The Social Archaeology of Late Second Temple Judaea 9781138358881, 9781032310077, 9780429434044, 1138358886

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The Social Archaeology of Late Second Temple Judaea

This book analyzes social ideology and social relationships in late Second Temple Judaea, studying a range of archaeological material and sites to better understand both communal and individual trends in Jerusalem and its environs. Using several different methodologies, the book brings to light new ideas about social trends such as individualism among Jews and Judeans during the late Second Temple period. It provides in-depth analysis of the social aspects of ritual baths, burial caves, ossuaries, and decorated oil lamps, as well as thorough examinations of the sites of Khirbet Qumran, Herod’s palaces, and Masada during the First Jewish Revolt against Rome. Social Archaeology of the Late Second Temple Judaea is suitable for students and scholars interested in the history, society, and archaeology of the Jews in the Second Temple period as well as the social background of early Christianity, early Rabbinic Judaism, and Levantine archaeology. Eyal Regev is Professor of Jewish Studies in the Martin (Szusz) Department of Land of Israel Studies and Archaeology at Bar-Ilan University, Israel. His books include The Sadducees and their Halakhah, Sectarianism in Qumran, The Hasmoneans: Ideology, Archaeology, Identity and The Temple in Early Christianity: Experiencing the Sacred. He has published several journal articles on the archaeology of Second Temple Judaea.

The Social Archaeology of Late Second Temple Judaea

From Purity, Burial, and Art, to Qumran, Herod, and Masada Eyal Regev

First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Eyal Regev The right of Eyal Regev to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Regev, Eyal, author. Title: The social archaeology of late Second Temple Judaea : from purity,   burial, and art, to Qumran, Herod, and Masada / Eyal Regev. Description: New York : Routledge, 2023. | Includes bibliographical   references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2022005237 (print) | LCCN 2022005238 (ebook) |   ISBN 9781138358881 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032310077 (paperback) |   ISBN 9780429434044 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Jews—Social life and customs—To 70 A.D. |   Jews—History—586 B.C.–70 A.D. | Excavations (Archaeology)—Israel. |   Israel—Antiquities. | Mikveh. | Funeral rites and ceremonies—Israel. |   Burial—Israel. | Qumran community. | Palestine—History—To 70 A.D. |   Social archaeology—Israel. Classification: LCC DS122 .R426 2023 (print) | LCC DS122 (ebook) |   DDC 933—dc23/eng/20220429 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022005237 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022005238 ISBN: 978-1-138-35888-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-31007-7 (pbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-43404-4 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044 Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

In memory of my father, Zvi Regev (Greenberg)

Contents

List of Figuresix List of Tablesxi Acknowledgmentsxii Prefacexiii

Introduction

1

1 Ritual Baths, Imported Pottery, and Gentile Impurity: Judaean Ethnicity Markers in the Hasmonean Period

10

2 Pure Individualism: Non-Priestly Purity, Religious Experience, and the Self

31

3 Family Burial Caves, Family Identity, and Family Structure in Jerusalem and its Environs

51

4 Loculi and Ossuaries: The Family and the Individual in Judean Burial Caves

82

5 Art as Style: Why were Ossuaries and Southern Oil Lamps Decorated?

101

6 The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran: Spatial Organization, Ritual, Resistance, and Hierarchy

123

7 Herod’s Baths and Palaces: Judaean Identity, Court Society, and Royal Ideology

158

viii  Contents

8 Feasting Before the War: Social Structure and Organization of Masada’s Rebels

Conclusions: The Judaean Individual within Judaean Society

186 212

List of Abbreviations223 References224 Index266

Figures

1.1 Distribution of ritual baths and absence of imported pottery in the Hasmonean period 2.1 A ritual bath in Ben Shemen 2.2 Stone mugs and bowls 3.1 Pit-bench cave, Gilo 3.2 Distribution of burial caves by number of loculi 3.3 Distribution of population by family size 4.1 Burial cave in the French Hill 4.2 Caiaphas’ cave 4.3 Joseph son of Hannanya the Scribe’s Cave 4.4 Average number or dead in loculi with adult(s) and child(ren), and ossuaries containing more than one deceased in the 25 sample caves 4.5 Distribution of loculi in the sample cave according to sex, age, and number of deceased in each loculus (n = 125) 4.6 Distribution of ossuaries in the sample cave, according to sex, age, and number of deceased in each ossuary (n = 144) 5.1 An ossuary with the inscription (on the top) “Miriam daughter of Yeshua son of Caiaphas, priests of Maʿaziah from Beth ʿImri” 5.2 An ossuary from Mount Scopus 5.3a and 5.3b Southern molded oil lamps 6.1 Access analysis of Khirbet Qumran 6.2 Rujum el-Hamiri 6.3 Qasr e-Leja 6.4 Area P, the Jewish Quarter, Jerusalem 6.5 Horvat Salit 6.6 Hilkiya’s Palace, at Kh. el-Muraq 6.7 Horvat ‘Eleq 6.8 Mean depth of Judaean villas 6.9 Pottery typology in Magen and Peleg’s excavation (n = 1077) 6.10 Comparison of ceramic assemblages in Hellenistic and Early Roman Judaea 7.1 A ritual bath in Herod’s second palace in Jericho

16 34 38 56 63 73 86 87 87 93 94 94 102 102 104 129 131 131 132 132 133 133 134 139 140 160

x  Figures 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 7.7 7.8 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 8.7 8.8 8.9 8.10 8.11

The Western Palace in Masada, Phase I The First Palace in Jericho The Second Palace in Jericho The Promontory Palace in Caesarea The Western Palace in Masada, Phases II–III The Third Palace in Jericho Mean Depth of the Herodian Palaces A functional classification of the ceramic findings in Masada Masada during the revolt: buildings, stoves, and ovens Building 7 Building 9 The Western Palace Building 11 Building 12 Building 13 A segment of the east of the Casemate Wall A segment of the southwest of the Casemate Wall Relationship between the quantity of tableware and the distribution of cooking installations

170 171 173 174 175 177 179 189 192 195 196 197 199 200 201 202 202 207

Tables

1.1 Sources of Gentile Impurity (and what should be protected from defilement) 3.1 Distribution of people buried in loculus caves by family type 8.1 Comparison of the ratio of the types of vessels from the late first century ce 8.2 Functional distribution of pottery in Masada’s buildings

22 73 189 193

Acknowledgments

The following chapters are revised and updated versions of these publications: Chapter 1: “Purity, Pottery, and Judaean Ethnicity in the Hasmonean Period,” Journal of Ancient Judaism 12 (2021): 1–42. Chapter 2: “Pure Individualism: The Idea of Non-Priestly Purity in Ancient Judaism,” JSJ 31 (2000): 176–202. Chapters 3 and 4: “Family Burial, Family Structure, and the Urbanization of Herodian Jerusalem,” PEQ 136.2 (2004): 109–131, “The Individualistic Meaning of Jewish Ossuaries: A Socio-Anthropological Perspective on Burial Practice,” PEQ 133.1 (2001): 39–49. and “Pit, Loculus and Ossuary: The Family and the Individual in Late Second Temple Judean Burial Caves,” BASOR 388 (2022, forthcoming, with O. Abadi); Chapter 5: “Ancient Jewish Style: Why were Ossuaries and Southern Oil Lamps Decorated?” Levant 38 (2006): 171–186. and “Art, Symbolism and Self-Identity: The Meaning and Function of the Decorations on Jewish Ossuaries and ‘Southern’ Oil Lamps,” Jerusalem and Eretz-Israel 6 (2008): 33–57 (in Hebrew) Chapter  6: Access Analysis of Kh. Qumran: Reading Spatial Organization and Social Boundaries,” BASOR 355 (2009): 85–99 and “The Archaeology of Sectarianism: Ritual, Resistance and Hierarchy in Kh. Qumran,” Revue de Qumran 24/94 (2009): 175–214. Chapter  7: “Herod’s Jewish Ideology Facing Romanization: On Intermarriage, Ritual Baths and Speeches,” JQR 100.2 (2010): 197–222, “Inside Herod’s Courts: Social Relations and Royal Ideology in the Herodian Palaces,” JSJ 43 (2012): 180–214 and “The King’s Baths: Jewish, Greek and Roman Baths in Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces,” ZDPV 135.2 (2019): 168–187. Chapter 8: “Masada Rebel’s: Elitism, Feasts and Social Structure in light of the Pottery and Other Finds,” Cathedra 178 (2021): 9–34 (with T. Lieberman, in Hebrew).

Preface

This book marks the culmination of a journey I began in the late 1990s, when I first tried to understand the social aspects of the Jews living in Jerusalem and its environs during the Hasmonean and Herodian period based on archaeology. It took time for me to realize that there are no shortcuts in this endeavor. The archaeological evidence must be studied separately from the historical evidence, and understanding the meaning of material culture depends on examining additional, related, archaeological evidence and exploring other aspects of this material culture. And sometimes, the actual evidence changes when more excavations offer new insights as to their meaning. Most of the chapters in this book are based on revision and update of previous journal articles. Others are new studies that were written specifically for this book and have by now appeared in journals: Chapter 1: “Purity, Pottery, and Judaean Ethnicity in the Hasmonean Period,” Journal of Ancient Judaism 12 (2021): 1–42; Chapter 2: “Pure Individualism: The Idea of Non-Priestly Purity in Ancient Judaism,” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period 31 (2000): 176–202; Chapters 3 and 4: “The Individualistic Meaning of Jewish Ossuaries: A  Socio-Anthropological Perspective on Burial Practice,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 133.1 (2001): 39–49; “Family Burial, Family Structure, and the Urbanization of Herodian Jerusalem,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 136.2 (2004): 109–131; “Pit, Loculus and Ossuary: The Family and the Individual in Late Second Temple Judean Burial Caves,” Bulletin of the American School for Oriental Research 388) 2022, forthcoming, with O. AbadI); Chapter  5: “Ancient Jewish Style: Why were Ossuaries and Southern Oil Lamps Decorated?” Levant 38 (2006): 171–186; “Art, Symbolism and SelfIdentity: The Meaning and Function of the Decorations on Jewish Ossuaries and ‘Southern’ Oil Lamps,” Jerusalem and Eretz-Israel 6 (2008): 33–57 (in Hebrew); Chapter 6: “Access Analysis of Kh. Qumran: Reading Spatial Organization and Social Boundaries,” Bulletin of the American School of Oriental Research 355 (2009): 85–99; “The Archaeology of Sectarianism: Ritual, Resistance and Hierarchy in Kh. Qumran,” Revue de Qumran 24/94 (2009): 175–214. Chapter  7: “Herod’s Jewish Ideology Facing Romanization: On Intermarriage, Ritual Baths and Speeches,” Jewish Quarterly Review 100.2 (2010): 197–222; “Inside Herod’s Courts: Social Relations and Royal Ideology in the Herodian Palaces,” Journal

xiv  Preface for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period 43 (2012): 180–214; “The King’s Baths: Jewish, Greek and Roman Baths in Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 135.2 (2019): 168–187; Chapter  8: “Masada Rebel’s: Elitism, Feasts and Social Structure in light of the Pottery and Other Finds,” Cathedra 178 (2021): 9–34 (with T. Lieberman, in Hebrew). The research for this book was supported by a research grant from the Israel Science Foundation, research grant 2019/691, and by the Dr. Irving and Cherna Moskowitz Chair in Land of Israel Studies. The intellectual and physical home of this research is the Martin (Szusz) Department of Land of Israel and Archaeology at Bar-Ilan University, in which I began as an undergraduate student and continued all the way to professor and the chair. Here archaeology and history merge into one whole, and interdisciplinary study is natural. My teachers and colleagues in the department encouraged me to pursue my own special scientific approach and provided me essential information and insights, even when they did not fully understand the experimental path I was taking. I would like to thank Profs. Avraham Faust, Joshua Schwartz, Zeev Safrai, David Adan-Bayweiz, Boaz Zissu and Dr. Eyal Baruch. I am also indebted to the late Profs. Hanan Eshel and Amos Kloner, as well as to the late Prof. Ehud Netzer for discussing the palaces of the Hasmoneans and Herod and commenting on earlier drafts of an article. Thanks are also due to Devorah Netzer for permission to use Ehud’s plans of the sites in Jericho and Masada. Special thanks to Prof. Boaz Zissu for sending me the pictures printed in this book and for the permission to use them. I also would like to thank my students, Omri Y. Abdadi and Tehillah Lieberman, who agreed to include our joint studies (based on their dissertations written under my supervision) in this book. I would like to thank Amy Davis-Poynter, the editor of Classics, Archaeology and Biblical Studies at Routledge for proposing me to write a book for this series, along with the staff of Routledge for editing and producing the manuscript. As always, I thank my wife Tanya and my sons Nadav, Tomer, Ori, Yotam, and Amit for their patience and interest in my work. The book is dedicated to the memory of my father, Zvi Regev. In 1947, as a young member of the Palmach armed forces, he walked all the way from Jerusalem to Masada, very much like the journey undertaken in this book. He also took other trips throughout the Land of Israel, many of them with me. May his memory be blessed. Neve Daniel, Gush Ezion Fall 2021/Marheshvan 5782

Introduction

This book explores Jewish society in Judaea (also known as the Land of Israel, Palestine, and the Holy Land) during the period ca. 150 bce to 70 ce, through the examination of material culture. It focuses on specific findings, including ritual baths, ossuaries, decorated oil lamps, and the specific sites of Kh. Qumran, Herod’s palaces, and Masada during the First Jewish Revolt against Rome. The book aims to explain why certain artifacts emerge in a given period or why a certain site or building is shaped in a specific manner. Aspects of society as a whole or of certain communities or individuals within that society are illuminated by purity rituals, burial practices, the contents and the decoration of ossuaries, lamps, and buildings. My basic approach is that archaeology is ultimately not about objects, but about the people who used these objects, and that one major aim of archaeological scholarship is to study cultures and societies. Archaeology is related to history. The artifacts and buildings are not only threedimensional relics that evoke the past, but also a resource for understanding what historical writings and texts do not reveal. The houses, tombs, and vessels shed light on issues and aspects that ancient authors never addressed. They raise social and cultural questions that are only now being asked. Archaeological studies can sometimes explain the social or cultural process behind events and what happened to the people involved far better than historical studies (Binford 1962: 218). Nonetheless, this book does not attempt to understand Second Temple society and culture as a whole, nor is it an introduction to the material culture of Judaea during this period. I address specific topics for which there is substantial archaeological evidence that may shed light on historical and social issues that are of considerable interest. The scope of the book is therefore limited and selective. However, I believe that exploring purity, burial, art, and architecture, as well as the sites of Kh. Qumran, Herod’s palaces in Jericho, Caesarea, and Masada during the First Revolt against Rome, will contribute to a broader understanding of Judaean society as a whole. Although the general subject of each chapter in this book has been discussed by many scholars (some are sketched, for example, in Meyers and Chancey 2012), little attention has been paid to the social aspects of the relevant archaeological findings. Monographs on the material culture of Judaea in the Second Temple/ Hellenistic and Early Roman periods include a fairly conclusive overview of the DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-1

2  Introduction archaeological record from the Hellenistic Period (Tal 2006; cf the articles in Yasur-Landau et al. 2019) as well as an examination of daily life, including purity, pottery, and burial (Magness 2011). Historical studies of Jewish society during the Second Temple period made limited use of the archaeological record, focusing on social-economic issues but neglecting family relations and the place of the individual within society. There are discussions of social structure (Fiensy 1991; Hanson and Oakman 2008; Adams 2014; Keddie 2019), but less engagement with ideology and ethnicity. This book aims to fill these gaps.

Theory and Methodology Social archaeology refers to how humans express themselves through the objects they construct and utilize, collect and discard, value or take for granted, and how they seek to be remembered. This is linked to how people conceptualize the relationship between themselves and others (Preucel and Meskell 2007: 3, following Hall 2001: 52). In other words, social archaeology is the study of social practice as reflected in the material evidence (Barrett 1988). Numerous recent studies have discussed social theories as they apply to archaeology (e.g., Johnson 2010; Barret and Boyd 2019), pointing to the different schools of archaeological thought: cultural history, processualism, Marxism, and interpretive post-processualism (Urban and Schortman 2019: 67–101). This introduction is restricted to specific concepts and models which are relevant to the discussion in the following chapters, and also lays out my general methodological premises. My methods, concepts and models include: processual archaeology, symbolic and post-structural archaeology, the meaning of material culture, context and interpretation, symbolism, identity, ideology, agency, individualism, and the body. Sixty years ago, Lewis Binford argued that “archaeology must accept greater responsibility in the furtherance of the aims of anthropology” (Binford 1962: 224). For Binford and the school of social archaeology or the so-called processual archaeology, material culture represents the structure of the entire cultural system. Changes in the distribution of style through time and space are related to changes in the sociocultural systems generated through evolution or adaptation to the environment. Processual archaeology stresses the functional role of the artifact in relation to specific cultural contexts, such as migration, ethnicity, and interaction between groups. In examining technology and environment, the main focus is on the structure of the sociocultural system. Cultural form depends on an ecosystem as per the formula: culture + environment = behavior. In his introduction to the 1982 volume of Symbolic and Structural Archaeology, Ian Hodder offered a new alternative to this focus on cultural evolution and systematic change which is sometimes called post-processual archaeology (Hodder 1982e, reprinted in Hodder 1995: 92–121). He argued that the functionalist viewpoint is unable to adequately explain cultural variety and uniqueness (Hodder 1995: 101). It is necessary to proceed further from the functionalism and processual archaeology of the New Archaeology. Hodder challenged the view that material culture is simply a reflection of human activities or social organization.

Introduction  3 Rather, material culture can be examined as a structured set of differences. Structure refers to a set of systematic relationships between various components, how interrelationships are organized (Hodder 1995: 101–102). Material culture is a signifying system in which meaning resides in the relationship between signs. The material signifier implies something in relation to practices, rituals, and the social system as a whole. Meaning may be established by linking one element to others within the structure (for example, characteristics common to pottery and architecture) in recurring patterns (Tilley 1989). Hodder and his associates did not fully accept structuralism. Following Giddens’ concept of structuration—in which structure is both a medium and an outcome of social practice (Giddens 1979, 1984)—they pointed to the flaws of structuralism in anthropology: The role of the individual is slight, because the individual is subordinate to the organizing mechanisms of the unconscious. In addition, the role of historical explanation is slight, and there is little attempt to understand how structural rules can be changed (Hodder 1995: 105–106). The analysis of structure should therefore be augmented by deeper, more complex levels of interpretation. The meaning of an object resides not merely in its contrast to others within a set; it also derives from the associations and use of the object in an interplay between structure and content. Structure is related to the social system. The social system refers to the patterning and organization of social relationships, whereas structure refers to the rules and concepts which give meaning to the system (Hodder 1982b; Shanks and Tilley 1992: 51). What then, is material culture, according to this approach? What is its meaning? It is not a direct reflection of human behavior, but a transformation of that behavior (Hodder and Huston 2003: 2). The relationship between material culture and human organization is partly social and partly dependent on cultural attitudes which require interpretation (Hodder and Huston 2003: 4, 14). Material culture transforms ideas, values, stories, myths, and the like, into a physical reality, a ceremonial event, a symbolic object, a monument. It expresses and creates culture in daily practice (DeMarrais et al. 1996: 16, following Bourdieu 1977 and Giddens 1984). Material culture attempts to find connections between people and objects, since artifacts and consumption are essential elements in the construction of society (Miller 1987). It also includes the built environment, architecture, and human interaction with space. There is no dichotomy between the physical and the cognitive since meaning also concerns the physical. We make sense of the world through both practices and ideas. In many ways, material culture is not a language but action and practice (Hodder and Huston 2003: 103–104, 168). Hodder insists that material culture should be studied by focusing on the relationship between structure and context, which he terms “contextual archaeology.” The meaning of things changes according to context, since the context creates a framework of meaning wherein people act. Context, like almost anything else in this general approach to archaeology, is a matter of interpretation. As in critical hermeneutics, we are required to understand every detail (word or object) in terms of the whole (historical, societal, cultural, etc.), and the whole in terms of the detail (Hodder and Huston 2003: 195

4  Introduction following Gadamer 1975: 258). It may be impossible to validate our results. We test theories to assemble data in order to make a coherent interpretation (Hodder 2007: 28). Hodder and his followers emphasize the symbolic associations of artifacts, and how they transmit information and meaning to their viewers (Hodder 1982c, 1995: 108; Miller 1987: 105; DeMarrais et  al. 1996: 16; see also Robb 1998). Symbols communicate with individuals and groups, and are actively involved in social strategies. They are used to mask, exaggerate or contradict social relationships (Hodder 1995: 41). Because symbolic objects can also be owned, inherited, and transferred, they are ideal signifiers of individual social position and political power. In burials, grave goods fulfill this function even beyond death (DeMarrais et al. 1996: 17). Like structural principles, symbolic principles are used to shape social actions (Hodder 1995: 110). However, meaning does not reside in artifacts or people but in the moment of interaction between the two, as a matter of experience (Thomas 1996: 97; Robb 1998: 337–338). Perhaps more than anything else, material culture is about identity (Insoll 2007; Fowler 2010; Campbell et al. 2016). Scholarship usually focuses on social identity, but personal identity cannot be detached from social identity. Identity is a product of the social interaction between an individual and society (Meskell 2002), and it is a matter of experience (Fowler 2010; Campbell et al. 2016). Goods, material culture, and consumption construct identity, because consumption deals with the internalization of culture in everyday life. Social groups may be articulated by the value of object possessions (Miller 1987: 203, 212). In so-called Marxist archaeology the term ideology is a key for understanding how material culture affects society. Ideology is a system of values and ideas that promotes social behavior and benefits some interest groups more than others (e.g., Thompson 1990: 73). Ideology represents sectional interests as universal, denies or transmutes contradictions and conflicts, and neutralizes the present (Hodder and Huston 2003: 79–80, 85, following Giddens 1979). It is a form of signifying practice which acts to constitute subjects in a specific way in specific circumstances in order to reproduce rather than transform the social totality (Shanks and Tilley 1992: 75). Ideology is a source of social power, aiming to control and manage the labor and activities of a group to gain access to the benefits of social action (DeMarrais et al. 1996: 15). Ritual and religion are sometimes classified as forms of ideology (Inosll 2004: 54, 80–82). To examine ideology is to see how symbolic meanings can be mobilized to legitimate the sectional interests of certain groups (Hodder and Huston 2003: 85). How is ideology transmitted through material culture? It is manifested in the form of ceremonies, symbolic objects, and monuments in order to achieve the status of shared values and beliefs and to become an effective source of power. The production and transmission of ideas, traditions, and meanings establishes and reinforces the legitimacy and rights of the group that controls their material forms (DeMarrais et  al. 1996: 16–17). Materialized ideology molds individual beliefs for collective social action. It organizes and gives meaning to the external world

Introduction  5 through the tangible, shared forms of ceremonies, symbols, and monumental architecture (DeMarrais et al. 1996: 16). Another central concept in social archaeology is agency. Material culture does not passively reflect society; it creates society through the acts of social agents, namely, persons (Hodder and Huston 2003: 5; cf. Harris and Cipolla 2017: 35–50 for theories of agency). This is because objects, material things, move people to action. They have an effect on people (Gosden 2005). The objects used by agents represent beliefs and rituals and are embedded in social relationships (Hodder and Huston 2003: 100–103; cf. the concept of entanglement—mutual ­dependence between humans and things, Hodder 2012). Agents are not passive within the social system and their actions are not merely affected by external forces. Agents have their own agenda and they act accordingly by utilizing material culture, although they might act unconsciously (Gardner 2008: 94–96). Since objects influence people, even objects have agency of their own (Gell 1998). Artifacts can therefore represent social relationships or historical relationships between people (Gell 1998; Hodder and Hutson 2003: 99–105; Gardner 2008: 100–101, 104). We assign power to objects in two consecutive ways: first, there is the intentionality of the actor before (or within) the act. Second, there is the ascription of intentionality to an act by the participants/observers, either during or after it (Hodder and Huston 2003: 103; cf. Miller 2005). Some regard agency as limited to the individual’s emotions and identities (Gardner 2008: 100–101 and references) and have reservations as to whether it can shed light on the entire social structure (Dornan 2002: 315–317). Others think that the agent is not an individual in the Western sense, and agency is not necessarily selfhood. It is not apparent that agents have choice within the social system. Group action is a form of individual agency (Hodder and Huston 2003: 105–106). This is related to the complexity of the non-modern concept of personhood—its being resulting from relationships with others (Harris and Cipolla 2017: 61–66, following Strathern 1988). Agency means that people create notions of materiality (Miller 2005). They constitute themselves through things in a process called “objectification.” The meanings we assign to things—as signs, semiotics, and their interpretations—are intimately bound up in how we give meaning to our lives (Preucel and Meskell 2007: 4, 14; Harris and Cipolla 2017: 115–126). In this sense, material culture is active, wielded by agents to achieve social ends (Hodder 2007: 31). The concept of agency is closely related to, although not identical with, the concept of social individualism, which will be discussed in Chapter 2 in relation to purity rituals, applied to burial practices in Chapters 3 and 4, and decorations as identity markers in Chapter 5. Among post-processual archaeologists there is a debate between those who promote a focus on individual subjectivity, agency, experience, and motive, and those who feel that we should instead focus on collective action, social agency, and shared cultural systems (Dornan-Fish 2012). From a psychological perspective, the components of individualism may include autonomy, mature self-responsibility, and uniqueness (Realo et al. 2002 and references for various definitions). Yet, sociologists admit that the concept of individualism is relative and varying (Spiro 1993).

6  Introduction Interest in individualism in classical antiquity was sometimes evoked in relation to Hellenism. It has been argued that Hellenistic and Roman imperial thinking focused on self, person, and individual: perceptions about body/soul and how to seek the good life for the self (Trapp 2007: 98–133). ‘Individuation’, namely, the development of self-reflection and of a notion of individual identity, was linked to Hellenistic cults. Here individual action was less determined by traditional norms handed down by family and the larger social context. The forms of individuality were supported by concepts, practices, or institutions that are important for processes of individuation, such as practical, competitive, and reflexive individuality. (Rüpke 2013b: 7, 12–13). It was suggested that the Pharisees and the rabbis had an individualistic ethos (Rivkin 1970–1971; Regev 2005c: 396–403; Neusner 2001: 44–103). According to Siedentop (2014), the individual owes a great deal to Christian theological tradition. He traces the origin of Western liberalism to Paul, who “promoted the universal availability of a God-given foundation for human action, the free action of love.” Paul advanced “human freedom—of a moral agency potentially available to each and everyone, that is, to individuals” (Siedentop 2014: 58–66, esp. 60). In some of the following chapters I will point to individualist trends in Judaean society before and during the period in which Paul lived. This may give us a new perspective on the social setting of his belief system. Human beings know the world through the body (Hodder and Huston 2003: 94–95). Archaeology of the body sees the body as an object of culture; as a sign or tool which forms the basis for social relations (Hodder and Huston 2003: 113–114). Following Foucault’s notion of power, some maintain that control and power relations are mapped on the body as a surface which can be analyzed as a forum for display (Meskell 1996: 8). Embodiment—how the body is being experienced and engages with the world—is a concept that may enable us to explore the relationships between subjective experience and collective identity (Dornan-Fish 2012: 286–287). The archaeology of embodiment sees the body as the subject of culture: only by dwelling in the world do we get a feel for signs and tools and come to recognize them as objects. The body is not merely a tool, it is a substance out of which the human world is shaped and experienced (Csordas 1994: 6); hence, it is also related to agency. The conception and production of specific kinds of bodies has recently become a matter of interest to archaeologists (e.g., Yates 1993; Meskell 1996; Crossland 2010; cf. White 2009). Methodological Difficulties and Limitations Archaeology is of course a social practice in the sense that it is connected to one’s positionality and perspectives in the world. But this applies to most scientific fields. The scholar’s personal stance cannot be ignored. One may argue that the very theories and methods one uses, the questions that are being posed, lead to a specific type of results. Nonetheless, the theories surveyed previously are based on various assumptions and aims. Those scholars labeled as post-processual

Introduction  7 archaeologists who advance these theories do not necessarily agree with each other. Yet, it is impossible to study the social aspects of archaeology without relying on at least some of them. Applying them to the archaeological record of Second Temple Judaea is far from simple. It requires not only gathering and classifying the archaeological evidence, but employing sound judgment as well. Social archaeology is about interpretation and inference, not about facts (Shanks and Tilley 1992; Elsner 2012: 4–5). In understanding the meaning of symbols there is no single correct meaning (Robb 1998: 341). As such, there is a risk of overly reductive interpretation of artifacts, structures, and rituals (Shanks 2004: 148). My aim in this book is not methodological. I do not attempt to show how to apply these methods to Second Temple archaeological findings. I intend to use them as tools for understanding archaeological evidence which calls for explanation, and to better understand Judaean society. My application of these methods is not systematic. Each chapter is essentially an independent study dedicated to specific archaeological findings and social questions. I also cannot pretend to employ the full scientific potential of these sophisticated methods. I hope to be pardoned for inconsistencies and generalizations when discussing structure, agency, and symbolism in material culture. A comment on the confusing terminology of Jews/Judaeans is necessary here, as it sparked an essential debate among scholars. Mason (2007; see also Cohen 1999a) argued that the Greek term Ioudaios always connotes geographic origin or “ethnicity” and thus should best be translated as “Judaean.” Schwartz (2007, 2014) points to other instances where the term has a “religious” rather than “ethnic” or “ethnic-geographic” sense, and thus prefers the translation “Jew.” The debate concerns the complex meaning of ethnicity and religion in antiquity and in ancient Jewish texts, which cannot be discussed here (Miller 2014). I  think that in some cases “Judaean” fits better than “Jews,” but Ioudaios is surely much more than an ethnic designation. For the sake of clarity and consistency, I will use “Judaean” to denote the Jews living in “Judaea,” the territory which became the Romans province of Judaea. Judaea thus denotes the political unit occupying the borders of the Hasmonean and Herodian states, including Samaria, the Galilee, and parts of the Transjordan and the Golan heights, unlike “Judea,” the smaller territory between Idumaea and Samaria, which formed the core of the Hasmonean state.

Plan of the Book The first five chapters deal with an archaeological phenomenon common to many Judaeans. Chapter  1 connects the emergence of ritual baths in the Hasmonean period to abstaining from imported pottery and to Gentile impurity. All three phenomena were ideological manifestations of Judaean ethnic identity. Bodily rituals, practices, and consumption patterns were derived from social boundaries that were promoted by the Hasmonean rulers as a consequence of the conflict and competition with the neighboring non-Judaeans.

8  Introduction Chapter 2 discusses the abundance of ritual baths and the emergence of stone vessels from Herod to 70 ce as a new type of purity practice, centering on the individual and self-identity. Historical and halakhic sources have shown that the context of these bodily rites related to the religious experience and to competition between the Judaeans themselves rather than in relation to non-Judaeans. Chapter 3 is dedicated to reconstructing family structure based on burial caves. Pit-bench and loculi burial caves were usually familial, demonstrating the significance of the family in Judaean social ideology. Based on the number of loculi, I have attempted to reconstruct the size or structure of Judaean families, mainly in Jerusalem. The dominance of nuclear and small-extended families indicates that family members were less dependent on or limited by family institutions, a situation which encouraged social individualism. Chapter 4 builds on the conclusions that the loculi caves were mostly familial, and analyzes a sample of 25 such caves for which there is ample data on the age and sex of the deceased. Familial relations in the loculi and ossuaries are reconstructed, pointing to a structural pattern according to which the deceased is usually buried with parents or young children. This attests to a tendency to commemorate the individual, with reference to his or her closest relatives. Chapter 5 analyzes the decorations on ossuaries and Southern oil-lamps (dated from 70 to 135 ce) using the model of emblemic versus assertive styles. Viewing decorations as a mode of communication and their use as a form of agency, I interpret them as expressing individual identity in times of social prosperity (ossuaries) and crisis (lamps). The next three chapters are dedicated to findings in specific sites, in an attempt to explain their social aspects in relation to the historical or written evidence. Chapter 6 analyzes the findings in Kh. Qumran to determine whether the inhabitants’ ideology and social dynamics are characteristic of a sect, independent of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Access analysis of the site plan indicates segregation in relation to outsiders and an internal hierarchy which limits or controls contact between the inhabitants. The vast amount of tableware attests to the importance of community meals, which in turn relates to social solidarity and elitism. Social resistance to the outside society may be attested to in the animal bone deposits and the uniform burial pattern in shaft tombs. Ritual or hierarchy is also attested to by the split ritual baths. All these are consistent with the general features of a sect and correspond to both early modern sects such as the Shakers and the social characteristics of the Yahad sect in the Communal Rule. Chapter 7 centers on Herod. The many ritual baths in Herod’s palaces demonstrate his display of Judaean identity as evinced by purity practices and rituals. Thirteen ritual baths were incorporated in Herod’s Roman bathhouses, manifesting his ideology of merging Roman and Judaean identities. The architecture of Herod’s palaces is examined by means of access analysis to identify the social structure of the king’s court and his royal ideology. Two distinct general patterns can be detected: In the earlier palaces, the king preferred to directly engage with his court members and guests, whereas in the later palaces he segregated himself. Herod’s emphasis on his Judaean identity and his attempts to socialize with

Introduction  9 his associates and guests stand in sharp contrast to the portrait that emerges in Josephus’ writings, which depend on Nicolaus of Damascus. These results raise doubts about their historical accuracy. Chapter 8 examines the ideology and social structure of the anti-Roman rebels in Masada based on their ceramics, ovens, stoves, and architecture. Whereas their ceramic assemblage is fairly conventional and gives no hint of shortages or preparations for the Roman siege, there are significant differences in the amount of tableware as well as the distribution of cooking and baking facilities among the various buildings. Different patterns of community organization, relations between the individual and the community, and feasting all attest to the presence of markedly different communities or groups in neighboring buildings. This shows that the social structure of the rebels was far more complex than that reflected in Josephus’ description. The concluding chapter summarizes the social phenomena that were discussed throughout the book in order to illustrate the specific social characterization of Judaean society. These include various purity practices which expressed communal identity or related to individual identity, meals and feasts which intensified community solidarity, special organization which testifies to social structure and social values, and different aspects of social individualism, namely the shifting role of the individual within Judaean society. The chapter concludes with a historical perspective on the development of individualism in late Second Temple society, its setting, and its consequences.

1 Ritual Baths, Imported Pottery, and Gentile Impurity Judaean Ethnicity Markers in the Hasmonean Period

Introduction Ritual baths (miqva’ot) for purification purposes have been found in almost every Jewish settlement in first century Judaea. They emerged in the Hasmonean period, but there have been hardly any attempts to explain why they appeared specifically at that time. Imported pottery manufactured by non-Judaeans has very rarely been found in Hasmonean sites, perhaps because it was regarded as impure. Yet, the link between the two phenomena has never been explained. Gentile impurity is a well-researched subject, but the question of why it became common in the Hasmonean period was never discussed, nor has it ever been linked to the appearance of ritual baths. In fact, the reasons for the evolution of Gentile impurity were not researched. In this chapter I attempt to show that these three phenomena are interrelated because they all emerged during the Hasmonean period. The emergence of ritual baths, the lack of imported pottery, and the view that Gentiles are impure, were social boundaries created to foster the ethnic identity of the Judaeans vis-à-vis the local Gentiles. The creation of these ethnic boundaries was encouraged by the Hasmonean state both because they corresponded to the Hasmonean ideology and political aims, and because state formation usually contributes to the development of ethnic identity. The historical and archaeological evidence for these purity boundaries and purification rites merits a cultural interpretation. For this I  turn to anthropological and archaeological-anthropological studies of ethnic identity. Rather than take Judaean identity in the Hasmonean period as a given, I suggest that we regard it as a sociocultural process which was manifested in the material culture. In what follows I  suggest that the practices of refraining from using Gentile pottery, as well as ritual immersion in the baths, created cultural boundaries that were meant to define Judaean identity as separate from and superior to the surrounding non-Judaeans, and to limit and control contact with them. Based on the historical evidence of the Hasmonean policy toward neighboring non-Jews I conclude that the Hasmonean rulers played an active role in this process in order to establish Judaean domination over all the people in their state. DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-2

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  11

The Emergence of Ritual Baths in the Hasmonean Period The laws of ritual cleansing from natural sources of impurity (e.g., a corpse, leprosy, menstruation) are detailed in the Pentateuch’s Priestly Code, but there is no detailed prescription for the actual practice of purification and no reference to installations, apart from the phrase “wash in water.” There is also no evidence for Judaean installations for ritual cleansing, purification, or immersion of the entire body, prior to the Hasmonean period (Katz 2012; cf. 2 Sam. 11:2–4). It is likely that before the Hasmonean period Jews bathed in natural water sources or perhaps purified themselves by affusion. The earliest explicit reference to ritual immersion for cleansing appears in Judith 12:7–9 (dated to the early Hasmonean period, see later). Judith stayed at a foreign camp and immersed and purified herself in a spring. While biblical laws command ritual washing (perhaps of some parts of the body) from impurity, Judith may have been the first to ritually immerse her entire body (ebaptizdeto. See also the Greek version of Sir. 34:25, dated to the Hasmonean period; Adler 2018: 3–4. For purification without immersion, see Gordon 2020: 423–426). Stepped plastered pools designated for ritual immersion (called miqva’ot in later rabbinic sources) flourished in first century ce Judaea (Reich 2013 counted over 400 installations and discussed their definition, size, structure, stairs, etc. Adler 2011: 321–343 counted 850 from the Hasmonean to the Byzantine periods). The size and shape of the installations indicates that they were used for immersion, since the pools held enough water to entirely cover the body, and had steps to facilitate entry and exit. They were found throughout Judaea, and in large numbers in Jerusalem and its environs. Yet, the earliest dated baths are from around 100 bce. The ritual bath therefore emerged in the Hasmonean period, and its popularity gradually increased. Two ritual baths are dated as early as ca. 100 bce. One is in the Buried Palace of the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho. The other, in the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem, area A (miqweh L65), is built of ashlars constructed in the late second or early first century bce (Netzer 2001: 38–43 with the chronological reservations of BarNathan 2002: 4, 193–194; Reich 2000a: 88–90). Forty-three additional ritual baths are dated to the first half of the first century bce (or pre-date the reign of Herod). Six of them are in Jerusalem: one under the Herodian southern wall of the Temple Mount, hewn in a different orientation to the Temple Mount’s walls, one built in the Western Wall tunnels, and four in the Herodian Quarter (Reich 2013: 86–89, 105–106; Bahat and Solomon 2003; Geva 2014: 33–34, 50–53). Eleven are in the Hasmonean palaces complex in Jericho, nine in Kh. Qumran (Netzer 2001; Regev 2013: 63–65; Galor 2003), three in Qalandia, seven in Gezer, two in Gamla (Magen 2004a: 39, 62–63; Reich 2013: 144–146, following 1 Mac 13:43–48; Goren 2010: 135–139, 146–147), one in the fortress of Cypros, one in Machaerus, one in Qeren Naftali in the Galilee, one in Kh Ashun, and one at Khirbat al-Mukhayyat in the Transjordan (Netzer 2004: 274; Corbo 1980: 368; Aviam 2004: 14–15; Tendler and Elisha 2017; Dolan and Foran 2016).

12  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity Interestingly, three stepped pools, possibly ritual baths, were found in ­ aresha’s acropolis and lower city, but whereas Reich (2013: 150) dates them M to the Hasmonean period, Kloner (2003a: 15–16), concludes that they pre-date the Hasmonean occupation in 111 bce. This begs the question of Idumean ethnic identity before the conversion to Jewishness, which requires a separate discussion (Stern 2012). In the case of at least 20 more ritual baths it was impossible for the excavators to determine whether they were built during the Hellenistic period or later (in most cases, in the Herodian period): six in the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem, three in Ḥorvat Burnat, two in Hyrcania, two in Doq, one in Tell es-Sa‘idiyeh, two in Sepphoris, one in the Arbel caves, two in ad-Deir, and one in Artabba (Geva 2014: 21–67; Amit et al. 2008: 100; Gordon 2018a: 63–66; Gordon 2018b: 173, 201; Meyers and Galor 2018: 429; Adler 2011: 321–243; Raviv 2018a). This chronological obscurity arises from the fact that it is difficult to date a ritual bath. Most of the baths are hewn in rock and cannot be dated by foundation trenches. The finds inside the baths date to their final stage of usage and not the date of their construction. In a few cases the ritual bath was built together with another building that can be dated, hence the stratigraphic relationship between the two may attest to the bath’s date of construction. In most cases archaeologists date the baths according to the remains around them (which is not definite) or by the finds inside the installations (Reich 2013: 209). Therefore, it is likely that some of the ritual baths that were in use during the first century ce, especially in Jerusalem, were actually constructed in the previous century, and it is difficult to estimate the number of baths that were actually built in the Hasmonean period. Overall, the minimum number of ritual baths which were identified in the archaeological record and dated to 100–50 bce includes 45 installations and 20 whose dating is questionable. The geographical distribution of the baths includes the Judean hills and the Judean foothills, as well as the Galilee, the Golan heights and the Transjordan, all of which were under Hasmonean rule by the time of Alexander Jannaeus (see distribution map). The Hasmonean ritual baths were used in various contexts: residential (Jerusalem, Jericho, Kh. Qumran), agricultural (Jericho, Qalandia), and public (next to the Temple Mount). But why did Judaeans begin to build ritual baths for immersion during the Hasmonean period, and not earlier or later? Most discussions of ritual baths do not address this question (e.g., Zissu and Amit 2008; Reich 2013). It is generally assumed that the ritual bath emerged in tandem with the development of Jewish purity laws. The background and dynamics leading to their appearance are considered to be halakhic: Jews/Judaeans became more observant in general and stricter about the laws of purity in particular (Adler 2011: 59; Reich 2013: 259). While it is true that Torah observance increased in the Hasmonean period (cf. Ant. 13.288–298; 4QMMT), we should nevertheless seek a more direct context, cause, and motivation for the appearance of ritual baths and purity concerns. Moreover, we should explore the cultural and political developments that prompted the need to maintain ritual purity.

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  13 Adler (2011: 59–61; 2018) suggests that Greek bathhouses containing sitz/hip baths (on the Greek bathhouses in Judaea, see Hoss 2005) led to the emergence of the ritual bath and the concept of cleansing by full-body immersion: “Fullbody immersion grew out of contemporary Hellenistic bathing practices which involved immersion of the lower portion of the body in a hip bath” (2018: 20). Amar (2006: 20–24) also points to the possible influence of Hellenistic hygiene. However, there are differences between the two types of bathing. It is unclear how washing in a hot bath for pleasure (spending some time in water) could lead to brief immersion of the entire body in cold water for religious/halakhic ends. Adler (2018: 15–16) maintains that the Judaean concept of immersing the entire body in water (unprecedented both in Judaean pre-Hasmonean sources and in Greek practice) is the result of differentiation-ritualization (purificatory cleansing) from Greek profane bathing, but next I argue that these differences may have served as ethnic markers, setting Judaeans apart. Adler may be correct in that Greek baths promoted the technical development of new ways of cleansing by means of water installations (for the architectural influences of Greek/Hellenistic bathing installations on ritual baths, see Reich 2013: 261–268). It has also been suggested that the baths became popular for their health benefits, namely, that bodily immersion in water was considered vital for physical well-being (Gordon 2020). This may have been the case for some ritual baths, but it does not explain why they were prevalent among the Judaeans in that period and yet not popular in other societies. Another recent explanation for the presence of ritual baths in the palace of John Hyrcanus in Jericho is that the Hasmoneans wished to assert their primacy in the contested cultural domain of purity amongst the elite of Hellenistic Judaea, in order to further their social and political dominion. The baths were the Hasmoneans’ response to political and social pressure from within Judaea—a way to exhibit their ritual superiority over their political and religious rivals (Steen Fatkin 2019). However, this does not explain the popularity of ritual baths outside of Jericho. The question remains: why were ritual baths in use throughout Judea shortly after the time of John Hyrcanus? I suggest that there is a link between the development of ritual baths in the Hasmonean period and contemporary concerns about purity, the rise of Gentile impurity, and an additional archaeological phenomenon—the relative absence of imported pottery in Judaean sites. That is, contact with non-Judaeans intensified the Hasmoneans’ need to purify themselves on a regular basis.

Abstaining from Using Gentile Ceramics In Jerusalem, the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho, and other sites we find a negligible amount of imported pottery during the late second and early and middle first century bce. Fine wares are nearly nonexistent. In contrast, imported wares were prevalent in Jerusalem during the Ptolemaic and Seleucid periods, as well as in non-Judaean sites in the late Hellenistic period—in the Galilee (Tel Anafa, Slane 1997: 265), ‘Akko, Idumea, Samaria, and the coastal plain (Berlin 2013: 157–167; Slane 1997: 265; Berlin and Stone 2016: 157–167). This indicates that

14  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity residents of Hasmonean Jerusalem and Judea had easy access to imported goods, both luxurious and commonplace. Several examples from Jerusalem and its environs in the Hasmonean period demonstrate the scale of ceramic selectivity of the Judaeans. In the Upper City/ Jewish Quarter the inhabitants relied primarily on local manufacture. There are no traces of regular long-distance trade. Eastern Sigillata A (ESA) was produced and distributed in the Seleucid empire as early as the mid-second century bce (Lund 2014: 298–299). In Petra these imported wares occur in the late second and early first centuries bce (Schmid 1996: 129, 135). The import of Ephesos-type lamps occurs in the Jewish Quarter only during the time of Herod. Foreign tableware was rare under Hasmonean rule, whereas in the Herodian period we witness “innovations in trade relations, marketing strategies, lifestyle and culinary tastes” that were not limited to the urban elite but were adopted by all the residents of Jerusalem (Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2014; for some exceptions, see Geva 2014: 15–18; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2006: 159; Sandhouse 2013: 94–98). Hardly any imported pottery was found in the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho, the Hasmonean fortresses Machaerus and Cypros, and Yodfat (Yotapata) in the Galilee (Bar-Nathan 2002: 119, 122; Bar-Nathan 2006a: 272; Aviam and Adan-Bayewitz 1997: 165; Adler 2011: 227), and late Hasmonean Kh. Qumran (Magness 2002: 75–79; the vessels published in Humbert et al. 2016; Donceel and Donceel Voûte 2017, Chapter 4, pp. 43–45; Eisenstadt 2018: 165, 208–210 may have been from post-Hasmonean strata). In Qalandia the pottery consists of local wares. Noteworthy in Qalandia is the vast number of coins from the late Hellenistic period, which shows that the lack of imported goods was not the result of a lack of resources. Nor does the archaeological survey of the Land of Benjamin reveal Hellenistic imported pottery (Magen 2004a: 17–18; 2004b: 83–84). In Horvat Mesad, a road station on the way from Jerusalem to the coast, there is a lack of imported fine wares dating from the reign of Alexander Jannaeus and somewhat later. ESA bowls are attested to only in the early second century bce, and they reappear in the early Roman period (Fisher 2012: 63, 73–74, 134). Imported pottery is also absent in the district of Lod, in the excavations of Shoham MD, and in Ben Shemen (Zelinger 2009: 73, 76, 138–139, 144). In Gezer, the strata from 150–50 bce contained a number of Terra Sigillata vessels (Gitin 1990: 89–101, 246–261), and there seems to be a reasonable explanation for this anomaly (see later). A good indication of the consumption of foreign goods is the imported amphoras from the Aegean Sea, especially Rhodian amphoras. They attest to the consumption of imported wine, although some of the vessels were probably later put to other use. The eponyms on their handles (when preserved) provide the exact date of manufacture, enabling archaeologists to accurately date the consumption of imported wine and ceramics. Finkielsztejn (2001) has shown that trade with Rhodes and the cities of western Asia Minor was widespread and even increased in the second half of the second century bce. Amphoras were prevalent throughout the late second century and first century bce in Gentile sites such as Tel Anafa (Ariel and Finkielsztejn 1994; Berlin 1997: 160–166). More than three hundred

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  15 handles were found in the City of David in Jerusalem dated to the late Ptolemaic and Seleucid phases of occupation in Jerusalem. In contrast, very few Rhodian and other Greek amphoras found in Jerusalem dated from the second half of the second century bce to the time of Herod. In the City of David, out of 331 dated items, only seven are dated to 146–50 bce (Ariel 1990). In the Tyropoeon Valley none of the 28 handles dates after 145 bce (Ariel 2013). In the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem, in areas A, W, and X-2 five handles from 150–108 bce out of 32 were discovered, and no handles are securely dated to 108–80 bce (Ariel 2000: 268). In Area E several handles should be dated roughly to late second or mid first century bce. In areas J, N, X-7, X-9, and Z seven amphorae handles from the second quarter of the first century bce were found (Finkielsztejn 2006, 2014). Imported amphoras are absent from other Judean sites such as the road station in Horvat Mesad, the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho (which should supposedly display a substantial amount of imported ceramic types), Kh. Qumran, and probably also Maresa after the conquest of John Hyrcanus in 112/111 bce (Fisher 2012: 134; Finkielsztejn 1998: 40, 54). In early Hasmonean Gezer (145–127 bce), however, more than 100 amphora handles were found, but none from the period after 127 bce. These handles may be attributed to the Seleucid military camp at the site during the reign of John Hyrcanus (Finkielsztejn 1998: 46, 53–54; 2001: 166–170; cf. Ant. 13.261). The absence of imported vessels such as Eastern Sigillata A does not necessarily indicate an aversion to the Hellenistic ceramic style or some kind of asceticism. In Jerusalem’s Armenian Garden and Jewish Quarter, as well as in the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho, red slip wares—local imitations of ESA—were found (Bar-Nathan 2002: 119–121; Hayes 1985: 183; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2003: 210–211). The rejection of imported fine wares was probably due to the fact that they were manufactured by Gentiles or because the local Judaean population associated them with non-Judaeans. According to Berlin (2013: 156), this relative absence of imported pottery in Judaean sites during the Hasmonean period led to a “culture of material simplicity, marked more by what is absent than what is present.” This was the beginning of an independent Judaean ceramic assemblage, plain and with a limited number of types, based on local production (Berlin 2005: 420–429; 2013: 168; see also later on the Hasmonean folded wheel-made oil lamp). Despite this relative absence of imported pottery and especially ESA wares, there is at least one notable exception. In the Hasmonean phase of Gamla in the Golan (area B, dated to the first century bce and also covering the Herodian period) 1,128 fragments of ESA were found, but they were far fewer in the layers of the first century and almost totally absent after 10 ce (Berlin 2005: 442–444; 2006: 13–14, 21–23, 137, 150). Berlin (2012: 59–65) notes that similar findings are also attested to in Capernaum and Bethsaida. Yet, as already noted, two ritual baths dated to the Hasmonean first century bce phase were also found in areas B/D at Gamla. This indicates that the inhabitants practiced ritual purification but nonetheless used imported wares, in contrast to

16  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity

Figure 1.1 Distribution of ritual baths and absence of imported pottery in the Hasmonean period (illustration by Dr. Dvir Raviv) [The ritual baths included in the map are limited to those which are safely dated to the Hasmonean period. Since the archaeological data results from the number of published excavations and the state of preservation in the relevant sites, it is difficult to draw conclusions from the absence of ritual baths in other sites.]

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  17 the customary Judaean practice in the Hasmonean period. The people of Gamla and perhaps additional sites in the Galilee did not follow the pattern common in Judea. This may also be due to Gamla’s geographical location on the borders of the Hasmonean state, and the non-Judean/Jewish origins of some of its population (cf. Ant. 13.294. Berlin 2006: 142–144 distinguished between old and new residents following the Hasmonean occupation of the site, and also suggested that northern Judaeans were more cosmopolitan). This exception should warn us against concluding that all Judeans in the Hasmonean state associated the use of ritual baths with the rejection of imported wares. The relative abstention from using imported pottery in key Judaean sites changed after the Hasmonean period. In the Herodian period and throughout the first century ce, ESA, amphoras, Roman discus-shaped oil lamps, and other imported wares were common in the Herodian palaces in Jericho, ­Jerusalem’s Upper City/Jewish Quarter, and even in Masada during the First Revolt against Rome (Bar-Nathan 2002: 119–144; 2006b: 307–365; Geva and Hershkovitz 2006: 94–143; 2014: 145–148; Geva 2010: 118–153). The quantity of imported vessels was surely much lower than the supply of local wares, but it was nevertheless considerable. For example, in area A  of the Jewish Quarter excavation, 155 items were reported, 41 of them were ESA (Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2003). But this later use of imported pottery did not result from a decrease in purity observance, since new ritual baths were installed in all these sites. During the Herodian period and the first century ce the number of ritual baths increased and a new material phenomenon emerged—limestone vessels which were impervious to defilement became popular in almost every Judaean site including the ones mentioned earlier (see Chapter  2). Those who used imported pottery from the time of Herod to 70 ce probably did not regard it as impure. Thus, Judaean material culture and the sociocultural approach to purity in the first century ce differed from that of the Hasmonean period. The nature and causes of this transformation require a separate discussion. This rejection of imported pottery is not characteristic of the Hellenistic world. The study of ceramics in the late Hellenistic period demonstrates extensive pottery exchange and contacts between cultures across the eastern Mediterranean (Fenn and Römer-Strehl 2013). Political boundaries did not constitute insurmountable barriers to the transport of amphorae and other Hellenistic ceramics. Yet in some cases it is possible that the competition between the Seleucids and the Ptolemaics, or local state regulations regarding imported wares, may have affected the distribution of certain types (Lund 2014). Judaean ceramic selectivity puzzled archaeologists (Bar-Nathan 2002: 121– 122; Geva 2003: 116; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2014: 396). Did it result from avoidance of contact with coastal cities, from economic isolation, or from rural tastes (cf. Aviam and Adan-Bayewitz 1997: 165)? Ariel was perhaps the first to raise the possibility that Gentile pottery was rejected out of purity concerns. He pointed to the law that attributes impurity to Gentile lands, but since this ­phenomenon is attested to mainly in later rabbinic sources—although the rabbis

18  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity attributed it to early Hasmonean sages—and there is no substantial evidence from the Hasmonean period, he hesitated to view this as the main explanation for the ceramic phenomenon (Ariel and Strikovsky 1990; Ariel 2000: 277). Nonetheless, others believe that foreign pottery was considered impure (Finkielsztejn 1998: 39–40; 1999: 31*–33*; Magen 2004a: 18: Bar-Nathan 2006a: 273; Adler 2011: 271–273). Although purity concerns are indeed at issue here, we need to examine why Gentile ceramics were so regarded in this particular period.

Gentile Impurity in the Hasmonean Period: Reflections of an Ethnic Conflict Jewish laws and practices pertaining to Gentile impurity have been discussed extensively for more than a century in the context of the Jewish purity system (Büchler 1926; Alon 1977a; Klawans 1995). However, the historical and cultural settings of such purity laws have been neglected: Why were these laws and practices developed at a particular stage in the history of Judaism, and in relation to what other processes? Furthermore, no studies on Jewish views of Gentile impurity (and other purity concerns) have addressed the anthropological concept of ethnicity. I  maintain that Gentile impurity increased substantially during the Hasmonean period. Hence it may be linked with the abstention from using foreign pottery and the emergence of ritual baths which occurred in the Hasmonean period and would thus explain the rejection of Gentile culture, as well as the new need for ritual purification. Ascribing impurity to non-Judeans or non-Israelites diverges from the concept of impurity in the biblical Priestly Code, because it does not result from natural or immoral sources of defilement (a corpse, blood, semen, idolatry, incest) but specifically from contact with a foreign person. In the Pentateuch, impurity hardly ever results from contact with foreigners or lower classes (Douglas 1993: 23–26). Notions of Gentile impurity already existed before the second century bce (Num 31:20–24; Neh 13:9; Ant. 12.120; Hayes 2002: 27–33, 40–44; Olyan 2004), but they became much more common in the Hasmonean period, as demonstrated by several texts written during the rise and heyday of the Hasmonean state. Jews refrain from eating Gentile food in Daniel (1:8), Tobit (1:10–13), and Judith (12:1–2), probably because it is impure. Some date these books to the early Hasmonean period (Hartman 1978: 16; Moore 1985: 67–70; Gera 2014: 38–44) and others to an earlier period (see Fitzmyer 2003: 50–51 for Tobit). All three passages attest to a growing tendency toward separation from Gentiles because they are impure. However, in Daniel impurity is not attributed explicitly to non-Jews, while in Tobit and Judith impurity is not referred to at all; it is merely a reasonable implication. In contrast, various texts from the Maccabean and Hasmonean periods are much more straightforward on the subject. 1 Maccabees was written in the final days of John Hyrcanus or during the reign of Alexander Jannaeus, and reflects the Hasmonean ideology (Regev 2013: 25–26 and references). The book opens with the problem of contact with Gentiles and following their nomoi (1 Mac 1:11, 13–15). The Seleucids are several times

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  19 accused of defiling the Temple (1:37, 46, 48), and later Nicanor, the Seleucid general, defiles the priests and elders (7:34). This probably culminated in the need to purify the Temple when it was captured by the Maccabees (4:36, 41, 43). Gentile impurity is also evident in daily life, as many in Israel refrain from eating impure food (1:62). It is associated with Gentile houses when Simon purifies the houses in Gezer (13:47–48). Later, Simon purifies the Seleucid fortress, the Akra, from “abominations (miasmatōn)” (13:50), which probably includes idols (Goldstein 1976: 483). Simon is praised for this act, since the people of the Akra committed acts of defilement in the vicinity of the Temple (14:7, 26). It was not novel to regard idolatry as contaminating (Gen 35:2; Deut 7:26; Ezek 20:7), but such acts of purification were rare before the Hasmonean period. 2 Maccabees was written by Jason of Cyrene, a Diaspora Jew, who focuses on Judah Maccabee and his victories. It dates to the last days of Simon (143–135 bce) or the early days of John Hyrcanus (Schwartz 2008: 11–12, 139–140, 143–144, 519–529). The author/editor admires Judah Maccabee, emphasizes the centrality of the Jerusalem Temple, and adopts an anti-Gentile approach. These trends are also characteristic of 1 Maccabees and attest to the adoption of Hasmonean ideology (Regev 2013: 84–89, 108–110). Here too the Seleucids defiled the Temple (2 Mac 6:2), and its purification is a major theme (2: 16, 18; 10:3, 6, 8; 14:36; Regev 2013: 36–37, 84–89). Judah and his people observed a special diet, probably in order to refrain from eating food which was connected to Gentiles. They fled to the mountains and “lived there in animal-like fashion, for food limiting themselves to grass so as to avoid defilement” (5:27). After the battle against Gorgias near Adullam in Idumea, the Maccabees purified themselves before the Sabbath “according to the custom” (12:38; a similar practice is also prescribed in the War Rule 1QM 14:2). In contrast, Alkimus, the high priest who cooperated with the Seleucids, “had willingly defiled himself in the times of strife” (14:3). Gentile impurity is reflected in the Maccabees’ attitude toward idolatrous cults and their acts against pagan sanctuaries, not only in purifying the Temple in Jerusalem (2 Mac 10:2). In his military campaigns, Judah burned the temples of the Baianites (1 Mac 5:4) and Qarnayim in the Golan (1 Mac 5:44), and destroyed the altars and statues in Ashdod (1 Mac 5:68). Later, Jonathan burnt the temple to Dagon in Ashdod (1 Mac 10:84; 11:4). It is likely that the Maccabees and their later followers believed that the source of impurity was the worship of other gods, and the rites and practices followed both in sanctuaries and in private dwellings. The Letter of Aristeas emphasizes Jewish separation from Gentiles on account of their impurity. The high priest Elazar declares: “we are distinct from all other men. The majority of other men defile themselves in their relationships, thereby committing a serious offence . . . they also defile mothers and daughters. We are quite separated from these practices” (152). Jews are obliged to be pure (hagnoi) in body and spirit and should not mingle with other nations (139). Separation from Gentiles and the call for Jewish maintenance of purity appear several times elsewhere in the Letter (130, 142, 151). Although some date Aristeas to the early second century bce on account of his defense of Judaism in relation to Hellenism (Shutt 1985: 8–9), there are stronger

20  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity arguments to date it to the Hasmonean period (Hadas 1951: 9–54). The fortress which secures the Temple is inhabited by independent Judaean military forces (Aristeas 100–104), which corresponds with the Hasmonean Baris (built by John Hyrcanus, Ant. 18.91) and not the Ptolemaic or Seleucid Akra (Bar-Kochva 1996: 276–277). Aristeas also presents the high priest as a sovereign ruler and supreme military commander (81, 122), exactly like the Hasmonean high priests. The author adopts a pro-Hasmonean worldview when he focuses on the figure of the high priest Elazar, whose approval grants the Greek translation of the Torah its authenticity and quality (Honigman 2003: 41–53), since his authority and status echo those of the Hasmonean high priest, probably John Hyrcanus. The author’s detailed fascination with the Jerusalem Temple also corresponds with Hasmonean ideology (Regev 2013: 91–93). It seems, therefore, that Aristeas, just like 2 Maccabees, is influenced by the attitudes of the Judaean Jews in the Hasmonean period. Josephus reports on two events during the Hasmonean period when restrictions were imposed on contact with Gentiles. During the siege of Antiochus VII on Jerusalem, John Hyrcanus rejected the demand that the garrison be turned over to the Seleucids since “the Jews . . . did not come into contact with other people because of their separateness.” (Ant. 13.247). Indeed, there is further evidence for the separation between Jews and Gentiles during the reign of Antiochus VII (Ant. 13.245; Diodurus 34.1). When the young Herod wished to enter Jerusalem before “the festival” with his Gentile troops, Hyrcanus II resisted their entry, “forbidding him to intrude aliens upon the country-folk during their period of purification” (War 1.227). Josephus, probably following Nicolaus of Damascus, implies that this was merely an excuse to protect Malichus (whom Herod suspected was responsible for killing his father Antipather) from Herod’s revenge. Nonetheless, Hyrcanus’ argument was probably legitimate and sustainable. Although individual Gentiles certainly entered Jerusalem, the presence of Gentile crowds was unwelcome. Toward the end of the Hasmonean period, the author of the Psalms of Solomon hopes that the Davidic king will purify Jerusalem from the Gentiles (17:22), designating the Messiah’s enemies as defiled (17:26). In Jubilees, eating and associating with Gentiles are prohibited because their acts are impure, as they offer sacrifices to the dead and to demons (Jub 22:16– 17). Intermarriage with Canaanites also results in impurity (Jub 25:1). In Jubilees 30 the rape of Dina by Shechem defiles the girl. Whereas in Genesis 34:13, 31 the impurity seems to relate to (forced) intercourse outside legal marriage (cf. Num 5:11–31) or with an unmarried woman (cf. Deut 22:20–21), in Jubilees irredeemable impurity stems from sexual contact between a Judaean and a Gentile. Intermarriage warrants the death penalty (30:7) and defiles the Temple from afar (30:15–16; cf. Werman 2015: 411–413). Jubilees post-dates the Hellenistic reform since it relates to Jewish Hellenizers in Jerusalem covering their circumcised foreskin (Jub 15:25; VanderKam 1977: 245–246; cf. 1 Mac 1:15). The oldest Jubilees scrolls found in the Qumran caves were copied in 125–100 bce (VanderKam and Flint 2002: 196–199). Its laws and calendar are quite similar to those of the

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  21 Qumran sectarians, but the main focus of Jubilees is hostility toward Gentiles (e.g., 9:15) in a manner which resembles 1 Maccabees (on Jubilees’ pre-Qumranic character, see Regev 2007: 219–241). The Qumran sectarians also maintained that Gentiles are impure. They did not represent “mainstream” Judaeans, but rather opposition to the Hasmoneans, and their major concern was to separate themselves from other Judaeans. Nonetheless, their need to address Gentile impurity demonstrates the dominance of the phenomenon in this period. In the Damascus Document scroll from Cave 4 dated to the Hasmonean period, priests are prohibited from serving in the Temple if they are contaminated by the impurity of the Gentiles. Such impurity occurs in the event that they migrate to serve Gentiles or betray their own people with them, or even if they are held in captivity among Gentiles (4Q266Da 5 ii 4–5, 8–9; Baumgarten 1992a, 1996: 26 49–52, 102, 195). A similar decree on the impurity of Gentile land was later attributed to the Pharisaic Yose ben Yoezer, who lived in the early Hasmonean period (j. Shab 1:4, 3d; b. Shab. 14b; Baumgarten 1992a). In the halakhic letter MMT (B 3–9) the authors object to the acceptance of sacrifices and heave offerings or tithes of wheat and grain from Gentiles. Other scroll fragments may also relate to Gentile impurity in the context of metal products and statues (4QDd269 8 II 2–3; Baumgarten 1996: 130–131; Birenboim 2011: 23) or holy food (4Q513 Ordinancesb 1–2 ii). Recent scholarship on Gentile impurity has focused on the question of its nature and sources. Klawans (1995) argued that in Second Temple sources this impurity is moral rather than ritual, the result of associating the Gentiles with idolatry or incest. He noted that ritual impurity is explicitly attributed to Gentiles (and to idolatry) only in Rabbinic texts after 70 ce (e.g., m. Toharot 7:6; t. Zabim 2:1). Hayes (2002: 45, 60–61, 73–81) also considers the moral character of Gentile impurity, except in the case of intermarriage, which she designates “genealogical purity.” Both argue that in Second Temple period texts (apart from sectarian Qumranic texts, according to Klawans) Gentile impurity is not ritually defiling (Klawans 1995: esp. 288; Hayes 2002: 45–54, 66–67, 139–142, 193). Birenboim (2011), in contrast, shows that in many cases Gentile impurity is contaminating in a certain sense, namely, bearing “practical results.” This can be demonstrated by the purification mentioned in 1 and 2 Maccabees. Admittedly, the distinction between ritual and moral is elusive, and it is difficult to make an inclusive classification of purity typologies (Lemos 2013; Kazen 2014; cf. Feder 2014: 302–306). Nevertheless, these labels of moral and ritual impurity are relevant to the interpretation of the archaeological findings as they relate to the consequences of impurity. Instead of distinguishing between moral and ritual impurity, I would like to distinguish between (1) texts which argue that Gentile impurity merely requires certain social restraints or even separation from Gentiles (such as their food) due to the Gentiles’ general state of impurity (even if it is labeled moral impurity); and (2) texts which demand more active measures such as purification, since Gentiles (or their acts) actually engender defilement. These two categories are useful for detecting how Gentile impurity affects actual practices. Social restraints or separation may be merely a means of classifying Gentiles as outsiders, but they

22  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity probably include restrictions on contact with them—including abstaining from using vessels manufactured by Gentiles—thus creating social boundaries between Judaeans and non-Judaeans. It may even demand a rite of purification, but this is not stated explicitly in our texts. In contrast, purification from Gentile defilement reflects a more threatening concept of impurity, where Gentiles or their acts alter or impair the status of persons, things, or institutions. This may necessitate ritual immersion in a bath. The following table summarizes what is defiled or defiling according to literary evidence on Gentile impurity. We have seen that a number of authors engage with Gentile impurity throughout the Hasmonean period, some of them demanding ritual purification as a countermeasure. Local advocates of the Hasmonean rulers, Egyptian Jews who admire the Hasmonean rulers, pre-sectarians like Jubilees, and the Qumran sectarians, all believe that the Gentiles are impure and strive to limit contact with them. Some of them stress that they defile foodstuffs, the Temple, or the people (who need purification before the Sabbath). 1 and 2 Maccabees also prescribe rites to purify the Temple or houses/settlements from this pollution. All this relates to the archaeological phenomena in the Hasmonean period: a dearth of Gentile pottery in Judaean sites, and the emergence of purification that is standardized and facilitated by building special installations—ritual baths. There is a clear link between regarding Gentiles as impure and rejecting ­vessels manufactured by them. Linking Gentile impurity to the onset of immersion in ritual baths demands further justification. Ritual baths emerge in ca. 100 bce, while the concept of Gentile impurity appears in several documents from ca. 150– 100 bce. Both flourished in the later Hasmonean period. This suggests that the two are interrelated. New types of material culture appear in response to a new demand, and this occurs in the wake of social or cultural changes. There is a reason for the increased concern for purity and the introduction of a new means for its achievement. Since they regarded Gentiles and their acts as defiling (especially Table 1.1  Sources of Gentile Impurity (and what should be protected from defilement) Text

Social Restraints or Separation due to General State of Impurity

Purification from Defilement

1 Maccabees 2 Maccabees

food

Aristeas Josephus Psalms of Solomon Jubilees Damascus Document

food general uncleanness (festival)

domestic idols idols and worship (Temple) food, warfare (Shabbat)

4QMMT

pagan sacrifices

general defilement intermarriage (Temple) Gentile land (Temple service) metal products and statues (holy things) (?) sacrifices and grain offerings (Temple)

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  23 in 1 Maccabees and the Psalms of Solomon), Judaeans wished to purify themselves. A relatively new and threatening source of impurity led to a new type of ritual purification. I do not maintain that Gentile impurity was the only reason for the emergence of the ritual baths. I am of course aware of the new forms of Torah observance and Jewish religiosity that had appeared and the emergence of Sadducees, Pharisees, and Essenes (Ant. 13.171–173; cf. CD 1). Yet these general trends do not explain why purification rites changed and became essential. Furthermore, the link between the emergence of ritual baths and the increased awareness of Gentile impurity is sustained by another contemporary archaeological trend which is also related to Gentiles—the rejection of Gentile pottery in many sites throughout Judaea.

Beyond Purity: Archaeological Markers of Judaean Ethnic Identity What is the relationship between these three phenomena that emerged in the same period and in the same territory? Immersion in a ritual bath may be due to various sources of defilement. Arguing that the inhabitants were cleansing themselves from Gentile impurity by ritual immersion assumes that Gentiles were considered ritually defiling, and that many Judaeans engaged in contaminating contacts with Gentiles on a day-to-day basis at sites where ritual baths were in use. Arguing that foreign pottery was to be avoided because it was impure or defiling assumes that every indirect contact with Gentile goods transmitted pollution like the chain of impurities in rabbinic law (e.g., m. Zabim 5:6, 12). Such assumptions would overstate the consequences of Gentile impurity as evidenced in the Hasmonean period. The meaning and consequences of impurity should not be viewed through the narrow perspective of rabbinic halakhah on purity, as if the Judaeans were defiled following physical contact with an impure object/person on a daily basis. Purity and impurity are also ontological and behavioral concepts of human perceptions about matters pertaining to culture, society, and politics (Douglas 1966; Dumont 1980). Instead of viewing Gentile impurity, ritual immersion in a stepped pool, and the very limited use of foreign vessels strictly as direct representations of the practical Judaean purity-and-impurity system, I suggest we regard them as profound but variable cultural phenomena. They are not merely practical measures taken against daily contact with Gentiles, but three aspects of the Judaeans’ culture and identity—ethnic markers which are associated with impurity and purification. Impurity is not the ultimate issue; rather it represents a system of boundaries set by the Judaeans against the neighboring non-Judaeans. The ethnic model explains why Gentile impurity, ritual baths, and the rejection of imported pottery emerged in the Hasmonean period. Admittedly I  am not the first to suggest this correlation. Berlin (2013: 169– 170) has already briefly remarked on the ethnic aspects of Gentile purity and the lack of imported vessels, concluding that the ritual baths “advertise ethnic identity and proclaim cultural separation” in which “Judeans live as one people”

24  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity (she also related the later absence of ESA in the Galilee in the first century ce to anti-Romanization and a stress on Jewish identity, Berlin 2002b; cf. Berlin 2006: 150–151, 156 n. 24). This line of thinking needs to be developed further by means of theories and models of ethnic identity.

Background: Ethnic Identity, Material Culture, and State Formation Ethnic Identity and Boundaries Ethnicity is not an inherent attribute of individuals or groups but rather a process of identification and differentiation (Emberling 1997: 306; Eriksen 2013: 282). One’s self-conceptualization results from identification with a broader group in opposition to others, on the basis of perceived cultural differentiation and/or common descent (Jones 1997: xii, 84). Ethnicity is a consciousness of difference which entails the reproduction and transformation of basic classificatory distinctions between groups of people who perceive themselves to be in some respect culturally distinct (Eriksen 1992: 3). Ethnic groups often exist in hierarchical relationships—whether dominant or subordinate—to other groups or to a state (Emberling 1997: 303). Barth (1969) associated ethnicity with social boundaries: Groups define themselves in relation to, and in contrast with, other groups (cf. Cohen 1985: 115–119; Wimmer 2013). These boundaries may be relatively flexible or somewhat obscure (Cohen 1994: 121, 130; Eriksen 2010: 46–48; 2013: 289–290). In fact, cultural differences relate to ethnicity only if such differences are relevant in social interactions. At the same time there is also contact, interaction, and even dependence among ethnic entities (Eriksen 2010: 45–48). Ethnic studies identify and map a complex of traits that the ethnic group deems significant and that distinguishes one ethnos from others, isolating a complex of cultural traits common to a population inhabiting a specific environmental zone. The boundaries result from contact and interaction between groups (McGuire 1982: 163). Such boundaries and taboos enhance social commitment and social order (Douglas 1993: 48, 153). Boundaries are the means whereby the ethnic group reinforces its position. The dominant group uses them to single out the weaker group and unites the rest of the group against it (McGuire 1982: 172). However, personal experience plays a crucial role when it is projected onto political identity. Each individual is active regarding their ethnic identity in daily negotiations. It is through practice that individuals perceive and negotiate their ethnic allegiances (Eriksen 2010: 196; Diaz-Andreu 2015: 4818). The ethnic boundaries of a group are defined by the idiosyncratic use of specific material and behavioral symbols compared to other groups (Barth 1969: 14–15; McGuire 1982: 160; Cohen 1994: 94, 120; Emberling 1997: 299). They are chosen for their symbolism and represent an identity separate from other groups. They may be behavioral or material in form (McGuire 1982: 160, 163). It is relevant

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  25 to the concept of purity in Hasmonean Judaea that many ethnic movements are religious in character and stress the importance of religious conformity (Eriksen 2010: 81). In fact, the loss of cultural boundaries can entail a sense of impurity that may affect ethnic identification—purification or affirmation of impurity (Eriksen 2013: 290). Ethnicity in Material Culture Different ethnic groups tend to develop distinctive traits of material culture. Thus, the boundaries may be detected in the archaeological record (Hodder 1982c; Wiessner 1983; Emberling 1997: 311 and references). The material correlates ethnically specific behaviors due to the interaction between groups (Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 96; Emberling 1997: 310–324). Certain traits that the group uses for demarcating itself in relation to the other are incorporated as boundaries (McGuire 1982; Hodder 1982c; Faust 2006: 13–19, and references). Contact between groups is essential for the formation of the self-identity of a group (Eriksen 2010: 34), which is clearly manifested in its material culture. Ethnic identity can be identified in certain artifacts that come to have symbolic meaning (McGuire 1982: 163; Hodder 1982c; for examples see David, Sterner and Gavua 1988; Thomas 1994; Faust 2006: 49–64). Nevertheless, some scholars hesitate to apply ethnic labels to a specific material culture, especially in pre-historic cultures, as there may be other practices to renegotiate identity (Knapp 2014). The Social and Historical Formation Process of Ethnic Identity McGuire (1982) suggested a model for the formation process of ethnic identity which elucidates the historical scenario that took place in Hasmonean Judaea. Ethnic differences arise and persist following competition, ethnocentrism, and differential power. Ethnocentrism means viewing one’s ethnic culture (behavior patterns and ideals) as superior to another. It channels the competition to the sphere of ethnic identity. When a group encounters competition and opposition it develops a persistent cultural system, represented by boundaries. Ethnic boundaries are maintained by the manipulation and display of symbols—behavioral or material (see also Spicer 1971: 796–797). The greater the disparity in power between groups, the higher the degree of boundary maintenance between them (cf. Eeriksen 2010). Ethnic Identity and the State Many studies relate ethnogenesis or ethnic identity to the state. State formation develops and encourages ethnic boundaries because the differences of power within the state and its political activity control or even create new possibilities for defining such ethnic identity (Ucko 1988, xi; Brumfiel 1994: 89; Shennan 1989: 15–17; Emberling 1997: 304, 308; Faust 2006: 136–137 and references).

26  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity According to Smith (1986: 55) “ethnicism is fundamentally defensive. It is a response to outside threats and divisions within,” defining oneself in resistance to pressure from the outside. As a side note, it should be mentioned that a different type of ethnic identity arises as resistance to the state and its political control (Emberling 1997: 308; Scott 2009; Faust 2016: 163). Ethnicity has political importance since it sustains and legitimizes political autonomy (Brumfiel 1994: 94 on the Aztec state). National or ethnic identities are elaborated on to define conceptions of civic virtue that legitimize submission to the state (Williams 1989). Hegemonic strategies, material and symbolic alike, generate the idea of the state while concretizing the “imagined community” of the nation by articulating spatial, bodily and temporal matrixes through the everyday routines, rituals, and policies of the state system (Alonso 1994: 382). By exerting its organized power, administration, and social network, the state is able to affect its citizens’ behavior, distribution of goods, and daily rites. In this manner, ethnicity plays a role in the state’s political domination over certain populations.

Shaping Judaean Ethnic Identity in the Hasmonean State Two factors connect Gentile impurity, the emergence of ritual baths, and abstinence from the use of imported pottery to ethnic identity and boundaries: (1) Gentile impurity and the absence of imported ceramics mark boundaries between Judaeans and non-Judaeans. Ritual baths may be related to these ethnic boundaries, since they do not merely reflect legal or halakhic practices. Purity and impurity are based on inclusion in and exclusion from ritualized environments, creating social hierarchies, and establishing and reinforcing differences between social groups (Olyan 2000: 38, 54–62. On purity-impurity categories as a means of redefining earlier Judaean identity, see Olyan 2004), as ritual creates social order and loyalty (Bell 1992: 175–181). (2) The period in which they all take place is one of conflict between the Judaeans under the leadership of the Hasmoneans and the neighboring non-Judaeans (especially those in Hellenistic cities). Judaean ethnic identity developed in the course of the formation of the Hasmonean state. The conflict between the Judaeans and their Gentile neighbors flared up as a consequence of the religious decrees imposed by Antiochus IV and the resistance led by Judah Maccabee, while the city of Ptolemais and the citizens of other Greek cities sided with the Seleucids. Judah, Jonathan, and Simon engaged militarily with the local Gentile populations centered in the Hellenistic cities (e.g., Joppa, Ashdod, Gaza, and Qedesh). By the end of the second and early first centuries bce John Hyrcanus and Alexander Jannaeus had conquered and demolished several Hellenistic cities (Ant. 13.255–257, 275–251, 356–364, 174, 393–397; Kasher 1990: 116–191). Numismatic evidence testifies to John Hyrcanus’ conquest of the cities of Maresha, Samaria, Shechem, Beer Sheva and other non-Judaean sites in 112/111 bce (Barag 1992/3; cf. Finkielsztejn 1998). The archaeological record attests to the decline of Hellenistic cities, especially in the

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  27 coastal plain, during the Hasmonean period, while Hasmonean Judaea flourished with building projects and the expansion of existing settlements (Safrai 2000; Tal 2009). Some non-Judaean rural settlements in the Judean lowlands, Idumaea, Western Samaria and elsewhere were destroyed by the Hasmoneans (Faust and Erlich 2008; cf. Amit and Zilberbord 1996). Ascribing impurity to Gentiles and avoiding foreign pottery should therefore be interpreted in light of this ongoing ethnic conflict in Judaea and its environs. The clashes between the Maccabees/Hasmoneans and the Hellenistic cities, and the Hasmonean conquests, correspond to McGuire’s formation process of ethnic identity: contact, competition, ethnocentrism, and differential power. Viewing Gentiles as inherently impure, practicing ritual purification as an indirect result of this impurity, and abstaining from the use of pottery produced by Gentiles, were boundaries which secluded Judaeans from non-Judaeans. But these three traits have an even deeper significance. They are a response to cultural contact; symbolic gestures that aim to oppose or reject the neighboring cultures, including the Hellenistic civilization in the nearby poleis (where the Judaeans enjoyed political and military domination). They mark Judaean ethnocentrism. The Judaeans channeled competition with other ethnoi into the sphere of ethnic identity, manifesting their power through the symbolism of impurity, material culture, and special rites of purification—immersing the entire body in water, ritualizing the sense of in-group ethnic identity. All this represents “ethnically specific behavior,” a new ethnic or cultural identity of Judaeans vis-à-vis Gentiles. Their purpose is to encourage individual Judaeans to identify themselves with the ethnic group (cf. Emberling 1997: 302). The use of material culture to this end is verified in anthropological-archaeological scholarship (Hodder 1982c; Wiessner 1983; Emberling 1997: 311 and references; Faust 2006). The limited use of certain foreign vessels and the bodily immersion in ritual baths are individual acts, but it is nonetheless possible that they were controlled or initiated by the ruling power (cf. Brumfiel 1994). But what kind of social force or mechanism motivated or endorsed these ethnic boundaries? Were they established because of the local Judaean population’s hostility toward Gentiles (which was consequently also adhered to by the Hasmonean rulers themselves), or were they the result of an official policy headed by the Hasmonean state? There are several indications that these ethnic boundaries were promoted and perhaps even initiated by the Hasmonean rulers and high priests, their state ideology, and the administration. First, the geographical distribution throughout the Judean highlands and beyond points to the wide scope of these phenomena. Such a relatively uniform pattern of material culture and cultural behavior is likely to go beyond individual or local tendencies and could well be organized by the state. Second, the literary and archaeological evidence attests to the Hasmoneans’ own adherence to these boundaries and rites. 1 Maccabees, representing Hasmonean propaganda and the worldview of the Hasmonean court, emphasizes that Gentiles are defiling and purification is required from their impurity. In the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho there are eleven ritual baths (each building has at least one bath) and the lack of imported vessels is telling, in light of the royal status of the

28  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity inhabitants. These facts are a direct link between the ethnic boundaries and the Hasmoneans themselves. Third, the Hasmoneans followed an ethnocentric policy. John Hyrcanus converted Idumeans and Judah Aristobulus converted some Itureans to the Judaean ethnos/religion, meaning that they now complied with the Judaean/Jewish nomos (way of life). In so doing, the Hasmoneans transformed Judaean identity from genos to politea (Cohen 1990). This act proves that the Hasmoneans were very much aware of Judaean ethnic identity and were engaged in setting new ethnic boundaries between Judaeans and non-Judaeans. Furthermore, the Hasmoneans were responsible for the half-shekel tribute every Jew should contribute to the Jerusalem Temple, they inscribed heber ha-yehudim (a Judaean ethnic designation which was uncharacteristic of Hellenistic kingdoms) on their Hebrew coins, and assigned a central role to the Temple by establishing Hanukkah (the dedication and purification of the Temple from Gentile impurity) as an annual festival (Regev 2013). Under the Hasmoneans, the Torah and its observance became more prominent and extensive than before. It has been argued that the Hasmoneans sponsored the Torah as an instrument for the unification of their people, fostering what was recently called (following E.P. Sanders) “common Judaism” (Collins 2017: 185). The role of the Hasmonean leaders/high priests in this process of ethnic formation should be contextualized with the historical scenario. During the Maccabean revolt, Judaean hostility toward Gentiles was a reaction to the hatred of the Hellenistic cities toward the Judaeans and the Seleucid administration and army. The Judaeans were categorized as “the other” to begin with, in a manner which escalated the formation of their own ethnic identity throughout the late Hellenistic period (Regev 2013: 284–286). The violent clashes with the Seleucids and local Gentiles during and after the Maccabean revolt enhanced ethnic separation. Yet the Hasmoneans and their followers are responsible for the means by which the ethnic relationship is expressed. It is they who decided on the application and character of the ethnic purity boundaries and the ritual marker of repetitious purifications. They used these boundaries and rites as a means for promoting a superior ethnic identity that justified their separation from non-Judaeans and their dominance over them. Assuming that the ethnic boundaries associated with im/purity were controlled by the Hasmonean rulers or their government/administration, the question is, why did the local Judaean population conform to them? Norms, beliefs, and values are effective and have their own constraining power only because they are the collective representations of a group and are backed by the pressure of that group (Cohen 1974: xiii). Boundaries are maintained because people cherish them: There is compliance between the taboo system and the social system, a public commitment to the social order in which the taboos are embedded (Douglas 1993: 48, 153). To put it plainly, the ethnic identity that the Hasmoneans promoted suited the aims and values of their Judaean subjects. There are two additional phenomena of material culture dated to the Hasmonean period which may express Judaean ethnic identity: the Hasmonean folded

Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity  29 wheel-made lamp, and the standing pit burial cave (for the latter, see Chapter 3). Both replicate the cultural characteristics of Judean lamps and burial caves in the Kingdom of Judah during the monarchic/First Temple period, and further indicate that Jewish society in the Hasmonean period sought to emphasize its identity through culture and memory (Abadi and Regev 2020).

Conclusions The notion that Gentiles are impure and (in certain texts such as 1 Maccabees) defiling did not develop of its own accord, nor did the rite of immersing the entire body in undrawn water (namely, not using vessels, but merely rainwater or natural sources of water) and the construction of a special installation to that end. Historical events leading to sociocultural processes operated on and shaped these concepts and practices. The ethnic conflict in Jud(a)ea in the second and early first centuries bce as well the formation of the Hasmonean state, its ideology, and its political and military power helped shape these purity concerns. The negligible use of imported pottery by Judaeans throughout the Hasmonean state is directly related to this process. The geographical and chronological correlation between abstinence from imported wares, ritual baths, and Gentile impurity notwithstanding, it is not entirely certain that foreign pottery was simply regarded as impure or defiling. It is possible that imported vessels were primarily rejected as a symbolic gesture against the rival ethnic group. It seems that Gentile pottery (especially amphoras) were excluded since ca. 150 bce, with Hasmonean independence under Jonathan (152–143 bce), whereas purification in ritual baths was initiated around 100 bce, under Alexander Jannaeus. That is, initially Judaeans abstained from Gentile material culture (corresponding with the general attribution of impurity to Gentiles) and only later did they engage in more active purification in ritual baths. I do not claim that ethnic identity (and Gentile impurity) was the only catalyst for the emergence of the ritual bath. However, there is a threefold link between the two phenomena: chronological (ethnic clashes during the Hasmonean period), archaeological (the rejection of imported wares), and thematic (the emergence of new purity concerns). I suggest that the need for purification from Gentile defilement through a special rite was not merely a practical act resulting from physical daily contact with non-Judaeans. It was a symbolic rite of ethnic identity formation, for the many Judaeans who wanted to feel free from Gentile impurity and emphasize that they are more pure. The aim of maintaining a state of purity was not limited to the Temple cult, since ritual baths were found in the Galilee, Gezer, and Jericho. Clearly, bathing was not limited to priests eating their priestly dues in a state of purity (Num 18), since there were numerous baths. The goal of immersion in a ritual bath was most likely purification from an ordinary (not priestly) state of impurity, as attested to by purification before the Sabbath, or the purification of Gezer. This probably marked the onset of eating ordinary food in a state of purity (see the next chapter), a trend that became more popular in the first century ce (e.g., Mark 7:1–5).

30  Ritual Baths, Pottery, and Gentile Impurity The link between Gentile impurity, ritual baths, and the rejection of imported pottery in 150–50 bce demonstrates that Hasmonean military and religious policy contributed to or even shaped a new Judaean ethnic identity. The Hasmonean state, with its political and administrative power and strong ideological thrust, sent a signal to competing weaker groups (the Hellenistic cities and other rural nonJudaeans) and united the rest of the Judaean ethnic group against them, encouraging the Judaean subjects to conduct themselves differently than the Gentiles. The specific purity boundaries were chosen on account of their symbolism, probably because purity was an important value in the Judaean religion and cult (e.g., the edict of Antiochus III in Ant. 12.145–146). These boundaries represented an identity separate from other groups, and were behavioral or material. By these means the Hasmoneans stressed Judaean ethnocentrism as their chief purpose, thus reinforcing their political position. The Judaeans, led by the Hasmoneans, were concerned about their identity and required material trends to ensure the security and stability of their ethnic distinctiveness. They endeavored to separate themselves from the non-Judaeans by these symbolic means, because otherwise their independent identity was at risk, on account of their extensive interactions with other people. Ultimately, these were fences between neighbors.

2 Pure Individualism Non-Priestly Purity, Religious Experience, and the Self

The final years of Herod’s reign, which coincided with the end of the first century bce, saw a vast increase in the number of ritual baths in Judaea. This was even more apparent in the first century ce. Furthermore, new types of vessels made of limestone became extremely popular, probably due to the perception that stone cannot be defiled. A great variety of sources, not only in rabbinic literature but also in the apocrypha, the Dead Sea Scrolls, Philo, Josephus, and the New Testament, attest that purity was strictly observed in everyday life during this period. What makes these rules and practices unusual is that they do not pertain to the realm of the Temple cult. They are not related to what I call priestly purity, which applies to the Temple domain, offering and eating sacrifices, priestly service, and partaking of priestly dues (e.g., Lev 7:19–21; Num 18:11). Rather, these sources refer to non-priestly purity (terminology I coined in Regev 2000), that is, routine daily purity concerns, such as eating food in a state of purity, handwashing, and purification before the meal. The manifold evidence has led me to conclude that in the late Second Temple period, many (and not only the Pharisees and rabbis) maintained purity in daily life despite having no connection to the priesthood or the Temple cult (Regev 2000). This conclusion has also been reached by others (Poirier 2003; Adler 2016). My primary interest in this chapter is to understand why so many Judaeans were committed to avoiding impurity in their daily life. What changes in the concept of purity led to the proliferation of ritual baths and stone vessels? What do the ritual baths, stone vessels, and related historical evidence teach us about Judaean society in this period? I will begin with a survey of the archaeological evidence, focusing on geographical distribution, quantities of baths and stone vessels, their typology and context, followed by a review of historical and halakhic sources. I will demonstrate that observing ritual and bodily purity in everyday life was not limited to the Pharisees and early rabbis but was quite common in Judaean society. This will lead to a socio-anthropological interpretation of the observance of purity in its historical context, focusing on the body and the self, and the place of the individual in religious practice and social life.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-3

32  Pure Individualism

The Popularity of Ritual Baths from Herod to 70 ce Quantity and Geographic Distribution Reich (2013: 71–206) surveyed 450 ritual baths found throughout Judaea in the period from the late second century BCE to the razing of Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 ce. According to a more detailed survey, 850 baths were found in Judaea from the second century bce to the fifth century ce, including 170 in Second Temple Jerusalem, and 600 in the Judean hills, from the Hasmonean period to the Bar-Kokhba revolt. Most of them were built in the period between the reign of Herod and 70 ce (Adler 2011: 41–42, 62, 321–343). As we have seen in the previous chapter, some 70 of them are dated to the Hasmonean period. The intensive use of ritual baths was not limited to Jerusalem and the area around the Temple. Many baths were found in rural settlements and in domestic units. This can be seen in several sites in the Judean hills and foothills: seven baths in Shuafat, seven in Burnat-north, eight in Buran-south, four near Shoham, 18 in Ben Shemen, three in Anava, 12 in Nesher (near Ramla), and three in kh. Beit Kofa (Zelinger 2009: 125–127). Also interesting is the installation of several baths within a single domestic unit. For example, in Sepphoris there are 20 baths within an area of 3100m2 (Meyers and Gordon 2018; Galor and Meyers 2018). In a villa excavated in Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter there are six baths (Reich 2013: 74–77; Adler 2011: 69). And in the village of Ḥorvat Burnat, we find one bath inside the house and another one in the courtyard (Amit et al. 2008: 97, 104–105). The vast number of ritual baths dated approximately between the period from Herod to 70 ce shows that many people were using them quite frequently. In many sites there were ritual baths in private houses, as well as several in a single domestic unit. It is even reasonable to assume that some people immersed themselves on a daily basis. The marked increase in the number of ritual baths after the Hasmonean period calls for an explanation. Why did so many Judaeans make use of ritual baths, needing them to be available and in close proximity to their homes? The basic explanation is that the Judaeans had become more scrupulous in their observance of the Torah’s purity commandments. This may hold true for the Hasmonean period, but there is no reason to believe that Judaeans in the first century ce were more committed to the Law then their forebears in the time of the Hasmoneans. A simplistic (but partly true) explanation points to demographic growth in Judaea, which is why more baths were in use. But the rise in the number of ritual baths, from 70 to almost 700 over a period of about one hundred years, certainly exceeds the demographic growth rate. In the previous chapter I explained that the ritual baths that emerged in the Hasmonean period were an expression of ethnic identity. If so, why couldn’t the popularity of ritual baths later on be seen as an intensification of this ethnic trend? If the emergence of Hasmonean baths was indeed due to the ethnic competition between the Judeans and their Gentile neighbors, and Judaean dominance over non-Judaeans in the Hasmonean state, the number of ritual baths dated from

Pure Individualism  33 Herod to 70 ce is too large to be merely the result of a continued process of ethnic identity during the Hasmonean period. In fact, by the end of the Hasmonean period, following Pompey’s conquest of Judaea, Judaean ethnic domination had declined. Several Gentile cities in the coastal plain and the Decapolis were no longer subject to Hasmonean rule (Ant. 14.74–76). Under Herod and the Roman governors Roman influence had increased, yet we do not know whether the Judaean separation from the Gentiles was less marked from the reign of Herod to 66 ce, when conflict broke out between Judeans and Gentiles on the eve of the First Revolt against Rome (War 2.457–483). Moreover, purity as a feature of ethnic identity hardly explains why several baths were in use in one settlement or even in a single household. The large number of installations is better explained with regard to relationships among the Judaeans themselves. In addition, some baths displayed expressions of GrecoRoman culture, which may indicate that purity was not associated with separation from non-Judean civilization. In Jerusalem’s Herodian Quarter, for example, some 50 baths were found, along with a considerable amount of foreign pottery and Roman-style frescoes (Levine 1997; cf. Reich 2013: 72–98). A similar combination of ritual purity and Roman culture is seen in the thirteen bathhouses in Herod’s palaces (see Chapter 7). Naturally, purity is mainly a priestly matter, related to priestly dues, the Temple cult, and pilgrimage. However, after the Hasmonean period there are too many baths in too many locations for them to be limited only to priests, who needed to maintain ritual purity more carefully than lay Judaeans. Many of the baths were built at a distance from the Temple, in domestic farmsteads or private houses. This suggests that they were not directly connected to the Temple cult, including pilgrimages. This is a new phenomenon of popular and intensive purity observance. New motivation or needs probably led many to immerse in ritual baths more frequently than in previous generations. In most cases, it is impossible to point to a specific reason for purification in a ritual bath. It may pertain to women during their menstrual period, purification before setting out on a pilgrimage to the Temple on the festival, or a priest immersing himself before partaking of the priestly dues (e.g., heave offering, terumah). Nonetheless, the archaeological contexts of some baths indicate a specific use which does not correspond to these traditional/biblical practices. The reason for this is mainly halakhic. In the Priestly Code, following cleansing all impurity expires at sunset (e.g., Lev. 11:39, 40). Thus, there is an intermediate period of time between immersion and purification. An impure person who bathed in a ritual bath was still defiled (and defiling) for at least a few hours. A priest who had just immersed could not immediately partake of heave offerings (m. Berakhot 1:1). Therefore, it is interesting to find ritual baths adjacent to several very specific installations and buildings. This suggests that people immersed themselves before entering agricultural installations or synagogues, or immediately after exiting from burial caves. Immersion in these baths was part of a daily routine, a new type of purity that will be explored to follow.

34  Pure Individualism

Figure 2.1  A ritual bath in Ben Shemen

Ritual Baths Adjacent to Agricultural Installations Dozens of ritual baths were found in close proximity to winepresses and olivepresses (for example, in Qalandiya and Gamla), mainly in rural areas in Judea (Adler 2008b). They were probably situated close to agricultural installations in order to minimize the danger of defiling the olive-oil produced by the workers. It seems that the workers immersed in these baths prior to entering the winepress or olive-press or handling agricultural produce. This facilitated close supervision of the workers to ensure that they properly observed the prescribed ablutions before commencing work (m. Taharot 10:3). These baths suggest that the ritual purity of the products processed in these installations was of particular importance (Reich 2013: 253–256). However, such ablution before working at the wine or olive press would not immediately cleanse the workers. They would remain defiled for the purposes of eating and producing oil and wine intended for the Temple or to be given as priestly gifts (terumah), because in the Torah’s Priestly Code, purification requires not only washing in water but also waiting until sunset (e.g., Lev 15:5; Num 19:19–21). Their purity status would be what the rabbis termed tevul yom, appropriate only for daily (h̟ ulin) impurity (t. Taharot. 1:3, ed. Zuckermandel, 661). The purity status of the oil and wine produced by the workers would therefore be limited to the non-sacred domain, excluding the Temple cult and the priests’ holy food.

Pure Individualism  35 Ritual Baths Adjacent to Synagogues Several baths were found next to synagogues, mostly from the first century ce: in Masada, upper Herodium, Gamla, Qiryat Sefer, um el-Undan (near Modein), Jericho, and possibly also Kh. Etri in the Judean foothills (Adler 2008a, who also notes that some ritual baths next to synagogues are dated to the Talmudic period: Sasa and possibly Meirot in the Galilee, and Ma’on in Hebron hills). Water installations are documented in the Theodotus inscription from Jerusalem’s City of David (Cotton et al. 2010: 53–56; for the ritual bath adjacent to this inscription, see Reich 2013: 116–118). It should be noted that the synagogues in Second Temple Judaea were designated for public reading and studying the Torah, not for prayer (which was institutionalized outside the Temple by the rabbis after the destruction of the Temple, see Levine 1996; Regev 2005a). Historical sources attest to the custom of diaspora Jews to situate the synagogue (or prayers) near the sea or a river (Philo, In Flaccum, 122; Ant. 14.258; Acts 16:12–13; CPJ I, 134, 247–249). In the synagogues in Delos and Ostia there were installations for bathing before entering the synagogue (Runesson 2001, on purity before prayer, which may be relevant to diaspora synagogues, see later). Thus, some Jews in various places practiced purity immediately before entering the synagogue and reading the Torah. Again, bathing immediately before entering the synagogue would not make one levitically pure but could suffice only for ordinary activities. Next we turn to historical evidence for purification before prayer which complements the archaeological findings. Adler (2008a: 64–66, 72) relegates the use of these baths to purification from semen impurity before studying the Torah, which is attributed to Ezra in Amoraic sources (y. Yoma 2:8, 44d; b. Bava Qama 82b. For the prohibition for those defiled by semen from studying Torah see m. Berakhot 3:4–6). However, there is no evidence for this ruling in Second Temple period texts, and there is no reason to believe that all those who used these baths followed the dictates of the later rabbis. Indeed, there is no reason to limit the sources of impurity to semen. It is far more likely that Judaeans bathed before entering the synagogue either because they considered themselves defiled due to any kind of impurity, or as I will suggest next, because they needed an extra-purification rite de passage, a kind of bodily-spiritual preparation for studying the Torah (and later on, prayer). Ritual Baths Adjacent to Tombs Several baths were situated in close proximity to burial caves, such as the Tomb of the Kings in Jerusalem and sites near Jerusalem including Ramat Rachel, Nikephoria, Mount Scopus, and also Tell en-Nasbeh, Jericho, Kh. Dar ʿAsi (in the Judean Hills), Wadi Sheiban (east of Ramallah), kh. Zikhrin (Samaria), and three baths in second century ce Beth Sheʿarim (Adler 2009: 57–60). The location of these baths suggests that when people exited from the burial caves they were defiled by corpse impurity and therefore needed to immerse themselves. Such

36  Pure Individualism immersion, however, would not purify them from corpse impurity, which required a procedure lasting seven days, involved sprinkling the ashes of a red heifer on the defiled person on the third and seventh days of impurity, and bathing on the seventh day. Only after immersion on the seventh day would the defiled person become pure (Num 19: 11–19). Bathing after coming in contact with a corpse in the burial cave would therefore make one only partially pure for ordinary, non-priestly purposes, somewhat similar to a tevul yom. There is some evidence for such partial purification in non-rabbinic sources. The earliest is Tobit 2:9 (codex S), which describes the story of Tobit, from the tribe of Naphtali, who purified himself with water immediately after burying the corpse of his countryman (see also the section to follow on gradual purification, in the Dead Sea Scrolls). Ritual purification immediately after contact with a corpse is completely ­foreign to early rabbinic halakhah. This fact led Adler (2009: 66–72) to argue that the baths near burial caves were restricted for cleansing after indirect contact with the dead (such as coming in contact with those who buried the deceased), a second-degree corpse-impurity which required only one day of impurity instead of seven, with complete purification taking effect with the onset of evening (m. ʾOhalot 1:1). However, this would apply only for the funeral ceremony (when the participants are not in direct contact with the dead) and not for the burial and the common practice of collecting the bones of the deceased (see Chapters 3–4), which required direct contact with corpse impurity. The only reason to limit the function of these baths is Adler’s aim to adjust the archaeological evidence to later rabbinic halakhah (Adler 2009: 66).

Stone Vessels and Ritual Purity in Everyday Life While vessels made of stone were in use for thousands of years, vessels made of limestone became common in Judaean settlements in the first century ce. They have distinctive shapes. The reason for their sudden popularity is most likely the fact that they are not susceptible to impurity (m. Ohalot 5:5; Sifre H̟ ukat 126, ed. Horowitz 162–163; cf. t. Machshirin 2:1). They share this status with dung vessels and unfired earthen vessels, all three of which are unfinished and natural (Magen 2002: 140–141). According to early rabbinic sources, in the event that the contents of the vessels are defiled (and liquids can be defiled very easily), the stone vessel remains pure (m. Kelim 10:1; m. Beza 2:3). The implication is that pure and impure individuals may use the same vessels and share the same meal without violating purity laws. The earliest historical evidence of their use as a means for observing purity is John 2:6, referring to “stone water-jars for the Jewish rites of purification” (Deines 1993: 24–38). Still, it would be an exaggeration to regard every such stone vessel from the late Second Temple and Mishnaic period as being used to facilitate the observance of ritual purity, since some vessels also had other uses (Gibson 2003: 303, 304; Zangenberg 2013: 553; Miller 2019: 153–183).

Pure Individualism  37 These stone vessels, sometimes designated Jewish chalk vessels, include several types manufactured by three main production techniques: hand-carved mugs (“measuring cups”) and pitchers; bowls and goblets turned on a simple small lathe; and large kraters (kallal) turned on a sophisticated large lathe (Cahill 1992: 218–225; Gibson 2003). Their distribution is extremely widespread, throughout almost every Jewish settlement in Judaea: at least 140 settlements in Judea— including, of course, many sites in Jerusalem—and 60 in the Galilee, with a total of 250 sites (Adler 2011: 182–188; cf. the 69 sites in Deines 1993: 39–165 and Karte 1). Stone vessels were useful not only for avoiding the general causes of defilement (corpses, semen, menstrual blood, skin disease, etc.) but also for storing liquids that require vigilance. This is because, in contrast to food, liquids defile anything that touches them, and transmit impurity very easily (Lev 11:43, 38; m. Parah 8:5–7). Stone mugs and bowls, which were the most common types, were useful for avoiding such impurity in the everyday life of the individual. Stone vessels had already appeared during the Herodian period (Magen 1988: 107; Gibson 2003: 301; Geva 2006: 221–222), but they became common during the first century ce in Judea, the Galilee and the Judean Desert, south and west Samaria, the Golan Heights and Transjordan (Cahill 1992: 231–232). After 70 ce, stone vessels are found in the refuge caves used during the Bar-Kochba revolt (132–135 ce) and in second and third century Judaean sites in the Galilee, including Sepphoris (Reed 2018), Meiron, Hammath Tiberias, Khirbet Nasr edDin (identified as “Beth Maʿon”), and elsewhere (Amit and Adler 2010: 141–142; Miller 2019: 24–26). A relatively large number of stone vessels have been published from several excavations. For example, in Iotapata (Iodphat), at least 120 fragments were found (Adan-Bayewitz and Aviam 1997: 164). In Gamla 487 fragments are documented (Gibson 2003: 304–305) with a ratio of 1/20 in proportion to pottery fragments (Berlin 2006: 4, table 1.1; 130–131, tables 4.20, 4.21, 4.22). Over one thousand fragments were found in Jerusalem’s City of David with a ratio of 1/100 in proportion to pottery fragments (Gadot and Adler 2016). Two hundred fragments of stone vessels were found in Khirbet Qumran (Donceel and Donceel Voûte 1994: 10–13). This is intriguing, since passages in the Temple Scroll and the Damascus Document assert that stone may be defiled (Werret 2007: 38, 143–147). However, these laws predate the emergence of stone vessels and may have been modified later (Regev 1997b: 90–91), or else they pertain only to contact with oil, which is more sensitive to impurity (Eshel 2000). The most reasonable explanation for the abundance of stone vessels in this period is the observance of ritual purity in everyday life. It is commonly argued that they were used by the Pharisees, rabbis and their followers (Deines 1993: 15–18, 280–282; cf. the view that the stone mugs were used for handwashing before meals, Deines 1993: 232–233; Berlin 2005: 433). Early rabbinic sources mention the use of these vessels and that they cannot be defiled, and daily observance of purity is associated with the Pharisees in Mark 7, Luke 11, and Matthew 23.

38  Pure Individualism However, the extensive use of stone vessels throughout Judaea has led me to conclude that they were not only used by the Pharisees (see also Gibson 2003: 302). Indeed, the many ritual baths and the historical evidence (including distinctively non-Pharisaic sources such as the sectarian scrolls from Qumran) of extensive daily observance of ritual or bodily purity show that in general, the observance of purity in daily life was not limited to the school of the Pharisees. For example, a stone bowl was found in the industrial area near Herod’s third palace in Jericho, and is dated to 15–6 bce (Bar-Nathan and Gärtner 2013: 208, 214). It is doubtful that Herod’s associates were among the first Pharisees to use stone vessels, and more reasonable to assume that a larger group of Judaeans began to use them for purity in that period. The typology of the vessels is worthy of note. Although in certain sites, especially in Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter and the Giv’ati Parking Lot, a substantial number of large kraters were found (Zilberstein and Nissim Ben Efraim 2013: 213, 219), most of the vessels were tableware for personal use, such as bowls and cups (80% of the vessels in Gamla, see Gibson 2016; for Sepporis, see Reed 2018). Handmade mugs were the most common. They were heavy, inconvenient, and crudely shaped. In Masada, over one hundred intact mugs were found (Reich 2007), and in Gamla this was half the total number of stone vessels (Gibson 2016). There are no cooking pots, casseroles, jugs, or lamps made of stone (Zangenberg 2013: 553). Hence, the vessels that were most noteworthy with relation to purity were personal items. The general assemblage of stone vessels shows that the main concern was the individual’s observance of purity, and one’s contact with others (who may not observe it) during the meal. In what follows I will connect the archaeological evidence of ritual baths and stone vessels to the literary sources in order to explain why they flourished. I suggest that they indicate widespread religious and social phenomena in the later

Figure 2.2  Stone mugs and bowls (the Israel Antiquities Authority collection)

Pure Individualism  39 Second Temple (early Roman) and the Mishnaic (middle and early late Roman) periods. I call this non-priestly purity.

Non-Priestly Purity: Literary and Historical Evidence During the late Second Temple period as well as after 70 ce there is evidence of purity practices which were not relevant to the Temple cult. What makes these practices non-priestly is that the defiled person (or one merely suspected of being defiled) would immerse himself and immediately afterwards behave as if he were pure, able to enter the synagogue to read the Torah, or eat ordinary food in a relative state of purity. There was no waiting for the final purification at sunset (and in the case of corpse impurity, without waiting six more days and the sprinkling of the ashes of a red heifer). Previous scholarly discussions have focused on the Pharisees and rabbinic literature. Many studies have discussed Jewish purity laws in daily life, focusing on early rabbinic literature (e.g., Neusner 1973a; Sanders 1992: 214–230), and this subject continues to attract much scholarly attention (Balberg 2014; Furstenberg 2016; Rogan 2018 for bibliographic survey). Alon (1977b) argued that the early rabbis broadened the circles of ritual purity from the domain of the Temple and the priesthood to the laity. Sanders (1990) argued that not all the Pharisees ate ordinary food in a state of purity, and those who did were less strict than the priests. One requirement for being accepted to the fellowship (h̟ avurah) of the Pharisees or rabbis was to eat ordinary (h̟ ulin, literally: non-sacred) food in a state of purity, which also required separation from less observant Jews, the ‘Am-ha’aretz (literally: “the people of the land,” t. Demai 2:2; m. Hagiga 2:7; Furstenberg 2016: 234–255 details the historical developments from the Pharisees to the rabbis). According to rabbinic halakhah, tevul yom (literally: the daily bather), one who has immersed but is still waiting for sundown, is impure in the priestly sense (i.e., he or she may not enter the Temple or touch heave-offerings) but should be considered pure for other activities. The rabbis emphasized the differences between the purity laws of tevul yom and heave-offerings and other sacred foods (m. Parah 8:7; m. Zavim 5:12; m. Tevul Yom. 2:1, 4:1–3). The vast number of rabbinic regulations dealing with tevul yom proves that one of the fundamentals of the rabbinical doctrine of purity was the distinction between priestly (sacred) purity and non-priestly purity. Some rabbis took a much stricter stance on the laws of non-priestly purity than others, especially the school of Shammai (m. Demai 6:6; t. Shabbat 1:16, ed. Lieberman 4; t. Demai 2:12, ed. Lieberman 71), and R. Meir (m. Taharot 8:4; m. Pararah 11:4–5; t. Demai 2:2–4, ed. Lieberman 68–69). In contrast, some rabbis and members of the Pharisees might not have observed them at all (m. Eduyot 5:6; t. Avodah Zara 3:10, ed. Zuckermandel 464; cf. b. Berakhot 21b). One of the related practices is handwashing before a meal, in order to avoid defiling food and drink with impure hands (m. Yadayim 2:4; m. Hagaiga 2:5). According to rabbinic sources this was ordained by Hillel and Shammai, in other

40  Pure Individualism words, by the time of Herod (m. Berakhot 8: 2–3; y. Shabbat 1:4 3d; b. Shabbat 14b; Furstenberg 2016: 94–106). Some of these practices are already attributed to the Pharisees in the NT gospels, which most likely are based on earlier traditions that pre-date 70 ce. The Pharisees considered handwashing before meals to be a “tradition of the elders” (Mark 7:2–4). They also immersed in a ritual bath before meals upon their return from the marketplace, where they might have come into contact with less scrupulous people (Luke 11:17–18 based on Q), and they paid special attention to the purity status of their vessels (Matt 23:25; Furstenberg 2016: 106–117, 121–125). Peter and Barnabas ate their meals separately from the Gentiles in Antioch, perhaps due to the requirement to eat ordinary food in a state of purity (Gal 2:11–14; Dunn 1983). The earliest rabbinic halakhot relating to eating ordinary food in a state of purity are attributed to Hillel and Shammai (their teachers, Samaias and Pollion, are mentioned early in Herod’s reign, m. Avot 1: 10–12; Ant. 15.3–4), who discussed handwashing before meals. Many of the halakhic controversies regarding non-priestly purity were discussed by the schools of Hillel and Shammai (m. Berakhot 8:2; t. Shabbat 1:15, ed. Lieberman 4; Oppenheimer 1977: 87–88, 121, 156–157) in the first century ce, before and after the destruction of the Temple. These laws were discussed extensively by the rabbis in Yavneh and Usha (before and after the Bar-Kokhba revolt). The rabbinic insistence on separation from the ‘Am-ha’aretz and the observance of purity in daily life persisted during the second century ce (Oppenheimer 1977: 87–88, 121, 156–157; Furstenberg 2016: 314– 326, 365–370). During the second century CE ritual baths continued to be quite common in the Galilee and in Susya in the Hebron hills (Amit and Adler 2010: 126–139). This chronology of rabbinic laws of non-priestly purity corresponds with the archaeological evidence. Typically Judaean stone vessels first appeared during the reign of Herod and continued to be extremely common at least until the Bar-Kokhba revolt, and to a lesser degree in the Galilee up until the early third century (Amit and Adler 2010: 139–142). Since there are many non-rabbinic textual or historical attestations to nonpriestly-purity, the archaeological findings do not prove that most Judaeans accepted the dictates of the Pharisees and the rabbis. Rather, these findings show that the Pharisaic-rabbinic concept of non-priestly-purity was related to a broader trend during that period. In fact, the ritual baths and stone vessels are too numerous and their geographic distribution is too wide for them to be explained as a material expression of the impact of the Pharisees and early rabbis on the Judaean population. I  shall now discuss non-rabbinic sources pertaining to non-priestly purity. Among the Qumran scrolls there are several documents from the Hasmonean and Herodian period that describe the process of gradual purification from defilement: the impure person must immerse immediately after defilement, long before sundown. According to the Temple Scroll 50:13–16, the purification from corpse defilement requires more actions than those mentioned in the Torah—immersion on the first and the third days of impurity. Immediate purification renders the person partly pure and probably prevents the defiled person from transmitting

Pure Individualism  41 impurity to food and people during the seven days of corpse impurity (Milgrom 1991: 968–976; Baumgarten 1992b: 199–209). This interim stage of impurity, during which the person is still levitically impure, is also attested to in the Qumranic ritual purification liturgies which refer to the first and third days of corpse impurity (4Q414 2, 2, 2; 4Q512 1–3 1; 15a-16 4). Other scrolls require that defiled persons, including those who have touched other impure persons, cleanse themselves from their “primary impurity” (tumʿato ha-rishona) before eating. They are prohibited from eating before beginning the purification process (4Q514 1, 1; 4Q274 Tohorot A 1–3; Werrett‫ ‏‬2007: 222, 260). Persons who are waiting to complete purification, designated tmei ha-yamin (literally, the defiled ones during the days), are actually quite similar to tevul yom in rabbinic halakha—one who has immersed and cleansed but is still partially impure in relation to priestly purity (this conclusion is repeated, in Werrett‫ ‏‬2007: 275, 293; Furstenberg 2016: 157–166, pointing to further nuances about the differences between Qumran and the rabbis). Additional texts from the first century ce stipulate constant maintenance of ritual purity. Philo attributes to Moses the law that forbids a corpse-defiled person from touching anything until he has bathed and washed his clothes. He also emphasizes that after sexual relations one should immerse before touching anything (Spec. Leg. 3.206, 3.63; cf. Noam 2010: 208–209, 214). Josephus also relates to immediate purification after intercourse (Ant. 6.235; cf. Against Apion 2.203). He refers to corpse impurity as “purification after burial” (Against Apion 2.198), which hints that immersion took place immediately following the burial and not only after seven days. This corresponds with the presence of ritual baths near burial caves and the practice in Tobit. Josephus also contends that anyone who fails to purify and maintain a state of purity must bring sacrifices: two sheep, one fully burnt, probably ʿolah, and one to be eaten by the priests, probably h̟ attat (Ant. 3.262. Compare the biblical prohibition to remain in a state of impurity, and the question of whether this applies only to the Temple, Milgrom 1991: 307–318). Purity before Prayer In addition to the general practice of continuous maintenance of purity, and immersion after impurity before partaking of food, there is substantial evidence for purification before prayer. Judith immersed in a spring to purify herself before praying for divine guidance, and she kept herself in a state of purity until her meal was brought (Judith 12:6–10). Turning to Hellenistic Egypt around the Hasmonean period, in the Letter of Aristeas 305 the Jews wash their hands in the sea in the course of their prayers. In the Third Sibylline Oracle (591–593) they sanctify their flesh (or hands) with water when they honor God and lift their hands toward heaven (this seems to refer to prayer, see Sanders 1992: 231, 260). Thus, purity before prayer was maintained by diaspora Jews, and probably also by those in Judaea. Rabbinic law also requires that prayer be conducted in a state of purity. M. Berakhot 3:5, for example, discusses the disposal of semen impurity by immersion

42  Pure Individualism before prayer. The rabbis also refer to “morning bathers” who insist on bathing first thing in the morning before uttering the name of God (t. Yadayim 2:20). In the Qumranic purification liturgies mentioned previously, the bathers pray or confess during or immediately after immersion in water. Those who bathed or washed their hands before praying were probably still levitically impure, at least until the following evening. They could not enter the Temple until the end of the day in the case of semen impurity, or seven days in the case of corpse impurity. Hence, their purity was only partial or ad hoc prayer. The observance of purification before prayer exceeds rabbinic circles and predates rabbinic sources by at least two centuries. It is part of the phenomenon of sustaining a state of purity without any connection to the Temple cult or priestly requirements. Conclusions The general notion of non-priestly purity is shared by the authors of texts from Judaea (Judith, and perhaps also Tobit) and Egypt (Third Sibylline Oracle and the Letter of Aristeas), Philo, Josephus, Qumran, and of course also the Pharisees and early rabbis. It corresponds with and explains the vast number of ritual baths— including those adjacent to agricultural installations, synagogues, and burial caves—and stone vessels. Some of the relevant sources are from the Hasmonean period (see also Chapter 1), indicating that the phenomenon emerged before the appearance of the stone vessels and the proliferation of ritual baths. Nonetheless, the substantial evidence from Philo, Josephus, the gospels, and early rabbinic literature, as well as the stone vessels, suggest that non-priestly purity became more popular in the first century ce. The different practices of purity attested to in various sources, dates, and places, all relate to a general phenomenon of purity in daily life that extended beyond the Temple and priestly domains. They indicate a new sense of ritual purity. Some of them are related to new forms of religious practices which probably developed from the Hasmonean period onwards—daily prayer (including individual prayer and reciting the Shema), and reading Scripture in the synagogue (cf. Levine 1996). Despite the general principles of ritual purity in daily life, they were not uniformly practiced. There were most likely differences in the ways purity and its related activities were observed in various circles. Those who practiced purity in their daily life probably disagreed on various aspects of contamination, purification, and perhaps even the very purpose of avoiding defilement. I turn now for religious and social explanations to the archaeological and historical evidence. Why did non-priestly purity develop toward the Herodian period, why did it flourish in the first century ce, and what does it teach us about Judaean society in this period?

Non-Priestly Purity and Individual Religious Experience Previous scholarship regarded the Pharisees’ custom of eating in a state of purity as an attempt to imitate the priests who conducted their lives in purity and holiness

Pure Individualism  43 (Alon 1977b: 231; Neusner 1973b: 83–90). Deines (1993: 15–18, 280–282) connected the widespread use of stone vessels for purity reasons to the Pharisees (assuming that it was they who determined that such vessels cannot be defiled) and their “democratization” of the halakhah in contrast to priestly exclusivism. By using stone vessels, the Pharisees aimed to make it easier for the common people to observe purity beyond the realm of the Temple. We have noted the chronological correspondence between rabbinic legal traditions of non-priestly purity (a growing number of halakhic traditions in rabbinic literature attributed to Hillel and Shamai, beginning from the time of Herod) and the proliferation of stone vessels. Nevertheless, there is no reason to ascribe the vast distribution and numbers of stone vessels only to Pharisee influence. Evidence from the Qumran scrolls, Philo, Josephus, and other texts indicates that the demand to retain a state of purity in daily life was not limited to the Pharisees. I suggest that the widespread use of stone vessels was a means to facilitate the observance of non-priestly purity. A  new concept of purity, a new need, led to the development of a new type of material culture. Of course, some stone vessels were also used for priestly needs and the Temple cult (for their use in the preparation of the ashes of the red heifer for purification from corpse impurity, m. Parah 3:1–3). What motivated so many Judaeans to enhance their purity practices after the time of Herod? The “acting like a priest” theory, suggested because of the rivalry between Pharisees/rabbis and priests, cannot explain the comprehensive phenomenon of non-priestly purity. Sanders (1992: 184, 192) suggested that some Pharisees observed it as “purity for its own sake.” However, the phenomenon is much more widespread than Sanders realized, and it must have had both social and religious motivation. I will explore the aims and perceptions underlying the consistent purifications and restrictions from impurity that were shared by so many Judaeans from different social and religious circles in the period from Herod to 70 ce, and (according to rabbinic sources) for more than a century afterwards. Purification is a means to attain holiness (Milgrom 1991: 615–618; cf. Douglas 1966: 7–8, 51–58). Judaeans who observed ritual purity in order to eat, pray, and read Scripture (in the synagogue) were seeking holiness in their daily life. This may be compared to purification before a Jewish mystical experience (Swartz 1994 on the Hechalot literature and the Sar-Torah texts) or cleansing before prayer in early Islam (Reinhart 1990). From an anthropological point of view, this cleansing is a rite de passage, a transition from a profane (“secular”) state to a state of sanctity (Turner 1967: 93–111). This kind of holiness applies to the reading of the Shema, praying, and reading the Torah in the synagogue. Dining is, of course, a different kind of activity, but it is also associated with some degree of sanctity: food is God’s creation and property and it also symbolizes God’s power, His authority, and His religious demands from humans. The meal has intrinsic religious value (Is. 55:1–3; Ps. 104:24–31; m. 'Avot 3:3). This may be one reason for cleansing before a meal and using vessels that cannot be defiled. I propose that the popular concern for purity in daily life is related to a general awareness of other religious activities. A growing number of Judaeans (and diaspora Jews as well) wanted to take part in reading the Torah and praying (hence

44  Pure Individualism the emergence of synagogues). Since these non-priestly activities were associated with holiness they eventually required a state of ritual purity. This trend probably began in the early Hasmonean period, but when it became more common it led to increased non-priestly purity practices, more frequent use of ritual baths, and the appearance of stone vessels to facilitate partaking of ordinary food in a state of purity. Prayer, dining and even more so the maintaining of purity in daily life are practiced by the individual, even if at times other individuals are also involved. The individual is striving for devotion to God. This quest for holiness through prayer and purity practices elevates the self to a more intense encounter with God. It is primarily a personal matter. As such, privatization of the religion and self-experience is related to the care for the self (Rüpke 2013b: 19–22). Indeed, rabbinic laws of purity addressed the self who is required to practice self-examination and selfcontrol (Balberg 2014). The rabbis “remapped the world of purity and impurity through the prism of human consciousness as manifested in processes of thought, intention, deliberation, and contentment.” The effort to maintain a state of purity also generates a particular kind of self-reflective subject (Balberg 2014: 148, 151). While non-priestly purity was derived from the individual’s religious tendency and striving for closeness to God, it differed from the “conventional” biblical laws laid down in the Torah. Unlike the interdiction to pollute the Sanctuary and sacred food in Leviticus and Numbers, purification before meals, prayer, and reading Scripture in the synagogue do not carry the sense of taboo or danger, the fear of sin and divine punishment (cf. Regev 2001a). It is difficult to ascertain whether those practicing non-priestly purity believed it to be rooted in Scripture (as Philo and Josephus imply) or whether they recognized it as a new development. In m. Par. 11:4–5, R. Meir regarded it as the words of Torah, although the rabbis concluded that it was not. Noam (2008) showed that while Tannaitic rabbis (late first century to second century ce) generally encouraged the strict observance of ritual purity in daily life, they never claimed that it was biblically mandated. The Tannaitic Midrashim sought out bold exegetical strategies in order to negate the plain sense of biblical passages whose simple understanding seemed to legislate mandatory ritual purity in daily life. There are several methods of exegesis to deduce the reasoning for maintaining ritual purity in daily life (with no direct connection to the Temple) from Scripture (purity: Lev 17:15–16; 20:3; Num. 19:13. Holiness: Exod 19.6; Lev 19:2 ff.; Deut 14:2. Cf. Milgrom 1991: 256–261; Alon 1977b: 231–233; Poirier 2003). Nonetheless, any attempt to distinguish Scriptural Law from secondary interpretation (later rabbinic “oral Torah/Law”) is probably anachronistic. It is likely that whatever legal practices a Judaean observed were regarded as mandatory according to the Torah.

The Individual Self and Body Individualism pertains to a particular historico-cultural conceptualization of the person or self, including their moral and intellectual autonomy and their voluntary

Pure Individualism  45 contracting into a society (Rapprot 1996: 450). Individuality means personal uniqueness, as opposed to being a unitary, totalized and indivisible person; the boundedness of the person (Fowler 2004: 4, 12). Individualism is associated with modern western society and culture (e.g., Mauss 1985; Morris 1994: 15–18 with critical survey), hence there may be some risk in projecting a construct of western modernity onto the past (Patterson 2005). However, some argue against the dichotomy of Western/non-Western conceptions of self (Spiro 1993), and against viewing individualism as typical of solely modern western culture (McFarlane 1978; Lienhardt 1985; Fowler 2004: 2. Douglas and Ney 1998 criticized the idea that it is the dominant cultural form in the west). Morris (1994: 193) contends that a cross-cultural sociocentric conception of the person in no way excludes all equal emphasis on the idiosyncratic self or on the individuality of the human subject. In communities throughout the world the social and the individual are dialectically related. Phenomena related to individualism are rarely explored by historians of antiquity (Rüpke 2013a). Rüpke (2013b: 13, 20–21) limits it to “practical individuality”—when people act on their own instead of simply following tradition, sometimes resulting in a temporary rupture of social bonds. He refers to examples such as religious experience in Greco-Roman religions. The pursuit of the individual in archaeology is usually limited to social archaeology (Deetz 1996: 84–86; White 2009). Yet, the concept of agency in social archaeology (see Introduction), enables us to explore the role of the individual or self in material culture, since one’s personhood may be distributed outside the human body (Gell 1998: 96–154) and is negotiated through material culture (Fowler 2004: 370). In the past, people were capable of acting as social agents and, crucially, were aware of themselves as persons, whether or not we want to call them “individuals.” Experiencing oneself as a living individual is part of human nature. Archaeologists should reconsider the individual’s social, spatial and ideological importance, as well as the existence of individual embodied lives (Knapp and van Dommelen 2008). It is legitimate to examine the materialization of an embodied individual and to approach the concept of individuals as a negotiation between differing social and personal concerns (Knapp and van Dommelen 2008: 20–22, building on the concept of Habitus, cf. Bourdieu 1977). Following the archaeological and historical evidence, I will apply this perspective to non-priestly purity. Although some of the activities that relate to non-priestly purity may be communal, such as public prayer or a meal with several participants, in many cases, purification in a ritual bath is not a public ceremony but an individual one. In most cases the immediate purpose of this observance of purity is individual: achieving personal ritual purity and a minimal level of sanctity (see also Balberg 2014). Most of the stone vessels were also individual—cups or mugs. The increase in individual ritual purity observance therefore attests to a general tendency toward individualism in Judaean society in the Herodian period, the first century ce, and among early rabbinic circles in the first and second centuries ce. The individual nature of purity observance is closely related to the concept of the body. Immersion in water, handwashing, and other restrictions to avoid

46  Pure Individualism defilement, frequent immersion in ritual baths, and the use of stone vessels, all reflect a very specific perception of the body. The common practice of repeatedly cleansing the body and maintaining ritual purity in daily life demonstrates a change in the treatment of the body. Bodily perception is central to any society, and the evidence gathered above is an opportunity to better understand Judaean society and culture through the anthropological concept of “techniques of the body” (Mauss 1979). The increase in immersion, purification, and maintaining a state of purity through the use of stone vessels (mostly the individual’s vessels such as mugs) signifies a growing awareness of the body as a vehicle for achieving obedience to the Torah and religious practice or a closer encounter with the divine. Care for the body and its ritual status is actually a care for the self, the individual person as a subject. The new religious and bodily practices show that the person is consciously perceived as an agent for religious practice, whose behavior can attain discipline and closeness to God. Thus, the practices of non-priestly purity and the goal of maintaining some degree of holiness in daily life reflect unprecedented individualization. The body has become a project which requires effort as part of an individual’s self-identity. The need of so many individuals from different groups and probably many of the common people who used ritual baths and stone vessels to treat their body in a new manner, as an agent for achieving religious expression and piety, cannot be regarded as an isolated development. It must have been related to other social and religious developments of that time. I suggest that the religious frameworks which constructed and sustained existential and ontological certainties outside the individual (the Temple cult) did not satisfy the needs of these individuals. Hence there was a tendency to place more importance on the body as constitutive of the self. Some individuals became less attached to or depended less on existing religious authorities (the priests). The traditional cultic/priestly practices no longer provided the newly individualistic people with a clear worldview or self-identity through transpersonal meaning structures. Now their own bodies provided a firmer foundation on which to reconstruct a reliable sense of self. My reconstruction builds on the tension between a new emphasis on the body, and tradition, social ideas, and institutions (Shilling 1993: 1–5, 37, 86–88, 175–179). It also relies on the understanding that bodily behavior reflects the self (Douglas 1966: 42–58; Csordas 1994). I suggest that the care for the body in non-priestly purity indicates the rising importance of the self in the Judaean socio-religious system, namely, the elevation of the individual. This did not come at the expense of the social influence of the priestly public rituals at the Temple, which remained highly influential until after the destruction of the Temple. The Temple was rebuilt and expanded by Herod, was the center of Jewish identity during the First Revolt against Rome, and was of great concern to the early Christians (Regev 2014a, 2019). Later, in rabbinic Judaism, the disappearance of the Temple system was accompanied by growing individualism and emphasis on the intention of the self (cf. Neusner 1981: 272, 275, 282; 2001: 44–103).

Pure Individualism  47 It is interesting to compare the concept of the body in non-priestly purity with the place of the body in rabbinic Judaism. In contrast to Paul and the Church Fathers, who invested the soul with significance, rabbinic Judaism emphasized the body as the very site of human existence. The rabbis opposed the Hellenistic and Christian conceptions of a soul trapped or housed in a body. They defined the human being as an animated body (Boyarin 1993: 5–6, 32–34; Brown 1989: 34–35, 46–64). The early rabbis posited a monistic relationship between body and soul, as a continuation of the biblical concept that perceived the body as part of the self, and sanctified it. This approach evolved into moderate dualism only after the Bar-Kokhba revolt and the Hadrianic Decrees (Rubin 1989).

Purity and Social Competition In the first chapter I interpreted the emergence of ritual baths in the Hasmonean period as a marker of ethnic identity. Why then should we interpret the additional ritual baths and the emergence of stone vessels as an individualistic trend in society? Should not all ritual baths and purity concerns be regarded as one single phenomenon? There must be a reason why ritual baths became far more common in the time between Herod and 70 ce than during the Hasmonean period, and why stone vessels for the observance of purity in daily life emerged in the very same period. This second wave of a material culture of purity requires a separate explanation. In addition, many of the historical sources referring to purity in this period are not in the context of ethnic boundaries, but of religious experience (discussed earlier) and social competition. The social tension between the Pharisees who immersed before eating and the other common Judaeans, Jesus included, is attested to in Luke 11:37–40. The Pharisees rebuked Jesus’ disciples for not practicing handwashing before eating in Mark 7:1–5. Maintaining a constant state of purity and cleansing immediately after defilement is characteristic of the Pharisees (tevul yom), the Qumran sectarians (gradual purification), and the Essenes (War 2.123, 129, 138, 150; Regev 2007: 244–245). These are not entirely similar phenomena, but in all of them nonpriestly purity does not distinguish between Judaeans and Gentiles (as is the case when purity is a means for ethnic identity), but defines the communal identity of specific social movements, and the status of the individual within society. A closer look at the social dynamic of these purity practices is provided by early rabbinic texts. As already noted, the members (haverim) among the early rabbis and the Pharisees did not eat with the common ‘Am-ha’aretz because the latter did not partake of their ordinary food in a state of purity (on the identification of the early rabbis with the Pharisees, see Rivkin 1969–1970; Goodman 1987: 82–85). I propose that these Pharisees were trying to gain some social advantage from the strict observance of non-priestly purity. Two rabbinic laws indicate that the Pharisees and early rabbis took advantage of purity boundaries to maintain their social position as an elite group. First, members of the school of Shammai declared that any haver (member of a Pharisee group) who had a seminal discharge (zab) could not eat with an

48  Pure Individualism ‘Am-ha’aretz that had a seminal discharge (t. Shabbat 1:15, ed. Lieberman, 4). Surely both of them were defiled by the very same impurity! It is not purity that concerns the school of Shammai in this case, but rather social separation—the desire to maintain social boundaries between members (who normally observe non-priestly purity) and non-members. Second, at the time of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the impure status of the ‘Am-ha’aretz had expired (Oppenheimer 1977: 93–96, 159–160). It is likely that the ‘Am-ha’aretz observed the purity of holy things and purified themselves before entering the Temple during the pilgrimage, and therefore there was no reason to regard them as defiled (t. Bikurim 2:8, ed. Lieberman 292; Sanders 1992: 434–435, 442). Thus, during the festival a uniform atmosphere of religious piety surrounded the Temple and the cult. After the festival, however, everything that had been touched by an ‘Am-ha’aretz during the festival was considered impure and the Temple court was purified, due to the suspicion that they had defiled it (m. H̟ agiga 3:7–8). The Pharisees had rescinded the purity barriers on account of the festival, but renewed them retroactively thereafter. It is surprising that the scrupulousness of the ‘Am-ha’aretz was sufficient for entering the Temple and touching holy objects, yet the Pharisees suspected that they might nevertheless contaminate whatever they touched. This shows that the Pharisees maintained this purity boundary for social reasons—to accentuate that they were on a higher level of purity and holiness than the masses, and the festival was only an exception that they limited as much as possible. Thus, the Pharisees observed bodily purity and purity boundaries to separate themselves from the common people who did not observe non-priestly purity (but purified themselves before entering the Temple on pilgrimage). The Pharisees also maintained a state of purity to demonstrate that they were meticulous in their observance of the Law and to gain public influence and religious status (this was continued more extensively by the rabbis after 70 ce, see Oppenheimer 1977: esp. 184–186). By so doing, they vied with another social stratum that enjoyed the elite status of those who scrupulously observed the Laws of priestly purity—the priests (although some Pharisees and rabbis were priests, on the relationship between the Pharisees or sages and the priesthood, see Regev 2000: 195–198; 2005c). Matthew’s Jesus rebuked the Pharisees for seeking public recognition and social status as religious leaders. The Pharisees occupy prominent seats in the synagogues and purify vessels inside as well as outside, yet they do not act righteously (Matthew 23:4–7; cf. Luke 11:43). It would seem that while Luke and Matthew (following Q) accept the Pharisees’ understanding of the Law (Luke 11:42b; Matt 23:3), they protest their use of ritual purity for the purpose of establishing social boundaries and religious credibility (Regev 2000: 199–201). Earlier I  associated non-priestly purity with social individualism. There are other indications that individualism guided the Pharisee ethos, because they were regarded as the most accurate interpreters of the Law, the Torah (Baumgarten 1983). Interpretation is based on the wisdom or reason of the interpreter. The

Pure Individualism  49 Laws of the Pharisees focused on individuals, their needs (Rivkin 1970–1971; Neusner 1981: 272, 275, 282; Balberg 2014), and their quest for direct religious experience, whereas the Sadducees focused their attention on the Temple cult (Regev 2005c: 378–403). The Pharisees’ purity practices, compared to ‘Am-ha’aretz, related to their perception of the body. In the course of the struggle between elites, the Pharisees “displayed” their pure bodies in order to elevate their public status. Indeed, special care of the body is sometimes related to social class and power. Bodies bear the imprint of social class and the individual’s social standing. Dominant groups can define their bodies and lifestyle as superior, worthy of reward, and, both metaphorically and literally, as the embodiment of class (Shilling 1993: 128–149; cf. Douglas 1966: 95–114; Eilberg-Schwartz 1990: 195–216).

Conclusions Non-priestly purity is a term that addresses the maintenance of purity in everyday life. It includes purification before ordinary meals (including handwashing), private or public prayer, and reading the Torah in the synagogue. It usually requires immersion immediately after defilement. It pertains to daily life, detached from any Temple concerns or priestly requirements. Non-priestly purity was observed by many Judaeans and some diaspora Jews, attested to by the vast number of ritual baths and stone vessels, and the evidence of Philo, Josephus, the authors of Tobit, Judith, the Letter of Aristeas, the Third Sibylline Oracle, some synagogues on the seashore, some of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Mark, Luke, Matthew, and early rabbinic literature. It should not only be associated with the Pharisees or early rabbis. Non-priestly purity may have been part of what Sanders (1992) has called “common Judaism” (cf. Hengel and Deines 1995: 2). In some cases, especially in Judith, it is difficult to draw a clear distinction between non-priestly purity and Gentile impurity: Judith probably immersed because she stayed in Holofernes’ camp, but she did so before praying. There was probably a gray area of overlap between the two. Nevertheless, the characteristics of non-priestly purity differ greatly from Gentile impurity. The increased use of ritual baths and the emergence of stone vessels was related to religious activities and experiences adopted by more and less stringent Judaeans, members and non-members of the Pharisee fellowships (h̟avurot), the Qumran sects, and the Essenes. Non-priestly purity was related to religious piety in Judaean society, but not to Judaean ethnic identity. In contrast to the biblical priestly system and the Judaean culture centered around the Temple, the concept and practice of non-priestly purity focused on the individual rather than the community or the ethnos. By observing purity before meals, praying, and studying the Torah, one could now attain a personal spiritual connection with the Holy One. This type of bodily purity was also indicative of the significance of the individual or self in the Judaean sociocultural system. It marked a new type of perception of the body, in which bodily technique and

50  Pure Individualism bodily discipline were used to enhance personal piety. Sometimes it was also competitive, when the individual exhibited scrupulous maintenance of purity (cf. m. H̟ agiga 2:7). Non-priestly purity introduced an additional and innovative level to Jewish religiosity, namely, practices and ideas related to the laws of the Torah and the worship of God, which the Temple cult could not provide.

3 Family Burial Caves, Family Identity, and Family Structure in Jerusalem and its Environs

Introduction Apart from pottery and small objects, the most common archaeological finds from the period between the Hasmonean dynasty and the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple by the Romans are ritual baths and burial caves. Approximately 1,000 burial caves have been found in Judea, especially in Jerusalem and its environs. They contained 3,000 ossuaries and more than 200 ossuary inscriptions, as well as several hundred human skeletons. Burial customs can teach us a great deal about social identity and how those who were interred were perceived by those who buried them. The most valuable potential contribution of burial remains to our understanding of Judaean society pertains to the family. In this chapter and the next I address the question of family relationships and family identity in Jerusalem and its environs, based on evidence from burial practices in pit-bench burial caves and loculi caves with or without ossuaries. But first we need to show that in many cases burial was practiced on a family basis. In other words, we need evidence that members of a given family were buried together in the same cave (unlike the public burials that were common in Rome and the Near East). Consequently, we may be able to use these familial patterns of burial to better understand the family structure and kinship relations. This chapter focuses on the burial cave as representing the entire family unit. The first part of this chapter demonstrates that familial burial reappeared in Judea during the Hasmonean period after a long break since the end of the Iron Age. Dozens of pit-bench burial caves were found in which the bones were collected to a common repository pit. This practice implies a new approach to familial communal identity: Some families had changed their attitude toward family relationships or family identity in order to reinforce their relationships or their self-identity. In the second part of the chapter I will show that most of the burial caves with loculi (kokhim), which are the majority of Second Temple period caves, are familial, as evidenced by mortuary remains, funerary inscriptions on the ossuaries, and historical evidence. These conclusions will facilitate the study of family structure and family relations, as reflected in the burial practices described in this chapter and the next. In the third part of the chapter I will explore family size and DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-4

52  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure structure on the basis of the number of loculi in a cave, in order to better comprehend the structure of Judean society in the period from Herod to 70 ce. The family is the basic social unit. Understanding trends and phenomena related to the family is fundamental to the study of any society (Ensor 2013a, 2013b). The anthropologist in the field initially focuses on comprehending family organization and ties. Family is hard to define, however, as it has different meanings depending on its functional or social context. The identity of family members and the relationships between them also vary among different cultures. While there is considerable historical evidence on Judeans during the Second Temple period, basic data about family structure and relationships is lacking (for some general conclusions, see Sivertsev 2005; Adams 2014: 13–16). The literary sources usually focus on individuals (Hasmoneans, Herodians, chief priests) rather than the society as a whole, and there are no legal sources (such as rabbinic sources in later periods, cf. Cohen 1993) which could provide a more general perspective. Indeed, the domestic units excavated throughout Judaea (e.g., Botha 1998; Galor 2003) may also contribute to our understanding of family structure and its daily functions (Guijarro 1997; Richardson 2004). Making connections between burial caves and families (which nevertheless still requires justification) provides us with an invaluable opportunity to understand family members’ attitudes toward each other: Who was buried with whom, and why? On what scale of family relationships was burial practiced? What was the purpose of the different methods of family burial? My basic assumption in this chapter and the next is that the relationship between the burial group and the family unit is dialogical and mutually reinforcing: A family that buries its members together might then perceive itself as a unit. Changes in burial practices are not accidental or merely the result of “fashion.” Rather, they relate to the manner in which these family members perceived their familial relationships. There are considerable methodological difficulties in such a study, most notably the fact that many of the excavated caves have been looted or otherwise damaged, leaving us with only partial finds. Moreover, reconstructing family relations from mortuary remains requires us to contend with the complexity of the family as a social phenomenon. Nevertheless, burial practices can potentially bring new light to bear on Judean society. Methodology: Material Relationship between the Living and the Dead Burial is concerned with the conduct of the living toward their dead. It reflects the social relationship with the dead and the cultural values expressed in the mortuary practice (Metcalf and Huntington 1991: 25; Parker Pearson 2003: 3). The corpse and the surrounding artifacts become a form of material culture, a means of expression (Hallam and Hockey 2001). Since Hertz (1960), scholars have assumed that mortuary practices are representative of the social system. In establishing the so-called New/Processual Archaeology, Binford (1971: 14–15, 23) argued that the treatment of the dead

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  53 depends upon the way in which the living regard the deceased’s social identity and status. Burial is also related to the size and composition of the social group that engaged in social relations with the deceased. Binford saw a connection between formal differentiation in mortuary rites and differences in the status and group affiliation of the deceased; that is, the form of the mortuary rites points to social organizational features. Seeking such social markers, archaeologists and anthropologists focused on indicators of rank in burials (Peebles and Kus 1977; Brown 1981: 29). However, this method has its own difficulties. Certain types of social distinction can be observed, while others (such as kin-based social subdivisions) were not preserved or are difficult to trace (O’Shea 1981: 49–50, distinguishing between vertical and horizontal rank). Recent scholars have criticized Binford’s method, problematizing the correlation of mortuary and living objects, activities, and relationships. Funerary findings may be subordinated to social and ritual sanctions and may not reflect the situation of the living, especially in relation to economic resources (Ucko 1969: 266). Burial is a ritual which is engaged with symbolism, an interpretation of the meaning of daily life, hence it may not reflect social structure in a direct manner (Morris 1992: 1). Social relations could be inverted or distorted because culturally specific attitudes to death are shown in ideas or symbols (Parker Pearson 1982; Hodder 1984). Burial practices may represent an imagined or idealized social structure that is actualized in other contexts (Parker Pearson 2003: 4, 23, 86–87; Ekengren 2013: 175). For example, the Merina of Madagascar bury their dead in groups which do not necessarily correspond to their social unity in daily life (Bloch 1971). Since the dead person is represented by others, mortuary rituals have more to do with the relationships negotiated by the living between themselves and the dead (Gillespie 2001: 77–78 and references). These relationships actually shape society (Barrett 1990: 182). The manner in which people relate to the dead is dynamic. Changes in the attitude toward the dead body correspond to changes in society (Morris 1987; Parker Pearson 2003: 45–49; cf. the coffin’s increasing popularity in early modern England, Tarlow 1999). In this chapter and the next I will point to several significant changes which may attest, although somewhat indirectly, to the manner in which the family’s social structure is perceived by those entrusted with their burial. Burial, especially the secondary rite of gathering bones and placing them in a repository pit, loculus or ossuary, is a ritual of remembering (cf. the funerary feast in Rome, Connerton 1989: 72–73). Practices, rites, and objects serve to commemorate the dead, to interact with their memory (Jones 2007), expressing emotions and sociocultural values through materiality (Tarlow 2000: 728). Visible commemorative structures create an opportunity to define long-term memory and to project origins into the past (Barrett 1990; Williams 2004). These general insights will guide us in interpreting why some people in late Hellenistic and early Roman Judea, especially in Jerusalem, were buried in certain ways and with specific other people, and how mortuary practices shed light on the social perceptions shared by a considerable segment of society.

54  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure Methodology: The Elusive Family The very definition of the term “family” is debatable (Ball 1972; Casey 1989), as it cannot be defined only by blood relationships. There is a cultural variability in the very concept and function of family relations, even among ancient Mediterranean/Greco-Roman societies (Laurence and Strömberg 2012; Huebner and Nathan 2017). In general, family is based on kin relationships and to some degree also on a domestic group, a set of people sharing the same living-space (Segalen 1986: 5–14. For various types of kin relationships, see Eriksen 2015: 122–132). For our present purpose, persons related by blood and those related to them by marriage who are buried in the same cave are regarded as members of one family unit. The problem is, of course, that lacking epigraphic evidence or DNA tests, there is no certainty that people buried together are kin-related. We can only assume that when we find adults and children (or infants) buried in the same loculus or ossuary in dozens of locations, they are, at least in most cases, members of the same family—children and their parents (or grandparents?). This would explain why adults and children were not buried separately. Our assumptions will not only be based on skeletal remains, however. In the second part of this chapter I  will point to epigraphic and historical evidence attesting to familial burial in Judea in the late Hasmonean period to 70 ce. When studying the family it is customary to distinguish between the nuclear family (parents and children) and the extended family, which includes at least three generations, such as grandparents and grandchildren living together in the same domestic unit (Yorburg 1975, pointing to qualitative differences of psychological and economic interdependence between the members of these families; cf. Todd 1989). Previous attempts to distinguish between the two family types in Roman funerary epigraphs and to show that most of the families in Rome were independent nuclear families (Saller and Shaw 1984; Saller 1994: 74–88, 227–228) have been subject to criticism. The boundaries between the two family structures are complex, especially when it comes to burial practice, and the dichotomy between them is sometimes unrealistic and anachronistic (Martin 1996; cf. Harders 2012). Nonetheless, this typology of family structure is useful for a general classification of burials, since the scale of the family is essential for determining family relationships in the cave or loculus, although it should be applied with caution. The Re-emergence of the Pit-Bench Cave in the Hasmonean Period Early Background During the eighth and seventh centuries bce, hundreds of rock-cut chamber tombs were used in Judea. The dead were laid out on benches until the flesh decomposed, and then the bones were collected into a repository hewn in the ground, in a secondary burial (Barkay 1994; Mazar 1990: 520–526). This burial practice is regarded as familial (Faust and Bunimovitz 2008: 154–155 and references), since several generations were located together (Suriano 2018: 49).

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  55 During the Persian period there is no evidence for new caves of this type in Judea and its environs, and no indication that bones were collected in other secondary burials (Faust and Bunimovitz 2008: 153; Wolff 2002: esp. 133). Kloner and Zissu (2003: 67–68) maintain that several Iron Age caves continued to be used, but this is debatable since no late Persian or early Hellenistic pottery was found in these caves (Faust 2012a: 96–99). Shafts, cist tombs, and burial in jars were the norm. In the early Hellenistic period primary burial in shafts and cist tombs was common in the Galilee and the coastal plain. Some of them contain evidence of secondary collection of bones. Burial in loculi first appeared in Idumea and the Western Galilee, but in most cases it was primary burial with no collection of bones (Tal 2006: 217–269, and see later). Second Temple Pit-Bench Burial Caves Some burial caves resembling Iron Age chamber tombs with benches were believed to date to the Iron Age period, or to be later loculi caves of the Hasmonean and Herodian period (e.g., Kloner 2002; Yezerski 2013). Kloner and Zelinger (2007) were the first to identify ten burial caves bearing similarities to the rock-cut Iron Age II chamber tombs as caves dated to the Hasmonean period in Jerusalem and Judea (sometimes termed “standing pit” tombs). These caves consisted of a rectangular pit hewn in the center of a chamber, with benches along three walls. This enabled those engaged in the burial to stand upright despite the low ceiling while attending to the deceased, who was laid out on one of the stone benches. After decomposition the deceased’s bones were collected in the corner of the chamber or in a small collecting pit (see Figure 3.1). Dating the pit-bench caves to the Hasmonean period and later is based on pottery finds. In addition, these caves appear to differ from Iron Age caves in several respects. The benches are much lower (located at floor level, above the standing pit), the entrance is from the roof level, with one or two steps descending into the cave, there are no headrests (which have been found in some Iron Age tombs), and the repositories for collecting the bones are smaller and fewer (Kloner and Zelinger 2007: 209–210). The rarity of pit-bench burial caves outside Judea in the late Hellenistic period shows that it was distinctively Judean (Abadi and Regev 2020: 255–258). Based on the ceramic evidence and the other architectural characteristics, Abadi (2017) identified 90 such Second Temple caves in the Judean highlands, from Jifna (near Shiloh) in the north to Tel Zif (near Hebron) in the south, and kh. Titura (near Modiin) in the west. Thirty-seven of them are located in Jerusalem and its immediate environs. Raviv (2018b: 1.192–203) surveyed over 30 similar Second Temple period caves (without exact dating) in southern Samaria. Late second to early first century bce pottery was found in some 40 caves. They should be dated to the Hasmonean period (Abadi 2017; Abadi and Regev 2020: 255–257),1 since the pottery includes pinched oil lamps (also known as folded wheel-made lamps, cf. Abadi and Regev 2020: 251) and spindle shaped bottles,

56  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure

Figure 3.1  Pit-bench cave, Gilo (Kloner 1995: 212)

which were characteristic to late Hellenistic Judea (Kloner and Zelinger 2007; Abadi 2017: 33). The earliest dated cave is in the French Hill, Jerusalem. The pottery dates it to 165–150 bce (Kloner and Zelinger 2007: 214–216; cf. Kloner 1980b). At least

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  57 seven caves in Judea contained pottery from the Hasmonean period with no later (post-50 bce) findings. Nor do they contain ossuaries (which appear in ca. 20 bce), and most significantly, no loculi!2 According to Abadi (2017), at least 30 more caves which are dated to the Hasmonean period continued to be used in the Herodian period and even later, with no loculi (e.g., Batz 2003, Cave 7; see also Ein Gedi, Cave 2, Hadas 1994: 12–17). Kloner and Zissu (2007) refer to more than 20 loculi caves with standing pits dated to the Hasmonean period which remained in use in the Herodian period (e.g., Rahmani 1967; Shurkin 2004, Caves F and G; Ganor et al. 2010). Some of them might have begun as pit-bench caves to which later users added loculi. I suggest that the absence of loculi in at least seven Hasmonean pit-bench caves in various locations indicates that pit-bench burial preceded loculus burial by several decades as an independent method of burial. It would appear that in many other bench-pit caves loculi were added later to facilitate burial of greater number of dead. Primary burial on a bench and secondary burial of all the bones in a small pit/repository reflects a different approach toward the dead than primary and secondary burial in several different loculi. Nevertheless, the two were practiced simultaneously during the later Hasmonean period, and perhaps also in the first century ce (Abadi 2017). Some burial complexes contain one chamber with a standing pit and benches (which in a later phase was used for storing ossuaries), and another one with loculi (Kloner and Zelinger 2007: 214, 218; Abadi 2017: 35, 38). Familial Burial and Family Identity Several reasons lead to the conclusion that the Second Temple pit-bench cave was a family burial cave. First, it resembles the Iron Age type, which is considered familial, since the bones are gathered into a repository pit. This is regarded as ancestral burial, in keeping with the biblical concept of “being gathered with one’s ancestors” (Barkay 1994; Osborne 2011; Faust and Bunimovitz 2008: 154). The fact that all those who were buried there were eventually removed to the repository, where they mingled with their ancestors, represents generational continuity and indicates the permanent nature of the family (Hertz 1960; Humphreys and King 1981. Cf. the generational continuity in Ben Sira 44:7– 15). Second, it is unlikely that these caves were used for public burial and not for kin relations, since they were relatively small: No more than three bodies could be properly placed on the benches at one time. In fact, the number of bodies buried in the caves was probably lower than the number of those buried in the Iron Age II chamber tombs, since the repository pits were fewer and smaller.3 Most of the burial caves contained only a single chamber,4 and in two uninterrupted caves the remains of only a few deceased were found.5 If burial was not familial, but related to class, occupation, and so on, burial practice should have been more economical or functional, and the caves should have been much larger, or the burial method should have been different. Third, the subsequent phase of burial in loculi, in the selfsame caves, was most likely familial (see later).

58  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure The pit-bench burial cave is the first familial burial in Judea since the sixth century bce, that is, after four centuries in which no new family burial caves were found. The absence of evidence for family burial in the late Persian and early Hellenistic periods is significant. Had such burials existed in hewn caves in Jerusalem and its environs, they would have been detected during numerous excavations. Hence, in this case we can deduce from the absence of evidence that the Judeans did not practice family burial in caves for almost 400 years. Indeed, inferring from the absence of evidence in archaeology may be justified and indicate a real phenomenon. As long as it is an empirical inference, and in the event that evidence is a matter of probability, it should be given serious attention (Stephens 2011; Wallach 2019). The identification of the bench-pit burial caves reveals that family burial was already practiced before the emergence of the more familiar loculi caves in Judea. The gathering of the bones into repository pits transformed the deceased from a corpse to an ancestor, symbolized collective identity at the expense of individual selfhood (cf. Suriano 2018: 52–53 on the Iron Age chamber tombs), and also symbolized the unity of the family after death, becoming one entity. Digging and maintaining the cave were also family projects. All family members were treated in the same manner without distinction between members of the different nuclear families—all became one single unity. We should not take the return of family burial for granted. It is not a “natural” situation or practice, as its absence during the Persian and early Hellenistic periods shows. Family burial has substantial social significance. Human beings have always lived in families and households, but their burial methods altered in the course of time due to social or cultural factors. Why then did burial within the social unit of the family reappear in dozens of caves in the Hasmonean period? What social change pertaining to the family in the Hasmonean period led to this change in burial practice? The mere existence of the family as a social unit cannot be the answer, since in antiquity all societies lived in family groupings. The change in burial practice relates to the manner in which these families perceived themselves. The new mortuary practice is probably an expression of an ideology, utilizing material culture to reflect and transmit a social message (cf. Hodder and Huston 2003: 79–80, 85). Burial in the same space and the collection of the family’s bones in a shared repository are intended to emphasize the importance of the family unit, the affiliation of the individual to parents, spouse, and children, and also (at least in some cases) to grandparents. These families’ choice to stress their relationship and identity as a social unit may be the result of two disparate social situations. One is when the role of the family is contested or weakened by social forces and processes such as state administration or an urban way of life (e.g., wage labor outside the family circle). Family burial emphasizes family identity, reinforcing familial bonding and collective memory (e.g., common efforts to care for the tomb), and transmitting these messages to the household (Faust and Bunimovitz 2008: 155, 158; deJong 2017: 210).

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  59 Another possibility is that several families took advantage of the shared burial practice to establish a distinctive self-identity, as a way of expressing prestige or elitism. Although the caves were not monumental or particularly impressive (in contrast to some later loculi caves, cf. Berlin 2002a), visiting them and collecting the bones signified that family bonds were distinct and valuable, indicative of a social unit. Indeed, the pit/bench burial cave was far less common than the slightly later loculi cave, but this does not appear to be due to dramatic demographic growth. Only a relatively small number of families felt a need to strengthen their relationships or identity by means of a new burial practice (which was of course also more expensive than simple burial pits). During the rise of the Hasmonean state, Judean society underwent extensive changes. Archaeological surveys in Judea and in the Benjamin highlands north of Jerusalem have revealed extensive demographic growth (Safrai 2000; Faust and Safrai 2015: 139–140). Many Judeans moved to different settlements, seeking new resources and opportunities in the wake of the Hasmonean occupation of Samaria and other districts (cf. the abandonment of sites, Faust and Safrai 2015: 142–143). These years saw the development of a Judean army, increased government administration, and the acquisition of new land and resources at the expense of the Gentile population (Pastor 1997: 68–86; see Dar 2018 for new Hasmonean farmsteads and villages). New resources and population changes resulted in the emergence of newly powerful and relatively affluent individuals and families, such as Antipater the Idumean (Herod’s grandfather, Ant 14.10), Jason son of Elazar and his son, who served as diplomatic delegates of the Hasmonean rulers (1 Mac 8:17; 12:16), and ‘Alkio, whose name appears on the boundary of Gezer’s inscriptions (Reich 1990; Reich and Greenhut 2002). These changes included social inequality, the accumulation of power, and newly created hierarchies, all of which resulted from the formation of the Hasmonean state. They undoubtedly impacted on the relationships between families and also between family members. Some families were separated or grew apart due to relocation or new economic and social opportunities, while other acquired more resources or social status (cf. Raviv 2013: 129–132). In both of these scenarios, pit-bench burial caves were used because members of these families wanted to strengthen their symbolic ties and generate a new sense of self-identity, with an eye toward creating a family tradition for future generations (cf. 1 Mac 13:27–30). Somewhat later during the Hasmonean period, a new and more popular family burial custom developed, and for different reasons. Were the Burial Loculi Caves in Herodian Jerusalem Familial Caves? Most of the Second Temple period caves contain several loculi in which the corpse was stored for a year or two until the flesh decomposed, and then the bones were collected. In the Hasmonean period the bones were usually placed in loculi, and since ca. 15 bce it was common to gather them in an ossuary made of stone.

60  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure It is commonly held that the burial caves with loculi and ossuaries, mainly from Herodian Jerusalem (37 bce–70 ce) and its environs, especially Jericho, were based on the family unit (Safrai 1976: 779–780; Kloner 1980c: 260; Safrai 1983: 140–141; Goodman 1987: 68–69; Patrich 1994: 191, 197, 206; Rubin 1997: 145– 153; Hachlili 2005: 69; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 40, 121). In two caves physical and biological analysis of the skeletal remains confirmed that the dead were family relatives (Nagar and Torgee 2003; Matheson et al. 2009). In previous articles (Regev 2002, 2004b, revised and augmented in this chapter) I have made the first attempts to demonstrate that these burial caves were indeed familial. Arguments based on the ossuary inscriptions were also detailed by Hachlili (2005: 235–310). I will bring evidence which suggests a link between these burial caves and family organization and identity: ossuary inscriptions, the size of the caves, the treatment of the corpse and the remaining bones, and direct historical sources. I will also point to those who were not buried among their families due to weak family ties or ideological opposition to family burial. This will serve as the starting point for the analysis of family structure or size and the organization inside the cave, the relationships between the deceased, and the significance of burial in ossuaries. Inscriptions and Families The only solid archaeological evidence for family relationships is inscriptions which explicitly attest to them. Of the more than three thousand ossuaries found in Jerusalem and its environs, some 200 bear inscriptions with the names of the deceased, and some of them relate to family relatives, usually the deceased’s father (Misgav 1991; Rahmani 1994; Cotton et al. 2010). Can we trace family ties in burial caves based on these ossuary inscriptions? Similar attempts have been made recently with regard to Roman families, using funerary epithets, including wills and other information to reconstruct family ties (Saller and Shaw 1984; Shaw 1984; Meyer 1990). However, the funerary inscriptions on the ossuaries are extremely short and contain minimal information concerning the deceased’s family ties. Detailed examination of these inscriptions underscores the limitation of finding family links among the names on the ossuaries. Space does not permit me to detail these inscriptions (Regev 2002: 37–46; Hachlili 2005: 235–310), so I will limit myself to summarizing the results of my previous study. According to the inscriptions there are three caves that were each unquestionably used by one family. In the burial cave of the Kalon family in Katamon, Jerusalem (Hansler 1912; Cotton et al. 2010: 386–394), the ossuary inscriptions indicate that Yehoseph Kalon, his four sons, the wife of one of the sons, and five of his grandchildren were buried in the cave. Tomb H in Jericho contained the family of Yehoezer Goliath (Hachlili 1979; on ties between the population of Jerusalem and that of Jericho, see Schwartz 1988). It included Yehoezer Goliath, his wife, and their children and grandchildren, a total of 28 people. In the Sons of Hezir Tomb in the Qidron Valley, Jerusalem, a wall inscription states that six brothers and the two sons of one of the brothers were buried (Avigad 1954: 59–66, dating the inscription to the late Hasmonean period; Cotton et al. 2010: 178–181).

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  61 The inscriptions on the ossuaries from the caves of the Kalon and Goliath families provide evidence which enables us to almost completely reconstruct the family tree. The ossuaries contained the members of three generations of extended families, including grandchildren from different parents, namely cousins, who were buried in the same cave. This will be significant when we discuss the family structure. Reconstructing the family ties of those buried in other caves is more complicated, because many ossuary inscriptions contained only partial prosopographical details. They mention only the individual’s name and sometimes the name of his or her father or her husband. When the ossuary of the father or husband is also found in the cave, this shows that at the very least, some of the people who were buried in the cave were related to one or more of the other people buried in the same cave (e.g., father and son or husband and wife). However, we still cannot reconstruct the family tree. For example, in a cave on Har Hamashhit (Mount of Offence, above Silwan) we can figure out from the ossuary inscriptions that the following individuals were buried in the cave (Clermont Ganneau 1874; Cotton et al. 2010: 270–290): Eliezer the son of Nati, his wife (?) Leah, his son Yehuda and his wife Shalom (that is, parents, their son, and their daughter-in-law), in addition to Shimon the priest, son of Yeshua, and his daughter Shlomtzion (namely, father and daughter). Several other ossuaries with inscriptions were found in this cave, such as those of Martha, the daughter of Pitzhi, and Ishmael “my brother.” However, the names of Pitzhi (Martha’s father) and of Ishmael’s brother were not found on the other (plain) ossuaries, hence we have no proof that the latter two were indeed buried together with their families. In other words, six of the people were buried with their relatives, but we have no way of knowing whether the other two whose names were found in the same cave were buried with their relatives. We also cannot know whether all these individuals belonged to one single extended family. Five other caves have a similar proportion of ossuaries in which the deceased is clearly related to others buried in the cave (Spoer 1907; cf. Cotton et al. 2010: 367–380; Mayer 1924; cf. Savignac 1925; Cotton et al. 2010: 354–367; Sukenik 1928; cf. Cotton et al. 2010: 396–404; Bagatti and Milik 1981: 95–99, loculi nos. 428–437; cf. Puech 1983; Cotton et al. 2010: 225–232; Kloner 1996; cf. Cotton et al. 2010: 495–501). Such a relationship is determined by the mention of the name of the person’s father, son, or wife; I call this the “familial component” (cf. Naveh 1989). In all five caves, I estimate that approximately 60% of the names carved on the ossuaries indicate a familial relationship. In at least five other caves, however, the familial component is minuscule, no more than 13% overall (Kloner 1980a, 1993; Hachlili 1978; Naveh 1971; Milik 1956–57; Cotton et al. 2010: 287–309). Could it be that these caves do not contain the remains of only one family but fragments of several unrelated families? The epigraphic evidence is not sufficient to draw this conclusion. Only 147 of the 895 ossuaries surveyed in Rahmani’s catalogue (1994) bear names. According to M. Levin’s survey of tomb inscriptions from Judaea during the Second Temple, Mishnaic, and Talmudic periods, only 28% of the 550 inscriptions (including 721 names) contain the familial component (Levin 1997). In other words, most of the

62  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure ossuaries have no names, and many others that do bear the individual’s name lack the familial component. In a cave in the Kidron valley, for example, five ossuaries with names were found, but none had a familial component (Sukenik 1945: 23–31; Cotton et al. 2010: 171–178). It is therefore impossible to reconstruct the family of the deceased. Since these inscriptions contain first names only with no reference to the father, husband, and so on, we have no way of knowing whether or not they were members of the same family. There are also many instances in which the deceased’s bones were placed in an ossuary without any inscription, and we cannot tell whether or not this person was buried with the family. Here we encounter a methodological limitation: The absence of the familial component does not necessarily mean that the person was not buried with the family. The inscriptions only indicate family relationships when they can be identified. Theoretically, the inscriptions could attest to non-family burial when numerous inscriptions with the familial component are found in a burial cave and do not relate to each other, and there were hardly any other plain ossuaries in which related relatives could have been buried. Yet, there is no evidence for such a case in the epigraphic and archaeological findings. We shall encounter several inscriptions lacking the familial component that nevertheless prove that the deceased were buried outside the family circle, because they mention deceased from different countries being buried in the same cave. This attests to Diaspora Jews or proselytes who came to Jerusalem and were buried together in a “pseudofamily” cave. One inscription attesting to non-familial burial was found in a cave in Giv‘at Ha-Mivtar. The inscription reads: “I Abba . . . brought Matatai son of Yehud and buried him” (Cotton et al. 2010: 98–101). Many other burial sites were simply a pit dug in the ground, in which those who were very poor or had no relatives were buried (Patrich 1994: 191–192). To conclude, only three caves contain conclusive epigraphic evidence of use by a single family. Nonetheless, there is partial support for the common view that burial in Jerusalem and its environs was familial (admittedly, it seems that this view stems from these inscriptions). However, the inscriptions do not indicate the extent of family burial. Archaeological and Historical Evidence of Family Burial A number of archaeological and historical considerations support the conclusion that family burial was the prevalent practice in Judea during the Second Temple period. Although these considerations are circumstantial and insufficient, taken together they indicate that family burial was very common. The small number of loculi in the cave. Most of the burial caves in Jerusalem and its environs contain between four and eight loculi; very few contain more than 12 (see Figure 3.2). Such a small number is not characteristic of public burials (in which inscriptions state that the deceased were buried for a fee) like the numerous catacombs in Rome, the dozens of loculi in Palmyra (Toynbee 1971: 221–244), and the Tombs of the Prophets in Jerusalem in the Byzantine period (Vincent 1901; Avni and Zissu 1999; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 207–208). Large

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  63

Figure 3.2  Distribution of burial caves by number of loculi

caves with numerous niches are more efficient and economical for public burials. The consistently low number of loculi supports the view that the caves were hewn in accordance with the needs of the family unit, and in a sense may reflect their size or structure. The familial context of the practice of collecting bones. In the hundreds of caves discussed in this and the next chapter, the bones were collected for secondary burial in a loculus or ossuary. I have already mentioned that collecting the bones of the deceased reflects family continuity, in the same way that placing the bones with those of past deceased represents generational continuity. It is reasonable to assume that those who collected the bones were family members of the deceased (Rubin 1997: 244). Historical evidence of family burial before and after the Herodian period. Many texts mention family burial, either directly or indirectly. Josephus stressed that the Judaean funeral ceremony was performed by the closest relatives (Against Apion 2.205). Those killed in the Maccabean wars were buried in their ancestral tombs (2 Macc 12:39). Simeon the Hasmonean buried his brother Jonathan in their ancestral tomb (1 Macc 13:27–28). In the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, the Book of Adam and Eve, and the Lives of the Prophets, it is stated that Adam and Eve, Jacob’s sons, and the prophets Hosea, Micah, Joel, Nahum, Nathan, and Azariah, were buried among their families. These contemporary authors described the burial of biblical figures in light of late Second Temple period practice (BarIlan 1994: 216–219). Rabbinic Halakha alludes to the practice of family members collecting the bones of the deceased (m. Mo’ed Katan 1:5; Semahot 14:2, 5–7, Hieger 1970: 205–206; m. Sanhedrin 6:5–6 mentions non-familial burial of those condemned to death as an exception, but their bones too are later removed to the family tomb). Hence, family-based burial was common in the late Second Temple period as well as in the second century ce. Thus far, I have gathered evidence for family burials. However, counter-evidence for non-familial burial actually reinforces the assumption that burial within the

64  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure family unit was the norm in the late Second Temple period. Several ossuary inscriptions from Jerusalem demonstrate that Diaspora Jews coming from different countries were buried in the same cave. These Jews, including proselytes, most likely did not have relatives in Jerusalem, and were therefore buried together because they had no affiliation with the family caves. We can also see possible opposition to family burial: non-familial burial in shaft graves in the cemetery of Kh. Qumran, Jesus’ attitude toward the collection of bones, and the practice of some groups of Pharisees to collect the bones of their fellows. Such opposition actually supports the view that family burial was the norm, and that some Judaeans only refrained from it because their ideology fostered tension between the sect/group and the family. Non-Familial Burial: Diaspora Jews and Proselytes The ossuary inscriptions in three burial caves indicate that those buried there had come from various Mediterranean regions, joining together for the purpose of burial. A cave in Shu’afat contains names in Palmyrene (in Palmyrene script) and mentions people from Africa, Syria, Chalcis, Alexandria, and a village named Seitos. Some of the Greek and Latin names were fairly rare among Jews, but some were more common Jewish names (Abel 1913; Puech 1983; Cotton et al. 2010: 439–459). In cave D3 of the tomb complex in Akeldama, Ariston of Apamea (a city in Syria) and his daughters Shlomtzion and Shalom were buried along with “Yehuda Hagior” (“Judah the proselyte” in the very same ossuary as Ariston!) and Shabbetai, son of Nehemiah (Shabbetai is a typical name for proselytes). People from Seleucia and Beirut were apparently buried in cave B2 of that complex (Shadmi 1996; Cotton et al. 2010: 309–335; cf. Regev 2002: 51–52 n. 31). The tomb complex may have belonged to the family of the Syrian Ariston, who permitted people from the Diaspora, including proselytes, to be buried among them (Ilan 1996). What Ariston’s family had in common with the others buried there was their Diaspora origin, apparently in Syria and Lebanon. Jews from Egypt, Cyrene, and Ptolemais were buried in another cave in the Qidron Valley. Some of their names are typical of proselytes, such as Sabatis (a female version of Shabbetai), Sorra (Sarah) from Ptolemais, and Jacob. Thirteen names were found in this cave; probably they were all from the Diaspora, and most of them may have been proselytes (Avigad 1962; Cotton et al. 2010: 343–354. For additional inscriptions of proselytes in Jerusalem, see Cotton et  al. 2010: 216, 224, 266, 464, 600). The origins of the deceased, as recorded in the ossuary inscriptions, and the fact that they were written in Greek, Palmyrene, Hebrew and Aramaic, indicate that they were buried in these specific caves not only because of cultural similarities but because they did not belong to local society. Those entrusted with the burial, usually the deceased’s friends or closest available relatives, pooled their resources for this purpose. These Diaspora Jews were prepared to be buried together with proselytes, despite the fact that Jewish society regarded proselytes as inferior (Goodman 1994: 12–13, 63, 80–81, 85; on separate burial of converts, see Matt. 27:6–7; Bar-Ilan 1994: 221).

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  65 Why were Diaspora Jews and converts buried with other Diaspora Jews and converts rather than with local residents of Jerusalem? I suggest that most of the local populace who could afford it were buried in familial caves, which outsiders or immigrants could not join. Their lack of relatives forced them into the company of one another, forming a kind of artificial kinship community for the sake of cave burial. Migration and conversion tear families apart. With no family of their own, it was natural for immigrants to come together. There were synagogues in Jerusalem for those from the same countries or cities of origin, such as the synagogue of the Alexandrian Jews in Jerusalem (t. Megila 2(3):17, Lieberman ed., 252–253), and the one for the “freedmen” (Acts 6:9; apparently Roman slaves who had been freed and granted Roman citizenship). A synagogue and inn for Diaspora Jews is documented in the Theodotus inscription in the City of David (Weil 1920). For the Diaspora Jews and proselytes buried in these three caves, the family had been replaced by a small community of immigrants and converts who provided each other with support. Since burial is a social rite, the primary reference group of these immigrants and converts was other immigrants and converts who took the place of the relatives from whom they were now cut off, whether willingly or unwillingly. Indeed, sociological studies have shown that immigrants to a new land receive assistance and support from other immigrants (Pfistrer-Ammende 1973: 316; Wilson and Schulz 1978: 39, 128; cf. Soyer 1997) and often rely on each other as a substitute for outside social groups and support systems (TalmonGarber 1962; Sussman and Burchinal 1964). Possible Opposition to Family Burial: Kh. Qumran, Jesus, and Some Pharisees There are several indications that certain religious groups—the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran, the historical Jesus and/or some of his earliest followers, and some members of the Pharisee groups in Jerusalem—were opposed to family burial. Their objections stemmed from a non-familial ideology whereby the religious sect, group or association aimed to replace the family and establish personal relationships between members at the expense of kinship relations. In order to weaken family ties, these religious movements or groups needed to undermine the practice of family burial, which indicates that family burial was a common practice. Some 1,200 tombs were found near Kh. Qumran. They are shafts dug into the earth for the burial of individuals, not families. In Chapter 6 I discuss the findings in Kh. Qumran (without assuming that they were related to the Qumran scrolls), and conclude that several of their features are typical of sects, and one of them may be the cemetery. Instead of being buried with relatives, the deceased was buried alone, near his or her fellow members, to express rejection of the sect member’s familial identity. Here, however, some confuse sectarianism with celibacy. Smaller cemeteries of shaft caves were found in ‘Ein el-Ghuweir and Hiam el-Sagha in the Hudean desert (Eshel and Greenhut 1993; bibliography in Puech 1998), in Jerusalem, Jericho, and Ein Gedi (Zissu 1998; for additional sites, see in

66  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure Chapter 6). Some believe that these other shafts contain the remains of members of the Qumran sect or Essenes (Zissu 1998; Hachlili 2001: 117, 124). This view is based on the identification of the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran with the celibate Essenes (on the Essenes, see Regev 2007: 314–317). Nonetheless, I am quite sure that unlike the Essenes, the Yahad sect (sometimes called the Qumran-Yahad) was not a celibate sect, as there are no references to celibacy in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Regev 2007: 252–259; 2008). Non-familial burial was not uncommon. It was probably relegated to the poor (Patrich 1994: 191–192) and usually did not involve non-familial ideology. And yet, the 1200 shaft tombs at Kh. Qumran were different, since this site was resourceful (see Chapter 6). I suggest that the inhabitants did not follow the practice of familial burial in loculi caves, as did the inhabitants of neighbouring Jericho, for example, not because they lacked material resources, but for ideological reasons. They did not reject familial burial because they did not live in families, but because they preferred to commemorate all members as equal, with the emphasis on sectarian identity and discipline. Hostility toward family burial can be deduced from Jesus’ saying “Let the dead bury their dead” (Matt. 8:22, Luke 9:60). This belongs to the Synoptic Saying Source (so-called Q) and probably reflects a social situation from the mid-first century. Jesus called on his disciples to leave their families and join him, and he demanded total obedience and undivided loyalty (McKnight 1999: 179–187). One of his disciples sought to join him only after fulfilling his obligation to his father, probably referring to the practice of collecting his bones (McCane 1990; cf. Basser 1993). Jesus replied, “Let the dead bury their dead,” thereby disparaging the disciple’s fulfilment of his filial duty. The ideological and social context for Jesus’ comment was that he anticipated tension between membership in his movement and family loyalty (Mark 10:29–30; Matt. 10:35–37; Luke 14:26; Barton 1994). Thus, Jesus (or his later followers, who may have been responsible for this saying) apparently objected to and perhaps even belittled the practice of secondary burial, the collection of bones by family members. He urged his disciples to demonstrate total obedience to the sect at the expense of the duty of family burial. Among the Pharisaic h̟ avurot (associations) too, the group may have sometimes taken the place of the family in the mortuary practice. According to early Rabbinic sources, the h̟ avura was a voluntary association whose members (h̟ averim) were distinguished from the rest of the population by their meticulousness with regard to separating tithes, and their insistence on consuming ordinary, non-sanctified food in a state of ritual purity (see Chapter 2). In Jerusalem, some h̟ avurot also engaged in various activities together: visiting houses of mourning, attending banquets, studying Torah, praying, and so on (Oppenheimer 1977: 118–169). And what of the families of the h̟ averim? Conflict could arise when a family member joined the h̟ avura and his meticulous observance of tithes and ritual purity interfered with his relations with his relatives and household, or when, instead of supporting his family as he was required to do, he studied Torah or met with his colleagues. He was on the horns of a dilemma: Should he forsake his family for

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  67 his religious piety? Would either side compromise (cf. t. Avoda Zara 3:10, Zukermandel ed., 464)? Haverim in Jerusalem sometimes took the place of the family and collected the bones of the deceased (t. Megila 4(3):15, Zukermandel ed., 226; Semahot 12:5, Hieger 1970: 195–196). But why? In light of the tension between the group and the family, it would seem that this was not solely an act of kindness toward those who had no relatives to collect their bones from the loculi and put them in ossuaries. It is possible that in the event that a h̟ aver who died had been estranged from his family, the h̟ averim considered themselves duty bound to honour their colleague’s memory and fulfil the role of his relatives. In all three cases, when departure from familial burial is due to the anti-familial social ideology of a specific movement, it actually supports the view that family burial was very common. Family Structure in Herodian Jerusalem, Based on the Number of Loculi in the Cave Loculi as the Key for Determining Family Size/Structure in the Burial Cave The family is the most basic social unit, hence the question of what constitutes the common family structure in a given society is of great significance. Is the prevalent type a nuclear family made up only of parents and their children; an extended family (three or four generations living as a joint economic unit); or a hamula (or lineage, see also “multiple family household,” in Leslett 1972: 29–32, which also applies to the above category of extended family)? A society of independent nuclear families will function completely differently from a society based on hamulas. The differences are largely manifested (a) socioeconomically—the way the household is run and the extent of economic ties and sharing of economic resources within the family; and (b) psychologically and mentally—social and emotional dependence on relatives (e.g., on an authority figure) and the ties between related nuclear families (Yorburg 1975; cf. Rubin 1997: 87–102). There is a vast difference between the individual’s freedom of action and the power vested in heads of families in a society made up mostly of independent nuclear families, compared to a society of hamulas. Thus, to a great extent, the family structure will determine the character of society (Todd 1989). Changes such as the expansion or contraction of the family unit will impact greatly on the development of a society. These changes may be brought about by social or economic processes. The nuclear family may be defined as parents and children living together in “domestic and sexually consequential cohabitation” (Ball 1972: 302–303). Notably, in mortuary practice the aspect of cohabitation is transformed. The cave does not necessarily mirror the reciprocal economic and residential propinquity of those living in the family household. This complexity will be discussed to follow.

68  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure Some scholars have studied family structure in Israel during the Iron Age monarchy (Stager 1985; Bendor 1996; Faust 2012b: 128–177) and in the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods (Rubin 1972; Safrai 1983). But family structure in first century ce Jerusalem has not been addressed in detail. Scholars who analyzed historical and epigraphic evidence came to the conclusion that families in Greece and Rome tended to be independent nuclear families (Shaw 1984; Saller and Shaw 1984; Meyer 1990; Bradley 1991: 162–169; Dixon 1992: 3–19; Saller 1994: 87, 95–96; Pomeroy 1997: 139–140; cf. Morris 1992: 61, 160–164). They examined personal tomb inscriptions, wills, and inheritances, which are rare in Herodian Jerusalem or else were not preserved. We have already seen that ossuary inscriptions are of little help in understanding the relationship between burial and family. In fact, the historical and epigraphic sources limit the study of the family (Nathan 2000: 160–168). It is therefore necessary to examine the form and methods of burial and their social ramifications (Chapman et  al. 1981; Morris 1992; Parker Pearson 2003). The huge number of Herodian burial caves in and around Jerusalem (some of which were already in use in the late Hasmonean period) makes such an investigation possible. In this section I  have revised my original study (Regev 2004b: 115–127) in light of new publications pertaining to burial caves in Judea. The focus of this discussion is largely methodological, aiming to correlate between the size and structure of the burial caves and the size and structure of the families. Virtually all the burial caves dated from Herod to 70 ce contained loculi for placing the body for primary burial before collecting the bones (usually in a loculus or an ossuary) in a secondary burial rite. These loculi for primary burial are approximately 2 meters long, compared to the shorter loculi (less than 1.2m long) used for storing the bones after the flesh decomposed that were commonly used, especially before the practice developed of collecting the bones into ossuaries (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 68–69). My method for studying family structure is based on the number of loculi in a burial cave, assuming that: (1) burial in most of the caves was family-based; there is a connection between funerary practices and family relations, family structure, and family identity, and (2) the size of the cave is an indicator of the size of that particular family unit. Thus, if there is some indication of the number of dead buried in the cave within the same generation, this will attest to the size of the family unit that made use of that cave. As a rule, children buried their parents or grandparents in a family burial cave, generation after generation. Hence, the cave usually represents an extended family. But the question is: what was the structure/size/function of the family in a given time period (e.g., in 40 ce), in a given generation? What kind of family buried its members in the cave at that particular time? A cave may have been used by several generations, from one nuclear family to the next: one member of the family may have continued using it while his siblings hewed new caves. Indeed, there is evidence that some caves were used for a century although the number of dead was relatively low, about 15–20 (e.g., Kloner 1980c, 190–192, 204–207; summarized in Kloner and Zissu 2007: 449, 455).

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  69 The first step in the following analysis is to estimate the relative size of the cave based on the number of loculi. For this reason, Figure 3.2 shows the number of loculi per cave. Loculi found in almost all the burial caves dated from approximately 75 bce to 70 ce are the most important component of the burial structure and process. The act of placing the corpse inside the loculus is the primary and most important phase in the mortuary practice, since it later enabled the buriers to gather the bones into a loculus or ossuary. By linking the number of loculi to family size/structure, I have ruled out the possibility that affluent families hewed more loculi simply because they could afford it. The number of loculi had nothing to do with status or wealth, but may have something to do with the relations between the deceased in a single loculus. The cave of Caiaphas belonged to a high priestly family but contained only four loculi (Greenhut 1992). The most elaborate cave in Akeldama held up to nine deceased in a single loculus, while several loculi remained empty (Avni and Greenhut 1996: esp. 119). It was quite common to bury a single person in a loculus (see Chapter  4). It had no bearing on economic resources or an attempt to display affluence. The data for the following analysis were obtained from a survey of the number of loculi in 306 caves in Jerusalem and its environs, including Jericho.6 The use of some of these caves dates from the Hasmonean period and continued to the first century ce, but most of them are dated to the Herodian period until 70 ce. Most of the burial caves in Figure 3.2 are small. Of the 306 caves, 213 caves (70%) have no more than six niches (caves with just one loculus were not included). The higher the number of loculi per cave, the fewer the number of caves; very few caves have 15 or more niches. Recently discovered loculi caves that were not included in this survey and discussed in the next chapter contained up to 11 loculi but normally around six. This leads me to conclude that most of the families represented in these hundreds of caves were relatively small. Mediumsized families were few in number and large families were rare. Three of the caves with numerous loculi were composed of three or four chambers with 3–12 loculi each. Each chamber had a separate entrance and could be accessed without entering the other chambers. It is possible that these chambers belonged to different family units that only cooperated in hewing the joint entrance. These caves include Nicanor’s Tomb (30 niches; Avigad 1967: 119–125), the Tombs of the Kings (31 niches; Kon 1947), and the Tomb of the Grapes (27 niches; Macalister 1900; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 426–428). This treelike structure differs from the chain-like structure consisting of several chambers linked together, so that those entrusted with the burial had to access each chamber through the previous one (e.g., the Sanhedrin Tomb, Kloner and Zissu 2007: 415–417). Thus, the number of caves with more than 25 loculi may have been considerably lower than represented in Figure 3.2. Why did the owners/buriers of these 213 caves containing up to six loculi prefer not to hew more loculi to facilitate the burial process and make room for more dead? Clearly, the number of deceased buried in the cave did not necessitate more loculi. Assuming that the loculi were used mainly for storing the body in

70  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure the primary burial, they represent the number of deceased over a short time span of a year or two until the bones would be collected. Since the buriers’ social unit (most likely the family circle) was of a certain size, there was no need for many more loculi in the same cave. The number of loculi thus indicates that the average family cave was relatively small. The number of loculi was not random, nor was it due to the size or shape of the cave. In many caves at least one wall held no loculi at all, when several more could have been added (e.g., Kloner and Zissu 2007: 680, 686, 709–711, 726, 729, 731, 735, 796–798). Here the buriers did not utilize the cave’s potential to hold a higher number of loculi, since this was unnecessary for their purposes, although hewing a loculus is much easier than hewing a cave. The number of loculi therefore reflects the specific needs, aims, and perceptions of those responsible for the burial. Thus the number of loculi is a possible indication of the size of the family unit utilizing that burial cave in a given period of time. The general method of burial practiced in the loculi and the way it preserved family relationships will be discussed in the next chapter, based on the skeletal remains in the cave. For more concrete and definite results, I have calculated the number of loculi in a given cave as a criterion for family size. In order to develop a quantitative estimation of the number of deceased in a family cave and the family size and structure they represent, we need to know the number of dead buried in the cave, which is available in only a very limited number of caves (although some family members may not have been buried there, cf. Parkin 1992: 42–50). We also need to estimate the duration of the cave’s use, namely how many generations are reflected by the number of deceased. Thirty bodies buried over a period of 50 years represent a much larger family unit than the same number of dead over a century. Such dating must be based on the ceramic typology, also assuming that most of the caves were no longer in use by 70 ce. Unfortunately, in many cases the excavator did not attempt to estimate how long the cave had been in use. I have chosen 11 caves for which we have the most accurate data on the number of people buried and the length of time the cave was in use.7 In order to calculate the average number of dead in a loculus in an average generation, I divided the total number of dead buried in the cave by the number of loculi (not including those filled with ossuaries), and then divided this number by the estimated number of generations (one generation = 20 years) based on the excavators’ dating. This gives us a coefficient of corpses per loculus per generation for each cave, ranging between 0.5 and 2 dead bodies per loculus in an average generation. I calculated the average coefficient of all 11 caves, which was 1.13 (sample standard deviation σn-1 = 0.54, and standard error σn/ n = 0.16). This shows us that in an average generation (the time span of about 20 years of the third generation in a cave used during five generations, which lasted about 100  years), slightly more than one dead body was placed in a loculus. Thus for example, in an average generation a cave with six loculi was presumably used for burying six or seven persons, which reflects the number of dead in an extended family: at least one grandparent, two adult children, and three grandchildren.

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  71 Admittedly, these calculations cannot be accurate. The most serious difficulty is dating how long the cave was in use. I will expand later on the difficulties in this method. Nonetheless, four additional caves for which there is accurate publication of the skeletal remains and a sufficient amount of pottery support these results. Based on a minimal evaluation of the time span of the cave’s use, the coefficient of loculi/dead/generations in these four caves ranges from 0.5 (Strange 1975) to 1.3 (Zissu and Gershoni 1996) and 1.64 (Billig and Bikowski 2006) and 2.66 (Weksler-Bdolah 1998, Caves C and D). In the latter cave, 96 people were buried over at least four generations (from the late Herodian period to 70 ce). However, this extremely high number is due to the fact that in addition to the burials in loculi, there were also primary burials scattered on benches, using the chamber as a bench-pit cave. Overall, the coefficient in the other three caves is quite consistent with the average of 1.13 in the first 11 caves. Although this average cannot accurately represent the exact burial process in the caves, the results nevertheless indicate that the loculi were not merely efficient and functional spaces for storing bodies. They were not used for the economical disposal or storage of the dead, but reflect a certain social mechanism and relationships related to family structure. My next step was to estimate the exact family structure in the rest of the loculi caves. I used the average coefficient of 1.13 based on the data from the 11 caves to calculate the estimated number of dead per loculus in an average generation for the rest of the 306 loculi caves in Figure 3.2, caves in which the excavators did not provide precise data on the number of deceased and/or the time span in which the cave was in use. I multiplied the number of niches by the coefficient of corpses per niche, which resulted in the estimated number of people buried in the cave (again, on an average, namely the middle, generation). For instance, in a four-niche cave, on average, almost five people were buried, as shown in Table 3.1. The number of dead in a loculus can be classified into family structures based on the number of generations that are buried together simultaneously. For example, we may distinguish between caves in which adult brothers, their spouses, and their children are buried together within a short time span—namely, they are regarded as one social unit—and caves where only parents and their young, unmarried, children were buried within roughly a single generation. My estimate of the size of the various family types is based on the number of generations that function as an autonomous economic and social unit: a nuclear family consists of two generations (parents and their unmarried children); a small extended family consists of three generations (parents, married sons, and grandchildren; i.e., the sons remain connected to their father as long as he lives); a large extended family consists of approximately four generations; and a hamula or multiple family household consists of more than four generations and includes several extended families (cf. Safrai 1983: 130–131). Defining the minimal number of members in nuclear and extended families is difficult because it depends on the birth rate (the number of children in an average nuclear family), economic relations within the household, and social ties between relatives. Determining the number of dead in a given generation is even more complex, since it depends on the death rate—that is, how many children

72  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure reached adulthood and had children of their own. The estimated minimal number of children in a nuclear family is based on the general demographic estimation, which has been deduced from a number of archaeological surveys in Judea and its environs in the early Roman periods. These surveys indicate a slight demographic increase during the Roman period (Safrai 2000). This means that at least two children in a given nuclear family reached adulthood and had children of their own, maintaining a demographic balance from one generation to the next. Another indicator for the number of infants or children in a nuclear family is child mortality, as substantiated in burial caves found in Jerusalem, Jericho, and Ein Gedi. The mortality rate of infants and children below the age of sixteen was almost 50%. In other words, almost half the population died before they reached the age of sixteen (the minimal age for having children). My sample of the skeletal remains of 645 deceased (Haas 1970; Arensburg and Rak 1975; Smith and Zias 1980; Zias 1992a, 1992b, 1996; Hadas 1994: 63–64; Arensburg and Smith 1999) revealed that 43% of the deceased were under the age of 16! This means that half of the children in a nuclear family were buried as infants or children, before they could establish their own nuclear families. Based on the archaeological surveys and findings from the burial caves, the average nuclear family included at least four children/infants, at least two of whom reached adulthood and raised their own nuclear family. Based on these demographic results, we would expect to find at least two children and one parent in the burial cave of an average nuclear family in any given generation. Consequently, it is possible to estimate the minimal number of dead in more complex family structures. In a small extended family (which included parents, at least two married children, and at least eight grandchildren) at least four grandchildren and at least two adults (parents or grandparents) died per generation, or a total of six deceased per generation. In a large extended (fourgenerational) family at least eight children would have been buried, in addition to at least four adults (parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents), or a total of 12. In a hamula of five or more generations, at least 16 children and more than four adults would have been buried—at least 20 persons. All these theoretical estimations are minimum figures that keep the family demography stable, with no natural increase. Table  3.1 is based on these minimum estimations. However, due to positive natural increase, the average number of births (and deaths) was obviously somewhat greater. Hence for some families the birth (and death) rate was higher, and consequently some families who are classified below as largeextended were actually small-extended families, and so on. Table 3.1 shows the distribution of the 306 niche caves according to four family types, based on the number of loculi (following Fig. 3.2), the coefficient of 1.13 deceased per loculus, and the estimated number of dead buried in each family type. The data is somewhat schematic due to the need to facilitate the table according to classification of the caves by the number of loculi. One hundred and thirteen caves (37%) reflect nuclear families; 137 (45%) caves reflect small extended families; 48 caves (15.5%) reflect large extended families; and only eight caves (2.5%) reflect hamulas. The most striking finding is

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  73 Table 3.1  Distribution of people buried in loculus caves by family type Family type (and the percentage of caves representing each)

Number of loculi

Maximum number of people buried (estimated) per average generation

Number of caves

Nuclear (37%) Small-Extended (45%) Small-Extended Large-Extended (15.5%) Large-Extended Large-Extended Large-Extended Hamula (2.5%) Hamula Hamula Hamula Hamula

  4–2   6–5   8–7 10–9 12–11 14–13 16–15 18–17 20–19 30–25 35–31 40–36

5 7 9 11.5 13.5 16 18 20 22.5 34 40 45

113 100 37 21 15 8 4 0 1 4 2 1

Figure 3.3  Distribution of population by family size

the dearth of hamulas in Jerusalem. Less precise conclusions pertain to the number of nuclear and small extended family burials, since only three dead persons and one or two niches separate the average types. Under certain circumstances, a large nuclear family may consist of more members (and loculi) than a smallextended family with a low birth rate. Yet, it is significant that 82% of the families were nuclear or small-extended. The next step was to consider family structure from a demographic perspective: How many people were buried in nuclear families in comparison to hamulas, and so on? The number of burial caves was converted into an estimation of the population buried in them, which provided an estimated distribution of the population of Jerusalem and its environs according to family types. The number of people per cave in each category (see Table 3.1) was multiplied by the number of caves in that category. For example, each cave in the category of two to four loculi (nuclear

74  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure family) was multiplied by the five people contained in the four loculi. The overall number of deceased is approximately 2,525 (see Figure 3.2). In demographic terms, since nuclear and small extended families are made up of fewer people, they become less predominant. Nevertheless, the population buried in nuclear family caves still accounted for a significant proportion of society (23%) and the small-extended family is still the most prevalent family type (40%). Almost two-thirds of the population were buried in nuclear and small-extended family caves. Twenty-six percent were buried in large-extended family caves. The number of people buried in hamula caves remains small (11%).

Social Interpretation of the Family Structure Represented by the Loculi and Caves Between a Burial Cave and a Living Household The skeletal remains and the family size or structure in the burial caves do not ­represent actual family life or living families. The fact that members of an extended family or hamula were buried together does not prove that they lived together and formed a homogeneous unit known in socio-anthropological research as a household (Goody 1972) or domestic group (Seymour-Smith 1986: 80–82). The social organization of the dead does not necessarily represent the social organization of the living. The burial cave is not a mirror of the domestic household, and many other complex factors combine to shape the ways in which the living bury their dead (see the introduction to this chapter). Family members may be buried side by side in the same cave for organizational and functional reasons: The same people who share resources (household, property) in their daily living also share the burial cave and its maintenance, cooperating in the inhumation and bone collection of their closest relatives. Nonetheless, the family structure involves another crucial aspect—emotional dependence among family members. In mortuary practice, the symbolic and psychological motivations elicited by the emotional ties among family members override economic considerations. The implication is that family members who did not share a household may have been close enough emotionally to be buried together as a sign of their genealogical and emotional kinship. This is especially relevant in the case of relatives buried as large extended families or hamulas. Nevertheless, the burial caves of nuclear or small extended families do hint, albeit indirectly, at the economic structure of those families. The fact that these individuals were not buried in a larger family setting along with more relatives such as uncles and cousins shows that they were not emotionally close, and it follows that presumably they also did not maintain a joint household with them. The psychological or emotional aspect of kinship takes priority over the functionaleconomic aspect, as can be seen in cases in which nuclear and extended families undergo change. These families enjoy social and emotional ties within the extended family, but they are economically independent (Yorburg 1975; cf. Litwak 1960). Therefore, where there are indications that no emotional relationship existed with

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  75 the extended family—they were buried in separate caves—­presumably there were no economic ties either. Actually, there is an economic incentive for burial with the large extended family or hamula. It is easier and cheaper to hew one large cave with many loculi for the members of the extended family or hamula than to make several separate, small caves. Nonetheless, for the families buried in small caves, the division of the family into small units outweighed the economic benefit of being buried together. Thus, when projecting from the burial practice onto the family organization of the living, the caves that represent nuclear and small-extended families carry more weight than those of the large extended families and hamulas. The number of families that functioned economically as nuclear or small extended families exceeds the number of caves representing the burial practices of such families, since some of those who buried their dead in the caves of large extended families and hamulas did not function as such in real life as household organizations. Social Characteristics of Nuclear Families versus Hamulas People living in nuclear or small extended families are less dependent economically, socially, and emotionally than their relatives in large extended families or hamulas (Yorburg 1975; Segalen 1986). The nuclear family becomes a more independent unit and its members enjoy more freedom of action. Economic and social ties with relatives are replaced by ties with non-relatives—neighbours, friends, co-workers, or people who share their political and religious views—as well as by contact with the government. Members of a nuclear or a small extended family are more independent than members of a large extended family or hamula. They have room for individual economic and social initiatives and the development of a worldview that lends greater weight to individualism. People who live in such an environment evaluate themselves and are evaluated by society on the basis of their own achievements, and this may impel them to reject traditional patterns of behaviour and thought (for example, by joining a sect or religious association). According to our analysis, such families comprised more than half of the society in Herodian Jerusalem. In contrast, the hamula (lineage) functions as a corporate group (Howard 1996: 175–178), a joint economic unit. The hamula as a social organization has a relatively exclusive say in decision-making when it comes to its members’ livelihood and economic life, their education, the social order, and community life. Hamulas split or fall apart as a result of population increase and outside pressure. One might have expected hamulas to be significant in Jerusalem society, because family descent was of great importance. Common people were called “son of X” (see the inscriptions on an ossuary lid with workers’ names and their daily(?) salaries in Hachlili 2005: 174–178). The political and religious leadership was made up of large families of distinguished lineage: the Hasmonean dynasty, the Herodian dynasty; and the families (“houses”) of the high priests (Safrai 1983: 147–148, 155). The common priests were classified according to their ancestry into “courses” (mishmarot) and “ancestral houses” that were divided into families (Sanders 1992: 170–189), and they were concentrated in specific villages and

76  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure towns (Kahane 1978; Safrai 1983: 140–141). The practice of collecting bones reflects the continuity of the family unit. Nevertheless, the scant number of burial caves with more than 16 loculi proves otherwise. Their scarcity indicates that there were very few hamulas in Herodian Judea (this was already assumed by Goodman 1987: 67–69, although with no actual evidence). Nuclear and Small Extended Families and the Urbanization of Jerusalem Most of the 306 caves in our survey are in the vicinity of Jerusalem, hence our results may contribute to societal understanding of the population of the city. In the Herodian period until 70 ce Jerusalem was considered to be a metropolis by Roman standards. Pliny the Elder refers to it as “the most famous of the cities of the East” (Pliny, Natural History V, 70; Stern 1980b). It clearly met the geographical (cf. Schwab 1982: 36–38, 106–108) and archaeological (cf. Bowman 2000) criteria for a city. There was a suitable arrangement of streets (Wilkinson 1975), governing institutions (Tcherikover 1964), and economic structure (Jeremias 1969; Safrai 1994: 223, 229). It is reasonable to regard the large number of nuclear and small extended families as an outcome of urban life, which detracts from family cohesiveness, and causes hamulas or extended families to split into nuclear families. As a result of Herod’s building projects, many city-dwellers became wage-earners or selfemployed breadwinners who no longer required familial economic cooperation for working the fields. One indication is that the building of the Temple mount lasted until 64 ce and included over 18,000 workers (Ant. 20.219; cf. John 2: 20). The population density and diversity may have led them to form ties with nonrelatives at the expense of their family ties. In the pre-modern era urban life commonly influenced family size and function in this way (Frazier 1939; Saller and Shaw 1984; Raviv 1993: 50–55; Faust 2012b: 129; cf. Leslett 1972; Goody 1972: 104; Southall 1973; Rubin 1972: 113; Wilson and Schulz 1978: 126–130). However, some maintain that it was not ancient urban society that caused the breakdown of the family (Sjoberg 1955; Greenfield 1961; Talmon-Garber 1962; Sussman and Burchinal 1964; Wilson and Schulz 1978: 22, 26; cf. Yanagisako 1979: 181–183). The many small burial caves presumably of nuclear and small-extended families in Herodian Jerusalem is consistent with Yorburg’s model regarding the effect of urbanization on family life (Yorburg 1975). She maintains that the prevalence of a particular family type depends on the level of economic and technological development of the society. Extended families exist in societies in which the distribution of capital is related to family ties. Such families are common in agrarian societies, where they constitute a strong labour force and land ownership is divided among the family members. In contrast, nuclear families are common in urban societies where they have direct sources of income—such as wages—­ independent of their relatives. In Yorburg’s opinion, the division of the family into nuclear units depends on urban job opportunities, the status of families that move

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  77 to the city, the geographical proximity of relatives, and the value of family ties in the migrants’ society of origin. Two additional social factors weakened family cohesiveness in Herodian Jerusalem: immigration and sectarianism. Historical evidence for immigration attests to Jewish pilgrims from most of the Mediterranean basin, some of whom settled in the city. They came from the Diaspora either as families or individuals, but presumably entire families would not make such a pilgrimage or settle in the city. Hence, the number of small families or unrelated individuals grew. There is evidence of the presence of Jews from the Diaspora in Jerusalem—from Cyrene, Asia Minor, Antioch, and Cyprus (Mark 15:21; Acts 2:5–11; 4:36; 6:1, 5; Hengel 1983; see the inscriptions discussed to follow). Paul was originally from Tarsus, in Asia Minor. We can also include the Adiabene kings that were buried in “the Tombs of the Kings” (Kon 1947). Family Structure and Individualism in Jerusalem Society In the absence of historical data on family structure before the Herodian period, and especially in the Hasmonean period, it cannot be definitively determined that large extended families and hamulas were splitting into smaller family units during the time from Herod to 70 ce. In the next chapter I will bring evidence for the fragmentation of the extended family into nuclear families through burials in loculi in the late Hasmonean and Herodian periods. Nevertheless, there are indications that the number of small families increased during the Herodian period, at the expense of large families. Social and economic processes were already underway, with a concomitant weakening of the family structure. More people were migrating from their family farms to the city, attracted by the prospect of becoming wage-earning artisans or independent merchants. Others, who continued working in agriculture, no longer worked their own land, but became tenant farmers who leased land from wealthy individuals or the king (Goodman 1987: 58–64, 68; Pastor 1997: 89–90, 98–105; cf. Ilan 2006). The relatively large number of nuclear and small extended families affected Jerusalem society in the Herodian period. Individuals had more freedom of action because they had fewer family obligations and were no longer subject to the authority of relatives. In the previous chapter on non-priestly purity I have suggested that new private purity concerns in everyday life result from individualism and reflect it. In the next two chapters I will try to bring more evidence for this process of individualization, as reflected in the burial in loculi and ossuaries and ossuary decorations (which emerge in the second half of Herod’s reign). Nonarchaeological evidence for individualism in Judaea in this period will be discussed in Chapter 9. Methodological Difficulties In the course of analyzing the loculi in the burial caves and attempting to calculate family size and structure in some 300 caves I encountered methodological

78  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure difficulties. Discussing them is essential not only in order to qualify the weight of my conclusions, but also to clarify the methodological limitations in searching for family relations in mortuary practice. Some of these difficulties are technical (lack of data), but others are conceptual, related to understanding family structures and relationships. These reservations notwithstanding, I believe the analysis is worthwhile, for two reasons. First, it points to some general trends regarding the family structure of those who were buried in the caves. Second, it may advance further studies, as future research can improve my analysis. The problems relate to three issues: the use of the loculi as a key archaeological phenomenon; dating (namely, the duration of using) the cave; and conceptions of family structure and relationship between members of the kinship unit. I will address them in detail. I decided to focus the study of family scale or structure on the number of loculi in the cave because, assuming that they were used for storing the deceased before collecting the bones, this was the best indication for the number of people buried in the cave simultaneously. Furthermore, this is the clearest indication for the cave’s size, and it is easy to count loculi in the plan of a cave. Although I am aware that some loculi were used for storing ossuaries and I  corroborated this when calculating the average coefficient of loculi/dead/generations in the eleven caves, it was nevertheless impossible to take this into account while implementing this coefficient for the rest of the 306 loculi caves. This means that some loculi in these caves were not used for storing the dead for some time while the cave was in use, that is, some of the caves had fewer loculi available for primary burial and their scale might have been somewhat smaller. More troubling, however, was my decision to base all my calculations on the number of loculi in the cave. In some caves the deceased were placed not only in the loculus but also on the so-called bench (actually part of the cave floor), adjacent to a standing pit (see earlier), a shelf or arcosolium (e.g., Avni and Greenhut 1996: 11–12, 20, 28). Thus, in some caves additional people could have been buried outside of the loculi, and none of the calculations could have taken this into account. The use of the loculi in the various caves was not uniform, as my calculations assumed. In a few cases the loculus served only for primary burial and the bones were not collected at all (e.g., Zias 1982; Tendler et al. 2019). In such cases the loculi were not continually used for generation after generation, hence once again, the family unit may have been smaller than the previous schematic calculations suggest. Other loculi that were normally used for primary burials (unlike the much shorter collection loculi) may have only been used for the collection of bones with no primary burials at all, functioning like the much shorter collection loculi (on the latter, see Kloner and Zissu 2007: 68–69). Thus, the number of loculi available for storing corpses in primary burial might have been considerably lower. It is also far from certain that only the remains of one person at a time were placed in a loculus. When the excavator finds primary (quite rare) or secondary burials in a loculus, it is impossible to know whether they were placed there all at once, or how many years passed between the inhumation of one skeleton to another.

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  79 In other words, we can distinguish between primary burial (articulation of the corpse) and secondary burial (collection of the bones), but otherwise we cannot discern the sequence of the use of the loculus over time. Nonetheless, some confirmation for the burial of one individual at a time will be provided in the micro-analysis of the loculi based on skeletal remains in the next chapter. Most of the loculi and ossuaries examined there contained adults and infants or children, most likely parents and their offspring. They were probably buried at different periods of time. The total average of persons per loculus (throughout the entire period that the cave was in use) as deduced in the next chapter generally corresponds with the calculations in the present chapter. It is noteworthy that the present chapter reconstructs the family structure within a given time span (horizontal perspective), whereas the next chapter examines the development of the burial practice over time (vertical perspective). The discussion in the next chapter shows the complexity of the burial process and the relationships between nuclear and extended families in the same cave, and problematizes some of the assumptions made earlier. I have already stressed that the length of time in which the caves was in use is essential for ascertaining whether the number of dead found in a cave reflects a small or large family unit. I also noted the difficulties in dating the onset of the use of the cave (and in some cases, when there is an indication that it ceased to be used before the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 ce, also when its use was terminated). In some cases the excavator did not base the evaluation of the length of use of the cave on pottery, but on an assessment of the phases of burials, or changes in the burial practices. For instance, when the bones had been placed in niches and later pushed to the edge of the loculus at a time before ossuaries came into use (Kloner 1980c: 192, 206). Sometimes the actual number of dead was the key to evaluating the period when the cave was in use. Needless to say, such calculations are unsubstantiated. Recent excavations have not solved this problem, which remains the most serious flaw in calculating the average coefficient of loculi/dead/generations in the 11 caves, and for calculating the family size in the other caves. Finally, my analysis was founded on a generation-based distinction between family types, including nuclear and extended families. The classification into different family structures based on generational family size followed sociological research, and particularly the view that the nuclear family is a predominant concept in studying kinship relations (e.g., Parsons and Vales 1955). My interest in the study was grounded in the conception that there are more or less fixed types of family structures based on the size of family or the scope of kinship relations, and these form the basis of the entire social system. Indeed, this assumption makes it reasonable to try and measure the scale of the dominant family structures, as if this is a quantitative question that can be address with empiric results at hand. However, family ties or kinship relations are much more complex, and it is difficult to measure them empirically. Strong emotional bonds are not limited to the nuclear family but also exist among members of the extended family (Georgas et  al. 1997). The best indications for kinship ties in archaeology are found in epitaphs such as those on Roman funerary monuments, which also show that

80  Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure sometimes the relationships between members of the extended family (e.g., uncles and nephews) are stronger than within the nuclear family (Martin 1996, revising the conclusions of Saller and Shaw 1984). It is therefore likely that in some of the caves with few loculi some of the deceased were members of the extended family while other members of the nuclear family were absent. In fact, counting loculi does not measure the scale of the family type/structure, but rather the scale of the kinship relations in the cave. Both close and broad kinship ties are commemorated in the cave, not necessarily fixed structures of nuclear, small/large extended families and hamulas. The latter are merely terminologies which enable us to classify the scale of these kinship relations. However, these reservations do not alter my basic conclusions about the increased role played by the individual in relatively small families, namely, that the limited scope of kinship ties places more weight on the self.

Conclusions Examining burial caves in Jerusalem and its environs from the perspective of the family unit and structure has yielded several interesting results. Family burial emerged in the early Hasmonean period and became more popular during the late Hasmonean and Herodian periods. After several hundred years during which Judeans did not hew burial caves and hardly ever practiced family burial, dozens of families revived the custom of familial burial on benches and the collection of the bones into a repository pit. These were probably well-to-do, nuclear, or small extended families who wished to improve their relationships or aspired to an elite identity. Later in the Hasmonean period, the custom of burial in loculi emerged among the Judaeans, continuing the familial character of the mortuary practice. Sometime during the reign of Herod, the bones were collected and transferred from the loculus to the ossuary. Historical and epigraphic evidence shows that burial in loculi and ossuaries was on a familial basis. Quantitative analysis of the skeletal remains of the number of deceased stored in a loculus provides some indications of the family structure, namely, the size of the burial unit, represented in over 300 caves. The structure of most of the caves corresponded to nuclear and small extended families. Large extended families were quite common, while hamulas were rare. However, it is hard to know how many families actually functioned as large extended families. These results reflect not only the household organization of the living, but their kinship relations. The relatively small scale of the most common nuclear and small extended families gave more weight to the individual within the society. Individuals were less dependent on and limited by other family members and family ties. Their occupations, social ties and personal choices carried more weight in the overall social system. It may be assumed that this social trend is also related to economic and social changes in Judaea from Herod to 70 ce, and especially the urbanization of Jerusalem. In the next chapter I will turn to a smaller scale of analysis of several burial caves in specific loculi and ossuaries, pointing to family relations and the role of the individual within the family and the larger society within the cave.

Family Burial Caves, Identity, and Structure  81

Notes 1 Raviv (2018b: 1.196–197) dated these caves to the pre-Hasmonean and early Hasmonean periods, not on the basis of stratigraphic findings but because they are not found in the parts of Samaria conquered by the Hasmoneans after 111 bce, such as north to Beit El. However, in Jerusalem many such caves were used between the first century bce and the first century ce (see later). Theoretically, it is possible that at least some of the pitbench caves were initially quarried in the Iron Age II, and were cleared and reused in the Hasmonean period. Yet, no archaeological findings support this possibility. 2 Jerusalem: Ramat Polin (Wigman and Tanami 2014); Ein Rogel St. (Abu Tur), Cave 3 (Zissu and Ganor 1997: 88); Giv’at Hamivtar, Cave 3 (Bahat 1982: 38–39); Valley of the Cross (Sussman 1982a); Nahalat Ahim (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 382); Neve Ya’akov/ Rus a-Tweill, Cave B (Gibson 1982 and personal communication). Rosh Zurim, southwest of Jerusalem (Peleg and Peler 2004). 3 For example, the sizes of the repository pits in the Iron Age II caves in Khirbet el-Kôm Tomb 1 were 0.8x1.4x0.75m (Dever 1969–1970: 144–145) and in Tel Hadid 3x2.5x1.5m (Yannai and Nagar 2012: 2). In comparison, those of the Hasmonean caves in wadi elHalaf Cave G, were 0.6x0.8x 0.45m (Shurkin 2004: 30) and in Gilo (Jerusalem, see fig. 1) 1x0.7x0.4m (Kloner 1995: 212). Thus, these later caves seem to be too small to represent a lineage, and, as noted previously, some of them were used only during the Hasmonean period, namely, their generational continuity was limited. 4 Approximately 80 of the 101 caves in Abadi’s catalogue (2017) had only one burial chamber, 12 had two chambers, and four had three chambers. Six of the seven caves without loculi dated to the Hasmonean period with no later phase also have a single chamber. That is, 80% of the caves are restricted to one chamber. 5 Only three skeletons were found in the sealed cave in Ramat Polin, Jerusalem (Wigman and Tanami 2014), and ten in Rosh Zurim Cave 2 (Peleg and Peler 2004). Ein Gedi, Cave 2 (Hadas 1994: 12–17) is exceptional. It contained the remains of 61 skeletons that had been buried in a combination of primary and secondary burials in pits and benches, and several wooden coffins also containing traces of both primary and secondary burials. 6 Kloner 1980a; Zissu 1995; Kloner and Zissu 2007; Macalister 1900; Kon 1947; Milik 1956–57; Bagatti and Milik 1958; Rahmani 1964; Avigad 1967; Tzaferis 1970; Reich and Geva 1972; Kloner 1993; Kloner 1996; Avni and Greenhut 1996; Solimany and Re’em 1999; Zissu and Ganor 1997; Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999. 7 Rahmani 1964; Kloner 1980c: 161–166, 185–190, 190–192, 193–195, 196–203 [=Kloner 1980a], 204–207 [summarized in Kloner and Zissu 2007: 178, 439, 449, 450– 451, 453–454]; Kloner 1993[=Kloner and Zissu 2007: 161–163]; Tzaferis 1970 Caves I  and III; Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999: 37–50 Tomb H, of the Goliath family. For details see Regev 2004b: 120.

4 Loculi and Ossuaries The Family and the Individual in Judean Burial Caves*1

Introduction In the previous chapter I traced the beginnings of Second Temple period family burial in pit-bench caves and indicated that subsequent burial in loculi and ossuaries was also familial. Based on the number of loculi and the skeletal remains in the loculi caves I examined the family size or structure and concluded that most of the burial caves represented nuclear or small extended families, notwithstanding several methodological reservations. In this chapter I draw attention from the cave as a unified social unit to a micro-analysis of the burial within the cave: Who is buried with whom in the same loculus or ossuary, and why? I analyze in more detail the skeletal remains found inside the loculi and ossuaries of a sample of 25 caves, in an attempt to reconstruct the social relationships between those buried in each cave. The first part of the chapter discusses the loculi burial caves that emerged in the late Hasmonean period, in which the bones were collected into different loculi (and not gathered together as in the pit-bench caves), and reconstructs the way in which the bones were placed. It is suggested that in most loculi parents and their young children were buried together, roughly corresponding to a nuclear family organization; the aim of the loculi was to address the individual’s identity by burying the individual with his/her closest relatives, rather than with the entire family. The second part of the chapter studies the stone ossuaries used for the collection of bones in the caves since the late Herodian period (some of them were placed inside the loculi). Most of the ossuaries contain adults and children buried together in similar assemblages to those in the loculi, with more cases of individual burials. While the pattern of burial in ossuaries resembled that of the loculi, the ossuaries provided a more bounded space, presumably separating members of the nuclear family or the individual from the extended family. I suggest that the distribution of dead within the caves in both the loculi and the ossuaries attests to the manner in which the nuclear family is perceived in relation to the extended family, and how the individual is regarded in relation to his/her relatives. The database for our analysis includes a sample of 25 burial caves with loculi and (in most of the caves’ ossuaries), which were published with a full report of the skeletal remains. The location of the bones in every loculus and ossuary *  This chapter was co-authored by Omri Y. Abadi

DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-5

Loculi and Ossuaries  83 was classified according to age and sex, enabling us to point to possible familial relationships within each cave, and to underscore certain burial patterns. The physical-anthropological data enables us to determine the number, sex, and age (adult/child) of the deceased in each loculus and ossuary. In answer to the question of why they were stored together, I suggest that most of them were parents and children. I will construe the family relationships between those buried in a single space and why those who buried them placed their bones together in the loculus or ossuary. Special attention is paid to the connection between the family members and the individual who was buried in the loculus or ossuary. I follow the general methodological observations on family and mortuary practice detailed in the beginning of Chapter 3 and also employ sociocultural/anthropological-archaeological models of personhood and the self to try to understand the meaning of these burial patterns.

The Emergence of Judean Loculi Caves Loculi caves with secondary burials emerged in Judea in the Hasmonean period. Apparently they were prevalent among the Judaean population. During the Hellenistic period most burials in non-Judaean regions (Western Galilee, the coastal plain) were in shaft and cist tombs, or simple pits in the ground, from which the bones were not collected for secondary burial (Tal 2009: 249–254). Such individual primary burials are rare in late Hellenistic and early Roman Jerusalem (Reich 1993: 107; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 40, 96–97). Burial caves with loculi (Hebrew kokh, pl. kokhim; on the term in archaeological scholarship, see Kloner and Zissu 2007: 75–76) first appear in Maresha and its environs in the third and second centuries bce, among the non-Jewish (Idumean or Phoenician) population, namely, Kh. Za’akuka and Kh. Khoresh (Tal 2009: 137–238, 243–246, 263; Zissu and Kloner 2015). They resemble those in the monumental tombs in Ptolemaic Alexandria, although the majority of the early Hellenistic tombs in Alexandria were simple shaft graves (Gorzelany 2019: 90–104). It appears that many of the early Hellenistic loculi in the Maresha area were used for primary burial (cf. Kloner et  al. 1992: 28*, 36*; Regev 2017: 26). According to Oren and Rappaport (1984) during the Hellenistic period these caves were only used for primary burial, and the evidence of secondary collection of bones should be dated to the first century ce Judaean population (who also used ossuaries). In the second and first centuries bce loculi caves with secondary burial are quite rare outside Judea: in the Galilee, in Tel a Ras/Giv’at Yasaf and Hagoshrim (where coffins may have been used for primary burial, Ovadia 1999), and in the coastal plain, in Rishpon, Tel Qasila, and the non-Judaean part of the cemetery in Jaffa (Tal 2009: 219–220, 228, 230, 238–239). In Roman Syria too loculi caves are far less common than in Judea and the burial practice is diverse and eclectic. Pit graves are the most popular, and many cist graves and jar burials (both inhumation and cremation) have also been found (deJong 2017: 38–63, 202). In some of the monumental Nabatean tombs in Petra (first century bce and the first century ce)

84  Loculi and Ossuaries there is evidence of secondary burial, but the loculi are taller and wider than those in Judea (Wadeson 2013; Perry 2017). Loculi caves first appear in Judea in the late Hasmonean period, in the first half of the first century bce (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 69–70), especially in Jerusalem and its environs.1 Several hundreds more such caves from the Herodian period to 70 ce are reported in the vicinity of Jerusalem (Kloner and Zissu 2007). Loculi caves from the Hasmonean period to 70 ce include some one hundred caves in Jericho (Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999), and over a hundred in many rural sites north and north-west of Jerusalem (Tendler et al. 2019: 31*–33* survey recent publications, cf. Faust and Safrai 2015: 136–138, 190), including South Samaria (Raviv 2018b: 1.192–215 surveyed approximately 80 caves). These loculi served for both primary and secondary burial. Where ossuaries were used, loculi were mainly for primary burial and for storing some of the ossuaries. In the Maresha area most of the loculi are remarkable for their symmetry and uniformity, whereas most of those in Judea are smaller and not so carefully hewn. In Maresha the ceiling is gable-shaped, but in Jerusalem the ceiling is flat (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 79). Most of the Judean caves contain far fewer loculi (an average of five to six in comparison to 15–25 in the Maresha area). Some scholars claim that the Judean loculi were influenced by those of Maresha (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 76–79), while others maintain that they are the result of Hellenistic influence (McCane 2003: 10, 29; Magness 2005a: 135–136; on Alexandrian or Phoenician origin of the loculi cf. Hachlili 2005: 67–69). Nonetheless, the distinctive features of the Judean loculi should be noted: Unlike those in the Maresha area, initially they were usually used for primary and secondary burial, their shape was different, and they were in far more common use than elsewhere in the Levant or the GrecoRoman world. Thus, secondary burial in loculi is typically Judean. In contrast, during the first century ce non-Jews continued to mainly practice individual burial in shaft and cist tombs without secondary burial (e.g., in Jaffa, Jakoel 2016). The Judean preference for loculi over pit-bench burial later in the Hasmonean period may have been due to the efficacy of burying a larger number and the advantage of keeping the central burial chamber free of corpses and their bad smell (cf. Kloner and Zissu 2007: 70–91). Here we shall focus on an additional, social explanation: the loculus ensured that each of the departed had a place of their own near their closest relatives. The Family in the Loculi Caves In the previous chapter I brought evidence to show that the Judean loculi burial caves belonged to families. One pivotal argument relates to the small size of most of the caves (up to six loculi), which indicates that the caves were not made for public burial but were suited to the size of a family. This predominance of secondary and familial burial in loculi is unique to the inhabitants of Jerusalem and Judea, whereas non-familial, primary burials are quite rare in this region. Why did so many Judeans choose to bury their relatives in small caves with their family members and to collect their bones a year or two after the funeral?

Loculi and Ossuaries  85 Clearly, the family held special importance for Judeans as early as the late Hellenistic/Hasmonean period. Was this a reaction to a social threat to the family’s cohesion and structure, or a reflection of the central role of family relations in the social ideology of those burying them? Since many caves are located in rural areas, family burial probably was not a result of the urbanization of Jerusalem. Moreover, since most of the caves only contain up to six loculi, it is unlikely that they were intended to commemorate lineage in the face of pressure brought to bear by the state or any external force. Is it possible that the familial practice of interment was intended to preserve the intimate relationships within the broader family unit? Analyzing Micro-level Family Ties in the Loculi Caves In order to reconstruct family relations in the mortuary practice we must analyze how burial was organized inside the cave: where and how each body was placed, distinguishing between males and females, adults and children/infants. We will then be better equipped to understand the relationships between the departed and the social principles that guided their specific placement. Archaeological excavations provide scant data, however. Most of the caves were looted, and skeletons and grave goods were moved or taken (e.g., Vitto 2000; Baruch et al. 2018. The cave in Akeldama was well preserved, but the Second Temple findings were mixed with later findings, see Avni and Greenhut 1996). There are few detailed physical anthropological reports from which it is possible to deduce the age and sex of the deceased. I analyzed some 25 loculi caves with detailed archaeological and anthropological reports. These caves are dated to the Hasmonean and/or Herodian periods until 70 ce and are located in or near Jerusalem, Jericho, Ein Gedi, the Judean lowland, and the area around Modi’in.2 Each of them includes between two and 11 loculi which are suitable for both primary and secondary burial. Most of them feature burial in both loculi and ossuaries. In analyzing the findings each loculus is regarded as an independent cluster or assemblage of dead bodies, without negating any connection between the different loculi (for spatial identification of burial clusters, see Joyce 2001). At this juncture we will not focus on skeletal remains in ossuaries (discussed to follow), wooden coffins, pits/repositories, shelves or arcosolia (on burial in arcosolia, see Hachlili 2005: 69–74) although they seem to provide generally similar results. Our analysis of these caves reveals that in 74 of 125 loculi (59%) adults and children were buried together: approximately one third of these 74 loculi contained one adult and at least one child or infant; one third contained two adults, usually one man and one woman, and at least one child or infant; and one third contained at least three adults and at least one child or infant. The high ratio of infants and children (e.g., in comparison to loculi caves in Roman Syria, de Jong 2017: 119–120, 124) attests to the importance of micro-level family ties between adults and children, probably within the nuclear family. The choice to bury infants in the same manner as adults and in close proximity to these adults

86  Loculi and Ossuaries

Figure 4.1  Burial cave in the French Hill (Zissu and Gershoni 1996)

(parents?) suggests that these infants represented the identity or status of the adults (cf. Gillespie 2001: 77: and references). Burial of a male and female together but without children or infants in a loculus was extremely rare (six cases, and two indeterminate cases of a woman and an unidentified adult, no more than 6%). In only seven cases (5%) were two or more same sex adults buried together without children or infants. Burial of more than one child or infant without adults was also rare, (only two cases, 1.5%). In 34 loculi (27.5%) a single person was buried (see Figure 4.6). These results clearly show a preference for burying adults and children or infants together. The small number of burials of adults without children, children without adults, and especially adults from the same sex without children is telling. We are witnessing a specific pattern which attests to a certain structure. Since in most cases male and female adults and children were buried together, it is very likely that these were first-degree relatives, usually parents and their children. Figures 4.2 and 4.3 show the distribution of dead according to sex and age in each loculus (and ossuary, discussed subsequently) in two of the 25 sample caves. The average number of deceased (adults and infants) per loculus in these 74 loculi is 3.6 (σn[standard deviation] = 2.15).3 If we look at each loculus in isolation, there may have been specific circumstances for the combination of adult(s) and child(ren). Yet taken together, the most simple and sensible explanation for the pattern of a limited number of dead per loculus and the combination of adults and children is family relationships. It is likely that these loculi contained one parent and two or three children, or two parents and one or more children. This roughly corresponds to a nuclear family, or at least most of its members. I suggest that in most cases the children passed away before their parents or shortly thereafter, whereas children who reached adulthood, married, and had children of their own were buried with their spouses and children in other loculi or caves.

Loculi and Ossuaries  87

Figure 4.2  Caiaphas’ cave (Greenhut 1992)

Figure 4.3  Joseph son of Hannanya the Scribe’s Cave (Sussman 1992)

The familial structure is apparent since in hardly any cases were two or more children or infants buried without adults, or two or more adults without children. Burial was either in a loculus together with close relatives, or alone. There are some possible reasons for the single burials: the deceased may have passed away

88  Loculi and Ossuaries long before or after the closest relatives, in which case there was a degree of detachment from the parents and/or siblings, or perhaps those responsible for the burial wanted to mark the exceptional social identity or status (either positive or negative!) of the deceased. Indeed, the phenomenon of single burial points to the limits of the familial structure in the loculi caves. Nonetheless, although almost a third of the loculi in our sample were single burials, they constitute less than 12% of the total number of those interred. In the previous chapter I analyzed the family structure of the entire cave in 300 burials in Jerusalem and Jericho, assuming that all or most of the deceased belonged to the same nuclear or extended family. However, the present analysis seems to show that the larger family unit is divided among different loculi, in many cases according to their affiliation with different nuclear families. I assume that most of the bodies were positioned in accordance with the principle of parenthood, or at least close family relations, as part of the nuclear family. Thus, the core of the nuclear family was placed inside the loculus, whereas in the other loculi— the average number of loculi in a cave in our sample is 6 (σn = 2)—other cores or parts of nuclear families were stored, along with a number of single ­burials. The cave was therefore a combination of about six such cores of nuclear ­families (again, not including ossuaries, pits and arcosolia) that were buried ­during a period of several generations. The cave itself was probably comprised of the outer familial circle, such as other nuclear families or an extended family over a few generations. I suggest that the loculus contained the inner and most intimate familial circle, most likely of those who had passed away within a given time span, while those who died later and had their own nuclear families (spouse and children) were buried in different loculi. According to my reconstruction, the organization of the burial caves reflects close family ties, structured around two circles: the extended family (or other kin-related nuclear families) over a number of generations, and the nuclear family, consisting of one’s closest relatives. The loculi family cave was therefore a complex system of family relationships, differentiating between those who were closer and those who were more distant. Sociocultural Explanation Why was it so important for the Judeans to bury their dead in close proximity to their first-degree relatives? What social phenomenon is reflected in these family burials? This is a question of interpretation. Relationships between the dead, or between the living and the dead, may already have been established during the lifetime of the deceased, involving social identities and personal experiences (Joyce 2001: 12). Yet, while these relationships are personal and may vary from one burial to another, we discovered a very clear pattern of adults being buried with children or infants. There seems to be a dominant social memory of familial relations, in which one’s identity is established in relation to one’s parents and/or children. This corresponds to a common tendency in mortuary archaeology—the

Loculi and Ossuaries  89 association of the tomb with the family home or household (Hodder 1984; Gillespie 2001: 94; Joyce 2001: 14; Wallace-Hadrill 2008). Burial in clusters of first-degree relatives highlights the connections between them. But to what end? These are the most basic social relationships in any society. It is extremely unlikely that the family ties between spouses and parentschildren were weakened to the extent that they needed affirmation through the mortuary practice. One possible explanation is that this mortuary practice is simply a reflection of the social organization, such as the rise of the nuclear family at the expense of ties in the realm of the extended family. This supposed weakening of broader family relationships relates to the idea that a transition from extended to nuclear family is the result of modernization and industrialization (Parsons 1956; Goode 1963; cf. Giddens 1991. But see also the critique of Charles et al. 2008: 4–18; Harders 2012). Social developments in the Hasmonean state (see Chapter 3) and during the Herodian period (Rocca 2008) may have had a similar impact. However, we prefer to view burial as a more complex social phenomenon. The burial method does not merely reflect the real social structure among the living, but constitutes the concept of a specific structure in people’s minds (see in Chapter 3). Family categories are not just objective social facts, but also exist “in people’s minds, in the form of principles of classification” (Bourdieu 1996: 24). Domestic life is also about intimate relations (McNay 1999: 113). I suggest that the preservation of the ties between parents and their children (or other first-degree relatives) after death was an attempt to highlight the identity of the individual, together with one’s closest relatives, detaching them from the broader family, such as older siblings or members of the extended family. In antiquity, the individual was not perceived as a single person but as an integral part of the most basic family unit—a spouse, young child, and perhaps other relatives with whom one had a special, close connection (see example to follow). The pattern of burial in the loculi together with those with whom the deceased was most closely connected was therefore the first step toward the individualization of Judean society—as we will try to demonstrate next in discussing the meaning of burial in ossuaries. This, I suggest, was the perspective of those entrusted with the burial—the first- or second-degree relatives, or members of the extended family. When they did not collect the bones of all the family members into a communal pit (as in the pit-bench cave, discussed in Chapter 3), they prioritized the individual and his/her closest relatives over more remote members of the extended family, although the entire burial cave preserved both.

Ossuaries: Individual or Familial? Introduction Ossuaries (sometimes referred to in inscriptions as h̟ allat/h̟ allata) are used for collecting bones. They have been found in hundreds of loculi caves in Jerusalem

90  Loculi and Ossuaries and Judea (south to wadi Shilo in southern Samaria, Zissu 2001: 239–243). They appear as early as ca. 20–15 bce, namely, the last third of Herod’s reign (Rahmani 1994: 21; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 119–120; Magness 2005a: 129). Over 3,000 ossuaries are known in scholarship; 1,200 contain decorations and/or inscriptions (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 112–113). Several explanations have been put forward for the emergence and popularity of ossuaries. A  few have raised purity concerns, namely that the ossuary protected the bones from being contaminated (Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1983: 119; cf. Goodman 1987: 104), but this is very unlikely since the bones themselves are the greatest source of impurity (Num 19). Some scholars have linked ossuaries to a belief in bodily resurrection (Rahmani 1958: 105; 1982: 110; 1994: 53–55; Figueras 1983: 78–86). Others have referred to the decomposition of the flesh which supposedly atones for past sins (Meyers 1971–1972; Hachlili 1980: 239). However, the same ends could be achieved by collecting the bones to a loculus, thus obviating the need for an ossuary. It is not clear whether there is a connection between the ossuary and the belief in resurrection and atonement, in cases where the bones of several deceased have been placed in the same ossuary (which, as we shall see next, is very common). Note that the Jewish belief in resurrection began in the early Hasmonean period (e.g., Ant. 13.171–173), quite some time before the ossuaries appeared. This belief continues to this day, whereas the most recent ossuaries date from the fourth century ce. Another reservation pertains to the possibility that some individual Sadducees also used ossuaries, although the Sadducee sect as a whole rejected the belief in resurrection (War 2.165; Luke 20:27): Yhwsp br Qyp’/Qp’ (‫קפא‬/‫)יהוסף בר קיפא‬, from the family of the high pries t Caiphas (Rahmani 1994: 85–86; Horbury 1994; Cotton et al. 2010: 482–485) who is identified as the Sadducee (Acts 5:17); Simon Bouton (‫)שמעון בוטון‬, (Rahmani 1994: no. 41), who is identified with the high priestly family of Boethos (Cotton et al. 2010: 120), which was part of the Sad� ducees (Regev 2005c: 185–188); and Yehohana daughter of Yehohanan son of Thopholos, the high priest (‫( )יהוחנה ברת יהוחנן בר תפלוס הכהן הגדל‬Rahmani 1994: 259,), from the pries tly family of Hanan or Katros that was probably also Sadducean (Schwartz 1990: 185–189). Others saw ossilegium as a departure from traditional Jewish practice and related this individualistic tendency to the influence of Hellenization (McCane 2003: 10–14, 40, 45–46). Indeed, in Roman Egypt as well as in Rome, growing concern for the individual’s role in society, social mobility, and possibly also the weakening of family ties, had left their mark on mortuary practices that included mummy portraits and detailed inscriptions on tombstones (Riggs 2005: 95, 140, 246; Woolf 1996, 1998: 101–104). Nonetheless, since ossuaries were extremely rare outside Judaea, this cannot be interpreted as a conscious trend to adopt Hellenistic culture. In a similar vein, some argued that ossuaries were used by Jerusalem’s elite as a form of imitation of the Roman burial practice of cinerary urns, which, like ossuaries, are containers for a limited quantity of burial remains (Foerster 1998: 303–304 n.54, 309; Levine 2002: 264–265; Magness 2005a: 122, 133–135).

Loculi and Ossuaries  91 Magness (2005a: 134) also pointed to the use of ostothemkai, stone containers from Asia Minor that were used for cremation, in parallel to the ossuaries. However, those from Ephesos mainly contain the remains of Roman citizens and freedmen (Thomas 2007), attesting that this burial practice had limited influence on the local population. Moreover, if ossilegium was adopted by the elite, why is it so common and why is it also found in many rural settlements? Kloner and Zissu (2007: 116–117) conclude that ossuaries were used by all segments of society and were not expensive (on the relatively low price of an ossuary, cf. the inscriptions in Rahmani 1994: nos. 696, 730; Cotton et al. 2010: 493–495). Indeed, the common people may have been willing to invest a great deal in burial. Most members of the Roman urban community, regardless of wealth, rank, or identity, believed post-mortem commemoration to be an essential part of the funerary process. During the late Republic period, they acted on this belief in increasingly elaborate ways, seeking to establish, promote and negotiate the social position and identity of the dead and their surviving family (Graham 2006). We should also question why cremation urns in Rome would have made such an impression on so many Judean Jews who customarily used ossuaries. Cremation burials were rare in Judea and its environs before 70 ce (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 144) as well as in the Hellenistic East (Morris 1992: 42–53). These urns, which were not stored in familial caves or related to familial commemoration (Bodel 2008: 189), reflect a totally different method of caring for the body (destruction rather than preservation and collection). It is therefore questionable whether the majority of Judaeans had any knowledge of cremation, and it is unreasonable that they would be impressed by it, yet at the same time be willing to transform the practice from collecting ashes to collecting bones. Another suggestion is that the storing of bones reflects social individualism by emphasizing the persona of the deceased (Fine 2000: 74–76; Regev 2001b). Previously, I based this on the assumption that the bones of the deceased were stored in a more or less private container. The inscriptions and decorations on some of the ossuaries commemorate these individuals. In what follows I reexamine this last suggestion based on more precise and up to date evidence, and in light of the analysis of family burial in loculi. Ossuaries, the Family, and the Individual: Skeletal Remains In what way did the collection of the bones into an ossuary rather than a loculus or any other part of the cave change the attitude toward the dead? How did the use of ossuaries impact on family relations? Micro-analysis of the ossuaries in each cave provides some interesting results. Our sample of 25 loculi caves with full physical-anthropological reports discussed earlier includes 16 caves with a total of 144 ossuaries containing the skeletal remains of 341 bodies.4 Sixty-six of these ossuaries contained the skeletal remains of adults and children or infants. Below I suggest that these belonged to parents and their children (cf. the assumption that bodies buried in the same ossuary are related, Kloner and Zissu 2007: 119). Among these 66 ossuaries, there are 35 cases of one adult (presumably a

92  Loculi and Ossuaries parent) and at least one child or infant, 20 cases of two adults (usually one of them female) and at least one child or infant. In 11 cases there were more than two adults and at least one child or an infant. There are only six cases of adults from both sexes without children or infants. There are no ossuaries containing more than one adult of the same sex without a possible spouse or a child (but there are eight ossuaries with two adults in which the skeleton of at least one adult is of unidentified sex, which makes it statistically possible that there were indeed such cases). There are also seven ossuaries of two or three children or infants without any adult. The average number of individuals (or rather, their partial remains) in all these ossuaries containing more than one deceased is 3.16 (σn = 1.04). Fifty-seven ossuaries each contain the remains of a single deceased. The total average of the number of dead in all 144 ossuaries is 2.32. The high number of cases in which multiple skeletons of adults and children were stored in a single ossuary is far too common to merely indicate the practical reuse of the ossuary, with no ritual or commemorative intention. The bones were stored according to a certain pattern. The most reasonable explanation for the presence of both adults and children in most of the ossuaries with more than one deceased and an average number of slightly more than three dead per ossuary is that these were parents and their children, mainly belonging to a nuclear family. The phenomenon of burying more than one person in an ossuary is well known (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 118). For example, a cave in Mt. Scopus yielded 23 ossuaries with an average 1.7 persons per ossuary (Kloner 1993: 105), and in Giv’at ha-Mivtar 15 ossuaries held an average of 2.26 dead (Haas 1970: 39). This practice is referred to subsequently in tractate Semakhot 12:8. Our sample shows that the burial of multiple bodies is more consistent than previous scholars were prepared to admit (nor can it be explained by the activity of looters, etc.). Curiously, however, ossuary inscriptions containing the names of two or more deceased are rare. In most of these inscriptions, we can only assume that the reason why their names were inscribed on the same ossuary is that they were mother and son, husband and wife, or siblings.5 It is reasonable to assume that bones of more people were added to the ossuary in the course of time, following the decomposition of the flesh (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 51). However, since the maximal dimensions of the ossuary are approximately 65x28x39 cm. (Rahmani 1994: 6; Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999: 95), an average ossuary can contain the entire skeletal remains of only two adults (cf. the loaded ossuary, Hachlili and Kilbrew 1999: 170). Storage of multiple skeletal remains in a single ossuary was possible only if the collection of bones was partial (for partial collection see Kloner 1980c: 193–194; Greenhut 1996: 43; Arieli 1998: 37; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 111; pt. Mo’ed Katan 1:5 6a). Partial collection of bones is a common phenomenon in other cultures. It seems that part of the body represented the whole, as in the Roman ritual of os resectum (literally “cut bone,” in which a finger from the dead body was preserved from the mourning phase until the final burial process, Graham 2011).

Loculi and Ossuaries  93 Fifty-seven bodies (39.5% of the total number of ossuaries) were buried alone in the ossuary in a manner which may correspond to the concept of individualism. Single burial was already quite common in loculi (see Figure 4.5). Yet, these 57 individuals buried in ossuaries comprise only 16.5% of the entire population buried in all the ossuaries in our sample. These results show that ossuaries were mostly not intended for individuals. The patterns of burial in ossuaries resemble those of placing the dead in loculi: a similarly high rate of burial of adults and children, a similarly low rate of burial of same sex adults and adults without children, and many cases of a single burial (see Figures 4.2–6). In at least two caves in our sample ossuaries were used simultaneously with secondary burial in loculi (Weksler-Bdolah 1998; Shurkin 2004, Cave F; cf. the prevalence of loculi designated for the collection of bones in secondary burial in about one quarter of all the caves in Jerusalem, Kloner and Zissu 2007: 68). It is possible that in many other cases, some of those entrusted with the burial preferred ossuaries while others decided to continue with the older and cheaper practice of loculi in the same cave. Based on these results and the statistics, I conclude that the ossuary served the same function as the loculus! Its purpose was to store a quite similar number of dead (see Figure 4.4), with quite similar family ties, but why? Individual Identity in Relation to the Family In the caves in our sample, it is clear from the number of distinct remains of corpses per ossuary (Figures 4.4 and 4.6)—in most cases more than two, and sometimes even four or six—that most of the ossuaries were not intended for a single person, hence the view that ossilegium relates to individualism requires revision. The concept of identity, as reflected in this practice of collecting the bones, unites several persons in one commemorative unit. Scholars sometimes

Figure 4.4 Average number or dead in loculi with adult(s) and child(ren), and ossuaries containing more than one deceased in the 25 sample caves

94  Loculi and Ossuaries

Figure 4.5 Distribution of loculi in the sample cave according to sex, age, and number of deceased in each loculus (n = 125)

Figure 4.6 Distribution of ossuaries in the sample cave, according to sex, age, and number of deceased in each ossuary (n = 144)

erroneously regarded the ossuary as intended for one individual, with the burial of multiple people the exception rather than the rule (e.g., Regev 2001b: 41). The paradigm of one container per corpse is a scholarly imposition which is statistically unsupportable. The maintenance of this paradigm necessarily distorts subsequent interpretations of the roles and uses of ossuaries and their implications for understanding the relationship between the individual and the family. Scholars were misled by the fact that an ossuary of average size could contain the entire bones of only one or two adults, and by the fact that most inscriptions on ossuaries mention only one person (see earlier on the number of names per ossuary).

Loculi and Ossuaries  95 I suggest that in many cases ossuary inscriptions served the same function as Roman titular epitaphs on the monumental tombs of Isola Sacra (Hope 1997: 78). They did not attempt to list or commemorate all those buried in the ossuary, but only the first ones, perhaps in order to declare ownership and prevent it from being re-used without permission (cf. the qorban ossuary inscriptions, Hachlili 2007; Zissu and Ganor 2012, which actually prove that ossuaries were commonly re-used). These inscriptions do not aspire to represent the entire contents of the ossuary or the exact number of family members it contains, because this number will increase over time. Surprisingly, our sample caves clearly show that the number of dead per ossuary closely approximates the number of dead in a loculus—which is where many of the ossuaries were stored. So, what purpose did the ossuary serve, and why was it necessary?6 In order to posit an argument which also explains the burial of several relatives in a single loculus or ossuary, we must first consider the notion of the person’s identity. The concept of individual identity in antiquity was different than the modern one. Actually, it corresponds to the archaeological evidence of several individuals per ossuary. When a person’s bones are collected into an ossuary which already contains the bones of others or to which others will be added later, the person is associated with these others. They are all commemorated together. In a sense, they are one unit. They are all meant to integrate into a sort of collective identity (cf. Fowler 2004: 81). Individuals are indeed important and commemorated, as many ossuary inscriptions prove, but their relationship to others who are probably first-degree relatives, is even more important. This is a different mode of personhood than the Western concept that maintains that personhood resides in one’s body, separate from that of others. In death, especially in ancient times, the state of personhood reflected the social relationship with those others with whom one is buried (cf. Insoll 2004: 52–54). Identity, actions, and motivation are all shaped by the individual’s membership within a social unit. Personhood has social and collective components. The individual identity is therefore part of a corporate identity (Gillespie 2001: 75–76, 84; Fowler 2004: 8–9 with ethnographic examples; Graham 2009: 52). To put it bluntly, “individual persons owe parts of themselves to others” (Fowler 2004: 8). Yet, this relationship is not necessarily a projection of the actual social system of the living, but may derive from an ideological statement that inverts lived experience (cf. Shanks and Tilley 1982). The Judeans perceived the deceased as being closely related to a limited number of specific relatives such as parents or children. Burial in ossuaries—and to a lesser degree, also in loculi—therefore commemorates the identity of the deceased as a person in relation to his/her closest relatives. But if approximately the same number of dead were stored in each loculus and ossuary, with the same types of relationship between them (see Figures 4.2– 6), why were ossuaries necessary at all, and why did they become so common in the first century ce? The ossuary has a unique functional role in that it prevents the bones from being removed by animals or (erroneously?) by other people. But this does not

96  Loculi and Ossuaries explain why ossuaries came into use at a specific period and in large numbers. If the intention was merely to preserve the mortuary remains in their proper place, this could have done quite easily by sealing the loculi with stone slabs (e.g., Avni and Greenhut 1996: 8–10; Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999: 22–23, 27–28). Carving a special container for each collection of bones attests to a new attitude of the living toward the dead, or rather, toward the relationship between one dead person and another. Placing the bones in a stone coffin of this type would serve to make the relationship between (the remains of) the deceased more bounded. Their placement in an ossuary shows that they are related to each other but separate from others in the cave, and perhaps from the entire outside society. They are one unit. Manufacturing a special container and collecting the bones into it in accordance with a specific rite represent the strong ties between the persons whose remains are interred within it—in the eyes of those who buried them, which actually reflects society at large. Hence, these persons have weaker ties with the dead in other ossuaries and loculi in the cave. Burial in ossuaries attests to the need to set boundaries between specific individuals (in addition to the walls of the loculus in which the ossuary was stored, or instead of them, if the ossuary was stored outside a loculus, on the cave’s floor, or in an arcosolium). These walls were set mainly between nuclear families, separating them from the rest of the family members. Burying the extended family members in a single cave continued to be important, but at the same time, the differentiation within it into small segments or groupings of relatives became much more bounded, hence important, than in the loculi. This is not merely individualism, as most ossuaries contained more than one deceased, usually more than two, and sometimes even four or six. Persons buried together (although they were probably not buried in the same year, because they presumably died over a span of several years) were regarded as an independent social unit, a specific entity, which required that they would not be separated in any way after their bones had been collected. Both in the loculus and the ossuary adults were usually commemorated in a spatial relationship (which reflects the relationship between them as commemorated by those entrusted with the burial) to their closest relatives, especially young children, and probably also their spouse. The person (the self) could not be separated from those with whom one was attached during one’s lifetime. The frequent burial of adults with children suggests the social identification of parents with their children and vice versa, pointing to the social importance of parenthood in Judean society. I propose that the separation of these family members from other family members in the same cave was intended to treat the dead as a self insofar as it was possible. Ossuary inscriptions referring to a single person relate to one aspect of commemorating the individual, while the interment of several bodies in a single ossuary relates to another aspect of perceiving this person as inseparable from, say, one’s spouse and young children. The burial in ossuaries did not necessarily always correspond with the nuclear family structure. In general, according to the skeletal remains from several late Second Temple burial loculi caves, every nuclear family had two children who

Loculi and Ossuaries  97 died before reaching the age of 16, and presumably at least two children who reached adulthood married and had children of their own (see Chapter 3). However, we cannot expect every nuclear family burial to include two adults and two children. Various circumstances may have prevented them from all being buried together (and see following section on single burials). Clearly, some social ties within the nuclear family were very strong and were perpetuated in the ossuary, but other members of the nuclear family might not have been included. The average of over three dead per locus/ossuary is close enough to the nuclear family burials. In our sample there are 11 cases in which there are more than two adults in an ossuary, which may attest to siblings, but possibly also other relatives outside the nuclear family. Connections across the extended family might have been strong enough to be commemorated by burying second degree relatives in the same ossuary (cf. Martin 1996 for similar cases in Asia Minor). This hints that they may have been gathered in one ossuary not on the basis of formal structures, practices or functions within the family, but based on personal relationships with those whom the persons entrusted with the burial regarded as having the closest ties to them. Some 57 persons in our sample caves were commemorated in an ossuary by themselves, detached from other family members. It is impossible to know whether this was a mark of special respect for the individual, or whether no relatives were emotionally close enough to the deceased. For example, the ossuary bearing the name Joseph son of Caiaphas, with the most elaborate and sophisticated decorations, contained the bones of a male (aged 60), as well as a woman, a child, and three infants (Greenhut 1992). Thus, it may have been considered an honor to be buried with such a distinguished personage. There may have also been practical or technical reasons for a single burial, although, given the cost of the ossuary, it was more practical to bury the deceased with his/her closest relatives. The ratio of single burials in an ossuary (39.5%, but only 16.5% of the entire number of dead were buried in ossuaries) is considerably higher than single burial in a loculus (27.5%). Single burial in an ossuary may reflect a certain degree of individualism, a situation where the deceased was sufficiently important in the eyes of the buriers (most likely his/her family members) to be buried alone. Yet, I suggest that in order to be buried in an ossuary with others, the relationship between the dead had to be closer or deeper than between those buried together in a loculus. That is, the ossuary attests to a more intimate relationship between the dead than the loculus. Single burial may indicate the lack of such strong or intimate emotional relationships, at least as far as those burying them are concerned. Ossuary Inscriptions and Individualism Unlike the loculus, the ossuary made it possible to express one’s relationship to the dead by means of several material features. Over 200 ossuaries bore inscriptions containing the name(s) of the deceased and other personal details (Rahmani 1994; Bagatti and Milik 1981) in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek. Several hundred were

98  Loculi and Ossuaries decorated (see the next chapter). These inscriptions were sometimes very shoddy, and may have also been functionally used to identify the ossuary inside the cave (and perhaps already at the time of purchase). Yet, they also commemorated the dead, and in some cases the same name was inscribed several times on the same ossuary. The inscriptions detailed the first name of the dead, and in many cases his or her father, son, or husband. Seventy-three inscriptions in Rahmani’s catalogue refer to the father of the deceased (Rahmani 1994: 15), such as “Yeshua son of Dostas,” and other relatives are mentioned in a few others, such as “Matya’s wife and her son” (‫אתת מתיה וברה‬, Rahmani 1994: 95, 108). These names were a means of relating to the deceased as a person. Before the emergence of ossuaries Judaeans did not have funerary epigraphs. The fact that it was only then that many Judaeans felt the need to perpetuate the name of the deceased is probably not inadvertent. The need to inscribe the name of the dead person is closely linked to the decision to collect the bones to a special container and place it in a bounded space within the cave or the loculi. The very use of an ossuary and the inscription of the name(s) of the deceased are both indications that special attention was paid to the dead. They are material means of commemoration. In the eyes of those who were responsible for these inscriptions, the deceased’s name was a basic, elementary remnant of his or her personality. Some ossuary inscriptions contain additional data concerning the deceased and his or her life: family relations, titles and designations, profession, origin, age, and expressions of lamentation and consolation (Rahmani 1994: 15–18). A rare case of extremely detailed family particulars is: “Miriam daughter of Yeshua son of Caiaphas, priests of Maʿaziah from Beth ʿImri” (Zissu and Goren 2011). There are several cases of personal designations or details about the deceased, referring to one’s occupation, profession, or origin, such as: Ḥananiya son of Yehonatan the Nazirite, Yehosef son of Hanania the scribe, Simon, the builder of the sanctuary (‫)סמונ בונה הכלה‬, Yehonatan the potter (‫)יהונתן קדרה‬, Papias the Be[t]shanite (‫)פפיס הבשני‬. (For inscriptions of Diaspora Jews, see the previous chapter.) There also rare references to the deceased’s age, including Simonos L MA (aged 41), and expressions of grief or consolation such as: “nobody has abolished his entering, not even El´azar and Shappira” (‘‫לא סכל אנש למעלה ולא‬ ‫( )’אלעזר ושפירה‬Rahmani 1994: 112, 124, 130, 178–179, 236, 263; Cotton et al. 2010: 94, 97, 114, 128, 135. For Athenian and Roman consolatory inscriptions, see Morris 1992: 157). Such inscriptions testify to the special attention paid to commemorating the deceased’s personality and self-identity, beyond the necessary identification of the ossuary’s contents. They express a social and emotional relationship with the dead. The social importance of such inscriptions on tombstones was emphasized by Morris (1992: 157–159), who maintained that “funerary inscriptions were created to satisfy the needs of ritual performers.” Although more than one deceased was buried in most of the ossuaries, these many inscriptions demonstrate the importance of the individual, the self, for those who inscribed it. As already noted, they pertain to a different type of individualism than the “relative individualism” of the very act of burial in a specific ossuary

Loculi and Ossuaries  99 or loculus, with specific relatives. The individualistic aspect of the decorations on the ossuaries is discussed in the following chapter.

Conclusion This chapter has utilized detailed, current archaeological and physical-anthropological reports on burial caves in Judea and its environs from the Hasmonean period to 70 ce. I examined how burial reflects family relations and perceptions, and how approaches toward the family and the individual explain why specific burial methods were employed. Burial in caves with several loculi became widespread after 100 bce. Although the pattern of burial was not uniform, the association of children with adults, most likely their parents, was very common. This suggests that the extended family was fragmented within the cave. This structure maintained the larger family in the shared cave, while at the same time commemorating the personal identity of the departed, who could not be separated from their closest relatives. Later in Herod’s reign and in the first century ce Judeans used the loculi caves most frequently for primary burial, whereas stone ossuaries were used for secondary burial. Burial caves still preserved the larger family unit and the burial patterns resembled those in the loculi, although the ratio of persons per ossuary was somewhat lower and single burial had become more common. There were no hard and fast rules for filling ossuaries, as can be seen by the fact that the numbers of dead in one ossuary could range from one to six, and in a few ossuaries even up to 11. Now the groupings of first-degree relatives became “bounded” in a stone coffin, separate from other members of the broader family unit, which emphasized their personal identity. More than the loculus, the ossuary consolidated intimate ties between parents, spouses, offspring, and sometimes additional relatives, and commemorated them in stone, as the dead were bounded in the ossuary, separate from the other relatives in the cave. Why did the Judeans bury their dead in loculi or ossuaries, in line with family relationships, keeping parents and their children together? This is a question of interpretation. The reasons may vary in each case. Family burial may be the result of legal identification of the dead or their economic and social status. One may assume that the buriers adhered to the common household structure of nuclear families, which also corresponded to the social and emotional ties between the deceased. If so, the loculi and especially the ossuaries attest to the fragmentation of the extended family to nuclear families among those living in the late Hasmonean period to 70 ce, which supports the conclusions of the previous chapter. Another possibility is that the burial was guided by the degree of emotional closeness between the relatives that the buriers wished to commemorate. This interpretation is based the correlation between family relations and closeness, as well as between mortuary practices and sentiment (see in Chapter 3). The emotional relationship with the deceased also accords with the many single burials within the family cave, which attest to a greater degree of social individualism with regard to the deceased’s self. The dynamics of emotional relationships

100  Loculi and Ossuaries between the dead and their families as well as between the buriers and the deceased may explain these variations, which range from small family burial clusters to single burials. Surely, there were cases in which there were mitigating circumstances, but this cannot be taken as an all-inclusive explanation. Judean burial practices from the Hasmonean period to 70 ce were modes of preserving and highlighting the ties between some family members, whether nuclear or extended. Being buried in one cave rather than another indicated membership in a larger social unit, a kind of a collective identity. At the same time, from the late Hasmonean period to the first century ce there was a tendency to highlight relationships between certain family members and to treat them as a separate entity within the cave, without, however, disregarding the fact that they belonged to the broader family circle. The individual was mainly dealt with in relation to his or her most intimate relatives, especially parents and their young (hence unmarried) children. This demonstrated a gradual tendency toward social individualization, but one expressed through family relations, rather than simply commemoration of the individual himself.

Notes 1 In Jerusalem there were at least 43 loculi caves in which spindle shaped bottles and folded oil lamps were found (for their dating see in Chapter 3). See Kloner and Zissu 2007: 155, 158–160, 175–176, 182–185, 187–189, 192, 203, 216, 222, 234, 258–259, 263, 284–285, 290–291, 346–349, 353, 364, 378, 381, 383, 389–391, 402, 432, 437– 438, 445, 449, 453–454, 457–458; Kloner and Eisenberg 1992; Shurkin 2004, Cave F. 2 Jerusalem: Kloner 1980b; Kloner 1980c: 190–192, 193–195 (caves 29–7, 29–9); Strange 1975: 39–68 (Tombs 1 and 6) and Arensburg and Rak 1975; Zissu and Gershoni 1996: 45–52 (Tomb 1); Weksler-Bdolah 1998 (Caves C and D) and Arieli 1998; Sussman 1992; Greenhut 1992; Billig and Bikowski 2006; Kloner and Eisenberg 1992; Zias 1982; Shurkin 2004 (Tombs E, F and Tombs G, H), and Kahana 2004. Jericho: Tombs H (the Goliath Tomb), A3, D3, D9, D27 (Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999). Ein Gedi: Tombs 1, 5 (Hadas 1994: 11–13, 18–19). Judean lowland: Ḥorbat Ẓefiyya (Nahshoni et al. 2002). Mododi’n area: Ben Shemen, Caves 1 and 3 (Shmueli et al. 2013); Shoham (Torge and Badhi 2005); kh. Ashun, Tomb 232 (Tendler, Terem and Eshed 2019: 24*–29*). Note that connected caves are counted here as a single complex. Twelve of these 25 caves contained a standing pit. 3 In two caves in our sample the loculi were used only for primary burial in articulation, with no secondary collection of bones (Zias 1982; Tendler et al. 2019). Nevertheless, the number, sex, and age of their skeletal remains conform to the pattern in the other caves. 4 The skeletal remains in the wooden coffins in Caves D3, D27 in Jericho and Caves 1, 5 in Ein Gedi are not corroborated in this study and require separate discussion. Interestingly, the numbers of dead in these coffins are generally similar to the findings in the ossuaries. 5 Rahmani’s catalogue (1994) includes ossuaries with 227 inscriptions. There are only 13 ossuaries with inscriptions referring to two persons (nos. 31, 35, 56, 61, 139, 150, 370, 396, 428, 430, 560, 829, 868), and six inscriptions with three people (nos. 12, 73, 354, 490 800, 820). Five of all these inscriptions mention father/mother and son, two mention brothers, and one mentions husband and wife. On an ossuary from Akeldama, Natira, his brother, father, and mother are mentioned (Cotton et al. 2010: 329). 6 One may argue that multiple bodies were stored in a single ossuary in order to save making more ossuaries or hewing more loculi. Yet it was far more economical to continue with the old practice of gathering the bones into loculi, and so on. Moreover, our primary assumption is that burial practice has meaning beyond functionalism.

5 Art as Style Why were Ossuaries and Southern Oil Lamps Decorated?

In Judaea ossuaries and certain types of oil lamps were sometimes decorated, although this was hardly ever the case with local pottery. This chapter explores the social meaning of these embellishments as well as the social dynamics underlying them—what do they tell us about the people who purchased and used them? Art is a complex form of material culture, and its examination requires specific theoretical tools. My anthropological-archaeological method of investigation is based on concepts of style in material culture. My analysis will focus on the relationship between these decorations, their general structure, and the level of their diversity. I  will also discuss whether it is possible to decipher the meaning of specific designs.

The Findings: Decorated Ossuaries and Southern Oil Lamps In Chapter 4 I discussed the phenomenon of burial in ossuaries in the late first century bce and early first century ce. In this chapter I will explore why some ossuaries were embellished and what messages these decorations conveyed. The Judaeans did not inter their dead in vessels or coffins before the emergence of ossuaries, and decorations were rare, limited to the internal walls of burial caves (e.g., in Jason Cave, Rahmani 1967) and the carved architecturally adorned facades of some monumental caves (Berlin 2002a). While most of the ossuaries found were plain, hundreds of ossuaries were decorated with at least 30 types of ornamentation, including façades, columned porches, outer doors and gates, tomb monuments, columns, amphora, ashlar walls, rosettes, wreathes, branches and plants, acanthi, grapes and wine, other fruits, arcosolium, palm trees, Menorahs, and so on (Rahmani 1977, 1994: 28–52; Figueras 1983: 27–77). Rahmani (1994: 26) noted that there are innumerable combinations of motifs with no consistency of form or placement. Decorated lamps began to appear in the Greek East in the third century bce. They were imported to Judea, the Galilee, and their environs, and copied by local manufacturers. Decorations included leaves, amphora, and geometric motifs. Beginning from the first century bce, local and imported discus-shaped Roman lamps were often decorated with elaborate motifs ranging from geometrical DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-6

102  Art as Style

Figure 5.1 An ossuary with the inscription (on the top) “Miriam daughter of Yeshua son of Caiaphas, priests of Maʿaziah from Beth ʿImri” (Zissu and Goren 2011)

Figure 5.2  An ossuary from Mount Scopus (Sussman 1992)

shapes, flowers and animals, to Roman gods and erotic scenes (Rosenthal and Sivan 1978). Judaean lamps were hardly ever decorated during the Hasmonean period. The later Judaean “Herodian” wheel-made knife-pared lamps, manufactured between

Art as Style  103 the early first century ce and the Bar-Kokhba Revolt in 135 ce, were also not decorated (with the exception of very small designs, such as circles stamped on the lamp’s nozzle). During the Great Revolt of 66–74 ce, a new type of “Herodian” lamp emerged, with floral embellishments. It has been found in Jerusalem’s Citadel, Masada (Masada type D in Barag and Hershkovitz 1994: 59–71; Sussman 2004: 151–156) and Gamla (Terem 2008: 97–101). Their decorations sometimes resemble those of the ossuaries and Jerusalem monuments (Barag and Hershkovitz 1994: 70). Following the Great Revolt of 66–70 ce, this type was replaced by a new style, one which also evolved from the “Herodian” lamps, especially in southern Judea (near Hebron and Beit-Gubrin), and remained popular until the BarKokhba Revolt. These so-called Southern (darom) lamps (Sussman 1982b, 2012: 107–141), also known as Masada type F or Moulded Jud(a)ean Lamps (Barag and Hershkovitz 1994: 72–78; Lapp 1997: 34–35), were similar in shape and texture to “Herodian” lamps, but were made in a mold. Most Southern lamps are also decorated with half-volutes on the nozzle and part of the reservoir. The motifs on the Southern lamps differed from those on the Roman discus lamps. Although the shape of the Southern lamps has characteristics common to other types of the middle Roman period manufactured in Samaria and the coastal plain, the Galilee and Gerasa in the Transjordan, their decorations are distinctive in terms of themes and composition (Sussman 2001a: 39–47; for the Galilean type, see Aviam 2002). They typically depict objects, not only geometrical shapes. Motifs on the Southern lamps include the Menorah, the ark of the Torah, rosettes, the fruits of the feast of Tabernacle (palm branch, citron, etc.), baskets of fruits, palm trees, wheat, grapes, pomegranates, olives, amphorae, jugs, glass or pottery made oil lamps, beacons, tomb façades, columns, altars, harrows, pitchforks, bird traps, fish, weaving tools, earrings, hair combs, musical instruments, boats and key-holes and various geometric shapes (Sussman 1982b: 20–28; 1999, 2001b). Some motifs are identical to those on ossuaries (e.g., amphora, architectural structures; Rahmani 1994: nos. 231, 473; Sussman 2001b: 56–57), and their artistic repertoire is much richer than that of Masada type D or Trans-Jordanian (Gerasa) type lamps (Barag and Hershkovitz 1994: 78; for the Gerasa type, see Lapp 1997: 45–47). There is some evidence for the Judaean provenance of the Southern lamps, or rather, the Judaean identity of their purchasers. Most of these lamps were excavated (or, in the more common cases of private collections, found) in southern Judea, where the Judaean population was dominant (Lapp 1997: 36–39; Sussman 2001a: 44–47). The Southern lamps continue the shape of the Herodian lamps and their decorated and molded variations from the Great Revolt (Masada types D and F) which were manufactured in Jerusalem (Gunneweg and Perlman 1984–5; Yellin 1994; Adan-Bayewitz et al. 2008). Furthermore, some motifs on the Southern lamps are distinctively Jewish (Menorah, ark of the Torah, the fruits of the feast of Tabernacles), while others conform to the ornamentations used by Judaeans on ossuaries, burial cave façades, and even coins (grapes, pomegranates, columns). The lack of animal and human iconography also points to

104  Art as Style Judaean provenance. It is therefore possible that these lamps were used by Judaeans who fled from the Romans during or after the Great Revolt and settled in the Judean Hills. Sussman (1982b: 18) goes so far as to assume that since these lamps appeared at about the same time and in the same region as the ossuaries, they were manufactured by the same artisans. In fact, both the ossuaries and southern lamps were found together in the very same cave in Horvat Zefiyya (Nahshoni et al. 2002), Maresha (Oren and Rappaport 1984: 122–124) and Tel Goded (Sagiv et al. 1998). The ossuaries and Southern oil lamps are two distinct phenomena, and the purpose of their decorations may differ. Nonetheless, there are several reasons why they should be discussed together: the very emergence of decorations used in Judea, some similar artistic motifs, and the fact that ossuaries were still in use when the Southern lamps appeared. In fact, it may not be mere coincidence that both developed in chronological proximity before and after 70 C.E.

Figure 5.3a and 5.3b Southern molded oil lamps (the Israel Antiquities Authority collection). Note the differences in their decorations

Art as Style  105

Figure 5.3a and 5.3b  (Continued)

Previous Studies of the Judaean Decorations: Aesthetic or Symbolic? The ossuaries and oil lamps are adorned with artistic motifs that are not iconographic. Sometimes they reflect everyday objects and at times they are geometrical or schematic. Therefore, their message or meaning is not readily subject to interpretation. Several scholars have attempted to explain ossuary ornamentation as ritual symbols or signs of religious or even mystical belief, such as the belief in an afterlife (Goodenough 1953–68: I 110–133, IV; Testa 1962: Bagatti 1971: 276–305; Figueras 1983: 78–110). Goodenough (1953–1965: VII 180–201), interpreted the ubiquitous rosette motif in light of previous assumptions about its magical or mystical meaning in Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Greco-Roman world. He claimed that it was “a symbol of the sun or of light, the divine light” (ibid., I 176), which was “intended to bring a divine protection and power to the dead” (ibid.,

106  Art as Style XII 142). Bagatti (1971: 288) regarded rosettes as stars that symbolized angels guarding the dead until the Day of Resurrection. In contrast, Rahmani (1977, 1994: 28) viewed ossuary decoration as a commercial phenomenon lacking any systematic social or ideological attributes, assuming that artisans embellished ossuaries in the hope of obtaining a better price. He maintained that most decorations reflect or imitate funerary architecture or the environment near the cave, and interpreted them as merely aesthetic (Rahmani 1977: 96–108). Rahmani based this on the fact that only some ossuaries were decorated, arguing that “if the decoration had borne symbolic significance, surely each member of this family would have merited an equal measure of good will and concern.” He believed that the choice of specific ornamentations was dictated by the cost and availability of the item, and the purchaser’s desire to exhibit his benevolence toward the deceased. To illustrate the conflicting approaches, it should be mentioned that Figueras (1983: 76, n. 162) suggested that the tomb façade may represent the entrance to the Netherworld, with the zigzag symbolizing the Great River, the flame, resembling a central acroterium, representing God, and the column signifying the deceased’s soul fleeing to the Netherworld. For Rahmani (1994: 28 n. 1), however, these motifs are mere architectural elements corresponding to those on tombs and monuments (similarly, Nock 1971c: 617 underplayed the ritual and symbolic aspects of sarcophagi decorations). Goodenough also discussed oil-lamp ornamentations, but since his main concerns were synagogue and funerary art, he viewed them merely as representations of funerary symbolism (probably because most of the surviving material was found in tombs), without taking into account their primary domestic function (Goodenough 1953–1968: I 139–164). He regarded lamps as a symbol of immortality and the afterlife (ibid., 148). Similarly, Sussman (2001b: 55, 7) interprets dolphins, a building or a ship, a keyhole and a building as symbolizing tombs and the belief in an afterlife. Sussman, who created the basic typology of Judaean oil lamps, asserted that the Roman suppression of the Jews during and after the Great Revolt cemented Jewish national and religious unity, which was artistically manifested through Jewish symbolism and expressed in the lamp decorations (Sussman 1982b: 13). She thus interpreted the ornamentation as an expression of collective ethnicity. Several decorative motifs (e.g., the Menorah) represented longing for the Temple and its rebuilding or the memory of the festivals (Sussman 1985: 54; note that Sussman does not distinguish between ritual and ethno-political symbols). However, in motifs of agricultural tools, Sussman sees merely a description of everyday life (1999: 151–152). Critique of Rahmani and Goodenough Rahmani reduced ancient art to an aesthetic phenomenon. I, however, fail to see the aesthetic merit of decorating an ossuary that lies in a narrow niche inside a dark cave. One might suggest that the ossuary was displayed outside the cave before the bones were stowed away, albeit for a very short time (compare the rite

Art as Style  107 of displaying expensive funerary art objects that had symbolic social meaning in Gell 1998: 223–228). In any event, an elemental desire for fine-looking objects hardly explains their artistic variety. It is unwarranted to assume that ancient art, and especially funerary art, lacked actual meaning. Cross-cultural studies of funerary art indicate that the commemoration of the deceased by visual means has symbolic and social attributes (viz. Bar-Yoseph and Ayalon 2001; Riggs 2002: 99). Moreover, anthropologists who study the beliefs, values, and social interactions that are manifested through artistic artifacts, always find that art has symbolic meaning beyond its aesthetic value (Layton 1981; Gell 1998; see also Geertz 1976; Eban et al. 1990). Art historians also find that art is far more likely to be engaged with visual perception than with mere pictorial representation (Gombrich 1986). The mystic interpretations of Goodenough and others provoked the criticism of Nock, Avi-Yonah, Morton Smith and Rahmani, as being inconsistent and arbitrary. The interpretations lack the support of adequate historical or epigraphic sources (Rahmani 1994: 26–28 and bibliography). Yet Goodenough was certainly correct in concluding that the Jewish symbols he collected were endowed with more than mere decorative value (Nock 1971b, 1971c, Smith 1967). Nonetheless, although Goodenough insisted that symbolism is a language, he narrowed its semantic field to expressions of mysticism, particularly the hope for immortality and salvation (e.g., Goodenough 1953–1986: VIII 220). His mystical interpretations stemmed from his quest for Judaism as a mystical religion, initiated in his earlier study of Philo’s Hellenistic-mystic symbolism (Goodenough 1935). His analogies from Hellenistic and Christian art to Jewish symbolism were frequently superficial or artificial (Nock 1971b: 882–887; 1971c: 914–918). His basic premise that a given symbol had a single definitive and constant religious “value” in different contexts, is unacceptable (Smith 1967: 55–57; cf. Gombrich 1986: 277–278). Some scholars believe that the decorated ossuaries and lamps merely imitate Greco-Roman material culture (e.g., Goodenough 1953–65: XII 184). However, the common artistic motifs are few. Most of the characteristic motifs of Roman sarcophagi (Nock 1971a) and lamps (such as such as horns, Bailey 1980: 44–51; 1988: 43–53) are absent from the ossuaries and Southern lamps, whereas most of the prevalent motifs among the decorated ossuaries and Southern lamps are infrequent in Greco-Roman sarcophagi and lamps. Goodenough failed to sufficiently credit the Judaeans for developing their own symbolic world beyond adopting Hellenism. Their cultural adoption of foreign art was more limited and selective, and the artistic decorations discussed here had local origins and characteristics.

Decoration as Self-Expression: Emblemic and Assertive Styles Methodology The ornamentation on lamps and ossuaries in first and second century Roman Judaea had significance that went far beyond mere aesthetics. Art historians and

108  Art as Style art sociologists agree that art makes perception available for communication, and it does so beyond (and in a certain sense, better than) the standardized forms of language (Gombrich 1982; Luhmann 2000). In fact, not only art but many forms of material culture are means of human interaction and communication. In the Introduction I addressed expressions of symbolism, agency, and identity in material culture. Indeed, since personhood is relational, namely, it results from social relations, personhood is negotiated through material culture (Fowler 2004: 31, 88; 2010: 370–372). However, artistic messages cannot be uncovered as easily as Goodenough believed. Discovering their meaning is an extremely complex task. There are several ways to analyze the decorations. From an artistic perspective, it is possible to draw comparisons between the different motifs depicted on ossuaries and those on lamps, as well as the combination of motifs on any given ossuary or lamp. Art historians can explore each motif in comparison to parallels within the ancient Jewish and Greco-Roman art (coins, wall-decorations, and mosaics) (Hachlili 1988; Fine 1989, 2005). Such endeavors, however, focus on the artistic details of relationships between specific themes and decorations, but obviate the intention and meaning of the entire artistic phenomenon which suddenly emerged (cf. Morris 1992: 20; Tilley 1991). My interest here lies in the social significance of various motifs, rather than in the origin and development of a specific artistic motif. The major question is: Why did these decorations emerge and flourish in Judea during the first and second centuries ce? I will focus on their artistic structure or form, rather than their artistic content (for the differences between form and content, see Hodder 1991: 124–125, 139–140). I will analyze the extent of variety of the motifs and why the decorations appeared on ossuaries and oil lamps. The actual meaning of specific motifs or symbols will be discussed later in this chapter. By paying attention to the phenomenon of embellishing objects rather than interpreting their specific artistic themes I  am following art anthropologists (Layton 1981; Gell 1998; Eban et  al. 1990; Fischer 1961; Hardin Friedrich 1970; Sieber 1971; Geertz 1976; David et al. 1988) and archaeologists (Conkey 1990; Hodder 1982d: 182–190; Hodder 1982a, 1982c; Tilley 1989, 1991; Shanks 1999). These scholars have great difficulty interpreting the specific messages transmitted by artistic symbols. Therefore, they prefer to concentrate on the social function of art, which is more easily observed. Many of them are inspired by the premise of structural anthropology, believing that even if we do not understand the actual meaning of artistic works, it is still possible to detect some level of subconscious meaning in the structure of different components of a single work or in the structural relationship between different works or artistic objects (Lévi-Strauss 1963; Eban 1990; Tilley 1989, 1991). Their general sociological premise is that social and ideological factors influence the artist, while the audience plays a participatory role in creating the finished product (Wolf 1993; cf. Zolberg 1990).

Art as Style  109 Decoration as Style: Non-Verbal Communication Art historians sometimes regard style as a set of similar but varying attributes of a group of artifacts which evolved from a common origin, namely, from an identifiable artifact-production system (Davis 1990: 19; for a general definition of style in art history, see Shapiro 1994: 83). Anthropologists define style not merely by physical and material expressions, but by context and cultural meaning. Style is a formal statement of the ways in which different artifacts resemble each other (Conkey and Hastorf 1990; cf. Conkey 1990: 10). In anthropological terms, style is how people perform acts or design objects in a way that transmits some kind of message to others. We intentionally dress in a certain style, and the car we drive may also define our status or personality. Style is therefore a concept which is applicable to the manner in which people design their artifacts and vessels. To quote Hodder (1990: 46), “style links a particular social context to a general way of doing, and thus acts upon that context.” Thus, the design or decoration of any given object may be classified as “style.” The ossuaries and Southern lamps display an extremely wide variety of motifs in many combinations. Yet the varying designs have a certain typical imprint, making their shape and design distinctive and easily recognizable. Their artistic form therefore corresponds to the definition of style by art historians as “a set of similar but varying attributes in a group of artifacts.” Since style teaches us about the society that created and used the stylized artifacts, research on style may contribute to our understanding of the motivation for creating the particular decorations of the ossuaries and lamps. According to Wiessner (1990: 107), style is “a form of non-verbal communication through doing something in a certain way that communicates information about relative identity.” Wiessner associates the use of style with the process of social comparison: Stylistic comparison mirrors social comparison. When people compare their ways of doing things with those of others, they also compare themselves with those others and decide whether to simulate, differentiate, emulate, etc.; they decide how to negotiate their relative identity. (ibid., following Wobst 1977. See also Hodder 1982d: 176; Hodder 1982c; Conkey 1990: 13; Tilley 1989: 188; Davis 1990: 27; Sackett 1990) People use style “in order to achieve a positive self-image and self-esteem, and they give a strong desire to project this image to others in order to attain self-recognition” (Wiessner 1983: 257). Such stylistic messaging supports processes of social-differentiation and allows the individual to express differences in ideology, as well as rank, status, or group affiliation (Wobst 1977: 328). Ossuary and lamp decorations may therefore promote communication with others and shape self-identity. The symbols adorning them may act upon the beholder

110  Art as Style since “the diagrammatic aspect of the symbol enables it to convey relations more quickly and more effectively than a string of words” (Gombrich 1982: 152). But what type of “communication” or “identity” was involved in this case? Style between Social Identity and Individual Identity Following her field work among the Kalahari San Bushmen, Wiessner (1983, 1984, 1989) distinguished between emblemic (social) and assertive (individual) styles. Emblemic style carries information about the existence of the group and its boundaries, whereas assertive style testifies to the interactions within the group. Assertive style is an individualistic expression of self-definition, self-expression, and social differentiation, which results in a high degree of diversity. Wiessner identified it in the women’s headbands, which had a great variety of forms and individual artistic choices expressing personal identity (interviewees said they made the artifacts beautiful in order to project a positive image of themselves to others). Emblemic style reflects social processes designed to promote group identity and membership at the expense of the individual (cf. also Macdonald 1990). Wiessner saw it in the relative unity of Xo arrow styles (in comparison to the neighboring !Kung bushmen’s arrow styles) which aimed at strengthening relations of social solidarity and conformity to norms. An example of assertive style is found in DeBoer’s (1990) study of the contemporary workshops of Shipibo-Conibo ceramics in Peru. All were distinctively Shipibo-Conibo in style, but most of the younger crafters maintained some degree of creativity and variability compared to their mothers or teachers, signaling their separate identity, since no two artists ever produced the same design. Style was never slavishly copied. There was always sufficient freedom for individual artistic expression, in accordance with Wiessner’s “assertive style” (DeBoer 1990: 103). Rarely, however, will any stylistic variable be attributed to a single level of social process. Mutually opposing social processes with varying social points of reference may operate simultaneously on a single category of a material item. This dualism of ethnic and individual levels of style is consistent with the distinction in structural anthropology of art between surface and structure: The surface is the motif or image, which is shared by the social group, and the structure is the various ways in which it is utilized. The signifiers themselves may represent individual connotations, but their formal combination represents (even unconsciously) cultural structure (Lévi-Strauss 1963; Eban 1990: 421–422). In contrast to Wiessner, Sackett argued that style is an unintentional ethnic marker which characterizes ethnic groups and reflects the nature and degree of their relations with other groups (Sackett 1985, 1990: 32–33; for style as marking group conformity or compliance see Wobst 1977: 328; Hodder 1982c: 13–57). Wiessner, in turn, argued that artifacts resulting from such ethnic choices diverge around one standard type, with a limited range of variation, depending on functional requirements, materials, and social standards. The increasing variability in individual designs, however, is characteristic of inner circles, where individuals

Art as Style  111 feel more comfortable expressing their self-identity, and thus corresponds to her definition of assertive style (Wiessner 1985: 163, 165). The perceived character of style also depends on the viewer and the changing context. What is passive, “ethnic,” unconscious or latent style in certain contexts may be perceived as active, “individualistic,” or self-conscious style in other contexts (Conkey 1990: 13; for active and passive styles cf. Sackett 1990: 36). What the outsider reads as “ethnicity” may be the incidental byproduct of the interplay between individual or sub-group cognition and society. The producers or users themselves, however, would not recognize it as a marker of ethnic identity (David et al. 1988: 378). In applying the theory of style to the decorations of ossuaries and lamps, I acknowledge that there are some Judaean ethnic aspects at stake here. Some of the adornments include distinctively Jewish motifs or those common to Judaeans. In addition, the practice of ossilegium in Judaea was unique to Judaeans, and the particular shape of the Southern lamps may be unique to them as well. In a nonJudaean context, they would exemplify Judaean ethnic identity. The meaning of their decorations, however, is not ethnic or emblemic. Their stylistic diversity encompasses a great variety of motifs and artistic combinations. There are no two identically decorated ossuaries in existence, and the number of variants of Southern lamps is enormous: Each artifact appears to be an independent art object. For example, Rahmani (1994: 28–52) surveyed over 20 general themes of ossuary decorations. Each has several subtypes, such as at least 15 subtypes of rosettes and ten subtypes of tomb facades. Among the dozens of motifs on the Southern oil lamps, Sussman (2012: 124, 132, 137) listed 28 different subtypes of pomegranates, nine of facaces or nefesh (burial monuments), and ten of baskets with fruits or grain. The endless decorative combinations cannot be explained as an emblemic/ethnic style, since the artistic variety is too vast to determine an ethnic identity. The decorations therefore correspond to Wiessner definition of assertive, individual, style. The users of the ossuaries and owners of the lamps sought to express self-identity and their social differentiation or that of the deceased buried in the ossuaries. Unlike the headbands and pottery examined by archaeological anthropologists, here identity was not manifested directly by the producers (cf. Hardin Friedrich 1970), but indirectly by the customers/buyers. It is more complicated to link the decorations to those who did not themselves create it but instead purchased a ready-made, decorated object. Nonetheless, it would be superficial to explain away the buyers’ choices as simply “fashion.” Social and cognitive mechanisms of consumption and artistic preference link the decorations to the (self-)identity of the buyer. Art sociologists conclude that “audiences . . . cannot be treated as passive consumers, absorbing the messages communicated” (Wolf 1993: 97). The manufacturers basically conform to the cultural trends of their society, hence art anthropologists and archaeologists maintain that an art object may be associated with its owner (“patron”) rather than with its producer (Gell 1998: 24; Shanks 1999: 158–159).

112  Art as Style In order to support my view that the decorations on ossuaries and Southern lamps correspond to Wiessner’s definition of assertive (individualistic) style, I  will follow Hodder’s method of Contextual Archaeology (see Introduction), examining the context of decorated ossuaries and lamps, namely, the relevant setting which gives them meaning. I will interpret everyday functions and social contexts as relating to individual self-expression. Admittedly, such an inquiry involves a certain degree of hermeneutics.

The Individualistic Messages of Ossuary and Southern Oil Lamp Decorations Ossuary Decorations as Assertive Style Although most ossuaries were not decorated, hundreds of decorated ossuaries were discovered (Kloner and Zissu 2007: 38). A partial examination of recently published findings from burial caves in Jerusalem reveals that more than half of the ossuaries were decorated (Sussman 1992, 12 out of 18; Gershuny and Zissu 1996, 8 out of 14; Edelstein and Zias 2000, Cave C, 4 out of 5; cf. Rahmani 1994, nos. 691–695; Kloner 1996, 5 out of 10). These decorations varied within each cave not only in terms of the type of decoration, but also in terms of the artistry of the stone carvings. Some caves only contained plain ossuaries (Greenhut 1996; Edelstein and Zias 2000, Cave D). This may indicate that the buriers had no interest in an elaborate funerary tribute. In contrast, all 14 ossuaries in the cave of the Goliath family in Jericho were ornamented with a variety of motifs (Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999: 93–98). Decorated ossuaries were also purchased by people who seem to have had limited finances. Some ossuaries display very shoddy carved decorations (Rahmani 1994: nos. 207–208, 210, 813–815). Thus, it was not only the well-to-do who wanted a decorated ossuary (see also Chapter 4). The ornamentation does not necessarily represent the wealth of the aristocracy but was rather a common social phenomenon related to identity. The fact that only some ossuaries were decorated shows that this was not merely a social convention but a matter of choice. Decorated ossuaries are probably the first surviving popular item of material culture that the Judaeans ever ornamented systematically in such a detailed and variable manner. Material culture does not transform in a diffusive manner (“fashion”) without reason. Social or cultural developments must have inspired the emergence of decorated ossuaries. This is all the more true when we consider that they were used for burial, since funerary material culture expresses certain values and ideas, not only of social structure, relations of power and domination, but also of emotion and experience (Chapman and Randsborg 1981: 7; Parker Pearson 1982; Tarlow 1999; see also Chapter 4). Mortuary practice may reflect either the social persona of the deceased or the social group’s relationship to the deceased (Binford 1971: 17). Death has an intense emotional impact on survivors, so the adornments can be seen as ritual expressions of personal sentiment (Huntington and Metcalf 1979:

Art as Style  113 23). Beyond these emotions lie modes of ritual communication that express the society’s fundamental social values (Parker Pearson 1982: 100, following Huntington and Metcalf 1979). Ossuary decorations may therefore be regarded as material expressions and the objectification of idealized relationships with the dead (cf. Parker Pearson 1982: 110), as well as social values (cf. Linares 1977). As we have seen in Chapter 4, ossuaries were the last phase in the burial rite of placing, preserving, and collecting the bodily remains of the deceased. As such, it must have had the immense symbolism of paying tribute or reflecting the relationship with the dead. In this context, ornamentation was a primary vehicle for expressing personal sentiments and social values, serving to objectify the relationships between the dead person and his/her living relatives (cf. Gell 1998: 223–228. Compare funerary ritual weeping in Radcliffe-Brown 1964: 240, 324; Huntington and Metcalf 1979: 24–28). As we have seen, storing the bones of the deceased, often together with their closest relatives, was an act of commemorating the self, creating a bounded space within the family cave which was dedicated to a very limited number of dead, and in many cases only to a single person. For this reason, we regard ossuaries as related to social individualism. The theory that ossuary decorations reflect a personal relationship with the dead is supported by the diversity of decorations within a given cave. In the burial cave of the Goliath family in Jericho, for example, each of the 14 ossuaries bears a different design. Most are distinct versions of six-leaf rosettes, with various combinations of circles, branches, vertical lines, façades, columns, and zig-zag patterns (Hachlili and Kilblebrew 1999: 93–98; such diversity in design is characteristic of many caves in Jerusalem). Decorations were not limited to familial conventions, and designs varied from one individual to another. Interestingly, one of the motifs on decorated ossuaries—the monument (nephesh), which is also found on Southern oil lamps (Triebel 2004: 91–100; Rahmani 1994, nos. 122, 199, 231, 473, 465, 555, 814, 825, 837)—is probably an expression of grief and commemoration. The redundancy of the motif on two, three and even four sides of the ossuaries, as well as the inferior carving on many ossuaries, attests that they have symbolic, rather than aesthetic, value (for redundancy as a mode of expression, see Layton 1981: 129). A similar sociocultural approach to mortuary commemoration was adopted by Tarlow (1999) in her study of early modern burial monuments on the Scottish island of Orkney. For Tarlow, transformations in the response to death must be related to the changing relationship between the dead and the living, and the flourishing of gravestones represents individualism. She has noted a shift in emotional sensibility that accounts for individualism and self-determination among people at all levels of society. Tarlow was able to show that even conventional monuments embody personal feelings (Tarlow 1999: 175–176). The application of Wiessner’s model of style to ossuary decoration requires little adjustment. In contrast to most cases discussed by art anthropologists, here the artistic object will not be seen by the individual for whom it is designed but only by the individuals who are most concerned with the burial, usually the deceased’s relatives. The adornment is addressed to the deceased, or rather, to the deceased’s

114  Art as Style family or reference group (who are responsible for purchasing the ossuary). This absence of a receiver, however, requires no more than a slight revision of the theory of design. In contrast to ordinary human communication, artifacts produce messages in the absence of receivers, and these messages may be received without any emitters being physically present (Wobst 1977: 322; cf. Introduction). In summary, I suggest that ossuary decorations bore individualistic symbolic meaning toward the deceased. The diversity of decorations served as an assertive artistic style and reflected individualistic patterns of commemoration. Southern Oil Lamp Decorations as Assertive Style Why did a complex style of decoration develop on lamps rather than on pots or other domestic artifacts? Lamps were decorated because they were regarded as personal objects. In antiquity, individuals depended on their lamps as soon as darkness fell. People may have taken their lamps wherever they went and used them for relatively long periods of time. Thus, they were more attached to their lamps than to other domestic objects. The individual attribution of lamps is attested to by an inscribed New Year blessing, which indicates that the particular lamp was given as a gift (for such a Nabataean lamp and reference to some Roman lamps, see Hammond 1957). Lamps were buried with the deceased as a symbolic gift or offering (m. Berakhot 8:6; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 125; these lamps may have been owned by the deceased; for burying the deceased with his personal artifacts cf. ibid., 133–135; Rubin 1997: 136–140). Lamps therefore represented self-identity. Lamps are a symbol of light and fire. In the Hebrew Bible the lamp (ner) is a metaphor for the human spirit and the Torah (Proverbs 20:7; 6:23), or for continuity (2 Samuel 21:17; Psalms 119:105; 132:17). Their symbolism also plays a role in Jewish religious rituals: the lighting of candles on the eve of the Sabbath, the havdala immediately at the close of the Sabbath, and on Hannukah. The tabernacle Menorah was a cultic lamp that symbolized proximity to God, and more particularly, eternity and salvation (Meyers 1976; cf. Hachlili 2018: 236–280). The symbolism of the lamp was deep and substantial, and could have expressed an assertive style of self-identity. The Southern lamps, with their special molded shape, have been found mainly in Judea (Sussman 2004: 153–156); some of their decorative themes were traditionally Jewish. Indeed, when the shape of the Southern lamps and their decorations are juxtaposed with Roman discus lamps, they appear to be a passive Judaean ethnic marker. Nonetheless, the great variety of designs (despite the relatively limited artistic repertoire because they lacked human and animal figures) indicates that the specific decorations did not express Judaean ethnic identity (contra the ethnic trend of Wobst 1977: 330 Sacket 1985, 1990). Support for interpreting these decorations as expressing individual identity may be found in their distribution and the archaeological contexts in which some Southern oil lamps were found. Those who used the Southern lamps did not restrict themselves to lamps of Judaean provenance. In many cases they were

Art as Style  115 used along with Roman discus lamps. This is attested to in several burial caves in the Judean Shephela between 70 to 135 CE (Sussman 1982b: 129; Oren and Rappaport 1984: 123–124; Nahshoni et al. 2002; Amit and Eshel 1998: 196–199 and bibliography). Moreover, when the rabbis ruled that Jews should not recite the havdala blessing on a lamp of Gentiles (t. Berakhot 5:31), they were aware of the usage of non-Judaean lamps. Insights about the social dynamics underlying the usage of decorated oil lamps can also be drawn from the other types that flourished in the Roman-Byzantine periods in Judea, Samaria, and the Galilee. Sussman (2004: 156–159) enumerated 24 different types of decorated lamps in these regions, most of them of local manufacture. Different types were produced in the same region and sometimes even in the same workshop, such as in Beit Natif (Sussman 1985/6). Sussman (2004: 159) has trouble explaining the large number of neighboring workshops, but I suggest that the rich variety of styles and motifs reflects personal taste, not only ethnic/regional conventions. Furthermore, the demand for such lamps was mostly urban. Molds found in Sepphoris, Caesarea, Beth She’an/Scythopolis, and Garesa from early Roman, late Roman, and Byzantine periods indicate that the workshops producing decorated lamps were located in the cities, whereas common pottery vessels were usually produced in rural settlements (Adan-Bayewitz 1995; a similar phenomenon is seen in the cities of the Roman empire, ibid., 180 n. 15). The urban demand for decorated lamps may have stemmed not only from commercial and functional causes but also from the social dynamics of urbanism, especially individualism (for the possible linkage between urbanism and individualism, see Chapter 3). Since most of the published Southern lamps are from archaeological collections and burial or refuge caves, we lack information about their context (such as domestic units), which is necessary if we are to interpret their sociocultural meaning.

Style, Demography, and Individuation: Decorations as Material Products of Social Change Why did decorated ossuaries emerge toward the beginning of the first century ce? Why did Southern oil lamps appear after the destruction of 70 ce? What social processes encouraged the creation of new assertive art styles? Anthropological archaeologists have addressed the question of the circumstances or social dynamics that encourage people to express self-identity by decorating personal, everyday objects. Wiessner (1984) maintains that in the face of increasing population density, individuals often feel the need to distinguish themselves from others and express their individuality. Thus, social diversity could be generated through the expansion of exchanges (or new economic opportunities), a growing need for individual expression, or some sort of interaction between the two (Wiessner 1990: 108–109). Wobst (1977: 326) stated that “the amount of stylistic behavior should positively correlate with the size of the social networks that individuals participate

116  Art as Style in.” In other words, demographic growth leads to more communication channels, which leads to increasing use of style. The emergence and flourishing of style therefore depends on the size and complexity of the society (for a similar view concerning the non-utilitarian factors for demanding new types of pottery, see Arnold 1985: 155–159). In a time of demographic growth or social change, an increasing number of situations will lead to an emphasis on personal identity. These include intra-group competition, options for individual enterprise, or, most importantly in the case of post-70 ce Judea, the breakdown of social order which forces individuals to find their own solutions to problems (Wiessner 1989: 59–62). Changes in the degree of personal and social significance attributed to a given artifact in a region correspond to changes in the relationship between the individual and society (Wiessner 1989: 59). Wiessner (1989: 60–62) presents several examples of the implications of social and economic change for stylistic developments, such as the proliferation of house decorations in Vietnam after the war. Similar social and demographic developments impacted on the periods in which the ossuaries and Southern oil lamps were in use. There was substantial demographic growth and social complexity or social change in Jerusalem in the first century ce, a time when burial in decorated ossuaries became prevalent. Historical sources as well as archaeological excavations attest to the geographical and demographic expansion of the city and its intensive urbanization (War 5.142–155; Ant. 20.219; Kloner and Zissu 2007: 28–31; see also see Chapter 3 and the Conclusions). One result of these processes was the development of more embellished ossuaries, as well as the individualistic tendencies reflected in non-priestly purity, the possible fragmentation of the family, and burial in ossuaries (Chapters 2–4). By adorning ossuaries, family members and other mourners who yearned for selfexpression could do so while expressing their sentiments toward the deceased. Decorated Southern lamps appeared in Judaea after 70 ce, so we can infer that this was the result of the Judaean defeat and the destruction of Jerusalem in the Great Revolt. The population increased in certain districts due to the inflow of refugees from Jerusalem and its environs, who escaped the Roman forces and settled in Judean country, especially in the Shephela, where these lamps were most common. Judaeans were banished from Jerusalem after 70 ce. Archaeological records and rabbinic sources confirm that the territory south of Jerusalem remained inhabited and became the center of the Bar-Kokhba Revolt (Mor 1991: 132–146; cf. Nahshoni et al. 2002; Zissu 2001). This population growth or waves of immigration probably paved the way for social changes which transformed interpersonal social networks. Consequently, there was a need for a new mode of self-expression. Historical sources attest to the complex social climate in Judea between the wars. Not only was the Temple destroyed, but the structure, leadership, and political hierarchy of Judaean society were abruptly transformed. Rabbinic leadership and cultural ethos had reached only partial maturation (Goodblatt 1983) and Judaean self-identity was unsettled in the face of events. At the same time, however, the trend of individualization proceeded, at least in rabbinic circles, as can be

Art as Style  117 seen from the rabbinic laws that emphasized human intentions and individual religious aims and needs (cf. Urabch 1975: 366–368; Neusner 1981: 272, 275, 282; Eilberg-Schwartz 1986; Balberg 2014). I  propose that these changes impacted on the material culture and inspired the practice of decorating Judean lamps in a manner that proclaimed the importance of the individual self. An interesting example of the effect of destruction and immigration (and social change in general) on the evolution or transformation of art style, is the textile art of Meo refugees from Laos in Thailand. Meo textile art transformed from non-representational ornamental art to figurative art, which developed spontaneously and heterogeneously into pictorial art. These figurative textiles convey the personal life experience of the artists, their sentiments, and their aspirations (Cohen 1990). Decorated ossuaries preceded the emergence of decorated Southern lamps. This may be because the use of ossuaries in funerary practice involved more emotion and a greater need for self-expression through commemoration than did lamps. It would seem, however, that once individualization began to flourish in Judaean society, it permeated the daily expression of material culture. Nevertheless, the earliest decorated Judaean lamps (Masada D type, discussed previously) dated to the Great Revolt (66–74 bce) hint that the individualistic trend in decorating oil lamps began before the destruction.

Can We Decipher the Meaning of the Symbols? So far, I have attempted to ascribe a general social meaning to the decorations of the ossuaries and Southern oil lamps. I have approached them as a system, without addressing the meaning of specific decorations, themes, or symbols. Naturally, we would like to know the meaning of each symbol or decoration (note that many ossuaries and lamps are adorned with several images/symbols). But can we really decipher the meaning of a symbol? One way to approach this problem is to emulate the method of art historians, who collect all the evidence of a figure or symbol in a given culture (e.g., the Menorah) and attempt to interpret it within its chronological/historical context (Fine 2016; Hachlili 2018). This method has its own limitations. One figure may have various meanings when the connotation changes in its material context or under other circumstances. We cannot discuss the symbolic meaning of ornamentation without first knowing what is actually meant by a symbol represented in it. Critical theorists and cultural anthropologists study how symbols interface with culture and its immediate material context. Some of their methods and models have been adopted by social archaeologists (DeMarrais et al. 1996; Robb 1998). Symbols in the Anthropology of Art What is a symbol and how can we know its meaning for those who employ it? A symbol is a very complex concept, and combinations of symbols are even more complicated to decipher. Usually we ask those who created or used it what its

118  Art as Style implications are for them. Anthropologists use direct ethnographic evidence to explain the material culture they describe (Ucko 1977b: 15–16 and references). Deciphering the symbolic meaning of the decorations or figures found in archaeological excavations is a matter of interpretation. One scholar emphasized the limitations of such analysis, arguing that archaeological motifs and designs should be interpreted as collective representations, unconscious projections of past social systems, rather than rational modes of thinking. She acknowledges the complexity of uncovering the precise symbolic meaning of a specific motif or decoration, especially given the dearth of direct textual or ethnographic evidence (Linares 1977: 59). Even in the case of Greek figures on proto-Corinthian vases, where vast archaeological and literary information exists concerning Greek art and culture, scholars face difficulties. Shanks has limited his conclusions to the general social meaning of art, partly because of the extremely large number of specimens. His final conclusion was quite abstract: “an essential interplay of continuity and transgression” (Shanks 1999: 168). A major problem is that the very nature of artistic forms is in many cases abstract, especially in ancient or so-called primitive art. Reality is reflected schematically or intangibly, rather than naturalistically or realistically. A  figure or object may not merely represent itself but may mean something abstract and far less mundane. Its creator may seek to express an idea, condition or category by means of a tangible object (Layton 1981: 141; Morphy 1977a, 1977b; Ucko 1977a). Indeed, art may be a metaphor (Coote and Shelton 1992). In the words of Lévi-Strauss (1990: 1–2): “Art (in pre-literate societies) implies the use of a code of common understanding, as opposed to modern Western art which uses codes that are self-referential, namely refer to individual artists rather than to the culture as a whole.” Anthropologists and archaeological-anthropologists of ancient or so-called primitive cultures agree that art and material culture aim to express and serve social ideas and social functions beyond their aesthetic value or materialistic use (Gell 1998; Miller 1998; Tilley 1989. 1999). This is because objects have a symbolic meaning (Barthes 1967, 1988: 179–190; see Introduction). As Tilley (1999: 262) states: “Just as persons make things, things make persons.” The obstacle for understanding the sense of the symbolic decoration is not only practical but also conceptual. If the rosette, column or tree that appears on the ossuary or oil lamp represents not merely objects but concepts, it is very difficult to recover their meaning. According to the theory of semiotics there are three general types of signs: iconical, indexical, and symbolic. In symbolic signs the graphic relationship between the symbol and its meaning is not figurative or circumstantial, but rather obscure (Eco 1976). Signs may have a metaphoric essence beyond the figure itself, representing a concept (Layton 1981: 98; Barthes 1967: 431–442; 1982: 211–217). Symbols and symbolic systems are complex precisely because they play a central role in human cognition and in the collective social perception. The semiotic language of art is made up of symbols and signs, similar to literary idioms. People

Art as Style  119 and groups create these symbols to express their experiences (Geertz 1976: 1498– 1499; Ortner 1973. Cf. the central role of symbols in the theory of religion as a cultural system, Geertz 1973: esp. 89–92). Symbols are not merely a means of communication. They represent knowledge and the creation of social reality. Individuals and societies use them to attain legitimization and ideological domination (Bourdieu 1979). For these reasons, it is extremely difficult to interpret the meaning of ancient art. One ethnographic example is the Aborigine Walbiri sand drawings, used to present stories and dreams. Abstract marks are drawn in the sand, and each one may have different meanings depending on the context, as in any other language (Munn 1973: 58–118). It would be impossible to recover the exact meaning of the sand drawing without the evidence of the Aborigines. Indeed, the connotation of a specific sign may vary, depending not only on the context but on the person who drew it and the general culture in which it is embedded (Eban 1990: 413; LéviStrauss 1990: 6). So how can we interpret the meaning of the ancient symbols found in archaeological excavations? Linares (1977) studied the Coclé styles tomb decorations in Panama (500–1500 ce). Since they consisted of preying animals and monsters, she concluded that the symbols praised the power or prowess of the deceased. Based on Spanish ethnographic evidence she concluded that the figures symbolized local warriors (Linares 1977: 9, 49.65–70). Linares was able to isolate the general meaning of the symbols because they were relatively limited (compared to the wide range of symbols on the ossuaries and Southern oil lamps). Yet, she did not attempt to decipher the concrete sense of each image. Tilley (1991) aimed to discover the concrete meaning of pre-historic stone paintings in Nämforsen, Sweden. He used the structural method of Lévi-Strauss and Barthes, assuming that the relationship between the different images or signs (moose, man, boat, etc.), the internal grammar, creates their meaning. Discerning different signs/figures and variations, he attempted to recover the structure of the major panels—which signs and figures appear in combination. Yet, the interpretation of these results was far from apparent. They may be seen as reflecting a realistic situation of economic resources, social organization, cosmological perceptions, or mythic beliefs (see also Tilley 1999: 133–173; Llamazares 1989). Thus, although structural anthropology and semiotics may not decipher the exact meaning of ancient art, they do advance our understanding of how ancient people used material culture for self-expression. When studying the meaning of art and material culture it is much easier to analyze form than content (Layton 1981; cf. Lévi-Strauss 1963). We need external clues to get to the specific meaning of the symbols. Nevertheless, the context of the decorations may be helpful. Clearly, there is no way of knowing the exact sense of a particular symbol or figure on the decorated ossuaries and oil lamps. Their meaning may vary from one artifact to another and may also depend on the relationship between the different symbols. For every person who purchased the embellished ossuary for burying his or her relative, or who chose this specific oil lamp, the meaning of a column or amphora may represent something different than to another person. These

120  Art as Style meanings may have been personal. Despite these limitations, we can narrow down the possible symbolic meaning of these decorations. Domestic Symbols and the Formation of Self-Identity Bearing in mind that Wiessner’s model of style led us to conclude that decorations mainly express individual messages and individual identity, the question is: What kind of individual messages? We may also assume that, due to their material context, the ossuary decorations were intended to commemorate the deceased (cf. Nock 1971a: 627 regarding sarcophagi), while those on the Southern oil lamps represented the owner’s personal identity or the messages he or she wanted to convey. As already noted, the decorations lack human or animal figures. Most of them represent daily objects, architecture, and flora, including the rosette, which is the most popular ossuary decoration. However, I do not believe these symbols merely reflect daily life. There are no horns, weapons or armor, which are common on Roman lamps and sarcophagi, probably representing power and strength (Bailey 1980: 44–51; 1988: 43–53; Nock 1971a: 606–641). How can grapes, wheat or a bird trap express self-identity? Daily objects have cognitive meaning for the individual. They strengthen the ties between people and generate social meaning (Gosden and Marshall 1999; cf. Layton 1981; Gell 1998; Tilley 1999). A social-psychological study of “domestic symbols” carried out in the United States in the 1970s surveyed people’s relationship with domestic objects and domestic space (Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton 1981). The results show that artifacts in one’s home and objects in general carry significance that goes beyond their function. For one person an artifact is a technical tool, for another it has an emotional and cognitional relationship with people, ideas, or values. The person builds a world of signification using such objects and spaces, shaping his or her own self-identity using the material culture (ibid., xi). Objects are part of the human environment, and people use them to communicate with others. Thus, daily objects can indeed symbolize self-identity, skills, abilities, and social status. People use objects to fit in in society (ibid., 16, 33, 38–40, 173). Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton (1981: 121–145) also found special symbolic significance in the home. The private home is the essence of the spiritual being of the person, a place in which he or she controls their own life. Here one’s most personal objects are placed, those that shape and reflect one’s personality. The house is therefore an essential symbol of the person’s spirit (cf. Gell 1998: 251–253). The cognitive-symbolic role played by domestic objects and domestic space explains the possible meaning of many of the symbols that adorned ossuaries and lamps. They show that not only do human and animal figures and mythological scenes convey evocative symbolism, but also the most mundane daily artifacts. It is crucial to note that these symbols are personal. Unlike those on coins, mosaics or public buildings, they do not strive to present a collective message that many people of the same group are expected to identify with. The meaning may not be clear to others, but the person who chose the decoration to commemorate a

Art as Style  121 relative in an ossuary or to express self-identity through an oil lamp felt that it represented his or her own private feelings and conveyed that message.

Conclusions I have suggested that the ornamentation of Southern oil lamps reflected the selfidentity of those who used them, and that the decorations of ossuaries were a means of commemoration, reflecting the self-identity of the deceased or the relationship of the living with the dead. The emergence of these two coinciding artistic phenomena indicates an increasing tendency to emphasize and convey personal taste and individual identity. The fact that these decorated artifacts flourished in Herodian Jerusalem and Judea in 70–135 ce points to a tendency of individualization. Population growth (in Herodian Jerusalem) and a massive wave of refugees (in post-70 Judea) led to processes of social change that shook up the social system and enhanced the importance of individual identity. It is possible that changes in values and beliefs, such as the evolution of rabbis and rabbinic culture, also raised awareness of the need for self-expression. From a methodological perspective, I refuse to view the decorations as merely “fashion” or “foreign influence,” since these terms obscure the social processes from which they emerged. My point of departure was the identification of ossuary and lamp decorations as style, in its anthropological sense. This led me to apply the theory of style, particularly the work of Polly Wiessner, to anthropological archaeology. I have followed Wiessner and others in linking artistic decorations to expressions of self-identity, termed assertive style, and consequently to demographic growth or social change. I have also attempted to demonstrate that the scant available archaeological data on the function or context of the ossuaries and oil lamps supports the view that the decorations had individualistic traits. I am not arguing, however, that the theory of style can explain all the social characteristics of ossuary and lamp decorations or their actual messages. I fully acknowledge its limitations. Wiessner’s theory is an information-exchange theory, and it therefore addresses only the conceptual form and not the particular symbolic meanings embodied in different decorations (cf. Hodder’s comment in David et al. 1988: 382). In my quest to uncover the exact meanings of specific symbolic decorations, I have reviewed the study of symbolism in cultural anthropology and semiology. Unfortunately, it is impossible to decipher certain symbols without external literary or ethnographic evidence. Sometimes it is only possible to narrow down the general possibilities of the general subject of the decoration. Since many decorations portray daily objects and architectural items, the study of domestic symbols and spaces provides insights into how objects and buildings represented personal meaning and conveyed self-identity. Although the results of our analysis have consistently indicated an individualistic trend in Judaean society, this chapter also points to the methodological limitations of social-archaeology for understanding the self through the material culture. It also leaves room for a further study of decorations in their immediate

122  Art as Style context, such as oil lamps found in domestic or public buildings. But these shortcomings should be put in perspective. As Lévi-Strauss (1990: 5–6) remarks, the messages on these artifacts were not directed at us! This is the main reason why those living outside the culture or society in which these artifacts were created find it difficult to understand their original meaning. This does not mean that they were meaningless. Ultimately, the exact messages of these decorations remain hidden.

6 The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran Spatial Organization, Ritual, Resistance, and Hierarchy

Introduction This chapter examines the social characteristics of Khirbet Qumran and the identity of its inhabitants based on archaeological evidence, rather than relying on the scrolls found in the nearby caves. The first section examines the spatial organization of Kh. Qumran and analyzes its architectural plan, using Hillier and Hanson’s Space Syntax theory, commonly known as access analysis. The spatial relationship between spaces (the manner and degree in which all spaces are accessible or inaccessible) indicates the types of social contacts among the persons who used them, which in turn reflects their attitude toward the outer world and internal social organization. Subsequent sections examine further patterns of social organization, structure, and ideology, such as rituals. Quantitative analysis of the pottery (classified to storage, cooking, and tableware) as well as examination of the deposits of animal bones and pottery buried in the ground point to the role of ritual meals and feasting. The partitions of some ritual baths attest to a certain hierarchy. The social phenomenon of resistance is discussed in relation to pottery types and the method of burial. The results make it possible to determine whether the inhabitants lived in Kh. Qumran for agricultural or industrial reasons, to safeguard the roads in the Dead Sea area, or to maintain an isolated and socially-dense social life, which may be termed sectarianism. The Current Debate Kh. Qumran is perhaps the most controversial archaeological site in the ancient Levant. Since the 1990s scholars have keenly debated whether to accept or reject Roland de Vaux’s conclusion that Kh. Qumran was the dwelling place of “the Qumran community” (also identified as the Essenes). De Vaux (1973) cited several phenomena to support his view that Kh. Qumran was inhabited by a community with a distinctive religious character and unique ritual practices: the large dining room, the relative absence of women in the cemetery, and the animal bones (remains of ritual meals) buried in vessels. Many archaeologists and most Dead Sea Scrolls scholars concur with de Vaux (Laperrousaz 1976; Broshi 1992; DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-7

124  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran Rohrhirsch 1996; Magness 2002; Vanderkam and Flint 2002: 34–54; Murphy 2002: 293–360; and in part also Humbert 1994, 2003c). Recently, however, this “consensual” view has been challenged by new “nonconsensual” theories that question the link between Kh. Qumran and the scrolls. Golb (1995: 12–41, 280–285) argued that the tower and the arrowheads indicate that Kh. Qumran was a military fortress. Donceel and Donceel Voûte (1994; Donceel Voûte 1994; Donceel 1997, 1999) published new data on pottery and glassware, concluding that the rich findings at the site cannot be associated with “monastic simplicity” but rather with a villa rustica. Hirschfeld (1998, 2004) pointed to similarities between Kh. Qumran and other Judaean manor houses, viewing it as an agricultural estate, a view which is also maintained by Kapera (1996), Zangenberg (2004), and partially by Humbert (1994: 170–174; 2003a, 2003b). Crown and Cansdale (1994; Cansdale 1997: 114–124, 196) suggested that the site functioned as an inn or way station on the main road to Jerusalem. Stacey and Doudna (2013: 71) concluded that it was “a seasonable occupied industrial suburb of Jericho.” Magen and Peleg (2006, 2007, 2018) suggested that the site was a pottery production center, based on their findings in recent excavations at the site. It is claimed that a neutral and objective analysis of the archaeological evidence reveals their mundane, nonreligious, and economic-functional aspects (Hirschfeld 2004: 5–6; Magen and Peleg 2007: 63–64). In response to these new interpretations, the consensualists maintained that the ceramics and architecture are too simplistic for a villa (Magness 1994); Kh. Qumran differs from Hasmonean forts (Magness 2013); the many ritual baths attest to particular concern for ritual purity; there are no natural resources near the site to support an agricultural estate; the site is in an isolated location, with no road connecting Qumran to ´Ein Gedi (Broshi 1998, 1999, 2000, Broshi and Eshel 2004, 2006); and the relative absence of female skeletons in the cemetery supports the identification of the inhabitants with the celibate Essenes (Zias 2000). Methodology: Archaeology without Scrolls and Social Archaeology The major debate is whether or not the archaeological findings correspond with the scrolls (and particularly, 1QS, the so-called Community Rule of the Yahad sect) or with Josephus’ descriptions of the Essenes (War 2.119–161). The consensualists are criticized for basing their archaeological conclusions on scrolls found in the nearby caves (Davies 1996; Ullmann-Margalit 2006: 45–49, 86, 92–112; compare de Vaux 1973: 29–33, 47–48, 103–105, 110–111, 130). But the consensualists are not the only ones to base their conclusions on their interpretation of the textual evidence. The “non-consensual” views are also, perhaps unconsciously, based on a specific interpretation of the lifestyle of the Yahad or the Essenes. For example, the relatively rich pottery and decorations, the 1,234 coins found at the site (Murphy 2002: 305–317), and the site’s location on a road near the Dead Sea seem to contradict the ascetic lifestyle of these sectarians as depicted in the Community Rule or Josephus’ description of the Essenes (Cansdale 1997: 161; Hirschfeld 2004: 142–143).

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  125 Both scholarly camps expect the material findings to correspond with what they believe to be the character of the Yahad or the Essenes. While the “consensualists” highlight the similarities between the scrolls and the archaeological record in order to link Kh. Qumran with the Yahad or the Essenes, the “non-consensualists” stress the differences, seeking a missing relationship between Kh. Qumran and the scrolls. However, the expectation that the archaeological findings should correspond with the Community Rule (or Josephus’ portrait of the Essenes), presents several problems. The relationship between text and artifact is complex and one should not expect a simple correlation between them, for three reasons: 1. Chronological discrepancies: While de Vaux (1973: 5) and his followers (Laperrousaz cf. 1976: 29–33) believed that the Second Temple phase of Kh. Qumran began during the reign of John Hyrcanus (late second century bce), recent studies have concluded that the site was occupied only in the first half of the first century bce (Magness 2002: 63–66; Doudna 1999; Magen and Peleg 2006: 68; cf. Bar-Nathan 2006a: 277). The writing of the Community Rule, however, occurred quite some time earlier. The script is dated around 100 bce. The versions in Cave 4 indicate that portions of the Community Rule had been composed previously (Metso 1997: 14, 143–155), presumably some 50–75  years before Kh. Qumran was occupied. Therefore, the laws and rituals of the Yahad in the Community Rule preceded the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran by about two generations at the very least. Some changes in the ideology, rules and lifestyle of the successors or later followers of the Yahad may have occurred during this period, if it were they who inhabited the site (similar reasoning relates to the Essenes, described by Philo and Josephus by the middle or end of the first century ce, long after the settlement at Kh. Qumran was established). 2. The discrepancy between ideology and reality: When ideology and law translate into daily practice changes occur, which can explain why actual practices, reflected by the archaeological evidence, may not be identical to the texts. 3. The limitations of material culture: When ideological agendas and regulations are manifested in a material culture, some phenomena may not be discernible, while other aspects may be overemphasized because they are easily traced in an excavation. Some significant findings may have no parallel in the written sources simply because historical sources are by nature selective and cannot be expected to refer to all existing social practices. Consequently, the correlations between text and artifact are complex, and interpreting the findings according to written sources may be misleading. Indeed, the current preoccupation with interpreting the archaeology of Kh. Qumran either in light of the literary evidence (e.g., Magness 2002) or against it might distract our attention from archaeological data that has no direct parallel in the scrolls, and divert us from a more thorough examination of the material

126  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran evidence. Instead, I suggest an independent analysis of the material evidence, without relating to the scrolls and without expecting a prima facia correlation with the textual sources. I propose to study the findings in Kh. Qumran, searching for patterns of social organization such as spatial organization, rituals, and resistance. Do the findings correspond with a secluded community like the Yahad sect, or with a “normative” social lifestyle such as that of a private villa or a manor house estate? There are no clear-cut criteria or models for identifying a sect according to its material culture. We need to thoroughly examine the entire material record in Kh. Qumran and compare it to other contemporaneous sites, using the methodological approaches of social archaeology. Any outstanding phenomena related to the architectural plan, vessels or artifacts may be relevant, particularly parallel phenomena found among early modern sects. In the absence of such irregularities, it would be reasonable to conclude that there are no markers of sectarianism in Kh. Qumran. Kh. Qumran’s stratigraphy has been the subject of debate. De Vaux (1973: 13, 16, 26–28; cf. also the plans in plates VI, XVII) maintained that both period Ib (ca. 100–4 bce, the late Hasmonean and Herodian period) and period II (ca. 2 bce–68 bce) are roughly similar as regards the size of the site occupation, its functional purposes, and the type of population. This was accepted with some revisions by Magness (2002: 63–69, 124–125). The continuity between periods I and II is supported by the fact that in both periods there was a significant amount of pottery (Magness 2002: 125; 2018: 114–115), as well as animal bone deposits (Magen and Peleg 2007: 43; cf. Magness 2019a: 115–116), a phenomenon unique to Kh. Qumran (see later). In contrast, several scholars who maintain that the site was not occupied by sectarians claim that there were substantial changes, including building additions and installations, from periods I to period II, indicating that the site’s function changed as well. Humbert (1994, 2003a, 2003c, Humbert et al. 2016: 115–125) and Hirschfeld (1998, 2004: 59–87) limited period I to a square building, much smaller than the de Vaux’s reconstruction, mainly because of its well-planned layout. Stacey and Doudna (2013) dated most of the water system (channels and pools) to period II. Magen and Peleg (2018: 41–42, 50, 115–118) claimed that almost all the baths (or pools, used mostly for the collection of pottery clay) were built in period II. Notably, each challenge to de Vaux’s reconstruction of the architectural extent of period I  differs from the others (Mizzi 2014). Moreover, these stratigraphic observations, even if they are technically correct, may merely provide a relative sequence and not the actual dating of the archaeological phases. Some of the stratigraphic changes and the gradual growth of the sites’ plan might have occurred during period I. The arguments of the reconstructions of Stacey-Doudna and Magen-Peleg are simply based on a certain interpretation of the stratigraphy of the water system (Magness 2007; Mizzi 2014: 24–26). Their conclusions hardly ever rely on newly excavated findings, and they are possibly biased by their preliminary thesis regarding the site’s development and function. For example, in

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  127 contrast to Magen and Peleg’s assertion that the ritual baths/pools were added later, the entrance to ritual bath L48–49 is blocked by kiln L66, which is certainly later. When it was built, the bath was most likely out of use (cf. the plan and photo in Magen and Peleg 2018: 39, 43). The extent of period I is indeed somewhat vague, but there is no reason to omit its pottery and the other findings of its archaeological layers from the following discussion (indeed, de Vaux made no systematic distinction between the pottery from periods I and II; Humbert et al. 2016). My access analysis map, however, refers solely to period II. Despite de Vaux’s insistence that the plan of period Ib resembles that of period II, I prefer to leave open the question of the spatial organization of the site in the Hasmonean period.

Access Analysis of Khirbet Qumran: Spatial Organization and Social Boundaries The Social Aspects of Space: The Method of Access Analysis The architectural layout of Kh. Qumran is invaluable for understanding the social organization and ideology of its inhabitants. Several “consensual” scholars interpreted the plan of Kh. Qumran as representing sacred space (Humbert 1994; Magness 2004b; Pfann 2006). Magness (2004c) compared certain architectural characteristics of Kh. Qumran with the Herodian palaces in Jericho, Masada, and Upper Herodion; the villas in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem; and Hilkiya’s Palace, stressing the differences between them. Hirschfeld (1998, 2004: 211–230) challenged the “consensual” approach by comparing the plan of (what he considered the earliest phase of) Kh. Qumran with several manor houses, pointing to a similarity of features, including a watchtower and agricultural installations, and the strategic location. Here I apply social archaeology, as outlined in the Introduction, to the study of the architecture and spatial analysis, relating to the architectural domestic space beyond its practical functions as representing meaning and ideology (cf. Kent 1990; Parker Pearson and Richards 1994a). By physically dividing and demarcating space with walls, gateways, and entrances, people classify and control places and relationships. Architectural features are used to mark transitions between domains such as insider/outsider, private/public, sacred/profane, elite/commoner, male/female, and initiated/uninitiated (Parker Pearson and Richards 1994b: 5, 24). The more segmented the space—using spatial partitions and restricted areas—the more a society is segregated and divided into hierarchies of gender, age, and specialized activities. The complex organization of a structured environment is an indication of sociopolitical complexity. Thus, complex societies and cultures create segmented architecture (Kent 1990). Space Syntax theory, also known as access analysis, is a method of analyzing “the social logic of space.” It provides analytical tools to determine spatial complexity and reconstruct the relationships between entrances, gateways, and different domains (Hillier and Hanson 1984). Hillier and Hanson regarded spatial

128  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran organization as a product of social organization. Their method represents the spatial organization of a building/site in terms of the relationship between its doorways (or entrances) and rooms (or structures) which reflect social separation and solidarity. The spatial layout of a site or building is illustrated by circles representing spaces (e.g., rooms) and linking lines representing entrances or doorways leading to these spaces, and how they are related to the outside world. This method illuminates the syntax of the architectural plan (namely, its system of spatial relations) and enables comparisons with other buildings (Hillier and Hanson 1984: 14). The graphical expression of the spatial form reflects how encounters are generated and controlled in a given architectural unit (Hillier and Hanson 1984: 18) by providing representation, quantification, and interpretation of spatial configurations in buildings (Grahame 2000: 29–36). Many social archaeologists have adopted access analysis to interpret diverse sites (e.g., Foster 1989; Samson 1990; Grahame 2000). Even its critics, who rightly note that it ignores the different context of each spatial unit and its specific meaning, acknowledge that it is very useful (Parker Pearson and Richards 1994a: 30). I will analyze the plan of Kh. Qumran in period II according to Hillier and Hanson (1984), also using the recent application of their method in Pompeii by Grahame (2000). I will compare Kh. Qumran’s access analysis map to the manor houses that Hirschfeld (1998, 2004: 211–230) claimed to resemble Kh. Qumran in function. Unlike the studies of Hillier-Hanson and Grahame, the presumed functions of the different rooms at Kh. Qumran are also taken into consideration. The Access Analysis of Kh. Qumran Period II Figure 6.1 represents the spatial layout of Kh. Qumran in period II as reconstructed by de Vaux (de Vaux 1973: pl. 39). Locus numbers are marked in each space (communal spaces are marked in red). Some loci are connected by more than one passage or doorway (especially L111 and the obscured relationship between Loci 100 and 118); thus any presentation of the connections between them will be based, to a certain extent, on interpretation. The map does not include the three stairways to the second floor (in loci 77, 113, 133; de Vaux 1973: 28; Magness 2002: 50–51, 60, 122–123), and it is impossible to reconstruct the second floor of the site. Figure  6.1 enables us to study the relationship between the different spaces using the parameters introduced by Hillier and Hanson. The point of reference of all spaces is the main entrance, which serves as a boundary in relation to the outside space, distinguishing between inhabitants and strangers, thereby designating the inhabitants as a community (Hillier and Hanson 1984: 19; Grahame 2000: 21–22). This definition is extremely relevant to Kh. Qumran, where the desert and the shore of the Dead Sea lie just beyond the entrance. Kh. Qumran is divided into four major quarters: the eastern “main building,” beginning with L112; the section south and east of the main building in L3, which contains ritual baths and workshops; the western section, beginning with L125 (with the adjacent spaces beginning with L101/102); and a smaller northern

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  129

Figure 6.1  Access analysis of Khirbet Qumran

section beginning with L133. Most of these quarters are also internally divided into several groupings of minimally connected spaces. These patterns of division point to a highly structured complex, where no major quarter leads to a marginal section (as in the manor houses in Figures 6.2–5). Rather, the different sections of the site are separated (there is, indeed, a main corridor leading to L99, but unlike at other sites, it does not comprise any marked spaces, hence it cannot be represented in the graph). Apart from the kilns and potter’s wheels placed in Loci 64–66 at the borders of the site, there is no functional reason for this separation. The spaces appearing at the bottom of the graph (Loci 12, 3, 125, and 133) “control” access to other spaces. Access to most spaces is limited, and several boundaries must be crossed to reach most spaces from any starting point on the site (cf. Hillier and Hanson 1984: 11–12, 20, 62–65, 147–154). The site therefore shows a strong organizational division into different segments. Furthermore, all major quarters contain only a small number of large rooms (Loci 1, 2, 4, 30, 77, 111, and 121). It is interesting to examine the location of the large rooms that are usually regarded as collective spaces (for defining collective space, see Grahame 2000: 75). L77, the so-called dining hall, is located three spaces from the main entrance, at the end of the central corridor, which is relatively accessible from most sections of the site. The other large spaces are less accessible. L30 (beneath the so-called scriptorium) is four spaces from the entrance, and the adjacent Loci 4 (with the benches along its walls), 1, and 2 are four and five spaces from the main entrance,

130  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran having a discrete location. The large rooms in Loci 111 (which Pfann 2006 assumed to be a dining room) and 121 are located five spaces from the entrance, and the supposed dining room above Loci 122–123 (Magness 2004b: 105–106) is six spaces from the entrance. Thus, apart from L77, large rooms in which public activities may have taken place were not easily accessible and could not be seen by casual entrants. This also demonstrates that social encounters between the inhabitants in these spaces were restricted and may have been quite uncommon. The division into different quarters and isolated segments with minimal connections reflects strongly controlled boundaries and a hierarchical division, corresponding to what Hillier and Hanson (1984: 20) termed “transpatial solidarity.” In contrast to spatial relations based on physical proximity (which facilitate regular interpersonal encounters), transpatial relations generally lack such proximity and the resulting social encounters. Transpatial solidarity is characterized by strong internal structuring, with the discreteness of the interior emphasized by strongly controlled boundaries. The stronger and more complex the structure, the stronger the solidarity. Individuals are spatially separated from one another as well as from the surrounding world. Transpatial solidarity is therefore a solidarity of isolation. It is characteristic of ritualized and conformist organizations (Hillier and Hanson 1984: 40–44, 145, 161–163; Grahame 2000: 41–44, 74–75). The transpatial solidarity model has significant implications for our understanding of the social character of the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran. The strict division into quarters and the secondary division of each quarter into different clusters attest to an ethos of social segregation, not only between the inhabitants themselves, but, more importantly, between them and the outside world. The transpatial organization of space regulates and controls interactions with strangers. Strangers must pass through one or more spaces before reaching the domain of the inhabitants. There are passageways and corridors between Loci 128/99–3, 3–42–66, 12–17–25, and 108/9-118-114-115 which “protect” a building from the infiltration of strangers (cf. Grahame 2000: 80). Hiller and Hanson attributed transpatial organization to ritualization—that is, to a structure of differentiation, distinguishing between rite and non-rite. Ritualization is a strategy of distinction for the construction of a limited and limiting power relationship, negotiating authority, self, and society (Bell 1992: 7–8, 90). Spatial ritualization is a differentiation of or distinction between spaces, namely, a hierarchical distribution of spaces (in our case, quarters and secondary clusters) which seems to mark the separation between different “classes” of people, or more plausibly, between different activities and occupations, such as between commonplace secular everyday activities and rituals, or between public and noncollective activities (for example, in L4 plastered benches were located for gatherings of a dozen or more people). Comparing Kh. Qumran with Judaean Manor Houses: Calculating Mean Depth This interpretation of the spatial organization of Kh. Qumran should be tested by comparing the access analysis map of Kh. Qumran with other sites. Hirschfeld

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  131 (1998, 2004: 211–230) argued that the spatial layout of Kh. Qumran is similar to that of several manor houses. I will extend his comparison to the access analysis of five manor houses or villas which Hirschfeld examined, as well as the villa in the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem (cf. also Magness 2004c). Figures 6.2–7 provide the spatial layouts of Rujum el-Hamiri near Hebron (Baruch 1994) (fig. 2), Qasr e-Leja in Samaria (Dar 1986: 10–12) (fig. 3), the villa in Area P of the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem (Avigad 1980: 95–120) (fig. 4), Horvat Salit in the Negev (Alon 1986) (fig. 5), Hilkiya’s Palace, called Kh. el-Muraq, in Edomeia (Damati 1977, 1982) (fig. 6), and Horvat ‘Eleq near Caesarea (Hirschfeld 2000: esp. 266–268, 272–275). The latter two sites are the largest villas or manor houses (and include bath houses and frescos) with 30 and 57 spaces, respectively (note that drawing their access analysis maps requires a certain interpretation of their plans pertaining to the location of the entrance/access to certain spaces, cf. Regev 2009a: 91 n. 5). Figures 6.2–7 show that Kh. Qumran contains a larger number of spaces than any of these manor houses or villas. In no other site is there such a complex division into quarters and isolated segments. When comparing Kh. Qumran with the

Figure 6.2  Rujum el-Hamiri

Figure 6.3  Qasr e-Leja

132  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran

Figure 6.4  Area P, the Jewish Quarter, Jerusalem

Figure 6.5  Horvat Salit

plans of Hilkiya’s Palace and Horvat ‘Eleq, several differences stand out. Kh. Qumran lacks a large enclosed courtyard that leads to most of the spaces and functions as the central point of the access analysis map. Also, most of the spaces in Kh. Qumran are smaller than those of the other sites. Hiller and Hanson offered analytical tools for comparing the access analysis maps of different sites, quantifying the degree to which sites use boundaries and hierarchical structures by calculating the mean depth of the spatial system at each site (Hiller and Hanson 1984: 148–175; Grahame 2000: 34–35). Mean depth is measured by assigning a score of 1 to all spaces that require crossing only one

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  133

Figure 6.6  Hilkiya’s Palace, at Kh. el-Muraq

Figure 6.7  Horvat ‘Eleq

134

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran

Figure 6.8 Mean depth of Judaean villas

boundary in order to be accessed from a given point (in the present case, from the main entrance); a score of 2 to all spaces that can only be accessed by crossing two boundaries; and so on for the entire configuration. The number of spaces at each level of depth from the original space is then multiplied by that value of depth to give the total for each depth. These totals are added and then divided by the total number of spaces in the system less 1—the original space—to give the mean depth: d ⎛ ⎜ MD = ∑ k ⎜⎜ K −1 ⎝

⎞ ⎟ ⎟⎟ ⎠

Figure 6.8 demonstrates that the mean depth of Kh. Qumran (4.983) is greater than that of any other villa or manor house, including the highly structured, com­ plex, and opulent villas of Hilkiya’s Palace (4.321) and Horvat ‘Eleq (4.109). Thus, at Kh. Qumran the spatial boundaries are the most intense and the spatial organization is the most elaborate. The extraordinarily high mean depth of Kh. Qumran demonstrates the strong social boundaries and internal division of spaces in the site. Although one might expect some degree of separation between own­ ers and servants/workers in Hilkiya’s Palace and Horvat ‘Eleq, in Kh. Qumran, inhabitants were more segregated and intent on ritual and hierarchy. This attests to the exceptional social characteristics of Kh. Qumran’s inhabitants. The intensity of architectural boundaries relates to the scale of society, and larger societies have a greater need for separate activities (Grahame 2000: 15, following Kent 1990 and others). Hence, the social organization of the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran was more complex and larger in scale than that of the dwellers of the manor house and the two largest villas in Judaea.

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  135 Why are the spatial features of Kh. Qumran unique? Is it possible that they reflect a sectarian ideology or social organization?

The Social Features of Sectarianism: Social Boundaries, Hierarchy, and Ritual According to Stark and Bainbridge (1985: 23, 49–60), a sect is a religious group in a state of tension with its environment. This tension is reflected by three major ideological components: antagonism, separation, and difference (such as distinctive rituals), which are directed at the outside world. Wilson (1959: 4; 1961: 1) regards a sect as a protest group that expresses hostility or indifference to the outside society, maintains minimal diversity or rigid patterns of conduct, and develops its practices against the background of the wider society. Wilson (1967: 9) also contends that all sects maintain a certain degree of separation from the world. The segregated structure and interior divisions created by the control of boundaries in Kh. Qumran reflect strong spatial boundaries. They correspond to the sectarian social boundaries—the tendency to be separate from the outside world. Some sects use spatial separation, living in distinct colonies (Shakers, Old Order Mennonites, and Hutterites), while other use clothes (Old Order Amish) and other forms of separation (Quakers) (Regev 2007: esp. 50–57, 269–300). The systematic division into quarters in Kh. Qumran and the secondary division of each quarter into different clusters in the site cannot be explained as merely serving functional needs (such as separating industrial areas and private dwellings) but rather attest to a certain hierarchical structure. This hierarchy is typical of a strong separation between “ordinary” secular and “sacred” activities. A strong social hierarchy of rank is not common to all sects, but certainly characterizes sects such as the Shakers, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the Damascus Covenant (Beckford 1975: 71–82; Regev 2007: 166–171). The patterns of hierarchy among members of sects may vary (Regev 2007: 285–291). The strict classification of spaces, the presence of groupings of spaces, and many isolated segments with minimal connections, may also mark a tendency toward ritualization (as noted by Hiller and Hanson)—a division of different kinds of hierarchies or activities, rite and non-rite. Such ritualization has significant social importance, since ritual involves the affirmation of communal unity but also increases the distance between different groups (Bell 1992: 20, 177). Both aspects are certainly characteristics of sects. Special communal rituals characterize many sects (and are consistent with Stark-Bainbridge’s notion of sectarian “difference”): common meals, communal worship, annual communion ceremonies, rituals of admission of new members or admission to adulthood, admonition of transgressing members, and so on (Regev 2007: 270–284). Such rituals enhance social cohesion and distinguish members from the outside society. The Sectarian Conception of Space among the Shakers Thus far my argument that the spatial characteristics of Kh. Qumran correspond with sectarianism has been based on the general features of social boundaries,

136  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran hierarchy, and ritualization among sects. This is supported by similar spatial phenomena that can be seen in the dwellings of specific sectarian communes. Studies of sectarian spatial organization are sparse, but those of the Shakers are enlightening. The Shakers were an “introversionist” (secluded) sect in 19th century United States, who had features of ideology and organization in common with the Qumran sects (Regev 2004a, 2007). Hayden (1976: 42–56) identified three main “areas of design” among the communes of the Shakers in Hancock, MA; the Onedia Perfectionists in New York; and the Harmonists in Amana, IA: (1) Boundaries, approaches, and vantage points help define communal territory and maintain separation from society (e.g., the meticulous fencing in the Shaker Hancock village; Hayden 1976: 79–81). A vantage point such as a tower allows members to survey their domain. Kh. Qumran is also encompassed by walls (Branham 2006), with a tower (Loci 9–10) located at the northeast corner. (2) Communal buildings and housing shelter communal activities (for Shaker meeting houses, see Schiffer 1979). Apart from L77, I have already noted several large spaces (Loci 30, 111, and 121) which may have served a similar purpose. (3) Circulation paths link a variety of indoor and outdoor spaces, serving as spaces for casual socializing. The corridors and passageways between Loci 128/99– 3, 3–42–66, 12–17–25, and 108/9-118-114-115 may have served the same purpose. Although these features may also be found in nonsectarian sites, the fact that they are characteristics of North American sects teaches us that the combination of spatial boundaries, communal spaces, and connecting corridors (where space is less bounded) at Kh. Qumran may be a result of the sectarian character of its inhabitants. One of the guiding principles of Shaker spatial ordering is the distinction between different areas in the colony, dividing spaces according to function. The Shakers highlighted the hierarchical positioning of buildings according to function by color coding structures: barns and service buildings were dark colors (deep red), workshops and dwelling houses were slightly lighter in color (yellow or cream), and the meetinghouse was white (Johnson 1971: 162; Hayden 1976: 77, 81; 99; Nicoletta 1995: 18, 21, 53; See also the classification of the buildings in Hutterite colonies, Hostetler 1974: 155). This corresponds to the spatial division of Kh. Qumran into distinct areas and the division of each area into several groupings of spaces with minimal access between them. Later in this chapter we will compare these spatial and social features of Kh. Qumran with the sectarian characteristics of social boundaries, hierarchy, and ritual in the scrolls. We turn now to other social aspects of the material culture in Kh. Qumran.

Pottery, Meals, and Feasts Quantifying the Pottery of Kh. Qumran: The Abundance of Tableware Pottery attests to food production and, especially, food consumption. The manner in which individuals and communities deal with food, such as if they eat together or alone, may teach us about social aspects such as status distinctions and social relations.

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  137 De Vaux never submitted a synthesis of the ceramic evidence, only a concise presentation (de Vaux 1956: 551–563). Nonetheless, the raw data is to be found in de Vaux’s published field notes, describing the findings in each locus (Humbert and Chambon 1994: 291–341; ET de Vaux 2003; cf. Magness 2006). Although de Vaux’s field notes did not specify the exact pottery type (e.g., eastern sigillata, etc.), number of sherds, and precise location of the vessels within the locus, he indicated the general type of each vessel and the number of vessels of each type found in every locus. This data may contribute to our understanding of how these vessels were used. The following analysis presents the number of vessels according to their general typology and function in an attempt to reveal distinctive patterns of storing, cooking, and dining as indications of the social character of the inhabitants and their meals. To this end, the data from Kh. Qumran is compared with the quantity of the same general types of pottery found in contemporaneous sites. The number of vessels listed by de Vaux, which are related mostly to periods I and II, namely the Hasmonean and Herodian periods, is about 2,100. To this one should add 71 pieces of glassware (Donceel and Donceel Voûte 1994: 7, 12), and several stone vessels. Admittedly, the use of de Vaux’s field notes poses some problems. He did not distinguish between different periods and it is not clear what method he used for counting pottery. These are serious shortcomings which should make the following discussion more cautious, but nevertheless it is possible to utilize his data, which is the only way to quantify the ceramics and suggest a social explanation. Confirmation of de Vaux’s data comes from Burdajewicz (2001: 14), who counted 3,922 diagnostic sherds and an additional 447 body sherds from the Hellenistic and Roman periods, and only 270 diagnostic sherds from the Iron Age period (and a total of 360 sherds). This proves that the ceramic findings from the Iron Age are relatively marginal (cf. de Vaux 1973: 1–3). In order to isolate the pottery from periods I-II as much as possible, I did not include the findings from loci which are related solely to period III, the phase in which Kh. Qumran served as a Roman military camp, (loci 3, 14–16, 20–23, 26–27, 31, 43 and 60, cf. de Vaux 1973: 41–44; 2003: 3–7; Taylor 2006). Actually, de Vaux (1973: 44) already noted “the scarcity of pottery” of this period. Quantification of pottery is always a problem (cf. Berlin 2006: 6 and in Chapter 8). De Vaux probably counted intact and restorable vessels (Jodi Magness and Stephen Pfann, personal communication, cf. also Magness 2004d: 53 n. 14). It is unlikely that he counted individual sherds of vessel as separate items (“bowl,” “plate,” etc.) since on several occasions he simply noted “potsherds” (e.g., loci 3, 105, 110, 114, 121, 126, 129 and 134) without quantification. Most of the vessels listed by de Vaux were probably related to the destruction phases of the earthquake of 31 bce, the fire in ca. 9/8 bce (Magness 2002: 125), and the Roman conquest of 68 ce, which may also explain why some 2,100 vessels were intact or restorable, in a compound of about 4,500 m2 (cf. Broshi 2000: 734) that had been inhabited over a period of about 150 years. In comparison, in Gamla (in over a hundred rooms), 1,717 restorable vessels were found (Berlin 2006: 8–9, 97–99, 130–132), in Ein Boqeq’s oficina 463 (Fisher, Gichon and Tal 2000: 30); in the Temples of Banias, in the richest phase, the Late Roman, 989 (not including many

138  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran lamps, Berlin 1999a: 36–41); and in Tel Anafa’s second century bce affluent villa, 3,152 (Berlin 1999b: 51–52). I will classify the pottery described by de Vaux by function: tableware (bowls, plates, cups, and goblets), storage vessels (jars and jugs), and cooking vessels (pots and “terrines,” namely, kraters). A similar classification was made by Berlin (1999a, 1999b, 2006) to understand the general social character of the people who used the vessels and their attitude toward food in Tel Anafa, Banias, and Gamla. Historical archaeologists use this method to trace social patterns such as consumption practices, social structure and ideology (Yentsch 1991; Little 1997; Shackel 1993). The results are astonishing. Some 84% of the vessels listed in de Vaux’s field notes are tableware, 9% are storage vessels, and 7% are cooking pots and “terrines.” One reason for the extraordinary amount of tableware is the findings of two storage rooms containing tableware. In L86/89 (de Vaux 1956: 554; 2003: 41–42) the “pantry,” presumably destroyed by the earthquake of 31 bce and adjacent to the long dining hall L77, 732 bowls, 211 plates, 84 cups and 12 jugs were found (as well as 21 jars, 38 terrines and one pot). In L114, another possible storage room ruined by fire in ca. 9/8 bce (the vessels possibly fell from an upper dining room above loci 111, 120–123, cf. Magness 2002: 125), 136 bowls (some may be designated as plates), 42 cups, 1 jug and 2 juglets (as well as 2 jars and 2 terrines and a large quantity of potsherds) were found (de Vaux 2003: 42, 50; cf. de Vaux 1956: 554–559). Magness (2004b: 91, 103–106) counted 1227 cups, bowls and plates in L86/89, and 149 in L 114, that is over 150 items of tableware more than in de Vaux’s field notes. Naturally, any count of vessels cannot be entirely accurate due to the limitations of the excavation (what parts of the site are uncovered), the restoration of vessels (what is preserved in the site) and the method of quantification. The data collected and discussed here merely illustrate general social or cultural phenomena. What is important is the ratio between different types of vessels, which attests to different human activities. The specific pattern of this ratio leads us to reconstruct the social organization of food preparation and consumption, which may be guided by certain ideas or values, namely, ideology. Hence, de Vaux’s method of counting pottery and its accuracy do not pose a serious problem as long as it remains consistent for all types of pottery, leading us to the general ratio of tableware/cooking/storage vessels. The extremely large amount of tableware is not limited to loci 86 and 114. Vessels, including 460 plates, bowls, and cups, were scattered in many other loci throughout the site. Excluding the two storage loci 86/89 and 114, 65.5% of the vessels in all the other loci are tableware. The distribution of vessels according to de Vaux’s field notes reveals that meals were not limited to the large dining room(s). The extremely large amount of tableware is an integral characteristic of the entire site. For example, at least ten tableware vessels, attesting to occasional dining, were found in loci 1, 2, 4, 6, 8, 9, 14, 41/38, 77, 112, and 126. In contrast, most of the jars were found in open areas (loci 52, 80, 81, 124, 130). Cooking was also spread around the site, since according to the field notes, several ovens were discovered at loci 2(?), 12(x2), 38/41 (x3) (cf. Humbert and Chambon 1994: fig. ix and photo 38) and 125.

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  139 Magen and Peleg excavated the outskirts of Kh. Qumran and also found an abundance of pottery published by Eisenstadt (2018). According to my counting, their report includes a total of some 1077 relevant vessels from periods I  and II, based on the calculation of rims: 8 rim sherds  =  1 vessel (Eisenstadt 2018: 179). Their method of quantification is far more accurate than my attempt to reconstruct de Vaux’s findings from his field notes. Tableware (including jugs and juglets) made up 46.4% of the assemblage, storage 34.9% and cooking vessels only 18.7%. Magen and Peleg’s number of tableware is much lower than that reported in de Vaux’s field notes, but nevertheless it is relatively high. Unlike de Vaux’s excavations, hardly any of the archaeological contexts of their excavations were residential or domestic. Most of the loci were in the refuse dumps and other areas north and south of the main building, including paved squares. Some loci were at the channels of the water system. Almost all the findings are from industrial areas (see the list of loci in Magen and Peleg 2018: 143–170). Even here tableware constituted the most common vessels by far! Are these findings exceptional? We need to compare the percentage of tableware in Kh. Qumran to other contemporaneous sites from Judaea: 32% in Gamla areas B/D, 12% in area R (Berlin 2006: 6); 49% in the temples of Banias, in the Hellenistic period, 47% in the early Roman period, 32% in the late Roman period, all of which are mostly cultic dedications or the remains of ritual meals (Berlin 1999a); 18% in Tel Anafa in the second century bce (Berlin 1999b: 50–54); 34% in ´Ein Boqeq’s officina (Fisher, Gichon and Tal 2000: 30); 46% in the published pottery tables (and not actual number of pottery, used only for illustration) of Horvat ´Eleq (Ramat Hanadiv) (Silberstein 2000: esp. 420, 438, 441; cf. also Cohen 2000). As Figure 6.10 demonstrates, nowhere does the proportion of tableware come close to the high percentage of 84% in Kh. Qumran; this is also true for Horvat ´Eleq and Tel Anafa, whose wealthy inhabitants used bath houses and imported wares. The enormous proportion of tableware cannot be mistaken or coincidental. This exceptionally large amount of tableware demands an explanation. Can it contribute a new perspective to the debate of whether Kh. Qumran was a sectarian community center or a villa/manor house/fortress?

tableware 46%

storage 35% cooking 19%

Figure 6.9  Pottery typology in Magen and Peleg’s excavation (n = 1077)

140  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran

Figure 6.10  Comparison of ceramic assemblages in Hellenistic and Early Roman Judaea

Previous Explanations: Purity Restrictions or Pottery Industry Magnes (2004b: 92, 98) suggested that the abundance of tableware at Kh. Qumran results from extremely scrupulous maintenance of ritual purity. Since defiled pottery vessels cannot be purified, they needed new vessels to replace those which were disposed of. This would also correspond to the large number of ritual baths. However, the fact that hundreds of items of tableware were found intact and carefully arranged in the storerooms in loci 86 and 114 may indicate that the vessels in each of these storerooms were used in a single period, probably simultaneously. Most of the other vessels were found in contexts which do not appear to be dump sites. If vessels were defiled and disposed of in such large amounts, this practice should have left its mark on the archaeological record. Moreover, since cooking and storage vessels were also subject to impurity restrictions, purity considerations do not explain why cooking pots and jars were so scarce in comparison to tableware. Magness also mentioned the practice of burying animal bones in vessels (discussed to follow) as a reason for the many vessels, but these entailed only a relatively small portion of the pottery, with no preference for tableware (cf. the vessels in the animal bone deposits in L 130, 132, de Vaux 2003: 55–58). Magen and Peleg (2006: 100, 106–107; 2007; 2018: 133–137) suggested that Kh. Qumran was a pottery production center. Most of the vessels were designed for commercial rather than local use. The many pottery kilns or potter’s wheels on the site (Magen and Peleg 2018: 133; cf. De Vaux 1973: 16–17), the considerable pottery waste, many unbroken vessels, and above all, the huge amounts of clay vessels (Magen and Peleg 2006: 64, 68) support this view. Bar-Nathan (2006a:

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  141 272 n. 31) also substantiated this assessment, suggesting that the large hall (L 77) was a workshop for drying the pottery, and the adjacent L86/89 served as the storage room. However, L77 is inaccessible from the kilns and potter’s wheels in loci 64–66, and it would be inconvenient to move the vessels there. Magen and Peleg (2006: 68, 88–89, 92) also maintained that several of the extremely large baths in loci 58, 68, and 91 as well as L118 were not ritual baths but rainwater reservoirs used to process the clay used in pottery production. They explained the staircases in these baths as a means of facilitating clay collection. At first glance, this interpretation seems interesting. The kilns and potter’s wheels prove that pottery was manufactured at the site. However, this does not explain why 84% of all the ceramic ware in de Vaux’s field notes were table vessels. It is not likely that the local potters specialized exclusively in the manufacture of cups and bowls. Even if they did, this does not explain why 65.5% of the vessels scattered throughout the site (excluding the storerooms in loci 86 and 114) are tableware—spatial distribution which indicates that these vessels were in conventional daily use. Furthermore, two thirds of the tested vessels were not made from local clay. Admittedly, the number of vessels tested using Neutron-Activation Analysis and petro-graphical tests is limited and does not allow for statistical conclusions (Yellin et  al. 2001; Gunneweg 2003; Gunneweg and Balla 2003; Michniewicz and Krzyśko 2003), but it includes pottery from the storerooms L86 and L114 (Gunneweg and Balla 2003: 14, 16, 17, 21). While it is not impossible that manufacturers brought clay from outside, the existence of multiple sources of clay (Jerusalem, Jericho, Motza, Beit ‘Ummar, and other unidentified sites) implies that many of the vessels were not locally made. In addition, the number of diverse styles of cups and other vessels is too large to have been produced by a single group of potters (Gunneweg and Balla 2003: 24). The pottery production center theory therefore cannot be sustained, and the question remains: Why did the inhabitants use such a large amount of tableware? Tableware, Dining, and Ritual in Anthropological Perspective Magness (2004b: 91) commented that the large number of vessels and the uniformity of types found in L86 point to communal meals with many participants (noting that each Essene member has his own individual plate, War 2.130). Magness (2004b: 92, 98) rightly concluded that the inhabitants did not follow the pattern of eating out of common dishes in which they all dipped their bread (cf. medieval table manners in Shackel 1993: 144–145). She regarded the Qumranic practice as a result of considerations of purity. The number of vessels discovered on the site surely exceeds the number of diners, hence assigning an individual dish to each person does not explain the findings. While 357 plates were found by de Vaux, more than 220 cups and goblets and 1,087 bowls (probably containing both solid and liquid food) were also discovered. “One dish for one individual” cannot explain why 732 bowls were

142  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran found in L86, 136 bowls were in use in L114, while another 219 bowls, 146 plates and 94 cups were scattered in loci other than 86 and 114. To this should be added approximately 500 items of tableware from Magen and Peleg’s excavations, mainly at the southern outskirts of the site. All these vessels were probably only part of the whole assemblage during the destruction phases of ca. 2 bce and 68 ce. We should also bear in mind that the site was hardly adequate for several hundred inhabitants. Most of the rooms were relatively small, and the corridors and passages were narrow, except for L77 (22 × 4.5m  =  99m2, see Humbert et al. 2016: 305–326), which was probably a dining hall, where no more than a 100– 150 people could have gathered for a meal (Broshi 1992: 113–114. Estimations of the number of inhabitants range between a maximum of 200 and a minimum of 15: Laperrousaz 1976: 99–107; Magness 2002: 70–71; Broshi and Eshel 1999; Patrich 2000; Magen and Peleg 2006: 99 who noted that there were few ovens or stoves for baking and cooking; Hirschfeld 2006: 229; Humbert 1994: 176, 193). It is therefore apparent that the number of bowls, cups or plates in periods I and II far exceeded the number of potential users. On the other hand, the actual placing of the vessels in different storerooms and throughout the site indicates that the vessels were indeed in use and many of them were used simultaneously. But for what purpose? The use of more than one dish, probably more than one bowl, one cup, and one plate by any single individual at a time attests to a distinctive mode of dining. It is possible that each diner used at least one plate, one bowl and one cup at any meal, hence during that meal food may have been served in separate vessels, representing different courses. Alternatively, we may postulate that different kinds of food and drink may have been served in different vessels at different meals. This means that food consumption and dining were highly regulated with a specific structure. Great significance was attributed to meals, and special attention was paid to details, which indicates ritual dining. Thus, the abundance of tableware points to the structuring and ritualization of the meal. It is likely that L77 (the largest space in the site) was a dining hall, due to its proximity to over a thousand vessels in the “pantry” in L86 (cf. de Vaux 1973: 11–13). Here the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran conducted ritual meals with many participants. The ceramic assemblage bears several “archaeological signatures of feasts” (Hayden 2001: 40): (1) an unusual number of serving vessels, (2) central community spaces (L77, and according to Pfann 2006 and Magness 2004b: 105–106 perhaps also loci 120–123 near the “pantry” of L114), (3) an exceptionally large number of more than 80 goblets in loci other than 86 and 114, which may have been used as ritual vessels for the ritual consumption of wine, and (4) animal bone dumps, which indicate that meat was consumed quite frequently in a symbolic or ritualistic manner (see later). All these indicate a “complexification” of food consumption patterns through a marked symbolic emphasis on distinctions (Dietler 2001: 90). The meals included special signs of differentiation and distinction, characteristic of rituals related to the food, vessels, and location of the meal, which probably had substantial social and symbolic significance beyond mere nutrition. I believe they may be identified as “solidarity feasts” (cf. Hayden 2001: 38).

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  143 It is possible to draw additional inferences from this data about the social characteristics of the meals in Kh. Qumran, and the social character of the diners. I propose that we interpret the large amount of tableware in light of anthropological studies about meals as well as case studies of ceramic assemblages and feasts carried out by anthropological archaeologists and historical archaeologists. Food has important social functions beyond mere nutrition. Food is a system of signs and symbols, and a medium of communication (Lévi-Strauss 1975; Barthes 1973; Douglas 1975). The act of sharing a meal with others promotes solidarity (Goody 1982: 12; Gransey 1999: 6, 128, 133). Communal meals, in which dining creates commensality in a certain kind of ritual, also exclude others, since “to eat an equal share is to produce and reproduce civic equality” (Loraux 1981: 620). Food thus serves as an indicator of status, power, and group separateness and belonging (Hendon 2003; Gransey 1999: 6–7, 62–81). Feasts mark social boundaries between groups, status, and categories (Dietler 2001: 88–90), like the Christian Eucharist and the Jewish Passover seder. The extremely high ratio of tableware, especially in the two pottery storerooms, and the likelihood that L77 served as a public dining room, suggest that the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran had developed a high degree of commensality. In dining together, they were not only demonstrating their solidarity and their social cohesion as a community, but they were separating their interior world from the external one that was excluded from the meals (cf. Bourdieu 1984: 177–208, esp. 196; Douglas 1975). The high ratio of tableware is important since food consumption is a mechanism which creates social hierarchy and consequently an elite group. Food is an index of status and relative power (Gransey 1999: 6), and feasting reflects status, prestige, and power (Wiessner and Shiefenhövel 1996; Dieter and Hayden 2001). A  strongly hierarchical cuisine—dividing the meal into courses served in a set order—reflects social hierarchy, characterized by sharply contrasting lifestyles (Goody 1982: 99, 153). The structure of the meal and food is indicative of social ranking. For example, in Greco-Roman haute cuisine the variety and enhancement of food signaled prestige and marked social distinction (Gransey 1999: 113). A large number of vessels related to food serving and ritual among the Mayan Copan elite in Copan Valley shows that elite groups engaged in particular consumption and production in their residential compounds, making visible their claim to social distinction and prestige. These circles of consumption and feasting served to define elitism by excluding commoners (Hendon 2003). The functional diversity of ceramics in an assemblage from early modern Annapolis, Maryland, indicates increasing segmentation at the table, which reinforced a new standardized way of eating (Shackel 1993). Behavior that standardizes and segmentizes requires one dish per person and a variety of dish sizes for different courses during the meal. This highly formalized mode of dining, which also included rules for how and what is eaten, served as the center of social ritual among the elite and reasserted their domination. Material goods were used by the elite to reaffirm their position in the hierarchy (Shackel 1993: 5, 56–57, 101–102, 115, 124–125, 152; cf. Little

144  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran 1997; for the consumption of goods as creating domination or hegemony, see Douglas and Isherwood 1978). We can therefore conclude that when people share a highly structured meal with substantial ritual markers, they are claiming distinction or superiority over others, thereby acting as an elite. The Kh. Qumran inhabitants dined as an elite group, regarding themselves as socially (or religiously) superior to outsiders. Although they were already geographically remote and socially detached from any other community (e.g., the elites in Jerusalem or Jericho), stressing their distinction or superiority through the ritualization of meals attests to the significance they attached to this sense of elitism. The hierarchical pattern of their dining may also attest to hierarchies between the diners themselves, relating to internal status distinctions (who eats with whom, what meals and foods, when and where). Ritual Meals, Elitism, and Sectarianism A complex hierarchical structure of ritual meals in which participants emphasize their social solidarity and the exclusion of outsiders is characteristic of elite groups who stress their special status or superiority. Admittedly, a certain degree of elitism and social separation may be related to a villa or a private village where the inhabitants sometimes maintained their self-identity (for these types of settlements, cf. Faust 2005; Safrai 1998). However, the extremely high proportion of tableware at Kh. Qumran points to an exceptional ritualization of the meal, and an outstanding attempt to achieve social exclusiveness. Proportionally, the amount of tableware of the entire ceramic assemblage is also far higher than one would expect for a villa, of ca. 4500m2, such as Tel Anafa and Horvat ´Eleq. We must therefore seek another explanation for the exceptional abundance of tableware. Elitist self-identity which excludes others is characteristic of all sects. Sects regard themselves as an elect group or a remnant, possessing special enlightenment, holding a monopoly over the ultimate religious truth, and claiming personal perfection (Wilson 1959: 4; 1982: 91–93). Sects adhere to separation from the outside world and the norms of the surrounding society, while also enhancing rituals which distinguish them from others (Stark and Bainbridge 1985: 49–60; Regev 2007: 50–57, 269–300). Thus, the nature of the meals reflected in the tableware found at Kh. Qumran is consistent with the social features of a sect.

Resistance in Kh. Qumran? Resistance and Sectarian Ideology It is difficult to trace sectarian ideology through archaeology. Nevertheless, since resistance is a related social or cultural phenomenon which may be expressed in material culture, identifying it may allow us to trace sectarian ideology in the material record. As already noted, a sect is a religious group in a state of tension with its environment, expressed by antagonism, separation, and difference. These tendencies may be conveyed by resistance through material culture.

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  145 Resistance occurs when there is tension between dominant and subordinate societies. The subordinate society feels antagonism toward the dominant one, and preserves or develops distinct modes of behavior (such as language, art, or rituals) in order to express its cultural independence or separation (Seymour 2006: 305). There are diverse forms of resistance such as malingering, strikes, thievery, and banditry as well as speech, tales, and chants (McGuire and Paynter 1991: 11–13, 15–16). Subordinate societies may also carry out disguised, low-profile and undeclared hidden transcripts of resistance, such as rituals of aggression and creating autonomous social space for the assertion of dignity (Scott 1990: esp. 198; cf. Scott 1985). Thus, resistance may remain relatively invisible to those in power, not provoking reaction or even recognition from others, and lacking a specific “target” (Hollander and Einwohner 2004: 541). Famous examples of sectarian resistance represented in material culture are the technological taboos of the Old Order Amish and the Old Order Mennonites (Kraybill 2001: 21–26, 41, 70–79, 188–237; Redekop 1969: 35–37, 43, 48–50). Here rejection was expressed by avoiding the use of the dominant material culture or by actively reacting to it. Modes of resistance found in the archaeological record of Kh. Qumran would support the view that its inhabitants were sectarians. Does the Pottery from Kh. Qumran Reflect Resistance? Recent discussions of the pottery from Kh. Qumran have focused on whether it differs substantially from the ceramics of other contemporaneous sites in Judaea or the Dead Sea region. Chemical tests have also been used attempting to discover whether the Qumran vessels were locally produced or imported from other workshops. Scholarly interest in these questions was stimulated by the pre-supposition that local and distinctive pottery would demonstrate a sectarian character, while trading vessels from outside sites would attest to a non-sectarian settlement. Associating local and distinctive pottery with sectarian ideology actually pre-supposes that sects refuse to use vessels produced by outsiders, since they have a distinctive material culture. Such an approach implies the concept of resistance through rejection of certain vessels and the manufacture and use of distinctive ceramics. Several social archaeologists have identified resistance in the manufacture and use of vessels and artifacts which differ from those of the dominant society. Ferguson (1991) suggested that the Colono Ware ceramics of the African-Americans in 18th century South Carolina ignored the characteristics of the European-American Georgian foodways, but imitated West-African ceramics. Colono Ware reinforced common heritage and cultural difference. Similarly, the so-called Gentiles or unbaptized among the Rarámuri of northwest Mexico withdrew geographically and religiously from the surrounding society. They resisted the external hegemony of the Mestizo by manufacturing and using “antiquated” objects such as woolen skirts, bows and arrows. These objects signify defiant self-sufficiency and identify their makers as members of a subculture of resistance (Levy 1998). Was the pottery of Kh. Qumran distinctive in a manner which may reflect resistance? Magness (1994) argued that the ceramic repertoire at Kh. Qumran

146  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran was limited and repetitive, bearing a plain and deliberately selective character (cf. de Vaux 1973: 17; Broshi and Eshel 2004: 163). The inhabitants preferred to manufacture most of their ceramic products as a deliberate policy designed to reinforce the community’s self-sufficiency and isolation. Extremely prevalent types at Kh. Qumran, such as the delicate cup or bowl with a flaring rim (called “cyma profile”) and ring base (as well as a Hellenistic-like oil lamp type) were not widespread in Judaea, and therefore were probably manufactured at the site. Other types of pottery prevalent in Judaea, such as Eastern Sigillata A and pseudoNabataean bowls (also called Jerusalem painted bowls) were found in limited quantity at the site (Eisenstadt 2018: 208–210; Donceel and Donceel-Voûte 2017: Chapter 4, pp. 43–45). When Magness (2002: 73–79; 2004a: esp. 13–15) revised her arguments, she did not repeat the selective and isolated characteristics of the pottery at Kh. Qumran. She admitted that the relative absence of types commonly found in Judaea, such as imported vessels (Western Terra Sigillata, amphoras, and Roman lamps) as well as the more common Eastern Terra Sigillata and Jerusalem painted bowls, is not unique to Kh. Qumran since such vessels were likewise not found in Ein Boqeq (Fisher et al. 2000: 30–33), south of Qumran, or in Ein ez-Zara (ancient Callirrhoe). Magness now believes that the limited ceramic repertoire may have been the result of a regional phenomenon such as trade factors (the high cost of overland transport) rather than a sectarian ideology of seclusion (see also BarNathan 2006a; Zangenberg 2004: 77–78). Donceel and Donceel Voûte (1994: 7, 12, 2017; Donceel Voûte 1994), Hirschfeld (2004: 142–149), and Magen and Peleg (2006: 68, 71–72, 102–103: 2007: 21) overemphasized the presence of several Eastern Sigillata sherds, painted “pseudo-Nabataean” wares, and 70 mold-blown glass wares. Several of these vessels were similar to those of the southern Phoenician coast, Herculaneum and Pompei, and others were probably locally manufactured, since raw material for glass was found at the site (note, however, that according to Mizzi 2010: 108–123 most of the glassware from period II are of the cheapest kind and the luxurious glassware may be from period III). These scholars believe that these relatively expensive vessels indicate the inhabitants’ wealth and hence their non-sectarian identity. They also point to decorations such as stone slabs carefully cut to be used in pavements of opus sectile and columns (cf. Chambon 2003) as well as the 1,234 coins (cf. Murphy 2002: 305–317). Nonetheless, some of the pottery found in Kh. Qumran was clearly produced at the site. The remains of eight kilns and a potter’s wheel were found (in loci 64–66, 84, 101, 105, 125 and south of L12; Magen and Peleg 2018: 133), as well as plastered installations that may have been used for washing clay, and a large amount of production waste (de Vaux 1973: 16–17; Broshi 1998: 24; Magen and Peleg 2006: 64, 68). However, petrographical and Neutron-Activation Analysis of the vessels’ clay yielded mixed results. Some of the tested pottery was probably produced from local clay in the kilns on-site. However, many other vessels of different types were manufactured from clay characteristic of Jerusalem, Jericho, Motsa (near Jerusalem), and Beit ‘Ummar (near Hebron), as well as other

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  147 types of clay which do not exist near Qumran (see earlier). It would seem that the pottery of Kh. Qumran cannot be characterized as secluded, substantially plain, or significantly distinctive, and it does not represent resistance to the dominant material culture of Jerusalem or Hasmonean Jericho (on Jericho see Regev 2013: 257–260). We need to consider the social aspects of these findings. Local pottery production may express community identity. In Late Maya formative villages in Belize it marked village differentiation in response to dominating institutionalized power relationships, when communities established their place within society (Barlett and Mcanay 2000). The material culture of the 19th century American Quakers is characterized by plainness in ceramics and burial (Chenoweth 2009: 322–323). Yet the purchase or use of vessels from the outside society in Kh. Qumran does not disprove that its inhabitants were sectarians. Extremely segregated sects, such as the Hutterites and Old Order Mennonites, also use vessels and goods (such as tractors) purchased from outside (Redekop 1969; Hostetler 1974: 195–196). The Old Order Amish use china dishes, sometimes purchased at an auction (Friesen and Friesen 1996: 44), and their economic system is not exclusive (Kraybill 2001: 238–267). The Moravians in Salem, North Carolina, who maintained social segregation, brought some of their vessels from outside (Thomas 1994; cf. Shaker stores and commercial goods, in Nicoletta 1995: 77–87, 111–114). Sects that reject the accumulation of wealth and modern technology do not necessarily express their resistance by the types of vessels they use. A plain ceramic repertoire or acquiring goods from the outside world do not necessarily indicate the presence or absence of resistance. Can any other forms of resistance be found in Kh. Qumran? Interpreting Deposits of Animal Bones and Vessels: Ritual Meals as Resistance De Vaux paid special attention to over 40 animal bone deposits stored in ceramic vessels. He found such deposits from periods Ib and II in loci 23, 65, 73, 80, 92, 130, 132, 135, and the trench south of the settlement, namely at the northern, southern and southeastern margins of the site (apart from L23 which is in the middle court of the “main building”; De Vaux 1973: 13 n. 1; Magness 2004b: 98–99). Magen and Peleg (2007: 12, 43, 63; 2018: 127) found more deposits from both periods in loci 44, 59, and 61, to name a few, as well as in the southern dump. Randall Price excavated some deposits under the boundary wall of the southern esplanade (Magness 2016: 14). Interestingly, almost all these deposits were located on the outskirts of the site, north, east and south of the buildings, with only one in the main courtyard. The bones were of sheep, goats, lambs, kids and calves, most of which had been boiled while some were roasted (Zeuner 1960; Magen and Peleg 2007: 63). They were stored in different vessels, especially pots and jars, and it seems that some of them were deliberately broken (Magness 2004b: 98; cf. L130 in Humbert and Chamabon 1994: 333). The vessels were either placed on the ground or buried.

148  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran De Vaux concluded that the bones were remains of meals which reflected a certain ritual, and his followers pointed out that they were sacral meals, indicating the “sectarian” character of the inhabitants (Magness 2005b: 94–99; Pfann 2006: 172; cf. Laperrousaz 1976: 211–221; Humbert et al. 2016: 59–64, 71–75 suggest that these are Passover or first fruits festival offerings). Others, however, offered more mundane explanations. The bones were deposited at the site because the members did not wish to leave its confines on their holidays, or they were afraid to go out in the dark. Vessels were used to cover the bones to prevent their detection by wild animals or perhaps to improve the fertility of the soil (Cansdale 197: 160; Hirschfeld 2004: 111; Donceel 2005: 45–46; Magen and Peleg 2006: 96). These later explanations are unconvincing. Some bones and vessels were not buried sufficiently deeply to thwart foraging animals. All were placed near the walls of the main building, where there was no need to fertilize the soil. If these bone deposits were merely a garbage disposal dump, at some point they should have been removed to open areas and not stored in vessels. The view that the vessels were discarded due to their impurity (Hirschfeld’s 2004: 109) or the impurity of the bones (Cansdale 1997: 160) should be rejected, since the bones of kosher animals are no more defiling than other foodstuffs. The storage or burial of the bone deposits right next to the buildings, rather than in the open desert, indicates that they were handled with special care as bones with a unique ritual status (cf. Magness 2004b: 97–98). Comparisons with the remains from ancient sanctuaries led Magness (2016) to conclude that the bone deposits represent sacrificial refuse, and that the sectarians compared themselves to Israel’s camp in the desert with the Tabernacle in their midst (see also Magness 2011: 42–50). In ancient Mediterranean sanctuaries bones were burnt on the altar, and remains of such debris were found in several sanctuaries (Ekroth 2016). Magness (2016: 15–21) points to the debris of pottery in certain sanctuaries, which is less common. But this pottery debris included vessels without bones, as if they had been stored in a cupboard (e.g., in the sanctuary of Poseideon at Isthemia). When bones and pottery were found together, like in the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore at Corinth, in one pit and in the construction fill of one of the buildings, they were merely concentrations of waste, and there is no sign that the pottery was used for serving the meat (Bookidis et al. 1999: 17). There is no reason to believe that they were buried because of their relationship to sacrifices, or that they may have been considered sacred in any way. While in the Israelite Iron Age temple at Tel Dan “some of the animal bones were found inside pots or bowls” (Magness 2016: 18, italics added), in Kh. Qumran many animal bones were found attached to pottery. Furthermore, the proportion of vessels and pottery is different: At the animal bone deposits in Kh. Qumran there was a pottery item for almost every bone complex. In other words, the amount of bones was radically low compared to the number of temples and sanctuaries. Thus, despite partial parallels, the combination of bones stored alongside and especially inside pottery vessels is quite unique to Kh. Qumran. Magness (2016: 23–24) followed Humbert (1994: 184–189) in suggesting that these animals were sacrificed on an altar, which she located at the northern side

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  149 of the site. She pointed to the ash mixed with the bones as indicative of an altar. But the majority of the bones in de Vaux’s excavations were cooked, not burnt (Magen and Peleg 2018: 129, noting the differences from the burnt bones at the Temple of Mt. Grizim). Only a few showed traces of burning (Zeuner 1960). Thus, “the material as a whole cannot be seen as altar debris” (Mizzi 2016: 41). In my view, arguing that there was an altar in Kh. Qumran on which animal sacrifices were offered is not the most plausible explanation for the bones inside the pottery vessels. If the bones had merely been garbage, or even the remnants of sacred meals, they could have been deposited or burned at a distance, like the remains of the Temple sacrifices (Lev 4:12; m. Me’ila 2:5). The meat of kosher animals (and consequently, their bones) apparently had special ritual status, analogous to a sacrifice, but the bones had an additional ritual element. The act of placing the bones in vessels and burying them around the site next to its walls and in its most central courtyard was in itself a rite. The burial of objects and deposits or offerings constructs spaces to be remembered, based on mutual knowledge. It reinforces the affiliation between the individual and the social group defined by shared residence and practices (Hendon 2000). The vessels in which the bones were buried, especially the cooking pots (in loci 23, 130, 132, 135; see also Magen and Peleg 2007: 45, fig. 44), may have had their own ritual status, and therefore they were not disposed of merely as receptacles of bones. According to biblical law and rabbinic halakhah, clay vessels in which certain sacrifices were boiled had the same ritual status as their sacred contents, because the vessel absorbed sacred meat. Such vessels could not subsequently be put to ordinary non-sacral use, but needed to be broken or disqualified (Lev 6:21; m. Zebah̟ im 11.4–5, 7). To prevent the desecration of these vessels, they were kept out of reach. Rabbinic laws mention breaking and puncturing such vessels (m. Kelim 3:1; 8:2), many of which have been found stored (in water reservoirs, for example) in excavations near the Temple Mount and in Jerusalem’s Herodian Quarter (Grossberg 2002). I suggest that the disposal of bones and some of their containers are the remains of ritual meals in which the meat was considered consecrated (cf. Mizzi 2016). Significantly, meals in which meat was considered sacred were limited to the Temple sacrifices eaten at the Temple Mount or inside Jerusalem (Grossberg 2002; cf. Temple Scroll 52:13–53:10). The meals that resulted in these disposals should be interpreted as analogous to the sacrificial meals at the Jerusalem Temple (Magness 2004b: 94–98), but not necessarily as actual sacrifices (as suggested by Humbert 1994: 184–203), since the evidence relates only to the cooking and disposal of meat. These were unusual ritual meals, since meat consumption was not common in antiquity. However, meat was available in religious ceremonies, and therefore it had social significance (Gransey 1999: 123–124). The animal bone deposits, and especially the burying of the vessels in which they were probably cooked or served as if they had a sacred status, attest to ritualization of the meals in which the meat was served. Ritualization includes social actions which are distinguished from other actions. It is a way of acting designed

150  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran and orchestrated to distinguish what is being done from other, usually more quotidian, activities (Bell 1992: 74). Here the consumption of sacred meat (which consecrated the vessels and required their burial next to the buildings) distinguished the diners from others who ate only ordinary meals. Since consecrating meals was limited to the sacrificial meals in or near the Jerusalem Temple, the ritual meals in Kh. Qumran, many miles away from the Temple, signified a challenge to the Temple cult. The inhabitants of Kh. Qumran imitated the ritual practices of the Temple and Jerusalem in a manner which probably purposely violated the traditional Judaean taboos of holiness which prohibited the consumption of sacred meat outside the Temple and its environs. I suggest that their consumption of sacred meat signified a ritual of resistance to the Temple. The large amount of animal bones and pottery deposits indicates that this ritual of resistance was not rare. Interpreting the Cemetery: Burial Shafts as an Expression of Resistance The cemetery adjacent to Kh. Qumran on its western side is comprised of some 1,177 identical oval-shaped heaps of stones, most of them oriented north-south (Eshel et al. 2002). Each heap covered a rectangular shaft (1.2–2 m. deep) that had been hewn horizontally to accommodate a corpse. At the bottom of the shaft, a loculus or niche was dug (de Vaux 1973: 45–48, 57–58; Puech 1998 with bibliography). Accompanying grave goods were scarce. Most impressive is the uniformity of shape, orientation and “row segmented” organization of the graves (de Vaux 1973: 46; for types of cemetery organization, see Parker Pearson 2003: 12–14). These shaft graves were substantially different from conventional burial in contemporaneous Jerusalem and Jericho, where a relatively large cave and several loculi were hewn, usually as a familial burial site (see Chapter 3). Hachlili concluded that the Qumran cemetery reflects a distinctive, out of the ordinary community, which purposely used different customs. If Qumran had been a Judaean fortress or villa, the burial customs would have followed the Jerusalem-Jericho form of loculi-family tombs and their burial customs. . . . The individual burial . . . seems to indicate that the residents of Qumran were not families. (Hachlili 1993: 263; cf. Hachlili 2005: 472–473, 475–479) Puech and others argued that using the least expensive form of burial reflects the Essene “vow of poverty” (Puech 1998: 28–29; cf. Taylor 1999: 312–313) and speculated that the individual graves were intended to separate men and women (assuming that the inhabitants were celibate Essenes). Similar but much smaller cemeteries or scattered burials were found elsewhere on the Dead Sea shore in ´Ain el-Ghuweir and Hiyam el-Sagha, and near Jerusalem (Beit Safafa, East Talpiyot and Mamilla). Some suggested that they were burials of Essenes or related groups (Zissu 1998; Hachlili 2005: 20–22, 471–473).

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  151 Others argued that plain burial shafts merely represent a conventional burial method in field graves for burying the poor, and lone individuals who lacked the resources to finance a hewn tomb (Hirschfeld 2004: 162; Magen and Peleg 2006: 97). The discovery of a large Nabataean cemetery comprised of 3,500 deep shaft tombs in Kh. Qazone at the eastern shore of the Dead Sea (Politis 1998, 2006) led many to conclude that a single shaft tomb is neither typical of Qumran nor is it distinctively Judaean, and that the north-south orientation is not unique to Qumran (Zangenberg 1999; Hirschfeld 2004: 162; Politis 2006: 219; Avni 2009). There are several possible reasons for burial in single shaft graves, but those adjacent to the buildings of Kh. Qumran should be interpreted with an eye toward the material culture in the site’s buildings. The main question is why the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran were buried in individual shafts instead of in familial caves of hewn loculi. The 1,414 coins found at the site, including a hoard of 561 silver coins (see Laperrousaz 1976: 149–153; Magen and Peleg 2007: 22)—compared to 57 coins in Ein Boqeq’s officiana (Fisher et al. 2000: 85–92, 137) and 223 coins in Horvat ´Eleq (Barkay 2000)—and the large amount of pottery indicate that the inhabitants had considerable economic resources (for some of the skeletal remains as reflecting an upper class lifestyle, see Röhrr-Ertl 2006: 186). I  thus propose that in Kh. Qumran plain burials were a matter of preference, or to use a socioanthropological term, ideology. This also explains why the graves have a uniform orientation and shape (for ideology expressed by burial customs, cf. Parker Pearson 2003: 32–34, 86–94, 135–137; McGuire 2003; see also Chapter 4). These burials are intentionally not familial, but not necessarily because the deceased did not live in families. All that can be concluded is that the people in charge of the burials chose to understate the significance of family relations and to stress the identical communal status or commemoration of the dead. They could have buried them in caves (and in the Herodian period onwards, also in ossuaries) as in Jericho and Ein Gedi, but chose otherwise. I suggest that the reason for the plain burial in shafts was to erase individual identity—including familial identity—and maintain social uniformity and communal identity, as if all are equal within the community. The rejection of the common burial in a loculus or niche inside a hewn cave was therefore intentional and ideological. This may be interpreted as an act of resistance to the outside society. Resistance through differences in burial is attested, for example, in Narragansett, a 17th century Indian cemetery in Rhode Island. Here the organization of the cemetery and the orientation or posture of the bodies were uniform. Although they contained many European artifacts, these graves attest to an affirmation of cultural values as a response to threatening European contact (Robinson et al. 1985). In late 19th century Broome County, the religious rural elite denied class differentiation (characteristic of the secular urban elite) by using identical marble tablets (instead of the monumental ones favored by the urban elite) and decorating the graves with distinctive symbols (McGuire 2003: 467–468). I propose interpreting the intentionally distinctive burial practice and the identical burials at Kh. Qumran as an act of resistance on the part of the inhabitants, to demonstrate (to themselves and to outsiders) the uniqueness and cohesiveness of their community, in

152  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran contrast to the dominant culture, where familial affiliation and status differences created schisms in society. As a side note, scholarly discussions on the Kh. Qumran burials focus on the presence or absence of women and children and whether or not this conforms to the identification of the site with the celibate Essenes (e.g., Zias 2000). Yet only a small percentage of the burial shafts were excavated (Magen and Peleg 2018: 99 report the digging of nine additional ones) and there is a small number of skeletal remains of Second Temple women and children, which leaves the debate open (Norton 2003 with bibliographic survey). Interestingly, supposedly small female finds such as finger rings may attest to women’s presence at the site (Regev 2009b: 199–202). Nonetheless, in my view, evidence for woman and children at Kh. Qumran is irrelevant to whether its inhabitants were Qumranites. This is because unlike the Essenes, there is no evidence that the Yahad or any community represented in the Dead Sea Scrolls were celibates (Regev 2007: 248–266; 2008).

Split Ritual Baths and Social Hierarchy De Vaux excavated 10 or 11 stepped pools or cisterns in Kh. Qumran (Galor 2006; Reich 2013: 164–175; Humbert et al. 2016: 237–276). Recently some scholars have regarded them merely as water reservoirs (Cansdale 1997: 125–136; Hidiroglou 2000; Humbert et al. 2016: 87, 251), as facilities for collecting clay for pottery production (Magen and Peleg 2006: 68; 2018: 116–119, following their finding of clay sediments in L58), for drying dates, or for processing perfumes and ointments from balsam (Hirschfeld 2004: 138). Nevertheless, most scholars identify them as ritual baths (miqv’aot). This identification is based on the existence of staircases, and the fact that their capacity and the channeling system which provided the non-drawn water used for ritual bathing for purification corresponds with later rabbinic halakhah (Strobel 1972; Reich 1990, 2000b, 2013: 165, 169–173; Galor 2006: 316). In addition, the amount of water available in these baths is more than twice the amount of water needed for ordinary living and bathing (Wood 1984). The large number of baths in this small site and the fact that baths 56, 71, and 91 are exceptionally large may attest to a stronger need for purification or a larger number of immersers (Galor 2006: 310, 313; cf. Broshi 1998: 24; Broshi and Eshel 2004: 163. The only complex in which many baths were found is the villa in Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter mentioned earlier, comprising six baths cf. Hirschfeld 2004: 128). Reich (1997: 128) attributed their large number to the communal meals, assuming that the inhabitants immersed themselves before partaking of these meals. Others, however, denied the uniqueness of the baths in Kh. Qumran, arguing that they were used for manufacturing pure wine and other products (L68 was situated near a wine press, see Hirschfeld 2004: 121, 138), or to produce pottery in a state of purity (Magen and Peleg 2006: 88–89, 92–94; 2007: 41–42). These suggestions, however, only relate to some of the ritual baths and do not exclude their simultaneous use for conventional purification.

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  153 Five out of the 10 or 11 baths (L43/48/49, 56, 71, 117, and 138) have staircases with a symbolic partition made of plaster lines or partition walls (Galor 2006: 293, 304, 311), designed to demarcate the division between those who descend in a state of impurity and those who ascend in a state of purity, similar to some baths in Jerusalem and its environs (Reich 1980; 2013: 61–67). Such partitions may have been associated with priestly concerns of ritual purity, in which entrance and exit stairways were separated in a manner resembling the Temple cult (Regev 1996; 1997a). This is because such a separation between entrance and exit lanes is characteristic of the Temple cult (Temple Scroll 45:3–7; m. Middot 2:2; m. Zebah̟ im 6:3; p. Oxyrhynchus 840). In any event, these partitions prove that they were indeed ritual baths (Broshi 1998: 24; Broshi and Eshel 2004: 163). Three of these split baths have more than one low partition line. In L56 (which is close to the supposed dining hall L77) the five uppermost steps have two parallel low stepped partitions made of plaster, creating a triple distribution of these stairs crosswise. Also in L71, the largest stepped pool, two parallel short partitions cross the four upper stairs. In L43/48/49 the upper five steps are distributed by three such parallel plastered partitions as well as by an additional small wall, thus having five lanes crosswise. The only two parallels to these multiple partitions were discovered recently in Tel Hebron (Ben Shlomo 2018, who also suggests certain religious or regional links between the two sites). De Vaux (2003: 30 ad. L48) found the “separations” “difficult to interpret.” Reich (2013: 168) suggested that their function was to direct the water through the staircase down to the baths, but this is not convincing since in any case the water was moved by the force of gravity. I suggest that the use of more than one partition and three to five lanes leading to the bath down/up the stairs are symbolic divisions into several degrees of purification. They reflect a complex system of ritual purity, which may also attest to a certain social structure unique to Kh. Qumran. In general terms, separation is dictated by hierarchy (cf. Dumont 1980). As I have previously suggested, the conventional split bath, where a defiled person goes down one side of the staircase and up the other side in a state of purity, is related to a priestly or otherwise stricter degree of purity. Consequently, the division of the staircase into three, four or five lanes marks several different levels of purity observed by their users (compare the four different degrees of purity among Essene members in War 2.150–153; cf. Magness 2002: 150). Certain levels of purification may have demanded the use of a certain lane while another degree of purity required another lane. Multiple lanes indicate a demarcation between distinct levels of purity, and probably between different “castes” of people (cf. Reich 1997: 126). Thus, the plastered partitions are markers of a special hierarchy, between persons or occupations, depending on certain requirements of purification. Such a unique phenomenon does not correspond with the social structure of a villa, manor house, fortress, and so on, but may reflect different hierarchies within a sect (on different sectarian systems of hierarchy in the scrolls and among early modern sects, cf. Regev 2007: 285–291).

154  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran

Conclusions: Toward the Archaeology of Sectarianism Sectarian Characteristics of the Material Culture at Kh. Qumran The analysis of architecture, pottery, burial, and ritual baths enables us to trace several features that may be associated with sectarianism. Strong social boundaries which are the most basic feature of a sect’s separation from the outside world are reflected in the spatial organization of the buildings at Kh. Qumran. The access analysis map shows that many of the rooms are located several spaces from the entrance. The mean depth of Kh. Qumran is larger than any other villa and manor house, including the elaborate Hilkiya’s Palace and Horvat ‘Eleq, demonstrating that the spatial boundaries and seclusion from the surrounding society were greatest at Kh. Qumran. A sense of exclusiveness and elitism from which outsiders were excluded is implied by ritual meals which are attested to by an exceptional abundance of tableware (46–84% of the entire ceramic assemblage). Ritualization is one of the ways in which sects express their ideology in relation to the outside world, creating a sense of togetherness and modes of exclusive and distinctive sacredness. The use of numerous tableware vessels by each diner at a meal attests to an emphasis on symbolic distinctions, implying that meals played a ritual role. A relatively large number of people dined together and attributed special social meaning to their meals, which were served as separate courses. The large number of cups and goblets may also indicate ritual drinking. Special ritual meals are also indicated by the deposits of animal bones and the vessels in which the meat was cooked. Ritualization is also revealed by the access analysis: a division of spaces into isolated segments, namely, between mundane activities and distinguished performances. Comparisons to the spatial organizations of other modern sects, notably the Shakers, attest to several similarities: spatial boundaries and vantage points, circulation paths, corridors and passageways, and communal buildings. These common features also indicate that the organization of space in Kh. Qumran reflects sectarian organization and ideology. Hierarchy is another sectarian feature attested to in Kh. Qumran. By hierarchy I mean not only social distinctions between different classes of people, characteristic of only a certain type of sect, but also a division into different categories of occupations and practices, such as between the mundane and the sacred. The division of the private and communal life of sect members into daily and sacred activities is common to all sects, and is more intense than in non-sectarian societies. As a result, greater significance is attributed to rituals such as rites of passage (cf. Regev 2007: esp. 280–284). The spatial organization of the site into segments probably marks a division into different categories of occupations and practices, such as between mundane/ sacred, private/communal, and ritual and non-ritual spaces. More than any other villa or manor house, here each segment is connected to a controlling central passage with minimal connections between segments.

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  155 A similar type of hierarchy is found in the three ritual baths divided into separate lanes by two or four partitions. The differentiation into lanes reflects a division into different kinds of ablutions, such as between sacred and more sacred, or perhaps different classes of immersers. The large amount of tableware also points to a certain hierarchy, related either to the structure of the meals (e.g., different courses) or to different status among the diners. Both hierarchy and ritualization mark a complex social organization and are especially characteristic of sects. They are also characteristic of the Shaker colonies, where spatial ordering creates distinctions between different areas. Resistance to the outside dominant society may be a basic characteristic of sectarian ideology. However, in Kh. Qumran resistance is not indicated by the rejection of goods common in other sites in Judaea, since the types of pottery used at the site do not represent seclusion or a distinctive style. Rather, resistance is implied by the animal bone deposits buried on the outskirts of Kh. Qumran. These deposits are the remains of meals in which the meat and bones of the animals were considered sacred. The consumption of meat at these meals was analogous to sacrificial meals at the Temple. This may have been an intentional challenge to the priestly cult in Jerusalem whereby the inhabitants claimed that comparable holiness could be achieved at a site remote from the Jerusalem Temple. Burial in single burial shafts, creating a break from the norm of familial burial caves and ossuaries, seems to derive from ideology rather than from lack of means. It appears to demonstrate the uniform and distinct communal identity of the deceased, resisting the familial structure of the Judaean elites. Reconstructing sectarian ideology out of material remains is a matter of interpretation. The results cannot be as straightforward as tracing sectarianism in written documents. Nonetheless, the present analysis points to several independent manifestations in the material culture of features which are characteristic of sectarianism. If Kh. Qumran were a villa, manor house, fortress, inn, or a center for manufacturing pottery or balsam, these results would have been extremely odd. Regardless of the scrolls found in nearby caves, our examination indicates that the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran subscribed to a sectarian ideology or bore social characteristics typical of sects. Back to the Scrolls: Comparing Kh. Qumran with the Yahad’s Community Rule So far the discussion has been restricted to the social archaeology of identifying sectarianism without engaging with the Dead Sea Scrolls. Since many have debated the question of whether the so-called Qumran community of the scrolls dwelled at Kh. Qumran, it is tempting to compare our results with the features of sectarianism manifested in the most relevant sectarian document among the scrolls—the Community Rule of the Yahad group (which many assume to be ­identical with the Essenes). The Yahad was indeed an introversionist sect with many features common to modern sects such as the Amish, Hutterites, and Shakers

156  The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran (Regev 2007). Interestingly, several generic sectarian characteristics were shared by the Yahad and the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran. The Yahad maintained strict social boundaries such as limitations on meals and commerce with non-members. They regarded themselves as a segregated group: “they will segregate (like) holy ones . . . they are to be segregated from within the dwelling of the men of sin to walk to the desert” (1QS 8:11–13). Yahad members maintained a social hierarchy. They were ranked according to descent, their “spirit, insight and works in the Torah,” while full members, partial members and novices had different status (Regev 2007: 285–291). Under certain circumstances, priests, especially the Sons of Zadok, enjoyed a higher status (1QS 5:2, 8–9; 8:8– 9; 9:7). Members gathered in communal assemblies in which they also dealt with the admission of new members (1QS 6:8–23). They also held special rites, such as the annual communion ceremony of “passage into the covenant” (1QS 1:16–2:32; Kugler 2002) and special prayers (1QS 9:4–5; 10:1–11:2). Nonetheless, these similarities to the archaeological findings in Kh. Qumran may merely be the result of their common sectarian character, and a direct connection cannot be proved. Yet, there are more specific similarities. The animal bone deposits in vessels indicating the consumption of sacred meat express an alternative to the priestly cult and the resistance of Kh. Qumran’s inhabitants to the Temple. The Yahad believed that prayer and moral behavior were a substitute for sacrificial rites and led to atonement (1QS 9:3–5; Regev 2007: 122–124; 2018). Nevertheless, there is no reference in the Community Rule (or in any other scroll) to the consumption of sacred meat outside the Temple. This may have been a ritual unique to the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran. Communal meals played a central role for both the Kh. Inhabitants and the Yahad. The rules detailed in the Community Rule demonstrate that the Yahad’s meals were extremely important social institutions (Bilde 1998). These rules stipulate that the priest should be the first to make a blessing when eating bread or drinking wine (1QS 6:4–5; 1QSa 2:17–22). Transgressors were punished by reducing a quarter of “one’s bread” for a period ranging from days to years (1QS 6:25–7:19). Novices and transgressors were excluded from the “purity” (namely, the meals) and “beverage” (mashkeh) of the sect (1QS 6:16–21; 7:18–21). Participation in these meals therefore affirmed membership, and reflected a hierarchal symbolism in which priests had priority and transgressors were chastised (Eckhardt 2010). This recalls the significance of feasts in Kh. Qumran, and particularly the ritualistic characteristics of using individual dishes and probably different courses. This does not mean, however, that the sect reflected in the Community Rule actually lived in Kh. Qumran, but points to a relatively close connection between them. In conclusion, the social analysis of the archaeological record of Kh. Qumran indicates that the inhabitants of Kh. Qumran adhered to a sectarian ideology, quite similar to that of the Yahad. Like the Yahad they were self-secluded, had a complex social structure which included hierarchy and rituals, resisted the Temple cult, and paid special social attention to ritual meals. However, although I see no contradiction or tension between the archaeological and literary evidence, such

The Archaeology of Sectarianism in Kh. Qumran  157 a correlation is not enough in itself to justify identifying the inhabitants with the Yahad. In the beginning of the chapter I pointed to several methodological considerations pertaining to the conclusion that the Yahad, the sect of the Community Rule, was located at Kh. Qumran. The inhabitants may have been a group related (more or less directly) to the Yahad. Actually, it is likely that there was not one single community called the Yahad, but several independent communities at several locations. My comparative analysis of sectarian organizations has shown that a sect is hardly ever a single community, but rather a complex organization comprised of social networks in which multiple communities operate simultaneously (some sectarian communities are fully autonomous while others are connected by common leadership or a sort of steering committee, see Regev 2007: 291–296). As for the Community Rule, recent studies suggest that there were several concurrent and independent Yahad groups. These multiple Yahad groups may have had different designations—the rabbim and the “council of the Yahad”—referred to in the Community Rule (Hempel 2006, 2007 cf. Regev 2007: 181–184). Another indication for several Yahad groups is the different versions of the Community Rule from Cave 4 (Schofield 2008, 2009). Following the general and more specific similarities detailed here, I suggest that one of these Yahad groups or a similar related group inhabited Kh. Qumran.

7 Herod’s Baths and Palaces Judaean Identity, Court Society, and Royal Ideology

Introduction Although Herod’s palaces and building projects have been thoroughly studied by archaeologists and historians, they are rarely examined as a means for understanding the king independently of historical sources, namely, Josephus. This chapter utilizes the archaeological evidence from his palaces to reconstruct Herod’s Judaean/Jewish identity and his observance of religious law as reflected in the ritual baths he built. I will also explore his social relations with the members of his court and his visitors through analysis of the plans of his palaces, to better understand his ideology and how it changed during his reign. It is impossible to discuss here all the relevant archaeological and historical data. The following brief introduction will serve to introduce some aspects of King Herod. Herod’s Historical Image: Hellenized Monarch It is common to portray Herod as a Hellenized Idumaen whose Jewishness was superficial (Kokkinos 1998: 86–139, 342–362). Josephus’ description makes it very clear that the king prioritized his ties and self-interest in relation to Rome over any Jewish law or custom (Ant. 15.267, 328–330; 16.150–158; Schalit 1969: 412–450; Fuks 2002). Herod’s departure from the Jewish ethos is manifested in his deeds, which run contrary to Jewish laws and customs, as well as his strong cultural inclination toward Rome. Among other things, he built an amphitheater in which were held gladiator games and contests involving wild beasts, and he placed trophies adorned with human images in the theater (Ant. 15.267–291). The fact that Herod was a Hellenistic king inclined to Greco-Roman culture is attested to in his use of Hellenistic and Roman architecture, his art, and his building projects, which include the temples for Augustus in Caesarea and SamariaSebastia, Caesarea’s harbor, and the monumental tomb at Herodium (Roller 1998; Netzer 2006; Lictneberger 2009; Magness 2019b). He is even called philorōmaion in an inscription found in Athens (OGIS 414). Nevertheless, he regarded himself, and was also regarded by the Romans, as the king of the Judaeans (Plutarch, Life of Antony 61.2; Ant. 15.311; 20.173; War 2.226; Richardson 1999). Despite his DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-8

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  159 Idumean origins, his Jewish descent was hardly ever challenged (Cohen 1999b: 13–24). Herod’s personal and political relationship with his family and the members of his court—his brothers and sister, wives, sons, consultants and officers—is ­notoriously detailed in Josephus’ Judaean Antiquities and narrated as a tragedy (Landau 2006). Herod sentenced to death one wife and three of his sons for conspiring to kill or dethrone him. It is commonly claimed that he suffered from a mental illness that affected his behavior from the very beginning of his reign (Schalit 1969: 646–670; Kasher and Witztum 2007). Josephus, following Nicolaus of Damascus, alluded to Herod’s suspicious behavior toward others and his frequent bouts of social isolation (Kasher and Witztum 2007). Yet we should not accept Josephus’ portrait of Herod at face value, but compare it to the substantial firsthand archaeological evidence from his many palaces. Josephus’ criticism of Herod’s disregard of Jewish laws and traditions and his dysfunctional relationships with his family and court members should be approached with caution. Josephus writes from a one-sided perspective. He makes use of Hellenistic sources, notably Herod’s adviser and court member Nicolaus of Damascus’ Universal History (Shutt 1961: 79–92; Toher 2001). Nicolaus points to Herod’s foreign relations, monumental buildings and familial strife, and Josephus reacts by manifesting the narrator’s critical voice, based on Judaean traditions in which he is negatively portrayed. Herod’s true face, or at the very least his side of the story, will be revealed through his domestic buildings—his palaces. In this chapter I focus on Herod’s self-reflection and self-identity as they pertain to his observance of Jewish laws and customs, and the social relationships in his royal court. The archaeological findings make it possible to shift the scholarly perspective from how others saw Herod to the manner in which the king wished to be seen. This will also lead us to Herod’s ideology as a king and his attitude toward Judaean identity facing Romanization in the age of Augustus.

Herod’s Ritual Baths: Reclaiming Judaean Identity The Findings Herod’s cruelty as a ruler does not conform to the Jewish Torah. In fact, there are scant historical indications of his observance of the Jewish Law: Augustus may have known that Herod did not eat pork (Macrobius Saturnalia 2.4.11). Persius’ reference to “Herod days” is sometimes interpreted as implying his observance of the Sabbath (Stern 1980a: 665–666). However, identity begins at home. Herod’s approach to Jewish law and Judaean identity should be examined in his monumental palaces. His many palaces contained not only Hellenistic architecture and art (frescos, mosaics, etc.), but also many ritual baths. Since ritual baths are used for cleansing from impurity, as a development of the laws of the Priestly Code in the Pentateuch, they attest to observance of the Jewish law and the manifestation of Judaean identity, as was already discussed in Chapters 1 and 2.

160  Herod’s Baths and Palaces Twenty-nine ritual baths were found in the palaces of Jericho, Cyprus Herodium, Masada, Machaerus, and Caesarea. Ten of them had an additional adjacent stepless pool designated by scholars as “treasury” (otzar). These treasuries facilitated the use of the ritual bath (Adler 2014), and perhaps made it possible to draw water (that was invalid for purification) into non-drawn (“kosher”) water (Reich 2013: 41–43), following an early rabbinic halakhah which probably reflects the Pharisees (Regev 1996: 12–21). Some of the ritual baths were built in Herod’s royal bathhouses as an integral part of the bathing complex of the Roman bathhouse. They were actually frigidarium pools (small pools for bathing in cold water after bathing in hot water), built with steps. Their identification and significance will be discussed further, but first we need to list the Herodian ritual baths and their locations. Herod built three palaces in Jericho. In his first palace (the so-called “gymnasium,” excavated by Pritchard) the bathhouse complex located at the west of the entrance included a stepped frigidarium. East of the entrance there was a ritual bath with an adjoining stepless treasury pool (Netzer 1999a: 32–33; cf. Pritchard 1958: 57–58). Herod’s second palace included an adjoining ritual bath with a treasury and a stepped figidarium in the Roman bathhouse (Netzer 2001: 212, 214–217). In his third palace there was also a ritual bath in the opus reticilatum Roman bathhouse. Another ritual bath adjacent to this bathhouse was added in the post-Herodian period (Netzer 2001: 267–270).

Figure 7.1  A ritual bath in Herod’s second palace in Jericho

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  161 Additional ritual baths were excavated in Herodian villas near these palaces in Jericho. They were probably inhabited by Herod’s closest relatives or court members. The villa adjacent to the northern wing of Herod’s third palace included a ritual bath with a treasury (Netzer 2001: 274–275). In another villa in area AK northwest to Herod’s third palace a ritual bath was built as a stepped frigidarium, and another ritual bath with a treasury (Netzer 2001: 221–222). In areas AM west of Herod’s third palace, a ritual bath was exposed near a bathtub (that is, Greek bathhouse), adjacent to what may be another treasury (Netzer 2001: 226–228). Three additional baths with treasuries were also found in the Herodian royal estate, in close proximity to agricultural installations (Netzer 2004: 91–95, 113–114, 121). In Upper Herodium, the bathhouse included a frigidarium with a staircase, namely, a ritual bath (Reich 2013: 137; Netzer 1999a: 94). In Lower Herodium, in the northern wing’s Roman bathhouse Netzer excavated a stepped frigidarium with an adjacent treasury (Netzer 1981: 47–49), and a large ritual bath with a double entrance (Netzer 1981: 36–40). An additional ritual bath with a treasury was excavated in the northern quarter, and Netzer suggested that it was related to the domestic unit of one of the king’s clerks (Netzer 1999a: 34 n. 7). In Masada, two ritual baths were built next to the Greek bathhouse of the western palace (Netzer 1991: 251 n. 10, 259–262, 274–275). In the large bathhouse next to the northern palace the frigidarium was shaped as a ritual bath, and another ritual bath was built next to the bathhouse (Netzer 1991: 82, 86–87). In the northern palace’s service and entrance wing, in the so-called abandoned bathhouse, there was another frigidarium-ritual bath (Netzer 1991: 128–130). In the northern palace’s lower level, the Roman bathhouse consisted of another frigidarium ritual bath (Netzer 1991: 166–167). An additional ritual bath was found southwest of the middle terrace (ibid., 157–158). In the small bathhouse south of the storeroom complex, another ritual bath was built, and it probably served the local guards (ibid., 177, 183). In Cypros, there was a Roman bathhouse with a frigidarium-ritual bath in the upper level, and two in the lower level of the fortress (Netzer 2004: 242–243, 257). In Machaerus, the frigidarium was also a ritual bath (Reich 2013: 204–205). In Caesarea there was a single ritual bath near the first phase of the Promontory palace (Gleason 1998: 44–45). It seems that Herod and his closest court members and associates used five ritual baths in the palaces in Jericho. Seven more baths in the villas and agricultural estate near the palaces appear to belong to his family members or associates. Four baths were built in upper and lower Herodium, and eight in the palaces of Masada and elsewhere in this fortress. Two were built in Cypros, one in Machaerus, and another one in Herod’s palace in Caesarea. In all the Herodian palaces at least one ritual bath was found, and usually more than one. Some of them were placed in a central location in the palaces. Thirteen of them were part of the Roman bathhouse where Herod hosted his guests. We cannot be certain that Herod himself bathed in any of these baths, but it is extremely likely that some of them were built for his own personal use, especially those in the bathhouses located in the inner

162  Herod’s Baths and Palaces part of structures in upper Herodium, the Western palace in Masada, and the third palace in Jericho. Certainly, the members of his court (family members, advisers, officials) and guests needed them. The identity of Herod’s royal court was therefore remarkably Jewish/Judaean, and this was surely decided by the king himself. Why should Herod and his associates maintain ritual purity in their everyday life? They were quite far from the Jerusalem Temple. Perhaps they regarded it as an essential practice of Judean ethnic identity, as suggested in Chapter 1. Indeed, they maintained close contacts with Gentiles, but this may have actually enhanced their motivation to purify themselves, and also to show their commitment to Judean practice and identity. Perhaps they practiced non-priestly purity, such as eating ordinary food in a state of purity, a custom followed by the Pharisees but also common in other circles, as discussed in Chapter 2. One indication that they observed non-priestly purity is the stone vessels (not susceptible to impurity, see Chapter 2) found in Herod’s palaces at Upper Herodium, Lower Herodium, the so-called gymnasium palace in Jericho, Cypros, and Machaerus, and perhaps also Masada (Magen 2002: 154, 157, 158, 171, 173; the number of vessels and their exact locations are still unpublished). Herod and the members of his court adhered to ritual purity several decades before non-priestly purity became common in Judaea in the first century ce. It seems that they were not merely trying to keep abreast of the latest mode among devout Judeans. These baths are more than an attempt to conform to a Jewish lifestyle and religious practices in order to gain political recognition. Some of them attest to a more active and innovative approach toward Judaean ritual purity. Herod’s use of ritual baths within the Roman bathhouses is remarkable. In Roman culture, bathing was a long process, in fact a ritual, which lasted several hours and encompassed several rooms and spaces. The order of bathing required one to move from warm to hot water through a number of interconnecting rooms of varying temperatures, going from the tepidarium to the caldarium (hot water), and terminating in the frigidarium (cold water). Bathers spent most of their time in the caldarium and frigidarium (Yegül 1992: 35–40). Bathing was an immersive sensory experience of thermae, related to its architecture, its sense of space, its large size, and its many decorations, all of which conspired to convey a feeling of comfort and pleasure and invoke a state of well-being (Yegül 2010: 126–132). But how do we know that these frigidaria also functioned as ritual baths for purification according to Jewish law or practice? The conventional frigidarium in Roman bathhouses was a shallow basin or pool, sometimes located in a round room with niches in the circular wall (Yegül 1992: 130–131, 190–192, 257, 404– 405; in many cases the room of the Roman frigidarium is much larger than those in Herod’s bathhouses). In contrast, the Herodian frigidaria mentioned previously contained a much deeper pool, which filled the entire space of the room and was accessed by steps. These pools are similar in size and structure (shape and number of stairs) to other ritual baths (Reich 1988: 106–107; 2013: 248–249; Small 1987: 66–67). Their double function as both a Roman frigidarium and a Jewish ritual bath was acknowledged by Foerster (1995: 195) and Netzer (1999a: 34 n. 7; 2006: 48, 256–257, 269), although not all agree on this (Wright 1997: 196–200).

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  163 In their palaces in Jericho, the Hasmoneans had already situated four Hellenistic bathhouses (namely, a bathtub with hot water) in relatively close proximity to ritual baths (Netzer 2001: 101–105, 157–159, 170–171). Herod developed this combination much further. He built thirteen Roman bathhouses as he embraced and developed Roman culture and material culture (e.g., gladiators and musical shows Ant. 15.268–276; Lictneberger 2009). Some of his bathhouses were comparable to those in Rome in terms of their architectural arrangement, technology, and decoration (Nielsen 1999; Netzer 1999b). Yet, the consistent shape of the frigidarium as a ritual bath demonstrates concern for Jewish purity rules and Judaean identity. This seems to belie Herod’s Idumean origins, his extensive contacts with non-Jews, and his strong cultural and political leanings toward the Hellenistic and Roman world (stressed in Kokkinos 1998: 86–139, 342–362). Apparently, Herod also had another side, one more inclined to Judaean identity. The transformation of the frigidarium into a ritual bath also had halakhic significance. In Roman bathhouses a dip in the frigidarium (usually an impressive and luxurious room) concluded the process of bathing in the caldarium and tepidarium (Yegül 1992: 17, 38). Thus, bathers in the Herodian frigidarium/ritual baths were in a state of ritual purity when they left the bathhouse (cf. Grossberg 2001). One might suggest that these stepped pools were non-monolithic in function, serving more purposes than merely for the purification of the body according to Jewish halakhah. The multifunctionality of Judean stepped pools, namely, the possibility that they were used for functions other than ritual purification (water reservoirs, non-ritual cleanness, or refreshment of the body in cold water) has been discussed by Miller (2019: 45–55). Gordon (2020) suggested that they were also used for health considerations, which were prevalent in the Hellenistic and Roman world. Generally speaking, the functions of such stepped pools varied. Had this been the case, one cannot necessarily assume that Herod was signaling his Jewish observance by including stepped pools in his bathhouses. He may have simply seen cold-plunge baths as an important element in maintaining personal hygiene, as was common in the Roman world, and he was using the common local form for a plunge bath, while at the same time, those who sought to purify themselves according to Jewish law could use the stepped pools for purification as well. However, if Herod had no interest in the ritual or halakhic function of the stepped pool he could have retained the customary form of the frigidarium, which was better suited to bathing for hygiene or pleasure. Making it larger, deeper, and accessible by several stairs seems to indicate that his objective was to use these stepped pools for ritual cleansing, perhaps in addition to their other, more mundane functions. By incorporating the ritual bath into the bathhouse complex, Herod constructed a unique double-function facility. The amalgamation of the two into one single installation is not merely a functional device to facilitate the use of one water installation for two separate purposes. It was a conceptual innovation, merging two cultures. In so doing Herod displayed his two separate identities, both as a Jew by origin and a Roman by political-cultural inclination. Bathing in these

164  Herod’s Baths and Palaces small stepped pools served the two rites and purposes—pleasure and purity—and identities—Roman and Jewish—simultaneously. Herod’s bathhouses convey a strong cultural message: an intention to combine Roman cultural luxury (which had a public or communal character, as private bathhouses were a place for welcoming visitors or hosting dinner parties, Fagan 1999: 23–24, 33) with Jewish religious (or rather halakhic) piety. Herod wanted to relax as a Roman but at the same time he wanted to feel pure as a Judean. He fused Greco-Roman comfort and Jewish halakhic piety. He wanted to show that he was an advocate of both worlds—the king of the Judaeans and the friend of the Romans. The act of bathing and the bathhouses facilities were a performance, intended to display this mixture of identities and make them relatively public. This may have been his response to the criticism of his acts against Jewish laws and customs (cf. Ant. 15.330), but it was much more than that. This was his royal ideology—to show that the Judaean religion/identity and Romanization can go hand in hand (on royal ideology and political ideologies in general, see Regev 2013). Bathing is a physical activity, a vehicle of pleasure, a means of social or religious discipline, and a bodily performance. Herod chose to manifest his ideology through the body. Bodily gestures and rites are characteristic of kings and rulers (Elias 1975: esp. 84). Social theorists and cultural anthropologists insist that the body is the most proximate and immediate feature of one’s social self, social location, and the means by which a person expresses and experiences his or her own identity (Merleau-Ponty 1962; Bourdieu 1984: 190, 212–213 Turner 1996: esp. 43; Shilling 2012: 167–168). This process is known as embodiment—whereby the body-object is actively experienced, sustained or transformed as a subject-body (Csordas 1994). Thus, the body generates identity (Goffman 1971) and mediates the relationship between people’s self-identity and social identity (Shilling 2012: 85). Such aspects are discerned in the material culture (“the archaeology of the body,” e.g., Joyce 2005). The 29 ritual baths in Herod’s palaces in general and those placed within the Roman bathhouse as a new type of frigidarium in particular are more than facilities for purification. They reflect an emphasis on Judaean identity and the active negotiation of social positions toward Roman identity. By building and using these baths, Herod, the members of his court, and distinguished guests reflected a symbolic, ideological combination of Jewish halakhic scrupulousness with an appreciation of Roman culture. Yet this solemn and harmonious combination conceals a tension between Jewish law and Roman culture. The very need to combine the ritual bath and the bathhouse in almost every palace, to consistently merge the two, is suspect. Herod overemphasized his commitment to both types of bathing. Why would he not bathe in a Roman hot bath without involving Jewish ritual purity? Does bathing for pleasure need to be justified or balanced by adherence to the Judaean practice of purity, either to retain one’s status of purity or to display one’s commitment to Jewishness or the Judaean ethnos? Herod’s eagerness to display this duality hints at a problem that required solution. Bathing in a hot bath or a ritual bath alone

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  165 would have upset this delicate balance, perhaps even invited criticism from the Judaean public or foreign visitors, or led to an unconscious crisis of identity. Herod’s interest in Jewish bathing notwithstanding, he clearly transgressed the Jewish Torah in other respects, notably in the executions of relatives and rivals. He built pagan temples dedicated to Augustus in Samaria-Sebaste, Caesarea and Banias (Ant. 15.298, 328–329, 339, 363–364), and Josephus accuses him of nonobservance by selling Jewish thieves into slavery abroad where they would be unable to observe the Torah (Ant. 16.1–5). Herod’s many ritual baths show that his attitude toward Jewish law or Judean identity was complex. He tried to have it both ways, as a Judaean and Greco-Roman king (as Josephus himself stated critically, Ant. 15.329–330). In a sense, these ritual baths are part of Herod’s Judaean identity or ideology, namely, his attempt to justify his inclination toward Rome as a Jewish religious interest. Herodian Jewish Identity and Ideology—Intermarriage and Speeches There are other historical indications that Herod cared about his Judaean identity and regarded himself responsible for Jewish religious interests (for detailed discussion, see Regev 2010. For previous discussions of Herod’s Jewish piety see Richardson 1999: 185, 191–196; Wilker 2007: 49–67; Marshak 2015: 284–298). The marriages of the members of the Herodian dynasty reflect a certain attitude toward Judaean identity. Most of Herod’s descendants were married to Jews, especially in endogamous kin-marriages. Still there were a few cases of marriage to a Gentile. Herod’s son Alexander (son of Miriame the Hasmonean) married Glaphyra, the daughter of Archelaus I of Cappadocia (Ant. 16.11), who was later also married to Archelaus, Herod’s son (Ant. 17.11, 349–351). Herod Antipas married the daughter of Aretas, King of the Nabateans (Ant. 18.109). However, as far as we know, none of Herod’s daughters married a Gentile husband. When Salome, Herod’s sister, wanted to marry Syllaeus the Arabian, Herod demanded that he accept Jewish customs, which Syllaeus refused to do (Ant. 16.225, note that other Herodian women condemned Salome for being “intimate with the Arab” Ant. 16.226). In two cases Herod’s great-granddaughters (daughters of king Agrippa I) married a Gentile on condition that he would be circumcised, namely, converted to Judaism. Berenice married Polemo King of Cilicia. Drusilla was supposed to marry Epiphanes, son of Antiochus IV King of Commagene, but he was unwilling to convert to Judaism. She therefore married Azizus King of Emsa, who was willing to be circumcised (Ant. 20.139, 145). In Second Temple times Jewish descent followed the identity of the father, not the mother as in rabbinic law (Cohen 1999c; Hadas-Lebel 1993). This seems to be the reason why marrying a Gentile was rare among the members of the Herodian dynasty, beginning with Herod himself. It may attest to Herod’s observance of certain limitations in his relationships with non-Jews and the preservation of Judaean identity. Marriages of royal descendants had public and political implications. It seems that Herod and his successors limited intermarriage and

166  Herod’s Baths and Palaces assimilation with the Hellenistic world because they wished to present themselves to their people as Jews. Josephus cites two speeches of Herodian propaganda which reveal Herod’s public attitude toward Jewish religion, namely, the Temple cult and legal practices or rights. When Herod initiated the reconstruction of the Temple (on Herod’s Temple, see Marshak 2015: 313–334), he introduced the project as an act of piety toward God. Unlike his predecessors, Herod argued that he had the material means to build a higher and more luxurious Temple, “and—what is of most importance—the Romans, who are, so to speak, the masters of the world, are (my) loyal friends” (Ant. 15.385–387). Here Herod actually wishes to legitimize his inclination toward Rome and Augustus as a means for promoting the Jewish cult in Jerusalem. Nicolaus’ speech before Marcus Agrippa in Ionia and Herod, arguing for legitimacy of the legal privileges of the local Jews (Ant. 16.31–57) also manifests concern for the Jewish religion. Nicolaus’ final, most decisive, and detailed argument is about Herod’s cooperation with Rome. His goodwill, faith, honor, and support of Rome should be rewarded with Roman favors toward the Jews throughout the empire (Ant. 16.54–57). Agrippa was convinced and reaffirmed the rights of the Ionian Jews “because of his friendship with Herod” (Ant. 16.60). When Herod returned to Judaea he assembled the people in Jerusalem, gave them an account of his journey, “and told them about the Jews of Asia, saying that thanks to him they would be unmolested in future” (Ant. 16.63). I assume that Nicolaus represented Herod’s own ideology (which is probably the reason Agrippa asked him to speak on behalf of the Jews). Thus, for Herod, his political status and friendship with Agrippa reflected the status of the Jewish ethos/religion in the Roman world as a whole! Herod regards himself responsible for the bond between Rome and the Jews, pledging to maintain Jewish laws and religious rights throughout the Roman Empire. Even if the two speeches are literary fictions, they attest to the Herodian ideology: Romanization is good for the Jews. Both speeches show that Jewish religious interests are addressed by Herod.

Social Relations and Royal Ideology in Herod’s Palaces Ehud Netzer and other archaeologists excavated Herod’s palaces in Jericho, Herodium, Masada, and Caesarea and published detailed architectural plans. I would like to utilize them to shed new light on the social aspects reflected in Herod’s courts—his political system and self-image. Before addressing and analyzing the findings, we need to understand how palaces functioned in the Hellenistic period. Royal Courts and Royal Ideologies The court of a Hellenistic king was a network of power, comprised of the ruler’s family, domestic attendants, officials, state bureaucrats, visiting state elite, ambassadors, and civil servants who were temporary visitors. The king’s

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  167 friends (philoi) carried out the king’s policy in the army, his judicial decisions, and his administrative policy; they accompanied and advised the king, and some of them were simply personal friends (Bikerman 1938: 40–50). Rulers shared their power with the administrative elite. The court was where the ruler and the elites sought to coordinate their mutual interaction. It was also the primary context and medium for transmitting the king’s messages and ideology to his subjects (Mooren 1985: 220–222; Weber 2009: 85; Strootman 2007). The king’s power was reflected in the wealth of his palace, banquets, and so on (Herman 1997: 200). Herod’s court followed this Hellenistic model (Kokkinos 1998: 86–139, 342– 362). It included his ten wives, brothers and sister, sons and daughters, philoi (such as Ptolemy and Nicolaus of Damascus), ministers, advisors, bodyguards, military and administrative officials, domestic staff (slaves, butlers, eunuchs, and barbers), orators, and intellectuals, as well as many delegates, foreign ambassadors, and political envoys. Recent scholars have listed and classified the members of his court and estimated their number at 500 administrators (Kokkinos 2007; Rocca 2008: 72–96). Josephus also refers to court meetings and assemblies of Herod’s friends, such as meetings and banquets with Hyrcanus II (Ant. 15.21, 175), a banquet with Aristobulus III (15.53), banquets for women (16.223), an assembly of philoi seeking advice about how to deal with Alexandra, Herod’s mother-in-law (15.31), or to accuse Pheroras’ wife (17.46). Josephus described Herod’s court as the locus of intensive power struggles and dark intrigues, probably based on the accounts in the detailed biography of Nicolaus of Damascus, Herod’s advisor and envoy (Toher 2001). These outstanding (at times even outrageous) events (Kasher and Witztum 2007) notwithstanding, the structure of Herod’s court, the relationships between the king and his court members, and the political messages Herod wanted to convey to his subjects remain unclear. The archaeological evidence enables us to study these aspects. I will analyze the plans of five Herodian palaces and examine how close Herod was to his officers, visitors, and the representatives of the people. What was the extent of his court administration? How did he wish to present himself to his court and visitors? What kind of political self-image is represented by the plans of these palaces? In order to ascertain these aspects, it is not sufficient to point to the mere function of each palace or room (for such studies, see Nielsen 1994; Netzer 2006: 248–261; Rocca 2008: 96–122); rather, it is necessary to understand the relationship between the different components of the structure. For, as structural anthropology has taught us, the relationship between the different components creates meaning (see Introduction). I will study the architecture of the three Herodian palaces in Jericho, the Western Palace in Masada, and the Promontory Palace in Caesarea. The spatial plan of these five palaces will be analyzed in order to shed new light on the real and symbolic representation of Herod’s kingship, in the hope of revealing new insights about his royal ideology. Before turning to the plans of the palaces, it is necessary

168  Herod’s Baths and Palaces to provide some background on Herodian architecture and the types of royal ideologies of that period. Herod’s palaces display Hellenistic and Roman architectural and artistic traditions, such as a central courtyard, frescoes, and bathhouses. Space does not afford a detailed survey of these elements (see Fittschen and Foerster 1996; Regev 2012: 183–187). This mixture of fine architecture and art was probably meant to display the king’s wealth, power, truphē (luxury), and royal status within Augustus’ empire (cf. Galinsky 2009). Hellenistic and early Roman historians paid special attention to the king’s relationship with his subjects and pointed to two types of court styles (Regev 2012: 187–190). They distinguished between rulers who kept their distance from the people and those who were accessible and interacted with commoners. Plutarch describes Demetrius I Poliorcetes, King of Macedon (337 BC-283 BC) as a pompous king with a luxurious lifestyle. People found it extremely difficult to obtain access or converse with him (Demetrius, 41–42). In contrast, Plutarch praises Cleomenes III, King of Sparta (late third century bce), for his restrained lifestyle, and for making himself accessible to petitioners and visitors (Cleomenes, 13). Plutarch linked pomp and luxury with remoteness and harshness, and simplicity and self-restraint with accessibility, but this was not always the case, as we shall see. Some emperors of the early Roman Empire adopted the role of plain civilians. They mingled with the crowd, refused honors, and respected the senate. Their daily routine was characterized by accessibility and affability, and they interacted with the plebs at performances and games (Wallace-Hadrill 1982; Suetonius, Augustus 72; Dio, Roman History 57.11, on Tiberius). Indeed, Augustus’ palace on the Palatine contained relatively simple painted decorations (Nielsen 1994: 175–178). However, Domitian’s palace was more luxurious, containing many reception rooms, peristyle courts, and other courtyards (Pliny the Younger, Panegyrichus 49; for the archaeological finings see Macdonald 1982: 7–74 and pl. 40). Plutarch’s correlation between approachability and modesty is therefore not conclusive. Was Herod an accessible king? What do we know about his royal style and ideology other than his display of wealth or truphē? According to Josephus, when Herod returned from one of his trips to Rome in which he discussed with Augustus the tensions and quarrels between his sons concerning his succession, he “exhorted the courtiers (aulē) and the rest of the people to concord” (Ant. 16.133), relating to his court members as a social unity, a community. Earlier, Josephus noted that Herod “surrounded himself with security on the outside, as though making this a reinforcement for himself against his subjects” (Ant. 15.327, note that the passage relates to the middle period of Herod’s reign). Several years before his death, following his fear of a conspiracy, Herod announced to many of his friends that they were not allowed to appear before him or enter his palace, and excluded several of his close friends and counselors from the court (Ant. 16.241–43).

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  169 An illustration of the decline of Herod’s court is found in a speech cited in Ant. 16.380–382. When Herod intended to execute his sons Alexander and Aristobulus, an old soldier and a friend of Alexander exhorted the king privately in Caesarea: What of the complete absence of friend and kin? And I do not consider as kin and friends, even when they are present, those who take no notice of so great a defilement coming upon your once blessed kingdom. . . . Will you . . . entrust yourself  .  .  . to your relatives, whom you yourself have already so often condemned to death? (i.e., Pheroras and Salome, cf. War 1.545’ translations of Josephus follow Marcus, LCL edition) It is interesting to see whether the structure of Herod’s palaces attests to a similar phenomenon of seclusion, and to what extent it sheds further light on Herod’s behavior throughout his reign. Access Analysis of the Herodian Palaces in Jericho, Masada, and Caesarea The archaeological evidence enables us to study how Herod interacted with his court members and visitors and to assess the scale of his court administration. Indeed, recent studies of Roman houses and villas have progressed from the question of function to the role of domestic architecture as an element of society’s social matrix, applying various methodologies in search of social structure and cultural ideology (Smith 1997; Wallace-Hadrill 1994; Laurence and WallaceHadrill 1997). My basic contention is that the architectural outline of a palace reflects the monarchic system it serves. Of course, the size and complexity of private architecture reflect the inhabitants’ social status (Vitrobius, On Architecture 6.5.2). However, social archaeologists have pointed to the symbolic meaning of architecture, namely, the manner in which it reflects ideology (Kent 1990; Parker Pearson and Richards 1994b; von Stackelberg 2009). By physically dividing up and demarcating space using walls, gateways, and entrances, people classify and control places as well as social relationships. Spatial analysis has used architectural features to mark transitions between domains such as insider/outsider, private/public, and initiated/uninitiated. In order to decipher the plan of the Herodian palaces I shall use the method of Space Syntax Theory, commonly called access analysis (Hillier and Hanson 1984), which was already introduced in Chapter 6. Access analysis represents the spatial organization of a building in terms of the relationship between its doorways and rooms, measuring the relative distance between spaces that represents social encounters and architectural boundaries that reflect social separation and solidarity. This method was also applied to villas in Pompey (Grahame 2000). In

170  Herod’s Baths and Palaces the following figures, circles represent spaces or rooms and linking lines represent entrances or doorways. Hillier and Hanson have provided several analytical tools for measuring and interpreting the structure of spaces and doorways: the accessibility of a certain space, identifying collective spaces of social interaction, the manner in which a given space “controls” access to other spaces, and the “depth” of the entire configuration. All these show the extent of accessibility or inaccessibility of the entire structure and the manner in which they generate high or low interaction potential. Such analysis, it should be stressed, does not represent the exact manner in which Herod behaved, but only how he planned the functioning of his court. I will now analyze the plans of the Western Palace in Masada (Phases I and IIIII), the three Herodian palaces at Jericho, and the Promontory Palace in Caesarea, based on these guidelines. The order of discussion will follow the assumed chronology of their construction, beginning with Herod’s earliest palaces. The Access Analysis maps of these palaces are based on their plans in Netzer’s reports and studies (Netzer 1991: 241, 628 and Plan 17; Netzer 2001: 86–87, 232, 315, 338, and Plans 26, 36; Netzer 2006: 107; note that second stories of a building cannot be considered in this method). The core of Herod’s Western Palace in Masada was built in the early period of his reign. It has a rectangular shape (28 × 24 m) and contained 26 spaces, with a central courtyard (12 × 10.5 m) which led to a triclinium decorated with two columns and stucco panels, leading to a large throne room (8.7 × 6 m) (Netzer 1991: 234–235, 627; 2006: 22–24).

bathhouse

Ritual bath Throne room

456 (mosaic)

triclinium

court

x

Figure 7.2  The Western Palace in Masada, Phase I

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  171 In the Access Analysis map, the central courtyard opens into six different spaces and controls 22 spaces. The triclinium opens into two different spaces from two opposite sides, and controls three spaces, as well as four additional spaces which have double access (from both the triclinium and the courtyard). The “throne room” into which the triclinium opens is the largest room in the palace and is situated five spaces from the palace’s threshold (and two from the courtyard). Another, smaller reception room (L456) with a magnificent mosaic is found in a similar position on the map, attesting to its segregated character. The bathhouse, containing two bathtubs, is seven spaces away, and the ritual bath is six spaces away, which also attests to their private use. The monumental spaces were hidden from sight. They were used for the reception of important visitors who received the king’s personal attention and hospitality, representing Herod’s initial manifestation of truphē, but their location indicates a tendency toward privacy. This palace was not intended for hosting many visitors or encountering a large number of administrators and advisors. Unlike the other palaces in Jericho and Caesarea (as well as in Upper and Lower Herodium), it lacked peristyle courts, even in Phases II-III. The absence of the peristyle as well as the relatively few rooms opening into the central courtyard, point to the lack of interest in large crowds. It was a relatively small residential palace which fulfilled Herod’s personal needs and hosted individual guests. It attests to a small-scale court system which focused on the king and his own needs. Even the small number of visitors who approached him in his private dwellings found a remote monarch. Yet, even here, in the smallest Herodian palace, as in all the Herodian palaces, the king’s status, magnificence and truphē are emphasized by the large throne room and mosaics, more than in any of the earlier Hasmonean palaces (Regev 2011b, 2013: 224–265). Herod’s First Palace in Jericho (the so-called gymnasium) was built in ca. 35 bce (Netzer 2006: 45, 49. For the reconstructed plan, see ibid., 45–49). This was

Ritual bath Ritual bath Reception Room

Triclinium Courtyard

Ritual bath

x

Figure 7.3  The First Palace in Jericho

Ritual bath

172  Herod’s Baths and Palaces a large rectangular building of 87 × 46 meters containing 44 spaces and a very complex outline. Unlike the previous palace, it has three different central spaces: The entrance room directly controls 19 small service rooms; the triclinium (18 × 12.5 m) and its surrounding wide courtyard/corridor control 11 spaces; and the huge central peristyle courtyard (42 × 35), the heart of the palace in both the structural and functional senses, controls all the other spaces. This special structure makes it possible to host a large number of people at the same time in different parts of the palace. The access analysis map and the architectural plan demonstrate that the audience surrounds the king, thereby manifesting his honor and eminence. The palace’s spatial structure therefore stresses the king’s truphē without requiring outstanding Hellenistic monumental features, such as porticos, mosaics, and so on. Despite its large measurements, the large courtyard remains only two spaces away from the threshold. The triclinium is only three spaces away, closer than in the Western Palace. Another large reception room has openings right next to the courtyard leading to two pairs of service rooms. The palace’s outline proves that accessibility is not the result of the building’s size or the number of spaces it contains, but a matter of choice. It shows that here Herod wanted to be more easily accessible to his audience than in the Western Palace. The proximity of the large peristyle court to the triclinium attests to Herod’s wish to see the crowd of visitors and be seen by them. This structure suits a king who seeks honor and fame (as Josephus characterizes Herod), one who wishes to observe his guests while impressing them with his hospitality. When Herod sat in the triclinium in the center of his palace, interacting with the multitudes gathered in the huge peristyle court right in front of him, he was surrounded by numerous rooms for servants and administrators. Some 15 rooms were accessible from the entrance room. Some of them were probably used by the court’s servants and officials, and three ritual baths and a Roman bathhouse were designated for visitors and perhaps also for some court members. Another six rooms (including a large reception room, which may have been used by the king himself) probably served visitors. Eleven additional rooms adjoined the large corridor behind the triclinium, serving Herod’s personal needs (note Herod’s private ritual bath). The access analysis map therefore displays the complex structure of Herod’s court system, incorporating three realms: the king, his guests, and the court administration. Each one contains a large number of rooms which are all connected through the axis of the courtyard and the triclinium. Thus, the entire structure of the palace was built around the king’s encounters with his guests. This palace proves that already in the very beginning of his reign Herod maintained the large and complex royal court characteristic of great Hellenistic kings. By doing so, he diverged from the rather restrained Hasmonean royal ideology of small domestic palaces with no room for receptions (Regev 2011b). This is the earliest evidence of his extravagance and pomp, but it also coincides with an attempt to interact with his guests.

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  173

Dining room

Reception room

Peristyle

Triclinium

Bathhouse Court

X

Figure 7.4  The Second Palace in Jericho

Herod’s Second Palace in Jericho was built on the ruins of the Hasmonean Twin Palaces’ Eastern Court which collapsed in the earthquake of 31 bce, probably ca. 25 bce (Netzer 2001: 8, 312, 339). The Lower Wing is divided between the Roman bathhouse and a large pool complex. The Upper Wing was built around a garden peristyle surrounded by rooms (Netzer 2001: 312–316; 2006: 51–53) and contained 29 spaces (additional spaces south of the large swimming pool and east of the Roman bathhouse have no doorways and cannot be analyzed in the access analysis map). The outer courtyard controls the entire structure, including the ten spaces of the Lower Wing. In the Upper Wing, the triclinium (10 × 7 m) and the Ionic peristyle court control 19 spaces. The large external courtyard (36 × 20 m), which also contains a small pool, is the closest to the palace entrance or threshold. The triclinium is three spaces from the threshold, more accessible than in the other Herodian palaces, since only a reconstructed portico separates the outer courtyard and the triclinium. The grand peristyle, undoubtedly the heart of the palace, is four spaces from the threshold. Herod’s encounters with outsiders and large gatherings of visitors took place in the outer courtyard, the triclinium, and the inner peristyle. In seems that Herod wanted to personally meet his visitors when they approached his triclinium and then interacted with them in the inner peristyle court. Additional relatively large spaces, including a dining room with a distyle in antis entry and two symmetrical smaller rooms on its sides, open into the courtyard and may have been Herod’s personal domain, five spaces from the threshold. Comparing Herod’s Second Palace in Jericho to his Western Palace in Masada, the architecture which minimizes the distinction between interior and exterior space is apparent. The public spaces are much more accessible, whereas other, more private or service spaces are detached. The Roman bathhouse, reached from the outer courtyard, is also very accessible, only two spaces from the threshold.

174  Herod’s Baths and Palaces Herod’s personal domain and the royal reception and hospitality rooms are not remote or segregated. The palace was therefore designed for social encounters, to impress visitors when they passed through pools and colonnades to the peristyle, and to make them comfortable. The peristyle is surrounded by nine service rooms, probably used for hospitality functions, and additional reception rooms (mentioned previously). Eight additional small rooms are accessed from the entrance on both sides of the triclinium as well as two narrow corridors. These were probably related to the king’s special needs and hospitality (Netzer 2001: 314) and demonstrate the impressive scale of the king’s court staff. Triclinium

Court

Hall

Phase 1

Court

Phase 2

X

Figure 7.5  The Promontory Palace in Caesarea

The Promontory Palace at Caesarea Maritima, which juts out into the sea south of the harbor, was built in two phases. The first phase, the Lower Palace, is dated to 22 bce, while the second phase, the Upper Palace, was added in ca. 10 bce (Gleason 1998. However, Porat 2000: 36* dated the second phase to the post-Herodian period based on early first-century coins). The Lower Palace (80 × 55 m) contained a large swimming pool (35 × 18 m) at the center, surrounded by open walks, colonnades, and relatively large rooms. Next to the pool was a triclinium (11 x 8  m) with two symmetrical reception rooms on either side (Netzer 1996). The Upper Palace was designed to accommodate large scale public receptions, dominated by a peristyle courtyard of 64 x 42 meters and a basilical hall (15 × 17 m) which the king may have used (Netzer 2006: 110–111). The access analysis map (which is based on Netzer 1996: 199, fig. 4; 2006: 107–112) shows that in the first phase the court and the triclinium were accessible, three and four spaces away from the threshold (which later became the main court of the second phase). Guests gathered in the large peristyle court which surrounded the pool. They could meet with the king, who probably sat in his triclinium watching as they were entertained. A number of relatively large rooms surrounded the court, probably used for hospitality. Thus, in his private domain Herod stressed the intimate entertainment of his guests (Gleason 1998: 40).

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  175 The addition of the second phase made this monumental unit more remote from outsiders, when the king became more segregated from his guests in the Upper Palace. Here he had another reception hall next to the large peristyle court, one and two spaces from the threshold, in which he was accessible to a larger number of visitors than in the Lower Palace. Several rooms (some of them lacking doorways in Netzer’s plan) were service rooms and were less accessible. I suggest that the dual arrangement of the palaces implies a separation of first class (Lower Palace) and second class (Upper Palace) hospitality. In any case, neither of them served the residential or administrative needs of the king, but only the hospitality of many guests and visitors. In the earlier Lower Palace Herod was very accessible to his guests and staff, but he became somewhat estranged to some of the visitors in the later Upper Palace. Perhaps the addition of the Upper Palace stemmed from Herod’s need to meet a growing number of delegates in Caesarea, following the strengthening of ties with the non-Jewish population in the city.

Throne room Court Phase 2 Court

Triclinium Court

Phase 1 Court Phase 3

Phase 2

Court Phase 3

X

Figure 7.6  The Western Palace in Masada, Phases II-III

Herod’s Western Palace in Masada, Phases II-III was built later in his reign, Phase II in ca. 25 bce and Phase III in ca. 15 bce. They contained courtyards and large rooms including storerooms and living quarters (Netzer 2006: 34–35, 39). This is his largest palace (66 × 48 m), containing 86 spaces (not including four spaces that can only be reached from outside the palace, and later changes and

176  Herod’s Baths and Palaces additions made by the rebels during the Great Revolt), and included facilities that served the entire royal complex at Masada (Netzer 1991: 627–632). The palace is divided into three main structures, each one built in a different phase. It contains four courtyards (not including the external one leading to these structures), each one controlling a large number of spaces. The general architectural outline is introverted. Unlike most Hellenistic palaces and Roman villas, there is no central peristyle court for gatherings and hosting (Foerster 1995: 179). Phase II (on the right side of Figure  7.6) is a relatively accessible and elaborate structure. Another small section of Phase II (on the upper left), was dominated by an additional court, later incorporated into Phase III, which was originally accessed from the entrance of Phase I. Here the layout is simple and accessible. The accessibility of the spaces in Phase II, controlled by courtyards, as well as the relatively large measurements of most of the rooms, indicates that they were designed to facilitate social encounters, probably for hosting visitors (the entrance room to the larger building of Phase II has benches, and was probably a guard room, see Netzer 1991: 265. However, Netzer, ibid., 627, 630 concluded that the rooms in Phase II served as storerooms and workshops). Nonetheless, Phase II lacks the features of Hellenistic monumental architecture and art found in Phase I (see earlier), and thus was not designed to impress outsiders. The construction of two additional court structures in Phase II attests to Herod’s attempt to host more visitors and senior staff members, indicating the increasing scale of his royal court. Here three separate courts/ buildings were built instead of a single large one and access from one court to another was inconvenient. These features point to a certain hierarchical differentiation between various court officials and Herod’s personal associates and guests. The spatial structure of Phase III (on the left of Figure 7.6) is highly segregated. It is intentionally divided into separate segments, which makes passage between the spaces difficult. The division of the building’s sections was probably guided by a certain functional hierarchy. Most of the rooms are probably living quarters and service rooms (Netzer 1991: 631–632), many of which are highly inaccessible, seven to nine spaces from the palace’s threshold. The entire Western Palace is a combination of small-scale hospitality (Phase I), formal-functional hospitality (Phase II), and service and official functions (Phase III). All are present in one large complex, reflecting the comprehensive and multifaceted character of Herod’s royal court in his later days. Significantly, Herod distinguished between these three functions, keeping low ranking guests and the activity of his officials and servants away from his own private domain. The additions of Phases II-III made Herod’s original private palace of Phase I relatively inaccessible, when his triclinium and throne room became six and seven spaces away from the threshold, instead of four and five spaces in the original plan. Herod now became more remote, not only from his subjects and guests, but also from his court members. Toward the end of his reign the court became large, complex, and extremely hierarchical.

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  177 79 172 63 216

177

215

175

146

69

120 100 147

88 81/89

148

66

73 64

233

223

225

234 224

113

68

52

57

93

67

90

55 51

70

B65

X

Figure 7.7  The Third Palace in Jericho

The Third Palace in Jericho (the so-called opus reticulatum palace) was built in ca. 15 bce (when Marcus Agrippa visited Judaea), 11 years before Herod’s death (Netzer 2001: 9). This was certainly his most elaborate palace. It has a very complex architectural structure, comprised of three peristyle courts (B70, B64, and B55), several reception rooms and halls, and a Roman bathhouse. Figure 7.7 presents the access analysis map of its Northern Wing (ca. 84 × 27 m), consisting of 42 spaces (not including eight additional spaces with no doorways as well as the large Sunken Garden and the reception hall on the Southern Tel, on the southern side of Wadi Qelt). The map shows that the palace is divided into different sections or groupings of spaces, which are quite separate from each other: the peristyle court B70, detached from all other spaces; the peristyle court B64 leading to the “throne room” (B88 with extraordinary wall decorations, see Netzer 1999a: 44, 51); and the Roman bathhouse complex beginning with room B67. Two main spaces, B90 and B55, control almost the entire configuration, providing a double spatial focus similar to the First and Second Palaces in Jericho. The palace’s architectural plan is extremely dense (Netzer 2001: 317–318 divided it into eight units), encompassing a large number of rooms of different sizes and shapes, many of which are relatively inaccessible. For example, the “throne room” B88 is five spaces away from the building’s threshold, and the king’s living quarters B81/B89 are also five spaces away. Noteworthy are the two large sections of 21 service rooms in the eastern part which are extremely inaccessible. They attest to the growth of the court staff and its detachment from the king and his guests.

178  Herod’s Baths and Palaces The palace has two major contrasting features. On the one hand, it is Herod’s most monumental palace, comprised of a colonnaded entrance (B65), three large peristyle courts, an extremely elaborate opus reticulatum Roman bathhouse, and a monumental “throne room” (B 88). Most of the rooms in the main sections were decorated with frescoes and stuccoes (Netzer 2006: 58–65). On the other hand, unlike the Northern Palace in Masada, passage from one section to another was inconvenient, and the palace contains many small and less accessible rooms and cells. This demonstrates the combination of monumentalism and discreteness. The peristyles and the Roman bathhouse were meant to impress visitors, but some of the king’s private domains and the sections of the court’s staff were not for public eyes. The king wished to exhibit his power and glory, but also to keep certain activities private. In contrast to the First and Second Palaces in Jericho, here Herod set himself apart from his guests and officials. He was interested in hosting them in his palace but not in interacting with them. Moreover, the use of three different peristyle courts and other reception rooms that were all detached from each other attests to his intention to separate his officials and visitors into different areas without affording them easy interaction, perhaps marking different degrees of interaction with the king (Netzer 2006: 250). The separation of hosting spaces attests to a hierarchical structure in which different activities or groups of people were divided. Perhaps Herod attempted to use this structure to control his court members and visitors, keeping them under observation in his palace without directly encountering them, and, in a certain sense, keeping them apart from each other. Herod’s main and largest palace in Jerusalem, described by Josephus in War 5.177– 182 had peristyle courts, immense reception halls, pools and gardens, a Roman bathhouse, and bed chambers for a hundred guests. Josephus mentioned several circular cloisters leading from one to the other. Nonetheless, it is difficult to determine from this abstract description whether these multiple courts were separated from each other (as in the Third Palace in Jericho) or connected as in the Northern Palace in Masada. Measuring Accessibility: The Mean Depth of the Herodian Palaces Hillier and Hanson introduced a quantitative tool for comparing the degree of general accessibility in each of the palaces, which enables us to compare the access analysis maps of the six aforementioned Herodian palaces. The Mean Depth quantifies the degree to which architectural structures use boundaries and hierarchal patterns (Hillier and Hanson 1984: 148–175; Grahame 2000: 34–35, for its calculation and significance, see Chapter 6). Figure 7.8 introduces the Mean Depth of the Herodian palaces (from the earliest on the right to the latest on the left). Herod’s Western Palace in Masada, Phase I (4.66) is relatively segregated. The First (3.88) and Second (4.17) Palaces in Jericho are considerably accessible to outsiders, although they contain many more spaces. The Lower Wing of the Promontory Palace in Caesarea (1) is the most accessible (3.04) and became more isolated (4.22) when the Upper Wing was added (1&2). Herod’s very elaborate Western Palace in Masada, Phases I-III (6.34), and Third Palace in Jericho (6.85) are highly segregated. This

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  179

Figure 7.8  Mean Depth of the Herodian Palaces

quantification aims to demonstrate the result of our analysis and will now be interpreted in detail. The Development of Herod’s Court and Royal Ideology Herod’s reign can be divided into three periods (Stern 1975: 71–89): (1) The consolidation of his rule (37–30 bce), in which his rule was totally dependent upon Mark Anthony and his political position was insecure. Internal strife was led by his mother-in-law, Alexandra (the mother of Miriamme the Hasmonean), a close friend of the Ptolemaic Queen Cleopatra VII. Herod feared that he would forfeit his reign to Alexandra’s son, Aristobulus III, who later drowned in one of the royal pools in Jericho (Ant. 15.23–95). (2) The Golden Age (30–12 bce), when Herod became prominent in the Roman Empire. His rule was ratified by Augustus and the boundaries of his kingdom were expanded. Herod initiated many extravagant building projects including the harbor of Caesarea, the Temple Mount, and many others throughout the Hellenistic world. (3) The decline of Herod’s rule (12–4 bce) which included the deterioration of his relationship with Augustus and the execution of his three sons, Alexander, Aristobulus, and Antipater, due to his suspicions of internal dissension concerning his succession. This general outline should be taken into account when drawing conclusions based on a spatial

180  Herod’s Baths and Palaces analysis of Herod’s palaces, pointing to more concrete developments of Herod’s political concept of kingship and his personal relations with his court members. Herod’s earliest palace, Phase I  of the Western Palace in Masada, reflects a king who emphasized his royal status (with mosaics in the reception room and bathhouse, and the large throne room) but wanted to limit the number of guests. Herod was still maintaining some distance from his visitors. However, he merely continued the pattern found in the Hasmonean Twin Palaces in Jericho—which had a similar architectural outline although they lacked the monumental approach of the Western Palace (Netzer 1991: 599–604; cf. Regev 2011b: 52–60). It seems that Herod did not attempt to isolate himself any more than his Hasmonean predecessors had. In the beginning of his reign Herod also built a palace in Jericho with a totally different character. Here he hosted large gatherings in the peristyle courtyard, was able to observe them across the triclinium, and was very accessible. Several rooms were used for the hospitality of these guests. It is interesting that Herod felt confident enough to maintain such a court style despite the instability of his rule in this early period. Is it possible that his political position was more secure than Josephus informs us? Alternatively, one may suggest that the large court and the ease of access allowed Herod to get closer to officials, delegates, and aristocrats in order to acquire more popularity and influence. In the second period of his reign Herod built two palaces with swimming pools and a bathhouse designed for hosting a large number of guests. In the Second Palace in Jericho visitors entered the peristyle courtyard through the king’s triclinium; first they met the king and later they gathered in the large courtyard. In the Promontory Palace in Caesarea the king was also very accessible. In both palaces, as well as in the First Palace in Jericho, the main purpose of the royal court was to serve as a meeting place for the king and his officials and delegates. In these three palaces, the First and Second in Jericho and the one in Caesarea, there was spatial proximity between Herod and his guests. Although visitors and guests were not inhabitants of the palace, they were not regarded as strangers. The public/shared space of the peristyle courtyard linked them together in a mutual relationship. The adjacent triclinium connected them to the king and his closest circle, allowing relatively close relations with Herod. The structure of these palaces thus created a sense of belonging (for this concept, see Grahame 2000: 74–75). In ca. 25 bce Herod also built the Northern Palace in Masada, which was solely designated for hosting large gatherings. It was comprised of three floors containing large peristyle courtyards or colonnades opening into reception halls—semicircular, circular, and square ones—and adjoining private rooms for the king, in which he was extremely accessible (Netzer 2006: 27–32). Now Herod not only became richer and more pompous, but also more sociable. The analysis of these palaces enables us to reconstruct Herod’s royal ideology: He was interested in maintaining an open court in order to gain popularity. He wanted many delegates, aristocrats, and officials to visit his palace and get to

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  181 know him personally, probably believing that such interaction would make a positive impression and win their approval. Josephus remarks that Herod was interested in communicating with the masses and portrayed himself as a generous and considerate king. To this end he organized public assemblies in at least four different instances to present his policy and garner public support: announcing the rebuilding the Temple (Ant. 15.381), describing his achievements during his trip to Asia and securing the religious rights of the Jews of Ionia (15.62–65), reporting the results of his meeting with Augustus in 12 bce and presenting his three heirs (16.132–35), and assembling administrators and aristocrats in Jericho to announce the removal of the golden eagle (17.161). His concern for public opinion led him to disguise himself and mingle with the crowds (15.367). He summoned the people to attend public executions (Ant. 16.320, 393). In the beginning of his reign he also tried to win the support of the Pharisees and Essenes (Ant. 15.370–79). The close interaction with visitors and delegates in the palace was characteristic of Augustus (Wallace-Hadrill 1982; cf. also Yavetz 1984: 11–14 on his interaction with the plebs), but was not very common among Hellenistic kings (see earlier). In any case, Josephus overlooked it. While the four Herodian palaces were definitely pretentious, they were designed to interact with people outside the king’s court in a manner quite similar to Augustus’ policy. One might conjecture that Herod was influenced by his patron, although he introduced this trend before Octavian’s reign. Josephus notes that Herod “surrounded himself with security” (Ant. 15.327) and makes frequent mention of his bodyguards (War 1.576; Ant. 15.184, 317; 16.182; 17.198, 313–316; Rocca 2008: 88–89; note that most of the references to Herod’s bodyguards relate to his later days), his harshness, and his habit of segregation. But this does not correspond with the archaeological evidence of Herod’s interest in close interaction with his officials, embassies, delegates, and perhaps other visitors. The structure of several of his palaces is typical of a ruler who felt physically secure and mentally confident. According to the outline of these palaces, Herod felt free to associate with his many guests, did not fear crowds, and probably had no suspicion that his officials, court members and guests would turn against him, or that he was in any danger of assassination. Is it possible that Josephus mistakenly placed his comments about Herod’s concern for his security in Ant. 15 in an earlier context than where it actually belonged? Nor does the structure of Herod’s courts seem to fit the conclusion that he suffered from Paranoid Personality Disorder through the entire course of his life, as has been argued (Kasher and Witztum 2007: 15–17, 91–92, 102 on the execution of Hyrcanus II, 111–113 on the execution of Aristobulus III, 118–125 on the jealousy toward Miriamme the Hasmonean already in 34 bce, see also ibid., 417, 430–434). Admittedly, architecture is hardly a proof of mental stability, and Josephus provides a great deal of evidence of Herod’s paranoia. Nonetheless, we should distinguish between Herod’s behavior when under acute stress—his outbursts of emotion and overreaction to (what he perceived as) political dangers or

182  Herod’s Baths and Palaces crises—and his routine behavior and the manner in which he communicated with his court members. The structure of the palaces clearly attests to Herod’s sanity. I suspect that Josephus’ account of Herod’s paranoia was somewhat exaggerated. The assumptions about Herod’s character and behavior in the 30s and 20s bce are based on the detailed evidence of Josephus, who depended on Nicolaus’ firsthand testimony. However, it seems that Nicolaus was less well-informed and supportive of Herod than is generally assumed. The common assumption that Nicolaus’ biography of Herod was biased because it was addressed to the king himself (based on Josephus’ own evaluation, Ant. 14.8; 16.183–87) has recently been questioned by Toher (2009). Toher pointed out that Josephus’ criticism of Nicolaus as a historian who flattered Herod may have been exaggerated, and that the result of historiographic conventions aimed at underscoring the superiority of Josephus as a historian. Furthermore, despite Josephus’ assertion, Nicolaus did not address his account to Herod but wrote it after the king’s death, probably in Rome, as an integral part of his own autobiography. In fact, it seems that Nicolaus’ account of Herod called attention to the negative aspects of his personality, as seen in the beginning of Jewish Antiquities book 15. Nicolaus’ criticism of Herod is apparent in his observation (in Nicolaus’ own autobiography, which was not preserved by Josephus) that Herod’s failure to heed his advice not to execute Alexander and Aristobulus marked the onset of all Herod’s domestic woes (Stern 1974: 251, 253). The main purpose of Nicolaus’ autobiography was probably to defend his career at Herod’s court and his own role as advisor, co-prosecutor, and co-conspirator in Herod’s execution of his wife and three sons. Furthermore, although Nicolaus may have personally known Herod several years previously (Nicolaus was the brother of Ptolemy, who has been identified as the minister of royal finances, Ant. 16.171; 17.225), the earliest evidence of his role in Herod’s court as advisor and envoy is his participation in the petition of the Ionian Jews to Marcus Agrippa in 14 bce (see earlier). During the 30s bce Nicolaus was still teaching the children of Mark Antony and Cleopatra (Stern 1974: 227). Nicolaus’ role in the royal court and his close relationship with Herod probably began about a decade before Herod’s death. If so, he did not witness earlier events in Herod’s court. Nicolaus’ descriptions of Herod’s erratic behavior in the 30s and 20s bce were based on the (biased) stories of others. He himself only witnessed Herod’s paranoia in the final decade of his reign. Thus, Herod’s behavior before this time (prior to the building of the segregated Western Palace in Masada Phase III and the Third Palace in Jericho in 15 bce) lacks precise and reliable documentation! I therefore suggest that Nicolaus and Josephus may have exaggerated in their depiction of Herod’s suspicious and antisocial behavior. This augments the credibility of the archaeological evidence for this period and the findings that support Herod’s open policy of social interaction. In the early and middle period of his reign, the court may have functioned in a more approachable and welcoming manner than Josephus would have his readers assume.

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  183 During the third and final period of his reign Herod completed Phase III of the Western Palace in Masada and built the Third Palace in Jericho. Although these large structures served different functions and exhibited different architectural outlines, both are characterized by the king’s discreteness and the division of the palaces into segregated sections. The sections added to the Western Palace were not designed for encounters with Herod, but for gatherings and other activities conducted by his officials and servants, out of the king’s sight. In the structure of Phase III access to the king became more remote. In the Third Palace in Jericho Herod remained in his relatively secluded throne room while his guests were scattered in several peristyle courts and reception rooms. Unlike the First and Second Palaces in Jericho and the Promontory Palace’s Lower Wing, visitors did not gather in a single monumental court before the king. In his Third Palace in Jericho Herod preferred to host without encountering his many guests, so they were divided into different rooms. These two relatively inaccessible palaces reflect a structured architectural outline. There is no central courtyard for large scale social encounters. The various spaces generated discreteness and served various social and political functions in contrast to the spaces surrounding the courtyards in previous palaces. Social interaction became more hierarchical, highlighting the king’s privacy and his control over his visitors with low interaction potential. The addition of the Upper Wing phase of the Promontory Palace in ca. 10 bce made the Lower Wing more inaccessible to visitors. Few were invited to enter the more intimate Lower Wing and its large pool. Starting ca. 15 bce Herod’s lack of involvement with his guests and the members of his court corresponds with Josephus’ description of the deterioration in his mental condition during the last period of his reign: his endless suspicions of his sons and other relatives, personal conflicts with those closest to him, and his inability to communicate with others (note the banishment of many of his close friends from his court in Ant. 16.241–243 discussed previously, which may be dated to 9 bce, cf. Ant. 16.137). Schalit (1969: 600–610) has noted that Herod suffered from a mental illness in his last years, and Kasher and Witztum (2007: 289–404) maintain that his Paranoid Personality Disorder worsened. The plans of his palaces reveal that the change in his court structure was abrupt and intense and was repeated in three different palaces. This may be an indication of the tragic and painful progression of his mental illness. However, Herod transformed his court structure and royal conduct several years before Josephus’ report of his grave suspicions of Alexander and Aristobulus. It would seem that his behavior altered drastically sometime before 15 bce, that is, before his mental condition deteriorated. It is also possible, however, that Herod simply wearied of socializing, listening to petitions, and maintaining order and discipline in the kingdom. After all, the segregated, hierarchical pattern of his later palaces is not without parallel among Hellenistic monarchs, such as the palaces in Pella (Macedonia) and Aï Khanoum which consist of several separate courtyards (Nielsen 1994: 88–90, 124–128, 278; cf. Livy

184  Herod’s Baths and Palaces 40.6.1–3, 16). Thus, his mental illness may not have had any particular impact on the structure of the palaces. My overall spatial analysis points to developments in the structure of Herod’s court, namely, the scale of his administration and his relationship with officials and servants. Phase I of the Western Palace attests to a very small court administration (again, continuing the Hasmonean precedent). The service rooms were an integral part of the king’s personal realm. On the other hand, the First Palace in Jericho contains eighteen small service rooms which were somewhat separate from the sections of the triclinium, creating a division between the king and his guests and the local ministers and servants. The large administration and staff were probably a display of power and wealth. Such a division between the king, his guests and his staff is absent in the Second Palace in Jericho and the Promontory Palace in Caesarea, where the service rooms open into the central peristyle court, and Herod was in close contact with his guests and staff. Interestingly, here we find a relatively strong household identity alongside a strong communal identity of the guests in the palace (for these concepts, see Grahame 2000: 81). However, this changed drastically in Herod’s later Western Palace in Masada (Phase III) and the Third Palace in Jericho, where there were many more service rooms, located in entirely detached sections, far from the king and his associates. It therefore seems that during the middle period of his reign Herod was less interested in emphasizing the distinction between the king, his visitors and servants, nor did he have as many servants as in the First Palace in Jericho. He maintained a court in which, to a certain degree, social encounters were favored above hierarchy. The later distinction between the king and his staff/ servants was quite natural among Hellenistic kingships, but, as already noted, it may also be related Herod’s growing paranoia.

Conclusions: Herod’s Palaces and Josephus—Archaeology versus History? There are differences between how Herod is portrayed by Nicolaus and Josephus, and the archaeological findings from his palaces. Which is more reliable? The ancient historians had their own personal bias. They were influenced by public opinion and traditions (or hearsays) that often could not be verified. The material evidence is indisputable, but it calls for interpretation. The weight of the archaeological evidence should not be disregarded in light of the writings of ancient historians, as it attests to facts, complicated as they may be. Once we doubt the validity of certain historical descriptions or accept them only partially, we are free to understand the ritual baths and the palace plans without prejudice and thus see the other faces of Herod. My examination of the ritual baths in Herod’s palaces and the structure of his courts reveals new insights into his observance of the Jewish purity laws, Judaean identity, and his social behavior and development as a ruler. The construction of Herod’s magnificent palaces and bathhouses is usually linked to his transformation from a vassal king of Judaea to an extremely prominent figure in the Roman

Herod’s Baths and Palaces  185 Empire (e.g., Nielsen 1994: 207). The archaeological record reveals that one of his earliest palaces, the First Palace in Jericho, already reflects a self-assured king with an impressive administrative staff who intended to host many visitors. But, as we have seen, a large size and an architectural monumental approach may reflect very distinct royal ideologies and social relations within the court. Herod’s 29 ritual baths, his court system and his royal ideology do not correspond to the portrait painted by Josephus. Unlike Josephus’ depiction of Herod as aloof and distant, three palaces (as well as the Northern Palace in Masada) in the first and middle period of his reign show that he intended to host and interact with many guests. He probably held many banquets and enjoyed observing their entertainment. He also maintained close contact with his court officials and servants. Herod was a sociable king who made a great effort to be popular. This aspect of Herod was played down by Josephus, perhaps even intentionally. As far as Josephus was concerned, Herod brought misfortune to the Judaeans by publicly transgressing the laws (Fuks 2002) and his life was tragic. This he presents without empathy or pity (Landau 2006). However, Josephus’ narrative cannot be taken at face value. He employed Greco-Roman rhetoric, a narrative voice, and dramatic embellishment. He inserted his own opinions and critical comments to involve the reader and evoke fear, anger, distrust, and frustration. There are also historiographical reasons to suspect Josephus: he wrote long after Herod’s death, and his main source, Nicolaus, wrote an anachronistic description of Herod’s paranoia in the early and middle period of his reign. But even if we do not question the historical evidence of all these descriptions, the palaces indicate that Herod made great efforts to be a popular king and to live as a Judaean, at least with respect to ritual purity. Herod’s amiable demeanor changed drastically toward the end of his reign. While the scale of his palaces increased and his buildings were populated by more and more visitors and servants, he kept to himself away from his guests and staff. This may have been the result of his deep suspicions of the members of his court and his attempts to control them instead of interacting with them. Significantly, this transformation, dated to ca. 15 bce, preceded by several years Herod’s deterioration into paranoia and mental illness, and may attest to his earlier change of attitude, which is not recorded by Josephus. But this transformation of Herod’s court system and royal ideology in his last years only underscores his initially open and sociable behavior, which was forgotten and hardly merited a mention by Josephus.

8 Feasting Before the War Social Structure and Organization of Masada’s Rebels*1

Introduction According to Flavius Josephus, Masada was captured by the Sicarii anti-Roman rebel movement in 66 ce (Jewish War 2.408, 433–434, 447). Josephus describes the Roman siege and the final days of Masada in great detail, including long citations of speeches made by Elazar son of Yair, leader of the rebels (the so-called Zealots) who called on his followers to commit suicide (Jewish War 7.252–406. On the Sicarii see Horsley and Hanson 1985: 200–216). According to Josephus’ description, it would seem that the entire population of Masada at the time of its destruction, some 1,000 people, all adhered to a homogenous, zealous ideology (Jewish War 389, 393, 408, 433–434). In 73/74 ce, heeding Elazar’s command, they committed mass suicide in advance of the Roman conquest, preferring death to capture. But was the rebels’ material culture unique compared to that of other contemporary Judaeans? Did the rebels all maintain a similar social structure and way of life between the years 66–73/74 ce? (On doubts about Josephus’ veracity regarding the mass suicide, see Cohen 1982; on the modern myth of Masada, see Magness 2019c: 187–204.) Apart from Josephus’ account, the identity of the inhabitants of Masada is essentially unknown. Archaeological excavations which shed light on the dwellings and daily activities of the rebels were first conducted by Yigael Yadin, and later by Ehud Netzer and Guy Stiebel. Eight volumes of the final report documenting the finds discovered during the first excavation season were published, providing a detailed database for further studies. Several socially-focused enquiries have been carried out, mainly discussing the presence of Essenes (see later) or women at the site (Reich 2001, 2003). Here it is suggested that the pottery and other related findings point to structural and organizational aspects of the rebels’ society as a whole, as well as variations within it, mainly in the way they are reflected through the rebels’ attitude toward food preparation and consumption. The data is based on the very detailed reports of the architectural remains provided by Netzer (1991) and the ceramic assemblage by Bar-Nathan (2006b). Social archaeologists exploit material finds, including architecture and ceramics, to reconstruct social organization, food consumption habits, and sociocultural *  This chapter was co-authored by Tehillah Lieberman

DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-9

Feasting Before the War  187 identity and ideology (Little 1997; Yentsch 1997; Shackel 1993: 19–27). Beyond being basic living necessities, the finds also constitute a system of symbols and provide information about the social structure of those who prepared and consumed the food (Douglas 1975; Lèvi-Strauss 1975). One way to identify differentiation between communities, namely, different affiliations between people, is when members interact differently around the same aspects of daily life—for instance, cooking and feasting (Steidl 2020: 31). Distribution of bread-making installations among households may indicate community structure (Samuel 1999), and the scale of food preparation is indicative of community organization (Twiss 2012: 363). Communal feasting is a means of social differentiation (Porter 2000a), since communal behaviors lead to both social integration and social differentiation (Porter 2000b). Here we point to different behavioral patterns in food preparation and consumption in order to identify the discrete social groups that comprised the inhabitants of Masada. We will therefore compare Masada’ pottery with other contemporary sites to characterize its features, and then analyze the distribution of pottery types throughout the site in comparison to the distribution of cooking and baking installations. Correlating the ceramic finds with cooking and baking will enable us to demonstrate the various ways in which cooking, baking, and feasting were practiced in the different buildings in Masada, attesting to the rebels’ social diversity. Pottery Classification—General Methodology The main database for this study is the detailed, comprehensive ceramic report published by Bar-Nathan. In the report, every diagnostic sherd salvaged by Yadin was documented and defined, noting its specific locus and stratum of discovery.1 Bar-Nathan (2006b) dated the ceramics of the rebels’ (“zealots”) phase based on typological (with comparisons to the finds in other site) and stratigraphic considerations, and noted that most of it was found in situ (2006b: 1). For the purpose of the present study, only ceramic finds conclusively associated with the rebels’ phase of occupation were considered. The quantified data was limited to intact vessels and rim fragments. The entire pottery assemblage discussed here consists of vessels attributed to the rebels by Bar-Nathan (2006b) from the first century ce. Such an attribution is suggested both by the typology of the vessels and by the stratigraphic context of their discovery. Some Herodian vessels (such as amphoras) were found in the rebels’ dwellings, indicating that they made use of them. In our data base we have used a more restrained method of pottery quantification, and most of our analysis is based on relative comparisons of the types of vessels found in the various buildings and not on estimated absolute numbers.2 The main methodology for ceramic analysis at the site relies on functional division of the different vessel types. Three main functional groups were defined: storage vessels, cooking vessels, and tableware (for a similar method, see Berlin 1999a). Cooking vessels include open and closed cooking pots, casseroles, and cooking jugs. Tableware consists of personal tableware (bowls, plates, and

188  Feasting Before the War cups) as well as general tableware (large bowls, referred to as kraters, jugs and flasks). The relative ratio of the groups will elucidate patterns of ceramic usage, attesting to patterns of human behavior. Functional class ratios will be examined within the different buildings in the site, recording their residents’ attitude toward food storage, preparation, and consumption, implying broader concepts of social organization and cultural behavior. The distribution patterns of the vessels within the primary contexts in the various buildings show that certain vessels were concentrated in specific buildings, while others were more widely dispersed.3 Consequently, the ratios of functional classes in each building will be compared with the others. Such a classification is significant not only inter-site, inside Masada, but also intra-site, comparing the ceramic assemblage composition from Masada as a whole to other contemporary sites.

The Rebels’ Pottery in Comparison to Contemporary Sites The ceramic assemblage published by Bar-Nathan from the rebels’ contexts in Masada is comprised of 4,666 sherds. Typologically, it is similar to the findings in other sites in Judea during the first century ce, consisting mainly of the forms and types familiar from other large, Judean sites dated to the first century ce such as the Upper City of Jerusalem, the Lower City of Jerusalem, the Herodian palaces in Jericho, kh. Qumran, and Ein Gedi (Geva and Hershkovitz 2014; Tchekhanovets 2013; Bar-Nathan and Kamil-Gitler 2002; Magness 2002: 73–79; de Vincenz 2007). A functional categorization of the Masada ceramic assemblage associated with the rebels’ activity at the site indicates that storage vessels constitute 36% of the assemblage, cooking vessels 33%, and 23% consisted of tableware. These include both central tableware such as jugs and large bowls (15%) and personal tableware such as small plates and bowls (8%). Perfume vessels including juglets and bottles constituted 8% of the ceramic assemblage. It is interesting to compare the ceramic assemblage of Masada in the rebels’ phase to contemporary Judaean sites including proximate sites Ein Gedi, Ein Boqeq and Machaerus, as well as distant Gamla, pointing to the ratios of functional vessels (Loffreda 1996: 199–203; Berlin 2006: 103–131; de Vincenz 2007: 301–304; Fisher et al. 2000: 30, 40). The ratio of the storage jars, cooking vessels, tableware and perfume vessels discovered at Masada is quite similar to those uncovered in Gamla, Machaerus and Ein Gedi, all of which existed during the first century ce. Storage jars were more common in Gamla than in the other sites. Tableware was more plentiful in Masada and Machaerus than in Gamla. There is no indication that in Masada cooking or storing activities were more intensively carried out than in the other sites, as might have been expected in an isolated site or one preparing for siege or battle. Furthermore, Masada’s rebels used an average number of perfume bottles. Thus, the classification of the ceramic findings by function and the comparison to findings from other sites show that the inhabitants of Masada during its final

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Figure 8.1  A functional classification of the ceramic findings in Masada

Table 8.1  Comparison of the ratio of the types of vessels from the late first century ce4  

years lived a relatively standard lifestyle, at least as reflected through the ceramic vessels. The conventional character of Masada’s pottery is supported by the presence of fine-ware vessels, imported vessels, and decorated vessels retrieved from contexts associated with the rebels in each of the buildings. These include Jerusalem Painted Ware, Nabatean decorated jugs, and mold-made Judean lamps (Bar-Nathan 2006b: 245–278; 279–280. Barag and Hershkovitz 1994: 59–71). Bar-Nathan also mentioned 400 Eastern Terra Sigillata vessels, but these are still unpublished and the rebels’ share of them is yet to be studied (Bar-Nathan 2006b: 384–386). Another group of imported vessels were the many amphoras, originally containing wine and other liquids. These were brought to Masada during the reign of King Herod, and later reused by the rebels—either with their original contents preserved or just as containers (Bar-Nathan 2006b: 307–357; Magness 2019c:

190  Feasting Before the War 169). Imported amphoras were discovered in most of the buildings in which the rebels resided, as were fragments of Red Pompeian cooking ware (Bar-Nathan 2006b: 358–365; cf. Berlin 1993), and Roman and Nabatean discus decorated lamps, both imported and locally produced (Bailey 1994). In other first century ce sites in the Dead Sea region including Ein Gedi, Kh. Qumran and the industrial site at Ein Boqeq, imported vessels are very rare.5 In fact, the variety of imported vessels discovered at Masada is also unique because in the first century ce there had been a decline in the usage of imported vessels in Jewish settlements such as Jerusalem and Gamla (Berlin 2006: 130, 157; Geva 2010: 119–121; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2014). During this period, in many Judaean sites there is a lack of imported vessels, probably because they were regarded as impure, while in neighboring pagan sites, the use of imported vessels was very common (see Chapter 1). The relatively rich and varied ceramic findings retrieved from Masada suggest that the rebels did not suffer from material shortage (Contra Bar-Nathan 2006b: 372, who stresses the emergency situation of the rebels). Their relative affluence is also attested to by the large number of perfume containers and cooking installations (discussed subsequently), and the rich numismatic finds. Some 61% of the 2,560 coins found in Masada were minted by the First Jewish Revolt minting authority, and an additional 13.5% were minted by the Roman procurators (Reich 2001: 168. Note also their raids on Ein Gedi and other settlements in the Dead Sea region, War 4: 402–405, 506–507). As already shown, the ratio of tableware/ cooking/storage vessels is also conventional. Despite its being an isolated settlement located to the south of the Dead Sea in the Judean desert, Masada’s ceramic assemblage in the rebels’ strata contained a considerable number of imported and fine wares. Its decorated vessels and amphoras resemble those in the affluent Upper City of Jerusalem (Geva and Hershkovitz 2006: 94–143; Geva 2010: 118–153; Geva and Hershkovitz 2014: 145–148), rather than the local assemblages obtained in other Judean Desert settlements such as Ein Gedi and Kh. Qumran. The similarity to the Jerusalemite ceramic culture may suggest that some of the rebels residing in Masada were refugees from Jerusalem’s Upper City (cf. the Jerusalemite origins of the oil lamps according to petrographic analysis, Yellin 1994). This also corresponds with Josephus’ assertion that the Sicarii fled from Jerusalem to Masada after the assassination of their former leader Menahem in 66 ce (Jewish War 2.447).

The Rebels’ Dwellings: Between the Central Buildings and the Casemate Wall When the rebels arrived at Masada, they found the existing buildings that were abandoned after the time of King Herod and the ensuing occupation by Roman soldiers. The site included luxurious palaces, administrative buildings, ­storerooms containing a supply of food, bathhouses and a Casemate Wall surrounding the summit of the mountain. According to Netzer’s architectural

Feasting Before the War  191 report, the rebels settled in only 110 (38%) of the 289 vacant rooms in the center. A few buildings were almost entirely abandoned, including the Northern Palace, probably the most lavish building in Masada (Netzer 1991: 134– 170). The Casemate Wall contained 128 rooms, 94 of them inhabited by rebels (73%). It has been posited that the lower-class rebels resided in the Casemate Wall, whereas the leaders and upper-class residents lived in the central buildings. According to another scenario, once the wall was completely tenanted, those rebels who came later built new dwelling structures adjacent to the wall (Ben-Tor 2009: 41). However, this does not explain why the spacious Northern Palace and the large warehouses remained unoccupied. It is more likely that the preference of the rebels to dwell in certain buildings and avoid others was not solely due to availability or comfort. We propose that social factors influenced the distribution and organization of the rebel settlement, as attested by the composition and distribution of cooking installations and ceramics discussed to follow. In some of the excavated structures, the rebels blocked former openings, breached new ones in the walls, and built new rooms adjacent to those previously existing (Netzer 1991: 388–572). Dozens of inner partitions were added to buildings, subdividing them into smaller dwelling units that afforded more privacy for the residents of each unit, and approximately 100 such spaces were created (shown on the plans of the structures Figures 8.3–10, taken from Netzer’s report. Added partition walls are marked by a thin, gray line). These small, modified dwelling units are very common along the Casemate Wall. For example, in the southwest of the wall, within four original compartments in loci 1121–1291, some 20 partition walls were added. Ten more walls were built adjacently (Fig. 9). In loci 1069–1128 in the eastern part of the wall, ten additional walls or partitions were added within four rooms and more were built next to them, flanking the original construction toward the inner part of the mount and forming at least 13 additional rooms. Near loci 1248–1253 in the southwest part of the wall, within six original compartments in the wall, 23 partition walls were added, forming small inner rooms (Fig. 10). The internal division of the original structure into smaller spaces and the additional constructions abutting the original buildings attest to a demand, at least in certain areas, for privacy and a social structure consisting of small units. It is difficult to ascertain whether these small units accommodated small families or were perhaps even cells for single residents. Clearly, the rebels who invested such effort in modifying the original structures did not want to share their living space with their fellows. The social division into small units is also evident in the many cooking and baking facilities: many dozens of stoves (made of mud, rectangular shaped) and baking ovens (tabuns, dome-shaped, made of mud or clay) were built by the rebels in almost every building. In an isolated site such as Masada facing the threat of siege with limited fuel resources, why would there be multiple cooking installations? These installations will be thoroughly examined to follow.

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Figure 8.2 Masada during the revolt: buildings, stoves, and ovens. (Following Netzer 1991; Reich 2003. Only some of the installations are marked due to their density, especially in the casemate wall.)

Distribution of Pottery Types in the Rebels’ Residential Buildings Besides the chrono-typological description, Bar-Nathan’s pottery report contains information regarding the exact locus of each sherd and vessel. This enables us to examine whether there are significant differences in the distribution of the vessels and the quantitative relationship between vessels of different functions across the site, a method implemented in the final report and significantly developed here (Bar-Nathan 2006b: 381–384). Such pottery variances may enable us to identify diverse social characteristics and organizational structures of the residents in the different areas and buildings. The distribution of the vessel types implies a very clear distinction between certain structures, especially between the simply constructed, small architectural units of the Casemate Wall and the central buildings. In the Casemate Wall, which surrounded the perimeter of the site and was therefore most vulnerable and exposed to attack, there were higher concentrations of storage jars as opposed to most of the inner, more protected, buildings (the exception being the storerooms and the Western Palace, which also yielded large concentrations of storage vessels). This may suggest that the inhabitants of the wall did not or could not put any faith in the supply stored in the inner buildings, and kept their own stores. Relatively few cooking vessels were discovered in the Western Palace, while the largest concentration of cooking vessels was found in the nearby Building 13

Feasting Before the War  193 Table 8.2  Functional distribution of pottery in Masada’s buildings Storage Cooking Personal Communal Sum Perfume Sum of jars ware tableware tableware table- vessels vessels ware in each building Building 7 Building 9 Building 11 Building 12 Building 13 Storerooms Western Palace Northeastern wall Northwestern wall Southeastern wall Southwestern wall Total

19% 21% 13% 16% 19% 33% 22% 29% 21% 31% 39%

42% 36% 37% 45% 63% 37% 30% 36% 49% 37% 34%

12% 4% 8% 10% 1% 5% 18% 6% 12% 4% 7%

18% 21% 30% 24% 13% 18% 21% 16% 10% 18% 12%

30% 25% 38% 34% 14% 23% 39% 22% 22% 22% 19%

9% 18% 12% 5% 4% 7% 9% 13% 8% 10% 8%

276 187 77 38 95 376 767 341 452 397 189 3195

(in which two of every three vessels were used for cooking!). In Buildings 7 and 12 and in the Northwestern Wall, cooking pots were discovered in large quantities, comprising between 42% to 47% of the findings. Communal tableware shared by all diners (jugs, flasks, large bowls, and kraters) was more common in the central buildings than in the peripheral wall. Building 13 is the exception. It contains only a few tableware utensils, similar to the Casemate Wall. The presence of tableware for personal use by each individual (bowls, plates, cups, and mugs) is exceptionally high in the Western Palace and exceptionally low in Building 13. Building 9 and most of the Casemate Wall (all but the Northwestern segment) yielded only a few personal items of tableware whereas in Buildings 11, 12, and 7 these vessels were found in large quantities. We have found that in the Western Palace the rebels cooked in a few vessels but used a large amount of general tableware for dining (39% of the assemblage, some 300 vessels). Yet in nearby Building 13, many vessels were used for food preparation and very few were used for serving (only 1% of personal tableware!). Given that each of the buildings contained vessels of all types as well as ovens and stoves, it is most likely that each building was an independent domestic unit where the vessels served only the local inhabitants. Thus, these ceramic differences reflect different food consumption patterns as regards the preparation and distribution of food in each building. As for the perfume containers (small vessels used to store various small-scale substances such as perfume, oils, ointments, and other unguents), their distribution throughout the site is relatively uniform (ranging between 8–13% in all structures, except Building 9). In some segments of the Casemate Wall, larger

194  Feasting Before the War concentrations of perfume vessels were discovered than in Buildings 12 and 13. It is difficult to ascertain whether they indicate a luxurious lifestyle. But even if some did not contain perfumes or cosmetics, their widespread use may attest to a relatively high standard of living, not necessarily because of their costly content, but because their use usually exceeded minimal living necessities.

Cooking, Baking, Pottery, and Architecture in the Rebels’  Dwellings Another distinctive pattern related to food preparation and social organization is the distribution of cooking and baking installations in the residential structures (Reich 2003). Analysis of the distribution of pottery in relation to the cooking and baking installations in each building reflects the inhabitants’ approach to food preparation and consumption, and attests to their social organization and structure. These variables will be presented and discussed in each residential structure or compound from north to south. All plans in this article are from Netzer 1991. The rebels’ additions are marked in gray with thinner lines. The cooking and baking installations are marked according to the information provided in the architectural report and in Reich 2003. Ovens are marked in purple, darker circles; stoves in orange, lighter circles. The concentrated storage jars are marked in green, also lighter circles (and appear only in building 7 and the Western palaces according to the ceramic report. Building 7 (Fig. 3) had an inner courtyard with architectural adjustments executed by the rebels (Netzer 1991: 26–36). Three ovens and two stoves were installed in two areas in the building. An additional stove and oven were unearthed in the storerooms south of the building. It is likely that the residents of Building 7 cooperated in food preparation which actually took place in one of the three distant cooking centers of the building (Netzer 1991: 5–36, 623). Similar cooperation is implied by the concentrations of storage vessels in three corners of the building, possibly common storage areas used by all residents of the building to store grain, oil, wine, and so on (see Bar-Nathan 2006b: 381). In Building 9 (Fig. 4), 14 ovens were installed (but the oven in L366 may have been constructed later, Netzer 1991: 212 n. 4), so that almost every dwelling unit had its own oven. In contrast, there was only one stove in this building, located inside one of the residential units, rather than in the central courtyard. The residents of the units in this building did their own baking, each relying on their own oven, but the single stove was shared by several units. Many partition walls were added by the rebels, creating more than 20 small rooms (Netzer 1991: 201–230. Two ritual baths were added here). Architectural modifications and additions to the original structure changed the entrances to the dwelling units so that instead of leading into a communal courtyard they led directly out of the building to the public sphere. This implies that the residents of this building had a low level of cooperation. In terms of the ceramics, the high occurrence of perfume containers (18%) which may reflect personal care for the body, contrasts with the low incidence of personal tableware (4%).

Figure 8.3  Building 7

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Figure 8.4  Building 9

The Western Palace (Fig. 5) is the largest building in Masada, comprised of many domestic spaces. Here the rebels made very few architectural modifications. Only two cooking stoves (each capable of holding four pots!) and four ovens were installed, concentrated in two specific areas of the building. One of the ovens was particularly large, measuring 2 meters in diameter (L493). Stiebel suggested that this was an industrial oven in which loaves of bread were prepared for public distribution, as inferred from several ostraca (Stiebel 2012). Despite the few cooking installations in the Western Palace, the ceramic assemblage retrieved was the largest and most diverse in the entire site. Some 767 quantified vessels were found here, so it is unlikely that it was used only as an administrative facility. The large percentage of tableware vessels (39%) included an exceptional concentration of personal tableware (18%, 140 quantified vessels). Cooking vessels were found in smaller amounts (30%). Many of the ceramic vessels were arranged by function in the storeroom of the palace. The large amount of tableware indicates that in this building personal dining vessels were frequently used, as were communal dining vessels, attesting to communal dining which included personal settings. Ritual dinners and meals in affluent residential structures were commonly served in this manner (Cf. Berlin 2005: 442–448).

Figure 8.5  The Western Palace

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198  Feasting Before the War Buildings 11 and 12 (Figs. 6 and 7) were relatively small. They shared a similar architectural plan of rooms surrounding an inner courtyard. The rebels added partition walls in each building and approximately ten additional rooms abutting the original structure. Each building had a single oven. Two stoves were installed near Building 12 (Netzer 1991: 319–329, 335–344). These installations probably served all the residents of both buildings which were located next to one another. In both structures, the largest concentration of vessels was those used for cooking (37–45%) and tableware (34–38%), with fewer storage jars. It seems that here too there was a certain level of cooperation in cooking and baking, along with a tendency to eat from individual vessels. Building 13 (Fig. 8) was extensively modified by the rebels. Thirty rooms were added by partition walls and adjacent structures, thus dividing the original plan into many small rooms (Netzer 1991: 344–352). Some 11 ovens and 15 stoves were installed in the building, along with 60 quantified cooking vessels which constitute 63% of the ceramic assemblage. Only 13 quantified tableware vessels, or 14% of the assemblage, were found. The small amount of tableware indicates that food was consumed from communal vessels—­probably the pots and casseroles in which the food was cooked. Therefore, cooking and baking were among the main tasks of the residents of Building 13. However, the distribution of installations in most of the units in the building implies that they did not cooperate in preparing food in an organized manner. At least some of the residents cooked or baked in small social units. Food preparation was apparently a purely functional endeavor, in complete contrast to the cooperation and attention paid to food consumption by their neighbors in the Western Palace. The 1,300-meter-long Casemate Wall built by King Herod surrounded the entire mountain. It consisted of an outer wall located on the edge of the cliff and another, inner parallel wall which formed a four-meter-wide passage encircling the site. Between the two walls, smaller partition walls were erected to create dozens of cells of varying size. Additional small walls and adjacent structures were built by the rebels for residential purposes (Netzer 1991: 385–572. Ben-Tor 2009: 40, counted 90 residential units of the rebels in the wall). In the ceramic report, the wall was artificially divided into four segments: the northwestern, southwestern, northeastern, and southeastern sections (Netzer 1991: 385; BarNathan 2006b: 384). Most of the residential complexes created in the wall were architecturally independent, not sharing a common public space and with almost no interconnecting units (but note the courtyard surrounded by rooms in L119). Moreover, almost every residential unit had an oven or a stove, and often more than one installation (see Figures 8.2, 9 and 10). Overall, 55 stoves and 103 ovens were discovered in the wall, compared to the 33 stoves and 43 ovens in all the other buildings in the center of Masada. Some 70% of all the stoves and 62% of all the ovens in Masada were installed in the Casemate Wall (Reich 2003: 144–145, 150–152). Thus, the residents of the wall hardly ever shared cooking facilities or communal living space with their neighbors. The large concentrations of storage jars (21–39%) and

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Figure 8.6  Building 11

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Figure 8.7  Building 12

cooking pots (34–49%) in the wall indicate that the residents stored their commodities and prepared their food independently. They did not seem to rely on the other rebels residing in the inner buildings. The tableware found in small concentrations in the wall (19–22%) was comprised of very few personal dishes (4–12%: between 16 and 54 quantified vessels in each architectural sequence constituting the wall segments). The typological distribution of the pottery vessels throughout the Casemate Wall is quite uniform: vessels from each functional type—storage, cooking, and tableware—were present in almost each dwelling unit. For example, in L1103 in the northwestern wall, the assemblage consisted of one cooking pot, seven storage jars, and three tableware utensils. In L1208 in the southeastern wall four cooking pots, four storage jars and two tableware utensils were discovered. Apart from one locus (L1235), no concentrations of storage jars were found, but rather

201

Figure 8.8 Building 13

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Figure 8.9  A segment of the east of the Casemate Wall

Figure 8.10  A segment of the southwest of the Casemate Wall

they were evenly dispersed along the wall. It seems that each unit was run as an independent household in terms of storage, food preparation, and food consumption, without relying on their neighbors in the adjacent units within the wall. Dining was from communal dishes with no emphasis on the individual, and

Feasting Before the War  203 apparently with few participants at meals. Despite the overcrowded residence units implied by the abundance of cooking installations, architectural alterations, and small rooms, they did not appear to have fewer supplies or possessions than those who inhabited the central buildings. The inhabitants of the wall owned most of the cooking facilities and used a considerable number of perfume vessels (8–13% of the pottery in the wall), as well as luxury vessels such as imports and painted-ware, in similar quantities to those living in the center of the mountain. The absence of tableware was therefore a matter of choice and did not stem from a lack of means.

Eating Patterns and Social Organization in Masada The archaeological data presented earlier points to two general phenomena: 1. Eating patterns—communal or personal dishes? The ratio of storage jars, cooking vessels and tableware indicates the rebels’ approach to dining. The multiplicity of tableware, especially personal vessels, indicates the importance of the meal as a ritual ceremony or feast, as explained later. 2. Social organization—cooperation versus independence: The distribution of stoves and ovens in every building or compound attests to the level of cooperation among the residents in the preparation of food. The architectural plan of each building, especially the additions of inner partition walls and adjacent rooms, may also attest to the social relations between the residents of each dwelling unit and building: To what extent were the small units independent or reliant on their neighbors or on communal facilities? The correlation between these two aspects sheds new light on the social structure and consequently also on the relationship between the rebels in Masada. Social Aspects of the Rebels’ Dining The ratio between tableware and other vessels, especially cooking ware, reflects the rebels’ attitude toward food and dining. Some maintain that in the first century bce dining in Judaea usually included eating from personal dishes (Magness 2011: 83–84), but at least in Gamla during the first century ce this changed to a communal meal around a central serving dish or directly from the cooking pot (Berlin 2006: 144–146. On the archaeological characteristics of meals see Hayden 2001). The additional tableware constituting an assemblage, and the sharper differences in functional ratio in the different buildings, provide opportunities to understand by what means dining changed and what was its significance in a social and ritual context. Partaking of food from a few central dishes (and perhaps even directly from the cooking pots) suggests different social relations and commensality, and in the case of Masada it was probably less formal than dining with personal tableware. Abundant use of tableware, namely, elaborate food service vessels, indicates a more formal relationship between the diner and the food

204  Feasting Before the War (Dietler 2001: 86). It is likely that widespread use of tableware would be indicated for a meal with many participants. The frequent occurrence of tableware, especially the individual dishes, suggests that more attention was paid to the individuals comprising the social system. When a person eats from a personal vessel, the status of the meal and perhaps the actual activity of food consumption enhances the experience of the individual, emphasizing the self’s status and role within the family or other social group. The portion of food served directly and solely to the individual is not merely a matter of nutrition, but expresses the autonomous status of his individuality—his “self” in society. This individualism coexists with the role of the person within the larger social framework of the communal meal or feast in which the interaction between the individual and the group is enhanced (on individualism see Chapters 2, 4 and 5). Usually members of a particular social class partook of such meals at specific times, when they gathered for the communal meal. Meals that require relatively many personal vessels usually have unique social aspects and ramifications. Ceremonial dining, such as the Passover seder or the Ramadan iftar, creates strong social solidarity among the participants, whereby the individual feels linked to the collective social unit. This may lead to the formation of elite groups and social boundaries between the diners and those excluded from the meal (Bourdieu 1984: 179–200; Shackel 1993: 19–41, 49–51; see also in Chapter  6. These meals are labeled “Diacritical Feasts” in Dietler 2001: 75–93). Such meals may have ideological features that shape collective memory and communal values, constructing an ideology and social structural standards (such as hierarchy) that are embedded in the ceremonial meal (Hastorf 2003). Indeed, feasting is a ritual activity and a medium for symbolic representation (Dietler 2001). Feasts demonstrate hierarchy, status and power, and express competition and conflict. They negotiate loyalty and alliance and promote class distinctions (Hayden and Villeneuve 2011; Bray 2003). There is no clear evidence that such meals took place in Masada, since no distinct dining hall was discovered in any of the buildings (Stiebel 2013: 172 identified a dining room in Building 13, but this does not fit the spatial distribution of pottery, ovens and stoves in that building). It is possible that several rooms were designated for hosting communal meals, especially in the Western Palace. Yet the question of the communal meal also relates to the social organization of the inhabitants. Here the degree of cooperation in food preparation between the residents of a given building is relevant. The concentration of cooking and baking installations in a particular area in a building attests to cooperative organization of food preparation, thus increasing the likelihood of joint food consumption. Therefore, communal cooking and baking (and perhaps also storage), along with the large quantity of tableware, may imply communal meals. The largest concentration of tableware (39%) was discovered in the Western Palace. This suggests that feasts were held, and stresses the importance of each individual in the social unit. In contrast, the buildings with the smallest concentration of tableware are Building 13 (14%) and the Casemate Wall (21.5%). The

Feasting Before the War  205 rebels who lived in these structures probably ate more casually in small groups directly from the cooking pots or central serving vessels. They did not emphasize the individual and had minimal partnership or cooperation with their neighbors residing in the adjacent dwelling units. The rest of the buildings in Masada are located between these two extremes: the Western Palace on the one hand and Building 13 and the Casemate Wall on the other. Independence and Cooperation in Food Preparation and Social Organization The social relationships between rebels living together in a specific structure can be examined through two material cultural occurrences: (1) The architectural nature of the structure, namely: How many common spaces were shared, or were private dwelling units built to avoid such communal spaces? In Building 13 and in the domestic units in the Casemate Wall the rebels modified the original structure by adding many inner partition walls and small adjacent rooms. In the Western Palace, no such walls or rooms were added. (2) The distribution of cooking and baking installations throughout the building or complex. Residents of a domestic unit that lacked such facilities had to prepare their food using facilities located elsewhere in the building. Consequently, food preparation involved the sharing of resources and a certain degree of cooperative activity. Residents who used ovens or stoves installed in communal or central spaces lived at some level of dependency and partnership. In Roman military forts cooking took place within the small unit of the contubernia, while bread was usually baked in the communal intervallum (Carroll 2005). Significant differences in the quantity and distribution of the stoves and ovens in each building or area (see already Reich 2003) reflect different levels of cooperation in food preparation. Masada was isolated both geographically and politically, hence the limited availability of fuel. Why would the rebels refrain from cooperating in order to reduce the waste of resources? Consumption and Feasting Patterns Reflecting Social Organization In order to empirically measure the dining patterns and the cooperation in food preparation, and to determine the relationship between them in the various buildings in Masada, it is not sufficient to count the number of ceramic vessels and cooking installations. The vessels and installations must be quantified relative to the number of diners and their distribution on the site. Consequently, it is necessary to examine the relationship between both patterns in each building: (1) the social aspect of dining and (2) cooperation in food preparation. (1) In order to define meal patterns and determine the relative quantity of tableware, the absolute number of quantified tableware discovered in each building was divided by the number of quantified cooking vessels retrieved from

206  Feasting Before the War the same structure, thus determining a coefficient of the ratio between the number of vessels in which the food was served and the number of vessels in which the food was prepared. Both Building 13 (0.22) and the Casemate Wall (0.4–0.6) contained relatively little tableware but quite a large number of cooking vessels, in marked contrast to the Western Palace (1.3). Each potential diner in the Western Palace had six times more tableware (in proportion to the number of cooking vessels) than those who dined in the nearby Building 13, and three times as many as the residents in the Casemate Wall. The coefficient reflecting the other buildings in the center of Masada falls within the range between these two extremes. (2) To quantify organizational cooperation in the preparation of food, the area of each building or structure was divided by the number of cooking and baking installations discovered therein (the result was divided by ten to facilitate its representation in Fig. 11. The buildings’ measurements and the number of installations are based on Netzer 1991). The larger the coefficient defined by the extent of the building in relation to the food preparation facilities, the greater the degree of partnership that existed between the residents in their preparation of food. A higher number indicates that residents of a larger area used fewer stoves and ovens and therefore there was some form of cooperation in their use. Buildings with more cooking installations, resulting in a lower coefficient, indicate that fewer people used each installation and therefore food preparation was less cooperative and more independent. This calculation quantifies the previous detailed mapping and descriptions of the distribution of cooking installations in each building. As already noted, there was an abundance of installations in Building 13 and in the Casemate Wall, where either an oven or a stove (and often both) was discovered in each of the small dwelling units built in the original buildings. Figure 8.11 shows these two indices in each building in Masada and the quantitative relationship between the two social phenomena. We have found an inverse relationship between the precentage of tableware among the total amount of vessels in the structures and the rate of cooking and baking installations (relative to each building’s size): the more tableware utilized by the residents of the buildings for food consumption compared to the cooking vessels used for its preparation, the fewer cooking and baking installations were used in those buildings. The inhabitants who tended to eat off tableware were also likely to cooperate in the process of preparing food. There is, therefore, a contrasting relationship between the resources required for cooking and baking and those required for eating. The cooperation reflected by the use of a limited number of cooking and baking installations corresponds with the frequency of tableware, which attests to communal dining. When people preserve multiple ways of enacting the same practices, those different behavior patterns may represent separate affiliations between them— namely, different communities. The members of each distinct community shared maintenance practice, shared ritual practice, and shared social experiences

Feasting Before the War  207

Figure 8.11 Relationship between the quantity of tableware and the distribution of cooking installations

(Steidl 2020: 31). Our analysis of the pottery, ovens, and stoves according to their location within the architectural remains reveals that among the rebels in Masada some groups or communities prepared their food together and possibly ate together as well. Other groups cooked and dined in very small social units within the group/community who lived in the same building/structure.6 A group with strong communal characteristics was located in the Western Palace and perhaps also in Building 11. Smaller organizational units, perhaps small families, with minimal partnership and cooperation, were located in Building 13 (which is located in close proximity to the Western Palace) and in the Casemate Wall. In Buildings 7–12 we found an intermediate material pattern of social organization and dining, occasionally tending toward some degree of partnership, while other occurrences show that small, independent social units were active in the area. These clear distinctions indicate that very different behavioral patterns existed among neighboring social groups of rebels. As regards the Western Palace, Bar-Nathan has already noted its “communal” features, pointing to the location of an extremely large number of bowls in the storerooms and the proximity of the ovens and stoves (Bar-Nathan 2006b: 282– 283. Ostraca attesting to distribution of bread were found in the Western Palace, see Stiebel 2012). It has been argued that this was the rebels’ “headquarters” (BarNathan 2006b: 382; cf. Netzer 1991: 633–634), or an administrative or industrial unit which served the rebels in the other buildings. Alternatively, since in the Western Palace there were far fewer additions of residential units and partition walls, Netzer concluded that many of the rooms remained unoccupied (Netzer 1991: 253, 633–634), and that an elite cadre of commanders or a group of Essenes resided here (Netzer 1991: 633–634; cf. Ben-Tor 2009: 61).

208  Feasting Before the War Such conclusions disregard the complexity of social organization in Masada. The architecture, pottery, ovens, and stoves in the Western Palace reflect a social organization and way of life distinct from that in the Casemate Wall and Building 13. Moreover, the evidence does not justify the conclusion that only a small part of the palace was occupied by a small elite group. While the inhabitants did not erect new structures, they did make use of considerable areas of the building. They made changes in 25 rooms, and pottery from the rebels’ phase were found in 70 loci. In 60 loci there were 197 First Revolt coins and 43 coins of the Roman procurators (Reich 2001: 158; Meshorer 1989). Why should we conclude that the people who lived, stored, cooked, ate, and kept money in these loci did not dwell there permanently like those in the other buildings? There is no reason to think that the vessels and installations located here served the inhabitants of the other buildings.

Conclusions: Social Diversity in Masada The rebels of Masada had a relatively rich material culture. Masada included architectural modifications of the Herodian edifices, the addition of many partition walls and rooms which facilitated privacy, dozens of stoves and ovens, and a considerable number of imported and decorated perfume vessels. Yet the rebels were not a homogenous group. They lived in different structures suited to different and often contradictory levels of social organization and cooperation when it came to preparing food, as reflected in the distribution of stoves and ovens. There were significant differences not only in how the food was prepared, but also in the way it was eaten: from a ceremonial feast with many participants (in the Western Palace and perhaps in Building 11) to a simple meal eaten from communal serving utensils, probably in small social units (in the Casemate Wall and Building 13). Ranged between these buildings were the other structures: Buildings 7, 9 and 12, which had a more ambiguous social structure. Is it possible, therefore, to conclude that the population of Masada was made up of several social groups with different geographic, religious, and ideological origins? Were they in fact not all Sicarii? It is commonly assumed that a group of Essenes lived in Masada, since several scrolls similar to the Dead Sea Scrolls found in the Qumran caves were also discovered in the Casemate Wall near the synagogue (Cotton and Price 1990: 454; Magness 2019c: 178–179). Netzer identified Essenes in the Western Palace and Building 11, because of the pool near that building (presuming that they were very strict in practicing ritual purifications). Reich located Essenes in the Western Palace and Building 13 on account of the scarcity of spindle whorls (which may attest to the minority or absence of women, since most Essenes were celibates), coins, and the cooperation implied by the few cooking facilities in that palace. Stiebel suggested that the Essenes were located in Building 13 because of the large ritual bath, the large room with benches that may have served as a communal dining room, and the small number of spindle whorls, hence the supposed lack of women (Netzer 1991: 634, 636; Reich 2003: 157; Stiebel 2013: 170–174). However, the communal characteristics of the Essenes (who always lived in communes) are

Feasting Before the War  209 entirely absent in the distribution of stoves and ovens in Building 13, as well as in the lack of tableware used during the communal meals that also defined Essenes (Jewish War 2.129–133). Indeed, the analysis presented here reveals a more complex composition of social organization and eating patterns. Cooperation and communal dining reached their peak in the Western Palace, but the same pattern can also be detected in Building 11. We have found that no one distinct group settled in one building or another. Rather, Masada hosted a wide range of communality and eating patterns. The archaeological finds do not indicate that some of the rebels were actually Essenes or members of Qumran sects (the Yah̟ad who lived in a commune, see Chapter  6). The assumptions regarding the presence of Essenes at Masada are based on the discovery of scrolls similar to those discovered in Qumran—the Book of Jubilees and Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice—in one place at the site. It is therefore conceivable that some of the residents of Masada arrived from Kh. Qumran (Cotton and Price 1990: 454; Ben-Tor 2009: 103–112). Nonetheless, the identification of these scrolls with the Qumran sects requires further examination (see the reservations on the association of the biblical scrolls from Masada with the Qumran sect, Ulrich 2015: 254–264). On the other hand, it is possible that some rebels who lived in the Western Palace influenced nearby Building 11 and to a lesser extent also buildings 12 and 7 to adopt cooperative activities and meals in order to define themselves socially and distinguish themselves from other rebels on the mountain. Here commensal politics played a significant role. Feasting is a strategy to differentiate elites from others or to legitimate inequality—especially in diacritical feasts (Dietler 2001. One example is the relationship between the feasting elite and the nearby rural population, see Hendon 2003). Indeed, communality and partnership seem to make economic sense in an isolated site such as Masada, inhabited by people who shared the ideology of resistance to Rome and were probably awaiting the Roman army. The division into small social units in the Casemate Wall and Building 13 that cooked, baked, and dined independently is far more perplexing. It is interesting to see how methods of food preparation, food consumption, and their spatial layout reveal complex social dynamics and tensions between groups in the very same site. The unique historical situation of the rebels in Masada who were supposed to stand united, preparing to confront the Romans, underscores the significance of food and meals in relation to spatial organization for understanding society. Why did some residents of Masada choose not to cooperate in the preparation of food and to dine separately? Why did some groups of rebels separate themselves from the others and prepare and eat their food together? Did the Sicarii led by Elazar, son of Yair, who according to Josephus had originally captured the site, reside in the Western Palace or in the nearby Building 13? It should be noted that at the beginning of the revolt, Simon bar Giora asked to join the Sicarii in Masada and for a time he camped at the foot of the fortress (Jewish War 2.653, 4: 503–505). Stiebel (2013: 174) identified his settlement as near to the Roman camps at the foot of the mountain, not in the buildings under discussion.

210  Feasting Before the War Was there tension between the different groups? Note that in the course of the Sicarii raid on Ein Gedi, more brutal men were joining the Masada group every day (Jewish War 4.405). However, it is not clear whether they too lived at Masada. It is clearly impossible to provide answers to these questions. We can only assume that the diversity in material patterns hints at ideological disparities or competition between the social groups residing in Masada, similar to those that existed between other rebel groups (such as the priestly party who declared the revolt, John of Giscala and Simon bar Giora, see e.g., Goodblatt 1996). For example, it is possible that the residents of the Western Palace developed a ceremonial, communal meal system to culturally and socially distance themselves from the residents of Building 13 and the Casemate Wall, in an attempt to reinforce their status as an elite group. Our proposal is based on the Social Identity Approach to the formation of group identity in opposition to a larger or different group, as a result of social competition or social stratification (Tajfel and Turner 1979). Yet the social domination of those who lived in the buildings at the middle of Masada was far from absolute. Most of the rebels dwelled in the Casemate Wall, where they controlled the gates and other facilities such as the synagogue and most of the ritual baths. All that can be said with certainty is that, unlike Josephus’ dramatic description, the inhabitants of Masada were not a single, homogenous group, and it is doubtful whether they had a single leader during their seven years on the mountain. The rebels of Masada came to the site not in order to die, but to find a place to live. The material culture of some of them was no different from that of the upper-middle class living in the Upper City in Jerusalem. Like many other local societies, they developed diverse social communities within a single settlement. They seemed to be involved with themselves rather than with the outer world. The tragic ending of Masada does not reveal the diverse and complex way of life on the mountain before the stronghold fell to the Romans.

Notes 1 Bar-Nathan 2006b detailed every diagnostic sherd retrieved from the site, including body sherds, rims, restorable vessels, and intact vessels. On the ceramic assemblage in the catalog see ibid., 379–380. In the present study, however, only loci and vessels attributed to the rebels were included. Some vessels were noted in the report to be questionable, and were therefore not included here. This study will focus only on pottery from the primary deposition; the few areas of secondary or accumulative fills were excluded from the database. Though uncommon, there are some problematic areas with evidence of later activity. In cases of suspected contamination or unclear dating those loci or contexts were not included in the database for this study. 2 Due to the breakage pattern of ceramic vessels, there is a fundamental methodological difficulty in quantifying the pottery: a broken fine, open bowl will produce many more rim sherds than a storage jar with a thick, narrow mouth (Orton and Hughes 2013: 203–218). Bar-Nathan (2006b: 5–9) calculated the number of vessels by calculating the ratio of fragments to whole vessels (by size, preservation, percentage, distribution, and breaking pattern), assessing a minimum number of vessels. Our quantification method, however, is more cautious: (1) Only intact vessels and rim fragments were considered

Feasting Before the War  211 (3,780 vessels and sherds overall, 3,195 in the main buildings and the wall), not every diagnostic sherd. (2) Since each vessel type (and sub-type) has a different breakage pattern, each type was compared only to vessels of the same type in different buildings. Jars were compared with jars, cooking pots with cooking pots, and so on. Each type of vessel is expected to break in a similar way in different buildings. A cooking pot, for example, if dropped in the floor would result, more or less, in a similar number of sherds no matter which building or room it was dropped in. Therefore, when discussing the ceramic findings of a specific building, the different vessel types were not compared with each other since different breakage patterns would clearly distort the representation of the different types. Hence, a thin bowl shattering into 50 diagnostic rim sherds cannot be compared to a large storage jar which usually produces three to four diagnostic rim sherds. (3) The entire assemblage from one building was compared to the entire assemblage from other buildings—by percentages and not by absolute numbers of types of vessels. By so doing, the size of the building does not affect the composition of the assemblage. Clearly, larger buildings would yield larger quantities than smaller ones, therefore comparing the proportional representation of each type balances out the expected disparity. Despite the different method of quantification used by Bar-Nathan and by this study, the relation between vessel types in both approaches remains quite similar. 3 Post-depositional processes are likely to have affected the destruction layer of Masada. Consequently, climate, geomorphology, and human and animal activity may have contaminated the finds during site formation processes (cf. Binford 1981; Schiffer 1983). Nonetheless, due to the large body of over 3,000 rims and intact vessels that forms the database of this study, such processes would statistically have little impact on the entire corpus. Furthermore, certain distribution patterns are both conclusive and repetitive, and it is unlikely that they were created at random. Finally, cooking and baking installations are not mobile and therefore they are less affected by post-depositional processes. 4 Note that Table 1 does not include lamps. In Ein Boqeq, for example, they constitute two percent of the assemblage. 5 Fischer, Gichon and Tal 2000: 30, 32–33, 35, 39–40; de Vincenz 2007: 35–36, 301; Magness 2002: 75–79; but see the few vessels in Donceel and Donceel-Voûte 2017: Chapter 4, 43–45; Eisenstadt 2018: 207–210. 6 Reich 2001, 2003: 157–158 claimed that the abundance of spindle whorls in the Casemate Wall and in Building 9 implies the presence of women (cf. Bar-Nathan 2006b: 190 on similar distribution patterns of unguentaria, mainly used for perfumes). Yet, in both the Western Palace and in Building 13 few spindle whorls were found. Therefore, the presence or absence of women (and families!) cannot explain the differences in social organization or eating patterns between these two buildings.

Conclusions The Judaean Individual within Judaean Society

The previous chapters engaged in the analysis of material culture as it relates to ritual baths, specific types of vessels—imported pottery, southern decorated oil lamps, stone vessels, and the amount of tableware, storage and cooking vessels in specific sites—burial caves, loculi, ossuaries, the spatial analysis of Khirbet Qumran and in Herod’s palaces, and pottery distribution in Masada during the Jewish Revolt. This chapter aims to integrate the results of these chapters. What do they teach us about Judaean society from the Hasmonean period to 70 ce? How do they illuminate what we already know from the historical sources?

Major Phenomena in Judaean Society Several key themes have appeared time and again in different contexts: purity, individualism, feasts, spatial isolation/accessibility, and attitudes toward GrecoRoman or foreign culture. They generally fall into one of two groupings: communal/group/family social identity or individual/personal identity. Both aspects are related to post-processual archaeology (or structural and symbolic archaeology) as outlined in the Introduction. Thus, by employing archaeology to study society we have learned a great deal about the interrelations and interplay between the individual Judaean and Judaean society as a whole. Purity is, among other things, a means for expressing social identity. I have tried to show that purity is related to changing perceptions of the body and the symbolic meaning of both ritual practices and material facilities—baths, stone vessels, and imported wares. The emergence of ritual baths during the Hasmonean period was probably related to the growing perception that Gentiles are impure and at times also defiling. It was for this reason that foreign/imported pottery was largely rejected. Ritual bathing was seen as a marker of ethnic identity, and although it was carried out by the individual, the historical and archaeological contexts indicate that the individual was concerned with strengthening the collective identity by reinforcing his or her individual Judaean identity. Decades later, from the reign of Herod to 70 ce, the concept of purity became even more prevalent. The number of ritual baths increased from approximately 70 to several hundred, and stone vessels became very popular because they were impervious to defilement. Ritual baths were built adjacent to synagogues, DOI: 10.4324/9780429434044-10

Conclusions  213 agricultural installations, and burial caves. Many Judaeans observed purity in their daily life, aiming for a constant state of purity. This entailed paying special attention at mealtimes, in what I  have termed “non-priestly purity.” Purity as a matter of individual identity was now linked to the religious experience. For example, it was common to purify oneself before prayer. It became a mode of expressing one’s agency in relation to religious practice. These two different concepts of ritual purification demonstrate the complex character of purity concerns: in one scenario it may be communal; in another, individual. A single ritual bath does not in itself reveal very much. It is its archaeological and historical contexts that enable us to interpret the general character or aim of purification. This can be inferred from the distribution of baths throughout Judaea and within the settlements, the domestic structure, number of baths, and aim of purification (according to historical sources from the period), and the types of social interaction common to the period. The dozens of ritual baths in Herod palaces, 13 of which were integrated with Roman bathhouses, attest to the fact that their purpose was to counterbalance Herod’s inclination toward Greco-Roman culture. Purity observance seems to mark Torah observance and Judaean identity in Herod’s courts, despite or perhaps because Herod, his family, and court members were very much involved with Hellenistic and Roman administrators and Gentile values and culture. These baths therefore attest to a distinctive Herodian ideology, making a statement about Herod’s attitude to Judaism. At first glance, the location of these baths in the palaces of a king who ruled in the Hellenistic style and adopted Greco-Roman culture (and the fact that they were incorporated into Roman bathhouses) seems to indicate an attempt to preserve Judaean identity. Yet since in most palaces there was more than one bath, it is possible that they were also related to non-priestly purity. In some cases, Herod’s court members (or visitors) may have been concerned to maintain a constant state of purity. This question requires further study of each site. In previous studies I have suggested that the various types of ritual baths reflected distinct kinds of purification. Baths with a division that separates the staircase, usually a shallow plaster partition that separated those descending (impure) from those ascending (pure), were relatively rare (Reich 2013: 61–67 mentions about 50 such installations). I  have proposed that they were used for priestly purity, for example, before eating priestly offerings or before serving at the Temple cult, as well as for lay persons who wished to attain a high level of purity (Regev 1996; 1997a; cf. m. H̟ agiga 2.7–8. See Chapter 6). In Kh. Qumran there are three additional ritual baths with two or three partitions which create not two but three or four separate lanes to and from the ritual baths. These are symbolic divisions attesting to a particular hierarchy between several levels of purity or classes of bathers. In a sense, the ritual baths with a divided staircase of two or more lanes may attest to an ideology that stresses social or religious hierarchy. Elsewhere I have discussed more than ten ritual baths that were built next to the Temple Mount (for example, under Robinson’s Arch). Their location indicates that people bathed immediately prior to entering the Temple Mount. Purification

214  Conclusions from defilement demanded not only immersion in water but also waiting a day (or more) until sunset, hence impure persons could not use those baths and then immediately enter the Temple Mount. Those who immersed in these baths were already ritually pure but practiced extra purification, a rite de passage which elevated their ritual status or prepared them to enter the sacred domain. This is very similar to the rabbinically ordained practice of immersing inside the Temple (despite the fact that the priests were already pure) before entering the priestly court (Regev 2005b). Thus, there were diverse purity practices which related to different types of purity concerns. A single bath may have been employed for more than one type of purification. Individualism cannot be directly traced in the archaeological record; rather it is a matter of interpretation. Individualism is related to the concept of agency, when persons constitute themselves through artifacts (in the case of individualism, this is done intentionally). Individualism is indeed a misleading concept. In my earlier studies I understood the flourishing of purity practices as a phenomenon centered on the individual, but later I realized that it may also relate to collective identity in times of ethnic conflict or competition. Initially I suggested that ossuaries were intended for the remains of one individual, but recently I recognized that most ossuaries were used for the interment of more than one dead person. If so, was the ossuary, ritual bath, or stone vessel meant for the person as an isolated agent or was it a means for connecting the person to family members, the community, or the ethnic group? Burial in loculi during the mid-Hasmonean period provided the deceased individual more space and attention than did earlier shaft tombs or bench-pit burial caves. The deceased were commemorated along with their closest relatives, especially parents and their young children. This is indeed relative individualism (although one may argue that in most cases individualism is a relative term or phenomenon). The same applies to burial in ossuaries, where both the average number of deceased in an average ossuary and the family relations between those buried in the ossuary resemble those of the loculi. Nonetheless, the emergence of ossuaries and the fact that they were very common indicate a noticeable difference. They symbolize a bounded space, detaching the deceased from the other family members in the cave. More attention was paid to the specific persons in the ossuary. The inscriptions of names, family details and other personal information on the ossuaries commemorated some individuals and ascribed more importance to them than to others who in many cases were also buried in the same ossuary. The loculi, and even more so the ossuaries, point to the complex dynamic between familial and personal identity. The family was extremely important, and burial caves were mostly based on the family unit, whether nuclear or extended. In wishing to commemorate the individual, in most cases one could not be separated from one’s closest relatives. Parents and young children were identified with one another and hence were frequently buried together, even in a single ossuary. Yet, the very existence of loculi and ossuaries shows that the Judaeans found it

Conclusions  215 necessary to separate these individuals from other relatives and treat them as a single, smaller unit. The decorations on the ossuaries and the Southern oil lamps (the latter dated to 70–135 ce) display many types of ornamentation, each with variations and combinations. They correspond to Wiessner’s assertive style, representing personal, rather than collective or ethnic identity. The decorated artifacts are related to the self, since the ossuaries represent the individual identity of the deceased, while oil lamps are more symbolic and personal than ordinary pottery items. The Southern oil lamps are important in that they reveal that the individualistic trend continued in Judea after the destruction of the Temple, although it took a new form. The vast number of ritual baths dated after the Hasmonean period shows that many Judaeans used their own baths and immersed very frequently. The emergence of stone vessels (especially mugs) toward the end of Herod’s reign demonstrates that daily purity had become a personal matter. The competition between groups regarding stringency in eating ordinary food in purity, such as the Essenes or Qumranites in relation to outsiders, and Pharisees in relation to most of the common people, the ‘Am-haretz (echoed in Mark 7, Matthew 23 and Luke 11), shows that purity had become a matter of social competition among the Judaeans themselves. The Essene or Pharisee were proud of this stringency in personal daily life in comparison to other Judaeans. Meals or feasting are means of group identification. They attest to specific types and circles of social relations, create group identity, and carry symbolic meaning. In both Khirbet Qumran and some of the buildings of the rebels in Masada, the large proportion of tableware in comparison to cooking or storage vessels indicates that communal feasts were held. In Kh. Qumran there are further archaeological indications that communal eating was ceremonial: the large space which was probably a dining hall, the remains of sacred meals in the animal bone deposits, and the entire hierarchical and ritualistic spatial structure of the site. The archaeological context of social boundaries and possibly also resistance (e.g., non-familial burial) in Kh. Qumran favors the conclusion that feasting together reflected not only social solidarity, but was also a demonstration of elitism and exclusivism. A similar phenomenon is attested to in Masada during the time of the rebels. While the inhabitants of the Casemate Wall and Building 13 prepared their food and ate their meals more or less by themselves or in very small groups, those in the Western Palace and perhaps also in Building 11 joined forces in cooking and baking and most likely dined together. In Masada, different patterns of food preparation and consumption—eating together or alone—signified the social structure and possibly also the social status of the diners. Spatial organization of a building attests to the inhabitants’ self-identity, their internal social ties (structure or organization), and their attitude toward outsiders. The spatial plan carries symbolic meaning, and may reflect the ideology of the builders/dwellers. In Chapters  6 and 7 I  did not address private houses but the unique buildings in Kh. Qumran and Heord’s palaces. Kh. Qumran has a complex structure, relatively inaccessible to outsiders and hierarchical to insiders.

216  Conclusions Spaces are divided into isolated segments, perhaps to distinguish between mundane activities and noteworthy performances. The spatial plan created a boundary between the inhabitants’ community and the outer world, on the one hand, but it also divided the site into ritualized zones that created a social order, on the other. Both aspects correspond with the sectarian worldview and social characteristics. The spatial organization of Herod’s palaces in the first and second palaces in Jericho and the first phase of the palace in Caesarea attest to the accessibility of the major spaces for outsiders and the convenient movement between them for the court members. This indicates an open royal court in which Herod was freely approached and frequently hosted many guests, with whom he interacted. In contrast, the Western palaces in Masada (in the second and third phases) and the third palace in Jericho, which were all built later in Herod’s reign, ensured that the king was not easily accessible to anyone, insiders and outsiders alike. The spatial relationship is complex, and movement between different areas is difficult. This structure attests to a large court with many staff members, in which Herod segregated himself from both his staff and his guests. Herod’s relationship with others, meaning his royal style of conduct, had altered significantly. In Masada, the social organization of the rebels in the Herodian structures took various forms. Many divided the existing buildings, including the segments of the Casemate Wall, into smaller units to create a sense of privacy and independence, despite the fact that they supposedly all shared a fundamentalist anti-Roman ideology. However, the rebels who occupied the Western Palace did not make similar architectural adjustments. They cooperated in cooking and baking, and most likely had communal feasts. Thus, for some rebels the spatial organization divided people, whereas for others it united them. Greco-Roman or foreign culture plays a role in Judaean society both through its adoption and its rejection. Herod famously incorporated Hellenistic and Roman architecture, art, luxury vessels, and especially a Roman bathhouse in almost each of his many palaces. Their purpose was to flaunt his royal status and connections with Roman and the Hellenistic civilization. Imported wares were quite common in first century Judaea, including among Masada’s rebels, and in other sites, including the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem (see later). In contrast, refraining from the use of Hellenistic pottery and imported fine wares characterized Judea in the Hasmonean period, including the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho. This was mostly an expression of Judaean ideology. The differences between the Hasmonean and Herodian palaces in Jericho illustrate the transition from the Hasmonean to the Herodian periods through the use of such vessels (although the Hasmoneans did adopt other aspects of Hellenistic culture such as swimming pools and hot baths, see Regev 2017). Rejecting or using imported vessels was far more than an economic issue. It was a matter of identity. Interestingly, Hellenistic or Roman style vessels became more prevalent in the first century ce in some sites where ritual baths and stone vessels were also very common. Those who used the imported vessels, ritual baths, and stone vessels saw no contradiction between using foreign pottery and observing ritual purity on a daily basis. Thus, after the Hasmonean period it was less common to associate

Conclusions  217 imported vessels with impurity. For these Judaeans, associating themselves to the Greco-Roman world (or at the very least showing off class distinctions) had become more important than highlighting their ethnic identity by abstaining from the use of these vessels. All these patterns of material culture and consequently social behavior pertain to both inter-social identity and intra-social identity, within and outside the family, the community, the sect, and the larger ethnic group. They point to the complex connections between the individual and society. Communities are based on individuals, who in turn are part of a larger group. When people immerse in a ritual bath, abstain from using imported pottery, or partake in a communal feast, their individual acts generate communal identity. When an individual underscores his or her identity by using a special oil lamp, meticulously observing purity in their own private life, or being buried in a (decorated) ossuary, individual identity is generated in relation to others. But one reason why this individual identity is generated by “the agent” to begin with is that others sense it and acknowledge the individual. Either way, material culture is a matter of social interaction. Nonetheless, the manner in which one’s material culture or activity is at variance from that of one’s closest associates attests to the individual or collective character of these phenomena. When ritual baths become more associated with persons (because there are so many of them in use in one single site), or when the deceased are buried with special attention paid to their social ties and their own personal identity, this reflects an individual identity. What does all this teach us about the average Judaean or the Judaean people as a “nation” in a more general way, that we did not learn from Josephus or other textual sources? From a bird’s eye perspective, the Judaeans used material culture to shape their identity and establish social interactions—but this is a natural and universal trend. What is interesting is that some of the archaeological phenomena discussed here that appeared as early as the Hasmonean period and continued until the destruction of the Second Temple reflect coping or adopting to change: ethnic conflict and competition, the influence of Hellenistic or Roman culture, demographic growth, and family fragmentation. Sometimes it is not clear whether ritual baths and burial in loculi or ossuaries were a reaction to a social or cultural situation, or whether they actually contributed to creating this new situation. In any event, the new types of material culture or new ways of using it reflect the vast and substantial social and cultural changes that took place in Judaea from 100 bce to 70 ce. Ritual baths of different kinds, certain stone vessels, family burial caves containing loculi and ossuaries, communal feasts (in Kh. Qumran and Masada), imported fine wares (or their absence)—which did not exist before the Hasmonean period—were employed to reinforce social interactions between the Judaeans, to transfer cultural messages, and to forge relationships. The most distinctive feature of Judaean material culture is social individualism. It was manifested by non-priestly purity, evidenced by the abundance of ritual baths and stone vessels, the decorated ossuaries and Southern oil lamps (although the latter appeared only after 70 ce), and in a more complex manner by interment in loculi and ossuaries, usually together with close family members.

218  Conclusions The rebels in Masada who lived in very small domestic units and had limited cooperation with their neighbors in cooking and dining may also represent some degree of individualism. In fact, if we rely on written historical evidence, we may conclude the inhabitants of Khirbet Qumran, who were most likely sect members, and some of the rebels in Masada who joined together in feasting, cooking, and baking, actually created their own communities within Masada, abandoning the larger society on the basis of their own individual decision and self-identity. Thus their communalism and special rituals are based on a certain degree of social individualism. This trend toward individualism had already begun ca. 100 bce, when loculus burial caves first appeared (and Kh. Qumran was established sometime later), but it become widespread in the Herodian period and even more so in the first century ce. The transformation from purity as a reflection of ethnic identity to non-priestly purity as a generator of individual identity, and the change from secondary burial in loculi to the use of ossuaries (some of them bearing inscriptions and decorations) which paid greater attention to the self and were detached from the larger family unit, demonstrate this social change. Most of the burial caves with loculi and ossuaries are dated to the period from Herod to 70 ce and probably represent nuclear and small-extended families. This may indicate that the family unit had become smaller in this period. The fragmentation of the family into smaller units is yet another indication of individualism. Thus, the single most significant conclusion of this book is the growing individualism within Judaean society from Herod to the destruction of the Temple. But what segment of Judaean society do these findings represent? Did the members of the lowest class, such as the rural peasants, also experience such individualism? The common people could hardly afford a private ritual bath, stone vessels, a family cave, and ossuaries, and they did not use imported vessels not out of an ideology of avoidance but because they were too poor to afford them. Yet, the archaeological phenomena discussed in this book were not only limited to the elite. Too many ritual baths, stone vessels, loculus burial caves and ossuaries were found to ascribe them solely to the well-to-do. Many of the findings discussed here represent the middle class, indicating that the social dynamics had a wide-ranging affect. Although the lower classes probably did not adopt these social phenomena, they were certainly aware of them and thus were influenced by them, one way or another.

Individualism from Herod to 70 ce: Historical Perspectives The historical implications of the phenomena discussed earlier require further consideration. The most dominant social phenomenon, which appears in almost every chapter, is individualism. The manner in which people reflected their own separate identity and took an independent stance within society had far reaching implications on the development of events during Herod’s reign, and even more so in the first century ce, especially on the eve of the First Revolt against Rome. The following discussion pertains mainly to Jerusalem. For now, I leave open the

Conclusions  219 question of the extent to which these social trends also pertained to Jerusalem’s rural environs and other parts of Judaea such as the Galilee. The social rise of the individual did not develop in a vacuum. It was nourished by the social, economic and political background, and will be addressed here only briefly. The most significant change in Judaea came with Herod’s reign. The king altered the character of the state and the city administration, expanded the economic system and land ownership, developed the cities, and established public buildings and institutions, including a theater, an amphitheater and a hippodrome (Rocca 2008). Imagine, for example, the effect of the huge, extensive project of rebuilding the Jerusalem Temple—the largest temenos in the Roman empire—on the lives of priests and Levites, builders, merchants, and pilgrims. Herod led the urbanization of Jerusalem, modeling it on a Hellenistic polis. This was not merely a process of Hellenization. These changes affected the social structure of the residents of Jerusalem. Since Herod’s era, the members of the Judaean elite in Jerusalem gradually increased their political, economic, and ideological power as agents of institutional change in Roman Judaea (Keddie 2019). This new elite was headed by the high priestly families (Goodman 1987; Regev 2005c: 47–49, 293–347). Their wealth and the fact that they adopted Hellenistic and Roman culture are attested to in the archaeological findings. Eight large private mansions dated to the Herodian period and the first century ce were excavated in Jerusalem’s Upper City, Mount Zion, and the Tyropoeon valley. They included peristyle courtyards, stuccoes and frescoes, mosaic floors, Hellenistic baths and ritual baths (Rocca 2008: 343–347 and references; Ben-Ami and Tchekhanovets 2011). The elite used colorful, elegant, imported fineware. Eastern Sigillata A imported vessels were also common in the Herodian Quarter in Jerusalem (Berlin 2005: 442–448), Greek and Roman oil lamps, Pompeian red-ware pans, and other imported vessels that were scarcely to be found in Jerusalem before the time of Herod (Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2014), as well as stuccos and frescoes in different styles. The elite actually imitated Herod and his court members, since these fine wares as well as several Hellenistic and Roman features of art and architecture (such as frescoes) first appeared in large numbers in Herod’s palaces in Jericho and Herodium, and probably also in Masada (Bar-Nathan 2002: 129–144; Berlin 2005: 446; cf. Lictneberger 2009; Peleg-Barkat 2014). However, the inhabitants of the large mansion in the Tyropoeon valley used only a few imported vessels, but plenty of local products, including fine wares (Tchekhanovets 2013). Social and cultural changes among the elite and possibly also among some of the middle class in Jerusalem under Herod, his successors, and the Roman governors were probably motivated by the impact of Roman rule. Romanization is the process by which the inhabitants of territory under Roman control begin to regard themselves as Romans. It implies a series of cultural changes that created an imperial civilization. Adopting Roman culture and values was a means of gaining social status and strengthening ties with Roman officials (Woolf 1998; MacMullen 2000: ix. 134–137). While the Emperor and the local Roman administration encouraged this (Ando 2000: esp. 23), they did not expect the local population to

220  Conclusions abandon their Indigenous religious or cultural identities, but rather to augment it (Woolf 1994). The impact of Romanization led to social differentiation in Jerusalem (Goodman 1987). Those who were eager to embrace it, as well as others who were influenced by it, even unintentionally (such as the workers or merchants who made their living from these cultural and economic developments) became members of a new elite, or at least a social and cultural circle related to the new elite. Romanization probably encouraged social competition between individuals, families, and communities because there was something new to achieve or reject: new commodities, a new lifestyle, new status, and connections with Roman officials. In a sense, Romanization went hand in hand with social individualism: finding oneself in a new social situation. Judaean society, especially the upper and middle class in Jerusalem in the first century ce, was divided into several religious groups and schools, which Josephus termed heiresis (War 2.119–161; Ant. 18.11–23): Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, and Sicarri (“fourth philosophy”). To these we should add the early Christians, especially the Jerusalem community headed by Peter and James, the Qumran sects (the Yahad and the Damascus Covenant), and various so-called prophets and messiahs such as John the Baptist, Theudas, and Banus (Regev 2001b: 52–61 and references). Some of these religious movements were sub-divided into segments, such as the houses of Hillel and Shamai, and different factions of so-called anti-Roman Zealot groups. Each had its own distinctive religious ideas and social stance, and each one strove for social power. The Sadducees, headed by the high priests, and the Pharisees, led by the early rabbis, dominated the religious scene. They vied with each other for authority, leadership and control of the Temple (Regev 2005c). In addition, many Hellenistic Jews from the Diaspora, as well as converts, visited or immigrated to Jerusalem, as we have already seen when we discussed the funerary and epigraphic evidence in Chapter 3. The average residents of Jerusalem had many religious and social alternatives to choose from. They had to decide which of the above to identify with, just like Josephus himself (Life 10–12). Decision was not easy. Some of these movements/ schools/sects held very different halakhic views which affected both everyday life and big issues such as Temple practice and the calendar. Interestingly, Josephus’ own views reveal halakhic eclecticism. When rewriting the Pentateuch in the Jewish Antiquities, his presentation of Jewish law combines the views of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, and the Qumranic halakhah (in the Temple Scroll and MMT). The same phenomenon can be seen in the writings of Philo. Clearly, then, it did not derive from Josephus’ confusion, carelessness, or an attempt at deception. This halakhic eclecticism attests to the vague religious boundaries between the different schools and was probably the result of the struggle between them (Regev and Nakman 2002; Regev 2011a). Jerusalem society during the first century ce was therefore pluralistic in the sense that many forces competed in the public scene. The social and political atmosphere was tense because of the rivalry between them. Roman rule and

Conclusions  221 government exacerbated the situation. In 66 ce the anti-Roman so-called Zealots led by a group of priests, initiated the cessation of daily sacrifices for the sake of the emperor. This was tantamount to a declaration of war against Rome and it eventually culminated in the First Revolt against Rome (War 2.409–421). This revolt was also a civil war between the diverse factions who had conflicting views on how to wage war against Rome and who should lead it. Jerusalem and the Temple suffered political and military strife and bloodshed between the Judaeans themselves, a situation which continued even after the Zealots seized the Temple in 68 ce (Regev 2014b). The schism between so many religious and social movements, groups, associations, and sects operating at the same time and competing for the support of the people and the attempt to rule the social scene and the Temple could not have occurred if Judaean society had not been individualistic. The importance of the self in daily life is attested to in several archaeological phenomena: the individual religious practice of non-priestly purity, the attitude of the family to commemorating the individual in burial with one’s closest relatives or alone, in an ossuary (at times with inscriptions and decorations highlighting individual identity), the fragmentation of the family attested to by small burial caves, and their internal division into smaller segments of loculi and ossuaries. The infrastructure of Jerusalem’s society paved the way for religious sub-divisions, and the emergence of so many religious and social alternatives further amplified the social individuation. This social and religious diversity came at a very high cost: the collapse of Jerusalem’s leadership and social institutions in 66–70 ce (Price 1992). Individualism within Judaean society and the split into multiple parties had already weakened the social fabric. There was no one central social force and each person felt free to act according to their own will. Individualism demolished social constraints, and the political, social, and religious crisis culminated in a total breakdown of Judaean society. The clashes between the various groups during the revolt was not really a “causeless hatred” (cf. b. Yoma 9b). Religious excitement and social tensions ran high, and they proved stronger than the willingness to defend common interests against Roman imperial domination. In the wake of the political crisis it was impossible to reach a consensus that would have united the Judaeans. No leader could overcome this social fragmentation and unite the people. Annanus, the son of Annanus, and others (including Josephus) tried and failed. The unique richness and intensity of Jerusalem society caused it to self-destruct. Nonetheless, after the destruction of the Temple and the political and social systems in Jerusalem, the Judaeans entered a new phase with the growing impact of the rabbis at Yavneh and later in the Galilee. The decorated Southern oil lamps that were in use outside Jerusalem for several decades after the First Revolt and until the Bar-Kochba revolt bear testament to some degree of social resurgence. People still wished to convey personal identity through their material culture. Social individualism continued, albeit in a different form. In this book I attempted to interpret several phenomena of Judaean material culture from the Hasmonean period to 70 ce in order obtain a better understanding

222  Conclusions of Judaean society. The people who created and used the artifacts, caves, and buildings discovered in archaeological excavations left us many indications of their identity and relationships: remnants of conflicting types of collective and individual identities, family ties, and social competition between communities. They were creative in conveying these messages. They experienced a number of social changes within a relatively short period of time. May this book serve to commemorate their lives, thoughts, and practices. Archaeology remembers.

Abbreviations

ADAJ Annual of the Department of Antiquities of Jordan AIAS Strata—Bulletin of the Anglo-Israel Archaeological Society AJS American Journal of Sociology ASCSA American School of Classical Studies in Athnes ASR American Sociological Review AASOR Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research BA The Biblical Archaeologist BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research BAR Biblical Archaeology Review CBQ Catholic Bible Quarterly CIIP Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae DSD Dead Sea discoveries HTR Harvard Theological Review HUCA Hebrew Union College Annual IEJ Israel Exploration Journal JAJ Journal of Ancient Judaism JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JJS Journal of Jewish Studies JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament JQR Jewish Quarterly Review JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology JRS Journal of Roman Studies JSJ Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period NEA Near Eastern Archaeology PEQ Palestine Exploration Quarterly QC The Qumran Chronicle RB Revue biblique REJ Revue des Études Juives RQ Revue de Qumran STDJ Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah TRAC Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference ZDPV Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate a figure and page numbers in bold indicate a table on the corresponding page 1 Maccabees 18–19, 21, 22, 23, 27, 29 2 Maccabees 19, 20, 21, 22 Abadi, Omri Y. 55, 57, 81n4 access analysis: of First Palace in Jericho 171–172; of Herodian palaces 169–170, 178–179; of Kh. Qumran period II 128–130; mean depth, manor house maps showing 130–135; of Promontory Palace at Caesarea Maritima 174–175; of Second Palace in Jericho 173–174; social boundaries and structure seen through 8, 154; Space Syntax theory, also known as Space Syntax Theory 123, 127, 169; of Third Palace in Jericho 176–178; of Western Palace in Masada 170–171, 175–176 Adler, Yonatan 11, 13, 35, 36 Alexander Jannaeus 12, 14, 18, 26, 29 Amar, Zohar 13 amphoras 14–15, 17, 29, 146, 187, 189–190 Ariel, Donald T. 17–18 Aristeas see Letter of Aristeas Avi-Yonah, Michael 107 Bagatti, Bellarmino 106 Bainbridge, William Sims 135 Bar-Kokhba Revolt 32, 40, 47, 103, 116 Barth, Fredrik 24 Ben Shemen 14, 32, 34 Berlin, Andrea M. 15, 23, 138 Binford, Lewis R. 2, 52–53 Birenboim, Hanan 21 body 6, 49, 53, 91, 163, 194; bodily purity 19, 31, 212; bones as representing the whole body 92; full-body immersion 11, 13, 27, 29; Herodian ideology,

manifesting through the body 164; individual self and the body 44–47; loculi, dead bodies stored in 68, 69–70, 85; personhood and the body 95, 164 boundaries: ethnic boundaries 10, 24, 25, 26, 27–28, 47; impurities as representing a system of boundaries 23; social boundaries 10, 22, 135, 215 Burdajewicz, Mariusz 137 burial caves 29, 86, 112, 115, 155, 221; family unit, as based on 52, 68, 72, 73, 76, 82, 84, 88, 89, 99, 214; of Goliath family 113; living household, as reflecting 74–75; loculi burial caves 8, 51, 62–63, 69, 76, 78–79, 82, 217, 218; ossuary inscriptions in 60, 64; ritual baths adjacent to 33, 35–36, 41, 42, 212; see also pit-bench burial caves Cansdale, Lena 124 Christianity 6, 46, 47, 48, 220 City of David 15, 35, 37, 65 Community Rule (1QS) 124–125, 155–157 cooking 9, 197, 218; Kh. Qumran cooking vessels 138, 139, 140, 149; Masada cooking installations 187, 190, 191, 194, 196, 198, 203, 204–205, 206, 207, 208, 211n3; Masada cooking vessels 187, 188, 190, 192–193, 196, 198, 200, 202–206, 208, 211n2; Western Palace, rebel cooking in 207, 208, 209, 215, 216 Crown, Alan D. 124 Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly 120 Cypros 11, 14, 161, 162

Index  267 Damascus Document 21, 22, 37 DeBoer, Warren R. 110 De Vaux, Roland 123–124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 137, 138–139, 141, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153 domestic buildings 52, 54, 120, 122, 169; burial caves as mirrors of domestic households 74; Casemate Wall, domestic units in 205; Kh. Qumran, comparing with manor houses 124, 127, 128, 130–135; manor house estates 126, 129, 154; purification of houses 19, 22; rebels, domestic units of 193, 218; ritual baths found in houses 32, 33, 161 domestic symbols 120–121 Donceel, Robert 124, 146 Donceel-Voûte, Pauline 124, 146 Doudna, Gregory L. 124, 126 Eastern Sigillata A (ESA) 14, 15, 17, 24, 219 Eisenstadt, Irinia 139 Essenes 23, 141, 181; as celibates 66, 124, 150, 152, 208; Josephus as depicting 124–125, 220; Masada, presence of Essenes at 186, 208–209; purity practices of 47, 49, 153, 215; Qumran community, identifying as Essenes 66, 123; Yahad group, equating with the Essenes 125, 155 ethnicity 2, 7, 18, 106, 111, 215, 217; archaeological markers of Judaean ethnic identity 23–24; ethnic identity and boundaries 24–25; Hasmonean state, shaping Judaean ethnic identity in 26–29; Judaean ethnic identity, shaping in the Hasmonean state 26–29; purity as a reflection of ethnic identity 218; ritual baths as marking ethnic identity 10, 13, 162, 212; the state and ethnic identity 25–26; style as an ethnic marker 110 extended family 76, 88, 100; burial caves as representing small-extended families 8, 72–74; fragmentation from nuclear to extended family 77, 89, 99; nuclear family, distinguishing from 54, 67, 71, 72, 79; in ossuary burials 61, 68, 70, 80, 82, 89, 96, 97, 99, 214, 218 family: archaeological and historical evidence of family burial 62–64; burial caves as reflecting living households 74–75; burial loculi caves as familial 59–60, 84–85; family fragmentation 99, 116, 217; family identity 51–52, 57–59;

family size and structure, determining via loculi 67–74; Herod, family of 159, 161, 162, 213; individual and family in Judaean burial caves 82–83; individualism and family structure in Jerusalem Society 77, 113; inscriptions and families 60–62; methodology in calculating family structure 52–53, 54, 77–80; micro-level family ties in loculi caves 85–88; non-familial burial 64–65, 150; opposition to family burial 65–67; ossuaries and 89–91, 91–93, 93–97, 99–100, 114, 214, 218, 221; sociocultural explanation for first-degree relative burials 88–89; see also extended family; hamula family unit; nuclear family Figueras, Pau 106 Finkielsztejn, Gerald 14 First Revolt (Great Revolt) 1, 17, 33, 46, 103, 104, 106, 116, 117, 175, 208, 218, 221 Flavius Josephus see Josephus Foerster, Gideon 162 Gamla 11, 15, 17, 34, 35, 37, 38, 103, 137, 138, 139, 188, 189, 190, 203 Gedalyahu, Alon 39 Gentile impurity 7, 10, 28, 212; Gentile ceramics, abstaining from use of 13–18, 26, 27, 29–30; Hasmonean period, Gentile impurity during 18–23; nonpriestly purity as differing from 49 Gentiles 28, 33, 40, 47, 115, 162 Gezer 11, 14, 15, 19, 29, 59 Golb, Norman 124 Goodenough, Erwin Ramsdell 105, 106, 107, 108 Gordon, B. D. 163 Grahame, Mark 128 Great Revolt see First Revolt Hachlili, Rachel 60, 150 halakhah (religious law) 13, 21, 43, 164; frigidarium-ritual bath transition, halakhic significance of 163; halakhic practices, ritual baths reflecting 12, 26, 33; Josephus, halakhic eclecticism of 220; rabbinic halakhah 23, 36, 39, 40, 41, 63, 149, 152, 160 hamula family unit 67, 71, 77, 80; cave burials of 72–74, 75; social characteristics of nuclear families vs. 75–76 Hanson, Julienne 123, 127–128, 130, 170, 178

268 Index Hasmonean period: ceramic selectivity during 13–18; Gentile impurity during 18–23; Judaean ethnic identity in the Hasmonean state 26–29, 30; re-emergence of pit-bench cave in 54–57; ritual bathing during 10, 11–13, 212, 215; Second Temple pit-bench burial caves 55–57 Hayden, Brian 136 Hayes, Christine E. 21 Herod 1, 17, 127, 166, 188, 216; access analysis of Herodian palaces 169–178; Gentiles, contact with 20, 162; Herod’s palaces, frescoes appearing in 219; individualism from Herod to 70 CE 219–222; ritual baths of 8, 12, 158, 159–165, 184, 185; royal ideology and court of 179–184; security, as surrounded with 168, 181; social relations and royal ideology of 166–169 Hertz, Robert 52 Hillier, Bill 123, 127–128, 130, 170, 178 Hirschfeld, Yizhar 124, 126, 127, 128, 130–131, 132, 146 Hodder, Ian 2–4, 109, 112 Ḥorvat Burnat 12, 32 Horvat Mesad 14, 15 houses see domestic buildings; manor houses Humbert, Jean-Baptiste 124, 126, 148–149 Hyrcanus II 20, 167 Idumea 13, 19, 55 imported pottery see pottery individualism 6, 75, 113, 115, 204, 214; concept as relative and varying 5; family structure and individualism in Jerusalem Society 77; historical perspectives on individualism from Herod to 70 CE 148; individual identity in relation to the family 93–97; individual self and the body 44–47; ossuary inscriptions and 97–9; social individualism 8, 9, 48, 91, 99, 113, 217–218, 221 inscriptions 35, 59, 65, 102, 158; inscriptions and families 60–62; ossuary inscriptions 51, 64, 68, 75, 89–91, 92, 94–95, 96, 97–99, 100n5, 214, 218, 221 Jason of Cyrene 19 Jericho 65, 100n4, 124, 144, 181; cave burials in 72, 88, 150, 151; Goliath family burial cave 112, 113; Herodian architecture, background on 167–168; loculi caves of 60, 66, 69, 84, 85;

pottery of 141, 146, 147; ritual baths found in 12, 29, 35 Jericho palaces 162, 171; Herod’s First Palace 172, 177, 178, 180, 183, 184, 185; Hasmonean palaces 11, 13, 14, 15, 27, 180, 216; Hellenistic bathhouses found in 163; Herodian palaces 1, 17, 127, 166, 169–170, 188, 216, 219; Herod’s Second Palace 173–174, 177, 178, 183, 184; Herod’s Third Palace 38, 162, 176–177, 178, 179, 180, 182, 183, 184 Jesus 47, 48, 64, 65, 66 Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem 11, 12, 14, 15, 17, 32, 38, 127, 132, 152, 216 John Hyrcanus 13, 15, 18–19, 20, 26, 28, 125 Josephus 63, 166, 217, 221; Essenes, portrait of 124–125; halakhic eclecticism of 220; Herod, depiction of 158–159, 165, 167, 168, 172, 178, 180–184, 185; Judaean Antiquities 159, 169, 181, 220; Masada, on the drama of 9, 186, 190, 209–210; Nicolaus of Damascus, depending on the writings of 9, 20, 159, 167; purity practices, commenting on 22, 31, 41, 42, 43, 44, 49; War 124, 153, 178 jubilees 20–21, 22, 209 Judah Maccabee 19, 26 Judith 11, 18, 41, 42, 49 Kapera, Zdzisław J. 124 Khirbet Qumran: as a controversial archaeological site 123–124; cooking vessels of 138, 139, 140, 149; manor houses, comparing to 124, 127, 128, 130–135; mean depth, calculating in comparison to villas 103–105; period II access analysis 128–130; pottery production center of 136–139, 140–141, 152; resistance in 144–152; ritual baths of 11, 12, 124, 127, 128, 140, 170; as a sectarian community 8, 21, 22, 47, 65–66, 139, 145, 147, 156; social organization in 127, 134–135, 143; tableware at 136–139, 140, 141, 144, 154, 215; Yahad Community Rule, comparing with 124–125, 155–157 Klawans, Jonathan 21 Kloner, Amos 12, 55, 57, 91 lamps 17, 116, 190, 219; destruction of 70 CE, oil lamps appearing after 115, 217, 221; motifs and symbols found on 101, 103, 111, 113, 118, 119–120, 215; ossuaries and oil lamps 104, 105;

Index  269 pinched oil lamps as folded wheelmade lamps 55, 100n1; Roman lamps 17, 101, 103, 107, 114, 115, 120, 146; self-identity in decoration and use of 117, 120, 121, 217; Southern oil lamp decoration as assertive style 8, 114–115 Letter of Aristeas 19–20, 22, 41, 42, 49 Levin, M. 61 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 118, 119, 122 Linares, Olga F. 119 loculi: emergence of Judaen loculi caves 83–84; family size and structure in burial caves, determining via loculi 67–74, 82; family structure in loculi, socially interpreting 74–82; micro-level family ties in loculi caves 85–88 Machaerus 11, 14, 160, 161, 162, 188, 189 Magen, Yitzhak 124, 126–127, 139, 140, 141, 146 Magness, Jodi 91, 126, 127, 138, 140, 141, 145–146, 148–149 manor houses 126, 130, 154; as highly structured complexes 129; Hilkiya’s Palace 131, 132, 133, 134, 134; Horvat ‘Eleq 131, 133, 134, 134; Horvat Salit 132, 132, 134; Kh. Qumran similarities with 124, 127, 128; Qasr e-Leja 131, 132, 134; Rujum el-Hamiri 131, 132, 134 Maresha 12, 26, 83, 84, 104 Masada 17, 38, 103, 211n3, 217; Casemate Wall 190–194, 198, 200, 202, 205–208, 209–210, 211n6, 215, 216; ceramic assemblage of 9, 187–190; eating patterns and social organization in 203–208; Masada D type oil lamp 103, 117; Masada rebels 186, 190, 215, 216, 218; pottery distribution in 193, 212; ritual baths found in 35, 160, 161; social diversity in 208–210; stoves and ovens in 191, 192, 198–199 Masada palaces: Herodian palaces of 127, 162, 166, 167, 219; Northern Palace 178, 180, 185, 191; Western Palace 162, 170–171 173–180, 182–184, 196, 215–216 Mason, Steve 7 McGuire, Randall H. 25, 27 meals 43, 148, 198, 206, 208, 215; communal meals 8, 141, 143, 152, 156, 203–205, 209, 210; non-priestly purity at mealtimes 31, 39.40, 44, 45, 49, 213; pottery, meals, and feasts 136–144; ritual and sacrificial meals 123, 139,

144, 149–150, 154, 155, 156; stone vessels and 36, 37, 38 Meir, R. 39, 44 Miller, Daniel 163 miqva’ot see ritual baths MMT 21, 22, 220 Morris, Brian 45, 98 Netzer, Ehud 161, 162, 166, 170, 174–175, 186, 190–191, 194, 206, 208 Nicolaus of Damascus 9, 20, 159, 166, 167, 184, 185 Noam, Vered 44 Nock, Arthur Darby 107 non-priestly purity 31, 162; individualistic tendencies in 49–50, 77, 116, 213, 217, 218, 221; individual religious experience 42–44; individual self and the body 44–47; literary and historical evidence for 39–41; purity and social competition 47–49; purity before prayer 41–42 nuclear family 8, 54, 58, 76, 79, 100; fragmentation from extended to nuclear family 77, 89, 99; in loculi family caves 67–74, 74–75, 88; in ossuary burials 80, 82, 85–86, 92, 96–97, 214, 218 oil lamps see lamps Oren, D. 83 ossuaries 53, 57, 59, 64, 85, 87, 88, 100nn4–6; decorations on 8, 77, 101–105, 215, 217–218, 221; emblemic and assertive styles of 107–112; familial or individual ossuaries, distinguishing between 90–99; family members buried together in 54, 79, 80, 82–83, 155; funerary inscriptions on 51, 60–62, 75; Herod, ossuary use during reign of 77, 80, 151; individualistic messages of 112–114, 214, 221; loculi, ossuaries stored in 70, 78, 84; material products of social change, decorations as 115–117; meaning of symbols, deciphering 117–121, 122; previous studies of Judaean ossuary decorations 105–106; secondary burial and 63, 67, 68, 69 palaces see Herodian palaces; Jericho palaces; Masada palaces; Promontory palace Paul 6, 47, 77 Peleg, Yuval 124, 126–127, 139, 140, 141, 146 Persian period 55, 58

270 Index Pharisees 6, 23, 40, 64, 160; family burial, opposition to 65; ḥavurah as fellowship of the Pharisees 39, 47–48, 49; Josephus and 181, 220; non-sacred food, eating in state of purity 39, 42–43, 47, 162, 215; purity observance as associated with 31, 37, 38, 43; stone vessel use by 38, 43 Philo of Alexandria 31, 41, 42, 43, 49, 107, 125, 220 pit-bench burial caves 53, 71, 78, 82, 84, 214; common repository pits 51, 80, 89; as familial 8, 58, 59; of the Hasmonean period 29, 54–57; pit grave popularity in Roman Syria 83 pottery 3, 7, 37, 111, 154, 208, 216; animal bones in pottery vessels 148–150; Casemate Wall, typological distribution of vessels throughout 202–203; cave age, pottery used to help indicate 71, 79; common, local pottery 101, 115; contemporary sites, rebels’ pottery in comparison to 189–190; economic wellbeing of Kh. Qumran, as revealing 124, 151; foreign pottery, refraining from use of 212, 216, 217; general methodology in pottery classification 187–188; Hasmonean pottery found in caves 55–57; imported pottery, rejection of 7, 10, 13, 14, 15–17, 23, 26, 29, 30, 212, 217; Kh. Qumran, pottery production center of 140–141, 152; in Masada Building no. 13 204, 207; Masada rebels, pottery use of 186, 192–194; period I in Kh. Qumran pottery 126, 127; resistance, reflecting in Kh. Qumran pottery 145–147, 155; tableware in Kh. Qumran 136–139, 143 Priestly Code 11, 18, 33, 34, 159 priestly purity 31, 33, 48, 213 Pritchard, James B. 160 Promontory Palace, Caesarea 170, 180, 183, 184 Psalms of Solomon 20, 22, 23 Puech, Émile 150 purity see Gentile impurity; non-priestly purity; priestly purity; ritual purity Qalandia 11, 12, 14 Qumran sectarians 21, 22, 47, 49, 66, 136, 209, 220 rabbis and rabbinic sources 23, 34, 44, 48, 52, 66, 115, 117, 121, 157, 160, 165, 214, 221; bones, on the collection of 63, 149; clay vessels, on the ritual status of 149; daily life, on maintaining purity

in 31, 116; on Gentile impurity 17–18, 21; individualistic ethos of 6, 45, 46, 116–117; meals, on handwashing prior to 39–40; on non-priestly purity 39, 40, 42, 43, 49; Pharisees, early rabbis as leading 220; prayer outside the Temple, institutionalizing 35; purity boundaries, maintaining social position via 47; stone vessels, on the purity of 36, 37; on tevul yom, the daily bather 39, 41 Rahmani, Levi Y. 61, 91, 98, 100n5, 101, 106, 107, 111 Rappaport, Uriel 83 Reich, Ronny 12, 32, 153, 194, 208, 211n6 resistance 26, 209, 215; animal bone deposits as implying 8, 155; burial shafts as an expression of 150–152; of Kh, Qumran inhabitants to the Temple 150, 156; pottery as reflecting 123, 145–146; ritual meals as resistance 147–150; in sectarian ideology 144–145 ritual baths 12, 13, 15, 16, 27, 36, 51, 154, 171, 218; agricultural installations, adjacent to 33, 34, 213; burial caves, adjacent to 33, 35–6, 41, 42, 212; frigidarium use and 160–3, 164; Gentile impurity and 18, 22–23, 26, 29–30; in Hasmonean period 10, 11–13, 212, 215; Herod’s ritual baths 8, 12, 158, 159–165, 184, 185; hierarchy of 155; imported pottery use during 216–217; of Kh. Qumran 11, 12, 124, 127, 128, 140, 170; of Masada 194, 209, 210; partition use 123; popularity of 31, 32–33; in Roman bathhouses 8, 160–163, 164, 172, 213; staircases, presence of 141, 152, 153, 161, 213; stone vessels and 17, 38, 40, 42, 44, 45–46, 47, 49; synagogues, adjacent to 33, 35, 212 ritual purity 12, 33, 43, 45, 66, 216; constant and mandatory maintenance of 41, 44, 46; Herod as observing 162, 163, 164, 185; at Kh. Qumran 124, 140; partitions ensuring 153; ritual baths, maintaining with 34; social boundaries, establishing through 48; stone vessels and ritual purity in everyday life 36–39, 42 Romanization 24, 159, 164, 166, 219–20 Roman Judaea 7, 33, 45, 65, 72, 91, 108, 137, 140, 143, 205; anti-Roman Zealots 186, 220, 221; First Great Revolt against Rome 104, 106, 208, 218; Greco-Roman culture, adopting 213, 216–217, 219; Herod as a prominent figure in 158,

Index  271 164, 165, 179, 184–185; individualism in Roman imperial thinking 6; Masada, Roman conquest of 9, 186, 190, 209, 210; Roman architectural style, applying to Herodian palaces 158, 168; Roman bathhouses 8, 160–163, 164, 172, 173, 174, 177–178, 213, 216; Roman epitaphs 54, 60, 79–80, 95; Roman frescoes 33, 129; Roman lamps 17, 101, 103, 107, 114, 115, 120, 146; Roman mortuary practices 84, 90, 92, 107; Roman villas 169, 175 Roman Syria 83, 85 Rüpke, Jörg 45 Sackett, James R. 110 Sadducees 23, 49, 90, 220 Sanders, Ed Parish 28, 39, 41, 43, 49 Schwartz, Joshua 7 Second Temple period 1, 2, 7, 9, 32, 38, 52, 125; family-based burial during 62, 63, 64; Jewish descent traced by father during 165; late Second Temple period 31; loculi caves of 51, 59, 82, 85, 96, 152; pit-bench burial caves of 55–57, 82; purity practices during 21, 39; Samaria and Judaen highlands, caves of 55; stone vessels from 36; synagogues in Second Temple Judaea 35; tomb inscriptions from Judaea 61 sects and sectarianism 38, 65, 77, 123, 148, 216, 221; early modern sects 8, 126, 135–136, 147, 153, 154, 155; Kh. Qumran as a sectarian community 8, 21, 22, 47, 65–66, 139, 145, 147, 156; Qumran sects 49, 136, 209, 220; sectarian ideology 135, 144–145, 146, 155, 156; Yaḥad sect 8, 66, 124–126, 152, 156–157 209, 220 Seleucids 13, 14, 15, 17, 18–19, 20, 26, 28 semiotics 5, 118–119 Sepphoris 12, 32, 37, 115 shaft cave 65 Shakers 135–136 Shoham 14, 32 Siedentop, Larry 6 Smith, Anthony D. 26 Smith, Morton 107 social organization 2, 119, 155, 186, 211n6; of food storage and consumption 138, 188, 194; hamula as a social organization 75; in Kh. Qumran 127, 134–135; in Masada 203–208, 209, 213; mortuary practices as reflection of 53, 74, 89; spatial organization as echoing 123, 126, 128

Space Syntax theory see access analysis Stacey, David 124, 126 Stark, Rodney 135 Stiebel, Guy 186, 196, 208–209, 210 stone vessels 17, 137, 218; Herod, use during reign of 40, 162, 212–213, 215; individual vs. communal use 45, 214; non-priestly purity and 42, 43, 44, 49; purity practice and 8, 31, 36–39, 46, 47, 216, 217 storage pottery 187, 189, 211n2; at Casemate Wall 200, 202–203; impurity restrictions on 140; at Kh. Qumran 138, 139; at Masada 188, 190, 192, 193, 194, 198, 205, 215 style 2, 101, 119, 216, 219; assertive style 8, 110, 111, 112–115, 121; court style 168, 180, 213; emblemic style 8, 110, 111; emergence and evolution of new style 103, 116–117; Kh. Qumran, vessel styles found in 141, 155; Roman and Hellenic style 15, 33; Wiessner’s model of style 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 120 Sussman, Varda 106, 111, 115 symbolism 30, 53, 113, 121, 156; ethnic identity manifested through 24, 27; Goodenough on 106, 107; lamp symbolism in religious rituals 114; in material culture 7, 108; of mundane, daily artifacts 120 tableware 14, 155; anthropological perspective on tableware, dining, and ritual 141–144; communal meals and 8, 193, 209; Kh. Qumran, abundance of tableware at 136–139, 140, 141, 144, 154, 215; at Masada 9, 188, 189, 189, 190, 196, 198, 200, 202–203, 206–207; personal-use tableware 38, 187–188, 193, 194, 196; social aspects of rebels’ dining with tableware 203–205 Tarlow, Sarah 113 Tel Anafa 13, 14, 138, 139, 144 Temple: defiling of 20, 22; destruction of 35, 40, 46, 215, 217, 218, 221; purification of 19, 22, 28; temple cult 29, 31, 33, 34, 39, 42, 43, 46, 49, 50, 150, 153, 156, 166, 213; Temple Mount 11, 12, 76, 149, 179, 213–214; Temple Scroll 37, 40–41, 220 Theodotus Inscription 35, 65 Tilley, Christopher 118, 119 Tobit, Book of 18, 36, 41, 42, 49 Tyropoeon valley 15, 219

272 Index villas see manor houses Wiessner, Polly 109, 110–111, 112, 113, 115, 116, 120, 121 Wilson, Bryan R. 135 Wobst, Michelle H. 115–116

Yadin, Yigael 186, 187 Yaḥad sect 8, 66, 124–126, 152, 156–157 209, 220 Zangenberg, Jurgen 124 Zissu, Boaz 55, 57, 91