Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World (Greek Culture in the Roman World) [Illustrated] 0521761468, 9780521761468

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LOCAL KNOWLEDGE AND MICROIDENTITIES IN THE IMPERIAL GREEK WORLD

This volume argues that the absorption of the Greek world into the Roman empire created a new emphasis upon local identities, much as globalisation in the modern world has done. Localism became the focal point for complex debates: in some cases, it was complementary to imperial objectives, but in others tension can be discerned. The volume as a whole seeks to add texture and nuance to the existing liter­ ature on Greek identity, which has tended in recent years to emphasise the umbrella category of the Greek, to the detriment of specific polls and regional identities. It also contributes to the growing literature on the Romanisation of provinces, by emphasising the dialogue between a region’s self-identification as a distinct space and its self-awareness as a component of the centrally governed empire. TIM WHITMARSH is FcUow, tutor and E. P. Warren Praelector at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. A specialist in Greek literature and culture of the Roman period, he has written over fifty books and articles in the field, including Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: the Politics ofImitation (zooi) and The Second Sophistic (Cambridge, 2005). He has lectured all over the world, appeared on BBC radio and written for the Times Literary Supplement and London Review of Books.

GREEK CULTURE IN THE ROMAN WORLD EDITORS

SUSAN E, ALCOCK, Biown University ELSNER, Corpus Chfisci College, Oxford SIMON GOLDHILL, University of Cambridge

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The Greek culture of the Roman Empire offers a rich field of study. Extraordinary insights can be gained into processes of multicultural contact and exchange, political and ideological conflict, and the creativity of a changing, polyglot empire. During this period, many fundamental elements of western society were being set in place: from the rise of Christianity, to an influential system of education, to long-lived artistic canons. This series is die first to focus on the response of Greek culture to its Roman imperial setting as a significant phenomenon in its own right. To this end, it will publish original and innovative research in the art, archaeology, epigraphy, history, philosophy, religion and literature of the empire, with an emphasis on Greek material.

Titles in series: Athletics and Literature in the Roman Empire Jason Konig

Describing Greece: Landscape and Literature in the Periegesis ofPausanias William Hutton Religious Identity in Late Antiquity: Greeks, Jews and Christians in Antioch Isabella Sandwell Hellenism in Byzantium: the Transformations of Greek Identity and the Reception ofthe Classical Tradition Anthony Kaldellis The Making ofRoman India Grant Parker Philostratus Edited by Ewen Bowie and Ja^ Elsner

The Politics ofMunificence in the Roman Empire: Citizens. Elites and Benefactors in Asia Minor Arjan Zuiderhoek Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult, and Community Ann Marie Yasin Galen and the World ofKnowledge Edited by Christopher Gill, Tim Whitmarsh and John Wilkins

Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World Edited by Tim Whitmarsh

Homer Between History and Fiction in Imperial Greek Literature Laurence Kim

LOCAL KNOWLEDGE AND MICROIDENTITIES IN THE IMPERIAL GREEK WORLD EDITED BY

TIM WHITMARSH

O Cambridge UNIVERSITY PRESS

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

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Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8ru, UK

Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.oig Information on this title: www.cambridge.0tg/9780521761468 © Cambridge University Press 2010

This publication is in copyri^t. 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.

First published 2010 Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press. Cambridge A catalogue recordfar this publication is available from the British Library

Library ofCongress Cataloguing in Publication data Local knowledge and microidentities in the imperial Greek world / edited by Tim Whitmarsh, p. cm. - (Greek culture in the Roman world) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-521-76146-8 (hardback) . Group identity - Greece - History - To 1500. 2. Greeks - Ethnic identity - History - To 1500. 3. Ethnicity - Greece. 4. Regionalism - Greece - History. 5. Human geography - Greece. 6. Greece - History -146 B.C.-323 A-D. 7. Rome - History - Empire, 50 B.C.-476 a.d. 1. Whitmarsh, Tim. II. Title. III. Series. DF135.L63 2010 938'.09 - dc22 2010011446

ISBN 978-0-521-76146-8 Hardback

General Library System University of Wisconsin - Madison 728 State Street Madison, W1 53706-1494 U.S.A. Cambridge University Press has no responsibility lor 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.

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Contents

List ofillustrations Notes on the contributors Editor’s note List ofabbreviations I

Thinking local

page vii viii x xi

i

Tim Whitmarsh

1

Imperial identities

17

CliffordAndo

What is local identity? The politics of culturalmapping

46

Simon Goldhill 4

Europa’s sons: Roman perceptions of Cretan identity

69

Ilaria Romeo

The lonians of Paphlagonia

86

Stephen Mitchell 6

and identity in the Roman empire

iii

ChristopherJones

7 Making space for bicultural identity: Herodes Atticus commemorates RegUla

125

Maud Gleason

8

Being Termessian: local knowledge and identity politics in a Pisidian city Onno van Nijf

163

Contents

vi

9 Afterword: the local and the global in the Graeco-Roman east

189

Greg Woolf

References Index

201 'i-'i-'i

Illustrations

4.1 Map of Crete, first century bce page yQ 4.2 Gortynian tetradrachma issued after 6y bce, showing head of Rome and Artemis Ephesia (permission: British Museum) 72 4.3 Cretan tetradrachma showing the Great Bear on the reverse (permission: British Museum) 73 4.4 Cretan coin showing Zeus Cretagenes. British Museum BN658. © The Trustees of the British Museum 76 4.5 Cult statue of the panhellenic league in Gortyn (permission: Scuola Archeologica Italiana di Atene) 79 4.6 Frontispiece of 1702 Amsterdam edition of Dictys of Crete (out of copyright) 83 4.7 Severan statue from the agora at Gortyn (permission: Scuola Archeologica Italiana di Atene) 84 7.1 Nymphaeum, reconstruction by Bol. Used by permission of the Syndics of Cambridge University Library 132 7.2 Herodes’ arch at Marathon (reconstruction by Mallwitz (1964)). Used by permission of the Syndics of Cambridge University Library 136 7.3 Arch of Hadrian at Athens. Restoration drawing of the SE side of the arch (Stuart and Revett (1762-1816), vol. iii, ch. iii, pl. rv). Image from Wikimedia commons 137 7.4 Coin of Antoninus and Faustina 139 7.5 Caryatids from the Triopion. Drawing and architectural reconstruction by Piranesi. Source, Piranesi (1835—9) Ricostruzione dell’edifizio sorretto da Cariatidi ritrovato nel 1765 nella Vigna Scrozzi ftiori Porta S. Sebastiano 144 8.1 Map of Termessos between the second and third centuries ce (© Onno van Nijf) 164 vii

Notes on the contributors

CLIPFORD ANDO is Professor of Classics at the University of Chicago. He

is the author of Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty (2000), which received the Goodwin Award of Merit from the American Philological Association, and The Matter of the Gods (2008). He is presently com­ pleting a study of cognition and cultural change in the Roman empire, en tided The Ambitions of Government. MAUD GLEASON is Lecturer and Director of Undergraduate Study in the

Department of Classics at Stanford University. Her special interest is the culture of the Greek-speaking Roman empire in the second and third centuries of the Common Era. Her publications include Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (1995). SIMON GOLDHiLL is Ptofcssor of Greek at Cambridge. He has published

very widely on many aspects of Greek literature, including the books Reading Greek Tragedy (1986), The PoePs Voice (1991), Foucaults Vir­ ginity {1995) and Who Needs Greek? (2002). He has also written Love, Sex and Tragedy (2004) for a broader audience, as well as The Temple ofJerusalem {2005) and Jerusalem: City of Longing (2009), which won the Gold Medal for History from the Independent Publishers’ Associa­ tion. He is a fellow of King’s College, Cambridge, and Director of the Cambridge Victorian Studies Group. His next book, shortly to appear, is The Victorians and Classical Antiquity: Art, Opera, Literature and the Proclamation ofModernity. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. CHRISTOPHER JONES Is Gcotge Martin Lane Professor of Classics and

History at Harvard University. He has written extensively about Greek literature, society and religion. His latest book, New Heroes in Antiquity: From Achilles to Antinoos, appeared in 2010. He is now working on the various manifestations of paganism in late antiquity. viii

Notes on the contributors

ix

STEPHEN MITCHELL is Profcssof in the Department of Classics and

Ancient History at the University of Exeter, and a specialist in the history of the Greek world of the Hellenistic, Roman and late-antique periods. His publications include Anatolia: Land, Men and Gods in Asia Minor, 2 vols. (1993) and A History of the Later Roman Empire 284-641 (2007). He has recently completed a project funded by the Arts and Humani­ ties Research Council of England and Wales, Pagan Monotheism in the Roman Empire. He is a Fellow of the British Academy, a corresponding member of the German Archaeological Institute, and President of the International Association of Greek and Latin Epigraphy.

ILARIA ROMEO is Professot of Roman Archaeology at the University of Salento (Lecce). Her research interests include Greek and Roman sculp­ ture, pottery and architecture, the art and culture of Roman Greece and Asia Minor, and the legacy of classical antiquity in the modern age. She has excavated at Gortyn (Crete) and is currently a member of the Italian Archaeological Mission at Hierapolis in Phrygia. ONNO VAN NijF holds the chair of Ancient History at the University

of Groningen. He specialises in the history of Hellenistic and Roman Greece and Asia Minor, and particularly in the inscriptional record. His publications include The Civic World of Professional Associations in the Roman East (1997), Feeding the Ancient Greek City (2008, edited with Richard Alston) and Political Culture in the Greek City after the Classical Age (in press, edited with Richard Alston).

TIM WHITMARSH is E. P. Warren Praelector and Tutor in Greek at Corpus Christi College in the University of Oxford. A specialist in literaryand cultural-critical approaches to ancient Greece, he has published primarily on the world of the early Roman empire. Books include Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: the Politics ofImitation (2001), Ancient Greek Literature (2004), The Second Sophistic (2005) and the edited Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel (2008). He is currently working on identity politics in ancient fiction, and running workshops on Near-Eastern fiction for the Arts and Humanities Research Council of England and Wales. GREG WOOLF has been Professor of Ancient History at the University of St Andrews since 1998. He is the author of Becoming Roman: the Origins ofProvincial Civilization in Gaul (1998), and he is currently preparing for publication his 2009 Blackwell Bristol lectures on ethnography in the Roman west.

Editor's note

This volume has its origins in a conference held at the University of Exeter in 2004, for which the financial support of the Leventis Foundation is gratefully acknowledged. The transliteration of Greek names presents particular problems for those working in the Roman period. In this volume, names are given in their Latin forms where these are naturalised in English (e.g. Achilles, , Strabo); Greek forms are preferred elsewhere, particularly in discussions of inscriptions.

X

Abbreviations

Abbreviations follow those of the Oxford Classical Dictionary for references to ancient sources and those ofy4««^^philologique (anglicised) for tides of journals, with the following additions and variations:

AE BulL ep. CIRB

Epigr. Gr.

FGrH GVI LByzantion

LEphesos

I.Kalchedon

I.Klaudiupolis

LLampsakos 1. Lindos

Archaiologike Ephemeris. Athens, 1837—. Bulletin epigraphique, Robert, J. and Robert, L., Revue des Etudes grecques 1938-84. Corpus inscriptionum regni Bosporani, ed. Struve, V. Moscow, 1965. Epigrammata Graeca ex lapidibus conlecta, Kaibel, G. Berlin 1878; repr. 1965. Pr? Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, ed. Jacoby, F. et al., ist edn. Berlin, 1923-. Griechische Vers-Inschriften, ed. Peek, W. Berlin, 195J. Inschriften von Byzantion, ed. Lajtar, A. (Inschriften griechischer Stadte aus Kleinasien 58). Bonn, 2000. Die Inschriften von Ephesos, ed. Wankel, H. et al. (Inschriften griechischer Stadte aus Kleinasien ii). Bonn, 1979-. Die Inschrifien von Kalchedon-, ed. Merkelbach, R. (Inschriften griechischer Stadte aus Kleinasien 20). Bonn, 1980. Die Inschriften von Klaudiupolis, ed. Becker-Berthau, E (Inschriften griechischer Stadte aus Kleinasien 31). Bonn, 1986. Die Inschriften von Lampsakos^ ed. Frisch, P. (Inschriften griechischer Stadte aus Kleinasien 6). Bonn, 1978. Lindos. Fouilles et recherches, 1902-1^14, vol. ii: Inscriptions^ ed. Blinkenberg, C. 2 vols. Copenhagen and Berlin, 1941.

xii

List ofabbreviations

I.Metropolis

I.Miletos

I. Olympia lAM

IC

IG IGR IGUR

ILS lOSPE

LIMC

LGPN MAMA

OGIS

PG PIR^ RDGE

RE

■

Die Inschrifien von Metropolis, ed. Dreyer, B. and Engelmann, H. (Inschriften griechischer Sradte aus Kleinasien 6-}). Bonn, 2003. Inschrifien von Milet, ed. Herrmann, P. et al. Berlin 1997-. Die Inschrifien von Olympia, ed. Dictenberger, W. and Purgold, K. Berlin, 1896. Inscriptions antiques du Maroc, vol 11: Inscriptions latines, ed. Euzennat, M. and Marion, J. Paris, 1982. Inscriptiones Creticae, vols. i-iv, ed. Guarducci, M. Rome, 1935-50. Inscriptiones Graecae, Berlin, 1873-. Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanos pertinentes, ed. Cagnat, R. Rome, 1964. Inscriptiones Graecae urbis Romae, ed. Moretti, L. 4 vols. in 5 parts. Rome, 1968-90. Inscriptiones Latinae selectae, ed. Dessau, H. 3 vols in 5 parts. Berlin, 1892-1916. Inscriptiones antiquae orae septentrionalis Ponti Euxini graecae et latinae, ed. Latyshev, V. 3 vols. St Petersburg, 1885—1901. 2nd edn of vol. 1 = Inscriptiones Tyriae, Olbiae, Chersonesi Tauricae. St Petersburg, 1916. Lexicon iconographicum mytholo^ae classicae, ed. Ackermann, H. C. and Gisler, J.-R. Zurich, 1981-99. Lexicon of Greek Personal Names, ed. Fraser, P. M. et al. Oxford, 1987-. Monumenta Asiae minoris antiquae. Manchester and London, 1928-. Orientis Graeci inscriptiones selectae, ed. Dittenberger, W. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1903-05. Patrolo^a Graeca, ed. Migne, J.-P. i6i vols. Paris, 1857-66. Prosopographia imperii Romani, 2nd edn. Berlin, 1933-. Roman Documentsfrom the Greek East: senatus consulta and epistulae to the Age ofAugustus, Sherk, R. K. Baltimore, 1969. Paulys Real-Encyclopadie der klassischen Altertumswissenschafi, ist edn. Munich, 1903-78.

List ofabbreviations RPC X

RPC 2

SEC SGDI SCO

Syll}

TAM

xiii

Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. i: From the Death of Caesar to the Death ofVitellius, Burnett, A., Amandry, M. and. Ripoll^, P. P. London, 1992. Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. n: From Vespasian to Domitian (ad Burnett, A., Amandry, M. and Carradice, I. London, 1999. Suppiementum epigraphicum Graecum. Leiden, 1923—71; Amsterdam, 1979—. Sammlung der griechischen Dialekt-Inschrifien, ed. Bechtel, F. et al. 4 vols. in 6. Gottingen, 1885-99. Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten, ed. Merkelbach, R, and Stauber, J. 5 vols. Stuttgart, 1998-2004. Sylloge inscriptionum ^aecarum, ed. Dittenberger, W 3rd edn by Hiller von Gaertringen, E et al. 4 vols. Leipzig 1915-24. Tituli Asiae Minoris. Vienna, 1901-.

CHAPTER I

Thinking local Tim Whitmarsh

At some point near the middle of the second century ce, probably in Rome, the renowned orator Aelius Aristides delivered an oration in praise of the city, as an imperial capital. The surviving speech lays particular emphasis upon the political and cultural unity of the world under Rome. Where once there was regional difference, now all are harmoniously united, as if they shared one enormous city: ‘The whole inhabited world, as it were, attending a national festival, has laid aside its old dress and the carrying of weapons, and has been authorised to turn to adornments and all kinds of pleasures.’’ According to this vision, the peoples of the empire have willingly sacrificed their local culture in their grateful obedience to Rome. Less than a generation later, however, Pausanias would write up his account of a tour of Greece, placing a very different emphasis upon the diversity of even this one, small territory within the empire. His attempt to capture Greekness in its totality (‘I must proceed in my logos, going through equally all the Greek things’)^ proceeds by agglutination of various regional sites along the length and breadth of the mainland. In this account, local culture is endlessly varied and unstandardised, not to say bizarre. How do we interpret the apparent discrepancy between two contem­ porary authors, one describing a culturally homogeneous world, the other creating a kaleidoscopic portrait of local cultures? Clearly, the two writ­ ers have very different agendas, one celebrating the efficiency of Rome’s empire, the other the persistence of Greece’s native culture. There is no objective way of describing the world: all accounts will be shaped by ideol­ ogy. At a deeper level, however, we might consider these two perspectives 1 am indebted to John Ma and Greg Woolf for invaluable comments on this chapter. ’ Kai ydp ocrtrEp iravriyupi^ouCTa rraaa olKoupavri to pev iraXaidv qidpripa, t6v afSripov, kot^Seto, eIs Se Koapov kqI irdoas Euippoouvas T^Tpoirrai auv s^ouoiai, Aelius Aristides, Or. 26.97. The translation is a modification of Behr’s. SeT Se PE dipiKEoSai tou X6you irpdcrco, irdvrc dpoiws EiTE^idvra xd’EXXriviKd, 1.26.4. This famous phrase alludes to Hdc. 1.5.3.

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TIM WHITMARSH

as complementary. Each might be taken as a response to the ‘globalisation that followed the imposition of the pax Romana over much of the known world. Pausanias’ vision of Greek culture as fragmented into myriad, atom­ ised locales, on this interpretation, becomes a counter-imperial response to the.Aristidean vision of global uniformity, a reminder that the reach of world empires has its limits. The idea of the local is, after all, obviously created by supralocal perspectives.^ A people living in isolation on an island would not think of themselves as ‘local’ - in feet, they would be much more likely to chink of themselves as the blessed possessors of the cosmos. It is only when the missionary, anthropologist or oil company arrived that they would begin to view themselves, through the eyes of the outside world, as local. It follows, at least as a working hypothesis, that a phase of rapid globalisation will also see an intensification of consciousness of localism; and perhaps also an increased awareness of, even questioning of, the power dynamics between the local and non-local.'* We need to look only briefly to contemporary culture to see how closely related are the processes of globalisation and localisation. On the one hand, communication, trade, knowledge transfer and human mobility have increased on an unprecedented scale. These processes, however, have created a contrary effect, a privileging of regional variation. ‘Never under­ estimate the power of local knowledge’, runs the slogan of HSBC, the self-proclaimed ‘world’s local bank’. This highly successful advertising cam­ paign — launched in March 2002, and still going strong in updated form in 2010 - was originally designed to communicate ‘HSBC’s philosophy that the world is a rich and diverse place in which cultures and people should be treated with respect’.^ ‘Think global, act local’ is a business cliche, employed not only because of the need to protect diverse markets but also because of the internationalisation of labour and capital.^ The cooptation 5 As widely discussed in modern scholarship: see esp. Appadurai (1990); Hannerz (1990); Friedman (1990); S. Hall (1991); Bird ct al. (1993); Robenson (1994), (1995); Miller (1993); Wilson and Dissanayake (1996); Cvetkovich and Kellner (1997); Kapur (1998). Kearney (1993) provides an efficient overview. * See esp. Appadurai (1990); Hannerz (1990). 5 www.hsbc.com/i/z/newsroom/news/news-archive-iooi/new-campaign-for-tbc-worlds-local-bank. Dirlik (1996) 31-4. The phrase is routinely dignified with roots in the Japanese concept ofdochakuka, i.e. adapting agricultural techniques to local conditions (Featherstone (1996) 64; Salazar (2003) 630), but this is surely an example of late-capitalist institutions* desire to conceal their power behind a veneer of rootsy localism. According to the myth-history of the marketplace, an unnamed chief executive of Coca Cola once claimed that ‘we’re not multinational, we’re multilocal’, a topos that has been reworked endlessly, e.g. Unilever: ‘multi-local multinational’ (www.unilever.com/ourvalucs/ ); Sony; ‘I don't like the word “multinational”. 1 don't know what it means. I created a new term:

Thinking local

3

of the rhetoric of localism by multinationals, however, has been fiercely contested by numerous interest groups (principally socialist, cooperative, religious and ecological) who promote local culture in opposition to the cocacolonisation’ of the global economy. Consciousness of local identity in the global era has of course been largely produced (and contorted into new shapes) by the very process of globalisation itself, but that does not prevent local identity from being reclaimed as a site of resistance: the ‘re­ affirmation of cultural “roots” and the return to orthodoxyTTas been one of the most powerful sources of counter-identification’.^ Pausanias, perhaps, is alive and well. This volume addresses itself to a strange gulf that has emerged in recent years. There is, of course, a considerable body of scholarship on regional identities in the Roman empire.^ There has, however, been very little engagement between this tradition and the equally significant scholar­ ship on Greek identity during the same period.^ Interestingly, the word ‘local’ seems to have a precise semiotic status within modern scholarly discourse too, denoting those communities that were neither Greek nor Roman, traces of whose identities can only be accessed through the mater­ ial record.'® This phenomenon is related to a larger polarising tendency in classical scholarship, which places on the one side elitism, Graeco-Roman culture, imperialism, literature/art and cultural constructedness, and on the other the sub-elite, the colonised, resistance, material culture and (in some versions) ‘real life’. In focusing on local identity within the Greek (or at least Hellenised) world, the contributors in this volume have sought in their different ways to question such polarities. It is not just that most contributors work with both material and literary evidence; all, in their different ways, deal centrally with the fundamentally relational nature of identity, with the constant traffic between elite and non-elite, between centre and periphery. In sum, it is the central contention of this volume that local identities are not static, ‘authentic’, immured against change, but in constant dialogue with the translocal. An account of local identity “Global localization”. That’s our new slogan’ {J^ewsweek 9 Oct, 1989, 66); McDonalds: ‘I like to call us multilocal’ (Janies Cantalupo in the Christian Science Monitor, 1991; quoted from Watson (2002) 353). S. Hall (1992) 313. Examples include Franz Fanon’s classic assault on the hypocrisy and rapaciousness of colonialism, Black Skin, White Masks'. ‘Every colonized people - in other words, every people in whose soul an inferiority complex has been created by the death and burial of its local cultural originality — finds itself face-to-&cc with the language of the civilizing nation’ (Fanon (1967) 18). * For egregious recent examples see Millar (1993a); Parca (2001); de Ligt et al. (2004); Howgego ct al. (2005); Wallace-Hadrill (2008) 73—143. ® See esp. Bowie (1974); Flinterman (1993); Swain (1996); Goldhill (2001): Whitmarsh (2001a). Implicit, e.g., at Wallace-Hadrill (2008) 13-14.

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TIM WHITMARSH

cannot be written without an awareness of the ‘globalising’ forces that create, structure and (to an extent) oppose it. We should indeed, as the advertisers advise us, never underestimate the power of local knowledge, both the power that stimulates it and that which it generates. THE LOCAL AND THE GLOBAL IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE

The Roman empire was far from antiquity’s first empire, but it was the largest, indeed the largest in history until the British empire. At its peak it stretched from Spain to central Asia, from north Africa to Britain. This was not the entirety of the known world, but Romans liked to think of it as such: from the time of Augustus onwards, depictions of global dominance became common in art, literature, triumphal processions and - representations on public architecture.” Most vivid of all is perhaps the Ashqelon sculpture of Victory standing over a globe supported by Atlas.'^ These symbolic representations of a globalised’ empire were matched at . the level of real geography by a network of trade routes, military roads and waterways (including the Mediterranean itself), now dominated and protected by Rome. At the levels of politics, economy and the law, the empire was a vast bureaucracy, a pyramidal system with the emperor at the top; less formally, a large Roman diaspora (businessmen, tax collectors, veterans) across the provinces mediated unofficially between locales and centre.^’ Culturally, the centrifugal drive towards regional differentiation vied with centripetal pull of the common heritage of the empire: shared styles of public architecture, iconography and epigraphy,’^ and (particularly in the east) the ‘received’ dialect of the elite and the perception of a common literary and cultural heritage. (The latter were of course coded as Greek, but this Hellenism is to be seen not necessarily as distinct from, and certainly not as conflicting with, ‘Romanism’: see below.) Rome learned to manage a huge, diverse empire by looking to its predecessors, the Hellenistic and even Achaemenid kingdoms; but it greatly exceeded its precedents in terms of both scale and durability. " Nicolet (1991) 29-56, with his accompanying plates; Hardie (1986) on Vitpl’s Aeneid-, Murphy (2004) 154-60 (using the triumphal procession as the dominant metaphor); and more generally Ando (2000) 277-355. Fot Rome as ‘world-city’ see Edwards and Woolf (2003). For Agrippa’s celebrated ‘spectacle of the whole world’ see Plin. Brodersen (1995) 268-87 argues that it was an inventory rather than a map. “ Schneider (1986) pl. 21.4; the type of Atlas supporting the globe is relatively common (pls. 20, 21.1-3). Purcell (2005). See esp. Zanker (1988) 297-333: ‘from the foundation of the monarchy [=principate], a uniform visual language began to develop’ (330).

Thinking local

5

The empire as described in the previous paragraph is as Aristides would have recognised it. This assessment is shared by certain modern scholars. One of the contributors to this volume, Clifford Ando, has written a rich and full account of the social, political, legal, religious and cultural mechanisms that united the empire, with relatively little provincial sedition, for over four centuries.The general trend of the last fifteen years, however, has been Pausanian, emphasising the diversity of practice and the extent of local control. Let us take one example to focus our discussion, that of the Res Gestae {Achievements} of Augustus, an inscription first set up at the Mausoleum at Rome (Suet. Aug. 101.6) and apparently reproduced across Rome’s empire, sometimes in the original Latin (as in a surviving version from Pisidian Antioch — a colony for Roman veterans), sometimes translated into Greek (as at Pisidian Apollonia), and sometimes in both (as at Ancyra).*^ Clearly at one level this was an Aristidean statement, that the world was united under one man. When inscriptions started playing a significant role in the Greek imaginary, in the archaic and particularly classical peri­ ods, they served primarily to represent the local community to itself. An inscription like this, however, emanating not from the city’s officials but from the imperial hub, punctured the civic bubble and reminded citizens that they were also provincials of the empire.*^ ‘The Res Gestae imposed upon the inhabitants of cities of Asia Minor an uncompromisingly Roman picture of the city, the emperor and the world.’'® Even the notoriously ‘bad’ (i.e. Latinising) Greek detected by scholars in the translations has been interpreted as a token of imperial dominance.'^ The Res Gestae is ' defiantly non-local: nowhere in the surviving versions is there any refer- , ence to the specific, local environment in which the inscription was placed. You read this text as a citizen not of Ancyra, Apollonia or Antioch, but as a subject of the Roman empire. Such inscriptions could, then, serve as the ’’ Ando (2000). For provincial unrest see Bowersock (1987). It is a curiosity, but perhaps a mere accident, that all of our evidence comes from modern Turkey. At the time of writing, Alison Cooleys edition of the Res Gestae is keenly awaited. On the ideological role of communication from Rome in maintaining provincial loyalty, see esp. Ando (2000) 73-130. This use of inscription was not, of course, distinctive to the Roman empire: parallels can be found in the Hellenistic world, and in, e.g., Egyptian, Hittite, Assyrian and Babylonian imperialism. Elsner (1996) 35—8. ‘It is fir more likely [i.c. than interpretations based on supposed incompetence] that the translators stuck (or were instructed to do so) as closely as possible to the wording of the originals, in disregard of the nature of the Greek idiom. If the documents were given in this way a distinctive Romanness, so much the better. The non-Greek idioms bring out the Roman indifference to the sensibilities of their subjects’ (J. N. Adams (2003) 471).

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ancient equivalents to what global theorists call ‘hyperspaces’/® where the bounded space of a local community is punctured by lines joining them to myriad others: globalisation in action. Alison Cooley, however, has recently offered a more Pausanian interpre­ tation, which stresses the role of local initiative. Starting from the premise that inscriptions were set up by communities and not by Romans, she argues that ‘[t]he most important aspect of a monumental inscription... is that the monument presents a local interpretation of a document, and that what is otherwise a Roman document becomes a local one’.“ This forms the basis of an argument that emphasises the differences between local versions of texts such as the Res Gestae and explains them as creative interpretations tailored to the needs of individual communities. Perhaps most significant of all, in this connection, is her observation that the Latin version downplays the role of provincial communities and stresses the power of Rome, while the Greek versions avoid mention of world conquest and subjugation. The question to ask of the Res Gestae, we might conclude, is not whether it is imperial or local, but how the local manifestation of a document emanating from Rome manages to interfece between centre and periphery. Let us take another example. Across the eastern empire (particularly in the first two centuries Ce), many cities had temples devoted to the cult of the Roman emperor/^ in addition, there were many ways of incorporating the emperor into local religion that stopped short of a public cidt’, such as the housing of imperial statues in the temples of Olympian deities;^^ Scholarship on the imperial cult since S. R. F. Price s influential Rituals and Power (1984) has tended to view it principally as an organic local response to the external phenomenon of the Roman principate, an attempt to integrate a new phenomenon into the traditional ‘language’ of civic cult (as mediated by its Hellenistic developments) and a symptom of competition between local elites and poleis. There are good reasons to take this (broadly Pausanian) approach, reasons rooted in a desire to avoid the top-down, Rome-centred perspective assumed by earlier scholarship.^ It is, however, equally important not to overestimate the autonomy of civic communities. As Stephen Mitchell has noted generally oi AeyouCTi sTvai sTTiywpiovs fipooas, ts Kai Autovoov (‘The Delphians say these two are local heroes, Phulakos and Autonoos’). We have here a local source which indicates (Asyovai) that they too are aware that these two figures are not honoured elsewhere in Greece. The phrase ‘epichoric gods’ or ‘epichoric heroes’ becomes a standard phrase for a city’s unique cults. Here, then, Herodotus explains for his international audience a unique piece of Delphic lore, marking a small moment of the local within mainland Greece. This is, interestingly, a passage perhaps echoed by Pausanias.^® Thucydides and Herodotus use epikhdrios in quite different ways, then, and embody the two strategies of self-positioning I outlined above. Xenophon, however, shows the potential for a certain rhetorical slippage between these two rhetorical stances. The Cyropaidia holds up Cyrus as a model ruler for us all to learn from. To take a Persian as an ideal might be thought to be rhetorically bold; and the story is regularly focalised through Cyrus.’'^ In Book 6 Xenophon describes Cyrus preparing his army in an arming scene that looks back to Homeric narrative {Cyr. 6.4.1-2). Abradatas has a glorious chariot and is donning his armour when the beautiful Pantheia comes out to him. He was about to put on his linen breastplate, but she gives him a gold one. Xenophon adds a gloss to the mention of the linen breastplate 6$ ^Triyccpios -q v ovtoTs (‘which was local to them’). This has the effect not just of explaining why Pantheia’s bringing *’ 2.60.3; 2.73.4; 2.60.1; 3.18.1; 4.81.4; 4.184.3; 7.176.3; 8.129.2; 9.51.2. ■9 3.56.2; 4.61.5; 1.35.1. “ See Pausanias 10.23.2, where Phulakos is named as a 'local hero’ who some say appeared in a battle between Greeks and the Gauls led by Brennus. See Tatum (1989); Gera (1993).

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forward a different type of breastplate was so out of the ordinary, but also of changing the focalisation in a sudden gesture. The Greek readers are reminded of the irreducible otherness of the Persians, even as they are held up as models to learn from. The world of the story is Persian, but the implied reader remains Greek. Xenophon, of all the writers of the classical polist is the figure who straddles cultural boundaries in a most provocative way—the Athenian who lives in Sparta, who fights for a Persian usurper and writes love stories as well as memories of Socrates and hunting manuals. It is perhaps not surprising that his use of ‘the local’ can shift perspectives in this way. Greek writers from the period of Roman dominance develop these trends in the rhetoric of the local in striking new ways, which reflect the shifting affiliations of the empire. The geographer Strabo, born in Amasia in the Greek east in the late Hellenistic period, offers perhaps the boldest and most explicit theorisation of the local.“ In Book 2, the second preface, he lays out the principles of geography as a science and with a particular commitment to mathematics. The geographer cannot be committed to mere observation of the local. Watching the sun rise and set is of no value unless you analyse the why and how. But even analysis will be flawed if it does not adhere strictly to mathematical principles. Such flawed analysis is what happens ‘with locals’, KaSairep ol eTTix&opioi: gyei yap tottos ToiauTa SiarrTcbpaTa. 6 5e yecoypacpiKos ouk etnxcopiwi yswypacpei, ouSfe ttoAitikcoi toiovtcoi, 6ctti$ uqSev e9«Xnwv JkbIvcov kskAsiii^voi t6v airctvTa fiSri ypdvov, KstpaXfi fi TTpdTspov xopigordiT) vOv Sv k6v£i. x^IpES 5£ atpeevsis. & ttBSes oTov ip^povTSS t6v SgoirdTriv CnrEScbKcrrs. (‘O orbs of those eyes closed for all time! The head formerly most feir, now lying in the dust! The hands invisible! O feet, what a master did you bear!’)

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this especially with the death of Germanicus?^^ Expressions of grief once considered too feminine, too extravagant and off-limits to Roman men, became open to them: by making a public display of emotion (tradition­ ally feminine) they could express their loyalty to the state (traditionally masculine). Expressions of grief by the emperor himself reached unprece­ dented intensity in the case of Hadrian. Without other examples, we cannot assess how unusual were Hadrian’s expressions of emotional distress in the laudatio he delivered for his mother-in-law, but the extravagance of his mourning for Antinous clearly set a newbenchmark.’^^ To some extent the novelty of this was mitigated by the fact that Hadrian was an ostentatious philhellene and Antinous, a Bithynian, was culturally Greek. Achilles and Alexander, after all, were known for extravagant homoerotic mourning. Yet imperial intellectuals continued to debate the propriety of Alexander’s behaviour, and among first-century senators we see evidence of concern over the acceptable limits of male grieving.^^^ What were the rules that applied to Herodes? Senators disliked Hadrian and were unlikely to look with fevour on his imitator. We can compare the behaviour of Herodes’ contemporary Pronto, who also suffered multiple bereavements. Coming from north Africa, he was more aligned with Latin I owe this suggestion to David Potter. Vocal expressions of grief as a sign of loyalty: SC tie Cn. Pisone Patre 153—4; senators and citizens weeping freely: Tac. Ann. 3.2. Hadrian’s speech (Jones (2004c)) line 15: si non ita victus essempraesenti confitsione (‘If I were not so very overcome by my present grief’) and 18—20: nam adhuc] est imago cristissima socrw optimae labentis ] [ante ocutos, aure]is eciamnum strepunt luctuosis conclamatio- | [nibus propinquarjum meantm. (‘for still] there is the most grievous image of my mother-in-law declining [before my eyes, my] ears are even now echoing with the lamentations of my [women relatives]’) (Note chat Hadrian still ascribes wailing to the womenfolk, thus distancing from himself the source of his hallucinatory grief-sensations.) Antinous’ death and commemoration: Cass. Dio 69.11.2-4; Birley (1997a) 247-57Ael. VH 7.8 shows chat second-century intellectuals continued to debate the proper limits of ‘Hellenic’ mourning. Proper grieving among Romans: Tac. Ann. 4.1; Agr. 29,1. Pliny deplored the extravagance with which his nemesis Regulus mourned his son. Regulus commissioned portraits of his son in all sorts of expensive media; Herodes commissioned so many portraits of his trophimos Polydeukion diat more of them survive chan ft>r any other private person under the empire (Gazda (1980)). (Herodes’relationship with his foster-sons was of course open to homoerotic interpretation in away chat Regulus’ purely paternal grief was not.) Plin. Ep. 4.7.1: Plaatitei lugerefilium: lugetut nemo. Placuit statuas eius et ima^nes tjuam plurimasfacere: hoc omnibus officinis apt, ilium coloribus ilium eera ilium acre ilium arpnto ilium auro ebore marmore ^npt. (‘He decided to grieve his son; he grieved like no one else. He decided to sec up as many statues and images of him as possible. He effected this using all the workshops: he depicted him with paint, with wax, with bronze, with silver, with gold, widi ebony, with marble’) Regulus also slaughtered his son’s ponies and expensive pets on the pyre, as if the departed were a Homeric hero or a Scythian prince. This practice earned the comment from Pliny, luget insane {Ep. 4.2). When another bereaved fecher lost his philosophic grip, Pliny found his behaviour accepuble, presumably because Fundanus was a friend, and because his extravagance was conventional [tuset unptenttii {Ep. 5.16.7—11^. Fundanus did not try to rope others into dramatising his loss, as R^ulus did by arranging for scripted eulogies to be declaimed in towns all over Italy.

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language and thus with traditional Roman norms. As for as we know, Pronto did nothing outr6. Though he wrote movingly of his own bereavements, he distanced himself from excessive emotion. Describing the experience of grieving for his own dead sons, he used a military metaphor, comparing the struggle to single combat. In mourning for his grandson, however, he confessed to a sense of utter dissolution. He saved face by attributing this sensation, which might imply an unbecoming erosion of male boundaries, to manly solidarity: empathy with the grief of his bereaved son-in-law. In the social circle of Pronto and Herodes it was acceptable that a man should grieve for his teachers. Herodes wept when he delivered a funeral oration for his old teacher Secundus.’^’ This was noted but not condemned. Antoninus Pius permitted Marcus Aurelius to weep for his pedagogue, when palace functionaries were discouraging this display.'^^ But when the sophist Philagrus inserted a lament for his wife into an encomium of Athens, he was judged ‘immature’.'^’ Herodes’ grieving for Regilla was doubly suspect - insincere pretence in the view of some, unmanly self­ indulgence in the view of others.'^* His grieving for his foster-sons, which included private games, may have taken Hadrian’s homoerotic commem­ oration of Antinous as its model. Herodes’ outdoor statuary installations for his boys were nonetheless criticised as excessive.*’^ When a Stoic com­ plained that he mourned them minus sapienter etparum viriliter, Herodes did not take this insult to his manhood lying down; he responded with a vigorous diatribe against the enervating torpor’ that descends (so he claims) upon those who go too far in extirpating the passions.’^^ Although what counts as a culturally acceptable display of emotion is always a com­ plicated question, it is fair to say that Herodes’ multiple bereavements, his Namque metis animus meomet dolore obnixus, oppositus quasi solitario cenaminr, unus uni par pari resistebat... Victorirti mei lammis tabesco, conliquesco (‘For my soul struggled with my grief, confronting as it were a solitary struggle: one resisted one. an equal, resisted an equal ... 1 waste away with tears for my Victorinus, I turn to liquid’, De nepose amisso v. 235 Van dcr Hout; 2, 222 Haines). At Herodes’ own funeral, the orator provoked the Athenians to tears (Philostr. KV 344,586). Permitte. inquit, Uli ut homo sit; neque enim velphilosophia vel imperium toUit adfectus ('“Allow him to be a human being”, he said; “for neither philosophy nor imperial rule removes emotions’”, SHA Antoninus Pius 10.5), psipcfKicoSTis (Philostr. VS 579). Philostr. VS 556; Lucian. Demon. 33, cf. 24. On Herodes’ display of emotion in mourning his daughters and foster-daughters, see Philostr. VS 558; 560-1. ’’’ Philostr. VS 559. Cell. NA 19.11. Herodes manages to imply that the pursuit of apatheia both erodes one’s manly rigour and makes one boorish: langueret animus et torperet {3); in torpore ignavae et quasi enervatae vitae consenescunt (10), Those who pursue apatheia to excess are compared to a boorish Thracian who cuts down all his vines because he stupidly thinks they are weeds (7-9).

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high profile and the scale of his commemorative gestures drew censorious attention to his personal choices in an area where cultural norms were in flux. I have put my focus on Herodes’ bereavement and commemorative prac­ tices to see what they might reveal about how Herodes saw his own position in the borderland between Greek and Roman culture. One of the things that made his position unique was the fact that he actually married a Roman aristocrat. For a Greek aristocrat to marry a Roman patrician was, at this point in time, practically without parallel. Herodes’ wife was good to think with’ about identity in various ways. She was ‘other’ in that she was Roman, other’ in that she was female, and yet she was also an extension of Herodes’ self as his wife and the mother of his children. Most of the chil­ dren died, eroding the bridge their birth had built between their parents’ identities. When Regilla died, her family became an enemy other’, threat­ ening Herodes’ social status with a capital accusation. And to the extent that grief put Herodes into a feminised and helpless position, grovelling ‘in withered age on his widowed bed’, his bereavement forced him to undergo a sort of ultimate othering, to experience himself as ‘other’. Bereavement, with its cross-gender identification, opened up expressive possibilities. In bereavement Herodes permitted himself more latitude of emotional expression than was enjoyed by any other elite male of his era, Greek or Roman, with the possible exception of Hadrian. Like the emperor, Herodes was rich and allowed himself to live large. How did this unusual man construct his own identity? Clearly there was no single identity paradigm in which he could seamlessly immerse himself, achieving, in Stuart Hall’s phrase, a ‘fantasy of incorporation’,a merger that erases difference. To the extent that identification ‘operates across difference, it entails discursive work’, particularly the making and marking of symbolic boundaries.It is the premise of this essay that Herodes was actively engaged in identity-negotiation, and that his multiple cross-cultural foci of identification entailed a huge amount of discursive work. We can observe him sometimes quite literally making and marking symbolic boundaries on his own property. Herodes’ identity, then, was fluid, his self-fashioning a work-in-progress. In this process, did Roman power function as an alien ‘other’ against which he defined himself? This could not be true in any straightforward way: Herodes’ femily enjoyed Roman citizenship; by education, marriage S. HaU (1996) 3.

S. HaU (1996) 3.

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and office he was more connected co the Roman aristocracy than any of his Athenian peers. In feet ‘Roman’ could not function like ‘barbarian’ as a polar-opposite ‘other’ for any cultivated Hellene of this period. For centuries now Roman culture had been forming itself recursively in rela­ tionship to Greek culture, a relationship that combined assimilative desire with awareness of otherness.'’^ Greek culture was part of every elite Roman’s self-formation in varying degrees, so when an educated Greek looked at a Roman he saw some refraction of himself.^"^® Susan Alcock describes prominent individuals such as Plutarch and Philopappus as shift­ ing frequently, even polyphonically, between identities. Did this oscillation ever speed up co the point that such persons experienced their multi­ ple identities as synchronous?^ Symbolically rich spaces would fecilitate this - indeed, were designed to do so. When Herodes created, and then refeshioned, multi-layered symbolic spaces in honour of his wife, he was representing the complexities of their union, and of his own identity, in spatial terms. It is the thesis of this paper that when Herodes assembled these installations of poetry and marble, he was not engaged in pure self-advertisement, nor in purely disinterested retrospection, but in a form of meditation about his bicultural marriage and, ultimately, about his own bicultural identity. Such an identity was not fixed but fluid: who Herodes was at any one moment depended on the context and the angle from which one looked. Its Greek component was many-layered. Sometimes he seemed to self-identify as a hyper-local Marathonian, insisting that he be buried in his deme.*'^^ Ac other times he posed as an ur-Athenian, descended from Theseus. He often seemed to operate as if his local identity were coterminous with a universalising Greekness. This is not surprising, since Athenian identity had long been the least regional form of Greekness, and the most open co appropriation by outsiders such as Hadrian and Philopappus. But notwithstanding Herodes’ posture of Greekness, he had lived in Rome as a child and his mother’s ancestors came from Italy. To look at him through a Roman lens is to see a Roman senator with a patrician wife and son. He held Roman priesthoods coveted by the senatorial class: at Olympia he was honoured as From the large bibliography on this subject I have been particularly influenced by Feeney (1988) and Wallace-Hadrill (1998). Cf. Taussig (1993) 252: ‘For now the self is inscribed in the Alter that the self needs to define itself against.' ** Alcock (2002) 86. Monuments and rituals that engaged simultaneously with the Greek past and the Roman present sometimes created hybridity as a tertium quid, an effect permitting the play of difference without commitment to hierarchy (95-6). Philostratus /S 365-6.

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sodalis Augustalis and sodalis Hadrianalis. The only inscription that records those titles describes him, intriguingly, not as ‘Herodes’, but as ‘Regillas husband’/*^’ Since Herodes acknowledged no superiors, he preferred to make his own rules. He was most comfortable in spaces of his own design. On the arch of his estate at Marathon he described himself as a New Theseus, founder of his own new city’, a bicultural enclave named for his Roman wife. On the Appian Way he founded a private religious sanctuary and laid down the ground rules in no uncertain terms. His idiosyncratic monuments served many purposes, one of which was to create spaces that could be read simultaneously according to Greek and Roman cultural codes, spaces where seeing double made sense/*^ Schumacher (1999). The inscription was erected by the Elians, apparently many years after Regilia’s death. On the interplay of Greek and ^yptian culture in Ptolemaic Alexandria as ‘seeing double’, see Stephens (2003).

CHAPTER 8

Being Termessidn: local knowledge and identity politics in a Pisidian city Onno van Nijf

GETTING TO KNOW THEM: THE CEMETERIES OF TERMESSOS

Anyone approaching an ancient city would first be confronted with the deceased members of the community. Each city buried its dead conspicu­ ously along the main roads leading into the city. Streets of tombs and cities of the dead often surrounded the cities of the living, and the small city of Termessos, high up in the mountains of Pisidia was no exception.' In fact owing to limitations of space, the dead and the living inhabited areas in even closer proximity than was usual. Termessos, which is now the centre of a Turkish national park, was at the turn of the second and third centuries ce a thriving, though perhaps unexceptional provincial city. An old Pisidian settlement, it had been drawn into the Greek world only after the conquests of Alexander, and under his successors it slowly turned into a Greek city. It was a staunch supporter of Rome in the late republic, and it maintained a high degree of independence. In the imperial period it was incorporated into the province of Lycia et Pamphylia. The site was never formally excavated, but it was explored by travellers and surveyed by teams from Vienna and more recently from Istanbul, which has resulted in extensive publications of its more than a thousand inscriptions.^ Termessos may have been unremarkable, but to us it is unique because of this exceptionally rich epigraphic record. This paper is part of a wider project on the study of the epigraphy and society of Roman Termessos. I shall discuss the honorific spaces of the city and their connection with the political culture in a forthcoming paper: van Nijf (in press). Cf. van Nijf (xooo); van Nijf (2003b) I have presented versions of the current paper in Groningen, Paris, Hamburg, Nijmegen, Istanbul and Athens. I would like to thank my hosts at these occasions, as well as the participants in the seminars for their comments. I have greatly benefited from comments or help by Sofia Voutsaki, Rens Tacoma, Christina Kokkinia and Christina Williamson. For a discussion of this phenomenon see von Hesberg and Zanker (1987). See the map in Fig. 8.1 on p. 164. The cemeteries are immediately north and south of the city centre. ’ The best discussion of Termessos remains Heberdey in RE (zweite Reihe) v.a.2; 732-75. For Roman Termessos see Heberdey (1931). The inscriptions were published by Heberdey in TAM 3.1 and in iplikfio^u et al. (1991), Iplikfio^u et al. (1992), jplikfioglu et al. (1994) and Iplikfioglu et al. (2007).

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Figure 8.1 Map ofTermcssos (© Onno van NijO

The bulk of the inscriptions date to a relatively brief period of time around the turn of the second and third centuries CE, which represented in many respects the acme of the city’s built history.* The monumental texts on honorific statues and on funerary monuments served the epigraphic classes as a means of self-representation. I have explored elsewhere the implications of the rich honorific record, but in this paper I want to focus on getting to know the Termessians through the ways in which they represented themselves in the cemeteries of their city.^ Mortuary behaviour in general and funerary inscriptions in particular are a promising area in which to investigate the claims to status and identity * 72f(2wcite Reihc) V.A.2: 739-47 (Heberdey).

’ See above, n. i.

Being Termessian

1’^5

in the world of the living.'^ Funerary practices can be analysed as strategies of social, political and cultural self-definition. In this context it is relevant to consider the social importance of the inscribed epitaph.^ Each epitaph was a deliberate and enduring commemoration of whatever features were seen as the dead person’s most significant characteristics, the features that defined his (or her) social identity in life as much as in death. Of course, there is a risk of partiality. Epitaphs could be economical with the truth or thrive on hyperbole; in death many people became what they never were in life. Tomb inscriptions may, therefore, reflect desired as much as acquired status. But the statements that funerary inscriptions made had to be plausible, at least, and the cemeteries give us a good idea about the kind of cultural norms and values that were generally deemed important in the city. The Termessian cemeteries, therefore, may provide us with an insight into the most essential qualities for which Termessians wanted to be remem­ bered, and through which they sought to position themselves in the world of the living. In this chapter I shall discuss a few of the characteristic issues that can be observed based on the funerary material? Funerary display in Termessos, namely the monumental and epigraph­ ical self-representation, was in the first place a function of wealth and political status in the civic community. Expensive and ostentatious tomb monuments drew attention to the wealth and social standing of the Ter­ messian top families. Their high status was underwritten by, as much as it was reflected in, conspicuous consumption in death. Yet the cemetery was no carbon copy of the city centre, and it is important to be aware of the possibility that the funerary self-representation complemented the monumental language of the city centre in significant ways. Funerary monuments, inscription and all, also seem to speak a language of belonging. By their very nature tombs and epitaphs locate individu­ als within the context of their fomily or extended family. The care and attention and especially the amount of money that the Termessians poured into the funerary monuments of their relatives served to show their piety and proper respect for their ancestors but also helped them to identify themselves publicly as the heirs of family traditions. As we shall see, the Termessian epigraphy inserted individuals with particular precision within For a longer discusion of rhe methodological and theoretical background to thic approach, see van Nijf (1997) ch. t. E.g. Meyer (1990) and Meyer (1993) for discussions relevant to the Roman and the Greek world. ® These issues are only a selection, of course. Other dimensions of Termessian identity include gender and family relations, the discussion of which I shall have to leave to another occasion.

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exceptionally detailed genealogies that could extend several generations back. It seems most likely that we can interpret this genealogical book­ keeping’ against the background of a process of oligarchisation, whereby status and influence at the local level came to depend on different forms of symbolic capital, including the claim to stand in a family tradition with strong local roots. And finally, the Termessian cemeteries were a locus where cultural iden­ tity politics were played out. The epigraphic evidence presents the Termessians as juggling multiple identities: they were able to present themselves as cultured Greeks, as loyal Roman citizens, but also as the proud descen­ dants of indigenous warriors who had been fiercely independent for much of their history. It is through a study of their onomastic habits in particular that we shall see how these different strands of their cultural identities coexisted and were intertwined at an individual level as much as at the level of the group. Their experiences urge us to formulate a nuanced position in current debates on identity politics in the Roman empire. The Termessian cemeteries were, therefore, a repository of local knowl­ edge: they served the living as a way to identify themselves by reference to the dead. But they also serve us in getting to know the Termessians as closely as we can from the distance, both geographical and chronological, that exists between us and them. THE COMMEMORATION OF STATUS

Social distinction was certainly high on Termessian minds: the families of notables that ruled the city also dominated its landscape. Throughout the city centre we find buildings that were set up by leading femilies, for example a stoa (Lz) along the central agora that was built by the benefactor Osbaros, or a gymnasium (H) that was built by a husband and wife team.^ However, one of the most striking aspects of the Termessian landscape must have been the omnipresence of honorific statutes that commemorated the members of the city’s elite as priests, magistrates and benefactors; as loyal subjects of Rome, but also as cultured Greeks, and as dutiful wives or successful athletes. I have argued elsewhere that this monumental language put the elite literally and metaphorically on a pedestal. If you wanted to know who really mattered locally, you only needed to walk the city centre where the monuments provided you with a local who’s who’.‘° 5

TAMi.V. 121,122.

van Nijf (2000).

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Although it is possible to make a tally of the various activities and qualities for which the Termessian elite wanted to be commemorated, it was apparently not always necessary to go into detail. Many honorific inscriptions do not list specific actions or achievements. At times it was deemed sufficient to list moral qualities or hint at personal excellence. In such cases we are often dealing with posthumous monuments that were set up by important families who must have successfully petitioned the city authorities to be able to erect a statue for their deceased relatives. The dividing line between honorific and funerary monuments was apparently somewhat blurred. These show that the top families were able to adapt public space for their own private commemoration. Tomb monuments

As the burial plots gradually merged into the built-up area, it is easy to see how the cemeteries were an extension of the public sphere. The same elite that ruled the city of the living also dominated the city of the dead by their conspicuous tombs and monuments. Cormacks recent discussion highlights the tombs of a few wealthy individuals who can all be traced to the best-known families, such as Apollonios Strabonianos (stemma Gry), a proboulos and the son of a civic priest of Zeus Solymeus, who built a tomb for his parents and his son. His wife, Tiberia Claudia Kille (stemma H6), came from another prominent family that descended from a Tiberius Claudius Agrippinas." A generation later Claudia Agrippina married into this family. She had a temple tomb built for her husband, proboulos Ti. Claudius Marcellus (stemma H12), in the northern cemetery.’^ Another tomb builder was Aurelia Ge, the daughter of a Hermaios Hoples, who was married to a priest and gymnasiarch, Tiberius Claudius Plato (stemma Di); their descendants also served as priest proboulos. These were spectacular tombs, built to impress. It has been noted that the inscriptions on the largest monuments were also certainly designed to impress and inform, as they were carefully laid out with large beautifully executed letters.’^ Such monuments obviously drew attention to the wealth and command of resources their commissioners had that made possible and Justified their leading role in society. ” References of the type ‘stemma H6’ are to the stemmata of the major families of Termessos that were drawn up by Hcberdey in TAM 3. For a full discussion of each family, see Hebcrdey (1919). The decoration on this tomb shows a marked military character (shields, weaponry), which suggests that this theme was particularly important to Marcellus, or other (male) members of his family: Cormack (2004) 307. ’’ Cf. Cormack (2004) 308.

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However, funerary monuments were not simply an extension of the commemorative practices that we find in the city centre. We should not fell back to a simplistic isomorphism: we cannot not assume that all big tombs belonged to the elite - or that all members of the elite were buried in big tombs. Members of prominent femilies could have been buried in inconspicuous tombs, and there are also indications that individuals further down the social ladder were able to set up fairly conspicuous tombs as well, although they do not seem to have been a match for the families at the very top. Some members of elite femilies were cenainly buried in simple sarcophagi. It should be remembered, moreover, that all tombs and monuments were an indication of relative success with resources to spare: even a small tomb served to distinguish the dead - or his femily from others who could not afford one. Funerary practices bespeak status, and therefore status aspirations, but not necessarily in the same manner as the public monuments in the city centre, and it is worth our while to investigate the similarities and differences in a little more detail. It is interesting to note that political success was not usually commem­ orated on the tomb inscriptions of the Termessian elite. Of course we find individuals who commemorated the offices they had held in life: priests and priestesses, and grammateis are on record. Yet their number is limited, and the Termessian super-elite is noticeable for its reticence in this regard. There are very few members of elite femilies who had their offices com­ memorated on their own tombs.'^ For the real top femilies the city centre was a more likely area to advertise their political status. Epitaphs that did commemorate offices and priesthoods, therefore, often belong to a second level within the elite: grammateis of lower boards of officials, chreophylakes, and some priests - or magistrates and councillors who did not belong to the inner core of the Termessian elite.To them the funerary area was probably more important as an area of status display than the city centre, where they would be easily overshadowed by the Termessian super-elite. In the few instances where we find references to the careers of local grandees, these were usually put up by family members or dependants.*^ It would appear that to these men (and women) status and identity were to be found in making explicit ties with their higher-ranking femily members’ Only Marcus Aurelius Polemon V {TAM 3.1: 730) must have been of relative high status: he was grammateus of the boule and a keryx. He cannot be connected to a ‘top’ family, however. ’’ The offices are listed in TAM 3.1: 342, Index V.2. Ofthe inscriptions in TAM that mention priests, only 684,685,695 and 787 actually commemorate a priest directly, in other cases we see that relatives or dependants identify themselves by reference to a more famous relative or patron: TAM 3.1: 497, J39, 647, 648, 671 and 772.

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patrons. Quite a few epitaphs were sec up by men and women who iden­ tified themselves explicitly as apeleutheros or apeleuthera of So-and-So.'^ These men and women were apparently not full citizens of Termessos, but they had the status ofparoikoi. Freedmen of Roman citizens would be expected to enter into a cUentela relationship with their former owners, and this seems to have been the case in Termessos as well. This could be a close relationship: in quite a few cases the freedmen identified his former owner with considerable detail - including the enumeration of his priesthoods or offices. At one level such texts advertised the social control to which the freedmen were subjected, but the freedmen could also make such texts their own by using them to stake out a claim of belonging. It was apparently worth something co be known as che freedman or freedwoman of Platon the priest.'^ In some cases che closeness of the relationship was further underlined by che fact chat the freedmans tomb was located in the immediate or close proximity to that of their former masters. Slaves could do something simi­ lar: quite a few were able to set up tombs for themselves - and interestingly enough for their natural families - but they usually carefully stated that this was done only with the explicit permission of their masters.’^ Again we see the double message of subjection and of belonging. As freedmen and slaves are unlikely co have acted here without their (former) master’s consent, we may feel justified in taking these monuments as the media of joint self-representation of master and dependant alike. So, the Termessian elites may not have needed to use the cemetery to convey knowledge about their political and civic careers, but they did use it as a medium co repre­ sent the social networks on which their status and influence in society was based. Another aspect of che way that funerary commemoration could be con­ nected with status is the use of funerary fines. Apparently many people lived with the fear that their tombs, their eternal resting-place, would be disturbed after their death. Obviously it would be the duty of a family to protect and care for the graves of the deceased members, but every­ one knew that families did not last for ever. One way was co invoke the supernatural: hundreds of tombs throughout Roman Asia Minor were

TAM3.1: p. 351, Index 12. E.g. TAM 3.1:540 set up by a freedwoman of the priests Aurelius Platonianos Otancs (stemma F14) and Aurelius Meidianos Platonianos (stemma Eii) and Platon (stemma E12). TAM 3.1: 269, 338, 346, 493, 636, 637, 663, 762, 764. 769. 811. The expression used is tou SetrrtdTou.

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protected by means of a curse?° But another, perhaps more secure, way was to enlist the help of people from beyond the immediate family by mobil­ ising social groups such as professional associations or other civic bodies, or even the whole community in the maintenance and protection of the rrinema}-^ Funerary fines were one way to enforce this. As in many other cities, the Termessian tombs often included a clause stipulating that in case of tymborychia a fine should be paid. Temples and semi-public institutions appear to be the recipients of these fines, with the temple of Zeus Solymeus being the most frequently named, followed by the imperial fiscus and the demos. Other recipients include other deities, the boule, the gerousia and a neighbourhood association.^ It stands to reason that such fines could only be set with the approval of the intended recipients, as they would acquire an obligation to act if necessary. These inscriptions are therefore testimony to the power of certain individuals to ensure the post-mortem continuity of their commemoration by mobilising larger groups and public bodies as guardians. We cannot locate all the individuals who took the step to secure their commemoration in this way with precision, but it is clear that a high proportion belonged to elite families. This correlation is even stronger ifwe take into account the price of the fines. The listed cases in TAM suggest that the ftmilies at the very top of Termessian society, often buried in expensive heroa, could more easily mobilise a wide range of socially respectable groups; consequently they appear to have felt justified in frequently setting a relatively steep fine. As so often, social status was given a monetary expression.^^ The practice of securing external care for the grave may have stemmed from a concern for the dead, but a surely not unintentional side-effect would be to include larger segments of the population in the process of commemoration. Involving as many members of the community as possi­ ble, be they clients, dependent professional associations or public bodies, could only serve to raise the status of the living. Elaborate commemoration rituals and strategies for the protection of the tomb both turned private matter into a public event. Funerals were a continuation of politics by other means: in this sense the graveyard was an extension of the city cen­ tre, and a vehicle for the self-representation of a few families. In the next Conveniently collected by Strubbe (1997). cf. TAM 3.1: Index 14.4, s.v. e.g. crcr^Psia, Evsyu, Svoyoj, or oiis of Panopeus and found its claim topolis status wanting.**® Yet Termessos’ status as a Greekpolis was relatively recent. Southern Asia Minor had maintained links with Greek world from the sixth century onwards, but proper Hellenisation only began in the Hellenistic period. In Termessos this was a gradual process that did not peak until the Roman period. Greek inscriptions appear from the second century bce, and it would seem that at that time the city acquired the political institutions that came along with Greek status.**’ When Hellenistic scholars were finally able to identify the Termessians with the Solymoi, a fierce tribe who played a walk-on part in the story of Bellerophon in the Iliad, they could be written into Greek history properly.**^ The local deity was transformed into Solymian Zeus, and other Greek or Hellenised deities gradually began to populate their pantheon. Around 200 ce this process appears to have been completed when Termessos acquired, like any Greek city, its own Greek mythical founder, as an inscription recording the first priest of the eponymous heros Termessos seems to suggest. Termessos may not have been the cultural capital of the Roman Asia Minor, but from now on it counted as a proper Greek city.**^ The public sphere, then, was thoroughly Hellenised, but did this imply that Termessians also identified themselves primarily as Greeks? One index for this would seem to be the degree of linguistic Hellenisation. Epigraphic evidence suggests that by the second century bce Greek had become the standard language to express formal political arrangements, but personal commemoration in Greek still seems to have been limited. The earlier tomb monuments do not appear to have been inscribed, although it is hard to set up a precise chronology. From the early Roman period Greek epigraphic habits seem to have caught on among the population at large, and Greek became the standard language of epigraphic self-expression at *0 Pausanias 10.4. ■** Cf. TAMyv. 2. RE (zweite Reihe) v.a.2: 737; cf. Strabo 13.4.16-17. TAM 3.1: lOi. The reconstruction is not certain: toO] irpcbTou otto aicovos [l(epews) Tepurio(’)]ooO, Cf. Heberdey’s remarks at RE (zweite Rcihc) v.a.2: 732, and Hcbcrdey (1929) 33-6. Heberdey wants to identify a male figure wearing a chiton who is represented on a coin in the British Museum as the hero.

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a personal level. It has been noted that the Termessians were sufficiently proficient, as even slaves and freedmen by and large seem to have mastered passable Greek. We also find indications that there was a certain enthusiasm for Greek high culture: the theatre (Oi) and odeion (O2) offered places to a fair proportion of the male population. There were two gymnasia (H, I) where young Termessians could pick up the essentials of Greek paideia, and where, apart from the usual athletic disciplines, contests in Paean dancing were organised.**^ There are even signs of some (sub)literary activity. In their recent corpus Merkelbach and Stauber have included twenty-eight epigrams from Termessos. Eight of these were found on public monuments and may have been worded by professionals. But the remaining twenty were on private monuments, mainly tomb inscriptions, which suggests that their authors were keen to advertise their personal familiarity with, or enthusiasm for, this Greek literary form.'^^ That some of these texts indeed represented an explicit claim to Greek cultural identity is illustrated, I think, by one funerary epigram, the author ofwhich styles himself- metrically correctly as not the most inconsequential of Greeks’. Moreover, there are more texts that show signs of versification, or betray a modest literary ambition,*’^ but the results were not good enough to be included in SGO. This shows exactly the kind of pitTail that a poetically inclined would-be Greek could encounter. Epigrams that represented a claim to Greek identity were exposed to the critical gaze of connoisseurs, grammarians and sophists, who had set themselves up as the arbiters of Greek taste, and who might judge the efforts - and therefore any claim to true Greek identity - wanting. It should perhaps be remembered that the term solecism’ was first coined to describe the bad Greek of the inhabitants of Soloi, in neighbouring Cilicia.'*^ This raises the question of how deep the Greek language and Greek paideia were actually rooted in this mountainous city. ** Heberdey at P£ (zweite Reihe) v.a.i: 737: ‘selbst Skiaven and Freigelassene sprechen Griechisch im ganzen leidlich kortekc'. I have argued on several occasions that the pursuit of Greek athletic activities represented in itself a claim to Greek cultural identity: e.g. van Nijf (2001), and van Nijf (2003a). Paian dancing is on record in TAM 3.1: 142, 154,163. The Tcrmessian agones are discussed in Heberdey (1923) and Heberdey (1929) ch. 4. SGO 82—104, nos. 18/01/01—18/01/28. We cannot be sure of course, that the dedicators were also the authors of the texts. But the quality of the Greek docs not surest that they hired a professional. SGO 18/01/26 = 7^4A/3.i: 536: K4v5t5os,EXXr|vcov ouy 6 irapEpydTaTos. It should be noted that the names of husband and wife (Candidus and Severa) suggest that Greekness was not the only aspect of their identity that they were concerned to commemorate. Cf, TAMy.v. Index 18: Carminum Exordia. Sermo Poeticus. Salmeri (2004).

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Other langui^es were spoken and written in Roman Asia Minor besides Greek and Latin. In Phrygia some one hundred inscriptions show that the Phrygian language was going through something of a revival in the first three centuries of our era?° The language may have continued as a spoken language well into the fifth century CE. But not all languages have left material traces. The public epigraphy of Iconium is purely in Greek, but when people spoke to their gods local Lycaonian appears to have been the language of choice, as is demonstrated by a well-known passage from the New Testament, where the apostles Paul and Barnabas are mistaken for Zeus and Hermes and are addressed in Lycaonian.^' We do not know, of course, how widespread the use of this local language was, but we can be ftirly sure that this episode was only the tip of an iceberg. The contin­ uation of local languages must have influenced local self-identification to a considerable degree, and outside the Greek homeland itself it would be unwise to assume that the Roman empire consisted exclusively of a ‘huge reservoir of monoglot local elites’ as was suggested by Greg Woolf. The construction of cultural identity often took place in a complex situation. Greek identity may have been straightforward in the Greek homeland, or in the old cities of Asia Minor, but the Greek credentials of the various peoples further east - and further inland - were more problematic. The ‘Graeco-Roman Empire’, as Paul Veyne called it, was ethnically and linguistically diverse.^’ Greek and Latin were not the only languages spoken in the Roman empire, and the complexity of many local cultural affiliations and modes of identification seems to increase wherever we zoom in.^"^ This was emphasised already in the 1960s in two seminal articles by Fergus Millar and Ramsay MacMullen.” The latter takes a global overview, discussing the evidence for Aramaic, Egyptian (Coptic) and Gallic languages, whereas Millar focused his attention on the situation in Roman north Africa, where epigraphic evidence exists for the use of Punic and Berber alongside Latin. Recently this diversity has been studied mainly from the perspective of diglossia or bilingualism. People would have been used to employing different languages - and language contact was an acknowledged fact.^^ This linguistic diversity should not surprise us. Historically bilingual­ ism — or in many cases even multilingualism - was probably the normal

5° Brixhe (2002); Drew-Bear (2007). ’’ Acts 14:8-18. Woolf (1994) 131. Veyne (2005). Parca (2001). ’5 Millar (1968); MacMulIen (1966). 5^ J. N. Adams et al. (2002); J. N. Adams (2003).

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situation before the advent of the nation state?^ What we should like to know, therefore, is what the linguistic situation was in Termessos, and in particular, how strong the local Pisidian traditions still were at the turn of the second and third centuries ce. What s in a name? Onomastic habits in Termessos Although the epigraphic classes were fully versed in Greek, this does not necessarily imply that Hellenism was their only or even their main source of cultural affiliation at a personal level. The use of Greek in public inscriptions was of course politically and culturally correct, but it may have reflected not much more than a desire to present a Hellenising public persona. If we want to find out how Termessians really identified themselves ethnically, we may have to dig deeper. One way of assessing how the Termessians identified would be to investigate their onomastic habits. Names are an obvious vehicle for self­ identification. Recently Anna Mopurgo Davies has argued that the inten­ tionality of naming makes a study of personal names particularly revealing of the cultural identity of a community, as it ‘cells us something not only about the natural preservation or otherwise of onomastic characters, but also about a set of deliberate choices in name-giving and name-preserving that, in their turn reflect specific attitudes co language but also to com­ munity, life, kinship, continuity, etc. in a cultural context characterised by linguistic variety’ Modern anthropological and linguistic studies have also found that the study of names is particularly fruitful in multicultural contexts. Names are a flexible means of self-definition in the sense that they allow for various strategies on the part of the carriers. They will of course often reflect dominant political and cultural power hierarchies, but nomenclature may also serve as a complementary mode of identification. The retention — or reintroduction - of local (or ethnic) names may reflect a desire of a person or of his or her parents - to mark out a specific identity or identities. If we want to say something about identity, politics and the cultural affiliations of the Termessian population, a study of their onomastic strategies may prove fruitful. Even a preliminary analysis of the onomastic material of Termessos will help us to understand how the inhabitants of this small city projected their particular identities onto themselves and their children. The rich epigraphic So Janse (2002).

Davies (2000), csp. 24—5.

Aceto (2002).

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material of Termessos provides us with more than three thousand names, which is a good sample as ancient history goes/® Even a brief glance at this material suggests that the Termessians chose their names from a diverse pool, including Greek, Roman and epichoric (ethnic) onomastic traditions.

Greek names

We need not be surprised that Greek onomastic habits were widely spread. The great majority of the personal names that we find in the indices of TAM and the supplementary volumes are identifiable as Greek. It is not always easy to distinguish clearly between (e.g.) Greek and Roman names, or between Greek and ‘local’ names. Many ‘local’ names were adapted to Greek flexion, whereas other names may sound unfiimiliar but can in fact be linked to a local or regional preference in the use of Greek. In his important study Les noms indigenes Louis Robert has applied his critical acumen to many names that his predecessors had down as ‘native’ to show that these were in feet (local) Greek. Most of the Greek names, however, were ‘run of the mill’ Greek names that were common throughout Asia Minor, such as Apollonios, Diogenes and Hermaios, whereas other names were less common, or even particular to Termessos.^^ Such names may reflect the fact that at a basic level Hel­ lenisation was (socially) widespread, but at the same time this leaves open a gamut of different attitudes to Hellenisation in this community. Greek 'designer names*

It is, therefore, more interesting to note that there was somewhat of a feshion for Greek ‘designer names’ that made very explicit references to the classical Greek literary and cultural heritage. Among the more strik­ ing examples we find names such as Apelles, Atalante, Achilleus, Europe, Homeros, lason, Kadmos, Kallipateira, Kleon, Perikles, Pangkrateia, Philologos, Platon, Solon and Sokrates to name only a few striking examples. Standard Greek names may have been used by the Termessians to simply indicate a broad Greek identity, but with such highly classicising names it is more likely that they were positioning themselves with some emphasis within a Greek cultural tradition. This is, if anything, explicit in a name like ** Listed in TAM'i.v. 313-39. Index i. Robert (1963), Index 7, s.v. Termessos en Pisidie. Louis Robert again has warned us not to draw this conclusion too quickly, as the epigraphic record of Termessos exceeds that of many other neighbouring cities, Robert (1963) 205.

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Philologos (appearing rhree times in Termessos), which was often used to convey high cultural aspirations of the bearers, or rather of their parents. But other ‘high-brow’ names will have had a similar effect. It is particularly interesting to note that some of these names were found in a much higher concentration in Termessos than elsewhere in the Greek world. In fact, names such as Kadmos, Perildes and Platon are found relatively frequently in Termessos, but they do not seem to have been very common among native Greek populations in the Greek homeland.^'* It may be suggested, therefore, that these names were selected with the deliberate purpose of flagging familiarity with the high-brow traditions of Greek paideia, but also to give a local spin to this choice. Such names would have been particularly important to members of the Termessian elite, who used their mastery and internalisation of Greek paideia as a support for their social dominance.^^ It is not surprising then that Greek names appear with some frequency in the stemmata of the Termessian top families.But the social spread of Greek culture does not seem to have been limited to the elite: not all the individuals who show their allegiance to Greek literary high culture can be traced to elite families. This goes to show that Greek cultural identity was indeed relevant to a relatively large section of the population.

Onomastic Romanisation

However, ‘being Greek’ was not the only thing that mattered to the Termessians. Termessians were Roman too, and I should like to know how this affected their identity. There are no Latin inscriptions in Termessos, and it is not likely that Latin was commonly spoken, although we may assume that individuals with a Roman (military) career would have had knowledge of the language.^7 Leading Termessians often appear to have been Roman citizens, but Roman citizenship was also spread among the rest of the pop­ ulation as well. As in other parts of the empire, civitas romana also implied the adoption of Roman onomastic habits. Termessians with Roman citi­ zenship were of course entitled to sport the tria nomina. This would be more or less expected — if not obligatory — on public monuments.^® It ^3 Robert {1989) 23 n. IO. We find these names hardly represented in the web-indices of the LGPN. E.g. Schmitz (1997). various arucles in Borg (2004). Platon (20) and Perikles (10) arc particularly common among the elite femilcs, whose stemmata Heberdey has constructed: TAM 3.1: Appendix 5. E.g. TAMy.v. 52. Holtheide (1983).

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has been suggested chat the use of Roman names on funerary inscriptions was used to stipulate tomb ownership or other arrangements that were protected by Roman law, and this served likewise as a deliberate marker of Roman status.^ If this is so, these tomb owners flagged their Roman identity in two ways. The use of Roman names in the eastern provinces has received some treatment. A recent study by Solin briefly lists a number Latin cognom­ ina. that were used in Athens, central Greece and Lydia and compared these with similar lists drawn up by Kajanto for Rome, but as this study represents an early stage of a research project, no major conclusions can be drawn.7® The onomastic material from Greece has been collected by A. Rizakis and his team at the Centre for Greek and Roman Antiquity at the Greek National Research Foundation, but this rich material is only now beginning to be explored.^’ The subject has been broached for western Asia Minor by Holtheide from the perspective of the expan­ sion of Roman citizenship.^^ He emphasises that in the first three centuries Roman citizenship was increasingly important for the provincial, and, with a slight delay, for the local elites as well. Before the Constitiutio Antoniniana the spread among the lower classes would have been much slower and was limited mainly to soldiers and successful athletes, both of whom can be seen as agents of Romanisation.^^ Only towards the end of the second century can we see numbers of citizens rising steeply, until of course the Constitutio Antoniniana established the same legal situation for all the free male inhabitants of the Roman empire. As most of our inscriptions date from the end of the second and the beginning of third centuries CE, the issue of legal privilege would be less important. In this chapter I am less interested, however, in the legal implications of Roman names, and more in the way that they were used to convey Roman identity. How did the non-native Latin-speaking inhabitants of Termessos use Roman names to flag cultural adoption of Romanitasi Among the Roman names in Termessos, Aurelii abound of course, but a number of Tiberii Claudii, certainly among the elite families, indicates that Roman onomastic habits were adopted as early as the first century CE.^^ However, onomastic Romanisation did not necessarily imply that Roman citizens Cf. Meyer (1950). Soiin (lOOl). E.g. Rizakis (199S); Rizakis and Zoumbaki (2001); Rizakis ec aJ. (2004). Holtheide (1983). Holtheide (1983) 132. For a discussion of athletes and performers as the agents of a globalising Roman imperial culture, see van Nijf (2006). Stemmata D, H and M were headed by Tiberii Claudii. TAM 3.1: Appendix 5.

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had to give up their own cultural traditions or even their own name. Greek names (or other local names) were routinely integrated into the tria nomina. Most Termessians with Roman citizenship had in fact a Greek cognomen, but Roman cognomina are not trailing far behind, and we also find cognomina with a more local character. All Roman names may be seen as an aspect of the personal identification of a subject (or of his or her parents) with the Roman empire, but some onomastic practices must have been intended as a more deliberate marker of personal ‘Romanisation’ than others, for instance when the referent was particularly closely identified with the Roman centre. In this category we may place names such as j^rippa, Victoria, Italicus, Caetolinus, Corbulo, Quietus, Varus, Seneca and Faustina. In many cases we find names of Roman origin that had been adapted to the Greek onomastic system.^’ This suggests that Roman onomastic practices went beyond the simple adoption of Roman names to comply with Roman legal requirements. Being Roman was for many simply a part of life, but in many cases we may even seem to be dealing with a strong desire to flag Roman identity. ’Ethnic’names

The final category that we should investigate is that of the local names. Termessos had a long Pisidian history, and its local language, Solymian, which was a Pisidian dialect, had a long and strong tradition. It should not come as a surprise that there is a great number of local - epichoric names to be found in the Termessian material, even though some names were adjusted to Greek inflection.^^ Among them we find Armasta and Armaos (cf. Hermaios), Bekkobais, Gamodis, BCakasbos, Kendeas. Kinnounis, Mamotasis, Masas, Moles (cf. Molianos), Morsis, Motosourgis, Nannelis, Oa (cf. daughter of Platon), Oples (cf. gen. Oplounos), Otanis (cf. Otanianos), Piaterabis, and Trokondas. The normal expectation of the process whereby subject nations of the Roman empire accommodated their naming patterns to imperial ono­ mastic habits is that vernacular speakers would first have adopted Roman names alongside their native names and then gradually dropped their old names. As John Adams has remarked: ‘it may be assumed that chang­ ing names went hand in hand with changing languages’.77 Another, at first ” TAM 3.1: 339 Index 2. The classic survey of local onomastic traditions in Asia Minor is Zgusta (1964). A brief survey in Neumann (1992). Adams (2003) ^90.

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sight reasonable, assumption would be chat class was a determinant of the pace of this onomastic/linguistic change. The higher classes - the order of local councillors — would on this model be the first to be Romanised, and also the first to shed their local names. The other classes would only gradually follow suit and be the last to adopt ‘foreign’ names.^® The Termessian data suggest, however, that the picture may be more complex chan this. Owing to the chronological concentration of the epi­ graphic material it is difficult to get a sense of the development over time, but it is obvious that by the turn of the second and third centuries ethnic names had by no measure died out. So, despite a fairly complete political Romanisation of the community (by 212 all male in habitants would have been Roman citizens) and a gradual - but by all accounts strong - cultural Hellenisation, its local onomastic traditions still retained currency even at this late stage. The class approach does not apply either, since the bearers of these names were not limited to the lower classes. As we saw above, elite families were equally keen to advertise their local roots as well. Moreover, we have no idea at what rate Termessian names actually declined, or whether there had been any fluctuations or f^hions over time.

Supernomina

This picture is even further complicated by the fact that the different ono­ mastic traditions were mixed to a high degree. One striking manifestation of this is the frequent use of supernomina?^ The Termessian record shows indeed a wide variety, including a reference to a non-Termessian origin, as in the case of an Alexandreus, or to a past as a slave (Etoimos). Heberdey lists 97 supernomina, of which more chan half (50) are clearly Greek, 15 are Roman, and 29 local.*® A small selection suffices to show the varied choice available to the Termessians and the effects that were achieved.*' • Tip(ep{a) KA(au5fa) KiAAri f| xai KaTrsTcoAeiva (268) • Map(Kos) Aup(fiAios) AptEHCOV 6 Kai'Ep(naTos) (60) • TpCnaTos) ’OpsCTTou 6 KarOApios (139) • Ma:(pKOs) Au(pfiAios) ’O-rrAecriavos 6 Kai Apxiysvris (171) • TpoKovbas e'ATTfious 6 kg! ApicToveiKos (188) • A0p(r]Aio5) 'EpnaTos Ap(Teinov) 6 kqi TiAAopopos (441)

Holtheide (1983). TAM5.1; 341, Index 3. TAM3.1: 341, Index 3. In what follows, unparalleled names are not accentuated.

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• AOp(TiXios) KopKQivas Ap(Teinov) AouKpioovos 6 xal rpsTiros (561662) • TJiyepAcovis 6 kqi KacTOop A-TrsAA[o]0 (722) • AupriAia NeiKr|9opiavri MopuavSa -q kqi HAaTcovis (623) • -Oa Mo(Aeou$) ^'toukci Faiov (670) Supemomina are usually explained as the result of the incompatibility of Roman and Greek naming systems, allowing Romanised individuals to keep using non-Roman names, that were added to the tria nomina by the use of expressions such as qui et, or in Greek variations of 6 xai. Alter­ native expressions include ETtiAeyopevos (called besides), whereas irpoXpqpaTi^cov may indicate a previous name. But the supemomen could also be employed to accommodate other additions to the traditional naming pattern such as ethnics, nicknames or signa^^ It is fair to say that interest in these naming patterns has been dominated by a cognitive and philo­ logical approach to this linguistic phenomenon: what is the meaning of a particular name? And what does its occurrence tell us about linguistic developments?^^ But if we shift our perspective to ‘a context in which meaning is socially constructed by the use of language(s) within a specific culture, multiple names for individuals make a difference’.^** Michael Aceto, whom I quote here, has studied the phenomenon of multiple names within the context of the English-language creoles in Hispanophone areas of the Caribbean. As in Termessos, these creoles employ multiple names for individuals. In addition to their official Spanish name they often sport an ethnic name’ that is used locally for reference and address and that ‘defines who members of this community are in terms of culture and ancestry’. The ethnic name represents, therefore, an active cultural choice — not a necessity, and certainly not a leftover from previous fashions. Leaving aside obvious differences between these societies, the concept of ‘ethnic name’ may be useful in Termessos too. By using these ethnic names for themselves and for their children along­ side Greek and Roman names, the Termessians behaved like onomastic code-switchers, who could use different names for the same person in response to different social and cultural contexts. Individuals had the choice to emphasise distinct elements of their identity in different circumstances. Someone who may be known simply as Trokondas in one situation, was Kajanco (1967). E.g. Lassfere (1988), but see Colvin (2004), who presents a fascinating study of the Lycian material. Aceto (2002).

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known elsewhere as Aurelius Klaros Trokondas/^ and an Aurelia Artemis was also known as Mauenna, the daughter of Dioteimos Maximus?*^ This element of choice is brought to the fore even more ifwe consider the effect of these naming patterns on the representation of femilies. There is a surprisingly high degree of intra-family variation. Local names and Greek names could alternate: even families that presented themselves as strong philhellenes resorted from time to time to local names. A Plato could name his daughter Oa,^^ Socrates his son Opion, but his grandson was called Platon;^^ Corbulo could be the son of a Tryphon, and he was married to Pytheas.^^ A Homeros called his son Hermaos, which is a name with Luwian roots, and the family stuck with this name for some generations.^® Sapron’s son was called Aurelius Zotikos and his wife Kalemera alias Primigenia; they called their daughter Aurelia Agoraste. Sapron’s first wife, also in the same tomb, was called Anna but was also known as Orestiane, and there was also a foster child called Doris — the Dorian girl.^* A man called Hermaios, the son of Trokondas, alias Kousion, was the freedman of a Thoantianos, the son of Hermaios and grandson ofArteimos. His wife was called Nannelis, but she was also known as Aspasia. They shared a tomb with a woman Gailla, who was the daughter of Marcus Aurelios Euporos.^^ Such examples could easily be multiplied. It is quite obvious that Termessian families had a wide choice, which they seem to have exploited to the full. Naming was clearly not a passive reflection of a pre-existing linguistic and cultural identity, but rather an active factor in the construction - and representation - of personal and family identity in Roman Termessos. Termessians were able to dip into a diverse onomastic pool allowing them to emphasise their femiliarity with Greek paideia, their loyalty to Rome, or their strong local roots, just as the situation demanded. ‘Ethnic names’ were deliberately used in addition to Greek and Roman names, to gloss any preconceived ideas about their cultural identity by referring to an alternative cultural affiliation, but it is not possible to state that these names were actually preferred by their users. Whatever their linguistic identity, onomastically the Termessians behave like code-switchers. Individuals and families were apparently able to accom­ modate different cultural traditions easily in their onomastic system. Ono­ mastic patterns in Termessos had their own dynamics, which shaped as much as they followed the cultural transformation in this mountain site. 73471/3.1:903. 89 7'^3.1:557.

TAM 3.1: 309. 9° 7’^3.1:446.

TAM 3.1; 778. 9' L4M3.i:5O9.

TAMi.v. 184. 7^3.1:467.

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Becoming Roman - staying Termessian

Cultural identity in Roman Termessos appears to have been a complex issue. The onomastic evidence for Termessos suggests that nobody needed to.be pinned down to one single cultural tradition. This clearly shows, I think, that in Termessos identities were multiple and in a constant state of flux. Every Termessian could present himself as a composite of cultural affiliations and attachments, and although there may have been a cenain hierarchy among the elements that made up individual identities, that hier­ archy was not immutable, and it could change with time and context. Their cultural identity was manifold and could not really be compartmentalised. My final question is how we should rate the significance of the cultural phenomenon that we have just observed. Termessians were Greek, as well as Roman, and Pisidian to boot, and this defies any easy attempt at cate­ gorising them. It is tempting to explain away this blend of attributes as a local peculiarity of a remote and backward mountain town. It is important, therefore to emphasise that multiple identities, and indeed a strong fasci­ nation with their own past may not have been unique to the Termessians. Throughout the Roman empire we find in the course of the first three centuries ce evidence for an increasing interest in the local past. Although anti-Roman feelings may occasionally have played a part, it is striking that throughout the Mediterranean global’ and local themes were more often mixed to produce a new blend of a provincial Roman society.^’ Cemeteries were among the prime locations where such negotiations between the local and the imperial were acted out. David Mattingly has recently shown in a study on family tombs in north African Ghirza how Roman iconography and style were appropriated to serve an indigenous agenda.’** Egyptian mummy portraits represent members of the local elites as Roman citizens, or Greek athletes, while adhering to a marked Egyptian style. And tomb types and other funerary practices in Roman Lycia main­ tained the funerary styles of the Lycians of the fourth century bce.’^ It is an TTie most dramatic example of tension between Roman and local identities is of course the Jewish revolt. It should not be forgotten, however, that in the diaspora Jews were often more or less fully integrated in local society. On the relationship between Jews and Romans, one should now consult the masterly analysis in Goodman (2007). In Termessos one Jewish woman is known: she was called Artemeis, which was a name that referred to both the Greek and the Pisidian cultural spheres. Her father was called M. Aurelios Kees, son of Hermans II. Again a mixture of Greek, Roman and local traditions (TMAfj.i: 448). D. J. Maningly (2003). My observations here are based more on a personal impression of the material, and a cursory look at some studies, chan on systematic research. To address this issue in any depth would require

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irony of ancient globalisation under the aegis of Rome that an obvious ori­ entation towards the imperial centre also appears to have fostered a growing interest in the local?^ It may be suggested that the most striking example of this empire-wide cultural trend was the Second Sophistic, which seems to have turned Greeks - and would-be Greeks - into nostalgic classicists. It has been common to explain this fashion solely as the result of the inter­ action of strong Greek cultural tradition with the then realities of Roman domination, but perhaps this was just the most vociferous example of a trend that we can observe throughout the empire of provincials returning to really ‘local’ cultural roots in order to create for themselves a place in the imperid present. At any rate, the situation in Termessos may have been less exotic than it seemed: on the contrary Termessians were sharing in what we might call an empire-wide ‘age of nostalgia’. CONCLUSION

I have looked at the cemeteries of Termessos as a source of local knowledge and I have tried to explore some of the ways that identity politics were played out in this remote city, high up in the Pisidian mountains. I have identified a few key issues around which the Termessians constructed their identities. Status or distinction was a common theme, and I have argued that the funerary display helped to underwrite the social hierarchy of the community, but I have also argued that the emphasis was different from in the city centre. Wealth and social networks were much more in evidence than the individual’s place within formal political hierarchies. Termessian identity was closely bound up with femily identity, certainly for the members of elite families whose status depended, among other things, on their success in conveying an image of themselves as standing in a long family tradition. A peculiar feature of the Termessian epigraphy, an obsession for what I have called genealogical bookkeeping, visible both on the epitaphs and on honorific inscriptions of the city centre, can also be explained against the background of political oligarchisation and social hierarchisation which were features of civic life throughout the Roman empire. Finally, I have argued that the Termessians were able to identify the context of an interdisciplinary research project. Until then, see for a discussion of the Lycian materia] Hulden (1006), esp. 216-17, and for the Egyptian material, Riggs (2002). For a diflerent and inspirational discussion of Roman ways of reclaiming the past for the present, see the work of Susan Alcock, and esp. Alcock (2002). Globalisation tends to be used in the economic sphere, but it can also be applied to the cultural field. This has been convincingly argued by Chris Bayly in his study of what he calls ‘archaic globalisation’, Bayly (2002). I have adopted this concept (as 'ancient globalisation’) in van Nijf (2006).

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themselves in various and complex ways as belonging co different cultural traditions. We cannot ask them, but I suspect that they would not have been able to answer unequivocally what their overarching identity was: Roman, Greek or Anatolian? But they might not have cared: as they were Tcrmessians, they were all of these things at the same time, and many other things besides.’^ 5’ It is relevant to quote in this context Amin Malouf, a French writer of Christian Lebanese extraction: ‘Depuis que J'ai quitt^ le Liban pour m’installer en France, que de fbis m’a-t-on demands, avec les mciilcurcs intentions du monde, si je me sentais “plutdt fran^ais” ou “plutdc libanais”. Je rdponds invariablement: “L’un et I’autre!” Non par quelque souci d’^quilibre ou d’6quit6, mais parce qu’en rdpondant diff6remment, je mentirais. Ce qui fait que je suis moi-mSme et pas un autre, c'est que je suis ainsi la lisi&re de deux pays, de deux ou trois langues, de plusieurs traditions culturelies. C’est cela mon identity...' Malouf (1998) (‘Since I left Lebanon to live in France, I have been asked so many times, with the best intentions in the world, if I felt “more French” or “more Lebanese”. I always reply “Both!” Not out of some concern for balance or equity, but because it would be a lie to reply otherwise. What makes me myself and not someone dse is the fact that I am on the margin between two countries, two or three languages, and several cultural traditions. That’s what my identity is ... ’).

CHAPTER 9

Afterword: the local and the global in the Graeco-Roman east Greg Woolf

SPECIES OF LOCALISM

Physical geography provides an obvious starting point. At the centre of the ancient world, the Mediterranean both connected and divided hundreds of islands and coastal plans. This simultaneous fragmentation and intercon­ nection has recently been taken to be characteristic of the region.’ If so, and it is a claim few have challenged, it is not unique to this part of the world. Authorities on Asia Minor, including both of those who contribute to this volume, have tended to see a similar localism in the landlocked interior, one long ago revealed by the epigraphic researches of Louis Robert. A similar picture might be easily painted for the Roman west. Consider for example the names and images of the hundreds of deities worshipped in, and only in, tiny communities strung along the Adantic coast, or high up in Alpine and Pyrenean valleys or simply located far from the civic network in rural Britain or Gaul. It would be easy to extend and elaborate this picture. The string of caravan cities in Syria and Mesopotamia comes to mind, or the densely packed valleys of the Nile and Rhdne, the Maeander and the Orontes, or even the oases of north Africa. Every region was marked by fierce local particularities. The ancient world was characterised by a demo­ graphic lumpiness; it formed a human archipelago, a discontinuous sprawl of urban clusters, and all this extended far beyond the imperial frontiers. How could this social and cultural world not have been intensely local? There are at least two kinds of localism under consideration here. The first is the local variation that comes from relative isolation, localism that is like that of the Galapagos Islands, on which parallel but distinct pro­ cesses of speciation took place. So too in antiquity, when severe constraints were imposed on communications by ancient technology, especially when combined with mountain ridges and other barriers. Most local systems ' Horden and Purcell (2000).

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were economically self-sufficient, a great deal of production was local, and canons of taste were in most periods and most media formed locally. This isolation was only relative, and it persisted alongside a certain amount of mobility. This mobility is easier to characterise than to measure.^ It ^so waxed and waned over the year with the closing and opening of the sailing season. The Mediterranean was like a giant lung that filled with storms every autumn, cutting off coastal settlements from their distant mother cities and trading partners, until the seas opened again in spring. For first-generation colonists - Greek, Phoenicians, Romans and others the annual closing of the seas must have been terrifying, even if for later generations it perhaps simply became one of the rhythms of life. But it must have accentuated the importance of local regimes, helping perhaps to explain the prevalence of an ideology of autarky even in a world as closely interconnected as the Greek diaspora. The effects in the continental hinterlands of the Mediterranean were perhaps less marked. But even under Rome there were few metalled roads. Rain in Europe and snows in the uplands of Europe and Anatolia must have obstructed transport in similar ways. Advances in harbour technology, improvements in shipping and road building perhaps ameliorated these effects a little, but essentially this kind of localism was a constant until modern times. There were longer-term rhythms too. It is very striking that in terms of material culture sudden periods of unification are followed again and again by the emergence of more local forms. Prehistorians distinguish the fairly uniform culture of the first Neolithic colonists of Europe - known as Linearbandkeramik {LBK} after its most characteristic artefact type — from the more localised material cultures of the later Neolithic. More Hmiliar is the observation that the late republican period saw the sudden generalisa­ tion of Italian red-gloss wares, followed by centuries of increasingly local production. The same thing happened with wall-painting and mosaic, with the emergence of local forms ofvarious grave monuments. Conquest, crisis, Christianisation, all provided episodes of unusual coherence. But as their effects died away, fragmentation of different kinds reasserted itself. This kind of localism is the default. The second kind of localism considered in this volume is that generated not by isolation, but by connection. It is more purposive, in the sense that it is formed consciously. It was formed too in relation to external points of reference, whether those are seen as analogous but different - the polis For a thoughtful exploration of the theme based mainly on literary sources see Matthews (1989) ^9~49- There have also been attempts to document this epigraphically c.g. Wierschowski (2001).

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next door - or global, such as the Homeric epics or Roman taxation. This localism is not unlike the little traditions of peasantries, each shaped with reference to the Great Tradition.^ It includes a consciousness of its place in a wider whole. Communities in frequent touch with each other, it is often claimed, become increasingly aware of their difference, as well as their similarity. Different mechanisms have been suggested for this effect. Is volume of traffic alone the key, or is an element of competition needed as well as interaction? The proposition that increasing connections across a wide area may induce, in local communities, a greater sense of their place within the whole has been central to recent discussions about the cultural nature of globalisation. A recursive movement is sometimes envisaged in which local groups appropriate items from the globalised resource, insert them in local contexts and give them local significances, while globalised interests appro­ priate selected local items and give them a global currency. The operation of appropriation and adaptation in each direction is said to prevent glob­ alisation from resulting in homogenisation. Arguably formulations of this kind obscure the power asymmetries that operate in the modern world system. An earlier generation of sociologists was more preoccupied by the processes through which commercial and other transactions between the first and third worlds resulted in the ‘development of underdevelopment’.'^ Classicists and archaeologists are more familiar with the notion that it is antagonism between neighbours, or even competition for scarce resources, that did the most to sharpen a sense of difference.The two dynamics are not mutually exclusive. At all events, a good deal of cultural work clearly went into developing formulations that expressed the ‘difference yet connectedness’ of distinct communities. This included diplomacy, the development of cultic connections and the creation of festivals and memo­ rials, as well as intellectual activity such as the production of geography, mythography, ethnography and local and universal histories. By and large, the localisms examined in this book are of this kind — localisms that arise, or acquire their content, in relation to wider ’ Redfield (1956). * The phrase is that ofAndr^Gunder Frank, who popularised it before the publication ofhis influential Frank (1967). On the application of world-systems analysis to the ancient world see Woolf (1990). For globalisation theory deployed in relation to the Roman empire see Hingley (2005), Sweetman (1007), Hitchner (2008). ’ For the emphasis of the dichotomy Greek/barbarian in the context of the Persian Wars and subsequent rivalry between Athens and Sparta see E. Hall (1989). It is now a truism of ancient history chat the rise of the polis is seen as entailing a rise of phthonos, of agonistic tension or peer-polity interaction between neighbouring cities. For the emergence of ethnic contradistinction in conditions of conflict the classic study is Barth (1969).

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contexts - although some of the particularity of Termessus may perhaps owe more to the Galapagos model. Archaeologists often worry about the cultural significance of localised style.^ Should a particular cup form, used in place of a more widely available alternative, be understood as merely the default reassertion of local taste in a fragmented world? If it resembles pre-Roman wares might it betray some form of resistance? Or a hybridity, formed in the encounter between local and global traditions? Epigraphy and numismatics offer less ambiguous local forms, as the Cretan and Termessian case studies in this volume show. By far our clearest evidence for the local, however, comes from literary texts. This collection exemplifies this through comparison of Thucydidean and Herodotean usages of epikhorios, through discussions of the local in Pausanias, Strabo, Josephus and, behind them all, Homer. Perhaps it is worth pausing, however, to think on the implication of the observation that ‘the local’ appears most clearly in Greek literature. Our ancient ‘local’, in the terminology of globalisation theory, consists largely of global appropriations of local productions. We read Pau­ sanias’ version of the cult of Artemis Laphria, not the versions he read or was told or just possibly observed ‘in the field’. And we see it through the prism of a set of Greek literary conventions that are in some sense already in place in the Homeric archetypes. This is a very different version of local culture from that which ancient historians still sometimes attempt to recover from texts in non-corpus languages.^ Given that we see the local mostly through the literary global, it is not surprising that most manifestations of it are expressions of ‘difference yet connectedness’, nor that myth is so prominent. Myth making, along with its connections with archaic colonisation, has been the subject of much recent discussion.^ Those processes continued during the extension across the Mediterranean world of a series of overlapping diasporas, actual and fictive. By actual, I mean the physical dispersal of individual Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Jews, Syrians and so many others into colonies, gar­ risons, entrepots and other enclaves. Their motivations and circumstances were various: traders, settlers, missionaries, soldiers and craftsmen exploited the new opportunities for travel as political boundaries were removed and

Thoughtful discussions in D. Mattingly (1997); Elsner (2001a); Webster (2001); AJcock (2002); Le Roux (2004). Notable successes in that approach have depended heavily on epigraphy. See Brown (1968); Millar (1968), (1971). (1993a). ’ For example Dougherty (1993); Malkin (1998); Gehrke (2005).

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the economy became ever more complex. Some movements were not vol­ untary. Tribes were relocated, and armies deployed far from home by Persian, Macedonian and Roman empires, to say nothing of the great dias­ poras created by the ancient slave trades.’ This fundamentally diaspprir nature of ancient society was closely linked both to the growth of cities, where most enclaves were located, and to the expansion of imperial states of different kinds. By fictive, I mean the accumulating mass of genealogical connections made between cities and peoples between whom we have no real reason to believe there was much real migration or close biological connection.’® The historian’s distinction between actual and fictive presumably mattered less on the ground, and some of these diasporas recruited from the communi­ ties in which they were based. At the end of the last millennium bce we can observe proselytes being attracted into the synagogues of Asia Minor, former slaves of members of the Roman diaspora overseas being manumirted, and Italians overseas being enfranchised following a war fought and lost by their relatives back home. Meanwhile Spaniards, Gauls and Africans discovered (as earlier generations of Italians had already done) that they were the descendants of Greek heroes and Trojan refugees." The net effect will have been an enhanced sense of local particularity, and more reasons to determine, collectively, of what that identity consisted. Almost all these local myths, too, we see only in the transmuted forms in which they were incorporated into universal histories, geographies and Pausanias’ Periegesis. Only the rare epigraphic prescription for a festival offers a sense of how traditions were made real in the communities themselves, rather than to distant readers.’^ Yet if the processions and pageants were real enough and really involved a wider cirde of the population, they are accessible to us only at second hand. Monumental epigraphy was arguably just another medium for the self-representational strategies of benefactors and other civic notables. If their readerships, real and intended, were not limited to the civic elite, they were a smaller circle than those who participated in and watched the spectacles. It is important that we remember this literary and elite nature of extant expressions of the local when we borrow concepts and terminology from other disciplines, especially from anthropology but also from the history of ’ On rhe latter component, Scheidel (2005). Jones (1999). ” On the Italians overseas, see now Purcell (2005); on the fir west, Bickermann (1952) and Erskine (2001); on Italian traditions, Wiseman (1974), (1983) and Dench (1995), (2005). I hope to return to this subject. " Rogers ^991).

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Other places and periods. The local was for one generation of anthropolo­ gists a benchmark of authenticity, a sign that a community was uncontam­ inated by modernity and development and might still preserve traces of pristine myth, ritual and custom. Local communities were worlds within which participant observation might play to its strengths, and also alien worlds from which local knowledge might be brought back to the global community of academic consumers.'^ Anthropologists today have reacted strongly against this idealisation of the small-scale, stressing the location of the local in wider systems, and the polemical and strategic nature of claims to and formulations of localism.^ Historians, especially those influenced by the Annales school, also found in microethnographies of the very local, an alternative to grand narrative and to a history based on kings and battles. This localism too offered a kind of authenticity.’^ By and large, the localism studied by classicists, including most of the contributors to this volume, is not like that of anthropologists, nor that of annaliste historians. It is, on the contrary, yet another aspect of the history of elite culture. The voices we hear - local exegetai ventriloquised by Pausanias, or Egyptian priests speaking through Herodotus, Hecataeus or Diodorus - still come from the educated classes, the literate and sometimes the powerful. It is still possible to differentiate of course. The epitaphs of Termessus provide a case in point, giving voice to a wider circle than the greatest euergetists who monumentalised the city centre, yet a group smaller than the citizen body as a whole. Not all projections of local identity emanated from the pinnacle of ancient societies. Yet the fact remains that our local knowledge is not really very like that transmitted by Geertz or even Clifford. Equally our localities - Crete, Paphlagonia, even Termessus are much larger entities than those our colleagues in other disciplines have studied. The dominant institution for the management of memory seems to us to have been the city.’'^ If smaller entities had their own knowledge or tradition, they are lost to us for ever. IDENTITIES, MICRO- AND MACRO-

Many of the studies gathered in this volume are concerned with the rela­ tionship between identities construed at different scales. As local is to global, we might suppose, so microidentities such as Cretan or Termessian Geertz (1983) is already an essay in the defence of the value of ethnographic research to the wider community. Clifford and Marcus (1986); Clifford (1999). ” Ladurie (1975); W Davies (1978). (1988). On which most recently Clarke (1008).

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are to larger entitities such as Greek. Naturally there are other relationships between identities at play, including the overt claims to biculturalism made by Herodes (or by Lucian or Favorinus, for that matter). But the interplay between different scales of identification is an important theme. At every level, however, identity seems to be construed in roughly the same way, that is relationally. The smallest microidentity is, presumably, the self. The singularity of the self does not, however, mean that it can be examined in isolation. Nor can the self, or any larger identity discernible in antiquity, be described mainly in terms of what it comprises, of its essentialist qualities. For practical purposes, even selves are almost always described, or per­ formed, in relation to some external points of reference. This is even truer of the microidentities under consideration here. Locality, as the studies gathered here richly illustrate, offered one such point of reference. The macroidentities that this volume does not set out to discuss are those familiar if amorphous entities, Greeks and Romans. All the same, several chapters did return us to these bigger entities and macroidentities, even if only to assert that they seemed to matter less or be asserted less often (not quite the same thing) than identities cast at a smaller scale. At first sight, this volume offers some reaction against, perhaps even a corrective to, earlier collections.’^ On reflection, however, things seem more com­ plicated. Termessians might well have been flummoxed if asked whether they were Roman, Greek or Anatolian, but only because such a question would pose an unreal choice and speaks to an essentialist notion of iden­ tity. One may have an identity without asserting it explicitly. Many ways of being Roman were arguably implicit in behaviour and lifestyle; Romanness might be a matter of lived experience, rather than part of a consciously held and oft-repeated credo.’® Equally, Greekness need not be explicitly asserted to be evident.’^ In practice, those categories mattered more at some levels than others. In the diasporic world of Roman antiquity indi­ viduals will often have been more usefully identified by city of origin Paul of Tarsus, Polemo of Smyrna - than by the language they employed or the citizenship(s) they possessed. Even in fifth-century Attica an indi­ viduals identity was expanded in terms of patronymic, descent group and demotic before it was in terms of the citizenship that flowed from all of those. The performative nature of identity means context is all. That emerged clearly from the discussion of onomastics in Termessus, and also from the exploration of the various kinds of external frames of reference For example, Goldhill (2001). For an exploration of Romanness in these terms see now D. Mattingly (2004); Revell (1009). A central argument of Whitmarsh (2001a).

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that the inhabitants of Paphlagonia chose, on different occasions. ‘Greek’ and ‘Roman’ are described variously as essential categories of thought for intellectuals and administrators, and as operative categories. This sense that they were labels available for use is a valuable one, whether we are thinking of code-switchers or of the elaborate performance of biculturalism engineered and re-engineered by Herodes Atticus, to suit his changing political and marital circumstances. Biculturalism emerges here not as a simple matter of conjuncture, a hybrid value determined by Herodes’ and Regilla’s positioning relative to intersecting cultural spheres. Instead we are observing customised microidentities, fashioned in part in relation to those publicly available macroidentities, if also in relation to other roles such as the persona of the bereaved husband, or the youthful bride of a Greek mil­ lionaire. The elaboration of the cults of Anemis/Diana in Roman Greece offer at a different scale another performance of this kind. Biculturalism was not the norm - if it had been, Herodes would hardly have worked so hard to claim it. More commonly, microidentities might be thought of as nested within macroidentities. Ancient ethnographic writing was well aware of the notions of a continuum of stacked identities, indeed stacking was a recognised taxonomic tactic. Tacitus figured his Germani as just one variety of barbarian; they included the Suebi, themselves repre­ sented as some sort of super-tribe, which in turn included nested within in it groups such as the Semnones, who were themselves divided into one hundred pa^?-° That sort of cultural mapping was a commonplace of ancient ethnography. The motives for relating different peoples or cities in this way were various. But this was not merely a taxonomic device. Those who shared one’s macroidentity were often the first audience for the production of microidentities. So coinage became an appropriate medium for RomanoCretan cities to assert their particularity, because of their membership of a world of Greek cities that used them for the same purpose.^’ Conversely their membership of that world was asserted by their participation in com­ mon modes of identity production. Paphlagonians too, or rather the various cities and peoples and dynasts within that category, made identities with reference to large wholes: the world of Homer, the Ionian diaspora, the web woven between cities by distant myth and recent history and of course Greeks and barbarians. On this model, communal identities were elabo­ rated as they accumulated successive layers of accretion over the course of classical antiquity. Each history was unique but also constructed in relation Tac. Germ. 39.

“ S. R. F. Price (2005).

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1^7

to those of other communities. No wonder that when the authors of com­ pendious works of ethnographic or historical synthesis examined a region they found it easy to map out the connections between its components. It is difficult for us now to reconstruct in detail the processes through which local exegetai had recourse to global accounts in order to generate their local versions - what Heracles did here, where Apollo and Artemis were really born and so on - while the authors of universalising accounts drew on the fruits of these fresh researches. It seems overwhelmingly likely, however, that just as local and universal history emerged nearly simultaneously,“ so micro- and macroidentities too developed in close relation one to the other. Locality offered one point of reference for the formation of micro­ identities, but there were alternatives. Almost every one of the studies gathered together here has also discussed identities formed not in relation to particular places, but to particular ancestries. The persistence of identity formation of this kind is all the more strik­ ing when we consider the enormous resources spent in this period in monumentalising the cities of the region. Not all monuments and not all festivals spoke equally directly to the past. But whether we observe this activity through Pausanias’ commentary, or through the depictions of local myths on coinage and monuments, or through the figures celebrated in civic festivals, it is difficult to escape a sense that one key preoccupation of the euergetistical classes was the inscribing of Greek myth on provincial landscapes.^’ No doubt the motivations were different from one area to another. We should not expect the identity politics surrounding the memorialisation of the Persian Wars in mainland Greece to be the same as those involved in the creation of the Telephos reliefs of the Altar of Pergamum, or in the creation of Apolline sanctuaries in Lycia. Yet these shared media, monumental and festal, presuppose widely held views about myth, place and identity.’' * At least some of these ideas had a currency even beyond the region considered in this volume. The ideas of memory theatres and places of memory were developed first to examine ways in which Euro­ pean nationhood has been rooted in particular objects, routines and locales from the eighteenth century onwards. These ideas have been more widely On this see Fornara (1983), supporting Jacoby's relative chronology of the origins of the two genres, broadly endorsed by Clarke (2008). On the numismatic aspects, Howgego et al. (2005). On festival culture, Wfirrle (1988) and Rogers (1991). It is very striking how the festivals established by Demosthenes at Oenoanda and Salutaris at Ephesus differ in the emphasis they give to the past. On Pausanias and memory see Alcock et al. (2001). For a subtle exploration of these ideas see S. R. F. Price (2008).

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j

f

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applied since, including ro the ancient world?' There may be a need at some point soon to decide how these concepts should be adapted for use in such different terrain. Yet archaeologists have argued something similar in relation to temples at least for some time.^*^ The monumentality of the early empire might well be regarded in a similar light, not as a project in state or nation building, but as a deliberate putting down of roots in order to stabilise identities in a world that might otherwise seem destabilised by mobility of various sorts.^’’ All the more striking then, that so many microidentities were formed in relation not to an existing place, but to a genealogically constructed ancestry. The contributors to this volume together elaborate a variety of ways in which this might be done, through founding figures, actual historical figures, through myths of migration and the epic journeys of culture heroes. Genealogy might be constructed at several levels, as the examples of Paphlagonia and Thera both show. It might be constructed on many scales too. Genealogy was as important as literary culture for Herodes. Arguably, a microidentity based on kinship nested more easily within macroidentities such as Greek and Ionian (or Suebian and Semnonian) than did identities based on place. It is tempting to wonder whether, for all the apparent fixity of thepolls, rooted into the soil by its sanctuaries since the archaic period, descent was still the primary mode of identification. Or have we once again mistaken elite ideology for the concerns of communities? The mythographers moved easily from the ancestry of noble individuals to the ancestry of entire peoples. Perhaps the aristocracies of Romano-Greek cities were themselves unusually prone to imagine that birth counted for more than residence or even citizenship? TOWARDS A HISTORY OF LOCAL IDENTITY

How much of all this was new, and how much was specific to the Roman and Hellenistic world? Localism of one kind of another, I have argued, is a given in the condi­ tions of classical antiquity. But if Galapagos-style localism is a constant, the same cannot be presumed for those localisms shaped by connections over wider differences. If there is to be a history of localism, it will be found in those shifting currents of connection and incorporation. Put otherwise, Nora (1984-91). Applications to antiquity include Alcock (2002), Stein-Holkeskamp and Hdlkeskamp (2006). De Polignac (1984): Alcock and Osborne (1994). For an argument along these lines applied to a different kind of monumentality see Woolf (1996a).

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it will be the opposite side of the coin to histories of globalisation and the like. The difficulty we face, then, is in deciding which of the potential shifting macroidentities mattered most. For there were several competing Great Traditions to which any local identity might be aligned. The Roman empire offered one frame, Greek intellectual culture another, and for some groups there were barbarian histories too, which would be joined by universalising religions. They overlapped but did not coincide in space, nor were their rises and falls perfectly synchronous. Subtle politicians might discover which cards were best played in the complex diplomacy through which some kinds of communal identity were played. Intellectuals were freer to select their frame of reference. Our task is to determine which of

these global or macrostructures had the most impact on rhe formation of local identities. One position, powerfully advanced here, is that Roman rule, or governmentality, was a powerful driver of change. Empire divided, particularised and differentiated its subjects; each community acquired at least some of its identity from its part within a wider whole. All this is easy to document for the west, where Strabo and modern scholars alike see Rome presiding over a transformation of local societies. Such local traditions and monumental places as emerged were mosdy new. Collective memory preserved little or nothing of the pre-Roman past.^^ Eastern regions were more complex for Strabo than they are for us. His account of ancient Greek lands plays Homer and antiquity in counterpoint to the coming of the Romans. The Greek memorialisers of the Roman period emphasised continuities with the deep past. Did the Paphlagonians deliberately obscure the transformation of Roman rule, or was it less of a brutal transformation in the wake of earlier hegemonies? Some continuities — diplomatic are discussed here in detail — are seen clearly. Roman sources suggest, however, at the very least a willingness to gather information and use it to remodel all and any part of their empire. The Roman caesura is less evident in some contributions than in others. For some communities the process of identity building seems to have been a long one, one that may easily be traced back before the Hellenistic world at least to the fourth century bce. The proposition that local identity must have changed in content between the fifth and later centuries, as the wider koinon itself changed, is a compelling one. Most studies in this volume concern local knowledge created by Greek intellectuals. Homer, if a For brief discussion, Woolf (1996b). The most sophisticated account of ethnogenesis in the west is now Roymans (2004)

1 » | j i

t | ' 1 ;j

. I

I

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constant reference point, was not really concerned with this cultural work. But as soon as history, ethnography and other prose genres began to emerge, so too did a sense of the local and the universal. Local knowledge grows then with the expansion of Greek intellectual activity, with the expansion of Hellenistic states and with the arrival of Roman governmentality. Locally, knowledge grew as more and more material - mythographic, historical, political — came to be available. Local histories grew like snowballs rolling down a hill. Each new systematiser and collator found more of the past, and his researches would provide yet more material for future generations or local erudits. How like globalisation is all this? The superficial similarities are certainly there. But there is little sign that the snowballs stopped rolling once the empire had stopped expanding, nor are there obvious connections with changing levels of long-distance interaction or connectivity. Exploring the fate of local knowledge in late antiquity and beyond would be another project. Local knowledge did survive a startlingly long time in some areas, but on the whole it appears from this collection to be an aspect of the urban elite culture of the Greek-writing parts of the empire. Perhaps the most vivid impression made by this collection as a whole is how integral these local understandings were to the global culture of that empire, and how deeply interconnected macro- and microidentities were.

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