a mash-up of forms and decorations found separately on contemporary Attic/Atticizing plates. The second style is an unslipped or semi-slipped fish-plate with short hanging rim and central depression. Alongside the plates they had medium- and large-sized echinus bowls as well as tiny salt cellars, all covered in a full or partial mottled red-brown slip. They also had two new styles of drinking cups. In the first phase in both neighborhoods, the most popular was an ovoid cup with slipped and painted decoration on the outside. The shape is reminiscent of the older-style Lydian skyphos, although these new cups are larger, thicker-walled, and without handles. Also appearing, first in small numbers and then abundantly by the later third century, are wide, shallow hemispherical cups with decoration on the inside. As Susan Rotroff observes in chapter 11, this form was modeled on elegant silver vessels used by members of the upper crust;



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its appearance and popularity in humble clay reflect the ripples of style moving from above down to the middle class. All of these objects are new—yet all are locally made. There are no imports; the fabric remains the typical, readily identifiable, micaceous light-red Sardian clay, naturally clean, able to be made into thin-walled, hard-fired vessels. This combination of local and new sends its own message of a change in outlook, a demand for something different, a turning away from the old in favor of items that feel current. Newness of this caliber—abrupt, comprehensive—is a signal of an altered sensibility, one arising organically from the bottom up. The newness extended into the kitchen, where for the first time in a century or more, Sardians began using a new form of cooking vessel: low, wide casseroles (pls. 13, 14). It is worth pointing out that this form had been in use since the fifth century in Greece, the Aegean, and Ionia—but it appears only now at Sardis. As with the table vessels, the casseroles were made of local clay, meaning that the city’s potters were supplying local demand. Fittingly, people could now serve the recipes they prepared in these casseroles on stylish new place settings. The sea change has one exception. Utilitarian forms such as water pitchers and mixing bowls are little altered, as a comparison of such vessels from a house in the western neighborhood (pl. 12) with comparable items from earlier houses (e.g., in pls. 8 and 9) shows. There are observable differences; for example, the handle of the pitcher comes directly off the rim, similar to that of a fine-ware oinochoe; the krater handle is a horizontal strap rather than a combined vertical/horizontal coil. But the similarities—the traditional Sardian fabric and surface treatment limited to a red wash or simple painted wavy line—signify that these basic household vessels were products of a long-lived local manufacturing tradition. As with the decorated antefixes, whose production also continued from the fourth into the mid-third century, such items signify that it was not the potters who changed but rather the interests of the people buying their goods. The traditional shapes provide a stable backdrop for the new ones, which demonstrate that Sardians have now become culturally aware adopters. They have embraced the current moment, pivoted from the past to a vibrant new present. You might call them . . . modern. Once these new neighborhoods were established, life continued apace, with older houses being remodeled and new ones built. The standard of living rose; in the later third to mid-second centuries, people installed tiled floors, painted their walls with slightly more elaborate designs, and acquired some fancier locally made serving vessels along with high-quality imported drinking cups (pl. 15b–c). It happens that during these years the political wheel turned several rotations: Seleucid dynastic conflict with the “War of the Brothers”; Achaeus’s seizure of Sardis and Antiochus III’s successful siege; Magnesia and Apamea; the sudden demotion of Sardis from Seleucid power center to Pergamene holding. While there must have been upheavals and dislocations, no recognizable residue appears in the day-to-day material record. From all appearances, in these neighborhoods life continued to hum along. E a r ly to L at e r Thir d Cen t ury B CE : I nside a n d On H igh As on the edges, so too in the heart of the city: after about two centuries with almost no evidence of building or activity, in the later fourth–early third centuries the picture changed suddenly. Remains come from three excavation zones in the center: inside the cavea of the later theater and atop two high, terraced spurs that jut out from the north side of the acropolis, an eastern one named “Field 49” (Sector F49) and a western one named “Byzantine Fortress” (Sector ByzFort).

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The area of the later theater cavea occupies a natural bowl-shaped depression to the northeast of the acropolis and below the spur of Field 49 (see chapter 7, “The Hellenistic City Plan,” by Philip Stinson). In the Lydian era there were houses here, but throughout Achaemenid times it lay deserted (see chapter 1). About halfway up the cavea’s eastern side, excavators recovered an unusual deposit, found within a robbedout Lydian house wall and also in fill just above it: at least 50 fragments of at most 14 terracotta statuettes or plaques of Kybele, mixed in with large quantities of broken Lydian household pottery and 10 additional pieces dating to the first and second quarters of the third century (figs. 2.4–5, and see chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués, figs. 5.2–5 and pls. 26–27).10 The most economical explanation for this group of remains is that the wall robbing was contemporary with the disposal of the pottery and figurines, and that both actions took place in the second quarter of the third century. The figurines themselves are evidence that there had been a shrine to Kybele located nearby. In the course of the events that produced these remains, that shrine may have been rearranged or expanded, although the cursory circumstances of deposition may suggest instead that the shrine was simply removed. What might those circumstances have been? The most straightforward proposition is that this was the moment at which the hillside was refashioned to accommodate a theater. A theater was certainly in place by the year 213, when Polybius reports that Antiochus III ran up to its crown on his way to the acropolis. Polybius offers no description of this theater, and indeed no physical remains exist. What we do have are these fragments attesting to clearance activity c. 275–250, and the sure knowledge that in this very spot were built

Fig. 2.4.  Early Hellenistic vessels from the theater cavea deposit, c. 300–250. Clockwise from top left: local incurved-rim bowl, imported kantharos spur handle (P13.063), imported kantharos with West Slope– style decoration (P13.060), imported (?) mug. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

10. These third-century fragments were mixed throughout the eighteen baskets that comprised the soil deposition, suggesting that the entire deposit represents activity in that time, as opposed to being redeposited Lydian-era debris, lightly contaminated. See D’Angelo, ThSt 09.1.m09, pp. 2–3. P13.060 is similar to Rotroff and Oliver 2003, no. 124. The kantharos with a West Slope–style spearhead necklace is possibly of Pergamene manufacture; parallels indicate a date in the early–mid-third century (cf. Berlin 1999, 89–90, 105, cat. 8, pls. 2, 13). The kantharos spur handle is similar to forms from the Athenian Agora dated c. 285–275 (cf. Sparkes and Talcott 1970, no. 30). Most telling are the five locally made fish-plates, all identical in fabric, form, and surface treatment to one of the new plate types that appear in the first phase of the new neighborhoods on the western and northern edges of the city (Sectors MMS/S and MD2).



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Fig. 2.5.  Early Hellenistic fish-plates with hanging rims from the theater cavea deposit, c. 275–250. Top center is P13.048. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

both of the city’s subsequent theaters, one in the mid-second century, followed by a Roman-era successor (see chapter 7). The weight of this evidence supports the hypothesis that within the first years of Seleucid rule, somebody authorized the construction of a theater here, the city’s first—and its first indisputable piece of Greek-style architecture. That the initial clearance operations involved dismantling a nearby shrine to Kybele, itself a kind of landmark but of local Lydian and/or Sardian initiative and interest, may have been remarked at the time, but we cannot probe this relationship any further. Around the same time that the Kybele shrine was established, building on a massive scale commenced on the terraced spur immediately above it (Field 49). Excavations here, beginning in 2010 and still ongoing, have taken place in three zones, one at the northern tip and two more—a central and a southern zone— along the western side (pl. 16). The remains, both architectural and ceramic, are partial, disconnected, and frustratingly difficult to interpret with confidence (see also chapter 1 and figs. 1.12–14). That said, the evidence indicates three distinct phases of activity within the later fourth and third centuries. The first phase of renewed activity is represented by a monumental east-west wall constructed of large, beautifully finished limestone blocks in the southern excavation zone and, in the central zone, residual imported pottery of the later fourth/early third century, along with enormous numbers of roof tiles filling the foundation trenches of the succeeding Phase 2 structures (fig. 2.6). The pottery, all fragments found in later fills, consists of high-quality glazed table vessels: a black-glaze echinus bowl, a red-slipped oinochoe, and three very fine black-glaze fish-plates.11 The large chunks of both pan and cover tiles attest to the construction of some sizable but as yet undiscovered building(s) up here. Whatever the character of the Phase 1 monumental construction, the available evidence suggests that it was substantially replaced in Phase 2. In the southern zone, the monumental limestone wall was overlain 11. The bowl and oinochoai were not inventoried; their context is F49.15.1, b. 83. The fish-plates were found in this same level, just to the east: a rim from F49.13.1, Lots 156/158 (P14.010:13795); a foot with graffito from F49.15.1, Wall lot 236, b. 92 (P15.112:14454); and another foot fragment, not inventoried, from F49.14.1, Lot 208, b. 17. This last context is fill into which the corner walls of the mid-second-century basement room were cut.

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Fig. 2.6.  Roof tiles in the foundation trench for the interior (boulder) face of the monumental Phase 2 wall (Wall 131) in the central excavation area of F49, looking north-northeast. The east-west wall to the top and right of the frame (Wall 99) is Phase 3 construction (SD2017.4423). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

with a lattice of enormous walls constructed of roughly shaped boulders, apparently as support for some sort of terrace. In the central zone there rose the corner of a monumental structure. The exterior face was built of smoothly finished, reused limestone blocks, probably removed from earlier Lydian walls; the interior face comprised roughly finished boulders (see chapter 1 and fig. 1.14). At the northern tip, where the old, monumental Lydian boulder terrace walls remained operational and probably also at least partially visible, was built a room, represented by three walls made of roughly rounded stones. In foundation trenches for the walls at the northern tip, and also inside both the exterior and the interior foundation trenches for the new, monumental construction in the central zone, were the roof tiles attesting to earlier large-scale construction up here (fig. 2.6). They are mostly sizable fragments, all quite unweathered and with sharp breaks. Tiles are an unusual and also impractical fill material; their presence in these foundation trenches, and their fairly fresh appearance, are clues that the Phase 2 construction included taking apart at least some of the quite recently built Phase 1 structures. Depositing tiles in the foundation trenches would have allowed the builders to clean up and fill in at the same time. The datable evidence for Phase 2 suggests that this dismantling took place soon after the Seleucid takeover. In the central zone, along the outer, western, side of the monumental platform, a series of hard-packed



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dirt floors lay one atop another. On one of the lowest floors was a bronze coin of Seleucus I, minted 281/280, and a fine imported Attic-style black-glaze lekanis dating c. 300–275 (see fig. 1.16).12 Above this floor lay several more, likely all short-lived. On the highest preserved surface was a small tanur, an enclosed household oven; in the fill immediately above it were a Seleucid coin,13 a locally made fish-plate identical to examples from the theater deposit and the houses in the new outlying neighborhoods, and a fragment of an elegant imported (possibly Pergamene) West Slope–style table amphora. Both vessels date to c. 275–250 (pl. 17, upper left and lower left). Contemporary with the tanur and its floor, just inside the area supported by the platform, were several small interior spaces demarcated by narrow walls. Within one of these spaces a hard-packed dirt floor was preserved. On it lay more fragmentary pottery dating c. 275–250, including a joining fragment of the West Slope–style table amphora found by the tanur and a delicate imported West Slope–style painted perfume bottle (pl. 17, center and right). There were also three coins on these floors: one Seleucid (2015.129), one a possible late fourth- or early third-century issue (2015.130), and one identifiable as generally Hellenistic (2015.185). In the southern zone an outside courtyard lay atop the lattice of rough boulder walls. Two handsome, wide stone steps at the south offered access to an interior space (as yet unexcavated). On the courtyard surface were found fragments of an unusually large serving krater, along with painted wall plaster in two colors, matte red and light blue, reminiscent of masonry-style interior décor (pl. 18). Such wall treatment seems to have been a regular feature here; throughout the Hellenistic fills in this area, “one constant was the presence of very small bits of red painted plaster.”14 The last body of evidence for the character of Field 49’s Phase 2 occupation comprises roofing materials. There are four small mold-made antefixes, identical to types found in the new neighborhood on the city’s western edge (Sector MMS/S) and to types from the now-deserted neighborhood by the Pactolus (see “Spotlight: Continuing Crafts,” figs. 2.11, 2.13, and 2.17). There are also yet more roof tiles, identical to those from the foundation trenches, including a large spread found on the interior floor in the central exca­ vation zone (fig. 2.7).15 These tiles are large and hefty, with thick surfaces and wide, high edging—too big for the modest mold-made antefixes.16 The combined evidence reflects the presence of both small and also more substantial buildings up here, and the imported pottery indicates that people of some means inhabited them. Phase 3 is attested only in the central excavation zone. Here new wall construction cut through the Phase 2 floors and created larger interior spaces, although the lack of surviving floors means that its date is difficult to pin down. The available evidence suggests a bracket of c. 250/225–170/160, since a subsequent fourth 12. The coin is 2017.039, Seleucus I, Sardis mint, 281/280 BCE, AE denomination C: Medusa head r. / bull charging r., Houghton and Lorber 2002, no. 6 (identification courtesy of Jane DeRose Evans). The lekanis is P17.083. Also found on this floor were a terracotta draped woman (?) (T17.012) and a terracotta die (T17.007). Found within the platform’s western foundation trench was a jug (P17.066) (see fig. 1.16). 13. The coin is 2015.58, which Jane DeRose Evans has identified as “generally Seleucid, 3rd–2nd c. BCE.” 14. William Bruce, F49.12.1, Final Report, August 2012, p. 8. 15. F49.15.1, lot 248: SD2015.4498–4500, 5142–5145, 5152, 5180–5183. 16. None preserve two full sides, but we can estimate from one very similar and essentially complete pan tile recovered from the dromos of a Hellenistic chamber tomb in the Bin Tepe necropolis (T66.007, Duman Tepe tomb 66.6). It measures 66.5 by 56.5 cm and is 2.5 cm thick in the center. In comparison, the Lydian pan tiles were 65 by 69 cm and about 4–5 cm thick (Hostetter 1994, 46, n. 28).

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Fig. 2.7.  Fallen roof tiles on a Phase 2 floor in the central excavation zone of F49, looking north-northwest. The room’s floor was cut by two Phase 3 walls: the north-south wall at the left of the frame (Wall 131) and the east-west wall at the top (Wall 99). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

phase of construction with walls and rooms in quite different orientations, sizes, and arrangements certainly dates to the years after Apamea.17 Though the evidence is sadly fragmented and partial, there is enough to show that this high spur, what Paul J. Kosmin (chapter 3) calls “a prestige location,” again became invested as a place for display-caliber architecture beginning in the late fourth/early third centuries. As these were years of almost constant military maneuverings and swiftly changing political fortunes, with Sardis being a key holding for a changing series of powerful (if short-lived) rulers (on which see chapter 3), it is simply impossible to identify those responsible for the initial, Phase 1, constructions. The situation for Phase 2 is different. Datable remains support linking it to the early years of Seleucid control. Further, those remains reveal the deliberate demolition of recently completed buildings, the erection of a new series of both monumental and more modest structures, and their occupation by people with access to imported goods. Then, at some point in the later third or early second century, the ground was rearranged yet again, producing an impressive but frustratingly tangled complex of remains that may reflect all too well the political machinations of these years. 17. The post-Apamea construction phase is dated to the mid–later second century on the basis of pottery, especially local mold-made bowls, and coins from foundation and robbing trenches of walls, floors, and associated fills.



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Fig. 2.8.  Imported pottery from the earliest Hellenistic level in Sector ByzFort, late fourth/early third centuries. Clockwise from left: fishplate (P85.057), echinus bowl (P85.046), and bowl with rouletting (P85.055). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

To the west of Field 49, on the next spur to the west, Sector ByzFort, we may catch a faint outline of a similar pattern of activities. In a deep trench at the northeastern corner of the spur, four discrete phases can be identified. At the very bottom was a large Lydian-era terrace wall. Immediately above that was a fill containing three high-quality imported Atticizing table vessels of the later fourth or early third centuries (fig. 2.8).18 Above these was a thin surface, and then a fill containing enormous numbers of broken tiles, 95 kilograms in all, some Lydian but the majority Hellenistic (fig. 2.9). Above the tiles were a series of deep, sloping fills, ephemeral pebble surfaces, and pottery of the later third/early second centuries; at the top and sealing it all was a cobble pavement laid down in the later second or early first century (see fig. 1.11).19 The pattern offers a suggestive echo of that from the adjacent spur of Field 49: monumental Lydian terraces; Achaemenid absence; new activity and some evidence of means in the early third century, and then, as indicated by the great number and size of the roof tiles, large-scale building (and perhaps also “unbuilding”) in the mid-third century. C oncluding Thought s At ground level, politics is often invisible, and history has a different texture. The push and rumble of the powerful—kings and armies, governors and administrators—naturally constrain, impel, inspire. But their force is also curiously evanescent. When we lay the two views side-by-side—the high skidding rumble and the low stolid roots—we can sometimes make out points when high and low intersect with effect. These are 18. For the fish-plate, see Rotroff and Oliver 2003, no. 22; for the rouletted bowl, see no. 16. The echinus bowl is no. 77. 19. Ratté, Byzantine Fortress: NE Corner FR 1985, pp. 7–9. In the fill above the tiles was a Hellenistic baggy kantharos with West Slope–style decoration (P85.52 = M12, no. 108), dating c. 225–175. Nearby (but not precisely in this fill) was a coin of Pergamum dated 270/260 to 230/225 (1987.66: Head of Athena/worn smooth, but probably two stars, given its module; identification courtesy of Jane DeRose Evans). Datable material immediately below the cobble pavement included Pergamene appliqué ware (P85.71 = M12, no. 679) and a plain-ware knobbed-rim fish-plate (P85.30 = M12, no. 62).

Fig. 2.9.  A selection of the 95 kilograms of roof tiles found at the northeastern edge of Sector ByzFort. The tiles are identical in size, fabric, and form to those from Field 49. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)



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era-markers, “dawn moments from which history accelerates.”20 In the two hundred years under study here, the remains reveal one such moment, in the second quarter of the third century. In the era of the Achaemenids, the city’s old and massive mud-brick wall apparently served as a boundary that kept ordinary Sardians on the outside.21 In these years, the Bin Tepe necropolis expanded, used by the Sardian elite for family burials.22 Those who lived and worked outside the walls in these centuries had a choice of views: southeast, up to the acropolis and present political circumstance; or north, out to Bin Tepe, where tumuli stood as a kind of topographic testimony to past glory. Some material remains from this era—stamp seals, Achaemenid cups—reflect the influence and adoption of Persian behaviors and styles. Others—Lydian stelae in the Artemis sanctuary, modes and location of burials, most household pottery— indicate the retention of long-standing Lydian cultural mores.23 These reflections of personal choice show the grip that tradition and the old ways still had on Sardians living on the city’s outskirts, whether they were maintained out of habit or in direct contradiction to their political circumstances. After two hundred years of Persian rule, political change came to Sardis overnight. In May 334 Alexander routed the Achaemenid army on the banks of the Granicus; within two weeks he was approaching the city. An embassy of Sardian notables met him outside the walls, where the conquering general famously “freed [them] to enjoy their ancient laws.”24 Pierre Briant has interpreted this to mean that an autonomous Lydian community survived at Sardis throughout the Persian period,25 a conclusion consistent with the archaeological evidence summarized here, including the continued use of burial tumuli and the maintenance of traditional ceramic forms and wares. Alexander came and went within a week; thirty unsettled and dangerous years followed, little evidence of which is apparent in the material remains. It is very striking how unchanged were areas of settlement and the goods people used every day. Were it not for the group of seven Ephesian coins dating c. 305–288 found with the smashed vessels on a floor in the Pactolus neighborhood, there would be no reason to date that group later than early–mid-fourth century. The rumble at the top had no apparent correspondence below. Then came change, staggered in two phases. In the first decades of the third century, the city center again became a stage—for Sardians and also for those who would control them. Monumental terrace walls appear on the eastern spur and, just below them, a shrine to Kybele, along with imported pottery suggestive of connections, means, status. And soon after, beginning c. 280–275, came the big convergence, with changes in almost every type of material remains, from settlement patterns to table settings. A theater is built, probably also a gymnasium, possibly a stadium. Construction begins on a monumental temple to Artemis. Long-lived neighborhoods outside the walls are abandoned. New housing is built inside, on the northern and western edges. And in those new houses, “non-elites” weigh in on how they stand in relation to this moment. Their household goods show us something that is otherwise hard to see: how ordinary folks oriented themselves to the ever-shifting forces of time, the pull of the deep past and the push of the vivid present. These items show us that in the second quarter of the third century, Sardians latched on to the swing of the cultural pendulum. This sudden change, this turn toward the present moment, is a kind of artifact in itself, testimony of a material kind. It inspires notice, and a question. Did something in the early years of Seleucid rule seduce

20. The phrase is from Lively 1988, 28. 21. Cahill 2008b, 118–19. 22. Baughan 2010, 278–79. 23. Dusinberre 2003; 2013, 141–67, 206; Baughan 2013. 24. Arr. Anab. 1.17.306 = Pedley 1972, no. 235. 25. Briant 1993, 21.

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Sardians into changing deep-seated, long-held habits? I would argue yes, and advance this material testimony of ground-level change as evidence pertinent to a still-open issue, which is when Sardis was granted the status of polis. Throughout Lydian and Achaemenid times, Sardis had been a city: a place of a certain size, with public buildings, evidence for economic diversification and social hierarchies, and—as with other cities of ancient Anatolia and Mesopotamia—a palpable past embedded in a particular place and landscape. But a city and a polis were fundamentally different. I invoke John Ma’s definition of the polis as “a body of citizens, organized in a decision-making community, structured by . . . institutions whose authority regulated the common life.”26 Put simply, a polis was social rather than physical, a construct rather than a construction. A polis was, in essence, an agreement of and for its citizens, who embodied its present and future. A polis was vital, involving, evolving—a place of drive, potential, and opportunity. In this, the polis is the true analogue to modern cities, places that, as Daniel Brook explains in A History of Future Cities, attract millions of new residents every year, not so much for their economic and social opportunities but because cities offer “the lure of participating in modernity.”27 Scholars trying to pin down the date of polis status for Sardis have used evidence from on high and outside—inscriptions recording official and legal acts, episodes and referents in the ancient historians. Yet such a decision will have had real implications for the lives of ordinary folks, and we ought also to look at the messages they send us by their own material testimony.28 In their mundane, modest possessions, we see reflected their inclinations and ideas. We see how they stood to their times. We see that by c. 250 Sardians had embraced their moment. They had chosen to pivot from the past—lured, one could say, toward modernity. Non-rich and un-famous: yes. But not passive bystanders. Even just staying at home, they managed to make a little history. E pilo gue : A ft er A pa m e a Once renewed, the remaking of the city continued into the second century and well after. In the neighborhoods, people remodeled and expanded. On the two high-terraced spurs (Field 49 and ByzFort), there was new construction, although here, and in most excavation areas, the ongoing life of the city created either an overly dense palimpsest or wholesale reconstructions that make it impossible, at least currently, to know what was there at this time (on the challenge, see chapter 7 on “The Hellenistic City Plan”). There is just one new construction whose date can be fixed. That is the city’s new theater, its first stone theater, datable on the basis of pottery from the fill beneath the cavea seating to c. 175–150, which puts its construction in the early years of Pergamene control (chapter 7 and pl. 33).29 26. Ma 1999, 150–51. 27. Brook 2013, 385. 28. For a vivid example of the rapid effects of political change on household goods, in this case the adoption in Athens of a democratic form of government at the end of the sixth century, see Lynch 2011. In support of using people’s household goods as evidence for their tastes and attitudes, see John Clarke’s conclusion, in Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans, that when given opportunity and means, ordinary folks “were passionate about self-representation,” and they regularly represented themselves in ways that were quite individual, specific, and “non-standard” (2003, 69– 268, quotation on p. 72). 29. The most impressive piece is a large wall section of an exquisite mold-made vessel, likely of Asia Minor manufacture, probably dating early in the second century (P06.060:12156). Slightly later are six small fragments of



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Whose idea was it? The timing links this project with the Attalids, who were also responsible for finishing and dedicating the great theater at Ephesus (see chapter 10, “Ephesus,” by Sabine Ladstätter). We know, both from an inscription from Delphi and from several found at Sardis itself, that there existed at Sardis a joint Panathenaia and Eumenaia, celebrated with games that “were to be quinquennial, their prizes wreaths, their rules the same as those of the Pythia at Delphi.”30 It seems reasonable to connect the construction of the new theater with the festival’s inauguration. The Panathenaia and Eumenaia provided a new city showcase, one that attracted contestants, spectators, and tourists. Material evidence suggests that soon after its establishment, the local economy again saw a boost, in the form of newly established workshops producing local versions of the latest styles of Pergamene and Mediterranean table vessels. These appear in new residences now situated up on the terraced spurs as well as in the houses on the city’s western and northern edges—aspirational goods for a rising middle class, evidence of display and consumption up and down the social scale.

local, Sardian-produced mold-made bowls, two pieces of Pergamene sigillata, and several fragments of lagynos ware, all unlikely to be earlier than the second quarter of the second century (Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 72, 93–95). From the fill’s lowest level was a bronze city issue from the mint of Sardis, worn and countermarked (C2009.001; identification courtesy of Jane DeRose Evans), and higher up in the fill an issue of Pergamon dated 282–133 (2008.011:12340). This evidence suggests construction between c. 175 and 150. It is worth noting that Buckler and Robinson (1932, 12) say in reference to inscription no. 4, which specified that Timarchos should receive honors and be crowned in the theater, that Curtius (in Beiträge zur Geschichte und Topographie Kleinasiens [Berlin 1872], 86) thought that “the masonry of the lower courses suggests that the original building was of Attalid construction” (quoted in Buckler and Robinson 1932, 12). In his 2008 discussion of the city’s urban development, Christopher Ratté dates the construction of the theater c. 225–200—now known to be incorrect, but reasonable considering the evidence available at that time (Ratté 2008, 132). 30. The inscription is IvP 165; see Buckler and Robinson 1913, 43. Hansen (1971, 123, 458) also related the establishment of the festival to the defeat of the Gauls in Phrygia by Eumenes and his brother Attalus. On these battles see Polyb. 29.22, 30.1, 3, 19; Diod. Sic. 31.14; Livy 45.20. An addition to the same Delphic decree describes the introduction of the equestrian festival a few years later; the Delphians noted that they recognized this contest as equal to the Olympic one (Hansen 1971, 458; Daux 1932, esp. 296).

Spotlight Continuing Crafts—Antefixes and Roof Tiles Andrea M. Berlin

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he Lydian practice of adorning roofs with well-made, gaily decorated, molded and painted tiles is well-known. On present evidence, this craft tradition began in the seventh century BCE and continued into the first half of the sixth, though confined to public structures rather than as a feature of domestic architecture.1 In the first century after the Achaemenid conquest and the apparent “rezoning” of the new satrapal capital, there is no firm evidence for tiled roofs, which is unsurprising, since we also lack evidence for the construction of any structures that would have carried a roof. Such evidence reappears in the later fifth century, from the craft zone outside the city, in Sector HoB. Here two matching antefixes, cover tiles with one closed end decorated with a mold-made design, were found at either end of Building C, a structure of significant size dating to the later fifth century on the basis of Attic and Atticizing pottery found just beneath its walls (fig. 2.10). The function of Building C was certainly not domestic; its size and location indicate that it was some kind of workshop space (see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill and fig. 1.7). While the use of decorated tiles on non-domestic structures continues the pattern of Lydian times, the antefixes themselves derive from a different type of roofing system.2 As Andrew Ramage pointed out in his original study, closed cover tiles “are incompatible with systems using spouted simas” and so must belong to post-Lydian buildings.3 The new system is in fact Greek/Aegean in inspiration and practice, and its appearance at Sardis beginning in the later fifth century is of a piece with other behaviors from this direction that begin to appear here at this time (e.g., the use of small bowls instead of stemmed dishes for food, on which see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin). Tiled roofs must have become common soon thereafter in the neighborhoods on the city’s outskirts (Sectors MMS/S, HoB, and PN), at least on the evidence of the quantities of decorated antefixes found. 1. Ramage 1978, 9, 11. Here I extend and modify Ramage’s fundamental study, in which he catalogued 32 examples (pp. 30–34, nos. 68–99); I have added 25, bringing the total to 57. 2. Hostetter 1994, 7–29; Ramage 1978, 4–10; Shear 1926, 2. 3. Ramage 1978, 31. 68



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Fig. 2.10.  Matched pair of antefixes from Sector HoB, later fifth century, probably from Building C (T62.014, T61.107). A central palmette, with three upper and three lower leaves, is flanked by single scrolled volutes that begin in the outer corner and wind inward, tapering toward the center. A second, smaller palmette grows out of the scroll to fill the outer corners. Relief is high. All elements have plump, rounded forms. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

These objects are the only remaining tangible evidence for such roofs, as, being decorated, they were saved (excavators regularly reported also finding quantities of plain pan tiles). The only apparently public buildings known in these areas from these years are the two large apsidal structures in the Pactolus neighborhood (see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids,” by William Bruce); but since twenty-one antefixes were found in this neighborhood alone, it is reasonable to suppose that some of them at least came from domestic units here. The form—trapezoidal in section, with a long body, 8.5 centimeters to the apex of the triangular top, and 13.0–14.0 centimeters across—would have worked for either a gabled or a hipped roof. In the former each tile would have finished off the ends of the single ridge line; in the latter there would have been four ridge lines and so a need for four closed ends. Since both forms likely coexisted, and since it is impossible to know what type of roof covered a given structure, the number of tiles cannot be used to estimate the number of buildings. Still, the quantities found indicate that by the early fourth century, Sardians had extended the use of these decorated antefixes from public to private buildings. The antefixes represent a small but lively local industry. All were made of a single micaceous, dense, clean fabric, fired bright orange-red in color (10R5/8 to 2.5YR 6/8).4 The decorated faces were made separately and then attached together before firing, while still sufficiently pliable to meld.5 Two basic designs, each with 4. These antefixes are a slightly darker red than the painted tiles of Lydian times, but like those they are definitely made of local clay. In Ramage 1978, petrographic samples of 10 antefix tiles and 7 Lydian-style lamps were taken. These results were compared with a composite profile from over 100 sherds of all types and periods found at the site and were shown to share a single mineralogical profile marked by quartz, feldspar, and mica (Kamilli 1978). 5. Ramage 1978, 11; Hostetter 1994, 40–45. Ramage notes that they were less well made than the Lydian tiles of earlier times; he characterizes their construction as “shoddy . . . pieces of clay can be seen to have been pushed together into a form or mold when they were too dry to make a close bond” (1978, 31). The seam between the mold-made face and the rest of the tile is almost always clear on the underside, although this juncture is rarely visible on the outer surfaces.

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several small variations, occur. The quantity and variety bespeak eager demand and ready supply, a new product from a long-lived local clay-craft tradition.6 In his 1978 study Ramage situates the designs on Lydian painted and molded architectural terracottas within the larger stylistic milieu seen in metalwork, architectural relief sculpture, sculpted grave stelae, and painted pottery.7 Here I extend that approach to the more modest output of Sardian tile-makers working in the fourth and third centuries. In what stylistic milieu did they operate? Evidence comes from furniture, as recreated by funerary klinai and as represented in red-figure vase painting, as well as seals, jewelry, and incised gold and silver table vessels. Standing behind these items of portable luxury and informing their aesthetic must have been certain monumental structures whose fame, beauty, and/or antiquity would have made them widely known.8 Sardians’ aesthetic arena extended from the calibrated rhythms of the tribute processions on the Apadana reliefs of Persepolis to the vibrant naturalism of the polished marble reliefs of the tomb of Mausolus in Halicarnassus. In the terracotta antefixes, we can see faint but real reflections of what spurred their emulation.

Fig. 2.11.  “Busy style” antefixes, variant 1. A central tree with narrow horizontal base, thin vertical stem, and five horizontal branches rises from a central horizontal bar and is flanked by horizontal double scrolls, evenly sized and tightly curled. The branches widen at the top, while the flanking scrolls are narrow and even in width from end to end. A plump, lozenge-shaped blob is positioned horizontally above each scroll’s midpoint. The relief ranges from moderately high with distinct edges to quite low with smooth edges, which suggests that the tiles were made in progressively older molds. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College) 6. Hostetter 1994, 30–34; Ramage 1978, 11–12. 7. Ramage 1978, 38–39. 8. On the multiple cultural threads evident in the material culture of late Achaemenid Anatolia in general, and Lydia in particular, see most recently Baughan 2013, 233–35; Dusinberre 2013, 114–241.

Fig. 2.12.  “Busy style” antefixes, variant 2. These are similar to variant 1, but here the central element is a true palmette, with seven carefully articulated vertical leaves rising from a single stem. The side palmettes are identical to the central element. Forms are crisp, with distinctly rendered details. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 2.13.  “Busy style” antefixes, variant 3. These are similar to variant 2, but with less detail. The central element is a tree, rather than a palmette, with a thick horizontal base and five vertical branches that spring from a central knob and widen toward the top. The side palmettes consist of three leaves, each separately articulated and growing out of the inner scroll. The outside scroll is smaller and lies beneath the side palmette. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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Fig. 2.14.  “Busy style” antefixes, variant 4. The central tree is identical to that in variant 3, but instead of an outer scroll, the three leaves of the side palmettes are rendered as three low, elongated ridges. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Craftsmen took two distinct stylistic approaches: one busy and florid, one spare and schematic. There are a number of variations of both. Each of the four variants of the “busy” style has many elements, carefully articulated (figs. 2.11–14). The effect evokes the crowded aesthetic of fourth-century red-figure vases such as those by the Xenophantos Painter, the Eleusinian Painter, and the Painters of Group G.9 Variants 2 and 3 (Type 2b, versions 1 and 2) are especially similar to the Eleusinian Painter’s filler décor, with its hectic elaborated abundance of seven- and five-branched palmettes and spiral-curled volutes unfurling into smaller volutes with individual, separately articulated leaves.10 This style may have been most readily transmitted via textiles and, as John Boardman notes, relief metal work, neither of which survives for our consideration.11 In contrast, the “schematic style” antefixes are simple and spare, with a few clearly outlined elements and much blank space. There are three versions, although only one is well represented (figs. 2.15–16). On these, the central element is probably a schematic date palm on a tripod base, an odd combination that may be intended to evoke decorative metal furnishings adorned with stylized palm trees. An identical formula appears between the legs of an iron tripod stand from the Royal Tombs at Salamis, Cyprus.12 In origin the motif is Egyptian; from the eighth to the sixth century, eastern Mediterranean artisans used it on luxury objects such as gold bowls and ivory plaques to evoke that particular exotic setting. In the fifth and fourth centuries, artisans used the individual downward-curving arms as a kind of shorthand for palm trees, as for

9. Boardman 1989, figs. 340, 392, 393, 413, 414. 10. Boardman 1989, fig. 392. 11. Boardman 1989, 169. 12. Aruz, Graff, and Rakic 2014, 190.

Fig. 2.15.  “Schematic style” antefixes, variant 1. The central date palm has a tripod base, a short horizontal bar halfway up, a petal-like middle stem widening at the top, and one downward-curving arm on each side. Flanking this are roughly horizontal, loose double scrolls. Above each scroll’s midpoint a plump, lozenge-shaped form points up toward the corners of the tile. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 2.16.  “Schematic style” antefixes, variants 2 (front row) and 3 (rear). Variant 2 has a central date palm with horizontal base and at least two pairs of short horizontal branches, flanked by cursory horizontal double scrolls. A small, lozenge-shaped form sits above each scroll’s midpoint. Variant 3 has a central date palm with a single pair of upward-curving branches flanked by horizontal double hooks. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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example on a fourth-century relief squat lekythos by the Xenophantos Painter.13 The motif may be intended to evoke elaborate interior furnishings; if so, its appearance on antefix tiles would be of a piece with the trend toward interior décor that begins to appear in Asia Minor, the Aegean, and Greece in the fourth century. In the third century Sardian tile-makers introduced a new design, with two heraldic animals posed on either side of a verdant tree (fig. 2.17). The stylistic milieu in which such a motif remained current in these years was Mesopotamia, as, for example, on Babylon’s still-standing Ishtar Gate. We may imagine the aesthetic infiltrating west via textiles and perhaps also jewelry. The introduction of this eastern motif on the pedestrian products of a long-standing Sardian craft tradition could be a faint but real reflection of the local interest in, and embrace of, the new political order. The tradition of crafting molded clay antefix tiles continued into the middle of the third century. One example of the “heraldic animal” style was found in the new neighborhood on the city’s western edge (Sector MMS/S). Three antefixes were found on the eastern terraced spur in the city center (Field 49): one “heraldic animal” and two of the “busy style.” By the later third century, however, it seems that this particular product of Sardian clay craft was no longer being made. Quantities of roof tiles continue to appear in later contexts, assuring us that Sardians had solid roofs over their heads—but apparently their decorative instincts migrated to other media.

Fig. 2.17.  “Heraldic animal” antefixes (Type 4). A central tree stands between two heraldically opposed animals. The two examples share a motif but differ in details, indicating that they come from different molds. On the left (T14.022, from Field 49), the central tree has a tall, tapering stem with nine branches. The flanking quadrupeds are engaged, with heads raised toward the upper branches as if nibbling on them. Their renderings are naturalistic: legs are long and properly proportioned; bodies are rounded, with slightly swayed backs; long, curved ears or horns extend from the back of their heads. On the right (T99.002, from the house in MMS/S), the central tree is similar to those on “busy style” variant 1 tiles, with a vertical stem and five vertical branches that widen at the top. The flanking quadrupeds are schematically rendered, with short legs, long, horizontal bodies, tall necks, and narrow heads. A small, lozenge-shaped form occupies some space above each animal’s body. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

13. Boardman 1989, fig. 340.

rq 3

Remaking a City Sardis in the Long Third Century Paul J. Kosmin

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y goal in this chapter is to propose a set of plausible frames for a historical understand ing of Sardis between the battles of Granicus and Magnesia. I suggest that the incorporation  of Sardis into the Seleucid empire in the second quarter of the third century BCE coincided with and, in all likelihood, brought about the fundamental transformations in urbanism and political community that would characterize the city for the next half millennium and beyond. It is a refrain throughout this book, and a responsible one, that our evidence on Hellenistic Sardis is exiguous. Certainly new archaeology and epigraphy are desirable and will transform what we now know, although perhaps not as dramatically as the discoveries in the decades since the work of George Hanfmann. Yet the historiographical, material, and documentary evidence, if not abundant, is significant and can be elucidated by typologically similar situations from elsewhere in the Seleucid empire. Τὰ μ ε τὰ Ἀ λ έ ξανδρο ν

Soon after his victory at Granicus in 334, Alexander received the surrender of Sardis—the citadel from its Persian commander, Mithrines, and the city from distinguished Sardians (Σαρδιανῶν οἱ δυνατώτατοι), a distinction between high and low spaces, imperial and local groups, that will be preserved until the battle of Magnesia in the early second century. The Achaemenid officials were replaced by Macedonians, and the Lydians were granted use of their ancient laws (Σαρδιανοὺς δὲ καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους Λυδοὺς τοῖς νόμοις τε τοῖς πάλαι Λυδῶν χρῆσθαι ἔδωκεν), whatever that may mean.1 Sardis then drops out of view for the next decade, as our historiographical sources spotlight Alexander’s anabasis, resurfacing to the historical record amid the wars of succession. The half century from Alexander’s death in 323 to the reign of Antiochus I was a prolonged period of political instability across the east Mediterranean and west Asia (pls. 19, 23). Sardis endured at least seven 1. Arr. Anab. 1.17.3–6, with Diod. Sic. 17.21.7 and Plut. Alex. 17.1. The most detailed discussion of the surrender remains Briant 1993. 75

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changes of regime and three sieges, a politics of interruption that may bear some responsibility for the potential truncating and incompletion of new building in the upper city (see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill, and chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin). This was a far more mercurial politics than has often been recognized,2 so the sequence of events is summarized below. Menander, Alexander’s satrap of Lydia, remained in post at the settlement of Babylon in 323.3 Sardis was soon the preferred residence of Alexander’s sister, Cleopatra, whom her suitor, the Macedonian regent Perdiccas, appointed as satrap in Menander’s place and to his chagrin.4 After Perdiccas’s assassination and the reordering of provincial commands at Triparadeisus in 320, Cleitus the White was appointed over the region,5 but was shortly afterward expelled by Antigonus Monophthalmus.6 Eumenes, once Alexander’s secretary and now a royalist warlord, at some point intended battle against Antipater at the foot of Sardis, but he moved on to Celaenae in Phrygia at Cleopatra’s request.7 Antigonus Monophthalmus seems to have installed his own garrison in the city by 313, and probably many years earlier; in 308 princess Cleopatra was assassinated there at his command and granted a royal funeral.8 At the very end of the fourth century, when the remaining successors united against Antigonus Monophthalmus, Lysimachus’s general Prepelaus marched against Sardis and gained the lower city by the defection of its general, Phoenix; Antigonus’s philos, Philip, held on to the acropolis.9 Presumably, the citadel soon fell, for we find Amastris, wife of Lysimachus, residing there a little later.10 In the early 280s, Sardis was captured by Demetrius Poliorcetes and then retaken by Lysimachus’s son Agathocles.11 Finally, Seleucus I Nicator conquered the city in 282 or 281, before or after his victory against Lysimachus on the nearby field of Corupedium. Polyaenus, the second-century CE tactical writer, tells how Seleucus won Sardis by stratagem: Seleucus was besieging the citadel of Sardis, and Theodotus, whom Lysimachus had appointed treasurer, was guarding the treasure there. Since Seleucus could not capture such a strong citadel, he issued a proclamation that he would give one hundred talents to whomever would kill Theodotus. Many of the soldiers felt the lure of one hundred talents, and Theodotus suspicion and fear toward his own soldiers. So Theodotus seldom showed himself in public, and many of his men resented his suspicions. In this turmoil, Theodotus anticipated his troops, opened the gate at night, brought in Seleucus, and delivered to him the treasures.12

We learn from a cuneiform Babylonian Chronicle that Seleucus I mustered his troops in Lydia for his ill-fated march home to Macedonia: “Year 3[1 . . . That month the kin]g mustered [his troops] from Sardis” 2. Pedley 1972 omits several of these episodes. 3. Arr. Anab. 3.6.7, Succ. 156 F1.6 (Roos); Diod. Sic. 18.3.1; Dexippus, FGrHist 100 F8.2; Curt. 10.10.2; Just. Epit. 13.4.15. 4. Diod. Sic. 20.37.3; Arr. Succ. F1.26, 40, F25.2, 6 (Roos). For the entanglements of Cleopatra and the successors, see Meeus 2009. 5. Diod. Sic. 18.39.6. 6. Diod. Sic. 18.52.5–6. 7. Plut. Eum. 8.4; Just. Epit. 14.1.7. 8. Diod. Sic. 20.37.3–6. 9. Diod. Sic. 20.107.5. 10. Diod. Sic. 20.109.7; Memnon, BNJ 434 F1 4.9. 11. Plut. Demetr. 46.4. 12. Polyaenus, Strat. 4.9.4. All translations are my own.



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(mu.3[1.ká]m i[ti . . . iti bi érinmeš-šú luga]l ta kurSa-par-du | id-ke-e-ma).13 But this latest conqueror of Sardis was assassinated by his ward, Ptolemy Ceraunus, soon after crossing to European Thrace.14 Shortly there­ after, the Galatians migrated from the Balkans to terrorize western Asia Minor.15 The kings of Bithynia, Cappadocia, Macedonia, and certain powerful Greek poleis united against the Seleucid house.16 Antiochus I, the king’s eldest son and heir, was obliged to march down from the Upper Satrapies, crush a revolt and invasion in northern Syria, and fight hard to regain control of Asia Minor.17 To cite Memnon, a historian of Heraclea Pontica who drew on the writings of his early third-century BCE predecessor Nymphis: “Antiochus, the son of Seleucus, in many wars restored his paternal kingdom, though with difficulty and not in its entirety. He sent Patrocles as general with an expeditionary force to the region on this side of the Taurus Mountains.”18 We know nothing of Sardis’s fate in this half decade of chaos, until we find Antiochus I established there by the early or mid-270s. Between the death of Alexander in 323 and the arrival of Antiochus I in the 270s, Sardis enjoyed barely a decade of stability, an exceptional situation even for the wars of succession. If we can make any sense at all of this courte durée flurry of high imperial politics, it is: first, Sardis’s significance for territorial ambitions in western Asia Minor, frequently expressed by the sojourn there of powerful royal women—Alexander’s sister Cleopatra, Lysimachus’s wife Amastris, and, as we shall see, Antiochus I’s wife, Stratonice; and, second, the recurring distinction, and occasionally military opposition, between the lower city and the impregnable acropolis. We can only guess at the effects of this generation-long crisis of legitimacy, authority, and delegation on the population of Sardis, their political and economic lives, and their social and religious well-being. In the first decade or so of the third century, monumental construction seems to have been initiated on the ancient Lydian terraces at “Field 49,” the name given to a prestige location above the later theater; this work cannot yet be attributed to any one of the pre-Seleucid regimes. Lysimachus may be the most likely sponsor (see chapters 1 and 2), but we should also remember the fifteen-year residence of Cleopatra, sister of the great conqueror. The Kybele figurines described by Frances Gallart Marqués in chapter 5, deposited where the theater would be built, indicate the presence in this period of a shrine below the new building work (see chapter 2). Two inscriptions, dated somewhere in these pre-Seleucid years, give an indication of Sardis’s internal situation. Miletus contracted philia, asylia, and isopoliteia with a number of its neighboring cities in the early Hellenistic period, stabilizing itself in a mesh of formal relationships. An agreement with Cyzicus, for instance, confirmed eternal friendship between the two poleis (τὰς μὲν πόλεις φίλας εἶ|ναι ἐς τὸν ἅπαντα χρόνον).19 Similarly, an isopolity agreement with Phygela stated that “ambassadors have come from the polis of the Phygelians” (πρέσβεις ἥκουσι ἀπὸ τῆ[ς] | [πόλ]εως τῆς Φυγελέων).20 A further inscription confirms an accord of philia between Miletus and Sardis.21 But in contrast to the treatment of Cyzicus and Phygela, 13. BCHP 9 Rev. 1–2. 14. Memnon, BNJ 434 F1 8.3; Plut. Mor. 555b; Paus. 1.16.2, 10.19.7. 15. Livy 38.16.9–14; Polyb. 21.37.8; Strabo 12.5.1–3. 16. Memnon, BNJ 434 F1 9–15; Seyrig 1958. 17. OGIS 219 = I.Ilion 32, lines 4–7; for the dating of this inscription, see Kosmin 2014, 302n44. 18. Memnon, BNJ 434 F1 8.9. 19. Milet 1.3 no. 137 = Schmitt 2002 no. 409. 20. Milet 1.3 no. 142 = Schmitt 2002 no. 453 = SEG 37 982. 21. Milet 1.3 no. 135 = Syll.3 273 = Schmitt 2002 no. 407 = SEG 37 982. On the post-Achaemenid date, see Erhardt 1987, 114–15; Gauthier 1972, 242nn95, 98–102; Rehm 1914, 288.

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Sardis is not characterized as a polis and does not possess parallel or recognizable institutions. As Philippe Gauthier has noted, the Sardians’ envoy is characterized not as an “ambassador,” but as a “messenger” (ἄγγελος), a term used for non-Greek communities.22 Whereas the Sardians in Miletus are to be a concern of the Milesian prytaneis, the Milesians in Sardis are to be looked after by “whomever the Sardians should approve from among themselves” (ἐς Σάρδισι δὲ ἐπιμελε͂σθαι Μιλησίων, οὓ|ς ἂν ἀποδέξωσι Σαρδιηνοὶ ἑαο|τῶν). The Sardians select three men to represent the Milesians—Potas the son of Papes, and the brothers Artimes and Attis, sons of Pactyes. We do not know the system or principles of selection, but all have Lydian names, and Attis is a priest of Dionysus;23 none has a named magistracy or political office. Perhaps they could be characterized as being of the same group of dominant Sardians, Σαρδιανῶν οἱ δυνατώτατοι, who welcomed Alexander.24 The second, remarkable inscription, also likely dated between Alexander and the Seleucids, was found at the Prytaneion of Ephesus. This so-called Sacrilege Inscription records in precise legal language the Ephesians’ condemnation to death of forty-five Sardians who “profaned the sacred objects” and “abused the theoroi” who had come from Ephesus to the city’s satellite sanctuary at Sardis (see fig. 10.1).25 These Sardians are identified by their own and their father’s, grandfather’s, and, rarely, great-grandfather’s names, as well as by their (or their relatives’) occupations. The onomastics are primarily a mix of Lydian and Greek, with Iranian and other Anatolian names also represented. None of the occupations—goldsmith, shoe-seller, sandal-maker, bathman, oil vendor, sacred herald—would have been out of place a couple of centuries earlier. It is noteworthy that none of the condemned or their families are identified by a civic tribe, political office, or non­religious urban institution,26 and no reference is made to polis-type structures at Sardis. All this is in no way to cast doubt on the existence of civic and social structures in late Achaemenid and early Hellenistic Sardis; these surely existed, even if in a form illegible to Milesians and Ephesians.27 Rather, the key point is this: when Antiochus I established himself at Sardis in the 270s, it seems that very little had changed in the city’s internal organization, lifestyle, and urbanism since Alexander’s arrival a lifetime earlier. Un der A n t io chus I Our new archaeological evidence has made it fairly clear that the crucial turning point in Sardis’s later firstmillennium history, the major metabolē between the Achaemenid conquest and the dominance of Rome, can be placed in the second quarter of the third century. That is to say, it was during the independent reign of Antiochus I (281–261) that Lydia finally enjoyed some semblance of political stability and Sardis an urban transformation. We can observe two kinds of development in the urban landscape: the revitalization and reinhabitation of the old city, and new, massive public constructions of a polis type. Under the Achaemenids, whole areas of intramural Sardis appear to have been abandoned. As Cahill has demonstrated, over and over again in trenches excavated down to the Lydian period, there is a gap in occupation from the mid-sixth to the middle quarters of the third century. In these Persian centuries, settlement 22. Gauthier 1989, 161–62. 23. L. Robert 1963, 82. 24. Arr. Anab. 1.17.3. 25. I.Eph 2 = SEG 36 1011; see the important discussions of Hanfmann 1987; Masson 1987; L. Robert 1967, 32–36. 26. Noted by Hanfmann 1987, 1. 27. A point rightly emphasized by Briant 1993, 19–23.



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and industry concentrated instead outside the walls to the west along the Pactolus river-run (at the “House of Bronzes” and “Pactolus North” sectors). Now, in the second quarter of the third century, after a gap of over two and half centuries, domestic residences reappeared for the first time inside the old walls of Sardis. Simultaneously, the extramural Pactolus areas were abandoned, perhaps even deliberately razed, since the wells were filled in (see chapter 2). It is also in the second quarter of the third century that Berlin places a profound break in styles of table vessels; new types of plates, bowls, and drinking cups replace long-used, traditional Lydian and Persian forms. Further, as evidence currently stands, the early third-century, pre-Seleucid monumental construction in the upper city was renewed, replaced, or expanded, with an abundance of massive roofing tiles indicating major supra-domestic building. The placing of late Hellenistic tombs at the House of Bronzes area in the north confirms that at some earlier point, the main Lydian city gate, which had been blocked up in the Achaemenid period, was reopened and its roadway traffic revitalized. Given the new intramural residences nearby, the third century is the most plausible moment for this reactivation. At the same time, entirely new, ambitious civic monuments were constructed at Sardis, almost certainly with imperial Seleucid sponsorship. A theater, the very first at Sardis, was inserted into the hillside to the east of the upper city’s Field 49 (see chapters 2 and 5). The earliest construction of the great temple of Artemis, which was to become the fourth-largest Ionian temple, dates to these first Seleucid decades (see chapter 6, “The Temple of Artemis,” by Fikret Yegül). The marble quarries to Sardis’s south were first opened for this new sanctuary, with multiplier effects on road infrastructure and other urban construction in marble.28 At some point in the third century, and certainly by the time of Antiochus III’s siege of Sardis, as we shall see, the city possessed a gymnasium, with the typical age-class of neoi, a hippodrome, and royally constructed shops (τῶν ἐργαστηρίων), likely housed in an agora-lining stoa.29 These were distinctive interventions in the physical, social, and perhaps even linguistic life of Sardis. It is tempting to follow Susan Sherwin-White and Amélie Kuhrt in linking Sardis’s adoption of polis institutions, forms, and self-identity to this fundamental recharacterization, even Hellenization, of its urban landscape.30 Without doubt local inhabitants, regional players, and lower-rank imperial officials all contributed in various and significant ways to these developments. But the overarching historical situation, the necessity of imperial financing, the concentration of political agency within the Seleucid state, the official narratives of royal urbanizing propagated by the court, and, most significantly, the presence at Sardis of Antiochus I, his queen, Stratonice, and the imperial administration (see below) can justify considering this, at least as shorthand, as Antiochus I’s Sardis Project. I would propose that the redevelopment, beautification, and possibly the formal poliadization of the city constituted an important element in Antiochus I’s reassertion of Seleucid authority in western Asia Minor in the decade following Seleucus I’s assassination. To understand how this Sardian activity fits into Seleucid imperial urbanism, it is helpful to distinguish, in very general terms, two periods, modes, and landscapes of early Seleucid urbanism (pl. 20).31 On the one hand, between his conquest of Babylon in 311 and his assassination at the Hellespont in 281, Seleucus I was responsible for fixing entirely new urban centers of imperial power. The older Achaemenid or 28. Suggested in conversation by Nicholas Cahill. 29. Ma no. 3 = Gauthier 1989, no. 3 = SEG 39 1289; Polyb. 7.17.2. For the stoa-agora suggestion, see Gauthier 1989, 102–6. 30. Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 182–83. 31. The next two paragraphs rehearse arguments found in Kosmin 2014, 183–221. For details of the colonial foundations, see Cohen 1995, 2006, 2013.

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pre-Achaemenid capitals of Persepolis, Pasargadae, Susa, Babylon, and Damascus were abandoned or relegated. In their place Seleucus I established Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, at a formerly marginal zone of the lowermiddle Tigris Valley, and the so-called northern Syrian Tetrapolis of Seleucia-in-Pieria, Antioch-by-Daphne, Laodicea-by-the-Sea, and Apamea-on-the-Axios. These two colonial panels on the middle Tigris and in northern Syria were top-down, strategic impositions that reoriented the Near East’s political landscape around entirely new, grid-planned, dynastically named, Graeco-Macedonian colonies. During the reigns of Antiochus I and II, on the other hand, smaller roadway or riverine foundations were beaded along the main axes of imperial communication between and beyond the new colonial panels: along the so-called Common Road from Ephesus to Syria (see below), down the Euphrates, across northern Mesopotamia, and up the Khorasan highway from Media into Central Asia. These settlements confirmed rather than replaced pre-Hellenistic urban centers and hierarchies. Indeed, Antiochus I’s urbanizing activities in Central Asia between 294 and 281—that is, the immediate historical background to his Asia Minor works—anticipate much of what we see at Sardis. It seems that during his co-regency in Central Asia, Antiochus I retained, refortified, and expanded old Achaemenid or pre-Achaemenid centers. Excavation and field survey have demonstrated a reconstruction of fortified settlements, increase of colonial population, and expansion of irrigation. A number of abandoned or de-urbanized settlements—Artacabene in Aria, Hecatompylus in Hyrcania, Alexandria-Eschate—were reestablished.32 I have argued elsewhere that the Seleucid general and court author Demodamas of Miletus cast Antiochus in the ideologically potent role of builderking and restorer of abandoned cities;33 perhaps this royal script, developed in Central Asia, was reemployed for Sardis. It may also be relevant that Antiochus I is known to have rebuilt the main temples of Babylon and Borsippa, the Esagila and Ezida,34 and is the likely sponsor of the temple complexes at Aï Khanoum35 and Takht-i Sangin.36 No doubt this second kind of Seleucid urbanism, reconfirming preexisting centers, is far more germane to Sardis than the first. But the Lydian capital stands apart. Unlike, say, Susa, refounded as Seleucia-on-theEulaeus, or Phrygian Celaenae, relocated and renamed as Apamea, or Merv, as Antioch-in-Margiane, or Nisibis, as Antioch-on-the-Callirhoe, and so forth, Sardis remained, simply, Sardis. It was neither given a dynastic name (that is, rebaptized as an Antioch, Seleucia, Laodicea, or Apamea) nor attached to a landscape feature (such as Sardis-on-the-Hermus, Sardis-below-Tmolus, or the like). Across their empire, the early Seleucid monarchs used new cities or new names for old cities to mark themselves off from recent precedent and former regimes, framing their imperial enterprise as something new—a forging, not an inheriting, of empire.37 The retention unchanged of Sardis’s location, name, and regional function represents a distinctive choice. At this far western periphery of Seleucid space, Antiochus I adopted an almost exceptional strategy of continuity and revival. The only close parallel within the full breadth of the imperial landscape and its cities is Ecbatana in Media, another pre-Achaemenid capital and regional administrative center.38 32. Plin. HN 6.16.47, 48, 23.93; Strabo 11.10.2. 33. BNJ 428, with Kosmin 2014, 61–67. 34. For the most recent translation and analysis of the Borsippa Cylinder, see Stevens 2014. 35. Bernard 1973, 108–9. 36. Litvinskiy 2010; Litvinskiy, Vinogradov, and Pièikjan 1985. 37. See Kosmin 2014, 210, and 2018. 38. Even Ecbatana was refounded by Antiochus IV Epiphanes as Epiphania in the late 170s or early 160s BCE, by which point, of course, Sardis had been taken from the grasp of the Syrian kings; see Steph. Byz. s.v. Agbatana, with Cohen 2013, 207.



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An Astronomical Diary from Babylon, inscribed in Akkadian cuneiform on clay, offers a rare glimpse of Sardis’s place in Antiochus I’s early empire. The Astronomical Diaries developed as a genre in the NeoBabylonian period to correlate the movements of the heavens with the height of the Euphrates River, the market price of six staple foods, various prodigies and omens, and political events related to the royal court. In the Hellenistic period their geographical range widens considerably to embrace Bactria, western Asia Minor, and Egypt, and they grant access in real time to imperial events as understood from Babylon. The Astronomical Diary for 274 reads: mu bi lugal udmeš-šú dam-su u nun sig-ú ina kur{ina} Sa-par-du áš-šú d[u-un]-nun en.nun ú-maš-šìr a-na e-ber íd ana ugu lúerín mi-ṣir šá ina e-ber íd šub-ú gin-ik-am-ma lúerín mi-ṣir ina igi-šú bal-ú . . . mu.37.kám IAn-ti u ISe-lu ituše 9 lúmu-ma-‘i-ir kururiki u lúpaq-dume[š] šá lugal šá ina mu.36.kám ana kursa-par-du ana ugu lugal gin-u’ a-na uruSe-lu-ku-’a-a uru lugal-tu šá ina ugu ídidigna gurmeš That year, the king left behind his [?], his wife, and an important official in Sardis in order to strengthen the garrison. He went to Ebir-Nari against the troops of Egypt, which were encamped in Ebir-Nari, and the troops of Egypt fled before him. . . . Year 37 (Seleucid Era), Antiochus and Seleucus, month XII, 9th: the satrap of Babylonia and the appointees of the king, who in year 36 (Seleucid Era) had gone to Sardis, before the king, returned to Seleucia, the city of kingship, which is on the Tigris.39

The Diary attests Antiochus I’s lengthy sojourn at Sardis and his concern for its military defenses. Further, we see that in the previous year high-ranking officials had made the long journey to meet with the king at Sardis. These Babylonian administrators did not seek out Antiochus at Ephesus or Apamea-Celaenae or any other Seleucid center. From the perspective of the Babylonian scribe, to travel to the king in the west, ana muḥḥi šarri, was to travel to Sardis, ana Sapardu. Similarly, the city emerges here as the appropriate residence in Asia Minor for Antiochus’s wife and court during his absence on campaign, as it had been for her predecessors Cleopatra and Amastris.40 Presumably, the military reinforcement was achieved by both the queen’s own guard and her charismatic presence. Akkadian cuneiform, the script of these Diaries, employed certain signs, called determinatives, as graphic indicators of the class of objects to which a noun belongs. For instance, the determinative I, a vertical line before the abbreviated names of Antiochus and Seleucus (IAn-ti u ISe-lu), indicates that the following word belonged in the category “male human.” Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, the new imperial capital in Mesopotamia to which the imperial officials return, belongs to the grouping “uru,” “city”: uruSe-lu-ku-’a-a uru lugal-tu šá ina ugu ídidigna, “citySeleucia, the city of kingship, which is on the riverTigris.” At this point in the early reign of Antiochus I, in years 36 and 37 of the Seleucid Era, as also in the immediate aftermath of Seleucus I’s Corupedium campaign in year 31 (see above), Sardis appears as kurSapardu. The determinative “kur” means 39. AD -273 B Rev. 29–30, 34–35. 40. Grainger (2014, 147) suggests that the high-ranking official (rubû edû) may have been “a man of the status of Patrokles.”

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“land,” “region,” or “mountain.” In the Achaemenid lists of subjected lands, kurSapardu appears as the Akkadian equivalent of Old Persian Sparda and Elamite Iiš-pár-da-pè—that is, the satrapy of Lydia. In these Astronomical Diaries, from the last years of Seleucus I’s reign and the early years of Antiochus I’s, kurSapardu is employed as a mustering point, a destination of administrative travel, a royal residence, and a garrisoning center. While all of these require a narrow geographical focus on the specific site of Sardis, rather than the broader region, the priestly authors have assumed a distinction between the grandly urbanized Seleucia-onthe-Tigris and an un-urbanized or de-urbanized Sardis.41 The city reappears one more time in the published cuneiform corpus, in an Astronomical Diary of 254, just over half a decade into the reign of Antiochus I’s successor, Antiochus II. The scribe gives a report of the death of the dowager queen, Stratonice: itu bi ina eki it-téš-mu-[ú] u[m-ma fAs]-ta-rat-ni-qé gašan ina uruSa-par-du šim-tu4 ub-til-šú That month it was heard in Babylon: queen Stratonice died in Sardis.42

Another royal death at Sardis, perhaps another royal burial. We do not know whether Stratonice had been based in the city since Antiochus I’s departure in 274 or had returned at some later date; certainly Sardis appears as a preferred residence. More germane is a change in the cuneiform convention. At the beginning of Antiochus I’s reign, Stratonice had been left behind in kurSapardu—that is, in “the mountain of Sardis” or “the land of Sardis” or, much less likely, “Lydia.” Two decades later fate took her in uruSapardu, “the city of Sardis.” Perhaps this is merely a scribal slip or an unmarked change.43 Yet, given the strong archaeological evidence for the massive transformation of intramural Sardis in the second quarter of the third century from a de-urbanized fort site into a fully equipped, inhabited city, it is plausible to see here a recognition, even in distant Babylon, that Sardis had shifted from one taxonomic category to another over the course of Stratonice’s life. For the Diary’s scribe, Sardis had now earned the same determinative as their own ancient city and the neighboring new capital of Seleucia-on-the-Tigris. If so, this is not only confirmation for the dating of the city’s reurbanization to the reigns of Antiochus I and Stratonice, but also good evidence for a broader imperial awareness of this project. The Augustan-period geographer Strabo may offer confirmation of such a narrative in his account of Sardis’s urban history (13.4.8): Callisthenes says that Sardis was first captured by the Cimmerians, then by the Treres and Lycians, as is set forth by Callinus the elegiac poet, and lastly in the time of Cyrus and Croesus. . . . Later, the city was restored in a notable way on account of the excellence of its territory (ἀναληφθεῖσα ἀξιολόγως ὕστερον διὰ τὴν ἀρετὴν τῆς χώρας ἡ πόλις), and was inferior to none of its neighbors, though recently it has lost many buildings through earthquakes. 41. See Cahill, chapter 1, on the birta’ Sardis. 42. AD -253 B16. 43. Van der Spek (2003, 306) has noted the use of both terms in the Astronomical Diaries: in AD -440 Rev. 4, the city-kingdom of Salamis appears as “the land of Salamis, a famous city in the land of Cyprus” (kursa-mi-né-e uru sig-ú šá kurku-up-ru); and in AD -95 A Flake 10, “the city of Armenia” (uruar-mi-ni) may refer to Artaxata, Tigranocerta, or the wider region.



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For Strabo, at some point after the Persian kings (ὕστερον) and before the recent Tiberian earthquake (νεωστί), the polis of Sardis ἀναληφθεῖσα ἀξιολόγως—that is, was “rebuilt,” “recovered,” or “restored,” “magnificently,” “remarkably,” or “worthily.”44 The lexical formula recurs in Strabo for the rebuilding of abandoned or destroyed cities: Corinth (8.6.23), Cius and Myrlea (12.4.3), Mylasa (14.1.24), and Berytus (16.2.19).45 It is most plausible to associate this moment of political-architectural resurrection with Sardis’s renewal, resettlement, and poliadization under the Seleucid scepter. Even if the monumental reurbanization of Sardis was observed in distant Babylon or later geographical writing, we lack anything that gives explicit voice to local Sardian responses. How was this urban revival experienced on the ground and emplotted in local narratives? Did the rebuilding of the intramural city assert more strongly a continuity or a rupture with the past? Did it establish a tripartite historical periodization— of a Lydian royal city, a Persian desolation, and a new, grand, Seleucid-sponsored city—analogous, say, to that of a proud Davidic, a burnt Babylonian, and a restored Persian Jerusalem? Would Antiochus I have been slotted into a local typology of great Lydian builder-kings? Did the Hermus Valley thrill to the prospect of a Lydian revival?46 A B ifo ca l Cit y For a century from the accession of Antiochus I until the battle of Magnesia, interrupted by the collapse of Seleucid authority during the War of the Brothers and the rebellion of Achaeus (for details, see chapter 4, “The Mint at Sardis,” by Jane DeRose Evans), Sardis functioned as the Seleucid empire’s main administrative center, imperial residence, and garrisoning point in western Asia Minor. Simultaneously, it was a developing urban community, with new or emergent polis institutions, civic infrastructure, peer-polity relations, and a glorious and still visible local past. The relationship between these two functions, the imperial and the civic, constituted the dominating historical dynamic of Seleucid Sardis qua city, a Janus-face, to use Hanfmann’s term,47 that was common to the regional centers of the Hellenistic kingdoms—Alexandria, Pella, Demetrias, Pergamum, Syracuse, Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, the Syrian Tetrapolis, and so forth. Although the archaeological data at Sardis remains too exiguous to have much purchase, we can nevertheless begin to identify the major institutional and urban nodes, imperial and civic. For its Seleucid rulers Sardis functioned, fundamentally, as a military center. The occupation of the steep acropolis by armed troops is frequently attested, but we must presume that the martial presence extended over other areas of the intramural city and hinterland. Horse and elephant forces would have required territories for grazing and fodder, garrisoned forces a residential, social, and sexual infrastructure.48 Traces of an extensive imperial administration survive in the royal coins minted in the city (see chapter 4) and the imperial commands that issued from its chancellery. Several officials were permanently based there: our evidence includes, at a minimum, the satrap, occasionally, like Alexander and Zeuxis, with 44. ἀναλαμβάνω is used for the recovery of both the general prosperity of cities (e.g., Xen. Hell. 6.5.21) and their physical materiality (e.g., Joseph. AJ 12.139). 45. See J. Robert and L. Robert 1983, 190n180. 46. Note that in their respective contributions to this volume, Jane DeRose Evans (chapter 4), Fikret Yegül (chapter 6), and Susan Rotroff (chapter 11) identify deliberate evocations of the Lydian royal past in Hellenistic Sardis’s civic coinage, temple architecture, and drinking vessels. 47. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 113. 48. On the complex political and social interactions of city and garrison, see, e.g., Chaniotis 2002; Ma 2002.

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supra-Lydian authority, the official in charge of the prosodoi, the dioiketes, the eklogistes, and the oikonomos.49 A document depot already existed under the Achaemenids—Alexander claimed to have found letters of Demosthenes there50—and continued in use or was replaced by the Seleucids. A famous inscription from Didyma records king Antiochus II’s sale of land estates to his queen, Laodice. The fiscal and territorial details of this sale were to be recorded on five stone stelae, erected at the sanctuaries of Athena at Ilium, at Samothrace, of Artemis at Ephesus, of Apollo at Didyma (the surviving copy), and of Artemis at Sardis (see chapter 6). A further record of the sale was to be preserved with the royal papers in Sardis (καὶ τὴν ὠνὴν ἀναγράψαι εἰς τὰς βασιλικὰς γραφὰς τὰς ἐν Σάρδεσιν).51 Of these five locations, Sardis alone preserved Antiochus II’s decision in two modes, publicly inscribed on stone in the new Artemis temple and secreted into the royal archive on papyrus or parchment. It is fair to conclude from this that the city housed the empire’s “paper” archive for the region, and so was the place to which fiscal, administrative, and even personal records were directed and sourced, with all the attendant consequences for lines of communication, notions of centrality, and political subjectivity.52 Relatedly, all dated Seleucid-period documents from Sardis use the Macedonian calendar and the Seleucid Era: for instance, queen Laodice’s letter to the boulē and dēmos of Sardis in summer 213 is dated to the tenth Panemos in the ninety-ninth year of the Seleucid Era;53 the city’s covering decree is dated to the next month, Oloios.54 At the official level Seleucid imperial time, and the sense of historical periodization that its era-count projected, replaced the Achaemenid Babylonian calendar as well as, presumably, any Lydian calendar that continued to exist. Elsewhere in the kingdom, we have good evidence for the penetration, internalization, and naturalization of this Seleucid chronography by the subject populations;55 as yet, too little evidence survives from Sardis to assert a similar domestication of the imperial time. Finally, we can be confident of some kind of palatial complex at Sardis. As we have seen, the city was home to Cleopatra for many years before Seleucid rule, housed the regional viceroys Alexander and Zeuxis, served as the capital of the usurper king Achaeus, and functioned, often for extended periods, as the residence of Seleucid monarchs. We do not know at this stage whether a Lydian56 or satrapal Achaemenid palace was reemployed and updated, as with the Neo-Babylonian and Persian palace of Babylon, or was replaced by an entirely new Seleucid structure, as, it seems, at Susa/Seleucia-on-the-Eulaeus. Nor do we know whether the Seleucid palace was incorporated into the body of the lower city, as at Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, Aï Khanoum, and Antioch-by-Daphne, or raised above the main civic areas, as at Dura-Europus, Jebel Khalid, Mount Karasis, and several other sites. 49. Alexander: Porphyry, FGrHist 260 F32.8; Syll.3 426 = I.Iasos 608, lines 47–48; OGIS 229 = I.Magnesia am Sipylos 1, lines 100–105; I.Tralleis 25 = SEG 4 422; with Chrubasik 2016, 72–73; D’Agostini 2013, 97–98. Zeuxis: see Ma 1999, 123–30, for references and analysis. For the other offices, see Capdetrey 2007, 306–15; Ma 1999, 135–36; Gauthier 1989, 133–34; with Ma 1999 no. 41 D = Gauthier 1989, no. 7 l. 3; and Ma 1999 no. 44 = lines 6–13. 50. Plut. Dem. 21. 51. OGIS 225 = I.Didyma 492, lines 24–25. 52. On Seleucid archival practice, see Hicks 2016; Kosmin 2018, 49–63. 53. Ma 1999, no. 2 = Gauthier 1989, no. 2 = SEG 39 1284 B line 20. 54. Ma 1999, no. 2 = Gauthier 1989, no. 2 = SEG 39 1284 A line 7; for the name of this month, see Gauthier 1989, 49–51. Its spelling, an alternative for “Loios,” is paralleled in the Graeco-Bactrian kingdom; see Hollis, Rea, and Senior 1994, 264. 55. See Kosmin 2018, 45–76. 56. The claim by Vitruvius and Pliny (HN 35.172) that the mud-brick palace of Croesus survived as the city’s gerousia may well be Roman fantasy, a regia-like tale of the architectural displacement of monarchy by republican government.



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In civic terms, the Seleucid century saw Sardis acquire standardly Hellenic political and cultural forms, none of which seem to have existed before the reign of Antiochus I. Political activity took place in the Greek language and in the conventional bicameral shape of the boulē and dēmos.57 A prytaneion and a city treasurer (tamias) are also attested.58 Elite members of the community and imperial administration were honored by civic decree, with bronze statues, gold crowns, and front-row seats “at all the competitions which the city celebrates” (ἐν τοῖς ἀγῶσι π[ᾶσιν] | [οἷς ἡ] πόλις συντελεῖ).59 The honoring of a certain Heliodorus, praised for his service abroad as a judge “in the tribunals sent by the dēmos to the other poleis” (ἐν τοῖς πεμπομένοις δικαστηρίοις ὑπὸ τοῦ δήμου | εἰς τὰς ἄλλας πόλεις),60 points to the development of a Greek legal expertise and peer-polity interactions on the basis of shared and mutually legible institutions, a notable contrast with the pre-Seleucid Ephesus and Miletus inscriptions. As Gauthier notes, the decree’s expression shows that such service was considered neither exceptional nor new.61 Further, although the onomastic evidence is very limited, hardly a Lydian or Iranian name now appears, once again a striking difference from the Ephesian Sacrilege Inscription and Milesian philia agreement from the decades before the Seleucid takeover. We have already seen that by the last quarter of the third century, and perhaps many decades before, Sardis possessed the key infrastructure of polis entertainment and paideia—a theater, a gymnasium, and a hippodrome—presumably with the social structures, festival calendar, and competitive ethos to sustain them. It is uncertain to what extent the city’s two major sanctuaries, the Metroön to the north and the new Artemis temple to the southwest, were considered civic rather than imperial constructions. It is likely that this accretion of standardly Hellenic forms—political, cultural, and domestic (see chapter 2)—was an effect of the imperial domination. It may have been a top-down, sponsored transformation, as at Jerusalem, Babylon, and Toriaeum, perhaps already with the city’s reurbanization under Antiochus I. Alternatively, it may have been a civic mode for regulating and containing the Seleucid presence within the city. Certainly, the formalized epistolary and honorific interactions between the two entities62 imply an attempt by both groups to maintain an organizational and ideological distinction. A crucial question, but one we are still unable to answer in any significant detail, is the extent to which Sardis’s functional bifocalism mapped onto a spatial, material, and social one. Put simply, how did Seleucid Sardis work as a city? Were there locational constraints for different inhabitants? Should we expect a zoning into civic and imperial quarters? Would the residences of senior officials cluster around the palace? And, to follow, was there a separate, architecturally distinctive imperial necropolis, perhaps even grand mausolea for Cleopatra, Stratonice, and the noble dead of too many battles?63 A striking feature of Sardis, an effect of its natural and constructed landscape, is an overriding sense of vertical demarcation: a lower city to the north, an upper city elevated on monumental Lydian terraces, still visible in the Hellenistic period, and the high 57. Ma 1999, no. 2 = Gauthier 1989, no. 2 = SEG 39 1284 A, B, C; Ma 1999, no. 41 B = Gauthier 1989 no. 5. 58. Ma 1999, no. 40 = L. Robert 1964, no. 1 lines 3, 16. 59. Ma 1999, no. 40 = L. Robert 1964, no. 1 lines 4–5; see also Paus. 7.6.6 on Adrastus the Lydian, who fought in the Lamian War. 60. Gauthier 1989, no. 4 = SEG 39 1286 lines 7–8. 61. Gauthier 1989, 122. 62. Ma 1999, no. 1 = Gauthier 1989, no. 1 = SEG 39 1283; Ma 1999, no. 2 = Gauthier 1989, no. 2 = SEG 39 1284; Ma 1999, no. 3 = Gauthier 1989, no. 3 = SEG 39 1285; Ma 1999, no. 40 = L. Robert 1964, no. 1. 63. For comparison, note the Pyramid Tomb at Sardis (Dusinberre 2003, 139–41) and the Tomb of the Erotes at Eretria, a Macedonian-style barrel tumulus considered to be the burial place of an Antigonid garrison family (Huguenot 2008, 1:236–51).

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acropolis, reached by external pathways and interior tunnels (see chapter 7, “The Hellenistic City Plan,” by Philip Stinson). From the top, looking down, the visual experience is of a foreshortened city, the wet, rich plain of the Hermus, the old Lydian tumuli of Bin Tepe, and the northward routes to Thyateira and Pergamum (pl. 31). The neck-craning gaze from the lower city gives a sense of a massive stepped pyramid, ever steeper in ascent, rising by the cyclopean terraces and the elite buildings they supported, to the dominating, garrisoned, wall-bristling citadel (see pl. 35). Such urban architectonics permitted, at the very least, a primarily vertical spatial relationship between urban citizen and imperial apparatus. Perhaps the third-century constructions being exposed in the upper city (ByzFort and Field 49), with their massive foundations and enormous tiles, will come to be seen as part of a palace district on high. Yet all this is too stationary: both the built environment of cities (that is, their monumental armature) and the administrative structures of empires are invested in promoting a static vision, encouraging us to think in terms of the permanence of places and the fixity of roles.64 We can begin to get a more kinetic sense of Seleucid Sardis, of the imperial city as an assemblage of dynamic relations, competing identities, and struggles over spatial and political dominance, by turning to the best-known episode of the period: Antiochus III’s siege of Achaeus and punishing of Sardis in 215–213, as attested in Polybius 7.15–18 and 8.15–21 and in the epigraphic dossier inscribed on the parastades of the city’s Metroön. In 220 Achaeus, the oikeios and avenger of the assassinated Seleucus III, broke from his young Seleucid successor Antiochus III and took the diadem of kingship at his family estates in Laodicea-on-the-Lycus; Sardis became his capital city and sole mint.65 It took half a decade for Antiochus III to cross the Taurus Mountains in order to crush this usurper. Antiochus’s two-year siege, destruction, and sponsored rebuilding of Sardis was once taken as the central event in the city’s history, responsible for its apparent relocation from the Pactolus River to its later and continuous location within the walls (see “Introduction,” by Paul J. Kosmin and Andrea M. Berlin). As we now know, Hellenistic Sardis, before and after Antiochus III, occupied the same location as the earlier Lydian city: the fulcrum event at Hellenistic Sardis was the reoccupation of the abandoned city in the reign of Antiochus III’s great-grandfather, Antiochus I. Nonetheless, Antiochus III’s siege generated an exceptional clustering of textual data that offers some insight into the city’s bifocal dynamics, both geographical and functional, and its place within Seleucid historical memory. By 215 the army of Antiochus III had cornered Achaeus at Sardis. Polybius’s account of the siege identifies the central topographical, administrative, and social distinction between the citadel and the city that had emerged already in the early Hellenistic period. After more than a year of unsuccessful siegeworks, the Cretan mercenary Lagoras proposed a stratagem to Antiochus III: to breach the city at the precipitous Saw (pl. 22), “which connects the citadel and the polis” (ὁ συνάπτων τὴν ἄκραν καὶ τὴν πόλιν, Polyb. 7.15.6). Entering Sardis at this interstitial weakness, the troops would occupy the upper edge of the theater—the first textual evidence for its existence, we should note—well situated to attack both the forces in the citadel (πρός τε τοὺς ἐκ τῆς ἄκρας, 7.16.6) and those in the city (καὶ πρὸς τοὺς ἐκ τῆς πόλεως). The citadel was in the hands of Achaeus himself, while the polis was under the separate command of a certain Aribazus, titled ὁ δ᾽ἐπὶ τῆς πόλεως τεταγμένος (7.17.9), a good indication of an administrative separation between polis and Achaeus. The plan worked: the army of Antiochus III entered, plundered, and burned Sardis, while Aribazus fled with his troops to the citadel (7.18.7–10). Yet the distinction survived even this retreat. The following year, when it became known that the pretender Achaeus had been seized by a stratagem and executed in king

64. See, e.g., Purcell 2005. 65. On the career of Achaeus, see Chrubasik 2016, 81–89, 101–12.



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Antiochus’s tent, the combined forces on the citadel split into two (στασιάντες γὰρ πρὸς σφᾶς ἐμερίσθησαν, 8.21.9), part placing themselves under Aribazus and part under Laodice, Achaeus’s wife. Presumably, this was the reemergence of a long-established administrative and social bifocalism even within the same defensive space. If the behavior of Achaeus and his forces highlights the distinction between citadel and city, Antiochus III’s actions limn the relationship between imperial and civic spaces and functions. Antiochus’s letters to Sardis, inscribed on the Metroön parastas blocks later reused in the synagogue (see “Spotlight: The Metroön at Sardis,” by Nicholas Cahill), record the withdrawal of the burdens with which he had punished the city.66 We learn that a 5 percent punishment tax had been imposed, the city’s gymnasium occupied, and Seleucid soldiers billeted in half of the Sardians’ homes (or half of the homes of Sardians). Such an imposition of a military presence, with all the accompanying disruption and threat of physical and sexual violence, must have transgressed any established sense of spatial zoning and the delimiting of the imperial presence. In response, the city dispatched embassies and voted honors for Antiochus III and his wife, queen Laodice, that reaffirmed Sardian loyalty to the legitimate Seleucid house and established new sites of discrete imperial presence within the city. These included the standard repertoire of ruler cult: a temenos called the Laodiceum, a Laodicea festival on the fifteenth Hyperberetaeus, and sacrifices for the king, the queen, and their children; presumably, Antiochus III received similar awards. In consequence of these loyal actions, the burdens were reduced and relations normalized. Antiochus committed royal resources to the city’s reconstruction, termed a synoikismos. The gymnasium was restored to the citizens, with a grant of 200 measures of olive oil. The Sardians were no longer obliged to pay rent on workshops, presumably in a stoa or stoas constructed by the king’s predecessors. The billeting of soldiers was reduced to one-third of homes and, one assumes, eventually removed altogether. Antiochus III’s actions, both siege and reabsorption, followed a political script of reincorporation well attested elsewhere: the immediate punishment of a city and then, after the citizens’ performance of renewed and willing subordination, a public performance of royal benefaction and megalopsychia. Precisely similar actions are attested at Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, for instance, after Antiochus III’s defeat of the usurper Molon (Polyb. 5.54.9–11). Further, it is tempting to think that the conquest and synoikismos, recalled, perhaps even reenacted, the founding moments of Seleucid Sardis: on the one hand, Seleucus I’s own capture of the city and citadel by stratagem (see the Polyaenus passage above), and, on the other, Antiochus I’s reurbanizing project. It is not especially far-fetched to imagine Antiochus III, perhaps the most dynastically conscious of all the Seleucid monarchs, seated in his royal tent, month after month, rehearsing the Sardian achievements of his progonoi. We know that one of his court poets, a certain Simonides of Magnesia-by-Sipylus, a short distance to the west, composed an epic about Antiochus I’s actions in Asia Minor.67 In other words, our evidence for the siege of Sardis may reflect the recursive temporality of Seleucid kingship, in which campaigning was framed as a reenactment or historical echo of the empire’s foundation.68 Vincent Gabrielsen has effectively characterized this as “the perpetuation of ‘creation’ of the empire by means of its re-current ‘recreation.’”69 The crushing of revolts and the reintegration of original territories allowed the Seleucid monarch to act, at one and the same time, as both protector of a legacy and its conqueror. 66. Ma 1999, no. 1 = Gauthier 1989, no. 1 = SEG 39 1283; Ma 1999, no. 2 = Gauthier 1989, no. 2 = SEG 39 1284; Ma 1999, no. 3 = Gauthier 1989, no. 3 = SEG 39 1285. 67. Steph. Byz. s.v. Boura. 68. See Kosmin 2018, 77–92. 69. Gabrielsen 2008, 23; see also Portier-Young 2011, 136–38.

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Sa r dis a n d It s R egion We might expect that Hellenistic Sardis related to its hinterland and wider region in broadly similar ways to its Achaemenid situation. Certainly, there were some obvious continuities in landscape, land-holding, cultic centers, and sites of defense (see chapter 8, “The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia,” by Christopher Roosevelt). But the new geopolitical environment also saw significant reorientations that de-centered Sardis and transformed it into a kind of frontier bastion. The failure of the Macedonian conquest to incorporate the northern half of the Anatolian peninsula, the Seleucid privileging of the Syrian Tetrapolis over the Iranian plateau, and the early third-century redevel­ opment of the Ephesus harbor (see chapter 10, “Ephesus,” by Sabine Ladstätter) resulted in the downgrading of the great Achaemenid Royal Road. As described in bureaucratic mode by Herodotus, this ancient route began at Sardis, likely continued up the Hermus into Phrygia, crossed the Halys River, continued through Armenia, and then followed the Tigris’s descent to Susa (pl. 5).70 The pre-Hellenic names along this roadway—Satala, Pessinus, Gordion, Ancyra—indicate that it was not won, held, or colonized by the Seleucid monarchs.71 A more southerly route had long existed and was already much used in the fifth and fourth centuries: Alcibiades, for instance, was assassinated at Melissa, a village on this southern road between Synnada and Metropolis, on his journey to the Persian court.72 This southern route, now known as the “Common Road” (Strabo 14.2.29), was privileged, extensively colonized, and fortified by the Seleucid monarchs (pl. 21). As described by the geographer Artemidorus in the first century BCE, the road, traveling “from Ephesus to Carura, a boundary of Caria towards Phrygia, via Magnesia[-on-the-Maeander], Tralleis [formerly Seleucia-on-the-Maeander], Nysa, and Antioch[-on-the-Maeander], is a journey of 740 stades; and from Carura, the journey in Phrygia, though Laodicea, Apamea, Metropolis, and Chelidonia” (Strabo 14.2.29). The number of Seleucid foundations along this route is immediately apparent; several smaller fortresses or outposts protected the passes.73 These settlements were linked elements of a coherent interregional artery of travel that ran from the Aegean to the Seleucid heartland in northern Syria: the Common Road entered and exited Laodicea-on-the-Lycus through gates named “Ephesian” and “Syrian” respectively, after the road’s termini, not the city’s more immediate neighbors. Sardis, by contrast, retained a “Persian Gate” at the time of Antiochus III’s siege.74 This decline of the old Royal Road and the greater prominence of the Common Road turned Sardis into a northern extension of a Syria-Ephesus roadway, pushed off-center with respect to interregional travel. As a result of this reorientation, Ephesus could on occasion operate as an additional or alternative imperial hub in Seleucid western Asia Minor: a residence for Antiochus II, who may have been buried at the Belevi mausoleum, for his wife Laodice and her sons after his death, and for Antiochus III during his Aegean adventures. Monarchs resided in both cities; embassies, such as that of Boulagoras the Samian, moved between them.75 Travel between the two cities seems to have been regularized: a milestone from the Cayster Valley, of Hellenistic date, gives distances between Sardis and Ephesus in stades.76 70. Briant 2012; Dusinberre 2003, 13–16; Syme 1995, 3–23; Calder 1925; Ramsay 1890, 27–43. 71. Noted by Syme 1995, 18. 72. Plut. Alc. 37–39. See Syme 1995, 3–23; Calder 1925; Ramsay 1890, 27–43. 73. Livy 37.56.3: “castella ad Maeandrum amnem.” Ma (1999, 116) observes that the Seleucid-allied dynast Olympichus held the fort at Petra near Labraunda, overlooking the road between Mylasa and Alinda. 74. Polyb. 7.17.6. 75. SEG 1 366: ἀπο‖δημήσας τὴν μὲν ἀρχὴν εἰς Ἔφεσον, ἀναξεύξαντος δὲ Ἀντιόχου | συνακολουθήσας ἕως Σάρδεων. 76. Thonemann 2003, 95–96.



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Furthermore, we must acknowledge the remarkable frequency with which Sardis was the site or setting of major battlefield conflict (pl. 23). As we have seen, the city was gained by siege immediately before or after Seleucus I’s victory over Lysimachus at the field of Corupedium, about 30 kilometers to the west of Sardis.77 Eumenes I defeated Antiochus I near Sardis (περὶ Σάρδεις) around 262.78 In the War of the Brothers during the 230s, Seleucus II defeated his younger sibling, the usurper Antiochus Hierax, again near Sardis, but failed in his attempt to take the city.79 Porphyry mentions two further battles in Lydia,80 as well as Attalus I’s defeat of Antiochus Hierax at Coloe, beside the Gygean Lake, 10 kilometers to the north, in the early 220s.81 As we have seen, Antiochus III besieged Achaeus at Sardis from 215 to 213. And, finally, the Romans and Attalids were victorious over the massed Seleucid army at Magnesia-by-Sipylus, 50 kilometers down the Hermus, in 189. If the Diadoch-period conflicts, discussed at the beginning of this chapter, are added, then more than a dozen regime-changing or potentially regime-changing battles took place in the vicinity of Sardis over the long third century. Certainly, the Hellenistic world was unusually and grandly violent, a structural effect of a warring-states geopolitics and an ideological requirement of monarchic militarism. Yet the situation of Sardis is remarkable, and it is quite difficult to find a parallel elsewhere, even in the Levant, where our evidence is sturdier. In part, no doubt, this recurrence can be explained by the funneling effect of the Anatolian fluvial topography, with Sardis hovering at the horizon of effective invasion from the coast. Similarly, the rise of Pergamum generated a frontier at the northern approach to the Hermus (see chapter 9, “Pergamum and Sardis,” by Ruth Bielfeldt). In part, perhaps, Sardis’s significance to the region’s mental maps and legitimizing geography played a role; it is as if the Hellenistic city functioned as a kind of Gordian Knot, the site whose possession carried with it rightful dominance over western Asia Minor. Overall, the city emerges as more of a frontier than we often imagine, a forward bastion for projecting a Near Eastern empire’s power to north and west. Accordingly, we can make sense of the city’s function within the empire only by recognizing its integration with a network of colonial settlements in the middle Hermus. Just enough evidence survives to indicate that the early Seleucids, in addition to redeveloping Sardis, fixed a militarized glacis in its hinterland (see chapter 8): we can be reasonably confident that Magnesia-by-Sipylus, Thyateira, and the Macedonians settled at Hyrcanis and Agatheira were Seleucid colonies.82 Josephus preserves explicit testimony, in the voice of Antiochus III, of the settlement of two thousand Jewish families from Babylonia “in the forts and most indispensable places” (τὰ φρούρια καὶ τοὺς ἀναγκαιοτάτους τόπους, AJ 12.149) in Lydia and Phrygia; no doubt this included Sardis and is the likely origin of the city’s Jewish community. (Perhaps it is for this reason that the stone Metroön blocks inscribed with Antiochus III’s letters to Sardis were reemployed as piers in the late-antique synagogue.) No military settlements can be attributed to either Antigonus Monophthalmus or Lysimachus (see chapter 8). It is likely, further, that several other foundations, as well as a built infrastructure of watchtowers, sites of retreat, and beacons of communication, were extended over the Sardian hinterland in the third century. Epigraphic evidence and historical narrative indicate that these katoikiai were conceived 77. On the location near Sardis, see Strabo 13.4.5; Bevan 1902, 1:322–33, with reference to the epitaph of a slain Bithynian commander, Menas: Κούρου . . . ἐμ πεδίῳ (I.Kios 98 line 4). 78. Strabo 13.4.2. 79. Porphyry, BNJ 260 F32.8. 80. Porphyry, BNJ 260 F32.8. 81. IvP 27; Porphyry, BNJ 260 F32.8; for location, see Strabo 13.4.5. 82. Cohen 1995, 195–96, 209–12, 216–17.

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of and functioned as communities of soldiers, forming a kind of outer bulwark for Sardis proper, defending against rival kings, Attalid and Ptolemaic invaders, Galatians, dynasts, and rebels. A short car journey around the Hermus Plain easily gives an impressionistic sense of the interconnectedness of these sites and their control of the major routes of access to Sardis from the north and west. The historiographical accounts of the battle of Magnesia—the Seleucid army assembling at Thyateira, marching for battle against Rome and Pergamum to Magnesia-by-Sipylus, and fleeing from defeat for Sardis—narrativizes the activation of this network.83 Conclusion Sardis, an old and abandoned city, redeveloped into a polis in the third century, remained the prime military and administrative center of Seleucid western Asia Minor, from gain to loss. The final act of a Seleucid monarch in Asia Minor may be some confirmation of Sardis’s place in the empire’s symbolic order. In a melancholy coda to the city’s Seleucid history, the once-great king Antiochus III, immediately before fleeing to Syria from the slaughter of the Magnesian battlefield, appointed a commander over the city of Sardis and a satrap over Lydia: “Xenoni tradita custodia urbis, Timone Lydiae praeposito.” Livy saltily notes (37.44.7) that the townsfolk disdained them both.84 Shortly thereafter, the Romans arrived: “Sardibus iam consul erat” (37.45.3).



83. App. Syr. 29–30; Polyb. 21.11–16; Livy 37.21.6, 31.3, 27.6–9, 44.4–7. 84. Livy 37.44.7: “quibus spretis consensu oppidorum.”

Spotlight The Metroön at Sardis Nicholas Cahill

H

erodotus (5.102) mentions the temple of Kybebe, or simply the Mother, “the epi choric goddess” as Herodotus calls her, as the most important temple at Sardis (see chapter 5,  “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués). Although there was probably at least one sanctuary of Artemis during the fifth century BCE, when Herodotus was writing, it escaped his notice or interest; the major city deity seems to have been Kubaba. The burning of this temple in the Ionian Revolt of 499 was the ostensible cause for the Persian invasion of Athens, but it had been rebuilt by some point shortly after the war, in time for Themistocles to visit and even see a statue he himself had dedicated in Athens (Plut. Them. 31).1 We do not know where the temple was located, but a dozen marble anta blocks were found reused in the Roman synagogue, together with sculptures of the goddess, lions, and other apparent dedications from the sanctuary (figs. 3.1, 3.4; see also chapter 1, “Inside Out”).2 In addition to four inscribed and well-published blocks, eight uninscribed anta blocks were found in the rubble of the synagogue piers. All are of similar size and working, and they bear similar architectural features, such as finished panels of different widths on the two sides; most also bear Carian lewises and square dowels.3 The blocks alternate between taller, narrower (back to front) dimensions and shorter, deeper ones. Cuttings show that the two types of blocks alternated in courses, so the antae would key into the wall blocks behind. The sides of the blocks are smoothly finished in front but recessed and roughly picked behind; the backs of the taller, narrower blocks are cut on a diagonal. The smoothly finished panels are of different widths; the wider panel probably faced toward the interior of the building, the narrower toward the exterior. This plethora of anta blocks and the apparent absence of other members of the temple are initially puzzling. These blocks were initially understood as pilasters projecting from slightly offset wall surfaces

1. I am not persuaded by Berndt-Ersöz 2013, which suggests that the sanctuary burned by the Persians was the one at Sector PN. There may have been many neighborhood altars and other sacred spots dedicated to the goddess. 2. Hanfmann 1964b, 34; Gauthier 1989; Knoepfler 1993. 3. Carian lewis: Demirtaş 2006; Pedersen 2011. These are also used in the Hellenistic capitals of the temple of Artemis: see chapter 6, “The Temple of Artemis,” by Fikret Yegül. 91

Fig. 3.1.  Excavations of the synagogue in 1963, showing the collapsed piers of the late Roman building. The blocks with distinctive workmanship are the reused anta blocks from the Metroön, of which twelve were discovered here, four of them inscribed. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)



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(Wandpilaster), with the roughly picked side surfaces joining to adjacent wall blocks at a right angle (fig. 3.2). The reconstruction drawn in 1987 by the Sardis Expedition for Philippe Gauthier’s publication of the inscriptions seemed plausible, as did Denis Knoepfler’s alternative reconstruction.4 However, shortly after publication, both of these were shown to be wrong by Crawford Greenewalt Jr., who compared the blocks instead to the antae of the andrones built by Mausolus and Idreus at Labraunda.5 These also consist of alternating long and short blocks that key into the wall behind, which is made of gneiss rather than marble (fig. 3.3). The roughly finished strips on the sides of the marble antae must have been intended to provide grip for a layer of stucco that covered the rough stone walls, rather than serving as rough joints with other marble blocks. These architectural similarities suggest a more conventional reconstruction for our blocks: as antae for the temple of Kubaba, a normal meaning for the parastades on which the inscriptions were ordered to be inscribed (fig. 3.4). They also suggest a roughly contemporaneous date, in the second or third quarter of the fourth century. The comparison also helps to explain why we have so many anta blocks from the Metroön but no identifiable wall blocks: like the andrones at Labraunda, the Metroön was probably built mostly of coarse stone, stuccoed to give it a finished surface, and with only a façade of marble. The coarse wall blocks were probably not considered appropriate spolia by the builders of the synagogue and were discarded or reused elsewhere. The construction is very similar to the later, Hellenistic phase of the altar of Artemis (LA2), which had finely worked marble stairs across the front, the main point of contact with visitors, but was built primarily of coarse sandstone and tufa and given a polished, stuccoed surface (see fig. 1.8). No obvious candidates for columns, capitals, or entablature were discovered in the excavation. In any case, it

Fig. 3.2.  Uninscribed anta blocks from the Metroön, set up in a somewhat arbitrary preliminary study. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

4. Gauthier 1989, pl. 14; Knoepfler 1993, 33. 5. Greenewalt, Ratté, and Rautman 1994, 22.

Fig. 3.3.  Anta of Andron B at Labraunda, showing marble anta blocks keyed into gneiss walls. (Photo by N. Cahill)



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Fig. 3.4.  The decree of the Sardians, resolving to inscribe the letter of queen Laodice “on the anta of the temple in the sanctuary of the Mother” (ἀναγράψαι εἰς τὴν παραστάδ̣α̣ τοῦ ναοῦ τοῦ ἐν τῶι Μητρώιωι, IN63.121). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

is tempting to place this building in the milieu of the “Ionian Renaissance,” which is otherwise somewhat strikingly absent at Sardis. Study of the blocks in 2017 showed that the antae were subtly tapered on both front and sides. The joint between the stucco and the finished marble surface, however, was vertical, so the finished panels narrow slightly toward the top. The inscribed blocks are among the widest of the preserved anta blocks, showing that they were relatively low on the building. Dowel cuttings and dimensions show that, as Knoepfler had already suggested, the short, fat block bearing the first letter of Antiochus III, dated 5 March 213 (IN63.118), was set on the tall, thin block bearing the decree of the Sardians, a letter of queen Laodice, and the beginning of another letter of Antiochus III, dated 6 June 213 (IN63.121; fig. 3.4).6 The block on which was inscribed the “second letter of Antiochus III” (IN63.120) is wider and so lower down on the anta, but it does not go immediately below the block with the decree of the Sardians and Laodice’s letter, since it is another short, fat block rather than a tall, thin one. The fourth inscription, bearing the decree concerning Heliodorus (IN63.119), belongs on the opposite anta. However, no other joins are preserved between blocks, uninscribed or inscribed, and the majority of the surviving blocks belong higher up on the walls than the inscribed ones. The taper does not, unfortunately, allow us to reconstruct the likely height of the building. The blocks bear other cuttings that suggest repairs at later periods, including, perhaps, the early Roman era. Despite the uncertainty of reconstruction and location, the fortuitous preservation of these blocks and the striking number of sculptural dedications from the sanctuary rebuilt in the synagogue and vicinity are a striking reminder of the remarkable mixture of Anatolian and Greek religious practices, the longevity of Lydian customs, and the many important aspects of life in Sardis that are completely unexpected. Among these surprises is the monumental inscription in an unknown and otherwise unattested language, perhaps part of an altar or table, also found with the wreckage of the Metroön (IN63.141; fig. 3.5).7

6. Gauthier 1989, chs. 1–2; Knoepfler 1993, 35–38. 7. Gusmani 1975, 115–32.

Fig. 3.5.  Inscription in an unknown language from a pier of the synagogue. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 1.  The Lydian and Achaemenid empires. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 2.  Plan of Sardis, 2017. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 3.  View of the acropolis of Sardis. The walls visible in the lower right are the Byzantine fortifications and gate. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 4.  Plan of the terraces in the city center, ByzFort and Field 49, with Lydian (purple) and Hellenistic (blue) remains. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 5.  Lydian and Achaemenid Asia Minor, with the course of the Royal Road. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 6.  The Pactolus neighborhood (Sector PN), Persian-era plan. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 7.  Vessels of the mid-fourth century found on the floor of a house in Sector MMS/S. Clockwise from left: wave-line amphora (P95.051); skyphoi (P95.018, P94.042, P95.017, P94.043); gray-ware mug (P94.044). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 8.  Vessels found on the floor of units XIX–XX in the Pactolus neighborhood (Sector PN), c. 300. Top row, left to right: lekythos (P65.233), large jar (P65.239), pitcher (P65.236), jar or jug (P65.242), large pitcher (P65.230), large pitcher (P98.18), small pitcher (P65.234), small pitcher (P65.212). Bottom row, left to right: small pitcher (P65.232), table lekythos (P65.235), krater (P98.019), mug (P65.250), Achaemenid cups (P65.249, P65.237), small hemispherical bowl (P65.248), wide echinus bowl (P65.240), black-glaze salt cellar (P65.209), black-glaze bowl with rouletted floor (P65.253), pilgrim flask (P65.243). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 9.  Vessels from lowest levels of the Southern Well in the Pactolus neighborhood (Sector PN), c. 300. Clockwise, from left: footed hemispherical cup (P61.480), pitcher (P17.033), large unguentarium (P61.483), small unguentarium (P61.484), black-glaze bowl (P61.485), two echinus bowls (P61.481, P61.482). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 10.  Vessels for individual dining from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood (MMS/S 98.1/99.1), c. 275–225. Top, left to right: medium, large, and small echinus bowls. Bottom, left to right: ledge-rim plates with stamped decoration, fish-plates with short hanging rim. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 11.  Vessels for individual drinking from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood (MMS/S 98.1/99.1), c. 275–225. Top: shallow hemispherical cups with interior decoration. Bottom: ovoid cups with exterior decoration. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 12.  Utility vessels from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood (MMS/S 98.1/99.1), c. 275–225. Left to right: wave-line amphora, pitcher (P98.248), kraters. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 13.  Cooking vessels from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood (MMS/S 98.1/99.1), c. 275–225. Upper three rows: low casseroles with horizontal handles. Bottom: wide-mouthed cooking pot with vertical handle. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 14.  Vessels from Phase 1 of the Hellenistic house in the new northern neighborhood (MD2 96.1), c. 275–225. Clockwise from left: echinus bowls, fish-plates with hanging rims, unguentarium, casseroles, ovoid cups with exterior decoration. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 15a.  Shallow hemispherical cups with interior decoration from Phase 2 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood (MMS/S 98.1/99.1), c. 225–160. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 15b.  Imported mold-made bowls from Phase 2 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood (MMS/S 98.1/99.1), c. 225–160. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 15c.  Kraters/large ledge-rim bowls with exterior decoration for individual drink service from Phase 2 of the Hellenistic house in the new western neighborhood (MMS/S 98.1/99.1), c. 225–160. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 16.  Field 49: plan showing the major buildings and floors of the first three Hellenistic phases in the northern, central, and southern excavation zones. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 17.  Early Hellenistic pottery from Phase 2 floors in the central excavation zone of Field 49, c. 275–250. Clockwise from top left: fish-plate with hanging rim (P14.181), West Slope–style perfume bottle, large plain-ware jug rim and foot, ovoid cup with exterior decoration, imported West Slope–style table amphora (P14.143). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 18.  Early Hellenistic house décor and pottery from Phase 2 levels in the southern excavation zone of Field 49, c. 275–250. Clockwise from top left: “Busy style” mold-made terracotta antefix (variant 4; T15.009), large krater with wave-line painted decoration (P13.156), fragments of blue and red painted wall plaster (WP13.001). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 19.  The Seleucid empire. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 20.  The Seleucid empire: colonial foundations. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 21.  Hellenistic Western Asia Minor, with the courses of the Royal Road and Common Road. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 22.  The “Saw” described by Polybius is probably the ridge that runs from the acropolis peak to the lower left corner of this aerial view; the Lydian and Roman city walls both followed this ridge, and have been excavated to the north, outside the image. In the lower right are the theater and stadium; two white roofs protect excavated remains in the theater cavea. Above the theater and to the right is Field 49, site of the Lydian palace and elite Hellenistic buildings. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 23.  Battles and colonies in the vicinity of Sardis. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

rq 4

The Mint at Sardis Jane DeRose Evans

T

he coins found at Sardis dating from the early to mid-fourth century through the early second century BCE are material spillover from the jostling at the top that marked these years.1 They reflect royal deciders, their decisions, and the results these produced: the massing of armies, erection of large buildings, competition with other rulers, and the empowerment—whether inadvertent or purposeful—of local subjects. The coins are also our best evidence for a process that comes to mark the modern world: namely, the steady infiltration of monetized exchange as a component of daily life. In the early fourth century, a Sardian was unlikely to encounter a coin; if she or he did, it reflected that individual’s special status. Two hundred years later, coins, at least in the form of small bronzes, were sufficiently common that when lost, their owners were not always assiduous in tracking them down—a boon for archaeologists. Sardis is a place intimately associated with the production of coins, thanks to its status as the birthplace of Croesus, the purported inventor of coinage. Made of precious metal and bearing the impression of a lion with a sunburst on its head, the coins honored the king and guaranteed his backing of their value. Minting of silver and gold coins continued in the Persian period, carried out on behalf and by agreement of the Great King, who is regularly depicted on the reverse (or given a heroic stand-in). The coins do not carry any indication of their minting city; all attributions of the place of the mint, including that of Sardis, are based on the style of the die cutting (see “Spotlight: Assigning a Mint”).2 Whereas some components of material life changed little in the immediate aftermath of Alexander’s dissolution of the Achaemenid world or even the following generation (see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin), the coins reveal a practically instantaneous, wholesale change of regime, along with new patterns of production and use that will carry on for the next millennium. In this

1. My thanks to Paul J. Kosmin and Andrea M. Berlin, who organized the summer meetings in Sardis of those interested in the Hellenistic city and the conference “City and Empire in Seleucid Asia Minor,” at Harvard University in February 2017. The insights I gained in such a companionable group show, I hope, in my work. I also thank Nicholas Cahill for inviting me to Sardis in the first place and for his assiduous labor on the electronic database, which has made my work easier. And, not least, I thank the excavators of Sardis, who put up with my continual interruptions to talk about the coins in their squares. 2. Alram 2012; the major reference is Carradice 1987. 97

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chapter, I assess the issues from the Sardis mint dating from the later fourth to the early second century for what they can tell us of royal and civic politics, in the city and beyond. These comprise gold and silver coins issued by rulers, along with two categories of bronze coins: those that also carry royal names and imagery and those that carry only the name of the city. This latter group cannot be dated intrinsically, and numismatists have assigned them to various periods; on the basis of excavation evidence from Sardis itself, I show that their minting likely began between c. 240 and 220. I close by considering the implications for Sardians of this new, fully local production at this moment in time. F ro m A le x a n der to Lysim achus (c. 330–2 87 ) The mint at Sardis reopened around 330.3 Moneyers were authorized to issue gold, silver, and bronze, all in new denominations, weights, and types that were (mostly) standardized over the entire region. This meant that the darics owned by wealthy locals were now obsolete—a vivid, unmistakable symbol of substantive change.4 The weight of the silver coin was based on the Attic tetradrachm. Alexander’s tetradrachms and drachms carry his name and title and show standardized types: on the obverse, a young Heracles, head shown right, with a lion skin covering his head and neck; on the reverse, an enthroned Zeus, extending his right hand to hold an eagle, and supporting his left hand on a scepter. Margaret Thompson noted the presence of two, possibly three, engravers at the Sardis mint, producing at least thirty-six obverse dies; the series was made in a “brief period of concentrated coinage,” no more than three years, when gold coins were almost the entire production of the mint.5 Smaller issues of tetradrachms, drachms, and bronzes completed the trimetallic series. Excavation evidence now allows us to identify Sardis as the mint for several bronze issues of Alexander.6 These were minted in denominations we are forced to call a “unit,” a “half,” and a “quarter,” for lack of specific knowledge of the name of the denomination.7 An initial unit repeats the obverse type from the silver tetradrachm; the reverse shows a bow in a bow case and a club, with the legend ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΥ between them (see fig. 4.1 for a later version of the unit).8 A second unit, actually minted by Philip III, has the head of Heracles on the obverse, while the reverse carries a rider galloping right with the legend ΦΙ ΒΑ.9 The modern excavations have now produced three examples of the first type of unit and five of the second, strong support for assigning these to the Sardis mint.10 3. Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 50; M. Thompson 1983, 42. 4. Price 1991, 39; Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 43. 5. M. Thompson 1983, 10–11. 6. The assignment of bronzes to mints has been, and remains, a problem that will be solved only by the publication of excavation coins; see Price 1991, 320; and the work of M. Thompson 1983, 9, 13, 22, 28, 37. 7. The weights vary so greatly that it is difficult to decide if we are looking at an obol or some other division of a drachm. Price suggested that there were three denominations of bronze minted under Alexander III and Philip III, but he cautiously assigned only a unit and a half to the years 334–323 and one half to the years 323–319 (1991, 39–40, 72–73, 323). 8. Price 1991, no. 2545; Price gave one unit to Philip III or Antigonus I (no. 2800), which has, on the reverse, a torch as a symbol (and the legend shifts to ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ). Since several coins of this type have been found in Sardis, I suggest (Evans 2018, no. 18) that the type was made in the Sardis mint. 9. Price 1991, p. 126 no. P2 consigned this to an uncertain Macedonian mint. 10. A number of units and some quarter units were found in the excavations, but the symbols or control marks on them are rarely legible, which makes assigning them to a mint problematic. On the first type, see Price 1991, 343, no. 2800; Evans 2018, nos. 14, 15. On the second type see Price 1991, 126, no. P2; Buttrey et al. 1981, 17; Evans 2018, no. 18.



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Fig. 4.1a/b.  Royal bronze, probably Sardis, minted for Philip III or Antigonus I between 323 and 310, unit. A (obverse): head of young Heracles in lion skin helmet, looking right; Price 1991, no. 2800. B (reverse): bow in case, club with ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ between, racing torch symbol below; Price 1991, no. 2800. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

We have also the halves and quarters of these issues. Two versions of the half have been found in the excavations and were probably the product of the Sardis mint, the first with a head of Heracles shown in three-quarter view on the obverse, and the second with a Macedonian shield with a changing boss design. The reverse of both is a helmet, with BA as the only indication of the authority to mint.11 Nine quarters, weighing about 1.5 grams apiece, have been found; all repeat the iconography of the first unit.12 Thus, excavation evidence probably shows that the Sardis mint produced an entire bronze series from 334 to 316, with two versions of the unit, two versions of the half, and one version of the quarter. Between c. 316 and 301, it does not appear that any coins came from the mint at Sardis. In 301 Lysimachus gained control of the city and reopened the mint in order to produce gold, silver (mostly tetradrachms), and 11. Fifteen coins that have a Gorgoneion on the boss of the shield and a caduceus on the reverse as a control mark were given to either Salamis (Price 1991, no. 3158) or Miletus (Mørkholm 1991, 60, 79, and caption to no. 73). See Buttrey et al. 1981, 17, no. 18; and now Evans 2018, no. 16. Lenger 2013 had previously reached the same conclusion. 12. Price (1991, 117, no. 267) assigned the coin to an unknown Macedonian mint; see Buttrey et al. 1981, 17, no. 18; Evans 2018, no 16.

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bronze coins.13 The silver continued to be minted on the Athenian standard; Lysimachus further emphasized his connection to Alexander by placing that ruler’s head on his coin, with the horn of Ammon and writhing diadem ends spurting out from behind his tousled curls. On the reverse, he substituted Athena holding a Nike for the Zeus on the Alexander coins, but he placed ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΛΥΣΙΜΑΧΟΥ prominently on either side of the goddess, with control marks in the left field and exergue.14 As with the bronze issues under Alexander and Philip III, a number of Lysimachean bronzes have been found in the excavations. There is both a unit and a half, each with the head of (probably) Athena in crested helmet on the obverse. The reverse of the unit has a lion leaping right and a spearhead; the legend ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΛΥΣΙΜΑΧΟΥ can be found above and below the animal. The half abbreviated this reverse type, showing only the forepart of a lion; some halves from the excavations show a monogram behind the lion.15 Mørkholm calls the attacking lion Lysimachus’s “distinctive badge,” but it might be remembered that this type was already in use by the Sardis mint under the Lydians.16 Since these issues comprise the huge majority of Lysimachean bronzes found in the excavations, I think we can now attribute some, at least, to the mint at Sardis. Margaret Thompson suggested that the mint closed c. 287, when Lysimachus briefly lost control of the city to Demetrius Poliorcetes (see chapter 3, Remaking a City,” by Paul Kosmin).17 Edward T. Newell noted that when royal issues next appear, under Seleucus I, the monograms on the coins are completely different from those on the coins of Lysimachus, which suggests that new personnel were brought in to staff the reopened mint.18 Meta l s, Me a n ings, a n d Use s High-value gold and silver coins were functional: most scholars agree that they were used by officials to pay for large expenditures, such as armies and the erection of public buildings, as well as by citizens to pay taxes or tribute. They also served as statements of authority and symbols of a fundamental social contract. The current ruler’s name and titulary deities—in effect, his cosmic support system—combined to promise safety and economic stability. By rendering coins in return, subjects acknowledged the hierarchy in hopes of ensuring its continued good effects. Seeing and handling coins with the name of the ruler was a “constant reminder of royal control.”19 The purpose of royal bronze issues is not nearly as clear. They were expensive to mint and have no obvious use for the ruler. Most numismatists suggest that they were minted “by and for” the army. The number of royal bronze coins coming from the mint was always smaller than the number of silver coins, 13. Arnold-Biucchi 1998, 5. Mints shared obverse dies, and these may have been produced at a central workshop; hence, differentiating coins by style is difficult and sometimes impossible; again, excavation coins may be the only way to make progress on this problem. See M. Thompson 1968, 166–67 (although Sardis is not among the cities Thompson cites as having shared dies or a die-cutter). 14. Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 60. 15. I am hampered by the legibility of the monogram on most coins in making many assignments. 16. The forepart of the attacking lion was also used as a control mark on some of Lysimachus’s tetradrachms issued from Sardis (Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 60–61, 81). 17. M. Thompson 1968, 166, 173. Miller and Hoover (2010, 30) agreed, although they date the closing to 286. 18. Newell 1941, 244. 19. Lund 1992, 131–32.



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testifying to their relative unimportance to the ruler.20 They mostly did not travel far from the mint where they were made, but as we can guess from their (sometimes) standardized types and from excavation results, they could be used across the empire, just like the silver and gold coins. Numismatists presume that the king maintained authority over minting in all metals, for which two textual sources are adduced. The first, Pseudo-Aristotle (Oec. 1345b7), which likely dates to the early Hellenistic period, specifies that the king’s fiscal administration (oikonomia) “has absolute authority and has four aspects (or ‘categories’), viz. concerned with coinage, with exports, with incoming goods, and with expenditure. In the case of coinage I mean what types need minting and when.”21 Admittedly, the author is probably speaking only about precious-metal coinage, which, in marked contrast to bronze coinage, was indeed very consistent across the Seleucid empire.22 Oliver Hoover has argued, however, that “the right to coin with local types (i.e., deviations from the standardized royal types), even in bronze, tended to be controlled by the Seleucid administration.”23 Support for this view comes from a passage in 1 Maccabees 15:6, in which Antiochus VII is said to give to Simon the High Priest and ethnarch the permission to mint coins for “his” country.24 Under Alexander, Philip III, and Lysimachus, the Sardis mint had produced linked issues of gold, silver, and bronze, a good indication of a single, overarching administration. This may have changed after Seleucus I took control of the city, and it appears that the change was maintained throughout the years of Seleucid rule. From c. 281 to 190, issues in precious metals and bronze carried different control marks and monograms that suggest separate administrators and/or minting practices.25 Perhaps the minting of royal bronze coins took place in a different part of the mint or even, on occasion, outside the main mint; perhaps minting in bronze was a task assigned to more junior officials. The Sa r dis Min t un der t he F ir st S eleucid D y na st s (c. 2 82/2 81–2 40) After Sardis was captured by Seleucus I in 282 or 281, the mint began producing tetradrachms and drachms on the Athenian weight standard, using the same types as seen previously, in order to show that Seleucus was the rightful heir of Alexander.26 Unlike the other successors, Seleucus chose not to place his own face on the obverses, but he did substitute his name for Alexander’s, with his title under the throne of Zeus. The monograms do not overlap with those on the tetradrachms of Lysimachus, and there is a stylistic shift in the die cutting, in that dies are now aligned toward the vertical and have straight edges. These changes suggest that new mint personnel had been put in place since the last issue of Lysimachus.27 Several of the dies had 20. Reden 2010, 65–69; Aperghis 2004, 218, 223, 233. 21. Quoted in Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 67; cf. Aperghis 2004, 117, 119, 131–35. 22. Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 63. 23. Hoover 2004, 486–87. 24. Numismatists have wondered why these coins have never been found (e.g., Newell 1941, 398), but the likeliest reason is that the author, writing a generation or so after Antiochus VII, retrojected the situation of his own day, when the local Hasmonean rulers were indeed minting their own small bronze coins. 25. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:16; cf. Newell 1941, 250, 256–57. 26. Miller and Hoover 2010, 26–29; Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:16; Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 75; Newell 1941, 242–43. 27. Miller and Hoover 2010, 30; Newell 1941, 251.

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cracks or die breaks, yet they were still used, which suggests some pressure to produce coins quickly. Richard Miller and Oliver Hoover think that Seleucus was preparing for the battle of Corupedium and the planned invasion of Thrace.28 Hoard evidence indicates that the issues of Seleucus were produced through 280/279, as his successor, Antiochus I, and Ptolemy II jostled for control of the area. Under Seleucus only a few bronze coins were issued; their assignment to Sardis is due to the number of finds from the Butler expedition and ten more from the modern excavations.29 They show the head of a beautiful Medusa in profile on the obverse, and a butting bull or the forepart of a bull on the reverse, with the title and name of the king over the bull and in the exergue (fig. 4.2). The types are a significant break from those minted for Alexander or Lysimachus. The Medusa/bull types on the bronzes were used by many mints from the west to the east and were possibly an allusion to Seleucus, as he was said to have wrestled a

Fig. 4.2a/b.  Royal bronze, Sardis, minted for Seleucus I in 282–281, denomination C or D. A (obverse): Medusa head looking right, ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ above and ΣΕΛΕΥΚΟΥ in exergue; control marks as Houghton and Lorber 2002, vol. 1, no. 6. B (reverse): bull butting right, ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ above and ΣΕΛΕΥΚΟΥ in exergue; control marks as Houghton and Lorber 2002, vol. 1, no. 6. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College) 28. Miller and Hoover 2010, 30, 32. 29. Buttrey et al. 1981, 64, no. 354; Evans 2018, nos. 69–70; cf. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:16–17. Newell (1941, 243–44) assigned a unit and a half unit to Sardis; the half was assigned because of the stylistic parallels between Medusa heads on the obverses of the unit.



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threatening bull to the ground in front of Alexander, an omen of his future rule (App. Syr. 57).30 As noted above, there were no parallels between the control marks on the bronze and the silver issues, implying that even in this first royal coinage there were separate administrations involved in the production of preciousmetal coins and bronze coins.31 Antiochus I took up residence in Sardis in the early 270s as he prepared to counter the Galatian invasion; he may have stayed through 271. During this time, the mint issued a series of tetradrachms—varying in types but using only a few dies, thus indicating that fewer tetradrachms were produced here than during the reign of Seleucus I—as well as two sizes of bronzes, a number of which have been found in the excavations.32 The obverse of the tetradrachms carried the head of his father. The first reverses show a horned horse head (this must have been a very small issue), followed by a nude Apollo seated on an omphalos and extending a horizontal bow. The latter shows that Sardis had become one of the principal mints of the Seleucids, as the reverse type was later copied in other mints. Toward the end of his time at Sardis, Antiochus issued tetradrachms that depicted his own face—a true innovation—and a seated Apollo holding an arrow or arrows, resting his other hand on his grounded bow. The smaller bronze denomination showed the head of Apollo on the obverse and an arrowhead on the reverse. More common were slightly larger coins with a facing bust of Athena on the obverse and a Nike with wreath and palm and the legend ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΑΝΤΙΟΧΟΥ on the reverse (fig. 4.3). The depiction of Athena and Nike, common Pergamene symbols and types, may be directed toward Eumenes of Pergamum. Under Antiochus II (261–246), the mint at Sardis produced one gold and two silver issues and a multitude of small bronzes, of which a number were found in the modern excavations, with a new control mark for one of the series.33 The gold retains the iconography of Athena and Nike. The first tetradrachms carry a portrait of Antiochus I, then switch to one of Antiochus II himself, while maintaining his father’s innovative reverse for both. The larger bronze obverse repeats the head of Apollo; on the reverse is a tripod with an anchor beneath. The smaller denomination also has the head of Apollo on the obverse, and a cithara on the reverse (fig. 4.4). The coins of Antiochus II have a new production feature, the concave reverse, which is seen at this time also at Antioch-by-Daphne and Ephesus (see further about this feature in “Spotlight: 30. Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 76; cf. Price 1991, nos. 1357, 1358. On the association of the bull with Seleucus, see Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:8–9; for the Medusa, they had no specific explanation, simply noting that “she combined apotropaic magic with the gift of renewal.” 31. Newell 1941, 244; Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:16. 32. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:113–23. Newell (1941, 245–52) assigned a more extensive coinage to Antiochus, one series minted in 280–278, a second in 277–272, and a third in 272–261. Regarding the bronzes, Hoover was uncertain if these should be assigned to Smyrna or Sardis (see his contribution in Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:124). I prefer to assign them to Sardis, given the numbers found in the excavations (Bell 1916, nos. 368–76; Buttrey et al. 1981, nos. 357–58; Evans 2018, no. 72). Newell (1941) also assigned to Sardis a double, with Athena and Nike types (nos. 1368, 1370), and a unit with similar types (nos. 1369, 1371) to 277–272, in part due to the coins found in Butler’s excavations, and a half or quarter (?) of Apollo/arrowhead (he knew only one example, in Paris, no. 1378). 33. Buttrey et al. 1981, 66, no. 369; Evans 2018, no. 78. Even with the size of the issues, there is only one known overlap between the monograms of the silver coins and those of the bronze, which again fits the pattern at Sardis of separate minting practice and/or personnel. Hoover (in Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:184) suggested that “a separate administration was created to oversee the production of bronze coinage, whose purpose was apparently military,” as Antiochus was plagued by or himself pursued wars to the south, north, and east. Note that the mints for the bronze issues are not entirely settled, and so the list in Houghton and Lorber, as they admit, may include coins from other mints (2002, 1:167, 184); Newell (1941, 250–51, 256–57) dated many to the reign of Antiochus I or Antiochus II.

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Fig. 4.3a/b.  Royal bronze, Sardis or Smyrna, minted for Antiochus I between 280 and 261, denomination C or D. A (obverse): bust of helmeted Athena facing. B (reverse): Nike, holding wreath and palm, in her left and right hands, respectively. ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΑΝΤΙΟΧΟΥ. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 4.4a/b.  Royal bronze, Sardis, minted for Antiochus II between 261 and 246, denomination D. A (obverse): head of Apollo looking right, laureate. B (reverse): cithara with anchor below, all control marks obscure. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Assigning a Mint”).34 Much other evidence, textual and archaeological, indicates that Antiochus II was very active in Asia Minor, with a concomitant increase in the “intensity and sophistication” of administrative structures.35 In these years the mint at Sardis appears to have been a major supplier of bronze coin to Seleucid holdings in Asia Minor, with issues appearing as far north as Cabyle in European Thrace.36 In 246 Antiochus II was assassinated and was immediately succeeded by his son Seleucus II. That ruler kept the Sardis mint in operation for both silver and bronze; once again, there are different control marks on 34. This technique of minting bronze coins using convex reverse dies was seen in early Parthian drachms (Newell 1941, 252). Mints that produced such reverses for Seleucus I were confined to the east: Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, Seleuciain-Pieria, and Antioch-by-Daphne. The technique is found in only one uncertain western mint for an issue for Seleucus II, and a tetradrachm issue “perhaps” minted in Sardis under Antiochus III (Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:377); its popularity had clearly waned by the reign of Seleucus II. 35. Ma 1999, 35–37. 36. Hochard 2013, 152; Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:167, 184; Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 122. It is possible that Sardis’s bronze coinage becomes more widely used as other mints cut back their production.



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each, suggesting that they were produced by different magistrates.37 The mint introduced a new silver type, a standing Apollo testing an arrow; both the metal and the iconography argue for their issue being related to the king’s military preparations for and engagements with Ptolemy III and Attalus I of Pergamum.38 The bronzes come in several denominations and were apparently minted in significant numbers. One repeats the types of the silver; one returns to the types of Antiochus II; and a third, the most interesting, pairs a head of Athena with the new standing Apollo/bow type (fig. 4.5).39 Given the continuing conflict with Attalus, a head of Athena in a crested Attic helmet, much like the obverses from Pergamum, may have been a potent symbol, and possibly also a taunt. S e le ucid R evolt a n d R en e wa l (c. 2 40–19 0) The coins of Seleucus II seem to have been minted before the revolt of his brother Antiochus Hierax, which began in the 230s. For the next twenty-five years or so —until Antiochus III ousted Achaeus from the city’s acropolis—both the political scene and its numismatic mirror were fraught and uncertain.40 There was a total collapse of central Seleucid authority in western Asia Minor, which necessarily circumscribed and directed the business of the mint. The events are poorly understood, but it seems that in the immediate aftermath of the disastrous Third Syrian War between the Seleucids and Ptolemies, Antiochus Hierax allied himself with some Galatian forces in a bid to seize control of Asia Minor (the so-called War of the Brothers). Hierax was defeated by Attalus I at the Gygean Lake near Sardis and on several other occasions, and

Fig. 4.5a/b.  Royal bronze, Sardis, minted for Seleucus II between 246 and 241, denomination C. A (obverse): head of helmeted Athena looking right. B (reverse): Apollo standing, resting hand on grounded bow, to left and right. ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΣΕΛΕΥΚΟΥ and control marks. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College) 37. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:241. 38. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:292–93; Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark 1991, 10–12; Newell 1941, 260–63 said that the lack of examples rendered some of his conclusions indefinite; Mørkholm and Houghton and Lorber changed some of Newell’s attributions, as noted above. Chrubasik (2016, 95–96) sees Seleucus’s introduction of the standing Apollo as a real break from his predecessors, while maintaining his Seleucid ties. 39. This is another version of Hoover’s denomination C. Instead of designating the bronzes as units or fractions, Hoover (in Houghton and Lorber 2002) chose to divide the coins into denominations A through E. Sometimes the difference between the denominations is unclear, and they are labeled “B/C” or “D/E,” for example. 40. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:230, 292–93.

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Pergamene power was extended over much of the formerly Seleucid territory, including, in all likelihood, Sardis. The turmoil continued when Seleucus III, invading to retake these lands, was assassinated soon after crossing the Taurus Mountains into Asia Minor. His general and cousin, Achaeus, already on the scene, pushed back the Attalid expansion but then, around 220, took the diadem of kingship—and Sardis—in open revolt against the new king, Antiochus III, Seleucus III’s younger brother. One might wonder how this turn of events was regarded by Sardians themselves, but it is clear that it was seen as usurpation by Antiochus III, an illegitimate taking of what Paul J. Kosmin has characterized as the naturalized coherence of Seleucid imperial space.41 In 213 Antiochus III seized and executed Achaeus at Sardis, captured the city’s acropolis, and restored Seleucid authority. Unsurprisingly, given these events, it has been very difficult to classify the contemporary products of the Sardis mint. In regard to silver issues, which necessarily reflect the needs and interests of those at the top, there is much disagreement. Mørkholm assigned one series of tetradrachms to Hierax; Arthur Houghton and Catharine Lorber were uneasy with the mint assignment. Newell made several assignments but acknowledged uncertainty due to the fluctuating style of the dies; Houghton and Lorber downgraded Newell’s placement of issues in Sardis and instead attributed them to Smyrna (perhaps) or Sardis (perhaps) or an imitation of a Lydian mint.42 The bronze coins are similarly contentious. Newell dated an extensive series of bronze coins to Hierax, but Hoover argued that they were minted under Antiochus III (see further below).43 The control marks suggest that the mint was shut down during Hierax’s reign and the mint officials were transferred elsewhere; stylistic analysis suggests that the die-cutters left, too. Sardis was Achaeus’s only mint, but since we have only rare specimens from his reign, it appears that his gold and silver coins were recalled and reminted after his death.44 Stylistically, the tetradrachms are very different from coins of Seleucus II; Houghton and Lorber suggested close links to the mint of Philip V in Macedon.45 Their iconography shows how Achaeus saw himself and where he hoped to find support: the Apollo and the horse head refer to his place in the Seleucid dynasty; the Athena Alcis is familiar from Macedonian and Pergamene coinage; and the eagle is copied from Ptolemaic coins.46 Probably most significant are the number and character of his bronze coins. There are five denominations. None carry monograms, which suggests that the funds for minting came from the royal treasury—in other words, these coins show a true need for small change that the ruler himself decided to supply.47 Antiochus III was the last Seleucid ruler to mint at Sardis, but the array of coins produced during his reign is limited. Houghton and Lorber assigned just one silver issue to the Sardis mint, largely based on the iconography of the reverse, which shows an elephant facing left, a type otherwise found only on 41. Kosmin 2014, 121–25; see also Chrubasik 2016, 76–89. 42. Newell 1941, 263–67; Mørkholm 1969, 7–10; Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:318–22. 43. Hoover, in Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:320. 44. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:348. 45. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:348. 46. Chrubasik (2016, 107–10) also emphasized the Macedonian ties, including the use of a bearded portrait, “in order to underline the validity of his coinage” (p. 108), especially in light of “fourth-century kingship, Macedonia, and Pella” (p. 109). Houghton, Lorber, and Chrubasik discount the strong Ptolemaic and Pergamene iconographic parallels, perhaps in order to emphasize the Macedonian connection. 47. Almost all of those that survive were countermarked by Antiochus III, testifying to the continuing need for small change.



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bronze coins from the Sardis mint.48 It is not a large issue. We know that Antiochus III penalized the city by imposing a fine, a new tax, and the billeting here of troops.49 Might another part of the “punishment” have been scaling back precious-metal minting? As for bronze, it appears that the mint at first overstruck bronze coins of Antioch-by-Daphne, possibly in order to provide Antiochus’s soldiers with coin as they bided their time in the siege of Sardis.50 As noted above, two of the large issues assigned to Antiochus Hierax (denominations C and D) may instead belong to the time of Antiochus III.51 These have elephants facing left or Apollo leaning on a tripod on the reverses (fig. 4.6). The excavations have also produced two specimens of a very small issue of denomination D coins, with the head of a turreted Tyche on the obverse and a tripod on the reverse, to add to the four known to Hoover and assigned (tentatively by him and more securely by me) to Sardis.52

Fig. 4.6.  Royal bronzes, Sardis, minted for Antiochus III between 213 and 203 (?), denomination D, five examples: head of Apollo looking right, laureate/elephant going left, some with legend ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΑΝΤΙΟΧΟΥ, some control marks visible. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College) 48. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:373. Mørkholm (1969, 12–15) hesitantly also placed a series for Antiochus III at the Sardis mint before Antiochus arrived in the city. Newell (1941, 271) had no assurance that he had assigned the coins correctly to Sardis. 49. Ma 1999, 61–62. 50. Hoover, in Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:355. 51. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:320. 52. Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:207, no. 585, placed in Sardis because of parallels in control marks; Evans 2018, no. 79.

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The O t her Coins of Sa r dis: Civic I ssue s In addition to gold, silver, and bronze royal issues, there was an entirely separate production of bronze coins that carried neither the name nor the portrait of the ruler: the so-called civic issues, or city coins. These coins did not use the widespread Seleucid types. Instead, their imagery varied by city, as did their weights; hence, unlike the royal bronzes, they did not circulate far beyond their mint.53 Their legends sometimes even used local languages, a feature that never appears in royal issues. Unlike the royal coinages, a local patron very likely paid for the minting; as a result, as discussed below, these coinages could be used to contribute to the city’s income. Since civic coins lack the names of historical personages, their chronology is problematic—and the reasoning used to fix it somewhat circular. On the one hand, there is the presumption that, as argued above, a city must have been given permission to strike its own coins; but, on the other hand, numismatists tend to date the civic coins to periods when there is a lapse in royal control.54 A more direct understanding of the circumstances for striking civic bronzes may be stitched together from the finds themselves, along with one inscription. Coins from Ionian cities dating to the time of Alexander and/or Lysimachus show that these places, all of which had minted on their own during Achaemenid times, continued to issue both royal precious-metal and small civic bronze coinage under the new Hellenistic kings. A proximate example is Ephesus. After taking the city in 334, Alexander allowed Ephesus to be governed by independent rulers. The mint issued tetradrachms of Alexander and bronze civic coins, including two types of the so-called Ephesian bees, dated c. 305–288. The coins carry no indication of a ruler, only the first two letters of the name of the city along with a symbol important to the city of Ephesus. Their production continued after 294, when Lysimachus made Ephesus one of his royal mints.55 This Ephesian small change was apparently welcome in the region, as nicely illustrated by the discovery at Sardis of seven of the second type in a small purse hoard from a modest house on the city’s outskirts (in Sector PN; on this deposit see also chapter 2).56 The impression offered by the finds—that in the right circumstances (and with sufficient resources) a city could on its own issue bronze coinage—is affirmed by an inscription from Sestos, in the Thracian Chersonnese, dating after 133 (OGIS 339 lines 44–45): And when the people decided to use its own bronze coinage, so that the city’s coin type should be used as a current type and the people should receive the profit resulting from this source of revenue, and appointed men who would safeguard this position of trust piously and justly, and Menas was appointed and together with his colleague in office showed suitable care, as a result of which the people thanks to the justice and emulation of these men has the use of its own coinage.57

“The people” here decided to produce coins for two reasons: to advertise the city through the use of types that only they used,58 and to profit, whether by having such coins available for use in their markets 53. Hochard 2013, 157. 54. Or, sometimes, dating is based on stylistic considerations, which Meadows (2001, 60) acknowledges can be problematic. 55. The bronzes of Lysimachus from the mint at Ephesus have not been identified. 56. On this purse, see Evans 2018, 54–55. 57. Ashton 2012, 202; translation: Austin 2006, 436. 58. Meadows (2001, 59) emphasizes the importance of the selection of the types.



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or by issuing a fiduciary coinage. By the second half of the second century, it was common practice to honor the mint’s patrons as the providers of the funds to issue the bronzes, generally by including their names or monograms on the coins themselves. Since the city needed such patrons before striking the coins, this would explain why civic issues are irregular, with stretches of time without the minting of bronze coins. Understanding the appearance of city coins as a phenomenon related to but also distinct from royal issues allows us to consider their meaning within the web of status negotiations that characterized Hellen­ istic imperial practices.59 The Sestos inscription enunciates what the Ephesian bees imply: cities did not lose their sense of singularity and significance when their outward political situation changed. John Ma puts this succinctly: “In the vicissitudes of the conflicts between the superpowers, and in spite of the varying degrees of royal control, the cities preserved their identities, and might assert themselves as actors in their own history.”60 Civic issues in precious metal offer the most dramatic numismatic display; Ma cites the staters struck by Lampsacus and Alexandria Troas around 226 as “a solid golden bit of city-state pride.”61 Sardian civic bronzes are differentiated from the Seleucid royal bronzes in weights and types. Struck on local standards, they spoke to and were used by people close to the city where the coins were minted. In their types, we may be able to read assertions of Sardian local identity in the face of what Ma has called the “strong state-ness” of Seleucid power.62 Thus, the moment at which these issues first appear is an important one in the city’s history. We have nine different type-pairs of civic bronzes. On the basis of contexts, iconography, and legends, six of these type-pairs likely date to the period after the treaty of Apamea. The date of issue of the other three has long been a subject of discussion; lacking clear objective evidence, scholars have necessarily relied on arguments based on historical probabilities (see further discussion in “Spotlight: Who’s in Charge?”). Recent work has now identified one city coin from a well-stratified archaeological context: a house built in one of the new neighborhoods on the city’s northern edge, dated by pottery to c. 275–225 (MD2, on which see chapter 2).63 A third-century date for the Heracles/Apollo issues of Sardian bronze coins is also supported by the unusual technical feature of concave reverses; this feature otherwise appears only on Sardian royal issues of the third century (see fig. 4.7). Finally, a monogram used on one of the pairs is a match with one found on a tetradrachm of Seleucus II, whose royal minting at Sardis ended c. 240.64 On this basis I suggest that Sardian civic issues were first minted between c. 240 and 220.65 As we know from historical sources, and as reflected in the lack of the city’s royal issues, these were tumultuous years: Ma characterizes this period as “the collapse of Seleucid power in Asia Minor, through a combination of intra-dynastic conflict and external wars.”66 Thus, in addition to their role as statements of civic pride, the civic bronzes may have also been necessary for the maintenance of the local economy. They would have helped make up for the now-missing royal bronzes, which had not been minted since c. 240 and 59. On which see Ma 1999, 36–38, 138–47, 162–66, and passim. 60. Ma 1999, 49. 61. Ma 1999, 49. 62. Ma 1999, 174–75. 63. Several more examples come from contexts with other finds of the middle and later third century, but these also include coins of Antiochus III. 64. Buttrey et al. 1981, 80–81. Shared monograms do not necessarily mean that the same moneyer paid for the two issues, but they can be suggestive of connections between issues. 65. For discussion of the archaeological contexts in detail, see Evans 2018, 15–25. 66. Ma 1999, 43.

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Fig. 4.7a/b.  Civic bronze, Sardis, medium denomination, minted between 240/220 and second century. A (obverse): head of young Heracles, lion skin knotted around throat. B (reverse): Apollo standing and elevating a hawk in his right hand, monogram under his hand, and to right ΣΑΡΔΙΑΝΩΝ. Note concave reverse. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

would not be minted by Achaeus until c. 220. As indicated by the Sestos inscription, the minting of bronze coins paid for by a magistrate produced a profit for the city, which would have been useful at a time when civic taxes may not have been regularly paid. Their utility may be reflected in the fact that the city issued three denominations: a multiple, a unit, and a fraction. The multiple, represented by nineteen examples from the modern excavations, carried the head of Tyche with the reverse of the local version of Zeus, or Zeus Lydios, who stands wrapped in his himation, with a staff under his left arm and his right arm outstretched to support an eagle (fig. 4.8).67 On the right, vertically, is the legend ΣΑΡΔΙΑΝΩΝ. There are monograms, usually two, under Zeus’s arm; about twenty specimens are known.68 It is not clear if the two monograms refer to two magistrates in charge of the minting or a name and patronymic. Ann Johnston noted that one monogram pair is shared with another type-pair from Sardis, the Dionysus/panther with a broken spear in its mouth, while a second pair is shared with the fraction of Dionysus/forepart of a lion.69 At least three of the obverses are countermarked with a club in a long punch; this countermark also appears on another denomination, suggesting that it too was minted in the third century. The unit, of which over 200 have been found in the modern excavations, carries the head of a young Heracles, with his lion skin wrapped around his throat, not over his head; on the reverse is an Apollo standing in posture similar to that of Zeus Lydios, also elevating a bird (see fig. 4.7).70 As on the multiple, the 67. There is a single tetradrachm with Zeus Lydios as a city badge, which has been argued to have been minted c. 226. Johnston believed that the Tyche head may have depicted a local statue, since veiled and turreted heads of Tyche are not common in western Asia Minor. A head of Tyche also appears on coins of Antiochus III (in Buttrey et al. 1981, 81). The Zeus Lydios will become a standard reverse type for Sardis. These issues are 20 to 25 mm in diameter and weigh between 6 and 10 gr, with a mean of 7.15 gr; their die axis is generally 12 o’clock (Evans, forthcoming; Buttrey et al. 1981, 44, nos. 231–34). Johnston suggested that this was a “double” of the Heracles/Apollo coin, and I agree. 68. I cannot tell if any issues are anonymous. 69. In Buttrey et al. 1981, 81; Johnston reported eleven monograms in major collections. 70. Evans 2018, no. 52; Buttrey et al. 1981, 43–44, nos. 199–227. The mean diameter is 15–17 mm, but the flans are quite thick, so the average weight is about 6 gr. The die axis is almost always 12 o’clock. Most of the coins are marked by a concave reverse, the product of a convex die.



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Fig. 4.8a/b.  Civic bronze, Sardis, large denomination, probably third century. A (obverse): head of Tyche looking right (countermarked). B (reverse): Zeus Lydios standing right, monogram under hand and ΣΑΡΔΙΑΝΩΝ to left. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

legend ΣΑΡΔΙΑΝΩΝ appears vertically on the right. Not all reverses are legible, but it appears that one or two monograms under and/or over Apollo’s arm are a normal component; a few have the moneyers’ full names spelled out. Johnston reported seeing more than seventy different monograms from these coins in various collections, suggesting a long period of minting. One of the monograms might be shared with the fraction; as noted above, one is found on a tetradrachm of Seleucus II.71 Many of the units are countermarked, all on the obverse, always with a knotty club in a long oval punch; this countermark must have been applied in the city itself, probably when the coin was revalued, very likely in the second century.72 The fraction carries the head of Dionysus on the obverse and the forepart of a lion on the reverse; eleven have been found in the modern excavations (fig. 4.9).73 Above the lion is the legend ΣΑΡΔΙΑΝΩΝ; behind it is a monogram. Lions were at home in the imagery of Sardis, beginning with their appearance on early Lydian coinage and extending to their depictions in the third century as companions of Kybele, in both terracotta and marble (see chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués). The particular type found on these issues seems to derive from a very similar one that appears on fractions of Lysimachus that were probably minted in Sardis. What should we make of the choices of particular images and styles? All are specifically Sardian, in the sense that they are unique and/or logically situated here. On the multiple issue, the combination of Tyche and Zeus Lydios refers plainly to the city and proclaims its agency to mint.74 Johnston noted that while “veiled heads of Tyche abound in western Asia Minor, the veiled and turreted head of Tyche is a type peculiar to Sardis.”75 Zeus Lydios is mentioned in several early Sardian inscriptions and may have had a cult place

71. Buttrey et al. 1981, 80–81. 72. Evans 2018, 99–100. 73. Evans 2018, no. 53; Buttrey et al. 1981, 44–45, nos. 238–42. The mean diameter of the coins is 16 mm, and they weigh about 3.71 gr, or about half as much as the Heracles/Apollo coin, so the flans are thinner than the unit. Die axes are usually 12 o’clock. 74. Gauthier (1989, 166) notes that when Sardis put Zeus Lydios on a small issue of tetradrachms, it was “certainly adopting the attitude common among autonomous cities, but at the same time recalling an ancestral divinity” (my translation), a duality that reappears in contemporary onomastics and on monumental inscriptions. 75. Buttrey et al. 1981, 81.

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Fig. 4.9a/b.  Civic bronze, Sardis, small denomination, third century. A (obverse): head of young Dionysus. B (reverse): forepart of lion, with monogram behind, ΣΑΡΔΙΑΝΩΝ above. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

somewhere in the city.76 This type-pair signals a new focus on the local (see also chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul Kosmin). A similar meaning can be seen on the unit coins with Heracles and Apollo. The brutal features and uncovered head of the Heracles are distinctly different from the Seleucid idealized head with lion skin helmet; there is no parallel for the young Heracles with the lion skin knotted around his neck. The pose of the Apollo evokes Zeus Lydios. His bird is described as a crow or raven but is more likely a hawk, Apollo’s messenger in Aristophanes’s Birds and in Odyssey 15.525.77 This specific combination is found only in Sardis and may carry particular local significance, with the hawk referring to the Mermnad dynasty, which, according to the story in Herodotus 1.7, was founded by Agron, a descendant of Heracles. David Asheri notes that “the name Mermnas is unknown to all our sources, [and so is] usually taken to mean ‘dynasty of hawks’” (from Greek mermnos, “hawk”).78 As for Apollo, he may have sent out Agron, as he did other Heracleidae. The pair would then represent a resonant assertion of the city’s deep past as a counter to decidedly recent, nonmythic Seleucid rule, one in keeping with what Kosmin notes is an upsurge in local foundation stories and honors preSeleucid eponymous heroes in Seleucid colonial possessions.79 76. Suggested by Métraux (1971, 158), since this version of Zeus remained consistent on coins through the first century CE. 77. I am grateful to Paul J. Kosmin for prodding me to think about this bird. 78. Asheri, Lloyd, and Corcella 2007, 80. 79. Kosmin 2014, 230–38.



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On the fractions the Dionysus/lion pair revives a type used in Sardis during the reign of Lysimachus. The Dionysus on the royal coins is young, with long locks of hair falling down his neck in an archaizing manner; when he reappears on civic coins, he is much more Hellenistic in style, retaining only tendrils of hair falling from his bun. Dionysus may advertise the fame of the region’s wine, an opinion that comes to us from a sixth-century CE epigram by Macedonius Consul (Anth. Gr. 9.645); but Dionysus also figures in local lore as the god who told Midas where to be cured from his golden touch (Ov. Met. 11). This pair evokes the ancient kingdom of Lydia as well as the agricultural bounty that contributed to Sardis’s wealth. In sum, a long view of the production of the Sardis mint highlights the city’s stature amid changing fortunes. More than any other category of material remains, the coins mirror the larger political scene, and in real time. They allow an unusually close view of the character of interactions between rulers and those they ruled: variously imperious, planning, placating. And they show us Sardians remembering, remaking, and advancing themselves, by choosing intensely Lydian and Sardian imagery and by annotating issues with the monograms of the local magistrates who paid for them. Once begun, the minting of civic bronzes continued—through the period of Pergamene control after Apamea, through the next century of Roman authority, ending only in 10 BCE—each coin reminding Sardians that rulers were transitory, while place endures.

Spotlight Assigning a Mint Jane DeRose Evans

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umismatists employ various types of evidence to assign coins that lack a legend  naming the mint; the more methods that converge on an identity, the greater the confidence that  the assignment is correct. The first aspect to take into account is the fabric, or particular alloy, of the coins, which will feel different to a practiced hand. Second are production features such as the die axis and the overall shape of the die; mints seem to develop preferred modes and to retain them for many generations. In Sardis, for example, the dies normally have straight edges, and the die axis is usually 12 o’clock. Another specific feature, as noted in chapter 4, are concave reverses, which result from using convex reverse dies. These appear on the bronze coins of Antiochus II from Sardis and Ephesus (see fig. 4.4). This minting technique may have come from Parthia; it is first seen in early Parthian drachms, and then in the mints working for Seleucus I in Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, Seleucia-in-Pieria, and Antioch-by-Daphne.1 Antioch continued to produce concave dies during the reign of Antiochus I; perhaps an official from this mint introduced the technique to Sardis during the reign of Antiochus II. The attribution by style of the die-cutter is commonly used to group coins from one mint, but die-cutters may move from mint to mint, complicating the picture. Edward T. Newell, who provided the basis for all mint attributions in the Seleucid kingdoms, often combined stylistic analysis with consideration of the monogram or other control marks on the coins. This line of reasoning is complicated by the possible repetition of monograms (especially simple ones), the use of a monogram in more than one city (especially if the monogram refers to a common name), the use of a similar monogram by a descendant of the original magistrate, the use of a similar form for a different name, and the legibility of the coin. The way in which the monogram is placed on the reverse (e.g., under the throne of Zeus or under the Nike) can help point to particular mint preferences. Die studies are valuable for linking series that are otherwise of uncertain placement. Another feature that sometimes appears and can help in identifying a group is a control mark. On the coins of Alexander, for example, the control marks appear in the left field, under the throne, in the right field,



1. Newell 1941, 252. 114



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and, occasionally, not at all. Even though numismatists use such variations to suggest groups, we are still not sure why control marks were added to coin dies.2 A common suggestion is that the marks were used by mint overseers to ensure that all the silver issued to the mint ended up in coins. Alternatively, they may have marked particular payments or outgoes from the mint or particular batches of metal. Scholars have also looked for city badges in the marks. One assumption is that the letters, at least, denote a magistrate, perhaps as an advertisement of the fruits of his one year in office.3 That the letters refer to a person in charge of the mint is quite likely the case during the second and first centuries BCE, when coins were often stamped with full names (and sometimes a patronymic) instead of a monogram. Hoards are sometimes used for evidence. They work best with bronze civic coins. If a hoard consists mostly of coins that are considered to belong to the same series (e.g., they carry the same types and the same monograms), then it is assumed that the minting city was near where the hoard was buried. To date, four Hellenistic hoards have been found in Sardis, three from the early excavations. The so-called Pot Hoard consisted of 60 tetradrachms, none apparently from the mint at Sardis.4 The second and third make up the “Basis Hoard,” which is now considered to be two separate hoards, one of silver coins and one of bronze coins, both placed into the cracks of the sandstone base in the temple of Artemis (on this see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill).5 None of the coins in the silver hoard appear to come from the mint at Sardis, but this is not surprising, since silver tended to circulate more widely than bronze. The bronze hoard consisted of 72 coins, 7 of which certainly came from Sardis.6 Finally, the small purse from Pactolus North (see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin) was a mixture of Ephesian civic bronzes and royal bronzes now seen as having been minted at Sardis. This was deposited in the late fourth or early third century, before the Sardian civic coinages came into being. The best evidence for assigning a mint comes from excavated finds. If a coin series is found to the exclusion of others, there is a strong possibility that they were minted in that city. However, since it is rare to find precious-metal coins in excavations, this is generally only relevant to bronze issues, and often the illegibility of bronze coins creates difficulties. When excavation evidence is lacking, a city’s traditions or historical circumstances may be invoked. Sardis had been a precious-metal mint since the time of Croesus, which makes it likely that it also minted gold and silver in later eras, especially during times when its rulers would be interested in producing coins. Coins were produced at more mint cities than have been excavated—or published. This means that numismatists are forced to pull together as many strands of evidence as they can find. The assignment of a mint is an argument, and it may change as new evidence is brought to light.

2. See discussion in Houghton and Lorber 2002, 1:xxi–xxii. 3. Price 1991, 34–35; Price noted that the assumption that control marks were used to ensure that all silver went into the coins and the assumption that they represent one year in office are “assumptions [that] on occasion may be correct.” 4. Bell reported that the hoard was found in a Byzantine graveyard, but not in a grave, and that it contained one bronze imperial coin. Otherwise, the hoard should close c. 190; see Bell 1916, v. 5. Le Rider 1991; Inventory of Greek Coin Hoards 1299 (silver); Inventory of Greek Coin Hoards 1300 (bronze). 6. And perhaps more, given the advances in the knowledge of mint assignment since Bell (1916) reported on the hoards; the coins are now missing.

Spotlight Who’s in Charge? Jane DeRose Evans

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n the issue of who had the authority to mint civic coins, there are two schools of   thought. T. R. Martin suggested that because we see civic coinage produced in a city under differ  ent rulers, we can divorce the issuing of bronze coins from the problem of political sovereignty; Philip Kinns agreed, noting the continuance of mint officials through different periods of “foreign” domination.1 Andrew Meadows refined the argument, suggesting that the idea that the city needs to be autonomous to mint civic coins derives from the period of Roman domination, when city status becomes important to the new rulers.2 Sviatoslav Dmitriev suggested that “the minting of coins by a Greek city did not inevitably demonstrate that the city was autonomous,” but the minting could be an “important indicator that a city was not a subject city.”3 Finally, the stop-and-start nature of the bronze issues may suggest that what was more important was finding the magistrate who would pay for the issue—which, if true, would support decoupling minting and sovereignty. Other scholars argue for a real link between the city’s status and coinage.4 Thus, John Ma suggested that the civic coinage of Sardis began in 226, after Sardis had “escaped Seleucid authority,” when it was an “‘autonomous’ city under the Attalids.”5 Georges Le Rider had come to the same conclusion, given tetradrachms with the head of Heracles and Zeus Lydios on the reverse.6 The argument is complicated, relying on a single silver tetradrachm with the standard Alexandrian type of obverse—a head of Heracles—and, instead of a seated Zeus on the reverse, a standing Zeus with a scepter and eagle, and the legend ΣΑΡΔΙΑΝΩΝ. Henri 1. T. R. Martin 1985; Kinns 1986. 2. Meadows 2001; Ashton (2012, 192) agrees with him. 3. Dmitriev 2005, 65; cf. p. 296. 4. In addition to those mentions below, Hochard 2013, 151; Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 182–83 5. Ma 1999, 47. Mørkholm, Grierson, and Westermark (1991, 141) tentatively suggested that a small number of autonomous tetradrachms and drachms were minted between 226 and 220, when the Seleucids lost control of the city. Price disagreed (1991, 321), instead dating the coins to the 180s because of the condition of an Alexander drachm in the Larisa Hoard. 6. Le Rider 1991, 76, following Seyrig 1963, 35. 116



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Seyrig pointed to a die engraved by the same hand with the standard Alexander types and the control mark of a head of Meter; he argued that these coins would have been minted when the Attalids briefly controlled the city; but this need not pertain to the civic bronze issues, about which Seyrig was silent.7 His theory was supported by Philippe Gauthier, who connected the celebration of a Lydian past and Greek present to the status of a polis, which he claimed was awarded by the Attalid rulers.8 Susan Sherwin-White and Amélie Kuhrt noted that Sardis could have been an autonomous polis while still a royal city, just as Seleucia-on-the-Tigris was.9 The evidence adduced in chapter 4 here in support of a date of c. 240–220 for the minting of Sardis’s civic coins does not help to settle the question of whether a city did or did not need to be autonomous in order to issue civic coinage. As should be clear, the reasoning behind the affirmative argument is dangerously circular.



7. Seyrig 1963, 37. 8. Gauthier 1989, 165–67. 9. Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993, 183.

Spotlight Coins as Evidence of a City’s Economy Jane DeRose Evans

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sing coins to assess a city ’s economy is complicated by many factors, beginning with  trying to determine how many coins a mint produced and also how many coins were in use by  residents in a city at a given time. The answers differ: many of the coins circulating in a city were minted elsewhere, while coins minted in a city were taken to other places. A second complication is related to the types of coins minted, and their find spots. Mints produced coins in precious metals and also in bronze. Coins in precious metals are almost never found in excavations; to study them, we must turn to museum collections, which rarely include information about their provenience. Bronze coins make up the great majority found in excavations, meaning that in such cases we can be sure of their place of use; however, many bronzes also come from collections, so excavation finds necessarily represent an unknowable fraction of what was circulating. Other aspects further compromise the use of coins to assess a local economy. Several factors impinge on the likeliness of recovering coins from excavations, and also their legibility, beginning with their intrinsic worth. Numismatists are quite familiar with the story in the Gospel of Luke (15:8–10) of the woman who, having lost a silver coin, stopped all her other work and swept the house until she found it; the numerous finds of bronze coins in domestic locales would suggest that not as much care was taken to retrieve them. Practical aspects that may limit a coin’s survival at a site include its size, material, context (e.g., a domestic interior or a busy street), the acidity of the soil, and even laboratory conservation methods.1 These many factors mean that the total number of coins found at a site can only be some unquantifiable percentage of the total that were used in the past or that came from the mint. Another angle for assessing excavation coins and their relation to a city’s economy is to attempt to calculate the output of a given mint (although that can be complicated by uncertainties in mint assignments, on which see “Spotlight: Assigning a Mint”). The best way forward is a die study. Numismatists study the details of the struck coins, obverse and reverse, to determine how many dies were cut—or, more precisely, how many dies are apparent in the surviving corpus of coins. Noting how often coin dies were replaced, or



1. See Evans 2018, chap. 3. 118



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whether a number of anvils were striking at the same time, can show how fast coins were made. In reconstructing the latter process, we imagine that the reverse dies were placed in a “die box” at the end of the day and randomly selected the next day for striking with a different obverse die already embedded in the anvil. In the past, numismatists had made heroic attempts to estimate the size of issues on the basis of the number of known dies, until T.V. Buttrey argued persuasively that such calculations were essentially built on foundations of sand.2 Numismatists now agree that because our evidence is so fragmentary, die studies can provide only a rough measure of the number and rate of coins coming from a mint within a fixed amount of time. Thus, while we would not conclude that the difference between 15 and 25 obverse dies was significant, a difference between 15 and 150 dies would be another matter. As for bronze issues, die studies are rarely possible because of wear and resulting illegibility. Instead, the poor substitute is to count the number of monograms found on a given issue. Precious-metal coinage is an untrustworthy guide to a local economy for another reason, which is related to its function. Such coins were struck to facilitate large-scale transactions: to pay the army, finance building programs, or pay taxes. This means that issues were produced only when a need arose. Further, the Seleucid kings, by maintaining the use of the Attic standard for all their precious-metal coins, clearly intended them to be usable across the empire. And indeed, hoards of precious-metal coins usually contain coins from cities beyond the mint city.3 But while these hoards may give us some insight into imperial circulation patterns, they are not reliable guides to the exchange networks used by cities or individuals. It is the case that the number of bronze coins, first royal and then civic issues as well, steadily increased in number across the lands of the former Achaemenid empire, beginning already in the early third century. This phenomenon indicates a general increase in monetized exchange. A comparison of weight standards for both sorts of bronze issues shows that all were struck on city-specific standards, indicating that they were meant for use within very local networks.4 It is difficult to say if the successors of Alexander set out purposefully to create the conditions for a coin-based economy; but whether it was deliberate policy or an unintended consequence of minting practices, it nonetheless was instrumental in remaking many aspects of daily life in most parts of the Hellenistic world. Nevertheless, in the end mint output and excavation finds offer only very partial evidence for the economy of a given city. To complete the picture, we must turn to a wider array of evidence. Historical records and inscriptions contribute: they tell of royal donations or gifts to the city, record proceeds from sacred lands as well as taxes, and reveal periods when the royal court was in residence, necessitating the need for supplies. Building projects, whether undertaken by royal monies, the city itself, or generous individuals, contributed to local employment and thereby secondarily to the city’s coffers. Religious festivals and market days brought people into the city and spread prosperity at a lower level; army units in residence might do the same. Common material goods may offer a sense of local prosperity; for instance, the appearance of imported, specialty, or simply nicer goods in a wide range of houses suggests an increase in disposable income. On the whole, neither excavated coins nor assessments of mint output alone provide trustworthy indicators of the vigor of a local economy. Only by studying the coins along with other material, epigraphic, and literary evidence can we begin to see a real picture.



2. Buttrey 1993. 3. E.g., see Thonemann 2015; Reden 2010; Dmitriev 2005; Aperghis 2004. 4. Kritt in Houghton and Lorber 2002, 2:5; Evans, forthcoming.

rq 5

A Clay Kybele in the City Center Frances Gallart Marqués

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t is surprising how much one can say about precious little, and a precious little is precisely  the concern of this chapter: an early Hellenistic assemblage of terracotta figurines found near what  was once the center of the ancient Lydian capital.1 Though worn and fragmentary, the statuettes are emphatic in their depiction of the goddess Kybele as a powerful deity accompanied by lions. Despite their humble material, scale, and form, these figurines offer a compelling testimony to the lived cult of the goddess at Sardis as it was becoming a Hellenistic city. Until the discovery and analysis of the remains presented here, our sense of the location and meaning of Kybele’s cult at Sardis depended on three types of evidence: two ancient sources, a few marble reliefs found out of their original context,2 and the small archaic-era extramural shrine found in the Pactolus neighborhood (on which see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids,” by William Bruce). The ancient literary evidence, in particular, drove many of our early searches for the goddess.3 The destruction by fire of the hieron of the “native goddess Kybebe” at the hands of the Ionian Greeks in 499 BCE, for instance, was presented by Herodotus (5.101–2) as the cause for later retribution by the Persians. Plutarch, on the other hand, in his biography of Themistocles (31.1), mentioned that while visiting Sardis and its temples, the Athenian general saw a bronze statue that he had once dedicated at Athens, now displayed in the “temple of the Mother” (ἐν Μητρὸς ἱερῷ). His subsequent request to the Lydian satrap that it be returned to Athens was rebuffed; in the end, Themistocles had to bribe the satrap’s concubines in order to appease his anger. The recent study of the figural terracottas from the site,4 however, has changed this situation, as the goddess and her companions seem to account for about 40 percent of the identifiable divinities in the 1. I wish to thank Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin for their invitation to contribute to this volume, as well as their patience, encouragement, and many suggestions. 2. See the few entries under Sardis in Vermaseren 1987, 133–38, nos. 455–65. For the two Hellenistic examples, see Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 60, no. 21, figs. 84–85, and p. 169, no. 259, fig. 447. 3. See the introduction to Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1969. 4. The study was completed as part of my dissertation (Gallart Marqués 2015), which deals with all figurines, Geometric to Modern, excavated at Sardis since 1958. 120



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Hellen­istic coroplastic corpus. In particular, excavations conducted beneath the cavea of the Hellenistic theater discovered an early Hellenistic assemblage of Kybele figurines. Associated ceramics allow a date in the early third century (see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin), and the consistency of find spot and the cohesiveness in material, technology, scale, and style provide good evidence that these terracottas derive from a nearby shrine to the goddess. A shrine dedicated to Kybele in the heart of the city, apparently established within a generation of Alexander and, shortly thereafter, demolished when Sardis came under Seleucid control, is a phenomenon worthy of investigation. Additionally intriguing is that the Kybele depicted in these terracottas, familiar as she is from elsewhere in the Mediterranean, bears little resemblance to the older, local goddess whose sanctuary is presumably the one mentioned by Herodotus and Plutarch. The shrine’s location goes hand-inhand with the new form of the deity herself and, I suggest, with the transformation of Sardis from a Lydian city with an epichoric goddess to a Hellenistic polis. I also argue that the malleable nature of clay was particularly well suited to the representation of Hellen­ istic Kybele. A clay goddess could be easily remade, repurposed, and transported, while still retaining the power associated with the traditional material. Taken together, the new finds suggest that Sardians, in the wake of the disappearance of Achaemenid control, made use of a powerful goddess—and a flexible medium—in the process of reclaiming their city. The Godde ss of Ly di a n Sa r dis Kybele’s Lydian predecessor was a goddess by the name of Kubaba; like her name, her worship likely had its origins in Late Bronze Age western Anatolia, while her likeness recalled Phrygia’s Matar.5 Dating to the first half of the sixth century, the earliest material evidence for the worship of this goddess at Sardis has been found in the Pactolus neighborhood, east of the river, in the form of an open-air altar located within what was once the city’s gold-refining district (fig. 5.1, and see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls,” by William Bruce).6 The altar has been identified with the cult of Lydian Kubaba because of an associated ceramic fragment bearing a partially preserved painted graffito of her name, and the presence of several decorative lion sculptures.7 The lions are significant, since by the sixth century they had become a symbol of the Mermnad kings.8 The Lydian rulers, possibly taking their Near Eastern counterparts as models, included lions in the cult of Kubaba in order to strengthen the link between the goddess and their own rule.9 5. In this chapter, I use the name “Kubaba” to refer to the epichoric goddess of Sardis. Once she begins to display attributes borrowed from the Greeks, I refer to her as “Kybele.” For a comprehensive analysis of Lydian Kubaba, see Flaata 2012, esp. ch. 3. The name is probably derived from the Luwian Kubaba, “Queen of Karkamiš”: Flaata 2012, 101–7. On worship in the Late Bronze Age, see Munn 2006, 120–25. On Matar see Rein 1993, 1996; Flaata 2012, 126–37. 6. Ramage and Craddock 2000; Greenewalt 2010b; and now Bruce 2015. Preliminary excavation reports are in Hanfmann, Mitten, and Ramage 1968, 10–14, figs. 7, 9–13; Hanfmann, Waldbaum, et al. 1970, 16–26, figs. 7–9. 7. A recent reinterpretation of the archaeology of this sector (Bruce 2015, 99–104) posits that the sherd with the graffito predates the altar, and therefore that an earlier cult to the goddess may have existed in the area before its installation. For more on the ceramic fragment, see Gusmani 1969; 1975, 28–30, no. A II 5, figs. 12–13; 1980–86, 15, 68–69, 142, 153, no. 72. For the lions, see Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 66–67, nos. 27–29, figs. 105–17. 8. Herodotus (1.84) noted that the lion was of importance already under the Heraclids. 9. On the relationship between the Mermnad kings, the lion, and Kubaba, see Flaata 2012, 137. For other lions from Sardis, see Ratté 1989. For lions found in greater Lydia, see Roosevelt 2009, 165–71.

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Fig. 5.1.  Andrew Ramage working on the altar of Kybele in Pactolus North. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Unlike the structures that surrounded it, the altar was made out of stones brought down from the Tmolus Mountains.10 Both its location next to the Pactolus River and its material underscored Kubaba’s strong ties to the natural sources of the metals and to the kings who would most benefit from their manipulation. Still, the altar near the river was only a simple shrine to the goddess; it was likely not the main sanctuary burned by the Ionian Greeks or visited by Themistocles.11 While the location of Kubaba’s hieron has not yet been determined, clues may be found in the spoliated remains used in the construction of Sardis’s late Roman synagogue, situated just outside the city, to the northwest (see “Spotlight: The Metroön at Sardis,” by Nicholas Cahill).12 The remains include two marble temple models built into the synagogue piers, along with several marble lion sculptures dated stylistically to the sixth and fifth centuries,13 as well as sizable blocks of a temple of the fourth or third century.14 The amount and quality of material may suggest that the two structures—Lydian-era sanctuary and late Roman synagogue—were near to one another.15 10. Ramage and Craddock 2000, 72. Greenewalt (2010a, 240n2) asked: “Might that material be related to the common Anatolian association of Cybele [sic] with mountains?” 11. For an opposing view, see Berndt-Ersöz 2013. 12. Mitten and Scorziello 2008; Ratté 2008; Gauthier 1989. 13. Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 63–69, nos. 25, 26, 32, 33, figs. 92–104, 123–24. 14. The date of the blocks is based on their having Carian lewis holes (Ratté 2011, 13n13; and see chapter 6, “The Temple of Artemis,” by Fikret Yegül). 15. Cahill 2008b, 2010a; Rein 1993, 70; Flaata 2012, 119–20.



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Two of the sculptures illustrate key features and attributes of the Lydian goddess. Her most complete depiction is in one of the temple models, the so-called Cybele shrine (pl. 24), dated stylistically to 560–530.16 The goddess stands stiffly, facing forward, at the entrance of a peripteral Ionic building with seven columns. She wears a chiton that partly covers her arms, a veil that covers her shoulders and back, and a thick, beaded necklace. She pulls her chiton tightly to her right side in order to display the careful craftsmanship of her skirt, in the manner of contemporary Ionian korai. While her right hand is busy with her dress, the left is used to hold an attribute up to her bosom. Although now eroded, her companion seems to have been a recumbent lion.17 What seem to be snakes, one at either side of the goddess, suggest a chthonic component to her cult.18 The sides and back of the temple model are taken up by a series of panels carved in low relief.19 On the sides are a pair of lions, along with women and men processing in the direction of the shrine with votive offerings, or while drinking and dancing. The back panels, which are badly worn and thus more difficult to interpret, seem to show hunting and chariot-riding, elite activities that reflected command over the natural bounty of the land. Kubaba emerges as a goddess of power and royalty. A stele dated to around 400, the so-called Two Goddess Relief, shows a deity in flux (pl. 25).20 Kybele and Artemis, with two worshippers, stand within a niche; the two goddesses occupy about two-thirds of the niche space. The taller of the two, Artemis, is shown holding a hind, while Kybele embraces a lion, having hung up her tympanum on the wall behind her. Like the goddess of the “Cybele shrine,” the ones depicted here seem to be standing within a temple front. Kybele still wears a chiton and a cloak, but her veil is now secured underneath a polos. The inclusion of the tympanum is new. Though the presence of music was already suggested by dancing worshippers on the sides of the earlier temple model, Kubaba was not explicitly associated with booming instruments.21 A Greek iconographic invention, the tympanum is probably a result of the syncretization between the Anatolian mother goddess and the Greek Rhea. The stele allows three observations about this local goddess. First, Kybele and Artemis were not syn­ cretized at Sardis. Second, apparently there were spaces that welcomed the worship of both. Third, the difference in height hints at Kybele’s displacement by Artemis—in worshippers’ attention, a favored space, or a preferred medium, or all of these. Earlier material evidence showed us a young, standing goddess, as powerful as the lion companions she favored. Her altar by the Pactolus linked her to the Tmolus Mountains and to the acquisition and manipulation of valuable metals. The temple model illustrates her connection to the natural landscape, with worship 16. “Cybele” was the name used by the original excavators and commonly given in publications. A study devoted entirely to this temple model can be found in Rein 1993. See also Hanfmann 1964b, 39–42; Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 43–51, no. 7, figs. 20–50; Flaata 2012, 127–36. For the earlier model, usually known as the “South Kore,” see Hanfmann 1964b, 42–43, fig. 27; Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 42–43, no. 6, figs. 16–19; Rein 1993, 116–18; Flaata 2012, 115–17. 17. Hanfmann and Waldbaum (1969, 268) and Hanfmann and Ramage (1978, 45) based the reconstruction on the later “Two Goddesses Relief.” Roller (1999, 128–29) thought the object too small for a lion and thus proposed a bird or pomegranate. Rein (1993, 79–80) believed it was the goddess’s own arm, if not a bird or hare. 18. See Flaata 2012, 129n381. Rein (1993, 79–80) interpreted these wavy forms as vines. 19. For varying interpretations of these panels, see Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 43–51, no. 7, figs. 20–50; Rein 1993, 81–94; Flaata 2012, 130–36. Hostetter (1994, 65) suggested that these panels might represent terracotta tiles adorning the goddess’s temple. 20. Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1969. See also Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 58–60, no. 20, figs. 78–83. 21. Neither was Phrygia’s Matar Kubileya: see Flaata 2012, 154–62.

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via ecstatic rites. The extramural location of her shrines suggests a role as protector of the boundaries of the city. The spheres that Lydian Kubaba presided over were, not coincidentally, the same ones that secured and legitimized the rule of the Mermnad kings. It may be that when the latter were displaced, so too was their goddess. The The at er Deposit: I cono gr a phy At Sardis, Kybele may be imagined as the heiress of a powerful deity. Yet on present evidence she does not have the sort of significant votive deposits that occur elsewhere in western Anatolia. It may simply be that we have not found them, but another possibility is that the pattern at Sardis corresponds to the changing landscape of the newly reinhabited city. This brings us to the group from beneath the later theater, located in what was once the Lydian city center, just east of a probable Lydian-era palatial district (on the Lydian and Achaemenid-era remains here, see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill; on the specific contents of this deposit, see chapter 2). The Kybele figurines come from a deposit containing Lydian and early Hellenistic pottery, with the latest material dating to c. 275–250. The group comprises at least 50 figural terracotta fragments, although most are very small, and some are barely identifiable as figural. The best examples represent at most 14 distinct statuettes or plaques (pl. 26). All seem to have been made from the local Lydian clay, which is characteristically micaceous and light reddish in color.22 Despite their local production, the Kybeles from this group conform to traditional Greek iconographical lines of representation, common elsewhere in Asia Minor in a variety of media. The goddess is presented frontally, enthroned, wearing a chiton under a peplos and himation, and on her head a polos, seemingly without veil. In four statuettes she holds a tympanum, an instrument that Herodotus (4.76) associated with the celebration of her nocturnal rituals, always at her left, and always supporting it from below. Alongside these Greek aspects there also regularly appear one or more lions, a companion familiar from earlier renditions of the goddess at Sardis. In three figurines, a lion appears at the goddess’s right side; in two, a lion appears on her lap; and at least in one case, a lion forms part of the arms of her throne, furniture rather than a living creature. The seated Kybele with lap-lion likely originated from a type developed in Cyme during the archaic period. It was this version that served as a model for the well-known and widely disseminated version by the fifth-century Athenian sculptor Agoracritus.23 The largest and most complete figure from the theater group, unfortunately missing her head, is preserved to a height of 15.5 centimeters (pl. 27).24 The goddess holds a tympanum against her left shoulder. On her lap sits a small lion. Next to the animal she rests her right hand, palm up, perhaps to hold a phiale, as suggested by its bottom traces on her open palm.25 She wears a light chiton underneath a girded peplos 22. No petrographic or elemental analysis was performed on the figurines, although close comparisons were made to a wide range of ceramic objects analyzed petrographically and/or by chemical analyses and identified as local to Sardis. See Ramage 1978, table 2, for results of petrographic thin-section mineral analysis of several Lydian architectural terracotta fragments and Lydian mold-made lamps, and for the mineral assemblage typical of ceramics from Sardis (all periods). See also Gallart Marqués 2015, 84–90. 23. Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1969, 269. For descriptions from ancient authors, see Pausanias 1.3.5; Pliny, NH 36.17. 24. Sardis inventory number T09.016: 12454. 25. This is the only representation of a phiale among the figurines from the theater, which suggests that it was perhaps not an important signifier for the goddess at Sardis.



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with a high, floppy V-neck. A thick himation falls straight down from her left shoulder, pools at her lap, and then is draped diagonally from right to left. Very little paint survives, but enough to show that the tympanum was colored red. The lion, impossibly small, has a short, restricted mane and wide grin. He faces Kybele’s right hand, perhaps curious as to its contents, his back turned away from the potentially loud tympanum, managing to simultaneously balance the composition and lighten the mood. Another fragment preserves a head of the goddess (fig. 5.2).26 She wears a short, triangular crown backed by a tall, straight, conical polos with a turreted pattern of alternating vertical bands. Her facial features are finely modeled. Her hair is long and wavy, parted at the middle, tucked behind the ears to reveal round earrings, and draped over the shoulders. She seems to raise her left arm, perhaps to hold a tympanum. An odd protrusion to her right might be the ornamental corner of a trefoil-embellished throne, as seen in another example from the same deposit.27 The back, minimally modeled, seems to depict her right arm placed around the protrusion, which could suggest that this was a companion, perhaps a lion or Attis (fig. 5.3). The primacy of lions is a notable feature of the theater group, beginning with what is likely the earliest item: a seated Kybele with a small lion on her lap, represented by two small, non-joining fragments (fig. 5.4).28 The lion is rendered simply. His mane is small and triangular, indicated by short but deep incisions. His eyes are deep-set, and his mouth has thick lips formed by a long incision that gives the impression of a grin. Unlike the lap-lion from the well-preserved example discussed above, this animal faced the goddess’s left hand. Left-facing lions occur in the fourth century, as seen in a marble relief of that date from Sardis.29 Sometime in the third century, the lion changed position and never looked back.

Fig. 5.2.  Finely modeled head of Kybele, from the Theater Deposit, front view. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

26. Sardis inventory number T06.005: 12131. 27. A plaque, furthest object to the right in pl. 26. Sardis inventory number T09.006: 12424. 28. Sardis inventory number T09.014: 12447. 29. Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 60, no. 21, figs. 84–85; and see fig. 5.6. D. B. Thompson (1963, 77) discusses the changing direction of lion companions.

Fig. 5.3.  Finely modeled head of Kybele, from the Theater Deposit, back view (perhaps embracing a companion). (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Fig. 5.4.  Earliest examples from the Theater Deposit: small lion, facing proper left, and draped lap fragment. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)



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A later lion from this group is more substantial in size and position (fig. 5.5).30 He is seated, facing forward. His large, round eyes echo his mouth, which seems to open with a growl. The abundant mane, with teardrop-shaped lumps of hair, complements the healthy muscles of the forelegs. This is a strong, proud lion: nature controlled but not entirely tamed. Taken together, the theater group lions recall their predecessors at Sardis—those who were regular companions to Lydian Kubaba as well as those associated with the Lydian royal house via depiction in monumental sculpture, on coins, and on painted ceramics.31 The The at er Deposit: Chronolo gy, S t y le , a n d Techn ica l Fe at ur e s The theater group was found in a single large, stratified deposit that contained ceramics of two periods: early–mid-sixth century and late fourth–early third century (see chapter 2). These early Hellenistic ceramics suggest a terminus a quo but need not settle the issue of chronology, since the figurines could date from any time within, before, or after this span. That said, several technical and stylistic features support a date for the group in the early third century.

Fig. 5.5.  One of Kybele’s lion companions, from the Theater Deposit. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

30. Sardis inventory number T06.008: 12146. 31. For sculpture, see nn. 7 and 9, above. For coins see Cahill and Kroll 2005, 590, figs. 2–5. For ceramics, see Schaeffer, Ramage, and Greenewalt 1997, 36, no. Cor 63, pl. 11.

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I begin with technical aspects of manufacture. With the exception of two plaques, all of the items from this deposit were manufactured using one bivalve mold per figure.32 The finely modeled head provides a good example. Since both front and back are preserved, it is possible to see the join seam behind the hair and the ears. The particular seam position and careful surface treatment is common to earlier statuettes and seems to change sometime in the second century.33 A second technical feature is that every example of this group was made using a terracotta mold. Molds made out of plaster begin to be used at Sardis in the second half of the third century, and plaster quickly becomes the preferred material for the production of molds.34 The fact that none of the theater group figurines were made using this technology suggests a date before the mid–later third century. The style of the heads also supports a date in the third century. Most telling are the eyes. In the fourth century, depictions in terracotta echoed trends in marble sculpture. Eyes especially were rendered in a scale that harmonized with the rest of the face and imitated the blurred, “melting gaze” of the Praxitelean tradition. In the third century, tastes changed to a preference for emphatic brows and upper lids, as seen most clearly in the finely modeled head from our deposit (see fig. 5.2). By the second century, artisans began to emphasize both lids, so pronouncedly in some cases as to suggest swelling or the laborious gaze of a squinter.35 Within this developmental schema, the style of the heads best conforms to that of the third century. The The at e r Deposit: R ecl a iming t he Cit y Cen t er The Kybeles from the Theater Deposit support several observations and allow us to draw a number of conclusions. First, as the only large, cohesive assemblage of figurines ever found at Sardis, the deposit should be seen as a telling marker of place and meaning. Second, the specifics of their technology and style best conform to a date of manufacture in the late fourth–early third centuries. Third, each figurine is unique; there are no strictly repeating types, which suggests sufficient and varied demand—enough to justify multiple artisans and/or ateliers. Fourth, the variety notwithstanding, the iconography is consistent and meaningful. The combination of current Greek features—enthronement, polos, chiton and himation, and tympanum— with the lion, a long-established signifier of Kubaba, the now-mythic Lydian royal house, and, effectively, the city itself, represents a potent blend of the latest Hellenic trends with traditionally Lydian ones. All of the preceding support a final conclusion, which is that this assemblage derives from a nearby shrine to the goddess. Study of the figural terracottas from sites with more abundant functional deposits has shown 32. Despite the three-dimensionality of the medium, figurines made in single bivalve molds tend to be frontal and two-dimensional, with limbs projecting away from the body only along the plane where the mold was divided, usually the coronal plane of the body. Coroplasts could, however, use multiple bivalve molds in the creation of a single figure— a more involved and time-consuming method that allowed for great variety in output. Although it required more molds per figure, it also necessitated fewer molds per figure type (Muller 1996, 504). Given the constraints of the chosen technique, the fact that not a single fragment in our group is an exact copy of another is astounding. It at least suggests a large assortment of prototypes, and likely the presence of a significant number of ateliers producing Kybele figurines. 33. In working with the figurines from Troy, D. B. Thompson (1963, 17) noticed that up to the late second century, the seam on human heads was usually placed behind the ears, while in later examples it tended to fall just at the ears. At Sardis, this seems to hold mostly true, although there are some clearly late examples with seams behind the ears (Gallart Marqués 2015, no. 263). 34. Gallart Marqués 2015, 62–67. 35. D. B. Thompson 1963, 28–29. See also H. Goldman 1950, 304.



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that funerary and domestic assemblages tend to be varied, while those from sanctuaries are generally quite specific in terms of types.36 The Theater Deposit is, therefore, likely a remnant of what was once a dedicated space for the worship of Kybele in its vicinity—a space that was demolished for the construction of the theater, likely in the second quarter of the third century (see chapter 2). The absence of evidence for a permanent structure may suggest that the shrine was humble—anything more is conjecture. The location of this small shrine is as significant as the goddess it honored: placed within the city walls, in the center of the city, just below what was once the Lydian palatial district. As shown by Cahill (chapter 1), this area seems to have been purposely depopulated after the Persian conquest of 547 and reinhabited only sometime in the early Hellenistic period (see chapter 2). The choice is in marked distinction to the extramural locales where Sardians of earlier times worshipped Lydian Kubaba. Now we see a goddess who could evoke the kings of old, placed in a central spot to which Sardians had long been denied access: a combination that suggests residents reclaiming their city—and perhaps also their Lydian identity—via the enduring power and position of Kybele. C l ay : A Godde ss You Ca n Touch The absence at Sardis of great numbers of votives to Kybele generally, and their scarcity in expensive materials specifically, is worth scrutiny. There is only one representation of the goddess in marble dated to around the same period as the clay figures from the Theater Deposit (fig. 5.6).37 The marble Kybele shares all key

Fig. 5.6.  Kybele relief with lion companions in her lap and by her feet (Manisa 4101), front view. Marble, dated fourth century. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)



36. For instance, Rumscheid 2006, 76–177; Mrogenda 1996. 37. Hanfmann and Ramage 1978, 60, no. 21, figs. 84–85.

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iconographic aspects with those in clay: she sits enthroned, a large tympanum upon her left shoulder, a phiale in her right hand, with two lions as her dear companions. The marble rendition indicates that there was some impetus for depicting the goddess in this medium at that time, but its singularity also emphasizes the lopsided number of versions in terracotta. Though perhaps an accident of discovery, the shortage might equally be due to the particularities of the cult of the goddess at Sardis. In support of this line of thought, I offer some final comments on the phenomenon of Kybele’s popularity in the medium of terracotta, which is not limited to the examples from the Theater Deposit. Statuettes of Kybele, accompanied by lions, come from every excavated sector of the city and its surroundings, accounting for about 40 percent of the identifiable divinities in its Hellenistic coroplastic corpus. The next most widely represented deity in clay, Aphrodite, is depicted in less than half that amount, or about 18 percent of the figures. As outlined above, the particular interpretation of Kybele common at Sardis during the Hellenistic period is very much Greek, especially in the choice and arrangement of her attributes. And while it would be tempting to explain this partly imported goddess’s acceptance by some visual affinity with her local predecessor, Kybele looks nothing like the goddess of the Mermnads. Kubaba greets her worshippers at the entrance of a temple, while Kybele sits on an elaborate throne. Kubaba displays her light garments, while Kybele covers herself in a thick himation. Kubaba stands silently, while Kybele holds up a potentially loud instrument. Both have lions, and while Kybele’s leonine adoption may simply have been a part of the normal course of membership in the greater Hellenistic world, it may well be that the persistence of the beloved feline guaranteed the deity’s recognition and acceptance among the Sardian population and also, as argued above, purposefully evoked the local past. But why was clay the preferred medium? Coroplastic arts held a place of honor in Lydian Sardis. The best-known representatives of the tradition are molded and painted architectural terracottas.38 Indeed, one interpretation of the side and back panels of the “Cybele shrine” (pl. 24) posits that these depict figural terracotta tiles embellishing the goddess’s temple.39 The tradition of crafting architectural terracottas continued into the early third century (see “Spotlight: Continuing Crafts—Antefixes and Roof Tiles,” by Andrea M. Berlin)—and although the evidence suggests that the elite associations of these specific items had evaporated, still the material may well have retained the power to evoke the city’s gloried past. Furthermore, at least in Hellenistic Sardis, the more frequently represented divine characters in terracotta—Kybele, Aphrodite, and youthful male divinities such as Apollo, Dionysus, and Eros—seem to be the most flexible in terms of their iconography. Their forms lend themselves particularly well to the coroplastic medium and to the possibility of manipulation by their owners—via handling, for example, as well as more elaborate modes of interaction such as dressing, undressing, painting, posing, and even breaking. Representations of divinities associated with major sanctuaries (Zeus, Athena, and Artemis40) are scant; perhaps malleable clay was not considered a suitable medium for deities with a more fixed iconography. 38. See Ramage 1978. 39. Hostetter (1994, 65): “As architectural terracottas presumably adorned some of the more prestigious buildings in the Lydian capital, and thus were valued products emblematic of royal, religious, and/or aristocratic ideology, the status of coroplasts, or at least the owner or overseer of the workshop producing architectural terracottas, may have been somewhat better than that of other artisans or craftsmen associated with the building trades.” 40. For an idea of what Sardian Artemis might have looked like, see Christof 2013.



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A clay goddess is easy to construct, transport, and change, and as such can inspire unrestrained expe­ rimentation. Not a single fragment in the Theater Deposit is an exact copy of another; they are as varied as the individuals who made Kybele the focus of their offerings. Clay is also well suited to convey expressiveness, an aspect best appreciated by comparison with the contemporary marble relief. In it, Kybele sits as if trapped, rendered too large for her dense surroundings. Not only cramped by her presumed temple, she is also overwhelmed by a large tympanum that seems to fall upon her left shoulder. Her lion companions do not engage the viewer but passively sit or crouch in profile; one seems to exist solely as a support for the proffered phiale in the goddess’s right hand. As rendered in marble, Kybele appears to be no more than a collection of symbols stripped of their power. In terracotta one may imagine the stern, encumbered Kybele breaking away from the confines of her frame, ignoring the stale phiale and imposed tympanum, and announcing her presence, not with the boom of a drum but with her chosen companion’s roar. Finally, clay invites touch, which itself allows for a more personal way of knowing. A goddess that can be felt, held, and transformed is one that, in the right hands, can be wielded as a successful political instrument. In the early third century, Sardians were just starting to recover from two centuries of colonial Persian rule. On the evidence of the Theater Deposit, it appears that one of their first actions was to reclaim their ancient city center by situating there a shrine to Kybele, an old goddess made new, in a medium both traditional and flexible. While the relationship between iconography, material, practice, and belief can be difficult to disentangle, one final conclusion seems clear: at Sardis, Kybele retained her power—and so, by extension, did those who honored her.

rq 6

The Temple of Artemis Fikret Yegül

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n this chapter we focus on a moment in the life of the most famous, most elegant, and most  glamorous of all the standing structures in Sardis: the temple of Artemis. The temple sits within a  sanctuary space first established in the Lydian era and still used through the years of Persian control, for which the evidence consists of ceramic remains, a large archaic-era altar immediately west of the temple, and a sandstone base inside the original cella (see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill).1 Repeated soundings under the present building have failed to find structural evidence for an earlier temple.2 In the fourth century BCE, then, we must imagine a city with a major sanctuary to the ancestral cult of Artemis centered upon an imposing altar, but no temple. Sometime within the next century, that changed; a gleaming white marble structure—the fourth-largest Ionic temple in the classical world—arose here (pls. 28, 29). Whose project was this? While various types of evidence affirm a date within the third century, none name a precise patron. The only one whom we can almost certainly rule out is Alexander. According to Arrian, Alexander gave orders to build a temple to Olympian Zeus on the acropolis, but no mention is made of building a temple to Sardian Artemis.3 Three types of evidence cohere to indicate that the temple was functional by the third quarter of the third century. The first is archaeological: 56 silver and 72 bronze coins dating c. 240–220 recovered from the vertical joints in the sandstone base inside the cella (see chapter 1 and chapter 4, “The Mint at Sardis,” by Jane DeRose Evans). As Cahill explains, it is most probable that the coins were slipped in at the close of construction, meaning that they offer something of a terminus a quo, the time by which the building would have been operational. In accord with the coins is the generally corroborating evidence of a type of lifting device attested on five capitals: a so-called Carian lewis, invented in southwest Anatolia and described by Hero of Alexandria 1. Cahill and Greenewalt 2016, 488–92, 495. See also Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1975, 78–79; Cahill and Kroll 2005, 609–14. 2. Butler 1925, 148–49; Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 49–52; Cahill and Greenewalt 2016, 493–94. 3. Arr. Anab. 1.17.3–8. 132



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(Mechanica 3.6). This consists of two parts carved on the top surface of a stone block: a smaller, narrow, rectangular socket with double or single slanting sides, and a larger hole (sometimes square in shape) with straight sides (fig. 6.1). A special dovetail-shaped iron piece (or “key”) was inserted into the smaller slanted socket, after which a piece of wood was inserted into the larger hole to prevent the iron from sliding back.4 When force was applied from above, the iron pieces were wedged against the sloping sides of the socket, and the stone was lifted.5 The Carian lewis is earliest attested in the fourth century in Halicarnassus, Mylasa, and Labraunda; it had gone out of use by the middle of the second century.6 The second category of evidence is epigraphic, in the form of two inscriptions. The first, carved on the interior face of the northwest anta of the temple itself, records the mortgage of lands that had been granted to one Mnesimachus by Antigonus (on this inscription, see chapter 8, “The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia,” by Christopher Roosevelt). This is Antigonus I Monophthalmus (c. 382–301), the “One-Eyed” founder of the Antigonid dynasty. The text itself is a later copy whose letter forms suggest a date between c. 225 and 200,

Fig. 6.1.  Artemis temple, Carian lewis on Capital F. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College) 4. Singer, Hall, and Williams 1954, 604; Pedersen 1999; 2011. 5. R. Martin 1965, 216–19, figs. 98–102; Adam 1994, 48–49; Coulton 1974; Bingöl 2012, 173–75, figs. 248, 249. 6. Pedersen 1994; 2001/2002; Reger 2010. On the great fourth-century platform in Mylasa known as “Uzun Yuva,” now thought to be the tomb of Hecatomnus, and its possible connection to Pytheus’s work, see Rumscheid 2010, esp. 91–99.

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and thus in accord with the dates of the coins from the sandstone base.7 The second inscription is a stele found at Didyma that records the sale of a piece of land by Antiochus II in 253 to his queen, Laodice. The text stipulates the display of copies of this document at five important sanctuaries: those of Apollo at Didyma (represented by this very stele); of Artemis at Ephesus; of Athena at Ilium; at Samothrace; and of Artemis at Sardis (ἐν Σάρδεσιν ἐν τῶι ἱερῶι τῆς Ἀρτέμιδος). It seems unlikely that the Sardian sanctuary would have been cited in this way as an archival center if it did not have a functioning temple by this time.8 These archaeological considerations for the study and interpretation of the temple—structural characteristics, lewis types, dowel holes, etc.—are, in essence, technical. Just as important is historical logic, which can supply a larger, contextual view and a broad, even poetic sense of the past via the linked forces of history and memory. This approach allows a cultural narrative that makes its case through the creative use of hypothesis, circumstance, and historical logic. Such a big-picture, big-horizon view goes beyond fenced-in facts but also has its own limitations. In seeking to offer a compelling narrative of the past, we may err by holding it accountable to the judgmental perspective of the present day. Yet, in the words of the physicist and Nobel laureate Steven Weinberg, “one who never makes judgments—and never stands up to view horizons—will never be able to see what . . . (makes) things right back then or now.”9 We must then strive to keep our eyes open in all directions—toward the past, as well as on the present and the future. In the case of our temple, historical logic favors an attribution to the city’s first Seleucid dynasts. An ambitious, gigantic, all-marble project like this—a “statement” project—is most logically undertaken for the benefit of a strong dynasty interested in speaking through monumental building, and is only capable of being undertaken by such a dynasty. Seleucus Nicator and/or his son and successor Antiochus I had a motive for making such a statement, for wanting a proper temple with a marble roof to rival those at Ephesus and Didyma.10 Further, at this time Sardis was the official residence (or one of the official residences) of the Seleucid monarchs in western Asia Minor (see chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin).11 Wh at Did t he Seleucid s B uild ? All of the archaeological evidence cited above pertains only to the cella itself, along with the twenty columns and capitals (most not preserved) of the pronaos (which are all Roman), opisthodomos, and interior. Yet in no way should this be construed as something incomplete or insignificant. The completion of a temple’s cella, even just the notion of the cella itself, as distinct from the ring of columns surrounding it, carried a special meaning in Greek religious and architectural thinking. It was the beating heart of the temple. In our case, the cella, by virtue of its unusual proportions, also communicated something more: a deliberately archaic sensibility whose aura must have satisfied both its patrons and the local public (on which see further below). 7. Buckler and Robinson 1932, 1–7, no. 1; Atkinson 1972; challenged by Hanfmann in Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1975, 180–81. See also Levi 1976, 259–71; Billows 1995, 111–45; Descat 1985; Franke 1961. The date given here is that of George Petzl (personal communication, 22 September 2014). 8. OGIS 225 lines 24–29; Austin 1981, 305–7, no. 185; Wiegand and Rehm 1958, no. 492 A–C. 9. Weinberg 2015. 10. For the relationship and potential rivalry between the parallel cults and Artemis sanctuaries of Ephesus and Sardis, consider the so-called Sacrilege Inscription: Hanfmann 1987, 1–8; Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1975, 179n15; Knibbe 1961–63; Dusinberre 2013, 227–29. See also chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin. 11. Magie 1950, 121, 975; Chrubasik 2016, 53, 74; Ma 1999, 36. Sardis as an “inherited Seleucid capital”: Kosmin 2014, 155, 192.



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The cella on its own, not counting the pteroma, measures 23.0 by 67.5 meters (figs. 6.2, 6.3). This makes it excessively elongated; with a ratio of 1:2.94, its length is almost three times its width. The size is about that of the cellas of the largest contemporary Ionic dipteroi of Asia: the Artemision of Ephesus, the temple of Hera at Samos, and the temple of Apollo at Didyma. I suggest that the measurements were derived from these famous predecessors, and that the Sardian Artemision was also originally intended to be a dipteros, despite the fact that this was quite an architectural anachronism in its day. The design—a square pronaos with six columns in antis and an opisthodomos exactly one-half as deep—is particularly reminiscent of the classical-period Artemision at Ephesus. Inside was a double row of twelve columns, which would have carried a timber-trussed conventional roof. With a lower diameter-to-height ratio varying between 1:8.9 and 1:9.9 (total height 17.81 m), the sizes and proportions of the columns of all of these temples are also quite close (although it must be remembered that the peripheral columns at Sardis are actually Roman). The span between the central row of columns is exceptionally wide (restored at 9.40 m on axis and 8.70 m clear span), while the sides are only 4.46 meters from the column axis to the wall face. This arrangement would have emphasized the spatial impact of the nave, a rare effect in most Greek temple architecture, except in the Parthenon, itself quite an innovative

Fig. 6.2.  Artemis temple, view from west toward acropolis. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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Fig. 6.3.  Artemis temple, Hellenistic plan, 1:200. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

building.12 The image of the goddess must have been installed on its platform inside by around 220, facing west, toward the necropolis. This structure, without a surrounding colonnade and, possibly, no paved pteroma, was all that the Hellenistic builders completed. The cella faced west, its gleaming walls 18 or so meters high, with front and back porches whose columns helped support pediments at the short ends, and a gabled roof of solid marble tiles. Entry was via a monumental door and wide steps of white marble. Immediately in front was a massive altar with steps in front. This area may have been littered with votive objects, statuary, and stelae. Yet even as a (relatively unadorned) marble box, it was sufficiently complete to be a proper, functioning shrine. And more than that, it was, effectively, a visual feast: a tall white edifice rising before the craggy, multihued profile of the acropolis and the distant line of the Tmolus Mountains. Green hills sloped down into the valley of the gold-bearing Pactolus River. Toward the northeast lay the wide Hermus Plain and the high burial mounds of Alyattes and other Lydian greats. The sacred was not measured by the degree to which a temple was finished or elaborated, but by the quality and meaning embodied in the land and the location. 12. Yegül 2012, 2010; Gruben 1961; Cahill and Greenewalt 2016, 473–509; Butler 1922, 1925. The spaciousness of the Sardis cella must have been a great advantage centuries later when it became the home of the colossal statues of the Roman imperial family.



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Edith Hamilton understood this when she conceived that a Greek temple, even an “unfinished” one, “was a part of its setting . . . [and as such, it was] the simplest of all great buildings of the world.”13 Vincent Scully elaborated: “The place is itself holy and, before the temple was built upon it, embodied the whole of the deity as a recognized natural force. . . . Therefore, the formal elements of a Greek sanctuary are, first, the specifically sacred landscape in which it is set and, second, the buildings that are placed within it.”14 The building’s simplicity could only have enhanced the hallowed grandeur of its setting. S eleucid s a n d Sa r di a ns Allowing an ancient cult to exist is not the same thing as starting a colossal and ambitious temple in the Greek mode. After 200 years as subjects of the Great King, Sardians might have looked upon Alexander and his successors with some skepticism or, worse, trepidation (on the many battles fought in this very zone in the generation after Alexander, see chapter 3). The salient points were the ability of any one of the contenders to impose their will, along with whatever local advantages might be extracted—for example, the privilege to revive old customs and ways, to refurbish old sanctuaries, or even to initiate new ones (for one such set of actions, with regard to Kybele, see chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués). Meanwhile the new rulers will have had their own agendas and incentives, of which one, apparently, was the opportunity to rectify an obvious deficiency in their new regional capital by building a temple, perhaps a dipteros, one monumental enough to rival others. It may be that the new kings sought approval from their new subjects by favoring an old cult, one that they sought to enhance by building in the mode of archaic Ionian glory. But I want to emphasize that the creation of a Greek-style temple need not be seen exclusively as a political opportunity, an attempt by an outside power to gain favor. There is, as always, another side of the equation. In the present case this may well be the realization by the city’s leaders that the opportunity to seize the moment and create a magnificent temple was at hand and was theirs. In this sense, while the temple of Artemis may be understood as a convenient gift from a Hellenistic monarch to a grateful city, its acceptance may equally be seen as the skillful contrivance of its residents to augment a venerable past and advance their present stature. And, possibly, have others pay for it. A small bit of epigraphic evidence is pertinent here: a short inscription in Lydian carved on the apophyge of one of the columns of the east porch. This column and its mate, elevated on rustic pedestals, are Roman reconstructions using entirely Hellenistic material from the original columns of the temple. The inscription records a dedication to Artemis by one “Manes (son of) Bakivas” (fig. 6.4). It has been dated, cautiously, by Roberto Gusmani to c. 300–280.15 More trustworthy than the date, however, is the cultural aura of this single line of Lydian in this particular time and place. 13. Hamilton 1930, 201–2. See also Choisy 1899, 49. 14. Scully 1963 (rev. 1969); for the temple of Artemis at Sardis, see esp. 89–93: “The long axis of the temple runs roughly east and west within the hollow of the [Pactolus] valley. The main approach must always have been from the north(east) from the plain and the town of Sardis, so that the temple was first seen with the horns of Tmolus beyond it among the clouds, while its long flank carried the eye in a decisive perspective toward the acropolis height, and the volutes of its Ionic capitals stood out against the farther horns” (pp. 92–93). 15. Gusmani 1964, 259, no. 21; Butler 1922, 106–7; Buckler 1924, 39–40, no. 21. For the second Lydian inscription, which mentions srkastulis, see Greenewalt, Sterud, and Belknap 1982, 24–25, fig. 26; Gusmani 1980–81; See also Yegül 2014, 216.

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Fig. 6.4.  Artemis temple, Manes inscription. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

After all, revival of the past is not solely for the benefit of rulers, be they Achaemenids, Macedonians, Seleucids—or, in due time, Romans. The cities upon which this sweet beguile was imposed were not passive players. Rather, they must have been participants, consenting partners, aware of the circumstances and able to use them for their own advantage.16 While new rulers can choose to evoke the past for political benefit, the ruled also are able to pick and choose from the marketplace of memory. It is a way of “living backward”— to glorify the past of course but also the present and the future. In fact, the primary function of memory could be said to be rescuing the future; as the queen said to Alice, “It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.”17 And so the new temple, this sacred box with its elongated plan, narrow cella, gigantic size, and archaic proportions, permitted Sardians to evoke the idea of a royal Lydian past and to write a new chapter in their city’s long history.



16. Yegül 2000, esp. 148–53; 1987, 59–60; Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 96–99, 137–38. See also Rojas 2010. 17. Carroll 1865, 248.

rq 7

The Hellenistic City Plan Looking Forward, Looking Back Philip Stinson Little is known about the size and urban organization of Sardis at any time in antiquity. —Crawford Greenewalt Jr ., 1995

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t has been a challenge for the Sardis Expedition teams over the years to create  “city plans” because we know so little of what the city looked like in any given phase of its complex  history. Nearly everywhere excavations and surveys have been conducted, evidence is found for rebuilding, renovating, reworking, and reusing. Change was differential. Some features of the Lydian city such as the mudbrick defensive walls were retained into the Hellenistic period, while the Hellenistic theater had been the previous site of a hillside Lydian domestic quarter. Some but not all Lydian terrace walls in the upper city were adaptively reused (see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill). Our scattered archaeological evidence suggests that some districts were abandoned (e.g., PN, on which see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids,” by William Bruce); others built over (e.g., MMS/S and MD2, on which see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin); and still others continuously remade (e.g., Field 49, on which see chapters 1 and 2). Until recently, the location of just one major monument of Hellenistic Sardis was understood: the magnificent temple of Artemis (see chapter 6, “The Temple of Artemis,” by Fikret Yegül ). Thanks to recent archaeological fieldwork, a large theater as well as the path of the city’s defensive wall can now also be marked on maps and plans (pl. 30). These features provide some idea of the perimeter of the urban area in the Hellenistic period and the location of its center—in essence, where it had been and where it would continue to be in Roman times.1 Much of the rest is conjecture. To imagine Hellenistic Sardis we are compelled to look in two directions: forward, from what we know of the city as first constituted in Lydian times; and back, from what we have discovered existed in the early Roman era. The view back rests on a firm date and event—an earthquake in 17 CE so devastating that the city made a direct appeal for relief to the emperor himself.2 We know of the earthquake and the resulting 1. Cahill 2008b, 117–21. 2. Tac. Ann. 2.47; Pedley 1972 (M2), 64, no. 220; P. Herrmann 1995, 22–25. 139

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financial assistance from literary testimony; we know some of the scope and particulars of the renewal measures from excavated remains. This evidence provides a reasonably secure vantage point from which to look back. The view forward, from earlier times, is hazier. We think that the Lydian city was organized into upper and lower zones demarcated and segregated by fortification-like terrace walls, built on Near Eastern models, not Greek ones.3 There would have been sharper vertical distinctions than today’s landscape shows between the lower flattish zone and the middle and upper terraced areas leading to the foothills of the acropolis (pl. 31). To the Seleucids who came into possession of Sardis, this leftover vertical, autocratic organization may have been welcome, since their new colonies often included a heavily fortified seat of power.4 How much brand-new urban reshaping occurred is, however, an important question. There is now new archaeological evidence both for the adaptive reuse in the Hellenistic period of the Lydian city’s monumental terracing system (see chapter 1) and for its massive mud-brick fortification wall (pl. 32). The reuse of the mud-brick defenses may not have been so unusual: evidence for reuse of such defenses without demolishing exists at Eleusis (perhaps the best-known example) and at sites such as Athens and Halieis.5 Vitruvius (De arch. 2.8.9) of course famously mentions the repurposing (in the Hellenistic period?) of the defunct palace of Croesus at Sardis as a place of repose for aged citizens, in the context of his recommendation that old mud-brick walls not be torn down as long as they are still standing plumb. Based on archaeological evidence from the “House of Bronzes” area, the defining east-west road through the lower city, which had been in use for hundreds of years, also did not change location during the Hellenistic period but perhaps, rather, was “reopened” after having been blocked during the Persian period (see chapter 1 and chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin). Reuse of Lydian terracing, mud-brick fortifications, the palace of Croesus, and the major east-west road notwithstanding, by the later third century BCE Sardis certainly projected some compelling aspects of a typical Greek city.6 In addition to the new temple of Artemis, these amenities included at least a gymnasium, as attested by inscriptions, and the theater.7 The earlier supposition that Sardis’s Roman theater was an enlargement of an earlier Hellenistic theater has now been confirmed by excavation results.8 Beneath the poorly preserved, heavily mortared, and therefore Roman-era seating in the cavea were remains attesting to at least one and possibly two prior Hellenistic phases (pl. 33): fill dating to the early–mid-second century, and a deposit indicating initial clearance activity in the early–mid-third century (see chapter 2 and chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués). Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin suggest that this clearance activity, taken in combination with Polybius’s statement that in 214 Antiochus III ascended to “the crown of the theater” on his ascent to the acropolis, should be taken as evidence for a modestly fitted out third-century predecessor to the second-century theater. At any rate, the second-century 3. Cahill 2008b, 119–21 and fig. 5. 4. Kosmin 2014, 222–30. 5. Eleusis: Travlos 1949; Mylonas 1961, 95–96. Athens: Theocharaki 2011, 127–28, with n. 153 for historical sources. Halieis: McAllister 2005, 6, including additional references for Mantinea, Demetrias, and Sparta. 6. For discussion see Ratté 2008. 7. The gymnasium is referred to in Sardis inventory no. IN63.118, on which see Louis Robert, cited in Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 111; Gauthier 1989, no. 1; Ma 1999, no. 1, 284–85, and 61–62 for discussion. On the theater: Polybius (5.111, 7.15–18) records that the army of Antiochus III recaptured Sardis from Achaeus in 214/213 by storming a gate and then occupying the upper edge of the theater, which because of its location was protected from the enemy. 8. Long since conjectured: Vann 1989, 58; Ratté 2008, 131.



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theater must have been nearly as large as the later and final version of the Roman period, with an outer diameter of c. 100 meters and a conservatively estimated capacity of c. 10,000. The outer diameter of the upper cavea as preserved is c. 133 meters.9 That the location and general orientation of the city’s theater went unchanged in Roman times challenges an earlier idea that the post-17 CE earthquake renewal efforts involved the wholesale erasure of what had been there before.10 A combination of practical, financial, and political reasons likely encouraged the re-planners of Sardis to keep some (or as much as possible) of the preexisting urban fabric. It must also be firmly stated that the precise construction date of the theater’s main Roman phase remains unclear. The east and west retaining walls can be dated on the basis of their mortared rubble construction in the range of the first to the third centuries CE.11 The same is true for the stadium immediately in front of the theater. The stadium, too, could have been enlarged from an earlier stadium on the same site, but at present this is only an idea that future excavations may either strike down or uphold.12 A large and richly appointed Roman temple, only partly excavated, is the sole major monument in the city center securely dated to the first century CE.13 Raised on a commanding platform and fronted by a spacious forecourt (c. 100 by 150 m) is an octastyle Corinthian temple (pls. 34–35). Together with the rebuilt theater and the stadium immediately to its north, we may see a complex with interrelated functions. Although archaeological evidence suggests that the temple’s erection may not have occurred until a generation after the earthquake, still it is logical to think that it was planned as the “signature project” of Sardis’s urban renewal efforts and a fitting reciprocal gesture from the Sardians and other surrounding communities in the province to thank Rome for assisting them after the disaster.14 Determining what this temple and its dramatic setting might tell us about the Hellenistic city is a particularly challenging problem. Limited test excavations suggested a lengthy history for artificial terracing to the 9. Physical remains of the theater: Vann 1989, 51–58, 213–26, figs. 86–100. The outer diameter measurement of 133 m is from a total station survey. For preliminary reports on recent exploratory excavation at the skene building and west cavea, see Greenewalt 2008, 373–74, 380–83, figs. 4–8; 2009, 194, 202, fig. 11; Cahill 2010d, 63–64, 69–70, figs. 2–3. 10. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 109, 114: “The cataclysmic earthquake of AD 17 made very nearly a tabula rasa out of the city.” From our ancient sources we learn only that Sardis was severely damaged and suffered more than the twelve other cities impacted by the earthquake (Pedley 1972 [M2], 64, no. 220, with references). For Roman disaster narratives involving earthquakes in the context of the writings of Tacitus, see Keitel 2010, 333–37. 11. Vann (1989, 55, 58) considered architectural spolia built into the east retaining wall as evidence for an earlier Hellenistic theater on the same site. Newly excavated entablature elements from the skene building also await study (reported in Greenewalt 2008, 373–74, with 381–83, figs. 5–8). Some of these elements have inscriptions, which will be published by G. Petzl in a forthcoming Sardis monograph. 12. Physical remains of the stadium: Vann 1989, 59–65, 227–36, figs. 101–10. For a preliminary report on recent excavation of a small portion of the east sphendone where it abuts the theater, see Greenewalt 2008, 373, 380, fig. 4. 13. For preliminary publications and discussions of this temple, see Ratté, Howe, and Foss 1986; Burrell 2004, 100–103; Greenewalt 2007, 743–44; Ratté 2008, 130; Cahill 2008b, 121. Another part of the urban renewal program may have been the aqueduct completed with funding from the emperor Claudius and known from a bilingual inscription (Buckler and Robinson 1912, 29–30, no. 10; Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 142; P. Herrmann 1995, 34–35). 14. Ratté, Howe, and Foss 1986, 58–59, esp. 63. A second “disaster” seems to have been Sardis’s failed attempt to gain permission to build a provincial temple to Tiberius roughly nine years after the earthquake (Burrell 2004, 38–39). Note that the Sardians had managed to put up a municipal temple to Augustus c. 5 BCE after apparently not being chosen to erect a more prestigious provincial temple to Augustus and Roma (Buckler and Robinson 1912, 17, 20, no. 8, I, lines 13–14; Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 142; P. Herrmann 1995, 23–24; Thonemann 2012, 288).

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north of the temple, but no major architectural evidence dating to the Hellenistic period has been found thus far.15 Could the Hellenistic gymnasium have been located here?16 Recently excavated architectural sculpture from the temple incorporating references to Heracles and Dionysus raises the tantalizing but hypothetical possibility of earlier cults at this spot in the city center.17 While many questions remain about the Hellenistic “city plan,” the new connection between the Hellenistic and Roman theaters is suggestive of other continuities with the Seleucid and/or the Attalid past, in terms of buildings, monumental scale, use of public space, and locales.18 Looking back from the vantage point of the remade post-17 city, we may imagine a Hellenistic precursor built up in what had been the heart of the city since Lydian times.19

15. Cahill 2008b, 121. 16. Greenewalt 2007, 744. 17. For a preliminary report on the excavation of the temple’s architectural sculpture, see Greenewalt 2007, 743–45, 749–51, figs. 1–5. An inscription of c. 150 BCE mentions a gymnasium with shrines for Hermes and Heracles, as restored by Buckler and Robinson (1912, 46–47, no. 21). 18. The “Fountains’ List” inscription from Sardis, discovered at the site in the nineteenth century and now lost, dealt with water apportionment to the city’s working fountains c. 200 CE. For this discussion, two fountains are of interest: one named after a certain [. . .]machos (lines 13–14) and another after an Arsinoe (line 16). The names were restored by Buckler and Robinson after the Successor Lysimachus and his wife Arsinoe II (1912, 37–40, no. 17). Although Lysimachus was restored, we should note as parallels the contemporary honoring of Lysimachus at Ephesus (for discussion, see Noreña 2015) and the naming of a fountain after Laodice III, wife of Antiochus III, at Iasus (Gauthier 1985, 76). 19. Yegül (1987, 48) interpreted unchangeable geographical and historical features—the Pactolus River and the east-west road—as determining the “skeletal outline” of the city from Lydian times onward.

rq Part II

Cities in a Landscape

Plate 24.  So-called Cybele shrine (Manisa 4029), oblique view. Marble, dated 560–530. Front shows Kubaba, standing within a naiskos; side has panels with men and women in procession. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 25.  “Two Goddess Relief ” (Manisa 3937), front view. Marble, dated 400. Shows Artemis and Kybele standing within a naiskos, accompanied by two worshippers. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 26.  Terracotta figurines and plaques from the Theater Deposit. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 27.  Large enthroned Kybele with lion on lap, from the Theater Deposit, front view. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 28.  Artemis temple, looking east, with acropolis and Mount Tmolus. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 29.  Artemis temple, looking northwest, toward the Hermus and Bin Tepe. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 30.  No physical evidence has been found for conventional Hellenistic-style fortifications of stone masonry (as at Ephesus, Heracleia, or Assus) because Sardis’s archaic-era mud-brick walls remained in use for hundreds of years. This diagram shows the trace of the Lydian mud-brick fortifications and conveys the idea that they were still in use during Hellenistic times. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 31.  The Lydian-era monumental artificial terraces in the foreground also enjoyed some degree of reuse in the Hellenistic period; an aim of the current excavations is to clarify the extent and nature of their repurposing. Additional ancient terraces are directly in front of and below the upper ones but still well above the flattish lower city. The theater was constructed here in the “middle city” during the Hellenistic period, probably with a gymnasium, which is attested only from inscriptions, and possibly also a stadium. This area would become the heart of the early Roman city. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 32.  Four hundred meters east of the theater, Christopher Roosevelt excavated the trace of the Lydian mud-brick fortification, previously taken for natural topography. In several places the massive wall still stands over 10 meters high and about 20 thick. Stratigraphy indicated to Roosevelt that the east outer face of the wall was exposed during the Hellenistic period. He found this iron spearhead embedded in the exterior mud-brick face and sealed within undisturbed layers containing Hellenistic pottery, suggesting that the Lydian defenses were still in use for several hundred years after their original construction. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 33.  View looking south toward the acropolis and, on the steep western slope below, the cavea of the poorly preserved Roman theater. Visible to the left and right are the structure’s tall parados walls. Excavations here in 2006– 10 recovered a few remnants of seats, a layer of stone chips, and a deep layer of Hellenistic fill deposit directly underneath that. The fill had a maximum depth of 5 meters, was originally laid from south to north, and consisted of earth, gravel, and pottery dating no later than c. mid-second century BCE. This fill likely constituted the bedding layer for the stone seats of a theater built in the second century, probably to replace one built in the third century. The location of a theater in this spot is best interpreted as part of the original reshaping of the natural hillside during the Hellenistic period for a theater in the characteristic Greek style, as at Pergamum and Ephesus. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 34.  Actual evidence for new monumental building in the center of Sardis after the earthquake of 17 CE is limited yet tantalizing. During the mid-first century a large Roman temple was constructed at the back of a centrally located porticoed platform. The Roman theater, which adaptively reused the site of the earlier Hellenistic theater, and the new stadium may have been built contemporaneously with the temple. This diagram reconstruction of the city center is hypothetical, since these spectator buildings are largely unexcavated and their precise construction dates not well understood. Even by itself, the dominating temple would have put a cutting-edge modern face on Roman Sardis. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 35.  View from the north showing, in the foreground, the standing remains of the Roman temple-theaterstadium complex and, above, the terraces formerly occupied by the presumed Seleucid and Lydian upper cities. The redevelopment of the city center after the earthquake of 17 CE concluded a long process, beginning perhaps in the third century BCE, of political and urbanistic disengagement from the earlier Lydian upper city. For all intents and purposes, the Roman temple-theater-stadium complex became the new “upper city.” (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 36.  Map of “Lydia,” as defined in chapter 8, with regional toponyms referred to in the text. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Plate 37.  Map of Lydia showing the locations of Achaemenid-period sites and tumulus groups; fonts distinguish modern and ancient place names. (Locations courtesy of C. H. Roosevelt)

Plate 38.  Map of Lydia showing the locations of Hellenistic sites; fonts distinguish modern and ancient place names. (Locations courtesy of C. H. Roosevelt)

Plate 39.  View of Şahankaya in northern Lydia from the east. (Courtesy of C. H. Roosevelt)

Plate 40.  Philetaerus’s political activities in Pergamum’s vicinity: map of sites in southern Mysia / northern Lydia. (Digital Atlas of the Roman Empire, additions by Ruth Bielfeldt)

Plate 41.  Sightline connecting the sanctuary of Meter Theon at Mamurt Kale with Sardis and Pergamum. (Digital Atlas of the Roman Empire, additions by Ruth Bielfeldt)

Plate 42.  Ground-level view from the Mamurt Kale temple site toward Mount Tmolus. (Google Earth)

Plate 43.  Ephesus and Smyrna: the Hellenistic city layout. (Austrian Academy of Sciences/ Austrian Archaeological Institute, C. Kurtze)

Plate 44.  Hellenistic find spots in Ephesus—1: Rock Crevice Temple; 2: Ionic acropolis; 3: sanctuary of Meter; 4: building complex above the theater; 5: theater; 6: fountain; 7: upper agora; 8: terrace houses; 9: lower agora; 10: so-called Serapeion; 11: Küçük Tepe; 12: necropolis; 13: aqueduct; 14: fortification; 15: east-west street; 16: north-south street. (Austrian Academy of Sciences/Austrian Archaeological Institute, S. Ladstätter, C. Kurtze)

Plate 45.  The regional road network and Hellenistic sites in the hinterland of Ephesus. (Austrian Academy of Sciences/Austrian Archaeological Institute, S. Ladstätter, C. Kurtze, after Meriç 2009 with additions)

Plate 46.  Three silver cups of the third century, probably from Morgantina in Sicily. (Museo Regionale di Aidone; Photo: courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art)

Plate 47.  Lydian skyphos, sixth century. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College, Sardis Excavations (P95.24:10237); Photo: Sardis Excavations)

rq 8

The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia Christopher H. Roosevelt

W

here did people live in Lydia other than at Sardis, and what were they doing there?1 In this chapter, I aim to address these questions with primary emphasis on the situation in the Achaemenid and Hellenistic periods, but with recourse to earlier and later evidence, as is often necessary when discussing the historical geography and landscapes of the Lydian countryside. After a brief review of the available types of evidence, I proceed with consideration of thematically oriented landscapes to assess not only what people were doing in the Lydian countryside, but also whether and how it differed from preceding periods. S ource s of Evidence Our sources of information are diverse. The collection of historical, art historical, epigraphic, numismatic, and other archaeological data from Lydia into meaningful corpora has a long history, beginning with early travelers concerned with associating places known from classical texts with known archaeological remains (and vice versa) and identifying and understanding places newly discovered through inscriptional and other archaeological evidence. What eventually became the study of the “historical geography” of Lydia reached a first peak of activity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, with the likes of William Ramsay, Georges Radet, Karl Buresch, and Josef Keil and Anton von Premerstein, who carefully brought together classical references with archaeological, numismatic, and, especially, epigraphic evidence deriving in part 1. I offer my gratitude to the organizers of the conference that led to this edited volume for allowing me the first opportunity in several years to return to this topic of seminal interest and to expand my chronological comfort zone into the interesting yet archaeologically problematic Hellenistic period, and its continuities with and disjunctures from preceding periods. For official permissions and assistance, I acknowledge the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, General Directorate of Cultural Heritage and Museums, Republic of Turkey, as well as the director and staff of the Manisa Museum of Ethnography and Archaeology. For essential assistance with the 2001 survey in Manisa (officially under the permit of Crawford H. Greenewalt Jr.), and for co-directorship of the Central Lydia Archaeological Survey, profuse thanks to Christina Luke. 145

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from personal explorations of Lydian landscapes.2 While careful to date the inscriptions and other materials they encountered as best they could, few of these researchers aimed to identify or understand settlement patterns or processes of diachronic change from Lydian to Achaemenid, to Hellenistic, to Roman and later periods. Nevertheless, such studies made headways into understanding Lydian landscapes, especially in Hellenistic and later times, even if they did little more than put the proverbial dots on a map. Hellenistic and later dots on the map became more meaningful thanks to continued work from the mid-twentieth century to the present, resulting in the punctuated appearances of regional studies focusing on Lydia and its neighboring territories in Asia Minor as well as in specific summations of epigraphic surveys and research. The work of Louis and Jeanne Robert (1938 to the 1980s) can be considered here, as well as material deriving from the epigraphic surveys of Hasan Malay and Cumhur Tanrıver, along with Peter Herrmann, George Petzl, and others.3 The continuing importance of this kind of epigraphic survey is demonstrated by Marijana Ricl’s work in the Cayster Valley over six seasons between 2007 and 2013, which recorded around 130 previously unknown inscriptions.4 Compilations of the inscriptions of Lydia such as Herrmann’s two monumental fascicules of Tituli Asiae Minoris V of the 1980s, Malay’s two corpora of the 1990s, and Herrmann and Malay’s most recent corpus of 2007, all published through the Austrian Academy of Sciences, continue to fill out the evidence, again especially relevant to Hellenistic and later Lydia.5 Meanwhile, historical surveys and syntheses such as Getzel Cohen’s study of Hellenistic settlements, John Ma’s study of Asia Minor under Antiochus III, and, much earlier, David Magie’s study of Asia Minor under Roman rule have done much to contextualize epigraphic and other textual sources within understandings of the establishment of Hellenistic military settlements, the role of city and countryside in Seleucid imperial strategies, and the ways in which Roman rule of the area transformed an already rich and populated landscape. How much earlier than the Hellenistic period the landscape was inhabited has become clear more recently, thanks primarily to surveys of a more archaeological nature. Aside from both early and recent work on prehistoric settlement in Lydia that demonstrates Neolithic through Bronze Age settlement, as elsewhere in western Anatolia,6 several archaeological surveys have discovered evidence of Lydian, Achaemenid, and Hellenistic settlement patterns. These include first Andrew and Nancy Ramage’s survey of tumuli, followed by a similar study of Rafet Dinç, both of which accepted as a basic assumption that the locations of tumuli and tumulus groups indicated the locations of Lydian settlements.7 Similarly, Recep Meriç’s surveys in the 1980s greatly filled out our understanding of settlement in Lydia through documentation of tumuli, but they also provided much information about Hellenistic and later settlements, especially in the Cayster River valley.8 More recently, my own 2001 survey of tumuli, paired 2. Ramsay 1890; Radet 1893; Buresch 1898; Keil and von Premerstein 1908, 1911, 1914; Roosevelt 2006, 65. 3. Note Thomas Drew-Bear’s work for the Lydo-Phrygian area, as well as Peter Thonemann’s several works on Lydian inscriptions. Clive Foss’s work on Lydian historical topography and monuments, though not exclusively epigraphic, is also of importance. 4. Note that only 3 of the 41 inscriptions fully published so far are demonstrably of the Hellenistic period. These include Ricl 2013, nos. 5, 23, 24, and none in Ricl 2015. 5. See also the doctoral dissertation of Malay’s student Işık Şahin (1998) for a useful compilation of the small settlements of Lydia; the Inschriften griechischer Städte Kleinasiens project, as cited by Ricl (2015, 276); and the “Epigraphic Database of Ancient Asia Minor” (https://www.epigraphik.uni-hamburg.de/). 6. French 1969; Mellaart 1954; Akdeniz 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. 7. Ramage and Ramage 1971; Dinç 1991. 8. For bibliography relating to work in the Hermus Valley, see Meriç 2014. For the Cayster Valley, see Meriç 2009, after Meriç 1983.



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with an assessment of museum collections, helped to fill out the regional picture, while the results of an intensive survey of a c. 350-square-kilometer area in central Lydia north of Sardis between 2005 and 2014, co-directed by Christina Luke and myself, are providing more detail.9 These sources of information for understanding where people lived in Lydia aside from Sardis and what they did there define also some of the fundamental problems facing diachronic landscape studies in Lydia. Some evidence takes the form of isolated finds or graves discovered in extensive surveys, salvage work, or museum collections and can rarely be dated with precision; it may in fact lack secure (or any) context. Other evidence comes from targeted surveys of single types of finds or monuments—especially inscriptions, on the one hand, and burial mounds or tumuli, on the other—some of which can be dated more precisely than others, depending on content. Only a small amount of information derives from intensive archaeological survey of the type involving systematic pedestrian coverage of contiguous blocks of land, and these are relatively restricted in geography and, at any rate, await final publication.10 Add the geographic and methodological unevenness of the evidence across Lydia as well as the previously bemoaned continuity of material culture across cultural or perhaps just hegemonic transitions, and one might choose to simply retire in self-defeat. As tempting as that may be, here it is enough to acknowledge such limitations of the evidence regarding type, distribution, and chronology, and to push forward with whatever evidence one has, with the understanding that the results of intensive survey, especially, will complement, if not also challenge, current conclusions. With specific respect to the period of Seleucid control of Lydia, a significant problem is that scholars have tended to treat the Hellenistic period as a monolithic block beginning with Alexander in 334 BCE and ending either with the Pergamene king Attalus III’s bequeathal of his kingdom to the Roman Republic in 133 or, as traditional to Sardis, the Tiberian earthquake of 17 CE. Additionally, while textual evidence may name military settlements, villages, or even poleis, these are only rarely associated with places from which ceramics and other categories of material culture have been systematically studied to gain a sense of site size, composition, and more fine-grained chronologies of development. Accordingly, it is currently difficult, if not impossible, to evaluate the effects of particular rulers’ activities and/or policies on the fabric of the Lydian countryside. Adopting a Braudelian and landscape archaeology approach allows us (indeed, forces us) to eschew specific événements in favor of the conjunctures that may characterize longer-term confluences of events that bespeak broader periods within a framework of landscapes filtered by theme. Before continuing, let me state that the “Lydia” that I treat here is one defined conservatively, consisting primarily of the Hermus (modern Gediz) and Cayster (modern Küçük Menderes) River valleys, along with their primary tributaries, with the addition of the upper Caicus (modern Bakır) River valley, but excluding the lower Cayster River valley, which, if not already in the Lydian and Achaemenid periods, certainly by the Hellenistic period, was more the hinterland of Ephesus than a primary component of Lydia—as the boundary stones of the hiera chōra of the Artemision clearly demonstrate in later periods (pl. 36).11 Nonetheless, owing to the availability of published regional data and for the sake of consistency across periods, evidence from at least some parts of the Cayster is considered here as part of “Greater Lydia.”12 “Central Lydia,” the 9. Roosevelt 2006; Roosevelt and Luke 2008; Roosevelt et al. 2014, 2015; Roosevelt, Luke, and Sekedat 2016. Note that chronologically restricted surveys have begun to focus on the province of Uşak. 10. See nn. 9, 13. 11. Meriç 2009, 130. Ricl (2014, 192) sets the extent of Ephesian territory in the Roman imperial period just east of (and including) Tire. 12. See Roosevelt 2009, 34–40, for the bounds of the Lydian kingdom and Achaemenid satrapy of Lydia. That the borders varied in later times has been noted earlier as well (Debord 1999, 116–30, 149–55, 158–60).

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location of the one intensive survey in the Lydian heartland, is defined primarily by the area of the middle Hermus River valley nearest to Sardis, including the basin of the Gygean Lake to its north, which throughout the first millennium BCE may have been under relatively direct supervision of those at Sardis.13 With the geography thus defined, I hope to shed light on various aspects of Lydian landscapes, from a bulk numbers approach to more nuanced thematic treatments of those types of countryside sites we know to have existed across the periods in question: cities (poleis), villages, and estates, forts, and cult places.14 Pa in t ing L a n d sca pe s by Num ber s The most basic (and perhaps also least useful) thematic evaluation of Lydian landscapes is the broad-brush approach based on total numbers of sites. Ideally such numbers would be parsed by site types, but the nature of the evidence already mentioned often precludes doing this holistically. Accordingly, one can break down the evidence for a “site”—which is taken here to mean a location of meaningful and spatially discrete activity—according to whether it derives from isolated finds (such as inscriptions, non-tumulus graves, rock-cut features, or miscellaneous other portable materials) or from actual settlements, places where people lived, as evidenced by architectural remains or a density of finds indicative of intensive use. As Andrew and Nancy Ramage and Rafet Dinç before me demonstrated for the Lydian and Achaemenid periods, tumulus groups, too, here thought of as high-status cemeteries, can be taken to indicate general locations of settlement even when other settlement evidence remains undiscovered. Accordingly, isolated finds, settlements, and tumuli together can be used to assemble a picture of total site numbers across Lydia. If we treat tumulus numbers first, more than 600 tumuli have been identified in Lydia as a result of targeted surveys already mentioned (pl. 37).15 Of these 600 tumuli, the construction of only 54, according to my recent tally, can be dated to a range of years less than a century long.16 If these are plotted according to early, middling, and late estimates for their construction, it becomes very clear that the vast majority of tumuli were constructed between the mid-sixth century and the mid-fifth century, with a pronounced dropoff thereafter. At the beginning of the range are around 5 tumuli that can be dated reasonably convincingly to the Lydian period, while at the late end of the range are some of the 5 tumuli in Lydia that show reasonably definitive evidence of initial construction in the Hellenistic period.17 If we put stock in these numbers— which, again, derive from a sample of only 54 of the more than 600 tumuli in Lydia—we can state, for the moment, that while initiated with a handful of examples datable to the Lydian period, the tumulus tradition 13. Elucidating the relationships between communities at Sardis and throughout central Lydia was a primary aim of the Central Lydia Archaeological Survey, whose final publications are in preparation. This chapter considers evidence for settlement and other activities spread throughout Lydia but omits detailed discussion of archaeological evidence (aside from textual sources) for central Lydian communities nestled within the basin of the Gygean Lake (the modern Marmara Lake Basin). 14. Ma (1999, 4) seems to define all Hellenistic estates as royally granted, but that may not be the case for earlier periods. 15. Ramage and Ramage 1971; Dinç 1993; Roosevelt 2006. 16. Roosevelt 2009, 149. 17. Lydian: Kocamutaf Tepe, Kırmutaf Tepe, Karnıyarık Tepe, BT 62.3, and Basmacı Tepe. Hellenistic: Çobantepe S, Çataltepe E, Tümbektepe, Tekçam, and Hacıoğlan (Roosevelt 2003, 134n133). The dating of tumulus construction to the Hellenistic period is based on a combination of construction methods and architectural forms (such as corbelled or lantern ceilings of so-called Galatian type, stomion-like spaces, string courses, and built-in-slab klinai), as well as on ceramic evidence. At least 16 other tumuli bear evidence of reuse in the Hellenistic period as well.



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is best represented in the first century of Achaemenid rule, after which it is only rarely practiced in the later Achaemenid and Hellenistic periods. If we look at the evidence for other types of sites, including “isolated finds” and evidence for actual “settlement,” we can generalize the periods of interest and assess only those sites with materials that are narrowly datable to either the Lydian, the Achaemenid, or the Hellenistic period. Here we see contradictory trends, with datable “isolated finds” peaking in the Achaemenid period and datable “settlement” remains peaking dramatically in the Hellenistic period. If these two types of evidence are combined to indicate total numbers of datable sites in Lydia during these periods (treating isolated finds and evidence for actual settlements together), we see a very different trend, with a more regular increase from Lydian through Hellenistic times. Embedded in this trend is a significant increase in and reorganization of settlement throughout the countryside in the Achaemenid period, resulting from the abandonment of more than half the sites dated to the previous period and the establishment of around 40 new sites (see pl. 37). An even more dramatic but similar trend describes the Hellenistic period, when nearly 70 percent of the sites of the previous period are abandoned and nearly 100 new sites are known (pl. 38). As dramatic as they are, can these numbers be relied on? And what more do they represent? Was the apparent explosion of settlement in the Hellenistic period real? It seems quite contrary to contemporary settlement-pattern trends documented elsewhere in Anatolia. In the Troad, for instance, the Hellenistic period appears to be marked by a decrease in countryside settlement perhaps associated with the agglomerative processes of synoikism at Ilium and Alexandria Troas.18 In the Amuq, too, settlement patterns are described by “inconspicuous scatters of ceramics and tiles [that] indicate the presence of villages and farmsteads of mudbrick,” even if upland villages are evident as well.19 So, was there a Hellenistic-period explosion in settlement in Lydia? Probably, but perhaps, for reasons of methodology and material visibility, not quite as pronounced as these numbers suggest. With respect to methodology, these numbers rely only on those materials that are datable within a specific period. Because many sites of the Lydian and Achaemenid periods are dated only generally by so-called Lydian material that was in use across the Lydian and Achaemenid periods, such sites are omitted here, resulting in an exaggerated relative increase in settlement in the Hellenistic period. Similarly, with respect to material visibility, the relative visibility or identifiability of certain diagnostic Hellenistic wares (especially molded bowls, West Slope ware, certain fish-plates and unguentaria, as well as things like stamped amphora handles), compared with wares of previous periods, inevitably results in a higher number of sites identified as “Hellenistic,” again probably exaggerating the relative increase in Hellenistic settlement seen here.20 One additional potentially exaggerating effect is the increasingly important epigraphic tradition, resulting in a larger number of Hellenistic inscriptions that name places. Nevertheless, the increase cannot be blamed on the numerous epigraphic mentions of katoikiai, or settlements, or even mention of “Macedonians” in inscriptions. As Getzel Cohen has shown, most inscriptions naming katoikiai in Lydia date to the Roman imperial period and bear no definitive evidence of Hellenistic activity.21 Similarly, many “Macedonians” appear in 18. Boehm 2011, 22; Rose and Körpe 2007, 73n68. 19. Blömer 2016, with reference to De Giorgi 2016. 20. Note also that many unguentaria identified as Hellenistic may in fact be Roman; and, on the earlier end of the spectrum, as Doğer and Gezgin (1998) suggest, many plain black-glaze wares previously identified as Hellenistic may rather date to the fifth and fourth centuries. On relative visibilities of material classes in general, see Rutter 1983, 138–39; H. Simpson 1984, 116. 21. Cohen 1995, xi–xii, following Louis Robert and citing also Bar-Kochva 1976, 24–27.

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Roman-period inscriptions of the area, for which reason they, too, are not proof positive of Hellenistic activity and are not included in these tallies. Despite these exaggerating effects, then, it seems that the pronounced increase in Hellenistic sites is real. As discussed below, this may have something to do with the proliferation of previously rare site types—forts and watchtowers—but it applies even if these types are excluded.22 For the earlier period, and considering the evidence for tumuli and other sites taken together, I argued in 2009 that the boom in Achaemenidperiod evidence for settlement and tumulus construction until the mid-fifth century reflects a dramatic increase in rural settlement, in part a result of the abandonment of Sardis by high-status land-owning families, and perhaps indication also of the need to increase rural production.23 Similarly, I noted that the coincident reduction of the tumulus tradition, the appearance of evidence for rural garrisons, the increasing political instability of the area, and the increasing evidence of a Persian population in Lydia from the late fifth century to the end of the Achaemenid period reflected the need for greater protection of the countryside and modifications in the system of rural administration that resulted in a reduced importance (or perhaps reduced number) of the landed elite.24 With respect to the Hellenistic period, then, the increase in numbers might be taken to represent the continued importance of the agricultural countryside, and its control and protection—no surprise, given what we know of textually attested Hellenistic settlement types in the area. The difficulty of understanding Hellenistic settlement in Lydian landscapes, then, is related not to “scant archaeological information for the countryside in this period,”25 but rather to the methods used to collect it and the resultant detail (or lack of detail) with which it has been analyzed to date. Producing L a n d sca pe s Moving away from citing numbers and toward giving them meaning, we can begin by examining the significance of settlement distributions and assessing specific thematic landscapes. The most common distribution of tumulus groups and settlement areas dating to the Lydian and Achaemenid periods corresponds to the edges of major river valleys and their immediate uplands, even if there is good but less abundant evidence for settlement areas in the rugged uplands of northern and eastern Lydia as well as in the mountain chains that separate the major valleys. This pattern appears to continue with little change in the Hellenistic period, although there is increased occupation in all areas, and especially in upland areas further from broad valley floors. The access to abundant and fertile arable land and upland pasturages that locations along valley edges provide is no doubt what makes such patterns somewhat timeless, indicating a primary concern with the production of subsistence goods. Settlements in other areas may indicate other concerns, including nonsubsistence resource procurement, for example, if not also territorial control and communications.26 22. Meriç (2009) describes discovering twenty-six previously unknown forts and watchtowers in his survey of the Cayster Valley. 23. Roosevelt 2009, 187, 195–96. 24. Roosevelt 2009, 196–98. 25. Ma 1999, 16. 26. Roosevelt 2009, 115–23. For non-subsistence resource procurement, actual evidence of extraction is rarely forthcoming. There is textual evidence of cinnabar extraction (for red pigments) in the Cayster Valley, and other evidence in Güre (metal-working tools, evidence of mining) and also in Eşme (Roosevelt 2009, 122), the location of “the largest gold mine in Europe” (Luke 2019, 31).



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Again, there is no reason to think these determinants of settlement locations changed in the Hellenistic period. With respect to settlements affiliated primarily with agricultural production in both the Achaemenid and Hellenistic periods, a common vocabulary is used to describe the basic units or types of settlement: individual farm and farmstead units (or allotments), villages and dependent villages, or hamlets, and larger, royally granted estates composed of vast tracts of land and smaller settlement types—villages, dependent villages, and allotments—as well as the people who lived in them. Working from small to large, the most basic type of settlement in such areas appears to be defined by what I and others have referred to previously as estate-like structures, but which are probably better thought of as small, individual farming allotments, or farmsteads. Two Aramaic inscriptions from Lydia demonstrate the type in the Achaemenid period. Theodore Kwasman and André Lemaire show that a stele used to mark a grave, or perhaps a boundary, found in Kemaliye in the Cogamus River valley, records a late fifth- or early fourth-century text warning of penalties for harm to, among something undecipherable, a house, domain, land(s), and vineyards.27 Lemaire shows that a similar inscription of the mid-fourth century found in Kenger in eastern Lydia records a curse in association with (presumed harm to) a house, an enclosure, and an allotment, among other items.28 In both cases, then, the common parts of what may be taken to be modest landholdings include a house, agricultural land, and a vineyard, orchard, or some other housegarden-like enclosure.29 Unsurprisingly, the very same components of small landholdings can be identified in early Hellenistic inscriptions from Lydia. Peter Thonemann’s recent work on the land-conveyance of Krateuas to Aristomenes, essentially a sublease agreement dated to Alexander’s eleventh regnal year (326/5 or 325/4), describes the three primary components of a modest holding in the Caicus Valley (perhaps in the territory of Gambreion): an arable plot of land (gēn psilēn agron), house plots (oikopeda), and a garden (phytos or kēpos, a nursery, vineyard, or orchard).30 Helpfully, Thonemann estimates the size of the arable plot at around 17 hectares, based on the perimeter measurements provided in the text, which, he notes, comes in at the upper end of Victor Hanson’s estimates for typical sizes of family farms in classical Greece.31 One can see these three components—land, house(s) or house plot(s), and gardens—as the typical components of Hellenistic military allotments, or klēroi, but their commonality to the Achaemenid period is now clear. Thus, as Nicholas Sekunda first suggested, the klēroi assigned to the Lydian-named Pytheos and Adrastos in the wellknown Mnesimachus inscription from the temple of Artemis at Sardis—which included a house (or rather an aulē, “country house”) and house plots, among other things—may be holdovers from earlier times.32 27. Kwasman and Lemaire 2002. Stadel’s (2010) revisions of the transliteration and translation do not affect the interpretation given here. To the contrary, Stadel’s suggestion (p. 162) that “land possession with various yields” is mentioned in line 5, on parallel with grain yields listed in contemporary Aramaic documents from Egypt, and “other [grounds]” in line 6, supports the suggestion that the inscription refers to the components of a productive landscape. 28. Lemaire 2002. 29. Note that similar units of property appear in the curse against would-be harmers in the fourth-century LydianAramaic bilingual grave stele of Manes, son of Kumli, from Sardis, where the units include a “holding,” a house, and land, as well as “soil and water,” which may (or may not?) be taken metaphorically (Gusmani 1964, no. 1; Dusinberre 2003, 229, no. 9). 30. Thonemann 2009, 370–79. Though describing holdings in the Caicus Valley, the inscription is dated in part by naming the current satrap of Lydia, Menander, and thus can be taken as evidence of the situation in Lydia. 31. Thonemann 2009, 382, citing Hanson 1995, 181–93. 32. Sekunda 1985, 27, followed by Thonemann 2009, 388. This interpretation depends on the suggestion of Rene Descat (1985, 99–102, followed by Thonemann 2009, 387, but contra Billows 1995, 122) that the klēroi of the

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Moving up the scale to villages and hamlets, we can say little of consequence other than that villages (or kōmai) and dependent villages (here called hamlets, but also kōmai in Greek) were common to both the Achaemenid and Hellenistic periods in Lydia. In fact, it may be pertinent to note here that only one urban center is known from Lydia in the Lydian and Achaemenid periods: Sardis. It is quite likely, then, that villagelike communities were spread across the countryside, perhaps to be characterized as settled “kata kōmas,” as Pausanias (7.5.1) later described the territory around Old Smyrna, and perhaps like the territory around Dascylium, where Xenophon (Hell. 4.1.15–16) saw “many large villages, stored with provisions in abundance, and splendid wild animals, some of them in enclosed parks [paradeisoi], others in open spaces.” Likely countryside villages of Achaemenid-period Lydia for which we have names include Moschakome, Dareioukome, and probably Hyrkanis, in addition to Thyeira, Hypaipa, and Hierakome (see further below and pl. 37). For the Hellenistic period, the Mnesimachus inscription from Sardis names several undiscovered villages, including Tobalmoura on the Mountain of Ilos in the Sardian Plain and its dependent villages Tandos and Kombdilipia, Periasasostra in the Water of Morstas, and Iloukome in Attoudda. Numerous other Hellenistic villages can be located generally by the find spots of the inscriptions that name them, some indicating also that they were the locations of military settlements (see further below and pl. 38).33 Many of these were presumably settled places before they hosted such military communities, but it is impossible in most cases to be certain. Nonetheless, it is likely that kōmai were spread throughout the region across our periods of interest and that their primary function was in agricultural production—hence their importance to the final type of settlement considered here: royally granted and revenue-bearing estates. It is well established that one of the most prized of Achaemenid royal gifts was the land grant or estate, which could consist of the smaller settlement types just described—farmsteads and villages—along with potentially vast tracts of productive land.34 Such estates were granted to various privileged individuals, including officials and even foreign friends of the empire, like Themistocles at Magnesia, whose real benefits included the revenues derived from estates rather than estates themselves.35 As suggested by epigraphic evidence from fifth-century Egypt, such grants established usufructuary privileges and apparently allowed subletting, but with continued tributary obligations and without outright ownership.36 The land, its settlement structures, and also many of its people—including slaves—were essentially the inalienable property of the king, to be only temporarily let out to privileged others for their benefit, but also for their successful management on his behalf.37 As a means of maintaining agricultural surpluses to be paid as tribute, then, it seems Mnesimachus inscription are the same as the exairema (or sublet) mentioned elsewhere in the same text, such that a kleros at Kinaroa near Tobalmoura would have included an aulē, and a klēros at Nagrioa at Periasasostra would have included oikopeda. 33. Discovery of previously unknown villages continues: Herrmann and Malay (2007, 126–29, no. 97) recently published an inscription naming no fewer than fourteen little-known or previously unknown and still-unlocated Hellenistic villages near Koloë in the Upper Kilbian Plain: Agreikome, Alg[e]iza, Ampsyra, Daplata, Dareda, Diginda, Kanateichos, Kireikome, Oauroa, Oekrada, Saltroukome, Sia, Tarsos, and Tauroukome. 34. Briant 1985, 53–71; Sekunda 1985, 27; Thonemann 2009, 368. 35. Tuplin 1987, 137. 36. Thonemann 2009, 368–69, citing Driver 1954, no. 2; Szubin and Porten 1987; Porten and Szubin 1985. It is unclear to me how universal these Egyptian conditions may have been within the Achaemenid empire, or whether they could have taken on characteristics of pre-Achaemenid Egyptian land tenure. 37. Note, however, that Lydian and Aramaic grave inscriptions from Sardis often refer to the protection or destruction (in case of wrongdoing) of various individuals’ own property and possessions. How should such references be taken if everything was essentially the king’s property?



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likely that such usufructs on estates in Lydia were granted not only to privileged Persian officers as rewards but also to local elites, either on the basis of hereditary traditions, if not rights, tying certain families to the land they had held ancestrally, or on the basis of loyal service, in (re)distributions of largess that resulted in the Achaemenid-period pattern of estates marked by tumuli evident across the landscape.38 Parallel to the Achaemenid tradition, royal granting to individuals of revenue-bearing estates comprising land and villages was practiced in Macedonia by the fifth century, with the granting of entire cities, or more likely their revenues, attested toward the end of Alexander’s reign.39 A key difference from Achaemenid practice was that earlier Macedonian grants were given with full hereditary rights of possession, letting, and even sale. Accordingly, after Alexander took control of Achaemenid Lydia, it is probably not the case that “the landholding pattern . . . was fundamentally changed,”40 nor that the estates were suddenly vacated,41 but rather only that much of the landholding itself changed hands: now, rather than privileged Persians, privileged Macedonians joined local elites in managing and enjoying estate revenues. Additionally, as Peter Thonemann and Ryan Boehm highlight, the Hellenistic tradition of estate-granting eventually included the firm administrative and financial attachment of estates to the civic centers—or poleis—within whose territories they were located.42 Given the lack of urban, civic centers in Lydia aside from Sardis at the time of Alexander’s conquest, it is only natural that this tradition took some time to be established and can be attributed only to the Seleucid period.43 For evidence of earlier Hellenistic land grants, two inscriptions highlight continuities from Achaemenid traditions. With respect to the land-conveyance of Krateuas to Aristomenes from the Caicus Valley cited earlier, Thonemann notes that the dating formula is particularly Achaemenid in style and postulates that the modest farmstead concerned—only 17 hectares of land, a house plot, and garden—was part of a much larger estate granted by Alexander to Krateuas, perhaps reassigned from a preexisting Achaemenid grant.44 Furthermore, he suggests that the sublease-like agreement between Krateuas and Aristomenes, in which the latter remains responsible for paying tribute (phoros) from the garden to the king, is more like the Achaemenid land grants from Egypt than the Macedonian ones that provide outright, hereditary rights.45 While the conveyance of Krateuas gives details about only one small part of a larger estate, the wellknown Mnesimachus inscription from Sardis provides an example of the real deal, illustrating the potential components and size of royally granted estates. The inscription is now commonly understood to record the Artemis temple’s foreclosure on an interest-free loan previously made to Mnesimachus, who had offered as 38. For similar characterizations of Achaemenid estates in Lydia, see also Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 125; Boehm 2011, 52. 39. Thonemann 2009, 364–68. 40. Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 113. 41. Boehm 2011, 42. 42. Thonemann 2009; Boehm 2011, 52. 43. As Boehm (2011, 23, 49–50) and others show, the financial attachment of estates to Hellenistic poleis through the assignment of civic dues is best exemplified by Antiochus I Soter’s conveyance to Aristodicides of Assus in the Troad, c. 275. 44. Thonemann 2009, 372–75, highlighting the dual-dating formula that includes the regnal years of both the king and the satrap, as seen in the Rhosakes inscription from the Cayster Valley (Gusmani and Akkan 2004). 45. Thonemann 2009, 381–84. Thonemann goes on (pp. 384–85) to discuss as indicative of Hellenistic fiscal policies the flat-tax (phoros) rate on the garden (one gold stater per year) and the variable, yield-dependent rate on the arable land (likely a tithe or twelfth), to be paid in kind.

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security the estate he had been granted by King Antigonus, usually presumed to be Antigonus the OneEyed.46 The estate consisted of properties in three areas. First, on or near the Mountain (or hill) of Ilos in the plain of Sardis was the kōmē of Tobalmoura, including its aulē (country house), laoi (commoners), oiketai (slaves), oikopeda (house plots or farmsteads), and two paradeisoi (enclosed parks or house gardens), as well as two kōmai attached to Tobalmoura (Tandos and Kombdilipia) and a nearby klēros in Kinaroa. Second, in the “Water of Morstas” was a klēros in Nagrioa and a kōmē at Periasasostra with more oikopeda, paradeisoi, and oiketai. And, third, at Attoudda was the village of Iloukome. Aside from the plain of Sardis, little can be said with certainty about the locations of these other two estate components, yet the components themselves are clear: whole villages, houses and house plots, and gardens as well as commoners and slaves bound to them, all worth an annual revenue of some 1,324 gold staters.47 By back-calculating the areas of land necessary to produce such revenues, Raymond Descat was able to estimate that the total estate likely incorporated some 3,500 hectares,48 more than 200 times larger than the small conveyance of Krateuas. Furthermore, Descat argued that these revenues are conversions from Achaemenid measures and thus, like Krateuas’s estate, the configuration of Mnesimachus’s holdings probably dates to Achaemenid times and was simply reassigned to him in the late fourth century. It may be worth mentioning here, as well, that taxes deriving from Mnesimachus’s holdings were payable not to members of the civic community at Sardis, but rather directly to officers of the king, chiliarchs, suggesting again that the administrative embrace of estates by civic authorities occurred only after the fourth century. While we have no later Hellenistic land-conveyance documents from Lydia to draw on to examine this closer integration of the countryside with the city, civic oikonomoi in Seleucid and Attalid times administered their oikonomiai, or territorial subdivisions, as John Ma has shown, with responsibilities for land surveys, record keeping, and general issues of property, presumably including estates like that of Mnesimachus.49 That there was civic concern for the countryside in the later Hellenistic period—or at least for protection of its productive capacity—is suggested not only by honorific decrees for people who put themselves at risk in its defense, as noted by Angelos Chaniotis, but also by the centrality of countryside forts and towers in such work.50 That protection of the countryside was important in earlier Achaemenid 46. For the inscription, see, most usefully, Billows 1995, following Debord 1982 as well as Buckler and Robinson 1912; Prentice 1912; Franke 1961; Atkinson 1972; Levi 1976. On a date in the time of Antigonus Monophthalmus, see Billows 1995; 1997, 300; Cohen 1995, 44; contra Atkinson (1972, 66–67), who suggests that it dates to c. 200, and Debord (1973, 1982) and Descat (1985), who suggest that it dates to the mid-third century but copies a late fourth-century original. 47. As Atkinson (1972, 72–73), Descat (1985, 99–102), and Thonemann (2009, 386–89) all show, this amount is nearly the same as the original loan to Mnesimachus of 1,325 gold staters. That Mnesimachus was unable to repay the value of only one year’s revenue from his estate to the temple suggests the severity of his economic situation at the time. Thonemann (2009, 387–89) follows Atkinson (1972) and Descat (1985) in calculating that the original mortgage (1,325 staters) was assessed on the value of the cash phoros extracted from the three villages in the estate (Tobalmoura, Periasostra, and Iloukome), but adds that this probably left out revenues generated from variable-yield produce on the rest of the estate, which would have been taxed at the one-twelfth rate. 48. Descat 1985, 106–7, following the method used by W. Thompson (1981). Billows (1995, 124n32) finds fault with the method, yet Thonemann (2009, 387–88) fully supports it. 49. Ma 1999, 136–37. That such an oikonomos was concerned with land and property just north of the Gygean Lake in Attalid times is suggested by the Apollo Pleurenos inscription found in Yeniköy, putatively still within the “plain of Sardis.” Two other inscriptions naming this sanctuary were found in Kemerdamları (Malay and Nalbantoğlu 1996; P. Herrmann 2004). 50. Chaniotis 2005, 28, 122; see also Ma 2000, 342–43; Pritchett 1991, 352–58.



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times, too, is demonstrated in both text and material, even if such concerns were made more explicit in Hellenistic times. C ont rolling a n d Com mun icat ing L a n d sca pe s By the late fifth and fourth centuries, if not earlier, some estates like those just described appear to have taken on more military functions, including feudal-like obligations to provide troops in times of conflict.51 A frequently cited passage of Xenophon (Anab. 7.8.9–23) describes the early fourth-century estate of the Persian Asidates in the Caicus Valley, whose slaves fled his fortified manor upon seeing the approach of a hostile company. Asidates was soon aided by the Persian Itamenes, who had been alerted by signal fires and came with 80 hoplites and cavalry from nearby settlements and as many as 800 light-armed troops from elsewhere. Where did so many troops come from? Xenophon says the 80 hoplites and cavalrymen were Assyrian and Hyrcanian mercenaries, respectively, and it might not be far-fetched to suggest that they arrived from nearby Achaemenid military settlements. Sekunda, Christopher Tuplin, and others have commented on the likelihood that such Achaemenid military settlements or garrisons populated the Lydian countryside.52 Given what Pierre Briant and Elspeth Dusinberre describe for other parts of the Achaemenid world as the apparent inseparability of garrison responsibilities to protect agricultural territory and people and to collect taxes and tribute on behalf of satrap and king, it seems likely that such institutions were indeed established across Lydia, even if the evidence on the ground is sparse.53 Within the Sardis-Magnesia-Thyateira triangle, historical testimony and the names of at least Dareioukome, Hyrkanis, and Hierakome (not to mention Kyrou- or Koroupedeion) suggest that they may have hosted such communities;54 but again, the evidence affords little more detail. Patterns of settlement distribution may add support to the idea that strategic control of territory, and communications across it, was of primary concern in the Achaemenid period, in addition to the importance of agricultural production.55 Settlement locations chosen for access to arable land along the edges of riverine corridors, after all, are simultaneously good for monitoring the same with an eye to security; but other strategic choices are apparent, too. In the Cogamus Valley, for example, settlement areas at the openings of mountain passes, especially, seem well-suited for guarding routes to eastern Lydia, on the northern side of the valley, and to the Kilbian and Cayster valleys, on the southern side. Elsewhere, high-elevation sites with evidence of Achaemenid period activities may have been selected with similar issues of control in mind: Kayapınar to the west near Manisa overlooks the important Sabuncu Beli pass leading to Smyrna; Kel Dağ in the Tmolus range overlooks a route connecting the Cayster and Hermus valleys and terminating at Sardis; and Şahankaya to the north commands an expansive view over the rugged uplands of northern Lydia and

51. M. Miller 2011, 334–37, following Sekunda 1985. 52. Sekunda 1985; Tuplin 1987, 137n107. 53. Briant 1978/79, 85; Dusinberre 2013, 33–42, 85–108. 54. Tuplin 1987, 137n107. The association of the Pidasus Valley with Persians derives from Strabo’s clear statement that the Hyrcanian Plain was named by the Persians who settled there (13.4.13). The suggestion that these Persians were part of an original colony of early Achaemenid date has been accepted in general (cf. L. Robert 1948, 16–26, 19n1; Sekunda 1985, 20), although it has been suggested also that by “Persians” Strabo meant Seleucids (Cohen 1995, 210). 55. Roosevelt 2009, 117–21; M. Miller 2011, 334–37.

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probably overlooks a route as well (pl. 39).56 But what insecurities were such strategic locations established to address? As noted already, from the mid- to late fifth century through the fourth century, the reduced importance of the tumulus tradition, appearance of rural garrisons, and increasing evidence of Persian populations in Lydia may all reflect increasing political and military instability in the area during this period. I have previously suggested that “questions of succession in the Achaemenid court and delusions of semi-autonomous power in the west led to satrapal revolts in almost every generation following Artaphernes II.”57 The quelled revolts of Pissouthnes and Cyrus the Younger in the late fifth century; Spartan incursions against Tissaphernes at Sardis in the early fourth century; and intersatrapal warring among Autophradates and his peers in western Anatolia in the mid-fourth century together paint a picture of “instability in leadership and insecurity in the countryside,” despite whatever hopes may have been ignited by the so-called King’s Peace of 387.58 The need to protect the countryside and routes of communication via a system of garrisons—newly founded or at previously existing agricultural estates—seems self-evident, and such a system must have been in place at least in the fourth century, even if there is vastly more historical and material evidence for it in the subsequent period. That such insecurity continued to characterize the Lydian countryside during the frequent changes of hand in the late fourth century and beyond is likely and might be inferred from the occurrence of major battles in Lydian plains—Corupedium in 281 and Magnesia in 190—involving the mustering of massive armies, tens of thousands of men strong, their sustenance off the land, and their encampment across it (see chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin).59 Yet between these turnkey events were many lesser battles and skirmishes for every generation. Galatian incursions in the 270s; a battle near Sardis between Antiochus I and Eumenes I; numerous poorly dated and unlocated battles between the Seleucids and Attalus I in the decades that followed (including that of 229/8 at Koloë near the Gygean Lake); events leading up to and then crushing the revolt of Achaeus thereafter—all must have had significant consequences for countryside communities, including loss of field crops and livestock to soldiers and abandonment of holdings in times of threat.60 And still worse, perhaps, in the eyes of some local farmers or shepherds was the usual aftermath of battles and skirmishes in the Hellenistic period: the establishment of military settlements, of garrisoned soldiers in countryside forts and watchtowers, not to mention also in cities.61 Many such Hellenistic military settlements in Lydia are known from a combination of historical, epigraphic, and other material evidence. Their overlapping functions have been much discussed, with Getzel 56. Foss 1978; Roosevelt 2009, 115–21. Note that the so-called fire altar at Şahankaya could have been used for signal fires (Dusinberre 2013, 103). Its situation in the saddle between the two peaks of the site, however, with fully occluded views to the north and south (and thus toward Sardis), means that it is unlikely to have been used for signaling in those directions. 57. Roosevelt 2009, 29. 58. Roosevelt 2009, 30. 59. Chaniotis 2005, 122. 60. Ma 1999, 34, 43, 45; Chaniotis 2005, 122–28. 61. Ma 1999, 113. It is unlikely that such establishments would have been seen (at least initially) as welcome remedies for insecurity. Chaniotis (2005, 126, with references) notes how Eumenes (II?) canceled property debts and back taxes and reduced or gave exemptions from other taxes to entice people to resettle the countryside around Termessos following periods of insecurity, commenting that the same thing happened near Sardis as well (e.g., Buckler and Robinson 1932, no. 2).



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Cohen, John Ma, and others highlighting their defensive purpose, allowing the standing army to be employed elsewhere; their economic and administrative role in collecting taxes and tribute; and their political function in discouraging local rebellion or encouraging local loyalty.62 Ma has even described the perhaps oppressive atmosphere generated by the network of such military settlements as “a landscape of extortion through ‘organized violence.’”63 This “geography of anxiety,” to quote another of Ma’s phrases, developed over many years and probably through the efforts of a number of kings, yet the specific date and royal attribution of many military settlement foundations remain uncertain, especially as many were probably re-foundations (or re-namings) of previously existing places.64 Of the many Hellenistic military settlements in Lydia, none can be attributed to either Antigonus or Lysimachus.65 Cohen suggests that most Seleucid settlements should be attributed to Antiochus I and perhaps Antiochus II before 246, and a smaller number to Antiochus III.66 In fact, definitive evidence of Seleucid settlements in Lydia is found only at Palaimagnesia, a place near Magnesia-by-Sipylus (and perhaps its acropolis), likely founded by Antiochus I and named in a decree of 243 concerning associations with the polis of Smyrna; and in the unnamed and unlocated settlements of Jews sent from Mesopotamia and Babylon by Antiochus III in the last years of the third century, to be settled by Zeuxis in garrisons (phrouria) and other topoi to help put down revolts in Lydia and Phrygia.67 To these should be added settlements that were very likely but not definitively Seleucid in origin: Thyateira, Hyrkanis, and Magnesia-by-Sipylus itself.68 And, to fill out the picture of settlements for which we have names, we can add several other places that were definitely or, in some cases, very probably occupied in Seleucid times, including the later-named Julia Gordos, known from the dedicatory inscription of Arkesilaos recording “‘gratitude for the safety of 62. Cohen 1995, 63; Ma 1999, 120. Note that Cohen (1995, 66–71) shows that “Hellenization” per se was not among the guiding purposes of military settlements. 63. Ma 1999, 121. Young and strong, yet perhaps also bored and prone to violence, a restless community of soldiers may have been quite unwelcome in many communities. Chaniotis (2005, 28) highlights the positive aspects of garrisoned communities: “Forts thus became the visible proof of the integrity, independence, and identity of a community. If the citadel was the place where old men, children, and women retreated, the forts were the realm of the young men, who proved their ability to become citizens through military service.” In Lydia a distinction might be drawn between the earlier situation, when civic life was not yet fully established, and later in the Hellenistic period, when integration of city and countryside must have become tighter. Elsewhere, Chaniotis (2005, 92) confirms that “the burden imposed by the presence of troops on the population of the countryside was so heavy that the royal administration had to take measures to prevent it (e.g., SEG XXIX 1613).” 64. Ma 1999, 99. 65. Cohen (1995, 43–45) notes also that we do not know how many settlements with “Macedonians” might be attributed to Antigonus. 66. Cohen 1995, 36–37. 67. Cohen 1995, 47, 212–13, 216–17, 225–26. Note that Josephus (AJ 12.148–53) quotes Antiochus as giving each of the 2,000 Jewish families sent to Lydia and Phrygia ten years of tax exemption, rights to observe their own customs, and property (see below). 68. Cohen 1995, 47. Note that (1) Thyateira may have been (re)founded already by Seleucus I immediately after Corupedium or even earlier, according to letter forms in inscriptions mentioning Macedonians that suggest a late fourth-century date (p. 46); (2) Hyrkanis is said by Strabo to have been settled by Persians, but the earliest evidence from Halitpaşa is an early second-century honorific decree, while a third-century dedication to Zeus Seleukeios from Agatheira found in nearby Alibeyli suggests Seleucid importance (pp. 46, 209–12); and (3) the inscription of c. 243 concerning Smyrna (OGIS 229) distinguishes Magnesia-by-Sipylus from Palaimagnesia and shows that it too hosted communities of soldiers, both in the polis and in the “open” (countryside) (pp. 216–17). See also Ihnken 1978.

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Apollophanes,” the physician of Antiochus III, as well as Akrasos, Nakrason, and Stratonikeia, all known from a combination of epigraphic, numismatic, and other archaeological evidence.69 For the subsequent period, again only a few settlements have definitive evidence of Attalid establishment: Apollonis, a synoikism of Eumenes II; Philadelphia, founded by Attalus II Philadelphus; Attaleia, founded by Eumenes I; and Mernouphyta, unlocated, but somewhere near Thyateira and hosting settlers of both an Attalus and a Eumenes.70 Again, to these should be added settlements that were very likely, but not definitively, Attalid in origin: Agatheira and Lasnedda, near Seleucid Hyrkanis; Doidye and -espoura near Apollonis; Kobedyle, in eastern Lydia; and Kournoubeudos, perhaps somewhere near Sardis.71 Many more settlements may have been Attalid in origin (and indeed, most of the evidence dates to the second century BCE), yet because they are considered to be military settlements simply on the basis of their reference to Macedonians, and because Macedonians are more frequently named in Seleucid rather than Attalid armies, such settlements, aside from Apollonis and Philadelphia, are thought to have originated under the Seleucids.72 To these more or less securely attributed places, we might add still more named places thought to have been occupied in Hellenistic times, including the following: Moschakome, west of the Hyrcanian Plain; Mostene, near Magnesia; Satala, near Sardis; Tabala, in eastern Lydia; and Mysomakedones and Mysotimolos, mountain communities in the eastern parts of the Mesogis and Tmolus ranges, respectively.73 Attempting to understand the distributional logic of these military settlements, Louis Robert first suggested a distinction between Seleucid settlements, founded in fortresses at militarily strategic places, and Attalid settlements, founded in agriculturally fertile places.74 Citing a single passage in Polybius (5.78.5), in which Attalus I promises to give the Galatian Aegosagae suitable land to settle, Cohen supports Robert’s distinction, adding that some Attalid settlements may have been located as strategic counterbalances to earlier Seleucid settlements.75 Given the difficulty of discerning which settlements were Seleucid and which Attalid in origin, however, the distinction seems untenable for Lydia. More easily demonstrated is the 69. Ma 1999, 51, 54. Cohen notes that the only Hellenistic evidence for Akrasos is an inscription dating to Eumenes II, but the name may also be restored as “Nakrason” (1995, 196–97); that Nakrason’s date is based only on mention of its Macedonian settlers (pp. 223–25); and that Stratonikeia could be named after either the wife of Antiochus I or the wife of Eumenes II (pp. 232–38). 70. Cohen 1995, 47, 201–6, 218, 227–30. 71. Cohen 1995, 47, 195, 206–8, 214–15. Note that Schuchhardt (1888) once suggested that Doidye was a small fort c. 500 m north of Apollonis, whose city wall he dated to c. 300 (Cohen 1995, 201–4). The hilltop site just north of Apollonis, however, is likely a small second-millennium citadel like those in the Marmara Lake Basin and elsewhere in central western Anatolia. Herrmann and Malay (2007, no. 32) recognized Kournoubeudos only recently, thanks to an inscription found in Taşkuyucak but thought to have come from Sardis that concerns Attalid soldiers settled there after a war (in the 160s BCE?). Ricl (2011, 145) explains that the inscription names the surrounding towns of Sibloe, Thileudos, and Plazeira and concerns actions intended to lessen the suffering of citizens whose properties were harmed, likely by Galatians. An honorific inscription set up by the “Macedonians from Agatheira” in the time of Eumenes II was found in Alibeyli. For its location and history, see L. Robert 1948, 16–26; 1962, 36; G. Herrmann 1986, 17–20 (who corrected earlier misreadings); TAM 5.2, no. 1307; Cohen 1995, 196 (who argues that this was probably an original Seleucid colony passed down to the Attalids); Şahin 1998, 63–64. 72. Cohen 1995, 223–25. Cohen (p. 46) helpfully lists all places associated with Macedonians: Agatheira, Apollonis, Doidye, -espoura, Kobedyle, and Philadelphia (all known from the Attalid period); and Akrasos, Makedones, Mysomakedones, and Nakrason (all known from the Roman period). 73. Cohen 1995, 219–22, 232, 238. 74. L. Robert 1934b, 91, where the distinction is drawn in a discussion of the position of Attaleia. 75. Cohen 1995, 46, 49, 218.



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evidence of distributional patterns that, as in earlier periods, show concerns with agricultural production, territorial control, and strategic defense of passes. Many of the settlements are located in or at the edges of agriculturally rich plains, along routes of communication that had perennially been important, and near the openings of mountain passes.76 What physical form did these military settlements take? Some clearly turned into fully functioning poleis and were probably already well-developed communities before being royally “founded”; others were apparently “open-air” settlements just outside (developing) poleis, such as the hypaithroi outside Magnesiaby-Sipylus or the settlements of “Macedonians” in the countryside around Thyateira.77 Some of these countryside settlements may have taken the form of distributed farmsteads: we know soldiers owned klēroi, or allotments, at Magnesia,78 and it should be noted also that Antiochus’s letter to Zeuxis (cited by Josephus) explicitly allots each of the 2,000 families of Jewish settlers a house plot, arable land, and a garden—a farmstead, in other words.79 Other countryside settlements were places of more militarily strategic importance, with differing degrees of fortification. Historical texts and inscriptions refer to this type of place as a phrourion (e.g., Josephus) or chōrion (e.g., Palaimagnesia), as well as a peripolion, charax, or teichos, yet how these terms relate to remains on the ground is currently impossible to determine.80 Material evidence for fortified places in Hellenistic Lydia has long been known, but with inconsistent geographic distribution that is likely the result of survey foci. A few examples are situated in northern and eastern Lydia, including a walled fort and freestanding tower at Şahankaya (pl. 39) and another freestanding tower at Palankaya overlooking a canyon of the Hermus River, as well as in the northern foothills of the Tmolus Range, including a fort at Akkaya near the Karabel Pass and the enigmatic freestanding tower of Krezüs Hastanesi (the “Hospital of Croesus”) above Sardis.81 Most of the evidence for this type of set­ tlement, however, comes from southern Lydia, or the Cayster and Cilbian Plains, where Meriç reports discovering twenty previously unknown Hellenistic forts or freestanding towers during his surveys of the 1980s, which brought the total of such places in this string of valleys alone to thirty-two.82 With this corpus to work with, Meriç was able to distinguish four types of fortified settlements (fig. 8.1): (1) freestanding towers measuring 7–14 meters on a side and likely used to host small forces; (2) rectangular enclosures larger than 14 meters on a side, serving to host garrisons; (3) larger forts with towered curtain walls enclosing courtyards, some with catapult installations, also used to host garrisons; and (4) even larger forts with acropolis-like inner citadels that must have operated like small Hellenistic cities, hosting larger 76. For the importance of settlements along routes of communication, see Debord 1985, 345–56; Cohen 1995, 42, 45–46; Ma 1999, 116. With Hellenistic evidence at Şahankaya and Julia Gordos in upland northern Lydia, we can even dispatch with Debord’s (1985, 347–48) supposition that Seleucid control was restricted to the plains and valleys. Note, however, that Ma’s (1999, 115–16) suggestion that Arkesilaos was left at ( Julia) Gordos to control the “route from Sardis to Mysia” must be revised: no logical route from Sardis to Mysia would have passed that way. 77. Launey 1987, 693–94; Cohen 1995, 216–17, 238–42; Chaniotis 2005, 89. 78. Ma 1999, 117. 79. Joseph. AJ 12.148–53. That this was the normal process for Seleucid land grants was recognized early on by Rostovtzeff (1951, 492). 80. Meriç 2009, 134; Chaniotis 2005, 28. Ma (1999, 117–18) suggests also that there is not enough evidence to maintain a distinction between “a permanent garrison controlling a city (phroura) and a temporary detachment on active service in wartime (phylake).” 81. Foss 1978, 30, 52–54. 82. Meriç 2009, 133. For other relevant work on the Cayster River valley, see Herrmann and Malay 2007; and see Ricl 2014 for recent survey report bibliography.

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Fig. 8.1.  Types of fortified settlements in Hellenistic Lydia. Type 1: Cevaşir Burnu; type 3: Yağlar and Mantartepe; type 4: Cambaztepe and Tulum. (After Meriç 2009, 135–37, figs. 14 (type 1), 131, 30 (type 3), 88, 44 (type 4))

garrisons.83 Furthermore, he attributed some of the constructions (albeit without abundant evidence) to the period following Lysimachus’s refounding of Ephesus around 294 and others primarily to the Seleucids.84 More convincingly, Meriç highlights their strategic distribution for safeguarding roads in the valley as well as passes through the Tmolus, and suggests that the intervisibility of forts in the middle Cayster Valley, at least, allowed for long-distance communications via signaling.85 83. Meriç 2009, 135–37. Examples—type 1: Alaman Gölü, Cevaşir Burnu, Aladağ; type 2: Göllüce, Arvalya, Alaylı; type 3: Barutçu, Kecikale Altı, Mantertepe, Arıtaşı, Küçükkale, and Çavuşçeşme near Ephesus, Yağlar in the Cilbian Plain; type 4: Tulum, Cambaztepe, and Büyükkale. Meriç (pp. 135–37) notes that the latter two types are usually found closer to Ephesus, yet also (p. 17) that his work focused on the western part of the area because of limitations in time and money. 84. Meriç 2009, 133. Ricl (2014, 192–93) notes that one strategos appears to have been in charge of Ephesus as well as the Cayster and Cilbian Plains during the Attalid period, perhaps indicating that such a string of fortifications was indeed part of a unified military defense and communication network. 85. Meriç 2009, 134–35, noting specifically the protection of passes via the Phyrites Valley and Karabel Pass to the Hermus by the forts at Çapak and Balltcıoluk and via the Cilbian Plain to the Cogamus Valley by the forts of Elbi and Karaburç, and the intervisibility between the establishments at Balabanlı and Doyranlı, Kızılcaavlu, and Birgi.



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The picture provided by the Hellenistic evidence for the Cayster and Cilbian Plains, then, is one of dense military build-up, with security of primary importance. If Meriç is correct in attributing the majority of these military settlements to pre-Attalid times, we can now envision the nature of the castella Antiochus was required to abandon as part of the Treaty of Apameia, according to Livy (38.38.4), even if general statements about “chains of fortresses” defining Seleucid Asia Minor should still be taken with caution.86 In such a “landscape of insecurity,” it is of little surprise that evidence for countryside cultic activities increases in the Hellenistic period as well, and we even have evidence for Hellenistic military settlements at previously established sanctuaries.87 Wor shipping L a n d sca pe s Turning now to landscapes of cult and ritual, it might be worth noting first that the tendency toward geographic continuity may be stronger in association with ritual places than with places of other types of activities, and second, accordingly, that historical and epigraphic evidence dating to later periods has frequently been assumed to shed light on earlier periods as well.88 Nevertheless, only a few places outside Sardis can be firmly linked with ritual activities in the Achaemenid period, and these represent what by that time had become a typical collage of traditional and novel cult practices, now of Greek, Anatolian, and Persian origin. Two cults associated with Zeus have been identified in the Tmolus range and along its southern flank. “Dioshieron,” located in modern Birgi, may have been in use as early as the fifth century, and Rose Lou Bengisu posited that “an open-air, sacred precinct” on the dual peaks of the nearby Kel Dağ was a sanctuary dedicated to Zeus Karios.89 Worship of the mother goddess, perhaps in the guise of Kybele, was associated by Pausanias (3.22.4) with the Hittite-period rock-reliefs at Akpınar, where archaic materials have been found and where a later cult of Meter Plastene developed around what was presumably perceived to be a sacred spring. Perhaps relating more closely to Persian traditions is evidence from Şahankaya in northern Lydia. If the so-called Persian-style fire altar located there is not simply an installation for fire signaling, as Dusinberre has recently suggested,90 then it is another example of an elevated place of possible sacred importance, similar to Kel Dağ. Slightly more convincing is the fourth-century Aramaic inscription from eastern Lydia mentioned earlier, which refers to a god who is reconstructed by Andre Lemaire as the moon god Mên. The most explicitly Persianizing of cult practices, though, is that associated with Artemis or Artemises, who featured prominently across the countryside. Achaemenid-period evidence for an Artemis kulumsis (in Lydian) should be associated with the Artemis Koloëne who Strabo (13.4.5) suggests was named after Lake Koloë. This was the common name of the Gygean Lake by his day and likely the very toponym used to mark the Seleucid-Attalid battle of 229.91 While the sanctuary remains unknown today, it was thought in the nineteenth century to have been located along

86. Ma 1999, 114, citing Bar-Kochva 1976. 87. Cohen 1995, 65–66. 88. Roosevelt 2009, 123–29. 89. Bengisu 1996. See also Magie 1950, 141; A. Jones 1971, 39; Head 1977, 650; Foss 1979, 313–14; 1993, Thuc. 8.19. 90. See n. 56 above on the feature’s limitations for fire signaling. 91. For references, see Roosevelt 2009, 124n56.

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the southern edge of the lake.92 Perhaps the best-known countryside Artemis in the Achaemenid period was the one given the epithet of Anaitis or Persikē. It is for this goddess that Tacitus tells us a Cyrus (the Great or the Younger left unspecified, but probably the Younger) established a sanctuary at Hierakome in the middle Phrygius River valley.93 And it is for this goddess, also, that a similar sanctuary was founded at Hypaipa in the Cayster Valley—when we do not know, except that it was very likely before Alexander. In both places the goddess was celebrated as Anaitis, Artemis Anaitis, and Artemis Persike, and it was in these places that Pausanias (5.27.5–6) colorfully described the rites of Lydians who were called “Persians,” led by magoi who read out foreign chants to set alight wood on ash-bearing altars.94 These eight places are the corpus of sacred sites we can date to pre-Hellenistic times with a reasonable level of confidence, and each of them continued in use into subsequent times, although joined by many apparently novel cults as well. Thus the sanctuary at Hierakome continued in use throughout the Hellenistic period, with Philip V apparently visiting it on his way south from Pergamum, after which it eventually became the only sanctuary in Lydia, aside from that of Artemis at Sardis, with asylum rights; Hypaipa, too, prospered significantly in these times, perhaps owing in part to its location along the sacred route between Sardis and Ephesus.95 Cults associated with Anaitis appeared elsewhere in the Hellenistic period, as at Philadelphia, where annual festivals were eventually established, and perhaps also further east, where abundant later evidence points to pairings of Artemis Anaitis with Zeus in the Cogamus Valley and with Mên in the Katekekaumene.96 Shrines to other Artemises, such as that of Koloë by the Gygean Lake, must have remained in use throughout the period as well, judging from Strabo’s later description (13.4.5). And cults of the Mother and Zeus, too, known from slightly later inscriptions but with probable Hellenistic origins, likely proliferated in central and eastern Lydia.97 Among definite new appearances in the Hellenistic period are cults of Apollo, spread far and wide. A dedicatory inscription to Apollo Tarsios was found in Davala (Burgaz Kale), or ancient Tabala in eastern Lydia;98 sanctuaries of Apollo and Apollo Toumoundes are known from the upper and middle Cogamus 92. For references, see Roosevelt 2009, 125nn58–60. Malay (1991, 205–7; 1994, 43–44, no. 51) shows, however, that all inscriptions naming the village of Koloë in the Hermus River valley have been found north of the lake (e.g., Çömlekçi), perhaps indicating that the settlement and sanctuary were located there instead of south of the lake. 93. For references, see Roosevelt 2009, 127n78. 94. For references, see Roosevelt 2009, 126nn70–74. See also Ricl 2002, 201–4; 2013, 35; 2014, 193n23. Keil (RE 26 [1927], col. 2179, s.v. Lydia) says that Hypaipa was founded in the fifth century, but all we really know is that it has preHellenistic roots. 95. Ma 1999, 75; Ricl 2002, 205; Roosevelt 2009, 126. For coinage as an indication of Hypaipa’s Hellenistic pros­ perity, see Altınoluk 2013. For Greek inscriptions from Gölmarmara and Salihli that name the Persian goddess and demonstrate the increasing importance of the cult in these and subsequent times, see TAM 5.2, nos. 1245, 1253. For a royal letter from Sarıçam referring to Hierakome see TAM 5.2, no. 1396; Rigsby 1995, 80–83. Rigsby argued that the now-missing inscription found by Fontrier (1885/86, 28) is most comfortably dated to the early imperial period. Malay (1992, 87), however, agrees with Welles (1934, no. 68) that the inscription is a letter of Attalus III dating to c. 138. 96. Ricl 2002, 207; Roosevelt 2009, 128n84. 97. For a temple of Thea Larmene in the Katekekaumene, see Varınlıoğlu 1989, 40, nos. 1–2, 4; 1990, no. 44. For a Roman imperial dedication to Metri Theon Lydiei found between Gölmarmara and Sazköy, see Hanfmann 1965, 35–36, fig. 34, IN 64.45; L. Robert 1982, 359–61). For an inscription found in Yeniköy north of the Gygean Lake and naming Zeus Driktes, see Malay 1994, 152–54, no. 523. For probably later sanctuaries of Zeus Digindenos and Zeus Tar(i)guenos in the upper Cilbian Plain, see Zgusta 1984, nos. 262, 1298, with accompanying bibliography. 98. Cohen 1995, 238.



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River valleys, respectively, the latter of which was patronized already by Antiochus I and his son Seleucus, according to an early third-century inscription;99 a sanctuary of Apollo Pityainos, associated with the set­ tlement of Pityaia, northwest of Thyateira, is known also from an early third-century dedication found in Süleymanlı;100 and three second-century inscriptions from north of the Gygean Lake name the cult of Apollo Pleurenos, or Apollo “of the shore” (presumably the lake shore).101 Other new appearances include evidence of Seleucid royal cult in the form of a third-century dedication to Zeus Seleukeios from Alibeyli in the Hyrcanian Plain;102 new Attalid introductions, including a dedication to the god Papias, set up by settlers of Lasnedda, just west of the Gygean Lake, whose cult is otherwise known only from Phrygia;103 and a sanctuary of all gods, Pantheotai, associated with Eumenes II and likely located between Apollonis and Magnesia.104 As with other types of countryside activities considered across these thematic landscapes, it appears from the evidence at hand that places of cultic activity increased in number in the Hellenistic period, if the numbers cited here are again not just a result of the formalization of cultic activities into Hellenized forms that result in their being recorded in stone. Increasingly Hellenized traditions result also in our knowledge of a rise in the number of countryside annual festivals (especially at Anaitis-related cults)105 and the integration of countryside sanctuaries within centralized religious bureaucracies. This latter development points to a probable, yet not yet provable, distinction between cult management in Achaemenid and Hellenistic times. Just as farmsteads, villages, and estates became subject to local oikonomoi with jurisdiction over cadastral and other financial elements within their various provincial subdivisions during the Seleucid period, so too did local cult personnel become subject to regulation by high priests with supraprovincial privileges. We know that the archiereus Nicanor was granted such privileges with Antiochus III’s royal edict (prostagma) of 210/209, and we can presume, following both Ma and Thonemann, that Euthydemus and others held similar powers in Attalid times.106 Thus one point of clarity is that by the late Seleucid period, or at least the end of the third century, the countryside had been sufficiently bureaucratized that both religious and secular activities—and military activities too—were firmly under the control of regional and supra-regional managers. The question of how much earlier this process may have been set in motion remains. C oncluding Thought s As with all diachronic landscapes—to make a fairly banal observation—a combination of cultural and administrative continuities and changes can be identified across Lydia during the Achaemenid, Diadoch, 99. Buresch 1898, 205; Meriç and Nollé 1985, 24; Cohen 1995, 227–30. 100. Keil and von Premerstein 1911, 14, no. 19; Zgusta 1984, no. 1065-5; Cohen 1995, 238–42; Şahin 1998, 121. 101. Robert first discussed the cult near the Gygean Lake (L. Robert 1982, 361–67), but for a full discussion of relevant texts and bibliography, see Malay and Nalbantoğlu 1996. A stele from Kemerdamları was inscribed to record the honors due to a Sardian responsible for sacred revenues, and inscriptions from Yeniköy recorded a petition regarding the erection of a stele and a dedication. 102. Cohen 1995, 46, 209–12. 103. Cohen 1995, 215. 104. Cohen 1995, 226–27. 105. Ricl 2002, 205–7. 106. Ma (2000, 26) notes that the prostagma was found in Pamukçu in the Balıkesir Plain, just north of Lydia, and was supposed to have been set up at a prominent sanctuary. See also Ma 1999, 27, 146–47; Thonemann 2003, 103–4; 2009.

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and Hellenistic eras. In the countryside, communities likely dedicated primarily to agricultural production occupied similar settlement types—farmsteads, hamlets, and villages. Royal fiat aggregated some of these into larger estates let out for management by and the benefit of a combination of local and foreign elements, with a proportion of revenues paid to the king or the city. Agricultural productivity and communities were protected via garrisons of implanted soldiers, whose physical establishments were likely situated with strategic defense and communications in mind. And rural cult places and practices echoed but did not entirely duplicate those of the capital at Sardis.107 Significant changes relate primarily to consequences of Hellenizing bureaucratic systems, resulting first and foremost in a wider tradition of recording in stone, resulting in textual evidence for administrative and other practices that may be new in and of themselves or may simply be newly recorded. This leads in part to a much larger number of known and named places in the Hellenistic period, and more detail about their natures. Thus now, for the first time, we have evidence of places beyond Sardis with urbanizing physical features and polis-oriented civic structures. Without definitive evidence of Achaemenid parallels to rely on at this level of specificity, the more centralized administrative institutionalization of rural land tenure, rural production via taxes and tribute, and rural cult practices, too, all must be attributed to the Hellenistic period. But from a local countryside perspective, what real impact did this institutionalization have? The average farmer on the ground still had a house or house plot, arable land, and a garden, with a portion of proceeds still being siphoned off, though now through a civic system including also liturgies and indirect taxes (e.g., sales taxes, dues, tolls).108 Yet the political flux of the period only increased instability, resulting in nearconstant military conflicts that disrupted ways of life on a generational if not more frequent basis. Soldiers were still emplaced across the countryside, now in more places that appear to have formed a greater number of networks crisscrossing and connecting parts of the landscape. Cult personnel still conducted their particular practices, now under the supervision of higher authorities. As already suggested, then, the primary impact of Hellenistic institutionalization was in the tighter integration of all countryside activities within civic and royal administrative systems that represent, according to Ma, a “coherent, unitary state apparatus . . . and not a loose feudal structure.”109 To whom can we attribute such developments? As explained above, it is in the third century that such things appear to have been established, but can we attribute changes to specific rulers? Certain foundations can be tied to particular kings, including Seleucus I and Antiochus I, especially. Antiochus II is credited with redefining civic territories nearby,110 and Antiochus III with a more hierarchical bureaucratic organization under his viceroy, Zeuxis. That Attalid administrators upheld consolidated bureaucratic traditions after the Treaty of Apamea rather than establishing new ones is suggested by the evidence. Accordingly, it is difficult to evaluate the real effects of particular rulers’ activities and policies on the material fabric of the Lydian countryside. Thus, the reimagining of Sardis’s urban history that comes as a result of better understandings of its layout, terracottas, ceramics, coins, and temple architecture is not yet apparent beyond Sardis, in its hinterlands, which leaves much opportunity for future research.

107. For continuities in the countryside (Gördes and Pleura) across the Seleucid-Attalid break of 190/189, see Ma 1999, 248. For the same at Sardis, see p. 250. 108. Ma 1999, 134. 109. Ma 1999, 130. 110. Ma 1999, 94.

rq 9

Pergamum and Sardis Models of Neighborliness Ruth Bielfeldt

W

hen asked about the German Democratic Republic in 1986, the Bavarian playwright Franz Xaver Kroetz said that that country was as foreign to him as Mongolia.1 At the time, the bold statement painfully demonstrated how, in just forty years, two neighboring states, once one country, had become radically estranged. And while his sentence epitomized a West German majority feeling, the unanticipated fall of the Berlin Wall ensured that this sentiment would soon be left behind by the momentum of historical events. In 1989 the sense of German-German proximity reemerged, and yet, even so, in the reunified country today we still encounter on both sides signs of a fundamental distance in culture, mentality, or political values. The German case may serve to illustrate the unsolvable conundrum of proximity between people or communities: while proximity, in quantitative terms, is measurable in absolute numbers, its quality (i.e., the sense of closeness or distance) is relative and subject to change. Proximity constantly demands to be defined in space, to be affirmed through action, and to be filled with meaning. More often than not, it nourishes rivalry, estrangement, war. Strabo (13.4.4) points out that Pergamum and Sardis are a mere 600 stades apart, but the indication of distance does not tell us how the two cities, their rulers, and their residents negotiated their relationship. In this chapter I examine the modes and models of contact, successful and unsuccessful, between Pergamum and Sardis during the third and early second centuries BCE. Given that most of the evidence comes from Pergamum, my focus will be there. What did the early Attalids make out of Pergamum’s physical and cultural proximity to Sardis? I argue that it was the dynasty’s founder, Philetaerus, who made Sardis a major point of reference. He developed particular strategies for approaching Pergamum’s southern neighbor, strategies of performative action and creating spaces of connectivity that I propose to frame with a concept adapted from 1. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 17 December 1986. All my thanks go to Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin for initiating the Hellenistic Sardis Project, and to Nicholas Cahill, Bahadır Yıldırım, as well as Felix Pirson for their support of my research. I warmly thank Michael Wörrle (Munich) for his helpful comments on the manuscript, and to Filippo Battistoni for providing the photograph of IvP 1.1. 165

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sociology: neighborliness. I then look at the reasons for the marked failure of this approach: why, starting with the Attalid kings, did Pergamum and Sardis fail to maintain strong links, even after Apamea in 188, when Sardis became a city within the Pergamene empire? Sa r dis a n d Perga mum : A n Un told Story The history of the two neighboring sites, Pergamum and Sardis, has yet to be told. Specialists in the third century have written on the changing history of the Attalids and the Seleucids as a history of two dynasties,2 but the narratives of their relationship have not been fully grounded in space and place. An examination of the interconnection of the two sites—as residences, as poleis, as places—encounters several challenges. One is the scanty archaeological evidence from the Pergamene Umland. Thanks to the arduous endeavors of early scholars, especially the classical archaeologist Alexander Conze and the prehistorian Carl Schuchhardt, to create an integrated picture of Pergamum within its natural and geographic environments, the ancient sites in the Caicus Valley, the Yünd Dağ Mountains, and the upper Lycus Valley were surveyed for architectural remains and epigraphy and extensively mapped.3 For most of the last century, however, research has focused on the mountain of Pergamum itself as the military and conceptual anchor of Attalid rule. And so it is only recently, with Christopher Roosevelt’s Greater Lydia Survey (see chapter 8, “The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia”), and Felix Pirson’s surveys in the lower Caicus Valley, that the land between the two cities, and their physical connection, is being brought back into view. Even with these efforts, most of the sites identified in southern Mysia and northern Lydia have yet to be explored archaeologically. Thus any attempt at mapping the southward expansion—and the following shrinkage—of the Pergamene territory under Eumenes I and especially Attalus I between 240 and 210 remains a somewhat abstract game of boundary shifting, since the actual effects of temporary territorial gains in terms of military and land organization still need to be explored. Indeed, Sardis itself is rarely found on maps of Pergamene environs, which tend to end in the south with the Yünd Dağ, as if that mountain range were a natural hermeneutic bar, hard to cross even in thought. A second problem is that the dearth of historiographic and epigraphic records has prevented us from seeing Sardis’s emergence as what it doubtless must have been—namely, the focal point of Attalid-Seleucid diplomacy for much of the third century. Pergamum has yielded merely two inscriptions that testify to interaction on an honorific level: a base for a statue of the philos of Antiochus III and the Seleucid viceroy Zeuxis son of Cynagus, the chief commander and governor of Lydia stationed at Sardis between 213 and 190, put up by the Pergamene dēmos somewhere in the public areas on the hilltop;4 and a statue base of Antiochus III, put up by the sōmatophylax [Pro]tas, who was anyway a Seleucid rather than an Attalid functionary, perhaps in the sanctuary of Athena.5 Both inscriptions date from the late third century and reflect a phase of 2. See now Boris Chrubasik’s important analysis (2013) and Thonemann 2013 for a holistic analysis of the Attalid “poliadization” of Asia Minor in the second century. 3. See Conze 1912 and Schuchhardt 1912; for a reevaluation of early scholarship on Pergamum, see now Pirson 2017, 44. 4. IvP 1.189 = OGIS 236, found on the terrace of the Great Altar. For Zeuxis’s presence in Pergamum, see Polyb. 21.16–17; Joseph. AJ 12.147–48; RE X A (1972) s.v. Zeuxis 3, 384 (E. Olshausen); Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 36–38, no. 39, with references; Gauthier 1994, 178–95; and in detail Ma 1999, 123–29. In the context of the scope of honorific activity of the Pergamene demos, see Bielfeldt 2010, 144–45, fig. 11. 5. IvP 1.182 = OGIS 240: found in two fragments on the theater terrace and in the Athena sanctuary; the original spot may have been the Athena sanctuary: Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 38–39, no. 40. The donor was a sōmatophylax,



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intensified Seleucid-Attalid relations during or after the Achaeus crisis. For Sardis, the epigraphic record is largely silent about the third century, although some inscriptions reflect Pergamene impact on Sardian civic life (see “A Coda on the Second Century: Sardis within the Attalid Empire in Light of Pergamum’s Belated Anatolian Turn” below in this chapter). A third major problem, however, lies in “incompatible” modern historiographies that tend to stress distance rather than links between Sardis and Pergamum. Scholarship holds that Sardis, seat of the Achaemenid governor of Lydia, remained an important administrative center and military headquarters under the Seleucids (see chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin); it was the nominal residence of a largely absent Seleucid king. As the bastion of two Seleucid usurpers, it is assumed to be a place of generally hostile Attalid-Seleucid military encounters. Scholarship on the Attalids, on the other hand, has tended to emphasize their ideological orientation to the west, their ties to Troy and other Aeolian cities, their emulation of Athens, their claim of ancestry in Arcadia, their loyalty to Rome. Pergamum’s search for cultural as well as military connections with Greece is historically well-attested, but the fact that it has been given almost exclusive attention in scholarship may be a consequence of Pergamum’s Wilhelminian reception and repro­duction as a culturally superior Greek power. Ann Kuttner’s article was the first openly to question this ideological paradigm and to seek other local choices made by the Attalids when crafting the cultural past for their residence.6 Lydia, however, is left out of Kuttner’s argumentation. A brief look back at the early history of Pergamum and Sardis is thus in order, before I focus in on the time after 300. How much Lydian past did Pergamum have, and in what ways could this past have been activated as a cultural model in the Hellenistic periods? A C o m m on Pa st ? A pproache s to a Pa r a lle l H istory of Sa r dis a n d Perga mum At first sight the geographic and natural situations of Sardis and Pergamum show striking similarities. Both sites occupy steep—and largely waterless—acropoleis rising from fertile river plains, and both have considerable mineral resources in the vicinity. Further, on account of these defensive qualities and natural riches, both sites were turned into strongholds with fortified residential quarters attached. However, whereas Sardis became the royal seat of the Mermnads and capital of Lydia in the early seventh century, Pergamum, whose fortification seems to go back to the Middle Bronze Age, was the seat of a nameless local dynast.7 The fact that Sardis would become the much more successful site may be due to its more favorable location along a major east-west transit and trading route, and the presence of electrum in the deposits of the Pactolus stream; or it may be coincidence. The few and scattered findings from archaic Pergamum suggest that it may have been culturally attached to the sphere of Greater Lydia. As Volker Kästner has emphasized, sixth-century Pergamum had houses and shrines with molded and painted roof tiles that appear to be imported or local [Pro]tas, son of Men[–]. The identification with an unknown Pergamene son of a Seleucid courtier, the Macedonian Menippos Phaniou, who dedicated a statue for Antiochus at Delos (OGIS 239 = IG 11.4, 1111), remains conjectural. 6. Kuttner 2005. On Kuttner’s equation of Asiatic and local, see below under “A Coda on the Second Century: Sardis within the Attalid Empire in Light of Pergamum’s Belated Anatolian Turn.” 7. For the recent redating of the fortification wall near the Hera temple to the second millennium, see Hertel 2011; Pirson 2017, 49. A renewed use in the archaic period is suggested by the presence of ceramics and terracottas dating to the archaic period; cf. Radt 1994; Kästner 2011.

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imitations of Lydian models.8 A series of lion guardians, comparable to those located in the Hermus and Lycus Valleys, were found in villages of the Caicus Plain and must have belonged to elite tombs.9 Ute Kelp, in her recent survey of tumuli in the Caicus Plain, argued that the Taşdam Tepe Tumulus follows a decidedly Lydian typology.10 The archaeological finds are, however, not significant enough to let us determine whether Pergamum was a neighboring chiefdom of Sardis or a satellite. Under Achaemenid rule, the political connections to Sardis, now capital of west Asia and satrapal seat, must have been even stronger, as the textual record indicates. We learn from Xenophon’s much quoted Anabasis passage that in 399 the Caicus Valley had become the agricultural base of a Persian landed aristocracy, protected by a network of military troops, presumably controlled from Sardis (see chapter 8). Fortified Pergamum was kept as a separate entity. A pawn in the hands of the central power, it was awarded to a changing series of subsidiary lords, who, once they held the mountain, felt the urge to revolt: first the Gongylids, an Eretrian family loyal to Persia, who sided with the Greeks in 399; then the satrap Orontes, who conquered and lost the mountain at some point in the middle of the fourth century; and ultimately, after 301, Philetaerus. Because of the rapid changes in the fourth century, Pergamum’s social and cultural identity is hard to determine, and at this point the archaeological record is still of little help in understanding this crucial period. After Alexander’s conquest both sites developed parallel trajectories. Their political instrumentalization went hand in hand with community formation. Pergamum emerges as a polis with the right to strike gold staters after 336,11 and, potentially, the agency to build a poliadic temple.12 Sardis develops as a community that requests a return to its ancestral laws; as Paul J. Kosmin and Andrea M. Berlin argue in the conclusion to this volume, polis institutions were adopted, belatedly, only in the second quarter of the third century. As prominent fortresses, on the other hand, both sites became home for outstanding female members of the royal family who may have competed for political influence. Pergamum was protector of Alexander’s Persian-Rhodian lover Barsine and Alexander’s first son, Heracles, whose family had land in the region— Barsine’s father, Artabazus, had been the satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia. Sardis remained the seat of the governor of Lydia and was, from 320 to 308, the voluntary and involuntary domicile of Alexander’s sister Cleopatra. If there ever was an outspoken rivalry between Cleopatra and Barsine, it ended in the years between 310 and 308 BCE, when Barsine was killed at the order of Cassander and Cleopatra at that of Antigonus.13 There is no direct historical evidence for peer-polity interaction between Sardis and Pergamum at this time, but there is an enigmatic singular proof of Lydian presence in Pergamum. The Doric temple of Athena, presumably a polis initiative of the later fourth century, features two dedicatory inscriptions of individuals on both pronaos columns—at a height of roughly 4 meters—that refer to the columns rather than to 8. Kästner 2011, 28–29, 437–38 for catalogue entries nos. 2.17–19; see also Conze 1913, 160, Beiblatt 8–9; Åkerström 1966, 21–23. 9. Radt 1996. 10. Kelp and Pirson 2012; Kelp, forthcoming. 11. For the Pergamene gold staters of the Palladion type, see Schalles 1985, 13–19; De Callataÿ 2012; Riedel 2016, 19–31. 12. The chronicle of Pergamum (IvP 2.613) suggests that the polis was founded in the early fourth century under the prytanis Archias, before the reign of the satrap Orontes. 13. For Barsine at Pergamum: Diod. Sic. 20.20; Just. Epit. 13.2.7; Astbury Brunt 1975; for Cleopatra at Sardis: Arr. Succ. 1.26, 25; Diod. Sic. 18.23.3, 20.37.3–6.



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objects attached to them.14 A Homericizing distich (IvP 1.2) announces the dedication of [. . .]os son of Artemon to the Tritogeneia Thea (fig. 9.1). Tritogeneia is unique in the epigraphy of Hellenistic Asia Minor and may have been chosen for its old-time, literary associations.15 The other inscription is a bilingual dedi­ cation in Lydian and Greek by a certain Bartaras to Athena (IvP 1.1, figs. 9.2–3).16 Robert Gusmani dates the inscription to the third century (and compares it with the inscription by Manes on a statue base in the Sardian Artemisium; see fig 6.4); but the dating may be inferred from Erwin Ohlemutz’s late chronology of the temple, which has been questioned by recent scholars.17 According to the most recent interpretation, by Annick Payne and David Sasseville, the four lines read:18 ẹšṿ tasẽṿ acνil partaras maλiλ Παρταρας Ἀθηναίηι This column gave Bartaras to Malis. Partaras to Athena.

Fig. 9.1.  Dedicatory inscription to the Tritogeneia Thea from the temple of Athena in Pergamum (IvP 2). (Staatliche Museen zu Berlin—Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Antikensammlung: IvP 2; drawing after Fränkel 1890, no. 2) 14. IvP 1.1–2 (IvP 1).The average letter size is 3 cm. On individuals dedicating columns: Rumscheid 1999. 15. IvP 1.1–2 (IvP 2): ]ος [τ]όνδε ἀνέ[θηκεν] Ἀρτέμωνος παῖς σοί Τριτογένεια θεά. Athena is named Tritogeneia in Hom. Il. 4.515; Od. 3.378; Hes. Theog. 895.924; Hymn. Hom. Ath. 28, 4–5; cf. LSJ, s.v. Τριτογένεια. The name received various explanations in ancient sources: “born in the lake Tritonis” (in Libya) or “born in the torrent Triton” (Boeotia) or “head-born,” from the Aeolic τριτώ, “head,” a meaning inferred also by Hom. Hymn Ath. 28, 4–5. The last may have been the most likely reading in a Pergamene context. Milet 6.2, 925 and IGUR 3.1155 are the only two epigraphic attestations of Tritogeneia, both from the second century CE. 16. Buckler 1924; Gusmani 1964, 15, no. 40; 1980a, 17, no. 40. The reading of Gusmani 1986, 160, is: usṿ tac. c. vac. ṿil 2bartaraś śat.it. 17. For the temple of Athena and its date and political context, see Schalles 1985, 4–22. Schalles’s advocacy of an early chronology of the temple, during Barsine’s presence, is still widely accepted. Ohlemutz (1940, 17–20) argued that the temple was built by Philetaerus because of typological and technical correspondences with the temple in Mamurt Kale (see below). For the temple’s date and historical context, see Steuernagel 2012. 18. After Payne and Sasseville 2016, Schürr’s (1999) interpretation of the inscription as not bilingual but a “Doppelinschrift” has become obsolete.

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Fig. 9.2.  Andesite column drum pertaining to the temple of Athena with dedicatory inscription to Athena/Malis in Lydian and Greek (IvP 1). (Staatliche Museen zu Berlin—Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Antikensammlung: IvP 1; photo: Filippo Battistoni)

Gusmani and previous scholars pointed out that lines 3–4, in Ionian Greek, are an abbreviated version of lines 1–2, in Lydian, which state the dedicatory act and the dedicated object, a column. What had not been successfully identified was the name of the divine recipient. In a recent contribution Payne and Sasseville have established a convincing reading for the last word of line 2, maλiλ, as “Malis,” the Lydian name for Athena or a deity associated with Athena. The deity Malis, glossed as “Athena,” occurs in Hipponax (fr. 49 Degani) and a second time in Hesychius.19 According to Max Fränkel’s interpretation in the Inschriften von Pergamon (IvP), the uncommon form of the letter rho shows that the Greek letters were written by a non­ native Greek scribe, an argument further supported by the occurrence of an Ionic form in Ἀθηναίηι.20 19. Degani 1991, 71, with reference to Hesych. μ 190 L and further sources. Watkins 2007 and Payne and Sasseville 2016, 78–79, discuss evidence related to the Lycian goddess Malija, who was likewise equated with Athena. 20. Schürr (1999, 169) suggested that the high-quality Lydian inscription was written by an experienced Lydian scribe who added his more elaborate formula above the big, clumsy, and deeply incised Greek letters.



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Fig. 9.3.  Dedicatory inscription in Lydian and Greek. (Staatliche Museen zu Berlin—Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Antikensammlung: IvP 1; photo (RTI): Filippo Battistoni)

Given that there is no mention of any other Bartaras in the corpus of Lydian inscriptions, Bartaras’s identity remains obscure. This inscription does not give his father’s name, which is unusual for Lydian epigraphy. Who was he, and where was he from? It is unlikely that he was a local Mysian writing in Lydian. Lydian was certainly not the accepted written language of Pergamum—else we would have more evidence of Lydian epigraphs from the city. If Bartaras was indeed from Lydia and brought his own scribe or even inscribed the column himself, one still wonders why he became financially engaged in a building project far from home. If he was an immigrant to Pergamum, why did he choose to add Lydian, a script unfamiliar to a Pergamene audience? Payne and Sasseville take into account the possibility that he was a representative of a Lydian community or chose his native language to highlight a religious connection between Malis and Athena.21 The answer, however, must be sought not only in Bartaras’s intentions but also in a Pergamene community decision, which may or may not have been informed by a ruling power, such as Barsine or Philetaerus in his early years. After all, it cannot be coincidence that Bartaras’s dedication was given such a prominent place within the architecture of the temple. The two dedications are the only preserved inscriptions on architectural blocks pertaining to the temple, and their parallel positioning—probably on the two interior columns of the pronaos, at roughly the same 21. Payne and Sasseville 2016, 68. A strong Lydian community would have left some traces in the epigraphic and material record of Pergamon.

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height of 4 meters22— suggests that they functioned in an exemplary way as framing devices of the entrance to the cella. Taken as a pair, the two dedications and the respective columns can indeed be read as complements. The column with the Homericizing distich, addressing the Tritogeneia Thea, points to a Homeric and Aeolic interpretation of Athena; the second column, evoking a long Lydian dedicatory tradition at Sardis, points to Lydia and its grand past and to a distinctly Anatolian interpretation of Athena.23 It is likely that both inscriptions are the result of an intentional decision; they may even have been carefully positioned to the west and east of the entrance, not only in order to assign special privilege to a well-networked community of donors, but also to insert the temple and its deity into two separate linguistic, cultural, and religious traditions, Aeolian and Asiatic. This brief survey has shown that the development of Sardis and Pergamum seems to have been connected in some periods, parallel in others, distinct in others again. The points of connection remain unmarked, however, and have not left a strong historical or material record. Sardis and Pergamum did not produce a shared material culture (apart from the above-mentioned archaic “Lydian” material), they did not create a history of shared myths or cults, and they did not engage in regular peer-polity interaction. Nor did Pergamum model itself on Sardis. Yet even if we do not see the Pergamum-Sardis connection continuously at work, the Bartaras inscription indicates that there was a relationship that could be activated when desired. N e ig hb or lin e ss: A Model for B il at er a l R el at ions in t he E a r ly H ellen ist ic Per iod We have a more solid historical basis for judging the Pergamum-Sardis relationship during the Hellenistic period. Still, it remains a challenging task to find a suitable hermeneutic model for describing the bilateral relationship between two cities that have not yet acquired full-fledged community identities as poleis, nor a clear profile as residences of an imperial state. Pergamum, which was about to emerge as a polis in the late 330s, and Sardis, returning to its “ancestral constitution” in 334, soon had to grapple with the royal occupation of their respective strongholds. Between 330 and 280 both “centers” were still in a state of becoming; their situation was defined by rupture, change, and chance bargain. By 281, when Seleucus I won Sardis at Corupedium, Sardis had changed rule perhaps no fewer than seven times in a span of merely twenty years (see chapter 3); when Philetaerus was deployed at Pergamum as Lysimachus’s representative, that city too had already gone through a decade of instability. Early Attalid Pergamum and early Seleucid Sardis may be called neighbors. I would like to explore “neighborship” as a framework to describe a relationship between two actors that is politically and culturally constructed in response to the condition of spatial contiguity.24 Ending up as somebody’s neighbor is not a 22. For the finding and architectural contexts of the column drums, see Bohn 1885, 15–16, which gives exact measurements and notes that the slender drums belong to the temple but not to the pteron, which qualifies them for the pronaos or the opisthodomos. Given the dedicatory formulas, the latter seems less likely. According to IvP 1.1–2, the Lydian inscription may have been located slightly higher. 23. A point of connection between Tritogeneia and Malis may be their relationship to water. In Theoc. Id. 13.45, Malis is one of the water nymphs pulling Hylas into the spring; the polyvalent Tritogeneia, as discussed above, was regularly associated with a birth out of water. 24. For neighborship in social studies, see McGahan 1972. For a 2018 study on American neighbor-interactions by the Pew Research Center see “How Urban, Suburban and Rural Residents Interact with Their Neighbors,” http://www .pewsocialtrends.org/2018/05/22/how-urban-suburban-and-rural-residents-interact-with-their-neighbors (accessed on November 23, 2018).



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matter of choice; and in all likelihood there is no easy escape from that situation, and no solution to it other than accord, endurance, or war. Adopting and adapting the sociological model of “neighborship” for early third-century Sardis and Pergamum has several conceptual benefits, because it allows us to recognize space and place as the spheres in and through which this relationship is acted out. The rapid turnover in a modern neighborhood provides a good example for thinking through the problem of new and still unstable placepeople relationships between dynasts, their militaries, and emerging communities in early Hellenistic Asia Minor. No less importantly, it gives us room to explore the tension between a place and its new occupants, who may or may not relate to their new home’s past, which they inherit without having been part of it—a tension that offers potential for both willful ignorance and cultural creativity. The neighborship model, finally, helps us to conceptualize the contingency of who moves in or out. Between 310 and 280, Asia Minor was a carousel of displaced Macedonians, all seeking a place to dwell and to rule. Political scientists also have explored the concepts of neighborship and “good neighborliness” in politics elaborating the famous dictum of President Roosevelt’s inaugural speech from 1933 and the United Nations principle termed “esprit de bon voisinage.”25 Neighborly relations between two facing states, nations or otherwise institutionally distinct societal groups, because they are not natural and not traditional, require constant construction work, not only in administrative and legal, but also in performative and symbolic terms. A politics of good neighborliness is conceivable on three different levels: Fences make neighbors Neighborship is primarily shaped by the way in which neighbors deal with their respective properties, i.e., with the demarcations of territorial lines. The shared boundary in its physical materialization divides and, at the same time, connects the neighbors. The Greek legal term for neighbors is homoroi, “those who share a boundary.” How shared boundaries are defined, maintained, and, at the same time, allow or invite crossing, is a direct reflection of neighborly contiguity: borders, also in a geopolitical sense, are “mending walls,” to quote the title of Robert Frost’s poem, that require both sides to regularly walk the line together: “good fences make good neighbors.” Curating neighborliness The neighborly relationship, in a social and political sense, can be defined in regard to how neighbors reach a greater common ground that engenders connections, in space and over time. Neighbors may acknowledge a shared responsibility for the natural, political, and economic space which they commonly inhabit, 25. See Henrikson 2011 for a good discussion of “good neighborliness” and “peace through neighborhood” as guiding principles in American and European foreign policy during the twentieth century, and his reference to Nations Unies 1997. On neighborhood in the theoretical framework of boundary/border studies in a geopolitical context see Newman and Paasi 1998, Newman 2009, as well as several contributions in Wastl-Walter 2011. The applicability of recent border studies paradigms on the ancient world is limited, however. The growing field of border studies has been occupied with the impact of existing frontiers between existing states/nations in regard to social or ethnic identity formation and othering. Borders are taken for granted, and with them various applications of the center-periphery model. For the transition moment of West Asia in the early Hellenistic period, firm sociopolitical categories, such as “center,” “border,” “territory,” “society,” are of little heuristic value. Apart from the natural barrier of the Yünd Dağ range, early Hellenistic Pergamum and Sardis were not divided by clearly determined political, ethnic, or linguistic territorial limits, nor can or should we assume that the social collectives, on either side, were eager to consolidate their inner coherence through territorial claims. Pergamon and Sardis were “foci of power” surrounded by not-pertaining, politically undefined lands in-between.

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neighbors may develop a sense of shared religious or cultural traditions, or even of a shared past. If the sense of communality and mutuality is materialized through monuments, architectures for communal, especially religious, use, travelling objects (such as diplomatic gifts), or, ultimately, icons on shared media (such as coins), that help to define and picture the political affinity both physically and immaterially, we can speak of neighborliness as a sphere of cultural curation. Good neighborliness as performative action Good neighborliness describes the attitude of neighbors who not only pay each other respect but who cultivate their relationship as a sphere of performative action. Good neighbors turn their boundaries into contact zones, by building an infrastructure and economic network for cross-border-interactions (streets, bridges, and meeting places), and they bolster contact and exchange with a rhetoric of solidarity, and signs or actions of support in case of crisis, emergency, war. Good neighborliness may even lead to a ceremonial culture of celebrating the bilateral bond and the historical manifestations of interconnectedness. The diplomatic culture between cities or between kings and cities in the Hellenistic period falls into this category. Wor k ing a roun d Sa r dis: P hileta erus’s I n it i at ive s R econsider ed Focusing on the first Attalid ruler, Philetaerus, and the historical situation in the 270s, I would like to consider whether we can describe his activities in terms of a neighborly relationship with Seleucid Sardis. Philetaerus was given command over the treasury and fortress in Pergamum by Lysimachus after 301. He offered himself and his stronghold to Seleucus I in 281 and marked the political shift by minting coins in Seleucus’s name. After Seleucus’s death Philetaerus bought the corpse and had it cremated at Pergamum before delivering the ashes to Seleucus’s son Antiochus, thus acting like a near relative. It is a truism that Philetaerus, now lord (κύριος) of the stronghold and treasure of Pergamum, as Strabo calls him,26 pursued a Seleucid-friendly policy and, at the same time, established a network of relations with Greek as well as local communities—Strabo explicitly emphasizes his catering to anyone nearby (ἐγγὺς παρόντα)—through sponsorship. Different schools frame the rationale behind his policy of networking and sponsorship in quite different terms. Specialists in Seleucid or Attalid history, such as Reginald Allen or Boris Chrubasik, tend to emphasize that Philetaerus acted “within” the framework of Seleucid power and should be compared to other local dynasts, such as the Phrygian Philomelids.27 It seems that the Seleucid system, built around an absent king, required the distribution of power onto more than one set of shoulders. A series of scholars working on Pergamum, primarily archaeologists, among them prominently Hans-Joachim Schalles, have proposed that we see in Philetaerus an increasingly independent power-player whose major objective was 26. Strabo 13.4.1: τοιούτων δὲ θορύβων ὄντων διεγένετο μένων ἐπὶ τοῦ ἐρύματος ὁ εὐνοῦχος, καὶ πολιτευόμενος δι᾽ ὑποσχέσεων καὶ τῆς ἄλλης θεραπείας ἀεὶ πρὸς τὸν ἰσχύοντα καὶ ἐγγὺς παρόντα: διετέλεσε γοῦν ἔτη εἴκοσι κύριος ὢν τοῦ φρουρίου καὶ τῶν χρημάτων. 27. Allen 1983, 13–20; Chrubasik 2013, 87–96. Chrubasik’s interpretation of Philetaerus’s “semi-official administrative position under Seleukid rule” (p. 88) or “within a Seleukid structure” (p. 89) presupposes a Seleucid governmental system more or less firmly in place by 275–270. The evidence rather seems to point to a delicate formation process of Attalid-Seleucid relations in which every single step had to be negotiated. It was a time when there was not yet a clear “within” or “without.”



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the expansion of territory and control.28 In this view he paved the way for the aggressive, empire-building policy of his successor, Eumenes I. Pergamene coins seem indeed to mirror Philetaerus’s growing sense of independence. At an unknown date during the later part of his reign, he started to issue coins under his own name and showing the portrait of the deceased Seleucus, rather than adopting the portrait of the acting Seleucid king, Antiochus I. Eventually, according to the high chronology of the first Philetaerians proposed by Georges Le Rider, he replaced Seleucus’s posthumous image with his own portrait.29 The clash between a harmonizing Philetaerus acting as a local power-holder in conformity with the Seleucids, and a polarizing Philetaerus pursuing tactics of confrontation with and break from the supra-power, still resonates through scholarship today. Was Philetaerus a fence builder who tried, by creating subversive loyalties, to mark off Pergamene territory? In order to find a balanced answer to the question, I would like to pursue Allen’s approach and take a holistic view of Philetaerus’s initiatives toward Seleucid or Seleucid-affiliated cities and sanctuaries in the vicinity of Pergamum, and map them in space and time. Visualized together on a map (pl. 40), the places of activity appear as a semicircular line, as if defining Pergamum’s southern “hemisphere.” Historically, the events belong to the decade 280–270, a period affected first by the war between Antigonus Gonatas and Antiochus I and then, starting from 276, by the first Galatian crisis. It was also a decade that yielded a chance for personal encounters between Philetaerus and his new Seleucid neighbor, Antiochus I. During or after the wars (i.e., in 275 or before), Antiochus I had moved to Sardis, where his court and his wife, queen Stratonice, were firmly installed. Only then did Sardis, which in 334 had requested to return to its traditional laws and customs, receive a new Greek face as both a royal residence and a polis (see chapter 3). The ring of Philetaerus’s activities starts in the west, with cities in the southern Aeolis, which became beneficiaries of smaller and larger donations. Philetaerus helped the city of Pitane repurchase former polisland from the Seleucid king: Antiochus I had raised the price by 50 talents, and Philetaerus likely assisted the city with 40, which would have been a telling gesture of support and partial withholding.30 The city could present itself as the beneficiary of a gift, while the money may have been transferred directly to the Seleucid treasury. Cyme, likewise under Seleucid control, asked Philetaerus, probably after 278, to sell them 600 bronze shields, which he gave as a gift to help the city defend its countryside, as is now commonly believed, against the Galatians.31 The preserved honorific decree states that the pelta shields were to be inscribed with his name and that of the receiving tribe, the names marking the mutual bond between the city and the 28. The classical treatment of Pergamene boundaries is found in Meyer 1925. Schalles (1985, 32) sees a clear expansionist policy only in the last years of Philetaerus’s reign; cf. also Pirson 2008. According to Pirson 2017, 60–61, the archaeological record does not provide evidence for Philetaerus as a strong ruler. 29. Meadows 2013a, 154–58, with a discussion of the chronology of Philetaerus’s tetradrachms; cf. also Chrubasik 2013, 92–93. For a dating of the first Pergamene tetradrachms showing Philetaerus portraits in his lifetime, see Le Rider 1992. 30. IvP 1.245 C, lines 42–45 = OGIS 335, lines 133–36; Allen 1983, 19; Schalles 1985, 39n163; Ager 1996, 146. The information is contained in a decree of the second century in which Pergamum acts as a mediator in a territorial dispute between Mytilene and Pitane (Savalli-Lestrade 1992, 226). The exact amount of Philetaerus’s gift—[ ]κοντα—is not preserved. 31. SEG 50, 1195; Manganaro 2000; Gauthier 2003; Hamon 2008; Chrubasik 2013, 88–89. Taking the Cyzicus inscription (see following note) as support, Manganaro (2000, 409) believes that the donation of 600 peltae had already happened during the war of Antiochus I with Antigonus Gonatas between 280 and 278, which may have affected Cyme. Indeed, in line 2, the need to defend the territory and the city is not explicitly linked to the Galatian War.

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dynast. For this and earlier benefactions, the city awarded Philetaerus cultic honors, a golden crown, and a statue in a precinct called Philetairion. These honors were announced during the civic festivals in honor of Antiochus I, the Dionysia kai Antiocheia, as well as the festivals called the Soteiria and the Philetairia, during whose processions the donated shields were paraded. As the names suggest, the parade of shields may have celebrated and promoted Philetaerus not only as a benefactor but also as a military protector of Cyme. The testimony of Cyme—next to that of Cyzicus—suggests that Philetaerus used the moment of the Galatian threat to confirm his profile as patron of the surrounding Seleucid poleis, without openly questioning Seleucid suzerainty.32 Philetaerus gave land (chōra) to the sanctuary of Apollo Chresterios at Aegae, a city with a Seleucid mint; according to the testimony of Cyriac of Ancona, he furthermore financed a building, probably a propylon, whose lintel bore his name.33 The next Pergamene reference-point to the east is Temnus, on the southern slopes of the Yünd Dağ Range. The old city may not have been a direct beneficiary of Philetaerian generosity, but it was offered isopolity by the dēmos of Pergamum in the early third century.34 With the exchange of citizen rights, the Pergamene dēmos may have bolstered Philetaerus’s policy of local networking. These individualized acts of gift giving should be understood as performative gestures of personal commitment rather than political routine. Philetaerus himself took on the role of a patron vis-à-vis the cities, much like other early Hellenistic rulers. Yet his land and money donations of different scale and import to Pitane, Cyme, and Aegae are all good examples of ambivalent gestures.35 On the one hand, they present Philetaerus as having authority over land and military. On the other hand, they broadcast “contact” with the Seleucids and Sardis. All of them point to a well-thought-out policy of indirect diplomacy, since the support of Seleucid cities could be interpreted as a support from within that would ultimately reach the center. At ta lei a a n d Thyat eir a In the chain of Philetaerus’s points of initiative, the easternmost site connected to his name, Attaleia, close to modern day Selçikli, deserves more detailed attention, as it speaks to a direct Seleucid-Attalid interaction in the distribution and planning of Macedonian veteran colonies. Georges Radet first recognized that “Attaleia in Lydia” was located in the vicinity of Selçikli, since this locale had rendered several inscriptions naming the πόλις τῶν Ἀτταλεάτων. Its exact location was identified by Carl Schuchardt as a flat hilltop site (Karaman Mezar) bordering the fertile plain near the river Lycus, south of Selçikli; the most detailed recent discussion is by Eric Laufer.36 It is commonly and on good grounds identified with the military colony Attaleia mentioned, together with a Philetaireia, in a convention between Eumenes I and revolting mercenaries from the two sites, who were fighting for better salaries and guarantees. Reginald Allen and Elizabeth Kosmetatou have convincingly argued that the two military colonies must have been in place by 269 and that Philetaerus 32. Philetaerus supported Cyzicus during the Galatian raids with what seem to have been yearly donations: OGIS 748; Allen 1983, 14f., 137f.; Schalles 1985, 39–40n263; Wörrle 1975, 64. 33. Gifts to Aegae: von Bringmann and Steuben 1995, 286 no. 252; Schalles 1985, 33–36; Gauthier 2003, 23; SEG 59, 1406. 34. IvP 1.5 = OGIS 265; Schmitt 1969, 555; Allen 1983, 16–18. 35. So explicitly Schalles 1985, 46 (“ambivalente Repräsentationsebene”). 36. For Attaleia: Radet 1887; Conze and Schuchardt 1899, 221–23; Keil and von Premerstein 1911, 60f.; Schuchhardt 1912, 140; Allen 1983, 23–26; Foss 1987, 94f.; Cohen 1995, 171f.; Laufer 2012. I warmly thank Eric Laufer for sharing his dissertation manuscript with me.



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was likely their founder.37 There is much to suggest that the archaeological site on or around the Karaman Mezar identified by Schuchhardt is the Philetaerian Attaleia38 and not a later Attalid settlement, but only further archaeological investigations can settle the matter. Given that the site has, geographically, no obvious strategic importance and no evident fortification, Louis Robert voiced doubts that the settlement would have been a garrison with standing troops; he saw the site as supporting his argument for the exclusively agricultural nature of Attalid colonization.39 Whatever Attaleia’s function and character were, if it is indeed the Philetaerian colony, it is an important piece of evidence for Philetaerus’s military policy in the face of the Seleucids. Attaleia’s location alone is telling: the site is situated south of the Soma Pass, and thus beyond Pergamum’s comfort zone in the Caicus Valley. Awkwardly, it is 10 kilometers off the main transit road between Sardis and Pergamum, and it does not seem to have a strategic position. What is more, Attaleia is a direct northern neighbor of one of the most prominent Seleucid colonies in the Lycus Valley, Thyateira, a κατοικία Μακεδόνων founded by Seleucus in 281,40 which is only 18 kilometers away. Schalles and other scholars erroneously saw Attaleia as a border colony and evidence for the expansion of Pergamene territory south of the Soma Pass in a period when relations with the Seleucids had declined.41 A survey of the dense network of Seleucid military garrisons, however, demonstrates that Seleucid military control extended—with colonies such as Stratonicea—far north into the Caicus Valley.42 The fact that Philetaerus was successful in establishing a colony within the Seleucid military landscape sheds light on the political status of the Soma Pass and the bordering Upper Caicus and Lycus Valleys: this was a region where the spheres of Seleucids and Attalids interlocked. The foundation of Attaleia, in order to be acceptable to the Macedonian settlers in and around Thyateira43 and the military headquarters at Sardis, can only have been offered with the proviso that it would serve as a protector of, satellite of, and potential source of supply for Thyateira. The most plausible historical moment for such an offer is the time right after the first Galatian immigration; that is, after 277. A dedicatory stele from 276/5, erected by the Thyateiran Argeius to Apollo Pityaenus, thanking the god for the rescue of his son Phanocritus, who had been held hostage by the Galatians and was ransomed, speaks to how much Thyateira was affected by the arrival of the Galatians.44 The yoking of the Attalid colony Attaleia and the Seleucid Thyateira thus can only have worked as a physical and symbolic configuration of alliance, in the sense of neighborliness outlined above: two settlements with primarily Macedonian populations, loyal to two different rulers and paid out of different pockets, present themselves as a double fisherman’s knot, coupling and doubling the strength and bond of its two cords. 37. IvP 1.13 = OGIS 266; Schmitt 1969, no. 481; Allen 1983, 23–26; for an earlier date for the foundations, see Virgilio 1982; Kosmetatou 1998, 11–16. 38. The Tabula Peutingeriana lists a second Attaleia—in Mysia—opposite Lesbos, which Strabo, however, calls Attea; cf. Cohen 1995, 205. 39. L. Robert 1934b, 90. 40. Strabo 13.4.4; Steph. Byz. s.v. Thyateira, mentions Thyateira as a foundation of Seleucus I. For complete documentation, see TAM 5.2, 306–9; Cohen 1995, 238–42. 41. Schalles 1985, 31–33. 42. Cohen 1995, 232–38; Tozan 2014, 173–74. 43. TAM 5.2, 1166, speaks of Makedones living in the countryside around (περὶ) Thyateira: i.e., maybe even closer to Attaleia. 44. TAM 5.2, 881. Keil and von Premerstein 1911, 19; Wörrle 1975, 63, 66–67. The stele is dated to the thirty-seventh year of Seleucid rule and names Antiochus and Seleucus as co-regents.

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Ma murt Ka le a n d A n t io chis: The Con n ect ing Sa nct ua ry The most telling evidence of how Philetaerus conceptualized the relationship between Pergamum and Sardis is the mountaintop sanctuary of Meter Aspordene at Mamurt Kale, excavated in 1909 by Alexander Conze and Paul Schazmann (fig. 9.4).45 The ancient site is on the highest point of the Yünd Dağ at 1,070 meters (fig. 9.5); it is 30 kilometers southeast of Pergamum, as the crow flies, and 23 kilometers east of Aegae. From the fifth century onward, Mamurt Kale had been an open-air sanctuary with a small shrine and altar. Philetaerus monumentalized this sacred space with a Doric temple, an altar, and framing porticoes, which he dedicated to Meter Theon (fig. 9.6). The rustic and intentionally unfinished Doric distyle in antis, built from local andesite, whose building blocks were found scattered all over, bears the dedicatory formula and the name of its patron, Philetaerus, on the architrave (fig. 9.7). At the rear wall, the cella encases what seems to have been an earlier shrine, a structure whose foundations lie one meter below the level of the cella floor. The space in front of it is dominated by the Philetaerian Doric altar facing northeast and perpendicular to the temple, which also enshrines an earlier altar structure (fig. 9.8). The sacred center is enclosed by two L-shaped porticoes in a horseshoe arrangement. Rich deposits of terracotta figurines outside the temple span the time from the fifth to the first century; late Hellenistic coins attest that the sanctuary’s radius reached from Sardis in the south to Cyzicus in the north, with a focus on the cities in the Caicus and Lycus Valleys.46

Fig. 9.4.  Mamurt Kale, temple to Meter Theon (280–270) during excavation, 1910. (Photo after Conze and Schazmann 1911) 45. Conze and Schazmann 1911; Ohlemutz 1940, 174–81; Schalles 1985, 26–31; Bringmann and von Steuben 1995, 293–95, no. 256; Williamson 2014, 96–106. 46. For the coins see Conze and Schazmann 1911, 41–43.

Fig. 9.5.  Mamurt Kale, blocks from the temple of Meter Theon (280–270), 2017. (Photo: Ruth Bielfeldt)

Fig. 9.6.  Mamurt Kale, reconstruction drawing of the sanctuary. (After Conze and Schazmann 1911)

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Fig. 9.7.  Mamurt Kale, reconstructed elevation of the Doric temple. (After Conze and Schazmann, 1911)

In their publication the excavators noted that the temple and the porticoes, which face 134 degrees southeast, are in axial alignment with Pergamum,47 where another intraurban sanctuary to Meter is attested. The visual connection is not immediately apparent, at least not to visitors gathering in front of the temple: one can catch a glimpse of Pergamum only through the gaps between the temple and the porticoes. That the alignment has a symbolic value is undisputed, but its meaning is debatable. Taking a Pergamenocentric approach, Ulrike Wulf-Rheidt argued that the axis from Mamurt Kale can be extended even to the cave sanctuary of Kapıkaya north of Pergamum; her reconstructed street grid for the Philetaerian city follows 47. The excavators maintained that Pergamum was at 46 degrees west of north, which equals an azimuth of 134 degrees, or a clear southeast orientation of the temple. Schalles 1985, 27, is misleading in saying that the temple was oriented toward Pergamum; nobody would claim a western orientation for the Parthenon.



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Fig. 9.8.  Mamurt Kale, plan of the Doric temple. (After Conze and Schazmann, 1911)

the same alignment.48 She interpreted the correspondence of alignments—in a Wilhelminian sense—as a visual dominance of space and thus a claim for territorial power. Christina Williamson, who recently studied the sanctuary as part of a larger project on sacred landscapes based on viewshed analysis, pointed out that the temple (and the shrine within) are in fact oriented toward Mount Tmolus and Sardis, the place of another major sanctuary to Kybele that was in continuous use since at least the early fourth century (see chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués).49 Sitting on a visible axis between Pergamum and Sardis, Mamurt Kale physically connects the two cities (pl. 41). Williamson, too, sees the monumentalized sanctuary as a frontier marker, staking Philetaerus’s claim to territorial control; and she also stresses, going back to Schalles, the sanctuary’s integrative role and the fact that it may have catered to 48. Wulf-Rheidt 1999, emphasizing the Attalid “Beherrschung des Raumes”; for a useful review of her arguments see now Pirson 2017, 60–61. According to Pirson, Philetaerus’s impact on Pergamum’s urban fabric is less discernible than was once assumed. For a comprehensive spatial analysis of the urban fabric of Hellenistic Pergamum, see Pirson 2012, 2017. 49. The direction of the temple is 134 degrees southeast. Observed from Mamurt Kale, the acropolis of Sardis has a bearing of 133 degrees; the bearing of the peak of the Tmolus, at a distance of 90 kilometers, is 139 degrees. On very clear days, a person standing in front of the temple façade could see both sites without turning his or her head.

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local communities south of the Yünd Dağ.50 The support for preexisting cult communities was a pattern in Philetaerus’s and his successors’ religious policy. Not only the shrine of Meter at Mamurt Kale, but also the sanctuaries of Demeter, of Asclepius, and maybe even of Athena (whose temple, after all, may have been finished only under Philetaerus’s aegis), had been foci of local cult activity since the fifth and fourth centuries. In the temple to Meter Aspordene, the earlier shrine was carefully embedded within the new temple, a measure that demonstrates the patron’s respect for existing social and religious structures. With his initiative to rebuild the cult place and thus to evoke a religious practice shared translocally, Philetaerus engaged in curating neighborliness. Yet the appeal of the sanctuary reached beyond the local communities. One key piece of evidence has not found the attention it deserves. In the temple, in either the pronaos or the cella, the excavators found a plain andesite base for an under-lifesize bronze statue (0.67 by 0.60 m, 0.26 m tall), which now unfortunately seems to be lost but is documented by a drawing (fig. 9.9).51 The inscription Ἄτταλος Φιλεταίρου Ἀντιοχίδα τὴν γυναῖκα identifies the donor as Attalus, the nephew and adopted son of Philetaerus and father of the future Pergamene king Attalus I, dedicating a portrait of his wife, Antiochis. A sculptor’s signature was

Fig. 9.9.  Honorific statue base of Antiochis, erected by her husband Attalus Philetaerou c. 270 and found in the temple. (Drawing after Conze and Schazmann, 1911)

50. Williamson 2014, 102; Schalles 1985, 29–30. Williamson points to the existence of late Hellenistic bronze coins from sites in the upper Lycus Valley, such as Thyateira and Apollonis, and repeats a judgment of TöpperweinHoffmann 1978, 80–81, now obsolete, that the terracotta figurines found at Mamurt Kale were produced in Larisa. 51. I thank Hellmut Müller (Munich) and Viktor Walser (Zürich) for their renewed attempts to locate the Antiochis base. The stone is not in the epigraphic depot at the Lower Agora, and the Pergamon archive at the German Archaeological Institute at Istanbul does not hold any photographs of it.



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present, but the excavators were able to decipher nothing but the word ἐποίησε.52 The drawing of the capping block shows the sockets for the bronze feet of the female figure, indicating that its posture was similar to that of other early Hellenistic statues, such as the figure of Nikeso from Priene, with the left foot carrying the weight and the right foot set slightly apart. While the dedication itself does not give any further information about Attalus’ wife, Antiochis, Strabo (13.4.2) tells us that she was the daughter of Achaeus the Elder, a prominent figure and power-holder in southern Lydia (from the area around the later Laodicea-on-the-Lycus), who was celebrated for protecting local villages from the Galatian threat (fig. 9.10).53 Achaeus, if not directly related to Seleucus Nicator, was related to the Seleucids by intermarriage. He wedded his second daughter, Laodice, to Antiochus II.54 The

Fig. 9.10.  Connected genealogy of the Attalids and the family of Achaeus the Elder, with emphasis on intermarriages with the Seleucid and Cappadocian royal families. (Ruth Bielfeldt) 52. Conze and Schazmann 1911, 38–39; Ohlemutz 1940, 178; Grainger 1997, 149, s.v. Antiochis (1); Billows 1995, 96–98. For Attalus as adopted son of Philetaerus, see the excellent discussion of the Attalid stemma by Allen 1983, 183–89. An inconsistency comes with Strabo (13.4.2), who mentions Attalus, the younger brother of Philetaerus, and some sentences later refers to King Attalus I as the son of Attalus and Antiochis. It is unlikely that Philetaerus adopted his own brother, so Strabo seems to have omitted one Attalus, namely the son of Philetaerus’s younger brother Attalus, who was adopted by his uncle for dynastic reasons. Attalus as son of Philetaerus is also mentioned by the proxeny decree in Delphi (FD 3.1, 432) in honor of Philetaerus and his two sons, where Attalus is mentioned before his adopted brother, Eumenes, and on the Teuthrania monument in Delos (IG 11.4, 1108); see fig. 9.11. 53. For Achaeus see the comprehensive treatment in Wörrle 1975. 54. Grainger 1997, 127–28, s.v. Achaios, p. 47, s.v. Laodike; Billows 1995, 96–98. For the omnipresence of dynastic marriages as a means of early Hellenistic politics, see Seibert 1967. Antiochus I, for example, arranged a marriage between his daughter Phila and Antigonus Gonatas to end the war in 276.

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close relationship of his family to the Seleucid court at Sardis was to continue down into the 240s: his son Alexander became satrap of Sardis and military commander of Antiochus Hierax, while Andromachus, likely Achaeus’s fourth son, was general of his nephew and son-in-law Seleucus II. It is unlikely that Philetaerus saw this marriage between his adopted son Attalus Philetaeri and Achaeus’s first daughter, Antiochis, as an instrument of elite bonding alone; rather, he may have seen it as a dynastic alliance on a quasi-royal level. The fact that Attalus Philetaeri and Antiochis married in 270 or before, and the young Antiochus II married Antiochis’s sister Laodice in 267 or before,55 indicates a possible matrimonial plan that would have ensured that Attalus Philetaeri and Antiochus II were to become brothers-in-law. I argue that dedicating Antiochis’s statue in the mountain temple was a meaningful act, which in turn sheds light on the prominent southeast orientation of the sanctuary as a whole. The crucial factor in Greek temple orientation is the viewpoint of the cult statue. Meter’s shrine in the cella faced Mount Tmolus: the mountain would have been seen from the inside, once the temple doors were opened (pl. 42).56 The statue of Antiochis, in the cella or the pronaos, may have joined the deity’s orientation toward Sardis and southern Lydia, which was in fact Antiochis’s home region. One purpose of the statue itself may have been to materialize her bond with her place of origin. The preexisting religious intervisibility between Sardis and Pergamum provided a framework in which to insert the new political bond of marriage between the likely Attalid successor and a prominent woman of the wider Seleucid court. In what year did Attalus Philetaeri put up the statue of his wife? Attalus I, their son, was born in 269; the marriage may have taken place in 270 or before. It is conceivable that Attalus Philetaeri dedicated the statue after the son’s birth, in the early 260s, in order to highlight the connective role of the sanctuary. It is no less likely, however, that he dedicated the statue at or soon after the inauguration of the new temple. In this scenario, the marriage may even have inspired Philetaerus to build the sanctuary, a site of connection and alliance, in the first place. There is no indication that Antiochis had assumed a religious role in the sanctuary, but the Attalid ideology that saw mothers and wives as guarantors of cult continuity may already have been on the horizon.57 It is also not clear whether the link between Mamurt Kale and Sardis/Mount Tmolus acquired specific religious implications when Philetaerus had the complex monumentalized. There might have been intentions to connect Meter Theon Aspordene to Meter Sardiane,58 or to connect Meter Theon to Mount Tmolus, where tradition located the birth of both Zeus and Dionysus. A connection between Meter and Dionysus is made explicit on the Gigantomachy and the Telephus frieze on the Pergamum altar.59 But as long as the

55. Grainger 1997, 47. 56. On December mornings, at around 8 a.m., the sun is located above Mount Tmolus and is low enough to cast full light onto the cult statue, similar to the situation shown in Schazmann’s reconstruction drawing (fig. 9.6). 57. Philetaerus and his brother Eumenes started the long Attalid tradition of promoting dynastic wives or mothers within religious contexts at Pergamum. They dedicated the temple and altar of Demeter on behalf of their mother, Boa, thus presenting her as a model worshipper and benefactress; cf. Schalles 1985, 22–26, with further bibliography. 58. The terracottas of the frontally enthroned Kybele in a chiton, with high polos and raised tympanum, show typological similarities with the early third-century Sardian comparanda from the theater trench (chapter 5), but this point is of little significance, given the enormous popularity of the type. 59. On the Gigantomachy frieze, Meter is the westernmost figure on the south frieze, which effectively makes her part of the Dionysiac risalit. In the Telephus frieze, scene 23 (Heilmeyer 1997, 101, 110–11, figs. 15–16) shows a cult scene with a priest, nude male figures assimilated to satyrs, and female dedicants (?) within a rocky sanctuary, which seems to connect religious aspects of Dionysus and Meter.



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religious and social profile of the Meter Theon venerated at Mamurt Kale remains obscure because of the lack of archaeological evidence, such questions must remain unanswered. The years after the first Galatian crisis in 276/5 seem to have been Philetaerus’s moment. There is no evidence that he and his troops were involved in military actions against the Galatians, but he seems to have used the vacuum after the hostilities and the presence of Antiochus I to affirm his formal independence, while at the same time working to establish a neighborly relationship with the new Seleucid residence at Sardis. Philetaerus carefully positioned his actions within a political and religious framework, a spatial framework in which specific “halfway sites”60 served as joins or knots. This contact zone, however, is not backed by a coherent and delineated Pergamene territory; it was meant neither as a frontier nor as a symbolic boundary. I would rather describe the Philetaerian ring between the Aeolis, southern Mysia, and northwestern Lydia as an attempt to create a sphere of activity interlocking with that of Seleucid presence and control. Mamurt Kale was the culmination of this policy of connectivity: it was the spatial marker of a dynastic bond between the neighbors. Sardis is the “silent” focal point of these activities. After 275/4 Sardis itself may have undergone radical changes once Antiochus I had moved in. In that moment, Sardis may have become a model for creating an urban context for a city that was supposed to serve as both a polis and a residence. As Kosmin discusses (chapter 3), there is good evidence that Antiochus I rebuilt intramural Sardis, supported civic institutions and spaces, and ultimately sponsored major religious building projects there, including the temple of Artemis (see chapter 6, “The Temple of Artemis,” by Fikret Yegül). In the moment of their formation as “royal cities” during the 270s, Sardis and Pergamum may have been mutually dependent. The sightline opened up by Mamurt Kale toward Sardis was Philetaerus’s window of opportunity, but it would soon be closed. In the first years of his reign, between 263 and 261, Philetaerus’s successor, Eumenes I, fought a battle against Antiochus I close to Sardis. Chrubasik has argued recently that the battle may have had no immediate effect on Attalid-Seleucid relations, which remained good.61 But the way in which the battle at Sardis was culturally processed may have had long-term repercussions. What we can say is that Eumenes, now δυνάστης τῶν κύκλῳ χωρίων according to Strabo (13.4.2), stopped mapping out a contact zone with the Seleucids; there is no evidence of Eumenes’s engaging in a gift-giving policy, nor did he build or sponsor other interregional sanctuaries. Rather, under Eumenes I we see the first efforts to memorialize hostile encounters with the Seleucids in the city of Pergamum.62 King Attalus’s victory monuments over the jointly presented forces of Galatians and Seleucids turned the urban fabric of Pergamum, particularly the Athena sanctuary, into an enormous war map. What became of Attalus I’s Seleucid mother, Antiochis? The probable early death of her husband put an end to any kind of political career or even local prominence she might have had. At Pergamum, no honorific monuments set up by Attalus I to his parents have come to light. Why? Before his accession to power, the prince Attalus may have seen a conflict in honoring his natural parents alongside his adoptive father, Eumenes I.63 Later, during his rule, and certainly in the early 220s, the political situation with his Seleucid 60. Henrikson 2011, 92. 61. Chrubasik 2013, 93–96. 62. The tradition of erecting victory monuments for the victorious rulers in the Athena sanctuary may go back to the early Attalids. The statue base (IvP 1.15) contains a badly mutilated distich with a dedication of a statue of (probably) Eumenes I to Athena, potentially emphasizing “spear” and “victory.” For a different reading see Peek 1978, 701–2 (with SEG 28, 963). 63. Compare the honorific monument found in the Pergamum gymnasium, erected by Eumenes I for his adopted son Attalus: MDAI 35, 1910, 463–65, no. 45.

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cousins Seleucus II and Antiochus Hierax had become so tense that Attalus may have preferred to avoid evoking family ties with those who were now his fiercest opponents. This would have been even more important after 223, when his third cousin Achaeus the Younger conquered Pergamene territory and, in 220, proclaimed himself king at Laodikeia. So, unlike the later Attalid queens and mothers Apollonis and Stratonice, Antiochis never became an object of family veneration. Once, in the ancestral Teuthrania monument at Delos, however, Attalus I presents himself as the son of his parents (fig. 9.11)—and yet again, by coincidence or not, his mother’s name is given without a patronymic.64 Antiochis’s biography may be read as a story of failure: marriage policy is only good as long as the men involved believe in it. A C oda on t he Secon d Cen t ury : Sa r dis wit hin t he At ta lid E m p ir e in L ig h t of Perga mum ’s B el at ed A natoli a n Tur n In the second century, after the Peace of Apamea, Sardis became but one of many Attalid cities in Lydia. Macedonian military settlements and garrisons that were formerly under Seleucid control turned Attalid; probably in the last decade of his reign Eumenes II, assisted by his brother Attalus, started a city foundation program in Lydia and Phrygia, recently discussed by Peter Thonemann. Paradigmatic in terms of an Attalid refoundation in Northern Lydia is the epigraphically well documented but archaeologically underexplored polis Apollonis,65 which was distinguished by its royal name in memory of the deceased Pergamene queen.

Fig. 9.11.  Attalid Teuthrania monument in Delos: block from the base of Attalus I naming his parents, Attalus Philetaerou and Antiochis. (Delos, Archaeological Museum; photo after CIL 11.4, no. 1108 (1927))

64. IG 11.4, 1108. Achaeus the Younger was the son of Andromachus and, like Attalus, grandson of Achaeus the Elder. 65. Cohen 1995, 201–4 summarizing all earlier bibliography. As attested by an honorary decree (TAM 5.2, 1187, Keil and von Premerstein 2011, 53, no. 113), the polis of Apollonis was founded by royal synoecism overseen by one of the brothers of Eumenes II, most likely Attalus Philadelphus, who provided grain and starting funds and was subsequently honored by the polis as ktistes and eueregetes. Honorific inscriptions found in the same region attest the presence of Macedonian groups living in settlements that may have been integrated into the new city (TAM 5.2, 1188–90) the city’s strong Macedonian identity is also reflected by the Ephebic lists and the civic coins minted by the polis. Apollonis is likely to be identified with a fortified urban site comprising ca. 65 ha, located on a limestone plateau north of the modern village Mecidiyeköy. For the bronze site hill 200 m east of the Hellenistic site see chapter 8 in this volume.



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Integrating Macedonian settler groups, the walled city was positioned on a limestone plateau in the agri­ cultural plain west of Thyateira. Thonemann’s hypothesis that Apollonis and other Attalid settlements were quasi-colonial institutions facilitating the agricultural capitalization of Lydia, calls for further archaeological investigation (on this question see chapter 8). Strabo’s statement (13.4.4) that Apollonis was situated exactly halfway (namely 300 stades) between Pergamon and Sardis rather seems to be indicative of its strategic importance as a “connecting” point. The westernmost site in a ring of Attalid cities (Attaleia, Mernophyta, Thyateira) Apollonis overlooked the major north-south route across the Soma pass as well as the mountain routes from Pergamon through the Yünd Daǧ, passing not far from the Meter sanctuary of Mamurt Kale. The Attalid city foundations in Northern Lydia may thus have had agricultural as well as strategic purposes, and they may have had a specific cultural dimension. The second century Attalid foundations south of the Aspordenon Mountain gave new life to the idea of a Pergamene-Lydian connection, first envisioned through and for the sanctuary of Meter Aspordene by Philetaerus. As Andrea M. Berlin shows in chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” Sardis itself shows evidence of a distinct Attalidization. Before or around 160, the festival of the Panathenaia and Eumeneia was established in honor of Eumenes II, with a penteteric agōn of isopythic musical, athletic, and added isolympic equestrian contests, testified to by two inscriptions from Delphi and the famous Augustan Iollas decree from Sardis.66 It is remarkable that Sardis adopted the Panathenaia, which had been a civic festival at Pergamum in the mid-third century but seems to have been eclipsed by the royally introduced Nikephoria in the late third century.67 In parallel, the newly built stone theater at Sardis housed the Dionysia, which may have been inspired by the Pergamene Trieterides and also encompassed elements of royal cult. Lastly, the phylē Eumeneis was established in Eumenes II’s honor.68 Pergamum-inspired festivals and cults must have been introduced upon the initiative of the Sardian dēmos or semipublic institutions, such as religious clubs. There is little evidence that the Attalids themselves actively steered such processes of adaptation. It is striking, and cannot be emphasized enough, that the new colonizers of Asia, the Attalid kings Eumenes II and Attalus II, while founding numerous new cities in Lydia and Phrygia, did not create a cultic and mythical imaginaire to accompany their move toward the southeast.69 Nor did they make Pergamum a model to be emulated. The Great Altar, a thank-offering by Eumenes II for the gegenēmenē agatha, is not an inclusive monument for an Anatolian empire, but creates, with Telephus, a narrowly Mysian hero with strong genealogical ties to Arcadia and a legend that was itself strongly dependent on Athenian drama. Heracles, who fathered so many Asiatic children, would have been much better suited to craft an Asiatic civilizatory myth. Telephus, the son of the Pergamene Heracles, was from Argos, and there seems to be little connection between him and his Asiatic half-brothers. Ann Kuttner rightly emphasized that the Attalids were busy crafting a legend to anchor them to the site; but, interestingly, this legend could not be shared with anybody else beyond the Caicus Valley. Telephus is the expression of a Pergamene particularism. Surprisingly, it did not 66. FD 3.3, 241. Decree of Iollas: Sardis 7.1, no. 27; for the Panathenaia, see C. Jones 2000, 5. 67. The Pergamene Panathenaia seem to have been a major civic festival during which both Eumenes I and the demos announced honors for the appointed five strategoi; cf. IvP 1.18 = OGIS 267, line 17; the same inscription also attests that Eumeneia were celebrated in honor of Eumenes I. At Pergamum the Panathenaia are again attested in honor of Diodorus Pasparus in the advanced first century BCE: MDAI 1907, 243–56, no. 4, line 34; cf. Ohlemutz 1940, 25–26. 68. L. Robert and J. Robert 1950, no. 1; P. Herrmann 1989, 145f.; C. Jones 2000, 5–6. See also below. 69. In the following section I disagree with Kuttner (2005), who in my view does not sufficiently distinguish between “local” elements in Pergamene imagery and style and “Asianizing” ones.

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occur to the Attalids to play out Pergamum’s own past, which was, as we have seen, Lydian as well as Mysian. The reluctance to create a strong imaginaire that could be shared by an “Attalid Asia Minor” becomes explicitly transparent when we look at the imperial coinage. The cistophori introduced by Eumenes II during the 160s70 show three snakes: the snake emerging from the cista is likely to be a Dionysiac emblem with a potential reference to Sabazius, while the pair of snakes curling around the bow case on the reverse present a new image, for which a convincing explanation has yet to be found.71 At Pergamum, the snakes might refer to Telephus or to any cult involving heroic or divine snake manifestations, including that of Asclepius. Yet beyond Pergamum, the cistophoric image might not have been universally interpreted or interpretable. By resorting to religious or symbolic animals, rather than concrete heroes or deities, the visual message of Asia’s first coinage was indirect at most. Its imagery was suited to accommodate a multitude of local traditions, but the currency abstained from making a strong claim about a common Asiatic identity. The ideological weakness or, to put it in positive terms, the neutrality of its design may have made the cistophori popular and successful in the long term. The possible reference of the cistophori to Sabazius brings us to the question of Pergamum’s latent Anatolian turn in the 170–160s. The introduction of the cult of Zeus Sabazius is the only obvious element of religious “Asianization” at Pergamum and may indeed be a direct result of Pergamum’s second-century experience as imperial center of Asia. In a letter from 135, Attalus II made the cult of Zeus Sabazius, with its attendant sacrifices, processions, and mysteries, an official royal cult—the god became synnaos to Athena Nicephorus—emphasizing that it had been introduced to Pergamum from Cappadocia by queen Strato­ nice.72 This aetiology was crafted to create an analogy between Stratonice and the mythic queen Auge, primordial foundress of imported cults at Pergamum; it may thus be overemphasizing the god’s Cappadocian origin. As a matter of fact, the cult of Sabazius becomes popular at the same time also in Lydia. Sardis provides two striking testimonies of the cult of Sabazius. The first, a second-century CE copy of a Greek inscription of 369–365, recording the dedication of a statue to Zeus Baratadeo by the satrap Droaphernes, forbids Zeus’s temple wardens to take part in the mysteries of Sabazius.73 As Pierre Briant has shown, the regulations for the cult personnel are likely to belong to a distinct and chronologically later sacred law, yet the fact that they were added to the Achaemenid dedication may be indicative of a presumed local cult tradition of Sabazius since Persian times. In the second century, according to an inscribed block found at Sart Mustafa, Menophilus son of Menophilus, from the tribe Eumeneis, priest of Zeus Sabazius, dedicated an altar to the phylē Eumeneis as well as to Zeus, in the city itself or in the surrounding area. The name of a thea whose name started with Σ was added later (fig. 9.12).74 As a member of a phylē named after King Eumenes, Menophilus, the priest of Zeus (?) Sabazius, presents himself as a citizen and official firmly established within Sardis’s 70. For a recent discussion of their chronology, see Meadows 2013a, 175–94. 71. The iconography of the cistophori is rarely discussed; cf. Kleiner and Noe 1977, 10–18; Kosmetatou 1998. Kosmetatou argues that the two snakes were an iconographic reference to the Athenian hero Erichthonius, a rather academic and far-fetched suggestion. 72. IvP 1.248 = OGIS 331 = RC 67. Stratonice, the wife of Eumenes II and later Attalus II, was also of Seleucid descent. 73. Sardis Inscription catalogue (IN) no. 74.1. L. Robert 1975; Lane 1985, 14, no. 31; P. Herrmann 1996, 329–35 (and SEG 59, 1394); Briant 1998, 125–226; de Hoz 1999, 130, no. 2.1; Dusinberre 2003, 119–22. 74. Sardis Inscription catalogue (IN) no. 58.11; Johnson 1968, with pl. 1; Lane 1985, 13, no. 30; de Hoz 1999, 265. The stone may have been an architectural block.

Fig. 9.12.  Inscribed block from Sart Mustafa recording the dedication of an altar by Menophilus Menophilou, priest of Sabazius, to the phyle Eumeneis and Zeus. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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Attalid administrative and social system; the phylē, named in the dative, is herself presented as dedicatee of his altar. Menophilus’s testimony shows that in the second century again, relations between Pergamum and Sardis—whether deemed neighborly or not—were established on the level of a carefully curated religious practice. Under the Attalid aegis several Pergamene cults were introduced to Sardis, some of them, such as that of Sabazius, may even have been considered to have a longstanding local tradition. At least in this specific instance, we cannot rule out the possibility that Pergamum came to serve as mediator of Sardian religious and cultural continuity.

rq 10

Ephesus Sardis’s Port to the Mediterranean in the Hellenistic Period Sabine Ladstätter

A Com mon Pa st King Antiochus was very anxious to get possession of Ephesus because of its favourable site, as it may be said to stand in the position of a citadel both by land and sea for anyone with designs on Ionia and the cities of the Hellespont, and is always a most favourable point of defence against Europe for the kings of Asia. (Polyb. 18.40a)

In his account of the Roman-Syrian War (192–188 BCE), the historian Polybius assesses the possession of Ephesus as of enormous geostrategic significance for any political entity in the historical period on the soil of Asia Minor.1 This was certainly true for the Lydian kingdom under Croesus, whose expansion to the west was first aimed toward Ephesus. With the removal of the tyrant Pindarus and the capture of the city, the Lydians gained unhindered access to one of the most important harbors of the eastern Mediterranean. If it is true that Croesus considered building a fleet (Hdt. 1.27; Diod. Sic. 9.25.1–2),2 Ephesus would have been the logical base for it, especially under the protection of its Artemis sanctuary, which still lay in the immediate vicinity of the coast in the archaic period.3 The transformation of the Lydian kingdom into a significant transregional power for the first time brought the central Anatolian high plateau and the western coast of Asia Minor into a unified administrative and economic area, a circumstance that increased mobility and trade as well as cultural exchange.4 The harbor cities of Ephesus, Smyrna, and perhaps also Cyme provided Lydian merchants—whose products included precious and nonferrous metals, agricultural products, wood, and high-quality textiles5— 1. For valuable support I would like to thank Sarah Cormack, Nicolas Gail, Michael Kerschner, Christian Kurtze, and Alexander Sokolicek. 2. On this subject, see Fischer 2013, 52–55. 3. Stock et al. 2014, 49–56. 4. Kerschner and Prochaska 2011, 130. 5. On the raw materials, see Dusinberre 2003, 21–23. 191

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access to Aegean markets.6 The coastal cities were not, however, merely transshipment points; they also traded their own products, such as fish and seafood, table wares, and also the raw material of marble, into inland Anatolia.7 The conquest of an Asia Minor harbor city was a necessity for gaining political, military, and economic supremacy in Anatolia, and also for displaying strength toward the Greek city-states in the Aegean. Nevertheless, the Lydians had no forced assimilation or acculturation policy; rather, the Ionian Greek character of the city was preserved, and its material culture consequently reflected political realities in a limited fashion. As crown prince, Croesus had vowed to promote the sanctuary of Ephesian Artemis; as king, he not only kept his word but also placed himself under the goddess’s protection.8 He acted as a generous benefactor and guaranteed the completion of the temple with his financing of columns;9 their specific stone-working techniques at the temple construction site in Ephesus allows the conclusion that Lydian-Carian workshops were employed.10 Many of the votives deposited in the Artemision in the archaic period show connections to Lydian craftsmanship,11 and the goddess herself was worshipped in Sardis, from the sixth century BCE at the latest, under her Lydian name of Ibimsis.12 The political, economic, and cultic connections did not come to an end with the death of Croesus and the fall of the Lydian kingdom; rather, the territorial system seems to have continued broadly unchanged under Persian rule. Ephesus remained an important harbor city for Sardis, the capital of the satrapy Sparda in the Achaemenid empire.13 The Lydians also asserted their privileged position in the Ephesian sanctuary of Artemis, as can be deduced from a passage in Aristophanes.14 The inland capital city, Sardis, along with the harbor cities of Smyrna and Ephesus, constituted a triangle that guaranteed connections between the Aegean and Anatolia. C r im e s a n d Con t r act s The declaration of liberty in 334, following Alexander the Great’s conquest of western Asia Minor, signified for Ephesus the end of the tyranny and the implementation of a democratic city government. The satrapy allocation, however, remained unaffected, and Lydia was assigned to a governor resident in Sardis.15 A story from Polyaenus (6.49) provides evidence of the administrative hierarchy between Ephesus and Sardis in these years.16 A certain Hegesias attempted to reinstate tyranny in Ephesus but was murdered even before Alexander’s death. In spite of a demand by the Macedonian governor Philoxenos, the city refused to hand over the assassins, three brothers. Only after the city was occupied was it possible to capture the murderers, 6. Kerschner 2008, 227; 2010, 254; 2017a, 106, 110, fig. 12.9. 7. Marble: Kerschner and Prochaska 2011, 126nn350–51. 8. Fischer 2013, 59–60. 9. Ohnesorg 2007, 128–29; Weißl 2004; 2011. Historical sources: Fischer 2013, 58–59. 10. Kerschner 2008, 226; Kerschner and Prochaska 2011, 131; Ratté 2011, 57–63. 11. Kerschner 2006, 263, 267–74, 279–81, figs. 2–6; 2008, 223–33. 12. Kerschner 2010, 261; Hanfmann and Mierse 1983, 129, fig. 159 (stele of Atrastas son of Sakardas, now in the Manisa Museum). 13. Dusinberre 2003, 7. 14. Ar. Nub. 598–600: “Artemis, who holds the golden temple of Ephesus in which Lydian maidens honor you greatly.” On Achaemenid influence, see Dusinberre 2013, 269. 15. Walser 2008, 48. 16. Knibbe 1998, 91.



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who were subsequently taken to Sardis to be kept prisoner in the citadel until they could be sentenced by Alexander. This, however, was prevented by the successful escape of two of the brothers and the death of the king. The third brother, Diodorus, brought back to Perdiccas at Ephesus to stand trial, was freed there before the hearing took place. In addition to affirming the subordination of Ephesus to Sardis at this time, the story reveals that the jurisdiction for capital crimes was bound to the presence of the ruler and not to a specific location. This episode led to perhaps the best-known incident involving both cities, an event reflected in the socalled Sacrilege Inscription, discovered in 1961 secondarily rebuilt into a late antique formation to the west of the prytaneion on the upper agora (fig. 10.1; see also chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin).17 The find site provides no information regarding the place where it was originally set up, which is presumed to have been the Artemision.18 It has been dated to c. 306 because of the form of the inscription, and this in turn suggests the date of the crime it reports: a violent attack on a cult delegation of Ephesian theōroi to a sister sanctuary of Artemis in Sardis.19 The votive offerings that were brought along, and apparently also

Fig. 10.1.  The Sacrilege Inscription. (Austrian Academy of Sciences/Austrian Archaeological Institute, Archive) 17. IvE 2; first publication by Knibbe 1961–63; continuing the discussion: Robert 1967; Fleischer 1973, 200–201; Hanfmann 1987; Dusinberre 2003, 120–22; 2013, 227–30; Walser 2008, 340. 18. Knibbe 1961–63, 178. 19. On previously and finally proposed dates: Walser 2008, 340–41.

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damaged, were chitons, women’s robes meant to be given to the goddess. Forty-five young men, referred to by name, were found guilty of the outrage and sentenced to death; they were probably executed in Ephesus. The place of execution is interesting: in this case citizens of Sardis were evidently brought to Ephesus to be tried and also executed here.20 A decree of civil rights, unfortunately only very fragmentary, from Ephesus21 can with great probability be connected with the same event. It preserves the ethnikon Sardianos in the names of the honorees, along with a mention of theōroi and also of an investigation of an injustice—all strikingly reminiscent of the verdict of sacrilege. While the verdict and the civil rights decree leave open the cause and reason for the attack, it is quite possible that existing political tensions between the two cities were exacerbated by the actions of the various contending rulers in the late fourth century. Di a d o chic Tur bulence s Ephesus belongs to the category of cities of Asia Minor that reacted to the Antigonids very positively. As it was on the side of Perdiccas even before the outbreak of the first Diadochic War,22 Antigonus Monophthalmus was favorably received there upon his landing in Asia Minor in 321.23 And when Ephesus was conquered, three years later, in 318, he could count on supporters in the city.24 The honors for Hagnon and Nicanor, two nauarchoi, underscore the city’s significance as a naval base for Antigonus’s operations in the Aegean.25 The esteem that Ephesus bestowed on the Antigonids continued under Demetrius Poliorcetes, who was celebrated as basileus in a magnificent ceremony and whose eunoia toward the city was acclaimed.26 While the coastal region and this harbor city in particular no doubt profited from the stability of Antigonid rulership in the late fourth century, the economic situation must have been, at least in Ephesus, anything but rosy. The late classical dipteros, identified as the younger Artemision, had been recently completed. Its construction, extending over decades, had tied up an enormous amount of resources, and the city was faced with mountains of debt,27 along with piracy, sieges and war-related destruction, problems of supply, and the need to raise vast sums for the ransom of prisoners of war and enslaved citizens.28 Around the turn of the century, the conflicts between the Antigonids and Lysimachus in Asia Minor reached their culmination, as ultimately reflected in the koinon between Ephesus and Priene. It is very probable that the so-called Debt Law (Schuldentilgungsgesetz) of Ephesus can be connected with these events.29 This decree, convincingly dated to 299, was an immediate consequence of the end of the war and the reconciliation between Demetrius Poliorcetes and Seleucus I. The text of the decree explicitly mentions devastated property and 20. This was explicitly changed in the treaty of law concluded at the beginning of the first century BCE between Ephesus and Sardis: under the new law, trials should take place in the home city of the perpetrator: IvE 7; Rogers 1991, 4; Laffi 2010; Kirbihler 2016, 52–55. 21. IvE 2010; Robert 1967; Walser 2008, 339–42. 22. On the significant decree of civil rights, see Walser 2008, 50. 23. Arr. Succ. 25.5; IvE 1437. 24. Walser 2008, 57. 25. IvE 1437; IvE 2011. 26. On the honors for Antigonus Monophthalmus and Demetrius Poliorcetes as well as individuals in their entourage, see Walser 2008, 61–63, 71–73; Calapà 2009, 330–31. 27. On the completion of the later Artemision, see Kerschner 2015, 208. 28. Ladstätter 2016 with n. 28. 29. On the history of the discovery of the blocks inscribed with the law, see Walser 2008, 11–15.



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destroyed buildings within the urban territory of Ephesus; the management of abandoned properties is also addressed. This tells us that the chōra, always difficult to defend, must have been badly affected by the events of the war. The large agricultural areas and the individual farmsteads could hardly be protected from wartime destruction. Crop failures, worsened by interruptions in the rhythm of cultivation, led to massive shortages in supply and thus to famine in the city. Grain deliveries were organized and prices for basic foodstuffs were fixed to counter these challenges. In addition, an attempt was made to raise money for debt repayment through the sale of civic rights.30 T w in C it ie s: E phe sus a n d Sm y r na The battles between the Diadochoi shifted Asia Minor into the center of political and military conflict. The urgency of reorganizing the harbor cities according to military considerations, and, ideally, adapting them to the new requirements, increased. The new foundations of Smyrna and Ephesus are also more easily understood under this aspect (pl. 43). According to Strabo (14.1.37), Antigonus Monophthalmus initiated the new foundation of Smyrna around the acropolis hill of Pagus (today, Kadifekale).31 Ceramics discovered at the excavations on the acropolis appear to confirm the beginning of settlement in the late fourth century.32 Old Smyrna, at a distance of 6.5 kilometers, seems to have been only sparsely inhabited at that time,33 leading to a lack of inhabitants for the newly founded city at the beginning. A reorganization under Lysimachus brought a new dynamism to the development—probably due to prescribed immigration. The city must have grown rapidly, since by 289/288 an honorary decree records its becoming a member of the Ionian League.34 This development can also be archaeologically attested because of the clear increase of find materials dating to the third century from the agora of Smyrna.35 The king named the city Eurydicia after his daughter Eurydice, and caused coins to be minted in her name.36 More lasting than the name-giving, which prevailed only for Lysimachus’s lifetime, was the construction of the extensive city fortifications and the harbor, both of which nonetheless can be only roughly reconstructed in their Roman phases.37 The parallels with Ephesus are striking: in 294 Lysimachus established a new city in a marine bay, the gulf of Ephesus, and at a distance of 2 kilometers from the sanctuary of Artemis and the core of the ancient settlement. Its large-scale fortifications surrounded a vast harbor area. It bore the name Arsinoeia after his second wife, Arsinoë II, and autonomous civic coins were minted in her name, with the queen’s portrait on the obverse (fig. 10.2). No more than 70 kilometers lie between the two cities, and both were terminal and starting points for long-distance routes to the east: the Royal Road in the north and the Common Road in the south (pl 45). The differences are also easily explained: in order to fortify Ephesus permanently, it was necessary to incorporate the city’s two hills, the Bülbüldağ and the Panayırdağ, into the defensive strategy: hence the marked differences in length of the fortification walls, and in the area of the walled city. If one extrapolates from this the actual buildable area, the figures for Smyrna and Ephesus are almost exactly the same (table 10.1).

30. See the summary in Walser 2008, 295–96. 31. Ersoy 2014, 307, 322. 32. Ersoy 2014, 322–24; Granata 2015; Şenol 2015, 244–45. 33. Akurgal 1983, 58; Cook and Nicholls 1998, 181–84; Rous, Laugier, and Martinez 2010, 40–41 with fig. 34. 34. Calapà 2009, 336. 35. Güngör Alper 2015, 97–99. 36. Müller 2009, 347. 37. Ersoy 2015, fig. 1.

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Table 10.1  Comparison of Smyrna and Ephesus

Smyrna Ephesus

Length of fortification wall

4,480 m (excluding acropolis wall)

9,250 m

Walled city area

196.6 ha

304.4 ha

Buildable city area

193.7 ha (including acropolis)

183.0 ha

Length of coast line

2,270 m

2,470 m

Fig. 10.2.  Autonomous civic coins from Ephesus-Arsinoeia (left) and Smyrna-Eurydicia (right). (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Münkabinett GR 35942 (Ephesus) and GR 9704 (Smyrna))



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Modern construction in the metropolis of Izmir, with its millions of inhabitants, has severely hampered archaeological research on Smyrna, and so only limited information is available. At Ephesus, however, extensive investigations have taken place, which are summarized here.38 A Ha r b or wit h a Cit y At tached With the new Hellenistic foundation of Ephesus-Arsinoeia, the old, heterogeneous settlement layout was abandoned and a new urban structure was created (pl. 44),39 beginning with the expansion of the bay between the Bülbüldağ in the south and the Panayırdağ in the north. This area had been used since the archaic period as a mooring spot; probably after the classical period, it functioned as a naval port. Included in the new design was a defensive wall surrounding the city, visible from afar and today exceptionally well preserved over long sections. The course of the wall and its overexpansion can be explained only in terms of the intended circumvallation of the entire coastal bay, indicating clearly the importance attached to the security of the harbor.40 Ephesus now lay directly on the coast, and the new wall integrated the harbor landscape with a well-fortified city.41 At this period the harbor was not yet architectonically conceived. It was a large sea bay, with a coast lying about 500 meters farther to the east than the Roman basin erected later. This bay provided a total of 2,500 meters of (wooden?) landing stages for ships, and also enough space for a functional structuring of the harbor area.42 The literary sources refer to docks and boathouses, although the details of the infrastructure are unclear. This was one of two harbor facilities, as historical sources also attest to the existence of a structurally separate military harbor.43 The large sea bay was bordered by a harbor road running north-south; geophysical exploration has shown its course from the South Gate of the Tetragonus Agora up to the Olympieion. The west part of the harbor was accessed via a route into the Arvalya Valley. Two main traffic routes connected the harbor area with the upper city in the south (“Curetes Street”) as well as with a still undeveloped quarter in the northeast. In both cases a gate marked the boundary between city and environs. The focus was on a functional opening up of the harbor quarter with optimal connections to both the intraurban centers and the hinterland. As a new city foundation, Ephesus certainly had a regular street grid, although the archaeological evidence is not sufficient to reconstruct it. All attempts to do so thus far are based on backward projections from a significantly later state of affairs.44 Archaeological evidence for the chronology of streets and development schemes first appears around 200 or shortly thereafter, while actual, extensive building activities are first recognizable only in the second half of the second century.45 Scant archaeological evidence makes it difficult to determine if there was an original uniform plan, dating to the period of foundation but only realized incrementally, or if various schemes were combined.

38. See the extensive discussion in Ladstätter 2016. 39. Ladstätter 2016, 234 with n. 17, for additional bibliography for the new foundation of Ephesus by Lysimachus. 40. Marksteiner 1999, 415. 41. Kraft, Kayan, et al. 2000, 188–89. 42. Ladstätter 2016, 256. 43. Strabo 14.1.24; Livy 37.10–12. See at length Ladstätter 2016, 261. 44. Bammer 1961–63, 151, with fig. 98; Hueber 1997, 42; Scherrer 2001, 80–85; Groh 2006, 56–61. 45. Pülz 2010, 191, 254–55, 258; Steskal and Ladstätter 2010, 417; Lätzer 2009; Ladstätter 2003; 2010.

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If we follow the written sources, the new city must have had an acropolis.46 Although this has not yet been definitely identified, the northwest mountain peak of the Panayırdağ would be a perfect candidate, based on fortification requirements and topography. A fortification ring documented inside the Hellenistic city wall at the highest point and surrounding an area of 1.8 hectares could also have served as the seat of a military unit.47 This location offers an exceptionally good view of the city, particularly the harbor bay, and the hinterland. Urbanization proceeded, with lapses. In 281, when Lysimachus died at Corupedium, entire groups of inhabitants from Lebedus and Colophon returned to their cities of origin, leaving only the settlement around the Artemision. Yet the new harbor construction had opened a window of opportunity through which new funds began to flow. Increased trade activities transacted through the port brought in revenue, as did tolls and customs.48 Coring evidence indicates a considerable increase in the annual sedimentation rate at this time, which suggests greater erosion, likely caused by land-clearing activities associated with an intensification of wine and oil production (fig. 10.3).49 In c. 260 the local production of wine amphoras began with the so-called Nikandros Group, the first such products in the city’s history (fig. 10.4).50 These amphoras were widely disseminated throughout Asia Minor and the islands off the coast. Their appearance now indicates that in addition to supplying basic foodstuffs for the city, the chōra of Ephesus was capable of participating in an export-oriented agrarian economy, facilitated by a newly developed road network in the Cayster Plain. Such a network, made possible by the silting brought about by intensified agricultural activities, decisively improved communication between the city and its territories. All of this evidence points to increased population and settlement in rural areas. A H a r b or Te mple At the northwest termination of the harbor bay sat a large prostyle temple measuring 14.7 by 22.2 meters (fig. 10.5), which the scholarship has named the “Rock Crevice Temple.”51 Nothing of its above-ground architecture has been preserved, which means that its chronology and the recipient of the cult must both be determined from material findings. Ritual deposits of cult vessels provide evidence for use of the sanctuary from the first half of the third century until the late second century. Terracottas and antefixes point to the worship of a female divinity (fig. 10.6).52 The temple’s alignment follows precisely that of the new city grid (and that of the old temple of Artemis). As an exposed landmark visible from far away at sea, the Rock Crevice Temple served as an orientation aid for ships sailing into the harbor. It faced directly onto the harbor bay in front of it, a vantage point that brought temple, harbor, and sea into a direct relationship with one another. The reasonable conclusion is that the female deity worshipped here possessed a protective function for seafarers and harbors. Historically 46. Polyaenus, Strat. 5.19 (Frontin Strat. 3.3.7); Lund 1992, 102–3; Rogers 2001, 605; 2012, 58–59; Knibbe 1998, 92–93; Hölbl 2004, 49; Meadows 2013b, 5. 47. Scherrer 2001, 63, fig. 3. 48. Davies 2011, 196–98. 49. Stock et al. 2014, 48, fig. 6. 50. Lawall 2004, 179, 187 (table 2); 2007, 49. 51. Keil 1929, 48–50; Scherrer 2001, 65–66; 2007, 329; Groh 2006, 65; Gassner 2007, 393, discusses it as an extraurban sanctuary. 52. Soykal-Alanyalı 2005.

Fig. 10.3.  Age-depth model for drill cores in the immediate hinterland of Ephesus. (After Stock et al. 2014, fig. 6)

Fig. 10.4.  Stamp of a locally produced Nikandros amphora. (Austrian Academy of Sciences/Austrian Archaeological Institute, N. Gail)

Fig. 10.5.  The Rock Crevice Temple, presumably a sanctuary of Aphrodite. (Austrian Academy of Sciences/Austrian Archaeological Institute, Archive)

Fig. 10.6.  Antefix with “Rankenfrau” (female head with tendrils). (Austrian Academy of Sciences/Austrian Archaeological Institute, Archive)



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attested at the harbor is a sanctuary of Aphrodite, known by the epithets Euploia, Limenia, Epilimenia, and Pontia. I suggest that the Rock Crevice Temple belongs to her.53 Such an identification would comport well with the city’s new name, Ephesus-Arsinoeia. Arsinoë II, who was viewed as the protective mistress of the harbor and of seafaring, became assimilated to Aphrodite, either within her lifetime or posthumously, as evidenced by a cult of Aphrodite-Arsinoë established on Cape Zephyrion near Alexandria.54 The Rock Crevice Temple may be understood as a symbol of the newly founded harbor city. From this spot, both Aphrodite and the queen watched over the harbor and, with it, the prosperity of the newly founded city. The A rt e m ision : R en egot i at ing a R el at ionship One feature quite specific to Ephesus was the interplay between the Artemision, the city, and an everchanging array of rulers. Recognition of the sanctuary’s inviolability and special status required attention and careful behavior from all players. On the available evidence, it appears that both the local myth of the great goddess’s birth in Ortygia and the city’s processions to her rural sanctuary there were developed in the third century. There is no evidence from the pre-Hellenistic period for a processional way leading around the Panayırdağ, nor did a ring necropolis of the archaic-classical era exist.55 We do not hear of ceremonies in Ortygia until their mention by Strabo (14.1.20), who makes reference to old temples and wooden cult images as well as to a statue group by Scopas erected there. An inscription, dating to 180–192 CE, refers to the reorganization of the mysteries of Artemis under Lysimachus.56 The foundation of Ephesus-Arsinoeia would have necessitated a reorganization of the relationship between city and sanctuary, with new processions to delineate their ritual connection. As discussed above, the little we know about the roads and gates reveals an integral relationship between the city and its harbor(s); in fact, the course of the Artemis processions that passed through Ephesus-Arsinoeia followed the Hellenistic street pattern, and not vice versa. These numerous processions helped solidify a new civic identity for the inhabitants, who at the beginning were heterogeneous, and secured the goddess’s authority in the newly founded city, for which she now assumed a protective function. Further linking city with sanctuary was the new grid’s precise alignment with the orientation of the temple of Artemis. Lysimachus’s donation of a statue of Artemis Soteira (mentioned in an inscription, installation site unknown) fits into this picture.57 The new 53. Ladstätter 2016, 257–60. 54. Longega 1968, 106–9; Müller 2009, 266, 271; Weber 2010, 67, emphasizing the Greek elements of the worship of Arsinoë in Egypt. Müller (2009, 269) suggests that Arsinoë’s birth in Smyrna connects the cult to Asia Minor. On the foundation by Arsinoë II of the sanctuary of the Cabiri on Samothrace, deities to whom a protective function over seafarers was also ascribed, cf. Müller 2009, 60; for the queen’s close relationship with the Dioscouri, who also aided seafarers, see p. 271. On further foundations: Marquaille 2008, 58–59; Weber 2010, 74. On the connection between the queen and marine navigation and the sea even before her marriage to Ptolemy II, cf. Müller 2009, 272; Weber 2011, 88. On the worship of Arsinoë in Asia Minor: Weber 2011, 96; Marquaille 2008, 59. On the link between Arsinoë and Aphrodite Euploia as well as the relationship between the harbor cities and the queen: Marquaille 2008, 59. 55. The term “ring necropolis” was coined by D. Knibbe and extensively and uncritically taken up in recent scholarship: Knibbe and Langmann 1993, 9. There is, however, no evidence for such a development. See, for a critical view, Sokolicek 2016, 101; Kerschner 2017b, 490–91. 56. Rogers 2001, 621–29; 2012, 35–40, 61. 57. IvE 26. See extensively Rogers 2012, 75–77, 85–88.

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Fig. 10.7.  The coastal region of Ephesus with Ortygia and Pygela. (Austrian Academy of Sciences/Austrian Archaeological Institute, S. Ladstätter, C. Kurtze)

city thus became embedded between the two sites of the great goddess: her birthplace of Ortygia and her temple at the Artemision (fig. 10.7). B eyon d t he Cit y B oun da ry : C on n ect ing a n d Con t rolling Ephesus and Smyrna had developed into key geostrategic sites in the Hellenistic period: they allowed defense against attacks coming from the Mediterranean, offered space and protection for the stationing of fleets as a starting point for naval maneuvers, and anchored land routes for campaigns and troop redeployments, communication, and supply. In this way both cities quickly became instruments for conveying control, prestige, and legitimization of rule. Both harbor cities marked the terminal points of two overland routes and major communication arteries to the east and the southeast. The Royal Road ran from Susa to Sardis and onward to Smyrna and Ephesus; the Common Road connected western Asia Minor with southeast Anatolia and Syria, running from Ephesus via Magnesia through the great Meander Valley to the east (pl. 45). The geographer Artemidorus, who came from Ephesus, provided a description, recorded by Strabo (14.2.29), of the Common Road as far as Antioch, which Cicero also used on his journey from Ephesus to Tarsus (Att. 5.14–15).



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According to Herodotus (5.54), 540 stades lay between Ephesus and Sardis—63 Roman miles according to the Tabula Peutingeriana—requiring a three-day march from one city to the other. Their territories were divided by the tall mountain range of the Tmolus (today Bozdağ), which in places attains a height of over 2,200 meters. The main communication route between the two cities led over the quite accessible 450-meter-high Karabel Pass into the Hermus Valley, which provided a direct link to the Royal Road.58 To the east a road along the Cayster River opened in the valley interior near the small city of Hypaipa and into another pass, which could be crossed only with substantially greater physical exertion and so was likely a summer route.59 While the rural settlement pattern of the Hellenistic period is to a great degree unknown, small cities such as Metropolis60 and Hypaipa,61 as well as concentrated villages located along roads, guaranteed provisions and provided surveillance, as did an identifiable network of military forts or watchtowers and small, partially fortified settlements (see chapter 8, “The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia,” by Christopher Roosevelt and pl. 36).62 The density of Hellenistic installations along the ridge of the Alamandağ underscored their military and strategic components. Starting from these small forts and towers, the Bay of Ephesus could be controlled and the visual connection to the city and the hinterland—that is, the Cayster Valley in the north and the passage to Magnesia-on-the-Meander in the south—could be maintained. After the fourth century, and in particular after Seleucid rule coalesced, the Common Road from Ephesus to Magnesia-on-the-Meander developed into a significant route of trade with, and deployment from, Mesopotamia and Syria, where the Seleucid Tetrapolis was located.63 The harbor of Ephesus became an essential strategic possession, and control of the city became a necessary instrument for implementing claims to power and maintaining territorial supremacy.64 This is evident not least in the efforts of the Ptolemies to add Ephesus to their external possessions in 262, and the subsequent, fierce reaction by the Seleucids, which culminated in the reconquest by Antiochus II.65 In 246, however, Ephesus had to be ceded to the Ptolemies, and as a naval base and residential city it became a cornerstone of their rule in the Aegean.66 At this point the common histories of Sardis and Ephesus separated for approximately fifty years. For the Seleucids the defeat meant the loss of their central harbor in the Aegean, a role now taken over by Smyrna. L o ok ing We st wa r d : E phe sus un der t he At ta lid s In 197 Antiochus III took Ephesus with great violence, an effort that paid off when it served him as a safe harbor in the preparations for the showdown at Magnesia.67 But the Peace of Apamea awarded Ephesus, like Sardis, to the kingdom of Pergamum; and in the new configuration the fates of the two cities diverged. The harbors of Ephesus served Pergamum’s needs in terms of defense, communication, and trade; the city’s westward-facing position, open to the Aegean, Greece, and Rome, facilitated Attalid self-positioning.

58. Foss 1978, 27; Dusinberre 2003, 18–19. 59. Foss 1978, 27; French 1998, 193; Kalkan 2014; Kosmin 2014, 167. 60. See in general Meriç 2004. 61. See in general Altınoluk 2013. 62. Meriç 2009, 129, 133–37; Jobst 1978. 63. Kosmin 2014, 257. 64. Kosmin 2014, 166, 170. 65. Hölbl 2004, 42. 66. Hölbl 2004, 49. 67. Ma 1999, 114–15; Sartre 2003, 50; Hölbl 2004, 123–24; Dreyer 2007, 212.

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The Attalids invested heavily here, with the result that in the second century Ephesus became a truly Mediterranean city. The numismatic evidence is telling. Throughout the third century the Ephesus mint had issued royal and civic coins in silver and bronze;68 under the Attalids in the second century, the mint produced a steady series of cistophoroi.69 But they also issued a great many civic coins, including drachms so attractive that they were even copied by Aradus in Syria. Probably also during Attalid rule, the mint produced a civic gold series with the cult image of Artemis on the reverse.70 It was during these years that Ephesus developed into a significant trading base, one particularly frequented by Italian merchants.71 Measures were taken to maintain the harbors against the advancing progress of the delta, on behalf of both the Attalid fleet and trade shipping.72 The second century is the period of the city’s archaeologically well-attested building boom—the stone phase of the theater, the palace, and both agoras. Above the theater, which was magnificently elaborated by Eumenes II, lay the governor’s official seat; from here he administered both city and chōra.73 The range of new activities now drew an influx of craftsmen to the city, transforming various local crafts. The most visibly altered, archaeologically, was the local tableware industry, which for the first time in its history now produced wares both for local usage and for export. From the later second century through the mid- to later first century, ceramic products of Ephesus—platters, mold-made bowls, lamps, lusterware—were shipped to destinations in the entire eastern Mediterranean region.74 In Asia the fate of each city depended on an array of shifting dynamics—between the great imperial powers, between various powers and the individual city, and between the cities themselves—as well as on geographic and historical factors intrinsic to each place. Ephesus had several advantages: a coastal geography advantageous for the formation of a harbor; a fertile hinterland; and a long-lived sanctuary that conferred both safety and legitimacy. And it had something else: a shallow history. For the Seleucids, this may have made the city a less necessary, less vital, possession. For the Attalids, who defined and constituted their legitimacy along very different lines than did the Seleucids, at least in the second century, Ephesus was the more desirable holding. Their investments launched the city’s ascendancy as one of the great metropoleis of the ancient world.

68. Matthaei 2013, 81–83. 69. Head 1880; SNG Kopenhagen, nos. 304–15; Szaivert 1983; Thonemann 2013, 31–34; Meadows 2013a; Kirbihler 2016, 29. 70. Jenkins 1987, 183–88. 71. Kirbihler 2016, 21; Knibbe 1998, 96; Thonemann 2013, 10–11. 72. Strabo 14.1.24; Kraft, Kayan, et al. 2000, 188, 198; Kraft, Bückner et al. 2007, 140; Steskal 2014, 333. 73. Ladstätter 2016, 263–64. 74. Ladstätter and Waldner, in press; Ladstätter 2007.

rq 11

Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens Susan Rotroff

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or one standing in the third century BCE and looking backward through time, the  views from Sardis and from Athens would have seemed very different.1 Sardis had been an imperial  and later a satrapal capital woven into the texture of the Persian empire, while Athens was an independent polis with a changing political regime that was, after the late sixth century, usually democratic. The cities were heirs to different social and material cultures: Anatolian and Persian on the one hand, Greek on the other. In the early Hellenistic present, if documentary and material evidence does not mislead us, there was virtually no direct contact between the two.2 The small stream of Attic pottery that had entered Sardis for centuries had run dry by the end of the fourth century,3 and, other than three pieces of small change of the late Hellenistic period,4 no Lydian objects have come to light in Hellenistic Athens. It is unthinkable that educated people in each city did not know something about the other—about its past, if not its present—but their political, economic, or intellectual interests did not impel them to engage in any significant exchange. Despite this isolation, developments in the ceramic assemblages of Sardis and Athens follow a similar trajectory in the early Hellenistic period. One way to describe this is to say that they participate in the “Hellenistic ceramic koine,” a set of similar ceramic forms and decorative styles encountered all over Greece 1. I am grateful to Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin for including me in the conference that gave birth to this volume, an event that broadened my perception of Hellenistic Sardis enormously. In addition, their wise and learned editorial comments substantially improved my contribution, and my work would not have been possible without the many conversations about Hellenistic Sardis that I have enjoyed with Andrea in recent years. I would also like to thank Nicholas Cahill for permission to continue my study of the Hellenistic pottery, begun under the leadership of Crawford Greenewalt and in collaboration with Andrew Oliver, to both of whom I am deeply indebted. I owe special thanks to Joan Mertens for enabling me to acquire permission to publish the illustration of the silver cups from Morgantina, once in the Metropolitan Museum of Art but now repatriated (pl. 46). 2. For contacts between Sardis’s Seleucid overlords and Athens, see Habicht 2006. 3. N. Ramage 1997. 4. Kroll 1993, 276, no. 968. 205

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and the Hellenistic east. This overarching koine and its interplay with local particularities is currently the dominant model for the structure of the Hellenistic pottery corpus.5 It is a useful descriptive tool, but no one has as yet made a serious attempt to explain how this koine operated—how potters in places as distant as Afghanistan and Athens produced shapes that, although by no means identical, are clearly related.6 The underlying assumption is that shapes were diffused through trade or through traveling potters, as they demonstrably were in earlier times, when Athens dominated the ceramic market. But except for a few special cases (e.g., transport amphoras and perhaps unguentaria, traded for their contents), there is little evidence of extensive trade in pottery in the third century,7 when the koine should have been in formation; and although the travels of potters may sometimes be inferred from their wares,8 we are without documentary evidence to confirm their activities. The isolation of Sardis and Athens, two cities with well-studied Hellenistic ceramic assemblages, provides the opportunity to explore the ways in which pottery there developed in common (when it did), and to suggest one possible mechanism for the parallel appearance of one shape: the hemispherical drinking cup. While their pasts were different, the early Hellenistic presents of Sardis and Athens had much in common. Both underwent two generations of rapid regime change in the late fourth and early third centuries before entering periods of relative calm: at Sardis with the beginning of Seleucid rule in 282 or 281, and at Athens with the independence won through the expulsion of Macedonian forces from the Mouseion fortress in 287. Both now existed in a landscape overshadowed by rich and powerful Hellenistic monarchs, who were in constant contact and participated in a shared court culture. Although Sardis retained its familiar role as regional capital, its political structure began to converge with that of Athens as Sardis too became a polis. It is against this background that dramatic changes in the ceramic assemblages of each city took place, as shapes familiar for a century or even much more were replaced by new and significantly dif­ ferent ones. Here I first summarize ceramic developments of the first half of the third century in each city; then I explore the mechanisms that may lie behind the appearance of the hemispherical cup in both; and, finally, I speculate on the possible cultural and political associations of this shared shape and some others. C e r a m ic Developmen t at At hens a n d Sa r dis Although changes occurred throughout the Athenian assemblage,9 here I concentrate on the major shapes of the symposium assemblage—decorated vessels for drinking and serving liquids—where developments are particularly clear and marked. Figure 11.1 summarizes the changes. The kantharos and cup-kantharos,10 the main drinking cups of fourth-century Athens, died out in the course of the second quarter of the third 5. Morel 1997. 6. But see the recent dissertation of Alexandros Laftsidis (2018). 7. Export of Athenian pottery (the driving force of the parallel koine of the fourth century) had all but ceased by the middle of the third century, in part because of Athens’s faltering economy and loss of control of the Piraeus. The low level of fine ceramic imports to Athens in the third century is illustrated in Rotroff 1997, 487, graph 10. 8. E.g., Rotroff 2013, on the hypothesized international entrepreneurial activities of a second-century Athenian potter. 9. Summarized in the graphs in Rotroff 1997, 480–86; 2006, 226–39. 10. Rotroff 1997, 83–89. Other classical drinking shapes, present in smaller numbers, disappear at about the same time (skyphos, bowl-kantharos, kantharos with special handles, bolsal); see Rotroff 1997, graph 3.



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Fig. 11.1.   Changes in the symposium assemblage at Athens. The commonest shapes are indicated by icons across the top (classical kantharos, cup-kantharos, Hellenistic West Slope kantharos (three varieties), hemispherical cup with interior decoration (two varieties), kraters, pitcher, amphora). Dates BCE are indicated at the left. Bars indicate the range during which a shape is documented through archaeological contexts; fading acknowledges that they existed in small numbers for some (unknowable) length of time before and after such documentation exists. (Susan Rotroff)

century, their place taken by two Hellenistic shapes. One was the West Slope kantharos,11 a deep cup with vertical strap handles, decorated in the newly developed West Slope technique, with floral or geometric motifs painted in dilute clay with white accents.12 Over the next thirty years, two principal varieties emerged, one with a baggy profile, the other angular, and by about 275 they had become a significant element of the symposium assemblage. The second replacement, introduced around 275, was a marked departure from Greek tradition: a footless, handleless cup, hemispherical or conical in profile, and painted on the inside in West Slope technique.13 11. Rotroff 1997, 97–105. 12. The earliest examples come from the debris of Building Z in the Kerameikos, dated by numismatic evidence to before c. 307. Two examples of the less common straight-walled variant from which both the baggy and angular forms derived have now been published from Building Z, assuring production of the shape before ca. 307 (Knigge 2005, 198, 204, nos. 664, 734, fig. 37, pls. 118, 123). 13. Rotroff 1997, 110–17.

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The story of the krater is less straightforward. It is remarkable that this shape, central to the symposium and to the repertoire of the Attic potter throughout the archaic and classical periods, was rare or absent during much of the Hellenistic period, possibly a reflection of new drinking habits.14 Late classical bell kraters persist until the end of the fourth century; they may have continued with West Slope decoration, although only one is known to me.15 It comes from a late third-century deposit and, given the absence of fragments from earlier third-century deposits, it may represent an archaistic revival rather than a true survival. If so, the Athenians either got by without kraters in the first half of the third century or, more probably, used metal kraters that have left no mark in the archaeological record. New ceramic forms appeared shortly before the middle of the third century. One is a fine bowl with bolster handles, modeled on contemporary metalware and decorated in the West Slope technique.16 A second new introduction is a simplified column krater made of household ware with glaze-painted decoration.17 Its coarse fabric—the same as that used for kitchen basins, water jugs, and the like—casts doubt on its use in the symposium setting, but its lively decoration and similarity to eastern kraters supports the identification, and no other reasonable function has been suggested for it.18 The classical oinochoe retained its characteristic trefoil shape, but at a fraction of its former size. Full-sized pitchers went out of production by 275; a smaller version that had first appeared around 325 became the new standard.19 Finally, one of the most successful shapes of the Hellenistic Athenian repertoire, the West Slope amphora, appeared around 275.20 Overall it is a ragged pattern, but most of the new shapes were established by 275, during the period of Athens’s independence from the Macedonians (287–261), and all of the old ones had gone out of use or been substantially transformed by the middle of the century. The sparser graph of Sardian tableware may reflect a more limited ceramic repertoire, but it also reflects the circumstance that Sardis, unlike Athens, has not produced deep well and cistern dumps harboring a wealth of complete vessels. The pottery comes instead from habitation fills and is almost always very fragmentary. Andrea M. Berlin’s analysis of those fills has created a chronological framework for the ceramic typology (see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City”); the partial results are summarily plotted in figure 11.2. Change was spread unevenly throughout the assemblage, but in the interest of comparison with Athens, I again concentrate on the drinking assemblage. The main drinking cup of fourth-century Sardis was the Achaemenid cup,21 ultimately of Persian inspiration but fully naturalized as a Lydian shape. It drops out of the archaeological record early in the third century,22 although it must have survived longer than the deposits attest, for Sardis cannot have been without a drinking cup during the apparent gap that followed. 14. Rotroff 1996. Lynceus of Samos mentions an early third-century alternative to the old symposium in which each drinker had his own lagynos, eliminating the need for a common mixing bowl (Ath. 11.499c). 15. Rotroff 1997, 303, no. 580, fig. 41, pl. 53. 16. Rotroff 1997, 136–37, fig. 41, pls. 54, 55. 17. Rotroff 2006, 105–7, figs. 36–38, pls. 29–32. 18. In a paper presented at the IARPotHP conference in Lyons in 2015, Sarah James presented arguments for the identification of similar vessels at Corinth as kraters. 19. Rotroff 1997, 125–27. 20. Rotroff 1997, 120–23. 21. Dusinberre 2003, 172–95; Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 62. 22. For revisions to the dating of the latest deposits where the Achaemenid cup occurs, see Berlin 2016, 353; and chapter 2 in this volume.



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Fig. 11.2.  Changes in the symposium assemblage at Sardis. Shapes (left to right) are the classical kantharos, Achaemenid cup, egg-shaped cup with exterior decoration, hemispherical cup with interior decoration, krater, pitcher. (Susan Rotroff)

Sardians were familiar with the Greek classical kantharos, which they imported in some numbers in the fourth century.23 A mold for a handle documents its manufacture at Sardis,24 but the number of locally produced vessels must have been tiny, and the kantharos disappeared without a trace in the early third century. As replacements, Sardis embraced two new forms of handleless cup. One was egg-shaped, with an incurving upper wall and sketchy painted decoration in a narrow zone just below the lip.25 The earliest ones at Sardis are imports, perhaps from Pergamum or Ephesus, where the shape was a favorite, though even there no contextual evidence for the date of its introduction is available.26 At Sardis, locally made fragments occur in considerable numbers in domestic deposits of the mid-third century (pls. 11, 14). The second new 23. Nancy Ramage includes thirty-two fragments in her publication of Attic imports at Sardis (1997, 107–8, nos. Att 346–Att 377, pl. 51). Nine more appear in Rotroff and Oliver 2003 (20–21, nos. 1–12, pl. 4). The spur of a handle perhaps dating in the first quarter of the third century from the early third-century deposit in the theater is the latest example known to me (fig. 2.4). 24. Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 21, no. 9, pl. 4. 25. Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 39–40, 47–49, nos. 117–32, pls. 19–21. 26. Schäfer 1968, 47, pl. 12 (“dünnwandige Näpfe mit Aussendekor”); Behr 1988, 147–50, fig. 13 (Pergamum); Gassner 1997, 61–64, nos. 167–75, pls. 10, 11.

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drinking shape, found in these same deposits, is a hemispherical cup with painted decoration inside (pl. 11),27 the same shape adopted contemporaneously at Athens. Other parts of the Sardian drinking set show a continuity that contrasts sharply with Athens. Fourthcentury Sardians continued to use the Lydian krater, a variant of the column krater with an upright handle attached to its rim.28 The shape remained current until the early third century,29 and change, when it came, was minimal: the substitution of a simpler, horizontal handle for the combination of vertical and horizontal elements in the earlier style (pl. 12). Pouring vessels (although they are not certainly part of the drinking assemblage at Sardis),30 show change in the softening of the distinction between the neck and the body and the movement of the upper handle attachment from the neck to the rim; as at Athens, smaller pitchers may have become the norm. The amphora so loved by the Athenians did not make an appearance in Sardian pottery until the second century, under the influence of Pergamum.31 In summary, Sardians turned away from the fourth-century model in their drinking cups, but they largely adhered to tradition in the rest of the wine service, with redesigned forms probably emerging during the earliest period of Seleucid rule. Athenians, by contrast, replaced or redesigned every element of the symposium set, and the resulting service in the two cities is quite different. The exception is the hemispherical cup with interior painted decoration (hereafter referred to simply as “hemispherical cup”), a new shape shared by both assemblages (figs. 11.3–4). The H e m i sp her ica l Cup wit h I n t er ior Decor at ion The hemispherical cup unquestionably imitates prototypes in precious metal, examples of which survive (pl. 46).32 Its entry into the ceramic assemblage was a top-down phenomenon, and in order to understand it, we must look to the top: to the elites who patronized the metalsmiths. How did those at the top—and especially the king, at the very top—deploy their metal tableware? How did people lower down on the social ladder come into contact with these fabulously costly objects and become sufficiently familiar with them to adopt imitations into their own cupboards? Did everyone want to? Why or why not? A closer look at a common and well-studied vessel, the Achaemenid cup (fig. 11.5), throws some light on these matters, even if it requires backing up a century or two.33 As a ceramic shape it was widespread in the Persian empire, but its origins are in metalware. The cups that the Lydians carry in the Persepolis reliefs were made of precious metal. As loyal subjects they present the cups to their monarch, whether as gifts, tax, or tribute,34 and the Great King will amass them in his treasuries, but he will put them to practical use as well. He and his guests will drink from them at the king’s table, and he will also disperse them throughout 27. Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 41–42, 49–52, nos. 136–56, pls. 21–23. 28. Hanfmann and Waldbaum 1975, 123, fig. 310. 29. Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 66, no. 239, pl. 39, the context now redated to late fourth–early third century (Berlin 2016). 30. Ladles were generally preferred to pitchers in eastern drinking sets for the transfer of wine from krater to cup (Baughan 2013, 239; Moorey 1980). It would be interesting to know whether Sardis followed the eastern or Greek model here. 31. Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 42–43, 52–54, nos. 158–73, pls. 23, 24. 32. Von Bothmer 1984, 54–55, nos. 92–94; Pfrommer 1993, 110–43, 223–26, nos. 1–17, pls. 1–3. 33. For the history of the shape and its introduction at Sardis, see Dusinberre 2003, 176–93. 34. See Root 1979, 228, on the nature of the “gifts” offered.

Fig. 11.3.  Hemispherical cup with interior decoration. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College (P92.1:9932); drawing: Sardis Excavations)

Fig. 11.4.  Athenian hemispherical cup with portrait of Ptolemy, 280–260. (Agora Excavations P747; photo: Agora Excavations)



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Fig. 11.5.  Achaemenid cup, late fourth or early third century. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College (P65.249:6911); photo: Sardis Excavations)

the empire by means of the system of royal gift giving: distribution of valuable but portable objects that signaled the king’s favor, confirmed the recipient’s status and support for the regime, and hence bound local elites to the king.35 This is how Persian silverware, and especially the Achaemenid cup, would have come to Lydia in the first place, where Lydian silversmiths would soon have begun to develop local versions.36 A pair of silver cups in the Manisa Museum (fig. 11.6), probably from a Lydian tomb of the early fifth century and once owned by the highest of the local elite, illustrate the objects that were emulated by those further down the social ladder, to the level of the ordinary man who drank his wine from clay. The fact that they were widely adopted by that ordinary drinker suggests the degree to which the non-elite population acquiesced to their new status as Persian subjects.37 Feasting and the distribution of gifts also played an important role at the Hellenistic royal courts, contributing to the construction and maintenance of a cohesive and loyal elite cohort.38 On the one hand this perpetuates the Persian system, but the custom has perhaps more significant precedents in the Successors’ Macedonian homeland. Our fullest narrative account of an elite Hellenistic banquet survives in the pages 35. For a good summary of the system, see Sancisi-Weerenburg 1989. 36. On Anatolian (including Lydian) production of Achaemenid-style metalwork, see Baughan 2013, 236–42. 37. Dusinberre 2003, 172–76, 191–95. 38. The origins of the Hellenistic royal banquet have been much discussed in recent times, and there is debate concerning its debt to the “table of the king” of the Persian empire, to pre-Alexandrian Macedonian feasting, and to the Greek symposium. See Murray 1996; Vössing 2004, 30–92; Capdetrey 2013.

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Fig. 11.6.  Two silver Achaemenid cups in the Manisa Museum. (Manisa, Archaeological and Ethnographic Museum, 4614)

of Athenaeus (4.128a–130d). A generation or so after the death of Alexander, two friends made a promise to exchange letters describing the banquets they had attended. Their δειπνητικαί ἐπιστολαί survived until the time of Athenaeus, who summarized one of them: Hippolochus the Macedonian’s account of the wedding feast of Caranus. While not a king, Caranus was a member of the royal circle, including in his guest list the grandson of one of Alexander’s comrades, and his banquet should reflect, at a more modest level, the practices of the Hellenistic courts.39 A series of exotic dishes served in enormous amounts, alternating with interludes of entertainment, is punctuated by the giving of gifts, among them costly drinking vessels. Caranus begins the festivities by presenting each guest with a silver phiale; other gifts follow in the course of the staggeringly sumptuous meal, culminating toward its end in a gargantuan skyphos. His guests, sobered by the scale of Caranus’s largesse, leave with enough precious metal to finance shopping sprees for slaves and real estate. In the same way, guests at a Hellenistic king’s table might well have taken away some fine tableware of their own, to be displayed on the family sideboard and admired and imitated by their less fortunate friends and dependents. Those ambitious to rise in the system will have emulated royal tableware and the court drinking practices that went with it to the best of their ability, with those lower down the chain of command turning to clay substitutes for the precious metal of the court. For earlier Sardians, the Achaemenid cup had been a badge of membership in the Persian empire, for if any shape can be said to express social identity, the Achaemenid cup is that shape. In their lukewarm reception of imported western drinking vessels in the earliest part of the Hellenistic period, Sardians were perhaps reaffirming their eastern identity, even if the regime had changed. The new Seleucid overlords, however, favored a new style: the hemispherical cup, like the Achaemenid cup a handleless vessel, but with a simplified profile that created a tempting field for decoration on its interior surface. When styles change at the palace, they change at the potter’s shop. The Achaemenid cup gave way to the hemispherical cup in clay as well as silver, as new material markers expressed the identity of the Sardians as members of this new and now firmly established political entity. We cannot poll the ancient population on their attitude to Antiochus I, during whose reign this probably transpired, but adoption of the shape into the ceramic assemblage suggests some degree of acquiescence to the new status quo. 39. On this banquet see, most recently Milanezi 2013; Étienne 2015. Milanezi argues that it was in fact a royal banquet, and that either Demetrius Poliorcetes or Antigonus Gonatas lurks behind the name “Caranus.”



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Royal fashion in silverware had an impact on Athens as well, even though the political situation there was very different. During the period in question, Athens went in and out of strict Macedonian control, and when independent veered between oligarchic and democratic constitutions.40 Royals were only rarely in residence, and the documentary sources seesaw between slavish fawning and angry resistance. Nonetheless, some Athenian elites would have had direct experience of royal entertainment, and there is concrete evidence of one way in which they communicated this experience to their less affluent fellow citizens. In the years between 287 and 261, when Athens was independent of Macedonian rule, prominent Athenians frequently participated in diplomatic missions to royal courts, seeking gifts of grain, money, military support, and other favors.41 Honorific inscriptions inform us about the activities of some of them, like Callias, a wealthy Athenian who served as a mercenary in Ptolemy’s forces and who headed the Athenian delegation to the first celebration of the Ptolemaia, a great festival and banquet staged by Ptolemy II in honor of his deified father.42 Thereafter the Athenians sent a delegation to the Ptolemaia every four years, and ambassadors would have arrived at other times as well with their requests for aid. In short, many prominent Athenians will also have seen regal tableware up close and personal, but their motives in emulating it were different from those of the Sardians. Callixenus’s well-documented account of the great procession and banquet staged by Ptolemy II in the 270s (Ath 5.196a–203b) makes it clear that Ptolemy, like the Persian kings, possessed treasure houses full of precious vessels. Other sources attest that he followed the model of the generous royal host. In an encomium of Ptolemy II, Theocritus (Id. 17.101–6) praises the king’s wealth and, in particular, the fact that he has not hoarded it but shared it with others, distributing “much to strong kings, much to cities, and much to his noble companions.” And not only companions: the Letter of Aristeus (293) claims that after seven days of banqueting, Ptolemy bestowed three talents of silver upon each of the 72 translators of the Septuagint. In his summary of this same text in Jewish Antiquities (12.2.15), Josephus includes a costly cup in the gift. The tale is no doubt a fiction, but it must have been a credible one. It is likely, then, that an Athenian ambassador fortunate enough to attend a royal banquet at Alexandria could be sure of leaving with a valuable souvenir. It might well be a piece of tableware, perhaps a silver cup bearing a portrait of the king or his father, an object that would have been particularly appropriate at celebrations of the Ptolemaia. Plaster casts of silverware graced with Ptolemaic portraits from a workshop in Memphis, in Egypt, document the use of the ruler’s image to decorate precious metalware, sometimes as emblems on drinking cups.43 We have material proof that one Athenian ambassador received such a gift, for when he returned to Athens, he commissioned clay replicas from the best of the city’s potters. Two are preserved, with portraits of Ptolemy set at the center of the cup to greet the drinker as he drained its contents (figs. 11.4, 11.7).44 Display of the portrait brought the new shape with it—no preexisting form would have shown off the image so effectively—but the motive was not so much emulation of elite lifestyle as the expression of a political message. The same pro-Ptolemaic message also shows up on vessels of traditional shapes. Two cup-kantharoi are 40. Habicht 1997, 67–262, summarizes developments at Athens in the relevant period, from the end of the tyranny of Demetrius of Phaleron (307) to Athens’s loss of independence after the Chremonidean War (261). 41. Habicht 1997, 135–36. 42. Shear 1978. 43. Rubensohn 1911, 24–25, nos. 12, 13, pl. 10; Reinsberg 1980, 81–85, 311–13, nos. 36–40, figs. 49–59. 44. For further discussion, see Rotroff 1988.

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Fig. 11.7.  Portrait of Ptolemy on floor of Athenian hemispherical cup, 280–260. (Athens Excavations P 16626; photo: Agora Excavations)

decorated with a dikeras or double cornucopia, an unmistakable reference to the Egyptian royal house.45 This new form of the horn was devised in Alexandria as the emblem of Queen Arsinoë II and appears on the reverse of her coins.46 The vessels are labeled philias, “of friendship,” a convivial expression often applied to drinking cups in the first half of the third century. In the context of the royal banquet, however, philia is a highly loaded term, referring to the close relationship between the king and his philoi, his friends and commensals. The inscription may thus allude to the close ties, either actual or hoped for, between Athens and her Egyptian patron. Another series of cups from the same workshop shows a splendid incense burner, intriguingly labeled with a nearly unique inscription: dōron, “gift.”47 Whether the motive behind these commissions was persuasion—urging viewers to support the pro-Ptolemaic party in the democratic assembly— or celebration of gifts received from the king, it was the message, not the regal associations of vessel form, that was paramount. I argue, then, that different mechanisms converged in the introduction of the hemispherical cup into the drinking repertoires of Athens and Sardis. In one case, royal gifts to functionaries within the Seleucid system conveyed a new luxury model; in the other, gifts received by returning ambassadors were replicated for political ends. The result was the same: the hemispherical cup with interior decoration became a new member of the Hellenistic ceramic koine. The vector was not long-distance traders, traveling potters, or immigrants, but the kings themselves through their gift-giving habits.

45. Rotroff 1991, 76, nos. 30, 31, pl. 21. 46. BMC, Ptolemies, pl. 8; D. B. Thompson 1973, 32–33. 47. Rotroff 1991, 76, nos. 32, 33, pls. 21, 22.



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A lt e r nat ive s to t he H e mispher ica l Cup At both Sardis and Athens, there was an alternative to the hemispherical cup: the egg-shaped cup with exterior decoration at Sardis (figs. 11.8–9, see also pls. 11, 14), and the West Slope kantharos at Athens (fig. 11.10). It may well be that there is nothing more behind this than a natural desire for variety in one’s tableware, and that a host simply consulted his personal taste or convenience in deciding which cup to offer his guests. I suspect, however, that the matter may be more complex. The shapes in question are sufficiently different that they require markedly different drinking practices: balancing a cup on one’s fingertips or in the palm of one’s hand (the hemispherical cup), rather than holding it by the handles with both hands (the kantharos), or grasping its slender lower body in one fist (the egg-shaped cup). In modern contexts, different shapes are used for different beverages: stemware for wine, a glass for water, a cup for coffee. The ancients had fewer beverages to choose from, but a wide variety of recipes for their combination and flavoring. It may be that the hemispherical cup, which (despite the unusually large size of the examples illustrated in figs. 11.3–4) is on average smaller than the alternative in both assemblages, was brought out for more potent water-wine mixtures. Or perhaps the shapes served different purposes. Guests at the banquet of Caranus received a phiale (a handleless cup) as soon as they were settled on their couches, perhaps to pour a libation. The giant skyphos came at the end of the feast, in the context of what looks like a drinking contest. Or perhaps different shapes were deemed appropriate at different stages of the party, in accordance with social instincts and traditions that are now lost to us. There is another possibility, however: the different shapes may have had different political associations. Both at Sardis and at Athens, the alternatives conform to familiar shapes of the past and may therefore have been appealing to those who were not comfortable with innovation. The choice between shapes might simply reflect the contrast between those who look nostalgically to the past and those who eagerly anticipate the future. For some, however, political inclinations may have lain behind their preferences, with those who bought into the new order drinking out of the hemispherical cups that mimicked palace-ware, while others

Fig. 11.8.  Sardian egg-shaped cup with exterior decoration. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College, Sardis Excavations (P13.91:13472); photo: Sardis Excavations)

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opted out or expressed quiet resistance by choosing a more traditional shape.48 Stepping back an empire, to Achaemenid Sardis, may again provide enlightenment. The drinkers’ choice then was between the nowfamiliar Achaemenid cup and the traditional Lydian skyphos. The skyphos in plate 47 dates to the sixth century, but the shape had remarkable staying power. Tallying pottery in deposits of the Persian period, Elspeth Dusinberre found that the skyphos accounted for nearly half of the drinking cups through the middle of the period.49 Was it the vessel of choice for traditionalists, who still identified, at least sometimes or in part, with their Lydian heritage instead of as Persian subjects? The Hellenistic egg-shaped cup is a delicate and fragile vessel, so much so that no complete examples exist at Sardis.50 The surviving fragments attest to several varieties: some with mold-made feet, some with bolster handles,51 details that go back to metalware. Most, however, were probably simpler: a plain, handleless cup with a low and rather narrow ring foot, as reconstructed in figure 11.9. Andrea M. Berlin has perceptively recognized its resemblance to the old Lydian skyphos (pl. 47); remove the handles and substitute a typically Hellenistic low foot, and the likeness is uncanny. The similarity may not have been lost on Sardian drinkers, and it may have appealed to the traditionalists among them. In what may be another case of parallel development at Sardis and Athens, the same association with earlier forms exists in the Athenian drinker’s alternative to the hemispherical cup. The West Slope kantharos (fig. 11.10) was deeply rooted in the traditional ceramics of central Greece, probably modeled on the Kabeiric cup, which for centuries had been associated with worship of the Kabeiroi at Thebes.52 It may have been

Fig. 11.9.  Sardian egg-shaped cup with exterior decoration. (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis / President and Fellows of Harvard College, Sardis Excavations (P13.91:13472); drawing: author)

48. That the two shapes occur together in the same contexts (e.g., in a third-century house in Sector MMS; see chapter 2) need not rule this out; people with different political sympathies or attitudes toward the past may share the same living space. 49. Dusinberre 2003, 190, table 2. 50. A complete cup was found in Tomb 407 by the First Sardis Expedition (Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 196–97) but survives only in a thumbnail sketch. The latest burial was in the late Hellenistic period, but a bronze coin of Antiochus I may be contemporary with the cup (Bell 1916, 40, no. 376). 51. Rotroff and Oliver 2003, 48–49, nos. 130–32, pls. 20, 21 (mold-made feet); Gassner 1997, 63, nos. 167, 168, 172, pls. 10, 11 (bolster handles, Ephesus). 52. Rotroff 1997, 97–105; for the Kabeiric cup in its homeland, see Braun and Haevernick 1981, 1–74, pls. 1–24.



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Fig. 11.10.  Athenian West Slope kantharos, 250–225. (Agora Excavations (P20861); photo: Agora Excavations)

introduced to Athens by Boeotian potters fleeing Thebes after Alexander destroyed the city in 335, although it is not documented in the Athenian archaeological record until some decades later.53 Thereafter it spawned different versions and grew gradually in popularity, becoming the favored drinking cup by about 275, about the time when the hemispherical cup first appeared. Perhaps this old-fashioned central-Greek shape spoke to Athenians who were not enchanted with the new Hellenistic order.

qr The drinking settings at both Sardis and Athens underwent significant alterations in the first half of the third century, the changes coming to fruition in both cities in a period of stability that followed generations of frequent regime change. Some parts of the ceramic repertoires changed in the same way, though perhaps for different reasons. At Athens, the transformation was more sweeping, in keeping with the more profound political changes there, as Athens devolved from a small but independent polity powerful within her own sphere to a small part of an overarching system of competing imperial powers. Ceramic change at Sardis was less extreme, again in line with the city’s fortunes—when the dust settled, the city was still a regional capital, though with a new set of ethnically different overlords. Not that her situation was necessarily easy; her pottery performs a balancing act, tipping a hat to the new order while perpetuating the old, at least when men gathered to drink together.



53. See n. 11 above.

rq 12

Gordion, on and off the Grid Elspeth R. M. Dusinberre

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n 2012 Crawford H. Greenewalt Jr . published a delightful article, “Gordion through Lydian  Eyes,” in which he described the impressions and responses of a hypothetical Lydian visitor to Phrygian  Gordion around the middle of the sixth century BCE.1 Here, in homage and respect, I extend the story that Professor Greenewalt began. I consider Gordion’s political and economic circumstances and its cultural character during the Achaemenid empire and the postimperial environment of the early Hellenistic period, in the hope of providing a useful foil to our understanding of the lived experiences of Sardis’s inhabitants. For, unlike Sardis, which slipped from being the possession of one imperial entity to another, the dissolution of the Achaemenid empire meant the end of power for Gordion. Like Sardis, Gordion had an illustrious historical past, available for embellishment into useful myth to be revisited and reused in later eras. From the ninth to the early sixth century, Gordion was the seat of the Phrygian kings, including Midas of the Golden Touch at the end of the eighth century, as well as several other kings of the same name.2 Just as in Mermnad Sardis, Gordion’s kings lived in prosperous fashion on

1. I am grateful to Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin for inviting me to participate in the exceptionally stimulating, informative, and thought-provoking symposium that gave rise to the present study. I wish to thank Gordion Project Director C. Brian Rose, James B. Pritchard Professor of Archaeology at the University of Pennsylvania and Peter C. Ferry Curator-in-Charge of the Mediterranean Section at the Penn Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, for permission to present this material from Gordion. Thanks to Rose and to Professor Emerita Margaret Cool Root of the University of Michigan for providing comments on a draft of this chapter. Deep gratitude goes also and particularly to the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism for making work at Gordion possible. I am very grateful to many colleagues for allowing me to make use of their work even when it is still in progress, including in particular C. Brian Rose, Andrea M. Berlin, Shannan Stewart, and Martin Wells. 2. The Middle Phrygian period is defined as c. 800–540, thus including the period of Lydian hegemony but ending with the advent of the Achaemenid empire. For Middle Phrygian Gordion, see, e.g., Anderson 1980, 2012; Voigt and Young 1999; Voigt 2000, 2005, 2007; Burke 2012; Rose 2012, 2017; all with extensive bibliography. For the fortifications, see most recently Gönen et al. 2018. For the tumuli, see, e.g., Young 1981; Simpson 2010, 2012; Liebhart 2012; Liebhart and Stephens 2016. For Midas, see, e.g., Sams 1995; Sams and Voigt 2011; Ballard 2012; Amrhein, Kim, and Stephens 2016. For the local wares of the Middle Phrygian period, see, e.g., Henrickson 1994, 2005. Kenneth Sams is currently a 220



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Fig. 12.1.  The Citadel Mound at Gordion. (© Gordion Archaeological Project, Penn Museum)

powerful citadel with spectacular constructions, including imposing megarons, multicolored fortifications, magnificent textiles, and superb examples of the metal- and woodworkers’ crafts; and, also similarly, they were laid to rest in enormous and richly furnished tumuli. Like Lydia and its kings, Gordion, its king Midas, and Phrygia held such power during this period as to figure in international discussions, including the Assyrian annals and Greek accounts of wealthy dedications at Delphi.3 But as archaeological investi­ gations at both sites have made increasingly evident, it is the differences between the two cities that signify. Gordion’s autonomous era ended sometime in the early sixth century, when the expanding Lydian kingdom apparently annexed the site and its territories. This hegemony ended in the 540s, when Cyrus in turn incorporated Lydian territory—including Gordion—into his expanding empire. Thanks to recent close study of the formerly opaque Achaemenid-era (Late Phrygian) construction history of the Citadel Mound, working on the ceramics and culture of the Middle Phrygian deposits excavated by Rodney Young, while Kim Codella and Mary Voigt are preparing publication of the Middle Phrygian architecture excavated by Voigt’s team; these publications will significantly enhance our understanding of the period at Gordion. 3. Sams 1995; DeVries and Rose 2012.

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we can now see in some detail how the city’s residents remade their imposing space during these years (fig. 12.1).4 Gordion is therefore a kind of foil to Sardis, one that can help us see each site’s material remains as the result of its residents’ contrasting circumstances, and the choices they made in response.5 G or dion in t he A ch a e men id E mpir e Throughout Achaemenid times Gordion was a second-tier city, a status that may have facilitated the ability of at least some residents to arrange their lives as they saw fit (fig. 12.2). One possible reflection of this is the series of significant alterations made to, and in, the formerly restricted spaces and structures on the high and imposing Citadel Mound. The enormous gate complex of the Middle Phrygian period was probably still in use when the Spartan king Agesilaus attacked the citadel in 395, as suggested by the host of arrowheads found by Rodney Young just outside the main citadel gate.6 The gate had, however, collapsed at some point later in the fourth century, as the orientation and grouping of the Hellenistic houses discussed below indicate.7 Sometime during the fourth century, a house that included a storage cellar was built just within the city wall, which also seems to have collapsed by this point.8 One may wonder how the wall and gate were regarded even in the fifth century, when a new construction, the Yellow House, blocked access between the gate’s Outer and Inner Courts.9 Residents also remade the eastern side of the Citadel Mound, a once-imposing area where in earlier eras kings and elite retainers had carried out public and ceremonial activities in the great megarons. In the later sixth or fifth century, people reconstructed some of these large halls, reducing them in size and, sometimes, 4. There are many challenges to analysis of Gordion in Achaemenid (Late Phrygian) and Hellenistic times. The stratigraphic problems are ferocious and complex, while the problems posed by archaeological record keeping in the early years of the site’s investigation are scarcely less so. We can now finally begin to say something about what Gordion was like during the centuries under Persian rule, thanks to the excavations and publications of Mary Voigt and her team, and the sleuthwork underway at the hands of C. Brian Rose, who is pulling together the Middle and Late Phrygian material excavated on the Citadel Mound under Rodney Young, as well as the work conducted on specific media by Kathleen Lynch, Bob Henrickson, Irene Romano, Janet Jones, and Phoebe Sheftel, and the investigations into the ancient environment undertaken by Ben Marsh, Mindy Zeder, Jerry Dandoy, Canan Çakırlar, Janine van Noorden, Naomi Miller, and Mac Marston. A master’s thesis written by Cincinnati graduate student Alison Fields in 2011 on the Late Phrygian material of the eastern Citadel Mound is notable for delving into often-difficult excavators’ fieldbooks as well as published material. Thanks now to the work of Shannan Stewart (PhD diss., Cincinnati 2010) and Martin Wells (PhD diss., Minnesota 2012), the Hellenistic houses and ceramic sequence excavated during the Young era have recently been closely investigated and can be discussed in context. Rose and Berlin are now editing the dissertations of Stewart and Wells for a comprehensive volume on Hellenistic Gordion. 5. The publication of Gordion’s cremation tumuli (Kohler and Dusinberre, forthcoming) will enable fruitful comparison of the tumuli at Sardis and those at Gordion; for now, the most that can be said is that Gordion seems not to have experienced the explosion of tumulus burials that Sardis saw in the Achaemenid period. 6. Askold Ivantchik (cited in Rose 2017) has dated these arrowheads to that time; for the arrowheads and their connection to the Spartan attack, see Rose 2017, n. 47. 7. For the orientation of the Hellenistic houses, including the fact that they fill in the area that would have been an entrance to the Citadel Mound if the gate had remained functional, see Wells 2012, fig. 5. For discussion of the Middle Phrygian Gate Complex, including its collapse, see Gönen et al. 2018. 8. Fields 2010, 53; Voigt 2009, 233. Fields (2010, 70–71) also suggests a domestic function for the area overlying Building O to the north of this. 9. For the Yellow House, see Edwards 1959, 266; Fields 2010, 74–75.



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Fig. 12.2.  Map of the greater town of Gordion. (Courtesy Ben Marsh and Richard Liebhart; © Gordion Archaeological Project, Penn Museum)

changing their orientation.10 They also built new structures, small and unusual, that replaced larger predecessors while apparently also continuing their administrative and/or ceremonial functions (fig. 12.3). The new public buildings, while considerably smaller than their grand predecessors, nonetheless carried their share of elaborate detailing. One, the Painted House, was a very small, partly subterranean building inserted between the back ends of two Middle Phrygian megarons, Buildings C and G.11 Whereas those earlier structures had fronted onto the Outer Court just within the citadel gate, the entrance to the Painted 10. For the reconstruction of the Middle Phrygian megarons and their reduction in size, see Rose’s manuscript on Middle and Late Phrygian Gordion (pers. comm., July 2017; manuscript in progress), which also redates various buildings (e.g., C, E) from the Achaemenid period to the Middle Phrygian period (contra Young 1955; Fields 2010; Voigt 2012) and establishes the date of the Painted House as c. 500 on stratigraphic grounds as well as stylistic ones. For their reorientation, see Fields 2010. 11. Megaron 2 seems the most likely candidate for a temple on the Early Phrygian Citadel Mound. It had a pebble mosaic floor, abstract and figural designs incised on its exterior walls, a platform before it, and a stone acroterion found in front of it that may originally have been atop its roof; its roof beams had an enormous internal span of almost 10 meters.

Fig. 12.3.  Gordion, the Eastern Citadel Mound in the Achaemenid/Late Phrygian period, c. 540–330. (After Gönen et al. 2018, fig. 4; Burke 2012, fig. 14.4; Fields 2010, figs. 17, 30, 38)



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House faced the opposite direction.12 The main room, measuring 4.50 by 3.75 meters with a floor about 1 meter below ground level, was reached by descending a twisting flight of steps to a vestibule, before turning into the room. The narrow, crooked approach and sunken room, sandwiched between the megarons, meant that it probably had little or no natural light. The walls of the vestibule were decorated with a mosaic of terracotta pegs, nearly a thousand of which were found on the gray-blue stucco floor. The walls of the main room were covered with painted frescoes that included several large figural friezes, about 0.6 meters high and featuring a procession of human figures probably arranged in two groups moving along the walls at left and right and meeting on the back wall opposite the door. Most appear to be women dressed in brightly colored garments with elaborate jewelry. The building clearly had a specialized function, possibly cultic—as further suggested by its location above Early Phrygian Megaron 2, which may also have had some ritual purpose. Another new construction was the elaborate Mosaic Building, built over part of Middle Phrygian Building A atop the fortification wall. It had a multiroom layout with an axial approach: a paved court of large, worked andesite blocks led to rooms decorated with colorful pebble mosaics in meander patterns, first an anteroom and then a possible throne room. One red-painted column base still stood in its original position when the building was excavated, and there was once probably a matching base on the other side of the entrance. To the rear was another room with a colonnaded entrance fronting onto the citadel. Placement, form, and decoration combine to suggest some public or administrative function.13 Such a function is supported by the discovery, in a robber’s trench along a wall of the Mosaic Building, of a beautiful agate cylinder seal with imperial Achaemenid iconography and an Aramaic inscription citing someone with a Persian name. The material, iconography, and ownership document the presence of a distinguished individual with Persianizing inclinations and connections (though not necessarily an ethnic Persian).14 This artifact also evokes the world of transactions that required ratification with a seal (see further below and also “Spotlight: Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion”). To the west of these new structures, but still on the eastern side of the main Citadel Mound, residents set up places for small-scale industries: metalworking and also a new craft, working the low-quality alabaster that was readily available in nearby outcrops.15 On the western part of the Citadel Mound and also below, near the river, residents lived in walled residential districts (called respectively the “Lower Town” and the “Outer Town”), filled with pit houses, small structures with cellars often lined with stones.16 Although the evidence is unclear, the city may have reached its greatest extent during the early Achae­ menid period; the three districts together have a combined area of c. 100 hectares, roughly comparable to 12. Suzanne Berndt-Ersöz is completing the definitive publication of the Painted House. This description draws on Young 1955, 1956, 1957; Mellink 1980; Fields 2010; http://sites.museum.upenn.edu/gordion/history/achaemenid -gordion/; Rose and Darbyshire 2016; Rose (pers. comm., July 2017; manuscript in progress). 13. For the Mosaic Building, see, e.g., Young 1955, 11, 14, fig. 10; Dusinberre 2008; 2013, 60–62, 284; Rose (pers. comm., July 2017; manuscript in progress). For its tiles and potsherds: Gordion fieldbook 30, 133; Glendinning 1996, 23–25. For the building’s date: Glendinning 1996, 23; Sams 1994, 825; Roller 1991, 134n37. For the seal: Dusinberre 2005, no. 33; 2008; Gordion fieldbook 30, 133. C. Brian Rose has suggested the back room of the Mosaic Building as a possible spot for displaying the cart and its Knot (pers. comm., July 2017; manuscript in progress). For Building A, see Burke 2012 and refs. 14. Dusinberre 2005, 2008. 15. Fields 2010, 61. For an ironworking foundry, see Young 1955, 3, 10; Sams and Voigt 1990, 79; Voigt and Young 1999, 220, 224; Fields 2010, 24. For the alabaster, see, e.g., Marsh 2005, table 13-1; Marsh and Kealhofer 2014, 690 and fig. 1. 16. Voigt and Young 1999.

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Sardis’s walled 120 hectares (and a lot less steep).17 Its continuous bustle, with public buildings giving way to craft workshops and then residential districts, all situated directly on the ancient Citadel Mound itself, with more housing below in the Lower Town, might have impressed and possibly also befuddled visitors from Sardis—where a formerly thriving cityscape may have been hollowed out by Achaemenid fiat (see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill).18 At Gordion, however, the city saw changes in size and use of space over the course of the Achaemenid period; by the middle of the fourth century (perhaps in the second quarter of that century), at least part of the Lower Town was converted to a cemetery.19 The very different pattern and character of building and settlement in Achaemenid Gordion extended to the type of vessels residents used to set their tables and quaff their liquids—especially wine. Most notable is the skyrocketing quantity of imported vessels, of which a truly amazing number are Attic: indeed, the amount of fifth- and fourth-century Attic imported pottery at Gordion is ten times as high as that at Sardis.20 Although residents also acquired ceramics from Corinth, Sparta, and western Anatolia, pottery from Athens dominated, and apparently purposefully so, as this is the farthest inland that we see significant quantities of imported Attic pottery.21 Concomitant with the increase in imports are changes in locally made pots to incorporate distinctly Greek and also Achaemenid shapes, finished in ways that increased their resemblance to the foreign wares and decreased their similarity to the vessels of Phrygian tradition.22 Inspiration was not hard to come by, as some of the Attic items that made their way to Gordion were of very fine quality, such as a white-ground cup attributed to the Penthesileia Painter. And ideas may have traveled from Gordion (and perhaps also other consumers in the east) back to Athens, encouraging Attic painters to target their subject matter. A certain number of the figural wares found at Gordion feature scenes with eastern barbarians; and a group of Attic rhyta by the Sotades Painter decorated with Amazons, also found at Gordion, seems to combine Athenian notions of how easterners ought to look with how they thought easterners liked to drink (including what shapes of cup they drank out of).23 These imported ceramics, particularly cups, oinochoai, and kraters, were primarily for drinking. Gordion’s inhabitants seem not to have imported entire banqueting sets. Instead, they used an array of genuine Attic vessels as exotic additions for their own traditional drinking and dining practices. These practices included the lavish use of perfumed oils, conveyed by numerous Attic ceramic lekythoi as well as a great many core-formed glass bottles, imported from Rhodes in the fifth century and from Macedonia in the fourth.24 17. Rose 2017, 147, for the combined area; for the size during the Achaemenid period, Voigt and Young 1999. 18. Voigt 2011, 1081. 19. Andrea M. Berlin, pers. comm., July 2017. 20. Kathleen Lynch is studying the Greek imports at Gordion and will shortly publish the definitive volume on them. On the quantities see Lynch and Matter 2014, 109, fig. 2. For details of the types and painters represented, see DeVries 1980, 1997; Lynch and Matter 2014; Lynch 2016; http://sites.museum.upenn.edu/gordion/history/ achaemenid-gordion/. I am very grateful to Lynch for sharing ideas and images with me in person and via email on these and related matters in 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2017. For the local wares and their interaction with imports, see, e.g., Sams 1979, 1994; DeVries 1977, 1980, 1988, 2000; Henrickson 1993, 1994, 2005; Dusinberre 2013, 125–26. 21. Lynch 2016. 22. See Dusinberre 2013, 124–26, with refs. 23. It is clear that the Athenians tweaked their representations for particular markets, as Shannon O’Donovan (pers. comm.) has demonstrated in the case of red-figure representations of Theseus exported to Etruria. 24. Janet D. Jones is publishing this remarkable corpus; I am very grateful to her for sharing her detailed, thoughtful, expert manuscript with me and for discussing its implications. Gordion is the farthest east that the Mediterranean



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Our Lydian visitor might have raised his (or her) eyebrows; at Sardis people had adopted Achaemenid-style drinking vessels and, probably, Achaemenid-style drinking behaviors, almost immediately after the city came under Persian control (on such styles and their attendant meanings, see chapter 11, “Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens,” by Susan Rotroff). Perhaps our Phrygian host, visiting Sardis, would have been equally bemused at the narrowness of the table repertoire used there, at least in homes on the city’s outskirts (see chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” by Andrea M. Berlin). As at the table, so also in religious practice, Phrygians imbued local traditions with new, Greek influences. They continued to pay homage to Matar, although in the second half of the sixth century they adorned her with a few new trappings. A series of sculptures in terracotta and stone show the goddess seated on a formal throne and sometimes framed in a niche, a pose that may have been inspired by seated Meter renditions from mid-sixth-century Ionia.25 In one example the goddess adopts the Greek pose yet retains her Phrygian costume and continues to hold a traditional Phrygian bird of prey in her arms—a distinctly different attribute than the lion favored by her Lydian contemporary, Kubaba (see chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués).26 It is probable that in these years people continued to visit the nearby Phrygian sanctuaries at Dümrek and Midas City. Still, the Painted House cautions us that there is much we still do not understand about religion and ritual at Gordion in this time. Some remains remind us—as the structures must have reminded their ancient users—that Gordion was indeed part of the overarching expanse of the Achaemenid empire. We see a marked increase in the number of seals, particularly ones that reflect Achaemenid ideas and iconography (see “Spotlight: Sealstones” above).27 Twenty-nine have been excavated, including the agate cylinder seal found near the Mosaic Building. They are made in a wide variety of materials and styles, in contrast to the few Early and Middle Phrygian seals. Most were imported, some from the farthest reaches of the empire and others from elsewhere within Anatolia. They carried distinctive imagery that rendered each seal (and its impression) recognizable and traceable to an individual user. These features—increased numbers, the predominance of imported items (perhaps along with their users), and their individuality—reflect a shift to a high degree of personal accountability, a feature consonant with imperial administration. Although they do not share the (semi-)precious materials or consistent imperial style of Sardis’s Achaemenid seals, they demonstrate that some of Gordion’s inhabitants understood and participated in the practical bureaucracy of the empire. What sorts of activities and goods came under the purview of those bureaucrats? Environmental analysis shows that there was more herding than farming in the lands surrounding Gordion during these centuries, and a decrease in the amount of land that was irrigated—another real change from pre-Achaemenid Middle Phrygian times.28 Indeed, the land seems to have become overgrazed, suggesting large numbers of animals Core-Formed Bottle Groups I and II have been found; the pattern of glass imports thus mirrors that of Attic ceramics. See also von Saldern 1959; J. Jones 1995, 2005, 2009. 25. On Ionian Meter see Naumann 1983, 19–20; de la Genière 1985, 704; Roller 1999, 105. For Greek-Phrygian contacts in northwestern Anatolia that may have smoothed exchanges of religious ideas and forms, see Naumann 1983, 137; Rein 1996; Roller 1991, 131 and n. 15; 1999, 106. For the essential conservatism of cult at Gordion, despite its Hellenizing trappings, see Roller 1999, 192; for Pessinus, p. 192. On interaction and borrowing in Achaemenid-era Anatolia, see Dusinberre 2013, ch. 6. 26. Naumann 1983, 118–22, pl. 14, figs. 3–4; Roller 1991, 131–32 and pl. 3b. 27. See also Dusinberre 2005, 2008, 2010a. Only three seals were excavated at Gordion that date to the Early Phrygian period (c. 950–800) and fourteen to the Middle Phrygian (c. 800–540); see Dusinberre 2005. 28. N. Miller 2010, 51–59, 63–71.

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roaming the landscape.29 This is consonant with the archaeozoological evidence: fully 63 percent of the animal bones are ovicaprid, and there are more than four and a half times as many ovicaprid bones dating to the Achaemenid period than to any other phase of Gordion’s history.30 A transition from wheat cultivation to barley during this period may also indicate a concern with foddering.31 At the same time, the kinds of wood used for fuel suggest significant use of the local forests, as the numbers of “climax” species such as juniper, oak, and pine are lower than expected.32 Taken together, the botanical and zoological evidence suggests large-scale herding of sheep and goats, perhaps to produce (Angora?) goat hair and/or wool for textiles. Gordion in the Achaemenid period seems to have been a center for large-scale husbandry of sheep and goat flocks—the precise kind of focus on livestock that is attested by the records in the Persepolis Fortification Archive.33 The administrators who oversaw these activities on behalf of the imperial enterprise were probably the people who used the elegant ceramic, glass, and metal finds. Theirs was a lifestyle that relied upon the empire for continuance. As the quite different findings of the subsequent century show, when the empire ended and its imperial infrastructure and political economy collapsed, so too did this mode of life. In this way, larger political shifts infiltrated and affected lives at Gordion just as much as they did at Sardis—but in very different ways. Gor dion a ft er t he A ch a e m en id s In 333 Gordion experienced a visit by the great Alexander himself. The conqueror came, famously, to slice through the Gordian Knot and fulfill his destiny to conquer Asia by the sword.34 As at almost every place he came to, he quickly moved on—but at Gordion, unlike Sardis, life changed dramatically. The great gate guarding the entry into the eastern Citadel Mound had probably collapsed even before Alexander arrived.35 The Outer and Lower Towns were soon abandoned, with the Lower Town becoming a cemetery.36 The monumental buildings of the citadel became, in effect, stone quarries, affording residents construction materials to build new, and very different, structures (fig. 12.4). The population contracted, and those who remained made significantly less intensive use of the surrounding landscape.37 The picture could not be more different from that presented at Sardis, where occupation returned to the urban center and a variety of impressive new public structures arose (see chapter 7, “The Hellenistic City Plan,” by Philip Stinson). 29. N. Miller 2010, fig. 5.21; Marston 2011, 202. Marston (2012, 392) suggests that by the end of the Achaemenid period the local grasslands had reverted to a “healthier” ratio, suggesting less intense grazing. 30. Arter and Zeder 1994, tables 3–4, fig. 3; Marston 2011, fig. 4. 31. Marston 2011, 197. It seems at Persepolis that barley rather than wheat was fed to animals; see Hallock 1969. Barley was a preferred fodder in Babylon; see, e.g., Van der Spek 2014; Paulus 2016. 32. Marston 2012, 391. 33. Thus, as but one example of many documented at Persepolis, ducks (basbas) were fed, farmed, and harvested in enormous numbers, demonstrated by PF 280, 697–98, 1722–33, 1945, 2014, and 2034—the last tablet documents a staggering 1,333 fowls (of which 62 were ducks) dispensed on behalf of the king for consumption; see Hallock 1969. Of course this does not mean that the king binge-ate all these birds at once. For dining in Persia, see, e.g., Henkelman 2010 and refs; Dusinberre 2013, ch. 4. 34. For Hellenistic Gordion, see esp. Stewart 2010, Wells 2012. 35. Gönen et al. 2018. 36. Voigt 2000. 37. See Voigt 2000; Kealhofer 2005; Marston 2012.



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Fig. 12.4.  Gordion, the Citadel Mound in the early Hellenistic period, c. 330–270. (After Wells 2010, fig. 5; courtesy Martin Wells)

Three dramatic changes mark Gordion’s post-Achaemenid persona. First is the wholesale alteration of space and function on the Citadel Mound. All public and/or administrative facilities went out of use, and no replacements were built. Instead, over the entirety of this area and its impressive earlier buildings, the site’s remaining residents constructed houses, all quite reasonably sized and fitted out. These do not follow any particular plan or norm: each is unique, and although many share a certain northwest-southeast orientation, there is no grid, or even anything close to one.38 There are remains of a few cobbled streets, but no evidence to suggest that they continued far or connected with each other. Martin Wells sums up the architecture succinctly: “From the late fourth century BCE to the third quarter of the third century BCE, Gordion was a village of tight clusters of houses mixed in among scattered, modest-sized single household structures. The village does not seem to have been laid out according to a uniform plan. Patterns of stone robbing from the earlier Phrygian buildings suggest that houses were built where access to the materials was the easiest.”39 These new houses, modest as they were, were nonetheless a real step up from the pit houses of the preceding

38. Wells 2012. 39. Wells 2012, 257 and fig. 146; see also Stewart 2010, 74 and refs.

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generations. They offered more space and light—and by their very positioning, directly above what had been set-aside public space, they bespeak a kind of personal, non-elite autonomy not previously in evidence. The second dramatic change relates to local subsistence—in essence, how inhabitants fed themselves. Animal bones show a mix of sheep and goats, cattle, pigs, and wild animals including deer, demonstrating a diverse diet.40 The paleobotanical evidence suggests that the surrounding landscape was less overgrazed than previously, probably reflecting the town’s smaller human population as well as a vastly decreased number of sheep and goats roaming the area—perhaps only a third as many as had grazed the landscape in the Achaemenid period.41 These lines of data suggest that subsistence farming was now the norm, an idea further supported by the discovery of small numbers of grinding stones in practically every trench excavated, demonstrating household-level production of grain and flour.42 Families could, and did, provide for themselves. The third change to be seen in the first generation after Alexander’s rapid visit appears in people’s household goods. This encompasses ceramic vessels and also installations, commodities, and items of special value. These may be interrogated with an eye to their many implications—for lifestyles, sources of ideas and influences, routes of exchange, and, ultimately, sensibilities. What would such items tell a contemporary visitor from Sardis (and us as well) of their owners’ attitudes, openness to the wider world, or, conversely, insularity or attachment to traditional ways? Unusual installations and items are now to be seen. A majority of the larger houses had stone-built corner storage bins, otherwise known only at Pontic and Black Sea sites.43 There were, as well, Pontic amphoras along with amphoras from Thasos, whose appearance may come from transport north to south, down the Sangarius River; neither type appears at Sardis, and both are almost completely absent in the Aegean at this time.44 The commodities that these imported vessels carried, coupled with what Shannan Stewart has identified as likely Pontic ware common in the early Hellenistic houses, show that Gordion’s residents oriented themselves more fully northward—perhaps a more natural direction now that the Achaemenid-era Royal Road was out of use (see chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin).45 Potters at or near Gordion now produced black-slipped vessels themselves, versions of the few Attic and Atticizing imports.46 Most common are fish-plates, shallow echinus bowls, and everted-rim bowls. Both bowl forms mirror traditional Phrygian shapes and functions, suggesting that, just as in the Achaemenid era, locals may have used new forms but largely maintained older habits at the table.47 This notion is supported by the wide array of cooking and utility vessels, which made up the majority of each household’s goods and continued to be made in long-traditional forms and finishes.48 Cooking pots especially were used to the near 40. Miller, Zeder, and Arter 2009, 920; Marston 2011, 199. 41. Thus analysis of zooarchaeological specimens in 1994 drew on 37,543 bones for the Achaemenid period and 13,116 for the Hellenistic; 10,587 of the Achaemenid-period bones and 3,115 of the Hellenistic-period bones were identifiable as to species. See Arter and Zeder 1994, tables 1, 3; see also N. Miller 2010, 61, 62, 71. 42. N. Miller 2010; Stewart 2010, 75; Marston 2012. 43. Wells 2012, 261; Lawall 2012, 224. 44. Lawall 2012, 222. 45. Stewart 2010, 72, 82 and n. 335, 84–85; pers. comm., July 2014. See also Lawall 2012, 223. On the Royal Road see Young 1963; Dusinberre 2013, 47–49 and refs. 46. Stewart 2010, 83; Berlin, pers. comm., 2017. 47. Stewart 2010, 86. 48. Stewart 2010, 86–87 and refs.



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exclusion of every other form of cooking vessel, especially casseroles and pans. From this Stewart wryly concluded that Gordion’s inhabitants were not enthusiastic about experimenting with their established Phrygian culinary traditions.49 To a Sardian visiting c. 300, such a scene would have felt familiar in its essence (although the unrelentingly dark-gray palette may well have been off-putting), since in that first generation after Alexander, Sardian household goods also remained essentially unchanged (see chapter 2). One new aspect was the manner of drinking. Only a few households owned ceramic cups, mostly imported vessels.50 More common, apparently, were elaborate molded glass vessels, primarily wide shallow phiales and deep calyx cups, both decorated with various Achaemenidizing combinations of rays, petals, almonds, or grooves.51 The majority were high-quality decolorized glass, probably intended to imitate rock crystal. Such items reflect the continuing influence of Achaemenid style and its imperial associations, although perhaps we should understand their appearance here as being filtered through the lens of the larger region’s new Seleucid rulers (see chapter 11). By the mid-third century, Sardians were also in sync with this cultural affectation—although their vessels were inexpensive, locally made ceramic rather than glamorous imported glass. The glass vessels suggest means, some acquisitive ability, and access to producers of the goods, also underscored by the sizable uptick in the number of coins now present at the site.52 The source of wealth, however, is a matter for speculation. The only evidence for local production of desirable goods is the continued production of items in alabaster, including seals and possibly also furniture attachments. The possibility that some wealth came in via local administrators is countered by the evidence of this period’s seals. There are only 12 in all: 7 in the local alabaster, 4 in another local stone, and 1 import, all excavated from domestic or industrial contexts.53 The alabaster ones are carved with simple linear designs; the other 4 local ones are apparently stamps for bread or pots; the single import is made of composition and shows the young Heracles. None show wear or other evidence of use. Unlike the 29 Achaemenid-era seals, none can be recognized as belonging to distinguishable persons or positions. Instead, they probably served simply to show that something was sealed, rather than being intended to link an action to an individual. If a Sardian traveled to Gordion anytime after the middle of the third century, perhaps the aspect that, more than any other, would have elicited a sorrowful headshake would have been the complete absence of a public place for ritual (see chapter 6, “The Temple of Artemis,” by Fikret Yegül). While residents knew something of the Greek language and some of the Greek gods early in the Hellenistic period, there is no evidence for temples, sanctuaries, festivals, or priests.54 Our visitor may nonetheless have been comforted to see numerous terracotta figurines of Kybele, in a style and with attributes very similar to those from Sardis (see chapter 5).55 At Gordion, four “terracotta deposits” include figurines of the goddess along with bustflower thymiateria and scores of ceramic dining vessels.56 These suggest that some inhabitants sponsored communal dining clubs, a practice also known from the Greek Meter cult. Such private or household rites 49. Stewart 2010, 169, 200. 50. Stewart 2010, 232–34. 51. Again I am grateful to Janet D. Jones for sharing her work in progress with me; see also von Saldern 1959; J. Jones 1995, 2005, 2009. 52. Stewart 2010, 72, 82n335. 53. Dusinberre 2005, 27. 54. Roller 1987, 103–9; Wells 2012, 244, 269. 55. Romano 1995. 56. Romano 1995, 66–70; see also Wells 2012, 245–51.

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may have surprised—yet also reassured—our visitor, especially the continued fidelity to a local deity in a time when other, imperially sanctioned cults had begun to receive royal largesse and attention. Conclusions In most of the telling visual ways, Gordion telescoped as a site almost as soon as Alexander left. Population plummeted. Administrative structures disappeared. There were no fortifications, no imposing gate house, no sizable public structures. The surrounding landscape was no longer a zone turned toward imperial interests. In the heady, urbanizing atmosphere that marked so much of the new Seleucid realm, including Sardis, Gordion was off the grid, very much a social and cultural backwater. And yet . . . the archaeological record shows that the disappearance of Achaemenid interests and administrative structures freed those who remained to couple their energies with their own desires, to map their lives in the ways they wanted. People moved onto the Citadel Mound, building modest individual homes directly over the magnificent megarons. They acquired various small luxuries and commodities from the Aegean and the Black Sea, carried down the local river rather than along the guarded Achaemenid-era Royal Road. Farming recommenced, on land surely now well-manured by a few centuries of passing flocks. The Galatians arrived and found it a good place to settle, at least until the advent of the Romans. Inhabitants no doubt continued to welcome the arrival of the hoopoes and storks every spring. It is worth wondering to what extent they would have seen their lives and circumstances as reduced compared with the previous centuries. At Sardis, an ongoing administrative position from Achaemenid into Seleucid times meant that there were always some for whom the city’s luminous past could serve as a useful feature of its present. Gordion’s knot, despite its mythic resonance, could be—and was—cut and left behind, one stroke ending the city’s utility in a larger sphere. As has been rather drily suggested was the case for western Europe at the end of the era of Roman domination, “the long-term effects of the dissolution of empire were dramatic.”57 Dramatic, yes, but the view from Gordion shows that it may not be so terrible to be on history’s sidelines.

57. Ward-Perkins 2005, 10. See also the differing histories of the great medieval pilgrimage sanctuaries at Walsingham and Canterbury, each of which had had an illustrious past but only one of which (Canterbury) was able to build upon its location, its charismatic and/or well-known leaders (e.g., Thomas à Becket), its excellent public relations, and its ongoing prosperity to continue as a site with political and economic significance through the centuries. I am grateful to Dr. Shirley Carnahan for drawing my attention to this analogy. For Walsingham, see, e.g., Janes and Waller 2010; Waller 2011. For Canterbury, see, e.g., Lyle 2002; for Becket, e.g., Barlow 1986; Duggan 2005; Staunton 2006.

rq conclusion

rq A New View of Sardis Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin

F

or the generations who lived through it, the long third century offered episodes of  worrisome political chaos, exhilarating new opportunities, and reassuring continuities. The material  remains described in the preceding chapters reveal some of the particulars and tempo of these episodes as well as the various ways in which Sardians responded to them. Taken together, they provide us with a new view of the city and of the lives of its inhabitants, a series of ground-level realizations that expand and nuance the older picture developed on the basis of the letters of Antiochus III inscribed on the Metroön parastades and the historical narrative of Polybius. Those textual testimonies, with their focus on one particular episode of Sardian history—the siege and recapture of the city in 215–213 BCE—led to the assumption that this was the pivotal moment in this period. The material remains, admittedly messy, scattershot, incomplete, and sometimes mundane, allow us to both lower and widen our gaze, encouraging us to balance individual episodes of political or military import with details and settings from the lives of people who lived before and after. In this new view we can see not one but, instead, multiple historical moments. The time of the King’s Peace may seem an arbitrary beginning point, since there is little evidence to suggest that this particular agreement had any specific effect on the city. It is worth noting, however, that from the vantage point of a Sardian, this affirmation of Achaemenid rule was likely also to confirm a sense— for better or worse—of an unchanging political order. After all, by 387 the era of an independent Lydia was almost two hundred years in the past. Generations of Sardians had lived and died under the Persian scepter. The situation of Sardis as the nodal center of the Achaemenid empire’s western territories is decisively reflected by the array of exquisite sealstones excavated here (see “Spotlight: Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion,” by Elspeth Dusinberre). These objects likely belonged to highly placed officials with close connections to the capital at Persepolis; the difference in quality and character between the sealstones found at Sardis and at Gordion emphasizes the elevated and imperial character of the Lydian city. One piece of telling material evidence shows that this imperial aura was felt not only by officials and elites but also by regular folks: numerous clay versions of the handleless, carinated drinking vessel known as the Achaemenid cup (see chapter 11, “Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens,” by Susan Rotroff, and chapter 2, “The Archaeology of a Changing City” by Andrea M. Berlin). By the 235

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early fifth century, this modest vessel had replaced the long-lived, locally made Lydian skyphos with high foot and horizontal handles. As Rotroff shows, a handleless cup requires a different drinking posture and so projects a specific sensibility. Choosing to use such a vessel suggests a willingness to be seen as a Persian subject. This acceptance came despite a fundamental displacement. We now understand that Sardis under Achaemenid rule was a city turned inside out. It seems that the old monumental mud-brick city wall was maintained and topped off with a brick superstructure, and the area inside it emptied out (see chapter 1, “Inside Out,” by Nicholas Cahill, and chapter 7, “The Hellenistic City Plan,” by Philip Stinson). Instead, people worked and lived outside their former city—in craft workshops northwest of the wall (Sector HoB) and in a dense neighborhood along the Pactolus River (Sector PN, on which see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids,” by William Bruce). Besides the regular use of Achaemenid drinking cups, there is little evidence from people’s home goods of the adoption of specifically Persian material modes. Instead, there is a strong sense of a continuing Lydian pedigree in the shapes and finishes of vessels for cooking and serving food, coupled with the adoption of two Ionian Greek fashions: small bowls for dining and molded antefix tiles for the adornment of private houses (see chapter 2 and “Spotlight: Continuing Crafts,” by Andrea M. Berlin). Persian rule and the introduction of a few Greek items notwithstanding, the city’s dramatic topography, surrounding landscape, and maintained cultic centers made it easy (and possibly also poignant) for Sardians to retain a strong sense of Lydian identity. In the Pactolus neighborhood the old altar to Kybele remained in use (see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls”). Further north, the long-venerated sanctuary of Artemis received two new constructions: a large stepped altar and a monumental sandstone base, with rows of dedicatory stelae inscribed in Lydian situated nearby (see chapter 1). Just across the Pactolus, burials both wealthy and modest continued in the old necropolis that rose above the river’s western bank. Ever visible when looking northward were the grand tumuli of Bin Tepe, reminders of an independent Lydian royal house. And as Christopher Roosevelt shows (chapter 8, “The Inhabited Landscapes of Lydia”), the desire to bury the dead in these traditional tumuli was widespread: over 600 tumuli have been identified in greater Lydia, with most constructed in the early to middle years of Achaemenid rule. A Sardian born in the year of the King’s Peace would quite reasonably have seen him- or herself as both a Lydian and a subject of Achaemenid Persia, residing on the far western edge of a vast imperial space. A little farther west were the Ionian Greek cities, from which came occasional goods, travelers, and soldiers—but, despite their proximity, not much else. Even in the early fourth century, Sardians remained mostly unseduced by Greek culture: they faced east. The imperial agreement would have contributed to the sense that the current shape of this world and this life would not be changing anytime soon. A le xa n der a n d A ft er For half a century—almost two more generations—that sense of stability will have remained mostly intact. Then, suddenly, the unimaginable: the Achaemenid army was defeated at the Granicus River, and, within days, a victorious Alexander was approaching Sardis. Both citadel and city were opened up to him: the citadel by Mithrines, the Persian satrap; the city by “distinguished Sardians” (see chapter 3, “Remaking a City,” by Paul J. Kosmin). Alexander was gone as quickly as he arrived, but the next fifty years were extra­ ordinarily unsettled and chaotic: perhaps three sieges and seven changes of regime, a number of large-scale battles fought in the immediate vicinity (see pl. 23), altogether “a politics of interruption.”



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What happened to Sardis, and how did Sardians react? Material remains give glimpses of developments in the city during these years, along with some clues to how regular folks responded to a world turned upside down. One immediate effect is certain: a completely new monetary system, with a different weight standard (the Attic tetradrachm), denominations, and images of new rulers and symbols; it was an “instantaneous, wholesale change” reflecting the sudden new “jostling at the top” (see chapter 4, “The Mint at Sardis,” by Jane DeRose Evans). That jostling meant the regular replacement of one set of precious-metal issues with another. To the man or woman on the street, handling one of these new coins—of Alexander, Philip III, Lysimachus, Seleucus I—instantly communicated the new political reality. Some secure evidence exists for new construction in the heart of the city, on the two elevated spurs jutting northward from the acropolis (Sectors Field 49 and ByzFort): a short stretch of one monumental wall and large numbers of oversized roof tiles found in the debris of a subsequent layer, along with small numbers of high-quality imported table vessels that suggest use by people of some status (see chapter 2). But more telling is the suddenness and insecurity of the evidence for construction up here within this fiftyyear stretch: an interleaving of wall robbing, building, unbuilding, and barely preserved, successive, shortlived floors cut through by new foundation trenches—an architectural frenzy that seems of a piece with the number of royal occupants and contenders for the city over these five decades (see chapters 1 and 3). In this same area, on the hillside below the spur of Field 49, the discovery of at least fourteen clay figures of Kybele attests to a shrine newly situated here, an honor for “a goddess who could evoke the kings of old, placed in a central spot to which Sardians had long been denied access” (see chapter 5, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center,” by Frances Gallart Marqués). The multiple clay representations of the goddess and her lion companion, in a size and material that invites touch and personal engagement, assert a Sardian sensibility. They provide a material balance to the coins, monumental constructions, and fancy imported table vessels whose presence in the city center speaks to new players and their effects. Perhaps these clay Kybeles functioned like a flag, making a claim of local ownership and cultural autonomy in the face of external and shifting political forces. On present evidence, the new Kybele shrine was a singular statement. During these fifty years, most Sardians will have observed the changing political landscape from the sidelines. As before, life continued in old places and set patterns in the Pactolus neighborhood and the workshop area outside the walls (Sectors PN and HoB; see “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls” and chapter 2). People ate from small bowls, served from traditionally shaped column kraters with old-style wave-line painted decoration, drank from Achae­ menid cups: all styles and modes retained from generations past. From below and outside, Sardians will have known that new people were in charge, seen new construction projects begin and begin again on the high terraces inside the city—but perhaps not felt the effects in their own day-to-day lives. The Pivot Mom en t In 281, after the battle of Corupedium, when Seleucus I and Antiochus I gained control of Sardis, Lydia, and Asia Minor, there would have been little reason for any Sardian to believe that this moment closed off fifty years of high-stakes contending. As before, new monumental construction arose on the high spurs below the acropolis (see chapter 2). As before, new coins with the new conqueror’s face appeared (see chapter 4). But in short order there also began projects with absolutely no precedent at Sardis, initiatives whose significant material import must necessarily have communicated to Sardians that this regime and this moment were different.

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In the heart of the city, on the hillside below the Field 49 terrace, the shrine to Kybele was dismantled and a Greek-style theater built in its place; a gymnasium was probably built nearby (see chapters 2 and 3). These structures remade this area of Sardis, transforming what had been the foothills of an elite upper city into a civic-oriented middle city (see chapter 7). At the same time, on the far side of the acropolis, in the venerable but architecturally modest sanctuary of Artemis, construction began on a colossal marble temple, “a gleaming white box” whose archaizing proportions deliberately evoked those of the temple of Artemis at Ephesus (see chapter 6, “The Temple of Artemis,” by Fikret Yegül). In light of the close dependencies and recent tensions between these two great cities (see chapter 10, “Ephesus,” by Sabine Ladstätter), it is unclear what this new temple meant for Sardians and Ephesians: perhaps, for the Sardians, competition and catching up; for the Ephesians, emulation; and, for the temple’s Seleucid sponsors, patronage and piety. All of these construction projects will have required a large labor pool, whose employment would have its own ripple effects, including the emergence of a new group of consumers. In the new middle city, probably in the vicinity of the gymnasium, would have been at least one stoa with shops. The mint now issued silver and, under separate administration, the so-called royal bronzes (see chapter 4). Silver would have been used by Seleucid officials to pay soldiers and builders, and by merchants to pay rents and taxes— but considering the multitude of bronze coins found in the Sardis excavations (especially those of Antiochus II, 261–246), all struck on a local standard, people may well have used them to buy goods, evidence that Sardians had begun to participate in a more fully monetized and market-based economy. The effects of this moment are perhaps most pervasively demonstrated by the abrupt transformation of the city’s urban layout. On the banks of the Pactolus, Sardians filled up the wells and abandoned the neighborhood; the workshop area outside the walls emptied out. People now constructed houses inside, on the city’s western and northern edges (Sectors MMS/S and MD2; see chapter 2). Inside their new homes were an array of different goods, all locally produced and so an attestation of supply meeting demand: two styles of plate in place of the small bowls for dining; two styles of drinking cup, including an elegant hemispherical form, evocative of the silver cups used by royals and elites, that signals commoners’ buy-in to Seleucid styles (see chapter 11).1 There is even a new shape of cooking vessel, the casserole, which had been in use for over a century already in the nearby Ionian Greek cities but only now appears at Sardis. The city’s monumental mud-brick wall, still intact and still in use, retained its demarcating function, both topographically and, probably, conceptually as well (see chapter 7). It will have communicated an array of messages: a reminder of long-gone Lydian glory; an Achaemenid-era border, now breached and reversed; an index of the sheer scale of Sardis, past and present. To an approaching visitor, it will have loomed in the foreground, setting off the unique, unmistakable contour of the walled acropolis—an ancient citadel, now with a remade, bustling city spread out below. I m per i a l Cr isis, L o ca l A ssert ion Seleucid control of Sardis continued, with substantial wobbles, for the next fifty years. Perhaps the enormous building projects sent a message of imperial stability. Perhaps life as a Seleucid subject felt as secure to a Sardian living c. 250 as life as an Achaemenid subject had felt to a Sardian living a century earlier. And when political troubles did manifest, material continuities may have reminded people of overarching Seleucid 1. A cup of this style in official Seleucid use appears on the rock-cut relief of Heracles at Behistun (Kosmin 2014, 163, fig. 5).



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authority and interests, and so mitigated some of the uncertainty. Upon the assassination of Antiochus II in 246, his son and successor Seleucus II kept the mint open and the coins coming (see chapter 4); and at some point between 240 and 220 the new temple of Artemis was dedicated, the culmination of an enormous effort inaugurated by one of the founder Seleucid kings and sustained by his successors (see chapter 6). In the latter half of the third century, the imperial tapestry was repeatedly unraveled and then knit back together, producing a series of high-level political and military encounters ripe for dramatizing (see chapter 3). The most famous, as noted many times in these pages, was the two-year siege of Antiochus III and his recapture of the city and acropolis in 213, narrated by Polybius. It is easy to understand why George Hanfmann, in the early years of excavating Sardis, saw this as the pivotal episode of the era and was on the lookout for illustrative material evidence.2 Now, after more than fifty years of excavation and study, we may see the siege of Antiochus, and indeed all the troubles that led up to it, from an enlarged vantage point. To be sure, it cannot be doubted that this event, with the earlier machinations of Achaeus and the subsequent punishments by Antiochus, will have brought alarm and worry to scores of Sardians, and probably also temporary displacement, destruction, and debt (see chapter 3). Yet, perhaps remarkably, there is little reflection of these troubles in the archaeological record, beyond a diminished number of coin issues and the possible temporary abandonment of the buildings on the elevated terraces below the acropolis (F49 and ByzFort; see chapter 2). In the new neighborhoods occupation seems to have been continuous (at least on present evidence). People even acquired new styles of drinking cups and serving vessels, indications of the revolving cycle of consumer demand and supply. One wholly new category of object appears in this stretch of years: bronze coins in the name of the city. As Jane DeRose Evans says in chapter 4 the local images on these coins “show us Sardians remembering, remaking, and advancing themselves,” while their monograms advertise the local magistrates who underwrote their issue. These coins (and other material remains) remind us of the importance of scale in thinking about history. From afar, we see episodes and can look for patterns to situate a particular place in a larger story. To those living on the inside and in the moment, history is instantiated by connections forged in that single time and place. For Sardians, buffeted yet again by another round of imperial instability, these coins were small material assertions of Sardian endurance. And, indeed, their minting continued—through the remaining years of Seleucid control, through the period of Pergamene authority, through a century of Roman rule, each coin reminding Sardians that “rulers were transitory, while place endures.” A S tory to B e Con t inued The fundamental gain of our Hellenistic Sardis Project has been a new periodization of the city’s urban history. It now emerges that the key moments at Sardis were, first, the still-mysterious de-urbanization of the intramural city, soon after the Persian conquest in the second half of the sixth century, and, second, the urban revival and likely poliadization in the second quarter of the third century. This strange story—the reoccupation of a long-abandoned city in the new mode of a Greek polis—has produced a tension or dia­ lectic in our evidence. On the one hand, there was an embrace or acceptance of the new Hellenistic world, its geographical and temporal horizons, and the objects that marked it. For many centuries Sardians had lived in close proximity

2. Hanfmann 1965, 4; for full discussion see Berlin 2016, 351–53.

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to the Ionian poleis, and relations between Lydia, its kings and satraps, and the Greek world were deep and multifaceted. Yet it was only under the Seleucid monarchs, with the rebuilding of Sardis in the middle quarters of the third century, that a comprehensive Hellenization of the city’s political institutions, cult, onomastics, foodways, civic spaces, and modes of social display is evident. While some of these changes must have been sponsored by the Syrian kings—the theater and the Artemis temple, for instance, and perhaps also the laws and constitution—many can only have been the combined effect of Sardians’ countless small choices to affiliate, emulate, compete, and self-fashion. “Hellenization” has, quite rightly, been much maligned as a unidirectional and totalizing explanatory mode, and we have learned enormous amounts from these criticisms. Yet, among other developments, its work on the ground is undeniable, and its timing and character suggest some real and significant connection to the ambitions or effects of the Seleucid empire. At the same time, we have evidence of the conscious evocation of the city’s pre-Hellenistic, even preAchaemenid, Lydian past: the architectural archaizing of the Artemis temple, with its Lydian inscriptions; the recollection of the Mermnad dynasty on the city’s autonomous coinage; the new egg-shaped drinking cups that resembled old Lydian skyphoi; the reuse and revival of older building materials, terraces, gates, and roads; perhaps even the continued burial in tumuli. This dynamic—the simultaneous adoption of international or imperial forms with a kind of selfancestralization—recurs across the Hellenistic Near East, certainly in the classic cases of Memphis, Jeru­ salem, Babylon, and Uruk. But our study of Sardis in the long third century also offers a compelling caution about such overgeneralization, affirming the highly specific circumstances, chronology, and significance of each community’s incorporation into this new world. We close our story—for the time being—in the aftermath of the battle of Magnesia, when Sardis had been handed over to the Attalids of Pergamum and the Seleucids expelled from cis-Tauric Asia Minor. In urban terms, the city was no longer home to a resident administration, garrison, palace, and other imperial institutions; in geopolitical terms, it was no longer a node directly connected to Syria and Mesopotamia. The loss or decline of civic and regional centrality must have had real consequences, even if these are archaeologically invisible. After all, the Janus city had lost one of its faces. But it is also clear that Sardis was not bypassed in the manner of, say, Gordion at the fall of the Achae­ menid empire: for Sardis was too important a city, its third-century redevelopment sufficiently successful, and its historical and economic significance too well established for such relegation. Rather, the city’s stature made it a meaningful chip on what came to be the new geopolitical checkerboard after the Peace of Apamea. It was a signifier of imperial power, worth having and holding, and with an evident potential for its political centrality to be revived—as, for example, when the Roman C. Sulpicius Gallus held court for ten days in the Sardis gymnasium to hear complaints against Eumenes II of Pergamum (Polybius 31.6). The architectural additions and cultural changes provided or catalyzed by the Seleucids had already transformed what had been an eastern imperial possession; the Attalids had only to be handed the keys to the city.

rq Sardİs’e Yenİ Bİr Bakış Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin, translated by Güzin Eren

T

his translation of “A New View of Sardis” is published in order to make the main conclusions of this volume more accessible for a Turkish audience.

qr

Uzun soluklu üçüncü asır, bu yüzyıl boyunca yaşamış nesillere, endişe uyandıran siyasi kargaşaları, canlılık yaratan yeni fırsatları ve güven veren süreklilikleri barındıran zaman aralıkları sunmuştur. Kitabın önceki bölümlerinde betimlenen kalıntılar, yalnızca bu dönemlerin detaylarını ve temposunu değil, aynı zamanda Sardislilerin bu zaman zarfında verdikleri tepkileri de ortaya koyar. Birlikte değerlendirildiklerinde bunlar, bir yandan kente ve sakinlerine dair yeni bir bakış açısı sunarken, bir yandan da Polybius’un tarihi anlatısı ve Metroön Parastadesi’ne yazılmış III. Antiochus belgeleri temel alınarak şekillendirilmiş köhne tabloyu genişleterek detaylandırmamıza yardımcı olan köklü farkındalıklar edinmemizi sağlamıştır. Sardis tarihinin sadece belli bir dönemine şahitlik eden bu yazılı eserler, şehrin MÖ 215–213 yıllarında kuşatılarak ele geçirilmesinin Sardis tarihindeki önemli tek olay addedilmesine neden olmuştur. Kabul edileceği üzere dağınık, gelişigüzel araştırılmış, eksik ve kimi zaman da alelade olan arkeolojik kalıntılar ise, bizi, müstakil siyasi ve askeri dönemlere ait dış alımları, bu dönem öncesinde ve sonrasında yaşamış insanların hayatlarının kurgu ve ayrıntıları ile dengelemeye teşvik ederek, bakış açımızı hem alt tabakalara indirgememize hem de genişletmemize müsaade etmiştir. Bu yeni bakış açısıyla kent tarihinde tek değil, çok sayıda önemli tarihi anla karşılaşmaktayız. Kral Barışı (Antalkidas Paktı) başlangıç için rastgele seçilmiş bir olay gibi görünebilir, çünkü bu antlaşmanın özellikle kent üzerinde önemli etkileri olduğuna dair az delil vardır. Yine de belirtmekte fayda var ki, bir Sardislinin gözünden Akhamenid yönetiminin tasvip edilmesi—iyi ya da kötü yönde—değişmeyen bir siyasi düzen algısı olduğunu doğrular. Neticede, MÖ 387 yılında, Lidya’nın bağımsızlığını kaybetmesinin üzerinden iki yüzyıl geçmiş ve Sardisliler nesillerce Pers asası altında yaşayıp ölmüşlerdi. Sardis’te bulunmuş bir seri zarif mühür taşının varlığı, kentin Akhamenid İmparatorluğu’nun batı kan­adındaki düğüm­sel merkezi konumunu mutlak surette yansıtır (bkz. Dusinberre, “Spotlight: Sealstones from Sardis, Dascylium, and Gordion”). Bu objeler, büyük olasılıkla Persepolis başkentindekilerle yakın bağlantısı 241

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bulunan, yüksek mevkiideki resmi görevlilere aitti. Sardis’te ve Gordion’da bulunan mühür taş­larının kalite ve karakterleri arasındaki farklılıklar, Lidyalı kentin ulu ve emperyal karakterini de vurgular. Emperyal atmosferin yalnızca resmi yetkililer ve seçkin kişilerce değil, sıradan halk tarafından da hissedildiğine işaret etmesi bakımından oldukça manidar materyal delil, Akhamenid kase olarak bilinen kulpsuz kaburgalı içki kaplarının sayısız kil örnekleridir (bkz. Rotroff, “Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens” ve Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City”). Bu gösterişsiz kap MÖ beşinci yüzyılın başlarında, uzun yıllar boyunca yerel olarak üretilen yüksek kaideli ve yatay kulplu Lidya skyphosunun yerini aldı. Susan Rotroff ’un belirttiği gibi, kulpsuz içki kabı farklı bir tutuş biçimi gerektir­ diğinden, özel bir tavrı yansıtır: bu kulpsuz içki kabının kullanılmış olması, halkın Pers tebaasına dahil olmaktaki gönüllüğüne işaret eder. Bu kabulleniş köklü bir yerinden edilme eylemine rağmen yaşanmıştır. Anladığımız kadarıyla Akhamenid yönetim esnasında Sardis kenti ters yüz edildi. Kentin eski anıtsal kerpiç suru korunarak, üzerine yeni bir kerpiç yapı örüldü; surun içinde kalan alan ise tamamen boşaltıldı (bkz. Cahill, “Inside Out” ve Stinson, “The Hellenistic City Plan”). Halk, önceki şehirlerinin dışında kalan, surun kuzeybatısındaki zanaat işlikleri (HoB Sektörü) ve Paktolos Nehri kıyısında uzanan yoğun bir mahallede (PN Sektörü için bkz. Bruce, “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids”) çalıştı ve yaşadı. Hanesel eşyalar arasında düzenli olarak kullanılmış Akhamenid kaseleri dışında, halkın Perslere özgü malzeme biçimlerini benimsediklerine işaret eden fazla delil yoktur. Daha ziyade gözlemlenen, bir yanda pişirme ve servis kaplarının form ve dekorasyonundaki Lidya geleneğinin güçlü devamlılığı, öte yanda yemekte kullanılan küçük kaseler ve haneleri bezeyen kalıp yapımı antefiksler gibi iki İyon modasının benimsenmesidir (bkz. Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City” ve “Spotlight: Continuing Crafts”). Pers hakimiyetine ve bir dizi Yunan ögesinin kabulüne rağmen, kentin hareketli topoğrafyası, genel doğal çevresi ve kült merkezlerinin olduğu gibi korunması, Sardislilerin güçlü Lidya kimliğini sürdürmelerini kolaylaştırdı (muhtemelen dokunaklı hale de getirdi). Paktolos mahallesinde eski Kybele Sunağı’nın kul­ lanımı sürerken (bkz. Bruce, “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls before the Seleucids”), daha kuzeyde, uzun yıllar boyunca hürmet görmüş Artemis Kutsal Alanı, büyük basamaklı sunak ile yakınında, üzerinde Lidce ithaf metinleri yer alan stel sırasının bulunduğu anıtsal kum taşı kaide olmak üzere iki yeni inşayı konuk etti (bkz. Cahill, “Inside Out”). Paktolos’un hemen karşısında, nehrin batı seti üzerinde yükselen eski nekro­ polde ölülerin defni devam etti. Kuzeye bakıldığında her daim görünür olan ve bağımsız Lidya soylularını akla getiren ise Bin Tepe tümülüsleridir. Christopher Roosevelt’in belirttiği üzere, ölüleri bu geleneksel tümülüslere gömme isteği oldukça yaygındı; Büyük Lidya’da altı yüzün üzerinde tümülüs tespit edilmiş olup, bunların çoğu Akhamenid hükümdarlığının erken yılları ve ortalarında inşa edilmiştir. Kral Barışı yılında doğmuş bir Sardisli kendisini mantıken hem bir Lidyalı hem de Perslerin geniş emperyal yayılımının batı kanadında yaşayan tebaasına dahil biri olarak görecektir. Biraz daha batıda İyon kentleri yer alıyordu, ki, yakın olmalarına rağmen, buradan, ara sıra gelen mallar, seyyahlar ve askerler dışında başka bir şey gelmiyordu. Sardisliler, MÖ erken dördüncü yüzyılda dahi, Yunan kültürüyle baştan çıkarılmadan kalmışlar, yüzlerini doğuya dönmüşlerdi. Bu emperyal mutabakat, dünyanın o günkü halinin idrakına ve bu halin kısa zamanda değişmeyeceği hissine katkı sağlamış olmalıdır. İ sken der ve son r a sı Yarım asır boyunca, neredeyse iki nesil süresince bu kararlılık algısı sürecekti. Sonra, aniden, tasavvur edilemeyen gerçekleşti; Peas ordusu Granicus Nehri civarında bozguna uğratılmıştı ve muzaffer İskender birkaç



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gün içinde Sardis’e ulaşacaktı. Kale ve şehir kendisine tamamen açıldı: kale, Pers satrapı Mithrines tarafından, şehir ise “seçkin Sardisliler”ce (bkz. Kosmin, “Remaking a City”) . . . İskender vardığı hızla kenti terk etti; ancak bu ziyaretin ardındaki elli yıl, olağanüstü derecede istikrarsız ve karmakarışıktı. Şehir, hep birlikte “sekte siyaseti” olarak nitelendirilebilecek, olasılıkla üç kuşatma ve yedi rejim değişikliği ile kentin hemen yakınında savaşılan bir seri büyük ölçekli muharebeye (bkz. pl. 23) tanıklık etti. Sardis’e ne oldu ve Sardisliler nasıl tepki verdiler? Maddi kalıntılar, bu yıllarda kentteki gelişmelerin yanı sıra, sıradan halkın alt üst olan dünyalarına karşı verdikleri tepkilere dair kısa bir bakışı da sunar. Hemen fark edilen etkilerden bir tanesi, tamamıyla yeni para sistemidir. Bu sistemdeki farklılıklar, ağırlık standardı (Attika dörtdrahmisi [tetradrachm]) ve değer birimleri ile bir anda gelişen “tepedeki çekişme” mefhumunu yansıtan “anında meydana gelmiş, büyük ölçekli değişim”in sebebi yeni yöneticilerin resim ve sembolleridir (bkz. Evans, “The Mint at Sardis”). Bu çekişme, değerli metalleri kullanan baskıların bir diğeriyle düzenli olarak değiştirilmesi anlamına gelmişti, ki sokaktaki erkek ya da kadınlar için İskender, III. Philip, Lysimachus, I. Seleucus baskılı yeni sikkelerden birini eline almak, yeni politik gerçeklikle hemen o esnada yüzleşmek demekti. Kentin kalbinde inşaat faaliyetlerinin yeniden başlamasına dair güvenilir deliller, akropolden kuzeye doğru uzanan yüksek iki tepede (Alan 49 ve ByzFort sektörleri) bulunmuştur. Bunlar arasında anıtsal bir duvarın kısa bir kısmı ve takibindeki çöküntü tabakasında keşfedilen büyük boyutlu çatı kiremitleri ile kentin seçkinlerince kullanıldığına işaret eden az sayıda, yüksek kaliteli, ithal seramikler (bkz. Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City”) yer alır. Ancak daha manidar olan, elli yıllık süreçte bu alandaki inşaya dair delillerin aniliği ve zayıflığıdır. Kısa zaman aralıklarında duvarların sökülmesi, inşa edilmesi, yıkımı ve yeniden inşa edilmesi ile bu yeni duvarlara ait temel çukurlarının kestiği, kötü korunmuş, birbirini takip eden, kısa ömürlü tabanlar, elli yıl boyunca birbirleriyle çekişen soylu sakinlerin mimari çılgınlığını temsil eder niteliktedir (bkz. Cahill, “Inside Out” ve Kosmin, “Remaking a City”). Yine bu alanda, Alan 49 terasının aşağısındaki tepede, en az 14 tane kil Kybele figürininin keşfi, burada konumlanmış bir mabedin varlığına tanıklık eder. Eski Lidya krallarını anımsatan bu tanrıçanın, Sardislilerin erişiminin uzunca bir süre engellendiği eski merkezi mevkide konumlanmış olması bir onurdur (bkz. Gallart Marqués, “A Clay Kybele in the City Center”). Tanrıça ve refiki aslanın çok sayıdaki kil temsilinin, dokunmayı ve bireysel bağlılığı davet eden boyutta ve malzemeden üretilmiş olması Sardislilerin duyarlılığını öne sürer. Bu figürinler, kentin yeni aktörleri ve onların etkilerine hitap eden sikkeler, anıtsal inşa faaliyetleri ve süslü ithal seramiklerle maddi denge sağlar. Kil Kybele figürinlerinin, dışarıdan gelen ve değişmekte olan siyasi güçlerin yüzüne karşı, bir bayrak gibi yerel sahiplik ve kültürel özerklik iddiasında bulunma görevini üstlen­ miş olmaları muhtemeldir. Mevcut deliller arasında yeni Kybele Mabedi, istisnai bir ifadeyi temsil eder, çünkü bu elli yıl boyunca çoğu Sardisli değişmekte olan politik çevreyi yine çeperlerden gözlemlemiştir. Hayat, önceden olduğu gibi, surlarında dışındaki Paktolos mahallesi ve işlik alanlarındaki eski mevkilerde ve önceden belirlenmiş düzende devam etmiştir (PN ve HoB sektörleri; bkz. Bruce, “Spotlight: Life outside the Walls,” ve Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City”). İnsanlar küçük kaselerden yemek yediler, geleneksel biçimde şekillen­dirilmiş eski stildeki dalga desenli kraterlerden servis yaptılar ve Akhamenid kaselerden içki içtiler; kısacası bütün stil ve yöntemler geçmiş nesillerden o güne olduğu gibi devam etti. Ancak, kentin dışındaki ve aşağısındaki Sardisliler, yönetimde yeni kişilerin olduğunu biliyorlar, yeni inşa projelerinin başladığını ve şehrin içindeki eski yüksek terasların yeniden iskan edildiğini görüyorlardı, fakat bu faaliyetlerin etkisini kendi günlük yaşamları içinde muhtemelen hissetmiyorlardı.

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Dönüm nokta s ı MÖ 281 yılında, Corupedium Muharebesi sonrasında I. Seleucus ve I. Antiochus, Sardis’in, Lidya’nın ve Küçük Asya’nın kontrolünü ele geçirdiğinde, bir Sardislinin elli yıllık büyük ölçekli çekişmeler döneminin kapandığına inanması için az sebebi olmalıydı. Önceden olduğu gibi, akropolden uzanan yüksek tepelerde anıtsal binalar yeniden yükselmeye başladı (bkz. Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City”), kentin fatihinin yüzünü resmeden yeni sikkeler basıldı (bkz. Evans, “The Mint at Sardis”), fakat kısa süre içinde Sardis’te daha önce örneği görülmemiş projeler de başladı. Bu projelerin girişimcilerinin büyük miktarda malzeme ithal etmiş olmaları, muhakkak ki Sardislilere bu rejimin ve içinde bulundukları bu zamanın eskisinden farklı olduğu mesajını vermiştir. Kentin kalbinde, Alan 49 terasının altındaki tepede yer alan Kybele Mabedi parçalanarak, yerine Yunan usulünde bir tiyatro, yakınına da olasılıkla bir gimnazyum inşa edildi (bkz. Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City,” ve Kosmin, “Remaking a City”). Bu yapılar, Sardis’in bu bölgesini, eski Yukarı Şehrin eteklerindeki seçkin bir alandan, kamu kullanımına dönük bir Orta Şehre dönüştürerek yeniden yarattı (bkz. Stinson, “The Hellenistic City Plan”). Aynı zamanda, akropolün diğer uzak ucundaki muhterem ancak mimari açıdan gösterişsiz Artemis Kutsal Alanı’nda, Arkaik Döneme öykünen boyutlarının özellikle de Efes’teki Artemis Tapınağı’nı animsatması gayesiyle tasarlanan, “ışıldayan bir beyaz kutu” benzeri, devasa mermer tapınağın inşaatı başladı (bkz. Yegül, “The Temple of Artemis”). Bu iki büyük şehir arasındaki birbirine yakından bağlı olma durumu ve yeni gerginliklerin ışığında (bkz. Ladstätter, “Ephesus”), yeni tapınağın Sardisliler ve Efesliler için ne anlam ifade ettiği belirsizdir; belki de bu tapınak, Sardisliler için rekabet ve arayı kapatma Efesliler için benzeme çabası, tapınağın Seleukoslu sponsorları içinse himaye ve tanrıya hürmet anlamına geliyordu. Bütün bu inşaat projeleri, büyük bir iş gücü grubu gerektirecek ve kentte yeni bir tür tüketici grubunun oluşması da dahil olmak üzere istihdamın yaratacağı dalga etkisini de beraberinde getirecekti. Yeni orta şehirde, olasılıkla gimnazyum civarında dükkanları ile bir stoa yer almalıydı. Darphane artık gümüş sikkeler ile ferdi yönetim altında “soylu bronzları” da denilen sikkeler basıyordu (bkz. Evans, “The Mint at Sardis”). Gümüş, askerler ve inşaat işçilerine ödeme yapmak için Seleukos yetkililerince ve kira ve vergilerini ödemeleri için tüccarlarca kullanılmış olabilirdi, ancak Sardis kazılarında keşfedilmiş ve tümü yerel standartlara göre basılmış sikkelerin çeşitliliği, özellikle de II. Antiochus’un (MÖ 261–246) tunç sikkelerinin çokluğu göz önünde bulundurulursa, halkın bu sikkeleri mal alımında da kullandığı düşünülebilir, ki bu da Sardislilerin artan oranda para üzerinden yürüyen piyasa ekonomisine iştirak ettiklerinin kanıtıdır. Bu anın etkileri belki de en nüfuzlu şekilde şehrin kentsel düzenindeki dönüşümü tarafından açıklanır. Sardisliler Paktolos kıyısındaki kuyularını doldurarak alanı terk etti; sur dışındaki işlik alanları boşaltıldı. Halk artık sur içinde, kentin batı ve kuzey kenarında evler inşa ediyordu (MMS/S ve MD2 sektörleri; bkz. Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City”). Bu yeni evlerde, tümü yerel üretim, bir dizi değişik mal bulunuyordu. Yemek için kullanılan küçük kaselerin yerini alan iki yeni tip tabak ile Seleukos soyluları ve seçkinlerince kullanılan şık gümüş fincanları çağrıştıran ve Seleukos stilinin sıradan Sardislilerce desteklen­ diğine işaret eden yarı-küresel formda bir tipi de içeren yeni iki tip içki kabı, arzın taleple buluştuğuna dair kanıttır (bkz. Rotroff, “Drinking under the New Hellenistic Order at Sardis and Athens”).1 Bu esnada pişirme kaplarında bile yeni formlar görülüyordu. İyon kentlerinde neredeyse bir asırdan beri kullanılan bir tip güveç kabı, Sardis’te ancak bu esnada ortaya çıkmıştı. 1. Bu stildeki fincanın Seleukos bağlamında kullanımına dair görsel örnek için, Behistun’daki kaya kabartmasına bakınız (Kosmin 2014, 163, Şekil 5’te resmedilmiştir).



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Şehrin korunagelmiş ve o dönemde hala kullanımda olan anıtsal kerpiç suru, hem topoğrafik hem de muhtemelen simgesel olarak sınır olma işlevini sürdürdü (bkz. Stinson, “The Hellenistic City Plan”). Bu sur, uzun zaman önce devrilen Lidya’nın eski görkeminin yadigarını, artık aşılan ve tersine çevrilen Akhamenid Dönem sınırını, Sardis’in geçmişi ve geleceği ile bu tarihin köklülüğünün dizinini temsil eden bir seri mesaj içerir. Sardis’e yaklaşan bir ziyaretçi için bu sur, göze çarpacak şekilde uzaktan belirecek ve tarihi bir hisar olan, ancak şimdi aşağısında uzanan, yeniden kurulmuş hareketli bir şehri bulunan akropolün surla çevrilmiş eşsiz ve apaçık hattını belirginleştirecekti. İ m pa r ator luk B uhr a n ı, Yer el İ ddi a l a r Sardis’te Seleukos yönetimi, sonraki elli yıl boyunca önemli sallantılarla devam etti. Belki devasa inşa projeleri imparatorluğun istikrarına dair mesajlar gönderecek; belki de MÖ 250 yılında Seleukos tebaasına dahil olan bir Sardisli, kendisinden bir asır önce Akhamenid yönetimine tabi yaşamış bir Sardisli kadar kendini güvende hissedecekti. Siyasi sorunlar baş gösterdiğinde, maddi kalıntılardaki süreklilikler geniş kapsamlı Seleukos yetkisini ve menfaatlerini anımsatmış, dolayısıyla da belirsizliklerin etkisini yatıştırmış olabilirdi. II. Antiochus’un MÖ 247 yılında öldürülmesi üzerine, oğlu ve halefi II. Seleucus darphaneyi işlevde tutarak sikkelerin basılmasını sürdürdü (bkz. Evans, “The Mint at Sardis”). Kurucu Seleukos kral­ larından biri tarafından başlatılıp haleflerince devam ettirilen muazzam bir çabanın doruğa ulaştırıldığı yeni Artemis Tapınağı, MÖ 240–220 yılları arasındaki bir zamanda adanarak hizmete açıldı (bkz. Yegül, “The Temple of Artemis”). MÖ üçüncü yüzyılın ikinci yarısında, bu emperyal dokuma işi tekrar tekrar sökülüp, yeniden dokunmaya başlandı. Bu durum, oyunlaştırılmaya hazır hale gelmiş, yüksek dereceli bir dizi siyasi ve askeri çarpışmayı da beraberinde getirdi (bkz. Kosmin, “Remaking a City”). Bunların en ünlüsü, bu sayfalarda da defalarca bahsedildiği gibi Polybius anlatısına dayanan III. Antiochus’un iki yıl süreli Sardis kuşatması ve MÖ 213 yılında şehri ve kalesini ele geçirmesiydi. Sardis kazılarının erken yıllarında Profesör George Hanfmann’ın bu olayı neden önemli bir dönüm noktası olarak görüp, belgelemek için arkeolojik deliller aradığını anlamak o kadar da zor değildir.2 Elli yıldan uzun süren kazı ve bilimsel araştırmaların neticesinde, III. Antiochus kuşatması ve buna zemin hazırlayan sorunları, bugün daha geniş bir bakış açısından görebiliyoruz. Bu olay ile birlikte Achaeus’un eski entrikaları ve Antiochus’un müteakip cezalandırmalarının Sardislilerin durumunda tehlike ve endişe yarattığından elbette şüphe edilemez; hatta bu olaylar kentte geçici olarak yerinden etme, yıkım ve borçlara da sebep olmuş olabilir (bkz. Kosmin, “Remaking a City”). Yine de, bozulmuş birkaç sikke ve akropolün eteklerindeki yüksek teraslarda yer alan yapıların muhtemelen geçici olarak terk edilmesinin ötesinde (F49 ve ByzFort; bkz. Berlin, “The Archaeology of a Changing City”), bu sorunlar arkeolojik kayıtlara kayda değer ölçüde az yansımıştır. Mevcut bilgilere bakılırsa, yeni kurulan mahallelerdeki iskan daha sürekli gözükmektedir. Hatta insanların yeni stillerde içki ve servis kapları edinmiş olmaları, tüketici arz ve talebinin etrafında dönen bir devre işaret eder. Kalıntılar arasında bu yıllara ait tamamen yeni bir obje grubu da ortaya çıkmıştır: kentin ismini taşıyan tunç sikkeler. Jane DeRose Evans’ın belirttiği gibi, sikkelerdeki bu yerel imgeler “bize Sardislilerin anımsadıklarını, yeniden hayata geçirdiklerini ve kendilerini geliştirdiklerini gösterir” iken, harflerden oluşan desenler sikkeleri imzalayan yerel sulh hakimlerinin de tanıtımını yapar. Bu sikkeler (ve diğer maddi

2. Hanfmann 1965, 4; kapsamlı bir tartışma için, bakınız Berlin 2016, 351–53.

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kalıntılar) tarih hakkında düşünürken bize ölçeğin önemini hatırlatır. Biz, uzaktan bakınca, zaman aralıkları görür ve bu aralıklarda örüntüleri bulmaya çalışırken, hususi bir mekanı daha geniş tarihsel bağlama oturtmanın yollarını ararız. O anda yaşayan kişiler için tarih, o hususi zaman ve mekandaki bağlantılar aracılığıyla somut hale gelir. Buna dayanarak, başka bir emperyal kararsızlık dönemi yüzünden hayatları bir kez daha harabeye dönmüş Sardis halkı için bu sikkeler, “Sardislilerin dayanıklılığının küçük maddi iddiaları” olmalıdır; hakikaten de bunların basımı Seleukos kontrolünün sonraki dönemlerinden Pergamon hüküm­ darlığına, hatta Roma yönetiminin ilk yüzyılına kadar devam etmiştir, ki “bu sikkelerin her biri, Sardislilere yöneticilerin geçici, mekanın kalıcı olduğunu hatırlatır.” Deva mı gelecek bİr hİkay e Hellenistik Sardis projemizin başlıca getirisi, şehrin kentsel tarihini yeniden dönemlere bölmek olmuştur. Sardis’in kilit anları, bugün, öncelikle MÖ altıncı yüzyılın ikinci yarısındaki Pers fethinin akabinde sur içindeki kent merkezinin esrarengiz şekilde boşaltılması ve ikincisi de MÖ üçüncü yüzyılın ikinci çeyre­ ğindeki kentsel canlanma ve muhtemel Yunan polisleşmesi olarak karşımıza çıkar. Uzun zaman önce terk edilmiş bir şehrin Yunan polisi olarak yeni bir usulde yeniden iskan edilmesinin tuhaf hikayesi, materyal delillerimizde hem heyecan hem de diyalektik yaratmıştır. Sardis’te, bir yanda yeni Hellenistik dünyayı coğrafi ve zamansal nitelikleri ve bu nitelikleri belirleyen objelerle birlikte kucaklama ve kabul etme durumu vardı. Asırlar boyunca Sardisliler İyon polis kentlerine yakın yaşamışlardı; Lidya’nın, kralları ve satraplarının da, Yunan dünyasıyla ilişkileri köklü ve çok yüzlü olmuştu. Yine de, Sardis’in yeniden inşası ile birlikte, şehrin siyasi kurumlarının, kült yapılarının, isimlerinin, yemek kültürünün, kentsel mekanlarının ve toplumun kendini ifade etme biçimlerinin kapsamlı şekilde Hellenleşmesi, ancak MÖ üçüncü yüzyılın ortalarında Seleukos hükümdarlarının yönetiminde aşikar oldu. Tiyatro ve Artemis Tapınağı’nın inşası ve belki de, örneğin, yasa ve tüzüklerdeki bazı değişimler Suriyeli krallarca mali olarak desteklenirken, değişimlerin çoğu Sardislilerin ilişki kurma, öykünme, rekabet etme ve kendi tarzını yaratma üzerine yaptıkları sayısız küçük seçimlerin bileşik etkisi olmalıdır. “Hellenleşme” tek yönlü ve genelleyici açıklamalar getiren yöntemi nedeniyle kötü eleştirilmiştir ve biz bu eleştirilerden dersimizi muazzam ölçüde aldık. Ancak bu döneme ait diğer gelişmelerin arasında Hellenleşmenin temeldeki önemi yadsınamaz, ki bu sürecin zamanlamasının ve karakterinin Seleukos İmparatorluğu’nun hırsı ve yarattığı etkilerle ciddi ve kayda değer bağlantıları vardır. Aynı zamanda, Lidya yazıtlarının bulunduğu Artemis Tapınağı’nın Arkaik Dönem mimarisine benzetilmesi, kentin özerk sikke basımında Mermnad Hanedanı’nın anımsatılması, Lidya skyphosunu andıran yumurta kabı biçimli içki kaplarının varlığı, eski teraslara, sur kapılarına ve yollara ait yapı malzemelerinin devşirilerek yeni yapılarda hayat bulması ve hatta ölülerin olasılıkla tümülüslerde gömülmesinin sürdürülmesi gibi, şehrin Hellenistik Dönem öncesi, hatta Akhamenid Dönem öncesi Lidya geçmişinin bilinçli bir şekilde hatırlatıldığına dair kanıtlar da vardır. Uluslararası ve emperyal formların kabul edilişini, atadan kalma ögelerle kendi ifade etme eylemleri ile eş zamanlı götüren böylesi bir devingenlik, özellikle klasikleşmiş Memfis, Kudüs, Babil ve Uruk örneklerinde olduğu gibi, Hellenistik Dönem Yakın Doğusu’nun genelinde de yeniden vuku bulur. Ancak bizim uzun soluklu üçüncü yüzyıla dair Sardis’teki araştırmamız, bu yeni dünyanın bünyesine dahil ediliş­lerinde her topluluğun ziyadesiyle özgül durumlarının, zamandizimlerinin ve öneminin var olduğunu doğrularken, aşırı genellemelere karşı temkinli olmanın zorlu çabasını da ortaya koyar.



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Hikayemizi burada, takibinde Sardis’in Pergamonlu Attalos Hanedanı’na teslim edildiği ve Seleukosların Torosların içinde kalan Küçük Asya’dan sürüldüğü Magnesia Muharebesi ile—şimdilik—bitiriyoruz. Bu esnada Sardis, kentsel bakımdan yerleşik idareye, garnizona, saraya ya da diğer imparatorluk kurumlarına ev sahipliği yapma konumunu, jeopolitik bakımdan ise Suriye ve Mezopotamya ile doğrudan bağlantısı olan bölgesel merkeziliğini artık yitirmişti; dolayısıyla kent uzun yıllardan beri kendini tanımlayan özelliklerinden birini kaybetmişti. Ancak yine de Sardis’in, tabiri caizse Gordion’un olduğu gibi, Pers İmparatorluğu’nun çöküşünden sonra göz ardı edilmediği de açıktır; çünkü Sardis, üçüncü asırda yeniden gelişimi yeterli düzeyde başarılı olmuş, tarihi ve ekonomik nüfuzu çok iyi bilinen bir kent olduğundan böyle bir küme düşürme işlemine tabi tutulamayacak kadar önemli bir şehirdir. Daha ziyade bu şehrin duruşu, kendisini Apamea Antlaşması’nı takiben jeopolitik dama tahtasında önemli bir pul haline getirmiştir. Yeniden diriltilecek siyasi merkeziliği dolayısıyla aşikar bir potansiyeli bulunan bu şehir, emperyal gücün elde tutmaya ve korumaya değer simgesidir, ki örneğin Romalı C. Sulpicius Gallus, on gününü Sardis gimnazyumunda halkın Pergamonlu II. Eumenes’e dair şikayetlerini dinleyerek geçirmiştir (Polybius 31.6). Attaloslara ise sadece, çoktan beri doğu emperya­ lizminin mülkiyeti gibi görülen ve Seleukoslularca sağlanan ya da tetiklenen mimari katkıların ve kültürel değişimlerin dönüştürmüş olduğu bir şehrin anahtarları teslim edilmiştir.

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Contributors

Andrea M. Berlin is the James R. Wiseman Chair in Classical Archaeology in the Program in Archaeology and Department of Religion, Boston University. Ruth Bielfeldt holds the Chair of Classical Archaeology at Ludwig Maximilian University Munich. William Bruce is a Visiting Assistant Professor of Classics at Gustavus Adolphus College and has been Senior Archaeologist at Sardis since 2012. Nicholas Cahill is the Director of the Sardis Expedition and a Professor in the Department of Art History at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Elspeth R . M. Dusinberre is President’s Teaching Scholar and Professor of Classical and Near Eastern Archaeology in the Department of Classics at the University of Colorado Boulder. Jane DeRose Evans is Chair and Professor in the Department of Art History and affiliated with the Department of Greek and Latin Classics at Temple University. Paul J. Kosmin is the John L. Loeb Associate Professor of the Humanities in the Department of the Classics, Harvard University. Sabine Ladstätter is Director of the Austrian Archaeological Institute and Head of the Excavations in Ephesos, Turkey. Frances Gallart Marqués is the Frederick Randolph Grace Curatorial Fellow in Ancient Art at the Harvard Art Museums. 275

276

Contributors

Christopher H. Roosevelt is a Professor in the Department of Archaeology and History of Art and Director of the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations at Koç University. Susan Rotroff is Emeritus Professor in the Classics Department at Washington University in Saint Louis. Philip Stinson is an Associate Professor in the Department of Classics and Curator of the Wilcox Classical Museum at the University of Kansas. Fikret Yegül is Distinguished Professor Emeritus in the Department of the History of Art and Architecture at the University of California, Santa Barbara.

Index

abandonment, of buildings, areas, and sites, 20–21, 23, 35, 49, 58, 65, 78–80, 139, 149–50, 195, 228, 238–39 Achaemenid empire: and Gordion, 222–28; and Sardis. See Persian Sardis Achaemenid style, 39–41, 43, 43 (fig. 1.24), 47, 51, 53–55, 210–14, 213 (fig. 11.5), 218, 235–37 Achaeus (pretender), 4, 27n38, 57, 83–84, 86–87, 89, 105, 140n7, 156, 186, 186n64, 239; coins and coinage of, 106, 110 Achaeus the Elder, 183–84, 186n64 acropoleis: Ephesus, 198; Pergamum, 167; Sardis, 11, 13–14, 14n8, 57, 83, 136, 167, 237. See also sector names; theater Aegae, 178; sanctuary of Apollo Chresterios, 176 Aegosagae, 158 Aeolis, 185 Afghanistan, 43 agate, used for seals, 37, 43, 225, 227 Agatheira, 89, 157n68, 158, 158n72 Agathocles, 76 Agesilaus, 222 Agoracritus, 124 Agreikome, 152n33 agricultural production: Ephesus and, 198, 199 (fig. 10.3); in Lydia, 151–55, 164 Agron, 112 Aï Khanoum, 80, 84 Akkadian language, 23, 81–82 Akkaya, 159 Akrasos, 158, 158n69, 158n72

alabaster work, 225, 231 Aladağ, 160n83 Alamandağ, 203 Alaman Gölü, 160n83 Alaylı, 160n83 Alcibiades, 88 Alexander (regional viceroy), 83–84, 184 Alexander the Great, 4, 28, 51, 65, 75, 101, 132, 137–38, 147, 151, 153, 192, 219, 228, 236; coins and coinage of, 98–99 Alexandria-by-Egypt, 83, 215 Alexandria-Eschate, 80 Alexandria Troas, 149 Algeiza, 152n33 Alibeyli, 157n68, 158n71 alignments, and sacred spaces, 180–82 altars: of Artemis (LA2), 93; fire altar, 24, 47n8, 156n56, 161; of Kubaba (PN), 24, 121; of Kybele (PN), 44, 44n3, 45–47, 122 (fig. 5.1), 236; neighborhood, 91n1. See also temples and sanctuaries Alyattes, 136 Amastris (wife of Lysimachus), 76–77 amphoras: Lydian wave-line, 51; Nikandros Group, 198, 199 (fig. 10.4); Pontic, 230; Thasian, 230; West Slope, 208 Ampsyra, 152n33 Amuq, 149 Anaitis, 162 Anatolia, 14, 23, 40–41, 66, 88, 121, 123, 132, 149, 158n71, 172, 187–88, 192, 205, 226; and Common Road, 202; 277

278

Index

Anatolia (continued) languages, 24; names, 78; religious practices, 95, 161; southwestern, 132; topography, 89, 191; western, 11, 121, 124, 146, 156 Andromachus, 184, 186n64 anta blocks, reused, 91–95, 92 (fig. 3.1), 93 (fig. 3.2) antefixes, 51, 55, 57, 61, 68–74, 69 (fig. 2.10), 69n4, 198, 236; “busy style,” 70 (fig. 2.11), 71 (figs. 2.12 and 2.13), 72 (fig. 2.14); Ephesian, 200 (fig. 10.6); heraldic animal, 74, 74 (fig. 2.17); “schematic style,” 72–74, 73 (figs. 2.15 and 2.16) Antigonids, 133; Ephesus and, 194–95 Antigonus I Monophthalmus, 76, 89, 133, 154, 157, 168, 194–95; coins and coinage of, 99 (fig. 4.1) Antigonus II Gonatas, 175, 183n54, 214n39 Antioch-by-Daphne, 80, 84, 103, 104n34, 107, 114, 202 Antioch-in-Margiane, 80 Antiochis (mother of Attalus I), 178–86, 186 (fig. 9.11); bronze statue of, 182–86 Antioch-on-the-Callirhoe, 80 Antiochus Hierax (usurper), 89, 105, 107, 184, 186 Antiochus I, 75, 77–83, 85–87, 89, 102, 134, 153n43, 156–57, 158n69, 163–64, 174–75, 183n54, 185, 214, 237; coins and coinage of, 103, 104 (fig. 4.3); and redevelopment, 79 Antiochus II, 80, 82, 84, 134, 157, 164, 183, 203; assassination of, 104, 239; coins and coinage of, 103–4, 104 (fig. 4.4), 114 Antiochus III, 4, 24, 58, 87, 89, 105, 106n47, 140, 140n7, 157, 161, 163–64, 166, 203, 235; coins and coinage of, 106–7, 107 (fig. 4.6); letters of, 13, 95, 159; siege of Sardis, 4, 13–14, 18, 20, 55, 57, 75–76, 79, 86–89, 107, 235–36, 239 Antiochus IV, 80n38 Antiochus VII, 101 Antipater, 76 Apadana reliefs (Persepolis), 70 Apamea-Celaenae, 57, 80 Apamea, Peace of (188), 4–5, 109, 161, 164, 166, 186, 203, 239 Apamea-on-the-Axios, 80 Aphrodite, 130, 201; sanctuary of (Ephesus), 200 (fig. 10.5), 201, 201n54 Aphrodite-Arsinoë, cult of, 201 Aphrodite Euploia, 201n54 apocrypha: 1 Maccabees, 101 Apollo, 26, 130; on coins/coinage, 103, 104 (fig. 4.4), 105, 105 (fig. 4.5), 106–7, 107 (fig. 4.6), 110, 112; cult of, 162–63

Apollo, temple of (Didyma), 135 Apollo Chresterios, sanctuary of (Aegae), 176 Apollonia, 158 Apollonis, 158, 158n72, 163, 182n50 Apollophanes, 158 Apollo Pityaenus, 163, 177 Apollo Pleurenos, 163 Apollo Toumoundes, 162 apsidal buildings, 45–46, 46 (fig. 1.26), 48 aqueduct, 141n13 Aradus, 204 Arcadia, 167 Archias, 168n12 Aribazus, 86–87 Aristodicides, 153n43 Aristophanes, 112, 192 Arıtası, 160n83 Armenia, 88 Arrian, 132 arrowheads, 22, 103, 103n32, 222, 222n6 Arsinoeia (Ephesus), 195 Arsinoë II, 142n18, 195, 201, 201n54, 216 Artabazus, 168 Artacabene, 80 Artaxerxes, 40 Artemidorus, 88, 202 Artemis, 26, 91, 123; cult of, 28, 161–62 Artemis, temples of: Ephesus, 135, 191–94, 201–2; Sardis, 4, 11, 24–28, 25 (fig. 1.8), 26 (fig. 1.9), 34, 65, 79, 84–85, 91n3, 132–38, 133 (fig. 6. 1), 135 (fig. 6.2), 138 (fig. 6.4), 153–54, 236, 238–39 Artemis Anaitis, 162 Artemis Koloëne, 161 Artemis kulumsis, 161 Artemis of Ephesus, 28 Artemis Persike, 162 Artemis Soteira, statue of, 201 Arvalya, 160n83 Asclepius, 188 Asia Minor, 4, 81, 87, 89, 104, 106, 124, 146, 169, 191, 195, 201n54, 202, 240; and Achaemenids, 5; and Alexander, 192; and Antigonids, 194; and Attalids, 188; ceramics, 66n29; and coinage, 110n67; and Galatians, 77; and Macedonians, 173; and Sardis, 7, 83; and Seleucids, 79–80, 88, 90, 105, 109, 134, 161, 237 Asianization, at Pergamum, 188 Asidates, 155 Aspordenon Mountain, 187

Index

Assus, 153n43 Assyrian Annals, 221 astragalos, 53, 54 (fig. 2.2) Astronomical Diaries, 81–82 asylum rights, 162 Athena, 169–72; on coins/coinage, 100, 103, 105, 105 (fig. 4.5), 106 Athena, temple of (Pergamum), 168–72, 169 (fig. 9.1), 169n17, 170 (fig. 9.2) Athena Alcis, 106 Athenaeus, 214 Athena Nicephorus, 188 Athens, 91, 140, 167, 205, 226; agora, 58n10; attack on Sardis, 46; ceramic development at, 206–8, 207 (fig. 11.1); independence from Macedonians (287), 206, 208; Kerameikos, 207n12; Parthenon, 135; and royal fashion, 215 Attaleia-in-Mysia, 158, 176–77, 177n38, 187 Attalidization, 186–90 Attalids, 4, 67, 117, 142, 160n84, 166, 185n62, 239; and Ephesus, 203–4 Attalid-Seleucid relations, 166–67, 174n27, 175–76, 183– 84, 183 (fig. 9.10), 185 Attalus I, 89, 105, 156, 158, 166, 183n52, 184 Attalus II, 158, 186n65 Attalus III, 4, 147, 187–88 Attalus Philetaeri (adopted son of Philetaerus; husband of Antiochis; father of Attalus I), 182–86, 182 (fig. 9.9), 183n52, 184, 186 (fig. 9.11) Attoudda, 152, 154 Auge (mythic queen), 188 Augustus, temple of, 141n14 Autophradates, 156 Babylon, 3, 76, 80, 83–85, 157; Ishtar Gate, 74 Babylonian Chronicle, 76–77 Balabanlı, 160n85 Balıkesir Plain, 163n106 ballista ball, 53, 54 (fig. 2.2), 55 Balltcıoluk, 160n85 Barsine, 168, 171 Bartaras, 169–71 Barutçu, 160n83 Basis Hoard (Sardis), 115 Basmacı Tepe, 148n17 Behistun, 238n1 bell krater, 208 Bin Tepe, 29 (fig. 1.11), 86, 236; necropolis, 61n16, 65

279

Birgi, 160n85, 161 Bithynia, 77 Boa, 184n57 Boeotians, 219 Borsippa, 80 Boulagoras of Samos, 88 boulē, 85 bowls, 51n2, 53, 58 (fig. 2.4), 79, 237; bolster-handled, 208; echinus, 56, 63 (fig. 2.8), 230; everted-rim, 230; hemispherical, 53; mold-made, 62n17, 67n29, 204, color pl. 15b; with rouletting, 63 (fig. 2.8) bracelet, 53n4 brazier, 47 bronze, used for coins, 98, 100–101 Bülbüldağ (Ephesus), 195, 197 bull, on coins/coinage, 102–3, 102 (fig. 4.2) bullae, 40–41 burials, 65. See also tumuli Büyükkale, 160n83 Cabyle, 104 Caicus Valley, 147, 151, 153, 155, 166, 168, 177–78, 187 calendar: Babylonian, 84; Lydian, 84; Macedonian, 84 Callias, 215 Callixenus, 215 calyx cup, 231 Cambaztepe, 160 (fig. 8.1), 160n83 Canterbury, sanctuaries at, 232n57 Çapak, 160n85 Cape Zephyrion, 201 Cappadocia, 77, 188 Caranus, 214, 217 Carian lewis, 91, 122n14, 132–33, 133 (fig. 6. 1) Cassander, 168 casserole, 57, 231, 238 Çataltepe E, 148n17 cave sanctuary (Kapıkaya), 180 Çavuşçeşme, 160n83 Cayster Valley, 88, 146–47, 150n26, 153n44, 155, 159, 160, 160n84, 161–62, 198, 203 Celaenae, 76, 80 ceramic development: at Athens, 206–8, 207 (fig. 11.1); at Sardis, 208–10 ceramic production: at Ephesus, 198, 199 (fig. 10.4), 204; at Gordion, 230–31; at Sardis, 57, 67–74, 209 ceramics: Attic, 205, 226; black-glaze, 47–48, 53, 59, 61; dearth of, 35, 238; diagnostic Hellenistic wares, 149; of Ephesus, 204; as evidence of change, 50–67; and

280

Index

ceramics (continued) extramural settlement, 51–54; Hellenistic koine, 205– 6; imported, 47–48, 53, 61, 205, 209, 226, 230; Lydian, 18, 21, 47, 51, 54; Pontic ware, 230; of Smyrna, 195. See also names of specific forms Cevaşir Burnu, 160 (fig. 8.1), 160n83 chalcedony, used for seals, 37, 39 (fig. 1.19) charax, 159 chiliarchs, 154 chorion, 159 Chronicle of Pergamum, 168n12 Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero), 202 Cilbian Plain, 159, 160n83, 160n84, 160n85, 161 Cimmerians, 18 cinnabar, 150n26 cistophoroi, 188, 204 Citadel Mound (Gordion), 223n10, 224 (fig. 12.3), 226, 229–30, 229 (fig. 12.4) city foundation program, of Eumenes II, 186–87 city gates, 14; Ephesus, 197; Gordion, 222; Sardis, 20, 79, 88 city treasurer (tamias), 85 city walls: Ephesus, 197; Sardis, 65, 238 Claudius (Roman emperor), 141n13 clay: local Lydian, 124; nature of, 121, 129–31 Cleitus the White, 76 Cleopatra (sister of Alexander), 76–77, 84–85, 168 Çobantepe S, 148n17 Cogamus Valley, 151, 155, 160n85, 162 coin hoards, 24, 102, 108, 115, 119; Basis Hoard, 115; Larisa Hoard, 116n5; Pot Hoard, 115 coins and coinage, 55n9, 62n17, 66n29, 83, 97–113, 182n50, 237; of Achaeus, 106, 110; of Alexander III, 51, 98–99, 237; of Antigonus I, 99 (fig. 4.1); of Antiochus I, 103, 104 (fig. 4.3), 218n50; of Antiochus II, 55, 103–4, 104 (fig. 4.4), 114; of Antiochus III, 106–7, 107 (fig. 4.6); of Arsinoë II, 216; Attalid, 188; bronze, 99 (fig. 4.1), 100–101, 102 (fig. 4.2), 103–4, 104 (figs. 4.3 and 4.4), 105, 105 (fig. 4.5), 106–7, 107 (fig. 4.6), 108–13, 110 (fig. 4.7), 111 (fig. 4.8), 112 (fig. 4.9), 115–19, 132, 204, 218n50, 239; civic issues (Apollonis), 186n65; civic issues (Ephesus), 195, 196 (fig. 10.2), 204; civic issues (Sardis), 55, 108–13, 110 (fig. 4.7), 111 (fig. 4.8), 112 (fig. 4.9); civic issues (Smyrna), 196 (fig. 10.2); with concave reverse, 103, 109, 114; control marks, 101, 104–5, 114–15, 115n3, 117; die studies, 118–19; of Ephesus, 48, 51, 65, 108, 108n55, 204; exchange networks and, 118– 19; found at Gordion, 231; gold and silver, 100–101,

103, 105, 115, 118–19, 132, 204, 238; of Lysimachus, 99–100, 111, 113, 237; at Mamurt Kale, 178; monograms, 100–101, 106, 109–11, 114–15, 119; of Pergamum, 63n19, 175; of Philip III, 98, 99 (fig. 4.1), 237; production of (see mints and minting); Roman, 28; “royal bronzes,” 238; royal issues, 98–107, 119, 204; from sandstone base in cella (Sardis), 132; Seleucid, 61; of Seleucus I, 33, 34 (fig. 1.16), 61, 101–3, 102 (fig. 4.2), 114, 237; of Seleucus II, 55, 104–5, 105 (fig. 4.5), 111; uses of, 100–101 Colophon, 198 column drum, 170 (fig. 9.2) column krater, 51, 53, 208, 237 columns, of temple of Artemis, 135 Common Road, 80, 88, 195, 202–3 control marks, on coins/coinage, 101, 104–5, 114–15, 115n3, 117 cooking pot, 230–31; as part of “puppy dinner,” 45 cooking vessels, 57, 238 Corinth, 208n18, 226 Coroplastic, 121, 130 Corupedium, 76; battle of, 102, 156, 157n68, 172, 198, 237 craft tradition, of antefixes and roof tiles, 68–74 criminal justice, 192–94 Croesus, 115, 191–92; palace of, 84n56, 140 cult practices: Anatolian and Greek, 95; bureaucratization of, 163; at Gordion, 231–32; Persianizing of, 161; Phrygian, 227 cup, 226; Achaemenid, 47, 51, 53–55, 210–14, 213 (fig. 11.5), 218, 235–37; calyx, 231; drinking, 56, 79; egg-shaped, 209, 217–19, 217 (fig. 11.8), 218 (fig. 11.9), 239; hemispherical, 56–57, 206, 210–16, 211 (fig. 11.3), 212 (fig. 11.4), 238; Kabeiric, 218; metal, 210–14; phiale, 217; white-ground, 226 cup-kantharos, 206 curses, 25, 151, 151n29 Cybele. See Kybele/Cybele “Cybele shrine,” 123, 130 cylinder seal. See under seals Cyme, 124, 175, 191–92 Cyriac of Ancona, 176 Cyrus the Great, 3–4, 18, 45, 221 Cyrus the Younger, 156, 162 Cyzicus, 77, 176n32, 178 Damascus, 80 Daplata, 152n33 Dareda, 152n33

Index

Dareioukome, 152, 155 Dascylium, 37, 152; stones from, 40–41, 41 (fig. 1.21) Davala, 162 Debt Law of Ephesus, 194–95 debt repayment, 195 decrees: of Antiochus I, 157; concerning Heliodorus, 95; Delphic, 67n30, 183; Ephesian, 194; honorific, 85, 154, 175, 186n65, 195; Iollas (Augustan), 187; Pergamene, 175n30; of the Sardians, 95, 95 (fig. 3.4) dedications: at Delphi, 221; found in Süleymanlı, 163; to god Papias, 163; of statue of Eumenes I to Athena, 185n62; to Zeus Seleukeios, 157n68, 163 dedicatory inscriptions, 169 (fig. 9.1), 170 (fig. 9.2), 171 (fig. 9.3), 182; of Antiochis’ statue base, 182–83; to Apollo Tarsios, 162; of Arkesilaos, 157–58; at Athena/ Malis, 170 (fig. 9.2); in Lydian and Greek, 171 (fig. 9.3); Pergamene, 168–72, 169 (fig. 9.1); of statue to Zeus Baratadeo by satrap Droaphernes, 188 Delphi, 67, 183n52, 187, 221 Demeter, 184n57 Demetrias, 83 Demetrius Poliorcetes, 76, 194, 214n39 Demodamas of Miletus, 80 dēmos, 85 design motifs, 55; of antefixes, 70, 70 (fig. 2.11), 71 (figs. 2.12 and 2.13), 72 (fig. 2.14), 73 (figs. 2.15 and 2.16), 74 (fig. 2.17); Egyptian, 72–74 destruction, 23, 55, 194–95; evidence of, 18, 22, 44–46 Didyma, 84, 135 diet, at Gordion, 230 Diginda, 152n33 dikeras, 216 Diodorus Pasparus, 187n67 Dionysus, 130, 142, 184, 184n59; on coins/coinage, 111, 112 (fig. 4.9), 113 Dioscouri, 201n54 “Dioshieron,” 161 Doidye, 158, 158n71, 158n72 donations, of Philetaerus, 175–76 Doyranlı, 160n85 drinking assemblage, 206–10, 207 (fig. 11.1), 208n14, 210n30, 213n38, 219; at Sardis, 209 (fig. 11.2), 227 drinking cups, 51, 53–57, 79, 83n46, color pl. 11, color pl. 14, color pl. 15a drinking practices, 205–19, 231 dual-dating formula, 153n44 Dümrek, 227 Dura-Europus, 84

281

dynastic marriages, 183n54 dynastic names, 80 eagle, on coins/coinage, 106 Early Iron Age, 22 earthquake (17 CE), 4, 18, 139–41, 141n10, 147 Ecbatana, 80, 80n38 Egypt, 43, 152–53, 201n54 Elbi, 160n85 electrum, 167 elephant, on coins/coinage, 106–7, 107 (fig. 4.6) Eleusinian Painter, 72 Eleusis, 140 elite complex, 14, 17 (fig. 1.4) elites, estates granted to, 153–55 engravers, at Sardis mint, 98 Ephesus, 84, 88, 103, 114, 142n18, 147, 160, 160n83, 160n84, 162, 191–204, 202 (fig. 10.7), 209; agoras, 193, 197, 204; Belevi Museum, 88; coinage of, 65, 108, 108n55; great theater, 67; harbor, 88, 197–98, 203–4; palace, 204; Prytaneion, 78; and Smyrna, 195–97 Ephesus-Arsinoeia, 201–2 epigraphy. See inscriptions Epiphania, 80n38 Eretria, Tomb of the Erotes, 85n63 Eros, 130 Esagila, 80 Eşme, 150n26 -espoura, 158, 158n72 estates, 148n14, 152–55, 164 Etruria, 226n23 Eumeneia, 67, 187, 187n67 Eumenes (adopted brother of Attalus), 183n52 Eumenes (secretary of Alexander; warlord), 76 Eumenes I, 89, 156, 158, 166, 175–76, 185, 187n67 Eumenes II, 156n61, 158, 158n69, 158n71, 163, 186–88, 204, 239 Euphrates River, 80–81 Eurydice (daughter of Lysimachus), 195 Eurydicia (Smyrna), 195 Euthydemus, 163 extramural settlement (Sardis), 14–18; and ceramics, 51–54 Ezida, 80 famine (Ephesus), 195 farming, at Gordion, 227, 230 farmsteads, 151, 159, 164

282

Index

feasting, 213, 213n38 festivals, 162–63, 187; civic festivals, 176; Dionysia, 187; Dionysia kai Antiocheia, 176; lack of evidence for, at Gordion, 231; Laodicea, 87; Nikephoria, 187; Panathenaia and Eumenaia, 67, 187, 187n67; Philetairia, 176; Ptolemaia, 215 Field 49. See Sector F49 fieldstones, as building material, 55 fill material, 60 fire altar, 24, 47n8; at Şahankaya, 156n56, 161 fish-plate, 56, 58n10, 59, 59 (fig. 2.5), 59n11, 61, 63 (fig. 2.8), 63n19, 230 forests, at Gordion, 228 fortifications, 13–18, 139–40; Ephesus, 195, 198; Smyrna, 195 fortified settlements, 155–61; types of, 160 (fig. 8.1) forts, 156, 159–60, 203 fountain houses, 46n5, 142n18 fruit stand, 53 funerary klinai, 70 Galatians, 77, 103, 156, 158, 158n71, 175, 176n32, 177, 183, 185, 232 garrisons, 28, 76, 81–83, 87, 119, 150, 155–61, 157n63, 159, 164, 177, 186 genealogy, of Attalids and family of Achaeus the Elder, 183–84, 183 (fig. 9.10) Gigantomachy, 184, 184n59 glass: bottles, 226; used for seals, 42 (fig. 1.23), 43; vessels, used at Gordion, 231 gold: used for coins, 98, 100–101, 103, 105, 115, 118–19, 132, 204, 238; used for seal rings, 37 gold mine, 150n26 gold refinery (PN), 11, 44, 44n2, 48 (fig. 1.27) Göllüce, 160n83 Gölmarmara, 162n95, 162n97 Gongylids, 168 Gordian Knot, 228 Gordion, 37, 220–32, 239; and Achaemenids, 222–28; after Achaemenids, 228–32; Building C, 223; Building G, 223; Citadel Mound, 220–22, 221 (fig. 12.1); houses, 222, 222n7, 229–30; map of, 223 (fig. 2.12); Megaron 2, 223n10, 225; megarons, 221, 222, 223, 223n10, 223n11, 225, 232; Mosaic Building, 225–27; Painted House, 223, 223n10, 227; public buildings, 223; residential districts, 225; seals from, 41–43, 42 (figs. 1.22 and 1.23), 43 (fig. 1.24); Yellow House, 222–23 Gospel of Luke, 118

Granicus River, 236 Great Altar of Pergamum, 187 Greenewalt, Crawford, Jr., 4, 13, 93, 220 Güre, 150n26 Gygean Lake, 29 (fig. 1.11), 89, 105, 148, 148n13, 154n49, 156, 161–62, 163n101 Gyges, 18 gymnasium (Sardis), 13, 79, 85, 87, 140, 140n7, 142, 142n17, 238 Hacıoğlan, 148n17 Hagnon, 194 Halicarnassus, 133 Halieis, 140 Halitpaşa, 157n68 Halys River, 88 hamlets (dependent villages), 151–52, 164 Hanfmann, George, 4, 11, 12 (fig. 1.1), 13, 18, 20, 23–26, 26n38, 47, 75, 83, 239 Hecatompylus, 80 Hegesias, 192 Hellenization, 3, 6, 79, 85, 162–64, 175, 239–40 Hera, temple of (Samos), 135 Heracles, 98, 142, 142n17, 187, 231; on coins/coinage, 98–99, 99 (fig. 4.1), 110, 112, 116 Heracles (Alexander’s son by Barsine), 168 Heracles relief (Behistun), 238n1 Heraclids, 121n8 herding, at Gordion, 227, 230 Hermes, 142n17 Hermus Valley, 3, 14, 86, 88–89, 136, 147–48, 155, 159, 160n85, 162n92, 168, 203 Herodotus, 11, 23, 46–47, 91, 112, 120–21, 121n8, 124, 203 Hero of Alexandria, 132–33 Hesychius, 26, 26n36, 170 Hierakome, 152, 155, 162, 162n95 hippodrome (Sardis), 79, 85 Hippolochus the Macedonian, 214 Hipponax, 170 historical geography, Lydian, 145–64 Homer, Odyssey, 112 homoroi, 173 household goods, 51–54. See also ceramics House of Bronzes. See Sector HoB houses (Sardis), 14, 19 (fig. 1.6), 22, 55, 57–67 Hypaipa, 152, 162, 162n94, 203 Hyrcanian Plain, 155n54, 158, 163 Hyrkanis, 89, 152, 155, 157, 157n68, 158

Index

Iasus, 142n18 Ibimis, 192 iconography: imperial Achaemenid, 39; of Kybele statuettes, 124–28; of Sardian coinage, 98–103, 105–7, 110–13 Idreus, 93 Ilium, 54, 84, 149 Ilos Mountain, 152, 154 Iloukome, 152, 154 imports, ceramic, 47–48, 53, 61, 205, 209, 226, 230 inscriptions, 13, 26, 66–67, 76–77, 119, 133–34, 140, 141n13, 142n17, 162n95, 163, 176, 186n65, 187n67; Akrasos/ Nakrason, 158n69; of Antiochus III, 24; Apollo Pleurenos (Yeniköy), 154n49; in Aramaic, 151, 161, 225; concerning Smyrna, 157n68; from Delphi, 187; from Didyma, 84; found in Taşkuyucak, 158n71; “Fountains List,” 142n18; funerary, 23, 151n29, 152n37; honorific, 66n29, 215; land-conveyance of Krateuas to Aristomenes, 151, 153; Lydian, 146–47, 151, 239; of Lysimachus, 201; of Manes, 137, 138 (fig. 6.4); mentioning Macedonians, 157n68; of Metroön parastades, 87, 93–95; Mnesimachus Inscription, 151–52, 152n32, 153–54; naming places, 149, 152, 162n92; from Pergamum, 166–67; Rhosakes (from Cayster Valley), 153n44; Roman imperial dedication to Metri Theon Lyeiei, 162n97; Sacrilege Inscription, 78, 85, 134n10, 193–94, 193 (fig. 10.1); from Sart Mustafa recording dedication of altar by Menophilus Menophilou, priest of Sabazius, to phyle Eumeneis and Zeus, 188– 90, 189 (fig. 9.12); from Sestos, 108–9; set up by “Macedonians from Agatheira,” 158n71; stele of Manes son of Kumli, 151n29; at temple of Artemis (Sardis), 25–28; in unknown language, 96 (fig. 3.5); from Yeniköy, 162n97, 163n101 intermarriages, 183–84, 183 (fig. 9.10) Ionian League, 195 Ionian Renaissance, 95 Ionian Revolt of 499, 20, 46, 91 irrigation, at Gordion, 227 isopolity, 176 Itamenes, 155 Izmir, 197 Jebel Khalid, 84 Jerusalem, 3, 85 Jewish settlers, 89, 157, 157n67, 159 Josephus, 89, 157n67, 159, 215 jug, 34 (fig. 1.16); as part of “puppy dinner,” 45 Julia Gordos, 157, 159n76

283

Kabeiroi, cult of, at Thebes, 218 Kagirlik Tepe, 14 Kanateichos, 152n33 kantharos, 51n2, 58 (fig. 2.4), 58n10, 63n19, 206; West Slope, 207, 217–19 Kapıkaya cave sanctuary, 180 Karabel Pass, 159, 160n85, 203 Karaburç, 160n85 Karaman Mezar, 175–76 Karnıyarık Tepe, 148n17 Katekekaumene, 162, 162n97 katoikiai, 89 Kayapınar, 155 Kecikale Altı, 160n83 Kel Dağ, 155, 161 Kemaliye, 151 Kemerdamları, 154n49 Kenger, 151 Kerkenes Dağ, 23 Khorasan highway, 80 Kilbian Plain, 152n33, 155 Kinaroa, 154 King’s Peace (387), 5, 156, 235, 236 Kireikome, 152n33 Kırmutaf Tepe, 148n17 Kızılcaavlu, 160n85 klēroi (military allotments), 151, 151n32, 159 Kobedyle, 158, 158n72 Kocamutaf Tepe, 148n17 Koloë, 152n33, 156, 161, 162n92 Kombdilipia, 152, 154 korai, 123 Kournoubeudos, 158, 158n71 krater, 61, 208, 208n18, 226. See also bell krater; column krater Krezüs Hastanesi (“Hospital of Croesus”), 159 Kubaba, 24, 91, 121–24, 130, 227 Küçükkale, 160n83 Kybebe, 120 Kybele/Cybele, 111, 123, 129 (fig. 5.6), 161, 181, 236; altar to, 44, 45; cult at Sardis, 120–31; marble relief of, 129–30, 129 (fig. 5.6), 131; shrine to, 58–59, 65, 237–38; statuettes of, 22, 58, 77, 120–31, 184n58, 231, 237 Labraunda, 93, 94 (fig. 3.3), 133 ladles, 210n30 lamps, 20, 23; Athenian style wheel-made, 47; Ephesian, 204; Lydian-style, 67, 124n22

284

Index

land grants, from Krateuas to Aristomenes, 151, 153; Seleucid, 159, 159n79 Laodice (wife of Achaeus), 87 Laodice (wife of Antiochus II), 84, 88, 134, 183 Laodice (wife of Antiochus III), 87, 142n18; letter of, 95, 95 (fig. 3.4) Laodicea-by-the-Sea, 80 Laodicea-on-the-Lycus, 86, 88, 183 Laodiceum, 87 Laodikeia, 186 Larisa, 182n50 Larisa Hoard, 116n5 Lasnedda, 158, 163 Lebedus, 198 lekanis, 34 (fig. 1.16), 61 lekythos, 51, 53, 74, 226 Letter of Aristeas, 215 lion, 111, 121n8; associated with Kubaba, 123, 127, 130; associated with Kybele, 120, 124–27, 129 (fig. 5.6), 131; associated with Mermnad kings, 121; on coins/ coinage, 100, 111, 112 (fig. 4.9), 113; Pergamene, 168; sculptures, 122–24 Livy, 89, 161 local identity, and civic coinage, 109–13 lower city (Sardis), 14, 29 (fig. 1.11), 36 Lycus Valley, 166, 168, 176–78, 182n50 Lydia, 4n4, 185, 213; boundaries of, 147; and cult of Sabazius, 188 Lydian (language), 137, 170–71 Lydian Altar: LA1, 24, 25 (fig. 1.8), 28; LA2, 25 (fig. 1.8), 28 Lydian culture: Pergamum and, 167–72; persistence of, 53–54, 65, 95, 137–38, 147, 218, 236, 239 Lydian fortification (Sardis), 36 Lydian kingdom, 191–92, 235, 239; annexation of Gordion, 221 Lydian landscape, 145–64 Lydian objects, in Hellenistic Athens, 205 Lydian palace (Sardis), 11, 13, 30 (fig. 1.12), 35, 129 Lydian Sardis, 13–18, 140, 167–72; and clay sculpture, 130– 31; and Kubaba cult, 121–24. See also Persian Sardis Lynceus of Samos, 208n14 Lysimachus, 77, 89, 101, 108, 142n18, 157, 160, 174, 194–95, 198, 201; coins and coinage of, 99–100, 111, 113 Macedonia, 77, 153, 213, 226 Macedonians, 149–50, 157n65, 158, 158n69, 158n72, 159, 173, 176–77, 186n65, 187, 208; places associated with, 158n72

Magnesia-by-Sipylus, 57, 89, 152, 157, 157n68, 158, 159, 163, 203; battle of (189), 4, 75, 83, 89, 156, 239 Magnesia-on-the-Meander, 203 Malis, 170–71, 172n23 Mamurt Kale, 169n17, 178–87 Manisa, 155 Mantartepe, 160 (fig. 8.1), 160n83 marble quarries (Sardis), 79 marriage: of Antiochus II and Laodice, 184; of Attalus Philetaeri and Antiochis, 184 Matar, 121, 227 Mausolus, 93; tomb of, in Halicarnassus, 70 Mecidiyeköy, 186n65 Mediterranean Core-Formed Bottle Groups I and II, 226n24 Medusa, on coins/coinage, 102, 102 (fig. 4.2) megarons, at Gordion, 221–23, 223n10, 223n11, 225, 232 Melissa, 88 Memnon, 77 Memphis, 3 Mên, 161–62 Menander (satrap of Lydia), 76, 151n30 Menippos Phaniou, 166n5 Menophilus, 188–90 mercenaries, 155, 176 merchants: Italian, 204; Lydian, 191–92 Mermnad dynasty, 3, 112, 121, 124, 130, 167, 239 Mernouphyta, 158, 187 Merv, 80 Mesogis Mountains, 158 Mesopotamia, 74, 157, 203 metalwork, 20, 150n26, 210–14, 225; associated with Kubaba, 123; Lydian, 213 Meter, 184, 184n59, 227; cult of, 231 Meter Plastene, 161 Meter Sardiane, 184 Meter Theon Aspordene, 184–85; sanctuary of (Mamurt Kale), 178–86, 178 (fig. 9.4), 179 (figs. 9.5 and 9.6), 180 (fig. 9.7), 187 Metroön, 4, 85, 87, 89, 91–96; parastades, 87, 93–95, 235 Metropolis, 203 Midas City, 227 Miletus, 23, 76–77 military settlements, 152, 155–61, 157n62, 164, 175–76 mining, 150n26 mints and minting, 118–19, 238–39; Apollonis, 186n65; assignment of a mint, 114–15; Ephesus, 195, 196 (fig. 10.2), 204; inception of, 55n9; officials (Sardis),

Index

116–17; output of, 118; Pergamum, 168, 174–75; Sardis, 55, 66n29, 83, 86, 97–113, 110 (fig. 4.7), 111 (fig. 4.8), 112 (fig. 4.9); Smyrna, 195, 196 (fig. 10.2) Mithrines (Persian satrap), 75, 236 Mitridastas, son of Mitratas, 25–26 Molon (usurper), 87 monograms, on coins/coinage, 100–101, 106, 109–11, 114– 15, 119 Mosaic Building, at Gordion, 225, 227 Moschakome, 152, 158 Mostene, 158 Mother Goddess, 161–62 Mound 2. See Sector MD2 Mount Karasis, 84 Mylasa, 133 Mysia, 185 Mysomakedones, 158, 158n72 Mysotimolos, 158 Nabonidus Chronicle, 4n4 Nagrioa, 154 Nakrason, 158, 158n69, 158n72 names, Sardian, on Sacrilege Inscription, 78 naming, and Seleucid urbanism, 80 necropolis, 85, 136, 236; Bin Tepe, 61n16, 65; ring necropolis, 201, 201n55 neighborhoods (Sardis), 14, 20–21, 239; north side, 55–57; west side, 55–57, 55n8, 56 (fig. 2.3), 61, 74. See also Pactolus neighborhood; Sector PN neighborliness, 166, 172–74, 182 Neo-Babylonian style, 43, 43 (fig. 1.24) Nicanor, 163, 194 Nikandros Group, 198, 199 (fig. 10.4) Nike, on coins/coinage, 100, 103 Nisibis, 80 Northeast Wadi, 14, 21 Nymphis, 77 Oauroa, 152n33 occupation gaps, 22–23, 34, 78–79 occupation patterns, 20–23, 44–49 Oekrada, 152n33 official residence, Seleucid, Sardis as, 134 officials, 83–84, 154; estates granted to, 153–55 oinochoe, 59, 208, 226 Orontes (satrap), 168, 168n12 Ortygia, 201–2, 202 (fig. 10.7) ovens, 47; round, 30 (fig. 1.12); tanur, 61

285

Pactolus neighborhood, 51, 52 (fig. 2.1), 53, 54 (fig. 2.2), 61, 65, 69, 236–37; abandonment of, 55; altar to Kubaba, 24, 121; ceramic deposit from, 51–53, 52 (fig. 2.1), 54 (fig. 2.2); residential compounds, 47, 48 (fig. 1.27); shrine of Kybele, 58–59, 65, 120, 237–38 Pactolus River, 3, 11, 13–14, 21, 35, 122, 136, 142n19, 167 paideia, 85 Painted House (Gordion), 223, 223n10, 227 Painters of Group G, 72 Palaimagnesia, 157, 157n68 Palankaya, 159 palatial center/palatial complex: Lydian-era, at Sardis, 14, 17 (fig. 1.5), 22, 124, 129; Seleucid-era, at Sardis, 84 Pamukçu, 163n106 Panayırdağ (Ephesus), 195, 197–98, 201 Pantheotai, 163 pan tiles, 61n16, 69 Papias, 163 Parthia, 114 Pasargadae, 80 patrons, for civic coinage, 109 Pausanias, 152, 161–62 Pella, 83 Penthesileia Painter, 226 Perdiccas, 76, 194 perfume bottle, West Slope, 61. See also unguentaria Pergamum, 83, 86, 89, 105, 187, 203, 209, 239; chronicle of, 168n12; Lydian presence in, 171, 171n21; and Sardis, 165–90 Periasasostra, 152, 154 periodization, 239 peripolion, 159 Persepolis, 39n3, 40, 80, 228n31, 228n33; Apadana reliefs, 70, 210 Persepolis Fortification Archive, 39n3, 228 Persianizing, of cult practices, 161 Persians: in Gordion, 221, 225; in Lydia, 150, 155n54, 156, 157n68, 162 Persian Sardis, 5, 13, 18–28, 37–39, 235–36; and ceramic evidence, 51–54; city core, 21–23; and extramural settlement, 44–49; sanctuaries, 23–28; suburbs, 20–21 phiale, 231 Phila (daughter of Antiochus I), 183n54 Philadelphia, 158, 158n72, 162 Philetaerus, 165, 168, 169n17, 171–72, 174–76, 176n32, 178, 184n57; religious policy, 180–82 Philip (philos of Antigonus Monophthalmus), 76 Philip III, 101; coins and coinage of, 98, 99 (fig. 4.1)

286

Philip V, 106, 162 Philomelids, 174 Philoxenos, 192 Phoenix (general), 76 phrourion, 159 Phrygia, 76, 88, 121, 157, 163, 168, 174, 220–22 Phrygian bird of prey, associated with Matar, 227 Phrygian culture, persistence of, 230–31 Phrygian kings, 220–21 Phrygius Valley, 162 Phygela, 77 phyle Eumeneis, 187 Phyrites Valley, 160n85 Pidasus Valley, 155n54 Pindarus (tyrant), 191 Pissouthnes, 156 Pitane, 175 pitchers, 208, 210n30 Pityaia, 163 plan: of Lydian Sardis, 12 (fig. 1.1); of Sector MMS in Lydian and Persian periods, 15 (fig. 1.2); of temple of Artemis, 26 (fig. 1.9), 136 (fig. 6.3) plaster molds, 128 plates, 55–56, 79, 238 Plazeira, 158n71 Pliny the Elder, 84n56 Plutarch, 24, 120–21 poleis, 66, 78, 117, 121; Apollonis as, 186–87, 186n65; Athens as, 205; attachment of estates to, 153, 153n43; and issuance of civic coinage, 116–17; military settlements as, 159; Pergamum as, 168, 168n12; Sardis as, 86–87, 168; and siege of Antiochus III, 86–87 poliadization, 79, 83, 166n2, 239 Polyaenus, 76, 192 Polybius, 4, 58, 86, 140, 140n7, 158, 191, 235, 239 Porphyry, 89 Pot Hoard (Sardis), 115 potters, traveling, 206 pottery. See ceramics Prepelaus, 76 prestige, 202; prestige location, 62, 77 Priene, 194 prytaneion, 85 Ps.-Aristotle, 101 Ptolemies, and Ephesus, 203 Ptolemy Ceraunus, 77 Ptolemy II, 102, 201n54, 215 Ptolemy III, 105

Index

“Puppy dinners,” 45 Pygela, 202 (fig. 10.7) Pyramid Tomb, 85n63 Qλdãns, 26 rebuilding, 18–20, 29, 46, 139 redevelopment, Antiochus I and, 79 red-figure vases, 70, 72 regional capital, Seleucid-era Sardis as, 206, 219 resettlement, of abandoned settlements, 80 reurbanization, 78–83 reuse, of building materials, 29, 33 (fig. 1.15), 34, 91, 122, 139, 228; anta blocks, 91–95, 92 (fig. 3.1), 93 (fig. 3.2) Rhea, 123 Rhodes, 226 rhyton, Attic, 226 ring necropolis, 201, 201n55 ritual deposits, 198 ritual places, 161–63 roads, 20, 140; east-west, 142n19. See also Common Road; Royal Road Rock Crevice Temple (Ephesus), 198–201, 200 (fig. 10.5) rock-reliefs (Akpınar), 161 Roman arches, 20 Roman-Syrian War, 191 Rome, 167 roof tiles, 34, 48, 51, 52 (fig. 2.1), 59–60, 60 (fig. 2.6), 61, 62 (fig. 2.7), 63, 64 (fig. 2.9), 68–74, 79, 237; Pergamene, 167–68 royal archive, 83–84 royal banquet, Hellenistic, 213–14, 213n38 royal cult: Attalid, 188; Seleucid, 163 royal gift giving, 213–16 royal grants, of estates, 148n14, 152–55 royal portrait, Ptolemaic, 212 (fig. 11.4), 215, 216 (fig. 11.7) Royal Road, 88, 195, 202–3, 230 royal women, 77. See also names of individuals ruler cult, 87 Sabazius, 188 Sabuncu Beli pass, 155 sacred geography, 161–63 sacred spaces, and alignments, 180–82 sacred spring, 161 sacrifices, 87 Şahankaya, 155, 159, 159n76, 161 Salamis, Cyprus, royal tombs at, 72

Index

Salihli, 162n95 Saltroukome, 152n33 Samothrace, 84, 201n54 sanctuaries. See temples and sanctuaries Sarıçam, 162n95 Sart Mustafa, 45 (fig. 1.25), 188 Satala, 158 Saw, the (Sardis), 86 Sazköy, 162n97 Scopas, statue group by, 201 seals, 227, 227n27, 231; cylinder, 37, 38 (fig. 1.18), 225, 227; cylindrical squat stamps, 37; glass, 42 (fig. 1.23); from Gordion, 41–43, 42 (figs. 1.22 and 1.23), 43 (fig. 1.24); language used on, 41; personal names used on, 40–41; pyramidal stamp, 37, 38 (fig. 1.18), 39 (fig. 1.19); ring, 37, 38 (fig. 1.18); royal name, 40; as status indicator, 39; suspended, 37; weight-shaped, 38 (fig. 1.18); worn on body, 39 sealstones, 37–43, 235; from Sardis, 37–39, 38 (figs. 1.17 and 1.18), 39 (fig. 1.19), 40 (fig. 1.20) Sector AcN (Acropolis North), 14, 17 (figs. 1.4 and 1.5) Sector ByzFort (Byzantine Fortress), 14, 17 (fig. 1.5), 22, 28–30, 29 (fig. 1.11), 34, 36, 57, 63, 63 (fig. 2.8), 64 (fig. 2.9), 237, 239 Sector CW6, 18 Sector F49 (Field 49), 14, 16 (fig. 1.3), 17 (fig. 1.5), 18, 22, 28–33, 30 (fig. 1.12), 32 (fig. 1.14), 33 (fig. 1.15), 34, 36, 57, 59–62, 60 (fig. 2.6), 62 (fig. 2.7), 74, 77, 79, 237, 239; aerial view of central trench, 31 (fig. 1.13); platform, 32 (fig. 1.14); Wall 99, 60 (fig. 2.6); Wall 131, 60 (fig. 2.6) Sector F55 (Field 55), 36 Sector HoB (House of Bronzes), 20–21, 35, 44–45, 51, 68, 69 (fig. 2.10), 79, 140, 237; abandonment of, 55; Building C, 68, 69 (fig. 2.10); “Lydian Trench,” 11; tombs at, 79 Sector MD2 (Mound 2), 18, 20, 36, 55–57, 238 Sector MMS, 13, 18–20, 36, 44, 218n48; plan of, in Lydian and Persian periods, 15 (fig. 1.2) Sector MMS-I, 14n11 Sector MMS/N, 18 Sector MMS/S, 18, 44, 51, 55–57, 55n8, 61, 68, 74, 238 Sector PC, 11 Sector PN (Pactolus North), 20–21, 24, 35, 44–49, 45 (fig. 1.25), 51, 54 (fig. 2.2), 68, 79, 91n1, 115, 236–37; abandonment of, 55; altar of Kybele at, 122 (fig. 5.1); destruction levels at, 13; and extramural settlement, 44–49; gold refinery at, 11; Southern Well, 46n5,

287

48n11, 49, 53, 54 (fig. 2.2), 55. See also Pactolus neighborhood Sector ThSt, 18 Selçiklı, 176 Seleucia-in-Pieria, 80, 104n34, 114 Seleucia-on-the-Eulaeus (Susa), 80, 84, 88 Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, 80, 83–84, 87, 104n34, 114, 117 Seleucid-Attalid relations, 166–67, 174n27, 175–76, 183– 84, 183 (fig. 9.10), 185 Seleucid colonies, 89 Seleucids, 4, 137–38, 140, 155n54, 156, 158, 160, 166, 183, 203, 206, 237–39; and temple of Artemis, 134–38 Seleucid Tetrapolis, 203 Seleucus (son of Antiochus I), 163 Seleucus I, 76–77, 79–80, 87, 89, 134, 157n68, 164, 172, 174, 177n40, 183, 194, 237; assassination of, 79; coins and coinage of, 61, 100–103, 102 (fig. 4.2), 114 Seleucus II, 186, 239; coins and coinage of, 104–5, 105 (fig. 4.5), 111 Seleucus III, 106 settlement (Sardis): extramural, 20–21, 44–49, 55, 65, 78–79; fortified, 203; Hellenistic expansion of, 149– 50; inside fortifications, 20; intramural, 55–57; new, 149; rural, 150 settlement patterns, 146, 150–51, 155–56; Hellenistic, 149– 56; rural, 203 settlements for agricultural production, 151–55. See also farmsteads shops, royally constructed, 79 shrine to Kybele (Sardis), 58–59, 65, 120, 128–29, 237–38 Sia, 152n33 Sibloe, 158n71 siege of Sardis (Antiochus III), 4, 13–14, 18, 20, 55, 57, 75–76, 79, 86–89, 107, 235–36, 239 signaling, as means of long-distance communication, 160–61 silver: used for coins, 98, 100–101, 103, 105, 115, 118–19, 132, 204, 238; used for tableware, 56, 70, 213–14, 214 (fig. 11.6), 215, 238 Simonides of Magnesia-by-Sipylus, 87 sites, numbers of, across Lydia, 148–50 skyphos, 51, 53–55, 214, 217–18, 236, 239; as part of “puppy dinner,” 45 Smyrna, 23, 155, 157, 201n54, 203; and Ephesus, 195–97; as harbor city, 191–92; Old Smyrna, 152 snakes, 188; associated with Kubaba, 123 Soma Pass, 177 Sotades Painter, 226

288

Index

Soteira, 176 Sparda (satrapy), 192 Sparta, 226 sponsorship, Philetaerus and, 174 stadium (Sardis), 141, 141n12 standard of living, 57 statue base, 185n62; of Antiochis, 182–86, 182 (fig. 9.9); of Attalus I, 186 (fig. 9.11) statues, 20; of Antiochus III, 166; of Artemis sanctuary, 28; of Artemis Soteira, 201; bronze statue, dedicated in Athens and displayed at Sardis, 120; bronze statue of Antiochis, 182–86; early Hellenistic, 183; group by Scopas, 201; of Nikeso from Priene, 183; of Zeus, 27n38; of Zeuxis, 166 statuettes: of Kybele, 22, 58, 77, 120–31, 125 (fig. 5.2), 126 (figs. 5.3 and 5.4), 127 (fig. 5.5), 184n58; at Mamurt Kale, 178, 182n50 stele, 27 (fig. 1.10), 84, 151; dedicatory, 177, 236; from Didyma, 134; from Kemerdamları, 163n101; of Manes son of Kumli, 151n29; Two Goddess Relief, 123–24 stele bases, 25–28, 25 (fig. 1.8) stoa (Sardis), 79, 87 “Stone Circle,” 20 stones, from Dascylium, 40–41, 41 (fig. 1.21) storage bins, 230 Strabo, 82–83, 155n54, 157n68, 161–62, 165, 174, 177n38, 183, 183n52, 185, 187, 195, 201–2 Stratonice (wife of Seleucus I and Antiochus I), 77, 79, 82, 85, 175, 188 Stratonikeia, 158, 158n69, 177 street system, 14, 36; Ephesus, 197, 201 structures, at Sardis: Building C, 20; Building Q, 25, 28; gymnasium, 13, 79, 85, 87, 140, 140n7, 142, 142n17, 238; hippodrome, 79, 85; houses, 14, 19 (fig. 1.6), 22; synagogue, 24, 87, 89, 91, 92 (fig. 3.1), 95, 96 (fig. 3.5), 122 suburbs, of Persian Sardis, 20–21 Sulpicius Gallus, C., 239 Susa (Seleucia-on-the-Eulaeus), 80, 84, 88 synagogue (Sardis), 24, 87, 89, 91, 92 (fig. 3.1), 95, 96 (fig. 3.5), 122 synoikismos, 87, 149, 158 Syracuse, 83 Syria, 203–4 Syrian Tetrapolis, 80, 83, 88 Tabala, 158, 162 table amphora, 61 table setting, typical, 53–54

Tabula Peutingeriana, 177n38, 203 Tacitus, 162 Takht-i Sangin, 80 Tandos, 152, 154 Tarsus, 152n33, 202 Taşdam Tepe Tumulus, 168 Tauroukome, 152n33 taxation, 100, 153n45, 156n61, 157 teichos, 159 Tekçam, 148n17 Telephus, 187–88 Telephus frieze (Pergamum altar), 184, 184n59 Temnus, 176 temple orientation, 180–82, 184, 198 temples and sanctuaries: of all gods (likely between Apollonis and Magnesia), 163; of Aphrodite (Ephesus), 201; of Apollo (Didyma), 134; of Apollo Chresterios (Aegae), 176; of Artemis (Ephesus), 134– 35, 191–94, 201–2, 238; of Artemis (Sardis), 4, 11, 24–28, 25 (fig. 1.8), 26 (fig. 1.9), 34, 65, 79, 84–85, 91n3, 132–38, 133 (fig. 6. 1), 135 (fig. 6.2), 136 (fig. 6.3), 138 (fig. 6.4), 139–40, 153–54, 236, 238–39; of Asclepius (Pergamum), 182; of Athena (Ilium), 134; of Athena (Pergamum), 166, 168–72, 169 (fig. 9.1), 169n17, 170 (fig. 9.2), 182; of Augustus (Sardis), 141n14; of the Cabiri (Samothrace), 201n54; of Demeter (Pergamum), 182; of Hera (Samos), 135; at Kapıkaya (cave), 180; of Kubaba (Sardis), 93; of Kybebe (Sardis), 91; of Kybele (Sardis), 181; lack of orientation for, at Gordion, 231; in Mamurt Kale, 169n17; of Meter Theon Aspordene (Mamurt Kale), 178–86, 178 (fig. 9.4), 179 (figs. 9.5 and 9.6), 180 (fig. 9.7); of Persian Sardis, 23–28; Rock Crevice Temple (Ephesus), 198–201; Roman, 141–42, 141n13; at Samothrace, 134; of Tiberius, 141n14; of Zeus (Sardis), 26n38 Termessos, 156n61 terrace walls, 16 (fig. 1.3), 17 (fig. 1.4), 22, 29 (fig. 1.11), 30, 65, 140 tetradrachm, 103, 237; Attic, 98 Teuthrania monument (Delos), 183n52, 186, 186 (fig. 9.11) Thea Larmene, 162n97 theater (Ephesus), 204 theater (Sardis), 11, 19 (fig. 1.6), 28, 34, 85–86, 139–40, 140n7, 141, 141n9, 141n11, 142, 187, 238; cavea, 57–59, 58 (fig. 2.4), 59 (fig. 2.5); construction of, 58–59, 65–67, 79; deposit of Kybele statuettes at, 121, 209n23; Roman, 22

Index

Thebes, 218–19 Themistocles, 24, 91, 120, 122, 152 Theocritus, 215 Thileudos, 158n71 Third Syrian War, 105 Thrace, 104 Thyateira, 86, 89, 157, 157n68, 158–59, 163, 176–77, 182n50, 187 Thyeira, 152 Tigris, 88 time, Seleucid imperial, 84 Tissaphernes, 156 Tmolus Mountains, 3, 122–23, 136, 155, 158–60, 181, 184, 203 Tobalmoura, 152, 154 tombs, 21; at HoB, 79; of Mausolus in Halicarnassus, 70; Pergamene, 168; Tomb 407, 218n50. See also tumuli Toriaeum, 85 towers, freestanding, 159–60 trade, 203; Ephesus and, 198, 204; in pottery, 206 Trieterides, 187 Triparadeisus, 76 Tritogeneia Thea, 169, 169 (fig. 9.1), 172, 172n23 Troad, 149 Troy, 167 Tulum, 160 (fig. 8.1), 160n83 Tümbektepe, 148n17 tumuli, 146–50, 168, 221, 236, 239; cremation (Gordion), 222n5 tumulus construction, 148n17 tunnel (Sardis), 14, 17 (fig. 1.5) Tyche, on coins/coinage, 107, 110, 110n67, 111–12, 111 (fig. 4.8) tympanum, 123; associated with Kubaba, 130; associated with Kybele, 124–27, 131 unguentaria, 53, 149, 149n20, 206 Urartu, 4n4 urbanism, Seleucid, 78–83 urbanization, Ephesus and, 197–98 urban revival, 239 urban topography of Sardis, 11–36 Uruk, 3

289

vertical demarcation of Sardis, 85–86 victory monument, Pergamene, 185, 185n62 villages, 151–52, 164, 203. See also hamlets Vitruvius, 84n56, 140 votive deposits, 124, 192–94 wall plaster, painted, 55, 61 walls, 30–33, 30 (fig. 1.12), 32 (fig. 1.14); fortification, 140 Walsingham, sanctuaries at, 232n57 War of the Brothers, 57, 83, 89, 105 watchtowers, 150, 150n22, 156, 203 wells, 18, 21, 46n5, 48n11, 49, 238; as trash dumps, 53, 55. See also under Sector PN West Slope, 58 (fig. 2.4), 58n10, 61, 63n19, 149, 207–8, 217– 18, 219 (fig. 11.10) women, as guarantors of cult continuity, 184, 184n57 workshops, 20, 87 Xenophantes Painter, 72, 74 Xenophon, 152, 155, 168 Xerxes, 40 Yağlar, 160 (fig. 8.1), 160n83 Yeniköy, 154n49, 162n97 Yünd Dağ Mountains, 166, 173n25, 176, 178, 182, 187 Zeus, 27n38, 162, 184; cults of, 161; on coins/coinage, 110 Zeus, Olympian, 132 Zeus Digindenos, 162n97 Zeus Driktes, 162n97 Zeus Karios, 161 Zeus Lydios, on coins/coinage, 110, 110n67, 111–12, 111 (fig. 4.8), 116 Zeus Polieus, 26 Zeus Sabazius, 188 Zeus Seleukeios, 163 Zeus Tar(i)guenos, 162n97 Zeuxis (regional viceroy under Antiochus III), 83–84, 157, 159, 164, 166

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The Archaeology of the Olympics: The Olympics and Other Festivals in Antiquity Edited by Wendy J. Raschke Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity Edited by F. M. Clover and R. S. Humphreys The Hellenistic Aesthetic Barbara Hughes Fowler Hellenistic Sculpture I: The Styles of ca. 331–200 B.C. Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway Hellenistic Poetry: An Anthology Selected and translated by Barbara Hughes Fowler Theocritus’ Pastoral Analogies: The Formation of a Genre Kathryn J. Gutzwiller Rome and India: The Ancient Sea Trade Edited by Vimala Begley and Richard Daniel De Puma Kallimachos: The Alexandrian Library and the Origins of Bibliography Rudolf Blum Translated by Hans H. Wellisch Myth, Ethos, and Actuality: Official Art in Fifth Century B.C. Athens David Castriota Archaic Greek Poetry: An Anthology Selected and translated by Barbara Hughes Fowler Murlo and the Etruscans: Art and Society in Ancient Etruria Edited by Richard Daniel De Puma and Jocelyn Penny Small The Wedding in Ancient Athens John H. Oakley and Rebecca H. Sinos The World of Roman Costume Edited by Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante Greek Heroine Cults Jennifer Larson Flinders Petrie: A Life in Archaeology Margaret S. Drower Polykleitos, the Doryphoros, and Tradition Edited by Warren G. Moon The Game of Death in Ancient Rome: Arena Sport and Political Suicide Paul Plass

Polygnotos and Vase Painting in Classical Athens Susan B. Matheson Worshipping Athena: Panathenaia and Parthenon Edited by Jenifer Neils Hellenistic Architectural Sculpture: Figural Motifs in Western Anatolia and the Aegean Islands Pamela A. Webb Fourth-Century Styles in Greek Sculpture Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway Ancient Goddesses: The Myths and the Evidence Edited by Lucy Goodison and Christine Morris Displaced Persons: The Literature of Exile from Cicero to Boethius Jo-Marie Claassen Hellenistic Sculpture II: The Styles of ca. 200–100 B.C. Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway Personal Styles in Early Cycladic Sculpture Pat Getz-Gentle The Complete Poetry of Catullus Catullus Translated and with commentary by David Mulroy Hellenistic Sculpture III: The Styles of ca. 100–31 B.C. Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway The Iconography of Sculptured Statue Bases in the Archaic and Classical Periods Angeliki Kosmopoulou Discs of Splendor: The Relief Mirrors of the Etruscans Alexandra A. Carpino Mail and Female: Epistolary Narrative and Desire in Ovid’s “Heroides” Sara H. Lindheim Modes of Viewing in Hellenistic Poetry and Art Graham Zanker Religion in Ancient Etruria Jean-René Jannot Translated by Jane K. Whitehead A Symposion of Praise: Horace Returns to Lyric in “Odes” IV Timothy Johnson

Satire and the Threat of Speech: Horace’s “Satires,” Book 1 Catherine M. Schlegel Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World Edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Laura K. McClure Asinaria: The One about the Asses Plautus Translated and with commentary by John Henderson Ulysses in Black: Ralph Ellison, Classicism, and African American Literature Patrice D. Rankine Imperium and Cosmos: Augustus and the Northern Campus Martius Paul Rehak Edited by John G. Younger Ovid before Exile: Art and Punishment in the “Metamorphoses” Patricia J. Johnson Pandora’s Senses: The Feminine Character of the Ancient Text Vered Lev Kenaan Nox Philologiae: Aulus Gellius and the Fantasy of the Roman Library Erik Gunderson New Perspectives on Etruria and Early Rome Edited by Sinclair Bell and Helen Nagy The Image of the Poet in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” Barbara Pavlock Responses to Oliver Stone’s “Alexander”: Film, History, and Cultural Studies Edited by Paul Cartledge and Fiona Rose Greenland The Codrus Painter: Iconography and Reception of Athenian Vases in the Age of Pericles Amalia Avramidou The Matter of the Page: Essays in Search of Ancient and Medieval Authors Shane Butler Greek Prostitutes in the Ancient Mediterranean, 800 BCE–200 CE Edited by Allison Glazebrook and Madeleine M. Henry Sophocles’ “Philoctetes” and the Great Soul Robbery Norman Austin Oedipus Rex Sophocles A verse translation by David Mulroy, with introduction and notes

The Slave in Greece and Rome John Andreau and Raymond Descat Translated by Marion Leopold Perfidy and Passion: Reintroducing the “Iliad” Mark Buchan The Gift of Correspondence in Classical Rome: Friendship in Cicero’s “Ad Familiares” and Seneca’s “Moral Epistles” Amanda Wilcox Antigone Sophocles A verse translation by David Mulroy, with introduction and notes Aeschylus’s “Suppliant Women”: The Tragedy of Immigration Geoffrey W. Bakewell Couched in Death: “Klinai” and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond Elizabeth P. Baughan Silence in Catullus Benjamin Eldon Stevens Odes Horace Translated with commentary by David R. Slavitt Shaping Ceremony: Monumental Steps and Greek Architecture Mary B. Hollinshead Selected Epigrams Martial Translated with notes by Susan McLean The Offense of Love: “Ars Amatoria,” “Remedia Amoris,” and “Tristia” 2 Ovid A verse translation by Julia Dyson Hejduk, with introduction and notes Oedipus at Colonus Sophocles A verse translation by David Mulroy, with introduction and notes Women in Roman Republican Drama Edited by Dorota Dutsch, Sharon L. James, and David Konstan Dream, Fantasy, and Visual Art in Roman Elegy Emma Scioli

Agamemnon Aeschylus A verse translation by David Mulroy, with introduction and notes Trojan Women, Helen, Hecuba: Three Plays about Women and the Trojan War Euripides Verse translations by Francis Blessington, with introduction and notes Echoing Hylas: A Study in Hellenistic and Roman Metapoetics Mark Heerink Horace between Freedom and Slavery: The First Book of “Epistles” Stephanie McCarter The Play of Allusion in the “Historia Augusta” David Rohrbacher Repeat Performances: Ovidian Repetition and the “Metamorphoses” Edited by Laurel Fulkerson and Tim Stover Virgil and Joyce: Nationalism and Imperialism in the “Aeneid” and “Ulysses” Randall J. Pogorzelski The Athenian Adonia in Context: The Adonis Festival as Cultural Practice Laurialan Reitzammer Ctesias’ “Persica” and Its Near Eastern Context Matt Waters Silenced Voices: The Poetics of Speech in Ovid Bartolo A. Natoli Tragic Rites: Narrative and Ritual in Sophoclean Drama Adriana Brook The Oresteia: “Agamemnon,” “Libation Bearers,” and “The Holy Goddesses” Aeschylus A verse translation by David Mulroy, with introduction and notes Athens, Etruria, and the Many Lives of Greek Figured Pottery Sheramy D. Bundrick In the Flesh: Embodied Identities in Roman Elegy Erika Zimmermann Damer Language and Authority in “De Lingua Latina”: Varro’s Guide to Being Roman Diana Spencer Spear-Won Land: Sardis from the King’s Peace to the Peace of Apamea Edited by Andrea M. Berlin and Paul J. Kosmin