Etruria and Anatolia: Material Connections and Artistic Exchange 1009151029, 9781009151023

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Etruria and Anatolia

Striking similarities in Etruscan and Anatolian material culture reveal various forms of contact and exchange between these regions on opposite sides of the Mediterranean. This is the first comprehensive investigation of these connections, approaching both cultures as agents of artistic exchange rather than as side characters in a Greek-focused narrative. It synthesizes a wide range of material evidence from c. 800 to 300 BCE, from tomb architecture and furniture to painted vases, terracotta reliefs, and magic amulets. By identifying shared practices, common visual language, and movements of objects and artisans (from both east to west and west to east), it illuminates many varied threads of the interconnected ancient Mediterranean fabric. Rather than trying to account for the similarities with any one overarching theory, this volume presents multiple, simultaneous modes and implications of connectivity while also recognizing the distinct local identities expressed through shared artistic and cultural traditions.

 .  is Associate Professor of Classics and Archaeology at the University of Richmond. She is the author of Couched in Death: Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond (2013, University of Wisconsin Press).

 .  is Program Coordinator for the Mario Del Chiaro Center for the Study of Ancient Italy, Lecturer in the History of Art Department, and Affiliate Faculty member of the Ancient History and Mediterranean Archaeology Program at the University of California, Berkeley. She is an elected member of the Istituto di Studi Etruschi ed Italici in Florence, coeditor of the series Cities and Communities of the Etruscans, and consulting editor of the Journal of Etruscan and Italic Studies.

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MEDITERRANEAN STUDIES IN ANTIQUITY

General Editor   Institute for Culture and Society, Aarhus University

This series promotes a Mediterranean perspective on antiquity. Individual volumes focus on broad topics across a wide region where ‘the Mediterranean’ forms a major analytical tool. It also argues for a broadening of ‘the Mediterranean’ to include the views and perspectives of regions beyond its immediate boundaries. Titles in this series Etruria and Anatolia: Material Connections and Artistic Exchange Edited by  .  and  . 

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Etruria and Anatolia Material Connections and Artistic Exchange

Edited by

 .  University of Richmond

 .  University of California, Berkeley

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Shaftesbury Road, Cambridge CB2 8EA, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, NY 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 103 Penang Road, #05–06/07, Visioncrest Commercial, Singapore 238467 Cambridge University Press is part of Cambridge University Press & Assessment, a department of the University of Cambridge. We share the University’s mission to contribute to society through the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781009151023 DOI: 10.1017/9781009151016 © Cambridge University Press & Assessment 2023 This publication has been supported by a grant from the Samuel H. Kress Foundation, administered by the Archaeological Institute of America.

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press & Assessment. First published 2023 A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Baughan, Elizabeth P., editor. | Pieraccini, Lisa, editor. Title: Etruria and Anatolia : material connections and artistic exchange / edited by Elzabeth P. Baughan, University of Richmond, Virginia, and Lisa C. Pieraccini, University of California, Berkeley. Description: Cambridge, United Kingdom ; New York, NY : Cambridge University Press, 2022. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022024065 (print) | LCCN 2022024066 (ebook) | ISBN 9781009151023 (hardback) | ISBN 9781009151030 (paperback) | ISBN 9781009151016 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Civilization, Ancient. | Etruria–Civilization. | Turkey–Civilization. | Material culture–Turkey–History–To 1500. | Material culture–Etruria–History–To 1500. | Etruria–Social life and customs. | Turkey–Social life and customs. | BISAC: SOCIAL SCIENCE / Archaeology Classification: LCC DG223.3 .E93 2022 (print) | LCC DG223.3 (ebook) | DDC 937.5–dc23/eng/20220524 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022024065 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022024066 ISBN 978-1-009-15102-3 Hardback Cambridge University Press & Assessment has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Published online by Cambridge University Press

The ancient Mediterranean was a multicultural world par excellence. A remarkable number of people, nations, tribes, groups, and cities clustered about that pond. Interchange took place at various levels and took on various forms. Military, commercial, social, and cultural contact blurred boundaries, promoted linguistic fluidity, and jumbled ethnic categories. In that polyglot and shifting universe a sense of corporate identity by groups and peoples was an ongoing process, a series of constructs that fluctuated and modulated with time and circumstances and that gained expression in a wide variety of ways. The delineation of common characteristics, traits, qualities, values, and even origins that identified or gave cohesion to a community was forever in the course of formation or re-formation. Erich S. Gruen, Cultural Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2011: 1.

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Contents

List of Maps and Figures [page x] List of Contributors [xiv] Preface [xix] Acknowledgments [xxi] Notes on Abbreviations and Spelling

[xxiii]

Introduction: Etruria, Anatolia, and Wider Mediterranean Connectivity [1]  .    . 

   :     [] 1 From East to West and Beyond [21]  

   

[]

2 Bridging Cultures in the Past and Present

[61]

 

3 Etruria and Anatolia: An Ancient Relationship Framed by the Modern Views of “Orientalization” [75]  

4 A Tale of Two Buccheri: East and West

[87]

 

5 The Role of Greek Sanctuaries in Material and Artistic Interactions between Etruria and Anatolia [98]  

    

[]

6 Wooden Furniture from Verucchio and Gordion [113]  

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Contents

7 Refugee Terracotta Craftsmen from Anatolia in Southern Etruria and Latium, 550/540 to 510 BCE [129]  . 

   

[]

8 Etruscan Lightning and Anatolian Images: The Use and Perception of Tridents in Etruria and the East [145]   

9 Luxury Consumption and Elite Lifestyles [166]  

10 Tracing Connections between Archaic Etruria and Anatolia in Material Culture and Funerary Ideology [182]  

11 Rock Tombs and Monuments in South Etruria and Anatolia: Typology, Chronology, Ideology – Differences and Common Elements [195]   Ä 

     

[]

12 Wall Paintings from Gordion in Their Anatolian Context [217]  

13 Chasing the Dog in Etruria and Anatolia: Connections, Context, and Meaning [234]  . 

14 Reconsidering Ionian and Other Eastern Influences on Etruscan Black-Figure Vase-Painting [250]  

   ,  

[]

15 Forms and Functions of Beds and Couches in Etruscan and Anatolian Tombs [269]  . 

16 Female Assembly on Archaic Etruscan and Anatolian Funerary Monuments [290]  

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Contents

17 Anatolian Fashion in Etruscan Clothing: The Case of the Pointed Shoes [303]  ş  Ğ  Ü 

18 Male Necklaces in the East and West  . 

Index

[333]

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[318]

ix

Maps and Figures

Maps 1 Mediterranean basin 2 Etruria [16] 3 Anatolia [17]

[page 15]

Figures 1.1 Map showing the spreading of items from Near East to West [page 23] 1.2–1.3 Comparison of the Sorbo Tumulus at Caere and Karnıyarık Tepe [27] 1.4 Comparison of the Tumulus of Alyattes and the Circolo delle Pellicce [29] 1.5 Seals on an Attic cup from Gravisca and a Caeretan blackfigured hydria [32] 1.6 Dinoi from Etruria [35] 1.7 Distribution map of Etruscan bucchero [37] 1.8 Fragments of a bucchero-like cup [39] 1.9 Bucchero drinking bowl [41] 1.10 Distribution map of bronze strainer-funnels [43] 1.11 Glass bracelets with gold finials [46] 4.1 Object card for Sardis, no. P58.628 [88] 4.2 Grey “bucchero” (grey ware) fragment from Sardis, no. P58.628 [89] 4.3 Object card for Sardis, no. P59.108 [90] 4.4 Grey “bucchero” (grey ware) fragment from Sardis, no. P59.108 [90] 6.1 Funerary banquet held before the Tumulus MM burial, Gordion [115] 6.2 Inlaid table from Tumulus MM, Gordion [116] 6.3 Table 5 from Tumulus MM, Gordion [118] 6.4 Three-legged wooden table from Tomb 85, Verucchio [120] 6.5 Wooden throne from Tomb 89, Verucchio [121] 6.6 Inlaid wooden serving stands from Tumulus MM, Gordion [123]

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List of Maps and Figures

6.7 Detail of wooden footstool and box from Tomb 89, Verucchio [125] 7.1 Terracotta antefixes from the Rhoikos temple at Samos and Pian di Civita, Tarquinia [131] 7.2 Terracotta lateral sima from Sardis and revetment plaque from the Palatine Hill, Rome [133] 7.3 Terracotta revetment plaques from Larisa on the Hermos and Caprifico di Torrecchia [135] 7.4 Corner sima blocks from Sardis and Caprifico di Torrecchia [136] 7.5 Raking sima plaques from Sardis and Cerveteri [138] 8.1 Examples of tridents and bidents in Near Eastern imagery [147] 8.2 Bronze bident from a Golaseccan tomb [149] 8.3 Bronze trident from the Tomba del Tridente [151] 8.4 Iron trident from the Circolo della Fibula tomb [152] 8.5 Examples of Rossoni’s types of Anatolian and related tridents [153] 8.6 Iron trident from Gordion [155] 8.7 Tinia in conversation with Hercle on bronze chariot relief [158] 8.8 Photograph of a lightning strike [159] 8.9 Etruscan black-figured amphora of the Orvieto Group [161] 9.1–9.3 Egyptian blue relief pyxis [171–173] 9.4–9.5 Etruscan olla with relief decoration [175–176] 11.1 Myra in Lycia: House tombs [196] 11.2 Kaunos in Caria: Temple tombs [198] 11.3 Norchia, Necropoli del Fosso Pile: Cube tombs [201] 11.4 Norchia, Necropoli Valley Acqua Alta: Temple tombs [202] 11.5 Tuscania, Pian di Mola: Archaic house tomb [203] 12.1 Painted House at Gordion [218] 12.2 Partially preserved head of a male figure from the Painted House at Gordion [220] 12.3 Partially preserved head and torso of a female figure from the Painted House at Gordion [221] 12.4 Partially preserved head of a male figure with green hair and blue beard, from the Painted House at Gordion [222] 12.5 Two female figures with red eyes, from the Painted House at Gordion [223] 12.6 Partially preserved panel depicting youths, from the Painted House at Gordion [224] 12.7 Reconstruction of a female figure possibly performing the socalled proskynesis gesture, from the Painted House at Gordion [226]

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List of Maps and Figures

12.8 Partially preserved head of a snake, from the Painted House at Gordion [229] 13.1 Caeretan black-figured hydria [236] 13.2 Drawing of a terracotta revetment plaque from Poggio Civitate [237] 13.3 Terracotta revetment plaques from Larisa on the Hermos [238] 13.4 Terracotta revetment plaque from Sardis [243] 13.5 Detail of the “Villa Giulia Chariot Race” cylinder relief [244] 13.6 Detail of the Tomb of the Augurs, Tarquinia [246] 14.1 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora attributed to the Paris Painter, Munich 837 [251] 14.2 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora attributed to the Paris Painter, Vatican 231 [252] 14.3 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora, Munich 839 [259] 14.4 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora, Munich 841 [260] 15.1 Examples of Etruscan tomb chambers with rock-cut beds at Caere and San Giovenale [270] 15.2 Examples of Type A and B klinai [272–273] 15.3 Examples of Anatolian tomb chamber plans with funerary klinai [274] 15.4 Lale Tepe tumulus chamber [276] 15.5 Examples of headrests on Etruscan tomb beds [277] 15.6 Drawings of headrests on funeral couches in Anatolia [278] 15.7 Examples of klinai in Etruscan art [283] 16.1 Funerary cippus from Chiusi [292] 16.2 Black-figured funerary plaque by Exekias [293] 16.3 Short side of the Polyxena Sarcophagus [294] 16.4 Funerary cippus from Chiusi [298] 17.1 Detail of Lydian delegation on the Apadana reliefs [306] 17.2 Detail of Ionian delegation on the Apadana reliefs [307] 17.3 Details of dignitary on the west and south wall frescoes of the Karaburun II tumulus [308] 17.4 Ivory figurine from Bayındır [309] 17.5 Detail of a Lydian from the Apadana reliefs and an Etruscan bronze furniture attachment [311] 17.6 Terracotta sarcophagus with reclining couple [312] 17.7 Tondo of an Attic red-figured kylix attributed to Epiktetos [313]

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List of Maps and Figures

17.8 Hittite ceramic vessel from Alişar in the shape of pointed boot [314] 18.1 Quartzite statue of Ptahhotep [320] 18.2 Banqueting scene painted at the top of the rear wall in the Tomb of Hunting and Fishing [324] 18.3 Etruscan red-figured krater from Chiusi attributed to the Argonaut Group [326] 18.4 Marble sarcophagus from the Tomb of the Sarcophagi [327]

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Contributors

Elizabeth P. Baughan is Associate Professor of Classics and Archaeology at the University of Richmond. Her research focuses on burial furniture, banqueting ideologies, and cultural identities in western Anatolia and the eastern Aegean, and she is the author of Couched in Death: Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond (2013, University of Wisconsin Press). She has served as a field supervisor for the Hacımusalar Höyük excavations in northern Lycia and has also excavated at Sardis in Lydia, Poggio Civitate in Etruria, and historic sites in Virginia. Susanne Berndt is Associate Professor in the Department of Archaeology and Ancient History at Lund University. Her research focuses on religion in Iron Age Anatolia, and she has written extensively about the Phrygian cult, including Phrygian Rock-Cut Shrines: Structure, Function, and Cult Practice (2006, Brill). She is a member of the Gordion Archaeological Project and is currently working on publishing the Painted House and its wall paintings. Alexis Q. Castor is Shirley Watkins Steinman Professor of Classics at Franklin and Marshall College. Her research is primarily concerned with how Greeks and Etruscans used jewelry to express different social roles and identities. Her publications include a study of a Hellenistic jewelry hoard from Poggio Colla and an investigation of Etruscan horseshoe earrings. She is completing a monograph called Greek and Etruscan Jewelry: A Social History. Fernando Gilotta is Professor of Etruscology and Italic Archaeology, Università della Campania “Luigi Vanvitelli.” His main interests are Orientalizing and archaic necropoleis in pre-Roman Italy; sculpture, wall painting, and pottery (seventh to third centuries BCE); and Spina. He is currently involved in the Caere Project, for the edition concerning the Monte Abatone necropolis.

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List of Contributors

Tamar Hodos is Professor of Mediterranean Archaeology at the University of Bristol, UK. Her research focuses on the archaeology of the Mediterranean during the first half of the first millennium BCE, particularly the development of social identities in culturally mixed contexts and the application of globalization theories. She is the author of Local Responses to Colonisation in the Iron Age Mediterranean (2006, Routledge); Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World (edited, with Shelley Hales, 2010, Cambridge); The Routledge Handbook of Globalization and Archaeology (editor, 2017, Routledge); and The Archaeology of the Mediterranean Iron Age (2020, Cambridge). Theresa Huntsman is Program Coordinator in the Office of Development at Yale University. Formerly, she served as Publications Data Manager for the Archaeological Exploration of Sardis at the Harvard Art Museums, and she worked for over ten years at the site of Poggio Civitate as Director of Materials and Documentation. Her research has focused on the lid figures of Hellenistic cremation urns from Chiusi and issues of portraiture and identity. Gretchen Meyers is Associate Professor of Classics and Director of the Office of Sponsored Research at Franklin and Marshall College. She has conducted fieldwork at Cosa and Poggio Civitate and currently serves as the Director of Materials at Poggio Colla. Her research focuses on Etruscan social history and archaeology, particularly considering the role of Etruscan women in social rituals through the performance of textile production. Coeditor (with M. Thomas and I. Edlund-Berry) of Monumentality in Etruscan and Early Roman Architecture (2012, University of Texas Press), she has also published articles on Etruscan architecture and the iconography of Tiberinus, the deified form of the Tiber River. Alessandro Naso is Professor for Etruscology and Italic Antiquities, University of Naples Federico II, after serving as Professor for Pre- and Protohistory at Leopold-Franzens-University, Innsbruck, and Director of the Institute for Ancient Mediterranean Studies of the National Research Council of Italy, Rome. He has spent many years working in Italy and Turkey and has published on a wide variety of topics, including wall painting, tomb architecture and decor, amber, bronze, pottery, and artistic exchange between East and West.

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List of Contributors

Jessica Nowlin is Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy and Classics at the University of Texas, San Antonio. She is the author of Etruscan Orientalization (2021, Brill). Her historiographic research critiques the influence of modern political ideologies on the study of Mediterranean connectivity in the first millennium BCE. She is the codirector of the Sinis Archaeological Project, an archaeological field survey on the west coast of Sardinia, and her archaeological research focuses on the local acceptance, adaptation, and transformation of imported objects and practices from the eastern Mediterranean by communities in Sardinia and inland central Italy. Dimitris Paleothodoros is Associate Professor in the Department of History, Archaeology, and Social Anthropology at the University of Thessaly, Volos, Greece. He is the author of Epiktetos (2004, Peeters), the editor of The Contexts of Painted Pottery in the Mediterranean (2012, Archaeopress), and the coeditor (with St. Katakouta) of Imports of Attic Black- and Red-Figured Pottery in Thessaly (2022, Archaeological Museum of Larissa). His current research focuses on Attic and Corinthian Pottery from excavations in Greece (Filia Karditsas, Kythnos, Dimitrias), Etruscan black-figure pottery, the trade in Greek vases, religious iconography in Greece and Etruria, and vase iconography in archaeological contexts. Nassos Papalexandrou is Professor of Greek Art and Archaeology at the University of Texas at Austin. He is the author of The Visual Poetics of Power: Warriors, Youths, and Tripods in Early Greece (2005, Lexington Books) and Bronze Monsters and the Cultures of Wonder: Griffin Cauldrons in the Preclassical Mediterranean (2021, University of Texas Press). He has excavated on Crete, Naxos, Athens, and Polis tis Chrysochou on Cyprus. Lisa C. Pieraccini is Program Coordinator for the Mario Del Chiaro Center for the Study of Ancient Italy, Lecturer in the History of Art Department, and Affiliate Faculty member of the Ancient History and Mediterranean Archaeology Program at the University of California, Berkeley. Her research interests include visual culture, funerary ritual, foodways, reception studies, and issues of indigeneity and decolonization in ancient Mediterranean art. She is coeditor of the book series entitled Cities and Communities of the Etruscans, published by University of Texas

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List of Contributors

Press (2016– ), and is an elected member of the Istituto di Studi Etruschi ed Italici in Florence. Annette Rathje is Associate Professor Emerita of Classical Archaeology at the Saxo Institute of the University of Copenhagen and Chief Editor of Acta Hyperborea: Danish Studies in Classical Archaeology. From 1978–1984, she served as Vice-Director of the Danish Institute in Rome. Her research focuses on interconnection, interaction, and communication among peoples of the Mediterranean in the ninth to sixth centuries BCE. Her current work investigates early Etruscan imagery and visual narrative from an archaeological/anthropological point of view. Tuna Şare Ağtürk is Associate Professor of Classical Art and Archaeology at Çanakkale Onsekiz Mart University. Currently a Marie SklodowskaCurie Fellow at the University of Oxford, she has also received awards and fellowships from the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University, the Getty Foundation, and the Scientific and Technological Research Council of Turkey. Her research focuses on ancient dress and identity in Anatolia and, as Academic Director of the Çukurbağ Excavation in Nicomedia (modern İzmit in Turkey), the brightly painted reliefs of Diocletian’s monumental imperial complex. Elizabeth Simpson is Professor Emerita at the Bard Graduate Center, New York; Director of the Gordion Furniture Project; and Consulting Scholar at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. With degrees in mathematics and art history, she received her Ph.D. in classical archaeology from the University of Pennsylvania. Simpson has received numerous grants and honors, including an award from the Ministry of Culture of the Turkish Republic for the protection of the Turkish cultural heritage and for her work on the preservation and reconstruction of wooden objects from Gordion. Stephan Steingräber is Professor of Etruscology at the University of Roma Tre. He has worked at the German Archaeological Institute in Rome and has taught at the Universities of Munich, Mainz, Tokyo, Roma Tre, Padova, and Foggia, as well as holding visiting professorships in Denmark, Italy, and the United States. His numerous publications deal mainly with the historical topography, urbanism, architecture, and tomb painting of

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List of Contributors

Etruria and Southern Italy. His professional memberships include the Istituto di Studi Etruschi (Florence), the Academia Etrusca (Cortona), the German Archaeological Institute (DAI-Berlin), and the Archaeological Institute of America. Jean MacIntosh Turfa is Consulting Scholar at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and a member of the Istituto di Studi Etruschi ed Italici. She received her Ph.D. from Bryn Mawr College and has participated in excavations in the United States and abroad, including Corinth and Poggio Civitate. Her books include A Catalogue of the Etruscan Gallery of the University of Pennsylvania Museum (2005), Divining the Etruscan World: The Brontoscopic Calendar and Religious Practice (2012, Cambridge), The Etruscan World (editor, 2013, Routledge), Women in Antiquity (edited, with Stephanie L. Budin, 2016, Routledge), and The Etruscans and the History of Dentistry: The Golden Smile through the Ages (with Marshall J. Becker, 2017, Routledge). Nancy A. Winter is Distinguished Senior Researcher in the Ancient Mediterranean Studies Program at the University of California at Santa Barbara and Librarian Emerita of the Blegen Library of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. She is a specialist on Archaic Greek and Etruscan terracotta roofs and has published two books on these subjects: Greek Architectural Terracottas from the Prehistoric to the End of the Archaic Period (1993, Oxford University Press) and Symbols of Wealth and Power: Architectural Terracotta Decoration in Etruria and Central Italy, 640–510 BC (2009, University of Michigan Press), as well as numerous articles and conference papers.

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Preface

The idea for this book came from the international workshop conceived when the coeditors met in person for the first time in 2012 at UC Berkeley’s memorial service for Professor Crawford H. Greenewalt, Jr. (referred to by many simply as Greenie). Greenie had been interested in exploring material connections between cultures of the Mediterranean world well before the concept of “material connectivity” became en vogue. Greenie had talked with each of us about our respective fields in Etruscan and Anatolian archaeology, noting striking artistic similarities in such media as architectural terracottas and wall paintings. He had also discussed such matters over the years with his longtime friend Mario Del Chiaro. The two met in 1958 during Greenie’s first season at the Sardis excavations, when Mario was a trench supervisor there. It is particularly fitting, then, that Berkeley’s Del Chiaro Center sponsored this workshop in honor of both Greenewalt, specialist in Anatolian archaeology, and Del Chiaro, Etruscologist. The workshop brought together an international group of scholars of Anatolian and Etruscan archaeology, with disciplinary boundaries removed so that they could fully explore the similarities as well as differences in the art and culture of these two regions. The keynote lecture by Alessandro Naso, “From East to West and Beyond,” set the stage for the workshop by opening up tantalizing discussions on various aspects of material connections that traveled not only from east to west but vice versa from west to east, with new evidence from recent excavations. The workshop provided a venue for frank, open discussion which has led to new insights and a broader understanding of the ancient Mediterranean at large. The papers included here build upon fruitful discussions to offer a series of chapters on various and intriguing topics that span a wide range of subjects dedicated to Etruscan and Anatolian contact. Readers will notice that most of the papers in this volume deal primarily with the sixth century BCE, and this is no accident. The sixth century was evidently the period of most intense connection between Etruscan and Anatolian cultures. For decades Etruscologists have referred to a so-called Ionian phase of Etruscan art; this term, however, does not adequately describe the larger and more complex relationships between these two

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regions. This volume attempts to flesh out these complex and subtle relationships within a larger framework of archaic Mediterranean studies. The preceding and following centuries, naturally, reflect the precursors and fallout, respectively, of this intense exchange. Thus, the chapters in this volume deal with material ranging from the eighth century BCE through the Hellenistic period, revealing a persistence of material similarities even when contexts and functions – and the nature of cultural interactions – were quite different. Readers will also notice that the papers collected here do not cover every class of material culture where connections between Etruria and Anatolia may be found. In many cases we have only begun to catalog these diverse similarities (and differences) and their diverse implications. Further investigations deserve to be carried out in the areas of architecture and wall painting, for instance, and there is also much fertile ground for examining the technologies of communication that must underlie many of these connections. These subjects will be addressed in a future international conference on this topic. Our hope is that this volume, like the workshop from which it was born, marks the beginning of sustained and vigorous conversation on the material connections and artistic exchange between these remarkable cultures on opposite sides of the Mediterranean – cultures that have traditionally been underrepresented in Classical Studies. Our goal is not to prove or disprove any theories of origins or migrations but to look carefully and without bias at various aspects of the material evidence from these different sides of the Mediterranean to see where exactly the similarities and differences lie and to explore various possibilities for how these may be explained. In short, we aim not to prove what was done first and where but rather to discover what was done and what we can learn about different types of connectivity across the Mediterranean.

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Acknowledgments

First and foremost the editors of this volume would like to thank their professors, Mario A. Del Chiaro and Crawford H. Greenewalt, Jr., for opening up the ancient Mediterranean world with their compelling and inspirational guidance throughout graduate school and beyond. We are also extremely grateful for the support from our own institutions, namely the Mario A. Del Chiaro Center for Ancient Italian Studies at the University of California at Berkeley and the Department of Classical Studies at the University of Richmond. Maria Paola Guidobaldi deserves special thanks for her generous time, energy, and assistance as she so graciously hosted this international conference at the Villa Giulia Museum in Rome in May 2016. We thank the directors (Alfonsina Russo and Rita Cosentino) and the staff of the Villa Giulia Museum for helping put together such a successful event. We would also like to extend a warm thank you to Christopher Smith, who graciously hosted the keynote lecture at the British School at Rome on the opening night of the conference. Likewise, the many colleagues who enthusiastically participated by sponsoring this event deserve mention: Kimberly Bowes (American Academy in Rome), Greg Warden (Franklin University), and the Soprintendenza archeologia del Lazio e dell’ Etruria Meridionale and the Polo Museale del Lazio. Special thanks also to Michael Baughan, Joel Lai, and Cathy Mayer for creating our conference graphics (posters and programs) and website; to Maddie Philips for creating the maps; and to Julie Wolf for creating our bold cover image. We are especially grateful to all the speakers/authors who shared such a keen interest in the topic – we were overcome by their eagerness to participate. They carefully and thoughtfully presented papers that have initiated new conversations in ancient Mediterranean studies. We truly appreciate the time and effort they have dedicated to their papers and final chapters. The discussants who insightfully responded to the papers also added enormous synergy to the overall discussions – we graciously thank Bruno D’Agostino, Ingrid Edlund-Berry, Maurizio Harari, Alessandro Naso, Mario Torelli, and Greg Warden. We also thank all the conference attendees, who enriched the discussions both in the formal sessions and

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informal breaks. Finally, Lisa would like to thank her Anatolian colleague, friend, and coeditor Elizabeth Baughan. Lizzie’s enthusiasm for this project was infectious. She maintained an organized framework at all times, and the book has benefited greatly from her steadfast and generous camaraderie. Lizzie would like to express her sincere thanks to Lisa for having the vision and perseverance not only to make the workshop happen but also to make it such a fulfilling and productive occasion, and for carrying that vision through all our work preparing this volume. It is her big-picture thinking and good cheer that sustain the enthusiasm for this project among all of its contributors.

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Notes on Abbreviations and Spelling

In the following chapters, abbreviations for ancient authors and texts follow those of the Oxford Classical Dictionary. Standard reference works in the field of Mediterranean archaeology are abbreviated according to the model of the American Journal of Archaeology. We have used Latinized rather than transliterated Greek spellings for most ancient author and place names and mythological characters because they are more closely aligned with Italic/Etruscan names, except when the Greek spelling is much more widely used (for instance, Gordion, Herakles, and Samos). We have also retained Greek spellings for Greek architectural elements or artifact types that became common in the Mediterranean world, such as akroteria and klinai. We acknowledge that the use of both Latin and Greek spellings for Anatolian and Etruscan peoples and places reflects the traditional dominance and privileging of Graeco-Roman perspectives and material in Mediterranean studies, but we also strive to make this work easily understandable to the widest possible range of students and scholars.

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Introduction Etruria, Anatolia, and Wider Mediterranean Connectivity  .    .  For quite some time the ancient Mediterranean has been defined by a Graeco-Roman paradigm – for history, archaeology, art history, mapping, chronologies, and stylistic comparisons, Greece and Rome have been the cultural, artistic, and historical barometers of the ancient Mediterranean world. Ancient Graeco-Roman colonization, which stretched through vast territories including three continents, left a Graeco-Roman footprint on Indigenous peoples and lands throughout the Mediterranean basin. Today we struggle not only to shed light on these cultures (before, during, and after colonial impact), but to see where such cultures interacted, exchanged, and engaged (often without Greece and Rome as facilitators or mediators). Examining the ancient Mediterranean world through a Graeco-Roman lens is how early European academia began, not to mention how seventeenthcentury Europeans connected themselves to a Graeco-Roman past. Because of this, academic disciplines in ancient Mediterranean studies are far too often infused with (and conduits for) this traditional framework. The time has come, however, to “decolonize” the framework within which the peoples and cultures of the ancient Mediterranean world have long been viewed, examined, and packaged. Many cultures existed alongside or in spite of the cultural influences of Greece and Rome – Etruria and Anatolia are two places where such cultures thrived. Not only do they present their own Indigenous cultural footprint, but they demonstrate how such societies existed, engaged, and exchanged despite colonizing superpowers. A comprehensive examination of material connections and artistic exchange between Etruria and Anatolia has never been the focus of an in-depth and heuristic study, although some conspicuous similarities have been noted (e.g., Shear 1926: 30; Åkerström 1981). Remarkable connections in Etruscan and Anatolian material culture show a growing body of fascinating evidence for various forms of contact and exchange between these two regions separated by Greece. But, until recently, Classical scholars have looked at the ancient Mediterranean world vis-à-vis outdated academic and artificial disciplinary boundaries determined by dates, regions, and strict definitions of “classical” material culture (a term that is fading in popularity). Because the field of ancient Mediterranean studies

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 .    . 

is not commonly approached within an interdisciplinary, cross-cultural, and transhistorical framework, scholars – not to mention subject matter – fall into categories that divide, marginalize, and exclude. The field specializations of Etruscan and Anatolian archaeology, both relatively new, have left few scholars equipped with sufficient expertise in both Etruscan and Anatolian art to make thorough comparative studies of the material evidence or to fully explore the implications of connections in Etruscan and Anatolian art and architecture (for some exceptions, see Åkerström 1966, 1981; Lawergren 1985; Prayon 1995; Naso 1996, 1998; Gilotta 1998). Surely, we can do more to broaden and diversify the standard curricula required for study in ancient Mediterranean academia. Such traditional academic boundaries (dating back to the 1700s) have also ignored the fluctuating and shifting world of exchange between regions and cultures not part of the “classical” Graeco-Roman conversation (though here, too, there are some notable exceptions, e.g., Ridgway and Ridgway 1979). Postcolonial approaches to studying the ancient Mediterranean would considerably enhance our knowledge base and broaden our offerings of study in universities more broadly (in fact, there are few universities that offer teaching positions in Etruscan or Anatolian studies). Furthermore, using Greek labels such as “Etrusco-Ionian” to describe non-Greeks and non-Greek works of art creates more confusion, as they become widespread umbrella terms that do little to help explain an object. In fact, this labeling is part of a larger (and often neglected) colonial rubric for the ancient Mediterranean in general. Further still, Greek chronologies have become the lingua franca and barometer for all of the Mediterranean. Terms such as “Classical” or “Hellenistic” when speaking of Etruscan or Anatolian art do not adequately define the material but rather import Greek standards of comparison (which are not only useless but also intrinsically damaging). Our labeling systems and chronologies need revisions, if not full replacement. Moreover, impassioned debate about the origins of the so-called mysterious Etruscans – whether they were an Indigenous, Italic population or migrants from Lydia, as suggested by Herodotus in the fifth century BCE (1.94) – has discouraged many archaeologists from investigating possible Etruscan and Anatolian cultural interaction. Controversial genetic and linguistic studies on both sides of the origin debate have only intensified the problem (DNA studies: Vernesi et al. 2004; Achilli et al. 2007; Pellecchia et al. 2007; Brisighelli et al. 2009; Pardo-Seco et al. 2014; criticism of DNA studies: Turfa 2006; Perkins 2009; Tassi et al. 2013; linguistic studies: Adrados 1989, 1994; Woudhuizen 1991; Beekes 2003; see also, Hodos, Chapter 2). Today, most Etruscologists see the development of Etruscan

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Introduction: Etruria, Anatolia, and Connectivity

culture within a clearly defined archaeological progression from the Bronze and Iron Ages onward and are beginning to refer to the Iron Age in Italy simply as the Proto-Etruscan period. The most recent genetic study, published days before the final submission of this manuscript and based on diachronic skeletal analysis, finally aligns with the archaeological evidence to confirm this long-standing view, namely that the Etruscans developed from their Bronze and Iron Age predecessors and that Etruscan culture developed on Italic soil (Posth et al. 2021). This volume moves beyond the origin question to explore the striking and fascinating connections between Anatolian and Etruscan material culture within a theoretical framework that considers all possible explanations for such engagement. It recognizes multiple modes of connectivity and explores the implications of such exchange in different media and time periods (with many chapters focused on the Archaic period). It is our hope that the present volume begins to fill the gaps left by disciplinary boundaries and controversial migration theories by providing a series of chapters dedicated to the significant material relationships between Etruria and Anatolia – two regions separated by considerable distance yet partaking in cross-cultural contact, exchange, and consumption. It goes without saying that such a volume cannot cover all aspects of Etruscan and Anatolian art and connections, but rather we have selected topics based on the research that exists now, knowing full well that in due time more and more comparative studies will flourish. Transregional studies in the ancient world are relatively new and include broad concepts of connectivity and intermediation between regions and cultures, as well as technologies of communication. An increasing number of publications dedicated to looking at the ancient Mediterranean world within a broader network of correlations has supplied a new language with which to describe such contact (Horden and Purcell 2000; Meskell 2005; van Dommelen and Knapp 2010; Kirkham and Jones 2011; Broodbank 2013; de Angelis 2013; van Dommelen 2014; Concannon and Mazurek 2016; Mac Sweeney 2016). Subsequently, a series of catchwords and phrases, such as “globalization,” “glocalization,” “Mediterraneanization,” “micro-regionalism,” “material connectivity,” “mobility,” and “decolonial,” have infiltrated the discipline and shaped a new way of looking at the ancient world. As Franco de Angelis noted in the introduction to Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity, the “micro-ecologies” and interconnectivity of the Mediterranean “created unity through diversity and continuity through time” (de Angelis 2013: 3–4, drawing upon the work of Horden and Purcell 2000). Building on such work, this volume reflects the growing “scholarly appreciation of the

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 .    . 

micro-regionalism of the ancient world and the interconnectedness that it caused” and the growing interest in “cross-cultural, multicultural and interdisciplinary perspectives, so needed in the highly parceled-up landscape of ancient Mediterranean studies” (de Angelis 2013: 4). Beyond simply invoking or applying trending phrases, this volume aims to explore their usefulness in offering new approaches to the curious relationship between Etruscan and Anatolian material culture in order to open up a variety of new discussions regarding issues of identity (common versus distinguishing elements), exchange (both material and nonmaterial, i.e., customs, ideas, technologies), and nonverbal communications, as well as semiotics. How do we go about discussing the striking parallels between Etruscan and Anatolian arts in ways that deepen our understanding of their cultures and contacts? Without strict academic boundaries and with an increased awareness of the diversity of peoples as well as ideologies and customs, we may begin to see the ancient Mediterranean in a different and much needed new light. It is particularly important to glean what we can from the material remains of Etruria and Anatolia since in neither region have literary traditions survived – yet another similarity. The written evidence left behind by the Etruscans themselves is limited to inscriptions, mainly funerary, and the same is true for the Lydians, Phrygians, Lycians, Carians, and most other native Anatolian peoples (Bonfante and Bonfante 2002; Melchert 2010; Brixhe 2012; Tekoğlu 2016). This dearth of written evidence helps to explain the marginalization of the study of these cultures in modern academic scholarship, which prioritized texts (prose and poetry) and stone monuments. It also means that Greek perspectives and biases have dominated our understanding of both regions and our narratives of their ancient interactions, cultures, and art. Though Herodotus was born in Caria, he wrote from a Greek perspective and for a Greek audience, and his story of Lydian migration to Etruria (written well after Etruscan culture had experienced its zenith) may be understood as a Greek explanation for the striking similarities noted in this volume (Briquel 2013: 45). Without a literary record from either Etruria or Anatolia, we must look to the material evidence to read these interactions in an unbiased way, bringing new perspectives to broaden our view. We hope to challenge traditional approaches that cast Greece and Rome as the main protagonists of the ancient Mediterranean – the sources of stylistic and technical innovations and the mediators of interactions between East and West. While Greek sanctuaries certainly played an important role in some of the cultural exchange considered here (see Chapter 5), in other cases (see, e.g., Chapter 13) the sharing of imagery,

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Introduction: Etruria, Anatolia, and Connectivity

ideas, and practices over the considerable distance between Etruria and Anatolia seems to have sidestepped Greece, with little (if any) inspiration by or involvement of Greece proper. The Phoenicians also take a “back seat” in this study since it is focused, quite literally, on Etruscan and Anatolian cultures, and since the role of the Phoenicians in Mediterraneanization continues to be thoroughly explored (e.g., Mazzarino 1947; Niemeyer 2004, 2006; Martin 2017. While they are not to be ignored (see especially Chapters 2, 5, and 8), we are more concerned here with direct interactions between Etruscan and Anatolian peoples and with similarities of material culture that have not yet been explored (see, e.g., Chapters 1, 13, 14, 15, and 17). This volume showcases a variety of approaches to the past – traditional as well as nontraditional – with newly established subjects, terminologies, dating, and perspectives. Readers will find that different authors here use chronologies and terminology that are not conventionally shared. Some authors, for instance, use the word “Orientalizing” for the early phase of Etruscan art (ca. 800–600 BCE) and Greek art in the seventh century BCE. This term, used since the nineteenth century (see Nowlin, Chapter 3), is now challenged for its inherent stereotyping of the Near East (see Said 1978) and its misleading description of the cultural processes at work in this important era. In the future, this period may be more appropriately termed “pre-Archaic” or a time of “accessibility and transformation” (Riva 2010: 39–71). Likewise, we use the term “Anatolia” instead of “Asia Minor” in order to emphasize the Indigenous and local aspects of Anatolian crafts and culture. We are well aware that this term is itself problematic, as it represents a broad geographic area that contained many distinct cultures (Phrygian, Lydian, Lycian, Carian, Ionian, Aeolian, etc.; McMahon and Steadman 2011: 3–6) and has been criticized as a modern construct (e.g., Atakuman 2008, Gür 2010). But these diverse regions of western Asia were culturally interconnected by the sixth century BCE under Croesus of Lydia and then by the Achaemenid Persians, the Hellenistic kingdoms, and the Roman empire (Mac Sweeney 2011: 77–81; McMahon 2011: 31–32). Evidence for intraAnatolian cultural exchange and hybridization even suggests that a concept of “Anatolian-ness” may have existed as early as the sixth century BCE (Baughan 2013: 262–265). The inclusion of so-called East Greek cultures in our definition of Anatolia is deliberate, recognizing the fluidity of boundaries between the eastern Aegean and western Anatolia and the strong impacts that Greek cities in this region had on their Anatolian neighbors and vice versa (Kerschner 2010; Greaves 2011: 509–511), as well as the important

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 .    . 

role this area seems to have played in Anatolian-Etruscan connectivity. The vast and diverse area encompassed by the term “Anatolia” also includes Urartu and southeastern Anatolia, arguably more linked with Mesopotamia and North Syria than with the cultures of western and central Anatolia. The papers that follow thus use a broad definition of Anatolia while striving to highlight the particular cultural elements present within it (Maps 1 and 3.). Likewise in Etruria (Map 2), coastal and inland sites can differ markedly with respect to trade and local styles. Authors have attempted to flesh out all the unique and common aspects of crafts and culture within Etruria while still recognizing regional variations, especially in southern Etruria. We would like to stress that we are interested in looking broadly at the Anatolian and Etruscan fringes of the Mediterranean world, areas on the borders of larger territories and spheres of cultural influence, where dividing lines are murky or difficult to draw and hybridized cultures are likely to emerge. In both Etruria and Anatolia, there are material traces that reflect the clear concept of belonging to a wider Mediterranean world – one that also included the Near East. Often the sharing of motifs, techniques, and practices may be seen simply as evidence that cultures in both regions were participants in a much wider Mediterranean network that could be negotiated on a large or small scale (Mazzarino 1947: 273–292). In Chapter 1, “From East to West and Beyond,” Alessandro Naso provides a comprehensive historical overview of inquiry into the relationship between Etruria and Anatolia and the reasons why few scholars have had the expertise to study these two fields in a comparative and holistic way or the encouragement (within traditional academia) to break down walls and engage with material from another culture. He then gives a detailed analysis of evidence for reciprocal connections between Etruria and Anatolia in a wide range of media (from funerary architecture and tomb painting to vase painting, pottery, specialized wine-service vessels, and jewelry), incorporating finds from recent excavations at Miletus. This chapter thus lays the groundwork for the rest of the book by contextualizing our overall inquiry, establishing the significance of correspondences in many types of material culture, and discussing broader theoretical aspects of such artistic exchange with numerous examples of sharing not just from east to west but also from west to east. The succeeding chapters are organized not by chronology or type of material discussed but rather according to what they offer to our synthesis of thematic connectivities (general and complex): Part II, “Interpretive Frameworks” (discussions of how changing perspectives have shaped scholarly approaches and created new insights); Part III, “Technology and

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Introduction: Etruria, Anatolia, and Connectivity

Mobility” (detailed studies that show how similar techniques sometimes suggest mobility of artisans); Part IV, “Shared Practices” (analyses of similar classes of material that reflect not technology transfer but shared motifs and traditions); Part V, “Shared and Distinct Iconographies” (studies of subject matter or motifs that occur in both regions but are nevertheless distinguished by particular details); and Part VI, “Shared Forms, Distinct Functions” (analyses of similar forms put to different uses, sharing a visual language but with different dialects). Rather than trying to account for the striking similarities in Etruscan and Anatolian material culture with any one overarching theory, we acknowledge multiple, simultaneous modes and implications of connectivity, and stress the distinct local identities expressed even through shared artistic and cultural traditions. Part II, “Interpretive Frameworks,” explores a variety of approaches to how we can look at the past. Tamar Hodos’s Chapter 2 provides a fresh analysis of bridging past and present with larger issues of globalization and connectivity. It offers a template for the detailed studies that follow in Parts III–VI by calling out the importance of recognizing both “shared practices that bind and diverse practices that distinguish participants.” In Chapter 3, Jessica Nowlin explores how the modern construct of so-called Orientalization has impacted the studies of both Etruria and Anatolia and their relationships with each other. Her chapter also demonstrates how nationalistic approaches to the past in twentieth-century Italy and Turkey affected scholarship in these fields. The history of scholarly approaches to Etruria and Anatolia is also illuminated by Theresa Huntsman’s investigation of the term “bucchero” (Chapter 4). She tracks the application of this term to two very different forms of black-fired pottery (known in Etruria as “bucchero” and in Anatolia as “grey ware”) and explores how terminology can reveal assumptions of connectivity. Chapter 5 by Nassos Papalexandrou builds upon Foucault’s concept of heterotopia to explore the unique role Greek sanctuaries held in the interactions between Etruria and Anatolia. In particular, he examines how material culture found at panhellenic sanctuaries can speak to the contacts and interaction networks established in these heterotopic spaces. In Part III, “Technology and Mobility,” Elizabeth Simpson offers (Chapter 6) a remarkable assessment of some of the rarest finds of wood to surface in the ancient Mediterranean world, with the first detailed comparison of wooden furnishings from Iron Age tombs at Verucchio and Gordion. While the styles of furniture are very different, Simpson identifies striking similarities in certain techniques of manufacture and more general correspondences in overall concept and decorative motifs,

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 .    . 

though differently achieved. Her chapter serves as an important reminder that differences are just as important to note as similarities. In the next chapter, on the other hand, technological similarities can be directly tied to the movement of artisans and direct transfer of knowledge: Nancy A. Winter (Chapter 7) provides compelling evidence for terracotta craftsmen from Anatolia working in southern Etruria. Shared details of manufacture here occur alongside vividly similar, if not identical, iconographies in both southern Etruria and western Anatolia. These sorts of analyses form one of the core objectives of the volume as a whole: providing detailed assessments of similarities and differences to reveal the extent and nature of connections among cultures in these two geographically distant regions. Different types of connections are revealed in Part IV, “Shared Practices,” with studies of particular shared traditions and motifs. Chapter 8 by Jean MacIntosh Turfa looks at representations and remains of tridents and bidents in Etruria and the Near East (especially Urartu and Phrygia, including some unpublished material from Gordion). She highlights intriguing correspondences of form as well as symbolic significance. Annette Rathje’s Chapter 9 discusses correspondences in “elite lifestyles” as seen in funerary assemblages of Etruria and the Near East (especially Phrygia), acknowledging that some material similarities may be explained by similarities in social context rather than direct contact or emulation. Her detailed analysis of two vessels from Etruria now in Berlin and Copenhagen demonstrates both how an important part of the luxury consumption of elite imports from the East was their reception by Etruscan artisans and how the loss of context prevents deeper understanding of the significance of such objects. Etruscan reception of Anatolian luxury vessels is further explored in Fernando Gilotta’s study of “prestige pottery” (phialai and dinoi) in Etruscan funerary deposits (Chapter 10). Like Huntsman in Chapter 2, Gilotta reveals how the erroneous application of terminology may connote cultural connections that did not exist in antiquity. Stephan Steingräber’s Chapter 11, which compares rock-cut tombs and monuments in southern Etruria and various regions of Anatolia, extends the book’s chronological range to the Hellenistic period. While some details of form and decoration suggest a shared vocabulary of form, there are important regional differences even within Etruria and Anatolia that distinguish these rock-cut traditions. The studies in Part V, “Shared and Distinct Iconographies,” show how differences can be just as important to explore as similarities. Susanne Berndt’s Chapter 12 provides the first close examination of early fifth-century wall paintings from Gordion, with a view to comparing their technological

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Introduction: Etruria, Anatolia, and Connectivity

and iconographic aspects with contemporary paintings elsewhere in Anatolia and in Etruria. She finds certain similarities that suggest a shared artistic tradition alongside important differences that clearly distinguish the two regions. Lisa C. Pieraccini’s comparison of dog imagery in chariot-racing and banqueting scenes from western Anatolia and Etruria (Chapter 13) traces unusual parallels in intricate details that reveal shared knowledge of such minutia (as found on cylinder stamps, terracotta reliefs, vase painting, and wall painting). In Chapter 14, Dimitris Paleothodoros provides a useful history of scholarship on Eastern “influences” on so-called Pontic vases and explores particular details of technique, style, decorative ornament, iconography, and shape to conclude that evidence for East Greek painters working in Etruria must be understood as part of a broader story of artistic exchange (sometimes indirect) among Corinthian, Ionian, Attic, and Etruscan painters. The chapters in the final section (Part VI, “Shared Forms, Distinct Functions”) continue to demonstrate a balance between sharing and distinction through studies of material objects either preserved in physical form or represented in visual art: tomb furniture, textile displays, dress items, and jewelry. In Chapter 15, Elizabeth P. Baughan discusses the remarkable similarities between Etruscan and Anatolian beds and couches in funerary contexts as well as in visual representations. She argues that correspondences of furniture form and style are outweighed by differences in arrangement, orientation, and use. The final three chapters all explore topics of dress and personal adornment within gender-specific constructs. In Chapter 16, Gretchen Meyers compares scenes of female assembly on cippi from Chiusi with a scene on the “Polyxena Sarcophagus” from the Troad and finds evidence for a “common visual language” between Etruria and Anatolia, while also stressing local dialects and “visual marks of cultural distinction.” In Chapter 17, Tuna Şare Ağtürk traces the inspiration of pointed shoes and other dress fashions in Etruria back to Anatolia but, like Baughan and Meyers, stresses how these styles were put to different uses in Etruria. The final chapter, by Alexis Q. Castor (Chapter 18), focuses on male jewelry – namely necklaces as markers of distinction (military and political), not just gender. Based on detailed analysis of visual representations as well as historical sources extending into the Hellenistic and Roman periods, her study highlights fascinating correspondences between jewelry given as a “royal reward” in the Achaemenid empire and necklaces worn in Anatolia and Etruria, while again noting important differences in their means of distribution and symbolic significance, with magical protection distinguishing the Etruscan bullae.

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 .    . 

Overall, this book sets out to establish a new framework for discussing similarities in the material culture of Etruria and Anatolia, whether or not direct connections or exchange of techniques, styles, motifs, or ideas can be determined (as we continue to discover new finds in both Etruria and Anatolia). It invites new conversations about materiality, connectivity, and exchange among these two regions separated (literally) by Greece and often operating without Greece as a moderator or intermediary. It examines recurring threads of a rich and varied fabric of material connectivity emerging in various Etruscan and Anatolian narratives found in the individual chapters. It also investigates issues of identity with respect to exchange and nontangible communication. It shows that traditional ways of looking at the ancient Mediterranean, within strict disciplinary boundaries, cannot be useful when it comes to this type of cultural, artistic, and ideological query. As the striking image on the cover of this book aptly demonstrates, there are visual and cultural similarities between Etruscans and Anatolians that cannot be denied (and that go beyond a pan-Mediterranean koine). They speak to a shared artistic vocabulary that merits further study, without assumptions of directionality as a marker for superiority. The juxtaposed banqueters from tomb paintings in Etruria and Anatolia – from the right wall of the Tomb of the Lionesses at Tarquinia (ca. 520 BCE), above, and the back wall of the Karaburun tomb in northern Lycia (ca. 475 BCE), below – are here color-enhanced to highlight significant and broad topics explored in this volume and to symbolize the diverse and forward-thinking framework we have embraced as a guiding ethos for this volume. This image also serves as a vivid reminder of the ongoing threats that looting and collecting pose to material culture and archaeological context in both Etruria and Anatolia: In 2011 the Karaburun painting was stolen, violently removed from its wall.1 What becomes clear in these highly diverse chapters is the wide range of correspondences and connections between Etruria and Anatolia – from minor technological or iconographic details to broad themes, in a wide variety of cultural/artistic media (wall paintings, pottery, furniture, clothing, luxury objects, etc.). What also emerges from these careful studies is that there is no one explanation for connectivity that can apply to all these correspondences. And as much as these chapters discuss similarities found in Etruscan and Anatolian art and culture, they also illuminate the ways in which the cultures in these two regions were 1

Paintings from the tomb are included in the Turkish Ministry of Culture’s list of stolen cultural heritage: https://kvmgm.ktb.gov.tr/TR-44678/antalya-elmali-oren-yeri-karaburun-tumulusundencalinan-2-duvar-resmi.html.

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Introduction: Etruria, Anatolia, and Connectivity

distinct. In the process of looking for material connections among them, we achieve a better understanding of the distinctiveness of each. Furthermore, we see how Etruscans and Anatolians used their own agency to connect, share, engage, and exchange. To conclude, this volume is not an historical analysis of Etruria or Anatolia as much as it is a call to explore and understand more fully material connectivity across the Mediterranean, in art forms, subject matter, styles, techniques, practices, and ideologies.

Works Cited Achilli, A., Oliveri, A., Pala, M., Metspalu, E., Fornarino, S., Battaglia, V., Accetturo, M., et al. 2007. “Mitochondrial DNA Variation of Modern Tuscans Supports the Near Eastern Origin of Etruscans,” American Journal of Human Genetics 80(4): 759–768. Adrados, F. R. 1989. “Etruscan as an IE Anatolian (but Not Hittite) Language,” Journal of Indo-European Studies 17(3–4): 363–383. 1994. “More on Etruscan as an IE-Anatolian Language,” Historische Sprachforschung/Historical Linguistics 107: 4–76. Åkerström, Å. 1966. Die architektonischen Terrakotten Kleinasiens. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup. 1981. “Etruscan Tomb Painting: An Art of Many Faces,” Opuscula Romana 13: 7–34. Atakuman, Ç. 2008. “Cradle or Crucible. Anatolia and Archaeology in the Early Years of the Turkish Republic (1923–1938),” Journal of Social Archaeology 8: 214–235. Baughan, E. P. 2013. Couched in Death: Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Beekes, R. S. P. 2003. The Origin of the Etruscans. Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen. Bonfante, G., and Bonfante, L. (eds.) 2002. The Etruscan Language: An Introduction. New York: Manchester University. Briquel, D. 2013. “Etruscan Origins and the Ancient Authors,” in The Etruscan World, ed. J. M. Turfa, 36–55. London: Routledge. Brisighelli, F., Capelli, C., Álvarez-Iglesias, V., Onofri, V., Paoli, G., Tofanelli, S., Carracedo, A., et al. 2009. “The Etruscan Timeline: A Recent Anatolian Connection,” European Journal of Human Genetics 17(5): 693–696. Brixhe, C. 2012. “Phrygian Language (through Prehistory and History),” in Phrygians. In the Land of Midas, in the Shadow of Monuments, ed. T. Tüfekçi Sivas and H. Sivas, 234–241. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Broodbank, C. 2013. The Making of the Middle Sea. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Concannon, C. W., and Mazurek, L. A. 2016. “Introduction: A New Connectivity for the Twenty-First Century,” in Across the Corrupting Sea. Post-

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Braudelian Approaches to the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean, ed. C. W. Concannon and L. A. Mazurek, 1–14. New York: Routledge. de Angelis, F. 2013. “Approaches to the Movement of Ancient Phenomena through Time and Space,” in Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity. Exploring Their Limits, ed. F. de Angelis, 1–12. Leuven: Peeters. Gilotta, F. 1998. “Gümüşҫay e l’Etruria: Due ambienti a confronto,” Rivista di Archeologia 22: 11–18. Greaves, A. 2011. “The Greeks in Western Anatolia,” in McMahon and Steadman (eds.), 500–514. Gür, A. 2010. “Political Excavations of the Anatolian Past: Nationalism and Archaeology in Turkey,” in Controlling the Past, Owning the Future: The Political Uses of Archaeology in the Middle East, ed. R. Boytner, L. S. Dodd, and B. J. Parker, 68–89. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Hodos, T. 2014. “Stage settings for a Connected Scene. Globalization and MaterialCulture Studies in the Early First-Millennium BCE Mediterranean,” Archaeological Dialogues 21(1): 24–30. 2015. “Global, Local and in Between: Connectivity and the Mediterranean,” in Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, ed. M. Pitts and M. J. Versluys, 240–254. New York: Cambridge University Press. Horden, P., and Purcell, N. 2000. The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Kerschner, M. 2010. “The Lydians and Their Ionian and Aeolian Neighbours,” in The Lydians and Their World, ed. N. D. Cahill, 247–265. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Kerschner, M., and Schlotzhauer, U. 2005. “A New Classification System for East Greek Pottery,” Ancient West and East 4: 1–56. Kirkham, G., and Jones, A. M. 2011. Beyond the Core: Reflections on Regionality in Prehistory. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Lawergren, B. 1985. “A Lyre Common to Etruria, Greece, and Anatolia: The Cylinder Kithara,” Acta Musicologica 57(1): 25–33. Mac Sweeney, N. 2011. Community Identity and Archaeology: Dynamic Communities at Aphrodisias and Beycesultan. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. 2016. “Anatolian-Aegean Interactions in the Early Iron Age: Migration, Mobility, and the Movement of People,” in Of Odysseys and Oddities. Scales and Modes of Interaction between Prehistoric Aegean Societies and Their Neighbours, ed. B. P. C. Molloy, 411–433. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Martin, S. R. 2017. The Art of Contact: Comparative Approaches to Greek and Phoenician Art. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Mazzarino, S. 1947. Fra Oriente e Occidente. Ricerche di storia grecia arcaica. Florence: B. Boringhieri.

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Introduction: Etruria, Anatolia, and Connectivity McMahon, G. 2011. “The Land and Peoples of Anatolia through Ancient Eyes,” in McMahon and Steadman (eds.), 16–33. McMahon, G. and Steadman, S. R. 2011. The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Melchert, H. C. 2010. “Lydian Language and Inscriptions,” in The Lydians and Their World, ed. N. D. Cahill, 266–272. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Meskell, L. (ed.) 2005. Archaeologies of Materiality. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Naso, A. 1996. “Osservazioni sull’ origine dei tumuli monumentali nell’ Italia central,” Opuscula Romana 20: 69–85. 1998. “I tumuli monumentali in Etruria Meridionale: caratteri propri e possibili ascendenze orientali,” in Archäologische Untersuchungen zu den Beziehungen zwischen Altitalien und der Zone Nordwärts der Alpen während der Frühen Eisenzeit Alteuropas, Regensburger Beiträge zur prähistorischen Archäologie 4, 117–157. Regensburg: Universitätsverlag Regensburg. Niemeyer, G. H. 2004. “The Phoenicians and the Birth of a Multinational Mediterranean Society,” in Commerce and Monetary Systems in the Ancient World: Means of Transmission and Cultural Interaction, ed. R. Rollinger and C. Ulf, 245–256. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. 2006. “The Phoenicians in the Mediterranean. Between Expansion and Colonization: Non Greek Model of Overseas Settlement and Presence,” in Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, ed. G. R. Tsetskhladze, 143–168. Leiden: Brill. Pardo-Seco, J., Gómez-Carballa, A., Amigo, J., Martinón-Torres, F., and Salas, A. 2014. “A Genome-Wide Study of Modern-Day Tuscans: Revisiting Herodotus’s Theory on the Origin of the Etruscans,” PloS ONE 9(9): e105920. Pellecchia, M., Negrini, R., Colli, L., Patrini, M., Milanesi, E., Achilli, A., Bertorelle, G., et al. 2007. “The Mystery of Etruscan Origins: Novel Clues from Bos taurus Mitochondrial DNA,” Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences 274: 1175–1179. Perkins, P. 2009. “DNA and Etruscan Identity,” in Etruscan by Definition: Papers in Honour of Sybille Haynes, ed. P. Perkins and J. Swaddling, 95–111. London: The British Museum Press. Posth, C., Valentina, Z., Spyrou, M. A., Stefania, V., Gnecchi-Ruscone, G. A., Modi, A., Peltzer, A., et al. 2021. “The Origin and Legacy of the Etruscans through a 2000-Year Archeogenomic Time Transect,” Science Advances 7:39, DOI: 10.1126/sciadv.abi7673. Prayon, F. 1975. Frühetruskische Grab- und Hausarchitektur. Heidelberg: F. H. Kerle. 1987. Phrygische Plastik. Die früheisenzeitliche Bildkunst Zentral-Anatoliens und ihre Beziehungen zu Griechenland und zum Alten Orient. Tübingen: E. Wasmuth.

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 .    .  1995. “Ostmediterrane Einflüsse auf den Beginn der Monumentalarchitektur in Etrurien?” Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, Mainz 37 (1990): 501–519. Ridgway, D., and Ridgway, F. R. (eds.) 1979. Italy before the Romans: The Iron Age, Orientalizing, and Etruscan Periods. London: Academic Press. Riva, C. 2010. The Urbanization of Etruria: Funerary Practices and Social Change, 700–600 BC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Said, E. 1978. Orientalism. New York: Random House. Shear, T. L. 1926. Sardis, Vol. X.1. Architectural Terra-cottas. Cambridge: The University Press. Tassi, F., Ghirotto, S., Caramelli, D., and Barbujani, G. 2013. “Genetic Evidence Does Not Support an Etruscan Origin in Anatolia,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 152: 11–18. Tekoğlu, R. 2016. “Lycian Language and Script,” in From Lukka to Lycia: The Land of Sarpedon and St. Nicholas, ed. H. Işık and E. Dundar, 110–121. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Turfa, J. M. 2006. “Staring down Herodotus: Mitochondrial DNA Studies and Claims about Etruscan Origins,” Etruscan News 7: 4–5. van Dommelen, P. 2014. “Moving On: Archaeological Perspectives on Mobility and Migration,” World Archaeology 46(4): 477–483. van Dommelen, P., and Knapp, A. B. (eds.) 2010. Material Connections in the Ancient Mediterranean: Mobility, Materiality and Mediterranean Identities. New York: Routledge. Vernesi, C., Caramelli, D., Dupanloup, I., Bertorelle, G., Lari, M., Cappellini, E., Moggi-Cecchi, J., et al. 2004. “The Etruscans: A Population-Genetic Study,” The American Journal of Human Genetics 74(4): 694–704. Woudhuizen, F. C. 1991. “Etruscan & Luwian,” The Journal of Indo-European Studies 19: 133.

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Map 1 Mediterranean basin, showing regions and sites mentioned in the text. Key to numbered locations: 1. Ischia, 2. Basilicata, 3. Corfu, 4. Pella, 5. Akanthos, 6. Lemnos, 7. Delphi, 8. Athens, 9. Olympia, 10. Kommos, 11. Naucratis, 12. Nineveh, 13. Nimrud, 14. Persepolis

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Map 2 Etruria, with key sites mentioned in the text

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Map 3 Anatolia and nearby islands, with sites and regions mentioned in the text

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Broadening Perspectives A Wider Mediterranean Landscape

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From East to West and Beyond  

1.1

Introduction

This chapter aims to give an overview of East Greek and West Anatolian connections with Etruscan art and society and to open up new perspectives on corresponding Etruscan influences in East Greece and West Anatolia. The relationship between non-Greek cultures in Anatolia and Etruria is a subject worth investigating, with particular reference to the seventh and sixth centuries BCE. This field of research has never been fully explored, for at least two reasons. Firstly, close comparisons between the Etruscan and Lydian cultures might have been interpreted as a sort of confirmation of Herodotus’ theory of Etruscan origins and the migration of Lydians to Italy under the guidance of Tyrsenos, son of the Lydian king Atys (Hdt. 1. 94) (Drews 1992; Ridgway 1993; Ulf 2017). Secondly, few scholars have expertise in both Lydian and Etruscan cultures. A notable exception was George Hanfmann, who wrote his first dissertation in Germany on an Etruscan topic, Altetruskische Plastik (Hanfmann 1936), before he went to the United States and began the great enterprise of the Sardis excavations: I had started my archaeological career as an Etruscologist and like so many others I had the optimistic hope that Lydia might yet yield the key to the mystery of the Etruscan language and the origins of the people. Might not the huge necropolis of Bin Tepe several miles north of Sardis, where the Lydian kings were buried, yield some clue to link Lydians and Etruscans, especially since its mounds seemed (at least in illustrations) so similar to the mounds of ancient Etruscan cemeteries north of Rome? (Hanfmann 1972: 8–9)

Also worth mentioning is Nancy Ramage, a member of the excavation team at Sardis for many years, who authored a pioneering article about early Etruscan bucchero (Ramage 1970; Ramage and Ramage 1983). A general view on the contacts between Etruria and Anatolia, however, is

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still lacking. The present volume, and the conference from which it was born, opens up reciprocal discussion of these two distinct regions.1

1.2

A (Very) Short History of Etruscan and Anatolian Studies

Massimo Pallottino in the early 1960s stressed the influence that Near Eastern cultures had on the Mediterranean world from the end of the eighth to the beginning of the sixth century BCE (Pallottino 1963a) (Figure 1.1). This influence was mostly artistic, and it was seen especially through the distribution of some categories of objects, including bronze cauldrons from Urartu and North Syria, Phoenician bronze cups, and tridacna shells. Based on the diffusion of the iconography of warriors’ funerary stelai in the sixth century BCE, Pallottino stressed that the influences on Etruria were both Greek and Anatolian, and he proposed that some skilled workers came to Etruria from East Greece, bringing to the West the model of East Greek stelai (Pallottino 1963b). This theorized itinerary was influenced by the proposal of Bernhard Schweitzer in the 1950s for Aristonothos, potter and painter of the well-known krater from Caere, who, Schweitzer believed, had traveled from the Cyclades via Athens and Syracuse to Caere (Schweitzer 1955; recently Harari 2014 and Guggisberg 2017). The hypothesis about artisan mobility was very successful in the following years (e.g., Brown 1960: 1–2, 5, 27), and in the 1970s several scholars presumed that Near Eastern skilled workers in the first half of the seventh century BCE came to Etruria and worked for Etruscan elites: New working techniques in the fields of ivory carving and gold jewelry were introduced to the far western Mediterranean, and they were further developed in Etruria by immigrant artisans and their Etruscan apprentices (Strøm 1971: 113–115, 202; von Hase 1975: 140–142). This chapter explores evidence for such mobility in particular classes of monuments and artifacts but places this early view of influences from the eastern to western Mediterranean within broader theories of cultural 1

As happened with the New York conference devoted to Cyprus and Italy in the Bronze and Iron Age (Bonfante and Karageorghis 2001). I wish to thank the Miletus Museum for authorizing and Giorgio Trojsi for conducting scientific analyses of the Etruscan bucchero sherds from Miletus, and Volkmar von Graeve for kindly showing to me some new finds from Miletus in 2012 and for allowing me to publish them here. I wish to thank also Vincenzo Bellelli, Michael Kerschner, Laura Michetti, Gerald Schaus, and Udo Schlotzhauer, who kindly provided me with information. I am deeply grateful to the editors, Elizabeth P. Baughan and Lisa C. Pieraccini, for improving my English and for their patience.

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Figure 1.1 Map showing the spread of items from Near East to West according to M. Pallottino (after Pallottino 1963a)

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contacts. Christoph Ulf suggests a model of cultural contacts based on producers, transmitters, and recipients in a bidirectional process: “In the course of cultural contact, producers and transmitters can and do become recipients as well” (Ulf 2014: 514). This theoretical model encourages us to recognize that the main producers accepted some ideas by the recipients. For our purposes, it means that although Greek, Anatolian, and Near Eastern influences on Etruscan art and society are prominent, we can also look for Etruscan influences in the cultures of the eastern Mediterranean, among Greeks and non-Greeks.

1.3

Tumuli

Tumuli are the most widespread form of monumental tombs in the ancient world. The general distribution and detailed description of these characteristic funerary monuments with special reference to the eastern Mediterranean regions find an invaluable source of data in a recent volume (Henry and Kelp 2016). The developments of funerary customs for aristocratic groups (elites) through the centuries in different areas of the Mediterranean share striking parallels. In some cases it is quite clear that the adoption of similar solutions in different regions was completely unrelated, while in other cases connections among various regions can be seen. At least two general patterns were established in Anatolia by the Phrygian tumuli and transmitted as legacies to the ensuing ages: firstly, the monumental dimension and, secondly, the idea that this dimension can reflect the power of a deceased people. Three particular building characteristics of Phrygian tumuli – off-center positioning of the burials beneath the mounds, radial walls, and timber chambers – occurred not only in the barrows at Gordion, Ankara, and Kerkenes Dağı in modern-day Turkey, but also in Iran at Sé Girdan and on Cyprus at Salamis (see Map 3; Naso 2016: 11 for references). In the necropolis of Salamis such barrows are rare, but Tomb 3 has these characteristics. In order to explain such similarities, one can presume the activity of Phrygian skilled workers outside Phrygia in the years around 600 BCE, when the tombs in Iran and in Cyprus were built. One can also suggest comparisons between Phrygian and Etruscan tomb furniture (see also Simpson, Chapter 6). For instance, in Tumulus MM at Gordion, two wooden inlaid serving stands with three rings on the top surface were found. Both stands likely held round-bottomed bronze vessels,

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From East to West and Beyond

probably small cauldrons with ladles (Young 1981: 176–181; Simpson and Spirydowicz 1999: 39–43, figs. 15–31; 2010; Chapter 6). Three similar cavities are also visible on the top of the altar carved in tuff in the main chamber of the Campana 1 tomb in Caere, dated to about the middle of the seventh century BCE (see Figure 15.1b). In this representation of a wooden altar in the form of a monumental chair, the cavities were probably meant to hold metal bowls, as on the serving stands in Gordion (Naso 1996: 35–38). Similarities have often been noted between Etruscan and Lydian tumuli, which both shared general traits (monumentality and outward appearance) with the Phrygian tumuli but were inwardly distinct. More than 600 tumuli have been recorded in Lydia dating from around 600 BCE onwards; of these, around 115 are in the necropolis of Bin Tepe near Sardis, identified with the Lydian royal cemetery mentioned by Hipponax, Herodotus, and Strabo (Roosevelt 2009: 144–151; Baughan 2010; Zwingmann 2016: 391–395). Unlike in Phrygian tumuli, Lydian tomb chambers are normally in or near the center of the tumulus; they are not made of timber but of limestone masonry, and most have doors and entranceways, or dromoi (Roosevelt 2009: 146). The earliest Lydian tombs were probably intended for single burials, while tombs with multiple burial locations became more frequent in the Achaemenid era (Roosevelt 2009: 150; Baughan 2013: 169–170). In Etruria, the best-known cemeteries with tumuli are found at Caere, modern-day Cerveteri. The exact number of tumuli is difficult to estimate. Early aerial photos showed more than 2,000 mounds in the Banditaccia and Monte Abatone cemeteries, both of which are larger than 150 hectares (Bradford 1957: 111, 120, 128, pl. 34), but recently identified aerial photos reveal as many as 10,000 tumuli in the territory around Caere from the sea to the mountains (Tartara 2003: fig. 287, pl. III; 2018: figs. 1 and 3). As in most of the Lydian tumuli, Etruscan tumulus chambers, cut out of bedrock, have dromoi and doors, but from the start they seem to have been intended for several generations, with multiple rooms imitating house plans (Gunter 2016: 344). Another distinction from Lydian tumuli is the presence of a ramp or a staircase leading to the highest point of the tumulus, as with the earliest tombs in the Banditaccia cemetery; the ramps may have served several purposes, including kinship rituals and maintenance (Prayon 1975: 81–85). While the ramp is a genuine Etruscan feature, other elements of Etruscan tumuli may have some relationship with non-Etruscan architecture. According to Giovanni Colonna, stone moldings on the crepis wall are the most ancient decoration of Italic architecture, and, from the earliest

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examples, they fit perfectly in the general aspect of the tumulus. The lack of any apparent connection of the style and format of the crepis walls with earlier forms of local architecture suggests a foreign impulse. The moldings are comparable to the stone moldings of some North Syrian artifacts, like column bases and throne legs. As with goldsmiths and ivory carvers, it has been presumed that some architects came from the eastern Mediterranean, probably North Syria, and they introduced into Etruria the stone molding in the crepis walls of the tumuli (Colonna 1986: 397–398). This idea of the stone molding was successful, and later stone moldings were adopted by several generations of tomb-cutters in Caere and elsewhere in southern Etruria. The crepis wall built with tuff blocks in the Sorbo Tumulus at Caere was 62 m in diameter (Figures 1.2a and 1.3a). A strong resemblance can be found in the marble crepis wall of the inner tumulus enclosed in the huge Karnıyarık Tepe at Bin Tepe in Lydia (Figures 1.2b and 1.3b), but this tomb was later than the Etruscan examples in Caere (Naso 2003, 2005a; see also Gunter 2016: 344). The similarities are so striking that one can presume derivation from similar prototypes – that is, in both Etruria and Lydia some aspects of tumulus decoration seem to derive from North Syrian decorative forms. Other differences, as well as some similarities, are found in the markers set atop Etruscan and Lydian tumuli: In Etruria they include cones and column drums (Romano 2009) and in Lydia so-called phalloi and stelai (Roosevelt 2009: 151–164; Baughan 2010: 277–278). In both regions stone statues of lions have been found in association with tombs (Greenewalt et al. 1986: 22–23, figs. 32–33; Roosevelt 2009: 165–171; van Kampen 2009; Cahill 2010: 413, nos. 13–14). And in both regions tomb markers can reach monumental dimensions: The marker at the top of the Alyattes tumulus at Bin Tepe is 2.15 m high (Figure 1.4a–b; Greenewalt et al. 1986: 20–21, figs. 30–31), and the group of cones from Vetulonia in northern Etruria includes one marker with a height of 1.20 m (Figure 1.4c–d; see also, Falchi 1891: 93). The weight of both markers is estimated at several tons. Finally, symbolic door imagery alluding either to the house or to a symbolic transition to the afterlife is found in both tomb traditions, though in different ways: False doors are carved or painted on tomb walls in Etruria (Naso 1996: 43–44, fig. 15), while door stelai were set up outside tumuli in Lydia (Roosevelt 2006, 2009: 153–155; Baughan 2010: 278, fig. 4). To sum up: Several common points among tumuli in Etruria and Anatolia are historically related, while others seem to result from the adoption of similar solutions in different societies according to similar cultural models. Further research on these similarities is needed.

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Figure 1.2 Comparison of the Sorbo Tumulus at Caere (a) and Karnıyarık Tepe at Bin Tepe, Lydia (b): (a) plan drawing of the chambers and crepis wall of the Sorbo tumulus; (b) imaginary cut-away drawing of Karnıyarık Tepe, with plan of crepis wall and excavation tunnels ([a] after Naso 1996; [b] ©Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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Figure 1.3 Comparison of crepis walls in the Sorbo Tumulus at Caere (a) and Karnıyarık Tepe at Bin Tepe, Lydia (b) ([a] photo by author; [b] ©Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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Figure 1.4 Comparison of the Tumulus of Alyattes at Bin Tepe, Lydia (a–b) and the Circolo delle Pellicce, Vetulonia (c–d): (a) stone marker atop the Tumulus of Alyattes; (b) reconstruction drawing of the top of the Tumulus of Alyattes; (c) stone marker from Circolo delle Pellicce; (d) reconstruction drawing of the top of the Circolo delle Pellicce ([a-b] ©Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College; [c-d] after Zifferero 2011: figs. 27 and 29)

1.4

Etruscan and Ionian Connections in Painting and Pottery

Already in the 1970s, Mauro Cristofani noted the similarities between Etruscan tomb paintings in Tarquinia dated to the third quarter of the sixth century BCE and the vase paintings from several East Greek cities, stressing

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the influence of painters from Phocaea, Samos, and North Ionia on archaic tomb painting in Tarquinia. He presumed that skilled painters from those cities arrived in Gravisca, the harbor near Tarquinia (Cristofani 1976, 1978: 87–91; 2001: 474–475 and 481). Also the painted frescoes from Gordion (Berndt, Chapter 12) were assigned by Cristofani to East Greek artisans, following Pallottino’s theory for the stone stelai. In the same years, Antonio Giuliano identified the Swallow Painter, usually judged as an immigrant from East Greece to Etruria, probably at Vulci, at the end of the seventh century BCE (Giuliano 1975; Cook 1981, 1989, 1998a; Giuliano 2000; Conti 2019; Mazet 2020). Regarding the style of the paintings in the well-known Tomb of Hunting and Fishing in Tarquinia, dated around 530 to 520 BCE, Cristofani noted particular similarities with the Ionian Little Masters, especially the Vineyard cup now in the Louvre, but probably found in Etruria (Paris, Louvre, no. F 68; BAPD vase no. 1007343). One has to ask where these cups were painted. Robert Manuel Cook wrote in 1960: “The places where these cups have been found are first Samos and Naucratis; isolated examples come from Miletus, Smyrna, Apollonia Pontica, Aegina, Perachora perhaps and Italy . . . Their home is generally thought to be Samos though connections with Fikellura then need explaining” (Cook 1997: 123). Cook later revised his view, including Etruria among the list of findspots and adding that “the connection of some early pieces with Fikellura suggests Miletus as the work place of their painter or painters” (Cook 1998b: 94). Probably following Cook’s early opinion, Cristofani identified an influence emanating also from Samos in the tomb painting at Tarquinia precisely because of this comparison. After several years of intense work on East Greek painted pottery, we can now slightly modify the opinion of both scholars: We know the Fikellura vases were produced at Miletus (Waschek 2008), and we must remember that the finds from Samos and Naucratis were votive offerings, which can be gifted by people of various origins. In the excavations directed by Volkmar von Graeve at Miletus since 1985, huge quantities of pottery have been discovered that shed new light on the role of the city in the seventh and sixth centuries BCE, when Miletus was one of the most important centers in Greece, if not the most important. Among the finds of the extraurban sanctuary of Aphrodite at Zeytintepe, Udo Schlotzhauer was able to identify part of an exact copy of the Vineyard cup (Schlotzhauer 2001: no. 597, Miletus Museum storeroom, no. Z 91.52.8). The floral decoration of the cup in the Louvre includes a chain of ivy leaves along the rim, which occurs in identical fashion also on East Greek plastic head-kantharoi, found also in Etruria at Vulci and Chiusi. Other unprovenanced head-kantharoi have

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reasonably been assigned to Etruscan contexts (Schlotzhauer 2006). Schlotzhauer’s stylistic and archaeometric analyses of plastic head-kantharoi indicate their production at Miletus, thus closing the circle, localizing the production of the Vineyard cup to Miletus instead of Samos, and explaining the stylistic connections with Fikellura vases. What are the consequences of the identification of Miletus instead of Samos as the production center for such cups for our understanding of Etruscan culture and its connections with the eastern Aegean? Can one presume an active Milesian role in Etruscan tomb painting at Tarquinia? In the search for further links between Miletus and Tarquinia, we must remember that in the territory of Tarquinia the illuminating finds from the Greek sanctuary at Gravisca are also a valuable source of information. Greek inscriptions from Gravisca suggest a general Ionian presence, with a strong Samian component (Johnston 2000: 24), and, among the Ionian vases from the same site, imports from Aeolis, Chios, North Ionia, Samos, and Miletus have been identified (Boldrini 1994: 256–264). Even an Attic cup from Gravisca points to an Ionian presence: Two seals incised on the foot of the cup (Figure 1.5a–b; Valentini 1993: no. 555) are very similar to the animal painted on a well-known Caeretan black-figured hydria (Figure 1.5c–d). Seals were used on the coins of Phocaea as a symbol of the city for many centuries (Jenkins 1990: 16, fig. C 6; Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 1090–1091). As a symbol of Phocaea, the incised seals on the kylix from Gravisca may indicate the origin of the donor. If we accept this interpretation, we have a North Ionian votive offering on an Attic vase found in a Greek sanctuary in Etruria – a fine example of material connections and artistic exchange between different cultures of the eastern and western Mediterranean. The painted seal on the hydria may likewise allude to a Phocaean origin of the potters and painters responsible for the well-known workshop of the Caeretan hydriae. Their arrival in Caere has been connected to the battle in the Sardinian Sea between Greeks from Phocaea against the allied Etruscans and Carthaginians around 540 to 535 BCE (Martelli 1981). Many Greeks were captured and were stoned to death at Caere (Bernardini et al. 2000; Bernardini 2001). It has been suggested that some of them survived and worked for Etruscan customers as potters and painters (Hemelrijk 1956, 1984, 2000, 2009; Bonaudo 2004; on further consequences of Phocaean arrival to Etruria, see also Winter, Chapter 7). Coming back to the search for possible links between Miletus and Tarquinia, we have to admit that clear Milesian imports are rare in the finds from Tarquinia. Milesian archaic trade amphoras have been found in

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Figure 1.5 Seals incised on the foot of an Attic short-stemmed cup from Gravisca ([a–b] Gravisca no. 76/4989; Johnston 2000: 31 no. 164, pl. 6) and painted on a Caeretan black-figured hydria ([c–d] Stavros S. Niarchos collection; Hemelrijk 2009: no. 29, pl. 10–13)

Etruscan tombs in Tarquinia and in the sanctuary at Gravisca (Slaska 1985; Di Miceli and Fiorini 2019), but these amphoras reflect large-scale trade connections (Dupont 1998: n. 202). Etruscan finds from Miletus offer a different view. The Etruscan bucchero finds from Miletus amount to 112 sherds, with 103 from the Aphrodite sanctuary at Zeytintepe (Naso 2009). The sherds belong mostly to kantharoi (90 sherds from Zeytintepe and 9 from other sites), but also present are cups (5 sherds), kyathoi (2 sherds),

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and closed forms such as oinochoai or olpai (6 sherds). The bad preservation of the sherds, which are – as is usual for the pottery from Zeytintepe – very tiny, makes it difficult to estimate the real number of the vases offered in the Aphrodite sanctuary, especially for the kantharoi: Careful analysis suggests that there were between 33 and 42 kantharoi, 1 giant-kantharos, at least 4 cups, 1 kyathos, and 4 closed forms. With a conservative estimate of 43 to 52 bucchero vases, Miletus has become the richest Etruscan bucchero findspot in the eastern Mediterranean. The votive offerings of Etruscan bucchero in the Aphrodite sanctuary at Miletus started at the end of the seventh century BCE and continued until at least the first half of the sixth century BCE. The devotees were very probably Milesian traders: No inscription has yet been identified on bucchero vases from Miletus, but the few inscribed bucchero kantharoi found in mainland Greek sanctuaries (Perachora – Shefton 1962: 385, no. 4126), in East Greece (Rhodes – Martelli 1988: 114–115, fig. 14), and in Italy (Lentini in Sicily – Rizza 2003: 546–548, figs. 7–8, pl. VI; Grasso 2008: 69, nos. 281–282; Selinunte in Sicily – Colonna 2004; Pithekoussai – Docter 2006: 236 fig. 2a; Gravisca – Johnston 2000, 20 nos. 68–69; with some inscriptions reproduced by Naso 2017: 1685–1687 fig. 4) always show Greek names. If our hypothesis is right, the bucchero kantharoi should be an example of reciprocal exchange derived from Milesian trade to Italy. With which Etruscan cities did Miletus have trade connections? To answer this question, analyses such as thin section, X-ray diffraction, and X-ray fluorescence have been carried out on eighteen Etruscan bucchero samples from Miletus – more than 10 percent of the finds. The kinds of analysis have been chosen to allow comparisons with the results of the considerable research carried out by Klaus Burkhardt on the mineralogical–petrographical composition of Etruscan bucchero, in which almost 350 bucchero samples from many sites in Etruria were analyzed and classified (Burkhardt 1991). Three groups and two singles resulted from this analysis on Etruscan bucchero from Miletus. The characteristics of the first group – formed by ten kantharoi and two cups – fit very well in the group assigned to Caere/ Cerveteri by Burkhardt. Both the second and third groups – formed by four kantharoi – show a mineralogical composition similar to the bucchero from Tarquinia. Two further kantharoi are single examples (Naso 2009). From an archaeological point of view, one can observe that the provenance from Caere for more than half of the analyzed samples confirms the existence of particular connections between Caere and Miletus, which were both among the most important centers of archaic trade in the western and eastern Mediterranean, respectively. The Etruscan archaic trade amphora found in

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Miletus (Colivicchi 2017: 211, fig. 1) and classified as type Py 4A (Py 1985: fig. 2), probably came from Caere after the Persian destruction of Miletus in 494, judging from its findspot in Miletus: As a single object, one can interpret it as the product of a gift made in Caere to a Milesian, who brought it back to Miletus (Naso 2005b: 77–78). It is useful to emphasize the probable provenance from Caere of the already mentioned giant-kantharos, a particular vase type larger than the usual kantharoi, with the height reaching 35 cm and the diameter exceeding 30 cm. The provenance is suggested by mineralogical– petrographical analyses, which fit in the group assigned to Caere by Burkhardt and are important because giant kantharoi were attributed to Vulci by Tom Rasmussen – perhaps with an overestimation of the examples found at Vulci (Rasmussen 1979: 103–104, 155). The absolute leadership of Caere in bucchero production makes it unlikely that such a peculiar vase as the giant kantharos was produced exclusively at Vulci (Gilotta 2015: 44 with literature). Thus, one can obtain new perspectives about Etruscan bucchero from overseas finds. The origin of Tarquinia for at least four kantharoi found in Miletus is a new result, which confirms our search for possible connections between Miletus and Tarquinia. The bucchero kantharoi from Miletus may be slightly earlier than the Ionian Little Master cups, dated about 550 BCE. All this information seems to corroborate the hypothesis of direct relationships between Tarquinia and Miletus around the middle of the sixth century BCE and later. Probably these relationships were characterized by personal connections between Etruscans and Milesians, which may also be reflected in the pots dedicated in the Aphrodite sanctuary at Miletus. Further Etruscan trade amphoras have been found in several contexts at Phocaea (types Py 1–2 and 3A–3B, probably from Vulci: see Okan 2014 for the sherds and Zifferero 2017 for wine and amphora production in the Albegna valley). Close and direct connections between southern Etruria and Miletus are missing in the literary sources: One can note only the passage by Timaeus from Tauromenion mentioning that inhabitants from Sybaris and the Etruscans were both customers of highly appreciated wool textiles from Miletus (Athenaeus 12.16–17 Kaibel 519 b–c = FHG 566 F 50; Briquel 1984: 620; see also Şare Ağtürk, Chapter 17). The mention of Sybaris allows us to date the Milesian wool trade in Etruria still within the sixth century BCE (Röhlig 1933: 40–45; Heurgon 1966). In the relationships between South Ionia and Etruria a special role has been played by Samian handcraft, as evidenced by the diffusion in Etruria of painted vases from Samos, including a rare shape – the dinos with compressed body. The earliest examples of such dinoi have been found in the Samian Heraion and belong to the first half of the sixth century BCE

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Figure 1.6 Dinoi from Etruria: (a) black-figured dinos in Rome, Villa Giulia no. 50600; (b) Attic blackfigured dinos signed by Nikosthenes, Venice, Ligabue Centre of Research no. 128; (c) Etruscan bucchero dinos from Pian della Conserva, Tolfa ([a] courtesy Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma-Lazio; [b] after De Min 1998: no. 51; [c] photo by author)

(Rizzo 1988: 90 ad, no. 53). Some pieces from Etruscan grave-groups of the second half of the sixth century have been connected to these vases as probable locally made products by Samian potters who immigrated to Etruria (Figure 1.6a; Rizzo 1988: 90, no. 53; De Lucia Brolli 2000: 78). An Attic black-figured example from the workshop of Nikosthenes, a potter who specialized in the Etruscan vase trade with particular reference to Caere (Figure 1.6b; De Min 1998: 148–149 no. 51; Tosto 1999; Lyons 2009), and a rare example in bucchero from the Pian della Conserva cemetery in the Tolfa hills near Caere (Figure 1.6c; Naso 2010: 149, fig. 15; Gilotta 2018: 134) testify to the acceptance of this shape respectively in Attica and in Etruscan handcraft in the second half of the sixth century BCE. Further Attic black-figured pieces from Etruria are attributed to the workshop of the Antimenes Painter (Brownlee 1997; Baglione 2001). Samian influence in central Italy includes other fields: According to Filippo Coarelli, Samian hydraulic engineers worked to drain the Latial lakes of Albano and Nemi, using techniques similar to those developed in the excavation of the tunnel of Eupalinos at Samos (Grewe 1989; Coarelli 1991; Kienast 1995). The new Samian settlement founded in 531 BCE during the tyranny of Polycrates by some dissidents at Dikaiarchia (Puteoli) in the bay of Naples certainly played an important role in the relationship between Samos and central Italy. Nor was the traffic all one way: Around the middle of the sixth century BCE, one Leukios dedicated a marble kouros to Apollo in a sanctuary at Samos (Freyer-Schauenburg 1974: 69–73 no. 35, pl. 20–22). In the same period, a man named Leukios offered a bucchero kantharos at Lentini in Sicily (Rizza 2003: 546–547, fig. 7; Grasso 2008: 69, no. 281; Brugnone 2009: 711).2 2

“Leukios” is the Greek spelling of Latin Lucius, as John Barron noted (Barron 2004). This author suggested relations between Samos and Tarquinia.

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Some years ago Nicholas Coldstream presumed the existence of mixed marriages between Greeks and Indigenous peoples of Italy, namely Etruscans (Coldstream 1993). In Etruria the case of the Corinthian Demaratus, who married an Etruscan woman, is well known (Saltini Semerari 2016: 79). Although more research on this topic is necessary, mixed marriages could well have resulted from East Greek contacts with Etruria.

1.5

Wine Culture: Drinking Vases and Serving Utensils

Other finds allow us to suggest Etruscan influence on East Greek and West Anatolian handcraft. From the early sixth century, bucchero vases were largely distributed within the framework of archaic trade in both the western and eastern Mediterranean and contributed substantially to the diffusion of an Etruscan identity, bucchero being probably identified as the national pottery of the Etruscans (Figure 1.7). A drinking vase, the kantharos, was the most popular: In the last quarter of the seventh century BCE, a particular shape of kantharos, classified as 3e by Rasmussen (Rasmussen 1979: 104, pls. 31–32) was developed in southern Etruria and until the middle of the sixth century BCE was the most popular bucchero vessel in both the western and eastern Mediterranean. Its distribution area reaches from Huelva in Spain to Ras-el-Bassit in Syria, from southern France to North Africa, and beyond (Gran-Aymerich 2017: 238–250). Unpublished bucchero kantharoi sherds have been discovered in Israel at Mezad Hashavyahu.3 The peculiar shape of the kantharos includes an accentuated carination that made this vase functional to gather a beverage’s eventual sediments, as is presumed for Assyrian bronze cups (Botto 2013: 115–116). Several scholars noted that the form of Etruscan kantharoi was imitated in Greece by both smiths and potters, at least from the first quarter of the sixth century BCE. The earliest Attic blackfigured kantharoi, dating from 585 to 580 BCE, offer the best term of reference. Hermann Brijder stressed the possibility that Etruscan metal models were the source of inspiration, based on the four bronze Etruscan kantharoi that were known to him and whose forms are closer to the early Attic products than to the bucchero examples (Brijder 1988). Recently the number of metal examples from central and northern Italy has increased to twenty-six (Naso 2006: 261–264; Camporeale 2014: 86, n. 21, adds one piece 3

I am indebted to Daniel Ein Mor, the director of renewed excavations on behalf of the Israel Antiquities Authority, and to Alexander Fantalkin, who identified the Etruscan bucchero.

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Figure 1.7 Distribution map of Etruscan bucchero in the Mediterranean, seventh to sixth centuries BCE (drawing by L. Attisani, Istituto di Studi sul Mediterraneo Antico, Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche)

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from Vetulonia; Naso in press a adds three further examples from central Italy). The wider distribution of bronze vases, which includes Didyma, seems to corroborate Brijder’s proposal. It is notable that around the end of the seventh century BCE the iconography of Dionysus holding a kantharos in one hand was developed in Greece: Could it be that the wild Dionysus was deliberately represented holding a so-called barbarian vase from the Far West, namely, an Etruscan kantharos? A silver kantharos from Camirus in Rhodes – classified as a local product of the early sixth century BCE under the influence of Etruscan models – shows that the southeastern Aegaean had an active role in the reception process. The incised geometric decoration on the ribbon handles seems to declare that the model in this case was an Etruscan bucchero kantharos (Paris, Louvre no. S 1211/Bj 2165 – Treister 2001: 29–30, no. 113, 121; Coulié and Filimonos 2014: 274–275, no. 125). To support this hypothesis, one can add a quite neglected silver kantharos from Olympia showing an upright closed fan just at the lower root of the handle (Athens, Mus. Nat. no. 6330/Met. 215 – Naso 2009: 136, fig. 1). The fan is very similar to the usual type impressed on Etruscan bucchero, which is not common on kantharoi and not at all in this position. When fans occur on bucchero kantharoi, they are usually below the rim in a horizontal position (or, rarely, in a vertical position) (Regter 1999). On the grounds of the material and the unusual positioning of the decoration, the silver kantharos from Olympia should be classified as a (Southeast) Greek product of the early sixth century BCE, strongly influenced by Etruscan craftmanship. Reception of Etruscan prototypes in Ionian or West Anatolian workshops is corroborated by a new find from Miletus, still unpublished. The bothros explored from 2008 in the extraurban sanctuary of Aphrodite at Zeytintepe yielded precious votive offerings, such as jewels, faience, amber, rock crystal, glass ornaments, and huge quantities of pottery, which Cornelius Neeft, using Protocorinthian vases, dated from 680 to 630 BCE (von Graeve 2013). Using the bird bowls found in the bothros, Michael Kerschner suggested a slightly later date, until 610 BCE (Kerschner, pers. comm.). Among these exceptional finds, which shine important new light on the material culture of this period, are four tiny sherds of dark-brown pottery belonging to the same vase, probably a skyphos or kotyle (Schaus 1992: 170–171, nos. 45–47), showing an incised frieze of wild goats – common animals on painted East Greek pottery (Figure 1.8). The Milesian skyphos is fired in a reducing atmosphere, using a similar process to the Etruscan one, but the pottery is dark brown, not entirely black as Etruscan bucchero is. Therefore it is not an Etruscan product. The incised

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Figure 1.8 Fragments of a West Anatolian cup with incised frieze from the sanctuary of Aphrodite at Zeytintepe, Miletus Museum, nos. Z 08.425 and Z 08.453 (photos by author)

frieze, not otherwise documented in Milesian or West Anatolian pottery, seems to have been inspired by the figured friezes on Etruscan bucchero vases, which were produced particularly in southern Etruria, especially in Caere workshops (Bonamici 1974; Gilotta 2015). One can assume that these vessels were made mostly for local consumption because until now they have been found outside Etruria only in Sicily on two kantharoi, respectively one from Naxos and one from Megara Hyblaea (Gras 1985: 494–496; Gran-Aymerich 2017: 232–233). The style of the wild goat on the new vase from Miletus is unique, as one can note from the legs of the animals. Some parallels for the filling motifs and for the ornamentation of the goats may be found in some fabrics of painted West Anatolian pottery – such as so-called Ephesian ware, which was made in Lydia (Kerschner 1997, 2005, 2010) – and of black-on-red pottery, as well as other fabrics (as for instance that of the Polledrara cup: Walters 1912: 256–257, pl. XXI). In the seventh century BCE Aegean, incised friezes on pottery are documented on Crete at Kommos (Shaw 1983; Shaw and Shaw 2000: 237,

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nos. 239–240, pls. 4.9, 4.47) and in East Greece at Old Smyrna (Cook 1965: 137, no. 138, pl. 40). Incised figured friezes with animals are also known on Lydian silver vases (Özgen et al. 1996: 124–125, no. 78; 238–239, no. 228). The bowl with an incised wild goat decoration, probably a skyphos or a kotyle, was probably made as a local product in Ionia or West Anatolia under the influence of Etruscan bucchero both in the firing technique and in the incised frieze. We still do not know exactly how Etruscan bucchero vases with figured friezes were imitated in Ionia or West Anatolia: Were they perhaps imported and not yet found? Can one presume other ways of diffusion? Did the potter have direct knowledge of Etruscan bucchero? Similar circumstances of evidence on painted vases from the eastern and central Mediterranean dated to the early seventh century BCE suggest contact among cultures in Anatolia, East Greece, Greece, and Etruria (Gilotta 2017). Drinking and drinking culture were so important in the ancient world that special vases and utensils were created for these activities. In bucchero there are some distinctive shapes (Ger. Sonderformen) that very probably were special commissions: for example, cups of the unique Caere–Satricum series, which represent technical masterpieces in the field of pottery. In this series, the basin of the bowl is divided into two parts by an internal wall, probably contained two different liquids such as wine and water, and has a double suction system, with spouts and tubes. Two tubular ducts are superimposed, and the two liquids are mixed only at spout-base level. Two line drawings are clearer than a minutious description (Figure 1.9). Four or perhaps five suction bucchero cups are known from central Italy (Etruria and Latium), two of which are inscribed with the name of the same Etruscan person, Laris Velchaina, and usually linked to Caere by the writing style and the form of the letters. Recently it has been clarified that suction vases are well known in Israel, on Cyprus, in the Aegean, and in the Italian peninsula from the Late Bronze Age onwards (Cerasuolo 2013, with literature also on the Caere–Satricum cups). The double-suction system seems actually an Etruscan invention, but the ancient Near Eastern tradition on which it is based offers good perspectives for future finds in Anatolia. Around the end of the seventh century BCE in Etruria a new implement was developed as part of the wine-drinking set. Modern scholars named it conventionally with the Latin word “infundibulum” (Naso 2015). An infundibulum is a very elaborate funnel, consisting of a hammered cup with several holes and a cast solid tube, and a solid cast bronze horizontal handle; the cup is decorated with horizontal lines on the exterior. A strainer, joined with rivets, was attached to the handle by a hinge so

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Figure 1.9 Bucchero drinking bowl, Brussels, Musée du Cinquantenaire, no. R 135 (drawings courtesy of the Musée du Cinquantenaire and conservator Cecile Evers)

that it could be raised backwards when the cup was used as a funnel alone. The long handles of infundibula often end in a duck’s head with a long bill; more rarely they end in a ram’s head. Infundibula were used to pour wine, for instance from a krater into an oinochoe or from an oinochoe into a kantharos. Before the development of this specialized funnel type, other bronze implements were used to pour wine, as shown by the rare bronze strainer-bowl from the Near East now in the British Museum, which was probably found in Italy (London, BM no. 124591 – Sciacca 2005: 407, fig. 349), and the unique silver strainer from Praeneste in central Italy (Rome, Villa Giulia no. 61588 – Canciani and von Hase 1979: 41, no. 27). The most popular type of Etruscan infundibulum is lyre-handled, and it always has a hinge attached to the strainer of the handle. The hinge, which has a cross-hole and a cut-away to fit a tang, can have the shape of a T, or, if it is figured, of an animal such as a couchant lion, a frog, or a sphinx. Bronze hinges in animal form are very rare but are documented in the sixth century BCE in Lydia on an incense burner (Özgen et al. 1996: 118–119, no. 73; Cahill 2010: 536, no. 173), and one can suspect they may have an older origin in Lydia. In the second half of the sixth century BCE, Etruscan funnel-strainers of this shape were the most widespread Etruscan bronze objects in the Mediterranean, distributed from Spain to the northern shore of the Black

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Sea, from Switzerland to North Africa, with the highest concentration in the Italic peninsula (Figure 1.10). Several examples have been found in Greek sanctuaries: one in Cyrene, four in Olympia (one with a Greek inscription: Olympia, storeroom no. B 4574 – Siewert 1991: 82, no. 7, pl. 9, 2–3), one in Thasos, one in Argos, one in Ialysos on Rhodes, two in the Heraion of Samos, and one in the sanctuary of Apollo at Didyma. A particular funnel belonging to a different Etruscan shape has been found in Pantikapaion on the Black Sea, with a Greek inscription mentioning the Artemis of Ephesus (Naso 2015). We can consider infundibula in the second half of the sixth century BCE to be the counterpart in bronze of the Etruscan bucchero kantharoi in the first half of the same century: The funnels are a real marker of Etruscan culture, one of the tyrrhenoi chalkoi celebrated in ancient Greek literature (Mansuelli 1984). Some local imitations of Etruscan bronze funnels are known in Greece as well as in the Iron Age culture of what is now modern-day Serbia. Lion-shaped hinges found in the Greek sanctuaries at Olympia and Samos are stylistically different from the Etruscan ones, so that one can presume the existence of Greek infundibula imitating the Etruscan prototypes (Naso 2015). The hinges of the Etruscan and Greek infundibula and the hinge of the incense burner from Lydia are a further common point between handcrafts in Etruria, Greece, and Anatolia. Recently a clay sherd from the area of the Athena temple at Miletus decorated with stamped figures (a gorgon mask, a sphinx, two geese, and filling ornament) and dated stylistically to the middle of the sixth century BCE or later has been connected to the stamped friezes on Caeretan impasto pottery and used to presume an East Greek or Milesian influence on Etruscan and Caeretan workshops (Donati 2014: 194–195, fig. 1). Michael Kerschner and Udo Schlotzhauer – experts in Milesian pottery – confirm that such a find is absolutely rare in Miletus (pers. comm.). Stamped pottery was particularly developed in the seventh century BCE in Corinth, then in the sixth century BCE in Thasos and North Ionia, particularly at Chios, Clazomenae, Phocaea, Smyrna, Erythrai, and Teos, as recent studies clarify (Simantoni-Bournia 2004; Cevizoğlu 2010: 51–54). Stamped pottery had no native tradition in South Ionia and at Miletus is actually known only through a few vases probably imported from Clazomenae in the sixth century BCE (Panteleon 2005: 37, no. 2 fig. 5; Cevizoğlu 2010: 26–27, pl. 44.4). The perirrhanterion, or brazier, to which the sherd from the Athena temple of Miletus belongs, may be an import from North Ionia, probably from Clazomenae, where sphinxes are reproduced on stamped pottery in the second half of the sixth century BCE (Cevizoğlu 2010: 31–33, Beil. 1). In that case the eventual influence on

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Figure 1.10 Distribution map of bronze strainer-funnels in the Mediterranean (drawing by L. Attisani, Istituto di Studi sul Mediterraneo Antico, Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche)

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Etruscan stamped pottery should derive from North Ionia, but the suggested chronology of the sherd opens further questions that will require further study.

1.6

Etruria and Lydia

Connections between Ionia and Etruria have been discussed (Sections 1.4 and 1.5) because East Greek craftsmen working in both Etruria and Anatolia may have been natural links between the two regions. This is true particularly for the seventh and sixth centuries, when the so-called Orientalizing phenomenon was a mixture created by craftsmen of different origins, developing a new style of life and new expressions. In this period did relationships exist between Etruria and non-Greek cultures in Anatolia, in particular Lydia? A list of Lydian imports to Etruria is still missing (e.g., preliminary research in Paoletti 2003; Gilotta 2018: 135–136; see also Gilotta, Chapter 10, and below), but a special find informs us how much Lydia was known in Etruria. I refer here not to the work of the black-figure Attic vasepainter Lydos but to the well-known red-figured amphora in Paris attributed to Myson and painted in Athens around 480 BCE, which offers a unique representation of Croesus on the pyre (Paris, Louvre, no. G 197 – Denoyelle 1995: 120, no. 55). The last king of Lydia (reigned ca. 560–546) was renowned for his great wealth and for the number of rich gifts made to the oracle at Delphi (Dorandi 2006: 458–460). It is worth mentioning here that the findspot of the amphora was the cemetery of Vulci, one of the richest findplaces of Attic vases in Etruria. Developing Mario Torelli’s (Torelli 1987: 399) and Juliette de La Geniére’s (pers. comm.) suggestions, one can presume that the amphora was used in Vulci as a cinerary urn. The consequences of this hypothesis go very far and raise several questions impossible to answer here. As the only known pictorial representation of this subject, was the amphora a special commission made in Athens by a wealthy Etruscan customer of Vulci? In the Kerameikos workshops in the sixth and fifth centuries BCE the taste of the Etruscans was so well known that different shapes of vases for different cities in Etruria were produced and exported only in those cities (Malagardis 2007, 2018). Did this Etruscan identify himself with the Lydian king? From an Etruscan point of view, these questions may have a positive answer: We know that Etruscan elites of the sixth and fifth centuries BCE were strongly influenced by Greek customs and that some aristocrats preferred cremation to inhumation (Torelli 1987, 1997). The Lydian king was highly celebrated for both the precious votive offerings he made in Delphi

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From East to West and Beyond

and the columns he offered for the temple of Artemis at Ephesus (Rumscheid 1999: 28–31, figs. 4–5). Recently Michael Kerschner has proposed that not only the columns but the entire temple of Artemis at Ephesus may have been sponsored by Croesus (Kerschner 2020: 235–237 and pers. comm.). So it is not surprising that Croesus became a symbol in Etruria, too. Lydian products were indeed known and appreciated in central Italy. Distinctive vases for Lydian perfume or cosmetics, now called lydia, have been found in central Italy as both Lydian imports, like the ones from the Tomb of the Greek Vases at Caere dating to the first half of the sixth century BCE (Rome, Villa Giulia, no. 20836 – Greenewalt 2010: 206 fig. 3) and those from an unknown tomb at Caere (Hamburg, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, no. 1962, 40 – Hoffmann 1969: 340–341, no. 23), and as East Greek and Greek imitations of the Lydian shape (Poletti Ecclesia 2002; D’Acunto 2012: 215–221; Gilotta 2018: 135f f.). Also in Etruscan tombgroups are other fabrics of clay oil-flasks that originally contained different perfumes from the Near East, Greece, and Etruria itself. Emerging methods of chemical analysis of ancient perfume residues could reveal further connections and perhaps their modes of use (Bodiou et al. 2008; Verbanck-Piérard et al. 2008; Carannante and D’Acunto 2012; Frère and Hugot 2012; Frère et al. 2018). Reflections of linkages between Etruria and Lydia may be found in other parallel handcrafts in both regions, such as phialai adorned with human faces on the exterior. Bucchero examples are known from Caere, dating to the seventh century BCE (Proietti 1980: figs. 155–156; Zindel 1987: 38–44, no. 5; Genève 1993: 208–209, no. 108). Strikingly similar in form are two silver phialai from the tumulus of İkiztepe, part of the “Lydian Treasure” looted from the Uşak region in the 1960s, acquired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, then returned to Turkey in the 1990s (Özgen et al. 1996: 90–91, nos. 36–37; Cahill 2010: 533, no. 168). Dated 520 to 480 BCE, the İkiztepe bowls are too late to suggest a direct link with the older Etruscan cups, but at least they attest to the sharing of a common decorative vocabulary. The “Lydian Treasure” also offers some striking parallels with Etruscan jewelry. One can identify some relations and suggest connections between gold finds from Lydia and Etruria at least from the late sixth century BCE (Williams 2015). Glass bracelets with gold lion-head terminals in the “Lydian Treasure” (Özgen et al. 1996: 160–161, no. 111) are closely paralleled in Etruria, in a chamber tomb at Monte Auto near Vulci, dated to the last quarter of the sixth century BCE (Rome, Villa Giulia, no. 59791 – Rizzo 1983; Adembri 1985) (Figure 1.11). The objects are so similar that one can postulate that the bracelet from Vulci was an import to Etruria: The value attributed in Etruria to this glass bracelet is evidenced by the fact that it

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Figure 1.11 Glass bracelets with gold finials from Lydia (left) and Etruria (right), with details of lionhead terminals (left, after Özgen et al. 1996: no. 111; right, after Rizzo 1983: no. 174)

had been repaired with a gold band (as documented in the Celtic culture for Attic pots: Böhr 1988). The solid bronze formers found in the “Lydian Treasure,” probably belonging to the grave of a goldsmith and used to form gold lion heads for such bracelets, show roaring lions exactly like the Vulci lion (Özgen et al. 1996: 61, fig. 140; 227, no. 213), and they attest to the making of such objects in Lydia. Gold or silver bracelets with lion heads were used by several cultures of the ancient world (Özgen et al. 1996: 161), and recently a silver bracelet with lion heads has been found at Vulci (Angelini and di Giovanni 2016: 76, figs. 23–25). In contrast, glass bracelets are very rare in Etruria: Two sherds of a further blue glass bracelet have been found at Caere, in the Martini-Marescotti tomb (without gold traces), dating to the late sixth century BCE (Rizzo 1983; Adembri 1985), and a glass bracelet with gold finials dating to the Hellenistic age in Bologna is linked to the Celtic tradition (Morigi Govi and Vitali 1988: 180, no. 304). In the field of jewelry one also has to mention amber – a special substance coming mostly from the Baltic Sea – which has a long tradition in Italy dating back to the Neolithic and Copper Ages: Finds in several Ionian sanctuaries, mostly concentrated in Ephesus, also show the acceptance of this exotic material in the East Greek and West Anatolian worlds, probably through trade connections coming from central and southern Italy (Naso 2013, in press b). Further connections in this field can be established by comparing Ephesian jewelry and artifacts from southern Italy (Jacobsthal 1956: 34, fig. 133; Osanna and Guzzo 2015: 9–12).

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From East to West and Beyond

1.7

Conclusions

The relationships between different regions of Anatolia and Etruria show movements and trade from east to west, but they also demonstrate objects and styles going the other way, from west to east. We can find elements of the first group in several classes of monuments, such as tumuli, tomb paintings, and vase paintings. The second group is more difficult to identify, but indirect evidence suggests the eastward circulation of bronze kantharoi and strainer-funnels. Ceramic cup fragments from Miletus, furthermore, show the result of the reception of Etruscan prototypes in Ionia or West Anatolia. The exchange was made in several ways, including trade in goods and substances, as well as the immigration of skilled workers. Mixed marriages can be presumed. Votive offerings in Greek sanctuaries played an important role. It may be difficult for us to distinguish details between East Greek and other non-Greek cultures, but we now have a good foundation for future studies. Greek literary sources about lands, such as Anatolia and Etruria, inhabited by so-called barbarian peoples must be understood as biased statements; the archaeological record provides the best evidence for increasing knowledge in this field. One needs to build new steps based on entire sequences of similar finds, as Nancy Winter does in her research regarding architectural friezes in East Greece and Etruria (Winter, Chapter 7): Systematic comparisons among sequences of the same classes of finds chronologically ordered can truly contribute to a better understanding of the relationships between the eastern and western Mediterranean in the seventh and sixth centuries BCE.

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Hemelrijk, J. M. 1956. De Caeretaanse Hydriae. Diss., University of Amsterdam. 1984. Caeretan Hydriae. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. 2000. “Three Caeretan Hydriae in Malibu and New York,” in Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum 6, 87–158. Malibu, CA: The J.P. Getty Museum. 2009. More about Caeretan Hydriae. Addenda et Clarificanda. Amsterdam: Allard Pierson Museum. Henry, O., and Kelp, U. (eds.) 2016. Tumulus as Sema. Space, Politics, Culture and Religion in the First Millennium BC. Berlin: De Gruyter. Heurgon, J. 1966. “Sur le manteau d’Alkisthène,” in Mélanges offerts à Kazimierz Michalowski, ed. M. L. Bernhard, 445–450. Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo, Naukowe. Hoffmann, H. 1969. “Erwerbungsbericht des Museums für Kunst und Gewerbe, Hamburg, 1963–1969,” Archäologischer Anzeiger: 318–377. Jacobsthal, P. 1956. Greek Pins and Their Connexions with Europe and Asia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jenkins, G. K. 1990. Ancient Greek Coins. London: Seaby. Johnston, A. 2000. “Greek and Latin Inscriptions,” in Gravisca. Scavi nel santuario greco 15: Le iscrizioni, ed. A. Johnston and M. Pandolfini, 13–66. Bari: Edipuglia. Kerschner, M. 1997. “Ein stratifizierter Opferkomplex des 7. Jhs. v. Chr. aus dem Artemision von Ephesos,” Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes 66, Beiblatt: 85–226. 2005. “Die Ionier und ihr Verhältnis zu den Phrygern und Lydern. Beobachtungen zur archäologischen Evidenz,” in Neue Forschungen zu Ionien, Asia Minor Studien, ed. E. Schwertheim and E. Winter, 54, 113–146. Bonn: Habelt. 2010. “The Lydians and Their Ionian and Aiolian Neighbours,” in Cahill (ed.), 247–265. 2020. “The Archaic Temples in the Artemision of Ephesos and the Archaeology of the ‘Central Basis’,” in White Gold. Studies in Early Electrum Coinage, ed. P. van Alfen and U. Wartenberg, 191–262. New York: The American Numismatic Society and the Israel Museum. Kienast, H. 1995. Die Wasserleitung des Eupalinos auf Samos, Samos 19. Bonn: Habelt. Lyons, C. 2009. “Nikosthenic Pyxides between Etruria and Greece,” in Athenian Potters and Painters, Vol. 2, ed. J. H. Oakley and O. Palagia, 166–180. Oxford: Oxbow. Malagardis, A. N. 2007. “Un Étrusque dans les ateliers du Céramique vers 520 avant J.-C. Autoportrait d’un étranger,” in Il greco, il barbaro e la ceramica attica. Immaginario del diverso, processi di scambio e autorappresentazione degli indigeni, Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Catania 14–19.5.2001, Vol. 4, ed. F. Giudice and R. Panvini, 27–43. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider.

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Interpretive Frameworks

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2.1

Introduction

Interest in the relationship between Anatolia and Etruria is not only longstanding but also driven by prevailing interpretations of the past. This paper outlines how scholarship has addressed the question of this relationship during the first half of the first millennium BCE. It begins with an explanation of the quest for the origins of the Etruscans, as analyzed from linguistic, biological, and material perspectives. All three areas suggest tantalizing connections, but their precise natures have often been difficult to interpret since the evidence is not substantial enough to form secure conclusions. For this reason, a more flexible approach to interpreting similarities between distanced cultures is necessary. Ideas drawn from globalization perspectives offer just such a means. This contribution outlines how.1

2.2

Scholarly Origins

Our interest in the relationship between Anatolia and Etruria lies in scholarly obsessions – ancient and more modern – with the origins of peoples and cultural groups, especially those of the Italic populations. For example, during the early part of the twentieth century, the need to develop an Italian past was central to Italian scholarship. Prior to the Fascist period, which favored ancient Rome as a model, Italy’s Etruscan heritage took center stage (e.g., Della Seta 1922; Bagnasco Gianni 2013: 29; Huntsman, Chapter 4; Nowlin, Chapter 3). The origin of the Etruscans was a key focal point, with two main competing views derived from the ancient literary sources of Herodotus and Dionysius of Halicarnassus: that the Etruscans originated in the Near East or that they were autochthonous. The 1

I am grateful to the editors for their invitation to participate in the workshop that has given rise to this volume, and I thank the editors, as well as Corinna Riva and Charlotte Potts, for sharing their views on ideas expressed in this contribution.

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eighteenth-century scholar Nicholas Fréret had suggested a third possibility: that they originated from the lands of the Rhaetians, north of the Alps (Fréret 1753: 98; see also Briquel 2013: 36; Ulf 2017). These competing origins need to be considered in the contexts in which they were first presented. For example, Dionysius’ strong preference for an autochthonous Etruscan origin, which served to deprecate the Etruscans vis-à-vis the Romans and devalue them in relation to the Greeks, was constructed in an era when the Romans were privileged as the representatives of Hellenism in Italy (Briquel 2013: 41). Indeed, the Romans were the focus of Dionysius’ work. The Lydian origin offered by Herodotus, and the Pelasgian origin suggested by Hellanicus – our source for which is also Herodotus – may be considered a reconstruction in the tradition of syngeneia, a historical or mythical connection of kinship. In such narratives, good relations between two groups are presented as being based on a relationship that had united the ancestors of those groups. In this context, it has been suggested that the Anatolian origin put forward by Herodotus is rooted in contemporary Anatolian politics rather than historical accuracy (Briquel 2013: 44–46). At the same time, it is rooted in Greece’s own political circumstances, in an era in which Greeks had been locked in conflict with the eastern Persians. Herodotus’ homeland, Caria, had participated in the Ionian Revolt against the Persians at the beginning of the fifth century BCE. The alliance between the Etruscans and Carthaginians against the Greeks during the Battle of Alalia in the 530s would still have been remembered, while the Battle of Cumae in 474 BCE had brought Sicilian and south Italian Greeks into conflict with the Etruscans once again. It is a well-known literary trope of fifth-century Greek works that anyone with an eastern origin was an appropriate enemy (e.g., Hall 1989; Nippel 2002). An eastern origin of the Etruscans justified their status as enemies in the Greek cultural perspective. The Rhaetic suggestion derives from linguistic similarities between Etruscan inscriptions and those from the region associated with the Rhaeti; it was proposed during a time when the origin and nature of languages were central to intellectual discourse and sociocultural developmental understandings (Rix 1998; Schumacher 2004). Wallace (2015: 221) also suggests that Rhaetic, Etruscan, and Etruscan’s other linguistic relation, Lemnian – the language of the pre-Greek inhabitants of Lemnos in the northern Aegean – are all descendants of a common parent language, ProtoTyrrhenian (see also Penny 2009). Indeed, it is the uniqueness of the Etruscan language that marks the Etruscans as different. Many suggest that the language is of

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Bridging Cultures in the Past and Present

non-Indo-European origin. This is significant, for language is regarded as one of the indicia of an ethnic identity (e.g., Hall 1997). Thus, the language isolate nature of Etruscan has long reinforced the idea that the Etruscans were a distinctive ethnic group whose origin demanded explanation (Perkins 2009: 95, 106). More recent scholarship has continued to seek an eastern relationship with the Etruscan language (e.g., Woudhuizen 2006; Magini 2011; van Binsbergen and Woudhuizen 2011) to match the literary sources. A relationship with languages such as Hittite and Lycian would render Etruscan of the Indo-European family and unite with the Herodotean version of an Anatolian geographic origin. But this has never been a popular avenue. Francisco Adrados, reiterating in 1994 his 1970s thesis on the relationship between Anatolian languages such as Hittite and Lycian with Etruscan, laments the rejection of Etruscan as an Indo-European language: The truth is that, on account of the scarcity of adequate material for comparison for a long time, of the domination of the Mediterranean and Italicist theses, and through the influence of illustrious archaeologists who are not really linguists, or else through a combination of several of these circumstances, a very taboo has arisen around the study of Etruscan as an [Indo-European] language. (73)

This complaint reflects some of the disciplinary divides that have characterized our study of the ancient Mediterranean world. The world of Anatolia falls largely in the domain of Near Eastern archaeologists and semitic linguists, while the world of the Greeks dominates Classical Archaeology. Study of the Etruscans, while in some regards a subset of Classical Archaeology, nevertheless is both and neither (most recently Riva 2020). For this reason, an interdisciplinary approach is essential to understand the relationship of the Etruscans with their Mediterranean neighbors, both east and west. In such a context, questions about their origins become marginalized.

2.3

Physical Origins

Interdisciplinarity has been adopted already in one aspect of the quest for Etruscan origins: aDNA studies (but see also Perkins 2009, 2017; Bellelli 2012; Kron 2013; Becker, M. 2016). The movement of individuals from Anatolia to Etruria has been the focus of genetic population studies, often drawing upon mtDNA from ancient and modern population groups.

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While several scholars suggest that such a movement occurred during the Neolithic period (e.g., most recently Tassi et al. 2013; Paschou et al. 2014), this is by no means surprising, since the mobility of groups from the East to Europe during the Neolithic period is widely accepted (e.g., Heyd 2017). Several aDNA studies attest to a post-Neolithic eastern origin of the Etruscans (e.g., Achilli et al. 2007; Pellecchia et al. 2007; Brisighelli et al. 2009), but these have been criticized for a number of reasons: They lack double-blind study, there is an absence of basic data on the skeletons tested, and there is a fundamental misunderstanding of the archaeological contexts of the derived samples (Turfa 2006; Perkins 2009; Becker, M. 2016). The last problem, in particular, has led to false assumptions about the derived material, such as the view that social stratification will be evidenced in genetic differences between a small social elite and the remainder of the population (Belle et al. 2006: 8012), with the resulting baseline assumption that the Etruscans were an immigrant elite (Vernesi et al. 2004). This is also part of a wider problem with the current trend in the application of aDNA: It is mostly being undertaken by geneticists without adequate input from archaeologists (Heyd 2017; Lewis-Kraus 2019). For example, as Perkins points out in his 2009 detailed critique of Vernesi et al. 2004, the assumption by the aDNA team that they were analyzing only the elite class is incorrect, since – although the precise contexts are not provided – human remains from the cemeteries under study were preserved only from middle class rather than elite contexts. Furthermore, the movement of peoples throughout the first millennium BCE was extensive, whether as craftsmen, mercenaries, traders, or slaves (Becker, M. 2016: 194; Hodos 2020b), and occurred in an era when labor, like craftsmanship, was a valued skill worthy of significant burial in Italy (Kelley 2012), and traders and small farmers similarly demonstrated their prosperity in funerary perpetuity (e.g., Izzet 2007; Riva 2010). A more recent mtDNA study now concludes that there is no available genetic evidence to suggest an Etruscan origin from outside Italy (Ghirotto et al. 2013); this is further supported by another diachronic regional aDNA study (Posth et al. 2021). An additional recent study concludes that the movement to Italy of people from the Eurasian Steppe before the Iron Age had minimal direct phenotypic impact on Italic peninsula populations prior to the Roman era (Saupe et al. 2021). In sum, there is still more work to be done to interpret the relationship between the biological and archaeological datasets, and it is clear that one should not be undertaken without the other.

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2.4

Material Origins

It is in skilled craftwork where we find the most convincing evidence of direct relations between Etruria and the ancient Near East (see also Turfa 2012 on Mesopotamian divination textual influence in Etruria; Winter, Chapter 7). Carved ivories and the introduction of granulation and filigree in western contexts have both long been noted as craftsmanship of eastern Mediterranean origin, and itinerant craftsmen have long been postulated (e.g., Coldstream 1969; von Hase 1975; Hoffman 1997; Fletcher 2012; Sannibale 2013, 2015; see also Hodos 2020a; López-Ruiz 2021). Artisans also traveled with their political patrons, as the story of Demaratus illustrates (Riva 2010a, 2010b: 63–71). In ancient literary sources, Demaratus is characterized as a Corinthian aristocratic merchant; we are told that he fled Corinth for Tarquinia when the Bacchiad dynasty was overthrown (in 657 BCE), bringing with him his wealth, including his servants and artisans, who taught the Etruscans coroplastic craft and painting (Strab. 5.2.2; Cic. Rep. 2.19.34; Dion. Ha. Ant. Rom. 3. 46. 3–5; Livy 1. 34.2; Pliny HN 35. 43. 152). Tacitus (11.14) adds that Demaratus brought the skills of literacy as well (see also Ridgway 2012; Zevi 2014; Winter 2017). Previous scholarship has tended to regard the influx of foreigners and foreign ideas into Italy at this time as evidence of a perhaps initially inferior status of Etruscan craftsmen, especially in comparison with Greek art and architecture, as led by the tale of Demaratus. Gunter points out that the prominent role of foreign artisans, goods, and styles in Etruria was initiated by the Etruscan elite, however, who were active agents in their encounters with their peers elsewhere (2016: 340). Conversely, Greece’s own so-called Orientalizing revolution is often regarded as a sign of clever opportunism on the part of the Greeks to enhance their own outputs; rarely have these developments been regarded as a sign of limited creativity. The irony of such double standards in interpretation is becoming increasingly apparent as scholarship takes a more holistic view of the Mediterranean Iron Age (Hodos 2009, 2014, 2020b; Malkin 2011; Broodbank 2013; López-Ruiz 2021). Direct relations between central Italy and the Aegean are known from the Bronze Age via Aegean-style imported and locally imitated pottery from the mid-second millennium BCE (e.g., Vagnetti 2010; Blake 2014: 34–65). During the eighth century, elite members of Italic societies began to articulate their social standing and identities in ways that were understood by their cross-cultural peers. During this period, the Etruscan elite began to be interred in large, prominent tombs, built either above ground with stone slabs or constructed from bedrock and domed with a

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monumental tumulus. Features of these tumuli are shared notably with contemporary Lydian monuments, such as a stone basement decorated with circular ring moldings (Prayon 2001: 343–344; see also Naso, Chapter 1), but they have been incorporated in a distinctly Indigenous tradition of funerary building practices. These developments sit alongside a more widely recognized evolving codification of the social values of gifts and commodities during this period (Riva 2021). Visual culture also shows an understanding of Eastern forms. In addition to the examples offered by Naso (Chapter 1), monumental husband-and-wife funerary sculptures, such as that from Cerveteri, ancient Caere (see Figure 17.6), have counterparts in Neo-Hittite examples, such as those from Tell Halaf (e.g., Sannibale 2013: figs. 6.20 and 6.21). Parallels between the two sculptural schools are so striking that some scholars have speculated that the Etruscan artisans may have been trained in North Syria or at least inspired by direct knowledge of North Syrian sculpture (Haynes 2000: 74–75; Camporeale 2013: 889–890; Sannibale 2013: 116; Gunter 2016: 344). North Syrians themselves may have even done the Etruscan work directly: North Syrians are speculated to have been resident at Pithekoussai (Hodos 2006: 28 with references), so it is possible that North Syrian craftsmen made their way to the mainland. Direct (trade) interactions between the Levant and Italy are further suggested by the presence in Etruscan contexts of silver relief bowls, which originate in the Levant and yet are not found in the Greek colonies of Italy (Strøm 2001: 365; see also Hodos 2020a for possible direct Etruscan–Egyptian trade links in other luxury media). At the very least, the selection of such objects was deliberate. Indeed, silver bowls and jugs along with other imported and local ceramic vessels that comprise the Etruscan elite banqueting service of the eighth and seventh centuries have diverse cultural origins (Phoenician, North Syrian, Assyrian, Greek) yet are combined for use in explicitly elite Etruscan contexts.

2.5

Uniting Diversity: Globalization

Gunter observes that the range of evidence of Etruscan knowledge of Near Eastern and Greek traditions cannot be explained solely as a result of commercial transactions and Phoenician intermediaries. Instead, certain features of funerary architecture, tomb furnishing, religious concepts, iconographical programs, and cultural practices distinctly indicate first-hand acquaintance with elite customs and spheres of esoteric knowledge in other

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regions of southwest Asia, including Anatolia, North Syria, and other areas within the orbit of the Neo-Assyrian empire. (2016: 343)

The types of objects and their elite contexts during the ninth and eighth centuries BCE are often explained by gift exchange (see Hodos 2020b: 95–146, especially 101–104). By the seventh century BCE, the quantity and variety of objects, motifs, ideas, and individuals moving between the eastern and central Mediterranean represent more regularized trade and exchange (this is not to suggest that gift exchange did not also still take place: see Mauersberg 2015). This reached a climax during the sixth century BCE – as evidenced by the contributions to this volume – through widespread movement of craftsmen (such as Ionian artists, for example; see Naso, Chapter 1; Paleothodoros, Chapter 14), alongside goods, and social concepts and understandings. Above all, however, attention must be given to the environment that allowed these individuals to flourish. The widespread popularity of their products among diverse elite populations was built on a sense of shared values and common practices around the Mediterranean during this period. This may be regarded as a kind of Mediterranean-wide globalization, or “Mediterraneanization” – a term coined by Morris (2003) to emphasize Mediterranean connectivity during the first half of the first millennium BCE, although it is not temporally specific. Globalization itself may be defined as “processes of increasing connectivities that unfold and manifest as social awareness of those connectivities” (Hodos 2017: 4). The term is used to signal wider changes within an experiential world. Globalization processes involve increasing integration and cooperation, and the evolution of commonalities that facilitate those collaborations. For the ancient past, the sharing of practices helps to create the feeling of oneplaceness we associate with globalization processes. At the same time, this development of mutually understood practices and values also leads to growing awareness of differences between the participating groups. Awareness of such differences is a function of globalizing processes, not just a feature of it. It manifests itself often as an articulation of local identity in explicit contrast to the widespread commonalities of the globally engaged level. In short, with globalization, there is a balance between shared practices that bind and diverse practices that distinguish participants. The tension within this balance is what renders globalization’s connectivities particularly complex. Most academic (and popular) studies that refer to globalization only focus on the shared practices, however, and neglect consideration of the articulation of difference. Yet globalization cannot be conceptualized or discussed without considering both aspects (Hodos 2020b: 25–34).

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For the Mediterranean of the first half of the first millennium BCE, connectivities are seen most immediately in widespread use of Greek and eastern Mediterranean objects, visual motifs, and practices across the Mediterranean, stimulated by the movement of individuals and groups on an unprecedented scale and settlement by some on foreign shores. This complexity is illustrated by the tremendous variability in terms of what was adopted by whom, where, and when, and how these adoptions subsequently evolved over time as they became normalized features of local cultural groups. This balance is perhaps illustrated best in the expression of a Mediterranean-wide elite lifestyle that involves banqueting. From at least the eighth century onwards, Etruscan, Greek, Assyrian, and other elites developed banqueting forms that shared features with one another, such as certain drinking, pouring, and/or mixing shapes; spits for roasting meat; amphoras that contained wine; metal cheese graters; tripod vessels; and couches for reclining (e.g., Greeks: Murray 1999; Wecowski 2014; Sicilian populations: Hodos 2000; Etruscans: Riva 2010b: 143–150; Rathje 2013; Near Easterners: Nijboer 2013). Wine drinking, especially, becomes central to this expression of eliteness among many of these cultures (for Etruria: see Riva 2017; in a broader Mediterranean context, see Hodos 2020b: 125–134). The use of similar, often imported, vessels and other objects of luxury materials among the Etruscans, Greeks, Phoenicians, Assyrians, and other populations of the Iron Age Mediterranean betrays a common understanding of elite expression. Yet not all features were adopted universally. For example, the Etruscan banquet’s notable features – including women as equal participants, the use of a chair-throne as well as a reclining sofa, and having dining alongside drinking – distinguish it from its Greek and eastern Mediterranean counterparts (Nijboer 2013). Scholarship traditionally tended to discuss these developments in a manner that framed them in comparison with one another, with one culture having a kind of supremacy over another. I am speaking of Hellenization and Orientalization (see Hodos 2020b: 15–18; López-Ruiz 2021). Both terms have primarily been used to characterize the adoption and adaptation of Greek and eastern Mediterranean cultural aspects, respectively. In the case of the former, the term also reflects a desire to emulate Hellenic practices, which was regarded as a natural, inevitable outcome and a sign of cultural enlightenment on the part of the so-called barbarian cultures. It served as both a parallel and justification for Europe’s own colonial empires of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (see Dietler 2010). Orientalization had more diverse meanings. In regard to the Greek world, for instance, it describes the appropriation of practices originating from different eastern Mediterranean cultures by the Greeks; it does so with a sense of innovation and intrepidness, and without

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any desire to become anything other than Greek (e.g., Osborne 1996: 166–167). In Etruscan scholarship, it is used to signpost that the geographic origin of various practices and materials integrated by the Etruscans into their own traditions, including Greek ones, originated from the east of Etruria, without any implication that the Etruscans had a desire to be anything other than Etruscan (e.g., Riva 2010b: 40–43). It is also used as a means of explanation via diffusion (Purcell 2000), although Greeks are celebrated for their plucky inventiveness in their utility (e.g., Murray 1999). While both terms have been deconstructed and Hellenization largely rejected for its colonialist associations, at least in English-speaking scholarship, Orientalization remains widely in use, both to characterize the adoption of eastern Mediterranean artistic motifs into local production in Etruria and elsewhere (such as Spain: Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016: 9, 14) and to lend a temporal frame, generally associated with a long seventh century BCE (e.g., Kotsonas 2013: 238; for Etruria, see Sannibale 2013 and critiques in Riva 2006; see also Riva 2018 on the continued use of Hellenization in Etruscan scholarship). Adopting a globalization framework of interpretation moves us beyond questions of Hellenization or Orientalization and the siloed perspectives of Greeks, Etruscans, Phoenicians, Assyrians, and others. It enables us to have the coexistence of variability in practice and releases us from temporal framings that are difficult to match comparatively between cultural groups. The variations in practice just in banqueting – which extend from the use of certain materials, or ceramic vessel shapes and styles, to who might be present and participate in one banquet form or other – highlight one of the fundamental principles of globalization processes: that shared practices are just that – shared practices – rather than identically replicated ones. Theopompus’ horror that Etruscan wives participated in the Etruscan equivalent of the Greek symposion (Theopompus Hist. 115) allows us to see that variability in practices also created tension between cultures and to better consider such etic tropes as reflections of the beliefs, practices, values, and ideologies of the composing cultures and authors rather than of those of the Etruscans themselves (Becker, H. 2016). These cultures may have been competing with one another for power and prestige, display of which is evidenced in their shared ideology of banqueting forms, and for value and wealth expressed through certain artifact types and practices. At the same time, however, they were able to balance communication of that competition with the need to articulate power and prestige to and within their own respective communities. This explains the variabilities we see when comparing practices between cultural groups and the similarities when comparing practices within a cultural group.

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A globalization framework of interpretation thus rehabilitates both sets of evidence. The variability that we see between the Etruscans, Greeks, Phoenicians, Assyrians, and others is no longer a misinformed performance of a practice that originates elsewhere. Instead, collectively, these shared practices work together to create a sense of one-placeness across the Mediterranean. This idea allowed the elites of the Mediterranean Iron Age to communicate their common understanding of status, value, wealth, and power to one another. It also created a common market for goods, ideas, and individuals – who and which make up the networks that connect the elites of the different cultural groups. At the same time, an individual elite could signal his/her status and wealth in terms his/her community would understand. This is the balance between the global and the local. The tension that this balance creates is one that continues in the wider Mediterranean world today and, indeed, beyond. Works Cited Achilli, A., Oliveri, A., Pala, M., Metspalu, E., Fornarino, S., Battaglia, V., Accetturo, M., et al. 2007. “Mitochondrial DNA Variation of Modern Tuscans Supports the Near Eastern Origin of Etruscans,” American Journal of Human Genetics 80(4): 759–768. Adrados, F. R. 1994. “More on Etruscan as an IE-Anatolian Language,” Historische Sprachforschung 107: 54–76. Bagnasco Gianni, G. 2013. “Massimo Pallottino’s ‘Origins’ in Perspective,” in Turfa (ed.) 29–35. Becker, H. 2016. “Luxuria prolapse est. Etruscan Wealth and Decadence,” in A Companion to the Etruscans, ed. S. Bell and A. A. Carpino, 293–304. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Becker, M. 2016. “Etruscan Skeletal Biology and Etruscan Origins,” in A Companion to the Etruscans, ed. S. Bell and A. A. Carpino, 181–202. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Belle, E. M. S., Ramakrishnan, U., Mountain, J. L., and Barbujani, G. 2006. “Serial Coalescent Simulations Suggest a Weak Genealogical Relationship between Etruscans and Modern Tuscans,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Science USA 103: 8012–8017. Bellelli, V. 2012. Le origini degli Etruschi: Storia, archeologia, antropologia. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Blake, E. 2014. Social Networks and Regional Identity in Bronze Age Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Briquel, D. 2013. “Etruscan Origins and the Ancient Authors,” in Turfa (ed.), 36–55. Brisighelli, F., Capelli, C., Álvarez-Iglesias, V., Onofri, V., Paoli, G., Tofanelli, S., Carracedo, Á., et al. 2009. “The Etruscan Timeline: A Recent Anatolian Connection,” European Journal of Human Genetics 17: 693–696. Broodbank, C. 2013. The Making of the Middle Sea. London: Thames & Hudson.

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Bridging Cultures in the Past and Present Camporeale, G. 2013. “Foreign Artists in Etruria,” in Turfa (ed.), 885–902. Celestino, S., and López-Ruiz, C. 2016. Tartessos and the Phoenicians in Iberia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Coldstream, J. N. 1969. “The Phoenicians of Ialysos,” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 16(1): 1–8. Della Seta, A. 1922. Italia antica. Dalla caverna preistorica al palazzo imperiale. Bergamo: Istituto Italiano d’Arti Grafiche. Dietler, M. 2010. Archaeologies of Colonialism. Consumption, Entanglement and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fletcher, R. N. 2012. “Opening the Mediterranean: Assyria, the Levant and the Transformation of Early Iron Age Trade,” Antiquity 86: 211–220. Fréret, N. 1753. “Recherches sur l’origine et l’ancienne histoire des différens peuples de l’Italie,” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Inscriptions et BellesLettres 18: 72–114. Ghirotto, S., Tassi, F., Fumagalli, E., Colonna, V., Sandionigi, A., Lari, M., Vai, S. et al. 2013. “Origins and Evolution of the Etruscans’ mtDNA,” PLOS One, https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0055519. Gunter, A. 2016. “The Etruscans, Greek Art, and the Near East,” in A Companion to the Etruscans, ed. S. Bell and A. A. Carpino, 339–352. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Hall, E. 1989. Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Definition through Tragedy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hall, J. 1997. Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haynes, S. 2000. Etruscan Civilization: A Cultural History. Los Angeles: The J. Paul Getty Museum. Heyd, V. 2017. “Kossina’s Smile,” Antiquity 91(356): 348–359. Hodos, T. 2000. “Wine Wares in Protohistoric Eastern Sicily,” in Ancient Sicily: Archaeology and History from Aeneas to Augustus, ed. C. J. Smith and J. Serrati, 41–54. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. 2006. Local Responses to Colonisation in the Iron Age Mediterranean. London: Routledge. 2009. “Colonial Engagements in the Global Mediterranean Iron Age,” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(2): 221–241. 2014. “Stage Settings of a Connected Scene: Globalization and Material Culture Studies in the Early First Millennium BCE Mediterranean,” Archaeological Dialogues 21(1): 24–30. 2017. “Globalization: Some Basics,” in The Routledge Handbook of Globalization and Archaeology, ed. T. Hodos, 3–11. London: Routledge. 2020a. “Eggstraordinary Artefacts: Decorated Ostrich Eggs in the Ancient Mediterranean World,” Humanities and Social Sciences Communications 7: 45, https://doi.org/10.1057/s41599–020-00541-8. 2020b. The Archaeology of the Mediterranean Iron Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Hoffman, G. 1997. Imports and Immigrants. Near Eastern Contacts with Iron Age Crete. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Izzet, V. 2007. The Archaeology of Etruscan Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kelley, O. 2012. “Beyond Intermarriage: The Role of the Indigenous Italic Population at Pithekoussai,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 31(3): 245–260. Kotsonas, A. 2013. “Orientalizing Ceramic Styles and Wares in Early Iron Age Crete,” in Proceedings of the International Colloquium: Crete in the Geometric and Archaic Period, German Archaeological Institute at Athens, 28–29 January 2006, ed. W. D. Niemeier, I. Kaiser, and O. Pilz, 233–250. Munich: Hirmer Verlag GmbH. Kron, G. 2013. “Fleshing Out the Demography of Etruria,” in Turfa (ed.), 56–75. Lewis-Kraus, G. 2019. “Is Ancient DNA Research Revealing New Truths – Or Falling into Old Traps?” New York Times Magazine, January 17, www.nytimes.com/2019/01/17/magazine/ancient-dna-paleogenomics.html. López-Ruiz, C. 2021. Phoenicians and the Making of the Mediterranean. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Magini, L. 2011. Controstoria degli Etruschi. Viaggio alla sorgenit oriental della civilità romana. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Malkin, I. 2011. A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mauersberg, M. 2015. “Obsolete Perceptions?” in Sanctuaries and the Power of Consumption, ed. E. Kistler, B. Öhlinger, M. Mohr, and M. Hoernes, 3–19. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Morris, I. 2003. “Mediterraneanization,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18(2): 30–55. Murray, O. (ed.) 1999. Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposium. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nijboer, A. J. 2013. “Banquet, Marzeah, Symposion and Symposium during the Iron Age: Disparity and Mimicry,” in Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity: Exploring Their Limits, ed. F. de Angelis, 95–125. Leuven: Peeters. Nippel, W. 2002. “The Construction of the ‘Other’,” in Greeks and Barbarians, ed. T. Harrison, 278–310. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Osborne, R. 1996. Greece in the Making. London: Routledge. Paschou, P., Drineas, P., Yannaki, E., Razou, A., Kanaki, K., Tsetsos, T., Padmanabhuni, S. S. et al. 2014. “Maritime Route of Colonization of Europe,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 111(25): 9211–9216. Pellecchia, M., Negrini, R., Colli, L., Patrini, M., Milanesi, E., Achilli, A., Bertorelle, G. et al. 2007. “The Mystery of Etruscan Origins: Novel Clues from Bos taurus Mitochondrial DNA,” Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences 274: 1175–1179. Penny, J. 2009. “The Etruscan Language and Its Italic Context,” in Etruscan by Definition: The Cultural, Regional and Personal Identity of the Etruscans.

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Papers in Honour of Sybille Haynes, ed. J. Swaddling and P. Perkins, 88–94. London: The Trustees of the British Museum. Perkins, P. 2009. “DNA and Etruscan Identity,” in Etruscan by Definition: The Cultural, Regional and Personal Identity of the Etruscans. Papers in Honour of Sybille Haynes, ed. J. Swaddling and P. Perkins, 95–111. London: The Trustees of the British Museum. 2017. “DNA and Etruscan Identity,” in Etruscology, ed. A. Naso, 109–118. Berlin: de Gruyter. Posth, C., Valentina, Z., Spyrou, M. A., Stefania, V., Gnecchi-Ruscone, G. A., Modi, A., Peltzer, A., et al. 2021. “The Origin and Legacy of the Etruscans through a 2000-Year Archeogenomic Time Transect,” Science Advances 7: 39. DOI: 10.1126/sciadv.abi7673. Prayon, F. 2001. “Near Eastern Influences in Early Etruscan Architecture?” in Italy and Cyprus in Antiquity: 1500–450 BC, ed. L. Bonfante and V. Karageorghis, 335–350. Nicosia: The Costakis and Leto Severis Foundation. Purcell, N. 2006. “Orientalizing: Five Historical Questions,” in Debating Orientalization, ed. C. Riva and N. C. Vella, 21–30. London: Equinox. Rathje, A. 2013. “The Banquet through Etruscan History,” in Turfa (ed.), 823–830. Ridgway, D. 2012. “Demaratus of Corinth and the Hellenisation of Etruria,” in From the Pillars of Hercules to the Footsteps of the Argonauts, ed. A. Hermary and G. R. Tsetskhladze, 207–222. Leuven: Peeters. Riva, C. 2006. “The Orientalizing Period in Etruria: Sophisticated Communities,” in Debating Orientalization, ed. C. Riva and N. C. Vella, 110–134. London: Equinox. 2010a. “Ingenious Inventions: Wielding New Ethnicities East and West,” in Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World, ed. S. Hales and T. Hodos, 79–113. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2010b. The Urbanisation of Etruria: Funerary Practices and Social Change, 700–600 BC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2017. “Wine Production and Exchange and the Value of Wine Consumption in Sixth-Century BC Etruria,” Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 30(2): 237–261. 2018. “The Freedom of the Etruscans: Etruria between Hellenization and Orientalization,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 25: 101–126. 2020. A Short History of the Etruscans. London: Bloomsbury. 2021. “Commodities, the Instability of the Gift, and the Codification of Cultural Encounters in Archaic Southern Etruria,” in Making Cities. Economies of Production and Urbanization in Mediterranean Europe 1000–500 BCE, ed. M. Gleba, B. Marín Aguilera, and B. Dimova, 219–230. Cambridge: McDonald Institute Monographs, www.repository.cam.ac.uk/handle/1810/ 328684. Rix, H. 1998. Rätisch und Etruskisch. Innsbruck: Institut für Sprachwissenschaft der Universität Innsbruck. Sannibale, M. 2013. “Orientalizing Etruria,” in Turfa (ed.), 99–133.

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  2015. “L’Etruria orientalizzante,” Bollettino dei Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie 32–2014: 7–57. Saupe, T., Montinaro, F., Scaggion, C., Carrara, N., Kivisild, T., D’Atanasio, E., Hui, R. et al. 2021. “Ancient Genomes Reveal Structural Shifts after the Arrival of Steppe-Related Ancestry in the Italian Peninsula,” Current Biology 31(12): 2576–2591, e12. Schumacher, S. 2004. Die rätischen Inschriften. Geschichte und heutiger Stand der Forschung. Innsbruck: Archaeolingua. Strøm, I. L. 2001. “Cypriot Influences on Early Etruscan Banqueting Customs?” in Italy and Cyprus in Antiquity: 1500–450 BC, ed. L. Bonfante and V. Karageorghis, 361–376. Nicosia: The Costakis and Leto Severis Foundation. Tassi, F., Ghirotto, S., Caramelli, D., and Barbujani, G. 2013. “Genetic Evidence Does Not Support an Etruscan Origin in Anatolia,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 152(1): 11–18. Turfa, J. M. 2006. “Staring down Herodotus: Mitochondrial DNA Studies and Claims about Etruscan Origins,” Etruscan News 7 (Winter): 4–5. 2012. Divining the Etruscan World: The Brontoscopic Calendar and Religious Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Turfa, J. M. (ed.) 2013. The Etruscan World. London: Routledge. Ulf, C. 2017. “An Ancient Question: The Origin of the Etruscans,” in Etruscology, ed. A. Naso, 11–34. Berlin: de Gruyter. Vagnetti, L. 2010. “Western Mediterranean,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Bronze Age Aegean, ed. E. H. Cline, 890–905. Oxford: Oxford University Press. van Binsbergen, W., and Woudhuizen, F. C. 2011. Ethnicity in Mediterranean Protohistory. Oxford: Archaeopress. Vernesi, C., Caramelli, D., Dupanloup, I., Bertorelle, G., Lari, M., Cappellini, E., Moggi-Cecchi, J., et al. 2004. “The Etruscans: A Population-Genetic Study,” The American Journal of Human Genetics 74(4): 694–704. von Hase, Fr. W. 1975. “Zur Problematik der frühesten Goldfunde in Mittelitalien,” Hamburger Beiträge zur Archäologie 5(2): 99–191. Wallace, R. E. 2015. “Language, Alphabet, and Linguistic Affiliation,” in A Companion to the Etruscans, ed. S. Bell and A. A. Carpino, 203–223. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Wecowski, M. 2014. The Rise of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Winter, N. 2017. “Traders and Refugees: Contributions to Etruscan Architecture,” Etruscan Studies 20(2): 123–151. Woudhuizen, F. C. 2006. “The Ethnicity of the Sea People.” Ph.D. diss., Erasmus University. Zevi, F. 2014. “Demaratus and the ‘Corinthian’ Kings of Rome,” in The Roman Historical Tradition. Regal and Republican Rome, ed. J. H. Richardson and F. Santangelo, 53–82. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Etruria and Anatolia An Ancient Relationship Framed by the Modern Views of “Orientalization”  

The relationship between Etruria and Anatolia in the first millennium BCE has previously been understood through two modern frameworks: the question of Etruscan origins and the period of cultural interaction called “Orientalizing.” Scholarly considerations of these two topics became entangled and politically charged during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Nationalist narratives of European origins shifted from assertions of the autochthonous development of civilization to a focus on how civilization had been transferred from its eastern starting point in Mesopotamia to its culmination within the nation-states of modern Europe. Such an interest led European archaeologists to conduct fieldwork in Ottoman-controlled territory to claim artifacts of ancient Mesopotamian civilizations and exemplars of Hellenic culture in Anatolia. The prominent political ideologies of the day – nationalism, orientalism, and colonialism – were therefore major influences on contemporary historical narratives, which were ingrained in the scholarly discourse that framed the relationship between Etruria and Anatolia. This chapter1 contrasts the ways in which political ideologies influenced the understanding of Etruscan–Anatolian relations in Italian and Anatolian archaeology, juxtaposing how “Orientalizing” was constructed in the West with the development of archaeology within Ottoman, and then Turkish, territory. It begins by focusing on the development of the term “Orientalizing” within Italy, particularly how it was born out of the question of Etruscan origins, a topic that later guided Italian archaeological missions within the Aegean and parts of western Anatolia. By contrast, Ottoman archaeology of the nineteenth century focused on resisting such European incursions, reclaiming their position as the direct inheritors of the ancient powers within their lands. Later, as part of the construction of the Turkish 1

I would like to thank the American Academy in Rome and the Frank Brown/Samuel H. Kress Foundation/Helen M. Woodruff Fellowship of the Archaeological Institute of America for making this research possible.

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nation-state in the early twentieth century, a new history was built that identified Turkish tribes as the founders of civilization, which they then brought to Europe through western migration. This historiography argues that the original motivation for examining the relationship between Etruria and Anatolia – the modern concern for the origins of civilization – guided past research to a narrow set of questions focused on unidirectional migration or influence. Consequently, scholarship of this period failed to consider interactions between Etruria and Anatolia within the broader framework of Mediterranean-wide exchange in antiquity. Explanations of the relationship between Etruria and Anatolia were more concerned with the political positions of the modern descendants of each region than in detailing how the common artistic and cultural practices seen in both places, as well as in many other parts of the Mediterranean, came to be. This survey is offered in order to encourage modern scholars not to apply uncritically chronological and art historical terms that were shaped by these ideologies. Furthermore, the implication of cultural evolution tied to the term “Orientalizing” makes such a framework unsuitable for considering the connections between Etruria and Anatolia in a way that places both regions on an equal footing.

3.1

From Autochthony in the West to Origins in the East

A review of the development of the term “Orientalizing” draws out the political ideologies that influenced how this period of Mediterranean interaction was studied – a topic I have covered more fully elsewhere (Nowlin 2016: ch. 2; 2021). Although it is more precisely understood today as a period of increased cultural interaction in the Mediterranean during the eighth and seventh centuries BCE, this was not always how the concept of “Orientalizing” was imagined. Prior to its use as an exclusively arthistorical term, “Orientalizing” was an idea that encompassed where, when, and how the West became “civilized.” Its early use in scholarship was associated with research on the origins of civilization – a concern particularly tied to the nationalist movements of Europe during the nineteenth century (García 2007: 77–78). Each nation searched for pre-Roman peoples to serve as founding precedents that might legitimize their modern nationstates, and, even more so, each Indigenous group was put in competition to be recognized as the originator of civilization within Europe (Kohl and Fawcett 1995; García and Champion 1996; Kristiansen 1996, 1998; García 2007). In Italy, the search for pre-Roman groups who bore the trappings of

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civilization focused on the Etruscans. Claims for an autochthonous Etruscan origin, however, were complicated by the numerous ancient sources that asserted an Etruscan migration from Lydia and by scholars, particularly those from northern Europe, who traced a southward migration of the trans-Alpine Rhaetian tribes based on linguistic evidence (Momigliano 1994: 309; Bellelli 2012; Ulf 2017). Therefore, discussions of the Etruscan origin debate took on strong nationalist overtones. One of the most influential proponents of an Italian origin for the Etruscans was Giuseppe Micali, who in 1810 published Italia avanti il dominio dei romani (Micali 1810). This work decried the frequent attempts to look for the origin of the Etruscans in Egypt, Greece, Asia Minor, and to the north, while arguing for the autochthonous origin of all pre-Roman peoples of the Italian peninsula, not just the Etruscans. Micali believed that these groups, although independent and differentiated, were unified by a common cultural model while being loosely and nonhierarchically organized. This cultural organization provided a historic precedent for those who sought to unify the regions of the Italian peninsula during the Risorgimento (De Francesco 2013: 65). While Micali continued to believe in an autochthonous origin for the Etruscans, the growing evidence from British, French, and German expeditions that the earliest civilizations were to be found in the Near East forced Micali to modify his opinion on the birthplace of civilization. In addition, recent discoveries in Etruria showing material and stylistic similarities with objects from Egypt and the Near East indicated exchange and influence between Etruria and the eastern Mediterranean. In light of this, studies began to focus on exactly how “Eastern wisdom” was not only transferred from East to West, but also reworked and improved in the process, thereby providing a new catalyst for “Western civilization” (Marchand 1996). By the time of his final publication of Monumenti inediti a illustrazione della storia degli antichi popoli italiani in 1844, Micali conceded the primacy of Eastern civilization but put greater emphasis on the ways that Etruria and the West had created a superior civilization from this Eastern knowledge: If, however, profound ancient knowledge was first communicated to the West from the region where the sun rises, the nationality of the Italic peoples was indigenous, as it was the work of our wisdom to weave a system of well-organised civil instruction, the best suitable to the genius of a people tutored by the fluent imagination of their skies and tending by nature to the individual increase of their faculties. The great strength of the Etruscan institution was in the firmness of political order and in the tenacity of the law; but if they maintained the form with rigour, then as

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time drew on new needs, new desires and new customs were triumphant. (De Francesco 2013: 78 translation of Micali 1844: IV–V)

Micali asserted the indigeneity of the Italians, dividing their genealogical descent from the Eastern knowledge that was transferred to them, focusing on the ways in which the Etruscans improved upon this knowledge rather than describing the method of cultural transfer. This shift from a search for the origins of civilization in the West to a framing of how Eastern wisdom transferred to the West and was improved in the process was fundamentally structured by orientalism, defined by Said as the formalized self-definition of Europe based on a distance from and a superiority to the Eastern Other (Said 1978). Micali’s description of the improvements made once civilization arrived in Etruria is also inflected with orientalist language. Given that such ancient knowledge passed from East to West, it was necessary for Western scholars to organize this knowledge within “institutions,” “law,” and “rigour” – attributes touted as fundamental characteristics of Western civilization. Thus, we see the way in which Micali felt that the East had to become Western through appropriation, force, and structure. Western archaeological explorations within the Ottoman empire during the mid-nineteenth century were driven by a similar orientalist desire to bring artifacts of civilization’s origins under Western scientific knowledge and control. While most of their interests focused on revealing the Babylonian and Assyrian monuments within Mesopotamia, efforts in Anatolia centered on the classical past of Greece and Rome. Sites such as Ephesus and Halicarnassus saw greater attention from foreign archaeologists, who sought to claim Greek and Roman monuments for the museums of Europe in order to showcase the classical past, which was viewed as a critical pivot point between the eastern origin of civilization and modern Europe (Bahrani 2011: 128). During the first half of the nineteenth century, the Ottoman government sought to control the activities of foreign scholars in their territory by negotiating permits for each archaeological mission rather than regulating the export or sale of the antiquities themselves (Shaw 2011: 426). At that time, there was greater concern for the actions of westerners within Ottoman lands and any potential threats to their territorial control than the loss of antiquities to European museums. However, this attitude began to change in 1846 when Ahmet Fethi Pasha installed the collections of the sultan within two rooms of the former Church of Hagia Irene, inspired by his time in Europe to display the items as he had observed in Western museums (Shaw 2003: 46–48). Instead of organizing his museum based on the chronological

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evolution of civilization, as was the fashion in Europe, the first Ottoman collection was organized by site, an arrangement that emphasized the broad expanse of territory controlled by the empire (Shaw 2011: 425–426). His display aimed primarily to manage and counteract the physical advances of contemporary European actors rather than to oppose the scholarly narrative that had developed within Europe – namely that civilization traveled outward from Mesopotamia and Anatolia to the West, forsaking the modern descendants in these regions.

3.2

Presenting History: The Orientalizing Period and Ottoman Museums

Toward the end of the nineteenth century, European scholarship worked to clarify the chronological transition of civilization from East to West, a period that would become known as the Orientalizing period. Alexander Conze was the first person to coin the term orientaliserende in 1870, in a work whose goal was to define the origins of Greek art through the earliest style of Greek painted pottery (Conze 1870). At that time, many of the objects used for defining Greek art were found within Etruria, obscuring the line between Greek and Etruscan art history. Conze found the beginnings of Greek art in the Geometric style of linear features and shapes, but, in defining this earlier Greek style, Conze distinguished it from what came after, which he identified by the inclusion of floral elements and fantastic hybrid creatures, whose style he called orientaliserende. Here Conze defined the West and the origin of its art based upon its difference from later oriental influences, enacting the very definition of orientalism. Moreover, Conze referenced contemporary colonial encounters as examples of how this cultural transfer took place, although he set the West apart by asserting that it maintained its active artistic voice and agency during this encounter. In a lecture to the Royal Prussian Academy of Sciences, Conze distinguished the trajectory of Greek art from that seen in contemporary ethnographic work on aboriginal tribes in Australia and Brazil, whom he described as being “exposed to the overwhelming influence of the developed cultures” (Johns 2012 translation of Conze 1897). In his analogy, Conze applied the most relevant, contemporary method of cultural influence – colonialism – while at the same time trying to preserve the exceptionalism of the West in its ability to negotiate encounters with the East, infusing this colonial process with orientalism. Although Conze established “Orientalizing” as an artistic style, the term did not immediately become the descriptor for a chronological period.

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A number of Greek art history texts established chronological sequences with a specific period dedicated to this Eastern influence, although they employed alternative names: Graeco–Phoenician (Newton 1880) and Graeco–Oriental (Collignon and Wright 1886). For Italy, however, this kind of binary designation was not suitable, not least because the debate over Etruscan origins was in no way resolved. While earlier arguments for Etruscan origins relied heavily on linguistic and literary evidence, in 1885 Edoardo Brizio provided the first comprehensive argument for Etruscan migration from Lydia based on a comparison of architecture and artifacts found in Etruria and Anatolia: polygonal walls, chamber tombs, and luxurious grave goods (Brizio 1885: 157). Brizio did not use the term orientalizzante to describe this material, most likely because the Etruscans themselves were thought to be migrants from the East. The resulting tension between whether civilization was brought to Italy through migration or through the transferal of artistic practice was a critical point of debate whose answer could not be found through explorations of Etruria alone. As European scholars sought to reconcile nationalist origin narratives with cultural transfer from East to West, scholars in the Ottoman empire began to counter with their own claims to civilization’s origins, emphasizing historical continuity to the present. In the middle of the nineteenth century, the Ottoman government’s policy toward sites, antiquities, and museums took a more active role in securing and controlling cultural heritage within Ottoman lands. The first bylaws on antiquities were published in 1869, requiring permits for excavation, prohibiting the export of all antiquities (except coins), and protecting monuments that existed above ground, among other items (Eldem 2011: 314). In this repossession of antiquities, the Ottomans sought to reverse their flow to European museums and instead to employ them within their own museums, where they contributed to Ottoman narratives of their civilizational development. To that end, the presentation of objects within the Ottoman museum shifted in 1880 from one that emphasized the extent of Ottoman territorial control to one that displayed artifacts of prominent chronological periods in order to illustrate the progress of civilization within Ottoman borders (Shaw 2003: 94; 2011: 430). This type of museum presentation asserted that the peoples of the Ottoman empire, rather than their western European counterparts, were the legitimate inheritors of their own ancient past. In the 1891 installation of the Imperial Museum in Istanbul, this continuity was emphasized even more poignantly by leading the visitor through chronological periods in reverse, moving from Ottoman history backward in time (Shaw 2011: 155). This shift toward a focus on chronological

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periods constituted an appropriation of Western art historical terms and chronological frameworks and demonstrated the importance that such categories had in opposing the historical narrative built by European scholars.

3.3

Alessandro Della Seta and Italian Archaeological Missions in the Eastern Mediterranean

An important step in establishing “Orientalizing” art as indicative of a chronological period was divorcing its existence within Italy from the question of Etruscan origins. Della Seta used the term periodo orientalizzante in the guide to the Villa Giulia published in 1918 – its first appearance within Italian archaeology or art history (Della Seta 1918: 82). The period is not given a clear definition, but rather the chronological designation appears to be used for brevity, appearing near the end of the volume after eighty pages of describing objects as being “nel periodo dell’importazione del materiale orientalizzante” (“during the period of Orientalizing imports”). In the book Italia Antica, Della Seta gave a much more explicit definition of the period, assigning it to a time in which primarily Phoenician luxury arts appeared within a broad geographic swath of Italy, not just Etruria (Della Seta 1922: 79–80). In this case, Della Seta separated the Phoenician imports – primarily jewelry items of precious materials – from the later Orientalizingstyle ceramics, that were more closely linked to Greek comparanda. In fact Della Seta took a dismissive, orientalist tone toward the impact of these earlier Phoenician commercial imports, stating that they simply “paved the way for the triumphal arrival of Greek art” (Della Seta 1922: 99). Interestingly, Della Seta categorically divided the section in which he discussed arte orientalizzante from the section that he assigned to the Etruscans, within which he devoted four pages to the topic of Etruscan origins. Here, Della Seta argued that Orientalizing art and Etruscan origins were two separate topics, taking a contrary stance to that of Brizio, who used Orientalizing art as proof of Etruscan migration. Della Seta proposed a link between the Tyrrhenians of Italy and those who inhabited the Aegean island of Lemnos, a stop in the westward migration from Anatolia. He cited the testimony of Herodotus and Thucydides, as well as an inscription found near Kaminia that contained a language related to Etruscan, which he viewed as the most promising piece of evidence (Della Seta 1922: 191). Thus, the ability to conclude a more definitive answer on Etruscan origins required excavation in Lemnos, not Etruria.

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As has been noted by scholars who study Italian archaeological missions abroad, the tone and aim of the explorations taken in the twentieth century adopted the political ideologies of Italian nationalism and colonialism (Petricioli 1990; Barbanera and Terrenato 1998: 91–118; Labanca 2010: 26; Greco 2012: 381). In the close alignment between archaeology and the goals of the Italian foreign ministry, archaeological missions often coincided with colonial action, as was the case in Libya and Rhodes, or they took place in advance of a desired colonial action, as can be seen in exploratory work conducted in Anatolia, centering around Antalya. During the Fascist regime, ancient Roman remains were promoted as legitimizing tools for modern Italian colonial action, consequently demoting previous nineteenth-century nationalist interest in origins as a reason for foreign archaeological explorations. Lemnos, however, was the exception to this trend, and the efforts taken to conduct a thorough exploration of the island were in large part due to the determination of Alessandro Della Seta and his quest to answer the issue of Etruscan origins. As the director of the Scuola Archeologica Italiana di Atene, Della Seta made great effort to launch an expedition on the Greek island of Lemnos, persisting even when the Greek government denied his initial permits due to a perceived threat of future territorial claims (Greco 2012: 385). Once Della Seta finally received permission, he focused on two sites, Vriokastro and Hephestia. By investigating sites whose long chronologies stretched before the proposed Tyrrhenian migration, Della Seta sought to establish a detailed stratigraphy that he could compare to that of pre- and protohistoric Etruria (Paltineri 2000: 107). Similarities in material culture at equivalent stratigraphic layers would provide proof for Della Seta that the people of both Etruria and Lemnos were part of the same ethnic group. Such an aim explains the focus Della Seta dedicated to the necropolis at Hephestia, since he considered all of Etruria one “immense necropolis” (Della Seta 1922: 163). Although some ceramic forms found at Hephestia were considered similar to Etruscan biconical urns, overall, the thirteen years of excavation on Lemnos failed to provide the smoking gun of archaeological proof for Etruscan migration that Della Seta hoped for. Even so, he maintained his position on Etruscan migration until he was forced from his directorship due to the sanctions of the racial laws in 1938 (Barbanera and Terrenato 1998: 132). However, in a deviation from early proposals on origins, he asserted that both the Italian Tyrrhenians and the Tyrrhenians of Lemnos were actually two branches from the same ethnos that split in the Bronze Age Aegean, pushing the arrival of the Tyrrhenians in Etruria to a period earlier than the Orientalizing period (Della Seta 1937).

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3.4

Turkey’s Reclamation of the Migration Narrative

As Della Seta was grappling with the narratives of migration and artistic influence, the new Republic of Turkey looked to establish a uniquely Turkish identity for itself, something that had been rejected during the Ottoman empire. Turkey looked to the Hittites as the source of civilization within the Anatolian peninsula, a group that had been overlooked by Western scholars in favor of Greeks and Romans (Goode 2007: 51). In asserting the primacy of the Hittites, Turkey attempted to recenter the origins of civilization away from Mesopotamia to Anatolia. In 1932, the Turkish Historical Society held its first national conference in which it was stated that Turks traced their ancestry back to the Hittites, that Anatolia had been the origin place of civilizations such as those of Mesopotamia, Greece, and Rome, and that Turkish was the mother of all languages (Goode 2007: 22–23). Mirroring the extreme rhetoric of European histories, this endeavor not only to reclaim artifacts of Anatolian antiquity but to build a history based on archaeological, historic, and linguistic evidence shows the efforts of a young nation to upend its position in Eurocentric world histories. In order to affirm the primacy of Turkish groups in particular, the Turkish Historical Thesis built a history that stretched even farther back than the Hittites, to the earliest spread of the Turkish tribes from central Asia. These groups, it was argued, had all of the characteristics of civilization often attributed to Indo-Europeans, and their migrations led them from central Asia through a southern route to Mesopotamia and Anatolia, and even further westward to the Aegean, mainland Greece, and most notably Etruria (Shaw 2007: 174; Gür 2010). In this assertion, the Turkish Historical Thesis laid particular claim to languages such as Etruscan that had not yet been classified and whose roots were still unknown. The rewriting of world history and the original migrations of peoples through this Turkish lens took many of the facts and narratives asserted by Western nations, particularly Italy, and reclaimed these events as a source of pride for Turkish history. Thus, as opposed to a European history that asserted that civilization became gradually westernized as it physically migrated westward, the Turkish framework claimed that what is considered Western civilization was in fact fundamentally Turkish. It is perhaps no coincidence that just as Turkish historians and archaeologists began to take ownership of the histories of westward migrations from an Anatolian homeland, Italian archaeology divided the question of Etruscan migration from Anatolia from the period in

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which many of the critical traits of Western civilization were thought to have been transferred: the Orientalizing period. When the notion of Etruscan migration from Anatolia began to lose favor, the focus of study on the Orientalizing period turned its attention to Phoenician and Greek influences, leaving Anatolia out of the equation entirely. The Italian bifurcation of the Orientalizing period between early eastern Phoenician trade and the more impactful later Greek influence, reinscribed an orientalist framework into the Orientalizing period. Anatolia’s role (and thus Turkish influence) is all but erased in this new model, resulting in the loss of a complicating voice in the ongoing dichotomy between East and West.

3.5

Conclusion

In this early history of archaeology in Etruria and Anatolia, underlying political aims and influences hampered the ability to see the nuanced interconnections in antiquity that were so characteristic of the entire Mediterranean during the first millennium BCE. In the conception of the ancient relationship between Etruria and Anatolia, the historic focus of scholarship on either migration or the transfer of civilizations continues to loom behind observed cultural and artistic similarities between the two regions. Discourse had been focused on a zero-sum equation concerning where civilization originated and who had the right to claim ownership, with historic materials used by scholarship for the political aims of Italy, the Ottoman empire, and later Turkey. As such, this historiography is cautionary, insisting that we always consider the modern political ideologies that underlie our assumptions of how cultural interaction took place in the ancient world. While it is not possible to completely divorce such influences from scholarship, a reflexive, critical engagement with these issues elicits more productive considerations of ancient practices. In more recent history, increased global connectivity has spurred investigations of the complex results of multidirectional contact and exchange in the first millennium BCE. Comparisons with globalization, for instance, have become a popular source of historical comparison for this period of Mediterranean connectivity. While inquiries guided by theories of globalization can spur new questions and approaches – helping to identify places of similarity and difference within ancient and modern phenomena – this chapter should serve as a warning against uncritical analogies that are blind to underlying political influences.

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Kohl, P. L., and Fawcett, C. P. 1995. Nationalism, Politics, and the Practice of Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kristiansen, K. 1996. “European Origins – ‘Civilization’ and ‘Barbarism’,” in Cultural Identity and Archaeology: The Construction of European Communities, ed. P. Graves-Brown, S. Jones, and C. Gamble, 138–144. London: Routledge. 1998. Europe before History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Labanca, N. 2010. “La Scuola Archeologica di Atene nell’ambito della politica estera italiana tra XIX e XX secolo,” in 100 anni Scuola Archeologica Italiana di Atene 1909/1910–2009/2010, ed. E. Greco, 17–42. Athens: SAIA. Marchand, S. 1996. Down from Olympus: Archaeology and Philhellenism in Germany, 1750–1970. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Micali, G. 1810. L’Italia avanti il dominio dei romani. Florence: G. Piatti. 1844. Monumenti inediti a illustrazione della storia degli antichi popoli italiani. Florence: Tipi della Galileiana. Momigliano, A. 1994. “A Return to ‘Etruscheria’: Müller,” in A. D. Momigliano: Studies on Modern Scholarship, ed. G. W. Bowersock and T. Cornell, 302–314. Berkeley: University of California Press. Newton, C. T. 1880. “Dr. Schliemann’s Discoveries at Mycenae,” in Essays on Art and Archaeology, 246–302. London: Macmillan. Nowlin, J. 2016. “Reorienting Orientalization: Intrasite Networks of Value and Consumption in Central Italy.” Ph.D. diss., Brown University. 2021. Etruscan Orientalization. Leiden: Brill. Paltineri, S. 2000. “Dall’Italia all’Egeo. Alessandro Della Seta e la ricerca sui Tirreni,” in Della Seta oggi: da Lemnos a Casteggio. Atti della giornata di studi, Casteggio, 21 maggio 1999, ed. L. Beschi, 101–114. Milan: Ennerre. Petricioli, M. 1990. Archeologia e mare nostrum: le missioni archeologiche nella politica mediterranea dell’Italia, 1898/1943. Rome: V. Levi. Said, E. 1978. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon Books. Shaw, W. M. K. 2003. Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archaeology, and the Visualization of History in the Late Ottoman Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press. 2007. “The Rise of the Hittite Sun: A Deconstruction of Western Civilization from the Margin,” in Selective Remembrances: Archaeology in the Construction, Commemoration, and Consecration of National Pasts, ed. P. L. Kohl, M. Kozelsky, and N. Ben-Yehuda, 163–188. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 2011. “From Mausoleum to Museum: Resurrecting Antiquity for Ottoman Modernity,” in Scramble for the Past: A Story of Archaeology in the Ottoman Empire, 1753–1914, ed. Z. Bahrani, Z. Çelik, and E. Eldem, 423–441. Istanbul: SALT. Ulf, C. 2017. “An Ancient Question: The Origin of the Etruscans,” in Etruscology, ed. A. Naso, 11–34. Boston: De Gruyter.

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A Tale of Two Buccheri East and West  

4.1

Introduction

This inquiry into the use of the term “bucchero” for ceramics of the eastern and western Mediterranean, specifically those of Lydia and Etruria, was inspired by database work by the Archaeological Exploration of Sardis. The joint Harvard–Cornell expedition has produced a database of over 20,000 objects, not including some 23,000 coins, with new discoveries surfacing annually. Within this substantial corpus (over 9,000 of which are ceramics), two fragments excavated at Sardis were cataloged as “bucchero” but are not, in fact, Etruscan (Figures 4.1–4.4). A significant amount of Etruscan bucchero circulated in the eastern Mediterranean, especially at sanctuaries like Miletus and Samos (Naso 2009, 2011; Chapter 1), as well as further west in the Mediterranean and North Africa (Naso 2006; GranAymerich 2013, 2017; Gran-Aymerich and Turfa 2013). However, no Etruscan material has ever been recovered at Sardis, and the rest of the Sardis ceramic corpus of this type and method of firing is called “grey ware.” This naming accords with current scholarship on Mediterranean material culture, which normally uses “grey ware” instead of “bucchero” to identify vessels made with this method in the eastern Mediterranean: the use of an oxygen-reducing kiln environment to achieve a firing that is dark all the way through the biscuit and requires no slip or glaze (Perkins 2007: 8–9; see Gilotta, Chapter 10, for discussion of so-called Ionian bucchero). While the technique is the same in Anatolia as it is in Etruria, the East Greek material tends to be lighter in color than the deep black Etruscan ceramics. Likewise, vessel forms and decorative motifs differ between cultures. Publications and museum collection catalogs may refer to Aeolian, Lesbian, Rhodian, Cypriot, and Cretan grey ware ceramics from the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age through the Orientalizing and Archaic periods, as well as ceramics of the early Americas, as “bucchero” (see Section 4.2). Scholars agreed from early on (del Vita 1927) that the technology developed independently in different areas, but is it possible that the term 87

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Figure 4.1 Object card for Sardis no. P58.628, fragment of grey “bucchero” (grey ware) (©Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

“bucchero” was used in order to support arguments of cultural similarity between Etruria and Anatolia? In early modern archaeological work, were the origins of Etruscan bucchero ever argued to be from the East, perhaps to support Herodotus’ claim (1.94) that the Etruscans were immigrants from Lydia? What remains consistent throughout scholarly publications, from the early twentieth century through today, is that for the Etruscans bucchero is described as an emblematic, “national” pottery (Walters 1905: 301; De Puma 2013: 974), whereas it does not serve as a defining ceramic for any other culture. Therefore, while “bucchero” is used in a variety of contexts, it is indelibly linked with native Italian material culture. Over time, publications gradually shifted toward using the term “bucchero” only for Etruscan ceramics and “grey ware” for East Greek material, at times explicitly rejecting the use of “bucchero” for anything other than Etruscan material. A review of archaeological and museum collecting literature reveals that the term “bucchero” was not used to unite ancient cultures or demonstrate influence through shared ceramic technology but rather became a way to separate them.

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A Tale of Two Buccheri: East and West

Figure 4.2 Grey “bucchero” (grey ware) fragment from Sardis, no. P58.628 (©Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

4.2

The Term “Bucchero”

Technology, innovation, and cultural influences traditionally have been described as moving from east to west in the ancient Mediterranean – from the Near Eastern and Greek worlds to the Etruscan world. However, in an interesting semantic turn, “bucchero” comes from even farther west and moves east. The origin of the word “bucchero” actually has nothing to do with Mediterranean pottery itself nor with the technology used to produce it. Instead, it comes from the Spanish búcaro or Portuguese pucaro, a term for a particularly odiferous type of clay vessel known in South America. These vessels were imitated and reproduced with shiny black surfaces in Portugal and became known in Italy, and the similarity to the increasing numbers of excavated Etruscan black ceramics naturally led to the adoption of an Italianized version of the word “bucchero” to describe the Etruscan wares. The Italian term then began to be used to describe ceramics produced with this technology in Etruria as well as the eastern Mediterranean. In his 1934 Studi Etruschi article, Mazzoni begins with a quote from a thirteenth-century writer, Ristoro d’Arezzo, about how this particular ceramic found in Tuscany seems to have “come from heaven,” and

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Figure 4.3 Object card for Sardis no. P59.108, fragment of grey “bucchero” (grey ware) (©Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

Figure 4.4 Grey “bucchero” (grey ware) fragment from Sardis, no. P59.108 (©Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/President and Fellows of Harvard College)

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A Tale of Two Buccheri: East and West

Mazzoni notes that neither Ristoro d’Arezzo nor many of those in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries use “bucchero” to refer to Etruscan black pottery (1934: 165). The word “bucchero” is used in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century literature but only in the context of New World ceramics. The most famous literary contribution, praising the scent of these vessels from the Americas, is that of Count Lorenzo Magalotti (1637–1712), titled Lettere sopra le terre odorose d’Europa e d’America dette volgarmente buccheri (Letters on the Fragrant Clays of Europe and America Commonly Called Buccheri), written in 1695 and published posthumously in 1825 (1945).1 Mazzoni pinpoints the first use of “bucchero” as a name for the Etruscan pottery in an eighteenth-century CappuchinVocabulario, which states that archaeologists call this type of ceramic “bucchero.” Following Mazzoni’s assessment, the term was attached to material imported from the New World, passed into European literature and collecting practices, gained traction among archaeologists and antiquarians on the ground in Italy, then moved back into literature.

4.2.1 Bucchero in Reference Resources and Articles The first objective in this investigation was to pinpoint when the term started to be used in scholarship on Etruscan material, as well as East Greek material, and to compare that with how the term is used today, through consulting reference works and standard corpora, as well as major museum collections of archaeological materials. In the Getty Art and Architecture Thesaurus (http://getty.edu/research/tools/vocabularies/aat/) “bucchero” refers only to the Etruscan version. Oxford Art Online (http:// oxfordartonline.com) mentions Aeolian grey bucchero ware, and the term “bucchero” also appears in a subject entry for Cyprus, but the resource confirms that the ceramic is not related to Etruscan bucchero. The Enciclopedia dell’arte antica entry makes no mention of any bucchero other than Etruscan (Martelli 1994). Overall, in Etruscan or Italic reference sources, there is no mention of bucchero from other cultures or time periods, whereas in a number of Greek or Cypriot reference sources, authors make sure to note the difference with Etruscan material. Therefore, in current scholarly resources on the ancient world, Etruscan pottery provides the baseline definition for the use of the term. 1

The Pinacoteca di Ascoli Piceno has a collection of these New World “buccheri odorosi,” as well as those replicated by the Portuguese (“buccheri d’Estremoz”) in the seventeenth century. I would like to thank Dr. Maurizio Harari for bringing this collection to my attention.

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Additionally, major article databases were consulted in order to follow term usage over time. In L’annee philologique (www.annee-philologique .com) the earliest reference to bucchero was from 1927 (del Vita). Only two percent of articles that mention bucchero refer to non-Etruscan material, the latest of which was published in 1982 (Zucca). In JSTOR, the earliest reference to Etruscan bucchero is 1874 (Bertrand; for the first English language use, see Frothingham and Marsh 1885). Bucchero from Lesbos, the first explicit mention of non-Etruscan bucchero, does not appear until 1891 (Loeschke: 18). While over time the term is used less and less for Greek ceramics, it does still appear. For instance, an article from 2010 on Iron Age ceramics found at Knossos uses the term not only for local pottery but also for imports; the investigators question whether some of these imports are from Lesbos or Etruria (Boileau and Whitley 2010). If ceramic fragments are not large enough to identify vessel forms particular to each culture, examples of this technique can be similar enough that they cannot be attributed with confidence.

4.2.2 Bucchero in Museum Collections: The Metropolitan Museum of Art The categorization of archaeological objects in digitized collections like those of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the British Museum, the Joconde database for French national museums, and the Arachne database of the Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts also grant insight into the use of the term as applied to ceramics of various cultures. Of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s collections visible online, all examples of bucchero are Etruscan or Italic except for two, both Cypriot “red bucchero” from the Cesnola Collection (MMA 74.51.642; MMA 71.51.620); these two seem to be holdovers from the language used in the early handbook of the Met’s Cypriot collection (Myres 1914). In the case of the Cesnola Cypriot material, we can see a clear phasing out of the use of “bucchero” for ceramics of the eastern Mediterranean. Myres’s 1914 publication of the Cesnola Collection uses “bucchero” frequently to describe Cypriot ceramics of the fifteenth through twelfth centuries BCE, though explicitly differentiated from Etruscan pottery. Myres stated, This name is conveniently applied to a class of vases made of black clay, in forms imitated from metal prototypes, like those of the Bucchero Wares of Etruria and other parts of Europe. The clay is intended to be black or dark grey throughout, though occasionally it burns to a dull red when over-fired. This Bucchero Ware appears first in Cyprus during the

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A Tale of Two Buccheri: East and West

period of Aegean influence. It is not found on the Syrian coast or in Egypt, and probably represents one of the arts introduced by the Aegean colonists. (Myres 1914: 45)

In the more recent publication of the Cesnola Collection, this ware is called “Base-Ring Ware” (Karageorghis 2000), and in the current Met online catalog it is simply called “terracotta.”

4.2.3 Bucchero in Museum Collections: The British Museum Approximately 20 percent of the British Museum’s ceramics identified as “bucchero” in their online catalog are non-Etruscan. For ceramics made in this technique of East Greek origin, the museum has chosen to assign the term “grey ware” as the material, explicitly stating that it should be used instead of “bucchero” for Greek pottery. What complicates this clarity, however, is the fact that the term “bucchero” may appear in the objects’ descriptions or bibliographies, even if the material category is “grey ware.” This is particularly interesting in the case of material excavated at Naucratis, which provides an opportunity to delve deeper into assumptions about and connotations of material culture. The British Museum owns nearly half of all material from the excavations at Naucratis, which began in the later nineteenth century. A thriving Greek settlement and a significant site of trade in the seventh century BCE, Naucratis yielded finds that illustrate a confluence of material culture and artistic modes from the eastern and western Mediterranean, at a prime time for the trade of bucchero ceramics. Consultation of the robust online research resources and catalog2 reveals a considerable amount of confusion over whether particular bucchero fragments are East Greek or Etruscan. For example, the records for BM 1924,1201.76 and BM 1977,1101.89 state they are from Aeolis and are “grey ware,” but each was given a Rasmussen (1979) vessel type and is included in Perkins’s (2007) publication of Etruscan bucchero in the British Museum as from southern Etruria. Neutron activation analysis undertaken after the 2007 publication (ongoing from 2008, with a considerable amount completed from 2011–2013; Ross Thomas, pers. comm.) confirmed that some pieces that were identified as Etruscan were actually East Greek in manufacture. Due to the volume of material from Naucratis and the early date of excavation, a variety of

2

For an overview of the Naucratis research project at the British Museum, see Villing et al. 2019.

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ceramics were identified as “bucchero” – even locally made, black-slipped reduced wares of the Ptolemaic period (Thomas, pers. comm.). The museum’s push to differentiate between wares and terminology, which is not yet complete, was undertaken for the purpose of separating Etruscan from East Greek material, both for Naucratis and for the archaeological collections at the British Museum more broadly.

4.2.4 Bucchero in Publications on East Greek Ceramics In Marguerite Yon’s critical methodological work on Cypriot ceramic terminology, published in 1976, she uses the term “bucchero” in a discussion of twelfth-century BCE material – the period of Aegean colonization – and describes it as a “foreign” technique. In a broader treatment of East Greek material, including Cypriot, Cook and Dupont’s 1998 East Greek Pottery devotes a chapter to grey ware and bucchero. The discussion begins with Aeolis, where grey ware had been produced for centuries, and the Iron Age Greek settlers there, uncharacteristically, adopted the native technique (Cook and Dupont 1998: 135–137). Cook says that because of this continuity, “grey ware” has superseded the term “bucchero.” In seventh- and sixth-century BCE Troy, this pottery makes up over half of the entire ceramic assemblage. Cook is very explicit, however, in his use of the term “bucchero” to describe Rhodian ceramics because there is no Bronze Age antecedent grey ware tradition there (Cook and Dupont 1998: 136–137). The floruit of Rhodian bucchero matches that of Etruria, in the seventh and sixth centuries BCE, and is contemporary with Early and Middle Corinthian pottery. In sum, Cook maintains that “bucchero” should be used for ceramics in this technique that date to the Orientalizing period and do not have Bronze Age precedents. In his third addition of Greek Painted Pottery, published in 1997 (and not particularly different from the first edition of 1960 with respect to this topic), Cook speaks of grey ware from Lesbos as “often called bucchero” and then says the pre-Orientalizing period grey ware of Aeolis is “misleadingly called bucchero” (Cook 1997: 34, 110). The author does provide an entire section about Etruscan bucchero, with production beginning at Caere in the seventh century BCE and with no direct connection in shape or technique to the Aeolian material (Cook 1997: 144–147).

4.3

Bucchero and Etruscan National Identity

Bucchero’s status as a “national” ceramic appears in print in 1905, in H. B. Walters’s History of Ancient Pottery (Walters 1905: 301; see also Rasmussen

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1979: 1), and undoubtedly it was discussed as such prior to this publication. In fact, the entire volume refers to ceramics as achievements of particular nations or races, rhetoric popular at the time, but it is only Etruscan bucchero that is called a “national pottery.” It is safe to say that the status of bucchero as Etruria’s national ceramic is what leads to the eradication of the term from East Greek ceramics, even though the technology appears in the eastern Mediterranean far earlier than in Etruria. Likewise, we must remember that bucchero was understood as the “common” ceramic of Etruria – one inferior to painted Greek vases with identifiable subjects – by the antiquarians and collectors of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries who toured and excavated the richest of preserved Etruscan necropoleis. Some even lament the discarding of these and other impasto or coarse ware ceramics. In her chapter on Veii, Lady Elizabeth Gray’s Tour of the Sepulchres of Etruria describes the “black vases” (she never uses the term “bucchero”) as “the rude infancy of the art, and purely Etruscan without any intermixture from Greece or Egypt” (Gray 1843: 82). The gradual elevation of bucchero as a national pottery for a native Italic culture changes the rhetoric related to this “common” ceramic, and it even changed archaeological and antiquarian collecting practice at the source. This ceramic technique is not celebrated as such for any other ancient culture. Even in Walters’s 1905 tome, which is full of references to the cultural achievements of ancient peoples. Etruscan bucchero is the only ceramic called a national pottery. This assertion coincided with the foundational rhetoric of the Fascist movement in Italy and its use of Etruscan cultural achievements to promote the primacy of the native Italian “race.” Such rhetoric included explicit rejection of Herodotus’ Lydian theory (de Francesco 2013: 207–215). Instead of a means to tie the Lydians and the Etruscans together, as first expected, the term “bucchero” has been used more often to distinguish them and emphasize the uniqueness of and innovation present in Etruscan material culture. When “bucchero” is used to refer to East Greek ceramics in modern publications, it seems only to be a holdover from earlier cataloging or collecting practices. And while the theories associated with Etruscan autochthony once served political ends, the archaeological evidence has confirmed them to be true – in ceramic technological innovation and beyond.

Works Cited Bertrand, A. 1874. “Sépultures a incinération de Poggio Renzo, près Chiusi,” Revue Archéologique 27 (January - June): 209–222.

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  Boileau, M. C., and Whitley, J. 2010. “Patterns of Production and Consumption of Coarse to Semi-Fine Pottery at Iron Age Knossos,” The Annual of the British School at Athens 105: 225–268. Cook, R. M. 1997. Greek Painted Pottery. London: Routledge. Cook, R. M., and Dupont, P. 1998. East Greek Pottery. London: Routledge. De Francesco, A. 2013. The Antiquity of the Italian Nation: The Cultural Origins of a Political Myth in Modern Italy, 1796–1943. Oxford: Oxford University Press. De Puma, R. D. 2013. “The Meanings of Bucchero,” in The Etruscan World, ed. J. M. Turfa, 974–992. London: Routledge. Del Vita, A. 1927. “Osservazioni sulla technologia del bucchero,” Studi Etruschi 1: 187–194. Frothingham, Jr., A. L., and Marsh, A. R. 1885. “Archaeological News,” American Journal of Archaeology and of the History of the Fine Arts 1(4): 420–462. Gran-Aymerich, J. 2013. “Etruria Marittima, Carthage and Iberia, Massalia, Gaul,” in The Etruscan World, ed. J. M. Turfa, 319–350. London: Routledge. 2017. Les vases de bucchero et le monde étrusque entre Orient et Occident. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Gran-Aymerich, J. and Turfa, J. M. 2013. “Economy and Commerce through Material Evidence: Etruscan Goods in the Mediterranean World and Beyond,” in The Etruscan World, ed. J. M. Turfa, 373–425. London: Routledge. Gray, E. C. J. 1843. Tour to the Sepulchres of Etruria, in 1839, 3rd ed. London: J. Hatchard and Son. Karageorghis, V. 2000. Ancient Art from Cyprus: The Cesnola Collection in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Loeschke, G. 1891. “Erwerbungsberichte der deutschen Universitätssammlungen Bonn,” Archäologischer Anzeiger: 14–20. Magalotti, L. 1945. Lettere sopra i buccheri, con l’aggiunta di lettere contro l’ateismo, scientifiche ed erudite, e di relazioni varie, ed. Mario Praz. Florence: F. Le Monnier. Martelli, M. 1994. “Bucchero,” in Enciclopedia dell’arte antica, classica, e orientale, secondo supplimento 1, 761–767. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia italiana. Mazzoni, G. 1934. “Sulla voce bucchero,” Studi Etruschi 8: 165–167. Myres, J. L. 1914. Handbook of the Cesnola Collection of Antiquities from Cyprus. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Naso, A. 2006. “Etruscan and Italic Finds in North Africa, 7th–2nd Century BC,” in Naucratis: Greek Diversity in Egypt. Studies on East Greek Pottery and Exchange in the Eastern Mediterranean, ed. A. Villing and U. Schlotzhauer, 187–198. London: British Museum. 2009. “Funde aus Milet XXII. Etruscan Bucchero from Miletos: Preliminary Report,” Archäologischer Anzeiger (2009/1): 135–150.

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A Tale of Two Buccheri: East and West 2011. “Reperti italici nei santuari greci,” in Krise und Wandel: Süditalien im 4. und 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Internationaler Kongress anlässlich des 65. Geburtstages von Dieter Mertens, Rom 26. bis 28. Juni 2006. Palilia, Bd 23, ed. R. Neudecker, 39–53. Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag. Perkins, P. 2007. Etruscan Bucchero in the British Museum. London: The British Museum. Rasmussen, T. 1979. Bucchero Pottery from Southern Etruria. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Villing, A., Bergeron, M., Bourogiannis, G., Johnston, A., Lecière, F., Masson, A., and Thomas, R. 2019. “Naukratis: Greeks in Egypt,” The British Museum Online research catalogues, https://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/ ukgwa/20190801105436/. Walters, H. B. 1905. History of Ancient Pottery, Greek, Etruscan, and Roman, Vol. 2. London: John Murray. Yon, M. 1976. Manuel de céramique chypriote. Vol. 1: Problèmes historiques, vocabulaire, Methode. Lyon: Institut Corby. Zucca, R. 1982. “Ceramica greco-orientale nei centri fenici di Sardegna. Nuove acquisizioni,” La parola del passato 37: 445–454.

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The Role of Greek Sanctuaries in Material and Artistic Interactions between Etruria and Anatolia  

A plethora of archaeological evidence retrieved from a host of regional and panhellenic sanctuaries opens up the possibility that from the eighth century BCE and throughout the Archaic period sanctuaries functioned as seminal nodes of cultural interaction between Etruria and Anatolia. I cannot stress enough that this role would account for just one of many models of interaction, contact, and exchange explored in this volume. The following analysis discusses evidence for Greek sanctuaries functioning as arenas of actual physical contact between visitors from the Italic peninsula and visitors from Anatolia. An alternate model of interaction would be indirect communication. It is possible that Italic peoples learned about Anatolians and vice versa through the intermediation of variegated information passed on by sanctuary authorities or by Greek and international visitors to sanctuaries. The nature of artifacts retrieved from the sanctuaries does not always facilitate reconstructing their nexus of social relationships. This is strikingly the case at Delphi, where a good number of extremely fragmentary remnants of originally sumptuous artifacts of Italic origin may point to an extremely variegated array of depository gestures by Italic visitors or others (Aurigny 2016, 2019: 169–183). As of late, numerous scholars, such as Alessandro Naso and Ingrid Strøm, have highlighted in depth the quality and quantity of sumptuous Etruscan and other Italic artifacts deposited at Olympia from the eighth century BCE onwards (Strøm 2000; Naso 2006, 2011). These scholars have persuasively shown that the nature of certain artifacts rules out that Greeks returning from the western Mediterranean brought them as dedications to Olympia. Instead, they could have been deposited only by Etruscan or Italic elites.1 The preserved 1

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Naso, for example, follows M. Söldner in explaining a rare tripod-vessel on wheels from Olympia, an Italic product of the late eighth or early seventh century BCE, as a public dedication by a regal individual from Daunia (Söldner 1994; Naso 2006: 329). Artifacts like this were not only sumptuous but also exclusive to certain social echelons in Italy. Baitinger, on the other hand, proposes a different model, according to which broken or disfigured artifacts from south Italy or Sicily were deposited as “Brucherz” (ore pieces) by colonial Greeks from this area (Baitinger 2013).

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The Role of Greek Sanctuaries

record of Anatolian artifacts in Greek sanctuaries is not as rich, but there is no doubt that this is the result of accidents of preservation, since many materials do not survive well in the archaeological record (e.g., textiles, precious metals). At any rate, the Phrygian artifacts from Greek sanctuaries are equally sumptuous (Strøm 1998: 55–58; Vassileva 2014). This is the case again at Olympia (Kilian-Dirlmeier 1985: 230–235, 247) and even more so at Delphi, if one is to give credence to Herodotus’ reports about the sumptuous throne King Midas sent to Apollo of Delphi (Hdt. 1.14.3; Muscarella 1989; Kaplan 2006; DeVries and Rose 2012). This gesture belongs to the same pattern that also would account for the famous dedications of the Lydian Mermnads in the same sanctuary (Hdt. 1.14). Herodotus mentions Gyges’ anathemata made of gold and silver, among which six golden kraters worth thirty talents stand out as extraordinarily lavish (Hdt. 1.14.2). Herodotus also commemorates Alyattes’ silver krater, an impressively sizeable (megas) artifact on a stand made of welded iron; his qualification of it as “the most outstanding of all dedications at Delphi” speaks to the radiance of the Mermnad dedications long after the demise of Lydia (Hdt. 1.25). Finally, Herodotus is explicit and reports at length about King Croesus’ numerous anathemata: a golden lion on a pedestal of golden plinths (Hdt. 1.50.3), a krater of gold and a krater of silver (Hdt. 1.51.2–3), four silver pithoi, two perirrhanteria (one of gold, the other of silver), numerous silver basins, the so-called golden statuette of Croesus’ baker, and the belts and necklaces of his wife (Hdt. 1.51.3–5). This testimony is valuable in that it conveys the capacity of these sumptuous materials to epitomize Lydian might in the international arena of the Delphic sanctuary. The details and emphasis in Herodotus’ vocabulary reflect the Delphic sanctuary’s discursive terms for the articulation of the fame and resonance of Anatolian dedications. There can be no doubt that the recipients of this resonance were both Greeks and the growing international clientele of Apollo’s oracle Granted that Etruscans and Anatolians visited the Greek sanctuaries, how far could archaeology go in illuminating the nature of contacts that took place in Greek sanctuaries? Were these contacts direct or indirect? If indeed Italics and Anatolians spoke to each other, an assumption that seems more plausible than not, it is worth reflecting on what exactly was the product of this exchange. I do not attempt to give definitive answers to these perplexing questions. Instead, I formulate some theoretical presuppositions that should underlie our efforts to illuminate the role of the sanctuaries as places of intermediation and intercultural contact between Etruria and Anatolia.

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5.1

Frameworks of Intermediation: Transactional and Heterotopic Sanctuaries

The quality and quantity of contacts between Etruscans and Anatolians was determined by the nature of the sanctuary that provided the material and conceptual framework for variegated exchanges or contacts. Geographic location, local culture and traditions, the profile of the local cult, and the web of interests around a sanctuary were all determinants of who met whom, when, and to what purpose. Local practices would have determined whether contact was systematic and regulated or not. With these considerations in mind, I propose a working distinction between “transactional” sanctuary frameworks on the one hand and “heterotopic” sanctuaries on the other. Transactional sanctuaries are usually discussed in scholarship as situated at ports-of-trade or emporia or in the close proximity of markets (Demetriou 2012). They may be associated with utilitarian economic activities (e.g., trade), specialized services (e.g., banking), or the production, monopoly, and dissemination of products (Hodos 2006; Krämer 2016: 18–22). Heterotopic sanctuaries, on the other hand, may offer themselves as frameworks of mercantile activities, but these are only epiphenomena of a considerably higher order of experiences and relationships. Transactional sanctuaries are identical with or very close to the space of business enacted under the aegis and moral authority of divinities resident in the sanctuaries. The multiethnic sanctuaries at Kommos on South Crete (Shaw 2006), Aphrodite at Gravisca, Naucratis (Demetriou 2012: 64–152), and Miletus–Zeytintepe (von Graeve 2013; also Naso, Chapter 1) are characteristic examples. Their profile is symptomatic of a new era of pan-Mediterranean travel and exchange between ethnically and culturally diverse people in contexts situated in literal and metaphorical borderlands. As Maria Eugenia Aubet has put it in discussing the native– colonial interface at the sanctuary of Melqart in Cadiz (Gadir), “The temple served simultaneously as guarantor of the ‘good intentions’ of the colonists, as a representative of the Phoenician state and as a common place where transactions could be effected, coordinated and centralized” (Aubet 2006: 106). Heterotopic sanctuaries, on the other hand, were liminal spaces – thresholds to an ineffable and barely reachable beyond. They were physically and cognitively accessible to a small number of high elite visitors, whose participation in rites and relationships made possible in their premises was a quintessential element for the construction of an international elite identity (Papalexandrou 2021a, 2021b). If transactional sanctuaries were associated with the pursuit of wealth and earthly profit, heterotopic

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The Role of Greek Sanctuaries

sanctuaries offered themselves as exclusive portals to extraordinary symbolic capital, special knowledge, a wide array of sensory experiences, and personal bonds between worshippers and gods. During the Orientalizing period wonder became an international “staple” of sorts (Papalexandrou 2016, 2021a) – an idea further explored in 5.1.2. At the outset it is important to stress the uniqueness of Olympia and Delphi, which represent the heterotopic sanctuaries par excellence in the newly configured Mediterranean world of the seventh century.2

5.1.1 Transactional Sanctuaries There is plenty of evidence for the presence of Etruscans and Anatolians in both transactional and heterotopic sanctuaries. Alessandro Naso has stressed the existence of copious specimens of Etruscan drinking vessels, especially kantharoi, at the international seaside sanctuary of Aphrodite at Miletus–Zeytintepe, a representative example of transactional activity (Naso 2009; also Chapter 1). A few vessels may have been brought by Greek merchants arriving from the West with lucrative cargos. But, following Naso, we cannot exclude that a good number of these impressive ceramics were deposited by Etruscans visiting on business or for other reasons (Naso 2001). Like Ephesus and Smyrna, Miletus was situated at the seaside end of routes leading inland to Caria, Lydia, and Phrygia (Gorman 2001; Morris 2006; Greaves 2010). The presence of Lydian and Phrygian specimens of material culture in Zeytintepe, including votives, cannot be stressed enough in the context of this discussion. The German excavations have produced exquisite Phrygian bronzes, an unspecified number of which could well have been deposited by Phrygians eager to make contacts in the cosmopolitan context of Zeytintepe (Donder 2002). We may tentatively theorize that similar encounters took place in other Ionian sanctuaries that enjoyed a symbiotic existence with busy ports of trade. The Heraion at Samos is a good 2

The Heraion at Samos may be added to Delphi and Olympia, except that this sanctuary seems to oscillate between the transactional and the heterotopic categories. The material evidence points to commercial and cultural interconnections with Anatolia, the Middle East, Egypt, Italy, and the western Mediterranean (Kyrieleis 1993; Niemeier 2014; Walter et al. 2019: 165–170). The enterprising range of the sanctuary is also suggested by specific categories of votives (e.g., ship models, Brize 1997: 130) and Herodotus’s testimony (4.152; Papalexandrou 2017). On the other hand, from the eighth century BCE onwards the sanctuary featured radically innovative elements (e.g., experimental monumental architecture from the eighth to the sixth centuries BCE – Gruben 2014: 167–173) and an excess of lavishness (e.g., numerous griffin cauldrons – Gehrig and Schneider 2004). In this case it is worth asking who had access to what and under what circumstances – a consideration not as problematized as it should be (Papalexandrou 2011, 2021a).

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example, as it has yielded evidence that comfortably compares to Zeytintepe in terms of pointing to visitors from Etruria (pottery, bronzes) and Anatolia (bronze dedications, textiles).3 The connections of Samos with Etruria in the seventh and sixth centuries are multifaceted and well known: for example, griffin cauldrons – the par excellence Samian export to Etruria throughout the seventh century (Gehrig and Schneider 2004; Papalexandrou 2021a). Scholars have usually posited that enterprising Samians were the main agents of this export. The presence of Italic or Etruscan artifacts at the Heraion, on the other hand, suggests that the agency of Etruscans or other Italics in the export of griffin cauldrons is equally plausible. Like Zeytintepe, Samos also received dedications from the great centers of Anatolia, especially Phrygia (Kilian-Dirlmeier 1985: 249–250). Some of these could have been deposited by Anatolians who visited the cosmopolitan sanctuary for pilgrimage, networking, diplomacy, and business under the tutelage of the great goddess of the Heraion.

5.1.2 Heterotopic Sanctuaries If we now turn to a consideration of heterotopic sanctuaries, we are confronted with an altogether different framework for encounters between Etruscans and Anatolians. Delphi and Olympia, the scale and magnificence of which remained unparalleled in the entire Mediterranean from the late eighth century BCE onwards, best exemplify this category. I owe the term “heterotopic” to Michel Foucault’s notion of heterotopias, that is, “real places . . . a kind of enacted Utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted” (Foucault 1986: 22–27). Already, before the onset of the so-called Orientalizing phenomenon, these sanctuaries had systematically established themselves as distinctly Greek crucibles for the forging of a panhellenic consciousness (Morgan 1993). At the same time, they carefully invested in the development of a distinct pan-Mediterranean profile that remained constant until the end of antiquity. As early as the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, the god of the Delphic oracle is hekaergos and hekatebolos (lines 56 and 134), a far-shooter god – literally and metaphorically a power whose conceptual and physical range is indisputably long. We cannot reconstruct with precision the business of the sanctuary during the Early Iron Age, but 3

Etruscan bucchero has been documented in the Heraion of Samos (Isler 1967). An Italic bronze shield from the same sanctuary is interpreted by Naso as an Etruscan or Italic dedication (Naso 2006: 333–334).

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The Role of Greek Sanctuaries

its wealth (e.g., Iliad 9.378ff.) and fame (kleos) were proverbially out of the ordinary already in the eighth century BCE, if not earlier. We may surmise that King Midas’ investment in the sanctuary aimed at securing an alliance with an incomparable clearinghouse of variegated information necessary for one’s belonging to the growing international arena of the Orientalizing age. Fascinating evidence points to the Mediterranean traffic of ideas, people, and objects (Aruz et al. 2014). A long time ago, Oscar Muscarella and Sarah Morris suggested that the relationship between Midas and Delphic Apollo might have been conceptualized as one between political equals (Muscarella 1989; Morris 1997). One could add that by means of his gesture King Midas was making himself visible to an audience far wider than the world of the developing city-states. Delphi and Olympia were billboards broadcasting very widely a wide variety of messages. Olympia was equally, if not more, far-ranging than Delphi in material wealth and conceptual status. The eastern connections of the sanctuary are evident in a wealth of archaeological evidence that includes a substantive amount of material originating from various regions of Anatolia, especially Phrygia (Kilian-Dirlmeier 1985: 247; Völling 1998). Again, the assumption that Anatolians came to Olympia, perhaps during a circuit that involved stopping points and residencies in other Greek sanctuaries, is plausible, productive, and perhaps even necessary for the direction of future insights on the multiple mediating roles of the great sanctuaries. The Italic finds, on the other hand, indisputably speak to grand material and ritual gestures by Etruscan potentates or by Greeks who were associated with Etruscans (Strøm 1998; Naso 2006). Pausanias witnessed and heard about King Arimnestus’ throne, a venerable relic probably inscribed in the exegetic practices of the sanctuary immediately after its deposition by an Etruscan potentate (Pausanias 5.12.5).4 We do not know exactly how early or exactly why the cult of Pelops was provided with an Anatolian narrative pedigree (Pelops’ ancestry was Anatolian; his father was the infamous Tantalus, king of Sipylus between Lydia and Phrygia). It is certain, however, that this specific discursive nexus would have helped foreign visitors inscribe Olympia in a deep Anatolian horizon.5 4

5

The date of the object is unknown; nor is it possible to specify when it was brought to Olympia. Colonna discusses the relevant problems (Colonna 1993: 44–45). It is the pattern of dedication that is of interest in my discussion. Tantalus’ wealth, like Phrygian or Lydian wealth, was proverbial in antiquity: e.g., ta talantou talanta (Anacreon fr. 355; Campbell 1988: 52–53). Tantalus is mentioned in the Homeric epic (Odyssey 11.582–592) but with no mention of his Lydian pedigree, an early attestation of which is in Anacreon, epigram no. 21 (Campbell 1988: 193).

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If panhellenic sanctuaries functioned as arenas of exchange and intermediation between visitors originating from Etruria and Anatolia, one wonders why Etruscans and Anatolians would have visited the sanctuaries. Given the nature of the available evidence, any possible answers to this question have to be speculative. To begin with, the heterotopic profile of Delphi and Olympia, introduced earlier, offers itself as a heuristic device for reflecting on the possible motivations, aims, and gains of those who made the long journey to the great sanctuaries. Several years ago, Catherine Morgan explained the impressive development of the sanctuaries in the late eighth century as otherworldly stage-settings for material and ritual construction of the identity of the elites of the rising city-states of Greece (Morgan 1993). Indeed, a great percentage of the fabulous wealth deposited in the sanctuaries manifests these elites’ struggle to affirm their special ties to divine forces while cementing a panhellenic aristocratic ethos. Already in this stage, the sanctuaries fashioned themselves as repositories of statusshaping wealth and esoteric ritual knowledge – the hardware and software for solidifying individuals’ or groups’ relationships with the divine. The onset of the Orientalizing era caused the already otherworldly aura of the sanctuaries to undergo a “big bang” of sorts – an unprecedented inflation of all these qualities that constituted their sacredness. From the late eighth century BCE onwards, the great sanctuaries acquired the contents, ambience, and significance of “Wunderkammer,” the well-known “cabinets of curiosities” of later ages (Impey and McGregor 1985; Pomian 1990; Findlen 1994; Daston 1998; Findlen 2002; Poliquin 2012: 11–42; Papalexandrou 2021a, 2021b). The “Wunderkammer” phenomenon is symptomatic of historical periods characterized by conquest, exploration of new frontiers, and expanding cognitive horizons. One thinks, for example, of the Hellenistic world in the wake of Alexander’s conquests or Europe in the aftermath of Columbus’s discoveries. These periods often are politically, economically, socially, culturally, and environmentally destabilizing. Intensive travel, circulation of new ideas, opening of trade routes and networks, and exploitation of new material and conceptual resources generate the impulse to redraw the physical and conceptual maps of the known universe. Under the onslaught of the radically new, established paradigms of thought are upset and the recalibration of the kosmos becomes inevitable. A concomitant trait of such processes is the intensive pursuit, collection, and systematic study of marvelous objects, natural or non-natural. These assemblages are often new and exciting species of bizarre animals, monsters, exotic plants, fossils, shells, and raw materials or exquisitely crafted

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The Role of Greek Sanctuaries

man-made artifacts that open up infinite possibilities for new forms, sensations, experiences, and knowledge. In the contexts of the Wunderkammer, these objects literally came to epitomize the world, or, as Paula Findlen has aptly put it, the Wunderkammer became “a repository of the collective imagination of their society” (Findlen 1994: 9). From the late eighth century BCE onwards, Delphi and Olympia capitalized on their self-construction as heterotopic points of contact with superhuman powers – mutatis mutandis they were the Wunderkammer of the new Orientalizing age. What makes the Wunderkammer phenomenon special is not only the extraordinary character of its artifacts but also the physical and cognitive relationships between artifacts and viewers (Papalexandrou 2021b). The affective properties of these spaces were constitutive of an aesthetic of wonder predicated on radically new materials, styles, and techniques that demanded complex sensory responses from their viewers (e.g., what early Greek poetry expresses in the epic formula thauma idesthai, “wonder to behold”; see also, Fisher 1998; Papalexandrou 2021a). Meanings, significance, and value are not inherent in material or visual artifacts – to negotiate contact with them, one has to have an internalized perceptual software, a savoir faire of sorts, that very often is learned behavior, the product of painstaking indoctrination in initiatory proceedings. Etruscan or other Italic elites and Anatolians sought the great sanctuaries in order to a) immerse themselves in exclusive experiences of wonder; b) indoctrinate themselves into the savoir faire mandated by the new Orientalizing material and visual culture; and, last but not least, c) return home with novel narratives from physical and conceptual realms lying far from the familiar and the known. If Odysseus was able to reclaim his social status by recounting his wanderings well beyond the edge of the kosmos, I theorize that Etruscan or Anatolian elites would have been able to gain symbolic capital by recounting back home what they saw, what they learned, and what they gained at Delphi and Olympia. Let us remember that, in the archaic Mediterranean, physical and conceptual profit were inextricably bound with each other. It therefore makes sense that elite individuals from Etruria or Italy and Anatolia would have pursued them both in the great wondrous sanctuaries. The encounters of Anatolians and Etruscans in Greek sanctuaries posited in this paper were neither frequent nor ordinary. Ostentatious material gestures at Delphi and Olympia (such as dedications by Midas and Arimnestus, or treasuries by Caere and Spina at Delphi) aimed of course at establishing indelible reciprocal relationships with the divine realm (Colonna 1993; D’Agostino 2000). But in addition to representing

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their dedicants to the gods, artifacts had the capacity to stimulate their kleos (fame). The discursive habits at Olympia and Delphi ensured that artifacts became representational of their high elite dedicants. Pausanias, a Greek from Asia Minor who learns about a dedicatory gesture (and much more that he did not bother to write about) by an Etruscan king at Olympia, is a good example of this indirect model of contact. On the other hand, I am tempted to propose that direct encounters – that is, face-to-face physical contact – were, in and of themselves, very infrequent in nature. Actually, they may have been extraordinary, but it was precisely rare experiences that non-Greeks and perhaps even Greeks sought in the great sanctuaries. An idea commonly ascribed to film director Woody Allen is that 80 percent of success in life is based simply on showing up. In addition to seeking contact with great divine powers, in the context of the great sanctuaries Italics and Anatolians made themselves known to each other directly or indirectly by simply being there. If we are to judge from the fragmentary archaeological evidence and literary sources, they “showed up” with all pomp and magnificence, bringing with them wondrous objects and knowledge destined to remain at the sanctuary in perpetuity. At Delphi and Olympia they would have engaged in gift exchange with Zeus and Apollo and with each other. Last but not least, they would also have exchanged information and established bonds and mutual trust with Greeks and their Anatolian neighbors under the aegis of the Greek gods and the aureatic authority of the Greek sanctuaries. The experiences of Etruscan and Italic elites in sanctuaries like Delphi and Olympia would largely account for their acculturation to certain aspects of contemporary Greek and Anatolian elite behavior, such as the Near Eastern style of banqueting, Near Eastern visuality, Near Eastern materiality, and, last but not least, technologies of communication with humans and gods (e.g., writing, figurative art). I propose envisaging them as venues in which Etruscans and Italics learned from Greeks and Anatolians about Orientalizing material culture and its ways. Conversely, in the same venues Anatolians, Greeks, and others (e.g., Phoenicians) learned about the West and its promise from the Etruscans or other Italics.

5.2

Conclusion

I have made a case that the great panhellenic sanctuaries played an important role as arenas of encounters, direct or indirect, between Anatolians and Etruscans or other visitors from the Italic peninsula.

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I admit that my division between transactional (trade) and heterotopic (wonder) sanctuaries is rigid and dichotomous – things were surely much more fluid, and we have to reckon with several positions in the spectrum between purely transactional and purely heterotopic. We have been accustomed to models of flows that privilege movements from east to west, but reality was so complex that we have to systematically explore the active agency of Etruscans and other Italics going east (Naso, Chapter 1).

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Century BCE),” in Distant Worlds Journal 1: 75–98, http://journals.ub .uniheidelberg.de/index.php/dwj/article/view/30154 (accessed 08/27/2016). Kyrieleis, H. 1993. “The Heraion at Samos,” in Greek Sanctuaries: New Approaches, ed. N. Marinatos and R. Hägg, 125–153. London: Routledge. Morgan, C. 1993. “The Origins of Pan-Hellenism,” in Greek Sanctuaries: New Approaches, ed. N. Marinatos and R. Hägg, 18–44. London: Routledge. Morris, S. 1997. “Greek and Near Eastern Art in the Age of Homer,” in New Light on a Dark Age: Exploring the Culture of Geometric Greece, ed. S. Langdon, 56–71. Columbia: University of Missouri Press. 2006. “The View from East Greece: Miletus, Samos, and Ephesus,” in Debating Orientalization. Multidisciplinary Approaches to Change in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. C. Riva and N. C. Vella, 66–84. London: Equinox Publishing. Muscarella, O. 1989. “King Midas of Phrygia and the Greeks,” in Anatolia and the Ancient Near East. Studies in Honor of Tahsin Özgüç, ed. K. Emre and T. Özgüç, 333–344. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi. Naso, A. 2001. “La penisola italica e l’ Anatolia (XII-V sec. a.C.),” in Der Kosmos der Artemis von Ephesos, Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut, Sonderschriften 37, ed. U. Muss, 169–183. Vienna: Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut. 2006. “Etruschi (e Italici) nei santuari greci,” in Stranieri e non cittadini nei santuari greci. Atti del convegno internazionale, ed. A. Naso, 325–358. Florence: Le Monnier Università. 2009. “Funde aus Milet XXII. Etruscan Bucchero from Miletus: Preliminary Report,” Archäologischer Anzeiger: 135–150. 2011. “Reperti italici nei santuari greci,” in Krise und Wandel. Süditalien im 4. und 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Internationaler Kongress anlässlich des 65. Geburtstages von Dieter Mertens, Rom 26. bis 28. Juni 2006, ed. R. Neudecker, 39–53. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Niemeier, W. D. 2014. “The Heraion at Samos,” in Aruz et al. (eds.), 295–296. Papalexandrou, N. 2011. “Vision and Visuality in the Study of Early Greek Religion,” in Current Approaches to Religion in Ancient Greece. Papers Presented at a Symposium at the Swedish Institute at Athens, 17–19 April 2008, ed. M. Haysom and J. Wallensten, 253–268. Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Athen. 2016. “From Lake Van to the Qualdaquivir: Monsters and Vision in the Preclassical Mediterranean,” in Assyria to Iberia: Art and Culture in the Iron Age, ed. J. Aruz and M. Seymour, 263–272. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. 2017. “The Multi-Corporeality of Beings and Objects in the Mediterranean during the Orientalizing Period (7th c. BCE),” in Hybrid and Extraordinary Beings. Deviations from “Normality” in Ancient Greek Mythology and Modern Medicine, ed. P. Soucacos, A. Gartziou-Tatti, and M. Paschopoulos, 41–54. Athens: Konstadaras.

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2021a. Bronze Monsters and the Cultures of Wonder: Griffin Cauldrons in the Preclassical Mediterranean. Austin: The University of Texas Press. 2021b. “Caves as Sites of Sensory and Cognitive Enhancement: The Idaean Cave on Crete,” in Cave and Worship in Ancient Greece: New Approaches to Landscape and Ritual, ed. A. Nagel and S. Katsarou, 49–69. London: Routledge. Poliquin, R. 2012. The Breathless Zoo: Taxidermy and the Cultures of Longing. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Pomian, K. 1990. Collectors and Curiosities. Paris and Venice, 1550–1800, trans. Elizabeth Wiles-Portier. Cambridge: Polity Press. Shaw, J. 2006. Kommos: A Minoan Harbor Town and Greek Sanctuary in Southern Crete. Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Söldner, M. 1994. “Ein italischer Dreifusswagen in Olympia,” in 9. Bericht über die Ausgrabungen in Olympia, ed. E. Kunze, 209–226. Berlin: De Gruyter. Strøm, I. 1998. “The Early Sanctuary of the Argive Heraion and Its External Relations (8th–Early 6th Cent. B.C.),” Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens 1: 36–126. 2000. “A Fragment of an Early Etruscan Bronze Throne in Olympia?” Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens 3: 67–95. Vassileva, M. 2014. “Phrygian Bronzes in the Greek World: Globalization through Cult?” in Melammu. The Ancient World in an Age of Globalization, Proceedings of the Sixth Symposium of the Melammu Project, Sophia, Bulgaria, September 1–8, 2008, ed. M. J. Geller, 217–234. Berlin: Edition Open Access. Völling, T. 1998. “Ein phrygischer Gürtel au Olympia,” Archäologischer Anzeiger 1998: 243–252. Von Graeve, V. 2013. “Das Aphrodite-Heiligtum von Milet und seine Weihegaben,” in Sanktuar und Ritual. Heilige Plätze im archäologischen Befund, ed. D. Raue and I. Gerlach, 5–17. Rahden: Leidorf. Walter, H., Clemente, A., and Niemeier, W. D. 2019. Ursprung und frühzeit des Heraion von Samos, Samos 21.1., ed. W. D. Niemeier. Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag.

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Technology and Mobility

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Wooden artifacts are rarely preserved in archaeological contexts – they are found at only a few ancient sites outside Egypt. Two of the most important are Gordion in central Anatolia and Verucchio in northeast Italy, both of which have produced notable collections dating from the eighth and seventh centuries BCE. The furniture from Gordion – dry archaeological wood – has come from tumulus burials found inside wooden tomb chambers that were covered with huge mounds of earth. The wooden finds from Verucchio were essentially waterlogged, preserved in burials located below the water table. While the furniture from Verucchio and Gordion differs in style, it is approximately contemporary – and shows some surprisingly similar features. Analysis of these works in terms of materials, decoration, types, and techniques yields new information about correspondences in the arts of these two regions.

6.1

Gordion

More is known about woodworking at Gordion than at any other site from the ancient Near East. Preserved from the city mound and three royal tumulus burials – Tumulus MM, P, and W – are wooden tables, serving stands, stools, footstools, a chair, a log coffin, and many other types of wooden objects (Simpson and Spirydowicz 1999; Simpson 2012). The three royal burials date to the eighth century BCE when Gordion was at the height of its power, ruled by King Midas and his dynasty. These tombs were excavated in the 1950s by the University of Pennsylvania Museum under the direction of Professor Rodney S. Young (Young 1981). The wooden finds are now in the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, Ankara. The best preserved furniture was from Tumulus MM – either the tomb of King Midas or that of his father – now dated to around 740 BCE (Simpson 2001). According to the Greek historian Herodotus, King Midas was the first foreigner to dedicate an offering at the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi. He dedicated his throne, which Herodotus does not describe but says was “well worth seeing” (Hdt. 1.14; Simpson 2020; Papalexandrou, Chapter 5).

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Tumulus MM, the largest tumulus in the Gordion necropolis, was excavated in 1957. The buried king was found on the remains of a cedar log coffin, which was first set up as a kind of bier for a funeral ceremony that took place outside the tomb before the interment (Simpson 1990, 2010: 119–125). Also found were fourteen pieces of wooden furniture – nine tables, two serving stands, stools, and a chair – along with belts, fibulas, and bronze and pottery vessels containing the remains of food and drink. The furniture, vessels, and other grave goods were apparently used for the funeral and feast (Figure 6.1) and then deposited in the burial chamber (McGovern et al. 1999; Simpson 2010: 127–135).1 One of the most spectacular pieces of furniture from the tomb was an ornate table, made of boxwood (Buxus sempervirens L.), inlaid with juniper (Juniperus sp.), with a walnut (Juglans sp.) top (Figure 6.1, foreground; Figure 6.2). The table had collapsed on the tomb floor, with the pieces found nearly intact. The three legs had fallen in, and two struts were still in place extending up from the square frame. Bronze vessels had been placed on top, landing on the floor when the wood gave way. The excavators attempted to conserve the table in 1957 by immersing it in a wax solution. Unfortunately, the wax did not enter the fine pores of the boxwood but instead coated the surface, obscuring the contrast of the colorful woods. The table was reconsolidated beginning in 1982 with a solution of ButvarB98, a polyvinyl butyral resin (Spirydowicz 2010: 139–142). This method has become standard for the treatment of dry archaeological wood (Payton 1984; Spirydowicz 1996). After conservation, the wood was stronger and lighter in color. The elaborate inlay was once again visible, and I was able to draw the table’s forty major components. Carved, inlaid struts, which look like abstract plants or trees, rose from inlaid squares on the four sides of the frame to support the table top – by means of mortise-and-tenon joinery. The inlaid designs included mazes and other symbols: rosettes, swastikas, quadripartite squares, and lattices of squares and lozenges. The table’s three curved legs had tenons at the top. These were fit into mortises cut into collars that extended down from the underside of the table top. The legs had carved top pieces and stylized lion-paw feet; inlay decorated the leg tops, ran down the front leg, and covered the feet. After completing detail drawings, I was able to reconstruct the table on paper (Simpson and Spirydowicz 1999: fig. 7; 1

The banquet featured a spicy stew of barbecued lamb or goat meat mixed with honey, wine, olive oil, and legumes, and seasoned with fennel or anise. This was accompanied by a mixed fermented beverage of grape wine, barley beer, and honey mead.

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Figure 6.1 Reconstruction of the funerary banquet held before the Tumulus MM burial, Gordion (painting by Greg Harlin, courtesy Elizabeth Simpson and Greg Harlin)

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Figure 6.2 Inlaid table from Tumulus MM, Gordion, Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, Ankara, Turkey, 1989 (photo by author)

Simpson 2010: fig. 21). This revealed the ingenious way it was made, with a set of leg struts rising from the three legs to support the square frame. The handles at the corners and the upturned rim of the table top showed that this was a portable banquet table. The three legs assured its stability on any type of surface. Once the table was understood, we were able to reconstruct

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it on Plexiglas for display in the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations (Simpson 2010: 159–162, color plates VIII–IX, plates 33–35). The table was reinstalled in the renovated museum galleries in 2014. Many of the inlaid designs are configurations of hooks. These include the mazes, which could have starting points, end points, and blind alleys, and were both unicursal and multicursal – in labyrinth terminology.2 Multicursal mazes of this type are not seen on any other ancient artifacts (Simpson 2010: 50–52). Embedded in the mazes, and found elsewhere on the table, is the quadripartite square or lozenge motif. This has a long history as a decorative device, although in early times it was not merely “decorative.” Such a design is shown incised on the abdomen of a clay figurine dating to the fifth millennium BCE from Cucuteni (Tripolye) in Moldavia (Simpson 2010: plate 117A). This sign can also be rendered as a single lozenge, with a small depression at the center – the lozenge-anddot – which appears in many contexts. Modern ethnographic parallels relate the lozenge-and-dot to a “sown field,” with the dot representing a “seed.” This has given rise to the theory that the sign was used to invoke fertility. The design appears on early textiles, such as those worn by two Phrygian dancers depicted on a pot sherd from Gordion (Simpson 2010: plate 116D), and survives on women’s dowry textiles and ritual cloths in Europe and Anatolia, down to the present. This surely derived from early body painting, which depicted the network of one’s ancestors (Schuster and Carpenter 1986–1988; Schuster and Carpenter 1996). These so-called genealogical patterns were protective and empowering, with connotations of procreation and fertility. The quadripartite square, the lozenge-and-dot network, and other genealogical patterns are found all over the Tumulus MM table (Simpson 2010: 52–56). Ten plain banquet tables were found in Tumulus MM and Tumulus P at Gordion. These were simpler versions of the inlaid table, with boxwood legs and tray-shaped tops (Figure 6.3, left). As with the inlaid table, the legs had tenons at the top, which fit into mortises cut into collars that extended down from the underside of the table tops (Figure 6.3, right). The collars were carved in one piece with the table top, necessitating a thick board – most of which was then cut away. In the case of the plain tables, the tenons were pinned in the collars, and wedges were used to tighten the fit. This kind of table had apparently been in use for quite some time. Curved table legs with 2

A unicursal maze is a one-directional maze with a single path leading from beginning to end. A multicursal maze offers multiple alternatives, some of which are false leads, requiring choice in negotiation of the maze, and reorientation if the wrong alternative is taken.

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Figure 6.3 Table 5 from Tumulus MM, reconstruction drawing (left) and detail drawings showing collar-tenon joinery that connected the legs to the table top (center and right) (drawings by author)

tenons at the top were being made in Mesopotamia by the early second millennium BCE, as shown by an Old Babylonian votive plaque depicting a woodworker using an adze to shape such a leg (Simpson 1995: fig. 8). The collar-tenon method of joinery occurs on tables from the Middle Bronze Age tombs at Jericho, dating to the seventeenth–sixteenth centuries BCE (Kenyon 1960, 1965). The top tenons of the legs passed up through carved collars that extended down from the undersides of the table tops (Ricketts 1960: fig. 229:2; Simpson 1995: fig. 9:2). The tenons could be secured by wedges and by pins running though both collar and tenon. This is the exact type of joinery used to fasten the legs to the tops of the Gordion plain tables in the eighth century BCE. The method is also seen in tables from other first-millennium sites, including Adılcevaz in Urartu and, far to the east, at Pazyryk in Siberia (Rudenko 1970: 35, 65–68; Simpson 2008: figs. 19, 21–22). Two tables from Barrow 2 at Pazyryk had tray-shaped tops and four standing lions (or tigers) as legs. Extending up from the animals’ mouths were tenons, which fit into mortises cut into collars that extended down from the underside of the table tops – a late manifestation of this important technique (Rudenko 1970: plate 50; Simpson 1995: 1668–1669; Aruz et al. 2000: 267). A variation of this kind of joinery was used for the wooden tables from Verucchio.

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6.2

Verucchio and Gordion

In 1972, two important pit tombs – Tombs 85 and 89 – were excavated in the Lippi necropolis at Verucchio. Tomb 89 has been dated to the fourth quarter of the eighth century BCE and Tomb 85 to the first half of the seventh century BCE (von Eles 2002: 273–275; Gentili 2003: 282–290, 293–311; Mazzoli and Pozzi 2015: 90). The burials were located below the water table, and many organic objects were preserved in the anaerobic environment. After excavation, the wood was consolidated, reportedly with polyethylene glycol, and the pieces were reconstructed for display. The wooden objects from Tomb 85 are now exhibited in the Museo Civico Archeologico, Bologna. These include a throne with cylindrical base and rounded back, a common Italic type, along with a footstool and three tables (Figure 6.4, left). Each table had three curved legs and a round top that was apparently dished (all the table tops are now deformed). As with the Gordion tables, vessels had been placed on the tops, containing the remains of food and drink (Gentili 2003: 284–285).3 The legs had tenons at the top and ended in carved, lyre-shaped feet – highly stylized versions of Near Eastern lion-paw feet. Mortises were cut in the table top to accommodate the tenons at the top of the legs. These mortises ran through a raised band that extended down on the underside of the table top (Figure 6.4, right). This band served as a ring of reinforcement to strengthen the joints, much like the collars on the underside of the Gordion tables. A similar type of reinforcement is found on wooden tables from the early second millennium BCE excavated from tombs at the site of Baghouz in Syria (Du Mesnil du Buisson 1948; Parr 1996: 45–47; Simpson 2008: fig. 18). The Verucchio tables were not inlaid but were decorated with incised geometric patterns running down the legs and over the tops of the feet – reminiscent of the designs on the Tumulus MM inlaid table (Gentili 2003: plate 131; Simpson 2008: fig. 20). Other Verucchio tombs contained wooden tables, including Tomb 26 from the Moroni Cemetery, excavated in 1969 (von Eles 2012: 241, fig. 3; 249, no. 3), and a table with imaginatively carved legs from Lippi Tomb B, excavated in 1971 (Gentili 2003: plates CXXXVIII–CXL; von Eles 2007: 151–152). This unusual table had sculpted figures attached to the three legs, although it is difficult to know exactly how the legs should be reconstructed (Bentini 2006).

3

On one table were found dishes of fish and meat, on a second table wine bowls and cups, and on a third table plates of grape seeds and nuts.

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Figure 6.4 Three-legged wooden table from Tomb 85, Verucchio, Bologna Museum, with view of table top (underside) showing the means of joining the legs to the top (left, photo by author; right, courtesy Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Rome)

The footstool from Tomb 85 was made in one piece, with a flat top and sides that curved down to form the feet, resembling an Ionic capital (Gentili 2003: plates 136:43, CCLXVII:43). The top and sides are carved (but not inlaid) with geometric patterns made up of hooks, zig-zags, and crosses – designs found on the Tumulus MM table and elsewhere on the furniture from Gordion. Other tombs from Verucchio contained footstools of the same type, including Tombs 26 and 89 (von Eles 2002: plate XIV; 2012: 241, fig. 2; 249, no. 2; Gentili 2003: plates 143:2, CCLXXIII:2). Two one-piece footstools were found in Tumulus P at Gordion (Young 1981: plate 32D; Simpson and Spirydowicz 1999: 61–62). These had flat tops and carved faces, with inward curving sides and stylized feet, suggesting the curved legs of the Gordion tables. Footstools were used throughout antiquity with thrones or high chairs, which were considered essential for men and women of high status. Found in Tomb 89 at Verucchio, along with the carved footstool, were several other wooden objects, including a carved box, a pyxis, a cup, a fan handle, and a magnificent throne (von Eles 2002; Gentili 2003: 293ff.). The finds from this tomb, known as the “Tomb of the Warrior,” are on display in the Museo Civico Archeologico at Verucchio. The throne, now reconstructed, has a cylindrical base and curved backrest (Figure 6.5); the wood has been identified as Populus (poplar) (von Eles 2002: 297; Mazzoli and Pozzi 2015: 91). Seven wheel-like rosettes are carved in openwork at the top of the backrest. The rosettes are decorated with bronze studs and bosses, which also run across and around the backrest; studs and bosses decorate the base of the throne as well. The entire surface was carved (but not inlaid)

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Figure 6.5 Wooden throne from Tomb 89, Verucchio, reconstructed for display (courtesy Patrizia von Eles)

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with geometric patterns and elaborate scenes with figures. The interior face of the backrest features two figural friezes. Both are approximately symmetrical, with similar scenes shown to the left and right of a central group. In the lower frieze are animals at the ends, people in horse-drawn carts, stags, and more people, including armed men, flanking a scene with two females facing one another. The women hold knives and other objects and are apparently engaged in some kind of ritual. In the upper frieze are stags and other animals at the ends, two buildings with pitched roofs, and women weaving on enormous looms, to either side of a central group of two women; a row of birds runs along the top (von Eles 2002: plates XXV– XXVI). In the weaving scene, the women are seated on chairs, on raised platforms, their feet on footstools of the type found in the tombs (von Eles 2002: plate XXIII). The meaning of these scenes is not well understood – but they surely relate to some kind of ceremonial or cult activity, as Patrizia von Eles has suggested (2002: 268–272). To date, twelve (or possibly thirteen) wooden thrones have been identified in the excavated tombs at Verucchio, some decorated with figural scenes (Mazzoli and Pozzi 2015: 89 n. 4; 90, table 1). By contrast, only one piece of wooden furniture excavated at Gordion depicted figures, and these are small animals. The Phrygians had impressive thrones – as we know from Herodotus’ comment on the throne of Midas at Delphi – but none was found in the Gordion excavations. There is evidence for at least one chair, however, in the degraded wooden fragments from the northeast corner of Tumulus MM (Simpson 2010: 111–117). This is nothing like the Verucchio thrones, with their cylindrical bases and rounded backs. Instead, the Phrygian chair had a carved crest rail of boxwood, which depicted small animals in panels (Simpson 2010: figs. 77–78, pls. 104–105A). Although this chair was too fragmentary to be reconstructed, it is clear that the crest rail was supported by slats made of juniper for the backrest; the chair had four boxwood legs. The bronze studs on the Verucchio throne do have counterparts at Gordion – on furniture from Tumulus P, Tumulus W, and the City Mound. A fragmentary serving stand from Tumulus W was made of boxwood boards, joined edge to edge, carved in openwork patterns including wheel-like rosettes and decorated with bronze studs (Simpson and Spirydowicz 1999: 68–70, figs. 91–96). The two serving stands from Tumulus MM, however, did not feature such studs – but elaborate geometric inlay, as with the inlaid table from the same tomb (Figure 6.6). The Tumulus MM serving stands had screen-like faces made of boxwood, inlaid with juniper (Simpson 2010: 65–110). At the center of each face is an inlaid rosette, supported by two curved “legs.” These central elements are set

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Figure 6.6 Inlaid wooden serving stands, Tumulus MM, Gordion, in situ in 1957 (courtesy University of Pennsylvania Museum, image #G2343)

within a grid of square designs, surrounded by thousands of diamonds and triangles. Each stand had a walnut top piece with three open rings that had once held small bronze cauldrons; ten small cauldrons and two ladles were found nearby in the tomb (Simpson 2010: figs. 51, 59; color plates VIB–C). After their conservation, the serving stands were reconstructed for display in the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations (Simpson 2010: 162–163; color plates XII–XV; plates 78–79, 88–89, 133–138). The inlaid ornamentation on the faces of the Tumulus MM serving stands is particularly intriguing (Simpson 2010: 77–83; figs. 50, 58). The main field of decoration on stand A (outside the curved legs) features 184 square designs, and 180 occur on stand B. Most of these squares have a special type of symmetry: they are symmetrical with respect to rotations of 180 degrees. That is, a rotation of the original design by 180 degrees will produce the same design, but any other operation will yield one of three other square motifs, for a total of four distinct possibilities. These are as follows: the original design, the original design rotated 90 degrees, the original design flipped, and the original rotated 90 degrees and then flipped. A swastika with a broken central bar is one such design, used on both serving stands (Simpson 2010: fig. 71, plate 99). The Phrygian cabinetmakers played with this special feature, turning and flipping a few

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main designs to create a seemingly endless variety of patterns, and an overall scheme of baffling complexity. These designs are related to textile patterns, as shown by a rock relief at the site of Ivriz in south-central Turkey depicting King Warpalawas of Tyana, a contemporary of King Midas (Simpson 2010: 85–87, plate 119D; Ballard et al. 2012: 361–363). Warpalawas wears a garment with Phrygian swastikas at the bottom, flipped back and forth, as well as a Phrygian fibula. The prominent design complex at the center of the stands’ faces includes an inlaid rosette medallion, supported by two curved legs, recalling the legs of the inlaid table. These are abstract lion’s legs, ending in stylized paw feet. Above the large medallion is an inlaid half-circle, supported on two arcs that rise from the rosette’s border. This seemingly inscrutable grouping can be explained in light of artistic traditions in the greater Near East, where symbols were used to represent deities (Simpson 2010: 87–91). A Neo-Babylonian stone tablet of King Nabu-appla-iddina (who reigned ca. 887–855 BCE) shows the sun god Shamash, at the right, seated in his shrine (Simpson 2010: plate 116A). Before him, at the center of the composition, is his symbol, a large sun disc, set up on an altar or table. This bears an uncanny resemblance to the motifs on the lower part of the Tumulus MM stands. Above the seated god, within the shrine, the sun disc is shown again, along with two other disc-like symbols. These are identified by an inscription as “Sin, Shamash, and Ishtar.” The symbol for Ishtar is a star rosette. This suggests that the rosettes on the Gordion stands represent a Near Eastern goddess. The iconography can be decoded through a series of monuments in the Phrygian highlands, located to the southwest of Gordion (Simpson 2010: 91–110). One of the grandest is Arslan Kaya, cut from a rocky outcrop and representing a shrine of the Phrygian mother goddess, Matar. The facade is decorated with a network of geometric motifs. In the lower part of the facade is a doorway, which frames a niche; inside the niche is an image of the goddess, wearing a headdress (Simpson 2010: plates 120–121A). Flanking Matar are her two attendant lions, standing on their hind legs and touching her head with their paws. This scene is repeated, in abstract form, on the faces of the Tumulus MM serving stands. The rosette, a symbol for the Mesopotamian goddess Ishtar, has been appropriated by the Phrygians for their own great goddess; her attendant lions are represented by the curved legs that support the rosette from below. The Gordion stands can thus be identified as portable shrines of Matar – important ceremonial objects utilizing powerful religious imagery. This use of decoration on furniture is very different from that seen at Verucchio or indeed from anywhere else.

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Correspondences and Connections

Despite the differences noted above, there are many inferences to be drawn regarding corresponding woodworking styles and techniques in use at the two sites. Geometric designs are favored at both Gordion and Verucchio, and all-over patterning is employed to create a textile-like effect. However, the designs on the inlaid furniture from Tumulus MM – with their complex symmetry, hidden patterns, and embedded symbols – stand in

Figure 6.7 Detail of wooden footstool (a) and view of reconstructed wooden box (b) from Tomb 89, Verucchio (courtesy Patrizia von Eles)

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contrast to the regular patterns on the Verucchio objects. And scenes with figures, carts, buildings, and even looms are present on the Verucchio furniture, with no such images found on the Gordion wood. In terms of technique, the Verucchio designs are carved or incised but not inlaid, although there is evidence that the artists may have wanted to create the impression that they were (Figure 6.7). The box, footstool, and throne from Tomb 89 show traces of dark pigment, added selectively, as though meant to replicate inlay in a darker wood (von Eles 2002: 77–80). Bronze studs were used at both Verucchio and Gordion. Perhaps most significant, threelegged banquet tables occurred in tombs at both sites, employing comparable methods to join the legs to the table tops. The tray-like tops were supported by curved legs with ornate feet rendered in abstract form, ultimately derived from lion-paw feet. And all the fine furniture from Gordion and Verucchio was made for the elite as high-status objects, used in life, and deposited in tombs as funerary offerings for the dead, decorated with designs to communicate the owners’ power, wealth, and connection to cult and ritual. As such, these two important collections reveal clear connections between the arts of central Anatolia and northern Italy in a formative period. Whether the influence was direct or indirect cannot, as of yet, be understood with certainty.

Works Cited Aruz, J., Farkas, A., Alekseev, A., and Korolkova, E. (eds.) 2000. The Golden Deer of Eurasia: Scythian and Sarmatian Treasures from the Russian Steppes. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art; New Haven: Yale University Press. Ballard, M., Burke, B., and Simpson, E. 2012. “Gordion Textiles,” in Phrygians: In the Land of Midas, in the Shadow of Monuments (Frigler: Midas’ın Ülkesinde, Anıtların Gölgesinde), ed. T. Sivas and H. Sivas, 360–375. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Bentini, L. 2006. “Gli arredi in legno della Tomba B/1971,” in Il potere e la morte: aristocrazia guerrieri e simboli, 23–24. Verucchio: Pazzini Stampatore. Du Mesnil du Buisson, R. 1948. Baghouz, L’ancienne Corsôtê. Le tell archaïque et la nécropole de l’âge du bronze. Leiden: Brill. Gentili, G. V. 2003. Verucchio villanoviana: Il sepolcreto in località le Pegge e la necropoli al piede della Rocca malatestiana. Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider. Kenyon, K. M. 1960. Excavations at Jericho, Volume I: The Tombs Excavated in 1952–4. London: British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem. 1965. Excavations at Jericho, Volume II: The Tombs Excavated in 1955–8. London: British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem.

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Wooden Furniture from Verucchio and Gordion Mazzoli, M., and Pozzi, A. 2015. “I troni di Verucchio tra archeologia e iconografia,” in Immagini di uomini e di donne dalle necropoli villanoviane di Verucchio, ed. P. von Eles, L. Bentini, P. Poli, and E. Rodriguez, 89–98. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. McGovern, P., Glusker, D., Moreau, R., Nuñez, A., Beck, K., Simpson, E., Butrym, E., et al. 1999. “A Funerary Feast Fit for King Midas,” Nature 40: 863–864. Parr, P. 1996. “Middle Bronze Age Furniture from Jericho and Baghouz,” in The Furniture of Western Asia, Ancient and Traditional, ed. G. Herrmann, 41–48. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Payton, R. 1984. “The Conservation of an Eighth Century BC Table from Gordion,” in Contributions to the Paris Congress on Adhesives and Consolidants, 133–137. London: International Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works. Ricketts, M. 1960. “Furniture from the Middle Bronze Age Tombs,” in Excavations at Jericho, Volume I: The Tombs Excavated in 1952–4, K. Kenyon, 527–534. London: British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem. Rudenko, S. 1970. Frozen Tombs of Siberia: The Pazyryk Burials of Iron-Age Horsemen. Berkeley: University of California Press. Schuster, C., and Carpenter, E. 1986–1988. Materials for the Study of Social Symbolism in Ancient & Tribal Art. New York: Rock Foundation. 1996. Patterns That Connect: Social Symbolism in Ancient and Tribal Art. New York: Abrams. Simpson, E. 1990. “Midas’ Bed and a Royal Phrygian Funeral,” Journal of Field Archaeology 17: 69–87. 1995. “Furniture in Ancient Western Asia,” in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, Vol. 3, ed. J. Sasson, 1647–1671. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. 2001. “Celebrating Midas: Contents of a Great Phrygian King’s Tomb Reveal a Lavish Funerary Banquet,” Archaeology 54(4): 26–33. 2008. “Banquet Tables at Gordion,” in Aykut Çınaroğlu’na Armağan: Studies in Honour of Aykut Çınaroğlu, ed. E. Genç and D. Çelik, 135–155. Ankara: Ekici Form Ofset. 2010. The Gordion Wooden Objects, Volume 1: The Furniture from Tumulus MM. Leiden: Brill. 2012. “Royal Phrygian Furniture and Fine Wooden Artifacts from Gordion,” in The Archaeology of Phrygian Gordion: Royal City of Midas, ed. C. B. Rose, 149–164. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. 2020. “The Throne of King Midas,” in The Ancient Throne: The Mediterranean, Near East, and Beyond, from the 3rd Millennium BCE to the 14th Century CE, ed. L. Naeh and D. Gilboa, 135–149. Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences.

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Simpson, E. and Spirydowicz, K. 1999. Gordion Wooden Furniture: The Study, Conservation and Reconstruction of the Furniture and Wooden Objects from Gordion, 1981–1998. Ankara: Museum of Anatolian Civilizations. Spirydowicz, K. 1996. “The Conservation of Ancient Phrygian Furniture from Gordion, Turkey,” in Archaeological Conservation and Its Consequences, 166–171. London: International Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works. 2010. “Conservation of the Wooden Furniture from Tumulus MM,” in The Gordion Wooden Objects, Volume 1: The Furniture from Tumulus MM, E. Simpson, 137–158. Leiden: Brill. von Eles, P. 2002. Guerriero e sacerdote: Autorità e comunità nell’età del ferro a Verucchio: La Tomba del Trono. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. 2007. “Le ore del sacro: il femminile e le donne, soggetto e interpreti del divino?” in Le ore e I giorni delle donne, dalla quotidianità alla sacralità tra VIII e VII secolo a.C., ed. P. von Eles, 149–156. Verucchio: Pier Giorgio Pazzini. 2012. “Moroni Cemetery, Tomb 26/1969: The Tomb of the Little Princess,” in “Princesses” of the Mediterranean in the Dawn of History, ed. N. C. Stampolidis, 241, 249–250. Athens: Museum of Cycladic Art. Young, R. S. 1981. Three Great Early Tumuli: The Gordion Excavations Final Reports I. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum.

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Refugee Terracotta Craftsmen from Anatolia in Southern Etruria and Latium, 550/540 to 510 BCE  . 

During the politically tumultuous times near the middle of the sixth century BCE in Anatolia, as the Persian king Cyrus the Great expanded his kingdom westward into modern-day Turkey, many inhabitants of the cities along its western coast fled further west to find new homes. The Ionian Greek city of Phocaea, for example, which had come under Lydian control during the reign of King Croesus ca. 560 BCE, fell to Cyrus with the whole of Lydia in 547/6 BCE. When the Persians arrived to begin the siege of Phocaea, according to Herodotus (1.164–168), all of its citizens abandoned their homes, fearing enslavement, and emigrated to the nearby island of Chios. They soon moved on to Alalia on Corsica, where they had established a trading station twenty years before. Some of the Phocaeans left Alalia and founded a new colony called Elea in southern Italy around 540 BCE. These movements of displaced refugees must have been typical of the area at this time. The Persian capture of Sardis may have spurred many inhabitants to flee to safer places, much like the recent situation with emigrants from Syria. According to Herodotus (1.170), after the fall of Sardis, Bias of Priene – considered one of the Seven Sages of the ancient world – urged the Ionian Greeks to leave their cities and migrate to the Far West. Among these ancient refugees, the evidence suggests, were artisans skilled in the manufacture of terracotta roofs, which enjoyed a rich tradition in Anatolia during the first half of the sixth century BCE. Precisely around 550 to 540 BCE, terracotta roofs in Etruria exhibit a series of new features, including technical innovations as well as new decorative motifs, which are incorporated into traditional Etruscan styles and work practices. These new innovations all find their closest comparisons on earlier roofs of Anatolia. While decorative motifs can easily be transferred through copying, technical features more likely attest to the movement of artisans themselves. The likelihood is that craftsmen trained in roof-making in Anatolia were absorbed into local Etruscan workshops. While the publication of Åkerström (1966) remains the only corpus of Anatolian terracotta roofs, his chronology has been called into question as being too late by several more recent studies of roofs with stratigraphical evidence for dating. Important is the work of Ömer Özyiğit, whose

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excavations at Phocaea have dated construction of the temple of Athena there to 600 to 590 BCE, with the terracotta roof dated shortly thereafter (Özyiğit 2009: 2012). The significance of this date for the temple roof is the raising of the dates for better-preserved and better-known architectural terracottas made from the same molds at nearby Larisa (Åkerström 1966: 197–204, fig. 65), with closely similar ones at Sardis – all three sites along the Hermos River, so easily connected. Publication of terracotta fragments from the Lydian terrace fill on the western hill at Sardis (Ratté 1994) has shown that many of the previously known roof elements from the site can now be more firmly dated to the period after 585 BCE, when King Alyattes returned from battle with the Medes, and before 560 to 550 BCE, the latest date of the pottery in the terrace fill – and, not coincidentally, close to the historic date of 547/6 BCE for the fall of Sardis. The chronology of many other Anatolian roofs is still in dispute. However, for our purposes here concerning the technical and iconographic similarities between Anatolian roofs and Etruscan roofs, the important point is that the comparable Anatolian examples all date from before 550 BCE and the Etruscan examples after 550 BCE (see Winter 2017: 137–148).

7.1

Tarquinia

The earliest recognizable indicators of Ionian Greek artisans joining Etruscan roofing workshops are a new style of antefix and revetment plaque excavated on Pian di Civita at Tarquinia, both datable stylistically to 550 to 540 BCE. The fragmentary antefix (Figure 7.1b; Winter 2009: 498–499, 7.C.1, ill. 7.2.1) displays half of a double volute, a motif probably originally of East Greek origin, as seen on earlier antefixes from the Rhoikos temple at Samos, datable to 570 BCE (Figure 7.1a; Winter 1993: 264–265, fig. 112). The Tarquinia revetment plaque (Winter 2009: 499–500, 7.D.1, ill. 7.2.2) is decorated with a lotus and palmette, perhaps part of a double anthemion, in relief. Similar lotus flowers are found on antefixes from Didyma, dated 570 to 560 BCE (Åkerström 1966: pl. 56.4; Winter 1993: 69, pl. 25), while similar double anthemia in relief are found on the roof of temple C at Selinus in Sicily, dated 550 to 540 BCE (Wikander 1986: 41–42, no. 47, fig. 12, with earlier bibliography) and thought to be of East Greek inspiration (Barletta 1983: 201–203). Comparisons for the Tarquinia terracottas suggest that early refugees from southern Ionian centers, such as Didyma and Samos, may have settled there, while others stopped instead in Sicily. This conclusion corresponds

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Figure 7.1 Terracotta antefixes: (a) from the Rhoikos temple, Samos, ca. 570 BCE (drawing by Chrysanthe Pantages, after Åkerström 1966: pl. 52.2); (b) from Pian di Civita, Tarquinia, 550–540 BCE (drawing by Renate Sponer Za for Winter 2009: ill. 7.2.1)

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well with the evidence presented by Alessandro Naso (Chapter 1) that bucchero pottery excavated at Miletus came from Tarquinia, showing that contacts between Tarquinia and southern Ionian cities existed in the midsixth century BCE. Refugee craftsmen from the area of Larisa–Phocaea–Sardis may instead have joined other Etruscan architectural terracotta workshops. As these three sites shared molds and/or motifs, it is impossible to distinguish between them in terms of specific site origin for the new iconographic and technical features that appear for the first time in Etruria after 540 BCE, based solely on the evidence of the architectural terracottas.

7.2

Veii

At Veii, the roof of the small temple of Menerva in the Portonaccio sanctuary, dated 540 to 530 BCE (Winter 2009: 495, Roof 7–1, ill. Roof 7–1, with earlier bibliography; 2017: 138, fig. 8), retains the earlier Etruscan morphology for revetment plaques with cavetto profile. New features are an L-shaped raking sima, the relief meander, and a painted floral band. A close comparison for the floral band comes from Sardis in Anatolia, datable to 585 to 560/550 BCE (Åkerström 1966: pls. 46 and 50.3). Relief meanders occur frequently on architectural terracottas in Anatolia, such as a lateral sima from Sardis, also datable to 585 to 560/550 BCE (Figure 7.2a; see also Ramage 1978: figs. 30, 40, 45, 54, 59, 95). The star-flowers on the Sardis sima also become a common feature on Etrusco–Ionian architectural terracottas. A relief meander surrounding birds and star-flowers in boxes (Figure 7.2b; Winter 2009: 360–361, 5.D.1.g, fig. 5.17, ill. 5.12) is one of the characteristic features of a decorative system of terracotta roofs known as the Veii–Rome–Velletri system, named after the main sites at which they were first excavated, all dating around 530 BCE. One of the most ornamental roofing systems in the history of Etruscan architecture, some fourteen roofs were made from the same series of molds, which include five different figured friezes on raking simas and revetment plaques, large statuary groups of Herakles and Athena between volute akroteria, and sphinx akroteria at the corners of the roof (Winter 2009: Ch. 5, ills. Roof 5–4 and 5–7; 2017: 139–143, figs. 9–10). Besides the relief meander, a new scene of a chariot race, not previously part of the Etruscan repertoire, is introduced (Winter 2009: 353–355, 5.D.1. a, fig. 5.15, ill. 5.9.1). Chariot races, according to Herodotus (1.166–167), may have been introduced into Etruria following the Battle of Alalia in 540

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Figure 7.2 Terracotta roof elements: (a) lateral sima from Sardis, 585–560/550 BCE (drawing by Chrysanthe Pantages, after Åkerström 1966: figs. 23–23a); (b) revetment plaque from the Palatine Hill, Rome, ca. 530 BCE (drawing by Renate Sponer Za for Winter 2009: ill. 5.12, redrafted by Chrysanthe Pantages)

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BCE, and in fact the earliest chariot-race scenes on Etruscan architectural terracottas occur after that date (Bronson 1965: 94–95; von Mehren 1997: 223–225). Very similar chariot races are depicted earlier on revetment plaques from Larisa–Phocaea–Sardis, dated 585 to 560/550 BCE, where the chariots are bigae, the charioteers wear a short tunic and bend forward, and a dog and/or a hare or fawn is shown running below the horses; a row of concave tongues forms part of the upper border (Figure 7.3a. For Larisa, see also Åkerström 1966: fig. 65. 2 and 4, pls. 19, 21.1, 22–25; Winter 2017: 143, fig. 11.1. For Phocaea, Özyiğit 2012. For Sardis, Ramage 1978: figs. 38–40, 46, 49; Hostetter 1994: figs. 32–33, 43–49). A slightly later set of roofs, dated around 520 BCE, produced by the Veii–Rome–Velletri workshop(s), documented in Rome but best preserved from the site of Caprifico di Torrecchia in Latium, has a scene of a chariot race in relief, with a dog and a hare running below the horses, as well as relief meanders (Figure 7.3b; Winter 2009: 355, 5.D.1.b, ill. 5.9.2; Lulof 2010: 82, figs. VIIIa, IXc; Winter 2017: 143, fig. 11.2) – all familiar motifs introduced from Anatolia. Placement of the chariot race on the left slope of the pediment, running up-slope, is also comparable, as documented by a corner block from Sardis (Figure 7.4a) and another from Caprifico (Figure 7.4b). Revetment plaques from the same roof at Caprifico have a chariot procession (Winter 2009: 358–359, 5.D.1.e, ill. 5.11.1) in which one set of horses has a griffin protome attached to the neckband in the same position as on earlier plaques from Larisa–Phocaea–Sardis (Figure 7.3a). The neckbands themselves on the Caprifico scene also match those on one plaque from Larisa (Figure 7.3a).

7.3

Caere

The presence of Anatolian roof-makers in Etruria can also be detected early on in workshops at Cerveteri, ancient Caere (Winter 2008). An L-shaped raking sima design appears at Cerveteri around 540 BCE (Winter 2009: 410–423, 6.A.2.a–l). The flat vertical plaque frequently carries a painted meander, with birds and star-flowers in the central boxes – a design close to that found in the Veii–Rome–Velletri decorative system in relief, but here only painted. The painted bottom border on one sima made of the characteristic reddish-brown clay of Cerveteri (Winter 2009: 412–414, 6. A.2.c, ill. 6.3.1, fig. 6.3; Christiansen et al. 2010: 29; Winter 2017: 143, fig. 12) may be intended to render in paint a bead-and-reel base molding documented on Larisa–Phocaea–Sardis reliefs (Åkerström 1966: pls. 21.1,

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Figure 7.3 Terracotta revetment plaques: (a) from Larisa on the Hermos, 585–560/550 BCE (drawing by Chrysanthe Pantages, after Åkerström 1966: pl. 25.1); (b) from Caprifico di Torrecchia, ca. 520 BCE (drawing by Renate Sponer Za for Winter 2009: ill. 5.9.2, redrafted by Chrysanthe Pantages)

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Figure 7.4 Corner sima blocks: (a) from Sardis, 585–560/550 BCE (drawing by Chrysanthe Pantages, after Åkerström 1966: fig. 22); (b) from Caprifico di Torrecchia, ca. 520 BCE (drawing by Patricia S. Lulof for Lulof 2010: fig. VId)

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24), while the rosettes on the soffit recall the band in relief on one of the Larisa revetment plaques (Åkerström 1966: pl. 32.3). Birds (Åkerström 1966: pl. 59.1; Hostetter 1994: figs. 24–28) and star-flowers (Figure 7.5a; Hostetter 1994: figs. 25, 29–30; Winter 2017: 144, fig. 13.1) are frequent motifs on architectural terracottas in Anatolia, as seen on raking simas and revetment plaques from Sardis, dated 585 to 560/550 BCE. On another raking sima with a comparable star-flower motif from Cerveteri (Figure 7.5b; Winter 2009: 417–418, 6.A.2.e, ill. 6.4.1, fig. 6.6; 2017: 144, fig. 13.2), dated 520 BCE, the scroll finial at the right is comparable to half of the double-scroll pattern on the Sardis reliefs. Although earlier L-shaped raking simas, painted in the white-on-red technique, have been excavated at Veii (Belelli Marchesini 2011: figs. 3–4, pl. VIIb), one of the new technical elements is the overlapping system where a thin projection called a flange, on the downslope side of the raking sima, overlaps the next lower sima block on the slope, while bracing against it (Winter 2009: 412–414, 6.A.2.c, ill. 6.3.1, fig. 6.3) – a feature documented earlier in Anatolia (Åkerström 1966: figs. 35.3, 72.4–5). Another new technical feature, not previously documented on roofs in Etruria, is surrounding a nail hole with a raised, donut-shaped boss for affixing the tile backer of the raking sima to the wooden rafters of the slope (Winter 2009: 414, 6.A.2.c, 482, 6.F.1; cf. a similar boss on the back of the wing of a sphinx akroterion from Larisa: Graffeo and Lulof 2019: fig. 3, lower left photo). As with the Veii–Rome–Velletri workshop(s), a close correlation with Anatolia in the iconography of revetment plaques with chariot races is also found at Cerveteri. A group of fragmentary plaques in the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, made of the characteristic reddish-brown clay of Cerveteri, can be reconstructed to show two bigae racing to the right (Winter 2009: 447, 6. D.1.a, ill. 6.13.1, fig. 6.21; 2017: 143, fig. 12; Christiansen et al. 2010: 30). Similar to earlier figured friezes with chariot races from Larisa–Phocaea– Sardis (Figure 7.3a), the Copenhagen plaques have a chariot with a mounting handle, narrow bands above and below the figured frieze, and a row of tongues above the frieze. The temple of Athena at Phocaea, in addition to its terracotta roof with chariot races on the revetment plaques, had a remarkable series of griffin and horse protomes, carved of the same tufa as the cella walls, Ionic columns, and foundations, with rectangular projections at the back that are thought to have been inserted into the cella walls, leaving the protomes visible between the columns (Özyiğit 2009: figs. 7–10; 2012: figs. 1–8; Winter 2017: 144, fig. 14). The temple was still standing when the city evacuated, and these horse protomes would have been visual symbols of the

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Figure 7.5 Raking sima plaques: (a) from Sardis, 585–560/550 BCE (drawing by Chrysanthe Pantages, after Åkerström 1966: pl. 44.2); (b) from Cerveteri, ca. 520 BCE (drawing by Renate Sponer Za for Winter 2009: ill. 6.4.1, redrafted by Chrysanthe Pantages)

homeland carried with the refugees. The neckband of the best-preserved horse protome has the same scalloped border as one of the horses on the Ny Carlsberg plaques. Other features of the horse protomes from Phocaea are found on a series of relief horse riders made as finials to sit above the raking sima of the

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pedimental slopes of a roof decorating a building in Vigna Marini–Vitalini at Cerveteri, dated 520 BCE (Winter 2009: 480–481, 6.E.5.b, fig. 6.37; 2017: 144–145, fig. 15; Christiansen et al. 2010: 154–157). The beaded bridle and forelock of the mane are especially close. In addition to the relief revetment plaques, Cerveteri has produced a series of plaques with painted decoration, often with the same motifs seen in relief on earlier Etruscan revetment plaques or on revetment plaques from Larisa on the Hermos. The Etruscan motifs, but here probably painted by an Anatolian artist, include chariot processions (Winter 2009: 453, 6.D.2.a, fig. 6.23, ill. 6.15.1; Christiansen et al. 2010: 131; cf. earlier Etruscan chariot processions in relief: Winter 2009: 251–257, 4.D.1–2) and armed horse riders moving to the left (Winter 2009: 454–456, 6.D.2.b, ills. 6.15.2–3; Christiansen et al. 2010: 130; cf. earlier Etruscan armed horse riders in relief: Winter 2009: 292–293, 4.D.8.h, ill. 4.12.2, fig. 4.31), while the Anatolian motifs include running dogs (Winter 2009: 457–458, 6.D.3.a and c, figs. 6.25–26; Christiansen et al. 2010: 132–133; cf. earlier Larisa running dogs in relief: Åkerström 1966: pls. 21.1, 23–25; Pieraccini, Chapter 13), centaurs brandishing branches (Winter 2009: 458–459, 6. D.3.b and 6.D.3.d, fig. 6.27; Christiansen et al. 2010: 134–135; cf. earlier Larisa centaurs in relief: Åkerström 1966: pl. 27.2), battling animals (Winter 2009: 460–461, 6.D.3.f, fig. 6.28; Christiansen et al. 2010: 136; cf. earlier Sardis fallen bulls in relief: Ramage 1978: figs. 45 and 59), and hunt scenes with landscape elements such as bushes (Winter 2009: 461, 6.D.3.g; Christiansen et al. 2010: 137; cf. an earlier Mytilene antefix with relief hunting scene: Winter 1993: 263, fig. 110, with earlier bibliography). Floral motifs that were regular features on the Larisa–Phocaea–Sardis architectural terracottas (Åkerström 1966: pl. 32.3–4) recur on painted plaques at Cerveteri, painted in greens and blues (Winter 2009: 461–463, 6.D.4–5, ills. 6.16.1–2). In fact, polychromy is a feature of the EtruscoIonian workshop at Cerveteri, with brown and gold – as well as blue and green – added to the earlier palette of red, white, and black; the preference for a white background and black outlines also draws comparison with earlier painted pottery from Anatolia (see Paleothodoros, Chapter 14). A final important link to Anatolia may be found with the iconic Etruscan high reliefs on columen and mutulus plaques in the pediments of temples. A series of fragments in high relief mounted on a background plaque, from old excavations at Larisa, represent life-sized horses, a ram, male figures including a possible Herakles, as well as female figures (Kjellberg et al. 1940: 117–127); a similar horse head was excavated at Phocaea (Özyiğit 2012: 188, fig. 29). Although probably originally

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belonging to terracotta pediments that filled the entire triangular space rather than to columen and mutulus plaques (Graffeo and Lulof 2019), one of the Larisa fragments (Graffeo and Lulof 2019: 55, fig. 5a) preserves a horse hoof on a plinth attached to a flat background, as is typical for Etruscan high-relief plaques, so the technique and concept of deeply projecting terracotta sculpture within the pediment is similar. Cerveteri is one of the earliest places in Etruria where high reliefs have been documented (Winter 2009: 463–466, 6.D.6, figs. 6.29–30, ill. 6.17; 2017: 145–147, fig. 15; Christiansen et al. 2010: 160–166), and Larisa and Phocaea are among the few places in Anatolia that have thus far produced fragments attributable to high-relief pedimental sculpture, so a possible origin in Ionia can be proposed, given the numerous other links between the roofs of Larisa–Phocaea and Cerveteri. The many points of comparison between the earlier roofs of Larisa– Phocaea–Sardis and later examples from Cerveteri call to mind a story related by Herodotus (1.166–167). Following a sea battle with the Etruscans and Carthaginians at Alalia in 540 BCE, many Phocaeans were taken prisoner, and a number of them were slaughtered at the Etruscan city of Caere. Animals and humans passing the place of the slaughter became deformed, so the city consulted the Delphic oracle and was instructed to establish a funerary ceremony in honor of the slain Phocaeans, with athletic and equestrian games. The timing of this event coincides with the introduction of chariot race scenes on architectural terracottas at Cerveteri and recalls an event in Homer’s Iliad (Book 23), where a chariot race was part of the funeral games for Patroclus at Troy. The presence on the Cerveteri roofs of new features characteristic of earlier Anatolian roofs – and particularly those of the area of Larisa–Phocaea–Sardis –immediately after 540 BCE suggests that at least some of the Phocaean prisoners had been roof-makers in their homeland and that they not only survived the slaughter of prisoners but lived to practice their craft at Caere, introducing new decorative and technical features into the established, traditional workshops of the city. Similar evidence exists for the Caeretan hydriae and for cylinder-relief scenes on braziers and pithoi at Cerveteri (Hemelrijk 1984; Pieraccini 2003; Serra Ridgway 2010; Winter 2013). The latest architectural terracottas at Cerveteri that show these points of comparison date to around 510 BCE, after which time a new style of terracotta roofs, using much larger-scale revetment plaques with floral decoration, becomes fashionable. Thus the Anatolian craftsmen in Etruscan roofing workshops may have died out after a single generation. But their contributions to three decades of Etruscan roof-making helped to make it one of the most prolific

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Refugee Terracotta Craftsmen from Anatolia

and creative periods within a long tradition of beautifully crafted architectural decoration, during which the Veii–Rome–Velletri workshop(s) produced some twenty decorated roofs in twenty years and the Etrusco-Ionian workshop(s) at Cerveteri another twenty-six in the period from 540 to 510 BCE – more roofs than in any other period during the seventh and sixth centuries BCE in Etruria. This alone shows the extensive impact of artistic exchange between Etruscan and Anatolian roof décor.

Works Cited Åkerström, Å. 1966. Die architektonischen Terrakotten Kleinasiens. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup. Barletta, B. 1983. Ionic Influence in Archaic Sicily: The Monumental Art. Gothenburg: Paul Aström. Belelli Marchesini, B. 2011. “Veio. Un frontoncino da Piano di Comunità,” in Tetti di terracotta: La decorazione architettonica fittile tra Etruria e Lazio in età arcaica, Officina Etruscologia 5, ed. A. Conti, 175–186. Rome: Officina Edizioni. Bronson, R. C. 1965. “Chariot Racing in Etruria,” in Studi in onore di Luisa Banti, ed. R. Bianchi Bandinelli, 89–106. Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. Christiansen, J., and Winter, N. A., with contributions by P. S. Lulof. 2010. Etruria I: Architectural Terracottas and Painted Wall Plaques, Pinakes, c. 625–200 BC. Catalogue, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. Copenhagen: Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. Graffeo, V., and Lulof, P. 2019. “Il frontone in terracotta di Larisa sull’Hermos,” in Deliciae Fictiles V. Networks and Workshops. Architectural Terracottas and Decorative Roof Systems in Italy and Beyond. Proceedings of the Fifth International Conference held at the University of Campania “Luigi Vanvitelli” and the National Archaeological Museum in Naples, ed. P. Lulof, I. Manzini, and C. Rescigno, 49–62. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Hemelrijk, J. M. 1984. Caeretan Hydriae. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Hostetter, E. 1994. Lydian Architectural Terracottas: A Study in Tile Replication, Display and Technique. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Kjellberg, K., Boehlau, J., Dalman, K. O., Schefold, K., Kjellberg, E., and Åkerström, Å. 1940. Larisa am Hermos: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen, 1902–1934, II: Die architektonischen Terrakotten. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Lulof, P. S. 2010. “Manufacture and Reconstruction,” in Il tempio arcaico di Caprifico di Torrecchia (Cisterna di Latina). I materiali e il contesto, ed. D. Palombi, 79–111. Rome: Edizioni Quasar. Özyiğit, Ö. 2009. “Recent Discoveries at Phocaea,” Empurias 56: 25–40. 2012. “The Horses of Phocaea,” in Ord. Prof. Dr. Ekrem Akurgal 100 Yaşindaş Anadolu/Anatolia Supplement 3.1, ed. O. Bingöl and E. Akurgal, 173–202. Ankara: Ankara Üniversitesi, Dil ve Tarih-Coğrafya Fakültesi, Arkeoloji Bölümü.

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Pieraccini, L. C. 2003. Around the Hearth: Caeretan Cylinder-Stamped Braziers, Studia archaeologica 120. Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider. Ramage, A. 1978. Lydian Houses and Architectural Terracottas, Sardis Monographs 5. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Ratté, C. 1994. “Archaic Architectural Terracottas from Sector Byzfort at Sardis,” Hesperia 63: 361–390. Serra Ridgway, F. R. 2010. Pithoi stampigliati ceretani: Una classe originale di ceramica etrusca. Studia archaeologica 178. Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. von Mehren, M. 1997. “Composite Motifs on Etruscan Frieze Plaques: A Local and Foreign Phenomenon,” in Deliciae Fictiles II: Proceedings of the Second International Conference on Archaic Architectural Terracottas from Italy Held at the Netherlands Institute in Rome, 12–13 June 1996, ed. P. S. Lulof and E. M. Moorman, 219–227. Amsterdam: Thesis Publishers. Wikander, C. 1986. Sicilian Architectural Terracottas: A Reappraisal. Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Rome. Winter, N. A. 1993. Greek Architectural Terracottas from the Prehistoric to the End of the Archaic Period, Oxford Monographs on Classical Archaeology. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 2008. “Sistemi decorativi di tetti ceretani fino al 510 a.C.,” in Munera Ceretana in ricordo di Mauro Cristofani, Atti del Incontro di Studio, Roma (CNR), 1 febbraio 2008, Mediterranea 5 (2009), ed. V. Bellelli, F. Delpino, P. Moscati, and P. Santoro, 187–196. Pisa: Fabrizio Serra Editore. 2009. Symbols of Wealth and Power: Architectural Terracotta Decoration in Etruria and Central Italy, 640–510 B.C., Supplement to MAAR 9. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. 2013. “Confronti fra scene su bracieri e pithoi ceretani e terrecotte architettoniche,” in Studi e ricerche a Tarquinia e in Etruria. Atti del simposio internazionale in ricordo di Francesca Romana Serra Ridgway, Tarquinia, 24–25 settembre 2010, Mediterranea 10 (2014), ed. M. D. Gentili and L. Maneschi, 85–96. Pisa: Fabrizio Serra Editore. 2017. “Traders and Refugees: Contributions to Etruscan Architecture,” Etruscan Studies 20: 123–151.

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 

Shared Practices

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Etruscan Lightning and Anatolian Images The Use and Perception of Tridents in Etruria and the East*    August 23. If in any way it should thunder, it signifies that the lightning bolt shall fall, and warns of slaughter. —Etruscan Brontoscopic Calendar

8.1

Introduction

Tridents and bidents were used in early Italy as symbols of divinatory power associated with lightning and are known by the evidence of actual metal objects and rare representations. Metal tridents have also been found in Anatolia, and in Phrygia and Urartu. The tradition has deeper roots in the Near East, but evidence at Urartian sites and at Phrygian Gordion is especially pertinent for the identification of the Etruscan and Italic emblems. Four elite Italic tombs of the eighth through seventh centuries BCE held or displayed metal tridents that probably served as emblems of storm gods, lightning, and divination. Fragile or even blunted, these implements could really only be symbolic, and two show evidence of intense ritual destruction, likely during the funerary ritual. Trident symbols have been traced to the Near East by scholars including Giuseppe Furlani (in 1931), Gabriele Rossoni (1997), and Ferdinando Sciacca (2003, 2004), and their design links them to Anatolian tridents in particular as well as some from the Levant. Iconography and archaeological contexts of the two regions, as well as Assyrian epigraphic documents, indicate the use of tridents as standards or ceremonial images that were venerated as divine symbols, associated with the power of a ruler or priest. The Anatolian evidence also shows that – sometimes – a trident was just a trident, used for fishing or cooking.

*

I am grateful to the Villa Giulia staff for facilitating my visit, as well as for their kind hospitality during the workshop. I am grateful to many colleagues and friends for assistance with information, images, and logistics, especially Ingrid Edlund-Berry, Giuseppe Della Fina, Camilla Norman, Susanne Berndt, and, of course, Elizabeth Baughan and Lisa Pieraccini. I am particularly indebted to my colleague Gareth Darbyshire for some of the following data kindly shared from his ongoing study of the Gordion metalwork.

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8.2

Tridents and Bidents in Near Eastern Imagery

In the Near East, second-millennium images – including some on Old Assyrian seals from Kültepe (Rossoni 1997: 579–580, 589 fig. 4.8) and a well-known Syro-Hittite stele at Zincirli portraying the weather god Teshub (Rossoni 1997: 581, 590 fig. 5.1; Sciacca 2004: 273 fig. 6) – depict gods or important personages wielding tridents or bidents. A Neo-Assyrian god (Ninurta or Adad) wields double-ended trident bolts against a monster in a Nimrud palace relief (Figure 8.1a). The early examples of divine tridents have wavy or in-curving outer prongs or tines. Around the end of the twelfth century, inscriptions of the Assyrian king Tiglath-Pileser I (1115–1077 BCE) describe his pious act of setting up inscribed bronze thunderbolts in the Temple of Anu and Adad at Ashur. Coincidentally, something approximating these – a golden thunderbolt 45 cm long with three wavy tines (and a wooden core) was discovered by German excavators in levels of the later ninth century in Ashur, where it had been hidden by ancient plunderers, very near the Anu–Adad Temple (Andrae 1909: 77–78 pl. xxxiv; Sciacca 2004: 273 fig. 7). (The gold was estimated to weigh 250 grams, and the object is of a scale appropriate for a life-sized statue.) A Neo-Assyrian seal (Figure 8.1b) of the ninth to eighth centuries depicts such an emblem apparently in situ: A huntsman rides out in view of symbols of various gods (Rossoni 1997: 581–582, 590 fig. 5.3). A trident stands upright in the ground behind the rider. It seems reminiscent of the kudurru emblems on a rock-relief of Sennacherib at Khinnis/Bavian (Figure 8.1c: to left of center in the lower row of gods’ symbols is a trident-shape, representing Adad, the storm god), and an earlier kudurru of Meli-Shipak II (–1186 BCE) with a bident representing Adad, now in the Louvre (Black and Green 1992: fig. 10; Turfa 2012: fig. 14). The thunderbolts dedicated by Tiglath-Pileser were probably also displayed upright in or on the ground, tines pointing skyward. This veneration of a trident as the symbol of a storm god (Mesopotamian Adad or Anatolian Teshub) reappears in some seventhcentury Urartian seals (e.g., Figure 8.1d) that show a regal personage attended by a parasol-bearer; he gestures to a lion, who strides ahead of him toward a large trident planted upright on the ground (Sciacca 2004: 274 fig. 8). The lion symbolizes the Urartian god Haldi, the trident Tesheiba – the weather god. Other Assyrian reliefs show such short-handled tridents carried by tribute-bearers, one on a relief from the throne-dais in the palace of Shalmaneser III at Nimrud (Figure 8.1e), the other on one of the Nimrud ivories (Figure 8.1f) from the Northwest palace; these tridents have three straight tines and short handles. Shalmaneser’s relief is inscribed, identifying

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Figure 8.1 Examples of tridents and bidents in Near Eastern imagery: (a) relief from the Temple of Ninurta, Nimrud/Kalhu, era of Ashurnasirpal II, 883–859 BCE (Turfa 2012: fig. 15, after Black and Green 1992: 142–143 fig. 117); (b) Neo-Assyrian sealing, ninth or eighth century BCE (after Rossoni 1997: 590 fig. 5.3); (c) Assyrian kudurru (commemorating a land transaction) in a rock relief of Sennacherib (704–681 BCE) at Bavian/Khinnis (Turfa 2012: fig. 14, after Black and Green 1992: 17 fig. 10); (d) Urartian seal, Tehran, National Museum of Iran (after Sciacca 2004: 274 fig. 8); (e) stone relief from the throne-dais of room T1 in Fort Shalmaneser, Nimrud, era of Shalmaneser III, 858–824 BCE (after Rossoni 1997: fig. 5.5 and Sciacca 2004: 277 fig. 14); (f ) fragmentary ivory relief from Nimrud, Northwest Palace (after Rossoni 1997: 590 fig. 5.4)

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the objects as tribute from the land of Unqi, thus demonstrating his conquest of its ruler and people (Rossoni 1997: 582). The tridents, as special objects to be passed (sometimes unwillingly) from king to king, would express the power of his rule. Such a perception is emphasized by a number of Assyrian cuneiform texts (surveyed by Furlani 1931; Rossoni 1997: 582–583) proclaiming that the king (in succession Ashurnasirpal II, Shamshi-Adad V, and Sennacherib – thus the ninth to the seventh centuries) thunders over his enemies like Adad, or strikes the wicked with a thunderbolt, and so on (Tiglath-Pileser’s early donation of bronze thunderbolts in Adad’s temple commemorated his conquest of Khanusa).

8.3

Tridents and Bidents in Italic Burials

Beginning about the time of the Neo-Assyrian tablets and images in the eighth century (775–725 BCE), some Italic nobles of the ruling class were buried (or commemorated in absentia) with a special trident or bident that must have proclaimed their importance and identity as rulers and perhaps also as warriors or priests in divination cults. The northernmost and earliest example is a two-pronged bronze “bident” from an eighth-century Golassecan warrior’s tomb at Vigna di Mezzo, Rondineto (near Como) (Figure 8.2; see De Marinis 1988: figs. 146–147 for color photo). The tomb also held a pair of horse bits – evidence for one of the first chariots in use in Italy and surely a symbol of a ruler of the Golaseccan culture (Turfa 2012: 63). De Marinis and Gambari (2005: 208) detected in this necropolis, “i primi segni di un nuovo assetto sociale” (“the first signs of a new social order”), namely the process of social stratification. The bronze bident has a twisted shaft with central eyelet and jingly bronze pendant ornaments. Giovanni Colonna (Gambari and Colonna 1988: 159 fig. 21) has noted the similar design of the curious implement in relief in the fourth-century Tomb of the Reliefs at Cerveteri (ancient Caere). The simple rod with eyelet painted in the Giglioli Tomb at Tarquinia might be related (see Section 8.6). Within a generation of this burial, the San Jacopo necropolis at Etruscan Pisa saw a complex funerary ceremony for one of its ruling class, presumed from the grave goods to be a man, although no body was found in its wooden chamber (Bruni 1998: 106–107, pls. 26–30, trident pl. 28; Floriani and Bruni 2006). Bones from cattle, sheep, pigs, dogs, and tortoises attest to an elaborate set of sacrificial rituals for the missing personage (Sorrentino 2004). The possible cenotaph was constructed with an iron trident standing upright in a base placed above the offering chamber: The trident was then

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Etruscan Lightning and Anatolian Images

Figure 8.2 Bronze bident from a Golaseccan tomb of the late eighth century BCE at Vigna di Mezzo, Rondineto (drawing by Gray Baughan after Gambari and Colonna 1988: 159 fig. 21)

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broken and a stone altar placed above it. The altar was then violently smashed just before the whole complex was covered with a massive tumulus which became the focus for subsequent burials. A jar contained what may be the remains of a pyre on which a statue was cremated, possibly to represent the missing person – perhaps someone consumed by lightning or someone associated with lightning divination? The next burial with a trident occurred soon after, in the early seventh century, at Vetulonia. The Circolo del Tridente, also originally covered with a tumulus, held a chariot and cart, banquet equipment (including imports like Near Eastern ribbed bowls and Sardinian vases: Pagnini 2000; Cygielman and Pagnini 2002, 2006: 72–74, pl. VII,f,I; Sciacca 2004: 271 figs. 2, 3), arms, tools (including spindles), and rich personal ornaments, but, again, no body or trace of a pyre was found; some of the offerings were heirlooms of the eighth century, the sort of goods that emphasize dynastic stability. Cygielman and Pagnini (2006: 153) see the bronze trident as a “royal sign, a true scepter” (insegna “regale,” un vero e proprio skeptron), demonstrating that this society had adopted some Levantine ideology and symbolic models. The Vetulonia trident (Figure 8.3) seems not to have been ritually damaged, but it is so delicate and carefully decorated, with the tine section and shaft-socket cast in separate pieces to be fastened with a fine chained pin, that it really could only have been used for display purposes. This is a beautiful piece of expert casting with cold-work decorating the surfaces (Sciacca 2004: 271 figs. 2–3; Cygielman and Pagnini 2006: 72–75 nos. 191–192, pl. VII, f, I; Turfa 2012: fig. 13). The option of dismantling the long shaft from the tines implies frequent transport. The latest and southernmost example (Figure 8.4; see also, Pagnini 2000; Turfa 2012: 64) – an iron trident made of twisted rods – had a center tine longer than the others, which curved inward; all three tines ended in blunt, spherical tips. Clearly it was never meant for use as a tool. The tomb in which it was deposited, at Marsiliana d’Albegna (Tomb XLI = Circolo della Fibula), was a typical mid-seventh-century Etruscan princely tomb, with a chariot and other markers of a ruling family. On the tomb’s travertine platform the trident was laid down cross-wise, while a warrior was buried in a wood-lined trench within the circle.

8.4

Typology of Tridents

The long, straight tines of most of the Italic examples differ from the pattern of Bronze Age Mesopotamian and Levantine divine tridents (as

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Figure 8.3 Bronze trident from the Tomba del Tridente at Vetulonia, first quarter of the seventh century BCE. Florence, Museo Archeologico Nazionale nos. 7123, 7124 (total length of metal segments 89.5 cm) (Falchi 1908: figs. 7–9)

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Figure 8.4 Iron trident from the Circolo della Fibula tomb at Marsiliana d’Albegna, mid-seventh century BCE (Minto 1921: pl. 48.2, with additional metal objects from the tomb)

known from Ur, Byblos, and Ugarit) but are close to those of Iron Age Levantine and Anatolian tridents, many of which are from burials and could also have been only for ceremonial use. In the typology set by Rossoni (1997: see figs. 2 and 3; Sciacca 2004 provides additional illustrations), Types A1b, A2b, and B2 (Figure 8.5) are somewhat comparable in form to the Etruscan tridents. Whether in bronze or iron, the tines are exceedingly long and thin. In Near Eastern Type B2, the junction of the outer tines with the shaft is somewhat ornamental, forming a sinuous curve at the base that does not seem practical (Rossoni 1997: fig. 3). These tridents range chronologically from the Late Bronze Age to the seventh century BCE and are mostly from funerary contexts in the Levant and Anatolia: Akko, Tel Jedur, Lachish, Lcasen (Armenia), and Hala Sultan Tekke (Cyprus). Others of the type come from a deposit containing arms at Ugarit, from the first Hittite level at Maşat Höyük, and from the fortress at Tell Defenneh. Since these tridents are not practical as weapons, some of them may have been standards or emblems for parade or ceremonial use.

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Figure 8.5 Examples of Rossoni’s types of Anatolian and related tridents: bronze, from Kültepe, Hala Sultan Tekke, Maşat Höyük, and Lcasen; iron, from Boğazköy, Karmir-Blur, and Lachish (after Rossoni 1997: 587–588, figs. 2–3)

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A plain version of the trident with attenuated straight tines – Rossoni’s Types A1b and A2b – looks more utilitarian. The long, straight tines of the Vetulonia trident are closest to these Type A examples. The contexts of these types are all Levantine and Anatolian, and only three seem to be funerary: Kültepe (three examples) and Gordion Tumulus E. The tridents of Gordion are very heavy and large, with strongly welded tines: They were meant for some activity but are all from contexts that could be secondary. Simple tridents with attenuated tines also appear, in domestic or nonfunerary contexts, at Beth Shean, Gezer, Toprakkale (two examples), and Karmir Blur (two examples).

8.5

Anatolian Tridents

At Phrygian Gordion, one of the earliest iron tridents was sealed by the conflagration of circa 800 BCE inside a sort of hearth or oven in a room adjacent to Megaron 1 (note revised dating in Rose and Darbyshire 2011). This context suggests a use in food preparation, perhaps for special ritual or sacrificial meals associated with the megara and the adjacent courtyard. Terrace Building 7 – one of a series of workrooms with tools for food preparation (saddle querns, meat hooks) – also held a large, heavy trident when the firestorm came (Figure 8.6). On a house platform of the Middle Phrygian period (ca. 700) lay a heavy but useful trident with a short, carefully hafted handle not unlike the one in simplified depiction on the Nimrud throne relief (Figure 8.1e). This object was later incorporated in the mound of Tumulus B (once incorrectly labeled tumulus D). The hill that preceded the tomb held several pits, some with stone idols, one with four knives – might they have been ritual or sacrificial pits? Tumulus E, constructed during the early Achaemenid occupation of Gordion, held a massive trident of well-forged iron, 100.5 cm in length, the tines of which were dramatically bent backwards and across the shaft; most of the Gordion tridents show that someone exerted a lot of energy in bending or damaging each one. In fact, the very survival of such large iron artifacts is suggestive of ritual deposition. In the first millennium BCE, people simply could not afford to overlook scrap metal – if these things were not recycled, it must have been because they served a special, ideological purpose, such as foundation deposits, display, or ritual food preparation. The design and technique of manufacture, too, seem to link the Anatolian implements with those found in Italy. The outer tines are bent and carefully

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Figure 8.6 Iron trident (ILS-500) from Gordion, Terrace Building, unit 7 (TB-7), main room. Early Phrygian Destruction Level, ca. 800 BCE (courtesy Gareth Darbyshire, Gordion Excavations)

welded onto the central tine and shaft; shaft and tines are often fastened with a pin (see Figure 8.6), even (as in the example from Gordion Tumulus B) with a small chain to retain smaller elements. The tridents of Boğazköy and seventh-century Urartian Toprakkale and Karmir Blur were made by the same technique. The example from Boğazköy (Rossoni 1997: no. 5) from the Büyükkale I Palace Phrygian level (seventh through sixth centuries) is very close to those of Gordion in type and manufacture – iron with a tubular shaft and long thin outer tines welded to the shaft-base. And finally, the date of this phenomenon is telling: The majority of Iron Age examples are from Phrygia, Urartu, Iran (Tepe Sialkh), or the Levant

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(Lachish, Beth Shean, Negev, Tell Defenneh). The oldest known iron trident was found at Lachish in a tomb of the tenth century. The Phrygian tridents were deposited during the period from ca. 800 to the sixth century BCE, and the Italian versions were ceremonially deposited between 700 and 650 BCE. Tridents at Beth Shean (eighth century) and Tell Defenneh in the Nile Delta may be interpreted as imports to the Levant or as imitations of an Anatolian design (the following data have been summarized by Rossoni 1997 and Sciacca 2004.). A bronze trident from a thirteenth-century tomb at Hala Sultan Tekke, Cyprus, was 87.5 cm long through its tubular shaft; it was placed at the foot of the deceased in a rich burial. Sciacca and Rossoni, following Furlani’s lead, linked the Iron Age type to the Etruscan examples, and then suggested an Anatolian origin, with strong connections to the Levant. A thirteenth-century Hittite bronze trident excavated on the East Terrace at Maşat Höyük in Anatolia was interpreted by Özgüç as a weapon of Syrian origin; likewise a bronze from Lcasen, Armenia, was deemed a Levantine import. There are not enough finds for statistical analysis, so one cannot pronounce an origin yet.

8.6

Function and Symbolism

Italic groups, as known from Daunian stelai, may also have recognized a symbolic staff that sometimes resembles a trident or bident, although some tridents are indeed shown in fishing scenes. An as-yet-unpublished Daunian stele in Belgium, kindly brought to my attention by Camilla Norman (pers. comm. 5/22/2016), has a procession scene on the back, with a tall trident carried upright by the second figure in the opposing line – a figure that in most other examples carries nothing unless it is a vase upon the head. Another Daunian incised stele (Manfredonia Museum no. 804) depicts a farewell scene with a staff placed upright between the two figures; it has a W-shaped finial. It appears that some rituals in this community were dignified with the addition of a tall staff with a trident-like finial (for Daunian stelai, see Norman 2009). Some finds with arms or in military contexts might be the result of a divination cult linked to the army. Some tridents undoubtedly served as tools. Poseidon’s trident, however, came to him by virtue of his identity as a storm god, based on earlier Near Eastern motifs; fishing with a trident came later (the probable fishing trident from the Uluburun shipwreck, ca. 1300 BCE, is compact at 26 cm long). In Roman myth, the Etruscan

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Porsenna called down thunderbolts to dispatch the monster Olta (Ulta?) (Massa-Pairault 1999: 80–82; Pliny HN 2.139–140). The Etruscan god Tinia on the Castel San Mariano chariot panel (ca. 525–500 BCE, Figure 8.7) holds a staff-like thunderbolt as tall as he is (with four short tines). In modern culture, the trident is less often a symbol of marine prowess but continues to be a symbol of celestial power, for instance as the emblem of the Arizona State University football team, the Sun Devils. The implement is easily recognized as both weapon and tool. Given that tridents in the Near East have also served as thunderbolt/lightning-bolt symbols since at least the third millennium, we may ask why this particular form? Photographs that capture lightning strikes during storms do not normally show a simple, three-pronged figure plunging downward, but lightning strikes do sometimes resemble bidents, with two ground-penetrating bolts. Only the first stroke of a lightning discharge causes such branching. Rare occasions with multiple ground strikes may look as if the bolts are raining down (Figure 8.8). Actually, the “stepped leader” or “luminous leader,” a speeding electrical charge, only works downward in 150-foot-long segments until the lowest arrives about 150 feet (46 m) from the ground; then a “streamer,” a climbing surge of energy, rises up (through a building, tree, or human) to meet it and forms a channel through which electricity is discharged as lightning with thunder, with any subsequent strokes following the original path (Rakov and Uman 2003; Orville 2011). During the eighth century – in the climatic period known as the Hallstatt Minimum – Italy was especially subject to much harsher cyclonic storms, due to cosmic ray activity in the solar system. I have elsewhere (Turfa 2012: 37–44) interpreted this situation as conducive to the promotion of thunder divination. It was a good time to observe electrical storms. What if the planting of a model trident with tines upward, as in the Urartian sealing scene (Figure 8.1d), was understood as the completion of a lightning strike, the return of the lightning force from ground to sky? The thunderclap cannot occur until the streamer rises up from the earth. A lightning strike constitutes tens of thousands of volts of electricity discharging – superhuman power that is evident to any observer. Any ancient individual, irrespective of culture, could have made observations of lightning, thunder, and their effects, and a trident may be a logical device to symbolize this. There may be in Etruria an intended parallel to the “streamer” lightning bolt, in the form of a trident with curved tines. At the sanctuary of Uni-Astarte at Pyrgi, the raking sima of Temple B, as displayed in the Villa Giulia, incorporates little tridents

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Figure 8.7 Tinia in conversation with Hercle on bronze relief side-panel of a parade chariot found at Castel San Mariano, Umbria, ca. 525–500 BCE. Perugia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale no. 453 (Turfa 2012: fig. 7, after Feruglio 1991: 133)

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Figure 8.8 Photograph of a lightning strike taken October 20, 2010 (public domain image “Lightning 77584_1920,” provided by Pixabay, uploaded February 4, 2013, downloaded August 12, 2016)

(without long shafts) constructed from thin bronze rods. They are placed at wide intervals along the top edge of the cavetto curved sima (with tiny ones on the heads of the antefixes). The sima tridents do not serve the function of the meniskoi of statuary (they would never deter birds from perching, see Ridgway 1990), but they might have been designed as lightning arresters.1 The practice of planting a trident upright in the ground in ritual performance, though, as in the Anatolian images and Etruscan tombs, seems less pragmatic and more like a deliberate, reasoned choice. Etruscan art is not likely to provide us with a graphic scene of a lightning strike (although Roman religious terminology reminds us of historic cases of fulgur conditum, “lightning buried” – a phrase used to mark places where

1

In fact, it appears that, in addition to the raking sima’s cavetto top and the antefixes of the monumental buildings at Pyrgi, even the great columen-plaque of Temple A had small metal tridents protruding from the heads of its sprawling figures, even those so steeply angled that birds could not have perched on them. See Colonna 2000: 314 fig. 35 (Temple A columen) and 282 fig. 20 (Temple B antefix types).

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lightning has struck the ground). Peaceful images with a sort of standard planted in the ground may indicate the imminent presence of thunder and lightning, that is, the storm god(s), as in the black-figured amphora of the Orvieto Group now in the Museo Claudio Faina, Orvieto (Figure 8.9). It was described by Maria Cappelletti (1992: 118–122 no. 37) and analyzed by Françoise-Hélène Massa-Pairault in her consideration of the legends of Old Volsinii (1999: 82–83, 96 fig. 1). Composed of a few graceful lines, the trident has a pointed base and out-curving tines, with a slight similarity to the rather floral keraunos (thunderbolt) seen in many representations of Zeus or Tinia or Menrva (see Turfa 2012: figs. 9, 10). On the vase in a single register, four men in garments similar to those of the officials in the Tomb of the Augurs, Tarquinia, take part in a ceremony with dramatic gestures of arms and staves; one wears the headgear of a priest, perhaps (according to Massa-Pairault) a haruspex fulguriator (“diviner of thunderbolts”). Possibly the ceremony relates to that of fulgur conditum, to purify a place or a being who has been struck by lightning. Sometimes such a lightning strike is survivable. Susanne Berndt has kindly apprised me (pers. comm. 5/25/2016) of a Phrygian (ca. 500–490 BCE) representation of the ceremonial display of an upright trident in the Painted House at Gordion on a fragment of painted plaster currently under study (see Chapter 12). This is one of the latest representations (sixth century) of such ceremonial display. Planting a trident in the earth, tines upward, may represent the fulgur conditum, but could it have been yet more proactive? Putting the trident into the ground with tines pointing skyward might represent, like the lightning streamer, the completion of a cycle – the earth-bound contribution to, or acknowledgement of, a storm event, a release of power. Giovanni Colonna pointed out the resemblance to the items on the walls of the Tomb of the Reliefs at Caere and the Giglioli Tomb at Tarquinia (see Blanck and Proietti 1986: 38 fig. 27, pl. 20a; Steingräber et al. 1986: pl. 2, left-hand pillar; pl. 81). I note an alternate interpretation for these implements, suggested to me by Susan Jones (pers. comm.), as “come-alongs,” used to lead a horse who must be caught in a field and led back to be harnessed. (The color schemes may show wood and/or leather in their construction.) Might the Rondineto bident’s central eyelet (see Figure 8.2) be an allusion to such implements, emphasizing catching a lightning bolt and thus controlling the lightning streamers? Or perhaps the trident with upright tines was installed to express the willingness of the worshiper to comply with the mood and the intentions of a god to send energy upward to meet the power of the lightning’s stepped leader?

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Figure 8.9 Etruscan black-figured amphora of the Orvieto Group, late sixth to early fifth century BCE. Orvieto, Museo Claudio Faina no. 2713 (courtesy Museo Claudio Faina and Dr. Giuseppe Della Fina)

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8.7

Conclusions

Near Eastern symbolic tridents first appeared during the Bronze Age and were frequently used in the first half of the first millennium BCE. It is interesting that the attested Italian ceremonial tridents are of the eighth to seventh centuries BCE – just the time that the Brontoscopic Calendar and other cultic effects were developing, thus furnishing additional means of enhancing urbanization and consolidation of Etruscan (and neighboring) great cities (Turfa 2012). Such an effect, derived from omen literature, may lie beneath some of the so-called Orientalizing bestiary of Italic art, for instance, the imagery on an olla from an early seventh-century Faliscan tomb group from Celle (Tabolli and Turfa 2015: 146). It features two curious horse-like creatures with teeth and tongues flashing, quite unlike other Italic horse images. The Šumma Izbu (If the Malformed Newborn) – the Mesopotamian divination document – describes such creatures as ominous for city and state (Leichty 1970: 91, 95, 181, 187–188): Tablet XX no. 10’ “If a mare bears twins and they have the head of a lion – the prince will grow strong.” Tablet VII no. 66’ “If an anomaly has the teeth of a lion – the prince will grow strong.”

Such pronouncements would also have held desirable meanings for Italic rulers. The Volsinian Orvieto Group vase depicting the ceremonial display of an upright trident (Figure 8.9) takes the use of omen-lore into at least the Late Archaic period. Etruscan lightning-tridents might have prototypes in the Near East, although we cannot say they derived directly from Anatolia rather than the Levant or even Assyria. The situation may have been analogous to that of the distribution of so-called Urartian metal vessels, cauldrons and bowls, and the ivory furniture, and so on (much of it demonstrably Phoenician and North Syrian) that have been identified in Assyrian palaces, Urartian fortresses, Greek international sanctuaries, and Etruscan princely tombs. One example is the lion-situla that is depicted in Assyrian palace reliefs and was found in Gordion Tumulus MM and in a warrior’s tomb at Etruscan Veii (cf. Sciacca 2003; Geppert 2004; Radner 2013; Rathje, Chapter 9). It would not take a large number of persons to pass along such objects and their symbolism, and priesthoods do seem to have been locked to certain aristocratic Etruscan families.

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The design of the Etruscan trident from Vetulonia (Figure 8.3) essentially matches that of the Anatolian–Levantine Iron Age variety with attenuated tines, including several found in different contexts at Gordion. Near Eastern usage is occasionally depicted as planting a trident in the ground like a standard. I have argued elsewhere (Turfa 2012: 241–277) that in the Brontoscopic Calendar, nearly half of its thunder omens are identical to those of the great Mesopotamian tablet texts, but the format, the protasis segments, and the other halves of the omens are definitely of Etruscan creation. All the omens fit life in central Italy, and none are flat copies of Mesopotamian society or environment. Many actually follow careful observation of nature and society that are accurate for Etruria. In an era of heightened storms and violent weather, Etruscans may have turned to the skies and to Eastern visitors (diplomats from Cyprus, the Phoenician cities, or Anatolian centers, who would surely have traveled with interpreters/ priests). It would take very few such individuals interfacing to transfer such simple things as symbolic tridents and weather lore. Given the late eighthcentury date of the Rondineto burial, the initial transfer of information must have occurred during the second half or last third of the eighth century. Did the Etruscans (and Easterners) also observe the split-second details of lightning strikes and realize that the earth played a part in the phenomenon, and that tridents could symbolize the channeling of that power back to its place in the sky? Powerful images, desirable artifacts, and a now-lost legacy of religious training were shared across the Mediterranean in those heady days of the early Etruscan cities, the eighth through sixth centuries. By the time the stormy climate of the era had ameliorated, urban society had evolved, and such signs of power were replaced with other tokens.

Works Cited Andrae, W. 1909. Der Anu-Adad Tempel in Assur. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs. Black, J., and Green, A. 1992. Gods, Demons and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia. An Illustrated Dictionary, with illustrations by T. Rickards. Austin: University of Texas and British Museum. Blanck, H., and Proietti, G. 1986. La Tomba dei Rilievi di Cerveteri. Rome: De Luca. Bruni, S. 1998. Pisa etrusca. Anatomia di una città scomparsa. Milan: Longanesi. Cappelletti, M. 1992. Museo Claudio Faina di Orvieto. Ceramica etrusca figurata. Perugia: Electa.

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   Colonna, G. 2000. “Il santuario di Pyrgi dalle origini mitistoriche agli altorilievi frontonali delle Sette e di Leucotea,” Scienze dell’Antichità 10: 251–336. Cygielman, M., and Pagnini, L. 2002. “Presenze sarde a Vetulonia: alcune considerazioni,” in Etruria e Sardegna centro-settentrionale tra l’età del Bronzo Finale e l’arcaismo. Atti del XXI Convegno di Studi Etruschi ed Italici. Sassari-Alghero-Oristano-Torralba, 13–17 ottobre 1998, ed. O. Paoletti and L. Tamagno Perna, 387–410. Pisa: Istituti Editoriali e Poligrafici Internazionali. 2006. Tomba del Tridente a Vetulonia. Pisa: Istituti Editoriali e Poligrafici Internazionali. De Marinis, R. C. 1988. “Liguri e Celto-Liguri,” in Italia omnia terrarium alumna, ed. G. Pugliese Carratelli, 157–259. Milan: Scheiwiller. De Marinis, R. C. and Gambari, F. M. 2005. “La cultura di Golasecca dal X agli inizi del VII secolo a.C.: cronologia relative e correlazioni con alter aree culturali,” in Oriente e Occidente: metodi e discipline a confronto. Riflessioni sulla cronologia dell’età del ferro in Italia, Atti dell’Incontro di studi, Roma, 30–31 ottobre 2003, ed. G. Bartoloni and F. Delpino, 197–225. Pisa: Istituti Editoriali e Poligrafici Internazionali. Falchi, I. 1908. “Vetulonia – Nuove scoperte nella necropoli,” Notizie degli Scavi, 419–437. Feruglio, A. E. 1991. “Un carro da parata da Castel San Mariano di Corciano presso Perugia,” in Gens antiquissima Italiae. Antichità dall’Umbria a New York, ed. L. Bonfante, T. W. Sokolowski, and C. Carnieri, 131–140. Milan: Electa. Floriani, P., and Bruni, S. 2006. La tomba del principe: il tumulo etrusco di via San Jacopo. Pisa: ETS. Furlani, G. 1931. “Il ‘Bidental’ etrusco e un’iscrizione di Tiglatpileser I,” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 6: 45–48. Gambari, F. M., and Colonna, G. 1988. “Il bicchiere con iscrizione arcaica da Castelletto Ticino e l’adozione della scrittura nell’Italia nord-occidentale,” Studi Etruschi 54 (1986): 119–164. Geppert, K. 2004. “Importfunde des späthethitischen Raumes in Mittelitalien und ihre Wirkung auf das einheimische Kunsthandwerk,” in Die Aussenwirkung des späthethitischen Kulturraumes. Güteraustausch – Kulturkontakt – Kulturtransfer, Akten der zweiten Forschungstagung des Graduiertenkollegs “Anatolien und seine Nachbarn” der Eberhard-Karls-Universität Tübingen (20. bis 22. November 2003), ed. M. Novák, F. Prayon, and A. M. Wittke, 63–83. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Leichty, E. 1970. The Omen Series Šumma Izbu. Texts from Cuneiform Sources, Vol. 4. Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin. Massa-Pairault, F. H. 1999. “Mito e miti nel territorio volsiniese,” Annali Faina 6: 77–108. Minto, A. 1921. Marsiliana d’Albegna; le scoperte archeologiche del Principe Don Tommaso Corsini. Florence: Istituto di Edizioni Artistiche.

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Etruscan Lightning and Anatolian Images Norman, C. R. 2009. “Warriors and Weavers: Sex and Gender in Daunian Stelae,” in Gender Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC, ed. K. Lomas and E. Herring, 37–54. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports (International series S1983). Orville, R. E. 2011. “Lightning,” in Encyclopedia of Climate and Weather, 2nd ed., ed. S. H. Schneider, T. L. Root, and M. D. Mastandrea. New York: Oxford University Press, eISBN 9780195 313 864, s.v. “lightning,” consulted 10/13/ 2015 and 8/12/2016. Pagnini, L. 2000. “281. Tridente,” in Principi etruschi tra Mediterraneo ed Europa (exhibition, Bologna, 2000–2001), ed. G. Bartoloni, F. Delpino, C. Morigi Govi, and G. Sassatelli, 242. Bologna: Marsilio. Radner, K. 2013. “Tabal and Phrygia: Problem Neighbours in the West,” Assyrian Empire Builders. London: University College London, www.ucl.ac.uk/sargon/ essentials/countries/tabalandphrygia/ (Consulted 14 September 2016). Rakov, V., and Uman, M. 2003. Lightning: Physics and Effects. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ridgway, B. S. 1990. “Birds, ‘Meniskoi,’ and Head Attributes in Archaic Greece,” American Journal of Archaeology 94: 583–612. Rose, C. B., and Darbyshire, G. (eds.) 2011. The New Chronology of Iron Age Gordion. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Rossoni, G. 1997. “I tridenti metallici nel Vicino Oriente antico tra uso pratico e simbologia. Proposte di interpretazione di una particolare classe di materiali,” in Contributi e materiali di archeologia orientale (CMAO vol. 7 = Studi in memoria di Henri Frankfort [1897–1954]), 561–590. Rome: Università degli Studi “La Sapienza.” Sciacca, F. 2003. “Nota sul rhyton a protome di leone da Veio: confronti e produzione,” Archeologia Classica 54: 301–319. 2004. “Per una nuova interpretazione del tridente in bronzo dal Circolo del Tridente di Vetulonia,” Archeologia Classica 55: 269–282. Sorrentino, C. 2004. “Il materiale osteologico animale del tumulo di via San Jacopo,” in Archaeologica Pisana. Scritti per Orlando Pancrazi, ed. S. Bruni, T. Caruso, and M. Massa, 366–369. Pisa: Giardini Editori. Steingräber, S., Ridgway, D., and Ridgway, F. R. (eds.) 1986. Etruscan Painting. Catalogue Raisonné of Etruscan Wall Paintings. New York: Harcourt, Brace Jovanovich. Tabolli, J., and Turfa, J. M. 2015. “Un’olla e i suoi ‘Leoni Ruggenti’ da Falerii a Philadelphia,” in Nuovi studi sul bestiario fantastico di età orientalizzante nella penisola italiana, II, Aristonothos. Quaderni 5, ed. M. C. Biella and E. Giovanelli, 143–154. Trento: Tangram. Turfa, J. M. 2012. Divining the Etruscan World. The Brontoscopic Calendar and Religious Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Luxury Consumption and Elite Lifestyles*  

Jette Christiansen in memoriam

9.1

Introduction

Networks of connectivity in the ancient Mediterranean were dynamic and complex, and the important role of Anatolia in bridging the eastern and western parts needs to be better explored. Burials of the upper Iron Age echelons of Phrygia and Etruria are evidence of a lifestyle that linked the vast area together in a cultural koine. The spread of raw materials, artifacts, and the alphabet in the Mediterranean indicates contact between different populations, whether direct or indirect, but is not equivalent to movements of populations (Gramsch 2015). The long debate going on since antiquity and put on pause by Massimo Pallottino concerning massive migration from Anatolia to Etruria – that is, the question of the origin of the Etruscans (Bagnasco Gianni 2013; Briquel 2013) – may have distorted scholarly interest in other forms of connections between these two areas. Debate, discussion, and analyses have long concentrated on the role of Iron Age Greeks and Phoenicians in the western Mediterranean, leaving Anatolia aside at least before the Ionian migration in the sixth century BCE; therefore an extension of investigative boundaries and a more cross-cultural approach is long overdue. While there is much overlap within Mediterranean studies regarding material connections and artistic exchange, nationalistic attitudes should be left to ethnocentric studies (Rathje 1991a: 1168; 2005). Synchronic, cross-cultural research furthers dialogue by stressing the need for interdisciplinary studies of key questions in the multicultural space of the Mediterranean. In this area, reception, reaction, and transformation of ideas, perspectives, and customs can *

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I am thankful to the organizers of the workshop and editors of this volume for the invitation to participate and their patience with me as I could not be physically present in Rome. I am grateful to Lisa Pieraccini who urged me to send my paper and presented it. I thank both editors for their perseverance in correcting my language. (Note: This paper was submitted in 2019 and could not be updated with new bibliography before publication.)

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Luxury Consumption and Elite Lifestyles

be traced, as not only raw materials and goods but also ideas, technologies, and people (sailors, traders, mercenaries, artisans, and aristocrats among others) circulated in the Mediterranean (for reception, cf. Wicke 2015: 564–565). This paper explores the role and significance of luxury items in elite lifestyles across the Mediterranean in the Iron Age (eighth and seventh centuries BCE). It also presents two case studies for tracing evidence for reception of Eastern crafts and craftsmanship in Etruria: import and emulation. Both case studies highlight the need for the preservation and proper recording of archaeological context in order to fully understand the social and cultural significance of these luxury objects in Etruria.

9.2

The Nature of the Evidence

Exchanged objects and ideas are important in the construction of identity, as they send a political message about affiliation and group membership (Hodos 2010 and Chapter 2; Feldman 2014: 2–9). Lifestyle is an important part of identity group distinctiveness (Malkin 2014: 291). While models of Eastern royalty were diffused and adapted in the Mediterranean area in the eighth to seventh centuries BCE, the web of communication and connectivity – across the Mediterranean in a broad sense – cannot be emphasized enough (Stampolides 2003; Hodos 2009; Aruz et al. 2014). The evidence of an amalgam of cultural interaction must be scrutinized. The interaction between local and regional (in the case of Etruria and Anatolia) and different Greek and Levantine communities has to be pursued further. Archaeological evidence for portable luxury items that circulated in the Mediterranean is limited by spotty preservation and is sometimes only circumstantial, as with raw materials like pigments and dyes. It is also important to remember that goods circulated in many ways, as can be learned from the relief decoration of Neo-Assyrian palaces (e.g., booty on a wall of the Southwest Palace at Nineveh: Aruz 2014a, 142, fig. 3.24) as well as from the annals of the Assyrian kings, boasting of war, plunder, and tribute (e.g., Grayson and Novotny 2012: no. 17, i 32–40, i 65–69, iii 66–81). Reliefs from the doors of Balawat (Curtis and Tallis 2008; Aruz et al. 2014: 136–137, no. 44) show that cargoes from Tyre and Sidon included metal ingots, bronze cauldrons, elephant tusks, wool, and wine – visualizing the list known from Ezekiel (27.12–25) of merchandise traded in Tyre. The so-called Orientalizing phenomenon (Riva and Vella 2006; Rathje 2010: 23–24) was not a sudden event but la longue durée, at least from the ninth century onwards, with long-distance connections involving multinational

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entrepreneurial expansion (Ridgway 2004; D’Agostino 2010). Still, it can be considered a “truly epochal ‘leap’” (Sannibale 2013: 99). It is well known and widely accepted that some individuals, families, and groups in Etruria were actively engaged in importing and consuming products acquired through trade and gift exchange (Riva 2006; Maras and Sciacca 2011). Gift exchange concerns not only objects but also the circulation of human knowledge and crafts. It has also been argued that Etruscan echelons were actively conscious of their needs (Bardelli 2015: 147). Etruscan elite culture is characterized by its local and regional as well as interregional aspects with a common language of power, rank, and status as observed from tombs and sanctuaries.

9.3

Luxury and Exchange

Luxury items must be analyzed with an emphasis on context and function. Luxury, apart from being conceptual, can be treated as an analytical category; it represents the extra-ordinary. Luxury materials are gold, silver, semiprecious hard stones, and organic materials (ivory, fine woods, glass, amber, shells, and aromatic resins); however, worked bronze and stone may also be in the category of the exotic. The luxury items that are rarely visible in the archaeological finds include, among others, textiles (whether garments and utilitarian items like blankets and cushions, or carpets and rugs; see Şare Ağtürk, Chapter 17), wooden objects (like furniture, see Simpson, Chapter 6), solid food and foodstuffs (Van der Veen 2003), liquids (wine, oils, and perfumes), and spices and incense, as well as animals (horses and exotic specimens). For instance, the decoration on a drinking cup recently found at Veii shows a ship carrying some very fine thoroughbred specimens (Arizza et al. 2013: 83–89). These animals, objects, and substances were important components of Mediterranean trade and valuable links in the chains of gift exchange. Some gifts may, furthermore, have been wrapped in textiles (Petersen 2011; Gleba 2014). Intermarriage, at least at an elite level, must also be considered in discussions of exchange (Gleba 2011: 31).

9.3.1 Luxury in Tombs and Funerals Etruria and Anatolia are linked together by the monumental tombs of the elite, which reflect a common lifestyle with shared symbolic values. The tombs represent both material space and symbolic space and thus reflect social reality as well as ideology – they are burial places as well as places of cult and display. Funerary symbolism and ideology are, however, not always comprehensible, as the datasets are small, and a database including the so-

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called princely/royal tombs across the Mediterranean is much needed (Petersen 2011 represents a first step in that direction; see also Henry and Kelp 2016). Many attempts have been made to list foreign items in these tombs and to index princely tombs containing imported goods, luxury objects of desire, exotic materials, and new elite symbols (see Rupp 1989 for Cyprus; Naso 2012 for Etruria). It is stressed that emerging elites need symbols to hold power, and material culture is used in the construction of social and political identities. The exchange of precious objects leads to mutual recognition, as well as practical benefits (see Hayden 2009: 34) between the parties involved, as can be seen by the same goods being displayed in the most prominent tombs in Etruria and Anatolia. These lavish and spectacular tombs have yielded, among other luxury items, comparable cauldrons, bowls, cups, and other status-enhancing metalware. Many of the foreign imports in princely tombs across the Mediterranean refer to Neo-Assyrian courts and vassal courts of Southeast Anatolia. A good example is the lion-headed vessel from the Casale del Fosso necropolis at Veii, although with no exact provenance (Sciacca 2003, 2010: 6–7). Close analysis of the wall decoration of the palace of Sargon II (722–705 BCE) at Khorsabad shows at least two different kinds of similar lion-headed vessels: beakers and buckets (Rathje 2019). A similar vessel from Gordion Tumulus MM is clearly a bucket (situla), while the vessel from Veii could be either. Apart from these vessels the display of sumptuous furniture, whether of ivory or wood, can be traced (see Simpson, Chapter 6). These items belong predominately to the sphere of banqueting. There can be no doubt that practices of cooking, drinking, and feasting are an important aspect of interaction. Food seems second only to language in its communicative power. In the period treated here, a shift in the quality and quantity of banquet equipment shows a rather formal and massive influence from the Near East. The equipment includes imported objects or their imitations of high symbolic and actual value like the bronze vessels already mentioned. Funerary feasts, in particular, were important venues for elite display and interaction. Funerals represent occasions to hold large feasts (Hayden 2009) in connection with “competitively ostentatious displays” (Hayden 2014: 70–72). Anthony Tuck rightly states that “among the various transitional rituals of social groups – the events surrounding birth, rites of maturation, marriage, and death – only death is likely to produce a material record readily visible to archaeologists” (Tuck 2012: 55). What is needed now is classification of assemblages in order to understand how the events were orchestrated (Hamilakis and Jones 2017). Can we ever detect the hierarchies of persons, of food, of drink? People from different places, regions, and worlds could meet at these occasions, and

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banquets – funerary or not – may have united their participants, even if different verbal languages were spoken. Imported goods reveal the importance of feasting and celebrating together using foreign utensils at events that represent praxis of consumption and manifestation of rituals.

9.4

Tracking Down More Evidence: Two Case Studies

Two exotic items, unfortunately without exact context, nicely illustrate an Anatolian–Etruscan connection. The first is a cylindrical vessel, now in Berlin, made of Egyptian blue (CaCuSi4O10) and said to be from a tomb in the territory of Vulci (Rathje 1991b; Wehgartner 1999, 2000; for the alleged context, see Åkerström 1943: 69–74). Its main relief decoration represents two pairs of human figures divided by two bulls and a palmettetree, all on a base decorated with an incised pattern of wolf’s teeth or interlocking triangles (Figures 9.1–9.3). The heads of the bulls and the busts of the human figures are fashioned separately in the round on the rim, and they all look over the rim into the vessel. The humans have their lower body and naked feet turned to the right, with one arm hanging down and the other placed on the rim of the vessel or on the head of a bull; the bulls are turned left with raised forelegs. All figures (both male and female) are dressed in long girdled tunics and are characterized by very elaborate coiffures and inlaid eyes. Structurally this vessel with figures looking over the rim clearly resembles bronze cauldrons with attachments, lion bowls, and tridacna shells – all items that are linked to North Syrian production (Rathje 1991b: 173; Mazzoni 2005; Aruz 2014b; Caubet 2014). As I have argued previously, this vessel, which once had a lid, probably was a cosmetic pyxis of North Syrian manufacture on the basis of stylistic parallels. Wehgartner has suggested a Phoenician production without further comments (1999, 2000), but a North Syrian origin is more likely because of the parallels mentioned above (see also stone sphinxes from Hilani III at Zincirli, Gilibert 2011: nos. 76–77, and an ivory furniture element, Caubet 2014: 164, fig. 3.55). While attributions to production centers can be difficult to pin down and style may certainly reflect social as well as geographical bases, I do not agree that “North Syrian” is only a modern construction (Feldman 2014: 43–78, 187 note 45; for the area, see Osborne 2015: 11–16), depriving the southeastern part of Anatolia/northern part of Syria a production of luxury goods. In any case, the pyxis was clearly a remarkable eastern import into Etruria. Comparison with the lion-bowls of the very same material suggests that the Vulci pyxis belongs to a category of ritual or cultic vessels. The synthetic

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Figure 9.1 Egyptian blue relief pyxis said to be from Vulci, probably made in North Syria. Berlin, Antikensammlung no. Misc. 7756–7762, 17.5 cm high (without busts and heads), max. diameter 16.9 cm (courtesy Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz; photo by Johannes Laurentius)

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Figure 9.2 Another view of Figure 9.1

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Figure 9.3 Another view of Figure 9.1

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material, which was used in Egypt and the Near East as paint from at least the Bronze Age, was extremely rare when used as a paste to form vessels (Fritz 1987: 233). Mazzoni (2001: 297) stresses the function of similar pyxides, although smaller than the piece mentioned here, as ceremonial, conveying a message of magical protection. Did the vessel change its function when it arrived in Etruria? Was it a gift? Was it valued for its exotic material? Was it selected for the message of the image? And what was the message, originally or as perceived by its Etruscan owner? The vessel is most easily categorized as a personal object. Could it represent a ritual in connection to a rite of passage of the owner? How did the meaning of the object change when ownership was transferred? More questions are raised than answers because of the deplorable loss of context. Etruscan Vulci has been a hard case ever since the predatory excavations of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; fortunately times are changing: At the Poggetto Mengarelli site, 100 new tombs have been excavated, among which no. 29 is particularly outstanding (Carlo Regoli, pers. comm.; Russo 2017; Carosi and Regoli 2019). The second piece is a unique olla from Cerveteri, ancient Caere, at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek in Copenhagen (Figures 9.4–9.5; Christiansen 2006, 2017: 226–228, no. 87). It is said to have been found at Caere together with two other items in the Museum: a bucchero sottile oinochoe (no. 105) and a griffin-head protome (no. 160). The oinochoe is very well preserved, so a funerary context is likely. The olla’s fabric is buccheroid impasto, and the form of the vessel is canonical while the decoration seems to be a hybrid mixture of local and imported techniques and motifs. Between two bands of vertical grooves framed by a sharp molding is a frieze of four mold-made walking female sphinxes in elaborate low relief with heads en face in high relief. Details are made by distinct incisions. The whole decoration clearly imitates that found on metal items. The sphinxes are walking to the left, and over their backs a bird of prey is flying in the same direction. The human faces have low foreheads, large eyes, pointed noses, straight mouths, and heavy chins – all characteristics paralleled on the heads on the pyxis from Vulci. They are also very similar to the sphinxes and sirens on the well-known “white-on-red” pithos from San Giuliano (Pohl 1983; Micozzi 1994: 101 fig. 2; Medori 2013: 85 no. 21, 91 no. 42). These figured friezes show knowledge of items (blinkers, pyxides, and bowls, to mention a few) of more precious materials, particularly metal (combining hammered relief decoration with incision) and ivory, all well-known from what used to be called “North Syrian production.” The sphinxes of the olla can be compared to the female sphinxes on a horse frontlet with a master of the animals from Tell Tayinat (Aruz et al. 2014: 297–298: no. 167).

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Figure 9.4 Etruscan olla (stamnos) with relief decoration said to be from Caere, ca. 600 BCE. Copenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek no. HIN 520, 45.3 cm high (courtesy Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek; photo by Ole Haupt)

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Figure 9.5 Another view of Figure 9.4

As for the message of this vessel, images are not simply decorative. They can be full of power and make a transformative impact on viewers, especially on specific occasions. Sphinxes are guardians par excellence, from palaces in the Near Eastern world (Gilibert 2011: 216.76–77, 219.87) to Etruscan tombs (Van Kampen 2009; Sciacca 2012). The sphinxes on the olla in the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek act like guardians of the content of the vessel, which could have been something important (solid or fluid) for some magic/ritual or ceremony. These two items – an import and an emulation – both point to southeastern Anatolia as an area of iconographic influence; more items like these have been found in Etruscan contexts, and more can certainly be traced. It is worth noting that the arrival of southeastern Anatolian/North Syrian sculptors has been detected in the funerary sculpture of Caere and Veii (Van Kampen 2012, 2019). In these cities the local elite chose to represent themselves as Near Eastern magnates.

9.5

Conclusion

Empirically based cross-cultural analyses are in need of more biographies of objects, as Marian Feldman rightly puts it: “Material artifacts, as the

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primary evidence for ancient societies, carry a sociological force as ‘survivors’ and ‘witness-participants’ of past dynamic situations” (2014: 177). In our “piecing together the past” we certainly have advanced since V. Gordon Childe wrote his illuminating book, with that well-known title, in 1956. Many theory-based analyses have been adapted to research the ancient Mediterranean from the social sciences, including the studies of senses and desires – that is, of the surplus-values, which have always been an integrated feature of luxury. Positional goods were not necessary but highly desired and a crucial component in the self-understanding of ancient societies. Works Cited Åkerström, Å. 1943. Der geometrische Stil in Italien, Skrifter utgivna av svenska institutet i Rom 9. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup. Arizza, M., De Cristofaro, A., Piergrossi, A., and Rossi, D. 2013. “La tomba di un aristocratico naukleros dall agro Veientano. Il kantharos con scena di navigazione di via d’Avack,” Archeologia Classica 64: 51–131. Aruz, J. 2014a. “Nimrud Ivories,” in Aruz et al. (eds.), 141–156. 2014b. “Cauldrons,” in Aruz et al. (eds.), 272–281. Aruz, J., Graff, S. B., and Racik, Y. (eds.) 2014. Assyria to Iberia at the Dawn of the Classical Age. New York: Metropolitan Museum Publications. Bagnasco Gianni, G. 2013. “Massimo Pallottino’s ‘Origins’ in Perspective,” in Turfa (ed.), 29–35. Bardelli, G. 2015. “Near Eastern Influence in Etruria and Central Italy between the Orientalizing and the Archaic Period: The Case of Tripod-Stands and Rod Tripods,” in Mesopotamia in the Ancient World: Impact, Continuities, Parallels, ed. R. Rollinger and E. van Dongen, 145–173. Münster: UgaritVerlag. Briquel, D. 2013. “Etruscan Origins and the Ancient Authors,” in Turfa (ed.), 36–55. Carosi, S., and Regoli, C. 2019. “Ritualità funeraria a Vulci alla luce dei nuovi scavi,” in Società e pratiche funerarie a Veio, dalle origini alla conquista romana. Atti della giornata di studi Roma, 7 giugno 2018, ed. M. Arizza, 69–87. Rome: Sapienza Università Editrice. Caubet, A. 2014. “Tridacna Shell,” in Aruz et al. (eds.), 163–166. Childe, V. G. 1956. Piecing Together the Past: The Interpretation of Archaeological Data. New York: Praeger. Christiansen, J. 2006. “Disjecta Membra Reunited? Notes on a Very Remarkable Workshop in Cerveteri,” in ΑΕΙΜΝΗΣΤΟΣ. Miscellanea di studi per Mauro Cristofani, Vol. 1, ed. B. Adembri, 246–255. Florence: Centro Di. 2017. Catalogue Etruria II. Copenhagen: Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek.

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Curtis, J., and Tallis, N. (eds.) 2008. The Balawat Gates of Ashurnarsipal II. London: The British Museum Press. D’Agostino, B. 2010. “Osservazioni al convegno,” in Proceedings of the XVIIth International Congress of Classical Archaeology, 22–26 September 2008, Rome. Bollettino di Archeologia, On Line 1, Volume special F/F2/6: 77–82. Feldman, M. H. 2014. Communities of Style. Portable Luxury Arts, Identity, and Collective Memory in the Iron Age Levant. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Fritz, V. 1987. “The Lion Bowl from Kinneret,” Biblical Archaeologist 50(4): 232–240. Gilibert, A. 2011. Syro-Hittite Monumental Art and the Archaeology of Performance. Berlin: De Gruyter Gleba, M. 2011. “The ‘Distaff Side’ of Early Iron Age Aristocratic Identity in Italy,” in Comunicating Identity in Italic Iron Age Communities, ed. M. Gleba and H. W. Horsnæs, 26–32. Oxford: Oxbow. 2014. “Wrapped up for Safe Keeping: ‘Wrapping’ Customs in Early Iron Age Europe,” in Wrapping and Unwrapping Material Culture: Archaeological and Anthropological Perspectives, ed. S. Harris and L. Douny, 135–146. London: Routledge. Gramsch, A. 2015. “Culture, Change, Identity – Approaches to the Interpretation of Cultural Change,” Anthropologie 53(3): 341–349. Grayson, A. Kirk, and Novotny, J. 2012. The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), Part 1 The Royal Inscriptions of the NeoAssyrian Period (RINAP) 3/1. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Hamilakis, Y., and Jones, A. 2017. “Archaeology and Assemblage,” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 27(1): 77–80. Hayden, B. 2009. “Funerals as Feasts: Why Are They So Important?” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(1): 29–52. 2014. The Power of Feasts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Henry, O., and Kelp, U. (eds.) 2016. Tumulus as Sema. Space, Politics, Culture and Religion in the First Millennium BC. Berlin: De Gruyter. Hodos, T. 2009. “Colonial Engagements in the Global Mediterranean Iron Age,” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 19(2): 221–241. 2010. “Local and Global Perspectives in the Study of Social and Cultural Identities,” in Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World, ed. S. Hales and T. Hodos, 3–31. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Malkin, I. 2014. “Between Collective and Ethnic Identities: A Conclusion,” Dialogues d’histoire ancienne supplement 10: 283–292. Maras, D. F., and Sciacca, F. 2011. “Ai confini dell’oralità. Le forme e i documenti del dono nelle aristocrazie orientalizzanti etrusche,” in Antropologia e archeologia a confronto: rappresentazioni e pratiche del sacro. Atti dell’Incontro

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Luxury Consumption and Elite Lifestyles internazionale di studi, Roma, Museo nazionale preistorico etnografico “Luigi Pigorini,” 20–21 maggio 2011, ed. V. Nizzo, 703–713. Rome: E.S.S. Mazzoni, S. 2001. “Syro-Hittite Pyxides between Mayor and Minor Arts,” in Beiträge zur vorderasiatischen Archäologie: Winfried Orthmann gewidmet, ed. W. Orthmann, J. W. Meyer, M. Novák, and A. Pruss, 292–309. Frankfurt: Johann Wolfgang Goethe Universität, Archäologisches Institut. 2005. “Pyxides and Hand-Lion Bowls: A Case of Minor Arts,” in Crafts and Images in Contact. Studies in Eastern Mediterranean Art of the First Millennium BCE, ed. C. Suter and Ch. Uehlinger, 43–66. Freiburg Acad. Press. Medori, L. 2013. “Il bestiario fantastico nella white-on-red in Etruria e nell’Agro falisco,” in Il bestiario fantastico di età orientalizzante nella penisola italiana, Aristonothos, Scritti per il Mediterraneo antico. Quaderni 1, ed. M. C. Biella, E. Giovanelli, and L. G. Perego, 77–116. Trento: Tangram. Micozzi, M. 1994. “White on Red” Una produzione vascolare dell’orientalizzante etrusco. Rome: Gruppo Ed. Internazionale. Naso, A. 2012. “Gli influssi del Vicino Oriente sull’Etruria nel VIII–VII sec. A.C.: un bilancio,” in Le origini degli Etruschi. Storia, archeologia, antropologia, ed. V. Bellelli, 433–453. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Osborne, J. F. 2015. “Ancient Cities and Power: The Archaeology of Urbanism in the Iron Age Capitals of Northern Mesopotamia,” International Journal of Urban Sciences 19(1): 7–19. Petersen, N. 2011. En komparativ analyse af middelhavets elitegrave: et studie af gravgenstande, mobilitet, kontakt og identitet i den orientaliserende periode. Diss., University of Copenhagen. Pohl, I. 1983. “Un capolavoro etrusco nel tardo orientalizzante antico,” Opuscula Romana 14: 39–46. Rathje, A. 1991a. “Il banchetto presso i fenici,” in Atti del II congresso internazionale di studi fenici e punici, ed. E. Acquaro, 1165–1168. Rome: Consiglio nazionale delle ricerche. 1991b. “An Exotic Piece from Vulci: The Egyptian Blue Pyxis in Berlin,” in STIPS votiva. Papers presented to C. M. Stibbe, ed. M. Gnade, 171–175. Amsterdam: Allard Pierson Museum, University of Amsterdam. 2005. “Fabulous Feasts,” in Cyprus: Religion and Society from the Late Bronze Age to the End of the Archaic Period, ed. V. Karageorghis, H. Matthäus, and S. Rogge, 215–223. Möhnesee-Wamel: Bibliopolis. 2010. “Tracking down the Orientalizing,” in Proceedings of the XVIIth International Congress of Classical Archaeology, 22–26 September 2008, Rome. Bollettino di Archeologia, On Line 1, Volume special F/F2/6: 23–30. 2019. “Veii and the Orient,” in Veii, ed. J. Tabolli, 101–105. Austin: University of Texas Press. Ridgway, D. 2004. “Reflections on the Early Euboeans and Their Partners in the Central Mediterranean,” in Oropos and Euboea in the Early Iron Age, ed. A. Mazarakis Ainian, 141–152. Volos: University of Thessaly Publications.

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Luxury Consumption and Elite Lifestyles Wehgartner, I. 1999. “No. 190,” in Türkis und Azur. Quarzkeramik im Orient und Okzident, Exhibition Catalogue Kassel, ed. R. Busz and P. Gerke, 359. Wolfratshausen: Edition Minerva. 2000. “No. 415,” in Principi Etruschi tra Mediterraneo ed Europa, Museo civico archeologico di Bologna, 302. Venice: Marsilio. Wicke, D. 2015. “Assyrian or Assyrianized: Reflections on the Impact of Assyrian Art in Southern Anatolia,” in Mesopotamia in the Ancient World: Impact, Continuities, Parallels, ed. R. Rollinger and E. van Dongen, 561–601. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag.

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Tracing Connections between Archaic Etruria and Anatolia in Material Culture and Funerary Ideology  

This chapter aims to clarify some aspects of the relationships between Etruria and Anatolia in the specific field of “prestige pottery” found in funerary contexts. The problem of distinguishing true (western) Anatolian features from broader East Greek or East Aegean traits is especially pertinent in Etruria during the late Orientalizing and Archaic periods, when contacts with the Ionian world and the Anatolian powers reached their zenith. In fact, a prominent role was played by extremely animated local mechanisms of Umbildung (“transformation”), both in Asia Minor and in the Italic West, particularly in southern Etruria. By looking at a select group of prestige pottery found in tombs, in addition to other items like clothing and sarcophagi, we can gain insight into the relationship between Etruscan and Anatolian shared motifs and traditions.

10.1

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Ionia and the East

While Aegean relations with Etruria have been outlined for the Early/Middle Orientalizing period at Caere (Martelli 2008; Gilotta 2013: 17), important parallels can also be drawn with inland West Anatolian cultures. Take for example the exceptional polychrome dinos from Phrygian Gordion with a procession beside a huge phorminx (lyre), probably from the first half of the seventh century BCE (Prayon 1987: 151, 216, cat. 136–137, Taf. 28d–e; Kohler 1995: watercolor on frontispiece, 68–69, fig. 27D, pl. 39B; Holzman 2016: fig. 4; Gilotta 2017); it fully confirms what has been demonstrated by the Caeretan Heptachord Painter and his musical inclinations, namely the central role played by Ionia as the vehicle of contact with the Anatolian (in this case, of course, Phrygian–Lydian) world and with Near Eastern countries with a long tradition of literary production and musical culture (see especially Latacz 2007 and Franklin 2008).

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10.2

Anatolian and Etruscan Phialai

Ceramic imitations of precious metal phialai found in Etruscan tombs suggest particular connections with the eastern Mediterranean and with Phrygia, among the main regions of production for this shape of Near Eastern origin (Klebinder-Gauss 2007: 134–140). Both in Phrygia (Kerschner 2005) and in Etruria, phialai are so far rather rare (but they are now increasing in Etruria, as indicated by specimens in black and red impasto in the Monte Abatone necropolis of Caere/Cerveteri: Coen et al. 2014: 540, 551) and never become ordinary vessels, established items in the banquet set of the funerary context: They continue to be connected to the specific ritual/funerary act of libation, a prerogative of the deceased. Recent years have seen an increase in the number of terracotta phialai found among grave goods, even beyond the Italic peninsula. The excavation of the Macedonian necropolis at Archontiko (Pella) offers several specimens of polychrome “Ionian bucchero” (grey ware), dated by their context from the second quarter of the sixth century BCE and later (Chrysostomou and Chrysostomou 2012: 239–251. For polychrome “bucchero,” see Cook and Dupont 1998: 136–137; Gilotta 2013: 39, n. 69). In Macedonia, too, such evidence is decidedly rare, but the phialai, unlike what we are currently finding in Etruria, belong to small sympotic/ritual sets, often including “Ionian bucchero” (grey ware) vases attributed to East Greece – a region that, together with western Anatolia, seems to be among the most important partners for the Macedonian market in these decades. We may, therefore, perceive a large (but not complete) coincidence of ritual practices and related products in Anatolia, Ionia, the outlying areas of Greece, and the Etruscan-Italic West between the Late Orientalizing and Archaic periods. A parallel phenomenon to be considered is that of bronze phialai mesomphaloi, for which the same models may be assumed, but probably differing from their smaller terracotta specimens in their use. Typology, chronology, and manufacturing areas of specimens with handles of the middle or second half of the sixth century BCE have long been systematized (Cook 1968; Sannibale 2008: 46–50; Paolucci and Turchetti 2013: 149, n. 156; cf. also Maggiani 1993), but the same attention has not been paid to rare and more ancient specimens from the final decades of the seventh to the first half of the sixth centuries BCE, with some typological and functional variants. Based on current evidence, a major producer of these objects was Chiusi, with its important complexes, such as Pania and

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Poggio alla Sala (Cook 1968: 342; Minetti 1998: 36; Rastrelli 2000: 168), to which we may add the exceptional finds of the tumulus at Molinello di Asciano (Mangani 1993: 427). This last site is particularly relevant to the central themes of this current volume. The presence, on the Asciano phiale, of a ring handle fixed to an element with a semicircular section applied to the lip with six small griffin protomes cast together is reminiscent of large cauldrons such as that from Tomb 79 in Salamis, Cyprus, with a similar sequence of bull-protomes attributed to a Urartian or Cypriot workshop (Matthäus 1985: 212, n. 501, pl. 59). Differences of patina have led scholars to assume that at least the plastic appliques of the Asciano phiale are of Etruscan production (Mangani 1993: 427). It should be noted, however, that the element with the semicircular section forming the base of the handle and the appliques also appears to belong to a typically Near Eastern (and Anatolian) tradition. The fashion for griffin protomes continued into the Archaic period, as shown for example by finds from Chios (Boardman 1967: 203–205). These recall their older “cousins” from Asciano both in their dimensional scale and in what we may term their functional/numerical aspect. The success of the griffin motif extends further to the phialai mesomphaloi, particularly to those without handles, discovered in southern Italy together with original plain Phrygian specimens (Verger in de La Genière 2012: 148–150), on which engraved/repoussé griffin protomes are in sequence on the basin (Greci Enotri e Lucani 1996: 86, 145, 2.10.45: Chiaromonte, Basilicata, tomb 76. On this type of phiale, see Hasserodt 2009: 325–326; Verger 2011: 30–32; cf. the presence of “Phrygian type” fibulae in Italy – Verger 2014). The presence of this group of phialai (deemed to be imitations by a Greek workshop) in major Greek sanctuaries and in highly prestigious Italic sets from southern Italy again confirms the existence of a cultural channel, running westward from its original locations, and sometimes using the amplifying effect of international sanctuaries (see Papalexandrou, Chapter 5). Phialai of this kind have not so far been found in Etruria, but the specimens mentioned from Greece and Basilicata would make it plausible to assume the presence of similar products even among the Etruscans: The “Tyszkiewicz patera” from South Etruria, dating to the last decades of the seventh century BCE, may be considered an extraordinary example, without the omphalos. Similarly, we may also assume that the Louvre patera from Le Saline (Tarquinia), certainly provided with two mobile omega-shaped handles, could be of Etruscan manufacture (Pasquier 2000: 370–371, 372–381). Prototypes similar to those of the terracotta and bronze phialai, and hence yet again Phrygian (with Lydian imitations, see Gürtekin Demir

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2014: 227–229, and further East Greek versions), appear to be the ancestors of Vulcian bucchero stemmed plates, sometimes with an omphalos, provided with spools and a grooved rim (e.g., Camporeale 1991: 141, n. 143, pl. CV). Particular versions of this shape – in impasto and painted pottery – have been found in early sixth-century contexts of great ceremonial importance from Pontecagnano, together with other ritual vases such as bucchero phialai mesomphaloi and impasto dinoi (Cerchiai 1990: 4–10, 20–21, tombs 4306 and 4307, figs. 13.2 and 16.3). We must remember, in any case, that similar shapes are widespread in other versions from the beginning of the Etruscan Orientalizing period (ten Kortenaar 2011: 157, 159), and this chronological datum is of great relevance for the problems to be discussed here. A further element of interest concerning the presence and usage of phialai in Etruria is that some of the terracotta specimens – datable, it appears, once more to the turn of the sixth century BCE – belong to the socalled Polledrara Ware, a class currently in evidence particularly at Vulci and, moreover, in prestigious tombs such as the Isis Tomb (BubenheimerErhart 2012: 63–66) and (with many question marks) the Tomb of the Panathenaic Games (Moretti 2005: 469–471, pls. 6–7; cf. also Gilotta 2013: 31, n. 69). These are polychrome vases with a dark ground that seemingly adopt the Corinthian technique of black-polychrome, which then spread throughout Magna Graecia, the East Greek area, and to some extent even in West Anatolia, where it appears superimposed on a local light-on-dark tradition (Kerschner 2006: 121, fig. 23, from Larisa; Gürtekin Demir 2014: 228, 230, fig. 10, from Sardis). Consequently, it no longer appears to be a matter of chance that the forms chosen for Polledrara Ware have their origin or a consolidated popularity in Anatolia and properly Ionia: phialai, as well as dinoi and so-called Ionian kylikes. Created a few decades later, furthermore, and apparently inspired by the same geographical area, phialai in Six’s technique by the workshop of Nikosthenes are also found in Etruria, again at Vulci (Tsingarida 2008). What is still an open question, on the other hand, is where the Polledrara Ware was manufactured, if we can speak of a truly homogeneous class. Recent proposals to attribute the whole class to Milesian manufacture (Bubenheimer-Erhart 2012: 63–66) do not take into account the Etruscan character of at least one specimen: the famous painted hydria from the Isis Tomb (Smith 1894: pls. VI–VII). It goes without saying that in Etruria, as well as in the Aegean area, the technique of using superposed colors on a dark ground can be considered parallel to that of the so-called polychrome bucchero. Notably, the phialai from Archontiko in Macedonia mentioned above are said to be polychrome

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“bucchero,” just like other similar (Etruscan) phialai still possibly found in the region of Vulci (De Puma 1986: 47–48, fig. 11, pl. 14a–b). The impossibility of examining the specimens directly, however, leaves doubt that in some cases the classifiers of the materials may have confused the two distinct classes and techniques (see also Huntsman, Chapter 4). The sets from the Tomb of Isis and the Tomb of the Panathenaic Games at Vulci are noteworthy, not only for the entire set of Polledrara Ware ceramics but also for the many links of the other items with the eastern Aegean, Phrygian, and Near Eastern worlds, indicating cultural relations and trends in taste that are structurally close to these geographical areas.

10.3

Etruscan and East Greek Dinoi

The finding of as many as five Polledrara Ware dinoi in the Tomb of the Panathenaic Games at Vulci (Moretti 2005: 469) suggests that we should devote some consideration to this shape, which was very popular in Etruria (for bronze specimens, e.g., Sciacca and Di Blasi 2003: 226–227; Di Blasi in Mandolesi and Sannibale 2012: 238, n. 142; for figured Etrusco-Corinthian, e.g., Szilágyi 1992: 140, 167, pls. 60–62; for impasto, e.g., Cerchiai 1990: 6, fig. 12.4). The Polledrara dinos shape mainly recalls East Greek items (e.g., Walter-Karydi 1970: 3–18, pl. 1; İren 2003: 13 and passim). More generally speaking, Etruscan dinoi/cauldrons are close to Near Eastern and East Greek prototypes (though they were not completely unknown even at Greek production centers like Corinth, see Boardman 1970; Callipolitis Feytmans 1970; Szilágyi 1992: 167), and they do not always appear to follow the same models. There is no doubt that many specimens belong to a particularly strong tradition in an Aegean context, with significant links as well to the nearby eastern continental hinterland. These specimens are characterized by a compressed body, a wide flat rim, and ring handles inserted in hinges with spool attachments and are known from many painted examples discovered at colonial sites in Magna Graecia belonging to the seventh century BCE (Denti 2000: 799–802; Naso, Chapter 1). The handle typology inevitably recalls Phrygian metalwork, and, in some ways, the so-called bucchero (grey ware; see Huntsman, Chapter 4) found at various sites on the coasts of Asia Minor, Syria, and the Black Sea recalls the same prototypes (Courbin 1978: 42, pl. 18, fig. 14, from Ras el Bassit; Stea 2000: 476, fig. 329, from Smyrna; for grey ware and its possible centers of production, see Kerschner 2004, 2005: 127–128). An example from the West is a “grey” dinos from Camarina with spool attachments and pseudo

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ring handles on the shoulder (Pelagatti et al. 2006: 124–126, fig. 22b). A rare painted globular dinos with similar attachments on the rim has been attributed to a Lydian workshop (Cahill 2010: 464, n. 71, dated to the first half of the sixth century BCE). An exceptional specimen for its highly singular plaque-handle has recently been discovered at Aeolian Pitane, with a set that can be dated to the first half of the sixth century BCE (İren 2006: 121–123): Despite the compressed body, relatively reduced mouth diameter, and consequent wide shoulder, the vase shows significant similarities to impasto specimens found, yet again, in the Vulci area, which could effectively go back to similar models (cf. Spaziani in Mandolesi and Sannibale 2012: 234, n. 120). Some globular bucchero dinoi of different shapes from the Vulcian area, datable to between the end of the seventh and the first decades of the sixth centuries BCE, also have ring handles. They have an expanded basin, with relief decorations and spool attachments arranged on the shoulders or, sometimes, directly on the rim (e.g., Rizzo 1990: 106, color pl. 7.3; Perkins 2007: 37, 106, n. 125a-b; Lucidi in Mandolesi and Sannibale 2012: 240, n. 152; for a slightly different version, Camporeale 1991: 142, n. 144, pl. 15; for bucchero dinoi of different shapes from Vulci and from Chiusi, see Barbieri 2005: 45, n. 60, not too far from a bronze specimen ‘from Vulci’; De Puma 1986: 36, 49, n. 41, with interesting comparanda from Sicily – see especially Orsi 1903: 533, fig. 13, with ring handles; Mangani 2014: 193, fig. 15. Spool attachments and pseudo ring handles also distinguish a group of impasto dinoi/cauldrons from central/northern Etruria: cf., Salvi in Paolucci and Turchetti 2013: 221, n. 322; Schianchi in Romualdi 1989: 78, n. 87; Maggiani 1993). In sum, analysis of these dinoi suggests a path from Phrygia, through East Greece and the Aegean, to Magna Graecia and Etruria. Midway between the dinos and the krater shape are the four-handled impasto vases with a tall and distinct neck, discovered – yet again – in the region of Vulci, belonging to the early Archaic period (Donati and Michelucci 1981: 212, n. 519; Pellegrini 1989: 35, n. 63, pl. 14). Long matched with painted specimens from northern Ionian workshops – one of which reached the Caeretan market (Donati and Michelucci 1981: 212, n. 519; Maggiani 1993: 35; Kerschner et al. 2008: 43; Gaultier et al. 2013: 122, n. 96) – they appear to be the final version of a creation well known in Phrygian bronze workshops, as shown for example by the well-preserved specimens from Tumulus MM at Gordion (Young 1981: 110–111, pl. 58). The rare specimen of a bucchero dinos from a tomb at Pian della Conserva, in Caeretan territory, appears later and can be dated to the third quarter of

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the sixth century BCE (Naso 2010: 149, fig. 15). Its typology, with a compressed body and tall neck with flared rim, seems to take inspiration from Achaemenid models ultimately of Assyrian origin – as suggested by Hans Peter Isler for several analogous East Greek painted specimens (Isler 1977) – possibly through Ionian or Anatolian intermediaries.

10.4

Lydia and Beyond

In the chronological context of the Ionian style, so well-known in Etruria of the second half of the sixth century BCE, I should mention here the Ionian fashion – perhaps of Lydian origin – of portraying male figures with long garments, such as the group of famous marble kouroi (Kistler 2012; Şare Ağtürk, Chapter 17). To the documentation so far collected, I would add the sophisticated votive image, two-thirds life-size, from the Portonaccio deposit at Veii, attributed to a “Maestro del Dignitario con i Calcei” (Baglione 2001: 69–70, color pl. 4; Colonna 2008: 57–58). Such evidence, too, consequently outlines an itinerary of fashions and lifestyles that impacted not only the higher public sphere but also private customers of the colonial and Etruscan worlds, as confirmed moreover in the same decades by purchasers of Lydian perfume pots and neck amphorae – widespread particularly at Caere outside their own Lydian–Phrygian and, more generally, western Anatolian circuit. (For lydia, see Martelli 1978: 180–184, but many more Lydian lydia have been found later or published in Etruria; Naso, Chapter 1. For neck amphorae with hook decoration on the shoulder, see Gürtekin Demir 2002: 121, though without mention of Etruscan finds; İren 2003: 15 n. 118, 38; Paoletti 2003). We may now perhaps briefly tackle the “Polyxena Sarcophagus” from Gümüşçay in the Troad (Map 3). Beyond its extraordinary iconographic and ideologically Etruscan flavor (Gilotta 1998), the most surprising aspect of this unique monument is its overall conception, similar to that of several funerary monuments in Etruria. The rules governing the association of the different narrative themes are very close to what we can see in the mythological cycle of the Tarquinian Tomb of the Bulls and in several cippi at Chiusi; also immediately familiar, from the standpoint of Chiusi, is the structure of the so-called gynaeceum scene of the sarcophagus (Meyers, Chapter 16, Fig. 16.3). In the Archaic period, Chiusi appears to have been anything but colorless and inert: It was open to novelties and to close contacts with the Greek world and with Asia Minor, as already noted by many scholars, Enrico Paribeni first of all. At this point, it might be

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interesting to compare the social profile of a coastal town such as Tarquinia and a town from the hinterland like Chiusi with that of potential customers of the Anatolian sarcophagus. Some analogies could be singled out between cities ruled by restricted elites (Etruria) and minor centers (Troad) dominated by a single family or clan and ruled by tyrants (Reinsberg 2001, 2004), but it is actually more probable that the Anatolian chiefs controlled their countries in ways not unlike Etruria in the Orientalizing period. In a certain sense, Greek artists acted as an iconographic–stylistic and ideological adhesive with the neighboring Greek world. A final remark on the Kızöldün mound, where the Polyxena Sarcophagus was found, relates to the later tomb of a little girl, dated toward the middle of the fifth century BCE. The carved wooden head among the grave goods in this sarcophagus (Rose 2014: 106, fig. 4.2) seems to show affinities with the final outcome of Ionian art, between the thendeclining tradition of Ionian production, to which it appears to bear witness, and the new Peloponnesian workshops and those of Italy, including the Etruscan ones, preserving from the archaic background a characteristic taste for preciosity. Ideally, I would place the head beside the famous terracotta appliques from Capua, which were also based on Greek models for a so-called barbarian clientele on the borders between the Greek, Etruscan, and Italic worlds at the dawn of epoch-making social and political upheavals (Gilotta 2006).

10.5

Conclusion

In conclusion, we may say that Anatolian (particularly Phrygian) metalwork traditions in some ways inspired a multitude of craftworks, most probably from Anatolia and Lydia itself, the major manufacturing centers in Ionia and the West (between Magna Graecia and, especially, Etruria): Here we find painted terracotta versions of prestigious vessels – also destined for ritual purposes, such as dinoi and phialai – that absorbed a heritage of decorative techniques, not only of Greek origin, which then spread and were imitated. Such a transfer of experience was certainly stimulated by political and consequently ideological openings toward Anatolia and Ionia and seems to be the model, even in the most private and religious/funerary aspects of ongoing acculturative phenomena, particularly in Etruria. From an Etruscan standpoint, Caere and Vulci appear to have been catalysts for many of these novelties, with a gradual handover from the first center to the second over the decades at the turn of the

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seventh and sixth centuries BCE. Uncommon vase shapes, rare techniques, ritual/funerary ceremonies: All the archaeological data so far presented point not to mere trade relationships but to close common ideology in expressions of public and religious life in two of the most active regions of the archaic Mediterranean.

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  Kerschner, M. 2004. “Phokäische Thalassokratie oder Phantom-Phokäer? Die frühgriechischen Keramikfunde im Süden der iberischen Halbinsel aus der ägäischen Perspektive,” in Greek Identity in the Western Mediterranean. Papers in Honour of Brian Shefton, ed. K. Lomas, 115–148. Leiden: Brill. 2005. “Phrygische Keramik in griechischem Kontext,” Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien 74: 125–149. 2006. “On the Provenance of Aiolian Pottery,” in Naukratis: Greek Diversity in Egypt. Studies on East Greek Pottery and Exchange in the Eastern Mediterranean, ed. A. Villing and U. Schlotzhauer, 109–126. London: British Museum Research Publications. Kerschner, M., Kowallek, I., and Steskal, M. 2008. Archäologische Forschungen zur Siedlungsgeschichte von Ephesos in geometrischer, archaischer und klassischer Zeit. Vienna: Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut. Kistler, E. 2012. “À la lydienne . . . mehr als nur eine Mode,” in Tryphe und Kultritual im archaischen Kleinasien. Ex Oriente luxuria?, ed. L. M. Günther, 59–73. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Klebinder-Gauss, G. 2007. Bronzefunde aus dem Artemision von Ephesos. Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Kohler, E. L. 1995. The Gordion Excavations (1950–1973). Final Reports. Vol. II. The Lesser Phrygian Tumuli. Part 1. The Inhumations: Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Latacz, J. 2007. “Frühgriechische Epik und Lyrik in Ionien,” in Frühes Ionien. Eine Bestandsaufnahme, Milesische Forschungen 5, ed. J. Cobet, V. von Graeve, W. D. Niemeier, and K. Zimmermann, 681–700. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Maggiani, A. 1993. “Cinerari arcaici di marmo da Pisa,” Rivista di Archeologia 17: 34–41. Mandolesi, A., and Sannibale, M. (eds.) 2012. Etruschi: l’ideale eroico e il vino lucente. Milan: Electa. Mangani, E. 1993. “Diffusione della civiltà chiusina nella valle dell’Ombrone,” in La civiltà di Chiusi e del suo territorio, Atti del XVII Convegno di Studi Etruschi ed Italici, Chianciano Terme, 1989, ed. G. Maetzke and L. T. Perna, 421–437. Florence: Olschki. 2014. “I buccheri del Molinello di Asciano,” in “Lautus erat tuscis Porsena fictilibus.” Studi e ricerche sul bucchero dell’area chiusina per Luigi Donati, ed. S. Bruni, 183–204. Pisa: ETS. Martelli, M. 1978. “La ceramica greco-orientale in Etruria,” in Les céramiques de la Grèce de l’Est et leur diffusion en Occident, Actes du Colloque, 150–212. Paris: Éditions du CNRS. 2008. “Il fasto delle metropoli dell’Etruria meridionale. Importazioni, imitazioni e arte suntuaria,” in Etruschi. Le antiche metropoli del Lazio, ed. M. Torelli and A. M. Sgubini Moretti, 120–140. Verona: Electa. Matthäus, H. 1985. Metallgefässe und Gefässuntersätze der Bronzezeit, der geometrischen und archaischen Periode auf Cypern. Munich: Beck.

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Tracing Connections in Material Culture and Funerary Ideology Minetti, A. 1998. “La tomba della Pania. Corredo e rituale funerario,” Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli, archeologia 5: 27–56. Moretti, A. M. 2005. “Risultati e prospettive delle ricerche in atto a Vulci,” in Dinamiche di sviluppo delle città nell’Etruria meridionale, Veio, Caere, Tarquinia, Vulci: Atti del XXIII convegno di studi etruschi ed italici: Roma – Veio – Cerveteri/Pyrgi – Tarquinia – Tuscania – Vulci – Viterbo, 1–6 ottobre 2001, ed. O. Paoletti, 457–484. Pisa: Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali. Naso, A. 2010. “‘Qui sunt Minionis in arvis’ (Verg., Aen., 10,183). Gli Etruschi sui Monti della Tolfa dall’VIII al VI sec. a.C.,” in L’Etrurie et l’Ombrie avant Rome. Cité et territoire, Actes du Colloque International (Louvain-la-neuve, 2004), ed. P. Fontaine, 131–154. Brussels and Rome: Institut historique belge de Rome. Orsi, P. 1903. "Sicilia: Siracusa,” Notizie degli Scavi: 517–534. Paoletti, O. 2003. “Appunti su un gruppo di anfore arcaiche a decorazione lineare dall’Etruria,” in Miscellanea etrusco-italica, III, 127–135. Rome: CNR. Paolucci, G. and Turchetti, M. A. (eds.) 2013. In sua dignitate. Reperti confiscati, memorie restituite, catalogue of the exhibition. Pienza: Cantagalli. Pasquier, A. 2000. “La coupe de bronze de l’ancienne Collection Tyszkiewicz,” Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres (Paris) 144(1): 347–400. Pelagatti, P., Di Stefano, G., and De Lachenal, L. (eds.) 2006. Camarina 2600 anni dopo la fondazione. Nuovi studi sulla città e sul territorio, Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Ragusa, 2002–2003). Rome: Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato. Pellegrini, E. 1989. La necropoli di Poggio Buco. Florence: Olschki. Perkins, P. 2007. Etruscan Bucchero in the British Museum. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Prayon, F. 1987. Phrygische Plastik. Tübingen: Wasmuth. Rastrelli, A. 2000. “La tomba a tramezzo di Poggio alla Sala nel quadro dell’Orientalizzante recente di Chiusi,” Annali della Fondazione per il Museo ‘Claudio Faina’ 7: 159–184. Reinsberg, C. 2001. “Der Polyxena-Sarkophag in Çanakkale,” Olba 4: 71–99. 2004. “Der Polyxena-Sarkophag in Çanakkale,” in Sepulkral- und Votivdenkmäler östlicher Mittelmeergebiete, 7. Jh. v. Chr. - 1. Jh. n. Chr. Kulturbegegnungen im Spannungsfeld von Akzeptanz und Resistenz, Akten des Internationalen Symposiums (Mainz, 2001), ed. R. Bol, D. Kreikenbom, H. Richter, and S. Weber, 199–217. Möhnesee: Bibliopolis. Rizzo, M. A. 1990. Le anfore da trasporto e il commercio etrusco arcaico. Rome: De Luca. Romualdi, A. 1989. Il patrimonio disperso: reperti archeologici sequestrati dalla Guardia di Finanza. Catalogo della mostra, Piombino, 15 luglio-31 ottobre 1989. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider.

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Rose, C. B. 2014. The Archaeology of Greek and Roman Troy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sannibale, M. 2008. La Raccolta Giacinto Guglielmi, II. Bronzi e materiali vari. Vatican City: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Sciacca, F., and Di Blasi, L. 2003. La Tomba Calabresi e la Tomba del Tripode di Cerveteri. Città del Vaticano: Direzione dei Musei dello Stato della Città del Vaticano. Smith, C. 1894. “Polledrara Ware,” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 14: 206–223. Stea, G. 2000. “Evidenze del commercio e dell’artigianato ionico nel Golfo di Taranto,” in Die Ägäis und das westliche Mittelmeer. Beziehungen und Wechselwirkungen 8. bis 5. Jh. v. Chr., ed. F. Krinzinger and V. Gassner, 471–477. Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Szilágyi, J. G. 1992. Ceramica etrusco-corinzia figurata I. Florence: Olschki. ten Kortenaar, S. 2011. Il colore e la materia. Tra tradizione e innovazione nella produzione dell’impasto rosso nell’Italia medio-tirrenica. Rome: Officina Edizioni. Tsingarida, A. 2008. “Nikosthenes Looking East? Phialai in Six’s and Polychrome Six’s Technique,” in Essays in Classical Archaeology for Eleni Hatzivassiliou, 1977–2007, ed. D. C. Kurtz and C. Meyer, 105–114. Oxford: Archaeopress. Verger, S. 2011. “Les objets métalliques du sanctuaire de Pérachora et la dynamique des échanges entre mers Ionienne, Adriatique et Tyrrhénienne à l’époque archaïque,” in Sulla rotta per la Sicilia: l’Epiro, Corcira e l’Occidente, ed. G. De Sensi Sestito and M. Intrieri, 19–59. Pisa: ETS. 2014. “Kolophon et Polieion. À propos de quelques objets métalliques archaïques de Policoro,” Siris 14: 15–41. Walter-Karydi, E. 1970. “Äolische Kunst,” in Studien zur griechischen Vasenmalerei, Antike Kunst Beiheft 7. Bern: Francke. Young, R. S. 1981. Three Great Early Tumuli. The Gordion Excavations. Final Reports I. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum.

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Rock Tombs and Monuments in South Etruria and Anatolia Typology, Chronology, Ideology – Differences and Common Elements   Ä 

It is always fascinating to compare and analyze similar (or similar appearing) monuments and cultural and artistic phenomena in different cultures and geographic areas. This is particularly valid for Etruria and Asia Minor (Anatolia) during the first millennium BCE, areas that were connected in various ways. The inner part of South Etruria (= Etruria rupestre, Tuscia, Prov. di Viterbo) and several parts of Anatolia are characterized by the impressive and often spectacular phenomenon of rock tombs and rock monuments. In fact, the rock tombs of Etruria and those of Lycia have been the subject of a recent comparative study (Amann and Ruggendorfer 2014). Indeed, it is in Lycia and neighboring Caria that we find the greatest concentration of rock tombs in Anatolia. But rock tombs and monuments are documented also in many other regions of Anatolia: Pamphylia, Pisidia, Cilicia, Cappadocia, Phrygia, Lydia, Paphlagonia-Pontus, and Urartu (see Maps 1 and 3; Steingräber 2015: 95–107). They date mainly from the eighth century BCE to the Roman period, with a remarkable concentration between the fourth century and the Hellenistic period. There is a rich variety of typology, architecture, decoration, and, in some cases, function. It is well known that rock tombs and monuments are documented also in several other areas around the central and eastern Mediterranean, such as Sicily, Illyria, Macedonia, Thrace, some Greek islands like Rhodes, Palestine, Jordan, Persia, Arabia, Egypt, and the Cyrenaica (Steingräber 2015: 87–121). Nabataean Petra in Jordan can be considered without doubt the “queen” of the rock necropoleis. A. Schmidt-Colinet has appropriately summarized the impression made by these necropoleis: “One can perceive, behind all these cities of the dead in the rock, the effort to grant to the houses of the dead, quite clearly in contrast to the houses of the living – as far we can understand these matters at all archaeologically – permanence and monumentality” (Schmidt-Colinet 1980: 230). This paper offers a summary and comparison of rock-cut tomb types and features in Anatolia and Etruria. While there are many similarities, 195

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there are also notable differences, and the rock tomb traditions in both areas may reflect a wider cultural koine, especially in the Hellenistic period.

11.1

Anatolia

11.1.1 Lycia Rock tombs are documented in Lycia from the fifth century to the Early Hellenistic period, with a strong concentration in the fourth century, when Greek influences became prominent (Demargne et al. 1974; Shahbazi 1975; Zahle and Kjeldsen 1975; Bean 1978; Kolb and Kupke 1989; Strathmann 2002; Brandt and Kolb 2005; Mühlbauer 2007; Amann and Ruggendorfer 2014). The most important rock necropoleis are those in Limyra (328 rock tombs with facades) and Myra (around 100 rock tombs with facades) (Figure 11.1; Borchhardt 1975). Mainly in the fourth century the tombs were often decorated externally with reliefs (Zahle and Kjeldsen 1979, 1983;

Figure 11.1 Myra in Lycia: House tombs of the fourth century BCE (photo by author)

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Bruns-Özgan 1987). Particularly characteristic are imitations of such wooden architectural elements as beams on the facades. Among the main types are temple, house (Figure 11.1), pilaster, and sarcophagus tombs, and sometimes the types can be combined. The temple tombs with clear Greek– Ionic influences (two columns in antis, dentil frieze) cannot be dated before the fourth century. House tombs are normally two-dimensional, sometimes three-dimensional, with a flat roof, saddle roof, or pointed-arched roof and coffered facades, dating from the first half of the fifth to the third centuries. Sarcophagus tombs from the late fifth to the third centuries are characterized by elements from wooden architecture and pointed-arched lids. Pilaster tombs (built in blocks) can be dated from the second half of the sixth century until around 300 BCE. The tomb chambers often have stone klinai and are sometimes divided into two floors by a wooden construction. Other characteristic elements of Lycian rock tombs include Ionic columns, beams and coffers imitating wooden architecture, dentil friezes, rectangular-framed doors (sometimes as porta dorica), palmette akroteria, rosettes, and pediments. Sometimes the pediments contain largescale reliefs like those found on sarcophagi, mainly in Myra and Limyra, and dating mostly from the fourth century; themes include battles, hunting, processions, audiences, family groups, banquets, cityscapes, animal combats, lions, bulls, and divine beings (sirens, sphinxes, and a vegetation goddess). In some cases one can recognize remains of painting. Many inscriptions in Lycian are documented, and sometimes Greek inscriptions are also found. Normally, a tomb included burials only for two or three generations. The so-called pigeon-hole tombs with columbaria-like niches are located particularly in Pinara and date to the Archaic period (Wurster and Wörrle 1978). Rock thrones and cult niches are documented in Lycia, too.

11.1.2 Caria The numerous Carian rock tombs date from the middle of the fourth century through the Hellenistic period until the Roman imperial era and show influences from Lycian rock tombs as well as freestanding mausolea of Asia Minor and Greek temple facades (Roos 1985; Hellström 1989; Rumscheid 2009). The most important rock necropolis is situated in Caunus (Figure 11.2; Roos 1972). The typology includes aedicule tombs, temple tombs (with up to four columns in front), sarcophagi, and chamber tombs without elaborated facades, as well as cases of unfinished rock tombs. Characteristic (often eclectic) elements of Carian rock tombs are

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Figure 11.2 Kaunos (Caunus) in Caria: Temple tombs of the fourth century BCE (photo by author)

Ionic columns, capitals with paterae, akroteria with palmettes or sphinxes, dentil friezes, Doric friezes, Ionic cymatia, pediment reliefs (shield, sword, lions), false windows, two-winged doors, framed doors, beams imitating wooden architecture, chambers with carved stone benches and klinai, and flat, saddled, or pointed-arched ceilings. In some cases remains of painting are visible. Inscriptions are less common than in Lycia. The unique area of Latmus is characterized by rock houses, cult rocks with votive stelai and sculptures, rock stairs, and rock fossa tombs (Peschlow-Bindokat 1996).

11.1.3 Phrygia and Lydia Phrygian rock architecture includes not only tombs but also many sacred and cult monuments (Akurgal 1955; Gabriel 1965; Haspels 1971; Prayon 1987; De Francovich 1990; Berndt-Ersöz 2006). The oldest examples may date from as early as the eighth century, though most were probably built in the sixth or fifth centuries, with examples still in the Hellenistic and Roman period. Most common is the temple-like, often monumental, cult facade with pediment and geometric relief ornaments. We also find rock

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altars, stepped monuments, thrones, window-like niches, aediculae/niches with sculptures, reliefs (Kybele, lions, vases, weapons), and inscriptions. The most famous monuments are located at Midas City (Yazılıkaya). Among the characteristic elements are geometric and vegetal ornaments, false doors, acroteria, tomb chambers with carved stone benches, arched niches, saddle roofs with beams and coffers recalling wooden architectural forms, and central gable columns. Stylistic influences in the sculpture of the older period are mainly Neo-Hittite and Persian and in the more recent period Greek. Some elements are comparable with designs on Phrygian wooden furniture and terracotta revetment plaques. The most common cult was dedicated to Matar/Kybele. Rock tombs are found in only a few areas in Lydia and are not well documented (Roosevelt 2009: 139–142). The facades are usually undecorated; sometimes there is a dromos leading to the chamber. The tomb chambers often include stone beds (Baughan 2013: 147–151; Chapter 15).

11.1.4 Paphlagonia – Bithynia – Pontus – Northern Galatia In northern Anatolia we find rock tombs from the beginning of the fifth century BCE until the third century CE (Von Gall 1966, 1967; Marek 1993; Fleischer 2009; Summerer and von Kienlin 2010). Particularly characteristic are temple and porticus tombs with facades deepened in the rock, with columns or pilasters (up to five) in front, and chamber(s) with stone beds. The aedicula tombs – especially in Amaseia – sometimes have arched niches (third through second centuries BCE). Rock tombs of so-called Paphlagonian type are also documented in Cappadocia, Phrygia, and Lydia (Von Gall 1966). Characteristic decorative elements are animal reliefs with Persian and Greek influences; figural and palmette akroteria; pediment reliefs and sculptures, with a central pediment pilaster; capitals in cube, plinth, bull, Aeolic, and Ionic form; column bases with high tori; false windows with frames; ceilings with carved beams and coffers; and stone beds. The architecture and decoration are of eclectic character and include elements from Phrygian, Greek, and Persian architecture. The reliefs represent deities (like Kybele), heroes, and animals.

11.1.5 Cappadocia Rock tombs dating from the Hellenistic period include the temple, porticus, and aedicula type and are quite comparable with Paphlagonian rock tombs. Several temple tombs with Doric order are also documented (Thierry 1981).

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11.1.6 Cilicia In Cilicia we find simple arcosolia-like rock tombs with rectangular or arched niches (partly with sculptures) and chambers with stone benches and sarcophagi, some with courtyards in front. They date mainly from the late Hellenistic period (Machatschek 1967; Alföldi-Rosenbaum and Reynolds 1980; Durugönül 1989; Er 1991; Tobin 2004; Iacomi 2013). Rock reliefs are sometimes surrounded by aediculae with representations of various themes (funeral banquets, warriors, animals, etc.), and some have Greek inscriptions (as in Adamkayalar). Of particular interest are rock tombs in Olba (temple tomb with Corinthian order), Lamus (hyposorion type), and Direvli (pseudo-hyposorion with pediment and busts).

11.1.7 Pisidia and Lycaonia Pisidian rock tombs located in the main center of Termessus since the later fourth century show influences from Lycian and Carian rock tomb architecture (Niemann and Petersen 1892; Kleiner 1963). The most important and famous tomb is the Macedonian-influenced Alketas tomb (after 319 BCE) without a real facade but with reliefs, kline-sarcophagus, and baldachin. There are also aedicula tombs with pediment, dentil frieze, and niche with sarcophagus. Rock tombs of Lycaonia are characterized partly by arches, aediculae, and animal reliefs.

11.1.8 Urartu Rock tombs and/or sanctuaries with elaborate large chambers, doors and niches for sarcophagi, and simulacra are most commonly found in the royal center of Van (one tomb is attributed to King Argishti/Argistis I: 786–764 BCE). They also occur elsewhere in Urartu, with the earliest examples dating from the ninth to eighth centuries BCE (Burney 1966; Piotrovskij 1967; Akurgal 1968; Öğün 1978; Forbes 1983; Ussishkin 1994). Some have scalloped cornices that recall rows of rounded beam-ends, replicating wooden forms, above the lintels or running along the tops of the walls (Öğün 1978: 641–643, no. 2.3, fig. 2.1–2, pl. 151.2; van Hulsteyn 1981: 18, 73–74, 168–169). Benches in Urartian rock-cut tombs sometimes hold cinerary urns or grave offerings (Öğün 1978: 645), while others have raised borders and forms suggesting pillows (Piotrovskij 1967: fig. 63; Sevin 1989: figs. 20–21; Ussishkin 1994: fig. 24.2; Çevik 2000: 42–43, pls. 49b, 58a, 60d; Baughan 2013: 197).

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11.2

201

Etruria

In Etruria the phenomenon of rock tombs is documented mainly from the second quarter of the sixth century until the early second century BCE, with high points in the later Archaic and early Hellenistic periods (Dennis 1848; Rosi 1925, 1927; Colonna 1967, 1973, 1974, 1986; Colonna di Paolo and Colonna 1978; Steingräber 1981: 209–220, 301–368, 409–418; 1985, 1996, 2009b, 2015; Romanelli 1986; Barbieri 1991: 43–52, 70–135; Giannini 2003: 209–225; Moscatelli and Mazzuoli 2008; Steingräber and Ceci 2014). In the hinterland of the coastal centers Caere/Cerveteri, Tarquinia, and Vulci there is evidence at Tuscania (Quilici Gigli 1970), San Giuliano (Gargana 1931; Steingräber 2009a), and Blera (Koch et al. 1915; Quilici Gigli 1976; Santella 1981; Ceci and Schiappelli 2005) for the older period; and, for the later period, Norchia (Colonna 1974; Colonna di Paolo and Colonna 1978; Ceci 2014), Castel d’Asso (Colonna di Paolo and Colonna 1970) and Sovana (Ainsley 1843; Ainsley and Dennis 1843; Bianchi Bandinelli 1929; Arias 1971; Maggiani 1978, 1995, 1997) (see Map 2). They occur as cube (and half- and false-cube) tombs (Figure 11.3), house tombs, porticus tombs (in the Archaic

Figure 11.3 Norchia, Necropoli del Fosso Pile: Cube tombs of the Hellenistic period (photo by author)

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Figure 11.4 Norchia, Necropoli Valle Acqua Alta: Temple tombs of the Hellenistic period (photo by author)

period only in San Giuliano), temple tombs (only in Norchia [Figure 11.4], Sovana, and Grotte Scalina near Musarna), aedicula tombs (mainly in Sovana: Carter 1974; Barbieri 2010), and tholos tombs (only in Sovana). These rock tombs are arranged on different terraces or around artificial squares. Many other rock monuments – altars, thrones, stepped monuments, monumental cippi, and so on – are also documented in South Etruria, and belong mostly to the sepulchral sphere (Prayon 1979; Steingräber 1991, 1997, 2018; Steingräber and Prayon 2011, 2018). It should be noted that many of the early tomb chambers covered by tumuli were also carved from bedrock. Among the different Etruscan tomb types and their decorations we find both local Etruscan and foreign innovative elements. The cube type, with its several variants, is a characteristic local type using most probably models (partly built in tufa stones) from Caere/Cerveteri, where they are documented especially in the Banditaccia necropolis, since the second quarter of the sixth century BCE (Brocato 1995). The house type is clearly influenced from domestic architecture. On the other hand, the monumental and expensive temple and porticus tombs of the Hellenistic period are inconceivable without foreign models and influences.

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Rock Tombs and Monuments in South Etruria and Anatolia

Figure 11.5 Tuscania, Pian di Mola: Archaic house tomb with porticus (photo by author)

The origin of Archaic Etruscan rock tomb architecture is still not clarified in all its respects and is still disputed among scholars (Steingräber 1996, 2015). Of particular interest in this regard is a large rock tomb area on the western slope of Pian di Mola near Tuscania, which was excavated in the late 1980s and then partly restored (Sgubini Moretti 1986, 1989, 1991a: 14–24; 1991b) (Figure 11.5). The main tomb dating from the second quarter of the sixth century BCE is house-shaped with a porticus in front and is characterized by elements from palace architecture, by the high quality of the stone masonry, by chromatic effects, and by the rich decoration with sculptures. It belongs among the oldest rock tombs in Etruria and already shows a surprisingly high standard of monumentality and elaboration. On the other hand, it emphasizes the important role of Tuscania (receiving influences both from Tarquinia and Caere) in the development of early Etruscan rock tomb architecture. Early Hellenistic temple and porticus tombs in Norchia (Figure 11.4) and Sovana display an eclectic mixture of local Etruscan, Greek,

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South-Italian/Apulian, and Anatolian elements. In their general conception they remind us primarily of the mausoleum and heroon tradition in Asia Minor, whereas in the details of the decorations and reliefs we can ascertain prototypes mainly from Magna Graecia, especially Apulia, and from Macedonian palatial architecture. The most impressive example remains the monumental Tomb of Ildebrando in Sovana, with its dominating location, its temple-like ground plan (peripteros sine postico), and its rich relief decoration and heroon-like character (Bianchi Bandinelli 1929). Another outstanding example of monumental Etruscan rock tomb architecture is the tomb of Grotte Scalina near Musarna, recently excavated by V. Jolivet and his French team (Jolivet and Lovergne 2015). With its two porticoed storeys, pediment, false door, and lateral stairways, this monumental facade seems to be inspired by Macedonian palatial architecture (Pella and Vergina) as well. On the other hand the sottofacciata (“under the main facade”) area in the lower porticus hall, equipped with six stone beds, is a typical Etruscan element, made to accommodate funeral banquets.

11.3

Summary of Similarities and Differences

Comparisons between rock tombs and monuments in Anatolia (especially in the Southwest in Lycia and Caria) on the one hand and South Etruria on the other reveal both common elements and many differences concerning location, chronology, typology, architecture, decoration, and death/ancestor cult. The most common elements and differences are important to note. Chronologically the phenomenon of rock tombs and monuments in Etruria is older than in Anatolia, apart from some examples in Urartu and Phrygia. In several parts of Anatolia the phenomenon lasted until the Roman imperial period – much longer than in Etruria. Both Etruria and most areas of Anatolia (apart from Ionia) belong to so-called peripheral cultures. In some parts of Anatolia (as perhaps in the Cyrenaica, too) we have to suppose, for political reasons, possible Persian influences after the middle of the sixth century. In both Etruria and Anatolia we see prevailing feudal (not democratic) social structures. The phenomenon of rock tombs was not limited exclusively to the aristocratic class (as with the famous heroa/mausolea in Xanthus and Limyra) but included, at least partly, members of the so-called middle class, too. In both areas the rock tombs are often situated along the main access roads and/or have visual contact with the town. In Lycia they can also be oriented toward the sea. In Anatolia two-dimensional structures prevail and are sometimes deepened

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in the rock. Different stones – for example, in Etruria volcanic tufa and in Lycia soft limestone – are used for the elaboration of rock tombs, but we find similar geological conditions and landscape types. Typologically there are many further differences. Even the so-called house tombs are different in Anatolia and Etruria. The temple tomb type appears in both areas but is more frequent in Anatolia after the middle of the fourth century under Greek influence; in Etruria it appears a bit later, whereas in the Cyrenaica it is documented already in the Late Archaic period. In Anatolia Ionic elements dominate, in Etruria Doric and Tuscan. And for unknown reasons, in Anatolia (Lycia) there are more mixed or hybrid types than in Etruria. Other differences are notable in tomb layout and decoration. Doors and chambers in Anatolia are normally in the rock facade at road level or higher, not under the facade as is the case with later Etruscan rock tombs (since the fourth century). Most of the Anatolian rock-cut tombs also differ from Etruscan tombs in lacking dromoi, apart from some examples in Lydia and Phrygia. In Etruria from the fourth century the so-called false door on tomb facades prevails; while false doors are well-known in Anatolian funerary stelai, they are not common on tomb facades. In general, rock-carved imitations of wooden structures and decorative elements are more common in Anatolia than Etruria. While tomb chambers with kline-like stone beds appear mostly in the Archaic period in Etruria, most of the Anatolian rock-cut tombs with such furnishings are later. And in Anatolia, inscriptions on tombs are more numerous and much more instructive, mentioning the names of the tomb owner and other buried persons and giving precious information concerning for example protective organizations (such as Lycian minti) and punishments against possible troublemakers and tomb robbers; in Etruria inscriptions are usually short, limited to a few names and numbers. Lycian funerary inscriptions indicate a tendency to separate the burials of the tomb owner and his wife from other burials in two different (rather small) chambers on different levels, while in Etruria, especially in the later period, prevailing gentile tombs have been found with as many as seventy burials in large chambers intended for several generations. Quite different, richer, and more manifold than in Etruria are the sculptural decorations of Anatolian rock-cut tombs – especially in the case of temple and porticus tombs. The most prevalent themes are banquets and battle scenes of historical character rather than demons and funeral processions as in Etruria. In Etruria, relief friezes and sculptures are generally more underworld oriented.

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In Etruria certain areas such as platforms, sottofacciate, and altars – reserved exclusively for the death/ancestor cult (libations, sacrifices, banquets, etc.) – are more evident and important than in Anatolia. Another difference is that in Anatolia, normally there are no stairs to climb up on the roofs of the tombs, as is seen in Etruria. Also, cippi are mostly missing in Anatolia. In some cases in Anatolia cult ceremonies could be organized in the yard in front of the tomb, but such ceremonies could probably also happen in other places or in sanctuaries not immediately connected with the tomb. Ideologically, in both Anatolia and Etruria, the middle-upper-class owners of rock tombs wanted to show their social and economic status to descendants and future generations by means of rich and highly visible facades. As a result, the facades reflect much more effort and importance in comparison with the tomb chambers. From the beginning the phenomenon of rock tomb architecture in both areas was determined not only by geological factors but also to highlight scenographic and prestigious effects. In any case we must question whether the phenomenon of rock tombs, which has been deeply rooted in some parts of Anatolia since the first half of the first millennium BCE, could not have given some impulse to the genesis of Etruscan rock tomb architecture, not so much in specific typologies but in a more general conceptual way. In both Etruria and some parts of Asia Minor (particularly in the Troad, Ionia, Phrygia, Lydia, Lycia, Caria, and Pisidia), a tradition of large tumuli with chamber tombs has been documented since the seventh and sixth centuries BCE. Especially comparable are crepis walls, with their characteristic moldings, of the tumuli in Etruscan Cerveteri and Lydian Sardis (Bin Tepe), but according to Alessandro Naso (Naso 2016: 20; Chapter 1) no direct relationship can be proven. Concerning the moldings, the best parallels can be found in North Syria. Furthermore, the oldest Etruscan tumuli – particularly those in Cerveteri – date from the early seventh century, earlier than most of the Anatolian examples (apart from some tumuli in Phrygian Gordion). The tradition of rock tombs in Etruria is chronologically clearly later than the tumuli. Of particular interest is the fact that the oldest Etruscan rock tombs of the second quarter of the sixth century BCE were obviously not the result of a long local development but appeared suddenly, already in a completely developed and monumentalized form. The most common type – that is, the rock cube tomb – was doubtlessly influenced by prototypes from Cerveteri where those tombs – partly built in stone blocks – on a flat ground are already documented, particularly in the Banditaccia Necropolis, since the second quarter of the sixth century. There were

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manifold relations between the coastal centers of Etruria and several regions of Asia Minor as early as the eighth and especially in the seventh centuries BCE. From this point of view, we also have to consider possible influences from Asia Minor in the architecture of the monumental tumuli that started quite suddenly during the first decades of the seventh century, particularly in Cerveteri. Several scholars, such as Friedhelm Prayon (Prayon 1995) and Alessandro Naso (Naso 2016), have drawn our attention to this fact, reminding us for example of the big Lydian tumuli – especially those in the Bin Tepe Necropolis of Sardis – with partly carved chamber tombs and interior painted decorations. Prayon emphasizes several common points between the Etruscan and Ionian elites during the seventh and sixth centuries. According to Naso the idea of a funerary monumental landscape with tumuli was born during the Early Iron Age in the Near East and Anatolia and came to the West (Etruria) in the Orientalizing period. On the other hand we can observe parallel developments of funerary customs of the aristocratic groups, the so-called elites, through the centuries in different areas of the Mediterranean. As it has been clearly proven, Eastern influence, especially from Northern Syria, was decisive for the development and monumentalization of early Etruscan funeral sculpture during the first half of the seventh century BCE; this influence is well-illustrated in the Tomba delle Statue at Ceri, which dates from the period around 680/70 BCE (Colonna and von Hase 1986).

11.4

Analysis

A much disputed problem among scholars is the possible transfer – in different ways – of architectural models, designs, and elements between different areas of the Mediterranean, as in the case of the later Etruscan tomb architecture, especially the rock and barrel-vaulted tombs during the Hellenistic period (Oleson 1982). In this context we have also to briefly discuss the phenomenon of the so-called koine (Steingräber 2001). The term koine has often been used in archaeology to characterize certain comparable stylistic and iconographic phenomena that occurred in particular periods in different areas of the Mediterranean. Therefore, some scholars speak about an East Greek or Ionic koine in the late Archaic period, which extended as far as Etruria. But this term is more commonly used in discussions of the early (and to some extent the middle) Hellenistic period, when many areas far distant from one another (such as Macedonia, Epirus, Thrace, Crimea and part of Scythia, Asia Minor, Alexandria,

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Magna Graecia, and Etruria) shared in a koine which manifested itself in completely different artistic genres such as wall (mainly tomb) painting, mosaics, vase painting, architecture and architectural decoration, terracottas, and metal objects. For the early Hellenistic period, we may speak of a kind of cultural and artistic koine, which promulgated also certain “ideological” and religious models. Not only Greek cities and colonies but also Indigenous peoples and cultures in contact with the Greek world became participants in this koine. The general political and economic development in the Hellenistic period, especially since Alexander the Great, undoubtedly contributed much to the propagation and spreading of this koine, which, however, remained limited in most cases to the social elites. Also the rock tombs and particularly their decorations of the second half of the fourth century and the third century in some parts of Asia Minor and in Southern Etruria may partly be interpreted as the result of such a koine, but, in any case, we should be careful not to generalize this phenomenon too much. We always have to take into consideration the chronological, cultural, artistic, and social differences between the regions around the central and eastern Mediterranean.

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 

Shared and Distinct Iconographies

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Wall Paintings from Gordion in Their Anatolian Context  

12.1

Introduction

During the early years of excavation at the Phrygian capital Gordion, the remains of a small semisubterranean building were recovered (Young 1955: 8–10, figs. 15–21; 1956: 255–256, figs. 15–21). The walls of this building were covered with paintings, and it was soon dubbed the Painted House. It was prominently located on top of the citadel close to the main entrance on the eastern side, but the building itself was squeezed in between two earlier existing megara of the Middle Phrygian period. The Painted House belonged to the later Achaemenid period, and stylistic criteria suggest a date of around 500 to 490 BCE. The building was constructed of mudbrick walls reinforced by lateral timbers and had one narrow antechamber leading to the main room, which was decorated with painted plaster (Figure 12.1). The Painted House had already been demolished during the Persian period, probably around 400 BCE, at which time the painted plaster had fallen off.1 The aim of this chapter is to discuss the artistic style, techniques, and iconography of these paintings from an Anatolian perspective, as well as comment on the function of the Painted House. My working hypothesis is that the motifs of the wall paintings to some extent also reflect the purpose of the building. These paintings offer important testimony to the small corpus of Anatolian mural-painting traditions, otherwise known only from funerary 1

The thousands of painted plaster fragments recovered in the excavations of the Painted House in 1953 and 1955 are today kept at the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations in Ankara. My own study of these wall paintings, which began in 2010, is indebted to several earlier scholars who spent endless hours on these fragments; I especially want to mention Grace Muscarella, who worked on the fragments initially; Piet de Jong, who reconstructed and illustrated some of the paintings in a series of watercolors (Brownlee 2009), and finally Machteld Mellink, who studied the fragments in the 1970s and 1980s (Mellink 1960, 1972b, 1980). I also want to express my gratitude to several people and institutions for making my work on the wall paintings possible, especially Director Enver Sağır as well as the entire staff of the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations at Ankara, Director of the Gordion Excavations C. Brian Rose, G. Kenneth Sams, Gareth Darbyshire, and the General Directorate for Cultural Heritage and Museums and Ministry of Culture and Tourism in Turkey. Grace Muscarella generously provided me with the notes of her initial work on the paintings, for which I am of course also very grateful.

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Figure 12.1 Painted House at Gordion, view from northeast after excavation, with staircase leading to the antechamber in the background and the main chamber in front (courtesy University of Pennsylvania Museum, Gordion Archive, image no. G 1254)

contexts. It is therefore essential to examine these paintings in detail to assess to what extent there are similarities in style, technique, and subject matter between Anatolian and contemporary Etruscan wall paintings.

12.2

Architectural Context

The Painted House was built between and against the side walls of its two neighboring buildings, Megaron C and Megaron G (Young 1956: fig. 15). These two megara belonged to the rebuilding of Gordion that took place immediately after the disastrous fire of around 800 BCE (Sams and Voigt 2011: 156). During the Achaemenid period, the city mound underwent further reorganization when both Megaron C and Megaron G were rebuilt; the Painted House was constructed in connection with this rebuilding. The building itself was semisubterranean, that is, the floor level was about one meter below the ground level (Figure 12.1). A staircase about one meter wide began in the corner of Megaron C and went down into a small

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antechamber, but there was no straight access into the main chamber – the visitor had to turn 90 degrees twice before entering. A rather large number of painted architectural terracottas was found in connection with the Painted House, and Matthew Glendinning has suggested that the building had a tiled roof, as did the adjoining Megara C and G (Glendinning 1996: 23–27). The Painted House was not used for an extended period of time, as all three buildings had already been demolished by the Persian period (ca. 400 BCE), when instead a bronze foundry was established on top of them (Fields 2010: 42–43).

12.3

The Wall Paintings

The main chamber measured 3.75  4.5 m and was entered on the southwest side, not exactly in the center, but close to it (Figure 12.1). The building had a stone socle, measuring about 40 cm in height, on which some unpainted plaster was found in situ (Young 1955: fig. 18). The mudbrick walls were enforced with lateral wooden beams and covered with plaster onto which the painted decoration was applied. Preserved fragments of the wall paintings indicate that there was originally one large frieze, about 60 cm in height, that probably ran along all four walls. This frieze was most certainly placed between two lateral beams, as the edge of the beam can sometimes be seen in the plaster. The main part of this frieze depicted human-shaped figures and a few animals walking as if in procession; there were two baselines, a red and a black, running along the bottom of the frieze. There appears not to have been a corresponding border above the figures. Besides these large-scale figures there were also human figures in a smaller size, measuring about 20 cm in height. These are, however, few in number, and it is uncertain whether such a frieze ran along all four walls. The large-scale figures are in general more carefully drawn, with outlines first sketched in red paint, before the final outlines were filled in with black and the figures colored (Figure 12.2).

12.3.1 Motifs The procession of the large frieze consisted mainly of females (Figure 12.3). There are traces of about thirty female figures, but only five males. Many more figures of uncertain gender are preserved. All the figures are barefooted, and the few preserved men all stand out as wearing some kind of special attribute, such as a laurel crown, a stick/staff, or a blue beard

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Figure 12.2 Partially preserved head of a large-scale male figure with beard and long hair, carrying a staff over his shoulder, with preliminary red sketch lines visible on the ear (photo by author)

(Figures 12.2 and 12.4a–b). These objects or attributes may indicate that they held a special status. Several of these fragments were found in close connection to the north wall, opposite the entrance, along with some women with special headgear. Several female figures wear a griffin crown (Young 1955: fig. 21; Mellink 1980: fig. 6) of a type sometimes worn by Athena in the Greek world, as pictured on a black-figured sherd from the Athenian Acropolis (Ridgway 1990: 602–603, 605, fig. 13). Nine small griffin protomes of lead found in the Archaic temple on Chios have been identified as part of the headgear of the cult statue of Athena (Boardman 1967: 26–28, pls. 84–85). The griffin crowns at Gordion probably indicate that these females, rather than being representations of deities, held positions of religious significance because in all other respects they resemble other female participants of the “procession,” and there are several of them. Most probably the figures are depicted as being outdoors, as there are features such as trees. Behind the head of one woman branches can be seen

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Figure 12.3 Partially preserved head and torso of a large-scale female figure (photo by author)

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Figure 12.4a–b Partially preserved head of a large-scale male figure, with green hair and blue beard (photo and illustration by author)

(Figure 12.5a–b), and one girl is picking fruit. The Gordion figures may be described as walking in procession, but they are not only walking; in fact they do several other activities as well. Foremost they are involved in drinking. There are at least two figures drinking from a trefoil jug (Mellink 1980: fig. 4), while other participants hold jugs in their hands (Figure 12.5a–b). These small jugs are of the same type that the Phrygian Mother Goddess holds on the Bahçelievler stele from Ankara (Berndt-Ersöz 2006: fig. 117). Other participants hold straws that extend from large jugs standing on the floor, presumably for sipping beer or a wine-barley concoction (Sams 1977; McGovern 2010: 177–183). Other activities, found only among the smaller-sized figures, involve music and physical exercises (Young 1955: fig. 20; 1956: fig. 19). The latter may indicate dance performances or sport activities (Figures 12.6a–b). Two persons play the lyre, and at least one of them is a woman (Lawergren 1985: fig. 4). There are also some fragments of figures playing the double flute; exactly the same instruments are held by attendants of the Phrygian Mother Goddess on a statue from Boğazköy (Berndt-Ersöz 2006: fig. 116).

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Figure 12.5a–b Two large-scale females with red eyes facing each other (photo and illustration by author)

12.4

Comparisons with Other Wall Paintings and Cultures

East Greek/Ionian influence in these wall paintings has often been pointed out (Cook 1959–1960: 35; Mellink 1972b: 357; 1980: 93), but there are also close parallels with wall paintings from Lydia and Lycia, as well as elsewhere in Phrygia (Mellink 1971: 246–255; 1972a: 261–269; 1973: 297–303; 1974: 355–359; 1975, 1976, 1998; Özgen et al. 1996: 36–47; Bingöl 1997: 36–49, 54–57; Lemos 2000: 387; Baughan 2010; Miller 2010; Summerer and von Kienlin 2010; Hurwit 2014: 80–87; Plantzos 2018: 84–93). All other preserved Anatolian wall paintings are, however, from funerary contexts – in contrast to those from Gordion. There are both technical and stylistic parallels as well as differences. A red and sometimes both a red and a black baseline run along the main frieze at Gordion. Similar red baselines are found on the paintings from Kızılbel in northern Lycia and Tatarlı in western Phrygia but also on paintings from Etruria. The main frieze at Karaburun in northern Lycia did not have a red baseline but instead a more unusual blue one (Mellink 1971: 252; Miller 2010: figs. 4–6). The Lydian wall paintings are not preserved well enough to determine whether a painted baseline once existed or not. The skin color of both men and women at Gordion was not differentiated, as the plaster was left unpainted to indicate bare skin. In Lycian as well as Etruscan wall paintings, male skin is normally depicted as darker than female skin, consistent with Aegean and Egyptian convention (Mellink 1971: 252; Mellink et al. 1998: 43; Eaverly 2013). In the Lydian

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Figure 12.6a–b Partially preserved panel depicting small-scale youths dressed in blue trunks involved in physical activities, with preserved edge of plaster along the right side (photo and illustration by author)

tombs of Aktepe and Harta, all figures are depicted with light skin, but only males are preserved from the tomb at Harta and probably only females from Aktepe (Özgen et al. 1996: cat. nos. 2–4, 6–7). Both figures from Aktepe are heavily restored, and one of them has been identified as a male (Özgen et al. 1996: figs. 79, 81, 83, cat. nos. 7–8), but I cannot see any

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reason why it should be male rather than female. At the Phrygian tomb of Tatarlı, the wooden surface was left unpainted to mark the skin for both genders, but the few representations of females are only outlined in black and not colored like other figures are (Emmerling et al. 2010: 220, figs. 23–24; Summerer 2010: 178–180, figs. 25–26). The closest stylistic parallels for the Gordion wall paintings are with the Lydian tombs at Harta and Aktepe, and these are most notable in the manner of painting the eyes (compare Figures 12.3 and 12.5a with Özgen et al. 1996: 68, cat. nos. 2–3). Close iconographic parallels could further be found with the Kızılbel tomb, especially between the smaller-scale figures of young men engaged in physical activities (compare Figures 12.6a–b with Mellink et al. 1998: pls. 22b, 30a). Note especially their heads and their short trunks. Since they are depicted without beards, they plausibly represent youths rather than full-grown men. All the Anatolian wall paintings discussed above date to the Achaemenid period and have distinct Persian features but of various natures. The funerary paintings often depict banquet and convoy scenes, with humans dressed in Persian attire and outfits, while the Persian influence in Gordion can instead be found in human gestures and in the choice of colors for specific details. One female figure at Gordion is preserved as almost kissing her own fingertips, which are held in front of her mouth (Figure 12.7). Such a gesture is well known in Achaemenid court protocol and art (Schmidt 1953: pls. 98–99, 122–123) and is thought to represent the socalled proskynesis gesture, performed by a person approaching another person of higher dignity (Sachsen-Meiningen 1960; Almagor 2013).

12.4.1 Blue Beard One man at Gordion is distinguished from all the others by a blue beard and green hair (Figure 12.4a–b); other preserved figures identified as men have more natural-colored beards and hair (i.e., brown) (Figure 12.2). We may, however, note that there are fragments of one or several figures of unknown gender depicted with tresses of blue hair. Men depicted with blue beards and hair are known from various periods and parts of the ancient world. Contemporary examples are known, for example, from Greece, South Italy, and Persia. From Athens we have the so-called Bluebeard pediment thought to have adorned one of the Archaic temples on the acropolis (Wiegand 1904: 79, pl. 4; Brinkmann 2003: figs. 11.1–2), as well as the marble head of a warrior with a blue beard and hair (Brinkmann 2003: cat. no. 62). The fourth-century BCE terracotta head of a male deity(?) from

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Figure 12.7 Reconstruction of a large-scale female figure possibly performing the so-called proskynesis gesture (illustration by author)

South Italy or Sicily carries traces of Egyptian blue in the beard (Panzanelli 2008: 136–137). Blue hair, eyebrows, and beards are also mentioned in Greek sources (Griffith 2005). It was a divine feature in the Iliad (e.g. Il. 1.528, 13.563, 15.102, 17.209), but Homer also described Hector as having blue hair and Odysseus a blue beard (Il. 22.402; Od. 16.176).

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Men with blue beards and hair are frequently represented in Persian art. The glazed brick walls in Susa depict soldiers with blue beards and hair, dating to the period of Darius I (521–486 BCE), but Darius’ beard was also painted blue on the relief at Naqsh-i Rustam (Nagel 2010: 141, figs. 4.24–25). The idea of having a painted blue beard most certainly imitates the Near Eastern concept of the “lapis lazuli beard” – a term used for a dark lustrous beard signifying a man of special importance, such as a king (Winter 2010: 294–296). It may also have carried some sexual undertones, signaling well-developed masculinity. In addition to literary references to lapis lazuli beards, we found sculptures and reliefs where the beard and hair were once inlaid with lapis lazuli (Nagel 2010: fig. 3.7). The possibly female figure from the Aktepe tomb is depicted with blue hair, although it is uncertain to what degree the hair was originally blue since it was partially repainted in modern times (Özgen et al. 1996: 71). The figure is nevertheless comparable to the man with the blue beard and green hair at Gordion, and we may also suggest a Persian influence at Aktepe. Blue hair or blue beards do not exist in preserved Etruscan wall paintings, but there are figures with blue skin that represent so-called demons and other figures of the underworld, for example in the Tomb of Blue Demons at Tarquinia (Steingräber 2006: 177, 181).

12.4.2 Red Eyes Another unnatural feature found consistently among the wall paintings at Gordion are red eyes; occasionally the eyes are yellow (Figures 12.3–12.5 and 12.7). There are no examples of brown or blue eyes at Gordion, and red eyes are not found in any other Anatolian wall paintings. Red eyes, similar to those at Gordion, are, on the other hand, known from Greece, Etruria, and Persia. Painted red eyes occur on a few wall paintings from Etruscan tombs. Two females in the Tomb of the Jugglers (Tomba dei Giocolieri) at Tarquinia have red eyes, as do two examples of demons with blue skin – one in the Tomb of the Blue Demons and one in the Tomb of the Infernal Quadriga at Sarteano (Steingräber et al. 1986: pls. 88–89; 2006: 163, 177, 181, 215). The Tomb of the Jugglers is dated to around 510 BCE (Steingräber et al. 1986: 310); that is, it is roughly contemporary with the Gordion wall paintings, while the Tomb of the Blue Demons probably belongs to the end of the fifth century BCE (Steingräber 2006: 163). The Tomb of the Jugglers is considered to show strong Ionian, and especially Phocaean, influences, and a further example of its eastern influence is the

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unique representation of a camel on the entrance wall (Steingräber et al. 1986: 310–311; Steingräber 2006: 95; 2010: 364). From Greece there are several examples of marble sculpture carrying traces of red paint in the eyes, indicating the iris, from the Archaic period (early sixth century BCE) onward (Brinkmann 2003: 45, see e.g. cat. nos. 92, 100, 105–108, 115, 169). In a few cases there are preserved traces of a second layer of a reddish-brown color, and it has been suggested by Vinzenz Brinkmann (2003: 45) that the two layers were intended to give a certain depth to the eye. The Persian king Darius is depicted with red eyes on the relief at Naqshi Rustam (Nagel 2010: 141, fig. 4.26). Alexander Nagel, who has studied the polychromy of Achaemenid architectural sculpture, has suggested that the red may have served as a ground layer for a second layer, perhaps of gold, or gilding (Nagel 2010: 124, 146). Besides red ochre, yellow ochre may have been used as a ground layer for gilding (Nagel 2010: 122). That may help to explain why all the figures at Gordion have red and occasionally yellow eyes. However, there is no evidence to suggest that a second layer of gold would have been applied to the eyes at Gordion. In general, we may take into consideration that a second layer of gold perhaps did not remain in place for very long on statues and reliefs, which means that it would have been common to see them with red eyes and perhaps also regard them as prestigious. An indication that red eyes were originally intended is found in preserved textiles from the Achaemenid period at Pazyryk in Siberia, where women have red eyes (Brosius 2006: fig. 3).

12.4.3 Snakes and the Underworld There is a large number of very fragmentary snakes in the wall paintings from Gordion. They very often have a red line above their heads, and sometimes also a black line (Figure 12.8). The plaster on which the snakes were painted is very brittle and thin, perhaps because it was applied on a horizontal beam rather than on mud bricks. If this assumption is correct, the snakes would consequently have been located below the red and black baselines of the main frieze. Perhaps they were thought to be underground, that is, to represent the underworld; if so, we may draw a parallel with Etruscan images of bearded snakes dwelling in the underworld (Pieraccini 2016). Since the building was semi-subterranean, it is possible that the black baseline at Gordion may have been in line with the ground level outdoors, which was 1 m above the floor. If the black baseline corresponded with the ground level outdoors, it would locate the main frieze at a

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229

Figure 12.8 Partially preserved head of a light-brown snake situated below red and black borders (photo by author)

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height between 1.00 and 1.60 m above the floor level, which would be a suitable height for observers. Wall paintings from the Karaburun tomb in northern Lycia had similar measurements, located between 1.05 m and 1.90 m above floor level (Mellink 1972a: 265). Snakes are found in connection with Kybele at Sardis (Hanfmann and Ramage 1978: cat. nos. 6, 7). The best example of this connection is perhaps in the limestone model of a shrine from Sardis, the so-called Kybele shrine, dating to the beginning of the Achaemenid period (Hanfmann and Ramage 1978: 43–51, figs. 20–50). The goddess is here flanked by snakes on the entrance side, while the other three sides carry reliefs – the subjects of which are paralleled in the paintings at Gordion. The Sardis shrine has representations of walking females along both sides, in what may best be described as a procession, heading toward the entrance of the shrine. There are also some males in crouched positions, probably carrying a wine sack on the back and a drinking cup in the hand. The bottom register depicts both men and women with their arms raised as if they are dancing. All these figures are barefooted like the ones at Gordion, the majority are women in procession, and drinking was also here a feature of the depicted activities.

12.5

Conclusions

The Painted House at Gordion is a unique building in regard to both its architecture and painted decoration. The paintings reveal influences not only from western Anatolia but also from Persia. One example of Persian influence is the man with the blue beard and green hair (Figures 12.4a–b). He stands out among all the participants, as he appears to be the only man represented with those colors. Depiction with a blue beard probably indicates the high status of the subject, but painting someone with a blue beard was probably not customary in Anatolia. Presumably it was not something an Ionian or Phrygian artist would do, unless by direct order from a customer, who in this case would have been a member of the Persian elite at Gordion. Therefore, I would like to suggest that the figure in the blue beard probably represented a Persian of high rank, perhaps the highest in Gordion at the time. We have noted similarities as well as differences with Etruscan wall paintings. Features in common are a red baseline and sometimes red eyes, which may be part of a general shared tradition. Contrasting features include the lack of gender differentiation by skin color at Gordion, a practice which was customary in Etruria and elsewhere. Preserved wall paintings in Asia Minor, as well as Etruria, are all from funerary contexts,

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except those from Gordion, and I propose that the Painted House was built and used for unidentified rituals, primarily based on the motifs of the paintings. I have so far not suggested any specific cult or deity connected with the Painted House but, based on the limited evidence regarding the motifs and the architectural layout of the building, there are some indications of a cult dealing with the underworld, as well as Matar, the Phrygian Mother Goddess. I therefore suggest that the Painted House was connected with hitherto unknown aspects of the Phrygian Matar, although other alternatives cannot be excluded at present.

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Glendinning, M. R. 1996. Phrygian Architectural Terracottas at Gordion. Ph.D. diss., University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Griffith, R. D. 2005. “Gods’ Blue Hair in Homer and in Eighteenth-Dynasty Egypt,” The Classical Quarterly 55: 329–334. Hanfmann, G. M. A., and Ramage, N. H. 1978. Sculpture from Sardis: The Finds through 1975. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hurwit, J. M. 2014. “The Lost Art: Early Greek Wall and Panel Painting, 760–480 B.C.,” in The Cambridge History of Painting in the Classical World, ed. J. J. Pollitt, 66–93. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lawergren, B. 1985. “A Lyre Common to Etruria, Greece, and Anatolia: The Cylinder Kithara,” Acta Musicologica 57: 25–33. Lemos, A. A. 2000. “Aspects of East Greek Pottery and Vase Painting,” in Die Ägäis und das westliche Mittelmeer, ed. V. Gassner, M. Kerschner, U. Muss, and G. Wlach, 377–391. Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. McGovern, P. E. 2010. “Appendix 5. Chemical Identifications of the Beverage and Food Remains in Tumulus MM,” in The Furniture from Tumulus MM, ed. E. Simpson, 177–187. Boston: Brill. Mellink, M. J. 1960. “An Archaic Fresco Found at Gordion in Asia Minor,” The American Philosophical Society Yearbook 1960: 563–565. 1971. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmalı, Lycia, 1970,” American Journal of Archaeology 75: 245–255. 1972a. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmalı, Lycia, 1971,” American Journal of Archaeology 76: 257–269. 1972b. “Wall Paintings from the Persian Period at Gordion,” in The Memorial Volume of the Vth International Congress of Iranian Art & Archaeology: Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz, 11th–18th April 1968, Vol. 2, 357–359. Tehran: Tehran Ministry of Culture and Arts. 1973. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmalı, Lycia, 1972,” American Journal of Archaeology 77: 293–307. 1974. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmalı, Lycia, 1973,” American Journal of Archaeology 78: 351–359. 1975. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmalı, Lycia, 1974,” American Journal of Archaeology 79: 349–355. 1976. “Excavations in the Elmalı Area, Lycia, 1975,” American Journal of Archaeology 80: 377–384. 1980. “Archaic Wall Paintings from Gordion,” in From Athens to Gordion. The Papers of a Memorial Symposium for Rodney S. Young, ed. K DeVries, 91–98. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Mellink, M. J., Bridges, R. A., Jr., and di Vignale, F. C. 1998. Kızılbel: An Archaic Painted Tomb Chamber in Northern Lycia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum.

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Wall Paintings from Gordion in Their Anatolian Context Miller, S. G. 2010. “Two Painted Chamber Tombs of Northern Lycia at Kızılbel and Karaburun,” in Summerer and von Kienlin (eds.), 318–329. Nagel, A. 2010. “Colors, Gilding and Painted Motifs in Persepolis: Approaching the Polychromy of Achaemenid Persian Architectural Sculpture, c. 520–330 BCE.” Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan. Özgen, İ., Öztürk, J., and Mellink, M. J. 1996. The Lydian Treasure: Heritage Recovered. Istanbul: Republic of Turkey, Ministry of Culture, General Directorate of Monuments and Museums. Panzanelli, R. (ed.) 2008. The Color of Life. Polychromy in Sculpture from Antiquity to the Present. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Pieraccini, L. C. 2016. “Sacred Serpent Symbols: The Bearded Snakes of Etruria,” Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 10: 92–102. Plantzos, D. 2018. The Art of Painting in Ancient Greece. Athens: Kapon Editions. Ridgway, B. S. 1990. “Birds, ‘Meniskoi,’ and Head Attributes in Archaic Greece,” American Journal of Archaeology 94: 583–612. Sachsen-Meiningen, F. 1960. “Proskynesis in Iran,” in Geschichte der Hunnen, Vol. 2, Die Hephaliten in Iran, ed. F. Altheim, 125–166. Berlin: de Gruyter. Sams, G. K. 1977. “Beer in the City of Midas,” Archaeology 30: 108–115. Sams, G. K. and Voigt, M. M. 2011. “Chapter 7. In Conclusion,” in The New Chronology of Iron Age Gordion, ed. C. B. Rose and G. Darbyshire, 155–168. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Schmidt, E. F. 1953. Persepolis, Vol. 1. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Steingräber, S. 2006. Abundance of Life: Etruscan Wall Painting, trans. Russell Stockman. Los Angeles: The J. Paul Getty Museum. 2010. “Etruscan Tomb Painting of the Archaic Period and Its Relationship to the Painting of Ionian Asia Minor,” in Summerer and von Kienlin (eds.), 354–367. Steingräber, S., Ridgway, D., and Ridgway, F. R. (eds.) 1986. Etruscan Painting. Catalogue Raisonné of Etruscan Wall Paintings. New York: Johnson Reprint. Summerer, L. 2010. “Wall Paintings,” in Summerer and von Kienlin (eds.), 120–185. Summerer, L. and von Kienlin, A. (eds.) 2010. Tatarlı. The Return of Colors. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Wiegand, T. 1904. Die archaische Poros-Architektur der Akropolis zu Athen. Leipzig: T. G. Fischer & Co. Winter, I. J. 2010. On Art in the Ancient Near East, Vol. 2. Leiden: Brill. Young, R. S. 1955. “Gordion: Preliminary Report, 1953,” American Journal of Archaeology 59: 1–18. 1956. “The Campaign of 1955 at Gordion: Preliminary Report,” American Journal of Archaeology 60: 249–266.

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Chasing the Dog in Etruria and Anatolia Connections, Context, and Meaning  . 

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Artistic representations of dogs have appeared worldwide for thousands of years; their presence in the art of the ancient Mediterranean spans vast chronological and regional contexts. Dogs first appeared in Italy and Anatolia some 14,000 years ago, although their specific breed and relation to wolves is still debated. What is not debated, however, is that the earliest signs of domesticated animals started with dogs (Boschin et al. 2020; Siddiq et al. 2021). Close comparisons of Etruscan and Anatolian depictions of dogs from the sixth century BCE reveal curious connections between these particular regions – suggesting not only artistic exchange but similar cultural practices and values. The following chapter offers a brief survey of some of the intriguing links between dog imagery in Anatolia and Etruria in an attempt to better analyze how these two regions shared a common artistic language when depicting humankind’s “best friend.” In so doing, it sheds light on how ancient Mediterranean cultures negotiated artistic relations without Greece as the guiding force. Dogs in Etruscan art generally feature in specific contexts and are much more than just décor – their appearance is very particular, most often indicative of aristocratic pastimes, such as hunting, racing, and feasting (Camporeale 1984; Pieraccini 2014a). Dogs appear beneath the food tables in Etruscan banquet scenes, looking as if they are sniffing around for crumbs (as they probably did at actual banquets). In this case, their presence reflects an ideology that links them to the exclusive banqueting habits of their owners (Rathje 1994; Small 1994). Both funerary and secular artwork, such as architectural terracottas, clay stamped braziers and pithoi, and carved stone cippi of the sixth century BCE best document how these dogs characterize an “elite lifestyle” in various ways, by their presence at either banquets or sporting and hunting events. Etruscan aristocrats who could afford pastimes such as hunting, sports, and public feasting owned domesticated dogs for pleasure – in this case, the agency of the dog image combined to signal or trigger one’s status and highlight one’s noble hobbies. The hunting scenes, so popular in Etruscan art in the sixth and fifth centuries BCE (Camporeale 1984) feature dogs who routinely chase rabbits in hare hunts – a popular convention in the repertoire of animals in

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procession (as can be seen on painted pottery and cylinder stamped vessels) (Camporeale 1984; Pieraccini 2014a). Chariot races, too, show that dogs, depicted running at full velocity, act as indicators of speed as they sprint alongside chariots (Figure 13.1). Almost all media in Etruscan art feature a dog here or there – Etruscan wall painting is no exception. A few dogs are highlighted in hunting scenes, and a puzzling ritual involving a dog even features in the Tomb of the Augurs, where the dog wears a special collar (see Figure 13.6).

13.1

Dogs in Etruscan and Anatolian Banquets

The first quarter of the sixth century BCE in the realm of feasting imagery is a good place to start this inquiry. Close examination shows how banquet narratives in both Etruria and Anatolia used the presence of dogs in various festivities; in fact, dogs were markers of elite customs (as dog ownership was a status marker). The celebrated Etruscan banquet relief from the archaic complex at Murlo, consisting of a secular decorative panel made in terracotta in the first quarter of the sixth century BCE, is a remarkable example of early banquet imagery in Etruria with dogs clearly visible in the foreground (Rathje 1994, 2007; Small 1994) (Figure 13.2). Men and women recline in the Etruscan fashion with tables set about for eating and drinking; below the tables dogs appear to be searching for scraps. How striking that one of the earliest banquet scenes in Etruria, if not the earliest, features a dog and is depicted on a sizable terracotta decorative relief plaque affixed to the exterior of a large public building. The fact that the dog is already, in this early stage, a part of Etruscan banquet narrative is noteworthy, as it predates the dogs we see in Anatolian banquet scenes. It also reflects how dogs were an expression of elite lifestyles. Painted terracotta plaques from Anatolia with comparable banquet narratives featuring dogs were used to decorate a large building at Larisa in the mid-sixth century BCE. At least three different versions of a banquet have survived, all with dogs under the tables (Figure 13.3; Kjellberg et al. 1940: 15–16, 64–80, 160–63, pls. 22–33; Åkerström 1966: 7, 56–58, fig. 2, pls. 28, 29; Miller 2011: 112). Both the Etruscan and Anatolian plaques showcase male and female banqueters, similar klinai (Baughan 2013), servants, vessels for drinking wine (Small 1994; Miller 2011), and dogs who occupy the space under the tables. In effect, they share an almost identical set of priorities with regard to the overall visual program. Take, for instance, the presence of women at both of these banquets – an important element that makes these works far more

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Figure 13.1 Caeretan black-figured hydria attributed to the Eagle Painter, ca. 530 BCE. London, British Museum no. 1923,0419.1 (courtesy Trustees of the British Museum)

analogous to each other than to any symposium or banquet scene on the Greek mainland at this time – a subject which certainly merits further study. Likewise, the servants, serving bowls, and stylistic similarities of the

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Figure 13.2 Drawing of a terracotta relief plaque from Murlo (Poggio Civitate), ca. 575 BCE (courtesy Poggio Civitate Archaeological Project)

klinai combine to strongly suggest a common artistic palette as well as shared cultural practices. One of the reclining figures on the Larisa plaques holds a round object in her right hand – if this is an egg, then we surely have yet another connection to the Etruscan world, where banqueters hold out eggs in performative gestures (Pieraccini 2014b, in press). The dogs on both the Larisa plaques and those of Murlo are positioned in a similar manner with their tails pointing upward. The Larisa dogs feature collars and appear to be female (based on the swollen teats), while the Murlo dogs may have thin collars (or tufts of fur?), and no teats are shown. Architectural terracottas with dogs (some with collars) under banquet tables are seen at numerous sites throughout Etruria, such as Acquarossa (560–550 BCE), Tarquinia (560–550 BCE), Tuscania (560–550 BCE), and Orvieto-Rusellae (530–520 BCE), as well as Veii, Velletri, and Rome (ca. 530 BCE) (Winter 2009; Chapter 7). These banquet narratives form elite cultural expression on very public buildings – the inclusion of details, such as the dog, speaks to the visual ingredients necessary to convey details of aristocratic social identity. But they also speak to the importance of animal agency – namely the status likened to a person or an event vis-à-vis a dog. Funerary art, too – such as stone urns and cippi from Chiusi – frequently depicts dogs under banquet tables, demonstrating the wide use of the banquet/dog motif in relief-work throughout sixth-century-BCE Etruria (Jannot 1984). The cippi, small funerary monuments, showcase how the banquet/dog motif straddled both the funerary and secular worlds. Remarkably, dogs do not loom large in Etruscan wall painting, save for a

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Figure 13.3 Terracotta revetment plaques from Larisa on the Hermos, 585–560/550 BCE (Kjellberg et al. 1940: pls. 24, 28, 31; courtesy The Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities)

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few hunting scenes (Tomb of Hunting and Fishing, Tomb of the Caccia, Tomb of Montollo, and a few others) (Steingräber et al. 1986: nos. 14, 17, 50, 108) and one possible dog (?) under a banquet table in the Tomb of the Querciola dating to the end of the fifth century BCE (Steingräber et al. 1986: no. 79). The Tomb of the Painted Vases (ca. 500 BCE) features the only dog that can clearly be identified under a banquet table (Steingräber et al. 1986: no. 123). Dogs are simply not as common in funerary banquet culture in tomb paintings of the sixth and fifth centuries BCE. Rather, dogs have a significant role on clay and stone reliefs, suggesting strong links between craftsmen of architectural terracotta relief and stone relief workshops (see Winter, Chapter 7). Moreover, the craftsmen of architectural terracottas in Etruria and Anatolia exchanged a whole set of “priorities” related to shared subject matter, style, and even technique (see Winter, Chapter 7). When we do see animals under banquet tables in painted Etruscan tombs, they are usually birds (e.g., ducks, partridges) or cats (e.g., Tomb of the Querciola, Tomb of the Triclinium, Golini Tomb I [?]) (Harnwell Ashmead 1994). The banquet/dog motif in Etruria, although it appears occasionally in other mediums of art – for example, a bronze mirror from Palestrina (Pieraccini 2014b: fig. 6) – was a central component of the Etruscan banquet visual culture in relief, such as on architectural terracottas, cylinder stamped ware, and stone reliefs of the sixth century BCE. It may be that the infrequent depictions of dogs in tomb painting reflects Etruscan wall painting workshops and not Etruscan funerary practice. If we look to the tombs of Anatolia, we find some fascinating analogies. I refer first to the dog featured within the banquet scene in the Kızılbel tumulus, in the region of northern Lycia and dating to the end of the sixth century BCE (Mellink et al. 1998: 24–25, pls. 29, VII, XII; Baughan 2013: 173). Although this banquet scene is not well preserved, Mellink describes all the features in detail (1998: 24). A man (presumably the deceased) reclines on a kline with a woman next to him. Below the kline is a table with a dog seated underneath. The dog, painted white with two black spots along its back, showcases a pink collar and a dark red tail that curls outward. This banquet image should be read in conjunction with the departure scene next to it (it is interesting to note that departure/journey scenes appear frequently in Etruscan tomb painting). The Kızılbel banquet, therefore, can be understood as representative of the heroic pleasures of the deceased – both in life and in the afterlife. The dog represents both realms of those luxury pleasures: banqueting and hunting practices (Mellink et al. 1998: 51). The famous, now stolen, wall painting from the Karaburun II tumulus, also from northern Lycia and dating to around 480 BCE, similarly

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includes a dog in a banqueting context. Here a distinguished banqueter reclines facing left with his right hand outstretched while delicately holding a drinking cup in his left hand (Figure 17.3 and cover image; Mellink 1974a, 1974b; Miller 2011). When comparing the Karaburun painting to an Etruscan reclining banqueter on the right wall of the Tomb of the Lionesses at Tarquinia, it is hard not to see the noticeable parallels in composition, gesture, and even style between these two men. But what about the dogs? The banqueters in the Tomb of the Lionnesses (ca. 520 BCE) recline on the ground propped up by pillows – dogs are nowhere to be found. In the Karaburun Tomb, below the reclining man, a carved stone kline is decorated with a painted dog and a rooster – the animals most likely represent features of male aristocratic life. In fact, birds and dogs regularly appear together under banquet tables in Etruscan terracotta relief plaques (cf. Strandberg Olofsson 2006, figs. 3–4; Winter 2009, fig. 5.19) and stone reliefs (e.g., cippi and urns; Jannot 1984). While many aspects of the Karaburun tomb paintings are clearly Persianizing (see Castor, Chapter 18), the presence of a dog under the couch is not one of them – dogs are not included in any of the so-called Graeco-Persian banquet scenes from Achaemenid Anatolia (Baughan 2013: 249–260). This is important to note and suggests that the banquet imagery in Anatolia in the sixth century BCE had significant ties to the West, namely Etruria. The dog-and-bird-under-a-banquet-table motif was also painted on a Clazomenian sarcophagus from Acanthus in northern Greece, ca. 500–470 BCE (Baughan 2013: fig. 10). The dog combines with the klinai, the servants, and the presence of women to suggest another link between Etruscan and Anatolian visual culture and practice. To date, this is the only known Clazomenian sarcophagus with a banquet narrative. But its striking relationship to Etruscan banqueting imagery merits further study.

13.2

Banqueting in Greece: A Liminal Space

It is difficult to discuss the ancient art of Etruria and Anatolia without mentioning the region located between the two. Greece marks a common ground geographically, and both Etruscans and Anatolians operated within artistic circles traditionally seen as dominated by ancient Greece. In fact, academia has institutionalized the study of the ancient Mediterranean through a Greek brand, where concepts of culture and civilization were based on Graeco-Roman colonizing regimes. This study, however, shows how two cultures literally “sidestepped” Greece and exercised their own

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artistic agency. Banquet scenes in archaic Greek vase painting rarely depict dogs under the tables except in the context of myths and heroes. In fact, there are fundamental differences between Etruscan and Anatolian banquets and those of the Greeks. Take for example the famous Corinthian column-krater (the Eurytos Krater) found at Cerveteri dating to around 600 BCE, where the dogs are leashed and tied to the klinai – something we do not see in Etruria, and I have yet to see it in Anatolian art. The krater does not show a secular banquet but rather a gathering of Herakles, Iole, Eurytos (a king), and his sons (Louvre E635, LIMC s.v. Eurytos I 1; Carpenter 1991: fig. 211). Here the dogs may appear as guardians of the mortal, albeit kingly, world where a hero (Herakles) is a guest. Likewise, dogs feature with the god Dionysus on Greek painted vases, usually next to him or under a kline or table (Carpenter 1986; Isler-Kerenyi 2007; Iozzo 2013). These dogs should be understood in a different light when compared to the banquet/dog motif in Etruria and Anatolia, as they are associated with the world of Dionysus and thus part of his “bestiary” (Iozzo 2013). Of course, there are bound to be examples from the edges of the Greek world that show an affinity to banquets outside centralized Greek parameters. Take for example the Laconian cup from Lavinium where a busy Dionysian banquet scene features two bearded men reclining on a kline (Isler-Kerenyi 2007: 54–55, fig. 32). A table for food and wine is placed in front of the kline – two dogs sit beneath while two birds fly under the table. Although the god is not present here, a kantharos on the table and the two reclining men, in addition to satyrs and a krater below the banquet narrative, all merge to reveal the Dionysian nature of this scene. Greek stone reliefs also observe the trope of dogs accompanying Dionysus, as seen on the pediment of a temple at Corfu (dated to the end of the sixth century BCE and probably dedicated to Dionysus (Ridgway 1977: fig. 114; Baughan 2011: n. 60). All in all, dogs in the sixth-century BCE Greek world are predominately shown within a mythic and divine context where they represent a god-like world or atmosphere within the banquet ambience. This is quite different from the way dogs appear in Etruscan and Anatolian banquets during the same period. It must be noted that we simply do not see dogs in Etruria within a Dionysian context. Rather, the visual narratives of the banquet/dog motif in Etruria and Anatolia provide a surplus of common details with respect to minute details and overall composition. The similar klinai, holding of a round object (perhaps an egg?), servants near the recliners, the presence of women, and the dogs beneath the tables all combine to reveal remarkable connections between two regions that shared elite cultural practice, values, and artistic ideologies, outside of Greek traditions.

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13.3

Chasing Dogs and Chariot Races

The theme of a dog chasing a hare was a significant part of Etruscan sixthcentury-BCE decorative narratives seen in painted pottery (Pieraccini 2014a) as well as in architectural terracottas (Winter 2009, fig. 5.15; ill 5. 10.1). Similarities in the way dogs feature in chariot races in Etruria and Anatolia are particularly noteworthy. Dogs chasing chariots may be a generic construction in ancient Mediterranean art more generally, usually to show speed, but the matching details in Etruscan and Anatolian scenes of chariot racing with running dogs evidence noteworthy connections. Take for example four similar depictions of an energetic horse race with a dog chasing a hare depicted on terracotta plaques from Larisa (Åkerström 1966: pls. 34–41) (see Figure 7.3a). Examples of relief plaques from Sardis with similar/identical horse-and-dog imagery demonstrate the popularity of this motif (Figure 13.4). If we compare these clay plaques to a very small Etruscan cylinder relief decoration on a pithos from ancient Caere, a conspicuous resemblance is revealed (Figure 13.5; Pieraccini 2003: fig 65, 110; 2014a: fig 2; see also, Winter 2013: figs. 1, 3). In fact, the similarities are compelling, not only for the overall configuration, the dogs, and their collars, but also for the griffin protome that decorates the yoke of the horses. These unique protomes are identical, yet one version was done in very large relief (i.e., a terracotta plaque) while the other relief was considerably smaller (i.e., a relief made by a cylinder seal, measuring approximately 3.5 cm high). The general arrangement and details force us to look more closely at how these two regions exchanged and shared subject matter, stylistic details, and technologies. Itinerant craftsmen traveling between regions (Winter 2009, 2013, Chapter 7) certainly played a part, but we need not assume a movement from east to west. Furthermore, an example of this same protome can be found on a fragment of a Clazomenian hydria now housed in Brussels – it is identical to the Anatolian and Etruscan examples (Brussels, Cinquantenaire Museum M831, LIMC s.v. Achilleus no. 584). Certainly, it is time for more comparative, transregional, and transcultural work in the Mediterranean, as it offers important examples of fascinating artistic exchange outside the realm of Greece proper. One would expect to find dogs alongside chariots in Etruscan wall painting, but since most of the chariots depict slow-moving processions in honor of the deceased (i.e., funerary in nature), dogs are not common. In the few scenes of chariot racing in tomb painting, only one depicts a dog

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Figure 13.4 Terracotta revetment plaque from Sardis, sixth century BCE (Shear 1926: frontispiece)

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Figure 13.5 Detail of the “Villa Giulia Chariot Race” cylinder relief on a Caeretan pithos, ca. 540 BCE. Rome, Villa Giulia (photo by author; Pieraccini 2003: E2, Fig. 65)

(Tomb of the Cassuccini, Chiusi) (Steingräber 2006: no. 15), but the dog is tied to a post (not running to show speed). In fact, this is the only depiction in Etruscan tomb painting of a dog tied to a post and may relate back to an actual event that took place in the deceased’s lifetime; the dog’s presence acts as an indicator of social status. What can be gleaned from examining the Etruscan and Anatolian dog/ chariot races from the sixth century BCE? The relationship between Anatolian artisans of architectural relief terracottas and the cylinder relief carvers at Caere is compelling. The chariot/dog/hare motif was a shared subject for Etruscan and Anatolian architectural terracotta craftsmen along with cylinder stamp craftsmen. Subject matter (i.e., dog/chariot race) and media (i.e., clay) were the same, but the technique and size of the narratives were different; stone (?) carved cylinders executed the small reliefs while molds were used for the larger terracottas. It is noteworthy that wall paintings, both in Etruria and Anatolia, are devoid of the dog/chariot race narrative, but the funerary context of such paintings suggests that other subjects, more funerary in nature, took precedence.

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13.4

Connecting Collars and Leashes

It is time to circle back to the subject of dog collars and leashes, as there is one depiction of a dog in Etruscan wall painting that underscores the crux of this brief survey. In 1981 Åke Åkerström published his iconic article, “Etruscan Wall Painting – An Art of Many Faces,” arguing for a Greek or East Greek origin for just about every Etruscan tomb discussed (1981). This approach was very much in keeping with the academic ethos of the twentieth century, when scholars assumed that any exchange in cultural ideas, styles, and practice traveled on a one-way course from east to west. The scope of this chapter, however, challenges that assumption and asks for the demarginalization of cultures and communities outside of Greece – Etruscans and Anatolians are two good examples. In his article, Åkerström made a remarkable observation regarding dog collars, or better yet dog leads, found in Etruria and Anatolia. He compared a dog lead featured in the Tomb of the Augurs from Tarquinia dating to the late sixth century BCE to one on a pottery fragment from Sardis, probably dating to around the early sixth century BCE (Hanfmann 1961: fig. 17; Åkerström 1981: 13; Greenewalt 2010: 122 n. 6). The fragment depicts a dog with a special collar – a sort of wooden or metal lead with a loop on each end, one for the leash and the other to adhere to the dog’s collar. What is significant about this lead, as Åkerström pointed out, is that we find an identical one depicted in an Etruscan tomb, namely on the righthand wall of the Tomb of the Augurs at Tarquinia (ca. 520 BCE), where Phersu, a purely Etruscan figure (perhaps an arbitrator of sorts), is holding a long leash tied to a vicious dog (Figure 13.6). The scene is certainly ritualistic in nature – the presence of Phersu, an enigmatic figure who wears a mask, heightens the visual drama. The dog attacks a man who is unable to see because a sack is tied around his head; he may be visually impaired but is armed with a club. Blood drips from various parts of his body where the dog has obviously attacked. What this Etruscan “ritual” or “game” signifies is not fully understood (Jannot 1993; Avramidou 2009). Åkerström (1981: 11) was sure that Phersu and the “game” must have had Eastern origins (again stereotyping all unexplained narratives as “Eastern” in origin), although to date I have not seen anything similar to this in the Greek or Anatolian world. But the need to look elsewhere for the origin of Etruscan customs was very much a habit of twentieth-century academia and has proven detrimental to the study of Etruscan art more broadly. Nevertheless, the lead in the tomb of the Augurs is identical to the one found on the pottery fragment from Sardis. The fragment, if one looks closely at the adjoining

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Figure 13.6 Detail of the righthand wall of the Tomb of the Augurs, Tarquinia, ca. 520 BCE, showing Phersu and a leashed dog attacking a man (courtesy Soprintendenza Archeologica per l’Etruria Meridionale)

piece, seems to be showing some type of hunt, as a man with a spear stands or runs behind the dog. In any case, these two examples dating to roughly the same period – one in a wall painting in Etruria and the other on a painted vase from Lydia – suggest intriguing connections between Etruria and Anatolia. In this case, the dog lead appears to have an Eastern origin; Åkerström even noted that the same lead was used in an Egyptian tomb painting, namely the Rekhmire Tomb in Thebes (1981: 11, fig. 7). Its appearance in Anatolia and Etruria certainly speaks of contact, but it also suggests that we are probably dealing with shared practices in the use and training of hunting dogs, rather than simply artistic borrowing. In fact, they may have been elite hunting leads and thus carried a substantial cultural cachet all their own. Remarkably, the obscure dog lead is just as unique in Etruscan art as Phersu himself. In fact, this is the only example of such a

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dog lead in Etruscan art that I know of, and I am not aware of other examples in Anatolian art (future excavations in both Etruria and Anatolia may reveal more).

13.5

Conclusions and New Horizons

The fascinating artistic correlations of domesticated dogs depicted in Etruria and Anatolia no doubt merit further attention. However, even in this brief survey of dog imagery, we can trace shared motifs, and similar contexts and even styles in the sixth century BCE. No doubt the craftsmen of terracotta reliefs played a significant role in the production and diffusion of the banquet/dog motif. In the banquet, chariot race, and hunting contexts, dogs were, in and of themselves, expressions of an aristocratic value system. Equipment, too, played a role, as the dog lead speaks to the intricate network of shared technologies. The premise for this study is not necessarily to discover who did what first – because our evidence from the ancient world is so fragmentary – but rather to explore how these two regions, separated by quite a distance, practiced artistic exchange. Although dogs appear in the art of the Near East, Egypt, and Greece, we find remarkable similarities between Etruscan and Anatolian craftsmen regarding the context, meaning, style, and even features of dogs – and this is significant. It marks an important subject of study that for decades has fallen through academic cracks due to the traditional boundaries of our respective disciplines (Etruscan scholars studying only Etruscan material, and Anatolian scholars only Anatolian – while both fields struggle to loosen the Greek stronghold. To this point, texts (poetry and prose) and stone (temples, theaters, urban structures) have dominated the discourse in the ancient Mediterranean, so much so that topics such as dogs can now finally be part of the conversation. Thankfully the past two decades of studies have welcomed a broader and more inclusive view of the ancient Mediterranean world, introducing a new lens through which to examine the material connections and artistic exchange between regions. The case of Etruria and Anatolia is just one such example. Works Cited Åkerström, Å. 1966. Die architektonischen Terrakotten Kleinasiens. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup. 1981. “Etruscan Tomb Painting: An Art of Many Faces,” Opuscula Romana 13: 7–34.

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 .  Avramidou, A. 2009. “The Phersu Game Revisited,” Etruscan Studies 12: 73–87. Baughan, E. P. 2011. “Sculpted Symposiasts of Ionia,” American Journal of Archaeology 115(1): 19–53. 2013. Couched in Death: Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Boschin, F., Bernardini, F., Pilli, E., Vai, S., Zanolli, C., Tagliacozzo, A., Fico, R., et al. 2020. “The First Evidence for Pleistocene Dogs in Italy,” Scientific Reports 10: 13313. Camporeale, G. 1984. La Caccia in Etruria. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Carpenter, T. H. 1986. Dionysian Imagery in Archaic Greek Art: Its Development in Black-Figure Vase Painting. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 1991. Art and Myth in Ancient Greece. London: Thames & Hudson. Greenewalt, C. H. 2010. “Lydian Pottery,” in The Lydians and Their World, ed. N. D. Cahill, 106–124. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Hanfmann, G. M. A. 1961. “The Third Campaign at Sardis (1960),” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 162: 8–49. Harnwell Ashmead, A. 1994. “Etruscan Domesticated Cats: Classical Conformists or Etruscan Originals?” in Murlo and the Etruscans: Art and Society in Ancient Etruria, ed. R. D. De Puma and J. P. Small, 144–164. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Iozzo, M. 2013. “The Dog: A Dionysian Animal?” Rivista di Archeologia (2012) 36: 5–22. Isler-Kerenyi, C. 2007. Dionysos in Archaic Greece: An Understanding through Images. Leiden: Brill. Jannot, J.-R. 1984. Les reliefs archaiques de Chiusi. Rome: École française de Rome. 1993. “Phersu Phersuna, Persona. À propos du masque étrusque,” in Spectacles et scénques dans le monde étrusco-italique: actes de la table ronde, ed. J. P. Thuillier, 281–320. Rome: École française de Rome. Kjellberg, K., Boehlau, J., Dalman, K. O., Schefold, K., Kjellberg, E., and Åkerstrom, Å. 1940. Larisa am Hermos: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen, 1902–1934, II: Die architektonischen Terrakotten. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Mellink, M. J. 1974a. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmalı, Lycia, 1973,” American Journal of Archaeology 78: 351–359. 1974b. “Notes on Anatolian Wall Painting,” in Mélanges Mansel, ed. E. Akurgal and U. Alkım, 537–547. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basimevi. Mellink, M. J. Bridges, R. A., Jr., and di Vignale, F. C. 1998. Kızılbel: An Archaic Painted Tomb Chamber in Northern Lycia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Miller, M. C. 2011. “‘Manners Makyth Man’: Diacritical Drinking in Achaemenid Anatolia,” in Cultural Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. E. Gruen, 97–134. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute. Pieraccini, L. 2003. Around the Hearth: Caeretan Cylinder-Stamped Braziers. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschenider.

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Chasing the Dog in Etruria and Anatolia 2014a. “Artisans and Their Lasting Impressions: Clay Stamping and Craft Connectivity at Caere during the 6th Century BCE,” Etruscan Studies 17 (2): 140–153. 2014b. “The Ever Elusive Etruscan Egg,” Etruscan Studies 17(2): 267–292. in press. “Dining with the Dead: Visual Meals, Memory & Symbolic Consumption in Etruscan Tomb Painting,” in Consumption, Ritual and Society: Recent Finds and Interpretive Approaches to Food and Drink in Etruria, ed. L. Pieraccini and L. Taylor. Turnhout: Brepols. Rathje, A. 1994. “Banquet and Ideology: Some New Considerations about Banqueting at Poggio Civitate,” in Murlo and the Etruscans: Art and Society in Ancient Etruria, ed. R. D. De Puma and J. P. Small, 95–99. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. 2007. “Murlo, Images and Archaeology,” Etruscan Studies 10: 175–184. Ridgway, B. 1977. The Archaic Style in Greek Sculpture. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Shear, T. L. 1926. Sardis, Vol. X.1. Architectural Terra-Cottas. Cambridge: The University Press. Siddiq, A. B., Onar, V., Mutuş, R., and Poradowski, D. 2021. “The Iron Age Dogs from Alaybeyi Höyük, Eastern Anatolia,” Animals 11(4): 1163, https://doi .org/10.3390/ani11041163. Small, J. P. 1994. “Eat, Drink, and Be Merry: Etruscan Banquets,” in Murlo and the Etruscans: Art and Society in Ancient Etruria, ed. R. D. De Puma and J. P. Small, 85–94. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Steingräber, S. 2006. Abundance of Life: Etruscan Wall Painting, trans. Russell Stockman. Los Angeles: The J. Paul Getty Museum. Steingräber, S., Ridgway, D., and Ridgway, F. R. (eds.) 1986. Etruscan Painting. Catalogue Raisonné of Etruscan Wall Paintings. New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich. Strandberg Olofsson, M. 2006. “Creatures Great and Small: Animals on EtruscoItalic Architectural Terracotta Reliefs,” in Across Frontiers: Etruscans, Greeks, Phoenicians and Cypriots, ed. E. Herring, I. Lemos, F. L. Schiavo, L. Vagnetti, R. Whitehouse, and J. Wilkins, 517–528. London: Accordia Research Institute. Winter, N. A. 2009. Symbols of Wealth and Power: Architectural Terracotta Decoration in Etruria and Central Italy, 640–510 B.C. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. 2013. “Confronti fra scene su bracieri e pithoi ceretani e terrecotte architettoniche,” in Mediterranea: Studi e Ricerche a Tarquinia e in Etruria, ed. M. D. Gentili and L. Maneschi, 85–96. Rome: Fabrizio Serra.

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Reconsidering Ionian and Other Eastern Influences on Etruscan Black-Figure Vase-Painting  

The Ionian origin of the best black-figured pottery produced in Etruria is a persistent topos in Etruscan studies (Paleothodoros 2011: 36), established in the late nineteenth century on supposedly solid historical and archaeological evidence and substantiated by stylistic studies. However, this carefully built establishment was shaken in the recent past. Currently, we observe the formation of a hypercritical trend that tends to deny any substantial Ionian contribution to the formation of Etruscan archaic painting styles. The aim of this chapter is, first, to examine how the “Ionian” paradigm was formulated and expose the reasons why it is strongly opposed by some branches of recent scholarship, and, second, to explore possible Ionian or, more broadly speaking, “Eastern” traits in early Etruscan black-figure vasepainting while also trying to explain their presence.

14.1

250

Panionism

The first scholar who recognized the distinct character of Etruscan blackfigured vases was Eduard Gerhard, who identified an ovoid amphora (Figure 14.1; Hannestad 1974: 44, no. 1, pl. 1–2; Olivier-Trottenberg 2014: pl. 5, 6.1–3) as “Etrusco-Egyptian” (Gerhard 1831: 124, n. 57), a term equivalent to the current “Etrusco-Corinthian,” since the so-called Egyptian style was subsequently recognized as Corinthian (Kramer 1837: 46–72). In 1836, Jean de Witte recognized the local origin of the two most representative schools of Etruscan black-figure, namely the Pontic Group and the Micali School (de Witte 1836: 90–91, no. 273; 119, no. 339; 129, no. 373; 145, no. 396; 196, no. 576; and 278, no. 868: “style and manufacture Etruscan” [style et fabrication étrusques]). Scholarly ideas changed considerably within half a century, under the banner of “Panionism” (Cook 1997: 296). Most of the vases that we now call “Etruscan black-figure” were considered Ionian. The idea goes back to

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Figure 14.1 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora attributed to the Paris Painter, mid-sixth century BCE. Munich, Antikensammlungen no. 837 (Furtwängler and Reichold 1909: pl. 21)

Ferdinand Dümmler’s seminal study of 1887, where he assigned a large group of vases painted in a vivid, polychrome style to a Greek city of the Pontus, on the grounds that they featured mounted archers wearing pointed headdresses that were also on the amphora Vatican 231 (Figure 14.2; Hannestad 1974: 44, no. 3). Dümmler’s suggestion was, according to Robert Cook (1996: 305), too obviously absurd to be misleading, so in a surprising way, the name “Pontic” stood the test of time (Ducati 1932; Hannestad 1974, 1976; Stibbe 1977). Meanwhile, other scholars were seeking a more credible candidate for the localization of the workshop. Kyme (Cyme) in Aeolis, which was once considered the source of practically every single group of black-figure pottery (Böhlau 1898: 39–54), or Phocaea (Walters 1905: 360), said by Dümmler (1888: 169–174) to be the place of manufacture for Caeretan hydriae, were often suggested. “Panionism” was based on the theoretical assumption that Ionia, the source of Greek poetry and philosophy, must have also been a pioneer region in the arts (Cook 1946). The ramifications of this “strong narrative” to pottery studies have been thoroughly studied by Robert Cook (1996: 296–305). The archaeological foundation lies in the discoveries at Samos, Rhodes, Aeolis, and Clazomenae and the wrong assumption that everything found there was necessarily produced before the Persian occupation of circa 547 BCE. As opposed to the generally low (late) dates proposed for the pottery found or produced in Italy at that time, Ionian finds were

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Figure 14.2 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora attributed to the Paris Painter, mid-sixth century BCE. Vatican, Museo Gregoriano Etrusco no. 231 (Dümmler 1887: pl. 9)

generally dated too high (early), and subsequently Ionia was considered the source of several innovations in the field of pottery (Cook 1946: 92–95). Around 1900, an East Greek origin was largely accepted for Pontic vases; Caeretan hydriae (Hemerlijk 1984 , 2009); Campana dinoi (Hemelrijk 2007); Northampton Group amphorae (Martelli 1981), a distinctive class of one-piece amphorae decorated with eyes and snakes, now assigned to the Ivy-Leaf Group (Werner 2005: 30–31); and the later production of the Chalcidian workshop (Böhlau 1900). Ionisms were amply detected in Attic pottery, too, with Nikosthenes, Amasis, the Elbows Out Painter, and the Affecter usually considered Eastern immigrants to Athens (Jackson 1976: ix-x; Cook 1997: 302–303). Scholars acquainted with Etruscan material felt somewhat uneasy with the situation. It was no longer possible to regard Pontic vases as imports, since nothing similar was ever found in the East. Nor, as a matter of fact, did any of the better-known schools of Ionian painted pottery have a marked presence in Etruria (Martelli Cristofani 1978). The local character of the later classes of Etruscan black-figured vases was too obvious to be

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neglected, but at the same time it looked quite artificial to dissociate the later from the earlier vases. Thus Johannes Sieveking classified the Munich Italo-Ionian and Etruscan vases together, and arranged them according to shape (Sieveking and Hackl 1912). In a short discussion on the development of vase-painting, however, he defined an Etrusco-Ionian branch, composed of the Caeretan hydriae, and an Indigenous branch, consisting of imitations of the aforementioned groups (Sieveking 1908: 14). The narrative expression of this binary aspect of the production and its incorporation into an evolutionary scheme runs as follows: Immigrants from Ionia established themselves in the cities of South Etruria and taught the craft to their Indigenous pupils, who rapidly barbarized the noble style of their predecessors without altogether altering the formal characteristics of the ware. “Asiatic-ionic” was transformed to “Etrusco-ionic” (Philippart 1933: 424). Vase-specialists and Etruscologists alike reproduced, sometimes uncritically, this scheme, until as late as the first years of the twenty-first century (Paleothodoros 2011: 54, n. 2). The underlying principle was that the better the vase, the less likely it was to have been made by an Etruscan. Objections were raised even at an early stage. Paolo Mingazzini in 1930 went so far as to deny even the slightest possible direct link between Ionian and Etruscan black-figure, especially Pontic ware vases, the affinities being the consequence of Attic intermediaries (Mingazzini 1930: 171). Other scholars expressed similar ideas (Amyx 1962: 131; Hannestad 1974: 30–31; Cook 1997: 148; Cook and Dupont 1998: 108), but thorough examinations of the issue were undertaken only by Jaap Hemelrijk in 1984 and by Robert Cook in 1989, who arrived at strikingly divergent conclusions. Hemelrijk (1984: 188–189) espoused the idea first introduced by Tobias Dohrn in 1966 that the Paris Painter was a second-generation Greek immigrant to Etruria: The painter was taught by his purely East Greek parents but lived in an Etruscan environment. This alleged hybridity is accepted in order to account for the local taste of the iconography, the fight between Hercle and Juno Sospita on the amphora B57 in the British Museum (Hannestad 1974: 45, no. 11, pl. 8) being the most obvious example. Hemelrijk’s analysis is detailed and aims at isolating specific East Greek elements: the technique of painting inner details on white areas, instead of incising them; the profile of human faces; the abundant presence of human processions and rows of partridges; and the star-and-meander ornament. Rejection of the Paris Painter’s Etruscan descent relies on his sophisticated subjects and his originality and humor. Cook (1989: 164–168), on the other hand, attacks the very notion of a secondgeneration immigrant with pertinent arguments: If the parent was an

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East Greek vase-painter, we should expect to find his works somewhere; if he was not, then our painter must have learned his craft from Etruscan potters, his Greek milieu contributing only to his fair knowledge of Greek myth. Following Lise Hannestad (1974: 30–31), Cook believed that apart from the rows of partridges and the star-and-rosette ornament, there is little in Pontic (to say nothing of the rest of Etruscan black-figure) that can be successfully claimed to derive directly from East Greek vase-painting. The discussion took an exciting turn when Dyfri Williams published a new Pontic hydria, whose style is beyond any reasonable doubt closer to Attic than to any other school of vase-painting (London 1998.1–14.1 – Williams 2005: 353–355, fig. 1–5). Neutron activation analysis confirmed the attribution of the new vase to the Pontic Group. The painter, the socalled Eyre Painter, was, according to Williams, a Greek who learned his craft in Athens during the second quarter of the sixth century, before migrating to the West in order to establish the Pontic workshop. For Hemelrijk, the hydria dates to an early stage of the career of the Paris Painter (2009: 83). Ironically, if the latter is true, the supposedly Ionian traits in the painter’s oeuvre must have appeared in his mature work, so he can no longer be regarded as a second-generation immigrant from Ionia. On the other hand, if the former is true, the Ionian elements were added to the Pontic style by the Paris Painter and his associates well after the foundation of the workshop, which was not genetically linked to the Ionian Greeks.

14.2

East Greek versus Local Traits in “Pontic Vases”

Freed from the burden of the alleged Ionian identity, whether by birth or culture, for the founder of the Pontic workshop, we can now proceed to a thorough examination of East Greek traits in the work of the Paris Painter and his associates. Defining the exact source of inspiration is a major issue, since Ionian influence is also apparent in Attic vase-painting (Jackson 1976).

14.2.1 Style The more serious argument regarding the dependence of Etruscan vasepainting on East Greek models has to do with style and especially the balanced use of red and white, in addition to black, which makes the Pontic vases of the highest quality so vivid and at the same time so unlike their Attic or Early and Middle Corinthian counterparts. In terms of technique, much of Etruscan painting was done in silhouette, with the colors

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subsequently added and inner details painted with the brush, in contrast to Middle Corinthian, or Attic ware, on which colors are added on the black figure and outlines are incised. Another remarkable feature is the use of white and red for the decoration of garments. Both traits are visible on the more elaborate vases by the Paris Painter, such as the amphora New York 1955.11.4 showing banqueting women (von Bothmer 1955–1956: 128 and 130; Hannestad 1974: 45, no. 10) and Munich 837 (Figure 14.1), as well as on a fragmentary Clazomenian hydria in Athens and Brussels (Tempesta 1998: pl. 15.1–2), often cited as a more or less close parallel to Pontic vases. However, facial types on Pontic vases are not close to those on Clazomenian vases, while both common traits can be traced back to Late Corinthian, a style that came to life in the beginning of the second quarter of the sixth century. To paraphrase Humphrey Payne (1931: 134–135), it was much more about outline drawing and added red coloring than about black-figure using incision. Late Corinthian painters did use incision but also added colors for details, very much in the way done by Clazomenian and Pontic artisans. In addition, white was used for male flesh, whenever there was need for color and variation (e.g., Louvre E 622 – Payne 1931: no. 1480, pl. 41.3), a trait also present on Clazomenian vases. Corinthian influence on Pontic vases is significant on other grounds, as for example in the decoration of a pair of hydriae showing cocks flanking a floral, attributed to the Paris Painter by Lise Hannestad (1974: nos. 35–36, pl. 24–25) but said to be Late Corinthian by both Payne (1931: 327–328, nos. 1447–1448) and Hemelrijk (2007: 387, n. 65),1 or in the use of the peculiar Late Corinthian rosette with white dots surrounding a red circle on a black background, which is used as an ornament for garments on a Pontic amphora by the Paris Painter (New York 1955.11.4 – von Bothmer 1955–1956: 128 and 130; Hannestad 1974: 45, no. 10) and on a neck amphora by the Eyre Painter (Williams 2005: 356, fig. 6–7).

1

Subsidiary decoration and overall composition point to heavy Corinthian influence (e.g., Payne 1931: no. 1471, pl. 42.1), but the motif of the cocks flanking a floral of this type is found elsewhere in the work of the Paris Painter, namely on an amphorae in Rome, Capitolini 91 (Dümmler 1887: pl. 8.2; Hannestad 1974: 44, no. 5), and Leiden, K 1958 (Hannestad 1974: 45, no. 6). The shape of the vase is closer to a hydria in Fiesole by the same painter (inv. 1131 – Hannestad 1974: 49, no. 34) than to Corinthian work, where the neck is invariably decorated with rosettes. In the absence of clay analysis, Hannestad’s attribution is preferred. Williams and Massar (2017: 236) point to the presence of typically Late Corinthian ornaments (e.g., the bichrome meander hook-and-step pattern) but note the absence of the red ground typical of Late Corinthian vases and thus conclude that the vase was made in Etruria, not by the Paris Painter but by a pupil of the Corinthian Tydeus Painter.

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14.2.2 Ornament The most promising area in which to search for genuine East Greek influences is subsidiary ornament. To begin with, the star-and-meander motif, prominent in the work of the Paris Painter (on Munich 837 and New York 55.1 – von Bothmer 1955–1956: 129; Hannestad 1974: 45, no. 9), appears on Clazomenian sarcophagi (Cook 1984: 84–85), on an East Greek amphora in Bonn (Tempesta 1998: pl. 39) and the Velletri plaques; the meander in combination with other motifs, like the checkerboard pattern (Rome, Villa Giulia 84445 – Hannestad 1976: 55, no. 10, pl. 8–9) or the bird (Munich 923 – Hannestad 1976: 63, no. 60, pl. 33; Olivier-Trottenberg 2014: pl. 14.3–4, 15.1–2) is also an East Greek trait, most commonly found on Fikellura pottery (Cook 3–1934: 78). The ivy leaves chain (Louvre E704 – Hannestad 1974: 48, no. 29, pl. 20–21a) is closer to examples of Ionian Little Master cups (Vienna IV 3579 – Kunze 1934: pl. 8.1; Louvre F 68 – Boardman 1998: 164, fig. 327.1–2) and face-kantharoi (Munich 2014 – Boardman 1998: 165, fig. 330.1–2), although its placement on Pontic amphora necks betrays Attic influence (amphora once on the London Market, Sotheby’s 17 July 1985, no. 566); the chain of alternating lotus buds and calices (Berlin F1885 – Hannestad 1974: 49, no. 37, pl. 19) follows the Attic motif, with calyx linked to calyx and bud linked to bud in alternation, as is also the case of an amphora of the Northampton Group (Tempesta 1998: pl. 7) and of Caeretan hydriae (Amsterdam 1346 – Hemelrijk 2009, pl. 5), as opposed to the East Greek motif with calices and buds linked directly to each other found on Campana dinoi (Louvre Cp 10234 – Gaultier 1995: pl. 10–12; Würzburg H 5352 – Tempesta 1998, pl. 11.1–2) and on Fikellura vases (Cook 1933–1934: 75–78). Myrtle wreaths appear on the Clazomenian hydria London B27 (Tempesta 1998: pl. 24.1) and on Attic neck amphorae by the Elbows Out Painter (Paris, Louvre C10522 and E 705 – Jackson 1976: 45, fig. 22 and 50, fig. 23), but they are also present on the belly and the lip of Pontic amphorae by the Paris Painter (Paris, Louvre CA 7419 – Gaultier 1995: 29–30, pl. 14.1–4; and the Juno Sospita amphora in London cited above). Confronted spiral ornaments appear on Fikellura vases (Jackson 1976: 43) and on an amphora probably made in Egypt (Bailey 2006: 155, fig. 1). They are occasionally found on Attic vases attributed to the workshop of Nikosthenes (London B678 – Jackson 1976: 44, fig. 21) and on late Pontic chalices and phialai (Munich 922, 1009, and 1010 – Hannestad 1976: 64, no. 66, pl. 38–39, 73, nos. 116 and 117; Olivier-Trottenberg 2014: pl. 13.4, 14.1–2, 22.4–5, 6–7).

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In sum, there is a good deal of Ionian ornament on Etruscan vases. Other motifs go back to Corinthian (the pomegranate net, the oblique wavy lines in red and white) or Attic pottery (the double chain of palmettes and lotus buds, the upside-down palmette with open leaves, the palmette with closed leaves marked with incisions), and there are various combinations of lotus buds, palmettes, and rosettes so common in the mainland and colonial schools that it is impossible to decide where they derive from. Subsidiary ornament is so abundant and varied on Pontic vases that it would be impossible to match every single motif with a Greek source of inspiration. The obvious conclusion is that the Paris Painter and his followers chose whatever motifs seemed fitting or interesting from Greek prototypes and applied them in an eclectic manner, side by side with their own numerous inventions. The very emphasis of Pontic painters on ornament and decoration has often been described as a distinctive Ionian trait. In reality, there is nothing in East Greek art to match the richness and lack of restraint of the Pontic ornaments.

14.2.3 Iconography Discussion of iconography will be necessarily limited and focused on a small number of prominent features. The notion that a fair knowledge of Greek mythology betrays a Greek or a Greek-trained artist cannot be regarded as self-evident but needs to be substantiated by concrete evidence. Mythological subjects are rare in the East Greek repertory anyway (Tempesta 1998), even in comparison to the Etruscan one (Paleothodoros 2011: 71–72), so it is difficult, even impossible, to establish links between the two. Just a few universal myths are found in both areas: the Return of Hephaestus, the duel of Achilles and Memnon, the Ambush for Troilus, the Grypomachy, satyrs and maenads, the Centauromachy, and so on. But there are fewer images of Herakles in the East (Tempesta 1998: 41–50 and 59–60), although he is prominent enough on Caeretan hydriae (Bonaudo 2004: 95–156) and quite popular in Etruscan black-figure. And of course, Etruscan vase-painters also depict Etruscan deities and myths (Lund and Rathje 1988). By far, Etruscan vase iconography is dominated by monsters and animals. A genuine Ionian motif appearing on Pontic vases is the floral growing from the head of a sphinx. This has a very long history in the Aegean, going back to the Mycenaean period (Jackson 1976: 3–6). The later history, and the one which concerns us here, starts somewhere in the beginning of the seventh century BCE. The peculiar headdress in question consists of a tendril that sprouts from the crown of the head, coiling

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backwards in an S-shape and sometimes terminating in a palmette or a bud. Earlier examples are East Greek – more precisely Early Orientalizing Rhodian, dating from the second quarter of the seventh century BCE (Jackson 1976: 4, fig. 5). Almost all later East Greek examples, which are mainly Chian (e.g., Boardman 1998: 161–162, figs. 318–319), display only the S-shaped tendril without its floral appendage. A motif running parallel grows in Protocorinthian and Protoattic pottery. There are two tendrils now, usually supporting a palmette. The most developed and exaggerated examples of this motif occur on Laconian cups of the mid-sixth century (e.g., Lane 1933–1934: pl. 44c and 45a). The single-tendril motif appears for the first time in Attic art on the François vase, on which the tendril terminates in a palmette (Jackson 1976: 4, fig. 6), as well as on nearly contemporary Tyrrhenian amphorae, where we encounter both the variant of the simple tendril (Florence 76359 – Beazley 1956: 97, no. 28) and a new version, with the tendril terminating in a lotus flower (London 97.7–27.2 – Beazley 1956: 97, no. 27). The motif is rare in later Attic pottery. On the contrary, it is quite popular on Pontic vases, where all possible variants occur: a double tendril terminating in a palmette-like flower (Rome, Capitolini 91 – Hannestad 1974: 44, no. 5; Lund and Rathje 1988: 359, fig. 6a–b), a single tendril with the same floral (Bonn 1587 – Hannestad 1976: 62, no. 53; Bentz 2008: 167–168, no. 244. Civitavecchia 1290 – Kunze 1934: 114–115; Hannestad 1976: 56, no. 16), and a tendril terminating in a lotus bud (Munich 838 – Hannestad 1976: 54.1, pl. 2–3; OlivierTrottenberg 2014: pl. 7–8). It is interesting that the tendril is wavy but not S-shaped, unlike all Greek prototypes. Surprisingly, the best parallels appear on such early pieces as Phoenician or Syrian tridacna shells (Cook and Dupont 1998: 33, fig. 8.1), but there is a chronological gap of nearly two centuries between the two classes of artifacts. It is therefore probable that the painters of Pontic vases adopted the motif from Tyrrhenian vases (Hannestad 1974, 28–29) and reinterpreted it to fit their own penchant for true flowers and plants. Points of contact also exist in the rendering of other hybrid creatures. Etruscan satyrs normally belong to the so-called Ionian type, with human legs and hooves, as opposed to the Attic type, with human legs and feet (Paleothodoros 2004–2007: 189–190). But on closer inspection, it becomes apparent that the so-called Ionian model does not appear early. In fact, on vases by the Paris Painter, satyrs belong to the Attic type (Tarquinia RC 1979 – Hannestad 1974: 46, no. 15, pl. 9), as do those on vases of the atticizing Ivy-Leaf Group (e.g., Cambridge G58 – Werner 2005: pl. 16). The Silen Painter paints both types (Attic type: Louvre E 703 – Hanestad

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Figure 14.3 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora, mid-sixth century BCE. Munich, Antikensammlungen no. 839 (Sieveking and Hackl 1912: 104, fig. 109)

1976: 61, no. 49; Gaultier 1995: pl. 20.1–4, 21.1–2. Ionian type: Würzburg HA 24 – Hannestad 1976, 61, no. 48; Wehgartner 1983:pl. 28.2, 29.1–2, 31.1–2, 36.2 and 7), but in Later Etruscan black-figure (Painter of Munich 833, Orvieto Group, Micali Painter), as well as on other types of monuments (stone stelai, tomb paintings, golden ornaments, bronze statuettes, and mirrors), the Ionian type dominates. Komasts are prominent on Pontic and other sixth-century Etruscan blackfigured vases. The earlier Etruscan komasts belong to the Corinthian type and appear on an Etrusco-Corinthian flask in Berlin (Martelli 1987: 106, no. 56) and on a later krater in the Villa Giulia (Mingazzini 1930: 155, pl. 32.1–2, no. 392). On Pontic vases, komasts usually wear a white perizoma, leaving the genitals exposed (Figure 14.3; Hannestad 1976: 62, no. 55; Olivier-Trottenberg 2014: pl. 11.1–4), as is also seen on satyrs (Figure 14.4; Hannestad 1976: 61, no. 50; Olivier-Trottenberg 2014: pl. 11.5–6). Sometimes, komasts wear a ribbon around one shoulder and breast and a tall cap; the latter appears also on vases by the Painter of the Banditaccia Komasts (Louvre E 566 – Gaultier 2003: pl. 1.2, 4–5) and the Micali Painter

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Figure 14.4 Drawing of Etruscan black-figured (“Pontic”) amphora, mid-sixth century BCE. Munich, Antikensammlungen no. 841 (Sieveking and Hackl 1912: 106, fig. 114)

(Heidelberg E27 – Herbig 1933, pl. 15.1–3). Komasts wearing headdresses appear in Attica, after about 520 BCE. They have been famously connected to Eastern, probably Lydian, banqueting customs (Kurtz and Boardman 1986: 51–54; Miller 2013: 22; on Lydian headgear, see Şare Ağtürk, Chapter 17). But theirs is a turban, not a cap, and the Etruscan komasts are earlier, so the only reasonable point of contact that can be established is with komasts on Chian black-figured vases belonging to the first half of the sixth century BCE (Smith 2010: 179–184, pl. 32D–34D). Chian komasts wear a perizoma, a cap, and a ribbon around one shoulder, so the analogy cannot be accidental. Rows of partridges are almost unanimously considered an East Greek inspiration (Hannestad 1974: 31; Hemelrijk 1984: 188; Cook 1989: 167). Indeed, they appear only on a few Pontic amphorae by the Paris Painter (Hannestad 1974: 45–47, no. 11, 19. 20) and on vases of the (Milesian) Fikellura ware (e.g., the stamnoid amphora Rhodes 15429 – Boardman 1998: 166, fig. 333). A closer inspection reveals a whole different picture: Fikellura partridges have their lower body decorated with a row of chevrons, Pontic ones with wavy stripes (Cambridge G 43 – Hannestad 1974: 47, no. 20, pl. 11). More interestingly, Pontic partridges have red feet. This is intriguing, but we should not hastily explain it as an ornamental feature without any iconographic significance. In fact, a rapid glance at a few ornithological illustrations points to a different conclusion. It seems that the Fikellura partridges belong to the Chukar species (Alectoris chukar)

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native to Greece and Turkey but absent in Italy, while the Etruscan ones belong to the Red Partridge species (Alectoris rufa) native to Italy and western Europe but unknown to the East (Arnott 2007: 254–256). So we may speak of a remote influence, or a coincidence in the choice of subjects, but painters observe and paint different things in different ways.

14.2.4 Shapes Shapes in the Pontic repertory derive either from bucchero or from Attic and Corinthian pottery (Lund and Rathje 1988: 354–356). There are only two shapes that might be of direct Ionian descent – the Little Master cup and the lydion. Pontic Little Master cups were initially classed with Ionian ones (Kunze 1934: 114–115), but the overall structure of the decoration does not bear any resemblance to East Greek cups, the only point of contact being that both areas favored the lip-cup over the much more ornate band-cup. Pontic lip-cups rarely display any decoration on the sides, except for palmettes; figural decoration is usually reserved to the tondo (e.g., Munich 530 – Hannestad 1976: 56 no. 14; Olivier-Trottenberg 2014: pl. 21.4–5). Such a display is certainly borrowed from Attica. East Greek lip-cups, now largely considered Milesian, sometimes bear banded decoration on the interior and ivy-leaf fillets on the outer surface of the lip (Kunze 1934: pl. 8.1). Both items are absent on Etruscan and extremely rare on Attic works. Another link of the Pontic cups to Athens is the absence of the stemless variety, which was quite popular in the East. A dozen Pontic lip-cups are known. The number is very low, but the kylix was never a favorite shape of Etruscan painters, as the demand was supplied by Attic, Laconian, and Chalcidian imports (Paleothodoros 2011: 49). The lydion is an altogether different matter. It is the most popular perfume jar in sixth-century BCE Etruscan vase-painting with more than twenty painted examples, all connected in one way or another to the Pontic workshop (Paleothodoros 2011: 51, n. 7). Afterward, it disappears altogether. The Etruscan version is closer to East Greek shapes and quite unlike the few Attic painted lydia associated with the work of Elbows Out (Jackson 1976: 51). It was undoubtedly inspired by the numerous imports of Lydian and Ionian lydia (Martelli Cristofani 1978).

14.3

Conclusions

East Greek and other Anatolian traits are strongly present in sixth-century BCE Etruscan art, as papers in this volume amply demonstrate. Even in

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vase-painting, there are features that betray the presence of artists trained in Anatolia and in Etruria: In the closing years of the seventh century BCE, an East Greek painter may have established himself at Vulci for a brief period of time, painting rows of wild goats in an unmistakably East Greek style (Cook and Dupont 1998: 68–70). During the last third of the sixth century BCE, another East Greek painter, using the Greek script, decorated a series of ornate hydriae (Hemelrijk 1984, 2009) that have much in common with North Ionian works of art in other media, such as the Northampton Group and Campana dinoi, once generally considered “Etrusco-Ionian” but now classified as purely East Greek work (Martelli 1981; Marangou 1995: 110–113; Hemelrijk 2007). But these were isolated moments in a long history of development of Etruscan vase-painting, which followed a pattern not unknown in areas of the Greek world (e.g., Boeotia). Corinthian influence comes first (Etrusco-Corinthian vases) and is replaced by Attic influence (Pontic vases and other sixth-century groups), until the ware enjoys a development mostly based on local initiative (the Micali Painter). The Pontic Group does not bear any privileged connection to Ionia or other areas of the East Greek world. Influence does exist– in terms of technique, shape, subsidiary ornament and especially iconography – but is either indirect (via Attic prototypes) or remote, while elements once considered East Greek have been shown to derive from Late Corinthian vase painting. The “Panionic” paradigm was successful because it provided an explanation for the appearance of polychrome painted pottery in Etruria around the middle of the sixth century BCE, at the very time of the alleged exodus of Ionian artists due to the Persian conquest of Asia Minor. On closer scrutiny, it proved to be a scholarly invention with little or no foundation in the archaeological record. The new model involving the migration of Attictrained potters working under strong Corinthian influence fits better the available evidence and gains credibility once it is set against the broader background of the movement of people, techniques, and ideas from and into Athens during the first half of the sixth century BCE (Williams 2005: 358).

Works Cited Amyx, D. A. 1962. “A ‘Pontic’ Oinochoe in Seattle,” in Hommages à Albert Grenier, Vol. 1, Latomus 58, ed. M. Renard, 121–134. Brussels: Editions Latomus. Arnott, W. G. 2007. Birds in the Ancient World from A to Z. London: Routledge.

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Etruscan Black-Figure Vase-Painting Bailey, D. M. 2006. “The Arpies Amphora. Another Cartouche,” in Naucratis: Greek Diversity in Egypt, ed. A. Villing and U. Schlotzhauer, 155–157. London: British Museum. Beazley, J. D. 1956. Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bentz, M. (ed.) 2008. Rasna. Die Etrusker. Eine Ausstellung im Akademischen Kunstmuseum Antikesammlung der Universität Bonn 15. Oktober 2008–15. Februar 2009. Petersberg: Imhof. Boardman, J. 1998. Early Greek Vase-Painting. London: Thames & Hudson. Böhlau, J. 1898. Aus ionischen und italischen Nekropolen. Leipzig: Teubner. 1900. “Die ionischen Augenschalen,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 25: 40–99. Bonaudo, R. 2004. La culla di Hermes. Iconografia e imaginario delle hydriai ceretane. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Cook, R. M. 1933–1934. “Fikellura Pottery,” Annual of the British School of Athens 34: 1–98. 1946. “Ionia and Greece in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.,” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 66: 67–98. 1984. Clazomenian Sarcophagi. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. 1989. “East Greek Influences on Etruscan Vase-Painting,” La Parola di Passato 44: 161–173. 1997. Greek Painted Pottery, 3rd ed. London: Routledge. Cook, R. M. and Dupont, P. 1998. East Greek Pottery. London: Routledge. de Witte, J. 1836. Descriptions des Antiquités et d’Objets d’Art qui composent le cabinet du feu M. le chevalier E. Durand. Paris: F. Didot frères. Dohrn, T. 1966. “Die Etrusker und die griechische Sage,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilungen 73: 15–28. Ducati, P. 1932. Pontische Vasen. Berlin: Keller. Dümmler, F. 1887. “Über eine Classe griechischer Vasen mit Schwarzen Figuren,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 2: 171–192. 1888. “Vasenscherbe aus Kyme in Aolis,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 3: 159–180. Furtwängler, A., and Reichold, K. 1909. Griechische Vasenmalerei. Munich: F. Bruckmann. Gaultier, F. 1995. Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, Musée du Louvre, Fascicule 24, France Fascicule 35. Paris: De Boccard. 2003. Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, Musée du Louvre, Fascicule 26, France Fascicule 39. Paris: De Boccard. Gerhard, E. 1831. “Rapporto intorno i vasi volcenti,” Annali dell’Istituto di Corrispondenza Archeologica 3: 5–233. Hannestad, L. 1974. The Paris Painter, an Etruscan Vase-Painter. Copenhagen: Munksgaard. 1976. The Followers of the Paris Painter. Copenhagen: Munksgaard.

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Hemelrijk, J. M. 1984. Caeretan Hydriae. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. 2007. “Four New Campana Dinoi, a New Painter, Old Questions,” Bulletin antieke beschaving: Annual Papers on Classical Archaeology 82: 365–421. 2009. More about Caeretan Hydriae: addenda et clarificanda. Amsterdam: Allard Pierson Museum. Herbig, R. 1933. “Verstreute etruskische Denkmäler in deutschen Sammlungen. I. Etruskisch-schwarzfigurige Vasen in Heidelberg,” Studi Etruschi 7: 353–363. Jackson, D. A. 1976. East Greek Influence on Attic Vases, Hellenic Society Supplementary Paper 13. London: Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies. Kramer, G. 1837. Über den Styl und die Herkunft der bemahlten griechischen Thongefässe. Berlin: Nicolaischen Buchhandlung. Kunze, E. 1934. “Ionische Kleinmeister,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 59: 81–122. Kurtz, D. C., and Boardman, J. 1986. “Booners,” in Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum 3: 35–70. Malibu, CA: J. Paul Getty Museum. Lane, E. 1933–1934. “Laconian Vase-Painting,” Annual of the British School of Athens 34: 99–189. Lund, J., and Rathje, A. 1988. “Italic Gods and Deities on Pontic Vases,” in Proceedings of the Third International Symposium on Greek and Related Pottery, Copenhagen August 31–September 4 1987, ed. J. Christiansen and T. Melander, 352–368. Copenhagen: Nationalmuseet. Marangou, L. 1995. Ancient Greek Art from the Stavros Niarchos Collection. Athens: N. P. Goulandris Foundation, Museum of Cycladic Art. Martelli, M. 1981. “Un askos del Museo di Tarquinia e il problema delle presenze nord-ioniche in Etruria,” Prospettiva 27: 2–14. Martelli, M. (ed.) 1987. La ceramica degli Etrusci. La pittura vascolare. Novara: Istituto Geografico de Agostini. Martelli Cristofani, M. 1978. “La ceramica greco-orientale in Etruria,” in Les céramiques de la Grèce de l’Est et leur diffusion en Occident, 150–212. Naples: Institute Français de Naples. Miller, M. C. 2013. “Clothes and Identity: The Case of the Greeks in Ionia c. 400 BC,” Antichthon 47: 18–38. Mingazzini, P. 1930. Vasi della collezione Castellani, Catalogo, Vol. 1. Rome: La Libreria dello stato. Olivier-Trottenberg, Y. 2014. Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum. Deutschland 96, München, Antikensammlungen 17. Etruskisch Schwarzfigurige Keramik. Munich: C. H. Beck. Paleothodoros, D. 2004–2007. “Dionysiac Imagery in Archaic Etruria,” Etruscan Studies 10: 187–201. 2011. “A Complex Approach to Etruscan Black-Figure Vase-Painting,” Mediterranea 8: 33–80.

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Payne, H. G. 1931. Necrocorinthia. A Study of Corinthian Art in the Archaic Period. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Philippart, H. 1933. Review of Pericle Ducati, Pontische Vasen, Berlin/Leipzig 1932, L’Antiquité Classique 2: 424. Sieveking, J. 1908. Führer durch die königliche Vasensammlung in der alten Pinakothek zu München. Munich: Kastner & Callwey. Sieveking, J. and Hackl, R. 1912. Die königliche Vasensammlung zu München. Munich: J. B. Obernetter. Smith, T. J. 2010. Komast Dancers in Archaic Greek Art. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stibbe, K. 1977. “Pontic Vases in Oxford,” Mededeelingen van het Nederlands Historisch Instituut te Rome 10: 7–11. Tempesta, A. 1998. La raffigurazioni mitologiche sulla ceramica greco-orientale arcaica. Rivista di archeologia, suppl. 19. Rome: G. Bretschneider. von Bothmer, D. 1955–1956. “Two Etruscan Vases by the Paris Painter,” Bulletin of the Metropolitan Museum of Art 13: 127–132. Walters, H. B. 1905. History of Ancient Pottery. London: J. Murray. Wehgartner, I. 1983. Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum Deutschland 51, Würzburg; Martin-von Wagner Museum, 3. Munich: C. H. Beck. Werner, I. 2005. Dionysos in Etruria. The Ivy-Leaf Group. Stockholm: Svenska institutet i Rom. Williams, D. 2005. “The Beginnings of the So-Called ‘Pontic’ Group and Other Italian Black-Figure Fabrics,” in ΑΕΙΜΝΗΣΤΟΣ. Miscellanea di studi per Mauro Cristofani, Vol. 1, ed. B. Adembri, 352–360. Milan: Centro Di. Williams, D. and Massar, N. 2017. “Fun and Games at the Symposium: A Corinthian Thauma in Brussels,” in ΤΕΡΨΙΣ. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology in Honour of Nota Kourou, ed. V. Vlachou and A. Gadolou, 229–246. Brussels: CREA–Patrimoine.

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Shared Forms, Distinct Functions

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Forms and Functions of Beds and Couches in Etruscan and Anatolian Tombs  . 

In a 2001 article in Etruscan Studies, Jodi Magness used details of funeral bed design to suggest that “during the seventh century, small groups of Near Eastern immigrants . . . settled in southern Etruria and were assimilated with the local population” (Magness 2001: 80). She argued that the curved headrests of some Etruscan rock tombs were so similar to those in Judaean tombs that there must have been direct connections between Etruscan and Near Eastern elites, beyond trade contacts or movements of craftspeople, that the Etruscan rock-cut beds were designed to fit the needs and tastes of Near Eastern immigrant elites, and that they reflect the transmission of ideology as well as the movement of people. A problem with this argument, however, is the lack of precise resemblance between the curved headrests of Etruscan tombs and those in the Judaean tombs. In fact, much closer parallels for the Etruscan design can be found in Anatolia – in Phrygian rock-cut tombs as well as on funeral couches built from stone slabs in Lydian tumulus chambers. This chapter explores those similarities and others between funerary beds in Etruria and Anatolia, but not with the purpose of establishing population movement or cultural dependence; rather, it argues that while the similarities do reflect shared furniture styles, the uses to which those furniture styles were put differed, and those differences suggest cultural distinction rather than assimilation.

15.1

Etruscan Funeral Beds

The earliest Etruscan burial beds belong to tombs of the seventh century BCE, among the earliest in Etruria (Steingräber 1979; Baughan 2013: 226–232). They occur in a variety of materials, from natural bedrock to cast metal, and along a wide spectrum of form, from simple benches to elaborately carved furnishings. Bronze beds are known from Tarquinia and Caere/ Cerveteri, including the well-known example from the Regolini-Galassi Tomb (Avvolta 1829: 91–93, pl. B; Pareti 1947: pls. 1, 3, 30–31; Colonna and Di Paolo 1997). Beds or couches constructed from stone slabs are found in necropoleis throughout coastal Etruria, from Populonia to Tarquinia

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Figure 15.1 Examples of Etruscan tomb chambers with rock-cut beds at Caere (a–d) and San Giovenale (e–f ), late seventh to sixth century BCE: (a) Monte Abatone tomb 154 (after Bugli 1980: 195); (b) Campana Tomb 1 (after Steingräber 2006: 58); (c) Tomb of the Shields and Chairs (after Prayon 1975: pl. 85 no. 43); (d) Banditaccia, Laghetto II, Tomb 290 (after Bugli 1980: 155); (e) Porzarago Tomb P9 (after Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 28); f. Montevangone Tomb PP1 (after Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 50) (drawings by Gray and Callie Baughan)

Forms and Functions of Beds and Couches

(Åkerström 1934: figs. 32.1–2, 34.2; Pincelli 1943: pl. 7.4; Hencken 1968: figs. 383–384; Prayon 1975: pl. 73; Curri 1979: fig. 2, pls. 53–54; Steingräber 1979: nos. 724–729, 788–789). Rock-cut beds or couches are even more numerous, though found only in regions with landscape features that favored rockcarved tombs, especially Caere and San Giovenale. Some are plain benches, difficult to identify as beds or couches (e.g., Figure 15.1a, rear chamber; Hencken 1968: figs. 372b, 375–376, 381; Berggren and Berggren 1972: tombs P3, P5, and P7; Linington 1980: figs. 52, 54; Prayon 1986: fig. V–5.1–2; Cascianelli 2003: fig. 9). Only when the front and top faces of the bench are carved with relief decoration articulating bed or couch forms (legs, horizontal rails, and/or headrests) can we be certain that the replication of real (probably wooden) furniture was intended. Etruscan rock-cut beds are usually part of a continuous bench shaped like the Greek letter Π, covering the side and rear walls of a tomb chamber; often only the side positions are carved to replicate furniture, while the rear part of the bench is left plain and may have been intended as a shelf for offerings rather than as a third burial location (Figure 15.1). This arrangement is found among some of the earliest Etruscan chamber tombs, at Caere and San Giovenale (Gierow 1969: figs. 13–16, 21, 23; Berggren and Berggren 1972: figs. 8–11, 13, 18, 24–25, 27–31, 37–38, 42–43, 46–47, 50–51, 62–63; Östenberg and Vessberg 1972: figs. 1, 6, 8–11; Linington 1980: figs. 46–49). Sometimes the extension of the carved side beds into the rear portion of the Π-shaped bench confirms that the rear portion was not intended as a bed itself (e.g., Figure 15.1a, side chambers; Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 11; Linington 1980: figs. 48, 50, 53). In one tomb at San Giovenale (Porzarago Tomb 6, dated to the first half of the sixth century), the rear portion of the Π-shaped bench is clearly distinguished from the side positions by carved troughs (Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 18). The carving of a third restingplace in the rear part of a Π-shaped bench in another tomb at San Giovenale (Valle Vesca Tomb 1) evidently represents a later stage of tomb use, as the side beds had to be partly cut away to support an added ledge or shelf that made the rear portion wide enough to hold a burial (Gierow 1969: 25, figs. 13–16). The wide geographic distribution and the variability of form and medium for Etruscan funeral beds already in the seventh century suggest an underlying, unifying funerary practice or concept, such as an idea of eternal repose or an attempt to recreate a domestic space or funerary prothesis in some permanent form within the tomb itself. These burial beds have often been called klinai, using the Greek term for multipurpose bed-couches that could be used for reclining while dining or sleeping or for the funerary prothesis (Baughan 2013: 15–65). In fact, we do not know the Etruscan word for such furniture or whether the earliest Etruscan

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Figure 15.2 Examples of Type A and B klinai: (a) Type A kline in a symposion scene on an Attic black-figure olpe attributed to the Amasis Painter, mid- to late-sixth century BCE, Athens, Agora Museum no. P24673 (courtesy American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Agora Excavations, photograph by C. Mauzy); (b) Type B kline occupied by Herakles on an Attic bilingual amphora attributed to the Andokides and Lysippides Painters, ca. 520 BCE, Munich, Antikensammlungen no. 2301 (courtesy Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek München, photo by Renate Kühling); (c) Type B kline carved on the front slabs of a rock-cut funerary bed at Cortona, Museo dell’Academia Etrusca, Cortona (Scala/Ministero per i Beni e le Attività culturali/Art Resource, NY)

examples carried any associations with banqueting, as they predate the earliest depictions of reclined dining in Etruria and do not resemble the well-known Greek types of klinai as they emerged in the late seventh and early sixth centuries (Baughan 2013: 226–230. A reclining figure on the lid of a cinerary urn from Chianchiano Terme, dated 630 to 620 BCE, is the earliest known possible evidence for the custom in Etruria – see Paolucci 2000: 229, figs. 28–29; see also Gunter 2016: 348). In fact, only a few Etruscan tomb furnishings conform to standard kline types, with round legs that swell in the middle (Type A) or rectangular legs with cut-out volute decoration (Type B) (for Type A, see Figures 15.2a, 15.7,

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Figure 15.2 (cont.)

15.8, and 16.3; for Type B, see Figures 15.1d, 15.2b–c, 15.3a, 15.7, also 13.3 and 17.6; Berggren and Berggren 1972: figs. 55, 59; Steingräber 1979: cat. nos. 712–713, 743, 790, and 791).

15.2

Anatolian Funeral Beds

In Anatolia, on the other hand, furnishings resembling those well-known Greek kline types were often used for the placement of the dead, beginning in the sixth century BCE, in tumulus chambers and rock-cut chamber tombs of Lydia and Phrygia and (later) Lycia. These were usually composed of limestone or marble slabs, or carved directly from bedrock; a single bronze example is known (Baughan and Özgen 2012; Baughan 2013: 87–164). The most common arrangement had a single couch set against the rear or side wall (Figure 15.3a), though some tombs had two couches in an L-shaped configuration or with one against each side wall (Figure 15.3b; Baughan 2013: 138, Table 2). The basic arrangement could be expanded to three or more couches, with some burial places carved on floor slabs beneath built couches (Figure 15.4; Baughan 2008). Carved klinai are also found in some tomb chambers cut directly from bedrock, though in most rock-cut tomb chambers of Phrygia and Lycia, and in all those known in Lydia, simpler benches without recognizable kline forms are provided. In these cases, all three positions including the rear bench seem usually to have been used for burials, and the rear position was often distinguished somehow, by greater height, width, or decoration (Figure 15.3c; Baughan 2013: 169–171). Only in rock-cut tombs, like the fifth-century Tomb of Pizzi at Limyra in Lycia, is there evidence of a privileging or focus on the

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Figure 15.3 Examples of Anatolian tomb chamber plans with funerary klinai, sixth or fifth century BCE: (a) BT89.1 tumulus, Bin Tepe, Lydia (after Dedeoğlu 1991: plan 2); (b) Dedetepe tumulus in the Troad (after Sevinç et al. 1998: fig. 5); (c) rock-cut tomb in the Köhnüş Valley, western Phrygia (after Haspels 1971: pl. 536.8) (drawn by Gray and Callie Baughan)

side portions of a Π-shaped bench as in most Etruscan tombs (Borchhardt et al. 1988: 150, fig. 14, left; Baughan 2013: 169, 376 n. 72, 387 n. 375). In both Anatolia and Etruria, then, stone burial beds or couches can be built from slabs or carved directly from bedrock, but their forms and arrangements were essentially different.

15.3

Curved Headrests

The carved headrests of Etruscan and Anatolian tomb beds, however, invite comparison. On many Etruscan tomb beds, a resting place for the head is

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suggested by a semicircular or semioval depression carved at one end of the top surface of the bed or in a raised rectangular ledge or pillow-shaped form on one end. The simplest headrests are plain curved cuttings (Figure 15.1a, c, e; see also, Östenberg 1969: fig. 2; Berggren and Berggren 1972: figs. 8, 11, 28, 43; Östenberg and Vessberg 1972: figs. 1, 6, 8–11; Steingräber 1979: 9, figs. 1–6; Linington 1980: figs. 47, 51, 53), but sometimes the curved depression is outlined by a relief band or incision of some kind (Figures 15.1b, d; see also, Linington 1980: fig. 49; Naso 1991: figs. 2, 11; Steingräber 2006: 32, 57; 2009: 125–126, figs. 21–22, 27). That outline may be elaborated with a flared or curved end (Figures 15.1c–d, f, and 15.4a; see also, Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 53; Linington 1980: fig. 46), or even a spiraling volute or s-shaped scroll (Figure 15.5b; for syntheses of headrest types, see Steingräber 1979: 9, figs. 1–6; Linington 1980: figs. 49–50; Brocato 1995). Plain, rectangular headrests are also possible, though less common (e.g., a wide rectangular pillow-form on the left bed in San Giovenale La Staffa Tomb 1, Östenberg and Vessberg 1972: fig. 1; see also, Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 31; and some fifthand fourth-century tombs at Tarquinia, Steingräber et al. 1986: nos. 25, 68, pls. 193–194, figs. 34, 159, 161). The outlined semicircular or semioval forms on Etruscan stone funeral beds seem to be integrated with bed design, as suggested by round bosses representing the tops of the legs that sometimes occur beside the headrests (Figure 15.1b, f ). In fact, the Etruscan headrests seem to reflect actual furnishings, like the bronze bed from the Regolini-Galassi Tomb at Caere (as Magness 2001: 88 also notes; for the Regolini-Galassi bed, see 15.1 above and Baughan 2013: 35, 98, 226). Though the piece restored as a headrest on the Regolini-Galassi bed has been identified by some scholars as part of the chariot from the same tomb (Emiliozzi 1992: 106, fig. 23; Mols 1999: 36 n. 136) and has now been removed, a curved headrest is included in the drawings of the bed made at the time of excavation, and its similarity in overall shape/design with the rock-cut versions discussed here makes it likely that it does belong. And the fact that this basic headrest type occurs on some of the earliest Etruscan burial beds, before the incorporation of leg types known to be associated with banqueting klinai, suggests that the form was originally associated with beds, not couches. Carved headrests are the features of Etruscan burial beds that Jodi Magness connected with the Near East, as evidence of a Near Eastern ethnic element in archaic Etruscan society. But, as even Magness noted, the carved headrests on Etruscan funeral beds tend to have a “more open form than the horseshoe-shaped Judean examples” (Magness 2001: 87).

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Figure 15.4 Lale Tepe tumulus chamber, Lydia, ca. 500–475 BCE (© Archaeological Exploration of Sardis)

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Figure 15.5 Examples of headrests on Etruscan tomb beds: (a) selection of headrest designs in tombs at Cerveteri, Banditaccia necropolis (Brocato 1995: fig. 2); (b) San Giuliano, Valle Cappellana Tomb 1 (Prayon 1975: pl. 73.2)

A few examples from San Giovenale with a nearly circular or keyhole shape (Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 42; Östenberg and Vessberg 1972: figs. 1, 6, and 9) are the only Etruscan ones comparable to the Judaean headrests, which resemble the so-called Hathor hairstyle with upturned ends seen in Egyptian and Phoenician art (Barkay and Kloner 1986: 36; Magness 2001:

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86, fig. 1). The Judaean headrests are also raised above rather than carved within the surface on which the deceased person was laid, and that surface was often at the bottom of a trough or cist rather than the top surface of a bench or bed. Magness (2001: 88) cites the Tomb of the Funerary Beds at Caere (Pallottino 1950: 29) as an Etruscan parallel for a headrest within a trough, but it is not really comparable – this bed surface is a “trough” only because it lies between two raised triangular ends (of sarcophagus-bed type), not because it is at the bottom of a cist grave. The relief headrests in Judaean tombs are more akin to the “portable headrests” (Magness 2001: 88–89) found in Egyptian tombs than to headrests integrated with bed furniture, as in Etruscan tombs. The curved headrest surrounded by a contour with flared or volute ends presents the closest specific parallel between Etruscan and Anatolian tomb furnishings. Stone burial beds or couches in several Lydian tumuli and in two Phrygian rock-cut tombs have strikingly similar forms (Figure 15.6). For Lydian stone klinai, the basic form is that of a semioval depression carved in a raised rectangular headrest on one or both ends; sometimes

Figure 15.6 Drawings of headrests on funeral couches in Anatolia: (a) recorded in 1876 in Bin Tepe, Lydia, now lost (Choisy 1876: pl. 13B); (b) BT89.1 tumulus, Bin Tepe; (c) Kendirlik 1 tumulus, Bin Tepe; (d) Aktepe tumulus in eastern Lydia, Uşak Museum; (e) Hamamtepe, near Manisa (after Dinç and Önder 1993: drawing 6); (f ) recorded in 1876 in Bin Tepe, now lost (Choisy 1876: pl. 13D); (g) Kendirlik 2 tumulus, Bin Tepe (after Bilgin et al. 1996: fig. 12); (h) BT05.58, Bin Tepe (after Roosevelt 2009: fig. 6.46); (i) “West Tomb” at Midas City, western Phrygia; (j) “Bull’s Hoof Tomb” (Tomb 9) at Zey, western Phrygia (after Tüfekçi Sivas 2003: fig. 6)

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there is a corresponding semioval swelling on the adjacent bed surface, completing the impression of an oval pillow. In several cases, the outer edge of the headrest is also curved, with ends flaring out (Figure 15.6d–e; Baughan 2013: 166, cat. nos. 29, 52, 59, 142, figs. 79, 97). Three examples from the Bin Tepe necropolis near Sardis in central Lydia have carved volutes framing the curved depression and are so similar that they may represent the work of the same workshop or craftsmen (Figure 15.6f–h; Baughan 2013: 164, cat. nos. 7, 17, 15). These differ from the Etruscan headrests with flaring or volute outlines in having a relief half-pillow on the bed surface, but the resemblance is still striking. This resemblance does not, however, mean that Etruscans were copying Anatolian tomb styles or that people from Anatolia immigrated to Etruria and brought their tradition of funeral beds with them. All the Lydian and Phrygian examples of similar headrests are in fact later than most of the Etruscan examples, and they usually occur in conjunction with Greek-style kline leg types (Type A or B) while the Etruscan examples do not. Moreover, in the Lydian examples, headrests of this type often occur on both ends of the couch, in amphikephalic fashion (Baughan 2013: 69–71, 169). Only one Etruscan funeral bed with curved depressions on both ends is known to the author, in a sixthcentury tomb at San Giovenale, where the doubling has been interpreted as possible evidence for the burial of two children (Berggren and Berggren 1972: 122 n. 3, fig. 53). Similarities of headrest form in Anatolia and Etruria are therefore balanced by differences in furniture arrangement and use. They suggest not direct imitation but rather that both Etruscan and Anatolian craftsmen (whether makers of the stone tomb furnishings or the workers of wood or bronze furnishings on which the stone versions were based) shared a common vocabulary of furniture form. Just as Etruscan artists were depicting in figural art (wall paintings and terracottas) banquet couches and tables of the same types seen in contemporary Greece and Anatolia, the makers of stone funeral beds were evidently familiar with a decorative headrest type known also to Anatolian stone-carvers, but they used and combined them in different ways.

15.4

Orientation and Arrangement

In Etruscan tombs, the head end of the bed, if one is indicated, is almost always located on the side opposite the chamber door (Figure 15.1; see also

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Gierow 1969: figs. 21, 23; Östenberg 1969: fig. 2; Berggren and Berggren 1972: figs. 8–11, 13, 18, 24–25, 37–38, 42–43, 46–47, 53, 62–63; Östenberg and Vessberg 1972: figs. 1, 6, 8–11; Linington 1980: figs. 46–50, 53). This nearly consistent orientation is so striking that it makes one wonder whether it stems from some funerary practice or belief. A Roman custom of orienting the feet of the deceased toward the door, suggested by several literary references (Laughton 1958), could perhaps be rooted in earlier Etruscan practice. In the rare cases in which there is a bed indicated in the rear part of a Π-shaped bench in an Etruscan tomb, its head end is usually toward the right (e.g., Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 53; Prayon 1986: fig. V-5.17; Naso 1991: fig. 2). This orientation is also the most common for head ends of couches in Anatolian tombs and may have something to do with conventions of posture for kline occupants in real life (reclining on the left elbow, and so being seen with the head toward the right) and in representations of banqueting and prothesis (Baughan 2013: 21–27). In only a few cases is the head end of a rear bed in an Etruscan tomb oriented toward the left side of the chamber, but these are side chambers of multi-chamber tombs in which all head ends are oriented toward the rear part of the tomb overall (e.g., Figure 15.1b). In the Tomb of the Shields and Chairs at Caere (Figure 15.1c), the small chambers opening off the dromos each have side beds with headrests at the rear and a rear bed with a headrest at the right. The standard sympotic orientation of klinai – with all head ends placed toward the right (from the perspective of one standing in front of the couch) so that the banqueting occupant could recline, as was customary, on the left elbow (Baughan 2013: 21, 171) – is common neither in Anatolian nor in Etruscan tombs (the central chamber of the Tomb of the Shields and Chairs, Figure 15.1c, is an exception). Again, the general lack of correspondence in arrangement between tombs and dining rooms discourages one-sided interpretations of these furnishings as banquet couches, even when they have carved legs replicating known kline types (Baughan 2016). It must be remembered that klinai were themselves multifunctional furnishings and thus perfectly apt for use in tombs because they could serve as beds for eternal rest while also calling to mind ideas of banqueting and luxury – important aspects of funerary ideology shared by both Etruria and Anatolia during the Archaic period.

15.4.1 Double Beds Another striking parallel with Anatolian (especially Lydian) klinai found in Etruscan tomb furnishings is the inclusion of double beds, with two curved

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depressions side by side, suggesting two burials. This burial arrangement is found at Caere/Cerveteri as well as San Giovenale (Figure 15.1d–e; see also Gierow 1969: fig. 23; Berggren and Berggren 1972: figs. 42, 46; Linington 1980: figs. 49–50) and is paralleled in Lydian tumulus chambers with elaborately decorated stone klinai (Figure 15.4) as well as in rock-cut tombs with simple benchlike beds (Baughan 2013: 169). The practice of burying husbands and wives together in Etruria has long been assumed from the frequent pairing of two single beds (or bed and sarcophagus-bed) in Etruscan tomb chambers (Mengarelli 1927: 84–85, 164–65, pl. 8.2; 1938: 12; Prayon 1975: 41; Amann 2000: 39–40; Magness 2001: 85; for discussion and criticism of Mengarelli’s theory, see Steingräber 1979: 140, 147, 176; Baughan 2013: 226). The use of double beds, placed on each side of a chamber where a single bed would normally be found (Figure 15.1d; also, Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 42; Linington 1980: fig. 49) or paired with a single bed (Figure 15.1e; also, Gierow 1969: fig. 23; Berggren and Berggren 1972: fig. 43) would have allowed for additional family members to be included. Of course, the number of burials in a tomb chamber need not be prescribed by the furniture: Two (or more) individuals could be interred on a bed or couch of single width. Couples often share klinai in Etruscan banqueting imagery and funerary monuments, like the wellknown sarcophagi from Caere (see Figure 17.6; de Grummond 2016). Full understanding of burial practices in both Etruscan and Anatolian tombs is hampered by the fact that few are found with burials intact, and the significance of double beds in both Etruscan and Anatolian tombs deserves further study.

15.5

Representations: Couch Types and Coverings

Beds and couches in other media of funerary art, like the couple sarcophagi from Caere, may shed further light on the uses and meanings of stone burial furnishings. For one thing, these depictions provide a remarkable level of specific details of form and construction – more so even than most representations of such furnishings in Attic vase-painting. For instance, the Villa Giulia kline (see Figure 17.6) includes the detail of projecting leaves between the Aeolic-style volutes and the abacus of the capital at the top of the leg. This detail occurs on architectural Aeolic capitals and on an inlaid kline from the Athenian Kerameikos as well as some Lydian stone klinai, but it does not appear in any Greek depictions

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of klinai known to the author (Baughan 2008: 60 n. 53; 2013: 114, figs. 69, 71, 73). Klinai in painted scenes on Etruscan tomb walls are also depicted with very close attention to detail, probably based on actual wooden furniture (see Steingräber et al. 1986: 354, on the carefully depicted klinai in the Tomb of the Painted Vases at Tarquinia). Most correspond to Type A form, with a central swelling in the leg and/or molding offset by tapered upper and lower sections (Figure 15.2a; Richter 1966, fig. 216; Baughan and Özgen 2012; Baughan 2013: 45–46, 48, 97–98, figs. 23, 31). A Type A furniture leg from the Etruscan shipwreck at Giglio (Bound 1991a: fig. 63; 1991b: 235, fig. 86; Baughan 2013: fig. 15) is one of the earliest wooden specimens of this type and confirms its use in Etruria in the early sixth century BCE. But although Type A couches are the type most commonly shown in Etruscan banquet and prothesis scenes, in tomb paintings as well as on terracotta reliefs and stone cippi (Figure 15.6), they are rare among carved stone furnishings in Etruscan tombs (Steingräber 1979: 10–13, 82–86, 141–143). What is most striking when comparing Etruscan scenes of prothesis and banqueting with depictions of klinai in the same contexts in Greek and Anatolian art is the distinctive way the cloth coverings on the couches or beds – whether in tomb paintings or on architectural terracottas or relief cippi, and whether feasting or funeral scenes – almost always hang neatly over the short sides of the couch or bed, rather than obscuring its front rail (Figure 15.7). Jocelyn Penney Small was the first to note these “overhanging ends” as a customary “Etruscan treatment” of bed- and couch-coverings (Small 1971: 55; see also, Steingräber 1979: 57; Baughan 2013: 54). This arrangement of coverings is found from the earliest Etruscan banquet and prothesis scenes in the sixth through the fourth centuries (e.g., Steingräber et al. 1986: 319, 325–328, 349, 352, nos. 33, 81, 89, 91, 119, 121, figs. 44, 204–205, 229, 234, 238, 324–328, pls. 105–109, 118, 153–156, 166; 2006: 76–77, 101, 136–137, 172–173; Taylor 2014: figs. 3, 7–8, 10–11, 12–13, 17). In most Greek and Anatolian banquet scenes, in contrast, only a cushion is shown (as in Figure 15.2a–b; see also, Figures 13.3, 16.3, and 17.3). When long overhanging coverlets do occur in Greek and Anatolian art, they cover the whole couch and are limited to certain contexts: some of the oldest depictions of reclining banqueting in Corinthian vase-painting (Baughan 2013: 49, figs. 2, 12, 26), Anatolian–Persian grave reliefs (Baughan 2013: fig. 160), and Macedonian tomb paintings (Tsimbidou-Avloniti 2002:

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Figure 15.7 Examples of klinai in Etruscan art: (a) funeral scene on a limestone cippus from Chiusi, Louvre no. MA3602, ca. 490–480 BCE (Getty Images); (b) painted banquet scene in the Tomb of the Leopards, Tarquinia, 480–470 BCE (Getty Images)

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pls. 6–7; 2005).1 In these cases, long cloths may have been associated with Eastern luxury (Baughan 2013: 254–255). Long coverlets over couches become more common in banquet scenes on votive reliefs in the Late Classical period (e.g., Robinson and Weinberg 1960: pl. 60a; Lawton 2016: 386; 2017: 95, pls. 27–34). It is only in the fourth century and Hellenistic period that long cloths cover the fronts of couches in Etruscan art (for example, in the Tomb of the Shields at Tarquinia, Steingräber et al. 1986: pl. 146), and this iconographic shift corresponds to other Hellenizing changes in Etruscan banquet scenes, like wives sitting upright on the ends of the couches rather than reclining side by side with the men (Steingräber 2006: 188, 191). The essentially different way of dressing the bed or the couch in the majority of Etruscan images of banqueting and prothesis highlights the fact that, although the furniture types used in these settings may have been the same as those used in Greece and Anatolia, the way they were used was different, at least prior to the Hellenistic period. This distinctive Etruscan approach to covering couches fits generally with our overall impression of Etruscan banquets. As Annette Rathje has summarized, while the “‘language of the images’ was Greek” and the banquets are therefore called by many scholars today “symposia,” they were really quite different, from the inclusion of women other than as courtesans or entertainers to the physical accoutrements of the banquet (Rathje 2013: 826; for some of those physical accoutrements of banqueting in a parallel situation of similar form but different use, see Ambrosini 2013; see also, Meyers, Chapter 16).

15.6

Conclusion

In sum, iconographic sources suggest that Etruscans used klinai quite differently than their contemporaries in Greece and Anatolia. And while the stone funeral beds in Etruscan tombs are formally similar to burial klinai in Anatolia, their arrangement and orientation were generally different.

1

Cushions (as opposed to cloth coverings) overhanging the short ends of couches are found more widely, for example, in the banquet scenes painted on the walls of the Tomb of the Diver at Paestum (Holloway 2006: figs. 3–4) and carved on a votive relief from Paros (Dentzer 1982: fig. 536).

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Similarities of form tell us more about mobility of crafts and craftspeople than about cultural migration or affiliation, while similarity of concept may be explained by shared preconditions – in both regions, there is evidence for preexisting associations of tombs with houses (as Magness 2001: 84–85 also discusses) and of funerals with feasts or banquets (for the idea of a “funeral feast” in Etruria, even predating the custom of reclining while dining, see Hencken 1968: 595–596; Prayon 1975: 110; Tuck 1994; Gunter 2016: 348; Pieraccini 2016). Far from indicating that Etruscans borrowed the idea of stone funeral beds from Anatolia – which would be highly unlikely anyway because all of the Anatolian examples are later than many of the Etruscan examples – the similar headrest forms and other points of comparison attest to the circulation of furniture styles among elite cultures on opposite sides of the Greek world – cultures which also evidently shared a love of banqueting and a desire to furnish the dead in monumental tombs. Whether consciously or not, wealthy Etruscans and Anatolians could signal membership in an international elite class via tumuli with chambers outfitted with household furnishings and banquet equipment of types fashionable throughout the Mediterranean; still, differences in the arrangement and treatment of such furnishing reveal the persistence of local cultural practices, ideologies, and identities.

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2013. Couched in Death: Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. 2016. “Burial Klinai and ‘Totenmahl’?” in Dining & Death: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on the ‘Funerary Banquet’ in Ancient Art, Burial and Belief, ed. C. M. Draycott and M. Stamatopoulou, 195–218. Leuven: Peeters. Baughan, E. P. and Özgen, İ. 2012. “A Bronze Kline from Lydia,” Antike Kunst 55: 63–87. Berggren, E., and Berggren, K. 1972. San Giovenale I.5. The Necropoleis of Porzarago, Grotte Tufarina and Montevangone, SkrRom 4o: 26. Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Rom. Bilgin, A. İ., Dinç, R., and Önder, M. 1996. “Lydia’daki İki Tümülüs’de Temizlik Kazısı Çalışmaları,” Arkeoloji Dergisi 4: 207–222. Borchhardt, J., Neumann, G., Schulz, K. J., and Specht, E. 1988. “Die Felsgräber des Tebursseli und des Pizzi in der Nekropolis II von Limyra,” Jahreshefte des Österreichischen archäologischen Instituts in Wien 58 Beibl.: 74–154. Bound, M. 1991a. The Giglio Wreck: A Wreck of the Archaic Period (c. 600 BC) off the Tuscan Island of Giglio. An Account of Its Discovery and Excavation: A Review of the Main Finds, ΕΝΑΛΙΑ Suppl. 1. Athens: Hellenic Institute of Marine Archaeology. 1991b. “The Pre-Classical Wreck at Campese Bay, Island of Giglio: Second Interim Report, 1983 Season,” Studi e Materiali: Sopratindenza ai beni archeologici per la Toscana 6: 199–244. Brocato, P. 1995. “Sull’ origine e lo sviluppo delle prime tombe a dado etrusche. Diffusione di un tipo architettonico da Cerveteri a San Giuliano,” Studi Etruschi 61: 57–93. Bugli, M. (ed.) 1980. Gli Etruschi e Cerveteri. Nuove acquisizione delle Civiche Raccolte Archeologiche. La prospezione archeologica nell’attività della Fondazione Lerici. Milan: Electa. Cascianelli, M. 2003. La Tomba Giulimondi di Cerveteri. Vatican City: Musei Vaticani. Choisy, A. 1876. “Note sur les tombeaux lydiens de Sardes,” Revue Archéologique Ser. 2 (32): 73–81. Colonna, G., and Di Paolo, E. 1997. “Il letto vuoto, la distribuzione del corredo e la ‘finestra’ della Tomba Regolini-Galassi,” in Etrusca et Italica. Scritti in ricordo di Massimo Pallottino, Vol. 1, ed. G. Nardi, 131–172. Rome: Editoriali e Poligrafici Internazionali. Curri, C. B. 1979. “Nuovi contributi sulla struttura e la tipologia della klinai Vetoloniesi,” Studi Etruschi 47: 263–280. Dedeoğlu, H. 1991. “Lydia’da Bir Tümülüs Kazısı,” Müze Kurtarma Kazıları Semineri 1: 119–149.

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Forms and Functions of Beds and Couches de Grummond, N. T. 2016. “Terracotta ‘Sarcophagi’ and Ash Urns,” in Caere, ed. N. T. de Grummond and L. C. Pieraccini, 183–187. Austin: University of Texas Press. Dentzer, J. M. 1982. Le motif du banquet couché dans le Proche-Orient et le monde grec du VII au IV siècle av. J.C., Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 246. Rome: Ecole Française de Rome. Dinç, R., and Önder, M. 1993. “Kayapınarı-Hamamtepe Tümülüsü Kurtarma Kazısı,” III. Müze Kurtarma Kazıları Semineri: 31–52. Emiliozzi, A. 1992. “I resti del Carro Bernardini nel quadro delle attestazioni coeve dell’area medio-italica,” in La Necropoli di Praeneste: Atti del 2o Convegne di Studi Archeologici, Palestrina 21/22 Aprile 1990, 85–108. Palestrina: Comune di Palestrina. Gierow, P. G. 1969. San Giovenale I.8. The Tombs of Fosso del Pietrisco and Valle Vesca, SkrRom 4o: 26. Lund: Gleerup. Gunter, A. C. 2016. “The Etruscans, Greek Art, and the Near East,” in A Companion to the Etruscans, ed. S. Bell and A. A. Carpino, 339–352. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Haspels, C. H. E. 1971. The Highlands of Phrygia. Sites and Monuments. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hencken, H. 1968. Tarquinia, Villanovans and Early Etruscans. Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum. Holloway, R. R. 2006. “The Tomb of the Diver,” American Journal of Archaeology 110(3): 365–388. Laughton, E. 1958. “Propertius 4.7.26,” Classical Quarterly 8: 98–99. Lawton, C. L. 2016. “The Totenmahl Motif in Votive Reliefs of Classical Athens,” in Dining & Death: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on the ‘Funerary Banquet’ in Ancient Art, Burial and Belief, ed. C. M. Draycott and M. Stamatopoulou, 385–404. Leuven: Peeters. 2017. Votive Reliefs. The Athenian Agora, Vol. XXXVIII. Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Linington, R. E. 1980. Lo scavo nella zona Laghetto della necropoli della Banditaccia a Cerveteri. Milan: Comune di Milano, Ripartizione Cultura e Spettacolo. Magness, J. 2001. “A Near Eastern Ethnic Element among the Etruscan Elite?” Etruscan Studies 8: 79–117. Mengarelli, R. 1927. “Caere e le recenti scoperte,” Studi Etruschi 1: 145–171. 1938. “L’evoluzione delle forme architettoniche nelle tombe etrusche di Caere,” Atti del Convegno Nazionale di Storia dell’Architettura 3: 1–32. Mols, S. T. A. M. 1999. Wooden Furniture from Herculaneum: Form, Technique and Function. Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben. Naso, A. 1991. La Tomba dei Denti di Lupo a Cerveteri. Florence: L. S. Olschki. Östenberg, C. E. 1969. San Giovenale I.7. The Necropolis at Castellina Camerata, SkrRom 4o: 26. Lund: Gleerup.

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Östenberg, C. E. and Vessberg, O. 1972. San Giovenale I.6. The Necropolis at La Staffa. SkrRom 4o: 26. Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Rom. Pallottino, M. 1950. The Necropolis of Cerveteri. Rome: La libreria dello stato. Paolucci, G. 2000. “Prime considerazioni sulla necropoli di Tolle presso Chianciano Terme,” Annali della Fondazione per il Museo “Claudio Faina” 7: 219–248. Pareti, L. 1947. La Tomba Regolini-Galassi del Museo Gregoriano Etrusco a la civiltà dell’Italia centrale nel sec. VII A.C. Vatican City: Tip. Poliglotta Vaticana. Pieraccini, L.C. 2016. “Funerals and Feasting,” in Caere, ed. N. T. de Grummond and L. C. Pieraccini, 141–147. Austin: University of Texas Press. Pincelli, R. 1943. “Il tumulo vetuloniese della Pietrera,” Studi Etruschi 17: 47–113. Prayon, F. 1975. Frühetruskische Grab- und Hausarchitektur, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung, suppl. 22. Heidelberg: F. H. Kerle. 1986. “Architecture,” in Etruscan Life and Afterlife, ed. L. Bonfante, 174–201. Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Rathje, A. 2013. “The Banquet through Etruscan History,” in The Etruscan World, ed. J. M. Turfa, 823–830. New York: Routledge. Richter, G. M. A. 1966. The Furniture of the Greeks, Etruscans, and Romans. London: Phaidon Press. Robinson, H. S., and Weinberg, S. S. 1960. “Excavations at Corinth, 1959,” Hesperia 29: 225–53. Roosevelt, C. H. 2009. The Archaeology of Lydia, from Gyges to Alexander. New York: Cambridge University Press. Sevinç, N., Rose, C. B., Strahan, D., and Tekkök-Biçken, B. 1998. “The Dedetepe Tumulus,” Studia Troica 8: 305–327. Small, J. P. 1971. “The Banquet Frieze from Poggio Civitate,” Studi Etruschi 39: 25–61. Steingräber, S. 1979. Etruskische Möbel. Rome: G. Bretschneider. 2006. Abundance of Life: Etruscan Wall Painting. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. 2009. “The Cima Tumulus at San Giuliano – An Aristocratic Tomb and Monument for the Cult of the Ancestors of the Late Orientalizing Period,” in Votives, Places and Rituals in Etruscan Religion. Studies in Honor of Jean MacIntosh Turfa, ed. M. Gleba and H. Becker, 123–133. Leiden: Brill. Steingräber, S., Ridgway, D., and Ridgway, F. R. (eds.) 1986. Etruscan Painting. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Taylor, L. 2014. “Performing the Prothesis: Gender, Gesture, Ritual and Role on the Chiusine Reliefs from Archaic Etruria,” Etruscan Studies 17: 1–27. Tsimbidou-Avloniti, M. 2002. “Revealing a Painted Macedonian Tomb near Thessaloniki,” in La pittura parietale in Macedonia and Magna Grecia: Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi in ricordo di Mario Napoli, ed. A. Pontrandolfo, 37–42. Salerno: Pandemos.

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Forms and Functions of Beds and Couches 2005. Μακεδονικοί τάφοι στον Φοίνικα και στον Άγιο Αθανάσιο Θεσσαλονίκης. Athens: Archaeological Receipts Fund. Tuck, A. S. 1994. “The Etruscan Seated Banquet: Villanovan Ritual and Etruscan Iconography,” American Journal of Archaeology 98: 617–628. Tüfekçi Sivas, T. 2003. “Eskişehir-Kütahya-Afyonkarahisar İlleri 2001 Yılı Yüzey Araştırması,” Arkeoloji Sonuçları Toplantısı 20: 285–298.

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Images of groups of ancient women, particularly those who are not part of familiar iconographic depictions from myth, tend to be categorized based on scholarly conceptions of an ancient “woman’s world.” This gendered framework based on long-held notions of what men do and what women do in ancient societies informs what we see when we look at female figures painted on vases or carved into sculptures. Sometimes additional attributes or activities aid our interpretation of a scene; for example, the exchange of a piece of jewelry might signal a representation of female adornment. But when women appear together without such easily recognizable clues, we tend to see gender first and then rely on what we know of women to supply the rest. Recent studies of identity show us, however, that gender is not a singular component of one’s identity; rather status, age, and ethnicity are all equally important as intersecting identity markers. Nor can the performance of gender roles be so easily ascribed as “male” or “female.” Put another way, not all representations of female groups across ancient time and space would have been seen and understood to be doing the same thing. This study attempts to expand such a gendered reading of scenes of female assembly by examining a group of archaic Etruscan reliefs together with a compositionally similar image from archaic Anatolia. By considering the scenes in terms of their cultural context it becomes clear that such depictions of ancient women may well have been part of a global Mediterranean visual language, while they still communicated in a local dialect. The articulation of cultural identity in ancient artistic representations is notoriously difficult to recognize. As Tamar Hodos has pointed out, culture “is defined both by inclusion and exclusion,” emphasizing the need to examine the components of a visual expression of cultural identity from within a particular group as well as from the outside (Hodos 2010: 4). This may also be framed in terms of global and local interactions. Hodos suggests (Chapter 2) that examining practices between distinct cultural groups (which may include technology, artistic representation, ritual, or civic acts, etc.) should be viewed from a global perspective, where shared practices offer a statement of commonality and divergent practices offer an

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assertion of individuality. In this way cultural connections in the ancient Mediterranean are less about replicating and more about sharing based on a balance of global and local interactions. The participation of the Etruscans within the wider Mediterranean and the extent to which Etruria’s interactions with her neighbors to the east thereby influenced Etruscan culture have been much discussed (Camporeale 2016). An effective case study for considering the intricacies of East-West relations in Etruscan material culture is a seventh-century BCE bucchero olpe from the San Paolo Tomb at Caere, engraved with scenes from the Argonauts saga and discussed in detail by Corinna Riva (2010). Riva employs a close contextual examination of the olpe’s archaeological and historical context to suggest that its imagery of epic and myth served as a “lingua franca” to mediate global relations between Etruria and Greece. Etruscans in turn then exploited that language within their own communities to engage in a separate – local – discourse about status and prestige (Riva 2010: 107). Riva’s approach and conclusions support the notion of a global Mediterranean that became an “arena for defining places, people and their identities” (107). My current study augments Riva’s conclusions by shifting the focus from a common language of myth and story to a common visual language. Roberts (2011: 86–87) suggests that iconography itself is a type of “social performance.” He asserts that for iconography to be meaningful it requires a degree of cultural familiarity and shared experience between author and viewer. Thus, when similar iconography occurs in multiple ancient settings instead of engaging only in questions of “who influenced whom” from a stylistic point of view, we must consider broader issues of context in order to determine how representations inform and are informed by a culture’s distinctive social practices. The repeated motif of gathered females on funerary monuments in both Etruscan and Anatolian contexts does more than simply signify generic female behavior typical for all women in the ancient Mediterranean; instead, the reliefs record a local performance of gender that intersects with other axes of identity, such as social status and ethnicity.

16.1

Female Assembly Scenes in Etruria and Anatolia

Painted and carved representations of groups of seated and standing women are known from several funerary contexts in the archaic Mediterranean. Unlike recognizable scenes from the ancient iconographical repertoire, such

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Figure 16.1 Funerary cippus from Chiusi, Copenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek H 205 inv. HIN 81 (courtesy Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek)

as the prothesis, games, dancing, combat, or banqueting, these scenes do not instantly articulate their ancient meaning to the modern eye. While we are somewhat left in the dark as to what brings these groups of women together, the similar composition, including the arrangement of the figures and their gestures, was surely as recognizable to ancient viewers as it is to us. One such scene, known from a late archaic Chiusine funerary cippus, depicts a group of either five or six individuals, predominantly women, draping and presenting textiles to each other (Figure 16.1). The scene is composed of standing women on the edges flanking a central group of three individuals – two figures seated across from each other with a central female standing between them. Jannot (1984: 373–375) identified the type as “female assembly scenes,” differentiating them from similarly composed

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Female Assembly on Funerary Monuments

Figure 16.2 Black-figured funerary plaque by Exekias, Berlin (Art Resource)

scenes of male assembly also known from the same corpus. Since most of the iconography of the archaic Chiusine reliefs revolves around elite practice, it is likely that the scenes of gathered women depict a particular type of ritual or social ceremony, such as a funeral, a wedding, or a comingof-age celebration. Jannot (1984: 373; 2004) considered them to be part of the Etruscan funeral, noting a parallel with an Athenian black-figured funerary plaque attributed to Exekias, where a group of eight seated and standing women engage in an animated gathering in an interior space (Figure 16.2). The scene from the Exekias plaque, which features a seated central figure with her head covered and other standing figures holding a baby, is generally viewed as deriving from Greek funerary practice, either as a typical scene of female mourning (Dillon 2001: 277) or as a representation of the deceased herself in the depiction of the central female (Kunze-Götte 2013). Although the women gathered on the Exekias plaque differ from

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Figure 16.3 Short side of Polyxena Sarcophagus, Çanakkale Museum (courtesy Troy Excavation Project)

Etruscan assemblies in several ways – most notably in their lack of activity with textiles – the Exekias plaque demonstrates a connection between the Chiusine representations of female gatherings and a wider Mediterranean visual phenomenon. In Anatolia, a scene of assembled women appears on the famed “Polyxena Sarcophagus” discovered during the excavation of tombs in the Granicus River Valley in the northern Troad, dating to about 500 BCE or shortly thereafter. Reliefs on all four sides of the monument revolve around female participants, including the depiction of the sacrifice of Polyxena that gives the monument its name. The predominance of female figures on the sarcophagus has garnered quite a lot of attention, particularly given the fact that the sarcophagus contained the interred bones of a male (Rose 2014: 95). Of the four scenes, one carved on a short side of the sarcophagus possesses visual parallels to the representations of women discussed above (Figure 16.3). Here five women – three standing at the edges and two facing one another while seated on a kline – cluster in an interior space and interact

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Female Assembly on Funerary Monuments

with each other by way of gesture and exchange. As with the Greek and Etruscan examples discussed above, the scene occurs on a monument with a clear mortuary purpose, but it is not explicit as to whether the represented women participate in a funerary ritual (Rose 2014: 98) or in fact reference another type of scene from elite life, such as part of a marriage ceremony (Reinsberg 2004: 213–214).1 Together these examples provide evidence for an intriguing network of visual language focused on the activity of women. In attempting to categorize these female-based images, scholars have usually relied on notions of behaviors appropriate for all women in the ancient world. For example, Fernando Gilotta (1998: 13) noted the relationship between imagery of assembled women on the Polyxena Sarcophagus and the Chiusine female assembly scenes. He suggested that – along with painted gatherings of women conducting a variety of ritual actions, such as banqueting and food preparation, on Athenian black-figured vases of the Leagros Group (Pingiatoglou 1994) – they belonged to a shared imagery of “quotidian ritual.” Although it appears that scenes of gathered women across the Mediterranean share many formal similarities, they are certainly not all cut from the same mold. It is at the points of divergence from each other that we may be able to observe how different local identities emerge from a common global language. At the same time the prevalence of the scene type offers an opportunity to consider our assumptions about how gender is performed in diverse ancient settings.

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Female Assembly on the Polyxena Sarcophagus

Since its discovery in the 1990s, the Polyxena Sarcophagus has generated attention for its “extensive focus on women” (Sevinç 1996: 262). In a detailed discussion, Brian Rose (2014: 72–103) devotes a great deal of time to its imagery, which is anything but typical. The very fact that it is decorated with relief scenes on all four sides is a feature that Rose considers “especially unusual” for a funerary monument in late archaic Asia Minor. The subject matter of the images and their relationship to each other and to broader cultural practices in Anatolia further distinguish the sarcophagus as unique, although within Achaemenid Anatolia, the prominence of women – particularly women offering gifts – on public funerary monuments is not 1

See Draycott 2018 for a possible reading of the scene as a mythological representation of the marriage of Andromache, as well as additional bibliography.

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unheard of in this period, as on the Harpy Tomb at Xanthus, where a relief depicts a seated woman receiving gifts from other women (Rose 2014: 93). Based on these characteristics, as well as other aspects of its iconography, Rose does not attempt to define the reliefs on the Polyxena Sarcophagus as indicative of a singular cultural identity, but instead concludes that the sarcophagus is a product of its multiplicity of influences: “The sarcophagus as a whole reflects the kinds of intersection of Greek and Persian models that one would expect in an area that embraced both cultures but chose to be identified exclusively with neither” (Rose 2014: 95). In fact, we have to look beyond Anatolia to truly appreciate the monument’s collection of images and their significance. Although it is likely that the scene of the five seated and standing women from one of the monument’s short sides is intended to be read together within the larger iconographic scheme of the monument, the general composition of the image is familiar: an assembly of seated females in the center with standing females flanking them at the edges. Here the arrangement of the figures is asymmetrical, with one standing woman on the left and two on the right. Visual focus is directed to the two seated females, who sit upright on a kline. They are larger than the other women in the frame and distinguished further from their companions by their animated gestures and entwined feet, which rest together on a stool rather than on the ground line of the frame. The central figure is the largest, while the female across from her on the kline is heavily covered, with a veiled head and covered upraised right hand. Gesture establishes a relationship between the standing figure on the left and the figures seated on the kline, as the left standing woman rests her hand on the back of the seated female closest to her, while the two remaining standing attendants on the right are bearing gifts: one a pitcher and wine strainer, the other an egg2 and pyxis. While the gestured interaction between the two central figures is certainly of primary importance and presumably easily recognizable to an ancient viewer, the presence of the other figures contributes additional aspects of formalized behavior, such as presentation, offering, and support. The prominent role of the kline and the presentation of sympotic objects such as the pitcher and wine strainer in this relief on the Polyxena Sarcophagus point to activity focused on banqueting. Whether the scene

2

Full consideration of the representation of the egg, which has a particularly complex iconography – including its gendered associations – is beyond the scope of this essay. See Pieraccini 2014 for a discussion of egg iconography in Etruria, including a comparison with the image on the Polyxena Sarcophagus.

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Female Assembly on Funerary Monuments

depicts a funerary banquet or a wedding banquet or a multivalent amalgamation of both, this scene highlights that within the context of Achaemenid Anatolia women could be active participants in banqueting settings (Baughan 2013: 260). At the same time, it must be noted that the iconography of the Polyxena Sarcophagus is vexingly unique. This particular scene does not conform to traditional images of ancient banquets, where women were not the sole participants. In fact, the scene’s iconography and composition are more akin to other representations of female gatherings than to banqueting. In this case, I would suggest that the reference to banqueting and the presentation of gifts is a locally understood variable within a familiar global visual language of ceremonial female assembly.

16.3

Female Assembly on the Chiusine Cippi

The array of funerary relief sculpture from archaic Chiusi includes vast and varied types of monuments, such as sarcophagi, urns, and cippi. Some of the cippi take the form of four-sided bases made of local stone, decorated with an individual relief on each side portraying a wide range of common Etruscan elite imagery, such as banqueting, processions, and games. Elements of Etruscan funerary practice are also particularly evident, as in the frequent depiction of the prothesis (Taylor 2014). There does not seem to be an obvious pattern for which scene types are combined on the sides of the same cippus, but strong resemblances among the scenes suggest common workshops and cultural continuity. Among the repertoire of imagery a motif of a gathering of seated and standing women has been identified on approximately ten known cippi, several of which are known only from fragments.3 While there are some notable variations, based on the complete examples, they appear to share a composition of five figures: two standing figures on the edges and a central group of two seated figures facing one another with a standing figure between them (Jannot 1984: cat. no. D.II.8 has a sixth figure). There is some question as to whether women exclusively make up the figures in these scenes. At least one example – a well-known representation from the Museo Baracco in Rome (Figure 16.4; Jannot 1984: cat. no. C.III.3) – probably depicts a seated male facing a seated female. 3

The following examples appear to conform the general pattern: Jannot 1984: cat. nos. B.III.6, C.II.14, C.II.30, C.II.34, C.II.35, C.III.3, C.III.19, D.II.8, D.II.12. Two additional examples, Jannot 1984: cat. nos. B.III.4 (fragment with seated female with possible distaff ) and B.III.3, may also be included in the discussion, as they depict seated females but in different configurations.

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Figure 16.4 Funerary cippus from Chiusi, Rome, Museo Barracco (© A. Dagli Orti/De Agostini Picture Library/Bridgeman Images)

A close look at these examples (Figures 16.3–16.4) reveals several common compositional elements of these scenes. The standing figures – all women – are the same height, taking up the full frame, but the central group’s significant role in the action is emphasized not only by a standing central female between two seated figures, but also by the larger size of the two seated figures relative to the others in the composition. By comparison, the asymmetrical arrangement on the Polyxena Sarcophagus places a greater emphasis on the central female, but in the Etruscan examples it is not possible to isolate either of the seated figures as more significant than the other. While the composition of the Etruscan scenes is more symmetrical than in the Anatolian image, in both cases the artists communicate the close visual relationship of the central figures with an overlapping of feet uniting them in a single action that distinguishes them from the flanking females. More notable in the Etruscan representations, however, is how much of the space between the figures is taken up by textiles, which are worn, draped, and

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Female Assembly on Funerary Monuments

displayed by female figures. Rippling and incision are used to communicate texture, borders, and heft in the depicted textiles. Traces of paint on some examples add the enticing possibility that textile patterns and types may once have been discernible. Although veils and drapery cover women in the comparable scenes of female assembly from the East, unfolded textiles in the Etruscan examples enclose and surround the figures more completely. It is therefore reasonable to assume that the textiles in these images and the more direct focus on two equally sized seated figures facing each other would have been integral to recognition of the scene in a much different manner than the imagery of female assembly from either Greece or Anatolia. The nature and meaning of the Etruscan scenes have naturally been subjects of discussion. Initially Jannot (1984: 373–375) characterized the scenes as depicting a type of female rite related to funerary ritual. Given that male assembly scenes also appear on some of the cippi, which he interpreted as elogia of male public service, the female scenes could easily be understood as feminized equivalents of those. Jannot (2004) later refined this view, arguing that the scenes of assembled females were a type of female funerary oration that praised an elite woman’s virtue specifically through her textile skills. In this case the textiles themselves became a shorthand for the highest form of femininity: that is, the deceased woman’s role as “mistress of the house,” overseeing the production of fine textiles as a type of insignia marking the household as elite. Others speculate that the scenes relate to a different type of ceremony, namely marriage (Bonfante 2003: 198–199; van der Meer 2011: 17–18). This argument relies on the example from the Museo Barracco (Figure 16.4), where it appears that a man and woman sit facing each other while three other figures (women) drape them with textiles. The Chiusine female assembly scenes – both the examples with or without men – might therefore reference either a moment in the marriage ceremony itself or preparations for it, where textiles are employed or possibly exchanged. There is additional evidence on a Chiusine cippus for a connection between marriage and textiles. A unique relief scene of a procession terminates in a group of three standing individuals covered beneath a raised cloth with a decorated border that may depict a scene from an Etruscan wedding, where the officiant and spouses are covered with a textile to symbolize their union (van der Meer 2011: 14–17; Bonfante 2013: 430). Without written descriptions we are only able to conjecture as to the context of the ceremony depicted, but the evocation of covering and unified enclosure, together with additional evidence of textile coverings used in Etruscan nuptial ceremonies (van der Meer 2011: 14–17), may indeed suggest

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a marriage ceremony. If this is the case, I would suggest that the textiles take on a new meaning as ritual objects of exchange in and of themselves. They are not folded or presented as discrete objects, but rather they are incorporated into the action of the scene. One may note that anthropological research on textiles in marriage ceremonies highlights the importance of cloth – particularly time-consuming patterned and bordered cloth – as a high-value item within many cultural traditions of bridal gift exchange (Wagner-Hasel 2010: 106–112). It is possible that the textiles in this scene are exchanged or displayed as products of the tangible worth that an elite woman brings to a marriage. At the same time, given the importance of the funerary context and the funerary connotation of assembled women in other Mediterranean depictions, we might consider the possibility of wedding textiles being reused at funerals, much as in modern funeral practices where families might garb the dead in their wedding clothes. I have argued elsewhere that ceremonial textiles in Etruria functioned in a culturally specific manner distinct from textile-based rituals known from Greece (Meyers 2013). This may have included the reuse of fine, elite textiles at multiple points of transition and rites of passage. As such, the textiles in these Etruscan images can be seen not as de facto symbols of female identity – as they are so often described – but instead as markers of a specific Etruscan identity – in this case an elite Chiusine identity – that is deeply rooted in ceremonial performance of social status, regional affiliation, and even family or clan ritual.

16.4

Differentiating Female Assemblies

There are clearly elements in Anatolian, Greek, and Etruscan images that correspond with the global Mediterranean visual language of female assembly. Certainly the number of figures (most, if not all of them female) and their varied arrangement in seated and standing poses, as well as the focus on the central group of seated figures, resonates strongly. Similarly, the action of the central seated figures is communicated through gesture, while the action of the attendant figures, who are standing, is that of giving or presentation. The formalized arrangement of figures clearly evokes ceremonial practice, although we need not assume that the same ceremony is being celebrated in each culture. At the same time, careful local modifications within this common scene of assembly attest to the importance of visual marks of cultural distinction. Greg Warden (2013) has cautioned us about the difficulty of defining a singular Etruscan identity; we should be equally hesitant to define a singular

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gendered identity. We must be careful about making global assumptions about the world of ancient women. While the formal components of female-focused imagery in Etruria and Anatolia are clearly part of a collective visual culture that includes Greece as well, the social ceremonies that they portray – and, more importantly, the nature of female participation in those ceremonies – are clearly distinct. I propose that the textiles in Etruscan imagery mark an individual in multiple local ways: as elite, as a participant in a communal ritual, or as a member of a particular regional or ethnic group. The addition of textiles to a familiar image of female assembly suggests that the representation is not female-focused only through the presence of women, but through the actions of women. Depictions of assembled women need not be seen only as representations of female virtue; they are likely representations of culturally specific actions that call to mind a full range of performed social identities beyond gender alone.

Works Cited Baughan, E. 2013. Couched in Death: Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Bonfante, L. 2003. Etruscan Dress, 2nd ed. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. 2013. “Mothers and Children,” in The Etruscan World, ed. J. M. Turfa, 426–446. London: Routledge. Camporeale, G. 2016. “The Etruscans and the Mediterranean,” in A Companion to the Etruscans, ed. S. Bell and A. A. Carpino, 67–86. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Dillon, M. 2001. Girls and Women in Classical Greek Religion. London: Routledge. Draycott, C. M. 2018. “Making Meaning of Myth. On the Interpretation of Mythological Imagery in the Polyxena Sarcophagus and the Kızılbel Tomb and the History of Achaemenid Asia Minor,” in Wandering Myths. Transcultural Uses of Myth in the Ancient World, ed. L. Audley-Miller and B. Dignas, 23–70. Berlin: De Gruyter. Gilotta, F. 1998. “Gümüsçay e l’Etruria: Due ambienti a confronto,” Rivista di archeologia 22: 11–18. Hodos, T. 2010. “Local and Global Perspectives in the Study of Social and Cultural Identities,” in Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World, ed. S. Hales and T. Hodos, 3–31. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jannot, J.-R. 1984. Les Reliefs Archaïques de Chiusi, Collection de l’École française de Rome 71.1. Rome: École française de Rome. 2004. “Assemblées de femmes: une survivance clusienne des valeurs familiales archaïques,” Revue archéologique 34: 33–49.

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  Kunze-Götte, E. 2013. “Beobachtungen zu den Grabtafeln des Exekias,” Antike Kunst 56: 12–25. Meyers, G. E. 2013. “Women and the Production of Ceremonial Textiles: A Reevaluation of Ceramic Textile Tools in Etrusco-Italic Sanctuaries,” American Journal of Archaeology 117: 147–174. Pieraccini, L. 2014. “The Ever Elusive Etruscan Egg,” Etruscan Studies 17: 267–292. Pingiatoglou, S. 1994. “Rituelle Frauengelage auf schwarzfigurigen attischen Vasen,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 109: 39–51. Reinsberg, C. 2004. “Der Polyxena-Sarkophag in Çanakkale,” in Sepulkral- und Votivdenkmäler östlicher Mittelmeergebiete (7. Jr. v. Chr. – 1. Jh. n. Chr). Kulturbegegnungen im Spannungsfeld von Akzeptanz und Resistenz. Akten des Internationalen Symposiums Mainz, 01.– 03.11.2001, ed. R. Bol and D. Kreikenbom, 199–217. Mainz: Bibliopolis. Riva, C. 2010. “Ingenious Inventions: Welding Ethnicities East and West,” in Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World, ed. S. Hales and T. Hodos, 79–113. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Roberts, C. M. 2011. “Practical Identities: On the Relationship between Iconography and Group Identity,” in Identity Crisis: Archaeological Perspectives on Social Identity. Proceedings of the 42nd Annual Chacmool Archaeology Conference, ed. L. Amundsen-Meyer, N. Engel, and S. Pickering, 86–95. Calgary: Chacmool Archaeological Association, University of Calgary. Rose, C. B. 2014. The Archaeology of Greek and Roman Troy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sevinç, N. 1996. “A Sarcophagus of Polyxena from Gümüsçay,” Studia Troica 6: 251–264. Taylor, L. 2014. “Performing the Prothesis: Gender, Gesture, Ritual and Role on the Chiusine Reliefs from Archaic Etruria,” Etruscan Studies 17: 1–27. van der Meer, L. B. 2011. Etrusco Ritu, Case Studies in Etruscan Ritual Behavior, Monographs on Antiquity 5. Leuven: Peeters. Wagner-Hasel, B. 2010. “The Veil and Other Textiles at Weddings in Ancient Greece,” in Ancient Marriage in Myth and Reality, ed. L. Larsson Lovén and A. Strömberg, 102–121. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Warden, P. G. 2013. “The Importance of Being Elite. The Archaeology of Identity in Etruria (500–200),” in A Companion to the Archaeology of the Roman Republic, ed. J. D. Evans, 354–368. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell.

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Anatolian Fashion in Etruscan Clothing The Case of the Pointed Shoes  ş  Ğ ü

Similarities in the imagery of Etruscan and West Anatolian dress fashions, such as pointed shoes and Ionic chitons, indicate an obvious connection between the clothing systems of the two cultures. Indeed, Larissa Bonfante in her groundbreaking book Etruscan Dress classifies an “Ionian Phase” (550–475 BCE) in the development of the Etruscan clothing system. According to Bonfante (2003: 85), a unique “Etruscan look” is formed through direct influence from Ionia. Despite the obvious typological connection to Anatolia often noted in the scholarship, there has never been a detailed examination of this taste change in the Etruscan clothing system and its implications. This chapter investigates the meaning of the adaptation of West Anatolian dress items into the Etruscan dress repertoire through a comparative iconographic study of dress fashions in West Anatolian and Etruscan art of the sixth and fifth centuries BCE (henceforth, all dates are BCE, unless indicated otherwise). It uses the particular case of shoes with upturned toes (Etruscan/Hittite shoes as they are sometimes called) to explore the different meanings and cultural connections conveyed by Ionian/Anatolian dress fashions in Etruscan contexts. An overview of prevailing dress fashions in western Anatolia between the sixth and fifth centuries is important to define what constituted typical Anatolian costume at the time. A comparison of this “Anatolian costume” with contemporary Etruscan fashions shows that, despite similar items in the clothing systems of both cultures, their different combinations and usage in different contexts by different genders created quite different impressions. This difference cannot be attributed to Attic intermediation in Ionian influences on Etruscan dress since the Ionian revolution in Athenian dress in the later sixth century created a fashion that also differed from the common Etruscan clothing of the time (Bonfante 2003: 85). The Anatolian influence in Etruscan dress came directly, possibly through seafarers, from Ionian cities like Samos, Miletus, and Ephesus to the ports of Etruria (for Ionian existence in port cities of Etruria, see Turfa 1986: 71; Barker and Rasmussen 1998: 136; Bonfante 2003: 148; see also Naso, Chapter 1). Despite the use of similar dress items, the differences between overall Anatolian and Etruscan costume of the sixth century show that

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Etruscans were not only selective in their adaptations of West Anatolian dress but also transformative, altering the usage and meaning of specific dress items in Etruria. A detailed historical analysis of pointed shoes (calcei repandi) – short, usually laced, boots with pointed toes – which entered the Etruscan dress repertoire from Anatolia around 550 and went out of fashion at around 475 (Bonfante 2003: 59–81), provides a closer look at such transformation.

17.1

West Anatolian Dress in the Sixth and Fifth Centuries BCE

First of all, it is important to note that when examining dress culture it is more useful to use “West Anatolian” rather than “Ionian” in order to underscore an eclectic culture formed and shared by the intermingling of Lydians, Carians, Ionians, Mysians, Lycians, Phrygians, and – later in the sixth century – Achaemenid Persians in western Anatolia (see Map 3; on the problem of ethnic categorizations of West Anatolian art, see Şare 2010, 2015). Both archaeological and iconographical evidence in regard to textile production in western Anatolia indicates a well-developed luxurious textile industry (Şare 2014). Standardized workshops with thousands of textile production implements discovered next to the royal palace at the Phrygian capital of Gordion indicate the importance of a centrally organized textile industry in the Phrygian royal economy as early as the ninth century (Barber 1994: 102; Burke 2005: 69–81). Thousands of golden appliques once woven onto clothing found extensively in Lydian tombs and dedicated in Ionian sanctuaries (e.g., Bammer and Muss 1996: 79; Özgen et al. 1996: 165–167) and also ancient Greek accounts referring to the luxurious clothes and accessories of Ionian and Lydian men and women attest to luxurious textile production and consumption in the region. The literary sources mention the archaic Ionian city of Miletus as a center of luxurious textiles and high-quality wool and linen production, and its harbor as famous for textile exportation to the entire Mediterranean. High-quality Milesian wool, for example, inspired Polycrates of Samos to adopt animal husbandry with seedstock sheep brought from Miletus in the sixth century (Ath. 12.540d; Pliny HN 8.73). The close relationship between Miletus and Sybaris, mentioned in Herodotus (6.21), might have developed in the early sixth century through a wool and linen trade between the two cities (see also Naso, Chapter 1). This trade might have also triggered the

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popularity of Ionian fashions in Etruria in the sixth century. The importance of fine clothes for the Milesians is further evidenced in the development of a cult unique to Artemis Kithone (Artemis the chiton-wearer) in the city (Günther 1988: 236–237; Cole 2004: 224). The fine quality and delicate decorations of Ionian dress are often associated with effeminacy in mainland Greece. Aristophanes in the Thesmophoriazousai (lines 159–167), for example, emphasizes (or mocks) the feminine quality of Ionian dress items worn by the poet Anacreon, who came to Athens around 522 and lived there until 487 (Miller 1999: 233). Except for a few chance discoveries or secondary evidence (Bellinger 1962: 5–34; Greenewalt and Majewski 1980: 138–140; Richard 1981: 294–310; Barber 1994: 198), few ancient textiles survive to this day, and we rely mostly on visual representations of costumes and ancient accounts of them to understand dress fashions in western Anatolia. Extant imagery is not as extensive as in the case of Etruscan art, but it is sufficient and consistent enough to determine general characteristics.

17.1.1 Male Dress As can be attested in artistic representations, traditional West Anatolian male costume of the sixth century included a long or knee-length tunic (chiton) and a long mantle, usually worn diagonally, short boots with upturned toes, and soft pointed hats. Even some kouroi, which are typically represented nude, in Ionian sanctuaries appear wearing the tunic and the mantle, whether seated or standing (e.g., Boardman 1978, figs. 84, 93, 95; Greaves 2010: 153). Perhaps the best illustrations of West Anatolian male dress fashions come from early fifth-century representations on the Apadana reliefs at Persepolis. On the monumental eastern stairway reliefs leading to the Hall of Darius, the enthroned Persian king is shown accepting his subjects and their gifts for the New Year’s celebration (Schmidt 1953; Root 2007; Miller 2013; Şare 2014). His subjects – twenty-three groups of delegations from different regions of the empire, each of which is led by Persian officials – are clearly distinguished from one another by the costumes they wear and the gifts they bear. Thus, their costumes identify their nation, and their tributes signify the contribution of their homeland to the economy of the Persian empire. The costumes of the Lydian delegation (Figure 17.1) include short boots with upturned toes, sleeved linen chitons with closely packed lines of pleats, diagonally worn mantles with tassels at

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Figure 17.1 Detail of Lydian delegation on the Apadana reliefs, Persepolis, early fifth century BCE (Getty Images)

the corners, and turban-like soft pointed headdresses. They bear specifically Lydian vessels and a horse-chariot as tribute. Members of the Ionian delegation (Figure 17.2) wear the same boots and long chitons and mantles but lack the headdress. The Ionians carry balls of wool and linen, a pair of folded textiles, and metal vessels, perhaps containing precious dyes. The tassels sticking out from one of the two folded cloths indicate that the folded textiles represent the same type of two-piece garment which the figures are wearing. Similar folded textiles appear in funerary paintings from western Anatolia: A folded-cloth bearer in a processional scene from a fifth-century Lydian tomb at Harta testifies to the production of high-quality garments and implies the elite status of the dead person receiving such a precious commodity (Özgen et al. 1996: 39, fig. 65). Besides defining the West Anatolian male look of the time for us, the Apadana reliefs clearly demonstrate that one of the major economic contributions of the West Anatolians to the economy of the Persian empire was the textile industry. Later in the fifth century new dress items were introduced in Anatolia through Achaemenid influence: the Persian kandys, a sleeved jacket with

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Figure 17.2 Detail of Ionian delegation on the Apadana reliefs, Persepolis, early fifth century BCE (Getty Images)

fur borders and straps, usually thrown over the shoulders; patterned trousers; and the so-called bashlyk, a soft pointed headdress with earflaps. Modern scholarship has long used representations of these new items to identify the figures as Persians living in Anatolia, but, as I have discussed elsewhere in detail, these Achaemenid-originated dress items were adopted by local Anatolian aristocrats and took on different meanings as visual propaganda, including as wealth symbols or in association with Persian royalty (Şare 2013; see also, Baughan 2010: 28–29; Tuplin 2011). The new male dress fashion did not replace but was used together with older costume traditions. For example, the bearded protagonist of the early fifth-century frescoes in the Karaburun II tumulus in northern Lycia (Figure 17.3) appears three times on three different walls dressed differently in each of the three different social contexts: in a procession, in battle, and in a banquet scene (Mellink 1973: 356; Miller 2010: 322–329; Baughan 2013: 246–247; Şare 2013: 68–69). He wears a bashlyk and kandys while seated on a throne-chariot in the procession scene (Figure 17.3b), but while reclining on a kline in the banquet scene (Figure 17.3a),

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Figure 17.3 Details of dignitary on the west (a) and south (b) wall frescoes of the Karaburun II tumulus near Elmalı, northern Lycia, ca. 475 BCE (©Bryn Mawr College, Artstor Digital Library)

he wears a chiton – a rounded mantle with curved edges (similar to the Etruscan tabenna) – a headdress decorated with flower buds and beads, and earrings. Different aspects of his elite identity are defined by his dress in each case.

17.1.2 Female Dress West Anatolian female costume of the sixth century included a shortsleeved long tunic (chiton) made of either wool or linen (wool tunics often had decorative bands at the seams, while linen versions had fine pleats), a short mantle worn over the tunic (himation), and a long rectangular veil (epiblema) draped over the head with edges brought to the front and tucked into a belt at the front (Figure 17.4). Especially unique to West Anatolia is this latter long veil with a variety of styles. It could be worn with a polos, the polos-veil; with a headband, the stephane-veil; or with a plain or decorated bonnet underneath, the bonnet-veil (The way the veil is draped around the body in artistic representations also shows two major variations, see Şare 2014 for a detailed discussion). The specific fashion

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Figure 17.4 Ivory figurine from Bayındır, northern Lycia, early sixth century BCE (© Antalya Museum 2.21.87, Akdeniz University Lycian Civilizations Research Center)

seems to have been rooted in the Neo-Hittite culture of Anatolia (Şare 2010: 66). The distinctive popularity of the veiling fashion in western Anatolia, especially in the Archaic period, can best be understood when one compares the great number of veiled korai from western Anatolia and Samos to the small number from mainland Greece (Karakasi 2003: Tables 11–12; Llewellyn-Jones 2003: 11). The constant occurrence of the veil in relation to fertility cults, either worn by divinities or by worshippers (Kubaba, Kybele, Artemis, Leto, Demeter, Aphrodite), implies that the fashion might be related to the matronly status of the wearers.

17.2

Etruscan Male and Female Dress Fashions during the “Ionian Phase”

The new cloth fashions worn by Etruscan males in the “Ionian Phase” defined by Bonfante included long or short chitons; mantles,

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especially rounded mantles (typically Etruscan and called tabenna); pointed hats; and pointed shoes (calcei repandi). Female cloth fashions included the Ionic chiton; mantles worn over the chiton, sometimes over the head in the manner of a veil; rounded or pointed hats; the tutulus hair style (locks brought up to the crown of the head and tied in a pointed arrangement); and pointed shoes (Bonfante 2003: 8–9). Clearly West Anatolian in origin are the Ionic chiton, the shoes with upturned toes, the rounded hat, and the long mantle worn over the head. These elements were, however, combined with other Etruscan dress items in several different configurations. One interesting point in the Etruscan adaptation of West Anatolian dress items is that pointed shoes – a specifically male fashion in Anatolia – became popular particularly among Etruscan women (Figure 17.5). Adopted around 550, and at first worn both by men and women, short, laced boots made out of leather and textiles with upturned toes, red or black in color, and worn with a number of different outfits started to appear only on female figures, both divine and mortal, in Etruscan art of the early fifth century (Figure 17.6; see also, e.g., goddesses on the plaques from the Boccanera Tomb at Caere/Cerveteri, Bonfante 2003: 179, figs. 73–75; a veiled priestess or an aristocratic woman from the Tomb of the Baron, Tarquinia, Steingräber 2006: 54–55; and a dancer from the Tomb of the Lionesses, Tarquinia, Steingräber 2006: 83). Though these distinctive shoes appear to have gone out of fashion in the late fifth century, goddesses – especially Juno Sospita – continued to be represented as wearing laced pointed shoes until late in the first century. The centuries-long association of the shoes with the goddess Juno, even when they had gone out of fashion, indicates that they denoted a certain status (Bonfante 2003; Hermans 2012). Adaptation of these specific shoes especially for women in Etruscan culture can be linked to the active public life of Etruscan women compared to that of Greek women (Bonfante 1986: 254). Pointed shoes and a turbanlike pointed soft headdress also appear on females in Greek art but as exotic signs usually worn only by hetairai (Figure 17.7; Fischer 2013: 224–225). Possibly worn both indoors and out, pointed shoes could have attained several different layers of meaning in regard to the status of fashionable Etruscan women.

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Figure 17.5 (a) Detail of a Lydian from the Apadana reliefs, Persepolis (see Figure 17.1); (b) Etruscan bronze furniture attachment showing a woman wearing a stephane-veil, diagonally placed mantle, and pointed shoes, ca. 530–520 BCE, Paris, Musée du Louvre no. Br 227 (Getty Images)

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Figure 17.6 Terracotta sarcophagus with reclining couple, from the Banditaccia Necropolis, Caere/ Cerveteri, late sixth century BCE, Museo Nazionale di Villa Giulia ([a] Getty images; [b] detail photo by author)

17.3

The Anatolian Origin of Pointed Shoes and Their Transformation in an Etruscan Context

Short boots with upturned toes are typical of Hittite art of the Bronze Age. Such boots do not appear only as part of the costume of Hittite gods but also in the form of terracotta drinking vessels (Figure 17.8; Özgüç 1959: 224–225; Fischer 1963: 79–80; Clamer 1985: 53–55). Often found together with animal-shaped rhytons in residential areas of Hittite sites, boot-shaped vessels were initially identified simply as drinking vessels (Clamer 1985: 53). Yet their placement in some Hittite tombs suggests that they may have been used ritualistically in association with the cult of the underworld (Haentjens 2002). Archaeological evidence suggests that the usage of terracotta vessels shaped like pointed boots continued in Phrygian funerary contexts from the seventh century through the Hellenistic period (Romano 1995: 61–64). Though completely different in form from Hittite examples, terracotta shoes also appear in Greek tombs of maidens in the early sixth century and are often associated with the cult of Persephone and Demeter, ensuring prosperity and a safe trip to the underworld (Haentjens 2002). To my knowledge there is only one example of a terracotta shoe

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Figure 17.7 Tondo of an Attic red-figured kylix attributed to Epiktetos, showing a naked girl with a pointed headdress skipping over a footbath, with pointed boots in her hands, ca. 510 BCE, Athens, Agora Museum no. P24131 (Getty Images)

pair from an Etruscan tomb at Vulci, and they are not pointed (Haentjens 2002: 178, fig. 7). As for the imagery of shoes with upturned toes worn by West Anatolians in the sixth and fifth centuries, the pointed boots appear as a specifically male costume. With the only exceptions being the female figures on the west frieze of the Harpy Tomb from Xanthus and those on a small relief from Myra (Benda-Weber 2005: 190, Taf. 47, 1–5; Jenkins

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Figure 17.8 Hittite ceramic vessel in the shape of pointed boot from Alişar, eighteenth century BCE, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art no. 67.182.2 (© The Metropolitan Museum of New York, open access)

2006: 164, fig. 155), on most of the surviving imagery from West Anatolia female figures wear sandals or have bare feet. Perhaps Etruscan women adopted the new fashion from West Anatolian male traders visiting the ports of Etruria. As Gleba discusses in detail (2008: 174–175), archaeological evidence from Etruria shows that textile production was mainly controlled by Etruscan women, and both the production and ownership of luxury garments denoted an elite status for aristocratic women. Thus, initially a symbol of luxury imported from the East, the new fashion could have gained new and different meanings, signifying the status or identity of the female wearer, though such details are lost to us. As a modern comparison for such sublevels of meaning in the language of dress one can look at the example of the so-called çarık from western Turkey. A leather pointed shoe usually with straps, the çarık was very popular in Turkey up until the mid-twentieth century CE. It is now usually used as an ornamental dress item for performers of traditional Anatolian folk dances. In some villages in western Turkey today these

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pointed shoes are part of a bride’s dowry. According to Ottoman tradition, the colors and lengths of these pointed shoes identify the marital status of the wearer: Maidens wear yellow, married women red, and widows green çarık (Kuru and Paksoy 2011: 825).

17.4

Conclusion

Pointed shoes and other aspects of West Anatolian male dress seem to have taken on new forms and meanings within an Etruscan context. This sort of semiotic transformation of a dress item within a different cultural context is widely attested in antiquity as well as today. A similar process has been noted for eastern-originated ependytes and kandyes in fifth-century Athens (Miller 1997: 153–183). In Etruria, the rounded hats that constituted another distinctive part of sixth-century Etruscan female costume, might have been inspired from the pointed hats worn by Lydian men, as seen on the Apadana reliefs, or from the polos-veil and bonnet-veil of West Anatolian female dress. Yet, as in the case of the pointed shoes, they seem to have taken on a new form and a new level of meaning within the Etruscan context. Thus, when examining obvious connections between similar Etruscan and West Anatolian dress fashions, one should not evaluate adoption of style as simple copying but as transformative adaptation according to the needs and dynamics of each specific culture. Works Cited Bammer, A., and Muss, U. 1996. Das Artemision von Ephesos: das Weltwunder Ioniens in archaischer und klassischer Zeit. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Barber, E. W. 1994. Women’s Work: The First 20,000 Years: Women, Cloth, and Society in Early Times. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Barker, G., and Rasmussen, T. 1998. The Etruscans. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Baughan, E. P. 2010. “Persian Riders in Lydia? The Painted Frieze of the Aktepe Tomb Kline,” in Proceedings of the XVIIth International Congress of Classical Archaeology, 22–26 September 2008. Rome: Bollettino di Archeologia, Online 1, Volume special G/G1/3: 24–36. 2013. Couched in Death: Klinai and Identity in Anatolia and Beyond. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Bellinger, L. 1962. “Textiles from Gordion,” The Bulletin of the Needle and Bobbin Club 46: 5–33. Benda-Weber, I. 2005. Lykier und Karer. Zwei auctochthone Ethnien Kleinasien zwischen Orient und Okzident, Asia Minor Studien 56. Bonn: Dr. Rudolf Habelt GMBH.

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Boardman, J. 1978. Greek Sculpture: The Archaic Period. London: Thames & Hudson. Bonfante, L. (ed.) 1986. Etruscan Life and Afterlife: A Handbook of Etruscan Studies. Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Bonfante, L. 2003. Etruscan Dress. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Burke, B. 2005. “Textile Production at Gordion and the Phrygian Economy,” in The Archaeology of Midas and the Phrygians: Recent Work at Gordion, ed. L. Kealhofer, 69–81. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Clamer, C. A. 1985. “Middle Bronze Age Pottery Boot from Tel Lachish,” in Palestine in the Bronze and Iron Ages: Papers in Honour of Olga Tufnell, ed. J. N. Tubb, 50–56. London: Institute of Archaeology. Cole, S. G. 2004. Landscapes, Gender, and Ritual Space: The Ancient Greek Experience. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fischer, F. 1963. Die Hethitische Keramik von Boğazköy, Boğazköy-Hattuşa, Vol. 4, Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen OrientGesellschaft 75: 143–173. Berlin: Gebr. Mann. Fischer, M. 2013. “Ancient Greek Prostitutes and the Textile Industry in Attic Vase-Painting ca. 550–450 B.C.E.,” Classical World 106: 219–259. Gleba, M. 2008. Textile Production in Pre-Roman Italy. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Greaves, A. M. 2010. The Land of Ionia: Society and Economy in the Archaic Period. New York: Wiley-Blackwell. Greenewalt, C. H., and Majewski, L. J. 1980. “Lydian Textiles,” in From Athens to Gordion: The Papers of a Memorial Symposium for Rodney S. Young Held at the University Museum the Third of May, 1975, ed. K. DeVries, 133–147. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Günther, W. 1988. “‘Vieuxat inutilisable’ dans un inventaire inedit de Milet,” in Comptes et inventaires dans la cité grecque. Actes du colloque international d’epigraphie tenu à Neuchâtel du 23 au 26 septembre 1986 en l’honneur de Jacques Tréheux, ed. D. Knoepfler and N. Quellet, 217–237. Geneva: Faculté des Lettres. Haentjens, A. M. E. 2002. “Ritual Shoes in Early Greek Female Graves,” L’Antiquité Classique 71: 171–184. Hermans, R. 2012. “Juno Sospita: Foreign Goddess through Roman Eyes,” in Processes of Integration and Identity Formation in the Roman Republic, ed. S. T. Roselaar, 327–336. Leiden: Brill. Jenkins, I. 2006. Greek Architecture and Its Sculpture. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Karakasi, K. 2003. Archaic Korai. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Kuru, S., and Paksoy, C. 2011. “Anadolu’da Ayakkabı Ve Cumhuri̇yet Dönemi Ayakkabı Kültürü,” ICANAS (Uluslararası Asya ve Kuzey Afrika Çalışmaları Kongresi) 38: 821–837. Llewellyn-Jones, L. 2003. Aphrodite’s Tortoise: The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales.

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Anatolian Fashion in Etruscan Clothing Mellink, M. J. 1973. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmali, Lycia, 1972,” American Journal of Archaeology 77: 293–307. Miller, M. C. 1997. Athens and Persia in the Fifth Century BC: A Study in Cultural Receptivity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1999. “Reexamining Transvestism in Archaic and Classical Athens: The Zewadski Stamnos,” American Journal of Archaeology 103: 223–253. 2013. “Clothes and Identity: The Case of the Greeks in Ionia c. 400 BC,” Antichthon 47: 18–38. Miller, S. G. 2010. “Two Painted Chamber Tombs of Northern Lycia at Kızılbel and Karaburun,” in Tatarlı: Renklerin Dönüş/The Return of Colours, ed. L. Summerer and A. von Kienlin, 318–329. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Özgen, İ., Öztürk, J., and Mellink, M. J. 1996. The Lydian Treasure: Heritage Recovered. Istanbul: Republic of Turkey, Ministry of Culture, General Directorate of Monuments and Museums. Özgüç, T. 1959. Kültepe-Kaniş. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi. Richard, E. 1981. “Gordion Textiles,” in Three Great Early Tumuli. The Gordion Excavation Final Reports 1, ed. R. S. Young, 294–310. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Romano, I. B. 1995. The Terracotta Figurines and Related Vessels. Gordion Special Studies, Vol. 2. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Root, M. C. 2007. “Reading Persepolis in Greek: Gifts of the Yauna,” in Persian Responses: Political and Cultural Interaction with (in) the Achaemenid Empire, ed. C. Tuplin, 117–224. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Schmidt, E. F. 1953. Persepolis I: Structures, Reliefs, and Inscriptions, The University of Chicago Oriental Institute Publications, Vol. 68. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Steingräber, S. 2006. Abundance of Life: Etruscan Wall Painting. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Şare, T. 2010. “An Archaic Ivory Figurine from a Tumulus near Elmalı: Cultural Hybridization and a New Anatolian Style,” Hesperia 79: 53–78. 2013. “The Sculpture of the Heroon of Perikle at Limyra: The Making of a Lycian King,” Anatolian Studies 63: 55–74. 2014. “Arakhne’s Loom: Luxurious Textile Production in Ancient Western Anatolia,” Olba 22: 251–280. 2015. “Antik Anadolu Sanatının Etnik Kategoriler Ve Batı-Doğu Arasında Sıkışmışlığı Üzerine,” in Changing Archaeology: Proceedings of the 1st TagTurkey Meeting, 9–10 Mayıs 2013, ed. Ç. Çilingiroğlu and N. P. Özgüner, 191–197. Izmir: Ege Yayınları. Tuplin, C. 2011. “The Limits of Persianization: Some Reflections on Cultural Links in the Persian Empire,” in Cultural Identity and the Peoples of the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. E. Gruen, 150–182. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute. Turfa, J. M. 1986. “International Contacts: Commerce, Trade, and Foreign Affairs,” in Bonfante (ed.), 66–91.

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Male Necklaces in the East and West  . 

Archaeologists have traditionally assigned gender to artifacts such as jewelry and weapons. Indeed, examples of sexed burials in Europe and the Mediterranean that locate weapons on male bodies and ornaments on female bodies seem to reinforce those assumptions. But a closer look at burial practices also reveals numerous exceptions to so-called gendered goods paired with either sex (Robb and Harris 2013: 74–82; Ghisleni et al. 2016). And even a cursory reflection about these assumptions reveals fatal flaws: Both men and women in the ancient world wore finger rings, bracelets, clothing fasteners, accents, amulets, and pendants. Even earrings were standard for men and women in Egypt, Cyprus, Asia Minor, and Persia (Hermary and Markou 2003). So the notion that jewelry was not part of male dress cannot be sustained. That recognition leaves us with the more interesting question of how and under what circumstances men in Etruria and Anatolia wore jewelry. In this study, 1 I will examine three instances of male jewelry: the use of ornaments as a royal reward throughout the Achaemenid empire, a small group of Anatolian figurines that show males and females wearing necklaces, and Etruscan bulla necklaces. Neck ornaments are distinctive jewelry types because they highlight the throat and chest of the wearer and thus draw attention to the face. They are not utilitarian, and, unless they hang low, a wearer is unable to see what he is wearing. Necklaces therefore are intended for an audience of onlookers, and they form part of the “social skin” that individuals don to visually describe their position within a community. While the corpus of evidence for bejeweled males is not substantial, I will argue that what does survive testifies to the capacity of jewelry to mark essential social identities of wearers in ways that do more than signal gender. In these examples, men’s necklaces denoted their achievements in political, military, and ritual roles as part of their public costume.

1

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I would like to thank Lizzie Baughan and Lisa Pieraccini for their expert guidance in the bringing this volume to publication and their specific input on this essay. I am also grateful to Gretchen Meyers for her insightful questions and comments during my research into this topic.

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18.1

319

The King’s Chains: Achaemenid Jewelry

In the Achaemenid empire, male jewelry had an overt political function. Persian rulers regularly rewarded their subjects with an assemblage of gold torques, bracelets, daggers, and other dress paraphernalia (SancisiWeerdenberg 1989; Briant 2002: 304–307). These goods formed a recognizable royal award composed of distinctive Persian accessories made of intrinsically valuable materials. Several sources that describe the awards come from outside the court itself, in references found in Greek, biblical, and Egyptian texts (Kuhrt 2007: 636–640). The custom allowed rulers both to honor positive behavior and to be witnessed as benevolent leaders. Rulers did not restrict their gift-giving solely to the politically powerful or to favored ethnic groups within the empire (Briant 2002: 316–319). Rather, the official ideology of Persian rulers focused on individual excellence instead of wealth, ethnicity, or birth as the means to success in the king’s expansive and diverse realm. Recipients of this royal gift set joined a hand-selected group of individuals whom the king deemed worthy, and they were identifiable as the king’s men within the large imperial system. Herodotus (8.85–90), for example, described Xerxes carefully watching battles during the Persian invasion of Greece in 480 BCE, seeking men who distinguished themselves in fighting. As he spied an act worthy of note, he had his secretaries record the man’s name and home city for later reward. Xenophon (An. 1.8.28–29) describes the royal scepter-bearer Artapates who wore “a bracelet and necklaces and the other items that the best of Persians wear.” The jewelry clearly communicates to a Greek audience that the wearer belongs to an exclusive cohort. New Kingdom Egyptian pharaohs had dispensed gold jewelry as a reward in earlier eras. This typically took the form of a golden fly necklace pendant that was given for both military and bureaucratic skill (Andrews 1990: 178–183; Müller and Theim 1999: 126–130, 138–139). Thus, the custom of rulers awarding distinctive necklaces to men as a sign of their prowess in these fields was firmly established by the time Persia controlled Egypt. Two Egyptian sculptures of the Achaemenid period offer visual and written documentation of Persian royal awards. Inscriptions identify them as high-ranking Egyptian officials in the Persian court, and they are depicted wearing Persianizing dress in the form of long robes and sleeved jackets as well as Achaemenid-style animal-head bracelets and neck torques (Colburn 2014: 792–794). The image of Udjahorresnet, now in the Vatican, includes lion-head bracelets on each wrist (similar to those illustrated in Figure 1.11), while that of Ptahhotep, now in Brooklyn, displays an ibex-head torque (Figure 18.1). The heads of both sculptures are missing, and it is quite

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Figure 18.1 Quartzite statue of Ptahhotep, Overseer of the Treasury, 521–486 BCE (88.9  30.5  33 cm, 114.31kg), Brooklyn Museum, Charles Edwin Wilbour Fund, 37.353 (©Brooklyn Museum)

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possible that the figure of Udjahorresnet originally included a torque necklace as well as bracelets. Both men were members of the Persian court. Udjahorresnet had been a prominent official and naval commander under the last two Egyptian Saïte kings and then Chief Physician, Companion, and Controller of the Palace for Cambyses, continuing to serve for Darius as well (Lloyd 1982). Ptahhotep held the position of Overseer of the Treasury at Memphis for Darius. By representing themselves wearing Achaemenid ornaments and dress, both men indicated their close connection with their rulers. Such public display of jewelry and clothing was an essential component of this court practice and one that brought rewards to both the giver and the wearer. When the Jewish courtier Mordecai was honored with a horse and royal robe, a courier preceded him as he was paraded through the streets announcing that this was what was done for those whom the king honors (Esther 6:1–11; Briant 2002: 307). By wearing the king’s ornaments, recipients could flaunt their favor with the imperial leader and, at the same time, acknowledge his power. As Sancisi-Weerdenberg (1989: 134) writes, the important point in this text is that jewelry is not tucked away in treasure-chests, but was on display even (or perhaps precisely?) during a battle . . . These costly items each told their own story: received from the king on such and such an occasion and in reward for such and such an activity. Possessing, using and wearing items given by the king were recognizable tokens of his favor and thus symbols of some influence at court.

These pieces represent a symbolic value far more significant than even their costly materials were worth, and that prestige translated in all parts of the Persian empire, as the Egyptian sculptures of Ptahhotep and Udjahorresnet suggest. The visible link between the king and the individuals wearing his jewelry also permitted critics of Persian rule to challenge its political structure through ornaments. Herodotus relates two incidents in which the gold jewelry was deemed not a kingly honor but rather a symbol of the “fetters” that bound recipients to a tyrant. When Cambyses sent a Persian force to reconnoiter in Ethiopia, the Ethiopian king dismissed the diplomatic gifts that included a gold necklace and bracelets, proclaiming that they had “stronger fetters” than those (Hdt. 3.22). The Greek physician Democedes used the same word “fetters” when Darius offered him two pairs of gold bracelets (Hdt. 3.130). Darius instead gave him two bowls filled with gold staters as a reward. These stories accord with Greek anti-tyrannical political philosophy and show how distinctive the ornaments were in and outside Persia (Moyer 2006: 235–240). Artaxerxes II presented a delegation of

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Greek ambassadors with “bracelets, a curved sword and a torque – a total value of one thousand darics – and further a Median dress. The name of this dress is dorophoric” (Aelian VH 1.22). We do not know what the delegates did with their gifts: To refuse to wear them in the presence of the ruler would have been insulting, but putting them on would have shown a clear alliance to him. Fetters indeed! As a medium for communicating high political status and loyalty, this male gold jewelry obviously achieved its purpose. Aside from the editorial commentary preserved by Herodotus, those who received these honors, like Mordecai and the Egyptian courtiers, relished the opportunity to display their own social status. Men wearing royal torques and bracelets formed an elite, international unit that communicated their participation in and support of the Achaemenid imperial system. In Anatolia proper, little direct evidence for the gift set survives, unlike that found on Egyptian statues. Studies of elite Achaemenid–Anatolian material culture indicate a complex integration and adaptation of Persian elements into local goods (Miller 2007, 2013; Dusinberre 2013). The reclining male at a banquet, pictured in the now-lost Karaburun tomb painting from northern Lycia, is adorned with a gold hoop earring, gold bracelets, and a neckband that probably held a seal stone (DeVries 2000; Şare Ağtürk, Chapter 17, Figure 17.3, and cover image). The scene is widely understood as showing a local man adopting some elements of Achaemenid dress and drinking etiquette. His neck ornament is not overtly Achaemenid, but lion-head terminals were discerned on the bracelets (Mellink 1972: 266). The mere fact that he wears them may be sufficient to identify him as a Persian ally but not a member of the royal court.

18.2

Cultic Jewelry in Anatolia

Apart from jewelry as a sign of political or military prestige, ritual occasions could also require male participants to embellish themselves. A small group of archaic silver and ivory figurines found in Tumulus D at Bayındır (near Elmalı in northern Lycia) and in the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesus show males and females wearing virtually identical costumes (see Figure 17.4; Ișık 2003; Şare 2010, Chapter 17). All wear a large polos, long tunic, belt, and necklace – the latter worn either choker-style or hanging below the waist. The distinctive dress and luxury materials used for the figurines suggest they represent cult officials, and the objects likely functioned as attachments for bowls or furniture perhaps used as ritual equipment. Since

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the discovery of these objects, scholars have questioned the gender identity of the individuals represented. Some statuettes are flat-chested, in contrast to the other examples, which show breasts and are clearly female. Two of the figurines from Bayındır – the silver Antalya A and ivory Antalya B – are identified as males because of their flat chests. Both wear long, finely pleated tunics (perhaps representing a fine textile like linen) with a wide, engraved belt. Antalya A is accessorized with a pair of penannular bracelets and a bead-and-reel choker (Şare 2010: fig. 5). Antalya B sports a long, substantial bead necklace and clasps the beads in each hand, held at the waist (Şare 2010: fig. 6). One of the Ephesus ivory figurines makes the same gesture, holding his beads at his waist (Şare 2010: fig. 10). Tuna Şare’s study of this group of figurines explored the representation of gender by costume, noting that male Anatolian dress can appear feminine to scholars used to interpreting Greek clothing practices (Şare 2010: 70–71). I would take this further to note that jewelry and dress adopted for ritual purposes does not necessarily need to conform to patterns adopted in daily life. Ceremonial costumes may purposely defy typical dress norms, such as those that define status or gender, in order to create distinctive ritual communities (Hume 2013; Gawlinski 2015, 2017). The figures depicted here are joined in the activity they enact, one in which their appearance does not differentiate but instead unites them into a group, whether they are young, old, male, or female. The necklaces here may even have had a special function in the ceremony. Since the figures clasp them in either hand, perhaps the participants rattled them as they moved? Necklaces then would operate as instruments as well as costume elements in ritual performance. Men’s jewelry in Anatolia and Persia expands our perspective of the potential of ornaments to visualize the wearer’s achievements and identities in different social spaces: political, military, and ritual. This jewelry was widely recognized, in the case of the royal gifts, by those familiar with imperial culture. Apart from court dress, and with only a few extant examples, the meaning of the accessories proves to be more elusive. At the very least we know that a necklace did not serve to segregate dress by gender but instead to connect wearers in the same activity.

18.3

Magic and More: Etruscan Amulets

In Etruria, elite clans held significant political, religious, military, and economic control within their communities; it is not always apparent that those different roles were distinguished in visual representations.

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Figure 18.2 Banqueting scene painted at the top of the rear wall in the Tomb of Hunting and Fishing, Tarquinia, late sixth century BCE (Getty Images)

The earliest evidence for an Etruscan male wearing a necklace comes from the late sixth-century Tomb of Hunting and Fishing at Tarquinia (Haynes 2000: 228–230; Steingräber 2006: 95–96). The banquet scene shows a reclining, richly dressed couple. Both the male and female are accessorized: She wears multiple bracelets, a choker necklace, and disk earrings, and he wears a large, elaborate necklace composed of figural pendants strung on a cord or chain (Figure 18.2). Although the scene is damaged, it is possible to pick out pendants in the shape of a ram’s or bull’s head in the center of his neckband flanked by animal-head pendants in profile. The yellow paint has usually been taken to indicate that the pendants were gold, but Faya Causey (2012: 86) has argued that the pendants instead were made of carved amber. Both gold and amber were employed widely for jewelry in the Archaic period, and examples of pendants in all of these shapes exist. Banqueting was a favorite activity of elites and would have been an occasion to show off special dress to their peers. Unfortunately, no comparable scene helps us elucidate the meaning of this elaborate necklace. Was it typical for men to wear such accessories at a

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banquet, or is it a special insignia for this particular man? Necklaces found in a much simpler form were popular among Italic peoples, and study of these pendants may offer some insight into regional patterns of costume. The neck ornament most closely identified with Etruria is the bulla, worn by children and adults of both sexes. A protective amulet, the bulla occupies a prominent position in Etruscan and Italic jewelry. The circular, hollow pendants have been found in many materials – amber, lead, bronze, and gold versions have been discovered – and their main purpose was as physical talismans of protective spells cast for the wearer (Warden 1983; Palmer 1996; Castor 2016). Part of the efficacy of the magic would have been its visibility: Others would see the amulet and know that mysterious potions and objects lurked inside (Bohak 2015: 91). No real jewelry-making skill was required for a bulla, but the contents would presumably have called for experienced magicians and herbalists to charm and ward off attacks from unseen threats. Roman sources characterized the amulet as belonging specifically to the Etruscans, although the pendant was used widely in Italic communities. Roman authors tied the bulla closely to age and status in their own community. Pliny (HN 33.4) preserves a story that Tarquinius Priscus gave his son a gold bulla after the boy killed an enemy before he stopped wearing the toga praetexta, the costume of boys. There, the material – gold – was appropriate for the family’s ruling status and was also used by families in the cavalry. (The less wealthy wore leather bullae.) In Etruscan art, individuals spanning many age, gender, or social statuses sport the amulet. It appears most frequently in the Late Classical and Hellenistic period – centuries in which Etruscans took special care to depict themselves wearing real forms of jewelry (Andrén 1948; Castor 2016). Children, usually boys, normally wore a single large amulet around their neck. It has been suggested that Roman use of the amulet spurred Etruscans to renew their original practice, especially in the images of young children, in what Marie-Louise Haack terms a “double-transfer” of meaning, from Etruscan to Roman and then Roman to Etruscan, in the Late Hellenistic period (Haack 2007). Adults could wear bullae other ways: around their upper arms or on necklaces composed of multiple pendants. An Etruscan redfigured krater dating to the early fourth century shows a bearded male Argonaut with strings of bullae wrapped around his upper arms (Causey 2012: 77) (Figure 18.3). These appear to hang from thin straps made either of woven strings or perhaps leather. Such devices could have been protection worn in combat or while hunting – occasions when supernatural protection would have been needed. Late Classical terracotta female votive

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Figure 18.3 Etruscan red-figured krater from Chiusi attributed to the Argonaut Group, early fourth century BCE, Florence, Museo Archeologico Nazionale no. 4026 (©akg-images/Orsi Battaglini)

figures often show them wearing impressive necklaces and armbands composed of multiple bulla-shaped pendants. Details on some terracottas show bullae decorated with figures in relief, making them more elaborate than the plain amulets children wore; real examples of gold relief bullae are known. I have argued elsewhere that this kind of jewelry indicates that the female wearer, in addition to displaying a native Etruscan type of jewelry, occupied a ritual role as well (Castor 2010: 34–36). Similar circumstances may apply to the men who wore bulla armbands and necklaces. Study of Etruscan male ritual dress has focused on the pointed hat, heavy animal skin mantles that are sometimes fastened with an oversized triangular fibula, and loincloths, but I argue that bulla jewelry can also belong to ceremonial costume. A fourth-century sarcophagus from

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Figure 18.4 Marble sarcophagus from the Tomb of the Sarcophagi, Caere/Cerveteri, fourth century BCE, Vatican, Museo Gregoriano Etrusco (Getty Images)

the Tomb of the Sarcophagi in Cerveteri, ancient Caere, shows the deceased adorned with a thick necklace of six pendants – bullae alternating with vaseshaped pendants – as well as an armband with the same arrangement of pendants (Figure 18.4; Gilotta 1989). These bullae are articulated with a rim border but have no embossed figural decoration. The sarcophagus lid shows the male dressed in a long tunic and holding a phiale in one hand, while clasping a thick fillet hung around his neck with the other. His head rests on a folded linen book. The same type of book appears on other funerary markers that include such ritual equipment as the priest’s hat. Books that collected essential sacred knowledge helped priests, prophets, and seers master their duties and may well be the type of book represented here (Jannot 2005: 34–37; de Grummond 2006). He wears an olive-leaf crown in addition to the bulla necklace and armband. Similar ornaments are found on contemporary sarcophagi and votive sculptures of females interpreted as wearing the dress of priestesses (Nielsen 1990; Lundeen 2006). As for the Anatolian figurines, it seems that jewelry was an indicator of a ritual state or

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office that was open to men and women. Further clues to the importance of the bulla necklace in ritual come from Hellenistic representations of the Etruscan seer Cacu. The prophet is found on a bronze mirror and a group of Chiusine urns that show the seer, his pupil Artile, and two brothers – the Vibennae – who prepare to capture Cacu (de Grummond 2006: 31; Neel 2017: 4–8). On an urn in Florence, Cacu is nude except for a large bulla pendant necklace, similar to that of the male on the Vatican sarcophagus, that drapes across his upper chest. On a third-century BCE bronze mirror, Cacu’s neck ornament is a twisted torque, a common type on engraved mirrors of the Hellenistic era, rather than the bulla. What is interesting in this group of images is that the seer is equipped with a neck ornament and no other visible priestly insignia. Both men and women could serve as prophets and seers. Indeed, family tradition in divination and inherited knowledge, as well as “book learning,” apparently were important credentials for Etruscan prophets. Families may also have passed down gold bullae necklaces and armbands from generation to generation as a way to affirm that the next seer or prophet, whether female or male, was prepared for their role. Jewelry here would signify that the wearer had achieved the training and expertise necessary to interpret divine signs. The presence of bullae worn by a variety of individuals demonstrates its pervasive and widely applicable use. Sometimes it was closely connected to specific age stages, but gender plays little apparent role in determining who wore a bulla or how they wore it. It seems to be a multipurpose ornament that became a desired attribute in the visual culture of the Late Classical and Hellenistic period. At this time, Etruscans began to pay special attention to the depiction of realistic jewelry in certain images. This fits into a broader trend in their material culture to express ethnic and civic identity more overtly than in earlier centuries (Warden 2013: 356–359). Etruscan skill in divination was recognized and valued among their own people as well as by the Romans. Historical examples of Romans consulting Etruscan soothsayers to elucidate divine signs are found in Livy (5.15.1, 27.37.6), and they took steps to preserve the Etruscan legacy in this tradition in the first century BCE (Cicero, De Divinatione 1.72, 1.92; Valerius Maximus 1.1.1). The interest in rendering specific details of bullae could have served to reinforce Etruscan mastery in a highly valued skill. Combinations of bullae and other pendants, as well as the decoration of and material used for bullae, likely conveyed different meanings for and about the wearer. Unlike Anatolian figurines, though, there is no gender ambiguity represented by the jewelry and other dress. Instead, these are unquestionably bearded males presenting themselves as richly adorned with the same type of ornaments that women wore.

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In contrast to the Eastern examples of male necklaces, which were dispensed according to the king’s pleasure or for cult officials, in Etruria, elite status seems to be the main factor for male jewelry use. This is not surprising, given the dominance of the elite in all spheres of the community. Etruscan priests and priestesses may have inherited their position, acquiring family knowledge (and perhaps even ritual jewelry?) from their predecessors (de Grummond 2006: 34–35). To return to the Archaic example discussed above, the ornate necklace could be a rare reference to ceremonial jewelry for that era, although it is difficult to draw convincing conclusions from just a single image. Magical protection also plays a role in the forms of necklace pendants used. This function of the bulla unites Etruscans of all ages who wear them around their necks and arms. The more regular display of bulla ornaments in the fourth and third centuries might have been a way for Etruscans to maintain and even promote this ornament in their dress and cultural identity at that time.

18.4

Ancient Chains: Conclusion

What do we learn by looking at these instances of men wearing necklaces in these two regions? Certainly, we find sufficient evidence in both cultures to challenge the modern assumption that jewelry operated only as a feminine attribute. Religious and ritual costume apparently offered flexibility of dress and jewelry combinations in East and West. This makes sense because of the liminal nature of the sacred sphere. Customary social roles and identities are often set aside for ritual purposes, and the temporary adoption of different costume can help to embed the participant in a devotional community. Jewelry can denote personal prestige acquired by economic and political status. In many cases, wealth was undoubtedly the determining factor in jewelry display. While Persian kings trumpeted their egalitarian approach to dispensing awards of jewelry, leading families and courtiers likely received the most favor. However, the potential for any faithful subject to be recognized publicly is characteristic of imperial Persian rule. Should a clever physician or brave soldier attract the king’s notice, he would dress like those of the highest political status. Etruscan dress codes seem to correspond with more traditional social divisions based on wealth. Elite men might wear a gold or amber necklace at banquets, as in the Tomb of Hunting and Fishing, or hold public positions commensurate with their economic status. But external circumstances, such as pressure from neighbors like Rome, may have added new meaning to the bulla

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pendants. In addition to magical protection, the bulla worn on the arm or around the neck could have added an ethnic marker to their dress. In all of these situations, jewelry crossed gender lines to express identities that were important to men and understood within their community. Thus, the study of male ornaments pushes us to investigate male and female costume in a rigorous way, seeking comparisons that we might not ordinarily look for.

Works Cited Andrén, A. 1948. “Oreficeria e plastica etrusche,” Opuscula Archaeologica 5: 91–112. Andrews, C. 1990. Ancient Egyptian Jewellery. London: British Museum Press. Bohak, G. 2015. “Amulets,” in A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, ed. R. Raja and J. Rüpke, 81–95. Oxford: Blackwell. Briant, P. 2002. From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Castor, A. Q. 2010. “Late Classical Representations of Jewelry: Identifying Costume Trends in Etrusco-Italic Art,” Etruscan Studies 13: 31–48. 2016. “Etruscan Jewelry and Identity,” in A Companion to the Etruscans, ed. S. Bell and A. A. Carpino, 275–292. Oxford: Blackwell. Causey, F. 2012. Ancient Carved Ambers in the J. Paul Getty Museum. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Colburn, H. P. 2014. “Art of the Achaemenid Empire and Art in the Achaemenid Empire,” in Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, ed. B. A. Brown and M. Feldman, 773–800. Boston: De Gruyter. de Grummond, N. T. 2006. “Prophets and Priests,” in The Religion of the Etruscans, ed. N. T. de Grummond and E. Simon, 27–44. Austin: University of Texas Press. DeVries, K. 2000. “The Nearly Other: The Attic Vision of Phrygians and Lydians,” in Not the Classical Ideal: Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art, ed. B. Cohen, 338–363. Leiden: Brill. Dusinberre, E. R. M. 2013. Empire, Authority, and Autonomy in Achaemenid Anatolia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gawlinski, L. 2015. “Dress and Ornaments,” in A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, ed. R. Raja and J. Rüpke, 96–106. Oxford: Blackwell. 2017. “Theorizing Religious Dress,” in “What Shall I Say of Clothes?” Theoretical and Methodological Approaches to the Study of Dress in Antiquity, SPAA 3, ed. M. Cifarelli and L. Gawlinkski, 161–178. Boston: Archaeological Institute of America. Ghisleni, L., Jordan, A. M., and Fioccoprile, E. 2016. “Introduction to ‘Binary Binds’: Deconstructing Sex and Gender Dichotomies in Archaeological Practice,” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 23(3): 765–787.

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Male Necklaces in the East and West Gilotta, F. 1989. “Il sarcofago del ‘magistrato ceretano’ nel Museo Gregoriano Etrusco,” Rivista dell’istituto nazionale d’archeologia e storia dell’arte 12: 69–90. Haack, M. L. 2007. “Boules et bulles. Un exemple de transfert culturel,” Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 33(2): 57–67. Haynes, S. 2000. Etruscan Civilization. A Cultural History. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Hermary, A., and Markou, É. 2003. “Les boucles d’oreilles, bijoux masculins à Chypre et en Méditerranée orientale (VIIe–IVe siècles avant J. C.),” Cahiers du Centre d’Etudes Chypriotes 33(1): 211–236. Hume, L. 2013. The Religious Life of Dress: Global Fashion and Faith. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Ișık, F. 2003. Die Statuetten vom Tumulus D bei Elmalı. Ionisierung der neuhethitisch-phrygischen Bildformen in Anatolien. Antalya: Orkun Ozan Medya Hizmetleri. Jannot, J.-R. 2005. Religion in Ancient Etruria. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Kuhrt, A. 2007. The Persian Empire. New York: Routledge. Lloyd, A. B. 1982. “The Inscription of Udjahorresnet: A Collaborator’s _ Testament,” The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 68(1): 166–180. Lundeen, L. 2006. “In Search of the Etruscan Priestess: A Re-Examination of the Hatrencu,” in Religion in Republican Italy, ed. C. E. Schultz and P. B. Harvey, 34–62. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mellink, M. J. 1972. “Excavations at Karataş-Semayük and Elmalı, Lycia, 1971,” American Journal of Archaeology 76: 257–269. Miller, M. C. 2007. “The Poetics of Emulation in the Achaemenid World: The Figured Bowls of the ‘Lydian Treasure’,” Ancient West & East 6: 45–72. 2013. “Clothes and Identity: The Case of the Greeks in Ionia c. 400 BC,” Antichthon 47: 18–38. Moyer, I. S. 2006. “Golden Fetters and Economies of Cultural Exchange,” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 6: 225–256. Müller, H., and Theim, E. 1999. Gold of the Pharaohs. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Neel, J. 2017. “The Vibennae: Etruscan Heroes and Roman Historiography,” Etruscan Studies 20(1): 1–34. Nielsen, M. 1990. “Sacerdotesse e associazioni cultuali femminili in Etruria: testimonianze epigrafiche ed iconografiche,” Analecta Romana 19: 45–67. Palmer, R. E. 1996. “Locket Gold, Lizard Green,” in Etruscan Italy, ed. J. Hall, 17–27. Provo, UT: Museum of Art, Brigham Young University. Robb, J., and Harris, O. J. T. 2013. The Body in History. Europe from the Paleolithic to the Future. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sancisi-Weerdenberg, H. 1989. “Gifts in the Persian Empire,” in Le Tribut Dans L’empire Perse, ed. P. Briant and C. Herrenschmidt, 129–145. Paris: Peeters.

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Index

Acanthus, 240 Achaemenid. See Anatolia, Persia bowls, 188 Acquarossa, 237 Adrados, Francisco, 63 Aegean, 5, 39–40, 65, 75, 82–83, 185, 187 eastern, 31, 182, 186 northern, 62 Aegina, 30 Aeolis, 5, 31, 91, 93–94, 187, 251 agency, of Etruscan elites, 65, 102, 107, 168 Åkerström, Åke, 245 Akko, 152 alphabet, 166 altars, 25, 150, 199, 202, 206 Alyattes, 99, 130 amber, 46, 168, 324 Anacreon, 103, 305 Anatolia, See also Caria, Ionia, Lydia, Phrygia, etc. Achaemenid, 25, 154, 230, 240, 282, 296–297, 304, 307, 322 definition of, 5–6 northern, 199 southeastern, 6, 169, 176 western, 5, 8, 21, 75, 182, 185, 304, See also Ionia, East Greece animal husbandry, 304 animals, exotic, 168 Ankara, 24, 222 anthropological studies, 79, 117, 300 Apollonia Pontica, 30 Apulia, 204 Arabia, 195 architectural elements, See also imitations Aeolic, 199, 281 akroteria, 132, 197–198 Corinthian, 200 Doric, 198–199 Ionic, 120, 137, 198–199 pedimental decoration, 139, 159, 197–199, 225, 241

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terracotta roofs and revetments, 8–9, 129–141, 157, 197, 199, 219, 234–237, 239, 242, 244, 256, 279, 282 Argistis I, 200 Argos, 42 Arimnestus, 103 Aristophanes, 305 Armenia, 156 Artapates, 319 Artaxerxes II, 321 Ashur, 146 Asia Minor. See Anatolia Assyria and Assyrian art, 36, 66, 146–148, 162, 167, 169, 188 Athenaeus, 34 Athens, 225, 281, 305 as intermediary between Anatolia and Etruria, 252, 262 as intermediary between Cyclades and Etruria, 22 not as intermediary between Anatolia and Etruria, 303 Atys, 21 autochthony, 61, 75, 77, 95 Babylonia, 124 Baghouz, 119 Balawat gates, 167 Baltic Sea, 46 banking, 100 banquet equipment, 6, 8, 22, 24, 36–44, 66, 99, 114, 116, 122–126, 150, 162, 169–170, 222, 230, 240, 296, 312, See also furniture, infundibula, metal vessels, pottery banquets, 9, 68–70, 106, 197, 200, 204–206, 222, 234–241, 255, 272, 279–280, 282–284, 295, 307, 322, 324, See also dining posture funerary, 114, 119, 169, 285, 297 wedding, 297 Basilicata, 184 Battle of Alalia, 31, 62, 132, 140

333

334

Index

Battle of Cumae, 62 battle scenes, 197 Bavian, 146 beer, 114, 222 belts, metal, 114 Beth Shean, 154, 156 Bias of Priene, 129 bidents. See tridents Bin Tepe, 21, 25–26, 206, 207, 279 birds, 132, 241, 256, See also decorative motifs, divination, iconography partridges, 239, 253, 260–261 Black Sea, 42, 186, See also Pontus Blera, 201 Boğazköy, 155, 222 Bonfante, Larissa, 303 books, linen, 327 borderlands, 100 boundaries disciplinary, 1–3, 6, 10, 21, 63, 166, 247 geographic, fluidity of, 5 braziers, 140 bronze, 101, 114, 120, 122, 159, 168, 187 bullae, 325 cauldrons, 22, 123, 167, 170, 184 cups, 36, 38 funnels, 42 furniture, 269, 273, 275 mirrors, 239, 328 phialai, 183–184 strainers, 41 thunderbolts, 146 tridents and bidents, 148, 156 Bronze Age, 3, 40, 65, 82, 94, 118, 150, 174, 312 búcaro, 89 bucchero, 21, 32–33, 35–40, 45, 174, 185, 187, 291 Cypriot red, 92 national pottery of Etruscans, 36, 88, 95 South American, 89 term, 7, 87–95 bullae. See jewelry business, 102 Byblos, 152 Cadiz, 100 Caere, 25–26, 31, 33–35, 39, 45–46, 66, 94, 134–141, 148, 160, 174–176, 182–183, 187, 201–203, 206, 241–242, 244, 271, 275, 280–281, 291, 310, 327 Caere-Satricum cups, 40 Caeretan hydriae. See vase painting Camarina, 186 Cambyses, 321

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camel, 228 Cappadocia, 195, 199 Caprifico di Torrecchia, 134 Capua, 189 Caria, 4–5, 62, 101, 195, 206, 304, See also Caunus, Halicarnassus Carthage, 62 Castel d’Asso, 201 Caunus (Kaunos), 197 Celle, 162 Celtic culture, 46 cenotaph, 148 Cerveteri. See Caere chariots, 148, 150, 157, 306, See also iconography Childe, V. Gordon, 176 children, 325 Chios, 31, 42, 129, 220 Chiusi, 9, 30, 183, 188, 237, 244, 292–294, 297–300, 328 Cicero, 328 Cilicia, 195, 200 cippi, 9, 188, 202, 206, 234, 237, 240, 282, 292–294, 297–300 classical, problems with term, 1–2 classicism, European, 1 Clazomenae, 42, 251, See also sarcophagi clothing. See dress coffin, log type, 114 Coldstream, Nicholas, 36 collaboration, 67 colonialism, 75, 79, 82 European, 68 colonization, 1, 94, 240, See also decolonization communication, 3–4, 10, 98, 106, 163, 167, 169–170, See also jewelry interpreters, 163 comparative studies, 2, 80 connectivity, 3, 7, 67–68, 70, 166 conservation, 114, 119 consumption, 8, 170 contact, 1, 40, 182, 246, 261, See also intermediation modes of, 3, 24, 47, 98–106, 166 multidirectionality of, 47, 84 networks, 7, 104 context, loss of, 8, 10, 167, 170, 174, 281 Conze, Alexander, 79 Cook, Robert M., 30, 94, 251, 253 cooking. See food Corfu, 241 Corinth, 36, 42, 65, 185–186 Corsica, 129

Index

cosmetics, 170 Crete, 39, 92, 100 Cristofani, Mauro, 29–30 Croesus, 5, 44–45, 129 cuneiform texts, 148, 163, 167 customs, 4–5, 7–8, 24, 67, 234, 241, 245, 271, 280–281, 293 Cybele. See deities: Kybele Cyclades, 22 cylinder stamps, 9, 140, 235, 239, 242, 244, See also pottery: stamped Cyme (Kyme), 251 Cyprus, 24, 40, 91–92, 156, 163, 184, 318 Cyrene and Cyrenaica, 42, 195, 205 Cyrus the Great, 129 dancers and dancing, 117, 230, 310, 314 Darius I, 227–228, 321 Daunia, 98, 156 de Witte, Jean, 250 decolonization, 1, 3, 245 decorative motifs, 7–8, 67, 129, See also iconography animal friezes, 39–40, 122 animal heads, 41, 45, 169, 319, 322, 324 animal protomes, 134, 137, 174 banded, 261 bead-and-reel, 134, 323 birds, 122, 132, 134 fan, 38 filling ornament, 39 floral, 132, 139, 255 geometric, 38, 114, 119–125, 198 ivy leaves, 256, 261 lions, 41–42, 46, 114, 119, 124, 169–170, 319, 322 lotus, 258 lotus chains, 130, 256 meander, 132, 134 myrtle wreaths, 256 palmettes, 170, 197–199, 257–258, 261 rosettes, 114, 120, 122, 124, 137, 197, 254–255 snakes, 252 sphinxes, 41–42, 132, 174, 198 spirals, 256 star and meander, 253, 256 star-flowers, 132, 134 swastikas, 114, 123–124 symbolism, 117, 124–125, 176 tongues, 134, 137 volutes, 120, 130, 132, 137, 275, 278–279, 281 wild goats, 38, 262

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deities, 197, 309, 312 Adad, 146, 148 Aphrodite, 309 Apollo, 99, 102–103 Artemis, 42, 305, 309 Athena, 132, 220 Demeter, 309, 312 Dionysus, 38, 241 Haldi, 146 Ishtar, 124 Juno Sospita, 253, 310 Kubaba, 309 Kybele, 199, 230, 309 Leto, 309 Matar, 124, 199, 222, 231 Menerva/Menrva, 132, 160 Persephone, 312 Shamash, 124 Sin, 124 storm gods, 145–146, 156, 160 Tesheiba, 146 Teshub, 146 Tinia, 157, 160 Zeus, 106, 160 del Chiaro, Mario, xix Della Seta, Alessandro, 81–82 Delphi, 44, 98–99, 102, 105, 113, 122, 140 Demaratus, 36, 66 Democedes, 321 destruction, ritual, 145, 150, 154 Didyma, 38, 42, 130 Dikaiarchia, 35 dining posture, 235, 272, 280, 284 dining rooms, 280 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 61–62 diplomacy, 102, 321 distinction, 67–70, 290, 300, See also sharing of use or meaning, 124, 269–285, 303–315 divination, 145, 148, 150, 156–157, 160–163, 328, See also lightning, thunder, omens Brontoscopic Calendar, 145, 162–163 prophets, 328 DNA studies. See genetic studies dogs, 134, 139, 234–247, See also iconography collars, 237, 239, 242, 245–247 leashes, 241, 244 Dohrn, Tobias, 253 doors, false or symbolic, 26, 124, 204–205 dress, 9, 124, 225, See also fibulae, headdresses, shoes belts, 99, 308, 322 ceremonial, 323, 326 chiton, 305–306, 308–309, 323 Etruscan, 309–310

335

336

Index

dress (cont.) and gender, 303–315 himation, 305–306, 308 Ionian / West Anatolian, 188, 303–309, 323 Lydian, 305–306 Persian style, 306–308, 319, 322 tabenna, 310 veils, 296, 299, 309–310 drinking vessels. See banquet equipment Dümmler, Ferdinand, 251 dyes, 167, 306 East Greece and East Greek styles, 21–22, 30, 40, 182–183, 185–187, 223, See also Anatolia: western, Ionia, vase painting problems with term, 5 eclecticism, 257, 304 eggs, 237, 241, 296 Egypt, 66, 77, 156, 174, 195, 256, 277, 318–319 Egyptian blue, 170–174, 226 elites, 8, 22, 24, 64–68, 104, 106, 126, 148–152, 162, 189, 207, 230, 269, 285, See also agency, identity lifestyles, 166–170, 188, 234, 239, 241, 246, 280, 324 symbols, 162, 169 Elmalı and Elmalı basin. See Lycia: northern emulation. See imitations Ephesus, 45–46, 303, 322 Ethiopia, 321 ethnicity. See identity ethnography. See anthropological studies Etruria, See also site names geography, 6 northern, 187 southern, 6, 8, 26, 36, 39, 93, 129–141, 182, 184, 195, 201–204, 253, 269, See also Caere, Veii, Tarquinia, etc. Etruscan language, 21, 62–63 origins, 2, 4, 21, 61–66, 75, 77, 80–82, 88, 166 tombs. See tombs Etrusco-Corinthian, 186, 250, 259, 262 Etrusco-Ionian, 139–140, 253 problems with term, 2, 262 exchange, 1, 4, 9, 31, 47, 168, 242, See also connectivity, contact, trade direction, 6, 245 gift, 34, 67, 106, 168, 300 intra-Anatolian, 5 Mediterranean-wide, 76 reciprocal, 33 west to east, 32–34, 106

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eyes, 227–228, 252 Ezekiel, 167 families, 162, 168, 189, 197, 300, 329 fan, 120 fertility, 117, 309 Fethi, Ahmet, 78 fibulae, 114, 124, 184, 326 fishing, 145, 156 food, 114, 145, 154, 168–169 Foucault, Michel, 7, 102 France, 36 Fréret, Nicholas, 62 fulgur conditum, 160, See also divination funerary contexts, 8, 35, 113–126, 152, 168–176, 182–190, 223, 237–240, 242, 269–285, 292–295, 312 Furlani, Giuseppe, 145 furniture, 7, 9, 24–25, 113–126, 162, 168–169, 199 beds and couches, 197, 199, 204–205, 269–285 headrests, 274–279 benches, 198, 200, 271, 273 chairs, 114, 120, 122 footstools, 119–120, 122, 296 klinai, 198, 235–241, 272–273, 278–285, 294, 296, 307 serving stands, 114, 122–124 stools, 114 tables, 114, 118–119, 126, 235–241 thrones, 119–122, 197 games, 222, 225, 234, 245 funerary, 140 gems, 168 gender, 9, 219, 225, 290, 305, 318–330 genetic studies, 2, 63–64 Gerhard, Eduard, 250 gesture, 225, 237, 240, 295–296, 300 Gezer, 154 gifts, 295, 319 tribute, 148, 167, 305 Giglio, 282 Giuliano, Antonio, 30 glass, 45–46, 168 globalization, 3, 7, 66–70, 84, 291, See also panMediterraneanism glocalization, 3 Golaseccan culture, 148 gold, 168, 228, 319, 322, 324–325 clothing appliques, 304 dedications at Delphi, 99

Index

jewelry, 22 thunderbolt, 146 workmanship, 26 Gordion, 7–8, 24, 30, 113–118, 120, 122–126, 154–155, 160, 162, 182, 187, 217–231, 304 Graeco-Persian. See Anatolia: Achaemenid Graeco-Roman perspective, 1–2, 4, 62, 69, 240, See also stereotyping dominance of, 247 Gravisca, 30–32, 100 Gray, Elizabeth, 95 Greece, 1, 4, 45, 62, 65–66, 77, 83, 104, 166, 184, 228, 234, 240, 242, 245, 300, 309, See also Athens, Corinth, Delphi, etc. griffin protomes, 102, 134, 174, 184, 220, 242 Greenewalt, Crawford H., Jr., xix, 45 Gyges, 99 hair and beards, 225–227, 307, 328 blue, 227, 230 Hathor style, 277 tutulus hairstyle, 310 Hala Sultan Tekke, 152, 156 Hanfmann, George M. A., 21 haruspex, 160, See also divination headdresses, 124, 160, 220, 251, 260, 308 Etruscan pointed hats, 310, 326 griffin crown, 220 polos, 322 soft pointed caps, 305, 307 tendrils on sphinxes, 257 worn by Greek hetairai, 310 heirlooms, 150, 328 Hellanicus, 62 Hellenistic, 8–9, 104 kingdoms, 5 period, 46, 195–204, 207–208, 284, 312, 325 problems with term, 2 Hellenization, 62, 68–69 Hemelrijk, Jaap, 253–255 Herodotus, 4, 25, 99, 113, 122, 129, 132, 140, 304, 319, 321–322 on Etruscan origins, 2, 21, 61–62, 81, 88, 95 heterotopia, 7, 102–107 Hipponax, 25 Hittite culture, 83, 152, 156, 312 language, 63 Homeric poetry, 102–103, 140, 226 horsemen. See iconography horses, 134, 137–139, 168 equipment, 160 hunting, 239, See also iconography hybridity, 5–6, 253, 304

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iconography, 7–9, 22, 137, 217–231, 234–247, 257–261, 284, 290–301, See also banquets, decorative motifs, deities, mythical subjects animal combats, 139, 197 audience scenes, 197 battle scenes, 205, 307 birds, 239 bulls, 139, 170, 197 cats, 239 centaurs, 139 chariot races, 9, 132–134, 137–138, 235, 242–244 demons, 205, 227 departure scenes, 239 dogs, 9 hares, 134, 234, 242–244 hunting, 139, 146, 197, 234, 246 komasts. See dancers and dancing lions, 146, 197–198 processions, 122, 156, 182, 197, 219–222, 230, 305–306 animals, 235 chariot, 134, 139 funerary, 205, 242 riders, 139 satyrs, 241, 258 seals, 31 sirens, 197 snakes, 228–230 as social performance, 291 sphinxes, 197, 257 ideas, 5, 24, 65, 67, 70, 104, 167 identity, 4, 290–291, 328 Anatolian, 5 construction of, 104, 167, 169 cultural, 290, 296 elite, 237, 308, 329 ethnic, 63 Etruscan, 36, 94–95, 300 international elite, 100, 285 local, 7, 67, 285, 295, 300 markers of, 148, 169, 318 Turkish, 83 Illyria, 195 imitations, 45, 65, 167, 169 of Eastern styles in Etruria, 184 of Etruscan wares in Greece, 36, 40, 42 pottery imitations of metal vessels, 174, 183–186 of wooden architecture in stone, 197–198, 200, 205

337

338

Index

imitations (cont.) of wooden furniture in stone, 271, 279–280 immigration. See migration imports, 8, 31–33, 42–45, 65, 67, 81, 150, 156, 167–174, 252 incense, 41, 168 indigenous cultures, 1, 76 Italic, 2, 77, 95 Indo-European languages, 63 infundibula, 40–42 inscriptions, 4, 31, 33, 35, 40, 42, 81, 146, 197, 199–200, 205, 262 intermediation, 3, 98–106, 188, 303 Ionia, 5, 31, 42–44, 46, 101, 129–141, 182–183, 185, 206, 253, 262, 303, See also Chios, Ephesus, Miletus, Samos, etc.; East Greece; migration Ionian Revolt, 62 Ionian styles, 188–189, 223, 227, 250–254, See also pottery, vase painting northern, 30, 42, 187, 262 Panionism, 250–254 southern, 34, 42 Iran, 24, 155 iron, 148, 154–155 Ishtar, 124 Israel, 36, 40 Italo-Ionian, 253 Italy. See also nationalism archaeological missions, 75, 82 species native to, 258, 261 ivory, 22, 65, 146, 162, 168–169, 322 carving, 26 Ivriz, 124 Jericho, 118 jewelry, 6, 9, 22, 81, 150, 290, 318–330 amulets, 318 armbands, 326–327 beads, 323 bracelets, 318–324 bullae, 9, 325–329 as communication, 322, 328 display, 321, 329 earrings, 308, 318, 322, 324 Etruscan, 323–329 necklaces, 9, 99, 318 pendants, 324 Persian style, 319, 322 rings, 318 torques, 319, 328

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Jordan, 195 Judaea. See tombs: rock-cut Karaburun II tumulus, 10, 223, 239, 307, 322 Karmir Blur, 154–155 Kerkenes Dağı, 24 Khorsabad, 169 kleos, 103, 106 klinai. See furniture Knossos. See Crete knowledge, transfer of, 8, 77, 98, 103, 129, 163, 168, See also books, communication koine, 166, 196, 207–208 korai, 309 kouroi, 188, 305 kudurru, 146 Kültepe, 146, 154 Lachish, 152 landscape, representations of, 139, 220 lapis lazuli, 227 Larisa, 130, 134, 139, 185, 235, 242 Latium, 40, 134 Lavinium, 241 Lcasen, 152, 156 lead, 325 Lemnos, 62, 81 Lesbos, 92, 94, 139 Levant, 36, 155, 162, 167 lightning, 145, 150, 157–160 Limyra, 196, 204, 273 linguistic studies, 2, 62–63, 77 lions, 162, See also decorative motifs, iconography Livy, 328 luxury, 8, 66, 81, 280, 284, 300, 304, 306, 314, 329 goods, 162, 166–170, See also gold, ivory, silver, etc. pastimes. See elite lifestyles Lycaonia, 200 Lycia, 4–5, 195, 205–206, 223, 273–274, 304 language, 63 northern, 223, 240, 322, See also Karaburun II tumulus Lydia, 2, 4–5, 21, 25–26, 39–41, 44–46, 77, 87, 95, 99, 101, 129, 182, 184, 188, 195, 206, 223, 273, 281, 304, See also Bin Tepe, Sardis, tombs Lydian Treasure, so-called, 45–46 Macedonia, 183, 195, 200, 204, 207, 282 Magalotti, Lorenzo, 91

Index

magic, 9, 176, 323–325, 329 Magna Graecia, 185–187, 204, 208, See also Sicily, South Italy marginalization, 2, 4, 245 marriage, 36, 66, 168–169, 299 couples sarcophagi. See sarcophagi dowry, 117, 315 Marsiliana d’Albegna, 150 Maşat Höyük, 152, 156 masculinity, 227, 240 meander, 255 Mediterranean definition of, 1 studies, 1, 4, 166 Mediterraneanization, 5–6, 67, See also panMediterraneanism Meli-Shipak II, 146 meniskoi, 159 Mesopotamia, 6, 75, 78, 83, 118–119, 162 metal vessels, 24–25, 38, 40–42, 66, 99, 102, 114, 162, 169, 183–184, 187, 306, See also banquet equipment, imitations Micali, Giuseppe, 77 micro-regionalism, 4 Midas, 99, 103, 113, 122, 124 Midas City, 199 middle class, 204 migration, 3–4, 21, 63, 68, 76–77 from Ionia during Persian expansion, 129, 166, 262 of Phocaeans to Etruria, 31, 129 of skilled workers, 22, 26, 30, 35, 129–141, 253–254, 262 theory of Lydian migration to Etruria, 80–81, 83, 166 theory of Near Eastern immigrants in Etruria, 269, 275 of Turkish tribes, 83 Miletus, 6, 22, 30–34, 38–39, 42–44, 87, 100–101, 132, 185, 303–304 Mingazzini, Paolo, 253 minti, 205 mobility, 3, 7, 22, 64, 285 of artisans, 7, 22, 24, 30, 64–67, 167, 242, 252 Moldavia, 117 Molinello di Asciano, 184 monumentality, 195, 203, 285 Mordecai, 321 Murlo. See Poggio Civitate Musarna, 202 museum-building, 78–81

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musical instruments flute, double, 222 lyre, 182, 222 Myra, 196, 313 Mysia, 304 mythological subjects Argonauts, 291, 325 Centauromachy, 257 Grypomachy, 257 Herakles, 132, 139, 241, 257 Hercle, 253 maenads, 257 Return of Hephaestus, 257 satyrs, 257 Trojan War, 257 Nabataean, 195 Naqsh-i Rustam, 227–228 nationalism, 7, 166 European, 75–76, 80 in Italy, 61, 82 in Turkey, 83–84 Naucratis, 30, 93–94, 100 Near East, 5–6, 8, 22, 40, 45, 77, 106, 124, 145–148, 150–154, 162, 169, 174, 207 Neo-Hittite art and culture, 66, 146, 199, 309 networks. See connectivity, contact Nikosthenes, workshop of, 185 Nimrud, 146 Nineveh, 167 Norchia, 201 North Africa, 36, 42 North Syria and North Syrian art, 6, 22, 26, 66, 162, 170, 176, 206–207, 258 oil, 168, See also perfume Olba, 200 Olympia, 38, 42, 98–99, 103–106 omens, 162–163 orientalism, 75, 78–79, 84 Orientalization, 68 modern construct, 7, 75 Orientalizing history of term, 75–81 period, 44, 65, 75–84, 94, 101–103, 167, 182, 185, 189, 258 problems with term, 5 Orvieto, 160, 237 Ottoman empire, 75–76, 78–81 Ottoman tradition, 315

339

340

Index

Paestum, 284 Palestine, 195, See also tombs Palestrina, 239 Pallottino, Massimo, 22, 166 Pamphylia, 195 pan-Mediterraneanism, 100, 102, 290–291, 300 Pantikapaion, 42 Paphlagonia, 195 parasol, 146 Paribeni, Enrico, 188 Paros, 284 patera, paterae. See pottery shapes: phialai Pausanias, 103, 106 Payne, Humphrey, 255 Pazyryk, 118, 228 Pella, 183 Pelops, 103 Perachora, 30 perfume, 45, 168, 188 peripheral cultures, 204, See also marginalization perirrhanteria, 42, 99 perizoma, 259 Persepolis, 305 Persia, 34, 62, 195, 227, 230, 318, See also dress, jewelry Achaemenid empire, 5, 9, 305 conquest of Anatolia, 129–130, 251, 262 invasion of Greece, 319 Persian styles, 199, 204, 225, 227, 230, 240, 319 Persian empire, 319–322, 329 Petra, 195 Phersu, 245 phialai, 45, 327 Phocaea, 30–31, 42, 129–130, 134, 137, 139, 227, 251 Phoenician art, 22, 66, 81, 162, 170, 258, 277 Phoenicians, 5, 66, 84, 100, 106, 163, 166 Phrygia, 4–5, 8, 24, 99, 101, 103, 113–118, 122–126, 154–156, 160, 182–187, 195, 206, 217–231, 273–274, 304, 312, See also rock-cut monuments, tombs Pian della Conserva, 35, 187 pilgrimage, 102 pillows, 200, 240, 275, 279 Pisidia, 195, 200, 206 Pitane, 187 Pithekoussai, 66 Pliny the Elder, 325 plunder, 167 Poggio Civitate, 235

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political ideologies, 75, 82, 84 polychromy, 139, 182–183, 185, 225–228 Polycrates, 35, 304 Pontecagnano, 185 Pontus, 195, 251 Populonia, 269 Portugal, 89 pottery, 6, 8, 114 bucchero. See bucchero Faliscan, 162 grey ware, 7, 87–88, 93–94, 183, 186 impasto, 42, 183, 185, 187 incised, 39 market, 35, 183, 187 painted, 185, See vase painting prestige shapes, 182–190 shapes amphoras, 31, 33–34, 160, 188, 252, 256 chalices, 256 cups, 30–34, 40–41, 185, 241, 256, 261 dinoi, 8, 34–35, 182, 185–188, 252 hydriae, 185, 242, 254–255 kantharoi, 30–38, 101, 241, 256 kraters, 241, 325 kyathoi, 32–33 lydia, 45, 188, 261 oinochoe, 174 ollae, 162, 174–176 olpai, 291 phialai, 8, 183–186, 256 pithoi, 140, 242 rhyta, 312 stemmed plates, 185 stamped, 44, 140, 234, 239, 242 Praeneste, 41 priests and priestesses, 145, 148, 160, 163, 310, 327, 329 prophecy. See divination proskynesis, 225 prothesis, 271, 280, 282–284, 297 Proto-Etruscan period, 3 Proto-Tyrrhenian, 62 Ptahhotep, 319 pucaro, 89 Pyrgi, 157 pyxis, 120, 170–174 rams, 41, 139 raw materials, 104, 166–167, 306 elephant tusks, 167 metal ingots, 167 pigments, 167 resins, 168

Index

reception, 167 revetment plaques. See architectural elements Rhaetians, 62, 77 Rhodes, 38, 42, 94, 195, 251 Ristoro d’Arezzo, 91 ritual activities, 25, 117, 122, 152, 154, 235, 245, 290, 293, 322 funerary, 114, 145, 148, 168–169, 183, 293, 297 libations, 183, 206 sacrifices, 154, 206 ritual communities, 323 rock-cut monuments, 124, 195, 197–198, 202 Roman period, 9, 195, 197–198 Rome, 1, 4–5, 61, 132, 134, 237, 329 Rondineto, 148, 163 roof decoration. See architectural elements rooster, 240 royal gifts, 319–324 as fetters, 321 royal politics, 319 royalty, 146, 167, 305, 307 Samos, 30–31, 34–36, 42, 87, 101–102, 130, 251, 303–304, 309 San Giovenale, 271, 275, 277, 279, 281 San Giuliano, 174, 201 sanctuaries, 4, 7, 30, 32–35, 38, 42, 46, 168, 304–305, 322, See also priests and priestesses cult officials, 322 international, 98–99, 101, 162, 184 panhellenic, 7, 102–107, 162 regional, 101–102 treasuries, 105 sarcophagi, 197, 200, 278, 281, 326 Clazomenian, 240, 256 kline-sarcophagi, 200 Polyxena Sarcophagus, 9, 188, 294–297 with reclining couples, 66, 281–282 Sardinia, 150 Sardis, 21, 25–26, 87, 129–130, 132, 134, 137, 139, 185, 206–207, 230, 242, 245, 279 Sargon II, 169 Sarteano, 227 scholarship. See also boundaries: disciplinary assumption of east to west influence, 245, 250 bias against non-Greek cultures, 2, 253 classical, 1, 69 Etruscology, 69 European, 1, 75, 78–79 Italian, 61

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Schweitzer, Bernhard, 22 scientific analyses, 33–34, 45, 93, 254, See also genetic studies sculpture, 176, 230, See also architectural elements, stelai figurines, 322 funerary, 66, 207 lions, 26, 99 terracotta, 66, 189, 225 votive, 327 wood, 189 Sé Girdan, 24 seals and sealings, 146, 157, 322 seers. See divination Selinus, 130 Sennacherib, 146 senses and sensory experiences, 101, 105, 177, 323 Serbia, 42 sexuality, 227 Shalmaneser III, 146 shared practices, 67, 246, 290 technologies, 247 values, 168, 234, 247 vocabulary of form, 8, 279, 281 sharing, 67–70, 290, See also contact, exchange, trade, visual language shells, 168 tridacna, 22, 66, 258 ship, 168 shoes, 9 boots with upturned toes, 303–315 çarık, 314 lack of, 219, 230, 314 sandals, 314 terracotta models, 312 Siberia, 118, 228 Sicily, 35, 39, 130, 186, 195 Sidon, 167 Sieveking, Johannes, 253 silver, 40, 168, 322 bowls, 66 dedications at Delphi, 99 kantharos, 38 strainer, 41 skin color, conventions of depiction, 223, 230 slaves and servants, 64, 66, 235, 240–241 Smyrna, 30, 40 social status, 104, 120, 168, 206, 234, 237, 291, 306, 314, 318, 322, 325 markers of, 120, 169, 227, 230, 234, 244, 329 South Italy, 46, 129

341

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Index

Sovana, 201, 204 Spain, 36, 41 spices, 168 spindles, 150 sports. See games stairways and step monuments, 25, 198, 202, 204 stelai, 146, 156 funerary, 22, 26, 282 votive, 198, 284 stereotyping, 5, 245, 253 Strabo, 25 Šumma Izbu, 162 surplus, 177 Susa, 227 Switzerland, 42 Sybaris, 34, 304 symbolic capital, 101, 104–105, 177 symposia, 183, 284, See also banquets Syracuse, 22 Syria, 129, 156, 186 Syro-Hittite. See Neo-Hittite Tantalus, 103 Tarquinia, 10, 29–31, 33, 35, 66, 130–132, 148, 160, 184, 188, 201, 203, 227, 237–240, 245, 269, 275, 284, 310, 324 Tarquinius Priscus, 325 technology, 4, 7–8, 35, 65, 129, 137, 154, 167, 242, 244, 290 bronzeworking, 150 woodworking. See wood: joinery Tel Jedur, 152 Tell Defenneh, 152, 156 Tell Halaf, 66 Tell Tayinat, 174 Termessus, 200 terracottas. See architectural elements, sculpture textiles, 9, 34, 99, 102, 122, 124–125, 167–168, 282–284, 292, 298–300, 303–305, 308, 323 “Etruscan treatment” of bed and couch coverings, 282–284 folded, 306 linen, 304, 306 patterns, 117, 124, 299–300, 307 production, 304, 314 tassels, 306 wool, 304, 306 wrappings for other exchanged items, 168 Thasos, 42 Thrace, 195, 207 thrones, 199

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Thucydides, 81 thunder, 145–148, 157 thunderbolts, 146, 157, 160 Tiglath-Pileser I, 146 Timaeus, 34 tombs, 6–7, 9, 148–152, 168–169, 244, See also sarcophagi “princely,” 150, 162, 169 cube type, 201, 206 dromoi, 25, 199, 205, 280 family tombs, 197, 205, 281 house type, 202, 205 houses for the dead, 25, 195, 198, 271, 284 mausolea, 197, 204 pilaster, 197 pit, 119–122 porticus type, 199, 201, 203–204 rock-cut, 8, 195–208 Carian, 197–198 Cilician, 200 Etruscan, 201–204 house type, 197 Judaean, 269, 275–278 Lycian, 197, 273–274 Lydia, 199 Lydian, 273 Paphlagonian, 199 Phrygian, 198–199, 273–274, 278–279 Pisidian, 200 temple type, 197 Urartian, 200 sarcophagi, 197, 200 temple type, 197–200, 205 tumuli, 21, 24–30, 189, 206–207 crepis walls, 25–26, 206 Etruscan, 10, 25–26, 66, 150, 202, 237–239, 273, 275, 279–281 Lydian, 25–26, 223–225, 273, 278–281, 306 in northern Lycia, 10, 223, 239–240, 307, 322 Phrygian, 24, 114, 154, 223–225 tools, 150, 154, 156–157, 160 Toprakkale, 154–155 trade, 32–33, 46, 64, 66–67, 84, 100–101, 104, 167–168, 269 ports, 30–31, 101, 303–304, 314 Ionians present in Etruscan ports, 303 transregional studies, 3, 242 travel, 100, 104–106, 163, 167, 303 tridents, 8, 145–162 Near Eastern, 150–154 symbolic, 145, 148, 150, 152, 157

Index

utilitarian, 145, 154 Troad, 188, 206, 294 Troy, 94 tumuli. See tombs Turkey, modern, 75, 83–84 Turkish language, 83 Tuscania, 201, 203, 237 Tyre, 167 Tyrrhenians, 81–82 tyrrhenoi chalkoi, 42, See also bronze Tyrsenos, 21 Udjahorresnet, 319 Ugarit, 152 Uluburun shipwreck, 156 underworld, 227–228, 312 Ur, 152 Urartu, 6, 8, 22, 118, 145–146, 155, 157, 162, 184, 195, 200 urbanization, 162 urns, funerary, 237, 240, 297, 328 Valerius Maximus, 328 values, shared, 241 Van, 200 vase painters and potters Affecter, 252 Amasis, 252 Antimenes Painter, 35 Aristonothos, 22 Elbows Out Painter, 252, 256, 261 Exekias, 293 Eyre Painter, 254–255 Heptachord Painter, 182 Ivy-Leaf Group, 252, 258 Leagros Group, 295 Lydos, 44 Micali Painter, 259, 262 Micali School, 250 Nikosthenes, 35, 252, 256 Nikosthenes, workshop of, 185 Northampton Group, 252, 256, 262 Orvieto Group, 160 Painter of the Banditaccia Komasts, 259 Paris Painter, 253–261 Silen Painter, 258 Swallow Painter, 30 Tydeus Painter, 255 vase painting, 6, 9, 241, 258 Attic, 9, 31, 35–36, 44–46, 252–254, 256, 258, 261, 295 for Etruscan market, 44

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Caeretan hydriae, 22, 31, 140, 251–252, 257, 262 Campana dinoi, 252, 256, 262 Chian, 258, 260 Clazomenian, 242, 255–256 Corinthian, 9, 241, 254, 257, 261, 282 influence in Etruria, 186, 255, 262 “East Greek,” 9, 29–30, 38, 188, 258, 262 Etruscan, 9, 160, 262, 325 Fikellura, 30–31, 256, 260 Ionian, 9, 30, 252 Laconian, 241, 258 Little Master cups, 30, 34, 256, 261 Lydian, 39, 187–188, 245 Milesian, 261 Phrygian, 182 Polledrara Ware, 39, 185–186 polychrome styles, 182–183, 185, 251 “Pontic vases,” 9, 250–261 Protoattic, 258 Protocorinthian, 258 Rhodian, 258 Six’s technique, 185 techniques, 253, 255 Tyrrhenian, 258 Veii, 132–134, 137, 162, 168–169, 176, 188, 237 Velletri, 132, 237, 256 Verucchio, 7, 119–122 Vetulonia, 26, 38, 150, 163 visual language, 7, 9, 237, 284, 290–291, 295, 300 Volsinii, 160 votive contexts, 30–31, 33, 35, 38, 98–106, 188, 304 Vulci, 30, 34, 44–46, 170–174, 185–187, 201, 262, 313 wall paintings, 8, 10, 29–30, 217–231, 235, 237–240, 242, 279, 282, 322 Walters, Henry B., 94 warfare, 167 Warpalawas, 124 wealth. See elites, luxury weapons, 150, 157, 199, 318 weaving, 122 West Anatolia. See Anatolia: western windows, false, 198 wine, 6, 34, 36–44, 114, 167–168, 222, 230, 296, See also banquet equipment, banquets women, 219, 230, 290–301, 308–312, 325, 327 assembly scenes, 188, 291–301 at banquets, 68, 235, 240–241, 255, 284, 297, 324 public life of Etruscan women, 310

343

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Index

wood, 7, 24, 168–169, 199, 217, 219, 228 furniture, 113–126, 282 joinery collar-and-tenon, 117–119 mortise-and-tenon, 114 preservation, 113 sculpture, 189 wool. See textiles

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wreaths, 327 Wunderkammer, 104–105 Xanthus, 204, 296, 313 Xerxes, 319 Young, Rodney S., 113 Zincirli, 146, 170