Mediterranean Rivers in Global Perspective 3506786369, 9783506786364

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Mediterranean Rivers in Global Perspective

Mittelmeerstudien Herausgegeben von Martin Baumeister, Mihran Dabag, Nikolas Jaspert und Achim Lichtenberger Advisory Board Gil Gambash, Peregrine Horden, Markus Koller, Silvia Marzagalli, Rolf Petri, Avinoam Shalem

band 19

Johannes C. Bernhardt, Markus Koller, Achim Lichtenberger (Eds.)

Mediterranean Rivers in Global Perspective

Ferdinand Schöningh

Titelillustration: Ausschnitt aus dem Segment 9 der Tabula Peutingeriana mit Darstellung des Nildeltas; Reproduktion nach der Faksimile-Ausgabe von Konrad Miller, 1887/1888.

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Dieses Werk sowie einzelne Teile desselben sind urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen Fällen ist ohne vorherige schriftliche Zustimmung des Verlags nicht zulässig. © 2019 Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, ein Imprint der Brill-Gruppe (Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, Niederlande; Brill USA Inc., Boston MA, USA; Brill Asia Pte Ltd, Singapore; Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn, Deutschland) Internet: www.schoeningh.de Einbandgestaltung: Evelyn Ziegler, München Herstellung: Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn ISBN 978-3-506-78636-4 (hardback) isbn 978-3-657-78636-7 (e-book)

Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii .

Johannes C. Bernhardt, Markus Koller, Achim Lichtenberger Mediterranean Rivers in Global Perspective. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

River Histories Jacques Rossiaud Some Observations on the World of the Mariners of the Rhône (Around 1300–1550) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Terje Tvedt Rivers of History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Nicola Brauch Didactics in Flux from a Mediterranean Perspective. The Nile’s Potential for Upper Secondary History Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Mediterranean Rivers Simon Hoffmann Carian Catchments. Considering the Geographical and Historical Significance of River Valleys . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Achim Lichtenberger „Was man hier nicht sieht, zählt nicht zu dem, was existiert hat oder existiert.“ Der Tiber auf römischen Karten . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Volker Scior ‘River-Communities’? The Nile and Its Riparians in Medieval Travel Accounts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Francesco Vallerani Inland Waterways as Modern Landscapes in Northeast Italy: Recovering a Cultural Heritage for Sustainable Governance. . . . . . . . . . . . . 179

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Global Perspective Sabine Huy Rivers as Routes of Connectivity? The Case of the Don from the late 7th to the early 3rd century BC. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 Victor Ostapchuk The Zaporozhian Cossacks and the Dnipro River Refugium. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273 Christopher Morris The American River? The Mississippi River in Global Historical Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303 Indices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323 Rivers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323 Topography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324 Persons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 328

Preface This collection of papers is the result of a conference at the Center for Mediterranean Studies at Ruhr-Universität Bochum that took place March 3rd to 4th 2016. The Center for Mediterranean Studies was funded by the Federal Ministry of Education and Research (BMBF) whom we also thank for financial support of the conference. It was the aim of the conference to discuss “Mediterranean Rivers in a Global Perspective” and to relate the thriving field of Mediterranean Studies to river studies and global history approaches. We would like to thank all speakers and discussants who contributed to the success of the conference. During the conference, we received much support from Eleni Markakidou, Fabian Brinkmann and Timo Grenz who assisted in organizing the event. Furthermore, we would like to express our thanks to the people who helped in publishing this volume, namely Carina Sprenger, Münster, for editorial assistance and Karen Finney-Kellerhoff, Bochum, for language editing. Johannes C. Bernhardt (Karlsruhe), Markus Koller (Bochum) and Achim Lichtenberger (Münster), July 2018.

Johannes C.  Bernhardt, Markus Koller, Achim Lichtenberger

Mediterranean Rivers in Global Perspective I was born by the river in a little tent Oh and just like the river I’ve been running ever since It’s been a long, a long time coming But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will Sam Cooke, A Change Is Gonna Come (1964)

1 Introduction Rivers are complex phenomena. On the one hand they can be described as geographical and physical phenomena, distinguished from other waters such as lakes, seas, and oceans, and defined by their respective watersheds; from this perspective a large number of flowing waters can be subsumed as rivers, ranging from small or only periodically water-bearing creeks to large streams. In geographical studies numerous classifications have been developed that differentiate rivers by their age, size and hydrology, by the complexity of main and tributary rivers or by river bed characteristics; geographical classifications are also available for the catchment sizes of rivers, which define small catchments of creeks of 10–100 km2 up to large streams of 10 000 km2.1 Analytically and heuristically such classifications are, of course, quite useful and essential to understanding a specific geographical situation or to identifying analogies and differences between river basins. But rivers are always historically grown phenomena, since river basins have often changed dramatically in the course of their geological history, and especially through human interventions such as artificial draining, straightening, diversion or the building of dams.2 Today hardly any river can be found in a so-called natural state, particularly since traditional distinctions between nature and culture are increasingly losing their explanatory power.3 Above all, human perceptions of rivers and their *  Sections I and II have been written by Bernhardt; III by Bernhardt and Lichtenberger; IV by Koller; V by Bernhardt, Koller and Lichtenberger. 1  European Water Framework Directive 2000/60/EG. 2  See, e.g., Wohl et al. 2007. 3  From an anthropological perspective Descola 2013, who opens his seminal book with the words: “It was in the lower reaches of the Kapawi, a silt-laden river in upper Amazonia, that I began to question how selfevident the notion of nature is.”

© Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, 2019 | doi:10.30965/9783657786367_002

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catchments vary considerably over time and space, so a priori there can be no precise definition of rivers beyond the very general formulation of flowing waters.4 Under these conditions, rivers are particularly conducive to historical approaches, and the relations between rivers and humans become research objects of prime importance. As sources of fresh water and food, as transport routes, and as suppliers of energy, rivers have been important hotspots of human community formation from antiquity to the present day; it hardly needs to be pointed out that most historically grown cities have developed in symbiosis with rivers. At the same time, due to the difficult controllability of water and dangers like floods, rivers have a much more tangible and potent agency than mountains or deserts, and issues of resilience take priority in the relationship between rivers and humans.5 Given their vital importance to human life, rivers have also been points of reference and projections of human ideas. One may think of the many metaphors for life and death, the biblical rivers of paradise, the Greek notion of Okeanos as a river flowing around the known world, the many sacred rivers like the Ganges, or the fundamental significance of the Danube for the Habsburg Empire. Thus, at the interface between geographical conditions, existential symbiosis and the projection of human ideas rivers unfold specific histories that can be aptly characterized by paradoxical notions such as “liquid history”, “flowing spaces” or “fluid pasts”.6 How deeply rivers are entrenched in the cultural memory of human societies and how differently they could be seen can be exemplified by a colloquialized term like rivalry. While today probably very few would associate this term with rivers, the Latin term rivalis originally described people sharing a river; in a metaphorical sense rivalis and rivalitas then could also be used for rivalry and jealousy in love affairs.7 This metaphorical meaning has been preserved in most Latin-influenced languages, but since the early modern period the semantics of the term has broadened and acquired the predominant meaning of competition. This meaning of the term first appeared in the 16th and 17th centuries in Italian, French and English, entered the German language in the 18th century, and in the 19th century became a well-established concept for the competition between emerging nation states.8 In the wake of these changing 4  Middleton 2012, XV–XVIII does not even try to define a river. 5  Edgeworth 2014; Lichtenberger et al. 2018. 6  On “l’histoire liquide” and “liquid histories” Rossiaud 2007, 12; Middleton 2012, 47–69; on “fliessende Räume” Rau 2010; Wolf et al. 2017; on “fluid pasts” Edgeworth 2011. 7  See the entry in the Oxford Latin Dictionary. 8  See the entries and rich evidence in Grande Dizionario Italiana, Trésor de la Langue Française, the Oxford English Dictionary and Deutsches Fremdwörterbuch begun by Schulz. The term

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semantics it is hardly surprising that the 19th century also developed ideas of rivers as symbols of national character and as natural borders. In this respect, one may think of the disputes between the Germans and French over the absorption of the Rhine and its conception as a natural border between the two nations, or the notorious struggles over the border defined by the rivers Oder and Neisse.9 Nevertheless, in light of the development of new transport options such as railways and new energy sources such as coal, the late 19th and the 20th centuries witnessed a general decline in the importance of rivers; only since the 1980s and under completely changed circumstances has there been growing public interest in waterways.10 On the one hand, this has certainly to do with a greater awareness of the ever dwindling resource of fresh water and of environmental problems in general;11 the vision of future water wars, for example, is taken up again and again in current debates,12 while for almost every river there are local or regional initiatives for its protection or reintegration into urban landscapes; also the number of large-scale exhibitions about the cultural history and importance of rivers is steadily growing.13 On the other hand, since the fall of the Iron Curtain, debates about globalization, and the declining significance of the nation state, rivers have gained in importance as spatial connectors and as points of reference in new spatial orders.14 Guido Hausmann, for example, recalls the succinct case of the Schengen Agreement that was signed aboard a ship on the Mosel. In this way one of the fundamental agreements for creating the European Union as a space free of borders was symbolically signed at the intersection of France, Luxembourg and Germany, redefining the Mosel as a truly European river.15   is also registered in “Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe” to denote the competition between nation states and is used in “Enzyklopädie der Neuzeit” as a fixed expression for competition between nation states in colonial contexts. A systematic appraisal of the term “rivalry” in the wake of Koselleck’s concept of “Grundbegriffe” would be a worthwhile undertaking and can, of course, only be hinted at here. 9   On Rhine and Oder, for example, Febvre 2006; Rada 2009 and Halicka 2016 as well as the remarks in the next section. 10  Rossiaud 2016. 11  Choukr-Allah et al. 2012. 12  See, for example, Soffer 1999 and Zereini et al. 2004. 13  For initiatives to protect rivers, e.g., [Accessed 15.03.2018]; for the debate on the vision of water wars, e.g, Rahaman 2012. 14  Rada 2012. 15  Hausmann 2012. There are still influential discourses which consider rivers as dividing lines between political entities or even “cultures” rather than as connecting waterways. On the debate about phantom borders see von Hirschhausen et al. 2015.

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Against this background, at the Centre for Mediterranean Studies in Bochum there have been discussions for some time now as to whether the conceptualization of the Mediterranean can be enriched by a systematic perspective on related river basins and further developed in the direction of a “fluvial Mediterranean”. A conference in 2016 served as a starting point to discuss the historiography of rivers, their significance for the Mediterranean and possible inspirations from a global perspective with experts in the respective fields. It goes without saying that the papers presented at the conference and included in this volume cannot provide a systematic study of the fluvial Mediterranean; since there was a conscious decision against restricting guidelines or any overarching concept, the papers are written from very different perspectives and are to be taken as exemplary case studies. Therefore, this introduction is aimed primarily at clearing some paths through the rich landscape of relevant research and contextualizing the essays. It is structured in accordance with the three sections of the volume: the conceptualization of river histories (2), the Mediterranean and its rivers (3), and inspirations from a global perspective (4); it concludes with a few remarks on further directions and possible consequences for a systematic study of the fluvial Mediterranean (5). 2 River Histories For a long time, rivers have not been the focus of historiographical attention. True, the emerging modern humanities of the 19th century and the geographical school of Carl Ritter had considered the historical dimensions of geography and developed far-reaching models on rivers.16 In a systematic perspective and inspired by Hegel’s ideas about historical progress, Ernst Kapp proposed in his 1845 work “Allgemeine Erdkunde in wissenschaftlicher Darstellung” a geographically grounded distinction between potamic, thalassic and oceanic cultures, which he organized in a progressive sequence from the Mesopotamian river cultures, the cultures of the Greeks and Romans centred around the Mediterranean to the Germanic cultures dominating the oceans and therefore the world.17 Friedrich Ratzel who, in his two-volume study “Anthropogeographie” of 1882/1891 and his work “Politische Geographie” of 1897 surely superseded this very narrow and Eurocentric model, took the human influence on geographical conditions much more into account and 16  See, e.g., Ritter 1822, 516–822 and his still noteworthy and in fact monographic reflections on the Nile. 17  Kapp 1868.

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developed the concept of the geographically determined Lebensraum that was easy to apply to studies of rivers such as the Rhine.18 However, because this German theorizing on the relationship between geography, history, and culture more or less consistently tended towards physical determinism, and was later taken up by theorists of Geopolitik such as Carl Schmitt and ideologically absorbed by National Socialist slogans such as “Blut und Boden” or “Volk ohne Raum”, it had no lasting impact on debates about the relationship between geography and history.19 Especially in Germany debates in the post-war period focused more on the social and structural reorientation of history, so that the problem of geography, the category of space and the subject of rivers receded into the background.20 However, an alternative and in many respects a trend-setting development can be observed in France.21 In the first place, this has to do with a different development of scientific geography, which is inextricably linked with the name of Paul Vidal de la Blanche (1845–1918). Originally Vidal de la Blanche had begun his career as an ancient historian and had thus come from history to geography. Accordingly, he conceptualized the relationship between history and geography entirely from the perspective of humans who actively shape and adapt geographical milieus.22 Due to his teaching in Paris the approach of Vidal de la Blanche was very influential, and among many others Lucien Febvre and Marc Bloch became acquainted with him and his reorientation of geography. When Febvre and Bloch in the 1920s – then both teaching at the University of Strasbourg – embarked on their epoch-making project of a new economic and social history and in 1929 created a platform in the famous journal Annales d’histoire économique et sociale, the integration of geography in their conception of history played a crucial role. Febvre, in particular, had already considered the significance of geography and rivers for the historical formation of regions in his thèse de doctorat on the Franche-Comté in the 16th century.23 In 1922 he went a step further and presented his ground-breaking essay on the relationship between geography and history, in which he summed 18  Ratzel 1882/1891; Ratzel 1897. 19  See, for example, the adaptation of Kapp in Schmitt 1942, 23–28; on Geopolitik and the absorption by the National Socialists Böhme 1988, 32; Ulf 2008, 52–53; Rau 2017, 32–33. On the Mediterranean in such concepts cf. Lichtenberger 2015. 20  Cf. the critical remarks of Hausmann 2009, 12–13, but also the reflections of Goßens 2011 on the German roots of the so-called spatial turn. 21  The following remarks cover some of the same ground as Rau 2017, 39–51, but focus on rivers instead of spaces in general. 22  See, for example, Massard-Guilbaud 2014. 23  See the first two chapters of Febvre 1912.

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up the approach of Vidal de la Blanche – in sharp contrast to Ratzel and his deterministic positions – as possibilism and identified the variable relationship between humans and geographic conditions as the actual subject of historical research.24 These historiographical debates also led to Febvre’s often neglected work on the Rhine. The background to this book was quite explosive: After the Great War, the Entente and especially French troops occupied the Rhineland due to its strategic importance for German industry. This fuelled the already mentioned disputes about the affiliation of the Rhine and its significance as a natural border.25 The so-called Bonn School, in particular, produced in the 1920s a veritable industry of geographic and folklore studies on the Rhine, which were largely committed to high scientific standards, but nevertheless could be exploited in political journalism and geopolitical argumentation; remarkable are, for example, the three jubilee volumes on Rhine navigation “Der Rhein. Sein Lebensraum, sein Schicksal”, that were published 1928–1931, picking up the terminology of Ratzel and arguing for the affiliation of the Rhine to Germany.26 Against this background, the director of the Société Général Alsacienne de Banque commissioned another jubilee volume on the Rhine to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the bank in 1931; after a somewhat entangled prehistory in the late 1920s, Febvre was finally commissioned to write the historical parts of this book and published it in 1931 together with the geographer Albert Demangeon.27 True to his historiographical principles Febvre’s analysis is a histoireproblème proper.28 He proceeds from the historical observation that the Rhine, from the earliest evidence of human occupation, was primarily used as a road and a route of transport; following earlier reflections on the historical problem of borders29 he problematizes the then current idea of the Rhine as a natural border between the races of Celts and Germans.30 He counters this idea with an in-depth historical examination of the Rhinelands, in which the river from the Roman Empire, the post-Roman “barbarians” to the church had been 24  The French original “La Terre et l’évolution humaine” appeared 1922 in Paris, citations here from the English translation Febvre 1925; on the distinction from Ratzel 17–25; on possibilism 181–188. 25  See on these controversies and the following remarks Schöttler 2006, 218–232. 26  Haushofer 1928–1931. 27  Febvre et al. 1931. 28  The French original “Le Rhin. Problèmes d’histoire et d’économie” appeared 1931 in Paris and was expanded in 1935; citations here from the German translation of this expanded version Febvre 2006. 29  Febvre 1928. 30  Febvre 2006, 15–42.

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the connecting artery of a historically evolving space and was linguistically, economically and culturally first and foremost an engine of exchange; in the “multicultural” cities and principalities of the Rhinelands these tendencies remained intact until the emerging nation states declared the Rhine to be a natural and racial border.31 When Febvre published an expanded version of his historical considerations in 1935 he rejected even more strongly of the concept that the Rhine belonged to either France or Germany – on the contrary, the artificial idea of a natural border cut through the Rhinelands as a historically grown space in its own right.32 Febvre’s book did not trigger a boom in historical river studies. True, in 1934 the geographer Roger Dion published his historically ambitious and meanwhile also classic thèse on the Loire which was written under the direction of Demangeon, essentially inspired by Bloch and reviewed extremely favourably by Febvre;33 there have also been numerous geographical studies on French regions that have taken the historical significance of rivers into account.34 In a broader sense, of course, Fernand Braudel’s masterpiece on the Mediterranean published in 1949 is also in this “tradition”, but it is marked by a quite different approach to the relationship between geography and history and will be looked at more closely in the next section.35 The fact that Febvre’s book on the Rhine did not spark off further river histories has certainly a lot to do with the very specific conditions of its origins and the reorientation of the second and third generations of the Annales towards social and structural issues, towards quantitative and statistical methods, and towards the culturalhistorical concept of mentalité.36 Still, there was some activity on the river front. The Rhine remained an important subject in the post-war era and was increasingly “rewritten” to become a European river.37 While the Marxist theorist Henri Lefebvre published his famous book “La production de l’espace” in 1974, further raising awareness of 31  Febvre 2006, 43–159. 32  Febvre 2006, 160–188. 33  Dion 1934, 317–562 is essentially a historical study of the levées of the Loire from the beginnings to the present and has been published again in Dion 1961 as an independent book; Dion 1934, 467 refers to the inspiration by Bloch 1931 on the historical formation of rural France. Febvre 1934 focussed mainly on this historical part of Dion’s study and wrote 472: “Livre tout brillant d’intelligence et de talent, un de ces rares œuvres dont la lecture se prolongue après coup en réflexions, voir en hésitations fécondes.” 34  See the remarks Rossiaud 2007, 14–15. 35  Braudel 1949. 36  On the development of the Annales e.g. Raphael 2003, 104–108; Burke 2004, 68–99. 37  Juillard 1968.

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the construction of spaces by social relations,38 and scientific geography conceded more and more that power was an important factor in the conditioning of descriptions of space,39 rivers continued to play an important role in historical debates about France: Braudel, for example, dealt extensively with the significance of the Rhone in the first volume of his posthumously published study “L’identité de la France”.40 In 1984 Bernard Lepetit analysed the different development of Northern and Southern France in the pre-industrial era by providing a statistical perspective on roads and waterways,41 and Isabelle Backouche in 2000 published her brilliant study “La Trace du fleuve. La Seine et Paris” focusing on the symbiotic relationship between city and river in the period 1750–1850.42 However, the most significant response to Febvre’s impulses only came in 2007 with the publication of Jacques Rossiaud’s book on the medieval Rhone, arguably one of the most ambitious studies on any river so far and a veritable histoire-totale.43 In this monumental study Rossiaud takes into account the ongoing debates of the Annales tradition and literally evaluates all available sources from the period of around 1300–1550. As early as 2002 he had published a historical lexicon on the Rhone that covers more or less every conceivable detail.44 Rossiaud’s starting point is not a politically explosive situation as in the case of Febvre, but the simple observation that the Rhone, after a major loss of importance in the second half of the 19th century, has returned to the focus of public interest since the 1980s.45 Against this background, he is much more flexible in conceding that the Rhone also had a spatially limiting dimension;46 but in accordance with Febvre, the study highlights first and foremost the unifying function of the river.47 After some explanations on the historical geography of the river, it becomes very clear that the trade in salt, wheat and wood was dependent on the river, naturally moved on both sides of the river and led to connections with other regions and the Mediterranean; the same applies to the development of settlements and the spread of 38  As is well known, Lefebvre 1974 distinguished the three dimensions of espace perçu, espace conçu and espace vécu; see on this differentiation the discussion Rau 2017, 47–50. 39  Claval 1977; Claval 1978; Raffestin 1980. See on the geographical debates Dell’Agnese 2008; Massard-Guilbaud 2014. 40  Braudel 1986. 41  Lepetit 1984. 42  Backouche 2000; Backouche 2009. 43  Rossiaud 2007. 44  Rossiaud 2002. 45  Rossiaud 2007, 13–18. 46  Rossiaud 2007, 93–100. 47  Rossiaud 2007, 100–115.

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languages, currencies and weight standards.48 Human appropriation of the river through the construction of specific ships, harbours and bridges was challenged by the changing conditions of the river, especially by the general climatic deterioration in the late Middle Ages.49 All this had social impacts and led to the formation of a specific river community, which, although marked by a clear hierarchy and internal conflicts, was nonetheless held together by riverrelated work and produced a common culture.50 Finally, the river takes centre stage in the human imaginaire, myths and festivals, in which it was both a symbol of death and a reference point in a sacred landscape and in the placement of the Rhone and its riparian community in the wider world.51 By adding layer on layer from historical geography and the economic use and appropriation of the river to the formation of a specific river community and to the human imaginaire, Rossiaud is able to show that between 1300 and 1550 the Rhone created a highly dynamic and by no means closed space, which was determined by the relationship between river and humans – in his own words a royaume du fleuve. No condensed and unavoidably abstract summary can do justice to the material richness of Rossiaud’s ground-breaking study.52 Therefore, this volume opens with his essay “Some Observations on the World of the Mariners of the Rhône” which demonstrates en miniature and as a kind of prolusion to this volume his approach to the relations between rivers and humans. The medieval term riveyrands simply meant all those people who lived at or earned their livelihood from the river; in Rossiaud’s happy choice of words they are for the river what the peasant is for the rural landscape. Extensive prosopographical studies have shown that the riveyrands came to a large extent from Savoy and in the period 1300–1550 numbered up to 30,000 people. Since the riveyrands lived mostly outside the villages and near the moorings, their lives were determined by close proximity; on the basis of available income they can be grouped into manual workers, boat owners, fishermen and boat operators, which is also reflected in their respective lifestyles and diets. Despite different languages and dialects, the riveyrands formed a sociolect and nicknames derived from their work with the river. Especially games of gambling tolerated outside the villages were a source of quarrel and conflict; but because of the rivalry between villages and principalities for jurisdictional authority, the 48  Rossiaud 2007, 36–115. 49  Rossiaud 2007, 120–224. 50  Rossiaud 2007, 228–333. 51  Rossiaud 2007, 338–466. 52  See further the much more detailed discussions Bethemont 2007; Rau 2010.

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riveyrands also developed their own conflict resolution practices and distinct social codes. Thus, Rossiaud’s observations highlight how the customs of the riveyrands were defined by the river and that they were by no means an isolated community but rather were closely integrated in the villages and rural societies. Of course, the growing interest in rivers since the 1980s also had an impact on historical research beyond France. Since Mediterranean rivers and global perspectives will be discussed in more detail below, some general remarks should suffice at this point. In Italy, for example, since the late 1960s there has been an intense debate about the foundations of geography and its relationship to history, which – comparable to the developments in France – received important impulses through Marxist theory and highlighted the factor of power in supposedly pure descriptions of geographical phenomena.53 Although no direct line of reception can be drawn in this respect, it is perhaps no coincidence that the Italian literary scholar and novelist Claudio Magris narrated his enchanting tour of the Danube in 1986 and used it as a starting point for broad literary and cultural-historical reflections.54 In the face of environmental problems Anglo-American research since the 1980s has developed the field of environmental history, focusing intensely on rivers and producing a large number of studies on the relationship between rivers and humans under headlines such as “hydraulic societies” or “organic machines”.55 In the emerging field of water history, Hartmut Böhme in 1988 suggested bringing back Kapp’s aforementioned distinctions of potamic, thalassic and oceanic cultures in order to develop analytical classifications for the different ways in which humans deal with water;56 indeed, human attempts at appropriation and control of water and rivers by building canals and dams as well as the social, political and cultural implications of such projects have become rapidly developing fields of

53  Gambi 1973; Quaini 1982; Quaini 2008. See on this debate the overview Dell’Agnese 2008, 440. 54  Magris 1986 and his own reflections on the origins and inspirations of his project Magris 1992. 55  The highly controversial concept of hydraulic society was introduced by Wittfogel 1957 to describe the rise of oriental despotism, determined by building water control projects; Worster 1985 used this concept to analyze the expansion of the US into the West in the 19th century. The metaphor of the organic machine was introduced by White in 1996 to describe the interplay between the Columbia river and its anthropogenic engineering. See on the debates in the US the introduction Mauch et al. 2008, 5–7, on the German context Bernhardt 2016 and on the Metaphor “organische Maschine” Möhring 2004. 56  Böhme 1988, 32.

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historical research.57 Finally, against the background of the many initiatives to reintegrate rivers into urban landscapes the field of urban history has developed a certain focus on rivers, studying their symbiotic and often problematic relationships to cities.58 Since the broad establishment of environmental history and general reorientations on the spatial and material dimensions of history, river histories are now an internationally accepted and no longer exotic genre.59 In this respect one may think of Peter Ackroyd’s bestselling “biography” of the Thames, which unfolds a narrative panorama of basically all economic, political and cultural relations between river and humans.60 Also David Blackbourn’s study on the significance of waterways in the emergence of modern Germany61 should be mentioned here as well as Christoph Bernhardt’s transnational studies on the Rhine.62 Guido Hausmann has written a systematic book on the Volga and its significance as a lieu de mémoire of Russian history63 and the journalist Uwe Rada several studies on particularly neuralgic rivers such as the Oder, Memel and Elbe.64 Finally, one may note Rachel Havrelock’s study on the Jordan that problematizes – indeed without quoting Febvre – the ambivalent conceptions of the river both as a separator and connector of humans in biblical literature.65 The flourishing of river studies is also provoking theoretical and methodological reflections. The archaeologist Matt Edgeworth has published a series of studies on the agency of rivers and their complex status as artefacts between nature and culture;66 against the background of recent debates about the anthropocene as a new geological age completely determined by humans, he even suggests that rivers be conceptualized as overdetermined “hyperobjects”, whose complexity and totality is not comprehensible at all.67 Since Hausmann’s study on the Volga a lot of studies have applied concepts of memory or Edward Soja’s

57  From a water perspective Tvedt et al. 2010; von Reden et al. 2015; Tvedt 2016; HuberRebenich et al. 2017. On the Canal du Midi Mukerji 2009; on the Suez Canal Huber 2013; on canals and dams in general Roe 2012. 58  Knoll et al. 2017. 59  On environmental history in general Knoll et al. 2007; McNeill et al. 2012; on the so-called spatial turn Bachmann-Medick 2014; on the material turn Gerritsen et al. 2014. 60  Ackroyd 2008. 61  Blackbourn 2006; Blackbourn 2008. 62  Bernhardt 2016. 63  Hausmann 2009. 64  On the Oder Rada 2009; on the Memel Rada 2010; on the Elbe Rada 2013. 65  Havrelock 2011. 66  Edgeworth 2011; 2014. 67  Edgeworth et al. 2017 building on Morton 2013.

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concept of the third space to rivers in literary and historical contexts.68 Finally, the Viennese school of social ecology has developed the particularly promising concept of the “socio-natural Schauplatz” that removes the old dichotomy between society and environment by applying the system-theoretical idea of co-evolution and has produced a multitude of studies on the interactions of the Danube and its riparians.69 One could expand this short overview. For the current train of thought it is sufficient that despite different emphases and enrichments through recent debates about environment, space and the material quality of history, Febvre’s basic ideas have won the day: There is now a broad consensus that rivers are worthwhile objects of historical investigation and that the relationship between rivers and humans creates historically variable configurations. Against this background, the global historian Terje Tvedt in his essay “Rivers of History” suggests an analytical framework for the empirical and comparative investigation of the relations between rivers and societies. He opens with some remarks that rivers like the Nile or the Rhine should be conceptualized as world rivers because of their global significance; the Nile, for example, was from antiquity and the enlightenment to the colonial “Nile Empire” of the British an African, Mediterranean and global river – a true melting pot of many different languages and religions. Abandoning both radical constructivism and positivism, Tvedt points out that an analytical approach to the relationship of rivers and societies “must both manage to grasp how the water that flows across and on the planet exists independently of the different cultural perceptions of it, but also accept, as a truism, that rivers are always being understood through cultural lenses, be they religious, engineering or political.” What he calls the “water-system approach” consists of three layers: 1. the physical characteristics and hydrocycles of rivers that are always in flux and changing; 2. anthropogenic changes that are conditioned by and at the same time impact on the physical characteristics of the river; and 3. human ideas about rivers and conceptualizations of river basins, varying in time and related to the first two layers in a complex interplay. Of course, these layers are analytical and in a historical perspective the relations between the three variables should be the subject of historical investigation, again in Tvedt’s own words: “Documenting and analyzing these clearly distinguishable but interconnected layers will make it possible to conduct rigorous comparative studies within an analytical framework that at the same time is flexible and rigid. Research should be thought of 68  Soja 1989; Soja 1996; Murphy et al. 2017. 69  Schmid 2009; Schmid et al. 2008; Schmid et al. 2010 and Knoll 2013. On the Viennese School of Social Ecology in general Haberl et al. 2017.

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as a tripartite exercise, studying the distinct layers and specifying the interactions between water, technology and ideas, and structure and agent.” Finally, in the third article “Didactics in Flux from a Mediterranean Perspective. The Nile’s Potential for Upper Secondary History Education” Nicola Brauch addresses the rarely approached problem of how to make river histories usable for teaching in schools. Since her theoretical reflections are based on the model of Tvedt, focusing on the example of the Nile in the Ptolemaic era and at the same time emphasizing the Mediterranean dimensions, the article can also be read as a kind of transition to the second section of this volume. 3 Mediterranean and Rivers Turning to research on the Mediterranean, the situation is in many ways similar to the previous section. After Ernst Kapp in 1845 had developed his geographically grounded theory of cultural stages and defined the thalassic cultures of the Greeks and Romans in the Mediterranean as the second stage, in the wake of Ratzel German discussions on the Mediterranean were increasingly focused on geopolitical speculations. Especially in the context of the 1930s and the Second World War many works appeared with titles such as “Weltentscheidung im Mittelmeer” or “Das Mittelmeer. Ein politischer Entscheidungsraum”;70 also very influential was Carl Schmitt’s “Land und Meer” published in 1942 which proposed the consequential thesis that the whole history of the world was determined by the struggle of land powers against naval powers,71 that England had triggered a veritable “Raumrevolution” by building its world-encompassing sea empire72 and that finally it had to give way to a new “Raumordnung” from the Industrial Revolution to the present; although this point remains implicit in the context of 1942 it is not hard to imagine what kind of “Raumordnung” was meant.73 Against this background one cannot emphasize enough the ideologically neutral and still recommendable study “Das Mittelmeergebiet” by the geographer Alfred Philippson, which appeared in 1904 and later in numerous reprints. Philippson considered the historical dimensions of the Mediterranean and proposed a rough typology of the river basins of the Mediterranean.74 70  E.g. Schopen 1937 and Hummel 1938; on this discourse see the excellent overview Schröder 2016, 393–399. 71  Schmitt 1942, 17. 72  Schmitt 1942, 51–57; on the subject of the “Raumrevolution” already Schmitt 1940. 73  Schmitt 1942, 90–99; on Schmitt’s spatial thinking in general Breuer 2012, 257–272. 74  Philippson 1922, 132–142.

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Nevertheless, the decisive impulses for Mediterranean Studies again came from French-speaking research.75 Of particular importance in this respect is Henri Pirenne, who after the First World War had joined Febvre and Bloch’s project of the Annales and thus became another founding father of the nouvelle histoire. While Philippson had already sketched out the impact of religions and the spread of Islam on the structuring of the Mediterranean,76 Pirenne presented first in his 1922 essay “Mahomet et Charlemagne” and then in his posthumously published book of 1937 under the same title his famous thesis that after the barbarian invasions of late antiquity and the fall of the Roman Empire the Mediterranean continued to form a unity in the early medieval period until the spread of Islam created a deep rift between the western and eastern Mediterranean.77 Pirenne’s thesis on the unity of the Mediterranean on the one hand and Febvre’s fundamental reflections on the relationship between geography and history on the other hand became deciding factors for Fernand Braudel to reorganize his thèse. What would become a historiographical masterpiece had its origins in Algeria in the 1920s and began in a more or less conventional form. After listening to the lectures of Pirenne in the early 1930s and becoming a pupil of Febvre in 1937, Braudel continued working on his ambitious project during the Second World War even as a German war prisoner in Mainz and became the actual founding father of Mediterranean Studies with the publication of the two volumes of “La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II” in 1949.78 Braudel’s book was the most influential study on the cultural history of the Mediterranean and it had a major impact on many disciplines of cultural and historical studies (also beyond the Mediterranean).79 Still famous and highly influential is his division of history into three temporal levels of (1) “histoire quasi immobile” or “géohistoire”, (2) “longue durée” and (3) “histoire événementielle” which offered new tools with which to study and organize human history within geographical units.80 Although Braudel was deeply influenced by Febvre’s thoughts on the relationship between geography and history, it should be noted that he originally intended to write a thèse about a purely geographical subject and that his conceptualization of the Mediterranean is in many ways a rollback from the possibilistic tradition of Vidal de la Blanche 75  For a broad and detailed perspective on the Mediterranean discourse see Eckl 2016. 76  Philippson 1922, 193–195. 77  Pirenne 1922; 1937. 78  Braudel 1949. 79  On the background of Braudel Paris 2002; Borutta 2016. 80  On Braudel’s model Piltz 2008; Geus 2015; Rau 2017, 43–47.

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and Febvre to much more deterministic positions.81 In particular, the first two levels of Braudel’s temporal model are focused on the impact of geography on history: The first level is quite stable and describes the features of geographical milieus such as climate, coastlines, islands, mountains or rivers, while the second level focuses on the impact these features have on the formation of cultures and economic developments in a long-term perspective. Only the third level is devoted to “conventional” subjects of history such as events, diplomacy or wars. Braudel devoted some pages of his monumental study to reflect on the significance of rivers and touches upon them in the context of the coastal plains in the Mediterranean but he hardly takes them into account as features that connect the Mediterranean with the hinterland or with neighbouring geographical entities.82 As already noted, it was only the late Braudel who reflected on the significance of the Rhone for the formation of French identity.83 Mediterranean Studies were boosted with the publication of the English translation of Braudel’s book in 1972.84 While Pirenne had proposed his famous thesis from the perspective of a medieval historian and Braudel had developed his model for the early modern period, Mediterranean studies had an especially strong impact on classical studies, since Greek and Roman history is focused on the Mediterranean anyway. In fact Braudel himself had written a study on the history of the Mediterranean in classical antiquity, but this rather slim volume was not published until many years after his death.85 However, for some scholars Braudel’s model of the Mediterranean was perceived as far too stable and deterministic; it was argued that the vast Mediterranean could not be seen as a unity with identical characteristics and no further regional differentiation.86 Such a new model was developed by the classicist Nicholas Purcell and the medieval historian Peregrine Horden in their ground-breaking study “The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History” published in 2000.87 This likewise monumental study conceptualizes the Mediterranean as a unity which is not homogenous but structured by countless micro-regions within a similar geographical setting. These micro-regions developed different specialisations and economic strategies but were interconnected by the specific connectivity of the sea and it is precisely this interplay of the micro-regions and 81  Braudel 1949 closed the first part of his work with the chapter “Géohisotire et dé­ter­ minisme”. 82  On the coastal plains Braudel I 1990, 81–119, on rivers as trade routes 403–406. 83  See note 40. 84  See for the impact of the English translation of Braudel’s book Shaw 2001. 85  Braudel 1998. 86  E.g. Horden et al. 2000, 36–39. 87  Horden et al. 2000; useful summaries Purcell 2003; Purcell 2014.

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the connectivity created by the sea that defines the Mediterranean and created similar cultures of shame and honour. True, some years later Purcell published an inspiring paper on the important role of rivers for the inner organization of the Roman Empire, but in the context of the new model of the Mediterranean, rivers continued to be mostly used for the description of individual economic phenomena and there is no further conceptualization of them as geographical entities or as factors creating specific forms of connectivity.88 The publication of “The Corrupting Sea” coincided propitiously with the general reorientation of historical studies on the spatial dimensions of history. Especially in the English-speaking world it sparked extensive discussions and provoked a whole raft of studies on the Mediterranean.89 Seth Schwartz, for example, used the discussion of Horden and Purcell about the Mediterranean cultures of shame and honour in 2010 to start an intense debate on whether the ancient Jews were a Mediterranean society or not.90 Irad Malkin in 2011 published a book entitled “A Small Greek World” that analyzes the emergence of a pan-Mediterranean Greek identity in the Archaic period using the connectivity approach of the Mediterranean and further developing it with theories of networks.91 Cyprian Broodbank deepened the discussion on the Mediterranean in 2013 by studying its prehistorical formation from the first humans to the time around 500 BC.92 Joe Manning published an extensive study in 2018 entitled “The Open Sea” that argues for a multitude of different economic systems in the ancient Mediterranean which at the same time became more and more interconnected in the context of the Roman empire.93 Also, the study of the medieval Mediterranean is flourishing; one has only to think of the many resumptions of Pirenne’s thesis on the formation of medieval Europe or Chris Wickham’s recent studies on the Mediterranean framing of early medieval Europe.94 The study of the Mediterranean in the early modern era has profited from Braudel’s impulses and has been further developed by historians like Molly Greene.95 Since there has been some debate about the decline of the Mediterranean in the period after 1800,96 this era benefitted immensely from 88  Purcell 2012. 89  Detailed discussions of “The Corrupting Sea” are in Harris 2005 and Malkin 2005. 90  Schwartz 2010; Weitzman 2012; Astren 2014. 91  Malkin 2011. 92  Broodbank 2013; useful summary Broodbank 2014. 93  Manning 2018. 94  On the resumption of Pirenne’s thesis, e.g., Sarton 1936; Gotein 1967–1988; Hodges et al. 1983; also Wickham 2005 and the overview Valérian 2014. 95  Greene 2000; 2010; useful summary 2014. 96  Tabak 2008.

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the introduction of area studies and the recent development of transnational approaches and models of entangled history.97 In these discussions on Mediterranean history, rivers play hardly any role, although other geographic phenomena such as “insularity” receive much attention.98 David Abulafia published in 2011 his ambitious “The Great Sea. A Human History of the Mediterranean” which is the first diachronic history of the Mediterranean from antiquity to the present and can be read as a kind of antithesis to Horden and Purcell.99 Abulafia strongly emphasizes the role of human agency in Mediterranean history and scarcely looks at the natural conditions and the environment of the Mediterranean; he explicitly restricts the Mediterranean to the sea and therefore in his study of the Mediterranean rivers are marginalized and hardly appear at all.100 So there is without question a lively discussion on conceptualizing and modelling the Mediterranean, but despite the obvious relevance of rivers for questions of connectivity and networks there has been little interest in them in recent research;101 indeed, from Braudel to Abulafia the tendency to consider rivers has declined.102 But this neglect in Mediterranean Studies does not, of course, mean that there are no important case studies on Mediterranean rivers which are worth discussing. In this respect one may call to mind the important work by Rossiaud on the Rhone or the study of Havrelock on the Jordan, already mentioned in the previous section, as well as many detailed or even diachronic studies on rivers like the Orontes in Syria, rivers in ancient Asia Minor or the archeological “Tiber Valley Project”.103 So the following discussion does not aim to give a complete overview of every study of a river in the Mediterranean, it is focused instead on research that provides some background for the papers of this volume. In 2011, Peter Thonemann published a study on the Maeander Valley, one of the major rivers in Western Asia Minor.104 This book is another important contribution to writing the biography of a river and covers the period from the 4th century BC to the 13th century CE, a truly Braudelian longue durée perspective. Thonemann’s approach is to understand the relationship between 97  See the overview Borutta et al. 2013 and Borutta 2016. 98  See most recently von Bendemann et al. 2016; Kouremenos 2018. 99  Abulafia 2011. 100  Abulafia 2011, XXIII–XXXI. 101  Overviews of Mediterranean Studies Dabag et al. 2014; Horden et al. 2014. 102  An interesting exception is Frisone 2012 whose work can be read as a complement to Malkin 2011. 103  Parayre 2016; Dan et al. 2018; Patterson 2004; Patterson et al. 2009. 104  Thonemann 2011.

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humans and the river as a reciprocal relationship, involving natural determinism and social construction as well as human agency. The longue durée approach is combined with thematic sections which focus very much on the regional level. Thonemann’s study is a very detailed and thorough regional study and, therefore, questions of larger interregional or Mediterranean interconnectedness are neglected. However, the Greek and Roman inscriptions in the Cayster River valley indicate that the Maeander river seems to have been closely connected with the Mediterranean area.105 Simon Hoffmann’s paper “Carian Catchments. Considering the Geographical and Historical Significance of River Valleys” elaborates on this. He shifts the perspective from the Maeander to the rivers of Caria and considers their role in fluvial connectivity particularly in terms of international trade flows. He also discusses the role of rivers in social constructions such as borders, buildings, memory cultures and religion. Hoffmann points to the fact that rivers in Caria did not play a crucial role in identity construction but that the diversity of their natural settings had an impact on the diversity of settlements along different stretches. He further stresses that it is important to study not only large Mediterranean rivers such as the Maeander, but also smaller rivers that often characterize Mediterranean micro-regions and are more suitable for identity construction because they are not claimed by several cities but often only by one or a small number. With this perspective, Hoffmann makes an important contribution to the typology of Mediterranean rivers and the recently increasing interest in exploring the rivers of Asia Minor beyond the Maeander.106 The Nile with a length of nearly 7,000 km and its enormous historical significance is the Queen of all Mediterranean rivers and, of course, mentioned in more or less every study with a reference to the Mediterranean. However, studies are usually focused only on single aspects of the river or mention it in passing as one aspect of larger historical questions. For many years the most systematic and diachronic history of the Nile was the three-volume “Mémoire sur l’histoire du Nil” by Umar Tusun published in 1925.107 Terje Tvedt not only mentions the Nile in his contribution to the present volume but is also the most prolific researcher on the Nile: After publishing an important study on the British “Nile Empire” in the 19th century,108 an edited volume on the postcolonial period,109 and a three-volume bibliography on every aspect of the 105  Ricl 2013. 106  Dan et al. 2018; note with a view to rivers also Dan 2015 on the Danube and Dan 2016 on the Phasis. 107  Tusun 1925. 108  Tvedt 2004. 109  Tvedt 2010.

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Nile110, his general history of the Nile from the beginnings of history to the present finally appeared in 2012; it was originally written in Norwegian and is now being translated into English.111 Furthermore, there is a continuous stream of studies which shed light on former blind spots: Terje Oestigaard’s history of the Nile and its significance in Ancient Egypt is written from the perspective of the water-system approach and building on that presents a diachronic study on the religious significance of the river through the ages.112 Sitta von Reden studied the much neglected history of the river in the Hellenistic period113, and John Cooper in 2014 published a comprehensive study “The Medieval Nile. Route, Navigation, and Landscape in Islamic Egypt” which also treats pre-Islamic sources.114 The medieval Nile is also the subject of Volker Scior’s article “RiverCommunities? – The Nile and its Riparians in Medieval Travel Accounts”. Scior focuses on three medieval travel accounts describing the river Nile and the human communities living at and with the river. On the one hand this is a case study on identity construction by river communities; on the other hand, it also has a Mediterranean and even global notion, since it discusses the reflections of foreign travellers to the Nile and thereby adds the perspective of social constructions from outsiders. All these studies of Mediterranean rivers are case studies, focusing on single rivers. Although they sometimes cover broad spans of time and many aspects related to the discussed river, they do not conceptualize rivers as defining characteristics of the Mediterranean. Brian Campbell’s 2012 study “Rivers and the Power of Ancient Rome” is an attempt to look at rivers from a broader perspective.115 His richly informative book covers a huge amount of evidence regarding the use of rivers and the perception of rivers by the Romans. He looks at economy and trade, military history, cartography, religion and many other aspects. Campbell argues that rivers were important features in the way Romans structured and acquired space, an aspect also discussed by Nicholas Purcell.116 Since Campbell treats the Roman Empire comprehensively, he also looks at extra-Mediterranean rivers such as the Thames, the Rhine and the Danube. His discussion, however, hardly covers aspects of connectivity or

110  Tvedt et al. 2008. 111  Tvedt 2012. 112  Oestigaard 2011; 2018. 113  von Reden 2015. 114  Cooper 2014. 115  Campbell 2012. 116  Purcell 2012.

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comparison and, therefore, it remains a study of the ideological dimension of rivers in Roman thought.117 Achim Lichtenberger’s essay „Was man hier nicht sieht, zählt nicht zu dem, was existiert hat oder existiert. Der Tiber auf römischen Karten“ follows up on the ideological dimension of the river Tiber in antiquity. This river connects the city of Rome with the Mediterranean and the larger world and in this way becomes a global river. Lichtenberger looks at depictions of the Tiber and he shows that not much effort was made to represent the river accurately. This can be seen in the Tabula Peutingeriana, a plan that goes back to a late antique road map of the known world, and in the Severan marble plan, the Forma Urbis from the early 3rd century CE, which is a map of the urban structures of ancient Rome. Although the Tiber is present in both plans, little effort was made to depict it because both plans followed a different logic of representation. This shows that although the Tiber played a crucial role in the supplying of Rome and providing connectivity with the larger world, little attempt was made in these monuments to visualize this importance. This does not diminish its significance, as can be seen, e.g., on the Forma Urbis where the study traces the close relationship between the city and the river, but the global dimension of the Tiber is the subject neither of the Forma Urbis nor of the Tabula Peutingeriana. 4 Global Perspective The overview of the recent historiography of Mediterranean rivers has shown so far that the majority of studies can be classified as case studies. At first glance this finding might be an argument for wondering whether adequate consideration has been given to approaches used in the field of global history. But global history itself is a concept which is controversially discussed. Sebastian Conrad defines global history as “[…] a form of historical analysis in which phenomena, events, and processes are placed in global contexts. There is disagreement, however, on how that result is best achieved.”118 The same author proposes three notions of what “global” might mean: global history as the history of everything; as the history of connections; and as history based on the concept of integration.119 These three notions do not differ much from the provocative argument of Christopher Bayly who submits that every local, 117  See now also the collection Franconi 2017. 118  Conrad 2016, 5. 119  Conrad 2016, 6.

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r­ egional or national history must be a global history.120 In other words, case studies are the indispensable prerequisite for writing global history. This argument implies that global history is made up of the sum of local or regional narratives which can be regarded as the main approach to writing global history. When it comes to placing these narratives in a global context historians use a great variety of methodological or theoretical approaches. By way of example, the editors of a recently published volume about the perspectives of area studies see the concept of glocality as a promising research approach121 that was introduced to historical research by Roland Robertson.122 He argues against the widespread tendency to regard locality as a form of opposition or resistance to the hegemonic global.123 In his opinion there is a metanarrative that we once lived or were distributed across a multitude of ontologically secure collective homes. This perspective suggests that globalization destroys our sense of home. In contrast to this world view Robertson makes the point that globalization involves the reconstruction of “home”, “community” and “local”. This dynamic implies the assumption that globalization simultaneously produces two complementary trends which can sometimes collide in concrete situations: homogenization and heterogenization. The mutual influence of these two processes and thus the entanglement of local and global is, according to Robertson, best described as glocalization.124 This concept might help to analyze the function of inland river ports. In his article on river ports in North India, Christopher Bayly describes them as economic centres closely linked to outside areas. The author refers specifically to the sea port city of Calcutta that maintained intricate relationships with the inland port cities across the North Indian plains.125 Simultaneously port cities like Calcutta were linked with other maritime centres on sea coasts across the globe and functioned as a hinge between the inland river ports and global economic structures. In this concept rivers appear as trade and communication channels which (dis)continuously connect the hinterland or the surroundings of sea port cities with global developments and structures. In other words, the local societies in and around inland river port cities came into contact with the outside world when they received goods or when people travelled between different places. 120  Bayly 2008, 14. 121  Mielke et al. 2017. 122  Robertson 1995. 123  Robertson 1995, 29. 124  Robertson 1995, 40. 125  Bayly 1995, 97–104.

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The connectivity of river ports is implicitly discussed by Ashin Das Gupta who emphasizes that the development at a certain port can only be researched in depth when one looks at the other maritime centres with which the port interacted. Ships formed the “bridge” between them.126 Certainly, ports also depend on their hinterlands which supply provisions to the port city or serve as markets for the products brought to the river or sea port.127 This function of river ports as links between local/regional and global markets has also been discussed in connection with the Lower, Romanian and Ottoman, Danube and north-western shores of the Black Sea. In the 19th century the port cities of Galaţi, Brăila, Sulina, Tulcea and Constanţa, which were accessible to seagoing vessels, grew because of their integration into the increasingly globalized European economy. Most of the studies have emphasized the role of Western states and entrepreneurs in this process, whereas the activities of the Ottoman authorities or local actors such as merchants were neglected. The recent article by Dimitrios G. Kontogeorgis explains that the interaction of these actors and their partially shared interests accelerated this integration.128 Against this backgound Francesco Vallerani’s paper “Inland Waterways as Modern Landscapes in Northeast Italy: Recovering a Cultural Heritage for Sustainable Governance” can be read as a kind of transition from the Mediterranean to the global perspective, since it underlines the importance of inland ports as hinges between sea ports and their hinterland. His article addresses the network of nautical relations that has existed since medieval times at the specific interface between the Veneto plain and the Venice lagoon. The waterways in this region played a crucial role for political entities and local communities up to the era of industrialization. In this context Vallerani refers to the inland navigation system that has always been of the utmost importance, especially in the early twentieth century. Most of the national waterways were located in the northeast regions, centred round the thriving inland harbours of Padua and Treviso, both well-connected to the commercial and industrial area of Venice. Furthermore, Vallerani shows the transformations of the water landscape when rivers and canals were modernized through various technical innovations. The first paper of the global section “Rivers as Routes of Connectivity? The Case of the Don from the late 7th to the early 3rd century BC” by Sabine Huy examines the river Don as a water system which connected the Aegean world with the Eurasian steppe zones north of the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov. 126  Das Gupta 1979. 127  Bhattacharya 2015. 128  Kontogeorgis 2016.

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Her article reminds us to refrain from prematurely defining rivers as routes of connectivity. She refers to the geomorphic features which make rivers partially impassable for ships. Besides, the case of the Don river makes us aware that supposed globally circulating objects cannot automatically be interpreted as signs of long-distance connectivity. For example, the Greek objects that arrived in the Don river delta were used for completely different purposes from those for which they were originally intended and seem to have been no longer ‘Greek’ but local. The global connection between the Aegean/Black Sea area and the steppe zones of Eurasia consisted of several sections all of which had an impact on the objects transported. Rivers played a key role in the expansion of the later Muscovite Empire to Siberia in the late 16th and 17th centuries. This process was initiated mainly by the Stroganoff family that traded in salt and furs. The search for furs had this merchant family look to the forests beyond the Ural. The Stroganoffs recruited Cossacks under the command of Yermak who conquered the fortress of Qhaslik (1582), the capital of the khanate of Sibir on the right bank of the Irtysh river at its confluence with the Sibirka river. This private initiative turned into a state policy when the emerging Muscovite Empire established its rule over the region by building a number of fortresses, many of them along rivers.129 Hunters, merchants, Cossacks and adventurers pushed further and further east via the Siberian river systems which can be described, at least in some cases, as settlement frontiers. John Richards discusses this term as a phenomenon of the early modern world, when “[…] in nearly every world region, technologically superior pioneer settlers invaded remote lands lightly occupied by shifting cultivators, hunter-gatherers, and pastoralists.”130 Every settler frontier depended on the active military, fiscal and political support of an aggrandizing state.131 This was the case in Siberia where the Muscovite state was able to extend its rule as far as the Jenissei river (1607) and the Lena river (1632). A large number of fortresses and other forms of settlement were erected on the river banks and served as a basis for the further advance into Siberia. However, rivers could also hinder empires or states from establishing their power over territories. Victor Ostapchuk’s paper “The Zaporozhian Cossacks and the Dnipro River Refugium” stresses that river areas could also serve as refugia. His article refers to the islands and channels in the Great Meadow, a landscape dominated by the waters of the Dnjepr and its tributaries. In the 16th and 17th centuries this waterworld was the refuge for the Cossacks who built up an identity and 129  Kappeler 2001, 38–39. 130  Richards 2003, 4. 131  Richards 2003, 6.

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the mental self-image of the Zaporozhians in which the Dnjepr refugium and the Dnjepr River in general played a defining role. Like the Don Cossacks, the Zaporozhians transformed the refugium into a militarized zone situated in the spheres of influence of Poland-Lithuania, Russia and the Ottoman Empire. However the Dnjepr was also an important waterway for trade between the Russian and Ottoman Empires. The global and regional connectivity of settlements along rivers or sea coasts has been a topic of research from very different points of view. By way of example, Wolfgang Reinhard refers to a form of “global connectivity” which results from the consequences of environmental pollution. In his book about the “global history of European expansion” the author describes rivers and coastal areas as places of postcolonial environmental problems when rivers are polluted with garbage and sewage. Plastic waste is not only disposed of by the local population in the river but is also washed ashore by the sea. Reinhard argues that the postcolonial global society endangers and destroys natural systems by establishing complex systematic processes for which nobody feels responsible.132 These pose a huge challenge for governments which have to (or should) develop strategies for environmental protection in order to improve the quality of life of the local societies affected by the pollution. One theme in the current environmental discourse is the idea that people treat their natural environment according to their religious beliefs and practices. This approach can contribute to either protecting the environment or to damaging it.133 Emma Tomalin distinguishes between “bio-divinity” and “religious environmentalism”. The term bio-divinity expresses an understanding of nature which regards the earth as significant beyond its use value to humans, because it is sacred. In contrast to “bio-divinity” “religious environmentalism” involves the conscious application of religious ideas to contemporary concerns about an environmental crisis.134 However, both concepts can be used when it comes to analyzing the meaning of rivers as “transcendental spaces” for religious communities and discussing the question of how government strategies of environmental protection can be linked with religious beliefs and traditions. Tomalin is one of several authors who raise the question whether “bio-divinity” really affects “religious environmentalism”. She refers to the river Ganges which is seen as sacred by Hindus. They worship the river as the goddess Ganga Ma. In terms of “bio-divinity” people bathe in the Ganges because they believe that the river renders them ritually pure by washing away their impurities. However, 132  Reinhard 2016, 1274–1275. 133  Tomalin 2004, 265. 134  Tomalin 2004, 266.

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the believers distinguish between the Ganges as a “transcendental space” represented by the goddess Ganga Ma and the river as part of the natural environment. There is a lack of awareness that the Ganges is “suffering” from material impurity through the enormous pollution of the river. Tomalin argues that “[…] the high regard with which people hold Ganga Ma tends to lead them to the conclusion that there is nothing they can do to harm or pollute it.”135 The idea of rivers as “transcendental spaces” sheds light on the function of rivers in the configuration of spaces and areas. A number of case studies give an idea of the crucial role which rivers can play in processes aimed at creating “trans-epochal spaces” or help to develop trans-epochal perspectives on actors, structures or knowledge. Chandra Mukerji focuses on the construction of the Canal du Midi in 17th century France and shows that, apart from other reasons, this project was carried out to strengthen the rule of the French king in the Languedoc and to present France as the new Rome. In the light of trans-epochal aspects, she stresses the controversially discussed argument that the Canal du Midi was a product of collective intelligence dependent on the local peasant population and craftsmen who had preserved the Roman knowledge of engineering principles. These specific skills were combined with the knowledge and technical abilities of contemporary experts who came mainly from other parts of France to work on the construction of this waterway connecting the Atlantic with the Mediterranean Sea.136 This project served as a tool to link the French kingdom with the heritage of the Roman Empire and to place the rule of the French king within a trans-epochal tradition. The final essay “The American River? The Mississippi River in Global Historical Perspective” by Christopher Morris sheds light on some of the discussed aspects. He begins with an episode in 1863 in the midst of the American Civil War, when the magazine Harper’s Monthly stylized the Mississippi as the decisive symbol of the indivisibility of the Union and the “American race”. Morris contrasts this reading of the Mississippi as the American river with four historical moments from the 18th century to the present, which place the river in a global context. When the French founded New Orleans in the 18th century, they thought of the river delta in the context of other colonial projects in Senegal, India and China and as the basis of a European society with African workers. In the 19th century, an intense debate took place among US engineers as to whether the Mississippi could be compared with other rivers such as the Po, Rhine or Ganges in order to gain clues for its flood control. In the 135  Tomalin 2004, 273. 136  Mukerji 2009.

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20th century, the production of rice and fish increasingly connected the river with other global markets such as China. Finally, since Hurricane Katrina in 2005, the Mississippi delta has been at the centre of discussions about climate change; cities like New Orleans are best compared with cities like Rotterdam and Venice or the Ganges-Brahmaputra delta in Bangladesh which are also theatened by rising sea levels. Morris concludes, that the Mississippi is still an American icon, but that the “best way to understand rivers – past, present, and future – is through global comparison.” 5 The Fluvial Mediterranean Finally, one can come back to the fluvial Mediterranean and consider a few possible directions for future research. As already mentioned, river studies inand outside of the Mediterranean have become a firmly established research subject and yield a lot of fascinating and fundamental results. In view of the complex status of rivers between nature and culture concepts like the “socionatural Schauplatz” or the “water-system-approach” provide powerful analytical instruments for systematically investigating the history of Mediterranean rivers and placing them in the context of a fluvial Mediterranean. Three further perspectives should be emphasized here: (1) A central problem of the Mediterranean as an analytical category is its definition. Many discussions still revolve around the concepts of Fernand Braudel who argues in terms of a geographic definition that, by way of example, the oil and vine bearing hinterlands should be seen as part of the Mediterranean. Since the work of Nicholas Purcell and Peregrine Horden, the Mediterranean has been defined by the specific form of connectivity of the sea, which has held together a multitude of micro-regions or economic systems; however, this definition, developed ‘from within’ so to speak, hardly allows a geographic demarcation of the Mediterranean from other major areas.137 It is perhaps no coincidence, therefore, that David Abulafia has returned to a strict definition of the Mediterranean that places the sea itself at the centre and understands the coasts as its defining borders. In order to develop these disparate approaches in a synthetic way, it would be a logical step to introduce a meso-level between macro and micro perspectives: Based on existing research on Mediterranean insularity, for example, the Mediterranean can analytically be 137  This was one of the main criticisms of the “Corrupting Sea”, discussed in detail by Purcell 2003.

Figure 1.1 River discharge of freshwater into the Mediterranean (Created by GRID-Arendal) http://www.grida.no/resources/ 5897 [Accessed 15.03.2018]

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dissolved into maritime, littoral, insular and fluvial Mediterraneans which then can be determined more precisely according to their different forms of connectivity.138 In this respect, the fluvial Mediterranean is of particular importance, since the unidirectional connectivity of rivers is fundamentally different from the sea and allows a diachronic as well as synchronic flexible determination of the respective depth of the Mediterranean into the hinterlands. (2) At the same time, the fluvial Mediterranean is particularly suitable for not falling back into the much-criticized thinking in closed containers of earlier area studies. Rivers can be used to determine the depth of the Mediterranean into the hinterlands, but they are also important for the transition to other areas. The focus on rivers might make it necessary for future studies to discuss the meaning and function of the Mediterranean hinterlands in more detail.139 The term itself is difficult to define precisely in geographical terms since Mediterranean rivers such as the Nile stretch deeply into continents and there seems to be no way of regarding Rwanda and Burundi, where the sources of the Nile are located, as part of the Mediterranean. However, empire and state building processes along this river make clear that, for example, inner-African developments have been linked to political, economic and cultural dynamics in the maritime Mediterranean. From the systematic perspective of a fluvial Mediterranean, one of the most important questions should be that of the function of rivers for structuring the hinterlands and the transition to other areas. Rivers can thus serve as research objects of prime importance for approaches of entangled or connected history and the recent trend to reconceptualize area studies as cross area studies.140 (3) If one takes the outlined ambivalence of rivers seriously, the historical study of rivers inclines towards being world history in itself.141 Ultimately, the Mediterranean as a historical category and in its different dimensions can only be defined in relation and comparison to other major areas.142 And this applies not only from an analytical perspective, but also from 138  On Mediterranean insularity von Bendemann et al. 2016; Kouremenos 2018. In this context one could think about the reconceptualization of structural and thematic mesoregions, but see on the common use of the mesoregion also Troebst 2012. 139  See, for example, Mizushima et al. 2015. 140  See, for example, Subrahmanyam 2004 and Middell 2018. 141  This formulation is a variation of the apt dictum by Osterhammel 2014, XV: “All history inclines toward being world history.” 142  See Osterhammel 2014, 94–104 and Horden 2016, 211–224; on comparative “thalassography” the contributions in Miller 2012.

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that of the historical actors: Imaginary river spaces have come into being in those places, where communities living by a river have created identities and memory cultures connected to those respective rivers. Many of these have never been connected with the idea of belonging to the Mediterranean or other seas. The integration of local/regional markets centred around inland river ports into global trade structures has changed the world view of merchants and other players in this process. Therefore, in both an analytical and an actor-oriented perspective, it would be profitable to resume the discussion about potamic, thalassic and oceanic cultures or hydraulic societies, to ask more precisely about ideal-typical constellations in the relationship between rivers and human community formation and to compare these to constellations in other areas of the world. The example of the debate about the definition of the Mediterranean shows that forward-looking discussions about the Mediterranean should become more detached from questions and concepts developed several decades ago.143 The focus on rivers sheds light on the Mediterranean as an analytical category which can help to understand dynamics of historical processes in maritime regions around the globe. As stated at the beginning of this introduction, this volume cannot offer a systematic study of the fluvial Mediterranean, because a multitude of diachronic and synchronic studies on individual rivers is still necessary. However, the volume provides a variety of research questions as well as theoretical and methodological approaches which might serve as building blocks and inspirations for such an undertaking, which would certainly be rewarding. Bibliography Abulafia 2011: Abulafia, D., The Great Sea. A Human History of the Mediterranean (London 2011). Ackroyd 2008: Ackroyd, P., Thames: Sacred River (London 2008). Astren 2014: Astren, F., Jews, in: Horden et al. 2014, 392–208. Bachmann-Medick 2014: Bachmann-Medick, D., Cultural Turns. Neuorientierungen in den Kulturwissenschaften (5th ed. Reinbek 2014). Backouche 2000: Backouche, I., La trace du fleuve. La Seine et Paris (1750–1850), Civilisations et sociétés 101 (Paris 2000).

143  See also the contributions in Harris 2005; Malkin 2005; Concannon et al. 2016.

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Parayre 2016: Parayre, D. (ed.), Le fleuve rebelle. Géographie historique du moyen Oronte d’Ebla à l’époque médiévale, Syria Supplément 4 (Beirut 2016). Paris 2002: Paris, E., Le gènese intellectuelle de l’oeuvre de Fernand Braudel. La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II (1923–1947), Institut de Recherches Néohelléniques. Fondation Nationale de la recherche scientifique Grèce 73 (Paris 2002). Patterson 2004: Patterson, H. (ed.), Bridging the Tiber. Approaches to Regional Archaeology in the Middle Tiber Valley (London 2004). Patterson et al. 2009: Patterson, H – Coarelli, F. (eds.), Mercator Placidissimus. The Tiber Valley in Antiquity. New research in the upper and middle river valley. Rome 27–28 February 2004 (Rome 2009). Philippson 1922: Philippson, A., Das Mittelmeergebiet. Seine geographische und kulturelle Eigenart (4th ed. Wiesbaden 1922). Piltz 2008: Piltz, E., „Trägheit des Raums“. Fernand Braudel und die Spatial Stories der Geschichtswissenschaft, in: Döring, J. – Thielmann, T (eds.), Spatial Turn. Das Raumparadigma in den Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften, Sozialtheorie (Bielefeld 2008) 75–102. Pirenne 1922: Pirenne, H., Mahomet et Charlemagne, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 1, 1922, 77–86. Pirenne 1937: Pirenne, H., Mahomet et Charlemagne (Brussels 1937). Purcell 2003: Purcell, N., The Boundless Sea of Unlikeness? On Defining the Mediterranean, Mediterranean Historical Review 18, 2003, 9–29. Purcell 2012: Purcell, N., Rivers and the Geography of Power, Pallas 90, 2012, 373–387. Purcell 2014: Purcell, N., The Ancient Mediterranean, in: Horden et al. 2014, 59–76. Quaini 1982: Quaini, M., Geography and Marxism (Totowa 1982). Quaini 2008: Quaini, M. (ed.), Una geografia per la storia dopo Lucio Gambi, Quaderni storici 127 (Bologna 2008). Rada 2009: Rada, U., Die Oder. Lebenslauf eines Flusses (Munich 2009). Rada 2010: Rada, U., Die Memel. Kulturgeschichte eines europäischen Stromes (Munich 2010). Rada 2012: Rada, U., Europäische Flüsse. Online-Projekt der Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung 2012, [online] Available at: [Accessed 15.03.2018]. Rada 2013: Rada, U. Die Elbe. Europas Geschichte im Fluss (Munich 2013). Raffestin 1980: Raffestin, C., Pour une géographie du pouvoir, Géographie économique et sociale (Paris 1980). Rahaman 2012: Rahaman, M. M. (ed.), Water Wars in 21st Century along International Rivers Basins: Speculation or Reality?, International Journal of Sustainable Society 4, 2012, 3–10.

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Raphael 2003: Raphael, L., Geschichtswissenschaft im Zeitalter der Extreme. Theorien, Methoden, Tendenzen von 1900 bis zur Gegenwart, Beck’sche Reihe 1543 (Munich 2003). Ratzel 1882/1891: Ratzel, F., Anthropogeographie. Die geographische Verbreitung des Menschen, 2 vols. (Stuttgart 1882/1891). Ratzel 1897: Ratzel, F., Politische Geographie (Munich/Leipzig 1897). Rau 2010: Rau, S., Fließende Räume oder: Wie läßt sich die Geschichte des Flusses schreiben?, Historische Zeitschrift 291, 2010, 103–116. Rau 2017: Rau, S., Räume. Konzepte, Wahrnehmungen und Nutzungen (2nd ed. Frankfurt on the Main 2017). Reinhard 2016: Reinhard, W., Die Unterwerfung der Welt. Globalgeschichte der europäischen Expansion 1415–2015, Historische Bibliothek der Gerda Henkel Stiftung (Munich 2016). Ricl 2013: Ricl, M., Epigraphical Survey in the Kayster River Valley, Zbornik Matice Srpske za klasične studije 16, 2014, 7–15. Ritter 1822: Ritter, C., Die Erdkunde im Verhältniss zur Natur und zur Geschichte des Menschen oder allgemeine vergleichende Geographie, als sichere Grundlage des Studiums und Unterrichts in physikalischen und historischen Wissenschaften, vol. 1, 1: Afrika (2nd ed. Berlin 1822). Robertson 1995: Robertson, R., Glocalization. Time-Space and Homogeneity-Heterogeneity, in: Featherstone, M. – Lash, S. – Robertson, R. (eds.), Global Modernities, Theory, Culture & Society (London 1995) 25–44. Roe 2012: Roe, A., Riverine Environments, in: McNeill et al. 2012, 297–318. Rossiaud 2002: Rossiaud, J., Dictionnaire du Rhône au Moyen Âge. Identités et langages, savoirs et techniques des hommes du fleuve (1300–1550), Documents d’ethnologie régionale 23 (Grenoble 2002). Rossiaud 2007: Rossiaud, J., Le Rhône au Moyen Âge. Histoire et représentations d’un fleuve européen, Collection historique (Paris 2007). Rossiaud 2016: Rossiaud, J. (ed.), Villes et fleuves en Europe (Milan 2016). Sarton 1936: Sarton, G., The Unity and Diversity of the Mediterranean World, Osiris 2, 1936, 406–463. Schmid 2009: Schmid, M., Die Donau als sozionaturaler Schauplatz. Ein konzeptioneller Entwurf für umwelthistorische Studien in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Ruppel, S. – Steinbrecher, A. (eds.), „Die Natur ist überall bey uns“. Mensch und Natur in der Frühen Neuzeit (Zurich 2009) 59–79. Schmid et al. 2008: Schmid, M. – Haidvogl, G., Coupling the Long-Term Dynamics of Natural and Social Systems: Towards an Environmental History of the Danube, in: Szábo, P. – Hédl, R. (eds.), Human Nature. Studies in Historical Ecology and Environmental History (Brno 2008) 64–73.

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Schmid et al. 2010: Schmid, M. – Winiwarter, V. (eds.), Umwelt Donau. Eine andere Geschichte (St. Pölten 2010). Schmitt 1940: Schmitt, C., Die Raumrevolution. Durch den totoalen Krieg zu einem totalen Frieden, Das Reich 19, 29.9.1940, 3. Schmitt 1942: Schmitt, C., Land und Meer. Eine weltgeschichtliche Betrachtung (8th ed. Stuttgart 2016). Schöttler 2006: Schöttler, P., Lucien Febvres Beitrag zur Entmythologisierung der rheinischen Geschichte, in: Febvre, L., Der Rhein und seine Geschichte, ed. by P. Schöttler (Frankfurt/New York 2006) 218–265. Schopen 1937: Schopen, E., Weltentscheidung im Mittelmeer, Weltgeschehen 5013 (Leipzig 1937). Schröder 2016: Schröder, Ch., Das Mittelmeer im Fokus nationalsozialistischer Diskurse über Geopolitik und Raum. Eine wissensgeschichtliche Perspektive, in: Dabag et al. 2016, 385–406. Schwartz 2010: Schwartz, S., Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society? Reciprocity and Solidarity in Ancient Judaism (Princeton 2009). Shaw 2001: Shaw, B. D., Challenging Braudel: A New Vision of the Mediterranean, Journal of Roman Archaeology 14, 2001, 419–453. Soffer 1999: Soffer, A., Rivers of Fire. The Conflict over Water in the Middle East (Lanham 1999). Soja 1989: Soja, E., Postmodern Geographies. The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (London 1989). Soja 1996: Soja, E., Thirdspace. Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-imagined Places (Malden 1996). Subrahmanyam 2004: Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, Explorations in Connected History. From the Tagus to the Ganges (Oxford 2004). Tabak 2008: Tabak, F., The Waning of the Mediterranean 1550–1870: A Geohistorical Approach (Baltimore 2008). Thonemann 2011: Thonemann, P., The Maeander Valley. A Historical Geography from Antiquity to Byzantium, Greek Culture in the Roman World (Cambridge 2011). Tomalin 2004: Tomalin, E., Bio-Divinity and Biodiversity. Perspectives on Religion and Environmental Conservation in India, Numen 51/3, 2004, 265–295. Troebst 2012: Troebst, Stefan, “Historical Meso Region”: A Concept in Cultural Studies and Historiography, in: European History Online (EGO), published by the Leibniz Institute of European History (IEG), Mainz 2012-03-06. URL: http://www. ieg-ego.eu/troebsts-2010-en URN: urn:nbn:de:0159-2011120508 [Accessed 15.03.2018] Tusun 1925: Tusun, U., Mémoire sur l’histoire du Nil, 3 vols. (Cairo 1925). Tvedt 2004: Tvedt, T., The River Nile in the Age of the British. Political Ecology and & the Quest for Economic Power (London 2004). Tvedt 2010: Tvedt, T. (ed.), The River Nile in the Post-Colonial Age. Conflict and Cooperation Among the Nile Basin Countries (London 2010).

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Tvedt et al. 2010: Tvedt, T. – Coopey, R. (eds.), A History of Water. Series 2, vol. 2. Rivers and Society. From Early Civilizations to Modern Times (London 2010). Tvedt 2012: Tvedt, T., Nilen – historiens elv (Oslo 2012). Tvedt 2016: Tvedt, T., Water and Society. Changing Perceptions of Societal and Historical Development, International Library of Human Geography 30 (London/New York 2016). Tvedt et al. 2008: Tvedt, T. – Hovden, E., A Bibliography on the River Nile, 3 vols. (Bergen 2008). Ulf 2008: Ulf, Ch., Die Perspektive des Wasserraumes als soziales und kulturelles Konstrukt, in: Eibl, D. – Ortner, L. – Schneider, I. – Ulf, Ch. (eds.), Wasser und Raum. Beiträge zu einer Kulturtheorie des Wassers (Göttingen 2008) 45–57. Valérian 2014: Valérian, D., The Medieval Mediterranean, in: Horden et al. 2014, 77–90. von Bendemann et al. 2016: von Bendemann, R. – Gerstenberg, A. – Jaspert, N. – Kolditz, S. (eds.), Konstruktionen mediterraner Insularitäten, Mittelmeerstudien 11 (Paderborn 2016). von Hirschhausen et al. 2015: von Hirschhausen, B. – Grandits, H. – Kraft, C. – Müller, D. – Serrier, Th. (eds.), Phantomgrenzen. Räume und Akteure in der Zeit neu denken, Phantomgrenzen im östlichen Europa 1 (Göttingen 2015). von Reden 2015: von Reden, S., Fließende Macht: Kanalprojekte und Brunnenbau im hellenistischen Ägypten, in: von Reden et al. 2015, 49–76. von Reden et al. 2015: von Reden, S. – Wieland, Ch. (eds.), Wasser. Alltagsbedarf, Ingenieurskunst und Repräsentation zwischen Antike und Neuzeit, Umwelt und Gesellschaft 14 (Göttingen 2015). Weitzman 2012: Weitzman, St., Mediterranean Exchanges. A Response to Seth Schwartz’s Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society?, Jewish Quarterly Review 102, 2012, 491–512. White 1996: White, R., The Organic Machine. The Remaking of the Columbia River (Oxford 1996). Wickham 2005: Wickham, Ch., Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean 400–800 (Oxford 2005). Wittfogel 1957: Wittfogel, K. A., Oriental Despotism. A Comparative Study of Total Power (New Haven 1957). Wohl et al. 2007: Wohl, E. – Merritts, D. J., What is a natural river?, Geography Compass 1, 2007, 871–900. Wolf et al. 2017: Wolf, J. – Zimmermann, W. (eds.), Fliessende Räume. Karten des Donauraums, 1650–1800 (Regensburg 2017). Worster 1985: Worster, D., Rivers of Empire. Water, Aridity, and the Growth of the American West (Oxford 1985). Zereini et al. 2004: Zereini, F. – Jaeschke, W. (eds.), Water in the Middle East and in North Africa. Resources, Protection and Management (Berlin 2004).

River Histories

Jacques Rossiaud

Some Observations on the World of the Mariners of the Rhône (Around 1300–1550) 1 In a few words, we are dealing here with the world of the men of the river. That is to say, the world of all the workers who, from the modest fisherman to the ship-owner, have, despite their differences, a common experience of the water and adhere, even though to varying degrees to the codes and ideas that constitute the Rhone culture. One word, riveyrand, identifies these men; it is a word relating to the land, and with a very broad meaning. The riveyrand is to the river what the peasant is to the rural world and the lawyer to justice. How many of these people were there at the end of the Middle Ages between Seyssel and Arles? In order to answer this question, because of the lack of tax sources it was necessary to carry out prolonged prosopographic work based on toll records (around 50 collection points on 450 km of navigable river) and especially on the plentiful notarial archives of the southern cities from before 1400. At the end of this investigation, around 1450, I evaluated the main core of the Rhone shipping industry (fishermen, pontooners, boatmen and river merchants) totalling 1,200 households, or at least 4,000 souls; this increases to 10,000 if the number of workers from related trades (rope makers, ship carpenters, caulkers, etc.) and seasonal workers are added to this group. This city of reason expanded with the general growth to exceed 30,000 souls by 1550, which is equivalent to the population of a fair-sized city. The ethnic origin of the individuals gives this group of people its uniqueness. It is part of a space whose boundaries remain relatively narrow and whose center of gravity is Savoyard. In all the riverside towns the men of the Upper Rhone (upstream from Lyons) make up the vast majority in the river trades. In no other profession is the ethnic imprint so profound. Between 1430 and 1530, the Rhone is much influenced by Savoy. Men spread their accents and their ways of doing things. They set the tone at the shores and endeavoured to reconstitute small Savoys wherever they settled in Valence, Avignon,

*  The data presented here are all from my work on the history of the medieval Rhône: Rossiaud 2002 and Rossiaud 2007.

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Tarascon or Arles, which were long kept alive by immigrants from the land of their ancestors. Let us recall an obvious fact: in every town or village, because of the nature of their work the people of the river are compelled to live near the moorings of the boats. In these districts, called fusteries or rivières, on the outskirts of the old cities (Bourg-vieux d’Arles, Porte Aiguière d’Avignon, Rivière Valentinoise or Rue Neuve lyonnaise) the river workers are in the majority and, consequently, the riverside and the outskirts characterize the origin of most of the inhabitants. The last unifying factor of these small universes: social proximity. Differ­ ences in conditions are not as prominent as in the city (at least until the 1500s); property prices are modest (with the exception of one or two patrician houses) and the space reserved for barns and warehouses is important. The buildings also house the personal possessions mainly of foreigners to the neighbourhood and often to the city. What is true of goods is also true of men; always to be found in the ports are foreign boatmen stationed there at the time of loading or stopping off, in lodgings provided by their employers. In short, in these environments so exposed to external influences, memories and dreams evoked distant horizons and the daily encounters accustomed the children to know the grammar and structure of the river and its banks and to discover the infinite diversity of the conditions of work. 2 The analysis of the social world of the Rhone quickly reveals four groups of men working on the water and on the islands. The affaneurs (affanatores ripariae): unskilled workers who, as the need arises, function as vineyard workers, barge haulers, net pullers, and represent the proletariat of the Camargue salinas. They are unattached to place or work and are subject to the customs of the place of employment and the vagaries of the labor market; they follow the river and the will of their master, usually their creditor, whom they undertake to repay by working for him ‘on and out of the water.’ These ‘peasants of the river’ are the exploiters of the ‘aquatic’ soil and its resources: the areniers extract sand for building, the gold workers (in fact only a few) search for flakes of precious metal, the reed cutters live alongside poachers and trappers on the islands, the boscadiers cut and collect wood for the ovens, and at about a hundred ports the pontooners provide safe passage around the obstacle. All these men work with the river, know how to manage

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a boat; they are all at home in a restricted but familiar area of brassieres (channels) and islands. This small fleet of boats meets local needs and does not require expensive equipment or much nautical experience; it nevertheless constitutes the breeding-ground for the men and women engaged in artisanal inland water transport who take on regional transport and offshore fishing. The players in this large professional stratum succeeded in setting up their business by forming associations and by acquiring co-possession of fishing rights or boats. In around 1460 the value of a small transport vessel (bèche or carreton) is equivalent to a month and a half of a compagnon’s salary; access to master fisherman status is therefore very open (25 to 40% of the riveyrands own one or more vessels). It remains to consolidate this social advancement; two avenues are possible: offshore fishing and transport, both of which require favourable social circumstances (a good marriage, inheritance, earnings) as well as tactical intelligence. To belong to the group of master fishermen requires fishers to be able to store the fish and to sell it to the big fishery in the nearby or distant city and to this end to possess shares in fisheries and important catching facilities; to pay one or two men to monitor the nets and collect the catch, and finally to have floating cages for the transport and conservation of the catch. In total, a fish merchant who participates in regional traffic around 1500 needs to have capital of £200 to 300. The transport boatman (batelier transporteur) has to be equally well equipped. Two sapines of 16 to 22 meters in length are indispensable. These cost a total of £80 to £90 and their equipment (ropes, oars, tiller) an additional £40. Adding £60 to £80 for the remuneration of two or three co-workers, who are occasionally joined by a team of haulers, the total exceeds £300. It can be concluded that a regional enterprise thrives with a capital of £300 to £500, which is more than the minimum necessary, because the financial surplus enables the operator to win regular transport contracts providing a good profit (a hundred £), especially as the benefits of transport are ordinarily added to the trade with cheap goods, and, of course, to the loan. Some of these boat craftsmen (artisans bateliers) are able to integrate themselves into the structures of the big ship-building industry which is of a more capitalist nature and thanks to impressive convoys – the viages – constitutes the essential instrument of inter-regional traffic. The Rhone played such a powerful role that these constellations were unmatched in the West; they responded to the technical challenges of the river as well as to a health and human environment that had been hostile for a long time. Before 1350 the ship-owners of Pont-Saint-Esprit, Valence, and Lyons transported salt convoys of 500 to 600 tons payload. After the first outbreaks

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of plague convoys became more modest (the average load was reduced to 250 tons), but by the end of the 15th century, figures had returned to pre-plague levels. In order to secure such returns, it was necessary to have three or four large vessels, accompanied by about fifteen auxiliary vessels. A fine-looking flotilla, but which, in order to be operational, required considerable manpower; first and foremost for towing: several hundred barge haulers, who were replaced after 1475 by horses (150 on average per convoy). Excluding the haulers, these cathedrales batelières (of which there were 7 or 8 in about 1500) required 200 to 300 men in around 1390, about 60 in 1450 or thereabouts, and 150 to 200 two generations later. They comprised craftsmen, carters, mariners, nauchiers (pilots) and experienced overseers. Such a concentration of resources, of course, goes beyond the framework of craft activities: purchase of the cargo, payment of royal duties (gabelle), tolls, equipment, wages, and supplies imply the investment of considerable sums of money raised by merchant companies whose size exceeds that of the largest cloth traders. The concentration of capital was matched by that of manpower: the haulers were recruited from a large area and the mariners of the middle Rhone were mostly carters from Languedoc and Provence. These large nomadic villages were the main hotbeds of maritime culture. The newcomers to the trade discovered, besides good chances of social advancement, a world of ships and highly skilled jobs which brought status and prestige to skippers and boatmen alike; with particular ways of living, speaking, building and sharing the codes of a unique society. 3 In terms of material ‘civilization’, living together by the river reduced ordinary inequalities but did not make them disappear; on arrival, some sailors lodged at an inn or at their employer’s house; but by necessity, many men had to sleep on the boats, the nauchiers (pilots) in the thiaume (the cabin) and the sailors in their berths below deck or on the ground in tents. The food, which one might imagine to be very similar to that of the peasants and ordinary people, also had to satisfy principles of economy and conservation, cooking and health. Bread is sometimes replaced by biscuit; the resources of the river enrich the soup, and the consumption of wood and the time needed for cooking are reduced by the use and abuse of salted meats, which moreover keeps well. On this basis common to all crews large or small, there are superimposed many variations

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depending on place, eating habits (fat or lean), hierarchical position, and individual means. As for clothing (well characterized by carnivalesque reproductions): large breeches and big felt hats provided protection against frost and allowed maximum freedom of movement; rough and dull woven pea coats completed the outfit, which was enlivened on feast days by brightly coloured caps that identified them as belonging to the maritime fraternity and was one of the most important signs of their identity which they so much needed on land. The bearing of the riveyrands of the Rhone was in harmony with the functions they performed: The slow melodies of the haulers, the rhythmic songs of the rowers estheticizing the river and proclaiming the cohesion of the group. A group in which linguistic diversity (in convoys Franchimans worked alongside Franco-Provençals and Occitans) had to be put aside and the common languages had to give way to the special language that was indispensable to the profession and for commands. It nourished and regenerated itself by borrowing from peasant dialects, other special languages and the most prestigious sectors of the nautical world (the vocabulary of the galleys in particular); it presided over the metamorphoses that generated the jargon, initiatory and mysterious. In short, even if a unified marine language had never existed, mutual understanding between Lyonnais and Beaucairois appears not to have been a problem and was greatly facilitated by the fact that in the large convoys hundreds of men lived alongside one another for several seasons (up to eight months a year). These men, whether from Arles, Aigues Mortes, Valence, or Seyssel, accentuated their identity by adopting nicknames and titles peculiar to the people of the water. The nickname or river name, attributed more or less democratically by the crew and a very graphic (Barbedor, Videpot, Taillebacon etc.) mark of integration, could serve as a form of accolade, even far from a person’s district of origin. The world of the river was made up of this constellation of picturesque identities that one had to know when one claimed to be in the business. The important figures in the profession adopted real river names strictly related to their qualification and obligatorily following the title of patron behind the name (for example, Philibert Cabrier alias patron Carrelet). The supreme expression of Rhodanian fame, this model unifies the world of crew masters whose fortunes are different, but whose professional excellence is the same, a world whose order has prospered on the soil of Rhodanian freedoms. In terms of morals, recent studies do not reveal a higher level of crime among the river people than among other socio-professional categories. Everyday

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violence arose mainly from insignificant affairs, gambling-related quarrels in particular. Gambling was rife on the boats; it broke up the monotony of laborious days and, elsewhere forbidden, was almost always possible thanks to the exterritorial status of the boats onto which the sergeants did not venture. The river was indeed the place of rivalry and confrontation between the officers of the riparian seigneuries and municipalities and those of the royal jurisdiction (control of the ports, control of water and forests) claiming to be the exclusive masters of the fluvial space. These incessant self-destructive struggles cleared the way for a set of customs elaborated by the sailors themselves and recognized throughout the river basin. These ‘good customs of the river Rhone’ provided the riveyrands with rules of conduct aimed at preventing or easing internal or border conflicts by arbitration rendered in the shortest possible time by a jury of democratically chosen peers. This jurisprudence tried to reconcile the irreconcilable, in other words, respect for the rules accepted within a universe of transgressions, of pilfering, poaching, and fraud at the expense of public servants, the king and sometimes the employer. These are the structures, customs and codes that have enabled the men of the river to live for centuries in peace with their companions and the ‘people on the land’, within a community of work which had nothing to do with a parallel society (as traditional historiography has tended to represent it), but whose counterparts on land recognized their values and their peculiarities. Bibliography Rossiaud 2002: Rossiaud, J., Dictionnaire du Rhône au Moyen Âge. Identités et langages, savoirs et techniques des hommes du fleuve (1300–1550), Documents d’ethnologie régionale 23 (Grenoble 2002). Rossiaud 2007: Rossiaud, J., Le Rhône au Moyen Âge. Histoire et représentations d’un fleuve européen, Collection historique (Paris 2007).

Terje Tvedt

Rivers of History This chapter will suggest an analytical framework for empirical studies of river-society relations. It is based on experiences from my work as series editor for the nine volumes series A History of Water, quite extensive studies on the River Nile and the making of three TV-documentaries about development issues, water and river basins.1 This background has given me a rare opportunity to learn quite systematically about the history, geography and hydrology of a great number of small and large river basins all over the world. My proposal is an effort based on these experiences to formulate an approach for empirical research of river-society relations that is considered fruitful because of its simplicity and clear focus, while at the same time allowing for studies of all the complexities involved in understanding relationships between rivers and societies. The history of how river basins have developed over time is definitely world history – both in the long term and the short term. From time immemorial, human beings’ efforts at mastering nature by transforming and controlling the water running through the landscape have been at the very centre of the development of societies. When people have managed to control their rivers successfully their societies have often undergone profound structural transformations. Since all societies have in one way or another been forced to manage their water resources, and most societies have been impacted by how the waters run through them and how they have adapted to them and controlled them, river-society relations form an unusual fruitful platform for comparative and contrastive research. This is so, especially because issues of river adaptation and river control bring into focus all the seminal questions of historical scholarship. The history of urbanization, the history of transport, the history of irrigation and power production, the establishment of the first cities and the emergence of the first civilizations along large rivers in the Middle East and Asia more than 5000 years ago, as well as the role of brooks and streams and rivers as sources of power and routes of transport in the Rise of the Modern World and the emergence of industrializing societies in north-western Europe 1   For the series “A History of Water”, see [Accessed 16 September 2018], for the three TV-documentaries, see < https://terjetvedt.w.uib.no/film-anddocumentaries [Accessed 16 September 2018], and for books on the Nile, see among others Tvedt 2004 and Tvedt 2004b.

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in the eighteenth century, could all be analysed also in a perspective focusing on the relationship between rivers and societies. Narratives of histories of regions and countries would be more inclusive and less reductionist if central and varying confluences between rivers and societies are included.

Figure 3.1 The Nile has been an important route of communication since pharaonic times, as well as a birthplace of different forms of tourism: The Romans journeyed up the Nile in fellucas 2000 years ago and modern charter tourism was introduced on the Nile in the late 19th century and also these tourists sailed in feluccas on the mighty river Photo: Terje Tvedt

1 World Rivers as World History Some rivers, like the Nile, the Rhine, The Ganges and the Mississippi are of such global historical significance that they should be conceptualized as world rivers, liberated from a purely regional geographical perspective. The Nile is geographically speaking, an African river, of course, but it has also played a major economic, political and cultural role in both Asian and European history. The great French historian Fernand Braudel argued that the Nile was only “half-Mediterranean”.2 This characterization underplayed both its hydrological role in influencing the Mediterranean as a sea and its role in Mediterranean culture and in European economy over time, and as such this assessment is of general relevance for the study of river basins. In Palestrina, about 35 kilometres outside Rome, on the third floor of an unassuming archaeological museum one can view a world-famous Nile mosaic that shows that this river has played a profound influence on both African and European history. At the top of the mosaic, African motifs are shown, and further down Mediterranean scenes are illustrated. 2000 years old, almost six 2  Braudel 1966, 281.

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metres wide and more than four metres high and from a number of angles it depicts the river and life along it in colourful fashion. The bright-coloured and clear pattern is made up of painted stones fixed with a kind of mortar, but the really original thing about this mosaic, that which makes it also part of the history of art, is that the river and the life of the people living on its banks are rendered from a modern perspective – as if the artist was viewing the Nile from an aircraft. This work of art is thus an eloquent historical source that underscores both the timelessness of many rivers’ role, and that they often are a main artery and nerve centre in different societies in different ways. The fact is that the river that the mosaic captured, frozen in a 2000-year-old glimpse, has ever since, every single second, day after day and generation after generation, quietly trickled through inaccessible primeval forests that the sun never penetrates, butted its way out of gigantic inland seas, crossed the largest swamp in the world and found its way further than any other river through one of the driest deserts on the planet, on its way out of the depths of Africa, and the pulsating rhythm of its water has continued to create specific though unequal conditions for societal development and change along its banks. This is a function shared by almost all major river systems, but what Herodotus, the Greek father of history, wrote in his Histories almost 2,500 years ago about how easy life was for the Egyptians, as compared to his home region on the northern shores of the Mediterranean, also underlines how different these functions have been: At present, […] they obtain the fruits of the field with less trouble than any other people in the world, the rest of the Egyptians included, since they have no need to break up the ground with the plough, nor to use the hoe, nor to do any of the work which the rest of mankind find necessary if they are to get a crop; but the husbandman waits till the river has of its own accord spread itself over the fields and withdrawn again to its bed, and then sows his plot of ground, and after sowing turns his swine into it – the swine tread in the corn – after which he has only to await the harvest. The mosaic depicts the central position of the Nile in the lives of Africans, but it also illustrates that the Mediterranean has received the history of a continent written in water. When the unknown artist made it, the Persians, Alexander the Great and Caesar with his troops had conquered the Nile delta, a delta that for thousands of years already had been one of the most fertile areas in the world. It reminds us of a distant past when the Nile was worshipped as sacred, not only by priests in magnificent temples alongside the river in Egypt but also in Europe. It dates from a time when the Nile cult or the Isis cult spread from

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Egypt into the Hellenic and Roman world. The cult was a new, independent mystery religion concerned with death and resurrection, and revolving around impressive processions and rituals where the waters of the Nile played a pivotal role. It became in fact a serious rival of Christianity, the new religion which had spread from the Middle East. It was not until Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire that the cult around Isis and the Nile was crushed. Rather than being the cradle of an expansive mystery religion, the Nile delta now became a centre for early Christianity but this religion shared the obsession for holy, running water. The Nile mosaic outside Rome thus both illustrates and in itself represents a deep continuity in history, one that later divisions and boundaries drawn between continents and nations have blurred. The very name of the river is linked to Europe via the Greek poet Hesiod, who lived between 700 and 600 BC, when Egypt, the delta and Greece were part of a common Mediterranean culture. This historic connection was proven again one day in July in 1961, when an amateur diver was swimming alone in the polluted harbour basin just off the promenade in Alexandria. Suddenly he found himself in an ancient world: he saw a flight of stairs lined by white marble columns, a life-size Roman statue, a gold coin, a sarcophagus, and not far from the fortress that for hundreds of years has guarded the city, two headless sphinxes, marble columns and a massive statue divided into two. The amateur diver Kamel Abul-Saadat had uncovered Egypt’s sunken past. Only a few stone throws away from where the waves broke against the Qayt Bay fortress, and with the famous promenade well within sight, he dived into a submerged ancient world, where strange forms were scattered over the sea bed, including the ruins of Cleopatra’s palace, six to eight metres below the surface of the Mediterranean, being remanences of the time when Alexandria was still at the centre of a profitable Mediterranean trade. The mosaic can also be interpreted as a celebration of the Nile as part of Mediterranean culture, symbolised by the image of the Roman Caesar and the goddess-queen of Egypt Cleopatra together in a boat. It is well known that after the triumph of the Enlightenment in Europe, a scientifically based Nile romanticism came into being. Napoleon rode at the head of his army up the delta and fought ‘The Battle of the Nile’ and his scientists described for the first time the forgotten valleys of the kings and queens in Egypt. During the 19th century, there were few geographical questions that were more discussed than where the source of the Nile lay. 150 years ago, the Nile waterway was the arena for one of the most fabled geographical discoveries of the world when European explorers such as Henry Morton Stanley, David Livingstone, John Hanning Speke searched for the sources of the river. The history of how, from the beginning of the 19th century, the Nile was

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Figure 3.2

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The Nile River is an African river emptying into the Mediterranean, influencing large parts of that continent´s development, but the Nile is definitely also a world river and a river that has played important roles in European mythological and religious history Photo: Terje Tvedt

eventually plotted by European geographers, hydrologists and British waterplanners is one of both colonial conquest and triumphal progress of modern science. With Cairo as their axis, the British later established their Nile Empire from the Mediterranean to the sources of the Nile in the heart of Africa, and under their rule the entire Nile – for the first time in history – came under one power, and the Nile delta was turned into a cotton farm for the Lancashire industries. Half a century later complex linkages between the plans for the High Aswan Dam on the Nile as it enters Egypt and the nationalization of the Suez Canal and the Suez war ended in the collapse of the British Empire on the shores of the Nile delta. The Nile basin has also through time been a meeting place of cultures and an arena for technological breakthroughs. The Nile basin, the ancient birthplace of astronomy and the civil calendar of 365 days, has been at the forefront of developments in water engineering technology. The basin has housed a large number of states and kingdoms and more than thousand language groups, two world religions and other African religions, Arabs and Africans, Western powers and Islamic states. Some of the most ambitious water

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Figure 3.3

Terje Tvedt

The Nile delta before and after The High Aswan dam is two very different things, but even after the River in Egypt came under the total control of the Egyptian engineer, there are still pockets in the delta that can give an impression of how life was along the Nile in the centuries preceding the dam Photo: Terje Tvedt

projects ever conceived by man were planned and implemented there. The biggest reservoir in the world at the time – the Aswan Dam – was ready in 1902. The Sennar dam in 1925 created the biggest cotton farm in the world. The more than hundred years old plan for the Jonglei Canal, bypassing the swamps in the Southern Sudan, aimed at digging a “new Nile” in the heart of Africa being comparable to the Seine in size. The New Aswan High Dam created the biggest man-made lake on earth. The plans for reservoirs on Lake Tana in Ethiopia and on Lake Victoria and Lake Albert aimed to control the entire river. But perhaps most interestingly in the context of water management: the Nile basin was the first international river basin where agreements were entered into among states about the sharing of water. The complexities and richness of this story, and how it has been impacted by the river’s hydrology and physiology, should serve as a warning to those who look for general models of how water conflicts or water disputes can be resolved, and development patterns be understood. Although no other international river basin has

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a longer or more complex and eventful history of the politics of water than the Nile basin, it could serve as a teacher about how important it is to trespass the often conflicting security, technological, legal, economic and environmental study approaches, and to integrate them all into a single analytical framework. There is a great un-tapped potential for both big and small history when it comes to the study of river-society relations. There have been published some few river histories aiming at some kind of “total” history, but more often they are concerned with specific issues like hydropolitical issues, technological developments or continuities and changes in river morphologies. These studies are definitely useful and advance our knowledge, but in order to overcome the general waterblindness in society and to grasp the fundamental importance and relevance of river-society relations for societies development trajectories, more broad analyses should also be encouraged. 2 The Study of River Basins We therefore need an approach that can capture the complexities of the role of rivers in societies. On the one hand it should recover rivers as autonomous actors in society, always acknowledging that they are located in a particular place and at a specific time, but also tied intrinsically to the larger scale and longer time frame in such a way that they inherit from them many of their structural (hydrological, topological, energy) properties. In order to understand international and regional hydropolitics in river basins and the potential for water conflicts and cooperation over water, and how changing relationships between river and societies through time have impacted development trajectories and political events, it is crucial to overcome more conventional fragmentary or one-sided approaches. This historical-geographical archaeology of riversociety relations should on the other hand also maintain the autonomy of the social, including its cultural and spatial contexts and distinctions, as well as those aspects related to the management of and thinking about the rivers. A fruitful approach must both manage to grasp how the water that flows across and on the planet exists independently of the different cultural perceptions of it, but also accept, as a truism, that rivers are always being understood through cultural lenses, be they religious, engineering or political. Thus, in order to be able to map and analyse the intricate, historical and spatial relations between societies and rivers, it is necessary to abandon or overcome both radical constructivism and positivism, or the idea that the river as nature can be described in an objective way.

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Only by looking at rivers as being both part of society and nature in this broad, inclusive way, can the role and impact of them be properly analysed and understood. Such an approach is also a precondition for being able to reconstruct the actual history of the changing relationships between the hydrological and hydrosocial cycle over time. In order to develop this analytical approach it is crucial to engage critically with past discourses on particular spatially bounded river-society issues, and reconstruct and analyse how these have been reflecting both more general cultural traditions and specific interactions with particular waterscapes. Based on the above arguments, it goes without saying that research on riversociety relations must be truly interdisciplinary. It should be able to catch how hydraulic works and designs reflect both the natural and the social world, and to analyse and reconstruct changes in the hydrological cycle, in river discharges and floods, and in how people have interacted with and sought to control their water resources and how they have been thinking about their rivers – all the time concerned with understanding how waterscapes and societies have been coupled and did co-evolve. What is needed is an approach that can encourage this kind of broad, inclusive yet still rigorous analysis of river-society relations, and for this purpose I suggest an analytical framework consisting of three different but interconnected analytical “layers”. 3 The Physical Characteristics of Rivers One layer to be studied empirically is the natural (physical and chemical) form and behavior of rivers. This layer is often mentioned in general historical studies of course, but most often as background information, only; as the passive scene or frame of human action, and not as a force impacting society-river relationship through time in different ways – not the least due to the fact that rivers are seldom “dead” structures, but always in flux and changing. Rivers are underlying geographical structures impacting local and regional history in the long term, but very importantly, unlike Fernand Braudel’s Mediterranean sea, they are also all the time changing and sometimes very rapidly, thus also affecting short term history. It is important to highlight the hydrological cycle and the natural, regional and local waterscapes, based on the idea that such geographical and climatic factors affected the birthplaces and structure of early civilizations and the globalization of industrialization in the 19th century, and still to varying degrees affect issues like broad patterns of human migration and settlement, general emergence and locational patterns of agricultural centres, food producing

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regimes and cities, and geopolitical relations among states in many parts of the world. A focus on this layer will enable fruitful research on how the hydrological cycle has contributed to, and still contributes to, the evolution of societal diversity and varying development trajectories in different river-society constellations and situations. Within this perspective it becomes essential to reconstruct issues such as seasonal and annual precipitation and evaporation patterns, river discharges and velocity measurements, sediment transportation and energy flows – all in order to understand empirically interconnections and relationships between rivers and society that are both “eternal” and changing. Since rivers’ natural characteristics have a wide variety of implications for society it is for social scientists not sufficient to understand hydrology only, or to reconstruct the patterns and history of the local variant of the water cycle. Water is unusual in many respects, and additionally almost all of these exceptions to many of the rules of nature are reflected in the fabric of a river’s life and in this way also societies are affected. It has the highest surface tension of all liquids, it can absorb and release heat more than most other substances, it expands instead of contracting when it freezes, the solid form of water floats on the heavier liquid and water changes from liquid, to vapour or ice and vice versa in the blink of an eye or over millions of years – all factors that have far-reaching impacts on river systems and amazing social implications, not only in the past but also at present, although they are very often not integrated in analyses of societies’ development. Furthermore, the fact that water as a substance is on the move and in most cases ultimately evaporates due to solar radiation before it returns to the Earth and the rivers as rain or snow, makes it problematic to appropriate and to claim effective ownership of it. The mere existence of running water therefore brings into question dominant theories of property and management, theories fundamental to most discussions about society, but too taken for granted in current mainstream research. Rivers are also, of course, a major factor in causing social, economic and political conflicts as well as cooperation, and their endurance cannot be properly understood without understanding their natural, hydrological foundations, also because it is precisely such natural characteristics that have made it rational for different humans to spin different webs of significance and meaning around rivers. The workings of the hydrological cycle established water as both the most common substance on earth and the most unevenly distributed resource on the planet, long before the birth of societies. Therefore, one cannot fully understand social diversity, social distinction and conflict without understanding these physical aspects of rivers and how societies have adapted to them. In most regions the precipitation and the rivers have created and shaped the

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valleys they water and drain, and they have thus determined where people have settled and impacted what kind of economic activities that prevailed. How the rivers run and where the run-off from precipitation goes reflect complex interactions between precipitation, catchments and topography, and affect energy and nutrient turnover and the storage and processing of organic substrates, again influencing all sorts of social activities. A hydro-historical approach to river basins studies should therefore follow a cross-disciplinary method utilizing all kinds of data that can help describing those aspects of the river system (both natural and man-made) that are of importance to social life. As a very concrete example, one may compare the Nile in Egypt and the Yangtze in China. While the flood in Egypt is relatively slow and gradual, although with significant inter-annual variation through time and history, the Chinese rivers flood very differently. The floods are often more violent in nature and not the least the rivers have historically meandered huge distances from year to year. This has caused particular challenges for both urbanization and early industrialization, directing the attention to how humans have attempted to tame and control the specific rivers and river flows for particular purposes at given times. 4 River Control and Anthropogenic Changes The second layer of the analytical approach highlights the anthropogenic changes in the way water flows through the landscape. River control and river utilization is a major aspect of most societies. It forms a very wide area of activity, ranging from the human impact on the hydrological cycle, evaporation patterns and forms of precipitation, river modification schemes and the digging of canals and the construction of dams across valleys, to the millions upon millions of pipes beneath cities for drinking and sanitation taking water from river systems, and the carrying of water in jars from river beds. It covers everything that humans have done, and do, to bring river water to and from their settlements – in all sectors and for all purposes, including protective measures to prevent it from destroying or undermining communities, technology, transport routes, etc. This layer enables us to make systematic comparisons of river modification projects, small- and large-scale irrigation and drainage projects, sewage and canal systems, run-off regulations, the organisation of river basins involving different countries, regions, places and cities, water consumption patterns, etc. – in both time and space. In the modern world, human modification to river systems is particularly striking, even though in many places the

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water’s lack of naturalness is masked by the way in which the river has been engineered – beguiling because it seems so natural, but made possible because river water by its very appearance does not signal or reveal to where it belongs. Rivers and societies are deeply interwoven, and many natural processes in the water cycle are influenced by humans; but even so, there are still river basins (both large and small) that have not been subject to human intervention, and there are enormous underground aquifers, underground river systems, cloud systems and precipitation patterns that remain unaffected by humans. The hydrological cycle does not reign unimpeded anymore but crucial elements of it have evaded human control or interference, and it is this “struggle” between the natural and the cultural, becoming an ever-more important aspect also of the relationship between rivers and society, that this two-layered approach can make intelligible in a systematic and unbiased way. By integrating descriptions and analyses of the two layers of the river system it becomes possible to produce a narrative that acknowledges how existing riverscapes might be the product of both long term and short term cumulative interactions between human purpose and hydrological and other natural hydro processes. The analytical approach makes it possible to analyse the relative importance of the natural and anthropogenic layers in forming a specific river system, and how they related over time. Both the layers and their interactions have effects on limits and patterns of social action and their combined product will reflect the natural riverscape and the economy and technological level of society. It is thus thought important to follow a research strategy that is neither nature-centric nor anthropocentric but that aims to avoid this crude dichotomy in practical analysis and research. A focus on these two layers and the relations between them will be able to capture how diverse physical riverscapes have supported the location of societies in the first place, and produced and reproduced different potentials for, and limitations of, development and simultaneously, enabling analyses of how the same, particular river system has been ‘appropriated’ and controlled by these same societies for the sake of particular demands and reasons at different junctures of its development. The benefit of analysing systematically both these layers is that it becomes possible to factor in how most societies at any specific point in time are enveloped by both an engineered riverscape and a riverscape that mirrors, to various degrees, the local character of the hydrological cycle or the watershed. This approach also enables comparative analysis of how societies on the one hand always have had a need for river water for various purposes in one form or another that their particular waterscape is expected to fulfill, and that due to population growth, shifting economic and social activities and technological capabilities the trend will tend to put greater

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Figure 3.4

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This is the pumping station. built under the Mubarak government, and that pumps water up from the artificial Lake Nasser, and into the desert to form the fundamental structure of the Toshka project in Upper Egypt. It creates a new Nile valley, and is thus a major example of the ability of humans to engineer waterscapes Photo: Terje Tvedt

and more multi-faceted stress on the local or regional rivers. It will thus make it possible to capture how the growing multi-functionality of water, both as a physical resource and a social good, is a central aspect of long term human history. A specific and systematic focus on modifications of river basins will take into full account the economic, cultural and political importance of the diversifying roles of such actions. Water has always been an unevenly distributed means of maintaining and creating hierarchies and has thus functioned as a structuring principle in society. In some societies, control of rivers has been at the very heart of state-building processes and imperial legitimacy since time immemorial. Dams and large hydraulic systems are not mere technological installations: they are symbols of power. In many cases the conquest of rivers has served as a potent example of how some people have been able to use power over nature as a means to subjugate others. Huge river control installations clearly have economic, cultural and political importance, and their centrality and scale reflects their national standing. In some areas of the world – particularly in the dry Middle East, where control of rivers has been especially

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important throughout history – dams have often been named after state leaders because few things in this region have as much potential to bestow prestige and authority as such river control monuments. The analytical purpose of these distinctive though interconnected layers can be made clearer by contrasting it with how the more commonly used term ‘built environment’ is understood. The “built environment” is normally regarded as a product of the culture of a society, and is therefore analysed as applying solely to the socially constructed environment. The modified waterscape should on the other hand be seen as a reflection of ‘culture’ but also as a product of the physical character of the waterscape. The actual water that flows in a ‘built’ river or through a canal must therefore also be analysed in terms of the physical water context of its location, and this location’s particular tradition is the product of local hydrology and geology, past water control measures and entrepreneurial action, factors which in turn of course are located within broader natural and societal relationships and rhythms. To regard the manmade river as only being influenced by human beings, overlooks that it is also impacted by the natural river on which it is developed, the local hydrological cycle, and precipitation and evaporation patterns in the location area of the artificial river. The relations and distinctions between the physical waterscape and modified waterscapes should also be understood as something very different from, and more complex than, the widely used pair of analytical concepts ‘managed resources’ and ‘not managed resources’. It is impossible to define clearly what constitutes ‘managed’ resources and ‘not managed’ resources, because their meaning will vary from time to time and from place to place or from society to society, and cannot therefore be used as a basis for comparisons or precise analyses. Moreover, the term ‘management’ carries a modern connotation and is somewhat out of time and place if the subject of research is, for example, adaptation to and modification of rivers in early agrarian societies. Different “stakeholders” might also disagree on whether or not a particular controlled water body is ‘managed’. On the other hand, provided that the necessary data are available, it is possible to reach agreement about whether a body of water has been modified or not, although there will always be disagreement regarding the degree to which it has been altered and whether or not the results have been beneficial. The physical and man-made layers of open and complex water systems underline the need, and provide a framework, for analysing how the flow of natural and social water through social space in rivers has played a pivotal role (even if occasionally in opposition to each other); one and the same river may have acted as a blind force of destruction via flooding, and as an encouragement to the organisation and mobilisation of cooperation and technological

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development. The approach can also capture how this human-modified waterscape in its turn changes the physical waterscape in an everlasting cycle of mutual interaction. It acknowledges the fact that most rivers are not completely natural and no rivers completely controlled. Rivers must therefore be understood as expressing a paradox in nature-society relations: Development presupposes modification of the natural river but the river and its waters always escapes its developers as it evaporates back into the hydrologic cycle. The same paradox gives a particular context of analysis of the long-term: The most sophisticated river control structures are the most vulnerable to dramatic changes in the climate or in the hydrological cycle. By giving due weight to anthropogenic initiatives in changing rivers and their behavior this analytical approach to nature-society relationships appreciates the roles of the ‘entrepreneur’ and of human action. Interventions in and control efforts of river systems can in particularly dramatic ways change fundamental social as well as physical structures, both in the short and long term. Historically, individual water engineers, planners, and ‘water lords’ have radically changed the nature of whole river systems, be it the current itself, river cataracts, or natural lakes turned into storage reservoirs, and, by so doing, they have also changed fundamental societal structures and institutions. River control structures can revolutionize the way water runs both in nature and society, and can thus transform societies in their very core and also diversify social developments in entirely new ways, as exemplified by the Canal du Midi (which linked the Mediterranean to the Atlantic via the River Garonne in France), the Grand Canal in China, the High Aswan Dam in Egypt (which created new cultivation seasons and electrified Egypt) and the Panama Canal (which crosses the Isthmus of Panama and raises ships up to the artificial Gatun Lake). In particular China may serve as a contemporary example of how human water engineering has defined China’s current and future development. The Three Gorges Dam and the new Grand Canal under construction are respectively the world’s largest man-made constructions ever built in human history, not only to control the forces of water at the local place but also due to the fact that the majority of the people are not living where the resources are located. Hence, the human entrepreneurship in the water-world may transform not only whole river systems but also connect one river basin to another where the resources are needed. Much social science has become an abstract science of general spatial relationships, often without reference either to nature or to a subject. By including the two layers as part of the same analytical exercise, it becomes possible to analytically incorporate the creative power of human actions and aims, while

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Figure 3.5

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The Ebro River where it runs through Zaragoza on its way to the Mediterranean, not far from where the Spanish government tried to build a canal that could improve the transport system in Spain in the late eighteenth century Photo Terje Tvedt

still looking for deeper structures that influence and constitute societies and their patterns of development. By integrating these two layers in the analytical process, it becomes possible to focus on structures while avoiding the writing of a history without subjects, or describing a society without actors and their intentions, or a nature without humans. Focusing on the relationship between these two layers also enables us to examine and better understand a paradoxical historical trend of great and yet unknown consequences. On the one hand, more and more river systems and water bodies are the product of engineered interactions between physical water sources and human agency, but, on the other hand, societies are simultaneously becoming ever more vulnerable to substantive changes in the hydrological cycle and how water runs in nature and society. 5 Ideas about Rivers and Conceptualizations of River Basins The third layer of the water system approach recognises and focuses on how rivers as an element of nature and society – as a natural resource and a social good – will always be culturally constructed and filtered. It is concerned with

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how running water is ascribed different meanings and has symbolised different things, from time to time and place to place for different actors. The history of the ideas of water has not yet been written, and what this approach underlines is that it is important to understand how these notions reflect and impact on both the physical and modified layers of water system, but that they also should be seen as something much more wide-ranging than those actually expressed in actual river control technology or water architecture. Studies of this layer are also necessary in order to break out of notions that regard water management as just a pure, rational management issue or a simple engineering issue, optimizing the blending of hydrology and technology. It is crucial to acknowledge that societies’ and peoples’ and politicians’, engineers’ and water users’ ideas of water and rivers have been developed and formed in relation to a broad range of issues, as a means of exerting social and cultural power, as an object of management practices, as religious and cultural symbols or objects, and as a signifier of social and cultural distinctions. Running water has, moreover, always been used as a metaphor, most likely in all societies, although in various ways. It has been widely used as a metaphor for the stream of history and as the end of all things; it may stand for both youth and age, for power and timidity, for the female and the male, for strength and tenderness. The variations and contradictions of metaphors reflect the fact that humans’ relationships with their rivers differ both in space and time and that they play central though different roles in peoples’ lives. Running water has always been a much-used medium for cultural constructions and metaphorical traditions. Since rivers are “everywhere” but always particular – nature but also culture, physical entities and ideological constructs, uniting people and separating them, giving life and taking life – they have, of course, been a phenomenon to which people have ascribed fundamental but often conflicting meanings. The ways in which the waterscapes have been used practically, been interpreted symbolically and ascribed values, have to be analysed as a result of the continuous and long-term anthropogenic interaction and mediation of cultural and natural variables in the society-water systems. Peoples’ ideas about their rivers are of course crucial for identities and values in a broader cultural context, and should also be analysed in relation to which types of rivers that exist at a specific point in time. This is so because different types of rivers and their constellations are actively interpreted and incorporated into the collective body of knowledge in other ways than many other aspects of nature or the environment, since water matters to all humans at so many levels.

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A study of the history of conceptualisations of rivers must also be a study of water in religious thinking and rituals. The water system approach argues for the need to break out of the conventional analytical framework of nationstates and civilizations in analysing ideas and cultural constructions. The reason why a focus on the ideas of water must depart from this tradition is partly that diverse water-society relations and water-society systems do not necessarily coincide with state-borders or cultural boundaries, because of the nature of rivers. Additionally, many notions about water are shared by a number of religions and geographical and climatic regions, so specific civilisational or cultural frames of reference are not particularly helpful in this regard. The idea that God punished humankind with floods, for instance, is shared by Judaism, Christianity, Islam and many traditional religions. In order to explain the complex relationship between the structuring role of particular and different human/river situations on social constructions of water on the one hand, and diffusion and acculturation regarding ideas about water on the other, a comparative and historical perspective is needed. In many religions rivers or river systems are considered as the place where life emerged, and rivers tend to be feminine in some religious traditions while masculine in others. By operating with this distinct layer dealing with ideas about running water and rivers, research can also analytically acknowledge that the differences in how water is understood is one of the most conflictive issues in the contemporary world. In transnational river basins modern and gradually more and more legal, codified ideas about how the shared body of water should be harnessed are crucial to understanding regional politics and power plays between different stakeholders and upstream/downstream users and states. The strong alliance between water engineering bureaucracies and modernizing politicians and their instrumental view of river water has obviously played an important role in many countries in the last 150 years, and constitutes an important aspect of the history of ideas and of modernisation in general. The worldwide political schism with regard to big dams reflects different ideas about rivers and what they should be used for, as well as conflicting opinions about the role of rivers in society. This third layer of the water systems perspective also addresses who are allowed to utilize the water resources as defined by law. In the Nile Basin the use of the river has been regulated by several laws (among others, one in 1929, another in 1959 and currently ongoing negotiations of laws for the future). The 1959 Agreement divided all the waters in the Nile between Egypt and Sudan and even with technology (foreign or domestic) and economy (national or

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loans) upstream countries where for a long time hindered from developing the Nile resources in their respective countries despite increasing food and energy needs. While the current negotiations are not settled, the utilization of the Nile in the recent past was and in the common future to a large extent will be defined by laws. In a water system perspective it points to the necessity of addressing all three levels at the same time in a non-hierarchical order, since the relation between laws and technology take specific and different forms in for instance a transboundary river basin like the Nile compared to the construction of the Three Gorges Dam in China. Ideas of water whether codified in laws impact also other ways water is and will be utilized. In recent decades, the ideas that water should be seen as a normal market commodity and as a universal human right has provoked unrest from Sri Lanka to Africa and even more in Latin America, and impacted plans for river control and river water distribution plans. The global movement for ‘greening the rivers’ and protecting wetlands reflect new ideas and visions about water that will also have great impacts on both future rivers and societies and their relationships. By giving emphasis to ideas of rivers as being something distinct from, but at the same time connected to, the physical character of the same river and its modifications through time, an analytical framework is provided that enables us to analyse both the differences and the connections between specific physical riverscapes (which will always be filtered through a wide range of cultural lenses), the modified and controlled water resources that exist at any given time (which will always reflect past actors’ ideas about their water and how it should be handled), and religious ideas, cultural conceptions and managerial plans regarding this river. This three-layered analytical approach aims at bringing studies of the relationship between rivers and society into mainstream historical research, by breaking away from the dominant reductionism of the social sciences that has tended to disregard the relevance of rivers and waterscapes in understanding historical and societal development. It will counter those traditions within social sciences that often see the natural world as just a stage where only human actions matter, and that conceive societal developments as something that can be explained in terms of social facts, only. The approach recovers rivers as an autonomous actor, and encourages research on the physical aspects of rivers and the relationship between rivers and society, but also, and at the same time, it encourages research that acknowledges that rivers and water always are understood through cultural lenses, and, more often than not, as natural structures manipulated by humans. The historical trend is, of course, clear: more and more river systems and waterscapes are the engineered results of

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interactions between natural waterscapes and human agency. To only focus these hydrosocial aspects of rivers in societies, however, will disregard how dependent societies in the past have been on the physical characters of rivers, and overlook the fact that modern societies have become more and more vulnerable to physical changes in the hydrological cycle because of their often huge impact on engineered river systems. While rivers and streams in modern societies have usually been modified (there are still exceptions), even the most tamed river is still exposed to changes in the hydrological cycle at different local, regional, global and atmospheric scales. Documenting and analysing these clearly distinguishable but interconnected layers will make it possible to conduct comparative studies within an analytical framework that at the same time is flexible and rigid. Research should be thought of as a tripartite exercise, studying the distinct layers and specifying the interactions between the physical aspects of rivers (hydrology, velocity, morphology etc.), the river control technologies and management practices, and the religious, cultural and political ideas of rivers and water bodies. The physical, material aspects of river systems and how they impacted human interactions with the waterscape is given credit, without compromising reflexive accounts of human action and consciousness. This approach recognises the crucial and potential page-turning role of human agency and the individual river entrepreneur, of whom there has been many throughout history, be it on the Nile, the Colorado or the Rhine. It is a research strategy that is concerned with understanding the relationship between rivers as nature, as engineered landscapes and as phenomena in societies, and at the same time overcoming the problem of nature determinism that has been prevalent in some analyses of rivers as sources of both conflict and cooperation, and in analyses of sociopolitical systems as mere reflections of river systems. The approach suggested here might encourage research on rivers and their societal roles that will not fall into the trap neither of mechanical determinism nor voluntarism, and most importantly, that can overcome the reductionist fallacy, affecting either the understanding of the river as agency or of humans as agency. The idea is to suggest an approach that might help encourage a kind of “total” river history, and than can write river histories into mainstream history. The analytical framework is thought useful for research that in different ways and with different ambitions aim to cover wide and varying aspects of the always particular nexus between rivers and societies over time. Now is the time for “river historians” to exploit what is, I think, a huge potential for fascinating narratives of the role of rivers and water for the general historical developments of regions, countries and continents.

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Bibliography Braudel 1966: Braudel, F., The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, vol. I (London 1966). Tvedt 2004b: Tvedt, T., A Bibliography on the River Nile. The River Nile and its Economic, Political, Social and Cultural Role (London: 2004). Tvedt 2004: Tvedt, T., The River Nile in the Age of the British. Political Ecology and the Quest for Economic Power (London/New York 2004 [paperback 2016]). Tvedt 2016: Tvedt, T., Water and Society. Changing Perceptions of Societal and Historical Development, International Library of Human Geography 30 (London/New York 2016).

Nicola Brauch

Didactics in Flux from a Mediterranean Perspective. The Nile’s Potential for Upper Secondary History Education 1 Introduction New conceptual approaches in the field of Mediterranean studies could give valuable impetus for history education, because they could be helpful in identifying authentic academic issues on a university-preparatory level. The expression ‘didactics in flux’ has been coined to indicate the exploratory, ‘fluvial’, character of the ideas proposed in this essay. To introduce students to new conceptual ideas like the Mediterranean approach in general and the fluvial perspective proposed in this volume specifically responds to a classical claim in German history didactics for more theory in the school history curriculum.1 In terms of learning outcomes, this article aims at analysing whether a Mediterranean river perspective could inspire new didactical ideas and so overcome students’ epistemological misconceptions concerning the nature of the domain of history.2 By and large, students find it difficult to think about history as a task to develop evidence-based explanations about temporal processes in the past, e.g., by asking and analysing questions of continuity and change.3 In this essay Mediterranean studies are argued to be a promising new area to conceptualize for learning assignments in university-preparatory classes aimed at overcoming students’ epistemological misconceptions. Thus, the key thoughts of Nicholas Purcell’s and Peregrine Horden’s paradigm, which is centred around the concept of connectivity4, and Terje Tvedt’s approach concerning “rivers of history” (in this volume) will be integratively analysed for the sake of example with respect to their didactical potential to foster students’ competence in historical reasoning5 in terms of the concept of continuity and change.6 It is assumed that the environment-society relationship addressed in Mediterranean studies is of relevance for present-day societies and therefore 1  Pandel 2017. 2  Mierwald et al. 2018. 3  Carretero et al. 2014. 4  Purcell 2003. 5  van Drie et al. 2008. 6  Seixas et al. 2013.

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has the potential to provoke historical questions. To learn to ask historical questions can be seen as one of the most important domain-specific competencies, at least at the upper secondary school level in university-preparatory learning environments.7 In line with this, the aim of the article is to investigate how the two conceptual ideas of Mediterranean connectivity8 and the water perspective offered in the analysis of “rivers of history” could be integrated in a framework for historical analysis.9 From a didactical perspective, such an integrative fluvial Mediterranean framework of analysis could be described as a result of didactical reconstruction for the purposes of history education.10 To apply this framework by working with primary and secondary sources, students’ epistemological beliefs could be influenced positively.11 As a prominent case of a Mediterranean river, the river Nile during the Ptolemaic Period (332–30 BC) has been chosen to exemplify the heuristic value of the two content-related theories in question: the connectivity heuristic on the one hand and the rivers-of-history heuristic on the other. It is argued that this period represents both historical continuity in the sense of the stability of the pharaonic system and historical change in the socio-cultural life of the societies living alongside the river Nile. Where didactics are concerned, the Ptolemaic Period could therefore be a significant period of continuity and change12, making it a promising choice of subject to foster students’ epistemological beliefs about the historical reasoning concept of continuity and change. Students in the university-preparatory level of upper secondary education ideally ‘know’ and/or ‘remember’ the river Nile from one of the first curricular topics in lower secondary education, often labelled ‘Egypt – an Early Civilisation’. This is the only common curricular topic thematising the effect of a (Mediterranean) river on the historical processes of (Western) civilization. In the related (Western) conventional history textbooks’ narratives, life in the Nile basin is given a central role. For these reasons, the topic seems to provide an ideal link between students’ prior knowledge and related epistemological beliefs and the current Mediterranean discourses. First, the river Nile will be briefly characterised geographically and it will be pointed out why the first cataract near Aswan can be seen as an interesting starting point to investigate the didactical potential of a Mediterranean fluvial perspective. Second, the concept of connectivity will be recapitulated and didactically analysed to focus on the river Nile as a river of the fluvial 7   van Drie et al. 2008; Schreiber 2008. 8   Purcell 2003. 9   Tvedt, in this volume. 10  Reinfried et al. 2009. 11  Mierwald et al. 2018; Stoel et al. 2016. 12  Seixas et al. 2013.

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Mediterranean area. Third, Tvedt’s proposal to reason historically about rivers of history will be used to focus more specifically on societies in the Nile basin. Fourth, a preliminary heuristic “from a water perspective” will be proposed and fifth be tested for the sake of example in order to historicise social life in the Nile basin.13 The article closes sixth with a conclusion and seventh with a short outlook. 2 The River Nile, the First Cataract and the Sea The river Nile is the longest river on earth (6852 km). Nowadays it originates in the mountains of Ruanda and Burundi and crosses Tanzania, Uganda, South Sudan and Sudan before reaching Upper and Lower Egypt and finally fanning out in two estuaries in the Nile Delta on the Mediterranean coast. Since ancient times, the course of the Nile has been characterised by six natural granitic rock cataracts, which interrupt the flow. The cataracts form natural boundaries between the river’s zones and thus pose a barrier to river traffic. The first cataract is located about thirteen kilometres south of the city of Aswan, very near to Elephantine Island which has been populated since the Old Egypt Kingdom (2686–2160 BC). Between the first cataract and the Nile Delta (ca. 1000 km), the annual flood occurred between June and October, bringing fertile silt to Upper and Lower Egypt and transforming desert landscapes into fields of grain. Resources such as limestone, alabaster and granite were quarried in the Nile valley, and gold and emeralds were mined in the desert between the Nile and the Red Sea. Shipping and trade along the Nile between the Egyptian and the cataract part of the Nile can be traced back to earliest times and was vital for the societies living there: “From the earliest times, expeditions concerned with trade, quarrying, and warfare brought the Egyptians into repeated contact with foreigners”.14 The Aswan dam, first constructed in 1902 and further developed in a large-scale project in 1971 stopped the annual flood. The area around the first cataract therefore is the crucial spatial point of reference. How the societies living in the Nile basin conceptualised this natural boarder could provide insights into their relationship, be it towards the South or be it towards the Mediterranean. Even today, the first cataract symbolises the geographical point at which the Mediterranean comes ‘into sight’, because the Nile does not encounter further cataracts on its way to the Delta. Didactically, the first cataract could be suitable for conceptualising the start of 13  Tvedt, in this volume. 14  Shaw 2000, 314.

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the learning process, because the site still exists and has the potential to raise historical questions concerning historical continuity and change in the riversociety relationship. 3 Egypt as Part of the “Corrupting Sea” The ideas of Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell will now be investigated from a didactic perspective in order to identify the core concepts. These will then be operationalized so as to give insight into the authentic methodology of historical research on the environment-society relationship in Egypt in ancient times. Specifically, I will briefly recapitulate and didactically analyse some core ideas of Horden’s and Purcell’s volume “The Corrupting Sea”15, as it has been further elaborated by Nicholas Purcell in reaction to some criticisms after the book’s first publication.16 Purcell differentiates four aspects of building “the Mediterranean into ‘connected histories’ of much larger geographical reference.”17 Pleading for a “distinctive Mediterranean history”, he suggests that the history of the Mediterranean world and that of the non-Mediterranean world differ in four distinctive ways: (1) A distinctive regime of risk, (2) a distinctive logic of production, (3) an extreme topographical fragmentation (“micro-region”) with influence on diversification, storage and redistribution, and (4) a distinctive regime of communication. He concludes “[…] the key variable in assessing the social and economic character of any Mediterranean micro-region at a given historical moment was connectivity.”18 Unlike conventional definitions of boundaries such as climate, environment and cultural traces of both, the connectivity paradigm investigates “paroxysms of diversity” by observing the paroxysms of all four factors. The “sheer intensity and complexity of the ingredients of the paradigm” make the core difference between the Mediterranean and its neighbouring zones.19 From this perspective, social and economic developments interact with the specific environmental conditions of the Mediterranean (Figure 4.1). 15  Horden et al. 2000. 16  Purcell 2003. 17  Purcell 2003, 9–10. 18  Purcell 2003, 10. 19  Purcell 2003, 13.

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Figure 4.1 General Framework of Research about the specific Mediterranean “Paroxysms of Diversity” (Purcell 2003)

Moreover, communication is conceptualised to basically serve production. States (or nations) are seen as one of many variables. In contrast to conventional narratives dealing with the Mediterranean, the concept of connectivity stresses communication as the backbone of Mediterranean connectivity focusing predominantly on concerns of production. Furthermore, Purcell states that the connectivity paradigm differs from ideas of a “romantic Mediterranean” because it does not relate to “political and cultural hegemonies […] of the sort that Europeans have taken for granted since the Enlightenment […]” but rather to the contemporary concepts developed by Greeks and Romans, who postulated “The Corrupting Sea”.20 Thus, the Mediterranean is considered to be “a medium resisting homogeneity”, 20  Purcell 2003, 16.

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accompanied by “order, and social control.” This interplay allowed for a stable “source of change and contestation”. To sum up Purcell’s approach, the specific connectivity of the Mediterranean can be described distinctively in terms of (1) risk, (2) production, (3) fragmentation (micro-region), and (4) communication.21 According to Purcell the interrelationship (“paroxysms”) of these four aspects could be investigated by regarding Mediterranean societies as “part of a matrix of interdependence which was reflected in their culture and organisation” on the one hand, and the larger picture of the matrix’ own specific interdependencies on the other hand, looking at the “frontier zones”/“espaces transitoires” of the Mediterranean instead of thinking in “linear boundaries”.22 Consequently, the purpose of a related research programme would be to describe the “spectrum of productive possibilities which characterizes the Mediterranean.” Following Purcell, the cultural category is challenged by the concept of “espaces transitoires” and related social processes.23 In the case of societies in the Nile Basin as a Mediterranean micro-region this would mean to investigate and identify the Mediterranean “espaces transitoires” of the Nile. To summarize, the four aspects of Mediterranean connectivity24 could lead to the following preliminary questions: (1) What was the regime of risk in the societies living in the Nile basin? – What kind of risks can be observed and how were they managed? – Which of the risks to be observed can be linked specifically to risks and risk management relating to the Mediterranean? (2) What was the logic of production to be observed in the Nile basin? – What were the conditions for successful production and trading? – What kind of conditions resulted from the relationship between the Nile basin and the Mediterranean? (3) To what extent can one argue that the Nile basin showed extreme topographical fragmentation (“micro-region”) and what were the implications for diversification, storage and redistribution? – What are the characteristic topographical fragmentations ‘designed’ by the Nile basin landscape? – Which of these characteristics are related to the topographical conditions of the Mediterranean?

21  Purcell 2003. 22  Purcell 2003, 19–20. 23  Purcell 2003. 24  Purcell 2003.

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(4) What kind of regimes of communication can be observed over time? – What kind of communication systems are specific to the societies living in the Nile basin? – Are there specific systems relating the Nile basin’s societies with the Mediterranean? Only a few considerations can be pointed out here concerning hypothetical theories about potential directions for analysing these questions. It is important to be aware of the two main points resulting from the connectivity paradigm from a didactical perspective – change as the epistemic indicator for the factor time and the broader matrix of interdependencies as the epistemic indicator for the factor space. With the establishment of Macedonian Rule over Egypt in 332 BC, all four aspects of distinction described by Purcell began to change because the connectivity web was no longer a mostly Levant- or Nubia-focused matrix of interdependencies used to claim power over neighbouring societies. With Alexander the Great and his successors, especially the early Ptolemies, the focus of Mediterranean communication shifted towards Greek and later to Roman harbours, whereas in former times, Egypt had attracted workers from the Mediterranean.25 In the following preliminary considerations, I focus only on this change and its consequences for the Mediterranean character of connectivity for the societies living in the part of the Nile basin up to the first cataract. Alexander’s Egypt included the Nile basin from the Delta to the first cataract near Elephantine Island. He and his successors had first of all to manage the problem of the Kingdom’s fragile unity as a conditio sine qua non for cultural, social and economic prosperity. Clearly, this could have been one of the reasons for ruling Egypt as a pharaoh in line with indigenous traditions. By doing so, the new rulers achieved support from the mighty priests of the Ancient Egyptian religion. This support would turn out to be the best guarantee to maintain a united kingdom under a religiously legitimized pharaoh, finding acceptance among the societies in the Nile basin between the Mediterranean and the first cataract. Famous evidence of this was the priests’ decree documented in the Rosetta Stone.26 Alexander and his successors combined this conservative strategy with the innovative introduction of Greek culture, mentality and thinking. The will to keep the Nile basin’s territories united through a certain amount of cultural continuity had a decisively Mediterranean focus: “The most effective methods for running the land of Egypt had been devised by the ancient 25  Buraselis, Stefanou and Thompson, 2013. 26  Lloyd 2000, 414–415.

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Egyptians themselves. This the Ptolemies knew full well and contented themselves essentially with refining this ancient system in the interest of maximum economic return.”27 Thus, historical processes of continuity and change in the societies of the Nile basin can be analysed from a fluvial Mediterranean perspective in the Ptolemaic period. During this time fluvial Mediterranean societies’ functional communication matrix encompassed the Mediterranean Nile with its “espace transistoire” being located near the first cataract, represented in Elephantine Island. In the next section, the concept of Mediterranean connectivity will be challenged with Tvedt’s concept of rivers of history.28 4 The Nile in a Joint Fluvial-Mediterranean Perspective To didactically reconstruct the specific Mediterranean approach centred around the notion of connectivity29 with respect to a historical perspective on societies living in the Nile valley, Tvedt’s concept will be integrated into the overarching Mediterranean concept. Tvedt proposes three layers of investigation: first, the physical characteristics of rivers; second, river control and anthropogenic changes; and third, ideas about rivers and conceptualizations of river basins. His approach is based strictly on a river perspective to analyse social and cultural phenomena. The river perspective and the cultural aspect are related to Purcell’s concept of Mediterranean connectivity, resulting in a framework of analysis from a fluvial-Mediterranean perspective (table 4.1). Table 4.1 Integrative Framework of Analysis from a fluvial-Mediterranean Perspective

Layer 1 Layer 2 Layer 3

Analytical Framework (Tvedt, in this volume): River Effects on Societies

Framework of Mediterranean Connectivity (Purcell 2003)

Physical characteristics of rivers River control and anthropogenic changes Ideas about rivers and conceptualizations of river basins

Risks and fragmentation Logic of production

27  Lloyd 2000, 407; see also 41. 414. 28  Tvedt, in this volume. 29  Purcell 2003.

System of communication

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In this framework, the first layer defined by Tvedt deals with the “physical characteristics of rivers”. This is hypothetically related to the two Mediterranean concepts of risks and fragmentation. In the case of the Nile basin (figure 4.2) this would lead to the physical and geographical characteristics affecting social life along the Nile up to the Delta. The second layer “River control and anthropogenic changes” focuses on the societal effects of river-related conditions. From a river perspective, the aspect of the distinct Mediterranean logic of production could be illustrated by the development of instruments to control the Nile’s annual inundation, e.g., the invention of the Nilometer to measure the water levels reached during the flood.

Figure 4.2 Matrix of investigation: the river Nile in a fluvial-mediterranean perspective

Taking Tvedt’s order of layers seriously it is not by chance that the third layer “Ideas about rivers and conceptualisations of river basins” could be interpreted as a result of the former two. In fact, both of the two last layers can be read as consequences emerging from the first one which focuses on the river’s physical properties.30 To exemplify the logic of the framework (table 4.1), it will be applied to Terje Oestigaard’s case study on the Osiris cult.31 Oestigaard invites his readers to see water not only as a specific perspective in the study of history “but also the primary data in itself.”32 In the case of the Nile, the river’s annual flood is at 30  Tvedt, in this volume. 31  Oestigaard 2010. 32  Oestigaard 2010. 74.

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the centre of interest for him, because this is the most obvious manifestation of the river’s physical characteristics, closely related to the possibilities of production. In his study, Oestigaard investigates the effects of the physical properties of the Nile as the core variable to explain human agency (river control and anthropogenic changes) as well as the development of ideas and conceptualisations about the Nile. In the following I will try to combine the theoretical suggestions of Tvedt33 with Oestigaard’s hypothesis that it “was the actual character of the Nile, its seasonal fluctuations, changes in colours and physical properties, which literally was the source for ancient Egyptian mythology and the constitution of their culture and cosmology”.34 Oestigaard relates the “physical properties” (Tvedt’s layer 1) with written evidence of ideas about the river Nile (mythology, culture, cosmology: Tvedt’s layer 3) such as Pyramid Texts and papyri. From a didactical perspective I suggest widening the learning material with evidence provided by archeological sites and monuments to analyse historical processes of river control and anthropogenic changes (Tvedt’s layer 2) related to the river’s physical properties. The didactical aim to sample learning material encompassing texts as well as photographs, maps and artifacts for universitypreparatory level courses, aims to give students insight into diverse disciplines investigating history. A second reason to include archeological evidence in a potential learning assignment is related to the currently discussed relationship between language and the domain of history. For students without a sound command of German it could be easier to learn active historical reasoning by discussing visual material instead of texts. From a content perspective this broader evidence could give further insights into the interrelationships between the Nile’s physical properties and its economy and culture. In doing so, the investigation of the river’s physical properties extends the specific fluvial-Mediterranean relationship between societies’ communication serving the Nile-related logic of production, both of which represent Mediterranean connectivity.35 This means asking the historical question, how the Nile-related logic of production influenced both the communication among the societies involved and their regimes for dealing with risks, taking into account the physical characteristics of the river Nile. Following Oestigaard’s theoretical presumptions and the results of his study, the Nile’s specific physical properties during ancient times will first be described and related to specific risks and the region’s fragmentation 33  Tvedt, in this volume. 34  Oestigaard 2010, 73. 35  Purcell 2003.

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(representing the epistemic concept of continuity). Second, the Nile’s specific physical properties will be related to evidence of river control and anthropogenic changes as well as to the effects of the logic of production (representing the epistemic concept of change). And third, the Nile’s specific physical properties and river-related ideas will be proposed as a fluvial-Mediterranean system of communication based on mythology, culture and cosmology (representing the epistemic concept of contemporaneous processes of continuity and change). 5 The Nile’s Physical Properties From a geographical perspective, a crucial characteristic of the river Nile are the six cataracts, which separate the ‘Egyptian’ part of the Nile between the first cataract and the Nile Delta from the ‘Cataract’ part of the Nile. Elephantine Island is situated north of the first cataract. The idea of a social unity between Elephantine and the Delta area can be traced back to the Predynastic Period (c. 5300–3000 BC). On a basic level, one can argue that the Mediterranean fragmentation of the Nile basin is represented in the espace transitoire area around Elephantine. Whereas the espace transitoire in the South was characterised by the first cataract situation, the area in the Nile Delta was dominated by the many Nile branches. Thus, the physical characteristics of the Nile in Upper Egypt were determined by the specific situation of the Nile branches, which formed the landscape between Memphis and the Mediterranean Sea. The factor that linked societies of the Nile basin between the first cataract and the Delta was the experience of the annual flood and the related risks and/or chances of famine and prosperity. Following Oestigaard’s argumentation, the most important physical characteristic of the Nile is to be seen in the changing colours of the river during the onset, process and ending of the annual inundation. This change of colour, he submits, was first to be observed after the river’s waters crossed the first cataract, indicating the beginning of the flood around the middle of July.36 This inflow has been explained traditionally by the fact that the White Nile, coming from Sudan, and the Blue Nile coming from Ethiopia converged near Khartoum (Sudan) with the Red Nile. Although it is impossible to observe the colour changes caused by the inflow from the Egyptian part of the Nile basin since the Aswan Dam was built in 1902, Oestigaard claims that it is possible 36  Oestigaard 2010.

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to draw analogies by observing the present situation in Khartoum. Based on the results of this observation, he states that the Nile gained its red colour in the area around Elephantine during the flood (June–October). From a complex analysis of the materials transported by the river as well as the quantity of inflows from the White and the Blue Nile Oestigaard concludes that when the flood receded in autumn, the colour of the Egyptian Nile became increasingly milky, changing again to green as the water level subsided with plants and mud determining the river’s colour. As one possible reason for this colour changing process he argues that during May most of the Nile’s water stems from the White Nile, which is characterized by a yellow-green colour. In the following weeks, the inflow of water from the Blue Nile begins to increase, so that green changes to red. Later on, when the Nile begins to turn red in early June in the area of Aswan and Elephantine, the river’s water could have been mostly influenced by the fertile mud stemming from the Ethiopian mountains due to the inflow of the Blue Nile and that of the Atbara River. Thus, before the Aswan dam was built in 1902, the red water of the flood could have reached the Delta zone during the second half of July and the receding process could have begun during October. The changing of the river’s colour could therefore have been used as indicators for the flood’s progress, first to be observed on Elephantine Island. Since the Old Kingdom (2686–2160 BC) Elephantine Island had been linked with the news about the onset of the flood in general and its actual quality in particular.37 To conclude: On Elephantine, the first indicators of the imminent annual flood could have been observed during June with the river’s water changing colour from milky to green, and then to red, indicating the beginning of the flood in mid-July. The function of observing the Nile’s changing colours and communicating the news to the other Egyptian nomes (local units of administration along the Nile) could explain the crucial role that Elephantine played from the early times of the unified kingdom on, as Oestigaard states.38 As an effect of the physical properties of the Nile, the cataracts and the changing colours related to the annual flood phenomenon, social life on Elephantine was prominently influenced by its role as the Nile’s custodian. The network of Nilometers between the first cataract and the Mediterranean is evidence of the risk management system which society in the Nile basin developed to predict the volume of the flood. To sum up, as a result of the Nile’s physical properties, the annual flood between the first cataract and the Mediterranean formed the “Egyptian Civilisation of Inundation”.39 37  Assmann 2005. 38  Oestigaard 2010, 80. 39  Oestigaard 2010.

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Consequence 1: River Control and Anthropogenic Changes with Respect to the Logic of Grain Production According to Oestigaard’s approach, one can interpret the changing colours of the Nile’s water as one of the river’s crucial natural characteristics, influencing the river societies’ logic of grain production as the mainstay of Egypt’s economy. The idea of unified rule over the whole Nile basin between the first cataract and the Mediterranean was related to river control and technology to capitalize on the benefits of the annual flood in order to produce and to trade in grain. Beginning with the Old Dynasty (2686–2160 BC), the most important characteristic in times of unification was the central control of the flood in all 42 nomes. Control over the whole length of the Nile between the first cataract and the Mediterranean was crucial for wealth, trade and possibilities to extend Egypt’s influence beyond the first cataract in the south and the Levant zone in the south-east. Since early Ptolemaic rule (305–221 BC) this logic began to shift towards and over the Mediterranean: ‘Seaways’ crossing the Mediterranean began to function as ‘grainways’ on a Mediterranean scale.40 As Buraselis has shown, the Ptolemaic grainway initiatives began to decline towards the end of the reign of Ptolemy III Euergetes I (246–221 BC) – in parallel with the rise of Roman power. Nevertheless, from the third century BC onwards, the logic of grain production as a result of the annual flood can be characterized in terms of Mediterranean connectivity. An important precondition for successfully implementing the new Mediterranean policy, the Ptolemies needed stable acceptance of their kingdom over the 42 nomes. To put themselves in the long tradition of the pharaonic system it was therefore decisive to legitimize their rule and to gain the support of the Egyptian priests, demonstrating continuity with predynastic times. One example of river control policy resulting in anthropogenic changes since the earliest times is the canal system in the Nile Delta. Consequence 2: Conceptualisation of the Nile: the Osiris Myth as a River-born Communication System The Mediterranean-oriented part of the Nile basin is conceptualised in the social and spatial micro-regions along the river between the Delta zone and the first cataract. These so-called ‘nomes’ can be traced back to the Predynastic 40  Buraselis 2013, 106.

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Period. Since this time Elephantine was the capital of the first nomos of the twenty-two nomes of Upper Egypt, and Memphis was the capital of the first nomos of the twenty Lower Egyptian nomes. Accordingly, Memphis and Elephantine can be seen as the social, river-related landmarks defining the specific communication modes of the river landscape. Thus, one could differentiate between the Mediterranean-related communication perspective of the ‘Egyptian’ Nile in contrast to the Nubia-related ‘Cataract’ Nile communication systems. In this communication system Elephantine can be seen as the crucial espace transitoire in both directions: towards the Nubian area in the South and towards the Mediterranean in the North. The best guarantee for successful risk management and grain production based on the benefits of the Nile’s annual flood was legitimized and effective rule. Looking at Oestigaard’s study41, one can find arguments for a crucial connectivity between river-focused mythologies and the concept of pharaonic rule. Following Tvedt’s theory, rivers can be conceptualised as “being distinct from, but at the same time connected to the physical character of the same river and its modifications through time”.42 In the case of the Nile, Elephantine Island has been identified as a crucial place where the physical character of the Nile, i.e. the annual inundation, interacted with the “modified layers” (Tvedt) of the Nile’s system represented in the Nilometer situated near or as part of one of the island’s sacred sites. In line with this is Oestigaard’s argument that the physical characteristics of the Nile “were, as a hypothesis, the basis and origin for the Osiris mythology as it is testified in the Pyramid Texts and later traditions.”43 Perhaps the most important aspect of this theory might be seen in the observation that there have never been ‘Nile gods’ although the term has been used since it was first introduced by Champollion in 1844.44 Instead, there were ideas of river-inherent powers, representing the narrative of a cyclical time concept. This seasonal cycle had been narrated in terms of the mythology of Osiris since the times of the pyramid-building Pharaohs. In the myth Osiris is drowned by his brother Seth, owner of the solar eye. Horus, son of Osiris, therefore slayed Seth and gave the Eye of the Sun to Osiris. The Eye of the Sun or ‘the Eye of Horus’ represents rejuvenating power.45 Related to this account is a further narrative: Seth inflicted a wound on Osiris’ leg, and from this wound the annual flood emerged.46 In the myth, Elephantine 41  Oestigaard 2010. 42  Tvedt, in this volume. 43  Oestigaard 2010, 86. 44  Oestigaard 2010, 72. 45  Oestigaard 2010, 75–76. 46  Oestigaard 2010, 76.

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is conceptualised as Osiris’ wound and the god’s leg is conceptualised as the territorial concept of ‘all Egypt’. Osiris represented Egypt with his body, in one version thought of as fragmented into the 42 nomes of ‘all Egypt’; in another version the 42 nomes are thought of as Osiris’ limbs.47 Oestigaard explains convincingly how the colour-changing Nile is mirrored in the Osiris myth as the dominant Egyptian Nile-related idea. In this perspective, the green water in spring is related to Elephantine: The water was interpreted as flowing out of Osiris’ wound (Elephantine) and flooding Egypt during summer, indicated by the water now changed to red. Red signalled both the killing of Osiris by Seth and the rejuvenating power of water, giving new life to Osiris. This Nile concept was the mythological foundation of the pharaonic system.48 There was no flood without Osiris, without the Nile, without the Pharaoh. It was the Pharaoh who influenced the quality of inundation, as evidenced by the lists of pharaohs in combination with the Nile levels (e.g. the Palermo Stone). In line with this Nile-related concept, the death of a Pharaoh signalled the risk of damage for the unity of the river basin’s societies, and this risk was managed in terms of the Osiris mythology. The dead King became Osiris and the new King became Horus, crowned only in times of the incipient or receding flood when the Nile was red. These complex transformation processes were moderated by the death cult, representing the unity of Egypt and as a guarantee for the continuation of both the inundation cycle and the pharaonic system. The physical properties of a Mediterranean river are an inspiring starting point from which to investigate the fluvial Mediterranean, combining Mediterranean theories like those provided by Horden and Purcell and rivercentred theories like the one proposed in this volume by Tvedt.49 In the case of the Nile, the approach and results of Oestigaard’s study prove the analytical potential of such an attempt.50 They also demonstrate the complexity and challenges of such interdisciplinary work. 6 Conclusion: Preliminary Ideas for a ‘Didactics in Flux’ The aim of this explorative essay was to make an integrative investigation of two new methodological approaches in the field of Mediterranean studies, focusing on rivers as a content-related didactical analysis in the context 47  Oestigaard 2010, 77. 48  Oestigaard 2010, 89–91. 49  Horden et al. 2000; Tvedt, in this volume. 50  Oestigaard 2010.

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of theoretical lesson planning in history to improve students’ epistemological beliefs about the concept of continuity and change.51 Peter Seixas and Tom Morton define “Change [as] a process, with varying paces and patterns. Turning points are moments when the process of change shifts in direction or pace.”52 They discern two prototypes of students’ potential understanding. As a typical pattern for one student’s demonstration of “limited understanding” they remark “Student sees change in the past as a series of events”. As a typical pattern for another student’s demonstration of “powerful understanding” they point out “Student describes the varying pace and direction of change and identifies turning points”. Thus, the following idea for lesson planning aims at helping students to overcome the status of limited understanding. Lesson planning on a superficial level means, first, to consider an overarching historical question, second, to choose learning material and to define the learning outcome, and, third, to sequence the lesson.53 These three planning ingredients are not to be seen in strict chronological order, but rather, they are to be treated flexibly, depending on the starting point of the didactical idea.54 In our particular case, the didactical idea starts with the content-related concept of Mediterranean studies as a heuristic for lesson planning in upper secondary education (university-preparatory level). The learning process could be initiated by an overarching question explicitly addressing the turning point of 1902, when the Aswan Dam was built and the socio-ecological water system in the Nile basin changed after thousands of years. The overarching question “What changed with the building of the Aswan Dam in 1902?” will be didactically conceptualised by applying the three layers illustrated in Figure 3 to structure the learning sequence and thus foster the historical thinking concept of continuity and change.55 To discuss the turning point of 1902 critically, students first need to learn about the physical characteristics of the Nile (Layer 1). Where the sample of learning material is concerned, it is proposed to introduce Oestigaard’s approach and to first encourage students to reconstruct the physical characteristics of the Nile along with related risks and to analyse the fragmentation of the Nile basin. Furthermore, the purpose and occurrence of Nilometers (e.g., using a photograph) and especially their use on Elephantine Island (e.g., using both a historical and a current map) could serve as additional learning material. 51  Seixas et al. 2013. 52  Seixas et al. 2013, 86. 53  Brauch et al. 2015. 54  Brauch 2015. 55  Seixas et al. 2013.

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Students could learn to overcome explicitly their limited understanding by considering the long-term development of the Nile’s physical characteristics (Oestigaard). After this sequence the matrix of investigation could be explained to students (Figure 2). Based on their preconceptions about Egypt’s history they could now form hypotheses about the impact of the Nile on river control and anthropogenic changes (Layer 2) during ancient times up to 1902 and think about the consequences for trade and production. To analyse the hypothesis, Buraselis’ text would be helpful learning material. To finish this sequence it would be appropriate to discuss consequences by coming back to the aspects of Layer 1, initiating a discussion about the impact of river control and anthropogenic changes and the effect of further variables. The third sequence would highlight the links between the physical properties of the Nile (Layer 1) and the related socio-economic phenomena (Layer 2) and introduce the complex theory developed by Oestigaard about river-related ideas and conceptualisations (Layer 3). The lesson would end with a discussion about rivers in present-day river societies, their physical characteristics and their impact on socio-economic and socio-cultural discourse. At this point the scientific discourse about the concept of the Mediterranean in historiography could also be introduced and discussed based on the particular subject of the lesson and the students’ understanding of the Mediterranean. Thus, the long-term development of the river Nile in relationship to the societies living on its shores could be a helpful subject matter to foster students’ “powerful understanding” of the concept of change by describing “the varying paces and directions of change” of the Nile from a fluvial-Mediterranean perspective and by identifying and discussing relevant turning points. 7 Outlook Concepts and topics of Mediterranean studies appear to have rich didactical potential for innovative lessons in history education (‘History Didactics in Flux’). As shown theoretically, the fluvial-Mediterranean focus could be used to design lessons aimed at fostering historical thinking skills in explicitly epistemologically designed history lessons, such as, for example, enhancing the use of the concept of continuity and change. Focusing on the Egyptian Nile in terms of concepts of fluvial-Mediterranean studies could therefore be a promising project for history lesson development in the future. Nevertheless, further research on an interdisciplinary level is necessary, ideally including specialists in Egyptology, Ancient History and History Didactics. This at least could be an idea to bring further impetus to a content-related ‘History Didactics in Flux’.

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Bibliography Assmann 2005: Assmann, J., Death and Salvation in Ancient Egypt (Ithaca/London 2005). Brauch 2015: Brauch, N., Geschichtsdidaktik, Akademie Studienbücher – Geschichte (Berlin/Boston 2015). Brauch et al. 2015: Brauch, N. – Wäschle, K. – Lehmann, T. – Nückles, M., Das Lernergebnis im Visier – Theoretische Fundierung eines fachdidaktischen Kompetenzstrukturmodells „Kompetenz zur Entwicklung und Bewertung von Aufgaben im Fach Geschichte“, in: Koch-Priewe, B. – Köker, A. – Seifried, J. – Wuttke, E. (eds.), Kompetenzerwerb an Hochschulen: Modellierung und Messung. Zur Professionalisierung angehender Lehrerinnen und Lehrer sowie frühpädagogischer Fachkräfte (Bad Heilbrunn 2015) 81–104. Buraselis 2013: Buraselis, K., Ptolemaic Grain, Seaways and Power, in: Buraselis, K. – Stefanou, M. – Thompson, D. J. (eds.), The Ptolemies, the Sea and the Nile. Studies in Waterborne Power (Cambridge 2013) 97–108. Carretero et al. 2014: Carretero, M. – Lee, P., Learning Historical Concepts, in: Sawyer, R. (ed.), The Cambridge Handbook of the Learning Sciences, Cambridge Handbooks in Psychology (2nd ed. New York 2014) 587–604. van Drie et al. 2008: van Drie, J. – van Boxtel, C., Historical Reasoning: Towards a Framework for Analyzing Students’ Reasoning about the Past, Educational Psychology Review 20 (2), 2008, 87–110. Horden et al. 2000: Horden, P. – Purcell, N., The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford 2000). Lloyd 2000: Lloyd, A. B., The Ptolemaic Period (332–30 BC), in: Shaw, I. (ed.), The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt (Oxford 2000) 395–422. Mierwald et al. 2018: Mierwald, M., Lehmann, T. & Brauch, N., Zur Veränderung epistemologischer Überzeugungen im Schülerlabor: Authentizität von Lernmaterial als Chance der Entwicklung einer wissenschaftlich angemessenen Überzeugungshaltung im Fach Geschichte?, in: Unterrichtswissenschaft (2018). https://doi. org/10.1007/s42010-018-0019-7. Oestigaard 2010: Oestigaard, T., Osiris and the Egyptian Civilisation of Inundation: The Pyramids, the Pharaohs and Their Water World, in: Tvedt, T. – Coopey, R. (eds.), A History of Water, vol. 2, 2: From the Birth of Agriculture to Modern Times (London/ New York 2010) 72–99. Pandel 2017: Pandel, H.-J., Geschichtstheorie. Eine Historik für Schülerinnen und Schüler – aber auch für ihre Lehrer, Forum Historisches Lernen (Schwalbach/Ts. 2017). Purcell 2003: Purcell, N., Boundless Sea of Unlikeness? On Defining the Mediterranean, Mediterranean Historical Review 18, 2003, 9–29.

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Reinfried et al. 2009: Reinfried, S. – Mathis, Chr. – Kattmann, U., Das Modell der Didaktischen Reduktion – eine innovative Methode zur fachdidaktischen Erforschung und Entwicklung von Unterricht, Beiträge zur Lehrerbildung 27 (3), 2009, 404–414. Schreiber 2008: Schreiber, W., Ein Kompetenz-Strukturmodell historischen Denkens, in: Zeitschrift für Pädagogik 54, 2008 (2), 198–212. Seixas et al. 2013: Seixas, P. – Morton, T., The Big Six Historical Thinking Concepts (Toronto 2013). Shaw 2000: Shaw, I., Egypt and The Outside World, in: Shaw, I. (ed.), The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt (Oxford 2000) 314–330. Stoel et al. 2016: Stoel, G. L. – van Drie, J. P. – van Boxtel, C. A. M., The Effects of Explicit Teaching of Strategies, Second-order Concepts, and Epistemological Underpinnings on Students’ Ability to Reason Causally in History, Journal of Educational Psychology 109 (3), 321–337, [online] Available at: [Accessed 30 July 2018].

Mediterranean Rivers

Simon Hoffmann

Carian Catchments. Considering the Geographical and Historical Significance of River Valleys 1 Does Small Mean Irrelevant? Starting Point and Questions It is well-known how great rivers like the Nile, the Danube or the Euphrates have determined the living environment and the possibilities for traffic and economy for the inhabitants of the region. In some cases the rivers actually dominated important parts of the societies in a cultural or economic dimension to such a degree that it is appropriate to speak of river cultures. But on the whole, regions in which there are only rivers of moderate or small size are of course far more numerous. This is especially true for the Mediterranean zone where many places exhibit the typical regional climate with strongly differing amounts of precipitation during the summer and winter season. Besides, several of the coastal strips are characterised by a very pronounced geographical relief. Both factors favour small-scale valley systems often even without perennial streams. Therefore the courses of small rivers, often in a lower mountain range, are quite characteristic of the Mediterranean region. Their social and economic role may be less obvious when compared to the Nile in Egypt. But was it less fundamental for this reason? Based on the example of Caria during antiquity this paper discusses the importance of such smaller rivers. The landscape of Caria in southwestern Asia Minor offers many contrasts. In the south and west there are long stretches on the coast of the Mediterranean and several river valleys provide easy access to the interior. Then again, the hinterland of Inner or High Caria is dominated by mountain ridges, deep valleys and wide highlands. The sharp contrast between excellent accessibility from the wider Mediterranean and extremely secluded areas has influenced the regional historical development at various instances and can serve as a starting point. To understand what significance the rivers and valleys had in this specific geographical situation it seems useful to follow two separate tracks. First, the role of the rivers in the historical geography of Caria will be discussed without limitation to a specific epoch. However, human interaction with rivers and valleys can only be traced in a defined historical setting. Thus,

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in a second step the relations between the inhabitants and their rivers from the Hecatomnid period in the 4th century BC until the high time of the Roman Empire during the 2nd century AD will be considered as an example. In conclusion these thoughts on the geographical and historical significance of river valleys will be taken to a more general level. I hope to show the potential that also minor rivers may have when analysing the history of a landscape and will suggest where and how a historical analysis of smaller river systems can provide new insights for antiquity. 2 Implications of the Natural Environment The borders of Caria are most easily visible to us during the period of Hectomnid rule in the 4th century BC because during these decades the geographical region also formed a contiguous political unit. The Hecatomnid sphere included the whole area between the Maeander valley in the north and the Ceramic gulf in the south (fig. 5.11). Limits and Outward Connections Cultural and political affiliation was not always clear for the border zones. The peninsula of Cnidus forms part of the mainland and must certainly be included with Caria, but because of its geography it rather resembles a true island (cf. Hdt. 1, 174), especially after the city was moved to the western headland of Cape Crio. Caunus and the Rhodian Peraia form part of Caria, too. But their location on the southern coast implicates a strong maritime orientation and brought along frequent contacts with Lycia and the regions beyond. The lower Maeander valley with the cities of Priene, Magnesia, Miletus and Heraclea on the Latmic Gulf clearly belongs to Caria from a geographical viewpoint. But cultural identity was dominated by the perceived Ionian or Aeolian Greek descent. The cities on the north side of the Maeander valley had a similarly ambivalent position as emerges from Strabo’s descriptions.2 The fuzziness of 1  The printed coastline at the mouth of the Maeander is that of the later Hellenistic time; for the marshland at the eastern end of the Gulf of Iasos detailed chronology is missing. The shaded relief is based on the Advanced Spaceborne Thermal Emission and Reflection Radiometer Global Digital Elevation Model version 2. ASTER GDEM v. 2 is a product of the Japanese Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry (METI) and the US National Aeronautic and Space Administration (NASA). 2  Strab. 14, 1, 42 [C 648]: “After Magnesia comes the road to Tralleis, with Mt. Mesogis on the left, and, at the road itself and on the right, the plain of the Maeander River, which is

Figure 5.1 Map of Caria with relief, larger rivers and discussed traffic connections Copyright by the author

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the regional borders of Caria surely is no coincidence, since the cities just mentioned differ from those in the interior in one point: they are either located on the coast or in the wide Maeander valley and thus share easy access to longdistance routes. Excellent outward connectivity is obvious for the coastal settlements and can accordingly be shown in several aspects.3 A quick glance at the Athenian Tribute Lists is sufficient to illustrate how closely the coastal cities of southwestern Asia Minor were connected to the wider Greek Aegean.4

occupied by Lydians and Carians, and by Ionians, both Milesians and Myesians, and also by the Aeolians of Magnesia. And the same kind of topographical account applies as far as Nysa and Antiocheia.” – Strab. 14, 2, 1 [C 651]: “Coming now to the far side of the Maeander, the parts that remain to be described are all Carian, since here the Lydians are no longer intermingled with the Carians, and the latter occupy all the country by themselves, except that a segment of the seaboard is occupied by Milesians and Myesians.” – See also Strab. 14, 1, 38 [C 647]. 3  There is widespread evidence for a significant number of foreigners – also from remote places of origin – living in the cities, e.g. for Iasos see Delrieux 2005a and Delrieux 2005b. International treaties show far-reaching political relations (e.g. to Crete: Milet I 3, 140 A–C or IMagnesia 65). 4  Most larger and many small Carian cities paid tribute to the Athenian confederation of the 5th century BC, several of them even though situated inland: Ephesus: ATL I, 276–277; II, 80; G(azetteer): I, 488 – Isinda I, 292–293; G: I, 493; II, 80 – P(h)ygela: I, 390–391; II, 82; G: I, 543 – Priene: I, 388–389; G: I, 542 – Maiandrioi: I, 336–337; G: I, 514–515 – Teichioussa: I, 418–419; II, 82–83; G: I, 553–554 – Miletus: I, 342–343; II, 81; G: I, 519–520, see II, 86 – Leros: I, 330–331; II, 81; G: I, 510–511 – Latmos: I, 328–329; G: I, 510. “For the Ναξιᾶται on the northern slope of the mountain, northeast of Herakleia, see s. v.” – Euromos: I, 432–433; II, 83; G: I, 559–560 – Pedasa: I, 376–377; II, 82; G: I, 535–538 – Chalketor: I, 436–437; G: I, 561 – Hydai/ Kydaies: I, 320–321; G: I, 507 – Hymisses: I, 432–433; G: I, 559 – Mylasa: I, 346–347; G: I, 522; II, 86. The city may have been the centre of the syntely of 425 BC (cf. Τάραμπτος). – Alinda: I, 226–227; II, 79; G: I, 467–468 – Κρουσῆς/Krouses: I, 318–319; G: I, 506–507 – Κᾶρες ὧν Τύμνης ἄρχει: I, 296–297; G: I, 495 – Bargylia: I, 244–245; G: I, 474 – Kindye: I, 312–313; G: I, 503 – Iasos: I, 286–287; II, 80; G: I, 491–492; II, 86 – Kildara: I, 310–311; G: I, 502 – Hydissos: I, 430–431; G: I, 558 – Myndos ‘near Termera’: I, 348–349; G: I, 522–523 – Syangela (predecessor of Theangela, thence ruled by one Πίκρες [Πίγρες, Πίτρες]): I, 414–415; II, 82; G: I, 551–552. Neighbouring Amynanda is sometimes included with Syangela, in list A9 also with the Carian syntely: I, 230–231; G: I, 468–469 – Ceramus: I, 306–307; II, 81; G: I, 500–501 – Kedreai I, 304–305; II, 80; G: I, 500 – Idyma and Καρυῆς παρὰ Ἰδυμα: I, 300–301; G: I, 498–499 – Caunus: I, 304–305; G: I, 499; G: II, 86. “The coastal neighbours of Kaunos (Πασανδῆς and Καρβασυανδῆς) continue to pay as well.” – Knidos: I, 314–315; II, 81; G: I, 504 – Places on Kos still listed separately: Κῷοι: I, 326–327; G: I, 509; Ἀστυπαλαιῆς: I, 240–241; G: I, 472. Probably from Kos also the Πελειᾶται. – Halicarnassus: I, 224–225; G: I, 467 – Pladasa: I, 380–381; G: I, 538 – Ἀρλισσός. I, 234–235; G: I, 470. This is shown to be the name of a settlement, not of a ruler, by Mylasa 157*9 line 3 Ἀρλισσεῖς. – Karyanda: I, 300–301; II, 80; G: I, 498 – Bargasos I, 366–367; G: I, 531 (as remarked by the editors, this must refer to the Bargasa near Gökbel north of the Ceramic gulf).

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Consequently Carian cities also had an important share in international trade flows as is shown by their coinage of higher value. Their large silver denominations of the Hellenistic epoch, especially Alexander tetradrachms, are found in coin hoards from Syria to the Black Sea. The findspots of hoards containing coins of Alabanda may serve as an example.5 In this case there is a focus on the Seleucid kingdom (see fig. 5.2), for other cities the western coast of Asia Minor, northern Greece and the Black Sea are more strongly represented.6 As can be seen from the time of the Persian Empire down to the present day, the Maeander valley forms a very important connection between the west coast and the continental interior in the east.7 Besides literary sources, for example Roman milestones can demonstrate this for antiquity.8 Yet the wide and seemingly comfortable plain may actually have separated the northern from the southern edge of the valley, because even on the middle reaches of the river the Maeander valley measures between 8 and 12 km across. In premodern times the crossing was often even more difficult than today, especially during the winter flood, as in many places the river could only be crossed on 5  For this purpose the hoards listed in IGCH will be sufficient: IGCH 1372: Amasya/Amasia Pontus c. 1860; 185–170 BC – IGCH 1540: Syria, date of discovery unknown; after 190 BC (Westermark) – IGCH 1432: southern Asia Minor 1964; c. 150 BC – IGCH 1804: Susa 1933/1934; after 140 BC (Le Rider) – IGCH 1806: Susiana, 1965?; after 138 BC (Houghton/Le Rider) – IGCH 1318: Sardes 1911; c. 190 BC – IGCH 1410: Mektepini near Sabuncupınar (between Dorylaeum and Cotiaeum) 1956; c. 190 BC – IGCH 1536: Latakia/Laodiceia ad mare 1946; c. 198 BC; Seyrig 1973, 30–31 (no. 6) instead dates it c. 190 BC – IGCH 1413/Seyrig 1973, no. 8: Ayaz-In 1953; c. 190 BC – IGCH 1544/Seyrig 1973, no. 11: Latakia/Laodiceia ad mare 1759. The hoard contains posthumous tetradrachms of Alexander not before c. 185 BC and should be dated c. 170 as a whole (Seyrig 1973, 59) – IGCH 1542/Seyrig 1973, no. 13: Aïntab/Gaziantep; Doliche 1921; down from c. 165–160 BC; IGCH gives a very high date of 185 BC – IGCH 1547/Seyrig 1973, no. 14: Khan Cheikhoun 1940; Seyrig dates it like no. 13 = IGCH 1542 (date given there: c. 170–160 BC), for connections between the two s. Seyrig 1973, 60–61. – IGCH 1773/Seyrig 1973, no. 15: Tell Kotchek 1952; not before 177 BC because of no. 11; dated c. 170–155 BC in IGCH – IGCH 1561/ Seyrig 1973, no. 16: Latakia 1950; after 150–145 BC (Alexander Balas); IGCH dates to c. 140 BC – IGCH 1559/Seyrig 1973, no. 18: Akkar 1956; after 150–145 BC as well – IGCH 1557/Seyrig 1973, no. 21: Teffaha 1954; after 145/144 (Demetrios II) – Seyrig 1973, no. 23: Cilicia 1972; not before 143/2 BC (Antiochus IV); apparently not in IGCH? – IGCH 1562/Seyrig 1973, no. 25: Aleppo, anc. Beroea, 1930; not before the usurpation of Tryphon 142/1–139/8, as coins from Lebedos and Herakleia bear his countermark; IGCH gives c. 138 BC following Newell. 6  The substantial coin issues from Miletus and Magnesia could serve as good examples. 7  Apart from regular trading relations and military transport, this could also comprise longrange transhumance. Thonemann (2011, 4–10) traces the seasonal mingling of Turkmen pastoralists with the residents in the cities and settlements during the later phase of Byzantine rule (11th–13th century). 8  Due to several newly published milestones, the catalogue by French (1988) is not comprehensive any more, but suffices to underline the importance of the route. For the Persian Royal Road see French 1998.

Figure 5.2 Coin hoards containing Hellenistic silver of Alabanda Copyright by the author

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small barge ferries.9 Occasionally, the dividing character of the Maeander has also echoed in historical developments.10 Given this, the secondary road on the south side of the Maeander valley was certainly quite important, too, since it provided direct access to inner Caria. In contrast to the border zones, our sources ascribe the settlements located in the river basins of the interior and in the mountainous zones to Caria without hesitation. This holds true for the wide highland of the Latmos region as well as for the hills between Alabanda, Stratonikeia and Mylasa, and it also applies to the zone southeast of Mylasa down to the Ceramic Gulf and particularly to the mountain areas of eastern Caria.

9   Livy describes a crossing by Roman troops in 189 BC (Liv. 38, 12, 9–10): “The consul [sc. Cn. Manlius], praising the young man [Attalus], marched with the entire force to the Meander and encamped, because the river could not be crossed by fording and boats had to be collected to ferry the army across. After crossing the Meander they advanced to Hiera Comê.” This stayed common far into 20th century AD, for example a ferry between Arpas and Donduran is described by Fellows 1852, 263–264. Among others, Philippson (1936, 6–9) describes the situation in the flood plain and the delta area. The ferries and bridges are also marked on the valuable attached map by Lyncker. 10  On Strabo, see above. During Hellenistic time, a striking illustration is given by the Roman regulations of Apamea, where the border between the Rhodian sphere and that of Eumenes was drawn along the Maeander (Polyb. 21, 24, 7 and Livy 37, 55, 5). Thonemann (2011, 22–23) also recalls the post-Byzantine division between the Beyliks of Menteşe and of Aydın and takes this argument even further, including the complex upper Maeander region. He observes that for most of the time the Maeander valley has not constituted a single political or administrative district. But I disagree that “the choice of the Maeander river as a territorial boundary […] could be interpreted as the work of a lazy Roman looking at a map; certainly no native of Asia Minor would have come up with such an arbitrary boundary” (Thonemann 2011, 45–46, although admitting a “practical function”). The division along the Maeander does not seem artificial to me at all. There was a long tradition of central administration in the Carian heartland south of the Maeander since the Hecatomnid era, and by 190 BC the Rhodians had already been able to expand their control on the mainland considerably. On the other hand, during the long crisis of Seleucid power after c. 240, Attalos has certainly raised claims on Caria, but it seems to me that he did not succeed south of the Maeander, where the local commander Olympichus favoured loyalty to the far-away Antigonids. So I think the Roman division respected already defined spheres of interests. The later Beylik of Menteşe had its center at Milas, the old Hecatomnid capital, and it is not surprising to see a similar reach of power. Initially it actually included Nysa and Tralleis-Güzelhisar-Aydın until the secession of Sasa and the establishment of the Beylik of the Aydınoğlu: control of the ‘open’ Maeander valley slipped away, while it remained stable in Inner Caria (cf. Wittek 1934, 26–27. 37–44. 58).

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Geographical Organisation of the Interior The evidently important outward trading connections of the region as a whole must not hide the fact that several parts of Caria show features of Hellenisation only at a comparatively late point in history. Notably, this applies to the political organisation in poleis of Greek character and the adaption of Greek customs with regard to the language, the so-called epigraphic habit and other important parts of the material culture.11 The towns on the Plateau of Tabai provide a good example: Tabai itself seems to have existed as a Polis already in the years of the Diadochi.12 Apollonia near Salbake13 had probably been established as a city by the time of Seleucus I or Antiochus I.14 Her neighbour Herakleia near Salbake appears to have become independent before the Roman imperial period.15 The town of Sebastopolis is known since the time of Augustus.16 Nearby Aphrodisias has traces of very ancient settlement activity. But it was only in the 2nd or 1st century BC that a 11  As late as the 1st century BC Strabo (14, 2, 28) comments on the Carian language and identity. Inscriptions of the 4th century BC include a significant number of texts in Carian or Carian and Greek in parallel. An overview is provided by Meier-Brügger 1983; see also Hanfmann et al. 1967. Several of the proper names are indigenous, too, and are only gradually replaced by Greek names during the Hellenistic period. For place names see Blümel 1998, for personal names see Blümel, IMylasa vol. 2, 170–174 (analytical index). The topic has been addressed by J. and L. Robert repeatedly, for Asia Minor see Robert 1963. Cases in Caria: Robert 1945, 13. 16–17. 19; Robert et al. 1954, 76–79 and Robert et al. 1983, 101. 117. 231. An obvious example for Greek influence in the archaeological record is the architecture and sculpture of the Hecatomnid period, see e.g. the papers in Isager 1994. 12  There is an inscription from Tabai dated to 269/8 BC by the Seleucid era. In 189 BC the city tried, and failed, to resist Cn. Manlius Volso. See Robert et al. 1954, 87 and 95–96 no. 3: “Ce fragment suffit à montrer que Tabai avait une constitution grecque dès le début du IIIe siècle, ce qui est en contradiction avec une opinion sur la tardive hellénisation de la plaine, où il n’y aurait pas eu d’établissement grec en tout cas avant le second siècle.” 13  Salbake has sometimes been taken for the name of a river, but must refer to a mountain, see Robert et al. 1954, 43–44: Strictly speaking the two settlements calling themselves ‘near Salbake’ are located at two different mountains. Probably the dominating Boz Dağ was called Salbake, whereas the Baba Dağ bore the name of Kadmos. 14  This follows from the oldest known inscription of June 242 BC, that is, under Seleucus II from Apollonia Salbake/Medet, Robert et al. 1954, 285 no. 165: “A cette époque, la ville d’Apollonia existait déjà, et comme ville grecque.” 15  As Robert et al. (1954, 221–222) point out, Herakleia Salbake (Vakıf) is older than the first safely dated testimony from the time of Augustus and may have developed similarly to Aphrodisias, also regarding the question of local autonomy which it may only have reached as late as the Roman civil war in the first century BC. 16  No older name of the city in the plain of Kızılca between Tabai und Karayük is known, and as Robert et al. (1954, 333–334) assume, it is quite possible that previously there were only villages in this area. They consider Sebastopolis a truly new foundation of Augustus.

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proper city was founded and the rise of Aphrodisias did not really start before Augustus had become her patron. This sequence is quite characteristic of Caria: a first boost in the time of Alexander and the Diadochi is followed by decisive steps for the universal establishment of the Greek polis as the prevailing form of political organisation under the Seleucid reign. „Latecomers“ in the 1st century BC or in early imperial times are found only in very remote regions. In my opinion the geographical setup of the region is a major cause for this. A pronounced relief combined with the specific distribution of water courses and larger fertile plains turns inner Caria into an integrated geographical unit which is at the same time full of contrasts. Rivers and valley systems have an important role in this. A glance at the map shows that the more significant cities of the interior are situated along the major rivers und specifically in the wide basins with fertile farmland.17 This applies to Mylasa, Alabanda and Alinda, and with some constraints also to Stratonicea that was founded only in early Hellenistic times.18 The settlements of the lower Harpasos valley, too, were situated in a river valley quite suited for agriculture. The more important places were Bargasa, Neapolis and Harpasos which was located at the confluence of the Harpasus with the Maeander and drew its name from the river.19 The time of the foundation of Kidrama, which is to be sought in the Barzova near Yorga, is unknown. 17  Besides the important rivers Marsyas (today Çine Çayı/Çine river), Harpasos (today Akçay/white river) and Morsynos (today Dandalos Çay) some others are mentioned in inscriptions from Mylasa, Miletus and elsewhere. Compare the sketch by Pliny, nat. hist. 5, 29: “Caria is especially distinguished for the fame of its places in the interior; for here are Mylasa, a free town, and that of Antiochia, on the site of the former towns of Symmæthos and Cranaos: it is now surrounded by the rivers Mæander and Orsinus. In this district also was formerly Mæandropolis; we find also Eumenia, situated on the river Cludros, the river Glaucus, the town of Lysias and Orthosa, the district of Berecynthus, Nysa, and Tralles, also called Euanthia, Seleucia, and Antiochia: it is washed by the river Eudon, while the Thebais runs through it. […] Besides the above, there are the towns of Coscinus, and Harpasa, situated on the river Harpasus, which also passed the town of Trallicon when it was in existence.” 18  The territory of Stratonicea comprised the basin around Yatağan where Lagina and other villages belonging to the polis were located. But the city proper lies a little above the plain and was apparently purposefully founded directly on the road towards Mylasa and the southwestern coast. 19  As we are told by Steph. Byz. s. v.: Ἅρπασα, πόλις Καρίας, ἀπὸ Ἁρπάσου ποταμοῦ. τὸ ἐθνικὸν Ἁρπασεύς, ὡς Μύλασα Μυλασεύς, Πηγασεύς. Harpasa (as τὰ Ἅρπασα) is also listed in Ptolem. geogr. 5, 2, 19. The Harpasos is characterised by Quint. Smyrn. 10, 142–147: οὐδέ μιν ἐκ πολέμοιο πολυκλαύτοιο μολόντα | καίπερ ἐελδόμενοι μογεροὶ δέξαντο τοκῆες, | Φύλλις ἐΰζωνος καὶ Μάργασος, οἵ ῥ᾽ ἐνέμοντο | Ἁρπάσου ἀμφὶ ῥέεθρα διειδέος, ὅς τ᾽ ἀλεγεινῶς |

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The situation of Antiocheia on the Maeander on the junction of the Morsynos and the Maeander is closely comparable. Aphrodisias on the upper course of the same stream must have faced some agricultural limitations, though. The valley at Geyre is wide and offers enough water, but its floor is already at a height of about 500 m above sea level. Finally, many of the smaller towns and villages are located completely off the relevant river valleys. Again, the Plateau of Tabai with Herakleia and Apollonia near Salbake and Kidrama forms a good example, and the situation of Kys, Xystis and Hyllarima further to the west is similar. Varied Conditions of Life In consequence, the relief led to strongly differing conditions of life in the various micro-regions. On the one hand, this regards climate and agriculture, on the other hand accessibility and viability. Climate and Situation Most of the larger poleis including those in the interior were situated in the elevation range between sea level and about 100 m. They had access to plains as well as to the adjacent hill country and the mountain ranges. The resources provided by these zones for pasture and the production of honey and wood must not be underestimated. Given the Mediterranean climate, a sufficient water supply during the summer is at least as important for the agricultural potential as the temperature profile. Caria has comparatively many perennial streams and springs. But even rivers like Harpasos or Morsynos which have a very substantial runoff during winter and spring will drop to low levels in the summer or may even fall dry on their upper courses. Several smaller basins or coastal strips do not have a perennial water supply at all. In consequence, during the summer months water resources must be used carefully. That the necessary provisions were made is illustrated, for example, by a dense network of mostly Ottoman cisterns which provide water supply to travellers and flocks at important points between the Latmic Gulf and the Μαιάνδρῳ κελάδοντα ῥόον καὶ ἀπείριτον οἶδμα | συμφέρετ᾽ ἤματα πάντα λάβρῳ περὶ χεύματι θύων./And his sad parents longed in vain to greet | That son returning from the woeful war | To Margasus and Phyllis lovely-girt, | Dwellers by lucent streams of Harpasus, | Who pours the full blood of his clamorous flow | Into Maeander madly rushing aye (transl. A. S. Way).

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Peninsula of Halicarnassos and Myndos.20 From this point of view, too, rivers, lakes and springs were of considerable importance in everyday life. Viability Looking at large river corridors like the Maeander valley one is inclined to attach much importance to the smaller inland rivers as traffic connections, too. A closer examination reveals that this is only partly correct in pre-modern circumstances. A first point to clarify is the significance of inland waterways in Caria for shipping. The Maeander is known to have been used for transport, undoubtedly near its mouth and presumably also along the middle reaches.21 Transport has likely been more difficult beyond Orthosia and certainly east of Antiocheia where the river is still lacking the waters brought by Harpasos and Morsynos. At least during the wet season access to the lower basin of the Marsyas with Alabanda and the entrance of the Harpasos valley by small barges was probably possible as well, in spite of obstacles and current. However, regular use for transport purposes is very questionable. For most of the tributaries transport by barge can be completely excluded because of the steepness and ruggedness of the valleys and the massively varying water levels. Apart from the limited overall possibilities, it is very hard to assess the importance of transport on boat as compared to road travel during antiquity due to a lack of sources for the Maeander valley.22 More information is available on the overland traffic routes which were obviously also relevant along major rivers as for many groups of travellers water transport was unattractive even where available. For the interior, roads were 20  Benedetti 1993, including map. 21  There is evidence for the importance of inland trade from the 15th to the 17th century AD, see Philippson 1936, 13 and Wulzinger et al. 1935, 7–9. Yet boatmen had to deal with rather strong current on the ‘new’ Maeander. It also seems to me that Ewlija’s account does not state clearly that the goods from the regions of Aydın and Sarukhan which were shipped from the mouth of the Menderes at Balat were actually brought down on the river. In any case, sources are lacking for river traffic in antiquity, as Philippson remarks, and the note of Strabo 14, 2, 10 is only on access to Myous by rowboats. During antiquity, the main course appears to have been the northern ‘old Maeander’ which was even more winding and characterised by marshes and backwaters. This may have obstructed barge traffic to an unexpected degree. 22  This is widespread difficulty, as sources are sparse even for larger rivers and hardly ever cover small-scale barge transport on a local level. See Campbell 2012, 215–217 on the comparison of cost and effectiveness and 320–326 on known cases of river transport in Roman Asia Minor.

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the only option anyway. In Caria, positive evidence for antique routes through preserved stretches and otherwise verified courses exists, but only on a limited scale. Yet many nodes of the road network are known if settlements, necropoleis, sanctuaries and fortifications are taken into consideration. Starting from these facts the road system can be studied in more detail through suitable theoretical models.23 Independent of the chosen approach some basic findings will be agreed upon quickly. (1) An important share of individual mobility and trading activities by land was performed on foot and with pack animals. (2) This premise causes a major shift as to which route will prove most suitable as compared to motor roads or railway lines. The key difference is that detours and longer tracks will be sharply felt as additional burden by hikers or animals, whereas they can comparatively easily deal with slopes and mountain routes. The essential validity of these findings is shown by a number of archaeologically verified stretches of antique roads as well as by the travel notices of early scientific travellers. Therefore, use of the river valleys for communication was particularly favourable only where they happened to take the general direction of the route. For example, this was the case with the important connection from Tralleis in the north to the Ceramic Gulf and the Rhodian Peraea in the south.24 23  As part of the geographical considerations in my PhD dissertation (of 2015; Hoffmann, in preparation) I have explored a number of such models. Of course, as in all models, results are correlated with the presuppositions made. Therefore they can never replace archaeological verification, although hints at likely corridors may prove helpful in field research, too. But the major benefit is that modelling allows a reasonable estimate of terrain obstacles and of the distance and height differences to be covered. 24  The distances given by Strabo (14, 2, 29 [C 663]) are probably taken from Artemidorus. However, the waypoints he names only give a basic impression of the route which led by Lagina (he refers to the sanctuary, not to the city of Stratonicea) and Alabanda to Tralleis, a course to which there is hardly any alternative. For the continued use of this road in Ottoman times see Taeschner 1924. 1926, for the area treated here Taeschner 1924, 170–177 and pl. 21 [his transcriptions]: Denizli-Scalanova/Qush Adasy – Aidyn/Güzelhisar and, coming from N. through Bozdoghan – Dalaman – Djumaly/Shama Köj to Tshine. For this stretch mark the correction Taeschner 1926, 70–71. The crossing of the ridge between Dalama (Euhippe in antiquity: Robert 1952) and Cumalı at an elevation of about 250 m instead of going along the valleys of Menderes and Çine Çay is fully plausible as it saved a full day’s marching distance. The way from Çine to Marmaris can easily be traced on a map: Tshine – far and difficult stretch across pass – Gök Bel – Boz Üjük – Qarabaghlar near Mughla – difficult way across the mountain – Mermeris. For the way back it was Mermeris – Ula – place near Mughla – past Boz Üjük – Genevez in the Çine plain. Cf. Taeschner1926, 38–40 (Itinerary of Evlija, AD 1670) and Taeschner 1926, 59–60 (with correction Taeschner 1926, 75 and map).

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On the other hand, looking at the relations between Alabanda and Mylasa and between Alabanda and Stratonikeia, a very limited use of the river valleys is evident. On the route to Mylasa a detour by Alinda is clearly not worth it, especially since the ascent to Labraunda through the hills south of Alabanda is by no means less comfortable than the one in the valley south of Alinda. Between Alabanda and Stratonikeia it is possible to take a longer route through the valleys as can be seen by the courses of different modern roads. But the trip is longer by more than 10 km in this case, whereas on the straight route a height difference of some 500 m must be covered. An experienced hiker will hardly need a computer model to choose the direct connection in spite of the mountain ridge. Travel accounts from the 19th century and remains of an Ottoman road confirm the use of the mountain route.25 Wherever possible people will have exploited the benefits of plains, basins and valleys for easier traffic. Insofar many of the inland rivers were important for communication and exchange. But at the same time it is clear that smaller rivers do not evoke communication themselves. Instead, they will serve the needs if conditions are right and if historical actors show a demand for traffic and communication. 3 People in Their Landscape from the Hecatomnid to the Roman Imperial Period Having sketched the geographical setting it is now time to consider whether, and how, the detailed structure of the Carian landscape and especially its rivers and valleys are mirrored in social structures. As this may vary throughout history, the following thoughts will take the period between the 4th century BC and the Roman imperial times down to the 3rd century AD as an example. It seems useful to start with an outline of the ancient sources.

25  The route calculated by a hiking model takes roughly the same course that has been suggested by Hild (2014, 45–46; also on the Ottoman remains), namely from Alabanda by Kargı to Akçaova and thence on the slope of Gökbel to Sarıköy and then to Söğütcük. Use of this road is still attested in Kiepert’s Specialkarte (Kiepert 1890, Blatt XI); cf. von Diest 1909. Part of the way is also described by Philippson, who however descended from the Gökbel to Milas (Philippson 1915, 16–18. 39).

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4 Presentation of Rivers in Historical Sources Literary Sources In almost all cases Carian rivers are mentioned in ancient literature for purely descriptive purposes. This is the case with Herodotus26 as well as with Xenophon who describes a Maeander crossing by Cyrus and his hunting grounds at the sources of the river near Kelainai.27 On another occasion he discusses the river as border and the suitability of the plain for the cavalry.28 Strabo’s writing is characterized by geographical description as well as Livy’s account.29 Descriptive Appearances of Rivers in Inscriptions This is paralleled by a number of inscriptions where rivers are also mentioned for simple practical purposes, namely to describe borders and territories. Examples may be found in the descriptions of plots in a number of documents recording land transactions.30 Rivers have a similar function in some treaties between poleis dealing with the frequent conflicts about borders and territory. For example, the new border 26  Herodotus describes a military campaign that happened to take place near the rivers Marsyas and Maeander, the latter also being discussed as a natural obstacle: Hdt. 5, 118–119. 27  Xen. Anab. 1.2; at the point of crossing the width of the river is given as two plethra and it was spanned by a bridge made of seven boats. 28  In reference to the events of 397 BC; Xenophon Hell. 3, 2, 12–19 and 3, 2, 15; compare Hell. 3, 4, 11–21. 29  Liv. 38, 12–13; see above on the problems he mentions for the crossing. Later on ambassadors met the troops at the river Harpasus. Livy also gives a small diversion on the geography of the Maeander and mentions the myth of Marsyas. On Strabo, mostly 14, 1–2, see above. 30  A land lease document (embasis) from Olymos reads καὶ πέραν̣ τοῦ πο[τ]αμο̣ῦ τοῦ Κενιω: l. 4 of Olymos 32/IMylasa 805. Other examples: lease from Hyllarima, 3rd century BC, Hyllarima 11 (Laumonier 1934, 372–376 no. 39.C) l. 19–24. – Labraunda 70 (ILabraunda 69) l. 11–14 (ὁ ποταμὸς ὁ κ̣ αλούμ̣ ενος ̣ Κε̣-| [νιως) and l. 35–36. Κενι-|ως·– Mylasa 171 (IMylasa 223) l. 15–17 – Olymos 82 (IMylasa 854) l. 8–10 and 12–13. – Sinuri 48 (Robert 1945, no. 47a) l. 9–11 – See also the horismos Mylasa 189 (IMylasa 257) l. 11 and l. 17: [ – τῶ]ν κάτω μέρων ποταμὸς Κυβερσος [ – ]. – The description of one defensive sector of Stratonicea (on these documents see Robert 1937, 529–538) refers to a river, too: Stratonikeia 16 (IStratonikeia 1004; Robert 1937, 529–538: late 3rd/early 2nd century BC) l. 5–6. – Another example in the sale of land near Cyzicus to Queen Laodike (253 BC) recorded in a copy at Didyma (IDidyma 492/Didyma 20. 21. 128) l. 67–69.

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between Miletus and Magnesia is described by the course of the small river Hybandos.31 Some unusual dedications from Pergamon describe the location of victorious battles by naming the rivers close by. One of them concerns a victory apparently won by Attalos I against Antiochos Hierax at the Harpasus in Caria.32 In these texts, too, rivers are simply mentioned to describe circumstances, which of course may also happen just to clarify the place of origin.33 Building and Remembering: Rivers and Sources as Objects of Munificence Individual rivers and springs are decisively more important in testimonies for building activity, most of them honorary inscriptions. A good example is furnished by four inscriptions from Didyma all recalling the efforts of Iason Iasonos and his family towards the end of the 1st century AD who built or rebuilt an aqueduct and the related buildings like cisterns in the sanctuary.34 Similar evidence for building activity along rivers or on water supplies and fountains is found in Ephesos, Magnesia, Mylasa, Keramos, Stratonikeia with the sanctuaries at Lagina and Panamara, Aphrodisias, Nysa and other places.35 31  Peace treaty of Miletus and Heraclea with their adversaries Magnesia and Priene, Milet I 3, 148 (Miletos 60) l. 29–37. Similar use in the Rhodian arbitration in the never-ending border conflict between Priene and Samos, IPriene 37. 38 (Priene 162) l. 160. 170 and in the later confirmation of this decision IPriene 42 (Priene 163) as well as in the description of the border line (horismos) IPriene 363 (Priene 165). 32  The Harpasus is mentioned in IvP 58: (197–159 BC?; OGIS 271): βασιλε[ὺς Εὐμένης(?)] | Διὶ καὶ Ἀθηνᾶ̣[ι Νικηφόρωι] | ἀπὸ τῆς πα̣[ρὰ τὸν] | Ἅρπασον ἐ[γ Καρίαι] | π̣ ρὸ̣ ς [Ἀ]ντ[ίοχον μάχης]. Similar wording may probably be restituted in SEG 4:688 (albeit l. 1 [Ἄτταλος], which results in 228 BC or soon after: IvP 28; OGIS 279; SEG 33.1076: see Allen 1983, 195–199 on text and date of the events). The earlier date of 229/8 BC is already chosen by Bürchner, RE VII,2 col. 2405 s. v. Harpasos. Other rivers are referred to in the same way in IvP 20 (c. 236–197 BC; OGIS 269), in IvP 24 (c. 229–197 BC; OGIS 276) and IvP 64 (190 BC or soon after). The place name is not preserved in SEG 4:688 l. 3. 33  As in a funerary inscription from Rome referring to a man from Hierapolis on the Maeander: IG XIV, 2 no. 1848 (Alt. v. Hierapolis Anh. III Nr. 7). A veteran in the inscription of a sarcophagus in Aphrodisias had served in a legion deployed “at the river Tigris in Mesopotamia”: Aphrodisias 453 (MAMA VIII, no. 522; BE 1988:883), l. 7–11. 34  Building inscription: Didyma 119 (IDidyma 140 with comments on p.127). Two hydrophoros-inscriptions for his daughter (Didyma 458. 459/IDidyma 326. 327, especially l. 6–16) also refer to the measures which were related to her honourable charge (IDidyma 140 l. 3) and describe them in some detail. The later prophetes-inscription for Iason himself still mentions his munificence: Didyma 334 (IDidyma 264) l. 4–7. 35  Ephesos: Honours for Hadrian (129 AD) Ephesos 1007 (IEphesos 274), here l. 13–16 καὶ τοὺς λιμένας | πο[ιήσαν]τα πλωτούς, ἀποστρέψαντά τε | καὶ τὸν βλά[πτοντα τοὺς] λιμένας ποταμὸν | Κάϋστρον διὰ τὸ [–] […]. The building inscription of 120 AD mentioning honours

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Did Inhabitants of Caria Attach Special Significance to Their Rivers? These building inscriptions are indeed focused on the rivers and sources and on the water supplied by them. Yet it was not the rivers or the water brought by them which caused people to set up the inscriptions, but simply the common act of commemorating benefactions by individual citizens or emperors towards the community. In these cases munificence just happened to turn to water supplies and fountains. There is much less evidence for a socially prominent role of the rivers themselves. Sometimes aitiological myths were attached to remarkable natural features. In the region considered here, the one relevant story of this kind is the

for Artemis and Hadrian on the occasion of works on the Manthites belongs to a similar context: Knibbe et al. 1993, 122–123 no. 12 and comment (SE 329*1 17a.0329.1), cf. l. 5–11 ἡ | Ἐφεσίων πόλις τὸ πλάτος | τῷ Μανθείτῃ ποταμῷ τῶν | ἑξήκοντα ποδῶν κατὰ τὴν | τοῦ Σεβαστοῦ διαταγὴν | ἀποκαθέστησεν τοῦ δεξιοῦ | χώματος. – Probably under Hadrian’s reign, too, Magnesia built a fountain with architectural decoration and the necessary water supply (Magnesia 132/IMagnesia 251). – A damaged text of the 1st century AD from Mylasa mentions the dedication of fountains and other things to the Augusti (Mylasa 147/IMylasa 504). Hula and Szanto (ed. pr.) suggest this may refer to a fountain building at the end of the big aqueduct of Mylasa – In Keramos Lykiskos Apollokleous dedicates the fountain-house (l. 7 τὴ[ν] κρήνην) he had built to Traian, the Theoi Megaloi of Ceramus and his home city (between AD 102 and 117: Keramos 14/IKeramos 17; cf. Crampa 1988, 607 on l. 8). – Stratonikeia: Building inscription from Lagina for the water supply of a fountain: Lagina 12 (IStratonikeia 522). Şahin takes the benefactor Chrysaor Iasonos tou Chrysaoros [Koraieus] to be identical with the priest of the 1st century AD in Lagina 53 (IStratonikeia 660) l. 10–12. – An inscription from Panamara is concerned with Ti(berius) Fla(vius) Eudemos Demetriou Korazeus (1st century AD; Panamara 150; IStratonikeia 220a), who had the fountain Parthenike built or expanded at his own expenses while serving as priest, l. 9–14. – Directly at Stratonicea an undated altar bearing the dedication of a fountain to Zeus Panamaros has been found: Stratonikeia 15*5 (IStratonikeia 1314). – Aphrodisias: Honours for the benefactor Mar(cus) Ul(pius) Car(minius) Claudianus: Aphrodisias 315 (BE 1980:472; AnnÉp 1980, 865: dated c. AD 160) l. 40–41: τε καὶ ξνοις, καὶ ἑλδάκτος πολλάκις τεθεικότα | ἐν τῷ καιρῷ τῆς τοῦ Τεμέλου ποταμοῦ εἰσαγωγῆς […]. – An inscription probably belonging to the Roman imperial period from Nysa records the dedication of a fountain and a statue of Hermes to the Demos, Herakles, Hermes and the Neoi: Nysa 13 (Kontoleon 1886, 520 no. 19). – Cf. at Tralleis a later inscription of the middle of the 4th century AD recording building activity by the proconsul (Caelius) Montius, Tralles 146 (ITralles 152). – Thyateira (Ovaköy/Medar) honours the merited Marcus Menandros, TAM V,2 991 (undated), where l. 16–17 read: κ̣ αὶ παρατειχίσματος ὑδρα-|γ̣ωγίου ἐν τῷ Λύκῳ ποταμῷ. For the “römische Wasserleitung” of Thyateira see Weber 1905, 203–204, who argues that the inscription must refer to a supply different from the known remains.

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skinning of Marsyas which was linked to the more important one of the two rivers bearing this name.36 Coinage To find significant proof that the inhabitants regarded their local rivers with extraordinary appreciation, one must once more turn to the coinage issued by the cities. The depiction of river gods was a very widely used motive in local coinages of the Roman imperial time.37 In many cities the river types start at the end of the first or in the early second century AD and become quite common afterwards. The increasing popularity of these motives might be related to some imperial coin series issued starting from the reigns of Vespasian, Trajan and Hadrian.38 36  The most vivid account in Ovid Met. 6, 382, where the river Marsyas has its source in the tears, whereas others just mention the river as the place of the contest. On the stories linked to the smaller river Marsyas near Dinar and on other myths from places on the upper course of the Maeander, also from much later epochs, see the survey in Thonemann 2011, 50–98. Our knowledge of the foundation myths of Carian places is scarce, but in the known cases rivers or river-gods do not seem to play a role. For Greece, compare e.g. Prinz 1979, 174–180 on the myth of Alkmaion, who could only find rest on recently won soil. This country turns out to be ruled by the river Acheloos who then marries his daughter off to Alkmaion, and it receives the name of Acarnania after Akarnan, the son of Alkmaios (Thuc. 2, 102, 5–6; Paus. 8, 24, 8–10; [Apollod.] Bibl. 3, 86–93). So in this case the river built up and ruled the land, and then becomes the grandfather of the eponym of the country. For a broad survey of myths related to rivers see Campbell 2012, 143–150 and on Tiber 140–143. 37  The excellent compilation of relevant series in Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924 has not been superseded yet. But a valuable extension of known types is offered by a specialized collection offered in Helios Numismatik 2009, lots 301–782 with an introduction by Reinhard Falter (63–66). For coins not illustrated in Imhoof-Blumer, see also the BMC volumes on Caria and Ionia with index and RPC/RPC online (; [Accessed 22 June 2018]). The iconography and meaning of the representations of river gods on coins and elsewhere is thoroughly discussed by Weiss 1984 and Ostrowski 1991. 38  These types, too, have already been collected by Imhoof-Blumer. Vespasian issued a coin showing Roma with the wolf and Romulus and Remus near the Tiber, and the same river appears in an offering scene by Domitian and as reverse motive of an issue by Hadrian as consul for the 3rd time, Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 394–395 nos. 545. 546. 548. Trajan shows the Anio Novus, on occasion of Aqua Traiana, Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 384 no. 523. Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 385–386 nos. 526. 527 (with bridge) by Trajan and M. Aurelius show the Danube. The columns at Rome inform us about their engagement in the region that is also reflected by the titles of Dacicus and Sarmaticus, respectively. There is a similar victory issue by Trajan depicting Armenia with Euphrates and Tigris “in potestatem p(opuli) r(omani) redactae”, and another one by Lucius Verus who also bore the title Arm(eniacus), Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 386–387 no. 528. 529. Various coins

Figure 5.3 Cities in Asia Minor minting river types (non-exhaustive) Copyright by the author

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In Caria and the Maeander valley river gods are shown on coins by Magnesia, Miletus, Tralleis, Laodikeia and other places on the upper Maeander, as well as in Aphrodisias, Herakleia near Salbake and Mylasa (map fig. 5.3).39 In the regional neighbourhood such river types were minted by Samos,40 Ephesos,41 Metropolis,42 Smyrna,43 Phokaia,44 Erythrai,45 Magnesia Sipylos (river Hermos), Thyateira (Lykos) and several other cities.46 Sometimes similar images were also used to depict gods of the sea.47

showing the Nile are minted under Hadrian’s reign (Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 389–390 nos. 533–536). The – mostly earlier – development of the iconographical schemes (see Ostrowski 1991, 26–34) must be treated separately from the politically motivated widespread imperial issues (on these, Ostrowski, 47–59). 39  For Magnesia see Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 281–283 nos. 269. 270 – Miletus ImhoofBlumer 1923/1924, 283–284 no. 272. – Tralleis Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 309–310 no. 339 – Laodikeia on the Lycus (and Kapros) Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 324–327. 399 nos. 376–385. 552 (Thalassa, on occasion of neocorate) – Aphrodisias Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 290–292 nos. 290–293 – Harpasa Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 292 no. 294 – Herakleia Salbake Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 292 no. 295 (type of Timeles closely paralleled in Aphrodisias) – Mylasa Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 292–293 no. 296 – there are several others in the area, as from Apameia on the Maeander Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 314–316 nos. 351–356. – The abstract Maeander pattern is found e.g. on coins by Priene, Magnesia, Antiocheia and Naulochos and is certainly a recursive reference to the namegiving river itself. The double sense of the pattern is illustrated by Thonemann (2011, 32– 33) through an epigram by Antipater of Sidon (Anthol. Graeca VI, 287). For more detail on the various coin series with the Maeander pattern see Thonemann (2011, 33–48), who also draws attention to the fact that it is quite uncommon in antique coinage for several distinct poleis to share this symbolic reference to the dominant river. 40  Samos: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 288 no. 283. 284; types similar to 283 under different emperors; shown in more detail BMC Ionia, 373–395 no. 238. 252. 268. 281. 282. 307. 308. 316. 334. 352. 353. 385. 41  Ephesus: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 278–280. 398 nos. 261–266. 42  Metropolis: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 283 no. 271, see BMC Ionia, 178–179 no. 18. 23. 43  Smyrna: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 285–287 nos. 275–280; cf. BMC Ionia, 249. 251. 260– 261. 271 no. 124. 125. 126. 135–137. 207–210. 216–220. 44  Phokaia: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 284 [cf. 226] no. 273. 274. On the latter, river Smardos is reclining on a built fountain instead of the common vase from which water flows. 45  Erythrai: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 280–281 no. 267–268. 46  Magnesia Sipylos: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 301–302 nos. 318–319. Thyateira ImhoofBlumer 1923/1924, 307–308 nos. 334–337. 47  Okeanos is, e.g., minted by Ephesus (Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 403 no. 560), otherwise see Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 399–412 for Thalassa, Okeanos, Pontos Euxeinos, and gods of harbours and shipping.

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If we add Lycia, Pamphylia and Pisidia similar types are found at Antiocheia in Pisidia,48 Aspendos,49 Apollonia Mordiaeum,50 Magydus,51 maybe Side (BMC lxxxiv: Melas?), Perge,52 Sagalassos,53 Limyra,54 Seleukeia Sidera (Klaudioseleukeia),55 Isinda56 and Prostanna57. Many more examples could be given. Thus, it is beyond question that river motives were much appreciated and many variations on the regular image of a reclining river god were developed. Yet it is far from obvious what purposes were behind the choice of these themes in local city coinage. The Carian examples of Antiocheia on the Maeander and Harpasa show the difficulties of a one-dimensional interpretation. Antiocheia uses the conventional image type to show the river god Maeandros and also the Morsynos (fig. 5.4, 5.5) as the city was situated at the junction of both rivers.58 Aphrodisias is located on the upper course of the same river and also minted a Morsynos coin in the common image scheme.59 Antiocheia also produced a well-known series of coins showing a bridge across the Maeander (fig. 5.6).60 But here we reach a problematical point: al48  Antiocheia in Pisidia: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 336 nos. 407–409 (river Anthios). 49  Aspendos: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 333 no. 399. 50  Apollonia Mordiaion: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 336–337 no. 410–411 (river Hippophoras). 51  Magydus: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 333 no. 400. 52  Perge: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 333–334 no. 401. 53  Sagalassos: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 338–340 no. 415–418 (river Kestros). 54  Limyra: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 332 no. 398. 55  Seleukeia in Pisidia (Klaudioseleukeia): Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 340–341 no. 419–420. 56  Isinda: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 337 no. 412. 57  Prostanna: Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 338 no. 414 (river Tioulos). 58  For Antiocheia see Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 289–290 nos. 285–289. The Maeandros (no. 285) and the Morsynos (nos. 287. 288) appear reclining l., the Morsynos also as a youthful standing figure (no. 289) probably – details not clearly distinguishable – shown pouring from a patera (r.) and holding reed (l.), foot on vase from which water springs. In the 2nd century BC, Antiocheia had minted a typical Carian motive, namely obverse with head of Apollo or Zeus and reverse with humped bull and Maeander pattern. The later types with river motives belong to the Roman imperial period, some of them showing Zeus Boulaios or the youthful Demos cannot be precisely dated (BMC Caria s. v. Antiochia nos. 13. 15. 16), while others refer to Trajan (Imhoof-Blumer’s no. 285), Antoninus Pius (BMC, 33 no. 19), Philip junior (BMC, 22 no. 49) and Herennia Etruscilla (BMC, 23 no. 55), wife of Decius (see on the bridge type below). Further examples from Antiocheia in Helios Numismatik 2009, lots 423–430 (unpublished: 424. 425). 59  Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 290–291 no. 290, whereas nos. 291. 292 show the Timeles. 60  Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 289 no. 286. This type was struck under Decius (cf. BMC Caria no. 52), and with small variations and the addition of a stork (or maybe heron or crane: Nollé 2009, 36) under Valerian and Gallienus (Nollé 2009, nos. 56. 57). Cf. the specimen of Gallienus in Helios Numismatik 2009, 90 lot 430, and SNG von Aulock 2430. 2431. Nollé 2009 discusses these series in detail and also the symbols of fertility found on the river

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Figure 5.4 Antiocheia: reclining Maiandros (Æ 30 mm; Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, pl. 9, 24)

Figure 5.5 Antiocheia: standing Morsynos (Æ 26 mm; Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, pl. 9, 25)

Figure 5.6 Bridge type of Antiocheia (Æ 36 mm; Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, pl. 9, 26)

Figure 5.7 Bridge type of Mopsuestia (Æ 30 mm; Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, pl. 14, 16)

though Maeander appears as a caption and must also be recognized in the reclining river-god on top of the bridge, this coin does not refer to the river in the first place. There is a close parallel from Mopsuestia also showing a bridge (fig. 5.7). Between its arches we read δωρεά, or gift, and thus the coin issue propagates the fact that the bridge was built or rebuilt recently, probably by the emperor.61 Clearly the primary function of the coin type from Antiocheia as well is to show the bridge, not the river. As a bridge at Antiocheia is already mentioned by Strabo (Strab. 13, 4, 15), the coins minted during the reigns of Decius issues of Antiocheia (Nollé 2009, 33–35. 44–47). The general background of representations of bridges on Roman coins is analysed by Nollé 2011. 61  Imhoof-Blumer (1923/1924, 353 no. 451) suggests that the gift may have been by the emperor Valerianus I himself. This coin is dated to local year 323, with the era starting in fall 68 BC: Imhoof-Blumer 1883, 294. The important bridge across the Pyramos was later on taken care of by Constantius II. (Joh. Malalas, Chronographia, XIII [326]) and Justinian (Procopius, de edif. 5, 5, 4–7), and in its latest phase still exists nowadays. For other pieces see Helios Numismatik 2009, 129 lot 655, with SNG references.

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(regn. 249–251) and similarly under Valerian (253–260) and Gallienus (253– 268) probably refer to a restoration.62 Even though the river god is depicted, the intention of these coins is very close to the building inscriptions regarding activities on rivers and fountains. The neighbouring city of Harpasa minted coins with the river god Harpasos since the time of Hadrian.63 As the Harpasos is much smaller than the Maeander, he is shown as a youthful god, as is the case with many other tributaries. For our purpose the conventional coin types have little to add, but there is a recent study on the coinage of the lower Harpasos valley (Delrieux 2008). Evidently the coin issues of Harpasa only circulated in a local or sometimes regional radius. The nearby site at Haydere was probably ancient Bargasa. The coins found there by the French research project until now properly show a mirror image: coins of other cities mostly originate from places nearby or even in the direct neighbourhood. As reasons why these issues did not make it any further Delrieux argues that the local series were bronze coins of lower value and were often produced in very limited quantities.64 It is not surprising that most findspots or cities that countermarked the coins are located in 62  Nollé (2009, 32–33 and no. 159) argues that in contrast to Mopsuestia, the coinage of Antiocheia does not explicitly refer to the Euergesia of the emperors and considers it improbable that the issues were motivated by a restoration of the bridge because such coins were minted during three different reigns between c. AD 249 and 261/2, with the most numerous series under Gallienus. He thinks that Antiocheia minted the series in order to underline that the city itself was diligently taking care of a bridge of strategic importance for the Roman Empire (Nollé 2009, 29–33). Although I would not like to attach much overall relevance to the bridge in the context of the wars against Persia, I cannot exclude that continuous maintenance (Nollé 2009, 32: “Instandhaltung” rather than a larger renovation) was carried out by the city. A hint at this would certainly have been appreciated by the regional audience of the coinage, too. Regardless of who initiated and paid for the work, the approximately twelve years spanned by the series are not necessarily too long for a thorough rebuilding. Besides, in the parallel case of Mopsuestia we are informed about restorations by three different emperors (previous note), and the bridge of Antiocheia, too, will have needed attention more than once. 63  Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924, 292 no. 294; his primary example with Iulia Domna on obv., similar issues cf. BMC Caria, 114 no. 7 (Hadrian); 114 no. 10 (Marcus Aurelius Verus Caesar); 115 no. 14 (Gordianus III. Pius). Other examples in Helios Numismatik 2009, lots 431–434, where 431 (Hadrian) and 434 (Alexander Severus) are marked as otherwise unpublished. 64  Delrieux 2008, 170 with no. 8. The number of finds is low indeed: 26 or 27 from Bargasa, 5 from Harpasa, 9 from Neapolis and 5 from Orthosia. From Haydere-Bargasa the numbers are as follows: Alabanda 2, Anineta 1, Aphrodisias 1, Bargasa 3, Erythrai? 1?, Harpasa 1, Larisa Aiolis 1, Magnesia on Maeander 2, Milet 2, Nysa 1, Orthosia 1, Rhodos 5, Carian Stratonikeia 2, Tralleis-Caesareia 2/3?. Of these, it is the older coins down from the 4th century BC which cover a larger range (Erythrai, Larisa, Miletus, Rhodus), whereas from the 2nd century BC and during Roman imperial times the surroundings dominate.

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the river valleys of the Maeander, the Harpasos itself, the Morsynos (Vandalas/ Dandalos) and in the basin of the upper Lykos (Aksu Çay) near Denizli. This is indirectly caused by the favourable accesibility of these places since the more important settlements emerged here. Now, this local and regional distribution pattern is quite typical for the Hellenistic autonomous bronze coinage as well as for provincial city issues of the Roman period.65 Given this, the local coin types with river gods addressed users who were already clearly aware of the regional geography, myths and new developments like important building activities. In this audience the coins could recall or emphasize certain facts, but they would not normally bring news to anybody. If we ask for possible intentions of the coin images, apparently meaning was attached to the rivers on several distinct levels. First, they may simply represent and recall distinctive features of local geography, much as it could be the case with mountains. In the same way they may allude to locally important myths. In this respect the coins stress local identity. As elements of nature the rivers could also be used and ruled by human construction, which is a very typical notion of the Roman imperial epoch. But on the other hand it would be wrong to ignore the deeper meaning attached to the images. Iconography leaves no doubt that the rivers were conceived as inspired nature and possessed divine powers.66 65  This is not controversial on a general level, although details are often lacking; see Howgego 1995, 101–102 (basing also on Howgego 1985). The summary given by Regling 1927 is very useful as it is based on the vast material from the excavations at Priene. For the Hellenistic bronze coinages in southwestern Ionia and western Caria, similar distribution patterns emerge from known coin hoards, see my PhD dissertation of 2015, Hoffmann, in preparation. 66  As the rivers are generally shown as men, a purely physical understanding of the watercourses can be safely excluded. There is of course no room for a general discussion of personifications in Roman imagery here. On depictions and iconography of river-gods in pre-Hellenistic Greece see Weiss 1984. With special focus on the coinage and the Roman period, Ostrowski 1991 discusses the probable meaning of different personifications of river gods. The general notion of river-gods was familiar to everybody as they already form part of the mythological setting in the Iliad (21, 184–199: Asteropaeus as offspring of a river, see Prinz 1979, 36). Hesiod, Theogonia 337–370, refers that both rivers (including Maeandros) and nymphs are children of Thetys and Okeanos. Their divine powers are made explicit in the dedications (see below), but also show in the attributes of the coin figures. The rivers usually hold or are shown together with reed, grain and other plants because their water provided fertility. In a primarily agricultural society the importance is obvious. – Overview of common and rare attributes and discussion of their meaning and the religious implications in the introduction by Reinhard Falter, Helios Numismatik 2009, 63–66.

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Dedications: Rivers and Cults This aspect emerges still more vividly when evidence which directly proves cultic worship of rivers is taken into consideration.67 At Herakleia near Salbake a marble relief likely of the 2nd century AD has been found. It is labelled ἱερὸς ποταμός or holy river and the image seems to show the river Timeles.68 From the territory of Stratonikeia we possess a probably Hellenistic dedication to Marsyas, most certainly the local river.69 There are some scattered parallels for these dedications from other regions of Asia Minor.70 Smyrna set up a dedicatory inscription for the river Hermos and Antoninus Pius.71 On Delos, a graffito shows cultic worship as well, because it summons the Maeander as saviour.72 Sometimes this worked out, as we are told by an elegiac 67  Several examples of veneration of rivers from the Greek and Roman world, especially of the Roman imperial period, may be found in Campbell 2012, 128–140. 68  Herakleia Salbake 97 (Sheppard 1981; SEG 31, 933). 69  Stratonikeia 41 (IStratonikeia 822): Ἀριστόλαος | Μαρσύᾳ | κατὰ πρόσταγμα. ‘Prostagma’ should be read as divine instruction (IStratonikeia: “in a dream”), compare the dedications to Isis IKaunos 66. 67 or Ephesos 882 (IEphesos 1246) l. 1–3 ἱδρύσατο | κατὰ πρόσταγμα τοῦ θεοῦ | τὸ ἱερὸ[ν]. Similar meaning probably also in the fragment Myndos 6 l. 1. 70  Twice ποταμῷ Ἐνβείλῳ: IMT Aisep/Kad Dere 1206 (Kadiköy Dere/Dereköy, Hasluck 1905, 60 no. 22 with parallels) – IMT KyzPropKueste 1925 (Kyzikene, Propontisküste, Bandırma; CIG 3700) – imperial group from northern Galatia (Parsi Bey? Very little information on the findspot: Besset 1901, 328), all reading Ποτάμῳ εὐχήν: Parsi Bey: RECAM II 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10 (2–10 see Besset 1901, 328–329 nos. 7–15). Similar, from Kayi/Kayé keui, 1h sw. Mukhalitch: RECAM II 55. 56 (Anderson 1899, 76 no. 31. 32). – SEG 17:594 (Attaleia/ Antalya), l. 3–5: ποτ-|μῷ Τιβερί{α}-|νῳ εὐχήν. – IK Anazarbos 53 (for Aneinos; comment announces two more dedications to river Oresibelos/Arasibelos). 71  Smyrna 107 (ISmyrna 767), from Karşiyaka: Ἕρμῳ ποτα[μῷ καὶ] | [Α]ὐτοκράτορι Κ[αίσαρι] […]. The second neocorate of the city under Hadrian is mentioned and might form the general background. The specific occasion is unknown, but may resemble that of the building inscriptions from Ephesus (see above). 72  Severyns 1927, 234–238 no. I: ἥδ’ ἐσ|τὶν ἡ | χθὼν Ἀν|τιόχε(ι)|α, σῦ|κα καὶ | ὕδρω | πολύ. Μαίαν|δρε Σω|τὴρ σῷζε κα(ὶ) | ὕδρω | δίδου. Severyns has already marked the contrast between dry Delos and the reminiscence of the land of Antiocheia “rich in water and figs”, which it still is today. See Robert 1937, 416 no. 7 on the fig production and the fitting description in Strab. 13, 4, 15 [C 630]. The text then begs the Saviour Maeander to save and give water, thus attesting its divine powers. See Bruneau 1978, 147–150 on mariners or slaves as possible authors and the sketches of ships on the same wall. Thonemann takes these to be a direct illustration (2011, 25 with no. 65) and states that the “graffito […] offers a crude depiction of the Antioch bridge, complete with ships sailing down the river.” On the photo provided in Délos VIII, 2 p. 360 I cannot spot what he takes for the bridge, and as to the ships, I’d rather side with Severyns (1927, 236), who was very reluctant to relate text and drawings: “Je n’en crois rien, et j’aurais quelque peine à considérer comme une illustration de notre texte les dessins de bateaux qui ornent la même paroi:

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inscription from Smyrna praising the river Meles as saviour, which is probably related to a plague documented for 161 AD.73 There is another parallel from Pisidia expressing thanks to Zeus, Athena, Poseidon, all gods and the river Euros for salvation from danger.74 Finally, there are two inscriptions from Eryhtrai referring to a priesthood for the river Aleos dating from the first half of the 3rd and the first half of the 2nd century BC respectively. These relatively early pieces are to my knowledge the most direct proof of a continuous cult for a river in the wider surroundings.75 As the dedications and cults directly addressed to rivers show, the divine powers of the rivers could be given thanks to or asked for protection. River Communities as Social Entities: The Larger Scale? Dedications were made by individuals or city communities, which were also responsible for the coin issues. But in Caria as elsewhere, the more significant rivers usually ran through the territories of more than one single city. It is worthwhile to ask whether they also became relevant to the inhabitants on a larger regional scale. For the epoch I am discussing the primary point of reference for individuals is their home city. So we could speak of a truly regional importance of a river if it led to activities surpassing a single city. This might happen on the political or on a cultic level. For the political tier I am not aware of any documents showing organisations that explicitly defined the members as sharing a river or a valley. Yet implicitly it can be seen in several city-states how the central part of the territory corresponds to river valleys or separate basins of longer river courses. les représentations de ce genre ne sont pas rares à Délos, et elles ne sont pas nécessairement relatives aux graffiti qui les accompagnent.” 73  Smyrna 224 (ISmyrna 766 and vol. II, 2 p.378), found at Bornova: ὑμνῶ θεὸν | Μέλητα ποταμόν, | τὸν σωτῆρά μου, | παντὸς δὲ λοιμοῦ | καὶ κακοῦ | πεπαυμένου. 74  Rectangular altar from Hadrianoi (Ören, near Çallıca-Eğneş), 2nd/3rd century, before AD 212: Duchesne 1879, 479–480; SEG 48:1527; Milner 1998, 69 no. 150. 75  Sale of different priesthoods, c. BC 300–260: Erythrai 60 (IErythrai 201), here relevant ll. c.40–c.44: [Ἀπό]λλωνος Καυκασέως καὶ Ἀρτέμιδος Καυ-| [κασί]δος καὶ Ἀπόλλωνος Λυκείου καὶ Ἀπόλ-| [λω]νος Δηλίου καὶ ποταμοῦ Ἀλέοντος· | [ΗΗ]𐅄ΔΔ, ἐπώνιον Δ· ἐγγυητὴς Ἐπιγέ-| [νη]ς Καλλιστράτου· – List of sacrificial animals, c. BC 189–150: Erythrai/Smyrna: Erythrai 61 (IErythrai 207; cf. Varınlıoğlu 1980, 149–153), here see l. 1.47–1.52 κοι]-|ναί· προτέραι· εἰς τὴν κατὰ μ[ῆνα θυσίαν τοῖς βασιλεῦσι τελείου κδʹ, κοινόν,] | καὶ εἰς θυσίαν Βασιλεῖ Ἀντιόχ[ωι – , κοινόν· – ·Δήμητρι] | Ἐλευσινίαι, τελείου κδʹ, καὶ�̣ [ – ] | ποταμῶι Ἀλέοντι, τελείου κδʹ [ – γαλαθηνοῦ] | ηʹ. For river Aleon see Plin. nat. hist. 5, 117 [XXXI] (geogr.) and 31, 14 [X] (divine powers).

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There is no doubt about this for Alinda, Alabanda, Stratonikeia, Mobolla and Mylasa. Several actors are found in the plain of Euromos with Euromos itself, Pidasa, Iasos and Mylasa.76 The same applies to the lower Harpasos valley with Harpasa and Bargasa. Explicit information is missing for the sector of cult and sanctuaries, too. But there are some hints that water and especially springs played a particular role in regionally important sanctuaries.77 So, rivers and waters in Caria seem to have had some significance in cults on a larger scale. But apparently they were not normally important enough to receive large dedicated sanctuaries by themselves. In most cases they rather seem to have been worshipped in the context of other sacred precincts, or were included in cult practice for gods like the Apollo of Didyma.78

76  Interestingly, at least in Hellenistic documents, such areas are usually referred to by naming the city they belonged to and not by geographical references. In the case of Euromis and Pidasis (Miletos 61/Milet I 3, 149 l. 40. 44. 45), e.g., both territories touched the same plain and probably bordered as well, but this was not relevant when formulating the treaty. 77  For the enigmatic sanctuary of Gergas the importance of sacred water sources has recently been stressed again by Held (2008, 123–129. 142–144), who like Bean (1969, 181 and 1971, 201–207) thinks the major buildings were fountain-houses (instead Laumonier 1958, 446–451 and others opted for sacred tombs). Held argues that the primary goddess of the sanctuary may have been Kybele-Meter, worshipped together with Apollon and Marsyas (Held 2008, 149–155). – Because of its setting on the Marsyas a site described by Şahin (1976, 11–14) might possibly be connected to the river god or the nymphs; unfortunately, as far as I know it has not been further investigated yet. – There are also surpisingly many fountain-houses in the sanctuary of Zeus at Labraunda, see the plan in Baran 2011, and at least the one at the stairway below the main temple terrace shows prominent architecture in a prominent place. Certainly there must have been a high demand for water during festivals in all larger sanctuaries. But this alone can hardly justify the huge number of fountain-houses. The precinct is, on the other hand, located in one of the important source regions for the plain of Mylasa. There are large and costly water installations in several other sanctuaries, compare the building inscriptions cited above and e.g. for Lagina Bean 1971, 98. For Amyzon, which functioned both as temple and rural settlement centre, Robert et al. 1983, 86–89 with photos. Held (2008, 121–123) lists some more, also from contexts outside of sanctuaries. 78  At nearby Didyma on the Milesian peninsula (and therefore technically considered part of Ionia in antiquity) the importance of water in the cult is well-known. For an interpretation of water buildings see Fontenrose 1988, 9. 15. 31–32. 40; for oracle and cult practice 79–84.

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5 Conclusions Regarding Caria To sum up, I would like to outline the significance of the rivers in Caria and the possibilities they can offer for our historical understanding of the landscape and its inhabitants. The interior of Caria is characterized by a pronounced relief segmented by numerous river valleys. But in contrast to major valleys like those of the Maeander or Cayster, none of these rivers clearly dominates the geographical setup. Therefore they were not chosen as important criteria for grouping cities and villages in antiquity. On the contrary, it turns out that for the purposes of historical geography most of the larger river courses even have to be split into different sections with distinct fertile basins.79 Apparently the rivers are not among the most important features of the landscape, neither from a geographical viewpoint nor considering human interaction with them during antiquity. Interestingly enough, even for the Maeander as one of the dominating rivers of Asia Minor, corresponding results do not seem to be completely different.80 But even though the overall relevance of the rivers is limited, they are still very significant in a number of ways.

79  In a way this also applies to the Maeander. Geographically there are at least three very distinct sections along its course: the small streams forming the initial tributaries and the upper course are different from the Maeander valley proper, the wide rift valley west of Denizli. Again, this has quite another character than the marshes of the flood plain and the delta area. On a large scale, then, the Maeander provided several different living environments as well, in this case separated by distance rather than mountains. 80  The Maeander was of course known throughout the Greek world (already in Hom. Iliad 2, 867–869). Geographically, it was common to a large number of communities and its economic importance is beyond dispute. And I do agree with the overall impression that living at or coming from the Maeander was a conscious feature of regional identity, as has been argued by Thonemann (2011, 22–26). The point is easily made by the references to the river in bynames of cities (24–25) and the use of the Maeander pattern and other references in coinage (31–48) he adduces, as well as by the locally prominent myths referring to the river (50–98). His further suggestion that a number of personal names including “μανδρ” are derived from the name Maeander (27–31) does not quite convince me, but this does not affect the general idea. – Yet it seems that even along the mighty Maeander this feature of regional identity was of limited impact: do we know of widespread individual cult or dedications to the river? Was Maeander among the main gods of any city? Did it induce the formation of a collective of Maiandrioi in regional cult or as a kind of social and political assembly? I think the “regional association” (Thonemann 2011, 23–24) with the river was restricted to a less prominent level.

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On a regional scale, the rivers may help us to form a hierarchy of settlements as to their remoteness or openness to the world. (1) The coastal strip and the Maeander valley had direct access to the Mediterranean and large scale communications. (2) Cities in the larger valleys of the interior actually could be easily accessed by people and trade, too. But considerably longer distances had to be covered to reach the coast. (3) Reaching smaller side-valleys and mountain territories required a lot of additional effort. In pre-modern conditions one or several additional days of travel will have been necessary. Although for the most part not navigable, the inland rivers were important as means of communication. But they could only be exploited as corridors where their course corresponded to actual needs of transportation. Otherwise, ancient road connections would usually avoid bigger detours and rather leave the course of the river in such cases. Interaction of people with their rivers is only scarcely documented. Much of the evidence shows how rivers served as geographical entities to describe events or places. But the widespread coinage mostly of Roman imperial date and a number of inscriptions prove that rivers were indeed valued as divine entities of nature. They therefore received worship by individuals. In Caria, due to our limited sources it is difficult to validate worship by cities or even larger collectives. However, the coin issues support such veneration. Some probable source and river sanctuaries and a number of additional installations in larger sacred districts suggest that there has been worship even on a level surpassing the single cities. Yet the rivers did apparently not induce the formation of larger communities or organisations in Caria. Appreciating Small Rivers in the Mediterranean Context The physical and social role of rivers has been discussed for a region of the interior that is not dominated by a single big river, but characterised by a number of smaller river systems. It has become apparent that under these geographical premises the rivers in Caria only had a limited, but nonetheless important role. This ambivalence seems to show in our sources, too. Taking a more general perspective on the Mediterranean, how can historical or archaeological studies benefit from these results? The fundamental relevance of small and medium-sized river systems may not be understood at first glance. But actually, regions characterized by them are far more numerous than those shaped by major rivers. Appreciating

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the role of smaller rivers is thus important for research in many parts of the Mediterranean world. Understanding Regional Geography To begin with, even on a purely local level rivers and creeks had to meet a number of practical needs of the residents. They supplied water for drinking, keeping of livestock and all agricultural purposes. Also, fishing will have been a regular practice, as well as exploiting the water power to drive mills. So the rivers were an indispensable economic resource, especially under pre-modern conditions where neither cheap transport of goods nor alternative energy supply was available. But I think smaller rivers only reveal their full value in historical analysis if a larger scale is taken into consideration. With regard to historical geography, I want to stress two aspects. (1) Understanding of the geographical organisation. A hierarchy of river valleys need not always, but may in many cases coincide with categories of “remoteness” from long-range traffic, the sea and the rest of the world. In the global context of the Mediterranean, this may help us understand asynchronous historical development as exemplified here by the adoption of Greek and Roman habits. It may also lead to different degrees of widespread economic and political entanglement and thus the impact of – positive and negative – global developments will have been stronger in some areas than in others. (2) Understanding of small-scale spatial units. Especially the basins are extremely attractive from an economic point of view, since they offer arable land, water and easy viability. In consequence, larger settlements and political centres will often emerge there. In this respect wider valley floors in the interior were equally well suited as many of the bigger coastal plains of the Mediterranean. River courses are also important candidates when looking for traffic routes, even where they could not serve as waterways. Yet their specific difficulties have to be kept in mind when assessing this potential. Especially in mountain areas valleys may be too narrow to leave room for a good path, and seasonal flooding may completely block some routes. River courses may also be so much longer that it was unattractive to follow them. As there are many factors involved, these aspects have to be studied in detail for each region. But if they are taken into account, the reward will certainly be a more thorough appreciation of pre-modern geography.

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Understanding the Inhabitants While geographic and topographic considerations are often valid for long periods of time, historical studies will have to relate them to the circumstances of a specific epoch to reach conclusions: it is only through human interaction that the landscape comes to life. And human attitude will shape and reshape this landscape – in a literal and tangible way and as imaginary surroundings. Concerning this, discussion in the present paper was limited to the period from the Hecatomnid dynasty to the heyday of the Roman empire. During these centuries rivers did not only serve as resources and landmarks, they were considered animated parts of nature. Divine qualities were attributed to them and they received cultic worship. Through both their significance in everyday life and the special character assigned to them, rivers might also inspire a feeling of local identity with individuals and communities. However, in Caria rivers did not dominate local or regional identity in any way, they rather constituted one distinct facet of it. Similar integration of rivers – as well as of springs and lakes – into the divine sphere seems to have been extremely widespread throughout the Greek and Roman world. The popularity of coin motives dealing with rivers and attached myths is telling. And while we find representations of all the famed rivers like the Nile or the Tiber, there are also depictions of dozens of smaller rivers of only local importance. On autonomous coins from Greek and Roman times, they appear side by side with famous mountains, local cults and heroes. While this is well-known, it is worth noting that all of it indicates awareness of a truly local identity that was rooted in natural features and shared tradition. Maybe size did not matter that much for a river? The social functions observed in Caria were straightforward: personal dedications, individuals or the whole community asking for divine help or expressing thanks for it, regular cultic worship, maybe with a specialized priesthood. Additionally, in public representations rivers could mark the physical location of the city and accentuate distinctive landmarks and related myths. For all of this, a smaller river that was not claimed by more than a few neighbours would seem an excellent choice. When looking at other regions of the Mediterranean, it might be rewarding to discard the questions of size or relevance of rivers and mountains altogether. The meaning attached to these features by the inhabitants constructing and animating their imaginary landscape is independent of physical properties.

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Bibliography The following translations are cited: Livy. Vol. XI. Books XXXVIII–XXXIX. Translated by Evan T. Sage, Loeb classical library 313 (London 1965). Pliny the Elder, The Natural History. Trans. by J. Bostock and H. Th. Riley (London 1855). Quintus Smyrnaeus, The Fall of Troy. Trans. by A. S. Way, Loeb Classical Library 19 (Cambridge, Mass. 1984). Strabo, Geography, vol. VI: Books 13–14. Trans. by H. L. Jones, Loeb Classical Library 223 (London/Cambridge, Mass 1960). Abbreviations for common collections of inscriptions can be looked up at [Accessed 9 Aug. 2018]. Besides, the following are used: IDidyma: Harder, R. (ed.), Didyma. 2. Die Inschriften von Albert Rehm (Mainz 1958). IEphesos: Wankel, H. (ed.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 1a, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 11, 1 (Bonn 1979). Börker, Ch. – Merkelbach, R. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 2, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 12 (Bonn 1979). Engelmann, H. – Knibbe, D. – Merkelbach, R. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 3, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 13 (Bonn 1980). Engelmann, H. – Knibbe, D. – Merkelbach, R. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 4, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 14 (Bonn 1980). Börker, Ch. – Merkelbach, R. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 5, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 15 (Bonn 1980). Merkelbach, R. – Nollé, J. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 6, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 16 (Bonn 1980). Meriç, R. – Merkelbach, R. – Nollé, J. – Şahin, S. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 7, 1, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 17, 1 (Bonn 1981). Meriç, R. – Merkelbach, R. – Nollé, J. – Şahin, S. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Ephesos 7, 2, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 17, 2 (Bonn 1981). Engelmann, H. – Nollé, J., Die Inschriften von Ephesos, 8, 1. Wortindex, Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 17, 3 (Bonn 1984). Nollé, J., Die Inschriften von Ephesos, 8, 2. Verzeichnis der Eigennamen, Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 17, 4 (Bonn 1984). IErythrai: Engelmann, H. – Merkelbach, R. (eds.), Die Inschriften von Erythrai und Klazomenai 1. 2, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 1. 2 (Bonn 1972. 1973). IKaunos: Marek, Ch., Die Inschriften von Kaunos, Vestigia 55 (Munich 2006).

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IKeramos: Varinlioğlu, E. (ed.), Die Inschriften von Keramos, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 30 (Bonn 1986). ILabraunda: Crampa, J., Labraunda. Swedish Excavations and Researches. The Greek Inscriptions. Part I. vol. III, 1 [bzw.:] Part II. vol. III, 2, Skrifter Utgivna av Svenska Institutet i Athen 4, V, III, 1. 2 (Stockholm/Lund 1969. 1972). IMagnesia: Kern, O. (ed.), Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Mäander (Berlin 1900). IMylasa: Blümel, W. (ed.), Die Inschriften von Mylasa 1. 2, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 34. 35 (Bonn 1987. 1988). IPriene: Frhr. Hiller von Gaertringen, F. (ed.), Inschriften von Priene (Berlin 1906). ISmyrna: Petzl, G. (ed.), Die Inschriften von Smyrna 2, 1. 2, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 24, 1. 2 (Bonn 1987. 1990). IStratonikeia, 1981. 1982. 1990. 2010: Die Inschriften von Stratonikeia, vol. 1; 2, 1; 2, 2; 3., Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien; 21; 22, 1. 2; 68 (Bonn 1981. 1982. 1990. 2010). ITralles: Poljakov, F. B. (ed.), Die Inschriften von Tralleis und Nysa 1, Die Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 36, 1 (Bonn 1989). IvP: Fränkel, M. – Fabricius, E. – Schuchhardt, C., Die Inschriften von Pergamon. I. Bis zum Ende der Königszeit, Altertümer von Pergamon 8, 1 (Berlin 1890). Milet I 3: Kawerau, G., Rehm, A. –and Hiller von Gaertringen, F. Freiherr, Das Delphinion in Milet, Milet; 1, 3 (Berlin 1914). Allen 1972: Allen, R. E., The Attalid Kingdom: a Constitutional History (Oxford 1983; also: Diss. Univ. London 1972). Alt. v. Hierapolis: Humann, C. – Cichorius, C. – Judeich, W. – Winter, F., Altertümer von Hierapolis, Jahrbuch des Kaiserlich Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Ergänzungsheft 4 (Berlin 1898). Anderson 1899: Anderson, J. G. C., Exploration in Galatia cis Halym, The Journal of Hellenic Studies 19, 1899, 52–134. ATL: Meritt, B. D. – Wade-Gery, H. T. – McGregor, M. F., The Athenian Tribute Lists, vol. 1–4 (Princeton, NJ 1939. 1949. 1950. 1953). Baran 2011: Baran, A., The Sacred Way and the Spring Houses of Labraunda Sanctuary, in: Karlsson, L. – Carlsson, S. (eds.), Labraunda and Karia. Proceedings of the International Symposium Commemorating Sixty Years of Swedish Archaeological Work in Labraunda. The Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities, Stockholm, November 20–21, 2008, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Boreas 32 (Uppsala 2011) 51–98. Bean 1969: Bean, G. E., Gerga in Caria, Anatolian Studies 19, 1969, 179–182. Bean 1971: Bean, G. E., Turkey Beyond the Maeander. An Archaeological Guide (London 1971).

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Benedetti 1993: Benedetti, E., Le cisterne turche nella Caria: tipologia e contesto architettonico regionale. Sinus Iasius I. Il territorio di Iasos: ricognizioni archeologiche 1988–1989, Annali della scuola normale superiore di Pisa. Classe di lettere e filosofia, Serie III, 23, 3/4, 1993, 971–986. Besset 1901: Besset, A., Inscriptions d’Asie Mineure, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 25, 1901, 325–336. Blümel 1998: Blümel, W., Einheimische Ortsnamen in Karien, Epigraphica Anatolica 30, 1998, 163–184. BMC Caria: Head, B. V., Catalogue of the Greek Coins of Caria, Cos, Rhodes, &c., A Catalogue of the Greek Coins in the British Museum (London 1897). BMC Ionia: Head, B. V., Catalogue of the Greek Coins of Ionia, A Catalogue of the Greek Coins in the British Museum (London 1892). Bruneau 1978: Bruneau, Ph., Deliaca (II), Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 102, 1978, 109–171. Campbell 2012: Campbell, B., Rivers and the Power of Ancient Rome, Studies in the History of Greece and Rome (Chapel Hill 2012). Crampa 1988: Crampa, J., Review of E. Varinlioglu, Die Inschriften von Keramos, Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 30 (Bonn 1986), Gnomon 60, 1988, 603–609. Délos VIII, 2: Chamonard, J., Le Quartier du Théatre. Étude sur l’habitation délienne à l’époque hellénistique. III. Construction et Technique, Exploration Archéologique de Délos faite par l’école française d’Athènes 8, 2 (Paris 1924). Delrieux 2005a: Delrieux, F., Les étrangers à Iasos au debout de l’époque hellénistique, Bolletino dell’Associazione Iasos di Caria 11, 2005, 22–25. Delrieux 2005b: Delrieux, F., Les décrets d’Iasos en honneur d’étrangers au début de l’époque hellénistique. Notes sur un essai de classement, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 154, 2005, 173–180. Delrieux 2008: Delrieux, F., Les monnaies des cités grecques de la basse vallée de l’Harpasos en Carie (IIe siècle a. C.–IIIe siècle p. C.), Numismatica Anatolica 3 (Bordeaux 2008). von Diest 1909: von Diest, W., Quer durch Karien, Dr. A. Petermann’s Mitteilungen aus Justus Perthes’ Geographischer Anstalt 55, 1909, 264–269. Duchesne 1879: Duchesne, L., Sur deux villes de la Phrygie pacatienne, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 3, 1879, 478–482. Fellows 1852: Fellows, Sir Ch., Travels and Researches in Asia Minor, more particularly in the Province of Lycia (London 1852). Fontenrose 1988: Fontenrose, J., Didyma. Apollo’s Oracle, Cult, and Companions (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1988). French 1988: French, D. H., Roman Roads and Milestones of Asia Minor. Fasc. 2: An Interim Catalogue of Milestones. Part 1/2, British Institute of Archaeology at An-

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kara Monograph 9, British Archaeological Reports International Series 392 (Oxford 1988). French 1998: French, D. H., Pre- and Early-Roman Roads of Asia Minor. The Persian Royal Road, Iran, Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 36, 1998, 15–43. Hanfmann et al. 1967: Hanfmann, G. M. A. – Masson, O., Carian Inscriptions from Sardis and Stratonikeia, Kadmos, Zeitschrift für vor- und frühgriechische Epigraphik 6, 1967, 123–134. Hasluck 1905: Hasluck, F. W., Inscriptions from the Cyzicene District, 1904, The Journal of Hellenic Studies 25, 1905, 56–63. Held 2008: Held, W., Gergakome. Ein ‚altehrwürdiges‘ Heiligtum im kaiserzeitlichen Karien, Istanbuler Forschungen 49 (Tübingen 2008). Helios Numismatik 2009: Helios Numismatik GmbH. Auktion, 3. München 29. und 30. April 2009. Antike. Sammlung Flussgötter. Mittelalter. Neuzeit (München 2009). Hild 2014: Hild, F., Meilensteine, Straßen und das Verkehrsnetz der Provinz Karia, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, philosophisch-historische Klasse, Denkschriften 464, Veröffentlichungen zur Byzanzforschung 33 (Vienna 2014). Hoffmann, in preparation: Hoffmann, S., Regionale Beziehungen. Eine Geschichte der Polislandschaft des südwestlichen Kleinasien in früh- und hochhellenistischer Zeit anhand ihrer ortsübergreifenden Verbindungen (Diss. Univ. Freiburg i. Br. 2015/16). Howgego 1985: Howgego, Ch. J., Greek Imperial Countermarks: Studies in the Provincial Coinage of the Roman Empire, Royal Numismatic Society. Special Publications 17 (London 1985). Howgego 1995: Howgego, Ch. J., Ancient History from Coins, Approaching the Ancient World (London/New York 1995). IGCH: Thompson, M. – Mørkholm, O. – Kraay, C. M., An Inventory of Greek Coin Hoards (New York 1973). Imhoof-Blumer 1883: Imhoof-Blumer, F., Zur Münzkunde Kilikiens, Zeitschrift für Numismatik 10, 1883, 267–298. Imhoof-Blumer 1923/1924: Imhoof-Blumer, F., Fluss- und Meergötter auf griechischen und römischen Münzen (Personifikationen der Gewässer), Schweizerische Numismatische Rundschau 23, 1923/1924, 173–421. Isager 1994: Isager, J. (ed.), Hekatomnid Caria and the Ionian Renaissance. Acts of the International Symposium at the Department of Greek and Roman Studies, Odense University, 28–29 November, 1991, Halicarnassian Studies 1 (Odense 1994). Kiepert 1890: Kiepert, H., Specialkarte vom westlichen Kleinasien. Nach seinen eigenen Reisen und anderen grösstentheils noch unveröffentlichten Routenaufnahmen bearbeitet von Heinrich Kiepert (Berlin 1890). Knibbe et al. 1993: Knibbe, D. – Engelmann, H. – İplikçioğlu, B., Neue Inschriften aus Ephesos XII, Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts 62, 1993, 113–150.

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Kontoleon 1886: Kontoleon, Al. Em., [untitled miscellany], Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 10, 1886, 514–521. Laumonier 1934: Laumonier, A., Inscriptions de Carie, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 58, 1934, 291–380. Laumonier 1958: Laumonier, A., Les cultes indigènes en Carie, Bibliothèque des Écoles Françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 188 (Paris 1958). Meier-Brügger 1983: Meier-Brügger, M., Labraunda. Swedish Excavations and Researches 2, 4. Die karischen Inschriften (Lund 1983). Milner 1998: Milner, N. P., An Epigraphical Survey in the Kibyra-Olbasa Region conducted by A. S. Hall, Regional Epigraphic Catalogues of Asia Minor 3, British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monographs 24 (Ankara/London 1998). Nollé 2009: Nollé, J., Beiträge zur kleinasiatischen Münzkunde und Geschichte. 8. Die Brücke von Antiocheia am Mäander, Gephyra. Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kultur der Antike auf dem Gebiet der heutigen Türkei 6, 2009, 29–47. Nollé 2011: Nollé, J., Zur Darstellung antiker Brücken auf Münzen, in: Bayerische Gesellschaft für Unterwasserarchäologie (ed.), Archäologie der Brücken. Vorgeschichte, Antike, Mittelalter, Neuzeit (Regensburg 2011) 148–155. Ostrowski 1991: Ostrowski, J. A., Personifications of Rivers in Greek and Roman Art, Zeszyty Naukowe Uniwersytetu Jagiellonskiego 964, Prace Archeologiczne 47, Studia z Archeologii Srodziemnomorskiej 12 (Warszawa/Kraków 1991). Philippson 1915: Philippson, A., Reisen und Forschungen im westlichen Kleinasien 5. Karien südlich des Mäander und das westliche Lykien, A. Petermann’s Mitteilungen aus Justus Perthes’ Geographischer Anstalt Ergänzungsheft 183 (Gotha 1915). Philippson 1936: Philippson, A., Das südliche Jonien, Milet 3, 5. Mit Karte: Jonien, südlicher Teil (1 : 100000) bearbeitet von Karl Lyncker. (Berlin/Leipzig 1936). Prinz 1979: Prinz, F., Gründungsmythen und Sagenchronologie, Zetemata. Monographien zur Klassischen Altertumswissenschaft 72 (Munich 1979). Regling 1927: Regling, K., Die Münzen von Priene Mit Benutzung der Vorarbeiten von Heinrich Dressel.(Berlin 1927). Robert 1937: Robert, L., Études anatoliennes. Recherches sur les inscriptions grecques de l’Asie mineure, Études orientales 5 (Paris 1937). Robert 1945: Robert, L., Le Sanctuaire de Sinuri près de Mylasa. Première partie. Les inscriptions grecques, Mémoires de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie de Stamboul 7 (Paris 1945). Robert 1952: Robert, L., La ville d’Euhippe en Carie, Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 96, 1952, (4), 589–599. Robert 1963: Robert, L., Noms indigènes dans l’Asie Mineure gréco-romaine (Paris 1963).

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Robert et al. 1954: Robert, L. – Robert, J., La Carie. Histoire et Géographie Historique avec le recueil des inscriptions antiques. Tome II. Le Plateau de Tabai et ses environs (Paris 1954). Robert et al. 1983: Robert, J. – Robert, L., Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie. Tome I. Exploration, Histoire, Monnaies et Inscriptions (Paris 1983). Şahin 1976: Şahin, M. Ç., The Political and Religious Structure in the Territory of Stratonikeia in Caria (Ankara 1976). Severyns 1927: Severyns, A., Deux « graffiti » de Délos, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 51, 1927, 234–243. Seyrig 1973: Seyrig, H., Trésors du Levant anciens et nouveaux, Bibliothque Archéologiqu et Historique 94, Trésors monétaires séleucides 2 (Paris 1973). Sheppard 1981: Sheppard, A. R. R., R.E.C.A.M Notes and Studies no. 8. The River God of Heraclea-on-Salbace, Anatolian Studies 31, 1981, 29 and pl. IV. SNG von Aulock: British Academy and Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Sylloge nummorum Graecorum Deutschland. Sammlung von Aulock. Karien. Heft 7, Nr. 2334–2867. (Berlin 1962). Taeschner 1924. 1926: Taeschner, F., Das anatolische Wegenetz nach osmanischen Quellen, vol. 1. 2, Türkische Bibliothek 22. 23 (Leipzig 1924. 1926). Thonemann 2011: Thonemann, P., The Maeander Valley. A Historical Geography from Antiquity to Byzantium, Greek Culture in the Roman World (Cambridge/New York 2011). Varınlıoğlu 1980: Varınlıoğlu, E., Inscriptions from Erythrae, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 38, 1980, 149–156. von Diest: see Diest. Weber 1905: Weber, G., Wasserleitungen in kleinasiatischen Städten, II, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 20, 1905, 202–210. Weiss 1984: Weiss, C., Griechische Flussgottheiten in vorhellenistischer Zeit. Ikonographie und Bedeutung, Beiträge zur Archäologie 17 (Diss. Univ. Würzburg 1982; Würzburg 1984). Wittek 1934: Wittek, P., Das Fürstentum Mentesche. Studie zur Geschichte Westkleinasiens im 13.–15. Jh., Istanbuler Mitteilungen 2, [quoted from unmodified reprint Amsterdam 1967]. Wulzinger et al. 1935: Wulzinger, K. – Wittek, P. – Sarre, F., Das Islamische Milet, Milet 3, 4 (Berlin/Leipzig 1935).

Achim Lichtenberger

„Was man hier nicht sieht, zählt nicht zu dem, was existiert hat oder existiert.“ Der Tiber auf römischen Karten 1 Einleitung Ein globaler Fluss Der Tiber ist ein wahrhaft globaler Fluss. Der kleinasiatische Rhetor Aelius Aristides schreibt in seiner berühmten Romrede im 2. Jh. n. Chr. über Rom und die Warenströme, die in seinen Häfen gelöscht werden: „Herbeigeschafft wird aus jedem Land und jedem Meer, was immer die Jahreszeiten wachsen lassen und alle Länder, Flüsse und Seen sowie die Künste der Griechen und Barbaren hervorbringen. Wenn jemand das alles sehen will, so muß er entweder den gesamten Erdkreis bereisen, um es auf solche Weise anzuschauen, oder in diese Stadt kommen. Was nämlich bei den einzelnen Völkern wächst und hergestellt wird, ist notwendigerweise hier stets vorhanden, und zwar im Überfluß. So zahllos sind die Lastschiffe, die hier eintreffen und alle Waren aus allen Ländern befördern, dass die Stadt wie ein gemeinsamer Handelsplatz der ganzen Welt erscheint. Schiffsladungen aus Indien, ja – wenn man will – sogar aus dem ‚glücklichen Arabien‘, kann man in solchen Mengen sehen, dass man vermuten könnte, für die Menschen dort seien fortan nur kahle Bäume übrig geblieben, und sie müßten hierher kommen, um ihre eigenen Erzeugnisse zurückzufordern, wenn sie etwas davon bräuchten. Man kann wiederum beobachten, wie babylonische Gewänder und Schmuckstücke aus dem noch weiter entfernten Barbarenland in viel größerer Zahl und leichter hierher gelangen, als wenn es nötig wäre, von Naxos oder Kythnos nach Athen zu fahren und Waren dorthin zu bringen. Eure Getreideländer aber sind Ägypten, Sizilien und der kultivierte Teil von Afrika. Das Ein- und Auslaufen der Schiffe hört niemals auf, so dass man sich nicht nur über den Hafen, sondern sogar über das Meer wundern muß, dass es, wenn überhaupt, für die Lastschiffe noch ausreicht. Und was Hesiod von den Grenzen des Ozeans sagte, dass es einen Ort gebe, wo alle Wasser zu einem Anfang und einem Ende ineinanderströmen, geradeso kommt auch alles hier zusammen, Handel, Schiffahrt, Ackerbau, Metallveredelung, Künste, wie viele

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es auch gibt und je gegeben hat, und alles, was erzeugt wird und auf der Erde wächst. Was man hier nicht sieht, zählt nicht zu dem, was existiert hat oder existiert.“1 Aus den Ausführungen von Aelius Aristides wird deutlich, dass über den Fluss Tiber und das Mittelmeer die Produkte der gesamten Welt nach Rom kamen und diese Rom zu einer globalen Metropole machten. Diese Vorstellung findet sich bereits bei Plinius dem Älteren, der den Tiber als „Händler für Waren aus aller Welt“ (Plin. nat. hist. 3, 54) bezeichnet.2 Der Tiber Der Tiber ist nach dem Po und der Etsch der drittlängste Fluss Italiens und verläuft 403 km von seiner Quelle im Apennin bis zur Mündung ins Mittelmeer bei Ostia (Abb. 6.1 und 6.2).3 Er fließt dabei durch Teile des westlich des Apennins gelegenen Nord- und Mittelitalien. Die Quelle des Tibers liegt am Monte Fumaiolo, und der Tiber war in seinem Verlauf eine wichtige Grenze zwischen Landschaften und Regionen in Italien. Auf seinem Weg zum Mittelmeer nahm der Tiber mehrere Nebenflüsse auf und wurde dadurch zu einem breiten, wasserreichen Fluss, der in der Antike vom Mittelmeer ungefähr bis Rom mit großen Schiffen befahrbar war, kleinere Schiffe konnten über Rom hinaus ca. 100 km weiter flussaufwärts fahren. Daher war der Tiber eine wichtige Verkehrsroute Mittelitaliens, eine Funktion die er nicht nur als Wasserweg einnahm, sondern auch für den Landtransport, denn durch sein Tal verliefen wichtige Überlandstraßen Italiens. Bis Rom führte vom Mittelmeer zudem ein Treidelpfad am Tiberufer entlang, auf dem Schiffe flussaufwärts gezogen werden konnten. Visualisierung geographischer Phänomene Geographische Gegebenheiten bieten der römischen Ikonographie ganz besondere Möglichkeiten, denn häufig werden Phänomene wie Flüsse, Berge

1  Ael. Arist. 11–13 (Übersetzung: R. Klein). 2  Vgl. dazu Campbell 2012, 15. Zu Flusshäfen und transmediterrranen Verbindungen vgl. Sanchez et al. 2016. 3  Zum Tiber in der Antike vgl. Le Gall 1953a; Richardson jr. 1992, 398–399; Maischberger 1999; Campbell 2012, 309–320; Malmberg 2015. Vgl. auch Aldrete 2007.

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Abb. 6.1

129

Photo des Tibers in Rom Photothek, Institut für Klassische Archäologie und Christliche Archäologie, Münster

oder Städte durch göttliche Personifikationen repräsentiert und diese nehmen Menschengestalt an.4 So werden die Flüsse in der Regel als gelagerte bärtige Männer oder jugendliche Schwimmer gezeigt, Berge als gelagert sitzende Männer und Städte als Frauenfiguren mit Mauerkrone (Abb. 6.3 und 6.4). Diese anthropomorphen Darstellungen orientieren sich an der Götterikonographie und personifizieren die als göttliches Wesen verstandene Stadt oder den Fluss bzw. verbildlichen deren anthropomorphe Schutzgottheit. Neben dieser göttlich-anthropomorphen Darstellung gibt es aber auch andere Möglichkeiten, geographische Phänomene ins Bild zu setzen. So können Städte, Berge und Flüsse auch als naturräumliche Phänomene in ihrer natürlichen Gestalt dargestellt werden. Solche Darstellungen sind aber vergleichsweise selten und weisen eine hohe Variationsbreite auf. Das liegt einerseits daran, dass die Städte, Flüsse und Berge jeweils unterschiedliche Gestalten hatten 4  Zu Flusspersonifikationen vgl. Klementa 1993; zu Städten Meyer 2006; zu Bergen ImhoofBlumer 1888, 295–297.

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Abb. 6.2

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Karte des Tibers und seiner Zuflüsse Le Gall 1953a, 4 carte 1

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Abb. 6.3

Tyche von Antiochia (Alinari)

Abb. 6.4

Gelagerter Tiber aus der Villa Hadriana in Tivoli (Klementa 1993, Tf. 9.18)

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und daher kein einheitliches Bild (wie bei den Personifikationen) möglich ist, dass andererseits aber auch eine akkurate naturgetreue Darstellung schwierig und zugleich auch nicht zwingend notwendig und somit nicht unbedingt intendiert war. Gleichwohl gibt es solche Darstellungen, wie etwa das berühmte Fresko mit dem Berg Vesuv5, die Darstellung der Donau auf der Trajanssäule6 oder die Stadtdarstellungen auf dem Severusbogen.7 Solche Darstellungen, bei denen topographische Charakteristika wie Wellen, ansteigendes Gelände oder Stadtmauern dargestellt wurden, können, wie im Fall der Trajanssäule zusätzlich noch mit einer Personifikation angereichert werden – vermutlich, um die Wesenhaftigkeit im Gegensatz zu einer reinen materiellen Dinglichkeit zu verbildlichen. Gerade für den Tiber gibt es eine ganze Reihe an Darstellungen in der Wandmalerei, auf Reliefs und auf Münzen, bei denen die göttliche Personifikation des Tibers in eine Flusslandschaft eingebettet ist und mythologische oder historische Ereignisse als Ortsangabe flankiert.8 Eindrücklich ist die Darstellung des Tibers auf den konstantinischen Reliefs des Konstantinsbogens, bei der die Schlacht an der Milvischen Brücke gezeigt wird (Abb. 6.5).9 Eine andere bemerkenswerte Darstellung des Tibers in Relation zu realer Topographie findet sich auf dem Revers eines Sesterzes des Vespasian, auf dem die Personifikation der Roma auf sieben Hügeln sitzend gezeigt wird, und zu ihren Füßen lagert der Flussgott Tiber (Abb. 6.6).10 Hier wird mit Figuren eine topographische Situation bildlich umgesetzt. Eine Sonderform der Darstellung topographischer Gegebenheiten ist die als abstraktes Zeichen, welches sich auf Münzen findet, etwa für den Hafen der sizilischen Stadt Zankle oder für den Mäander auf kleinasiatischen Prägungen.11 Und schließlich muss als eine weitere Sonderform eine uns sehr vertraute Art der Visualisierung von Topographie gesehen werden, und das ist die Darstellung in der Form von geographischen Karten. Die Frage nach der technischen Raumerfassung der Römer ist ein in der Forschung ausführlich und kontrovers diskutiertes Problem.12 Da römische topographische Karten nur in ganz wenigen Fällen erhalten sind, fehlt uns eine gesicherte Grundlage zur Bewertung der römischen Kartographie, und dementsprechend schwanken die 5   Pompeji, IX, 8,6, Casa del Centenario (jetzt Neapel, Mus. Naz. Inv. 11286). 6   Settis 1988, 264 Abb. 6. 7   Brilliant 1967, 171–250. 8   Mambella 1997. Zum Kult des Tibers vgl. Le Gall 1953b; Maischberger 1999, 72. 9   Mambella 1997, 26 Nr. 14. 10   R IC II.1, 67 Nr. 108; 73 Nr. 193. 11  Berthold 2011, 78–79. 12  Brodersen 1995; Brodersen 2001; Rodríguez Almeida 2002, 3–21; Rathmann 2016, 337–338.

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Abb. 6.5

Schlacht an der Milvischen Brücke, Konstantinsbogen, Rom, südliche Attikazone (Klementa 1993, Tf. 23.1)

Abb. 6.6

Sesterz des Vespasian mit Roma und Tiber auf dem Revers (Leu, Auktion 83, 6.5.2002, Nr. 737)

Meinungen von einer weitgehenden Ablehnung der Existenz echter Karten und lediglich in Listenform gefassten Itineraren bis zu einem ausgeprägten Kartensystem. Zwei Monumente, welche im Folgenden im Zentrum der Ausführungen stehen, sind indirekte Zeugnisse römischer Karten. Es geht um den severischen Marmorplan, die sogenannte Forma Urbis aus Rom, und um die mittelalterliche Kopie einer römischen Straßenkarte, die sogenannte Tabula Peutingeriana.

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Diese beiden Monumente sollen im Folgenden betrachtet werden und es wird gefragt, wie der Fluss jeweils visualisiert wird. Zudem wird diskutiert, ob eine Einbindung in lokale (Stadt), regionale (Italien) bzw. globale (Mittelmeer) Bezugssysteme erfolgt. Wir gehen vom Großen ins Kleine und beginnen mit der Landkarte, der Tabula Peutingeriana, und betrachten dann den Stadtplan (Forma Urbis). 2 Die Tabula Peutingeriana Einführung Die Tabula Peutingeriana ist eine 6,80 m × 34 cm große Karte, welche das spätantike römische Straßennetz darstellt (Abb. 6.7).13 Da sie nicht maßstabsgetreu ist und sich an den Straßen orientiert, wird sie als eine Karte verstanden, bei der es wie bei einem U-Bahn-Plan stärker auf die Abfolge der einzelnen Stationen ankommt als auf deren exaktes Verhältnis im Raum zueinander. Die Karte stammt aus dem 12. Jahrhundert, kopiert aber einen frühmittelalterlichen Vorgänger, der auf ein spätrömisches (2. Hälfte 4. Jh. n. Chr.) Original zurückgeht. Von links nach rechts schreitet die Darstellung der Karte von Westen nach Osten, von der iberischen Halbinsel bis nach Indien. Im Einzelnen sind Städte, Wegestationen, Heiligtümer, Bäder, Meer, Land und Inseln, Seen, Wälder und Gebirge eingezeichnet. Verbunden sind die Orte durch Straßen inklusive der Angabe von Entfernungen. Flüsse auf der Tabula Peutingeriana Neben den Straßen sind als strukturierendes Element auch zahlreiche Flüsse angegeben. Diese Flüsse, die oftmals auch mit den dazugehörenden Landstraßen kombiniert sind, stellen geradezu ein prägendes Charakteristikum dar und dominieren die Karte optisch.14 Diese Prominenz der Flüsse ist bemerkenswert, da damit keineswegs eine Verzeichnung der potamischen Infrastruktur einhergeht: Brücken, Furten oder Flusshäfen werden nicht eigens aufgeführt. Dementsprechend scheinen die Flüsse eher einer allgemeinen Strukturierung

13  Zur Tabula Peutingeriana vgl. im Folgenden Bosio 1983; Talbert 2010; Rathman 2016 (dort jeweils auch Hinweise zu den Editionen). 14  Zu den Flussdarstellungen auf der Tabula Peutingeriana vgl. Bosio 1983, 55–67; Talbert 2010, 103–105.

Abb. 6.7

Tabula Peutingeriana, Ausschnitt von der Tiberquelle bis Ostia (nach der Faksimilie-Ausgabe von K. Miller, 1887/1888)

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des Raums gedient zu haben als dass ihre Angabe eine konkrete praktische Funktion hatte oder sie einen praktischen Informationsgehalt besaßen. Diese Beobachtung passt gut zu dem Bild, welches Campbell und Purcell von der Bedeutung von Flüssen zur Raumstrukturierung und Raumaneignung der Römer gezeichnet haben.15 Sie zeigen, wie sehr die Römer von „river-thinking“ geprägt waren und ihren Raum, etwa ihre Provinzeinteilungen und Provinznamen an Flüssen orientierten. Das gilt etwa für die Baetica, die ihren Namen von einem Fluss ableitet, aber auch für den frühkaiserzeitlichen Sprachgebrauch für Germania, Pannonia und Moesia, die durch superior und inferior jeweils in Relation zu Rhein und Donau spezifiziert wurden. Auch für die augusteische Regioneneinteilung Italiens spielten Flüsse, darunter der Tiber, eine herausragende Rolle, und Östenberg hat gezeigt, wie „unterworfene“ Flüsse im römischen Triumphzug inszeniert wurden.16 Diese globale Raumerfassung und -strukturierung durch Flüsse erklärt auch die Prominenz von Flüssen auf der Tabula Peutingeriana und es verwundert nicht, dass auch der Tiber ausführlich auf der Tabula mitsamt Zuflüssen verzeichnet ist. Bemerkenswerterweise durchschneidet der Tiber sogar die Stadtvignette von Rom, was äußerst selten auf der Tabula vorkommt. Obwohl bei Ostia der Seehafen Portus durch eine Vignette (aber ohne Namensnennung) prominent auf der Tabula Peutingeriana dargestellt ist17, fehlt jede Andeutung des Flusshafens. Insgesamt kann also festgehalten werden, dass Flüsse – entsprechend ihrer Bedeutung in der römischen Raumauffassung – auf der Tabula Peutingeriana betont und prominent platziert sind, wobei es mehr um den Fluss als um die mit ihm verbundene Infrastruktur geht. Der Tiber und seine Zuflüsse Auf der Tabula Peutingeriana ist der Tiber von seiner Quelle im Apennin bis zur Mündung in das Mittelmeer dargestellt. Anders als andere Flüsse auf der Karte, ist der Tiber weder an seiner Quelle noch an seiner Mündung namentlich bezeichnet. Unter den Nebenflüssen18 des Tibers ist flussaufwärts zunächst die namentlich gekennzeichnete Pallia (moderner Name Paglia) eingetragen, die allerdings entgegen der tatsächlichen Topographie mit dem Fluss Armenta verbunden ist, der ins Mittelmeer mündet. Hier ist die Karte 15  Im Folgenden Campbell 2012; Purcell 2012. 16  Östenberg 2009, 230–245. 17  Vgl. zur Ostia-Vignette Descœudres 2005. 18  Vgl. zur historischen Topographie der Tibernebenflüsse im Folgenden Campbell 2012, 309–317.

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fehlerhaft, denn auch der eigentlich wichtigere Fluss Clanis (moderner Name Chania), der aus nördlicher Richtung kommt, und in den die Pallia mündet, bevor beide zusammen in den Tiber fließen, ist nicht eingetragen. Die beiden anderen Nebenflüsse des Tibers auf der Tabula Peutingeriana, sind zunächst der namentlich gekennzeichnete Farfarus (moderner Name Farfa), sowie der Anio, der allerdings nicht namentlich genannt wird. Es ist bemerkenswert, dass mehrere wichtige Nebenflüsse des Tibers nicht eingezeichnet sind, darunter der Nar (moderner Name Nera), der der größte Zufluss des Tibers ist und beim heutigen Orte (Latium) in den Tiber mündet oder der Clasius (moderner Name Chiascio), der sich beim heutigen Perugia mit dem Tiber vereinigt. Insgesamt gewinnt man den Eindruck, dass bei der Darstellung des Flusssystems Tiber auf der Tabula Peutingeriana die Nebenflüsse genauer dargestellt werden, je näher sie an Rom lagen. Diese Beobachtung fügt sich gut dazu ein, was zuletzt Talbert zu der Tabula Peutingeriana ausgeführt hat, nämlich dass sie insgesamt sehr romzentriert ist und Rom wohl auch exakt in der Mitte der ursprünglichen Kartenkomposition lag, die Gegend unmittelbar um Rom proportional am detailliertesten ist und die von einem Kreis eingefasste Stadtvignette von Rom das Zentrum der Welt bildet.19 Die Darstellung des Tibers ordnet sich dieser romzentrierten Gesamtkonzeption der Tabula Peutingeriana unter, und der Tiber ist der Fluss des globalen Zentrums Rom. 3 Die Forma Urbis Einführung Im templum Pacis in Rom war in einer Exedra ein großer Stadtplan von Rom aufgehängt (Abb. 6.8 und 6.9).20 Er wurde unter dem Kaiser Septimius Severus erstellt und zeigte in Marmorplatten eingraviert, die gesamte Bebauung der Stadt Rom innerhalb des Pomeriums. Der Stadtplan entstand zwischen 205 und 208 n. Chr. im Maßstab ungefähr 1:240 und war nach Südosten ausgerichtet. Der Plan hatte eine Größe von ca. 13 × 18,1 m und war oberhalb einer 4 m hohen Sockelzone angebracht. Er ist nur noch teilweise erhalten und aus den Fragmenten lässt sich rund 1/10 des Plans rekonstruieren.

19  Talbert 2010, 87–95. 20  Zur Forma Urbis in Rom vgl. insbesondere Carettoni et al. 1955; Rodríguez Almeida 1981; 2002; Reynolds 1996; Meneghini et al. 2006. Siehe außerdem nun [zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017].

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Abb. 6.8

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Zeichnerische Rekonstruktion der Forma Urbis im templum Pacis, Rom (Meneghini/Inklink)

Die genaue Funktion des großen Marmorplans ist bis heute nicht geklärt. Die Forschung hat sich vor allem mit dem Plan als antiquarischer Quelle für die Topographie Roms befasst. Fragen nach der repräsentativen Bedeutung des Plans oder der Wahrnehmung der Stadt wurden dagegen nur am Rande diskutiert. Dabei ist deutlich geworden, dass der Plan sicher kein normaler Katasterplan war oder dergleichen praktische Funktion erfüllte, sondern dass er vielmehr eine repräsentative Funktion hatte und im kaiserlichen Programm des Septimius Severus sowohl die Urbs Sacra, Rom, wie den Restitutor Urbis, Septimius Severus, feierte.21 Deutlich ist auch, dass der Plan sich zwar formal an offizielle 21  Vgl. von Hesberg 1984; Lichtenberger 2011, 301–310.

Abb. 6.9

Übersicht über zugewiesene Fragmente der Forma Urbis (Rodríguez Almeida 2002, Tf. XII)

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Vermessungspläne der Land- und Gebäudevermesser anlehnte, dass er aber deren Darstellungskonventionen vereinfachte.22 Daher gibt es immer wieder Ungenauigkeiten und Vereinfachungen in den Details des Plans, die auch daher rühren, dass der Plan keine topographischen Details der physischen Geographie wiedergibt, sondern auf eine zweidimensionale Darstellung beschränkt bleibt. So wird keiner der Hügel in seiner Gestalt wiedergegeben und ebenso wird auch der Tiber nicht gezeigt. Solche natürlichen Gegebenheiten lagen offenbar nicht im Darstellungsinteresse des Plans. Der Tiber, mit dem wir uns beschäftigen wollen, ist auf der Forma Urbis nur als Freifläche mitgedacht und nicht eingezeichnet. Nur das Fehlen von Bebauung weist auf ihn. Folgen wir nun den Abschnitten der Forma Urbis, auf denen der Tiber dargestellt ist, von oben nach unten, also entgegen der Fließrichtung von Süden nach Norden. Der Tiberhafen und die Horrea Im Süden der Stadt, insbesondere im Bereich des Aventin, lagen die Lagerhäuser (Horrea) und der Hafen; beides ist auf der Forma Urbis dargestellt.23 Fragment 25 (Abb. 6.10)24: Rechts im Bild ist am Rand eine freie Fläche, die den Tiber bezeichnet. Links sehen wir mehrere Gebäudekomplexe, von denen einer als Horrea Lolliana benannt ist.25 Archäologisch ist von den Horrea nichts erhalten und wir können sie nur über die Forma Urbis rekonstruieren.26 Es handelt sich dabei um einen Lagerhauskomplex mit zwei Innenhöfen mit mehreren Kammern. Tiberwärts ist ein Bereich mit zwei vorspringenden Plattformen, von denen je eine Treppe zum Tiber herabführt. Von den Plattformen ist kein direkter Zugang zu den Horrea eingezeichnet, diese erreicht man nur über zwei Seitenwege und jeweils zwei Korridore, die auf den Tiber zuführen. Weshalb die eine Plattform weiter vorspringt, ist unbekannt und vielleicht be22  Lichtenberger 2011, 301–306. 23  Zum auch als Emporium bezeichneten südlichen Tiberhafen Roms vgl. Gatti 1936; Nash I 1961, 380–386; Mocchegiani Carpano 1995; Maischberger 1997, 61–93; Maischberger 1999, 71–72. Eine systematische Untersuchung der Darstellung von Hafenanlagen auf der Forma Urbis fehlt bislang. Zur Darstellung von Horrea auf der Forma Urbis vgl. Carettoni et al. 1955, 205; Staccioli 1962; Rickman 1971, 108–122; Reynolds 1996, 177–184. 24  Carettoni et al. 1955, 83–84 Tf. V; XXV; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 106 Tf. XVIII; [M. Butler und T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017] sowie [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 25  Zu den Horrea Lolliana siehe Rickman 1971, 109–112; Richardson jr. 1992, 193–194; Coarelli 1996a. 26  Belegt sind sie aber epigraphisch: CIL VI 4226, 4226a und 4239.

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Abb. 6.10

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Forma Urbis, Fragment 25 (nach: Carettoni et al. 1955, Tf. XXV)

dingt durch den Tiberverlauf. Nach oben anschließend, ist ein weiterer Hofkomplex mit Raumeinheiten.27 Zugang zu dem Hof erfolgte über die untere Langseite sowie möglicherweise vom Tiber her über einzelne Räume (sollte hier nicht etwa eine unvollständige Darstellung vorliegen). Weiter nach oben, getrennt wiederum durch eine Straße die zum Tiber führt, ist ein größerer Hofkomplex, der zum Tiber hin weitgehend abgeschlossen ist, bis auf wenige Kammern und einen Korridor, der zu einem weiteren Gebäudekomplex führt mit mehreren mittelgroßen Kammern, die sich zum Tiber hin öffnen. Die Funktion dieses Gebäudekomplexes ist unklar, Staccioli hat vorgeschlagen, hier den Sitz eines Collegiums von Hafenarbeitern zu sehen.28

27  Rickman 1971, 112. 28  Staccioli 1968; Bollmann 1998, 433–434.

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Wir fassen auf diesem Fragment der Forma Urbis einen Teil des südlichen Tiberhafens in Rom. Dargestellt sind große Lagerhäuser, zu denen der Zugang klar kontrolliert war. Wegen der Treppenanlagen ist offensichtlich, dass ein Niveauunterschied zum Tiber hin bestand und die Bebauung der Stadt öffnete sich teilweise zum Tiber, teilweise war sie aber auch klar abgeschlossen. Auch wenn davon ausgegangen werden kann, dass die Lagerhäuser für Waren genutzt wurden, die über den Tiber herbeigebracht wurden, so fehlen doch abgesehen von den beiden Plattformen spezifische Hafeninstallationen. Fragment 28 (Abb. 6.11)29: Dieses Fragment zeigt einen Bereich nicht unweit von Fragment 25 entfernt und gehört ebenfalls zu den Teilen des Hafens im Süden der Stadt. Im oberen Abschnitt erkennen wir wieder die freie Fläche, welche eindeutig den Tiber bezeichnet. Sodann folgen drei größere Gebäudekomplexe.30 Links sieht man einen großen Komplex, der sich um einen weiten Säulenhof gruppiert, der von einzelnen Räumen umgeben wird. An der Flussseite ist ein weiterer Säulenhof eingeschrieben, der über drei Zugänge kontrolliert wird und einen weiteren Zugang zum Tiber sowie zwei Treppenhäuser auf der Tiberseite hat. Rechts neben diesem zweiten Hof führt ein Korridor zum Tiber. Von diesem Korridor besteht auch Zugang zu dem zweiten Komplex, einem langgestreckten Lagerhaus mit Hof und umgebenden Räumen sowie einer Freitreppe zum Tiber hinab. An der dem Tiber abgewandten Schmalseite ist auch ein enger Eingang von einer innerstädtischen Straße (der Via Portuense) zu dem Komplex. Ein solcher Eingang von der Straße ist in dem erhaltenen Abschnitt des ersten Komplexes nicht sichtbar. Auch wenn er weiter links gelegen haben sollte, so wird doch deutlich, dass der Zugang zu dem Komplex stark reglementiert war. Von dem mittleren Komplex führt oben rechts ein Durchgang in den dritten Komplex, der sich durch einen schmalen Zugang zum Tiber hin öffnete, ansonsten aber wiederum aus einer Folge von Säulenhöfen, Portiken und Lagerräumen bestand. Auch bei diesem Fragment fassen wir mehrere Lagerhäuser, wobei sie diesmal miteinander verbunden und nicht durch Stichstraßen getrennt waren. Ob daraus besondere Besitzverhältnisse abgeleitet werden können, sei dahingestellt. Bemerkenswert an diesen Lagerhäusern ist wiederum, dass sowohl der Zugang vom/zum Tiber kontrolliert wurde, dass der Zugang aber ebenso zur Stadt hin streng reglementiert wurde. Offensichtlich drohten von beiden 29  Carettoni et al. 1955, 87–88 Tf. II; VII; XXVII; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 108 Tf. XX; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen 17.01.2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen 17.01.2017]. 30  Vgl. dazu Rickman 1971, 114–118.

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Abb. 6.11

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Forma Urbis, Fragment 28 (nach: Carettoni et al. 1955, Tf. XXVII)

Seiten Gefahren. Was hier fehlt, sind wiederum spezielle Hafenanlagen. Zum Tiber hin zeigt sich die Uferbebauung abgeschlossen. Fragment 24 (Abb. 6.12)31: Auf der gegenüberliegenden Tiberseite liegt der auf Fragment 24 erhaltene Abschnitt. Auch hier ist der Tiber nur als eine Freifläche angegeben. Rückwärtig liegen umfangreiche Lagerhäuser und die Porticus Aemilia.32 Nur ein sehr kleiner Abschnitt zeigt die unmittelbare Bebauung am Tiberufer. Sichtbar ist links im Fragment eine Reihe mit kleinen Kammern, die sich zum Tiber hin öffnen. Weiter rechts, durch einen Bruch beeinträchtigt, ist eine Reihe von aneinandergesetzten langrechteckigen Strukturen, insbesondere auf Fragment 24d. Die Funktion dieser Strukturen ist unklar. Vielleicht hat der Graveur des Marmorplans vergessen, Eingänge einzuzeichnen. 31  Carettoni et al. 1955, 81–82 Tf. IV; XXIV; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 102–105 Tf. XVI; [T.  Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 32  Zur Portikus Aemilia vgl. Nash II 1962, 238–240; Richardson jr. 1992, 311–312; Coarelli 1999a; Giovannetti 2016. Zu den Lagerhäusern vgl. Rickman 1971, 113.

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Abb. 6.12

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Forma Urbis, Fragment 24 (nach: Carettoni et al. 1955, Tf. XXIV)

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Abb. 6.13

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Forma Urbis, Fragmente 92 und 138 (nach: Koller et al. 2006, 113 Abb. 13)

Bemerkenswert ist hier, dass der Tiber offenbar über kein klar begrenztes Bett verfügt und um die Architektur herum auch Freiflächen sind. Erst kürzlich zugewiesen wurden die Fragmente 92 und 138 für einen flussaufwärtsgelegenen Tiberabschnitt in Trastevere (Abb. 6.13).33 Der zum Tiber ausgerichtete Teil (Fragment 92) ist nur fragmentarisch erhalten. Zu sehen ist eine Reihe Tabernae mit einer vorgelagerten Portikus.34 Die zum Tiber ausgerichtete Portikus ist von der Stadt durch eine Gasse zugänglich. Die Gasse trennt zwei große Hofkomplexe, von denen der rechte ein Horreum zu sein 33  Carettoni et al. 1955, 119 Tf. XXXVI.92; 122 Tf. XXXVIII.138; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, Tf. XXXVII.92; 156 Tf. XXXIX.138. Die Identifikation mit einem Tiberabschnitt erfolgte durch: Koller et al. 2006, 111–113. Vgl. auch [D. Koller, T. Najbjerg und J. Trimble, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 34  Zu den Darstellungskonventionen der Tabernae auf der Forma Urbis vgl. Carettoni et al. 1955, 204; Reynolds 1996, 153–165.

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scheint, das sich möglicherweise an der Schmalseite durch einen Zugang zum Tiber hin öffnete.35 Insgesamt sind aber die beiden in ihren Grundzügen rekonstruierbaren Hofbauten nicht großflächig zum Tiber geöffnet. Immerhin öffnen sich aber die Tabernae mit der vorgesetzten Portikus zum Tiber hin. Fragment 27 (Abb. 6.14)36: Mehrere Fragmente gehören zu diesem Tiberabschnitt flussabwärts der Tiberinsel, also bereits im Stadtzentrum. Einige für uns relevante Teile sind nur noch über eine Zeichnung aus dem Codex Vaticanus Latinus 3439 überliefert. Beginnen wir mit dem oberen Abschnitt des erhaltenen Abschnitts.37 Zu sehen ist unten wieder der freie Bereich des Tibers, der aber mit einer Portikus begrenzt wird, auf die sich zum Tiber hin zahlreiche Tabernae öffnen. Dahinter liegt ein Hofkomplex mit sich nach innen öffnenden Kammern, doch ist unklar, ob dieser Hofkomplex zur Tiberseite hin offen war. Für den Bereich weiter rechts muss dann ein Abschnitt des Codex zur Hilfe gezogen werden. Möglicherweise liegen hier am Tiber eine Mole und ein Kai bzw. ein Anleger sowie ein von zwei Exedren eingefasster Bereich, der wie ein kleines Hafenbecken funktioniert haben könnte.38 Es folgt weiter nach rechts ein größeres Areal mit Freifläche, was wiederum darauf hindeuten könnte, dass der Verlauf des Tibers in Relation zur Bebauung nicht festgelegt war. Es ist denkbar, dass die rückwärtige Bebauung auch aus Lagerhäusern bestand, doch lässt sich das nicht sichern. Auf der gegenüberliegenden Tiberseite ist auf dem erhaltenen Abschnitt links zum Tiber hin eine Kryptoporticus gesetzt, die sich nicht zum Tiber hin öffnet. Rückwärtig sind Raumstrukturen, deren Funktionen nicht eindeutig bestimmbar sind. Für den weiteren Verlauf der Tiberfront sind wieder die Zeichnungen aus dem Codex Vaticanus Latinus heranzuziehen. Aus ihnen wir deutlich, dass zwei größere Komplexe folgen, die jeweils in ihrer Funktion nicht sicher zu bestimmen sind. Im Verhältnis zum Tiber von besonderer Bedeutung ist die Gestaltung des Ufers. Hier fällt auf, dass eine Abfolge von gestuften und zum Teil symmetrisch angeordneten Rampen bzw. Treppen zum 35  Vgl. dazu Rickman 1971, 120. 36  Carettoni et al. 1955, 85–86 Tf. XI; XXVI; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 108 Tf. XIX; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01. 2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 37  Vgl. dazu Rickman 1971, 113–114. 38  Carettoni et al. 1955, 85.

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Forma Urbis, Fragment 27 (nach: Carettoni et al. 1955, Tf. XXVI)

Tiber hinabführen. Diese Rampen führen zu zwei Durchgängen in der ansonsten geschlossenen Front der Uferbebauung. Eine allzu detaillierte Auswertung der Zeichnungen muss unterbleiben, da sie zu ungenau sind. Allerdings wurden vergleichbare Ufersituationen auch bei Ausgrabungen im 19. Jh. im Bereich des Emporiums im Süden der Stadt gefunden (Abb. 6.15 und 6.16).39 Dort führten Rampen geböschte Befestigungsmauern herab, um den Niveauunterschied zwischen Stadt und Tiber zu überwinden. Auch der Flusshafen des römischen Köln verfügte über vergleichbare Installationen.40 Aus diesem Fragment der Forma Urbis wird ersichtlich, dass einige Abschnitte sich ganz klar zum Tiber hin mit kleinen Tabernae öffneten, die meisten Abschnitte aber, wie wir es zuvor schon gesehen haben, dicht geschlossen waren und wenn überhaupt nur sehr kontrolliert Zugang zur dahinterliegenden Stadt ermöglichten.

39  Gatti 1936; Le Gall 1953a, 194–204; Maischberger 1997, 61–93. 40  Schäfer et al. 2012.

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Abb. 6.15

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Reste des Flusshafens in Rom (1870) (Gatti 1936, 55 Abb. 1)

Pons Aemilius, Tiberinsel und ein unbekanntes Bauwerk Auf eine Tiberbrücke könnten vier Teile von Fragment 621 verweisen (Abb. 6.17).41 Auf ihnen lassen sich innerhalb einer Freifläche (Tiber?) die Buchstaben „Aemili“ lesen, was sich vermutlich auf den Pons Aemilius bezieht.42 Unten anpassend an die Fragmente sind zwei weitere Fragmente, die eine mehrfach gekammerte Struktur zeigen, bei der es sich um Anlegestellen handeln könnte. Eine Besonderheit stellt die Tiberinsel dar, die auf den Fragmenten von 32 und 321 erhalten ist (Abb. 6.18).43 Die Tiberinsel ist für Rom von besonderer 41  Carettoni et al. 1955, 153 Tf. IX; LVII.621; 153 Tf. LVII.627; 153 Tf. LVII. 623; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 115–118 Tf. XXIV.621; 167 Tf. LVIII.627; 167 Tf. LVIII.623; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T.  Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 42  Zum Pons Aemilius vgl. Le Gall 1953a, 75–80; Nash II 1962, 182–183; Richardson jr. 1992, 296–297; Coarelli 1999b. 43  Carettoni et al. 1955, 93–94, 149, 153 Tf. XIII; XXX.32; LIV.560; LVII.630; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 115–118, 166, 168 Tf. XXIV.32; LV.560; LVIII.630; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T.  Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 44  Zur Tiberinsel vgl. Besnier 1902; Nash I 1961, 508–509; Richardson jr. 1992, 209–210; Degrassi 1996. 45  Besnier 1902, 33–44. 46  Zu der mythischen Überlieferung der Ursprünge des Heiligtums vgl. Le Gall 1953b, 103–105.

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Abb. 6.18 Forma Urbis, Fragment 32 (nach: Carettoni et al. 1955, Tf. XXX)

Abb. 6.19

Als Schiff reliefierte Ufermauer der Tiberinsel (1946) (Le Gall 1953a, Tf. XXI)

Die Buchstaben sind in eine Freifläche gesetzt, die den Tiber bezeichnet. Insgesamt fünf zusammenhängende Fragmente (von denen eines nur in einer Zeichnung des Codex Vaticanus Latinus 3439 überliefert ist) sowie ein weiteres Fragment zeigen Teile der Tiberinsel. Auf einem Abschnitt sieht man eine Gasse, welche eine Inschrift vermutlich als „inter duos pontes“ ausweist. Unterhalb davon ist eine Portikus mit rückwärtigen Kammern zu erkennen sowie eine eingefasste rechteckige Struktur. Oberhalb davon ist eine kleine Platzanlage mit einer runden Struktur, die von mehreren Kammern umgeben ist. Eine Deutung dieser Bebauung ist schwierig und vielleicht gehören sie zu Einrichtungen des Aesculapius-Heiligtums. Auf dem Fragment 32f sind der geschwungene Kontur der Insel sowie der Tiber als Freifläche zu erkennen. Auch ein weiteres Fragment gibt den geschwungenen Umriss der Tiberinsel an und verweist möglicherweise auf die Schiffsform, in der die Insel gestaltet war.

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Weitere Ufersektionen finden sich auf zwei Fragmenten, die zu Platte 32 gehören und unmittelbar flussaufwärts der Tiberinsel liegen (Abb. 6.20).47 Die Fragmente passen an. Das obere zeigt eine Reihe von Tabernae, die sich wohl auf den Tiber hin öffneten, und eine Arkade davor. Das untere zeigt die Fortsetzung der Arkade und der Läden, doch in dem Bereich des Tibers, ist umgeben von Freifläche ein Podium eingesetzt, auf dem ein tetrastyles Bauwerk auf einem weiteren Podium steht. Teile dieses Gebäudes sieht man auch auf dem bereits aus dem 1. Jh. n. Chr. stammenden Marmorplan von der Via Anicia, der denselben Abschnitt am Tiber zeigt (Abb. 6.21).48 Dieser Plan wurde in Trastevere in der Nähe des dargestellten Ausschnitts gefunden. Die Identifikation dieses Bauwerks im oder unmittelbar am Tiber ist unklar. Insgesamt drei Vorschläge liegen dafür vor. (1) Rodríguez Almeida ist der Ansicht, dieses Gebäude sei der Sitz der cura alvei Tiberis et riparum, also das Hauptquartier derjenigen Beamten, die für die Instandhaltung des Tibers und seines Ufers zuständig waren.49 Er begründet letzteres mit einer Inschrift, welche eine statio alvei Tiberis nennt und welche in dieser Gegend in der Nähe des Fundorts des Via Anicia-Plans gefunden wurde.50 Der Via Anicia-Plan könnte auch im Zusammenhang mit diesen Beamten stehen, denn er verzeichnet entlang einer einfachen Linie mit auf der tiberabgewandten Seite rechteckigen Vertiefungen Tiberabschnitte mit Distanzangaben (XCVIII = 99 Fuß, VI = 6 Fuß; LIIII = 54 Fuß und LI = 51 Fuß), die eine administrative Funktion im Zusammenhang mit der Verwaltung des Tiberufers haben dürften.51 Die Deutung des Bauwerks im Tiber als Sitz der Beamten bleibt jedoch unsicher. (2) Spagnolis hat vorgeschlagen, dass es sich bei dem Bauwerk um Navalia, also um Schiffshäuser handelt.52 Schiffshäuser lagen tatsächlich in dieser

47  Carettoni et al. 1955, 152 LVI.614; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 116, 167 Tf. LVII.614; [T.  Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 48  Zum Plan von der Via Anicia vgl. Spagnolis 1984; Reynolds 1996, 33–35; Rodríguez Almeida 1988; Rodríguez Almeida 2002, 43–49; Meneghini et al. 2005, 26–27. 49  Rodríguez Almeida 1988, 124–128; Rodríguez Almeida 2002, 48–49. Zu diesen Beamten vgl. Le Gall 1953a, 135–183; Robinson 1992, 83–94; Maischberger 1999, 70–71; Aldrete 2007, 198–203; Campbell 2012, 319–320; Gregori 2017; Guaglianone 2017, 10–11. 50   C IL VI 1224. 51  Spagnolis 1984, 17–18. 52  Spagnolis 1984, 51–53.

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Abb. 6.20 Forma Urbis, Fragment 614 (nach: Carettoni et al. 1955, LVI.614)

Abb. 6.21 Plan von der Via Anicia, Rom (nach: Rodríguez Almeida 2002, Tf. V)

Gegend des Marsfeldes53, doch bleibt unklar, ob Schiffshäuser mitten im Tiber standen, so wie es die Struktur auf den beiden Marmorplänen tut. (3) Tucci wiederum möchte das Bauwerk im Tiber mit dem um die Mitte des 6. Jh.s n. Chr. bei Prok. Goth. 4, 22 erwähnten Schiff des Aeneas identifizieren.54 Dabei handelt es sich um ein vielleicht bereits augusteisches Monument, in welchem das mythische Schiff des Aeneas unmittelbar 53  Zu den Navalia von Rom vgl. Le Gall 1953a, 103–110; Nash II 1962, 117–119; Richardson jr. 1992, 266–267; Coarelli 1996b; Cozza et al. 2006; Arata et al. 2011. 54  Tucci 1997, 37–42.

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am Tiber aufgestellt war. Es war ein steinernes Bauwerk, in dem ein Schiff aufbewahrt und als Schiff des Aeneas präsentiert wurde. Prokop bezeichnet das Gebäude als neosoikos, also als tempelartiges Gebäude, und das passt gut zu dem tetrastylen Bauwerk mit Tonnengewölbe, welches auf der Forma Urbis abgebildet ist. Unabhängig davon, ob auf den Marmorplänen tatsächlich dieses Monument gezeigt wurde, zeigt sich, dass neben der Tiberinsel im Bereich des Tibers auch andere steinerne Monumente das Thema der Schifffahrt aufnahmen und auf dem Tiber immobile Schiffe platziert wurden. Das Schiff des Aeneas hatte dabei noch eine besondere Aufladung, weil es Rom über das Mittelmeer mit der mythischen Urheimat Troia verband. Letztlich bleibt die genaue Identifikation des Bauwerks auf der Forma Urbis und dem Via Anicia-Plan unsicher. Im Zusammenhang mit der Diskussion der Bebauung des Tiberufers wird aber deutlich, dass hier ein Bauwerk zu fassen ist, welches sich offenbar repräsentativ zum Tiber hin öffnete und vermutlich sogar in ihm stand. Hochwasserschutz? Etwas weiter flussaufwärts findet sich auf Platte 37A und 37 ein Abschnitt des Tiberufers im Bereich des Marsfelds (Abb. 6.22).55 Der zum Tiber gewandte Teil des Marmorplans zeigt im unteren Bereich eine Reihe von Kammern, bei denen es sich um Tabernae handelt, bei denen jedoch kein Zugang eingezeichnet ist, sodass unklar bleibt, ob sie sich zum Tiber hin öffneten oder zu einer dahinterliegenden Gasse. Hinter der Gasse wiederum ist ein Gebäude mit Innenhof und angrenzenden Räumen, doch fehlen auch hier die Zugänge im Plan. Der Komplex wird von einer ungefähr orthogonal auf den Tiber zulaufenden Straße nach oben hin begrenzt. Dahinter beginnt ein Gebäudekomplex mit mehreren Räumen, wovon wiederum die vorgelagerten Tabernae nur Kammern sind, so dass unklar bleibt, ob sie sich zur Straße und zum Tiber hin öffneten. Da der Tiber hier nach links hin einbuchtet, ist die angrenzende Bebauung schräg gesetzt. Zum Tiber hin ist eine Linie eingezeichnet, die an der tiberabgewandten Seite in regelmäßigen Abständen rechteckige Vertiefungen aufweist. Die Bedeutung dieser Zeichen ist zunächst einmal unklar. Vergleicht 55  Rodríguez Almeida 1983. Es handelt sich dabei um folgende Fragmente: Carettoni et al. 1955, 152 Tf. LVI.602; 129 Tf. XLII.252; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 136–139 Tf. LVII.602; 159 Tf. XLIV.252; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017].

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man sie aber mit der Linie auf dem Via Anicia-Plan (Abb. 6.21), so könnte es sich um eine Begrenzung des Tibers handeln, die zwar nicht überall am Tiberufer, aber vielleicht an besonderen Stellen auftritt. Vielleicht bezeichnen die Linien gerade im Bereich des vom Hochwasser besonders betroffen Marsfelds Abschnitte mit einem besonderen Hochwasserschutz.56

Abb. 6.22

Forma Urbis, Fragmente 37A und 37 (nach: Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 138 Abb. 41)

Mehrere Fragmente der Forma Urbis, die keine Bebauung zeigen, könnten Teile der Tiberflächen sein, doch lassen sie sich nicht näher zuordnen.57 Auch Stücke, wie das Fragment 258, auf dem möglicherweise Schiffshäuser zu sehen sind, können nicht näher lokalisiert werden und das dargestellte Bauwerk ist in seinem baulichen Gefüge unklar59, so dass es unberücksichtigt bleibt.

56  Zu solchen Mauern vgl. Aldrete 2007, 192–198. Aldrete weist aber insgesamt in seiner Arbeit darauf hin, dass es in Rom keinen systematischen staatlich organisierten Hochwasserschutz gab. 57  Carettoni et al. 1955, 131 Tf. XLIV.279; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 159 Tf. XLV.279; [N.N., zuletzt abgerufen: 7.1.2017]. 58  Carettoni et al. 1955, 60–61 Tf. VIII; XV.2; Rodríguez Almeida 1981, 57 Tf. I.2; [T.  Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]; [T. Najbjerg, zuletzt abgerufen: 07.01.2017]. 59  Vgl. auch Richardson jr. 1992, 266–267.

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Abb. 6.23 Tiberbegrenzungsstein CIL VI 31553 aus der Zeit Hadrians Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Photo: PH0009330

Zusammenfassung Fassen wir nun unsere Beobachtungen zur Darstellung des Tibers auf der Forma Urbis und damit verbunden, des Verhältnisses von Stadt zu Fluss bzw. Flusshafen zusammen, so zeigt sich, dass der Fluss in keiner Weise (wohl auch nicht farblich) dargestellt war, sondern nur als Freifläche gedacht ist. Das ist an sich nicht überraschend, denn auf der Forma Urbis sind keinerlei topographische Gegebenheiten dargestellt, sondern ausschließlich gebaute Architektur. Nicht einmal ein Minimum ist davon vorhanden und es fehlt die bauliche Einfassung des Flusses und auch andere Elemente wie der sicher vorhandene Treidelpfad sind nicht dargestellt.60 Ein direkter Vergleich der Forma Urbis mit der Tabula Peutingeriana ist wegen der unterschiedlichen Entstehungszeit, des unterschiedlichen Kontextes und unterschiedlicher Funktionen problematisch. Gleichwohl seien die beiden Monumente kontrastiert, denn sie sind die wichtigsten Zeugnisse römischer Kartographie. Auf der Tabula Peutingeriana spielen die Flüsse eine herausragende Rolle, auf der Forma Urbis gar keine. Die Nicht-Darstellung des 60  Zum Fehlen eines gefassten Treidelpfads vgl. Le Gall 1953a, 187. Zu den Treidlern am Tiber vgl. Le Gall 1953a, 257–258.

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Flusses auf der detaillierten Forma Urbis könnte auch damit zusammenhängen, dass das Flussbett keineswegs sicher zu fassen war und der Fluss immer in Bewegung war, je nach Jahreszeit und Wasserstand. Daher sollte man vielleicht eher von einer Tiberzone als von einem Tiberbett sprechen und diese Zone hätte sich nicht mit einer einfachen Begrenzungslinie darstellen lassen können, einer Begrenzungslinie wie wir sie von modernen begradigten Flüssen gewohnt sind. Dennoch ist auffällig, dass überall die Bebauung der Stadt bis unmittelbar an das Flussbett heranreichte, und es ist anzunehmen, dass der Tiber auch begrenzt gewesen ist, denn es sind beschriebene Markierungssteine, cippi, belegt, die von der cura alvei Tiberis et riparum aufgestellt wurden und die Uferzone markierten (Abb. 6.23).61 Während auf der Forma Urbis augenscheinlich die augusteischen Regioneneinteilungen farbig markiert wurden62, erfolgte eine solche Markierung nicht mit der Uferzone des Tibers. Lediglich in einigen Abschnitten auf Fragment 37A und dem Via Anicia-Plan könnte eine Uferbegrenzung im Bereich des Marsfelds eingezeichnet gewesen sein. Bemerkenswert ist auch, wie sich das Verhältnis der Stadt zum Fluss auf der Forma Urbis darstellt. Dabei ist noch einmal hervorzuheben, dass unsere Kenntnis dieses Übergangsbereichs äußerst bescheiden ist, wir also nur vorsichtig zu Verallgemeinerungen kommen sollten. Wagt man sich dennoch an Tendenzen, so kann man vielleicht feststellen, dass im südlichen Außenbezirk und Hafenbereich die Uferbebauung mit Speicheranlagen sehr stark abgeschottet zum Fluss hin war und der Zugang klar kontrolliert wurde. Die Angst vor Flusspiraten könnte zu solchen baulichen Maßnahmen geführt haben, wobei man auch diesen Punkt nicht überdramatisieren sollte, denn auch innerstädtisch zeigten sich die Lagerhäuser gut abgeschlossen und kontrolliert. Besondere Einrichtungen zur Anlandung von Schiffen, wie sie archäologisch nachgewiesen werden konnten, fanden sich auf den erhaltenen Teilen der Forma Urbis in diesem Bereich nicht. Bemerkenswert ist weiterhin, dass die Flächen zum Tiber hin optimal genutzt wurden, denn die Horrea waren jeweils mit ihren Schmalseiten zum Tiber ausgerichtet und das Raumvolumen der Lagerhäuser entwickelte sich vom Tiber weg. Hier zeigt sich, dass die Grundstücksflächen am Fluss offensichtlich besonders wertvoll waren. Je weiter wir ins Stadtzentrum kommen, desto mehr verschwinden die großen Lagerbauten und desto eher sieht man auch Uferprospekte, die sich zum Fluss hin öffnen. Wie diese ausgestaltet waren, entzieht sich aber unserer 61   C IL VI 31540–31557; 37025–37029 und weitere Funde, bei Maischberger 1999, 71 sowie Campbell 2012, 319–320. 62  Lichtenberger 2011, 301 Anm. 131. Zu dem sonstigen Fehlen von Begrenzungslinien vgl. Reynolds 1996, 72–73.

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Kenntnis. Es ist wohl eher unwahrscheinlich, dass sie direkt vom Fluss aus zugänglich waren und etwa wie in Venedig Flussboote und Tabernae direkt interagierten. Auszuschließen ist es aber nicht, doch fehlen uns dafür belastbare Hinweise zum Niveauunterschied zwischen Stadt und Fluss, wobei gerade die Rampen darauf hindeuten, dass der Unterschied beträchtlich war. Im Stadtzentrum begegnen dann auf der Forma Urbis auch zwei unmittelbar auf den Tiber bezogene Monumente, die Tiberinsel und möglicherweise das Schiff des Aeneas, die beide transmediterrane Bezüge herstellen.63 Insgesamt wird deutlich, dass die Forma Urbis als ein Monument, das die Wohlorganisiertheit der Stadt und ihre Funktionalität preist, sehr deutlich auch die Relation der Stadt zum Fluss dokumentiert. Die Forma Urbis überliefert uns ein sehr differenziertes Bild der urbanen Interaktion zwischen Stadt und Fluss. Sie zeigt uns, wie die globalen Güter praktisch in die Warenhäuser der Stadt kamen, sie zeigt uns aber auch, wie der Fluss durch Schiffsmonumente ideologisch aufgeladen wurde und mediterrane Verbindungslinien nach Epidauros und Troia inszeniert wurden. 4 Schluss Die Tabula Peutingeriana präsentiert uns den Tiber auf einer Weltkarte, die Forma Urbis zeigt ihn uns auf einem Stadtplan von Rom. Übergeordnete Darstellungskonzepte prägen jeweils das Bild des Tibers. Auf der Tabula Peutingeriana steht Rom im Zentrum der Welt und die Darstellung des Tibers und seine Einbindung in regionale Flusssysteme wird akkurater, je näher man an Rom kommt. Auf der Forma Urbis, einem technisch-repräsentativen Plan der Bebauung Roms, ist der Tiber als Fluss abwesend und nur indirekt über eine Freifläche erschließbar. Während auf der Tabula Peutingeriana keinerlei Infrastruktur des Flusses gezeigt wird, finden wir auf der Forma Urbis zahlreiche und differenziert dargestellte Bauwerke und Anlagen, die mit dem Verhältnis der Stadt zum Fluss zu tun haben. Dieses Verhältnis kann im Falle des Hafens eher technischer Natur sein, in anderen Fällen, wie bei der Tiberinsel gibt es zusätzlich eine stärker repräsentative Dimension. Für beide Karten steht der Tiber nicht im Vordergrund, doch gehört er auf je eigene Weise dazu. Auf der Tabula Peutingeriana ist eine Welt ohne Flüsse nicht vorstellbar und unstrukturiert, und die Forma Urbis dokumentiert die vielfältigen Interaktionen zwischen Stadt und Fluss. Aelius Aristides hätte bei63  Zur Bedeutung solcher transmediterranen Bezüge in der römischen Kaiserzeit vgl. Marcattili 2016.

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de Karten wohl als komplementär zu seinem eigenen Weltbild genommen, in dem Rom mit seiner Lebensader Tiber im Zentrum stand. Bibliographie Aldrete 2007: Aldrete, G. S., Floods of the Tiber in Ancient Rome, Ancient Society and History (Baltimore 2007). Arata et al. 2011: Arata, F. P. – Felici, E., Porticus Aemilia, navalia o horrea? Ancora sui Frammenti 23 e 24 b-d della Forma Urbis, Archeologia Classica 62, 2011, 127–153. Berthold 2011: Berthold, A., Die Darstellung von Raum auf griechischen Münzen, eTopoi. Journal for Ancient Studies 1, 2011, 69–98. Besnier 1902: Besnier, M., L’ile Tibérine dans l’antiquité, Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 87 (Paris 1902). Bollmann 1998: Bollmann, B., Römische Vereinshäuser. Untersuchungen zu den Scholae der römischen Berufs-, Kult- und Augustalen-Kollegien in Italien (Mainz 1998). Bosio 1983: Bosio, L., La Tabula Peutingeriana. Una descrizione pittorica del mondo antico, I Monumenti dell’Arte Classica 2 (Rimini 1983). Brilliant 1967: Brilliant, R., The Arch of Septimius Severus in the Roman Forum, Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 29 (Rom 1967). Brodersen 1995: Brodersen, K., Terra Cognita. Studien zur römischen Raumerfassung, Spudasmata 59 (Hildesheim 1995). Brodersen 2001: Brodersen, K., Neue Entdeckungen zu antiken Karten, Gymnasium 108, 2001, 137–148. Campbell 2012: Campbell, B., Rivers and the Power of Ancient Rome, Studies in the History of Greece and Rome (Chapel Hill 2012). Carettoni et al. 1955: Carettoni, G. – Colini, A. M. – Cozza, L. – Gatti, G., La pianta marmorea di Roma antica. Forma Urbis Romae (Rom 1955). Coarelli 1996a: Coarelli, F., Horrea Lolliana, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 3, 1996, 43–44. Coarelli 1996b: Coarelli, F., Navalia, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 3, 1996, 339–340. Coarelli 1999a: Coarelli, F., Porticus Aemilia, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 4, 1999, 116–117. Coarelli 1999b: Coarelli, F., Pons Aemilius, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 4, 1999a, 106–107. Cozza et al. 2006: Cozza, L. – Tucci, P. L., Navalia, Archeologia Classica 57, 2006, 175– 201. Degrassi 1996: Degrassi, D., Insula Tiberina, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 3, 1996, 99–101.

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Descœudres 2005: Descœudres, J.-P., La vignette d’Ostie dans la Tabula Peutingeriana, Genava N. S. 53, 2005, 77–84. Le Gall 1953a: Le Gall, J., Le Tibre. Fleuve de Rome dans l’antiquité, Publications de l’Institut d’art et d’archéologie de l’Université de Paris 1 (Paris 1953). Le Gall 1953b: Le Gall, J., Recherches sur le culte du Tibre, Publications de l’Institut d’art et d’archéologie de l’Université de Paris 2 (Paris 1953). Gatti 1936: Gatti, G., L’arginatura del Tevere a Marmorata, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 64, 1936, 55–82. Giovanetti 2016: Giovannetti, G., La struttura portuale di lungotevere Testaccio: una nuova analisi della documentazione, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 117, 2016, 17–36. Gregori 2017: Gregori, G. L., Traiano e la cura dell’alveo e delle rive del Tevere, in: Parisi Presicce, C. – Milella, M. – Ungaro, L. – Pastor, S. (Hrsg.), Traiano. Costruire l’Impero, creare l’Europa (Catalogo della mostra) (Rom 2017) 207–209. Guaglianone 2017: Guaglianone, A., Roma contro il Tevere: le devastazioni delle esondazioni nell’antichità e i tentativi di sottrarre l’Urbe alla furia del fiume, Forma Urbis 22 (10), 2017, 5–12. von Hesberg 1984: von Hesberg, H., Römische Grundrißpläne auf Marmor, in: Bauplanung und Bautheorie der Antike (Berlin 1984), 120–133. Imhoof-Blumer 1888: Imhoof-Blumer, F., Antike Münzbilder, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 3, 1888, 286–297. Klementa 1993: Klementa, S., Gelagerte Flußgötter des Späthellenismus und der römischen Kaiserzeit, Arbeiten zur Archäologie (Köln/Weimar/Wien 1993). Koller et al. 2006: Koller, D. – Levoy, M., Computer-aided Reconstruction and New Matches in the Forma Urbis Romae, in: Meneghini et al. 2006, 103–125. Lichtenberger 2011: Lichtenberger, A., Severus Pius Augustus. Studien zur sakralen Repräsentation und Rezeption der Herrschaft des Septimius Severus und seiner Familie (193–211 n. Chr.), Impact of Empire 14 (Leiden/Boston 2011). Maischberger 1997: Maischberger, M., Marmor in Rom. Anlieferung, Lager- und Werkplätze in der Kaiserzeit, Palilia 1 (Wiesbaden 1997). Maischberger 1999: Maischberger, M., Tiberis, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 4, 1999, 69–73. Malmberg 2015: Malmberg, S.‚ ‘Ships are Seen Gliding Swiftly along the Sacred Tiber’: The River as an Artery of Urban Movement and Development, in: Östenberg, I. – Malmberg, S. – Bjørnbye, J. (Hrsg.), The Moving City. Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome (London et al. 2015) 187–201. Mambella 1997: Mambella, R., Tiberis, Tiberinus, Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae VIII, 1997, 25–27. Marcattili 2016: Marcattili, F., Due rilievi dall’Isola Tiberina nel Palazzo Rondinini. Sull’arrivo a Roma di Esculapio e della Magna Mater, Bulletin antieke beschaving 91, 2016, 209–223.

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Meneghini et al. 2006: Meneghini, R. – Santangeli Valenzani, R. (Hrsg.), Formae Urbis Romae. Nuovi frammenti di piante marmoree dallo scavo di fori imperiali, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma Supplementi 15 (Rom 2006). Meyer 2006: Meyer, M., Die Personifikation der Stadt Antiocheia. Ein neues Bild für eine neue Gottheit, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Ergänzungsheft 33 (Berlin 2006). Mocchegiani Carpano 1995: Mocchegiani Carpano, C., Emporium, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 2, 1995, 221–223. Nash I 1961/II 1962: Nash, E., Bildlexikon zur Topographie des antiken Rom, I–II (Tübingen 1961/1962). Östenberg 2009: Östenberg, I., Staging the World. Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession, Oxford Studies in Ancient Culture and Representation (Oxford 2009). Purcell 2012: Purcell, N., Rivers and the Geography of Power, Pallas 90, 2012, 373–387. Rathmann 2016: Rathmann, M., The Tabula Peutingeriana and Antique Cartography, in: Bianchetti, S. – Cataudella, M. R. – Gehrke, H.-J. (Hrsg.), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Geography. The inhabited World in Greek and Roman Tradition (Leiden 2016) 337–362. Reynolds 1996: Reynolds, D. W., Forma Urbis Romae: The Severan Marble Plan and the Urban Form of Ancient Rome (PhD thesis University of Michigan 1996). RIC II.1: Mattingly, H. – Sydenham, E. A., The Roman Imperial Coinage, II. Vespasian to Hadrian (London 1926). Richardson jr. 1992: Richardson jr., L., A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome (Baltimore/London 1992). Rickman 1971: Rickman, G., Roman Granaries and Store Buildings (Cambridge 1971). Robinson 1992: Robinson, O. F., Ancient Rome. City Planning and Administration (London/New York 1992). Rodríguez Almeida 1981: Rodríguez Almeida, E., Forma Urbis Marmorea. Aggiornamento Generale 1980 (Rom 1981). Rodríguez Almeida 1983: Rodríguez Almeida, E., Un nuovo frammento della Forma Urbis Marmorea, in: Città e architettura nella Roma Imperiale. Atti del seminario del 27 ottobre 1981 nel 25o anniversario dell’Accademia di Danimarca, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici Supplementum 10 (Odense 1983) 87–92. Rodríguez Almeida 1988: Rodríguez Almeida, E., Un frammento di una nuova pianta marmorea di Roma, Journal of Roman Archaeology 1, 1988, 120–131. Rodríguez Almeida 2002: Rodríguez Almeida, E., Formae Urbis Antiquae. Le mappe marmoree di Roma tra la repubblica e Settimio Severo, Collection de l’Ecole française de Rome 305 (Rom 2002). Sanchez et al. 2016: Sanchez, C. – Jézégou, M.-P. (Hrsg.), Les ports dans l’espace méditerranéen antique. Narbonne et les systèmes portuaires fluvio-lagunaires. Actes du

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colloque international tenu à Montpellier du 22 au 24 mai 2014, Revue archéologique de Narbonnaise Supplément 44 (Montpellier 2016). Schäfer et al. 2012: Schäfer, A. – Trier, M., Ein Hafentor im römischen Köln, Der Limes 6, 2012, 20–23. Settis 1988: Settis, S. (Hrsg.), La Colonna Traiana, Saggi 716 (Turin 1988). Spagnolis 1984: de’Spagnolis, M. C., Il tempio dei Dioscuri nel Circo Flaminio, Lavori e studi di archeologia 4 (Rom 1984). Staccioli 1962: Staccioli, R. A., Tipi di « horrea » nella documentazione della « Forma Urbis », in: Renard, M. (Hrsg.), Hommages à Albert Grenier, III, Collection Latomus 58 (Brüssel 1962), 1430–1440. Staccioli 1968: Staccioli, R. A., Un probablile sede di corporazione della pianta marmoea di Roma antica, in: Studi di topografia romana, Quaderni dell’Istituto di Topografia Antica della Università di Roma 5 (Rom 1968) 23–26. R. J. A. Talbert, Greek and Roman Mapping: Twenty-First Century Perspectives, in: R. J. A. Talbert und R. W. Unger (ed.), Cartography in Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Leiden und Boston 2008), 9–27. Talbert 2010: Talbert, R. J. A., Rome’s world. The Peutinger Map Reconsidered (Cambridge 2010). Tucci 1997: Tucci, P. L., Dov’erano il tempio di Nettuno e la nave di Enea?, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 98, 1997, 15–42. S. L. Tuck, The Tiber and river transport, in: P. Erdkamp (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rome (Cambridge 2013), 229–245.

Volker Scior

‘River-Communities’? The Nile and Its Riparians in Medieval Travel Accounts Perhaps more than any other river, the Nile played a very significant role in general medieval awareness.1 Imaginations of the Nile were quite accurate. Medieval knowledge could be derived from contemporary writings. People knew from geographical descriptions and maps, that the river divided the continents of Africa and Asia.2 In the Christian world, reading of the bible disclosed the Nile’s theological and historical meaning and relevance, since Egypt was a central region of Salvation history.3 Furthermore, the Nile was of special interest to Western medieval scholars, since it was regarded as one of the four rivers of paradise. The sources of the Nile were imagined to run out of the earthly paradise. Some of the most prominent medieval historiographers speculated on their localization.4 The same was true for Muslim scholars: Their theories about the Nile’s sources were different, but like Latin Christian scholars they tried to locate them as well. Medieval knowledge about the Nile thus came from different branches, which we would call geography, theology, and history. At the same time, of course, there existed current imaginations of Egypt, being transferred by travellers belonging to different societies, cultures, and religions. Journeys of Christian, Muslim and Jewish pilgrims, crusaders, envoys, and a large amount of traders conveyed knowledge about this region 1  Cf. now Cooper 2014; Guest 1912. 2  That is why it was a wide held opinion that Africa began to the west of Alexandria and the Nile delta and Egypt belonged to Asia. In contrast to this perspective cf. from the 12th century onwards, e.g. the work of Hughes of St Victor, the definition of the Red Sea as a border between Africa and Asia and thus counting Egypt to Africa. 3  Cf. instead of many: Khattab 1982. 4  The localization of the earthly paradise in the very East of the World and the localization of the Nile’s sources in Africa was not perceived as a problem by medieval scholars. Cf. for the search of the Nile’s sources e.g. John of Joinville 1955, Section 190, 71, who reports what he had heard being on crusade about an expedition sent by an Egyptian Sultan. Also Hugh of St Victor wrote about the sources, to mention just another example. Cf. Hamilton 2014, 167–179. One of the traditional sources of the Nile were the Mountains of the Moon. Cf. e.g. Ptolemy, Geography, cc. 127 and 151, which entered medieval cartographic imaginations by the 14th century. On geographical images cf. Crawford 1949, 6–29; Langlands 1962, 1–22; de la Roncière 1924–1927. The Mountains of the Moon as the origin of the river Nile one can find on several medieval Islamic maps.

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that subsequently found its way into numerous texts.5 To many of these travellers, the Nile was part of their travel route and a connection between the Mediterranean and its hinterland. Most of these travellers have not left any traces, so that today we do not know how they might have perceived the Nile and its residents. But still there are some travellers, which we can get information about, since they were mentioned in texts or even wrote texts themselves. People we know from written records usually travelled upstream, from the Mediterranean Sea to the South. Usually, of the more than 6.800 km length of the river, they travelled only on a certain part of the Nile, fairly about the one, which is located in today’s Egypt. At least, this is the part mostly described. A very important text genre bearing contemporary statements about the Nile and its inhabitants are medieval travel-accounts. In the following, I want to raise the question, which statements can be found about the Nile and about people living at its borders by reference to three travel accounts. The aim is to figure out how far the inhabitants were regarded as ‘river-communities’ in an outside perspective of foreign travellers; how far interests and experiences of the inhabitants were determined by the natural environment of the river. Questions like these can be answered only by comparing many travel accounts. This is part of a bigger project I am currently working on. In this context I only want to show a certain variance of possibilities – nuances of what medieval travellers wrote about the Nile and the communities living along the river. The three texts I am dealing with are almost exactly written at the same time, nearly within a decade, between about 1170 and 1183. They are written by three travellers with different motifs of travelling and with different religious identities. The first account was composed by the Jewish rabbi and Jerusalempilgrim named Benjamin of Tudela. He travelled from about 1160 through the Mediterranean and visited the Nile.6 His travelogue is transmitted in the form of a traveller’s diary. Research has argued that Benjamin made one large journey through the Mediterranean and has dated his visit in Egypt to the year of 1171.7 But that is not for sure.8 Contrary to the other two travellers, Benjamin did not travel upstream the Nile, since he did not travel inland. Still, he too describes Egypt, and like the other two he docked in Alexandria, referring to its buildings, its inhabitants and their characteristics. The second traveller in focus is a certain Burchard, a cleric and member of the administration of the 5  Cf. on the Early Middle Ages: McCormick 2001; Scior 2014, 202–213. 6  Benjamin of Tudela, Sefer ha-Massa’ot. Cf. Benjamin 1907 (newly edited: Benjamin 1995); Benjamin 1840. The following quotations refer to the edition of Adler. 7  Cf. the commentary of Schreiner 1991, 166. Cf. also Abulafia 2011, 304–317. 8  On the contrary, research assumes that it is not an account on one long journey but rather a summation for Jewish life in Diaspora. Cf. Pyka 2002, 55–76. Cf. also: Kuyt 2003, 211–232.

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bishop of Strasbourg. He, thus, is a Christian traveller.9 In the year of 1175 he went as an ambassador of Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa through Egypt to meet Sultan Saladin in Damascus. Burchard wrote a travelogue describing the river Nile and Egypt. Only another eight years later, in the beginning of the year 1183, Abû Al-Husain Muhammad Ibn Ahmad Ibn Jubayr al-Kinânî, usually called Ibn Jubayr, travelled from Andalusia into the same region.10 At his home, in Spain, which was ruled by the Muslim Almohads at that time, he was secretary of the governor of Granada. He was strongly connected to the Caliph of the Almohads, and he travelled through Egypt as a Muslim pilgrim to Mecca. He, too, wrote a travelogue after a couple of years. Before focussing on the texts themselves I want to outline the perspective I will apply to the travel accounts. The Mediterranean in the Middle Ages is a subject to which research has devoted considerable attention and which therefore has been conceptualized in different perspectives.11 Keywords like ‘communication’, ‘mobility’ and ‘trade’ unite many studies showing the diversity of contemporary connections between Central Europe and the Mediterranean after late Antiquity. Recently, scholars have drawn their attention to a part of the Mediterranean, which has not played a prominent role in former research yet. They do not regard the Mediterranean Sea itself – or what one could call the maritime Mediterranean –, but instead focus on the rivers in the Mediterranean area, or what one could call the fluvial Mediterranean.12 Like other rivers in the Mediterranean, the Nile is an important resource for water, food, and energy. It serves as a natural border and has been a transportation route since oldest times. It creates a specific region of interactions between the Sea, its coasts and hinterlands. Rivers like the Nile belong to the kind of geographical space, which mankind favours for settlements, since the river 9   Burchard’s travel account has been inserted into a high-medieval text dating from around 1210: Burchard 1868, 264–277. Cf. also the edition of Lappenberg 1869, 100–250. The critical edition by Lappenberg was used as well. Arnold attributes this account to a Gerardus, whom he calls Argentinensis vicedominus, but historians agree that he meant Burchard, the vicedominus of the bishop of Strasbourg (who again is not identical with the imperial notary and chaplain of the same name). To Burchard, his account, and to Arnold, cf. Scior 2002, 223–331, especially 320–327; Scior 2004, 99–116. Cf. also Borgolte 2014, 591–613. 10  Ibn Jubayr 1906. Quotations are cited after the German translation (Ibn Dschubair 2004), and then were transferred into English, since the English translation (Ibn Jubayr 1952) was not available. For an English summary of the voyage, even though not much relating to Egypt and the Nile, cf. Abulafia 2001, 304–317. 11  Braudel 1972/1973; Pirenne 1939; Horden et al. 2000; cf. also: Abulafia 2001. 12  These and the following considerations were discussed very fruitfully with members of the Centre of Mediterranean Studies (Zentrum für Mittelmeerstudien) at Ruhr-University Bochum.

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significantly simplifies the mobility and the supply of a community. Fluvial spaces, on the one hand, connect micro-regions, small geographical units along a river, with their inhabitants. On the other hand, rivers like the Nile created what one could call meso-regions. The length of the Nile and the fact that it helped to develop the hinterland in depth led to the development of connections within the drainage basin. Like seas and islands, rivers define a space which can be called a specific environment and thus a space of reference for human action and production. Rivers, in that sense, function as ‘floating spaces’.13 They form social and cultural spaces of experience of human beings living at their banks. In that way, rivers determine the lives of the people living close to it, they determine their way of acting by connecting their habitats. For those reasons, at the banks of rivers, communities can arise, communities determined by their life close to the river and by their permanent relation to the river. In this sense, as communities defining themselves in living with the river, one could call them ‘river-communities’, understood as social communities constituted by their relation to a river and being structured by this relation to a river spatially, socially or politically in a special manner. Now, the question resulting from these thoughts is whether one can speak of medieval ‘river-communities’ at the Nile. Especially in its northern parts and in the delta, the Mediterranean Sea had a great influence on the river. Because of its length and the possibility to develop the hinterland, the Nile is to be seen as a historic player, as a river, which connected several micro-regions with the Mediterranean. When, at the river banks, communities come into being by political, economic and cultural interaction – as ‘river-communities’ –, the question can be raised, if the experiences in living with the river effect the identity as ‘river-communities’ – in other words: if an identity as ‘river-community’ is ascribed by both riparians and foreign travellers. Now, there are descriptions of the Nile and its inhabitants in medieval reports, written by people who travelled through Egypt. But none of them had the intention to travel to the river for the Nile’s sake. The interest in the Nile was embedded in descriptions of Egypt and the Egyptians. Visiting and describing the Nile, perceiving the river and its local residents, was mainly caused by the position of Egypt in European collective memory.14 Who ever made the long way to Egypt and the Nile in medieval times, did not only move geographically, but was also very aware of travelling on three different time-levels, which eclipsed each other in memory. People travelled into an old, Pharaonic Egypt, 13  Cf. methodologically: Rau 2010, 103–116; Rossiaud 2007. 14  Cf. e.g. Scharff 2001, 431–453.

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into a biblical-theological space defined by Salvation history, and they travelled of course into a contemporary region. The old Egypt of Pharaonic times was interpreted in a biblical manner by medieval Christian travellers. Muslims and Jews, too, perceived Egypt as a religious space. For example there were different interpretations of the meaning and functions of the pyramids, which were regarded as the granaries of Joseph mentioned in the bible, or as tombs.15 Of course it is not surprising at all that medieval people travelling for religious reasons interpreted what they saw in a religious manner. Pilgrims’ accounts are the biggest group of medieval travel-accounts.16 That is the reason why the reception of Egypt was dominated by pilgrims. Their travelogues followed certain routes with specific stops in Egypt: the Nile’s delta, Alexandria, Cairo, the Red Sea and the Sinai. Usually, authors mentioned cities and regions filled with memorial sites. The Nile was only part of the journeys because travellers wanted to reach these places. Looking at the three travelogues of Benjamin of Tudela, Burchard of Strasbourg and Ibn Jubayr from the end of the twelfth century in the following, one has to state that all of these do not belong to the big group of Christian pilgrims’ accounts. Still, what has been said about the characteristic different time-levels and branches of knowledge in medieval travelogues about Egypt is true for them, too. The Jewish trader and rabbi, the Christian Emperor’s envoy to Sultan Saladin, and the Muslim pilgrim on his way to Mecca bear witness to it. To all of them, Egypt plays a role as a religious region. They mention both elements of the old Egypt like the pyramids or old temples and those concerning Salvation history and their own religion. Burchard points out that the Nile and the Euphrates were one and the same stretch of water.17 He uses both names synonymously. Nobody knew the Nile’s source, but it was indisputable that the Nile or Euphrates rised from paradise. The written record proved that the river flew downhill from paradise into a plain.18 Also the Jewish traveller Benjamin uses other terms for the Nile: Pischon, the Hebrew word for one of the four rivers of paradise, which is usually equated with the Ganges. At this river, which is said to run out of the Land of Kusch (Ethiopia), the city of Assuan was situated.19 From Assuan it was a four days’ journey to Mizraim (Missr al-‚Atqa;

15  Cf. Scharff 2001. 16  Cf. above, note 5. 17  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 267: Sciendum enim est, quod Eufrates et Nilus una et eadem aqua est. 18  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 270: Nilus vel Eufrates est aqua maior Rheno, de paradiso exiens, cuius ortus ab hominibus ignoratur, nisi quantum scriptis didicimus, planum habens decurum aqua turbulenta, piscibus superabudans, sed non multum valent. 19  Benjamin 1907, 68–69 (96–97).

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Fustat), a big city at the river Nilus, which was also called Pischon or an-Nil. Elsewhere, Benjamin calls the Nile Je’or, ‘the river’.20 Ibn Jubayr, who probably travelled mostly for religious reasons as a pilgrim, was even more interested in the religious places than Burchard. In his account, the Nile is not equated with the Niger – an opinion found in other Muslim travelogues, since there, too, was no knowledge about the Nile’s sources.21 But Ibn Jubayr points out locations to his readers, which he passes and which are of interest in Muslim tradition. He refers to places connected with the birth and abandonment of Mose, the prison of Joseph or a mosque of Abraham.22 At least concerning the Nile itself, the travel routes are similar. Burchard and Ibn Jubayr went aboard a ship in Alexandria and then sailed upstream. Burchard disembarked at Cairo to continue his journey across country to Damascus, where he wanted to meet Saladin; Ibn Jubayr went even further from Alexandria, he passed Cairo and had an eighteen days’ journey up to Qûs located a little north of Luxor, a place of transhipment for Mecca-pilgrims, who changed from boats to camels in order to ride eastwards to the Red Sea (al-Qusair). Absolutely typical for medieval travelogues is the information about buildings in cities like Cairo and especially Alexandria. For travellers who came aboard ships across the Mediterranean Sea, Alexandria was the entrance to Egypt. They were impressed by the city and its buildings like the old lighthouse. By all three travellers, Alexandria was regarded as excellent and splendid, it was described as huge, its buildings were mentioned and praised. The Jewish, the Christian, and the Muslim traveller emphasize, that members of all greater religions lived in the city and that all practised their religious cults. Thus, one characteristic of Egypt in the three travelogues is the existence of different religions side by side so that Egypt, in the eyes of the travellers, is a multireligious geographical area. Still, the three authors mainly mention what is of importance for their own religion: Burchard describes the state of Christian communities in the country, Ibn Jubayr the mosques, and Benjamin the size of Jewish inhabitants and communities.23 A feature running through all texts is trade. Above all, Alexandria is the aim of many traders who sell goods of all kinds. The harbour, Burchard writes, earns a lot of money every year. Very often there were ships with spices coming

20  Benjamin 1907, e.g. 68 and 69 (96 and 98). 21  Cf. to this topic e.g. Ibn Battuta (14th century) who identified the Niger with the Nile. 22  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 37. 23  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, e.g. 271; Ibn Dschubair 2004, 24–28; Benjamin 1907, e.g. 69 (98).

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down the Nile from India.24 In Benjamin’s account, Alexandria is conceptualized as a junction of long-distance trade of “all people”. He lists many regions from which traders came into the city.25 Ibn Jubayr wonders about the fact that the inhabitants of Alexandria dealt by night and by day.26 Intensive trade is striking also at other locations. Burchard and Ibn Jubayr know that especially the river Nile is playing an important role for trade since it connects the Mediterranean with the hinterland.27 But the significance of the Nile does not only result from trade. Natural space causes an important function as a supplier of fresh water to the North of Egypt. Burchard states that, without the Nile, Alexandria had only salt water because of its location at the Mediterranean Sea.28 For that reason once a year people would bring fresh Nile water to municipal wells through pipelines. The author even mentions the methods of the extraction of salt. Close to Alexandria, he had seen with his own eyes, how the Nile was piped across the country to a plain and how the salt was extracted step by step. He admires that this extraction of salt was possible without any human trouble or great effort.29 The three travellers are aware of the phenomenon of the annual Nile flood, too. Ibn Jubayr depicts the Nilometer and its function very accurately, and the same does Benjamin of Tudela.30 The Nile flood belongs to the general knowledge mentioned in medieval travelogues about Egypt. The three authors here in question write that the Nile floods its banks and waters and fertilizes Egypt every year. All authors distinguish different phases of the Nile flood from its beginning until its decline. Benjamin dates the phases after the Jewish calendar.31 Burchard seems surprised about how quick the water declines after the flood, and he reports on farmers ploughing the fields close to the river.32 Fertility brought by the Nile is transmitted to the flora and fauna of the country. If wheat of barley, if fruit or herbage, if goat or sheep: Burchard writes, the plants were always fresh, and the animals produced offspring several times a 24  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 268–269: Nova vero Babylonia super Nilum sita est in plano, et fuit aliquando maxima civitas et adhuc satis egregia et populosa, omni bono terre fecunda, a solis mercatoribus inhabitata, ad quam naves, onerate speciebus de India, passim venunt per Nilum et inde in Alexandriam ducuntur. 25  On Alexandria cf. Benjamin 1907, 74–77 (103–107); on Alexandria as a centre of commerce cf. 76 (106). 26  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 26. 27  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 267. Ibn Dschubair 2004, 37sqq. 28  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 267. 29  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 267–268. 30  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 35; Benjamin 1907, 71–72 (99–101). 31  Benjamin 1907, 71–72 (99–101). 32  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 268.

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year.33 Ibn Jubayr emphasizes that at either side of the Nile many palms grew and that several towns were famous because of its magnificent fresh dates.34 Benjamin of Tudela finally, lists different sorts of fruits and vegetables and summarizes, the country was full of all good things.35 Thus, all three authors praise the fertility of the land. The riparians of the Nile are considered as dependent of the river. This dependence of nature can be observed on different levels. Benjamin describes that the fish of the Nile ( Je’or) served both as a source of food and as a supplier of lamp oil. People at the rivers’ banks drank the fresh water, which also served as a remedy.36 In case the Nile water did not increase, the farmers were unable to sow anything so that they were suffering hunger. He mentions the phases of the cultivation of cereal, too.37 In Burchard’s account, the forms of farming and watering are characteristic features of the communities he finds living at the Nile. By the time the Nile descends in September or October the farmers immediately plough the fertile strip of the Nile. Now they were sowing. In March, early enough before the annual flood, the harvest was brought in.38 Thus, after the observations (or at least the descriptions) of the three medieval travellers, the Nile flood determines the rhythm of farming and farmers. The advantages are seen clearly: The Nile causes fertility of the land and wealth of flora and fauna.39 Some attempts to give an impression of an unknown world to the readers at home, for example of crocodiles and hippos, get kind of grotesque.40 The authors call the climate in the cities healthy. The fertility of the soil is related with the beauty of the buildings and with good qualities of the inhabitants. Burchard extremely emphasizes the good climate, the fertility of the land, the beauty and high degree of reinforcement of cities and towns, short: the natural and material richness of region and man along the Nile.41 In the 33  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 268. 34  Cf. Ibn Dschubair 2004, e.g. 38. 40. 43. 35  Cf. Benjamin 1907, 73 (101). 36  Benjamin 1907, 72 (100–101): “Though a man eat a great quantity of these fish, if he but drink Nile water afterwards they will not hurt him, for the waters have medicinal properties.” 37  Benjamin 1907, 72–73 (101). 38  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 268. 39  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, e.g. 272. Cf. Benjamin 1907, 71–73 (99–102). 40  Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 270–271. [Nilus n]utrit etiam crocodilos infinitos, quod genus animalium ad modum lacerte formatum est, quatuor habens pedes, curta crura et grosa. Caput eius quasi caput scrofe. Et animal illud crescit in longum et in latum, maximos habet dentes. Ad solem egreditur et animalia vel pueros, si invenerit, occidit. 41  Cf. Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 267 on the climate in Alexandria; 268–269 on Egypt’s and NewBabylon’s fertility; 269 on the beauty of cities in New Babylon; 268 and 271 on natural and material wealth in Egypt.

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Middle Ages, water wheels, cultivated land and gardens at both sides of the Nile belong to the characteristic features of the country.42 Very similarly, Ibn Jubayr accentuates the beauty and cleanness for almost every single town he passes between Alexandria and Qûs.43 Their inhabitants, he writes, had very pure customs. These accounts of fertility, beauty, wealth and purity of nature, people, and customs fit very well other travelogues about Egypt.44 The length and width of the Nile, of whom it is said that its water be sweeter than any other river in the world, are pointed out often. The Nile of medieval texts is described as a river which every year floods the lands, fertilizes them, and in the end, due to this flooding, even equals the Sea.45 In Egypt, they watch the great religions mainly side by side, but sometimes acting against each other. Benjamin chiefly reports on Jews, Burchard assesses Christendom higher than Islam, and Ibn Jubayr does exactly the contrary – religious identities are basic in the Middle Ages, and they come into an effect in this region, which is of central importance in the times of Crusades. But still the travellers perceive the other religions and state the common roots of Christians and Muslims, for example in the interconfessional veneration of Mary. Burchard and Ibn Jubayr notice the religious feasts celebrated by Christians and Muslims at the same time.46 One can say, that the interreligious community of the people seems to manifest itself in common feasts. The veneration of Christian martyrs e.g. is celebrated close to the graves of martyrs.47 The celebration of the Christian martyrs in the month of May was strongly related with the cycle of the Nile.48 The Christians thought that the water of the Nile would not rise if they did not dip a holy object – a wooden case bearing the finger of a Christian martyr from Egypt – into the river. The ritual was assumed to bring the Nile flood and was run by a priest. Visitors came from near and far, putting up tents and celebrating together.49 Even if the exact course of this ritual has been transmitted in other sources than in the ones focused on here, Burchard and Ibn Jubayr do mention interreligious festivals. The latter describes an important Muslim festival, celebrating Muhammad’s birthday. 42  Of course, the three authors have got different reasons to describe the land in that way. This is important when comparing the travelogues, but causae scribendi or legendi do not belong to the topics focused on here. 43  Cf. Ibn Dschubair 2004, 40sqq. 44  Cf. e.g. Khattab 1982; Scharff 2001. 45  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 55. 46  Cf. Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 269–270 and 274 (veneration of Mary); 270 and 274 (prayers, washings, Creator); 271 (imaginations of paradise). 47  Cf. Lutfi 1998, 254–282, here 263–268. Summarizing: Shoshan 2006, 561–562; Kupelian 2015, 184–189, here 187. 48  Bonneau 1964. 49  See above, note 47.

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Within the framework of solemnity, there was a procession to the Caliph’s palace. Sweets and food were distributed to the people.50 The Christian and Muslim cultures of remembrance, which show up in those feasts celebrated together, become a feature of Egypt for the travellers. The reference to the rise and decline of the Nile mirrors the dependence of the people from the water level they needed, since it was the flood, which guaranteed fertility, growth and wealth of the communities along the river. The words of the Jewish traveller make the importance of the Nile for the riparians very clear. Benjamin states, that the person who reads the Nilometer every day announces to praise the Creator because the Je’or had risen again.51 Benjamin is the only one of the three authors who explains the increase of the water level with strong rainfalls upstream.52 It is only Benjamin again who reports that the Fatimid Caliph in Cairo leaves his palace only twice a year and that one of the two moments is the one when the Nile brakes its banks.53 Apart from the advantages the Nile bears as a route for trade and traffic and as a basis of life, Burchard and Ibn Jubayr are aware of some disadvantages. They observe a great dependence of the inhabitants from the river and report on the trouble people have trying to dominate nature. One topic in the travelogues are the dykes at the Nile’s banks. Ibn Jubayr explains to his readers big dykes made from stone, which he had seen. He compares them with walls, which the riparians had built between their town and the river.54 The Nile flood entails risks, but dykes offer security to the towns in the case of high tide. On the one hand, the Nile is regarded as an important traffic route between North and South, on the other hand the river can really prevent mobility. From West to East it has to be crossed with ferries permanently. Ibn Jubayr reports on several trips by ferries, also crossing different branches of the Nile. Especially in Cairo, he notices, the Nile literally has to be overcome. The Nile, he writes, flows between the different parts of the city of Cairo and expands there to an 50  Cf. Ibn Jubayr gives an account of this Fatimid festival, mulid or maulid, for the city of Mecca. Cf. Gabra 2004, 145–150; Kupelian 2015, 188. 51  Benjamin 1907, 72 (100): “And day by day an officer takes a measurement on the column and makes proclamation thereof in Zoan and in the city of Mizraim, proclaiming: ‘Give praise unto the Creator, for the river this day has risen to such and such a height’; each day he takes the measurement and makes his proclamation.” 52  Benjamin 1907, 72 (101): “People ask, what causes the Nile to rese? The Egyptians say that up the river, in the land of Al-Habash (Abyssinia), which is the land of Havilah, much rain descends at the time of the rising of the river, and that this abundance of rain causes the river to rise and to cover the surface of the land.” 53  Benjamin 1907, 71 (99). 54  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 43.

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extent, that the river is an obstacle to be surmounted.55 The consequence for the inhabitants of Cairo and other people living at the banks are not only the many ferry trips mentioned above, but also the building of bridges. Ibn Jubayr dedicates a longer section to the bridge-building by Sultan Saladin.56 The author watches the efforts to build bridges in Cairo with his own eyes. He gives an exhaustive account of the construction work and describes how the routs on either sides of the river run towards the river and are raised gradually in order to end in the bridge and lead people over the Nile. The biggest bridge is described as very modern, with forty arches, the biggest arches on earth. Ibn Jubayr admires the construction work because of the technical skills. He calls the bridges a very notable work of Sultan Saladin. Where the winding Nile blocks people travelling in direct ways, the bridges make it possible to go to Alexandria by land. But Ibn Jubayr’s admiration goes even further. By constructing bridges, he argues, Saladin can be classified under the row of wise kings, since the bridges stayed a gainful construction for Muslims.57 The Nile flood entailed a military risk. When the water flooded the banks and covered land, enemies could advance from the bay of Alexandria at the Mediterranean Sea, since the river would intercept the Sultan’s troops. The new big bridge across the Nile, he adds, created a possibility for the own troops to advance to Alexandria even despite the river flood.58 Thus, the Nile is regarded as a possible obstacle for the Sultan’s military defence in the context of the Crusades. Still, the bridge could be used for a military attack. Ibn Jubayr remarks that the inhabitants of Cairo considered the bridge building critically and even a bad omen for future, because hostile Muslim troops like those of the Almohad dynasty could use the bridges as an entrance towards Egypt, Cairo, and the East.59 The valuation of the Nile and the space dominated by the river thus changes between military security and risk. According to the travelogues, the Nile offers further possibilities for the residents. They collect taxes and charge travellers on different ways. On the one hand, there are taxes and customs duties raised by the ruler, on the other hand there are several fees, which are collected by the inhabitants more or less independently. Burchard estimates the annual customs duty of Alexandria’s harbour at 50.000 gold pieces or 8.000 marks of pure silver.60 Ibn Jubayr describes that the sum of the annually collected customs duty, which is to be paid to 55  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 34. 56  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 32–33. 57  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 33. 58  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 33. 59  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 33. 60  Cf. Burchard 1868, VII, 8, 267.

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the Sultan, depends from the water level of the Nile.61 The water level at the Nilometer in Cairo determined the height of the tax. From a water level of 16 cubits on, the Sultan had the right to collect a tax, since it was presumed that at this height the river had flooded the land to an extent, which guaranteed a sufficient agricultural yield.62 This corresponds to statements of Benjamin.63 Ibn Jubayr praises Sultan Saladin not only for the bridge construction, but also for certain simplifications towards pilgrims on their way to Mecca and Medina. He writes that whereas in earlier Fatimid times pilgrims had to pay even for drinking the Nile water, taxes were collected intransigently and defaulters had been tortured, Saladin, to the contrary, had collected money to take care of the pilgrims and to supply them with food.64 If this was true or not, is not important for our purpose here. Of course, like the other authors, Ibn Jubayr follows his own intentions and purposes of writing. However, in the end, in Ibn Jubayr’s opinion and from the pilgrims’ point of view, the Sultan’s behaviour is less problematic than the numerous administration officials and the crave for riches in local communities along the river. In many upper Egyptian towns, located at the main route of travellers and listed by name individually, boats were searched and checked constantly.65 Clothes were searched in order to find money. Travellers were searched by bad and wicked collectors, even underneath the armpits and at the breast. Pilgrims had to swear an oath by the Koran that they had no more money with them than they had told. The author states that he himself had experienced a bunch of wicked bandits (collectors of taxes) coming aboard a ship with long and sharp sticks to search all things and men. Every bundle and every sack they had run through with their damned sticks, worrying to miss money or something precious.66 What Ibn Jubayr here tells us from his own sorrowful experience as a pilgrim, in the end is the fact that the Nile as a major traffic route was a source of income. Already the entry into Egypt was a burden for people travelling aboard ships. In Alexandria, toll collectors came aboard, wrote down personal data of the passengers and listed the cargo. Ibn Jubayr complains that all this happened only to receive the alms tax, which depended on the credit passengers carried with. During the times of the Crusades, travellers were searched in harbours and questioned about news from the West. The answers were taken down, all possessions were brought to the customs office. In the harbours, all pieces of 61  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 35. 62  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 35. 63  Benjamin 1907, 71–72 (99–101). 64  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 35. 65  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 42. 66  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 42–43.

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luggage, if big or small, had been searched and thrown in a mess. The collectors put their hands even underneath the belt of the passengers to search for any rest of money or valuables. Many things disappeared in this confusion. The behaviour was insulting and shameful for the travellers, the author adds.67 Since many travellers made their trip via Alexandria upriver to the South, one can imagine, that the river was a source of income to many people. Concluding Remarks The Nile and the regions at the river’s banks, which were described in the three travelogues, were only part of the travel routes because they connected the Mediterranean Sea and the hinterland. The three authors made their journeys for different reasons and they all followed routes, which, at their times, were usually taken by travellers. All three of them considered the Nile to be an important traffic route in an economic way, all reported on the river as a trade route between smaller regions in the hinterland and the big Mediterranean Sea. The Nile made mobility between the Sea and the hinterland easier and it was used by the people living close to it as a means of supply in terms of fresh water and food. When rivers and riparians stand in a constant relationship, as it was the case at the Nile, than this relationship seems to have been determined by a deep and dynamic interdependence. On the one hand, because of their resources, the banks of rivers are favoured human settlements and they can entail risks quite impossible to calculate like flooding, desertification, or certain epidemics. Even though the travelogues mainly report on flooding, other risks threatening communities along a river are conceivable. On the other hand, people themselves intervene in fluvial spaces, leading often to complex scenarios. For example, Burchard and Ibn Jubayr give us an impression about the bridge construction, dykes, and attempts, to influence the river by own action and behaviour. Finally, the river can become a factor of a spatial, social or political structure as well as a trigger of conflicts within a community or between different communities. Ibn Jubayr lists very clearly the military pros and cons of the bridge construction in Cairo. What the three texts show quite clearly is the fact that communities living at the Nile developed specific cultural identities in relation to the river. The communities described by the authors seem to have adapted the Nile by representations in cult and religion – one might compare these results to other communities, which venerated their rivers as Gods. The Nile was perceived 67  Ibn Dschubair 2004, 22–23.

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as constitutive for the community, both by people living at the river and by foreigners travelling through. This can be seen in names for communities, in the culture of remembrance, and in feasts. In Burchard’s, Ibn Jubayr’s and Benjamin’s texts, the Nile flood marked the centre of the perception of the river. It dominated community-life in the travellers’ outer perspective. The fertility of the Nile determined and controlled the rhythm of life and work of the riparians, and it fits – in the travellers’ views – the beauty of the towns and the purity of its inhabitants. Because of its specific features, the Nile, thus, created and structured the land and the behaviour of the people, e.g. in feasts celebrated interreligiously and depending on the Nile flood. According to the medieval travelogues, the river was what one could call a reference room of human action and production. Thus, in the outward perspective of the travelogues, the Nile was perceived a constitutive element for the ‘river-communities’ along its banks. Bibliography Abulafia 2011: Abulafia, D., The Great Sea. A Human History of the Mediterranean (Oxford 2011). Benjamin 1840: Benjamin of Tudela, The Itinerary of Rabbi Benjamin of Tudela. Trans. and ed. by A. Asher (Berlin/London 1840). Benjamin 1907: Benjamin of Tudela, The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela, Critical Text, Translation, and Commentary. Trans. and ed. by M. A. Adler (London 1907). Benjamin 1995: Benjamin of Tudela, The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela, Critical Text, Translation, and Commentary. Ed. by F. Sezgin, The Islamic World in Foreign Travel Accounts 60 (repr. Frankfurt [Main] 1995). Bonneau 1964: Bonneau, D., La crue du Nil, divinité égyptienne, à travers mille ans d’histoire (332 av.–641 ap. J.-C.) d’après les auteurs grecs et latins, et les documents des époques ptolémaïque, romaine et byzantine, Études et commentaires 52 (Paris 1964). Borgolte 2014: Borgolte, M., Augenlust im Land der Ungläubigen. Wie Religion bei Christen und Muslimen des Mittelalters die Erfahrung der Fremde steuerte, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 58, 2014, 591–613. Braudel 1972/1973: Braudel, F., The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols. (London/New York 1972/1973) (fr. La Méditerranée et le Monde Méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II, 1st ed. 1949; 2nd rev. ed. 1966). Burchard 1868: Arnoldi Chronica Slavorum. Ed. G. H. Pertz, Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores rerum Germanicarum 14 (Hannover 1868) 264–277.

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Cooper 2014: Cooper, J. P., The Medieval Nile. Route, Navigation, and Landscape in Islamic Egypt (Cairo 2014). Crawford 1949: Crawford, O. G. S., Some Medieval Theories about the Nile, Geographical Journal 114, 1949, 6–29. Gabra 2004: Gabra, G., Notes on Coptic and Muslim Mulids in Egypt, Hallesche Beiträge zur Orientwissenschaft 38, 2004, 145–150. Guest 1912: Guest, A. R., The Delta in the Middle Ages. A Note on the Branches oft the Nile and the Kurahs of Lower Egypt, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, 1912, 941–980. Hamilton 2014: Hamilton, B., The Crusaders and North-East Africa, in: John, S. – Morton, N. (eds.), Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages. Realities and Representations. Essays in Honour of John France, Crusades – Subsidia 7 (London/New York 2014) 167–179. Horden et al. 2000: Horden, P. – Purcell, N., The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford 2000). Ibn Dschubair 2004: Ibn Dschubair, Tagebuch eines Mekkapilgers. Trans. and ed. by R. Günther, Bibliothek arabischer Klassiker (Regensburg 2004). Ibn Jubayr 1906: Ibn Jubayr, The Travels of Ibn Jubayr. Ed. by W. Wright, rev. by M. J. de Goeje (Leiden 1906). Ibn Jubayr 1952: Ibn Jubayr, The Travels of Ibn Jubayr. Trans. and ed. by R. Broadhurst, (London 1952). John of Joinville 1955: John of Joinville, The Life of St. Louis. Trans. by R. Hague, The Makers of Christendom (London 1955). Khattab 1982: Khattab, A., Das Ägyptenbild in den deutschsprachigen Reisebeschreibungen der Zeit von 1250–1500, Europäische Hochschulschriften 1, 517 (Frankfurt [Main]/Bern 1982). Kupelian 2015: Kupelian, M., Feste, in: Staatliche Museen zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz (ed.), Ein Gott. Abrahams Erben am Nil. Juden, Christen und Muslime in Ägypten von der Antike bis zum Mittelalter. Begleitband zur Ausstellung (Petersberg 2015) 184–189. Kuyt 2003: Kuyt, A., Die Welt aus sefardischer und ashkenazischer Sicht: Die mittelalterlichen hebräischen Reiseberichte des Benjamin von Tudela und des Petachja von Regensburg, in: von Ertzdorff, X. – Giesemann, G. (eds), Erkundung und Beschreibung der Welt. Zur Poetik der Reise- und Länderberichte, Chloe. Beihefte zum Daphnis 34 (Amsterdam/New York 2003) 211–232. Langlands 1962: Langlands, R. W., Concepts of the Nile, Uganda Journal 26, 1962, 1–22. Lappenberg 1869: Arnoldi Abbatis Lubecensis Chronica, Ed. by J. M. Lappenberg, Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores 21 (Hannover 1869; repr. Leipzig 1925) 100–250.

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Lutfi 1998: Lutfi, H., Coptic Festivals of the Nile. Aberrations of the Past? in: Philipp, T. – Haarmann, U. (eds.), The Mamluks in Egyptian Politics and Society (Cambridge 1998) 254–282. McCormick 2001: McCormick, M., Origins of the European Economy. Communications and Commerce, A.D. 300–900 (Cambridge/New York 2001). Pirenne 1939: Pirenne, H., Mohammed and Charlemagne (London 1939). Pyka 2002: Pyka, M., Das Judentum in der Welt des XII. Jahrhunderts. Der Reisebericht („Sefär Massa’ôt“) des Benjamin von Tudela, in: Steger, F. (ed.), Kultur: ein Netz von Bedeutungen. Analysen zur symbolischen Kulturanthropologie (Würzburg 2002) 55–76. Rau 2010: Rau, S., Fließende Räume oder: Wie läßt sich die Geschichte des Flusses schreiben?, Historische Zeitschrift 291, 2010, 103–116. de la Roncière 1924–1927: de la Roncière, Ch., La Découverte de l’Afrique au moyen âge. Cartographes et explorateurs, Mémoires de la Société Royale de Géographie d’Egypt 5. 6. 13 (Cairo 1924. 1925. 1927). Rossiaud 2007: Rossiaud, J., Le Rhône au Moyen Âge. Histoire et réprésentations d’un fleuve européen, Collection historique (Paris 2007). Scharff 2001: Scharff, Th., Die Rückkehr nach Ägypten. Prolegomena zu einer Geschichte des Ägyptenbildes im westlichen Mittelalter, Frühmittelalterliche Studien 35, 2001, 431–453. Schreiner 1991: Schreiner, S. in: Jüdische Reisen im Mittelalter. Benjamin von Tudela; Petachja von Regensburg. Trans. and ed. by S. Schreiner (Leipzig 1991). Scior 2002: Scior, V., Das Eigene und das Fremde. Identität und Fremdheit in den Chroniken Adams von Bremen, Helmolds von Bosau und Arnolds von Lübeck, Orbis mediaevalis. Vorstellungswelten des Mittelalters 4 (Berlin 2002). Scior 2004: Scior, V., The Mediterranean in the High Middle Ages: Area of Unity or Diversity? Arnold of Lübeck’s Chronicle, in: Schlesier, R. – Zellmann, U. (eds.), Mobility and Travel in the Mediterranean from Antiquity to the Middle Ages, Reiseliteratur und Kulturanthropologie 1 (Münster 2004) 99–116. Scior 2014: Scior, V., Mobilität um das Jahr 800. Das Mittelmeer als Zone von Kommunikation, in: Stiftung Deutsches Historisches Museum (ed.), Kaiser und Kalifen. Karl der Große und die Mächte am Mittelmeer um 800 (Mainz 2014). Shoshan 2006: Shoshan, B., Nile, Medieval Islamic Civilization. An Encyclopedia II, 2006, 561–562.

Francesco Vallerani

Inland Waterways as Modern Landscapes in Northeast Italy: Recovering a Cultural Heritage for Sustainable Governance 1 Introduction The succession of wetlands along the coast of the northern Adriatic and the complex fluvial and artificial canal network flowing into it are landscape elements with remarkable geomorphological features, significant settings that contribute to and enhance the complex physiognomy of northeast Italy. The low plains surrounding the shorelines of both the Adriatic Sea and the Venice lagoon are a rare and complex hydrographic setting, where natural downflows and human intervention have, over the centuries, produced a territory able to withstand the increasing weight of human activity, including that of the most recent explosion of sprawling cities. For a better understanding of these watery landscapes and the vital need for engineering control in this area of the plains we must consider the negligible gradients, the hanging form of watercourses, the importance of river banks, the precise layout of drainage ditches and the strategic role of water pumps. The ruinous floods that have hit some areas of this territory show that even countries equipped with highly sophisticated land management instruments can experience increasingly critical situations affecting the hydrographic systems both in the case of excessive and exceptionally low water flows. Beginning with this basic observation, it is worth considering a new humanistic approach to water where more specifically engineering-oriented skills could overlap with anthropological and geohistorical disciplines. The aim of this essay is to highlight the consolidated and profitable network of nautical relations that has existed since medieval times within the specific interface between the Veneto low plain and the Venice lagoon. Navigation is actually one of the most meaningful operative activities able to express the millennial relationships between societies and waterscapes. In fact, the case considered here represents a privileged scenario providing indisputable evidence of the extraordinary variety of the waterways and of the complexity and dynamic development that have marked the co-existence of communities and water landscapes over time. Besides, this long-term evolution up to the era of industrial modernisation has produced practical interactions with

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the wide array of relevant transformations affecting the construction of new modern landscapes. The case of northeast Italy also illustrates the role of modern States (despite the recent independence of the Italian State) in the last decades of the nineteenth century, when a widespread nationalistic discourse on skilful exploitation of natural/national resources fostered large schemes exploiting advancements in water engineering for the management of river catchments as well as for the reclamation of wetlands. As a consequence, new landscapes not only spread in the lowlands, declining towards the lagoon and the shoreline, where wetlands reclamation had already been accomplished, but also in numerous Dolomite valleys with the construction of dams and new hydroelectric power plants. Inland navigation played a key role in this context, in particular during the early years of the twentieth century when it was considered one of the preeminent factors in Italian economic growth. Most of the national waterways were located in the northeast regions, gravitating around the thriving inland harbours of Padua and Treviso, both well-connected to the commercial and industrial area of Venice. Most of the navigable rivers and canals in the Veneto and Friuli were heavily damaged in the Second World War and suffered from lack of maintenance during the ensuing economic recession. Therefore the decline of water transport led to a functional decadence of several fluvial and canal landscapes that, year after year, gave rise to a cultural detachment from this former shared ‘fluvial sense of place’. It was not until more recent times that a more mature appreciation of the cultural heritage related to riverscapes developed. For this reason waterways today must be considered not only in terms of engineering but also in the light of wider cultural and recreational goals, and the undeniable relevance of rivers and canals must be borne in mind in all environmental planning measures. It follows that the recovery of historical, iconographic and oral memory will provide a clear awareness of the heritage value of the riverside landscapes both along the main navigation routes and on secondary waterways. This approach enables us to appreciate the role of several local initiatives promoting an increasingly shared awareness of waterscapes as cultural heritage, with a significant impact not only on a cultural level but also in terms of recreation and tourism. In fact, this growing interest in the amphibious environments of inland Veneto represents a driving force for the ‘rebirth’ of numerous marginal landscapes located along the waterways in the lower plains of the Veneto region. In fact, waterways no longer used for freight traffic have the most interesting and significant potential in terms of river tourism, a leisure sector now expanding throughout the western world (including latecomer Italy) and not only due

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to its attraction in terms of mobility, but also thanks to a number of significant ideological and cultural conditions in line with the aims of sustainability. 2 Landscape Evolution and the Venetian State Even a brief geographical analysis shows that most of the current landscapes made up of former lowlands along the coastline are densely intersected by branches of rivers that wind lazily out to sea, often branching off into various directions well before their final destination. Here they outline lagoons, change meanders, and modify the layout of their beds, and even the contents carried by the water, interacting with the sea and motion of the waves to create that extraordinary variety of sublittoral morphology which, where not modified or fixed by human intervention, continues today to represent an undisputed environmental heritage, a refuge of biodiversity, and a vital opportunity to keep ecological awareness alive. A hydraulic apprenticeship has developed in such wet environments, leading to ever-larger and more complex interventions that have modified the natural layout of watercourses in order to improve control and divert flood water needed for fertile soil, building canals for irrigation, ditches and drain manifolds, and barriers and river banks to protect fields and houses from overflowing water. The geomorphological nature of the sublittoral plains of the upper Adriatic features dominant and dense deposits of fine sediment, lime and sand, which reduce the permeability of the soil, thus favouring prolonged stagnation of water in the event of overflow flooding from the numerous pre-alpine rivers, such as the Brenta and the Piave. The land areas usually defined as flood plains are created by the force of water dynamics responsible for the erosive action, shifting sediments and the progressive consolidation of this land. This long process commenced during the Quaternary Period, and is linked to the gradual erosion of the alpine and pre-alpine mountains by atmospheric agents, which provided the material to fill the large Pliocene gulf formed by the Adriatic insinuating itself within the limits of the current river Po plains.1 The plains came into being during the alternating glacial eras, starting with the upper plains at the foot of the pre-alpine range. As they moved away from the raised land, the gradients of the riverbeds decreased, thus limiting their carrying capacity to fine sediments, which then became compact soil, reducing the permeability of the land. This process was particularly marked at the end of the last great glaciation (Würm glaciation), following the abundant 1  Bondesan et al. 2004.

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floods of melting water, which, by spreading freely across the lower plains, distributed enormous quantities of sediment, thus increasing the thickness of the alluvial strata. It was in this evolutionary phase that the presence of even smaller detritus deposited by the mouths of numerous rivers along the landsea interface gave rise to coastal strips and lagoons (fig. 8.1), due to the redistribution and accumulation of material by the sea and tidal currents.2 The subsequent morphological evolution of the lower plains was entirely due to the unrestricted expansion of river water, with consequent variations of the watercourses, forming elongated edges of sediments and backwaters.3

Figure 8.1 Land-sea interface with coastal strip in Po river delta Courtesy of Eddi Boschetti

The configuration of this section of the Veneto lower plains in its current layout is therefore the result of long-term alternating events, starting from the first significant presence of the Benedictine monks of the Paduan monastery of Santa Giustina, documented as far back as the thirteenth century, between the lower courses of the Bacchiglione and Adige rivers.4 These first interventions marked the beginning of the slow process of water control in an area that was undoubtedly among the first to be regularly protected against seasonal 2  Rotondi et al. 1995. 3  Zangheri 1988/1989. 4  Bandelloni et al. 1979, 19.

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flooding and thus equipped to start a profitable activity of land re-organisation. This ongoing tendency and interest in cultivating the lower plains to the east of the Euganean Hills is certainly due to the surrounding flourishing urban system linked to the cities of Padua, Venice, Chioggia and Monselice (fig. 8.2). From the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries, urban development in inland Veneto, which was closely related to significant demographic growth, was also the sign of a remarkable economic upturn. The region was subdivided into restricted territories controlled by major independent city-states, whose political power was openly displayed in both civil and military building. In this historical context it is important to note the rise of several environmental conflicts, mainly affecting river and canal runoff management. One of the most cogent and well-known examples concerns the serious conflict between Vicenza and Padua over the exploitation of the Bacchiglione river.5 Due to its upstream location, during the first half of the twelfth century, Vicenza diverted most of the runoff from the Bacchiglione river in order to make navigation possible along a canal that connected to a natural stream flowing through Monselice towards the southern Venice lagoon and giving Vicenza access to Chioggia and its saltpans. Such actions revealed the need for an overarching governance of the hydrography of the entire region, especially when this directly affected the increasing siltation of Venice lagoon. It follows that a more lasting protection of this aquatic environment would involve an overall management plan for most of the Veneto plain, and it was this geopolitical goal that led to much of Venice’s fourteenth- and fifteenth-century military intervention, so much so that from 1484 a vast territory, approximately corresponding to the present day Veneto and Friuli regions, became the inland possession of the mighty seafaring city state of Venice.6 After this annexation, Venice, ever attentive to inland water conditions, was quick to perfect her control of the waters, starting in 1501 with the establishment of the Magistracy of the Savi alle Acque, which expanded into the Collegio alle Acque before being converted some decades later into the Magistrato alle Acque (the Venice Water Authority), which is still fully operational today. This Magistracy, together with the Magistracy of the Beni Inculti (‘Uncultivated Resources’, 1556), dedicated specifically to improving land by adopting procedures for drainage and irrigation, are proof of the institutional commitment of the government in the Venetian era (up to 1797), and their long-standing work has produced immense volumes of documentation and maps now to be found in the central archive of the Republic of Venice and in other peripheral 5  Selmin et al. 2008. 6  Cosgrove 1993.

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Figure 8.2 Low plain between Euganean Hills and north Adriatic shoreline in a mid-sixteenth century map of Cristoforo Sabbadino Courtesy of Archivio di Stato di Venezia

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archives.7 Alongside this abundance of documentary and cartographic memory there is the equally substantial environmental heritage made up not only of watercourse routes but also of the ensemble of artefacts expressing the ageold familiarity of the Veneto people with the waterways and comprising river banks, bridges, water pumps, locks and riverside villas; all aspects of the historical and cultural identity of the lower plains. Nautical relations on the Veneto terra firma should not only be related to the specific complexity of the hydro-geographic network, but also to the welldistributed presence of modestly sized residential settlements, mostly located near the banks of a natural river or of both major and minor artificial canals. In addition to the major river navigation routes connecting the main inland centres with the quaysides of Venice, and representing a fundamental and strategic interface between the trade routes to central Europe and the flow of superior goods from the East, there were also important routes heading towards Lombardy, Emilia and Friuli, and an equally important dense network of secondary connections making up the minor hydrographic network. The latter was a predominantly locally based system of relations (not always well documented), where the practice of navigation involved short-haul transport, within a single day, most frequently related to the daily needs of a riverside lifestyle (transfers from one side of the river to the other, fishing and hunting, gathering of marshland plants and reeds, domestic transport), rather than longer haul traffic. The entire Stato da Tera (Mainland Domain), through to the innermost river wharfs where goods delivered by water were transferred from boats to carts for their subsequent destinations, was thus characterised by a series of “land roads, rivers and minor waterways, an immense network of regular and fortuitous connections, for perpetual distribution, as a virtually organic circulation.”8 An important aspect, in perfect harmony with the objectives of this study, concerns the recognition of all that remains today of the minor hydrographic network used in past centuries as a short-distance transport system. It comprised infrastructures with significant and articulate physical features, whose navigable routes, intersecting with the aims of reclamation and irrigation, revealed the peculiar character of a prestigious watery landscape. In fact, until the widespread use in the late nineteenth century of steampowered water pumps for the mechanical pumping of water, vast territories in the low plains examined here had permanent marshland areas, at times alternating with dense woodland, where the drainage systems of important 7  A .S.V. 1983; A.S.V. 1984. 8  Braudel 1986, 282.

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collectors undoubtedly represented opportunities for the aforementioned nautical connections on a local scale, given the objective difficulty in ensuring satisfactory transport overland, made problematic due to the frequent flooding and prolonged stagnation of water. Bearing this in mind, fluvial navigation emerged as the most effective means of solving and strengthening economic relations between Venice and its inland regions, involving not only the trading powers of the Rialto markets or exclusive advantages for land owners, but also the entire series of short-range relations mentioned previously. Implicit proof of this activity can be found in the particular importance given to chorographic mapping of hydrographic elements, detailed on the maps with painstaking precision, also highlighting the role of the pre-eminent connection between the centrality of the lagoon and a prosperous and well-populated terra firma (fig. 8.3). Finally, inland navigation itineraries also had the purpose of connecting Venetian land investors with their villas, many of which could be reached directly by waterways. Water run-off regulated with sluices, canals confined between banks, bordered by shady rows of trees, facilitated relations between the city and the countryside (and not only in the flat Venetian terra firma) and were also themselves harmonious features of the landscape, an occasion for leisure to enliven the souls of those walking along the banks, but also for those sailing through. And here it is worth remembering the praise of Palladio for fluvial sites and the construction of country villas: “If one can build on the river, it would be most pleasing and convenient; thus at little cost the boats may carry their ware directly to the villas, which will help the needs of the household and the animals, while the water would make the air cool in the summer, and create beautiful views. Thus both admirable and practical, the river would serve to irrigate the land, the grounds and the cottage gardens, which are the very heart and pleasure of the Villa. But navigable rivers cannot be had, and we shall attempt to build upon other running waters, moving away above all from the stagnant unmoving water, as this generates such unpleasant air.”9 3 Austro-Italian Reorganisation (1815–1900) The constant perfecting of techniques for the mechanical drainage of wetlands and the spread of specific irrigation methods are some of the main reasons behind a more effective application of hydraulic engineering expertise not only 9  Palladio 1570, 45.

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Figure 8.3 Fluvial navigation network in Venice inland in 1709 Antonio Vestri’s watercolor map Courtesy of Archivio di Stato di Venezia

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to the low plains next to the northern Adriatic Sea, but also to much of the Po Valley. During the Napoleonic Era, the authorities passed a Royal Decree on 6th May 1806 intended to simplify the fragmentation of the extension of the Consorzi (large consortia of landowners aiming at reclamation schemes) by incorporating them in larger territorial divisions known as Circondari. The establishment of these bodies was intended to simplify the coordination of land drainage measures as well as the maintenance of river banks along the main watercourses to prevent the risk of collapse during floods.10 In that period, the operating rigour of the French engineers of the Corp des Ponts et Chassueés provided a valuable lesson that had a considerable impact on the technical skills of Lombardy-Venetia officials. These engineers promoted the adoption of a broader approach to design, which placed individual operations within the overall functional context of the river basin concerned. Increased focus on fluvial processes together with re-established land reclamation operations laid the foundations for land modernisation, which was further boosted following the Unification of Italy.11 The chimneys of the steam dewatering pumps towered against the horizon of the flat lowlands, not unlike the initial concentration of factories around urban centres, which were connected by fire-breathing locomotives, whose increasing presence was to contribute to the decline of river transport throughout Europe. The debate over the role of inland navigation captured the attention of both technicians and investors, whose expectations needed to be followed up by appropriate policy choices. In this regard, we cannot fail to notice the extraordinary complexity of the progressive accumulation of drains, channels, and ditches toward the shoreline, channelling waters to increasing numbers of dewatering facilities. These in turn connected to an infinite network of additional segments used not only for the prevailing drainage needs, but also for the opposing, and increasingly urgent demand for irrigation. We are thus faced with an amphibious landscape whose anatomy and physiology are closely linked to intensive agricultural production, while relationships with navigation were inseparable until the middle of the last century. This is especially the case of the riverside locations of sugar mills and of the imposing flour milling facilities, all key economic centres benefitting from the presence of an active fluvial fleet. With the return to Austrian government, and a general context of political uncertainty, the Veneto’s hydrographic management suffered consistent delays, thus preventing regular dredging of river and canal beds. As early as 1821, engineer Marco Antonio Sanfermo emphasised the difficulty of maintaining 10  Sanfermo 1833. 11  Cavallo 2011.

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regular traffic along the Brenta Nova river route in a handwritten memorandum: “Due to its oversized sections there is too little water for the passage of boats […] except for some very light vessels from Chioggia.”12 The above is just an account of the general decadence affecting the waterway system during the first half of the nineteenth century, mainly due to the difficult political atmosphere of the times and the inefficient and irregular maintenance of embankments and facilities, which were all too frequently damaged by disastrous floods.13 Yet, paying greater attention to fluvial waterway connections should have been a top priority, given that travelling by land was precarious at best in large areas of Veneto’s lowlands, and was made more so by the prolonged rainfall during the autumn and winter seasons, well documented in an early nineteenth-century manuscript describing the streets around Padua’s lowlands, “they are so bad and disastrous that one cannot tread upon them without putting one’s life at great risk and peril.”14. A recurring theme among early nineteenth century essayists when describing Venice’s inland hydrographic network, and particularly the one affecting the low plains between the Euganean Hills, Padua and the Adriatic Sea, is the apparent inefficiency of the receiving water bodies, which not only prevented smooth navigation, but also, in some conditions, failed to facilitate the flow of water from the drains of the surrounding countryside. These waterways were in fact “in such bad shape that they cannot receive drainage from lands that are inclined in their direction: this state of chaos is in addition to lost navigation in times of high and low water, stunted and precarious in the intermediate phase.”15 On a larger scale, similar problems may be observed along the major Po waterway, especially with ascending traffic, because of the “very physicalhydrographic configuration of the river [that] was not conducive to the development of navigation, made difficult, above the mouth of the Oglio river, by the steep gradient, the variability of the riverbed and shallow depths at times of low water.”16 The prospects for the development of navigation were also conditioned by flow irregularities that made the use of mechanically propelled boats rather ineffective, as in the case of the Eridano, the first steamboat launched on the Po river in 1820.17 After the 1819 opening of the Naviglio Pavese canal connecting Milan to Pavia and then to the Po river waterways, navigation 12  Sanfermo 1821, Memoria VI. 13  Miliani 1939. 14   B .C.P. 1810, fasc. 25. 15  Coppin 1818, 25. 16  Bigatti 1999, 7. 17  Sillano 1989.

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along the latter could still benefit from a direct link with the port of Milan, although the continued use of archaic propulsion techniques such as the power of currents, rowing, sailing, towing with animals from towpaths made fluvial transportation slow, and less attractive to businessmen and traders. At the end of Austrian domination in the Veneto region (1866) there was a considerable decline in the use of inland waterways. This process of abandonment involved most inland navigation itineraries, especially when overlapping with railway links, while new conflicts arose as a consequence of the spread of new hydraulic schemes related to the dominance of the coeval reclamation interests.18 On the other hand, the modern improvement of water engineering, widely extolled as a matter of national pride since the beginning of Regno d’Italia (1861), eradicated most of the traditional practices connecting riverside populations to ‘their’ waterways. Hydraulic modernity therefore meant the increasing loss of the riverine ‘sense of place’. However, inland navigation problems were seriously neglected and it was not until 1878 that the Ministry of Public Works (Lavori Pubblici) drew up a detailed Report on Italian waterways in order to foster a new political and economic trend, approaching inland navigation as an important national issue.19 Following the abovementioned 1878 National Report, many private initiatives were set up with the aim of modernising navigation on waterways by making use of steam engines and improving both traditional boating and hydrographic connections. These private initiatives included a carefully planned Government programme involving the establishment of a National Committee in 1900 whose main aim was an extensive three-year analysis of the problem, followed by the publication of nine volumes on the matter in 1903.20 As expected, the main aim of the investigation was to develop a vision where inland navigation could help the Italian economy to catch up with other European countries, as well as highlighting the need to apply a multifunctional approach to the improvement of waterways to obtain a more effectual territorial management. 4 Minor Rivers and Traditional Vessels While on one hand (just as in the rest of Europe), Italy experienced the extraordinary competitive pull of railways, on the other, it is also true that 18  Lanaro 1984. 19  Ministero dei Lavori Pubblici 1878. 20  Ministero dei Lavori Pubblici 1903.

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transport by means of small vessels stayed alive up until just after the First World War, even though the continued survival of this ‘neighbourly traffic’ in a context of increasing national modernisation may have appeared rather curious and backward. Despite the inadequacy of the network of minor rivers and canals in this generalised drive towards technological progress, it is however plausible to presume that the Veneto area maintained the usual short-range nautical habits, documented in previous centuries by numerous comprehensive reports, often supported by cartographic surveys. However modest, local heritage related to local people’s familiarity with and closeness to waterways was still detectable throughout much of Veneto’s hydrography, resulting in a wide range of artefacts such as old mooring docks hidden by mud and weeds, rustic wooden piers, rural villages, or individual farmhouses overlooking rivers and canals and connected to them by means of short narrow flights of stone steps on their banks (fig. 8.4).

Figure 8.4 Recovering seventeenth century water mill, with stone steps leading to mooring dock Photo Francesco Vallerani

Thanks to local scholars, some of them directly involved in agricultural and small industry improvements as entrepreneurs or landowners, the geoeconomic analysis of the potential of Venice’s secondary inland hydrography has been carried out with considerable accuracy. This growing interest has involved modernisation programmes of the waterways flowing in the low plain,

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with the shared goal of bridging the gap between tradition and European modernism. However, it is worth pointing out that during the last decades of the nineteenth century the entire waterway network linking Venice to the other fluvial harbours in northeast Italy was affected by serious neglect. This situation aroused worries that the decline of the hydraulic management of the whole region had compromised technical control over hydrological dynamics. It follows that the decrease of inland cruising was related to lack of adequate control and maintenance of artificial canals and rivers, particularly in the approaches to lagoons and estuaries. As to minor rivers and canals, the publication of Monografia Statistica della Provincia di Venezia (Venice Province Statistic Report) in 1881 can be considered as the turning point of the revival of inland navigation along secondary waterways21, thanks to the detailed descriptions of itineraries, enhancing their profitability not only for transportation of products coming from recently reclaimed lands, but also for their functions in the complex management of low plain hydrological dynamics.22 Another important example of the increasing attention paid to minor rivers and canals is the careful research on central Veneto hydrography carried out by the engineer Francesco Turola in 1889.23 Turola stated that a successful revival of local navigation had above all to concentrate on the improvement of the waterways between Padua and Venice, and between Padua and Este (a small town located south-west of Padua). Despite the fact that those watercourses follow almost exactly the same route as two important railways, Turola placed more emphasis on the advantages of “mutual aid” then on the harm caused by competition.24 His technical report also contains detailed drawings of the contemporary fluvial landscape where the hydrographic network flowed through a densely populated territory; most of the scattered houses and villages were actually built close to rivers or canal banks. Turola pointed out that in order to be more profitable, inland navigation ought to include secondary waterways, which could in fact promote closer commercial links, not only among the main regional towns, but also among local markets, as well as encouraging more profitable trading relationships in areas of the countryside that were distant from railway connections. Throughout his report there was a distinctly nostalgic attitude and regret for the passing of inland nautical traditions. Turola’s proposals concerning inland 21  Sormani Moretti 1881. 22  Vallerani 2008. 23  Turola 1889. 24  Turola 1889, 10.

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navigation had no effect in improving the water transport along the secondary fluvial network, while greater interest was devoted to the main regional and inter-regional waterways. Even within the framework of an attentive and thorough debate regarding the revival and modernisation of Italian inland navigation, the vessel types, their tonnage, and means of propulsion were clearly characterised by technological inertia. Most of the traditional cargo boats maintained the practice of animal towing and the use of sails until the period immediately after the Second World War, and engines were not used until the late nineteen-forties. This situation showed that river navigation had remained unchanged since the time of the Sanfermo’s handwritten memoirs; in 1821 he drafted a detailed report listing the technical and operational data of all the vessels that sailed through Veneto’s hydrography at that time.25 The large variety of boats found in his text reveals interesting functional differences mainly due to the differing widths and depths of the rivers and canals navigated, despite virtually identical construction principles in response to the needs of very similar fluvial environments. As for the smaller boats used to ferry passengers from one bank to another or for short trips, defined by Sanfermo as “assorted small boats,” their diffusion was common in all the lower reaches of rivers and canals of the region. Furthermore, he states that such boats were not used for commercial reasons, but for the daily transport needs of hay, farm animals and feed, wood, including short navigations to mills and village markets.26 These types of boats also remained in use on the waterways of inland Veneto practically up until the demise of inland navigation during the nineteen-fifties. 5 Towards New Landscapes The waterways of northeast Italy were included in effective modernisation programmes during the Fascist period, adopting the most up-to-date designs for the expansion of sluices along with mechanised manoeuvres, using metal structures for swing bridges, cutting and adjusting the most tortuous bends, consolidating embankments, and widening towpaths. Furthermore, these inland waterway-promoting activities had to be coordinated with land reclamation operations that led to the installation of new siphon culverts and the improvement of existing ones, along with the enhancement of electrically powered dewatering stations. New river landscapes began to form as a result of 25  Sanfermo 1821. 26  Pergolis 1989.

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the process of rural modernisation promoted by the regime. However, as mentioned previously, the numerous photographic campaigns celebrating this successful land recovery operation show that this widespread structural upgrade continued to host vessels that were virtually unchanged not only since Marco Antonio Sanfermo’s reports in the early nineteenth century, and built in accordance with age-old Venetian traditions. The result is the curious coexistence between the new fast-filling lock-chambers and archaic sailboats such as the burchio and trabaccolo and even batela, smaller auxiliary boats transporting ropes intended for animal hauling. This striking contrast and coexistence between modern frameworks and old boating habits would be partly overcome as boats were gradually motorized and larger boats were built, despite the fact that the ancient morphology of the hulls remained unchanged until recent developments made in shipyards. Furthermore, the system of nautical relations regarding the predominant routes connecting Lombardy to the Venice and Trieste harbours was part of the strategic interests of the new, post-First World War Italy, aimed at achieving greater land development efficiency, deemed an indispensable requirement. A major boost in this direction came from the economic writings of the time, especially those produced by the many local inland navigation committees, themselves stimulated by the objective nation-wide significance of the new port and industrial site of Marghera. The renewed prospects of the Venetian port became the object of praise: the port was not only open to global trade but also invigorated by a great production centre well-connected to a flat hinterland. Located a short distance from steep Prealpine elevations, offering plentiful supplies of running water that could be transformed into abundant power, the surrounding territory was also connected “to many coastal canals and various rivers that, though not very large and deep, flow for many miles through rich and industrious regions.”27 Reviving the port of Venice meant first of all recalibrating and improving the internal waterway network formed by Trieste, Treviso, Padua, and the Po route. The need for the continued maintenance of rivers and canals was also emphasised with regard to minor rivers and canals. This was not so much to meet the glowing expectations of intense modern industrial production destined for national and international markets, but to ensure product distribution in an almost pre-autarkic fashion, in other words connected to a well-organised and profitable agricultural activity supported by fertile soil rich with water: “the industries of Padua’s province are as closely tied to its agriculture as is trade.” In fact, this required “an intense commercial movement of capital, fertilisers, 27  Ruggeri 1922, 3.

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seeds, pesticides, and the sale of products,”28 transporting abundant quantities of product for processing (cereals, beets, vegetables, grapes) from reclaimed land. The renewed interest in the port of Padua may be understood along the same lines, “located in the fertile heart of the Veneto Region, where agriculture is strongly promoted, an important industrial, commercial, and financial centre, Padua should be the hub of a vast network of navigable waterways. It should have an efficient port equipped with modern docks and ample facilities for the temporary storage of goods.”29 Padua’s fluvial enhancement involved challenging structural work that improved the waterway towards Marghera and Venice. Old Venetian Era locks, unable to accommodate the new 300tonne vessels, were replaced, and a series of excavations were started to adjust the bed section of the Naviglio della Brenta canal. In this context of design fervour, fuelled by the regime’s rhetorical use of public works, the new Battaglia lock is worth mentioning as perhaps the most important work of Veneto’s entire waterway system (fig. 8.5); it was the key node allowing boats to go from the Battaglia Canal to the underlying waterway heading towards the Bacchiglione and vice versa, overcoming a difference in water levels of over 7 metres. Work began in 1919 and ended in the spring of 1923. In addition to the real benefits for river traffic, this undertaking was invested with a far from negligible symbolic value. Its design included a rapidly filled basin and gates driven by an innovative water pressure mechanism, avoiding the consumption of power, evoking the capacity to exploit local potential efficiently while saving time, thus dealing with ‘speed’, the most successful of modernist metaphors. Such a rapid solution to the difference in the levels of the two canals30 and the faster nautical connections along the routes to the south of Padua were a clear contribution to the country’s modernisation objectives. Benito Mussolini could not miss this opportunity and inaugurated the work on 1st June 1923, thus starting the epic national era of large-scale artificial hydraulic works. The strategic advantages brought by efficient hydrography led to the revival of the waterway system, encouraged by the Fascist Regime’s nationalistic ideology focused on the strengthening of rural infrastructures. The national publication of various geographical studies on economic and morphological issues related to inland navigation proved useful in drawing attention to the matter, as well as stressing the functional relevance of such issues for the lowlands, 28  Milone, 1929, 276. 29  Cigana 1923, 6. 30  Cucchini 1931, 172.

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Figure 8.5 Central Veneto waterways system focused on both Battaglia canal and Padua inland harbor (after Migliorini 1962, 106)

which were rich in rivers and canals.31 According to these general goals, the role of the Paduan Scuola di Applicazione per Ingegneri (School of Engineering) was closely related to the governance of land use problems throughout the low plain along the north Adriatic shoreline, such the 1926 flood that affected vast swathes of the region. To improve research work on flood management, a laboratory for hydraulic testing was established at the Institute of Hydraulics at Padua (1933), where specific attention was paid to sluices, siphon spillways, mechanical drainage, irrigation, and measures to prevent riverbed flooding.32 Subsequently, inland navigation was closely linked to other hydraulic issues, which arose from irregularities in river flows mainly in the Venetian estuaries. The town centre of Padua, for instance, was served by many waterways, which proved efficient, yet at the same time exposed the town to frequent flooding. Flood prevention was eventually ensured by the hydraulic improvement of the town, which involved the excavation of new canals, riverbed modifications, and lock and dam construction.33

31  De Stefani 1925; Migliorini 1934. 32  Marzolo 1963. 33  Ferro 1927.

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6 Recovering Water Memories and Sustainable Governance Documented in detail by the archives and various manmade structures scattered along the banks and in the vicinity, the effective evolution of hydrography can provide additional information to supplement the stories of those who have long experienced the changing inland waterfronts. While researching water memories through fieldwork and with the aid of historical geography and cultural anthropology methodologies, it becomes increasingly difficult to detect the vestiges left by centuries of land and water development throughout the intricate network of natural and manmade waterways running through the lower plains surrounding the Adriatic coastline. Scientific work in this context entails the analysis of environmental frameworks that have witnessed the consolidation of major river routes in addition to the unravelling of minor routes that connected scattered houses and small villages during the long process of creating agricultural landscapes in land only slightly above sea level. It involves focussing on the remains of a cultural and environmental heritage left in the shadows, neglected, nearly functionally extinct, fading from memory, almost a ‘holocaust’ caused by the overwhelming onset of different economies, activities, and perceptions. This unavoidable process of obsolescence may seem a little less dramatic in other situations, as in Battaglia Terme, a tiny town on the twelfth-century Battaglia canal heading towards south Padua, where a handful of competent and enthusiastic volunteers offer their constant and worthy commitment in the local Inland Navigation museum. These volunteers have set themselves the existential objective of retrieving the cultural components tying a wide range of hydrographic elements such as rivers, lagoons, and lakes to their riparian communities. The generous efforts of the guardians of water memories34 have long been supported by the activities of researchers from academia as well as of local cultural institutions. The work of these researchers has provided a rich bibliography, which expresses a stimulating cultural vibrancy, restoring significant land and river knowledge centred not only around navigation and boat building, but also around other related topics such as fisheries, ports, and the dynamics of riverside settlements. Since the 1980s, a new, shared sensitivity has emerged from the need to retrieve the quality of the environment, to reevaluate specific geo-historical landmarks on all levels, and to study the complex vestiges left in the landscape to find concrete signs produced by economic and residential choices and the organisation of natural morphologies. This new approach has equipped itself 34  Jori 2009; Mainardi 2012.

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with tools that are critical for coping with the relentless erosion of cultural heritage, intended not only as simple objects of value, but above all, with the landscapes that serve as their setting. This general observation has engendered an awareness of the extraordinary interest evoked by the morphological and cultural contexts pertaining to water landscapes, be they lagoon, coastal, lake, or river areas. The impressive extent of the hydrographic network of the Venetian hinterland soon revealed the valuable potential for a successful renewal of land development dynamics, which led only in part to an actual improvement of the Veneto urban planning. Despite the lack of effective management of environmental heritage, there have been significant episodes based upon conscious and durable governance aimed at recovering large fluvial sectors, to the extent that being defined as a ‘water town’ (città d’acqua) is now deemed a prestigious award by several municipalities. In this respect, action has been taken not only along urban hydrographic stretches, but also along fluvial waterways connected to prestigious buildings, as well as rural villages and settings not overly compromised by intensive land use. The whole of Europe is an endless repository of water-related stories simply waiting to be re-evaluated, surveyed, and carefully catalogued in order to combat the silent hidden impoverishment of a significant aspect of this continent’s cultural heritage. Narratives of land and water-related events may be considered as an indisputable heritage and benchmark for the protection of local character as well as of old docks, boat repair yards, mills, bridges, and riverside pubs. These all form a unique tangible heritage requiring the attention of local communities to avoid dispersing the precious memory of a secular and fruitful relationship between humans and waterways. It follows that the current consolidation of new perceptions and assessments of lesser-known landscapes also involves local administrators, who have been increasingly more attentive to the identifying features of their territories. The issues discussed so far have shown the importance of Venice’s inland nautical heritage. It is worth mentioning that today there is an increasing awareness of the importance of waterways, in terms of both their touristic and recreational value. As a matter of fact social attitudes are revealing an increased appreciation for fluvial environments insofar as they provide ideal settings for sports and recreation as well as opportunities for cultural tourism. Hydrographic atmospheres belong mostly to rural landscapes making it possible to define waterways as ‘cultural corridors’, that is a repository of manufactured items related to specific hydraulic functionalities, but also of Venetian villas, old churches and chapels, traditional farm houses and water mills (fig. 8.6). Many of these buildings have become landmarks for tourism along European rivers, even being transformed into thematic museums also

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Figure 8.6 Water mill as fluvial heritage and now landmark for a new development of cultural tourism Photo Francesco Vallerani

involving the surrounding environment. In countries such as Britain, France, Belgium, Holland, and Germany, the established practice of tourist travel along inland waterways, or the aforementioned ‘cultural corridors,’ has stimulated the recovery of almost all the locks necessary to fluvial navigation, and encouraged new businesses to reopen of old river inns, thereby facilitating friendly and lively encounters among land and river travellers. Matters concerning fluvial tourism should be addressed by means of specific governance strategies aiming at the strict safeguarding and restoration of the natural environment, in order to satisfy the growing demand for attractive leisure spaces providing opportunities for city dwellers to relax and regenerate physically and psychologically. The prospects outlined here concerning the promotion of tourism in the area should obviously aim not only to increase the number of visitors, but, as just mentioned, should also respond to the growing demands of residents wishing to improve the quality of day-to-day living. The humanisation of living space does not only mean taking care of the physical locations, but also involves finding the means to satisfy the habitation needs of the local population, recapturing the pleasures of social relations, and therefore encouraging a more aware sense of place.

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The final hope and aim of the proper governance of the Veneto’s inland waterways is the co-existence of recreational use by local residents and the tourism supply for visitors, while emphasising that these vocations should be able to achieve what is normally defined as ‘innovation’, a strategic key word, rather obsessively used in these recent years of general economic decline. Real innovation lies in giving due importance to the landscape heritage, the quality of water, the condition of green areas, local agriculture, rediscovering traditional food and recipes, and fostering a slower pace of life, all aims capable of increasing the ‘competitive edge’ (yet another key phrase of recent years) of a territory, measured also in terms of the satisfaction experienced by residents living in a healthy environment where local tangible assets are also protected. The case study considered here could finally be seen as a testing area where it is worthwhile to encourage the familiar approach of participation in order to demonstrate how many advantages can ensue from the conscious restoring of relations between communities and waterscapes. Bibliography A.S.V. 1983: Archivio di Stato di Venezia (A.S.V.), Laguna, lidi, fiumi: cinque secoli di gestione delle acque (Venice 1983). A.S.V. 1984: Archivio di Stato di Venezia (A.S.V.), Cartografia, disegni, miniature delle magistrature veneziane (Venice 1984). Bandelloni et al. 1979: Bandelloni, E. – Zecchin, F., I Benedettini di Santa Giustina nel basso Padovano (Padua 1979). B.C.P. 1810: Biblioteca Civica di Padova (B.C.P.), Piano e regolamento stradale per la provincia di Padova (control number: B. P. 824). Bigatti 1999: Bigatti, G., La navigazione del Po fra mito e storia (secoli XVIII–XIX), in: Foresti, F. – Tozzi Fontana, M. (eds.), Imbarcazioni e navigazione del Po. Storia, pratiche, tecniche, lessico (Bologna 1999) 1–45. Bondesan et al. 2004: Bondesan, A. – Meneghel, M. (eds.), Geomorfologia della provincia di Venezia. Note illustrative della carta geomorfologica della provincia di Venezia, Mito e la storia. Serie maggiore 5 (Padua 2004). Braudel 1986: Braudel, F., Civiltà e Imperi del Mediterraneo nell’età di Filippo II. (3rd ed. Turin 1986). Cavallo 2011: Cavallo, F. L., Terre, acque, macchine. Geografia della bonifica in Italia tra Ottocento e Novecento, Passages 12 (Reggio Emilia 2011). Cigana 1923: Cigana, E., Sulla navigazione interna nel padovano. Studi e proposte (Padua 1923).

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Coppin 1818: Coppin, P., Breve saggio intorno ai canali irrigatorj e navigabili (Padua 1818). Cosgrove 1993: Cosgrove, D., The Palladian Landscape. Geographical Change and its Cultural Representations in Sixteenth-century Italy (Leicester 1993). Cucchini 1931: Cucchini, E., La navigazione interna dell’alta Italia. XV Congresso internazionale di navigazione, Venezia, settembre 1931 (Rome 1931). De Stefani 1925: De Stefani, A., L’azione dello Stato Italiano per le opere pubbliche (1865–1924) (Rome 1925). Ferro 1927: Ferro, G., Navigazione interna (Padua 1927). Jori 2009: Jori, F., L’ultimo dei barcari. Riccardo Cappellozza, una vita sul fiume (Pordenone 2009). Lanaro 1984: Lanaro, S., (ed.), Storia d’Italia. Le regioni dall’Unità ad oggi, vol II: il Veneto (Turin 1984). Mainardi 2012: Mainardi, M., Zingari d’acqua. L’epopea dei barcari della bassa pianura Padana nella vicenda di un vecchio navigante (Venice 2012). Marzolo 1963: Marzolo, F., Costruzioni idrauliche (Padua 1963). Migliorini 1934: Migliorini, E., Appunti sulla navigazione interna e sul traffico nei fiumi e canali italiani, Bollettino della Reale Società Geografica Italiana 6, 1934, 211–226. Migliorini, E., 1962. Il Veneto. Torino: UTET. Miliani 1939: Miliani, L., Le piene dei fiumi veneti e i provvedimenti di difesa. L’Agno-Guà-Frassine-Gorzone. Il Bacchiglione e il Brenta, Pubblicazioni della Commissione italiana per lo studio delle grandi calamità 8 (Florence 1939). Milone 1929: Milone, F., La Provincia di Padova. Studio di geografia economica (Padua 1929). Ministero dei Lavori Pubblici 1878: Ministero dei Lavori Pubblici, Cenni Monografici sui singoli servizi: sezioni V (Fiumi) e VI (Navigazione Interna) (Rome 1887). Ministero dei Lavori Pubblici 1903: Ministero dei Lavori Pubblici, Atti della Commissione per lo studio della navigazione interna nella valle del Po, vol. 1–9 (Rome 1903). Palladio 1570: Palladio,  A., I quattro libri dell’architettura. Il secondo libro dell’architettura (Venice 1570). Pergolis 1989: Pergolis, R., Il naviglio del Canale della Battaglia, in: Zanetti, P. G. (ed.), La Riviera Euganea. Acque e territorio del canale Battaglia (Padua 1989) 149–162. Rotondi et al. 1995: Rotondi, G. – Zunica, M., Il lido di Sottomarina. Processi interattivi di costruzione e consumo (Padua 1995). Ruggeri 1922: Ruggeri, L., Venezia e la navigazione interna, Rivista Mensile della Città di Venezia 1 (12), 1922, 1–12. Sanfermo 1821: Sanfermo, M. A., Della situazione di Brenta e Bacchiglione e dei modi di migliorarla. Padova Biblioteca Civica Manuscript 3 vol. (control number B. P. 1780).

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Sanfermo 1833: Sanfermo, M. A., Lettere descrittive di alcuni luoghi campestri nelle Provincie Venete (Venice 1833). Selmin et al. 2008: Selmin, F. – Grandis, C. (eds.), Il Bacchiglione (Sommacampagna 2008). Sillano 1989: Sillano, M. T., I sommi vantaggi della navigazione a vapore nel LombardoVeneto, in Rainero, R. – Bevilacqua, E. – Violante, S. (eds.), L’uomo e il fiume. Le aste fluviali e l’uomo nei paesi del Mediterraneo e del mar Nero (Milan 1989) 137–143. Sormani Moretti 1880/1881: Sormani Moretti, L., La Provincia di Venezia. Monografia statistica economica amministrativa (Venice 1880/1881). Turola 1889: Turola F., La navigazione fluviale e la provincia di Padova (Padua 1889). Vallerani 2008: Vallerani, F., (ed.), Dalle praterie vallive alla bonifica. Cartografia storica ed evoluzione del paesaggio nel Veneto Orientale dal ‘500 ad oggi (Portogruaro 2008). Zangheri 1988/1989: Zangheri, P., Dati paleo-idrografici sulla pianura a sud-ovest dei Colli Euganei, Atti e Memorie dell’Accademia Patavina di Scienze, Lettere e Arti 101, 1988/1989, 175–198.

Global Perspective

Sabine Huy

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity? The Case of the Don from the late 7th to the early 3rd century BC 1 Introduction When the Greeks began to establish settlements (apoikiai) at the shores of the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov at the end of the 7th century BC, they often chose places near river mouths (fig. 9.1). The sites of the settlements indicate that the proximity to both the sea and the river was important, since it enabled the inhabitants of the Greek apoikiai to connect overseas with the hinterland. In the context of so-called Greek Colonisation, it is often assumed that access to the waterways was primarily intended to secure trade contacts by which Greek products could reach the indigenous societies. By offering suitable communication and transport routes, these global connections are often supposed to have been operated via the rivers. It is a common research practice to map archaeological sites along the rivers in which Greek objects have been found and to interpret the preserved patterns as an expression of the connectivity between the various cultural societies overseas and in the hinterland. However, simple distribution maps provide a static, sub-complex picture of such largescale connections and thus cannot describe the dynamic developments and changing intensities of these interconnections. The methodological problem lies in the subliminal assumption that (Greek) culture is somehow ‘stored’ in material objects and can be extracted by anyone in any place and at any time. However, culture is not inscribed in objects: There is never only one right way to deal with things and they never have a static meaning. How they are understood and used by people always depends on the respective cultural and social habits and might change over time and space. So, if we want to follow the interconnection of people along a river, it is not enough to map the distribution of finds; rather, we have to analyse the social contexts of people and their ways of dealing with objects. Comparable living environments together with comparable or even similar uses of things indicate comparable cultural and social habits and thus point to close social ties between these people. By focusing on the social practices involving material objects, it will be possible to describe how these objects were incorporated into the lives of ancient agents. This approach enables us to gain a better idea about the quality of connections.

© Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, 2019 | doi:10.30965/9783657786367_010

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Figure 9.1 Map of the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov with the main rivers and Greek apoikiai Reproduction: S. Huy after Bresson et al. 2007, 17

Moreover, since the role of a river in such a setting remains unclear without examining its natural features (course, water balance, gradient, etc.) and the areas it crosses (georelief, vegetation, climate), the complex issue of connectivity driven by rivers should also be analysed from this perspective. We must therefore consider both the geomorphic features of the river and – with regard to the mobility of objects – the social and cultural contexts of the people living along the river. Hence, our distribution maps should be supplemented by a commentary on the relationship between the geomorphic features and the settlement pattern and, furthermore, we need to focus on the social contexts and practices with objects. As a case study, this paper examines the role of the Don and its tributaries within the connectivity of the Aegean world and the Eurasian steppes north of the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov between the late 7th and the early 3rd centuries BC. Near to the mouth of the Don (ancient Tanais) into the Sea of Azov, Greeks founded a settlement on the site of the modern city Taganrog

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in the late 7th century BC (fig. 9.1).1 In the course of the 5th and especially in the 4th century BC, a dense web of small settlements and burials gradually emerged in the delta region of the Don which decayed again in the first half of the 3rd century BC. At the same time, a similarly dense population can be observed at some points along the middle and upper reaches of the Don and its tributaries. I will concentrate on the following questions: Was there a regular connectivity between the various micro-regions2 along the Don River system? What role did the estuary of the Don play as link between the Aegean world and the steppes? Did the waterways of the Don River system serve as communication- and transport routes? Four main analytical steps will be applied to answer these questions: (1) First of all, it is necessary to have a closer look on the geomorphic features of the Don River system and to describe its course and water balance. In order to distinguish between rivers as possible transport-routes and rivers as water-suppliers, the gradient, the width of the rivers, the climate and the vegetation should be taken into account. (2) Subsequently, the distribution of known archaeological sites along the Don River system, dated to the period of interest, will be analysed by considering the characteristics of their natural environment. The dispersion of sites allows a first assessment of the role of the river-system. For example, it could be of interest whether settlements and burials were located exclusively on the riverbanks or also inland. (3) Thirdly, in order to gain a deeper understanding of the social contexts along the Don River system, an overview of the general appearance of the archaeological sites will be provided alongside with a characterisation of the spectra of finds. To assess the quality of the connectivity between different regions, the social practices in which mobile material objects were involved are of great importance. (4) In the final section, I will combine the results of the previous chapters and focus on the Greek objects. If they appear in large numbers along a river, they could indicate the use of the river as transport-route.3 Especially the objects, which were produced in Greek cities of the Aegean 1  Dally et al. 2009; Dally et al. 2012; Dally et al. 2013. 2  In this context, the term describes a limited region in the wider environment of the Don River system, characterized by a high population density and similar geomorphic conditions in terms of climate, soils, vegetation and topography. However, the term does not imply that the inhabitants of a microregion formed a closed social group. 3  Cf. Lyubičev et al. 2012, 162–163.

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and the Black Sea are helpful, because they exhibit the general direction from their production centres to their find-spots (here: from south to north). Moreover, the Greek objects – in these contexts mainly ceramic vessels like transport amphorae or fine tableware but also precious metal works – are easy to detect within the spectra of finds. Extensive paleo-geographical investigations to reconstruct the ancient landscape of the whole Don River system have not been carried out yet.4 It is safe to assume that the watercourse and the hydrological regime of the entire Don River system have generally changed since antiquity. Nevertheless, some clues allow us to open the discussion on the complex interplay of settlement patterns and the landscapes of the Don River system: Major interventions to correct the course of the Don were only carried out in two areas: the construction of the Tsimlyansky Reservoir (1948–1953) and the artificial section of the riverbed within the city of Rostov-on-Don. There are still many old arms of rivers that divide and converge again, pointing to the natural and ancient riverbed in these places.5 Furthermore, the paleo-botanical investigations of Kremenetsky6 showed that the vegetation cover in the Dnepr, Don and Volga basins became similar to today’s after 600 BC.7 Historical descriptions and maps of settlements and fortresses from the 12th to the 17th century allow a diachronic comparison in some places, e.g. with regard to forest density.8 Thanks to intensive research by Russian archaeologists since the 1950s through excavations and surveys along the Don and its tributaries, a representative map of archaeological sites was produced (fig. 9.2) (in the following, the numbers in brackets indicate the respective sites on the map and the 4  There is much literature on the geology and hydrology of the Sea of Azov (i.e.: Matishov 2009). As far as rivers are concerned, research concentrates on individual sections or small tributaries (i.e.: Zhukova 2007). For an overall picture of the long-term development of the entire Don River system, steps should be taken to reconstruct the development of geology, hydrology, sediment transfers, channel shape, and floodplain formation. All these processes have a great influence on the population in the landscapes shaped by a river. 5  Every time the river rises strongly, these meanders and channels change their form. If a channel is filled up with alluvial deposits, the water cleaves a new way until this is filled up as well (Schmid-Merkl 2016, 39). In the Don Delta in particular, new sediment deposits are constantly forming in the arms of the river due to the slight difference in altitude. These deposits continue to move with the flow and overlap in the curves. As a result some river arms die and the remaining arms become more and more curvy (Minoransky 2004, 15–18; Schmid-Merkl 2016, 36. 40–42). 6  Kremenetsky 2003, 11. 15. 17. 7  Cf. the discussion of Gulyaev (2010, 12–19), who argues against discernable changes of the landscape even since the last 3–5 millenia. 8  Wagner 2003, 65–92.

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corresponding table 9.1).9 Beside the consultation of published literature, a careful consideration of the excavation journal Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya (1965–2009) delivered a particularly dense set of data.10 Furthermore, the data on the lower Don region considered in this article are also based on a comprehensive and systematic study of site notebooks11 and on information collected within the framework of the German-Russian Taganrog-project.12 2 Geomorphic Features of the Don River System The river system of the Don is situated in the western part of the Russian Federation (fig. 9.2) and is one of the largest rivers of the country. Today, it flows from its source in the south of Moscow (Novomoskovskoe, Tula district) in the Central Russian Upland 1870 km down to the bay of Taganrog, into the Sea of Azov. In its course the Don does not descend more than 180 m, from 180 m above sea level at its source to 0 m in the delta. Due to the small difference in

9   The map presented here shows archaeological sites of the late 7th to the early 3rd century BC along the Don River system. As far as the lower Don region is concerned, these are indeed all the sites known to me so far. However, for the regions along the middle and upper Don river, situated around the modern city Voronezh, and for the upper reaches of the Seversky Donets, in the area of the modern city Kharkiv, I have tried to provide a representative picture. The number of sites in these areas is so large that a complete mapping in the scale required here does not appear possible. Medvedev (1999, 49–66 figs. 18. 21. 22) published 60 fortified and 300 unfortified settlements in the Voronezh region dating back to the 6th–4th centuries BC. For the upper Seversky Donets, Petrenko (1989, 76 with map 8) states 13 kurgan burial fields, 18 fortified and more than 70 unfortified settlements. The number of sites increases with each excavation season. 10  Edited by Russian Academy of Science, Institute of Archaeology (RAN IA), Moscow since 1965. 11  I would like to express my sincere thanks to Marina V. Gerasimenko, Museum of Taganrog and to Andrej A. Maslovsky, Museum of Azov for enabling me easy access to their archives and depots as well as to Pavel A. Larenok and Roman V. Prokof’ev, who excavated important sites in the Don delta and generously provided me with the materials for my own studies. My research on the lower Don was part of my doctoral thesis on cultural contacts between Greeks and Indigenous of the Northeast Azov region between the 5th and 3rd centuries BC (completed 2015: Huy, forthcoming a). 12  The project was under the leadership of Prof. Dr. Ortwin Dally (German Archaeological Institute, Rome) and Dr. Pavel A. Larenok (Don Archaeological Society, Rostov-on-Don). The fieldwork has been carried out from 2004 to 2010. Except in Taganrog (1), we excavated in the settlements Novo Zolotovka (51) and Levinsadovka (53) and in the burial field Beglitsky Mogil’nik (52), all located on the Mius-Peninsula, cf. Dally et al. 2009; Dally et al. 2012; Dally et al. 2013. The final publication is forthcoming.

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Figure 9.2 Map of the Don River system (S. Huy)

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height from the source to the estuary, the flow velocity is rather slow (on average 0,5 m/sec.).13 From its source, the Don moves slightly eastwards through the district of Tula. In the districts of Lipetsk and Voronezh there is a noticeable southern turn, and the Don passes the city Voronezh to the west. After another 60 km the Don turns east and runs southeast to the large Tsimlyansky Reservoir (Volgograd district), where it almost meets the basin of the Volga. After crossing the reservoir, the Don flows west through the Rostov district to the city Rostov-on-Don. There it flows in a large delta of about 20 arms into the bay of Taganrog, which belongs to the Sea of Azov. The actual length of the river differs extremely from the airline distance of only 700 km. On its way the Don meanders in many sharp curves and collects the water of many tributaries. The entire course of the Don can be divided into three parts: 1. the upper reaches from the source to the inflow of the Voronezh river 2. the middle reaches to the Tsimlyansky Reservoir 3. the lower reaches to the delta region. The south of the Don River system is located in the grassland steppe zone. The middle reaches encompass the transition to the forest steppe zone. Steppe zones develop in places where the long-standing average of rainfall is insufficient to support forests. This causes a comparatively low quantity of water in the large river basin (annual mean value: 900 m3/cm). The grassland steppe zone yields a diversity of herbaceous plants and grasses, the landscape is therefore well suited for keeping grazing animals. Within the forest steppe zone, the pastures are pervaded with smaller forests or separated groups of trees. At rivers gallery forests are common.14 The upper reaches are mainly characterised by rocky shorelines, up to 50 m high with outcrops of Devonian formations, which in some places are cut into by ravines and gullies. The eastern bank borders a flatter floodplain. In the northern section after the inflow of Sosna, the riverbed is only about 40 m wide and the water only knee-deep. While passing the district of Voronezh, the Don widens and reaches 400 m during high water with a depth up to 10 m.15 The landscape of the middle reaches alternates floodplains and hills. The banks are mainly made of chalk or limestone cliffs and forests, especially on the western side. The forests are dominated by oak tree and Scots pine.16 The 13  Martynova et al. 2009, 29. 14  Parzinger 2006, 25–26. 15  Gavrilov et al. 1999. 16  Kremenetsky 2003, 14–15 fig. 2, 10. – In Russian Scots pine is called sosna, which is reflected in the names of the tributaries Sosna and Tikhaya (“calm”) Sosna.

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eastern banks are shallow with predominantly sandy soils. The headlands on the western banks show higher and sharply sloping rocks with plane hilltops.17 The river valleys and watersheds partly offer grasslands with lakes and swamps. Until today, these protected areas are used as pastures for small cattle. South of the tributary Tikhaya Sosna there are extensive forest massifs, which not only reach the slopes of the river bank, but also partly cover the watershed between Tikhaya Sosna and Potudan’.18 In this reach, the Don is up to 60–70 m deep and the riverbed up to 4–5 km wide.19 Between the cities Serafimovich and Surovikino in the Volgograd district, the section of the Don with the most and sharpest turns can be recognized (commonly referred to as Donskaya Luka). There, the relief of the shores is cut by deep gorges. The landscape of the lower Don region is marked by fertile floodplains and grassy steppes in the river valleys. As in the northern sections, the banks can be differentiated in a hilly west side and a low, sandy east side. In spring, when the water level rises, these flatlands are flooded. The width of the riverbed in this part takes 500–1000 m at a depth of up to 20 m.20 Martynova and Aleksenko state 8–10 m in average at low water.21 The delta of the Don is an alluvial, swampy plain, which is crossed by many, partly dried out arms. They divide the area into several islands. These deltaislands raise marginally above sea level and in phases of strong western winds a huge part of the delta is flooded. The main island between the rivers Mertvy Donets, Lagutnik, and Don is covered by sand dunes.22 The river reaches its highest water levels in spring, the lowest in autumn and winter. The long-term level fluctuations can be divided into the three main parts of approximately 12 m on the upper Don, 8 m on the middle course and 6 m on the lower course.23 From today’s point of view, the Don is navigable from the delta to the region of Voronezh, but there are some problems we should keep in mind, as they make the Don quite difficult to navigate: 1) in winter the river is partially icecovered 2) heavy turns as at the Donskaya Luka involve certain risks and 3) the increasing number of sandy alluvial deposits closer to the delta region. Among the numerous tributaries, Voronezh, Bityug, Khopër, Seversky Donets and Manych can be classified as the largest (from north to south). The 17  Gulyaev 2010, 13. 18  Medvedev 1999, 56–57. 19  Gulyaev 2010, 12. 20  Gavrilov et al. 1999. 21  Martynova et al. 2009, 30. 22  Minoransky 2004, 8–14. 23  Gavrilov et al. 1999.

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first three mentioned tributaries meet the Don from east and join the main river at its middle reaches. They meander heavily and are quite deep, especially the Khopër with up to 17 m. The landscape of the riverbanks of these inflows is comparable to the described geography of the middle reaches of the Don. The Seversky Donets meets the Don at the lower reaches and with a length of 1050 km is the largest inflow of all. Like the Don itself, the Seversky Donets passes a low difference in height, causing a very slow flow velocity (0,15 m/s– 1,41 m/s). The Seversky Donets flows through the forest and grassland steppe zones and the natural conditions are in general comparable to the Don. The tributaries of the lower Don meander strongly, but especially in the delta region they are wide and shallow.24 The Mius-Peninsula, which borders the delta to the west, is also included in this study because of its similar cultural topography. A flat plateau, 15 m high in average, with a very steep coastline, forms part of this peninsula. On the south side it falls sharply into a narrow, sandy beach, to the north it exhibits in places gentle lowlands. The inner part of the peninsula offers fertile loess soil. Although we cannot be sure of the exact course of the Don and its tributaries in ancient times, it must be emphasised once again that the entire area of the grassland steppe zone is a flat plain and only the forest steppe zone has hills. This leads to a very slow flow velocity of the rivers. I shall return to these points later. In the vast territory of the Don River system, population density developed during the course of the late 7th to the early 3rd century BC in different areas with varying intensity. In the following chapter, I will discuss this process by analysing the distribution of archaeological sites in order to assess their relationship to the river. I approach this issue chronologically and distinguish between two rough periods – an older phase I (late 7th–5th century BC) and a younger phase II (4th–early 3rd century BC). 3 The Distribution of Sites and Their Relationship to the Geomorphic Features of the Don River System (fig. 9.2) In the whole timespan under consideration three main categories of sites can be distinguished: settlements, burial fields and separated burial mounds (kurgans). In some cases it was not possible to define the character of the sites, as they have either not yet been sufficiently researched or extensively destroyed. 24  Martynova et al. 2009, 12. 30.

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Phase I In phase I of the lower Don, the absence of settlements, with the exception of the Greek settlement at Taganrog (1), should be emphasized. Otherwise, only isolated burials are known, which all reused kurgans of the Bronze Age. Each burial is located on an arm of a river, in particular along the Don between the delta and the Tsimlyansky Reservoir (59. 60. 77. 83).25 Two kurgans near the village Donskoj were erected on the river Aksaj, not far from its inflow into the Don (64). In the Don delta itself, only a single grave in Malakhovsky Erik 2 (4) was found. However, the adjacent lowlands to the north (28) and to the south (40) were frequented, as well as the tributaries Kagal’nik (36. 41) and Kojsug (42). The location of Novomargaritovo (66) is also interesting in this respect, as it is the only site on the coast other than Taganrog. The absence of other settlements, which existed simultaneously with the kurgans of the late 7th–6th centuries BC, points to a nomadic life-style of the people, who moved to the lower Don to erect burial mounds. Apparently, they preferred sites along the Don and near to its delta. This becomes even clearer when looking at distribution maps of Bronze Age kurgans, which were numerous at the lower Don, not only at the rivers but also more inland, but which were not selected for burials of the Early Iron Age.26 Also worth mentioning are the kurgans of Krivorozh’e (74) and Aksaj 1 (79), which are located further away from the other burials on two smaller rivers. In the forest steppe we observe a quite similar picture, with some settlements of the 6th century BC in the Voronezh district being known there (112. 118. 119. 126). These were situated on high headlands directly on the banks of the Don and the Voronezh river. Simultaneous burials surrounding these settlements have not yet been traced. In general, burials from the 7th and 6th centuries BC seem to be rare. The isolated find of an Ionic bull’s head rhyton of the 6th century is known. It was found on the banks of Khopër (87) and probably originates from a burial. Two burials on a small stream near Lyubotino (172) near the modern city Kharkiv date to the same period.27 Furthermore, in the

25  There were certainly more burials in the area of the Tsimlyansky Reservoire, which might have been destroyed during the construction of the reservoir from 1948 to 1953. 26  Cf. Dally et al. 2012, 146–151. 27  Kurgan no. 2 with a Persian silver rhython (Chernenko 2004, 94–96). In kurgan no. 15 a Milesian-type amphora was found, which allows a dating into the 6th century BC. There are some more sites known from the region that are dated to phase I, but they are situated west of the section mapped here, e.g. the kurgan of Sanzhary, (Liberov 1962, 69) or the kurgan of Skorobor (Shramko 1972, 352).

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Bronze Age burial field of Shpakovka (175) a kurgan was reused for a funeral of the 6th century BC (kurgan no. 5, grave no. 7).28 At the turn of the 6th to the 5th century BC the density of sites increased slightly. In the burial field Chastye Kurgany (131), located on a high plateau in the watershed of Don and Voronezh river, two burials of the 6th/early 5th century BC have come to light.29 Two burials of the 5th century BC were found in Ostroverkhovka (80) (kurgans nos. 1 and 4).30 Also around Kharkiv some settlements at small streams are known (81. 158. 170. 171). Overall, the entire area of the Don River system does not appear to have been permanently populated in phase I. The settlements in the forest steppe show only weakly developed cultural layers with few finds indicating a seasonal or short-term use of the sites. However, people were obviously attracted by the rivers. In the region around Kharkiv they preferred small streams, while around the city Voronezh the large rivers Don and Voronezh were chosen. Phase II In phase II, especially from the middle of the 4th century BC, the density of sites increased rapidly. Dense concentrations of settlements and burials can be observed mainly in the delta, in the regions around Tikhaya Sosna and Voronezh as well as on the upper reaches of the Seversky Donets. In addition, some sites are clustered on the upper Don in the district of Lipetsk. Remarkable are the vast territories between the mentioned regions that were sparsely populated. Taking a closer look at the lower Don, some sites along its banks can be traced (69. 83. 75. 76). Much more striking compared to phase I is the shift of the sites directly into the delta. Along the now dried up streams Malakhovsky Erik and Bubnov Erik settlements and burials were lined up in serried rows. The adjacent Mius-Peninsula and the opposite coastline together with the tributaries Kagal’nik, Kojsug, Manych and Aksaj were also populated in the 4th century BC, which underlines the strong attraction of the delta. Over hundreds of kilometres upstream the Don, no settlement could be discovered. Especially, the section at the Donskaya Luka and beyond is remarkable, because there are only a few isolated kurgans at tributaries known (84. 85. 86). Having crossed the border to the forest steppe zone, a recognisable 28  Liberov 1962, 69. 29  One in a Bronze Age kurgan. The burial had already been robbed and included only two vessels that cannot be dated later than the 6th century BC (Liberov 1965, 28 fig. 2, 207. 208). The second archaic grave was found in kurgan no. 12, which was built in the Iron Age (Puzikova 2001, 14–15 fig. 9). 30  Shramko 1962, 226.

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cluster of sites is situated on the western banks of the Don around the tributaries Tikhaya Sosna, Potudan’ and Devitsa. Particularly in the watershed between Tikhaya Sosna and Potudan’ there are extended burial fields and large fortified settlements (called gorodishcha in Russian archaeology) (107–113). On the Don itself no burials but only settlements were identified (118–120). A similar picture can be seen around the modern city Voronezh: burial fields (124. 131) are situated in the watershed between the Don and Voronezh river, while the settlements are lined up directly along the riverbanks (128–130. 133–135. 123. 125. 126). Only the single kurgan of Chertovitskoe (121) was erected on the western bank of Voronezh river. A difference between this micro-region and the southern cluster around Tikhaya Sosna and Potudan’ can be seen in the minor role of the smaller inflows Veduga and Kamyshovka.31 This also seems to apply to the northernmost cluster in the district of Lipetsk. Some settlements are situated in a strongly twisted section of the Don (137. 141–145), while on the small inflows Sosna and Khmelinka only a few places are known (138. 139. 146. 147). Furthermore, the excavated layers of these places date back to the Bronze Age or the Late Iron Age and only some accumulations of ceramics indicate activities in the 4th century BC. Apart from a small flat grave field near Ksizovo (137) and one burial in the kurgan near Vvedenki (140)32 the almost complete absence of burial fields in this region is remarkable. Also in eastern direction, along Voronezh river, no burial of the 4th–3rd centuries BC was detected, although some settlements are known (148–153). Skorodnoe and Dubiki (154. 155) are the northernmost points known in the Don River system so far. The last identifiable cluster of sites is located on the upper reaches of the Seversky Donets, where a low concentration of sites could already be observed in phase I. Some of these settlements developed in phase II to huge gorodishcha like Kirovskoe (171) and Lyubotino (172). In addition, extended burial fields (e.g. 159. 163. 169. 172) and further settlements (e.g. 161. 174) were built. As in the 6th–5th centuries BC, the sites in the Kharkiv region are especially arranged along small tributaries. The settlement Arkhangel’skoe 1 (157) on the northern reaches of Seversky Donets and the settlement Bol’shchoe Gorodishche at the river Karochi (156) are also worth mentioning. Apart from these densely populated micro-regions, there are only some isolated settlements along Bityug (92–96) and on the middle reaches of Khopër (88–90). Isolated kurgans can be 31  Although it should be mentioned that near the settlement Chistaya Polyanya (136) there are five other villages known that are not fortified (Medvedev 1999, fig. 22 nos. 11–16). 32  140 burial 7; the kurgan comprised a total of seven burials, of which the remaining six are dated to the Bronze Age (Sinyuk et al. 1974, 80).

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found in the district of Rostov: firstly, in the middle and northern parts along the rivers Bystraya (70–73) and Chir (85. 86) and secondly, in the southeast near the border to Kalmykia (78. 79). In the case of Seversky Donets and its tributaries, it is particularly striking that all known sites were located in the forest steppe zone; the southern section of Seversky Donets in the grassy steppe (districts Lugans’k, Donetsk and Rostov) remained uninhabited. This picture was already described by Liberov and has not changed in the last fifty years.33 The same applies to burials: the kurgan burial fields are mainly situated in the forest steppe in the modern district of Kharkiv and there are only a few second-used burials within the Bronze Age burial fields at the lower Seversky Donets in the grass zone.34 This overview of the distribution of the archaeological sites in relation to the topography of the Don River system provides three main results: Firstly, almost all sites from the 6th to the early 3rd century BC are at the banks of rivers. The vicinity to a watercourse was therefore of crucial significance for people in both the grass steppe and forest steppe. Secondly, it was not necessarily the main rivers such as the Don, the Voronezh or the Seversky Donets that attracted people. In some cases, smaller tributaries like Udy, Tikhaya Sosna and Potudan’ were even more suitable. Thirdly, some clusters of sites are clearly identified, which are the following: 1) in the delta of the Don 2) around the tributaries Tikhaya Sosna and Potudan’ 3) in the surroundings of the modern city Voronezh 4) at the upper Don around the rivers Khmelinka and Sosna and 5) in the region of the modern city Kharkiv. A vast area of the whole Don River system was more or less uninhabited. This uneven distribution of sites seems to depend on the environmental conditions of the micro-regions, since all densely populated micro-regions except the delta lie in the forest steppe zone. This became particularly apparent with respect to the cluster around Kharkiv. It is also reflected in the isolated sites that can only be found in the forest steppe on the Bityug (92–94. 96) and the Khopër (88–90) and kurgans here and there in the grassland steppe (70–74. 78. 79. 84–86). In the light of these observations, the impact of the different conditions of grassland and forest steppe becomes evident and may even have had the first priority in the choice of settlement sites.35 But beyond the factors of the different steppe zones, we should focus on the varying use of larger and smaller 33  Liberov 1962, 11 with note 55. – During the Bronze Age and the Middle Ages the distribution of sites was entirely different and a lot of settlements were found in the grassland steppe zone of modern Ukraine, cf. Liberov 1962, 12–13. 34  Liberov 1962, 15–16. 35  Cf. Kremenetsky 2003.

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tributaries and watersheds. If the grassy steppe does not appear suitable for settling, how can the concentration of sites in the Don delta region be explained? And can we trace contacts between the different micro-regions? To answer these questions, it is necessary to investigate the sites in more detail and to examine whether or not the sites in the various micro-regions had a completely different character. 4 The Interconnection between People along the Don River System In the following, I shall make some remarks about the general appearance of the sites and the preserved find spectra. As requested in the introduction, we should also examine the remains of social practices in which objects were involved to describe how these objects were used and incorporated into people’s daily lives. It is much easier to identify such practices within burials than within settlements. The focus should be on the architecture of the burials, the deposition of the deceased, the selection, combination and placement of the burial objects as well as the objects in the vicinity of the burials.36 Similar or comparable practices point to shared cultural and social habits that shed light on the connections between the inhabitants of the different micro-regions. The Grass Steppe As described above, settlements in the grass steppe occur only on the lower Don in the delta region and on the coasts of the Taganrog Bay. People preferred the delta and settled mainly on the slightly elevated sand dunes that covered the main island between the rivers Kuter’ma/Don, Lagutnik and Mertvy Donets. The highest point in the delta is the small island between the Don and the Dugin Erik stream. According to the findings, it was occupied by a small group of people from the first quarter of the 5th century BC. In the 4th century BC this place, called Elizavetovka, became the largest settlement of the lower Don (2) (fig. 9.3). On the Mius-Peninsula, settlements were found only on the steep plateau on the south side. Within the dense web of settlements of the 4th century BC (phase II), all settlements, with the exception of Elizavetovka, are rather small, unfortified 36  In this paper I can only roughly describe the remains of social practices, since that issue requires a dense and detailed description of all contexts and finds. The appropriation of Greek objects and their incorporation into the social practices of the inhabitants of the delta was discussed intensively in my dissertation (Huy, forthcoming a).

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Figure 9.3 Settlement Elizavetovka (2), site map Reproduction: S. Huy after Marchenko et al. 2000, 49, fig. 5

Figure 9.4 Settlement Novo Zolotovka (51), site map with all excavation trenches Reproduction: B. Ludwig after site notebook of 1996

villages, composed of several pits, without visible street grids, open squares or larger buildings that could architecturally structure the sites (fig. 9.4). Depending on their various forms, size and depth, the pits can be interpreted as dugouts or storage-pits for food and vessels (fig. 9.5, 9.7). Mostly, they were lying close to each other and can be comprehended as units. A systematic arrangement and alignment of the pits cannot be recognized. In addition to the

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Figure 9.5 Settlement Novo Zolotovka (51), layout and profile of dugout and household pit ‘A’ Reproduction: B. Ludwig after site notebook of 1996

dugouts, the remains of aboveground houses consisting of wattle of roundwood with daub were excavated in two settlements on the lower Don. In the case of the settlement Novo Zolotovka on the Mius-Peninsula (51), these are two one-room houses with a rectangular ground plan of 19 m2 (fig. 9.6). In the case of the settlement Elizavetovka (2), these are several houses of different dimensions and room numbers, varying from one to six rooms. The largest examples covered an area of around 60 m2 and often included several storage pits (fig. 9.7).37 The settlement Elizavetovka is outstanding concerning its size (the area covers 55 ha), and especially its defence system, constructed in the 4th century BC of a ditch and a rampart with a wooden palisade.38 No other settlement in the area is equipped with such an elaborate fortification. The find spectra in the whole area comprise in general the following categories: ceramic vessels, tools made of stone, bone and metal as well as animal bones. The ceramic spectra differ to some extent in the proportional parts of the vessel types. In most settlements, hand-formed pottery, mainly from local 37  Marchenko et al. 2000, 93–131. 38  Marchenko et al. 2000, 73–89 pls. 5–9.

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Figure 9.6 Settlement Novo Zolotovka (51), layout of aboveground house Bef. 17 Photo: T. Schunke (2008); drawing: N. Ullrich; additions: S. Huy

production, dominates over wheel-made vessels.39 The hand-formed pottery can only be divided into a few types (pots, bowls, jugs) and thus represent a rather narrow repertoire of forms (fig. 9.8). Nevertheless, all types are made in a range of sizes that indicate a variety of uses. The wheel-made ceramics originate from various Greek sites in the Aegean and the Black Sea. These are mainly amphorae produced for the transport of wine, oil or other goods.40 In addition, a small amount of tableware especially drinking vessels but also jugs, bowls and plates was found in each settlement (fig. 9.9).41 39  The settlement Novo Zolotovka (51) can be regarded as representative. There the spectrum of ceramics includes 75% hand-formed pottery, 12% transport amphorae, 11% red- and grey-fired wheel made fabrics and 2% Attic black-glazed tableware; (number of individual profiles: 925). The most recent examples can be dated to the first half of the 3rd century BC, Huy, forthcoming a. 40  Almost all of the production centres represented by the amphorae of the Don River system are likely to be wine producers (e.g. Herakleia Pontica, Khersonesos, Thasos, Mende, see below). However, it is still difficult to indicate a standard or primary content for each type of amphora, cf. Lawall 2011. 41  It should be noted that only sites nos. (32) and (33) do not display any vessels of Greek provenance. However, as these sites have only been investigated by one-off surveys, the results may not be representative of the total spectra and imports are most likely.

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Figure 9.7 Settlement Elizavetovka (2), layout of dugout no. 5 and of aboveground houses nos. 18 & 10 Reproduction: S. Huy after Marchenko et al. 2000, 97, fig. 20

The above mentioned settlement Elizavetovka (2) again offers striking features: the ceramic spectrum is very extensive and includes more than 200.000 amphora profiles. They make up approximately 83% of all vessels.42 Thus, Elizavetovka is the only settlement in the region where Greek objects far outweigh locally produced vessels. Although we are mostly dealing with disturbed contexts, in a few cases we can observe the remains of specific practices that shed light on the social concepts of the inhabitants of the settlements. Often the reuse of broken amphorae can be noticed. This is demonstrated by a lot of fragments with significant traces of abrasion. According to Sören Handberg, they were used as tools for grinding and smoothing the locally produced hand-formed pottery (fig. 9.10).43 Furthermore, there are some burials for dogs, which are known 42  Marchenko et al. 2000, 157–163. – The most recent verifiable finds are some amphora stamps from the 80s to 70s of the 3rd century BC, which are accepted as dating for the abandonment of the settlement. 43  Handberg 2011, 64–66 figs. 2–4.

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Figure 9.8 Hand-formed pottery from sites of the grass steppe. 1–2: pots; 3–4: bowls; 5–6: jugs. 1. 4. 5: Elizavetovka (2); 2–3: Novo Zolotovka (51); 6: Dugino X (5) (1. 4. 5: reproduction: S. Huy after Marchenko et al. 2000, 141, fig. 57; 2–3: Taganrog, museum, inv-nos.: ТЛИАМЗ НЗO-08-648. НЗO-81-HB2621/31, drawings: N. Ullrich; 6: Azov, museum, inv.-no.: ДУГ-X-09/546, reproduction: S. Huy after drawing of R. Prokof’ev)

from Elizavetovka and Novo Zolotovka and point to a common high regard for dogs.44 All in all, the settlements of the lower Don were of similar character, consisting of loosely arranged dugouts and pits, some of which were supplemented by aboveground houses. In addition, the inhabitants used the same types of objects that were dominated by locally produced vessels and tools. With the exception of the case of Elizavetovka, Greek pottery played a subordinate role in the settlements. However, the fact that the few amphorae – once broken – were reused shows the special use of the containers according to the individual daily life needs of the inhabitants. The noticeable greater dimension of Elizavetovka, its fortification system and the extremely high amount of amphorae, which reached the settlement especially from the middle of the 4th century BC onwards, indicate that in the 4th century BC the site became 44  Marchenko et al. 2000, 125 pls. 23, 44; 25, 45; 28, 55; 56. 96; Huy, forthcoming a.

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Figure 9.9 Greek pottery from sites of the grass steppe: 1: Clazomenian amphora, 1st half 6th c. BC (Khapry [1]); 2: Chiotic amphora, 2nd half 5th c. BC (Dugino X [5]); 3: amphora from Herakleia Pontica, 380–320 BC (Dugino X [5]); 4: foot of an Attic skyphos, 1st quarter 5th c. BC (Dugino X [5]); 5: fishplate, 4th c. BC (Novo Zolotovka [51]); 6: jug (Beglitsa [52]); 5–6: unknown centres of the Black Sea area (1: reproduction: S. Huy after Kopylov, 2006, p. 86, fig. 4,6; 2–3: Azov, museum, inv.-nos.: ДУГ-X-09/514. ДУГ-X-09/1588, reproduction: S. Huy after drawings of R. Prokof’ev; 4: Azov, museum, inv.-no.: ДУГ-84-X-AKM KП 21079/OA 244/30, reproduction: S. Huy after drawing of P. Larenok; 5–6: Taganrog, museum, inv-nos.: ТЛИАМЗ НЗO-80-HB2386/11. БГЛ79-КП8967/279, drawings N. Ullrich)

Figure 9.10

Amphora handles reused as tools, found in Novo Zolotovka (51) (Taganrog, museum, inv-nos.: ТЛИАМЗ НЗO-79-ИК8149/79. НЗO-82-HB2586/217, photos: I. Ivanov)

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the main trading port on the lower Don. In this regard, it is not surprising that we cannot find any ceramic type in the region that is not also known from Elizavetovka. Elizavetovka is also the only settlement in the region to which a burial ground can be clearly assigned. Other burial grounds or single kurgans are rather scattered in the region of the lower Don, without such a clear connection to a settlement (e.g. 5. 27. 29. 34–37. 51. 52). They are located on altitudes, e.g. on Mertvy Donets north of the delta or on the southern steep coast of the Mius-Peninsula. The watershed between the tributaries Kagal’nik and Kojsug was also used. With one exception, as explained below, both the installations and equipment of the burials are quite modest and comparable. Above all, burial mounds with a height of 1–3 m were erected, which usually contained simple pits and, more rarely, catacomb graves (e.g. 2745. 3546. 3947; fig. 9.11). All of them are inhumations. The bodies were placed uniformly in an outstretched supine position, usually with the head facing west. The sets of burial objects always consist of the same elements: weapons, jewellery, vessels, tools and animal bones (fig. 9.12, 9.13). These elements are combined in many ways. Due to their frequency, weapons and jewellery seem to have formed the basic equipment. Equally characteristic is the combination of animal bones with knifes, which can be understood as prepared meals for the deceased. Unlike in the settlements, Greek pottery formed an essential part of the burial objects. Especially Greek transport amphorae seem to have had a special meaning in the local burial customs. Besides hand-formed pottery, amphora fragments were often found scattered in the soil of kurgan mounds. Amphora toes are also frequently found vertically in the ring ditches that encircle some of the kurgans (fig. 9.11). This is a typical use of containers, known from the entire grassland and forest steppe zones. It can therefore be assumed that the wine – as suspected content of the amphorae (cf. note 40) – was an integral part of the ritual feastings at the burials. As complete vessels the amphorae were also often found within the burial pits next to animal bones and/or a drinking vessel. Besides the kurgans, also flat graves existed that were arranged in simple pits (5. 2) (fig. 9.12, 9.13).48 Apart from the construction, the representation of 45  Kurgans nos. 41. 44. 68. 69 (Il’yukov 1991, 86). 46  Kurgan no. 12, burial 1; kurgan no. 27, burial 2 (Luk’yashko 2000, 172–176, figs. 7. 8). 47  Kurgan no. 2, burial 3 (Maksimenko 1983, 83 fig. 27). 48  The burial field Dugino X (5) consists entirely of flat graves (Prokof’ev 2014; Huy, forthcoming). Within the burial fields of Elizavetovka (2) some flat graves were found next to the kurgans (Kopylov et al. 2010).

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Figure 9.11

Figure 9.12

Novoaleksandrovka (42) kurgan no. 1. 1: layout of the kurgan; 2: layout of the catacomb; 3: amphorae found in the ring ditch (reproduction: S. Huy after Luk’yashko 2000, fig. 1)

Dugino X (5), burials G 12 & G 34. I: layout of the burial G 12 in situ; II: objects of burial G 12: 1: amphora from Mende (3rd quarter 5th c. BC); 2: Attic cup-skyphos (2nd quarter 5th c. BC); 3: iron knife; 4: spindle whorl; III: Objects of burial G 34 (4th c. BC): 1–2: glass beads; 3: bronze ring; 4: bronze arrow heads (I: reproduction: S. Huy after drawing of R. Prokof’ev; II: Azov, museum, inv.-nos.: ДУГ-X-Крест/09-nos. 271–276, reproduction: S. Huy after drawings R. Prokof’ev; III: 1–2: Azov, museum, inv.-nos.: ДУГ-84-X-AKM KП 21079/OA 244/100–101, photos: S. Huy; 3: Azov, museum, inv.-nos.: ДУГ-84-X-AKM KП 21079/OA 244/81, reproduction: B. Ludwig after drawing of P. Larenok; 4: Azov, museum, inv.-nos.: ДУГ-84-X-AKM KП 21079/OA 244/91–95, reproduction: S. Huy after drawing of P. Larenok)

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Figure 9.13

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Dugino X (5), burial G 13 (2nd half 5th c. BC). 1: layout and profile of the burial; 2: burial objects (1: reproduction: S. Huy after drawing of R. Prokof’ev; 2: Azov, museum, inv.-nos.: ДУГ-X-09/703–818, photo: R. Prokof’ev)

the body and the burial objects do not differ from the kurgans. Intentionally shattered amphorae at some graves, probably to spout the wine, are related to the just mentioned burial ritual at the kurgans (fig. 9.14).49 The differences between the burial types (kurgan, flat grave) might reflect differences between social classes, since the construction of a kurgan is much more labour-intensive than that of a flat grave. The homogenous use of the burial objects, however, does not support this hypothesis. Clearly outstanding is solely the so-called Five-Brother group in the vicinity of Elizavetovka, especially kurgan no. 8 which is dated to the mid 4th century BC.50 It is a 12 m high burial mound with a substructure, burial chamber and dromos made of stone (fig. 9.15). The burial is also distinguished by the quantity and quality of burial objects, including not only a lot of amphorae, weapons, gold jewellery, bronze 49  Cf. Prokof’ev 2014, 278–280 figs. 106. 107; discussion cf. Huy, forthcoming a. 50  Shilov 1961.

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Figure 9.14

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Dugino X (5), burial G 35 with shattered amphora. 1: schematic map of the context; 2: amphora from Herakleia Pontica (2nd–3rd quarter 4th c. BC) (1: S. Huy; 2: Azov, museum, inv.-nos.: ДУГ-X-09/1601, reproduction: S. Huy after drawing of R. Prokof’ev)

Figure 9.15 Elizavetovka (2), kurgan no. 8 of the Five-Brother-Group. Layout of the kurgan and position of the deceased in situ (reproduction: S. Huy after Shilov 1961, fig. 2)

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and silver vessels, but also a golden goryth and scabbard overlay of the same type as from the well-known kurgan of Chertomlyk.51 Due to its exposed location, its dimensions, its elaborate architecture and its extremely rich equipment, kurgan no. 8 of the Five-Brothers can be interpreted as an extraordinary grave that is superior to all others. The Forest Steppe All settlements on the middle and upper reaches of the Don and in the region of Kharkiv are situated at elevated positions. Most of them cover high headlands or spurs on the banks of rivers (fig. 9.16).52 They rarely lie on secondorder river terraces (69. 136. 137). A marked difference to the delta region can be seen in the number of settlements with fortifications.53 Obviously, this was more important in the forest steppe than in the grass steppe. These gorodishcha were regularly surrounded by smaller villages without fortifications.54 In some cases, the small villages seem to have been inhabited only for a short time, perhaps seasonally. This is indicated by missing or weakly defined occupation layers, a low number of ceramics and rarely found tools and animal bones (e.g. 142. 178).55 The houses in the gorodishcha appear chiefly in two types of aboveground constructions (roundish and rectangular, fig. 9.17). Their common feature is that they consist of one room and provide open fireplaces for heating. Householdor storage pits are often concentrated in the dwellings. Dugouts appear as well, but in much lesser numbers than on the lower Don (e.g. 108. 128).56 The size of the gorodishcha ranges in general from 1,5 to 8 ha; very few cover an area of 12–15 ha.57 Among the most extended gorodishcha are Voloshino 1 (108), Bol’shoe Storozhevoe (119), Pekshevo (126), and Kirovskoe gorodishche (171), each surrounded by some smaller gorodishcha and a lot of unfortified villages. Thus, they seem to have formed central points within their micro-region, 51  Shilov 1961; Treister 1999. 52  e.g. sites nos.: 99. 100. 103. 110. 115. 118. 119. 125. 126. 128. 136. 142. 145. 155. 165. 167. 170, cf. Puzikova 1969, 43 fig. 1; Medvedev 1999, 31–32 fig. 8; Gulyaev 2010, 150–151). 53  e.g. sites nos.: 99–101. 108–110. 112. 115. 118. 119. 123. 125. 126. 128. 137. 145. 155. 161. 170, cf. Liberov 1965, 10; Puzikova 1969, 43. 45–46; Petrenko 1989, 79; Gulyaev 2010, 124. 145 fig. 17. 54  e.g. gorodishche Russkaya Trostyanka (110) was surrounded by 9 villages, not shown here; gorodishcha Semiluki (129) and Gubarevo (132) were surrounded by 14 villages, not shown here (Medvedev 1999, 57); gorodishcha Ksizovo (137) was surrounded by ca. 4 villages (Oblomsky et al. 2013, 183–184); Chervonosovskoe Gorodishche (170), in the Kharkiv region, was surrounded by ca. 13 villages, not shown here (Zadnikov et al. 2003). 55  Liberov 1965, 8–10; Medvedev 1999, 59. 56  Puzikova 1969, 46–50; Gulyaev 2010, 125–128. 57  Gulyaev 2010, 123–125.

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Figure 9.16

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Settlement Titchikha (118), site map (reproduction: S. Huy after Moskalenko et al. 1969, fig. 1)

comparable to Elizavetovka on the lower Don, which, as explained above, surpassed the other sites. Also the find spectra fit well to those of the lower Don. They consist mainly of the same categories, such as local hand-formed and Greek wheel-made pottery, stone, metal and bone tools and animal bones. The sites exhibit quite a homogeneous collection of hand-formed pottery comparable to the types found in the delta region (fig. 9.18).58 Greek amphorae and a few drinking vessels have also been identified but appear in much less abundance than in the settlements of the lower Don (fig. 9.19, see below).59 Thus, the settlements in the forest steppe are comparable with the settlements in the grass steppe with regard to their general appearance and the find spectra. Differences concern details like the number of Greek objects. In total, the overall organisation appears to be very well comparable. A preference for high elevations as settlement sites can also be seen here and there. However, as the landscape of the delta has only slightly elevated sand dunes, this is not as pronounced as in the mid- and upper reaches of the Don and the Seversky

58  Puzikova 1969, 51–66 figs. 7–14; Gulyaev 2010, 127–128. 143. 146 figs. 13. 18. 59  Puzikova 1969, 79–80 fig. 20, 1–8; Gulyaev 2010, 125. 127–129. 146 fig. 18.

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Figure 9.17

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Pekshevskoe Gorodishche (126), layout of aboveground houses nos. 2. 12 & 18 (reproduction: S. Huy after Medvedev 1999, 83. 85–86, figs. 39. 41–42)

Donets, where the natural conditions are much better suited to the preferred locations. The same applies to the burials in the forest steppe. Like at the lower Don the burial fields as well as the individual kurgans are situated on elevations and are noticeably often found in watersheds (e.g. 107. 111. 113. 116. 117. 124. 131; fig. 9.20). It is striking that all burial fields lie on open areas, without tree growth but with grassy steppe vegetation (steppe grasses, artemisia abrotanum etc.).60 Obviously, they should be clearly visible. This could point to their function as boundary markers for associated social groups visiting the individual burial fields. In general, the structure of the kurgans, the arrangement of the bodies of the deceased and the equipment of the burials are same as the burials described for the grass steppe. Most kurgans are covered by 1–5 m high mounds, furnished with fragments of pottery and animal bones. Some of the kurgans are surrounded by ring ditches, which also hold transport amphorae, handformed pottery, and animal bones and can be interpreted as remains of burial rituals, as described for the lower Don (fig. 9.21). The kurgans contain catacombs or pits for inhumations, the bodies are arranged in outstretched supine position. The burial objects consist of the same categories as on the lower Don

60  This observation, made by several archaeological field expeditions, is supported by geographical soil analyses carried out by Dobrovol’sky in Ternovoe-Kolbino (107) (cf. Gulyaev 2010, 151 with note 4).

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Figure 9.18

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Hand-formed pottery from sites of the forest steppe. 1–2: pots; 3–5: bowls; 6–7: huge pots. 1. 3–4: Pekshevskoe Gorodishche (126); 2: Russkaya Trostyanka (111); 5–6: Chastye Kurgany (131); 7: Voloshino (108) (reproduction: S. Huy. 1. 3–5: after Medvedev 1999, 67. 83. 115, figs. 26. 39. 58; 2. 6–7: after Liberov 1965, pls. 7,8; 7,10; 8,2)

and are even arranged in the same way. The combination of knifes with animal bones, sometimes supplemented by an amphora, is also common.61 Nevertheless, some differences can be observed. These are the wooden panelling and covering of the pits or catacombs, which are indicated by post-holes, the ring of soil around the pits, which is made of the excavation material, and the significantly higher presence of small gold objects, animal-style objects and horse bridles.62 Another difference to the lower Don is the much higher 61  For a general overview cf. Liberov 1962, 23; Liberov 1965, 11–23; Medvedev 1999, 102–117; Puzikova 2001; Gulyaev 2010, 148–179 figs. 2–19. 62  The gold objects consist mainly of small plates, wich were probably part of the clothing. In the animal style often single parts of the bridles, vessel attachments as well as combs are decorated (Gulyaev 2010, 209–243, figs. 3–32).

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Figure 9.19

233

Greek pottery from sites of the forest steppe: 1: Chiotic amphora, 2nd half 6th c. BC (Pekshevskoe Gorodishche [126]); 2: Chiotic amphora, 1st half 5th c. BC (Kukolevskoe Gorodishche [171]); 3: amphora, unknown centre, 4th c. BC (Kukolevskoe Gorodishche [171]); 4: Attic Kantharos, 2nd half 4th c. BC (Mostishche [100]); 5: Attic plate, 2nd half 4th c. BC (Chastye Kurgany [131]) (reproduction: S. Huy. 1. 5: after Medvedev 1999, 81. 115, fig. 37. 58; 2–3: Liberov 1962, fig. 12,1; 12,4; 4: after Gulyaev 2010, 146, fig. 18)

number of so called chieftain graves in the forest steppe. In almost every burial field (e.g. 107. 111. 113. 114. 117. 124. 131), a few clearly outstanding kurgans were excavated. In comparison to the mass of the surrounding kurgans these are not only characterised by the richer equipment63 and the greater mound, but also by larger burial pits, which in many cases are provided with a dromos. Among the burial objects are frequently precious metal objects of Greek origin such as the bronze hydria in kurgan no. 29/21 in Mastyugino (117)64, the silver vessel in kurgan no. 3 of Chastye Kurgany (131)65, which was made in a workshop of the Bosporan Kingdom and shows scenes of Scythian life, the bronze 63  Examples: Sladovsky (71) kurgan no. 4 (Smirnov et al. 1976, 120–121); Mastyugino (117) kurgans nos. 11/16 and 29/21 (Puzikova 2001, 55–57. 59–61. 91–94. 101–103 figs. 18–21. 28–30); Durovka (113) kurgan no. 1 (Puzikova 2001, 182–184. 204–216 figs. 2–14); Chastye Kurgany (131) kurgan no. 3 (Medvedev 1999, 111–114 fig. 57, 1). 64  Puzikova 2001, 102 fig. 29. 65  Gulyaev 2010, 285–286 figs. 2–4.

234

Figure 9.20

Sabine Huy

Burial field Ternovoe-Kolbino (107), site map (reproduction: S. Huy after Gulyaev 2010, 71, fig. 5)

basin with a human head in kurgan no. 11 of the same burial field66 and the silver rhython from the Aegean in kurgan no. 1 in Durovka (113)67, to name but a few examples. These burials are comparable with the extraordinary kurgan no. 8 of the Five-Brother group near Elizavetovka.68 66  Gulyaev 2010, 288 fig. 7. 67  Gulyaev 2010, 287 fig. 6. 68  For the large burials in the Hallstatt region on the upper Rhône, Dietler (1990, 353–358) proposes an interpretation of the luxurious metal objects as decisive distinguishing features, which were valued for their symbolic function and helped to support and strengthen the already existing social and political relations in society.

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Figure 9.21

235

Ternovoe-Kolbino (107), kurgan no. 9. 1: layout of the kurgan; 2: layout of the burial; 3: amphora found in the ring ditch (reproduction: S. Huy after Gulyaev 2010, 113, fig. 17)

A recent excavation brought to light the first known flat grave field on the middle and upper reaches of the Don near gorodishche Ksizovo (137). The gorodishche Ksizovo was surrounded by a few unfortified settlements. The flat grave field was discovered east of one of these unfortified villages and might be associated with it. The graves are simple pits with inhumations and very poor equipment. As already observed with the settlements, the burials in the forest steppe also show many parallels to the burials in the grassland steppe. Again, the differences lie in sub-categories like the construction of the burials with wooden posts or the wider use of gold objects, probably due to the easier accessibility of these resources. Significant correspondences between the different micro-regions can be observed not only within material culture (e.g.: houses, ceramic vessels, architecture of the graves), but also within social practices. This is particularly noticeable in the burial rituals, such as the same placement of the burial objects, the practice of feasting at the burials as indicated by animal bones and vessels in the kurgan mounds as well as by the sticking of amphorae in the ring ditches. This points to shared cultural habits of the inhabitants in the grasslands and forest steppes. Furthermore, it should be stressed that the topographical location of the kurgan burial fields was obviously made dependent on the factors of visibility (grass steppe vegetation) and flood protection (elevations). This can be deduced from the preferred locations in watersheds and at small tributaries like Udy and Tikhaya Sosna. The choice for settlement sites was certainly also based on the safety of the location, at least in the forest steppe they all lie on high headlands or foothills. Nevertheless, it should be emphasized that despite the danger of flooding, the settlements were often found directly on the banks of the river. This once again underlines the importance of proximity to a river for

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the living environment. This is particularly supported by the cluster of settlements in the Don delta. Only Elizavetovka, located at the highest point of the delta, was constantly protected from floods. The rest of the main island of the delta was regularly flooded (see above) but was nevertheless very densely populated in the 4th century BC. If safety had been of the utmost importance, people could have chosen more suitable places – for example the wellprotected area along the coastline between the delta and the Mius-Peninsula or along the Sambek river – but there is no evidence of Iron Age settlement.69 Obviously, the choice of settlement places on riverbanks was guided by other reasons such as interregional connection and communication. The comparable structures of the settlements and burial fields and the shared cultural habits in the five micro-regions underline the close communication between the people living in these areas. The Greek objects also prove the contacts between Eurasia and the Aegean world. But these contacts were rather loose: the special use of amphorae in the burial customs, the reuse of broken amphorae as tools in the settlements, dog burials etc. clearly distinguish the cultural models of people along the Don River system from those in the Aegean: Evidence for the Greek symposium, which could be seen, for example, in a large number of mixing vessels or in spatially differentiated houses, is lacking. The use of amphorae as burial objects or the smashing of amphorae around funerals is not a burial custom known from the Greek world. Along the Don, we can thus trace a highly selective demand for Greek objects (especially amphorae and drinking vessels) which were used according to group-specific needs. There was obviously no interest in Greek drinking patterns or burial customs. Instead, Greek objects were incorporated into the local conditions and practices. In this light, the delta of the Don seems to have been a transitional zone in which the Greek objects were fully accepted but the corresponding cultural concepts of the Aegean were rejected. The material evidence suggests that the social contacts between the Aegean and Eurasia terminated in the delta. Along the Don, the interconnections between people were thus self-organised. It therefore no longer seems appropriate to speak of ‘Greek’ objects. By accepting these objects, people appropriated them and we do not know whether they were still perceived as ‘foreign’ at all. The term is maintained merely as an analytical category, used for objects safely produced in Greek sites in the Aegean and Black Sea regions. It does not imply that such objects were used or transported by Greeks, nor that they contain any essence of Greek culture.

69  On the contrary, many sites on the Sambek are known from the Bronze Age (cf. Dally et al. 2012, 140–151).

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In the last section of this paper I will focus on the connection between the different micro-regions of the Don and analyse to what extent the rivers can be interpreted as links. Rivers could easily have served as transport routes by offering a much more suitable way for the distribution of cargoes than land routes.70 For this reason, the function of rivers as transport routes is often taken for granted, but this hypothesis is difficult to pinpoint in the archaeological record. 5 Rivers as Transport- and Communication Routes Due to the lack of wrecks or harbours throughout the study area, I will use characteristic finds as evidence of contact. As already explained in the introduction, Greek objects serve particularly well to prove that.71 Again, map fig. 9.2 offers a helpful tool by showing the distribution of Greek objects along the Don River system. This should be combined with the geomorphic features of the river courses. In this context, we should keep in mind the theory of shared cultural habits in the grass and forest steppe societies developed in the previous part. The same social practices in the use of Greek products, which are best visible in the burial rituals, point to close communication between the exchange partners. Apparently, this did not only take place among the elites (indicated by the extraordinary metal finds in the large chieftain kurgans) but also among ordinary people (indicated by the use of transport amphorae or wine in the mounds and ring ditches of a large number of kurgans).72 Against this backdrop, the interaction between river courses and sites with Greek objects as well as the quantity of the respective Greek objects could actually indicate the use of rivers as waterways. Phase I At the same time as the Greek settlement at Taganrog (1) was established in the late 7th century BC, Greek transport amphorae were already being used in two kurgans in the delta region.73 In the course of the 6th and 5th centuries BC, the number of sites with imports increased only slightly. They are found 70  Cf. Teigelake 2003, 155; Dobesch 2005, 13–14. 34–36. 71  Lyubičev et al. 2012, 162–163. 72  Concerning the question of the content of amphorae, cf. note 40. 73  Khapry (28) (amphora of Clazomenian region) (Kopylov 2006, 86 fig. 4, 4); Krasnogorovka 3 (40) kurgan no. 14, burial 5 with two amphorae (Samos, Chios) (Monakhov 1999, 33–37 pl. 2).

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in kurgans (41. 74. 80. 87. 117. 131. 172) as well as in settlements (2. 81. 112. 119. 158. 170).74 It is striking that they are scattered throughout the whole area. They are mainly situated far upstream at small tributaries and are therefore not easily accessible via rivers. Moreover, the Greek objects are only single pieces within the find spectra and this contradicts a systematic transport system. Almost all Greek finds are amphorae from production centres such as Clazomenai, Chios and Miletus in the ancient landscape of Ionia in southwest Asia Minor. In addition, two delicate rhytha in the form of bullheads, also of Ionian origin, were found (74. 87).75 The exclusivity of Ionian objects is not surprising considering the dominance of Ionian pottery in the Greek settlement at Taganrog76, which includes a fragment with a Greek graffito in Ionian dialect.77 This points to a Ionian mother-city of the apoikia, and we may assume Taganrog as the hub from which the Greek objects were issued. Nevertheless, the scattered distribution of the sites together with the small amount of imports does not suggest organised trade but rather individual exchange of goods. This is also indicated by the simultaneous settlements without Greek products, which existed in the vicinity of those with imports (118. 126. 171). With such thin evidence, it is hard to assess the use of waterways in communication along the Don, but due to the scattered, remote locations upstream of tributaries, it is unlikely that they have played an important role. Phase II In the 4th century BC the amount of settlements and burials increased considerably, they are clustered in the five micro-regions described above. It should come as no surprise that the number of sites with Greek objects also increased. But at first glance it becomes apparent that the further north the sites are, the fewer there are Greek objects. None were found in the northernmost cluster on the upper Don. Around the city Voronezh there were only in the burial fields of Starozhivotinnoe (124) and Chastye Kurgany (131) and in the settlements of Chastye Kurgany (130) and Semiluki (129) some transport amphorae as well as Attic black-glazed drinking vessels. At the middle reaches of the Don, in the region of the tributaries Tikhaya Sosna and Potudan’, a considerable number of sites with Greek imports can be found (settlements: 100. 108. 110. 112. 115. 119; 74  In the small surrounding settlements around the gorodishche were found a few amphorae, too (Zadnikov et al. 2003, 38–39, figs. 1. 2). 75  Shramko 1962, fig. 65. 76  Dally et al. 2009, 78–87; Dally et al. 2012, 174–190. 77  Brashinsky 1999, fig. 1.

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burials: 106. 107. 111. 113. 115–117). A comparable number of settlements (81. 157. 158. 171. 172) and kurgans (80. 163. 164. 168. 172) with imports can be seen in the region around Kharkiv. The delta region of the Don is outstanding in this respect. There were Greek transport amphorae and some tableware at every site. With regard to the vessel forms of the imports, it can be seen that the greatest demand was for amphorae or rather for the contents of the containers. There are only very few sites, which provide Greek imports, but no amphorae. If the containers were found together with other Greek objects, these are usually jugs, bowls and fishplates made of red- and grey-fired fabrics, which were produced in Greek colonies at the Black Sea, as well as fine black-glazed tableware, which mostly came from Athens. This applies to every region of the Don River system. As already mentioned above, some extraordinary Greek metal objects can also be detected, which were used in individual kurgans of the elites. With regard to the question of constant transport via rivers, however, it seems appropriate to concentrate on the ceramic vessels, which were exchanged on a larger scale. The amount of Greek objects varies not only between the different microregions, but also between settlements and burials. In the latter they were found in much higher quantities and, as we have already seen the only settlement, where Greek pottery dominates over locally made pottery is Elizavetovka (2) in the Dondelta. Considering its size, its fortification system and the extremely high number of amphorae that reached the settlement, especially from the middle of the 4th century onwards, this site can be regarded as the main trading port of the lower Don in phase II. It seems likely that Elizavetovka took over this role from Taganrog (1), which, according to the finds, became significantly reduced in the 5th century BC.78 In the smaller settlements of the lower Don, the proportion of amphorae is generally 10–15%.79 In contrast to settlements, many more amphorae than hand-formed pottery were found in the burial fields. In the kurgans around Elizavetovka they form the largest group of finds at all80 and in the flat grave field Dugino X (5) they make up 54% of all vessels.81 Thus, the situation points to the fact that the amphorae were imported mainly for use within the burials. In phase II, most containers came from production centres in the Black Sea region, primarily Herakleia Pontica and Sinope. Some Aegean centres such as Thasos, Mende and Cnidos are also represented (cf. fig. 9.9, 9.12, 9.14, 9.19). 78  Cf. Dally et al. 2012, 170–190. 79  Cf. note 39. 80  Marchenko et al. 2000, 225. 81  Cf. Prokof’ev 2014; Huy, forthcoming a.

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With regard to amphora imports into the delta, a shift of the main exchange partners from phase I to phase II can therefore be observed: While the vessels of the 6th and 5th centuries came almost exclusively from Ionia, new producers dominated the region in the 4th and 3rd centuries BC.82 In the forest steppe, the Greek ceramic vessels were not unique in the settlements and burials, but they are significantly less than in the delta region.83 Nevertheless, the finding circumstances are the same: Greek objects are found much more frequently in burials than in settlements. The statistical overview, given by A. P. Medvedev shows that amphorae were found in 26 burial chambers along the middle reaches of the Don (22%). Half of the examples come from Herakleia Pontica, the other part consists of a mixture of production centres like Sinope, Thasos and Mende.84 The kurgans also featured other Greek vessels, such as jugs made of red- and grey-fired fabrics and Attic drinking vessels with black glaze, all of which are also known from the delta region. In the settlements the amphorae are very unevenly distributed. In many they are completely absent; in others they appear in very limited numbers (e.g. 129. 130) and only in a small amount of huge gorodishcha, like Voloshino 1 (108) or Kukolevskoe (171) they occur more often.85 Other Greek vessels such as drinking bowls and jugs remain extremely rare in this context. After this brief overview, it should be noted that throughout the entire Don River system always the same Greek vessel types were used. They also come from the same production centres and can be found in comparable proportions. The congruence of vessel shapes in the entire area indicates an organised transport system in which consumers, living in different parts of the Don River system could regularly participate (at least from the 4th to the early 3rd century BC). In addition, further evidence of a systematic exchange is provided by the interaction between the number of Greek objects in the settlements and their number in the burials. This is particularly apparent in the case of Chastye Kurgany north of Voronezh (130. 131). The excavators mentioned a direct dependence between the quantity of amphorae found in the kurgans and 82  This is certainly due to the events in Ionia itself, which were largely destroyed by the Persians at the beginning of the 5th century BC – events that obviously led to a crisis of the economic system. We should also take into account the emergence of some new and powerful competitors for the wine (?) supply of the Black Sea region. First and foremost Herakleia Pontica and Sinope, who started their amphora production in the late 5th century BC and shortly after served almost the entire Black Sea market. On amphora typologies and discussion of contents cf. Monakhov 2003, 123–160. 83  Liberov 1965, 22. 84  Medvedev 1999, 114 fig. 58, 11–14. 85  Liberov 1962, 76–85; Liberov 1965, 22.

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their quantity in the settlement. The more fragments they found in the settlement, the more they found in the related burial field.86 All this supports the hypothesis that the delta was indeed not the terminal station of the Greek objects but served as a stopover from where they were transported further inland. As emphasized above, the agents of this onward transport were most likely the inhabitants of the Don River system themselves and not Greeks. Having argued for the dependence of the different micro-regions in the forest steppe zone on the delta in the demand for Greek objects, the use of the rivers in this process remains to be discussed. To this end, we have to concentrate on the territories between the micro-regions which have remained more or less uninhabited. At least along the Don and the Seversky Donets one would expect some sites with Greek objects, if these would have passed sometimes. Even though the grassy steppe areas were not populated for other reasons, it is surprising that in none of the sites like Ol’khvatovskoe (91), Donskie Chastye Kurgany (70), Melovoe (174) and Koropove (173), located directly on the Don or the Seversky Donets, Greek objects were found. Given the number of burials without amphorae in the densely populated areas, it is obvious, that they were not necessarily part of the burial practices. But the containers were so widespread in burial contexts, both in the rich and the poorly equipped kurgans, that their use was unlikely to be limited to a social upper class. Therefore, the Don and the Seversky Donets appear to be questionable as a transport route for goods, at least along their entire length. With regard to the course of the rivers, the slow flow-velocity and the predominantly flat plains in the grassland steppe zone, this is presumably due to the geomorphic conditions. The course of the Don with its strong loop to the east is an unpleasant detour from the delta to the middle and upper reaches, even if this loop would have been less pronounced in ancient times. The Seversky Donets could have offered an alternative, for example by reaching the watershed between Tikhaya Sosna and Potudan’ via its tributaries Oskol, Karochi or Nezhegol’. The geomorphic conditions of this route would not have hindered navigation as much as on the Don. But due to the flat plains in the grassland steppe, the land routes between the delta and the cluster around Tikhaya Sosna provide a convincing alternative. The small, unfortified villages without or with only weakly defined cultural layers give strong evidence for the nomadic to semi-nomadic life-style of part of the population. Thus the lowlands could easily have been crossed by seminomads during pastoral migrations.87 86  Liberov 1965, 22. 87  Cf. Khazanov 1994, 44–53. The reconstruction of the economic foundations of the Don population was recently elaborated for a contribution to the 19th International

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All these observations do not necessarily mean that the rivers did not serve as transport routes at all. The chain-like location of sites along river arms, for example in the delta itself or between the delta and the Tsimlyansky Reservoir and along the Udy and Potudan’, makes systematic use of the rivers very probable – not in the sense of a long-distance trade, but rather in the context of regional to intra-regional communication. This would explain the location of the numerous settlements in the delta, where people were looking for a short and easy access to the Greek amphorae issued via Elizavetovka. Considering the fact that even today the part of the Don north of Voronezh is not navigable (see above), this is the reason for the lack of Greek objects in the region around Sosna and Khmelinka and along the middle reaches of Voronezh river. The connection between the delta and the forest steppe seems to have been established through the combination of land- and water-routes, although these are difficult to prove. A next methodological step was therefore the analysis of the spatial organisation of kurgans as promising road-markers. I have recently done this for a contribution to the 19th International Conference of Classical Archaeology, held from 22 to 28 May in Cologne and Bonn. Especially the kurgans built in rows on the tributaries Bystraya and Oskol seem to have served as such markers (“kurgan avenues”)88 and could therefore indicate possible itineraries from the delta to the middle reaches of the Don. The results were combined with a GIS based anisotropic least cost path analysis (LCPA), calculated by my colleague Barbora Weissová. The LCPA enabled the topographical and geomorphical data to be included in greater detail.89 6 Conclusions In this paper I asked about the role of the Don and its tributaries as connecting routes linking the different regions throughout the Don River system. I approached the topic by combining the geomorphic features of the river landscape with an analysis of the social contexts of the people living along the Don. The geomorphic features in relation to the distribution of the sites clearly indicate the great importance attached to the watercourses by the inhabitants of the Don River system. However, general access to water and the profit of Conference of Classical Archaeology (22–26 May 2018 in Cologne/Bonn) and will be published in the conference proceedings: Huy, forthcoming b. 88  Cf. Boltrik 1990, 32. 89  Huy, forthcoming b.

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fertile land in the floodplains were obviously more important than proximity to main river arms. To avoid the threat of flooding, the preference was given to smaller tributaries.90 Only in the Don delta did people settle in the centre from the 4th century BC, although this part was not safe from floods. This can be explained by the importance that people have attached to access to Greek objects and have therefore clustered around the hub of Elizavetovka. By considering the people’s social practices, it became obvious that the Greek wine and other objects were appropriated without the corresponding cultural concepts. They were used in specific ways and were fully incorporated into the local structures of the inhabitants of the Don River system. In this context, the delta was a border zone between the Aegean/Black Sea world and the steppe zones of Eurasia, where objects were accepted and passed on, but cultural concepts were rejected. However, the connections between the various micro-regions along the Don seem to have been much stronger, although the geomorphic features of the Don River system and the flat plain of the grassland steppe, as well as the distribution of sites throughout the area cast some doubt on the fact that these connections were established entirely via the rivers. Rather, a combination of land- and water routes is assumed. Further research could improve or correct these preliminary results. A comprehensive analysis of the issues raised here requires a multidisciplinary approach, including the study of the geography of the ancient landscape, the hydrology of the river system, the topography of ancient settlements and burial fields and the detailed study of the finds of these archaeological sites, including social practices and economic foundations. Nevertheless, the Don case study shows that we should be aware of the limitations of our interpretation of rivers as connecting routes. Rivers provide access from the sea to the hinterland, but it remains to be examined in individual cases to what extent the geomorphic conditions allowed regular use as a route at all and to what extent these routes were socially and economically desired and necessary. Furthermore, the case of the Don has demonstrated that globally circulating objects, to which Greek vessels certainly belonged at least since the 7th century BC, cannot automatically be interpreted as signs of long-distance connections. The Greek objects that arrived in the delta came into completely different contexts of use and thus changed their meaning. So, they were no longer ‘Greek’ but local. The global link between the Aegean/ Black Sea region and the Eurasian steppes consisted of several stages, all of 90  Lyubičev et al. 2012 show a quite similar picture for the region between the Dnepr and the Seversky Donets.

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which affected the transported objects. The delta formed one of these transition zones. In discussing the dynamics of interconnectivity, our analyses must never ignore the large-scale perspective. However, a detailed study of the small-scale regions that were part of the connections is absolutely essential. The focus on people’s social contexts and practices offers great potential for a better understanding of such complex processes as connectivity.

Elizavetovka

Koluzaevo 1 Malakhovsky Erik 1+2 Dugino 10

2

3 4

11

10

9

8

6 7

Dugino 11 Malakhovsky Bugor Malakhovsky Erik 6 Malakhovsky Erik 8 Malakhovsky Erik 9 Malakhovsky Erik 10

Taganrog

1

5

Name

No.

site of unknown character

ritual place site of unknown character site of unknown character site of unknown character settlement

settlement with burial field settlement site of unknown character burial field

settlement

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

5th–4th cc. BC 4th c. BC

5th–4th cc. BC

4th c. BC 4th–3rd cc. BC

5th–3rd cc. BC

7th–3rd cc. BC

Date

Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik

Don, rukav Kalancha Don Malakhovsky Erik

coast, near estuary

Riverlocation

Larenok 1998

Larenok 1998

Larenok 1998

Larenok 1998

Dally et al. 2009; Dally et al. 2012; Dally et al. 2013 Brashinsky 1980; Marchenko et al. 2000 Rogudeev 1999/2000 Larenok 1999; Kopylov et al. 2006, 105–108 Prokof’ev 2014; Huy, forthcoming a Larenok et al. 2011 Larenok 1987, 49

Literature

yes

yes

yes

yes

yes yes

yes

yes yes

yes

yes

Greek objects

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

245

21

20

19

17 18

16

15

14

site of unknown character settlement

Type

site of unknown character Malakhovsky Erik settlement 11 Bubnov Erik 5 site of unknown character Bubnov Erik 3+4 settlement Bubnov Erik 6 site of unknown character Bubnov Erik 7 site of unknown character Bubnov Erik 8 site of unknown character Erik site of unknown Kabachny 1 character

Bukhtelevsky Bugor Peschany Bugor 2 Dugino 8

12

13

Name

No.

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

Kabachny Erik

Bubnov Erik

Bubnov Erik

Bubnov Erik Bubnov Erik

Bubnov Erik

4th c. BC 4th c. BC 4th c. BC

Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik

Malakhovsky Erik

Riverlocation

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

Date

Il’yukov 2007/2008, 94

Larenok 1987, 46

Larenok 1987, 45

Larenok 1987, 24–37 Larenok 1987, 44–45

Larenok 1987, 43–44

Larenok 1998

Larenok 1998

Larenok 1998

Larenok 1998

Literature

no

yes

yes

yes yes

yes

yes

yes

yes

yes

Greek objects

246 Sabine Huy

Rogozhkino 11

Terny Bugry 1+2 Prorvin Bugor

Lagutnik Tsarsky Mogil’nik Khapry Chaltyrsky 1 Livensovsky Mogil’nik Kagal’nik 4

22

23 24 25

26 27

Zeleny 1 SKHUch 3

Vysochino 7 Vysochino 5

32 33

34 35

31

28 29 30

Name

No.

site of unknown character settlement site of unknown character burial field burial field

kurgan kurgan kurgan

site of unknown character settlement burial field site of unknown character settlement burial field

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

4th c. BC 4th c. BC

4th c. BC

late 7th c. BC 4th c. BC 4th c. BC

4th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

4th c. BC 4th c. BC 4th c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

Date

Kagal’nik Kagal’nik

Kagal’nik Kagal’nik

Kagal’nik

Mertvy Donets Mertvy Donets Mertvy Donets

Lagutnik Erik Mertvy Donets

Bubnov Erik Lagutnik Erik Lagutnik Erik

Bubnov Erik

Riverlocation

Bespalyj et al. 1989, 154–156 Luk’yashko 2000, 172–176

Shirochenko 2007/2008, 246 Shirochenko 2007/2008, 250

Shirochenko 2007/2008, 245

Kamenetsky 2013, 266–268 Il’yukov 1991, 78–93; Gorbin 2011, 50–55 Kopylov 2006, 86 Parusimov 2011, 102–105 Monakhov 1999, 301–302

Tolochko et al. 2007/2008, 115–123 Larenok 1987, 11 Kamenetsky 2013, 268–275 Larenok 1987, 9

Literature

yes yes

no no

yes

yes yes yes

yes yes

yes yes yes

no

Greek objects

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247

Vysochino 1 NovoNikolaevka Azov Kurgan 2

Krasnogorovka 1

Krasnogorovka 3

Bushujka Novoaleksandrovka Kuleshovka

36 37

38

39

40

41 42

Ust’-Kojsug 3

46

45

Kuleshovka Vostochnaya Ust’-Kojsug 1

44

43

Name

No.

site of unknown character burial

settlement

kurgans

kurgan burial field

kurgan

kurgans

kurgan

burial field burial field

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

Kagal’nik Kagal’nik

Riverlocation

4th–3rd c. BC

Kojsug

watershed Don/Kagal’nik watershed Don/Kagal’nik late 7th c. BC watershed Don/Kagal’nik 1st half 6th c. BC Kagal’nik 4th–3rd c. BC watershed Don/Kagal’nik 3rd–2nd c. BC watershed Don/Kagal’nik 4th–3rd c. BC watershed Don/Kagal’nik 4th–3rd c. BC Kojsug

late 4th/early 3rd c. BC 4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

Date

Kravchenko 2007–2008, 302

Kravchenko 2007–2008, 301

Kravchenko 2007–2008, 301

Bespalyj 1982, 109

Kopylov 2006, 86–88 Luk’yashko 2000, 170

Monakhov 1999, 33–37

Luk’yashko 2000, 170

Maksimenko 1983, 83

Luk’yashko 2000, 171–172 Luk’yashko 2000, 176

Literature

no comments given

yes

yes

yes

yes yes

yes

no

yes

yes yes

Greek objects

248 Sabine Huy

Lisovin

Skopin Erik 1

Svinyach’e Ozero

Petrushino

Novo Zolotovka

Beglitsky Nekropol’ Levinsadovka

Lakedemonovka Russky Kolodets GaevkaKajmakchi

47

48

49

50

51

52

54 55

56

53

Name

No.

kurgan

site of unknown character kurgan kurgans

burial field

site of unknown character site of unknown character site of unknown character site of unknown character settlement

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th c. BC

4th c. BC 4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

Date

Mius-Liman inland, Mius-Peninsula Mius-Liman

Mius-Liman

coast

coast

coast

Kojsug

Kojsug

Kojsug

Riverlocation

Greek objects

Il’yukov et al. 1988, 110–112

Dally et al. 2012, 190–200; Huy, forthcoming a Dally et al. 2009, 110–113; Attula et al. 2013 unpublished, German-Russian excavation project 2009 Il’yukov et al. 1988, 109 Il’yukov et al. 1988, 108. 110

Panchenko 1979, 2

Kravchenko 2007/2008, 295–296

Kravchenko 2007/2008, 296

yes

yes yes

yes

yes

yes

yes

no

no

Kozyumenko et al. 1995/1997, 112 yes

Literature

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

249

67

66

63 64 65

62

61

59 60

kurgan 2 kurgans settlement

kurgan

kurgan

site of unknown character site of unknown character kurgan kurgan

Type

Novomargaritovo site of unknown character Mokraya kurgan Kugul’ta

Dyunny Verkhnepodpol’ny Krasnoe Znamya Kreninsky Mogil’nik Azhinov 1 Donskoy Kuleshovka Pos.

PavloOchakovskoe Chumbur Kosa

57

58

Name

No.

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th–3rd c. BC

6th–4th c. BC

3rd c. BC ? 7th–6th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

mid 6th c. BC 8th–7th c. BC

5th–4th c. BC

4th c. BC

Date

inflow of Manych

Podpolnaya Aksaj watershed Don/ Kagal’nik coast

Manych

Manych

Don Don

coast

coast

Riverlocation

Maksimenko et al. 1973, 116–117

Kopylov et al. 2004, 304

Maksimenko 1998, 271 fig. 1 Il’yukov et al. 1994 Gudimenko 1998, 187–188

Zav’yalov et al. 1972, 127

Luk’yashko 2000, 176–179

Posegun 2009, 114–127 Kiyashko et al. 1967, 77–79

Goncharov 2011, 122–124

Goncharov 2011, 126–127

Literature

no

yes

no no yes

no

yes

no no

yes

yes

Greek objects

250 Sabine Huy

Novosadovky

no name Chastye Kurgany Sladovsky

Sholokhovsky

Kashcheevka

Krivorozh’e Ryabinchev

Potajna 2 Tsentral’ny 6 Vorotilov 1 Aksaj 1

68

69 70

72

73

74 75

76 77 78 79

71

Name

No.

kurgan kurgan kurgan kurgan

kurgan kurgans

kurgans

burial field

burial field

settlement burial field

kurgan

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th c. BC 7th–6th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 6th–4th c. BC

6th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

late 5th–4th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

Date

Don Don Zagista Aksaj Esavlovsky

Kalitva Stary Don

Bystraya

Bystraya

Bystraya

watershed Manych/Sal Don Seversky Donets

Riverlocation

Belinsky et al. 1986, 113 Il’yukov et al. 2003, 264; Maksimenko 2004, 37–39 Smirnov et al. 1976, 120–121; Smirnov et al. 1977, 142; Maksimenko 1980, 109 Smirnov et al. 1976, 120; Gulyaev 2010, 256 Smirnov et al. 1977, 142; Gorbenko 1985, 136 Mancevich 1958 Moshkova et al. 1970, 64–66; Glebov et al. 2006, 357 Kopylov 1980, 105 Kopylov 1979, 112–113 Parusimov 2004, 312–313 D’yachenko et al. 1999, 96

Il’yukov 1985, 138–139

Literature

no no no yes

yes yes

no

no

yes

yes no

no

Greek objects

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

251

Ostroverkhovka

Shelkovaya Lagutnik 2 Konstantinovska

Ust’-Pogozhy 1 Bol’shenapolovsky 9 VerkhneChyrsky 2 Khopersky Krasnoyakova 2

Churilovka

Nizhny Karachan Ol’khvatovskoe Pos.

80

81 82 83

84 85

87 88

89

90

91

86

Name

No.

site of unknown character

burial ? site of unknown character site of unknown character settlement

kurgan

kurgan kurgan

settlement kurgan kurgan

settlement

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

6th c. BC 4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

6th–5th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 6th / 4th–3rd c. BC 4th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

5th–4th c. BC

Date

Don

Karachan

Khopër

Khopër Vorona

Chir

Berdiya Chir

Udy Solovaya/Don Don

Borovaya

Riverlocation

Arinchina et al. 1986, 48

Efimov 1983, 55

Efimov 1984, 48

Kopylov 2006, 83. 85–86 Arinchina et al. 1986, 47–48

Rogudeev 2007, 311

Mamontov 1986, 136 Rogudeev 2007, 311

Brashinsky 1980, 102; Shramko 1962, 226 Shramko 1962, 226 Naumenko et al. 2008, 316 Il’yukov et al. 1994

Literature

no

no

no

yes yes

no

no no

yes no yes

yes

Greek objects

252 Sabine Huy

103 104

102

101

99 100

98

93 94 95 96 97

Bityuzhok

92

Type

Mastishchenskoe Gorod. Mastishchenskij Kurgan Soldatskoe 1 Soldatskoe 2

settlement settlement

kurgan

settlement

site of unknown character Lipovka settlement Dmitrovo settlement Levashovka kurgan Pos. 30 at Anna settlement Masolovskoe Pos. site of unknown character Kopanishche site of unknown character Streletskoe settlement Mostishche settlement

Name

No.

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 5th–4th c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 6th–5th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

Date

Potudan Potudan

Potudan

Potudan

Tikhaya Sosna Potudan

Tikhaya Sosna

Bityug Bityug Tojda Bityug Bityug

Bityug/cut-off arm

Riverlocation

no

no no no no no

no

Greek objects

Berezutsky 1993, 48; Berezutsky 1995, 101–102 Gulyaev et al. 1999, 79–80 Gulyaev et al. 1995, 125

no no

yes

Liberov 1965, 8; Puzikova 1969, 43 no Puzikova 1969, 43; Gulyaev et al. yes 1995, 124–125 Berezutsky 1993, 47–48 no

Skorobogatov 2007, 192–193

Liberov 1965, 8 Liberov 1965, 8 Kornyushin 1969, 105–108 Liberov 1965, 8 Pryakhin et al. 1973, 72–73

Maslikhova 2005, 185–186

Literature

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

253

TernovoeKolbino Voloshino 1–3

Shubnoe

Russkaya settlement Trostyanka Russkaya burial field Trostyanka Kirovskoe Gorod. settlement

Durovka

107

108

109

110

112

113

111

106

burial field

settlement

settlement

burial field

burial field

burial field

Ust’Muravlyanka Gorki 1

105

Type

Name

No.

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

5th–3rd c. BC

6th–4th c. BC

5th–4th c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

4th c. BC

5th–4th c. BC

Date

Gulyaev et al. 2008, 133–134

Literature

Gulyaev et al. 2003, 124–26; Gulyaev et al. 2004, 124–127; Gulyaev et al. 2005, 135–136 watershed Potudan/ Gulyaev 2010, 148–168. 277 Tikhaya Sosna watershed Potudan/ Puzikova 1969, 41–81; Tikhaya Sosna Gulyaev 2010, 123–137 watershed Potudan/ Liberov 1965, 8–10 Tikhaya Sosna watershed Potudan/ Liberov 1965, 10; Puzikova 1969, Tikhaya Sosna 75; Gulyaev 2010, 123–137 Watershed Potudan/ Liberov 1965, 11–23; Tikhaya Sosna Puzikova 2001, 124–181 watershed Potudan/ Liberov 1965, 8–10; Tikhaya Sosna Puzikova 1969, 65. 75 watershed Potudan/ Puzikova 2001, 182–265 Tikhaya Sosna

Potudan

Potudan

Riverlocation

yes

yes

yes

yes

no

yes

yes

yes

no

Greek objects

254 Sabine Huy

Dubovy

Rossoshki 1

Novo-Uspenko

Mastyugino

Titchikha 1 Bol’shoe Starozhevoe Arkhangel’skoe

Chertovitskoe Chertovitskoe 1–3 Kaverinskoe Starozhivotinnoe

114

115

116

117

118 119

121 122

123 124

120

Name

No.

settlement burial field

kurgan settlement

settlement

settlement settlement

burial field

burial field

settlement

burial field

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th–3rd c. BC 5th–4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

4th c. BC

6th–5th c. BC 6th–3rd c. BC

5th–4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

5th–4th c. BC

Date

Voronezh watershed Don/ Voronezh

Voronezh Voronezh

Don

watershed Don/ Devitsa watershed Don/ Devitsa Don Don

Devitsa

Devitsa

Riverlocation

Liberov 1965, 8–10; Gulyaev 2010, 123–137 Razuvaev et al. 1987 Medvedev 1984, 60–61; Medvedev 1993; Medvedev 1994 Medvedev 1984, 60–61 Medvedev 1995; Medvedev 1996

Liberov 1965, 11–23; Puzikova 2001, 47–123 Moskalenko et al. 1969, 96–104 Puzikova 1969, 65–80

Berezutsky 2001, 100; Berezutsky 2008, 105 Gulyaev et al. 2003, 126; Gulyaev et al. 2005, 138; Gulyaev et al. 2006, 177 Voroshilov 2003, 111

Literature

no yes

no no

no

no yes

yes

yes

yes

no

Greek objects

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

255

Starozhivotinnoe 1 Pekshevo Voznesenovka

125

Gubarevo

NovoZhivotinnoe Gnezdilovo Verilovka Chistaya Polyanya

129 130 131

132

133

134 135 136

Chernyshëvy Gory Semiluki Chastye Kurgany Chastye Kurgany

128

126 127

Name

No.

settlement settlement settlement

settlement

settlement

settlement settlement burial field

settlement site of unknown character settlement

settlement

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 6th / 4th–3rd c. BC 5th–4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

6th–3rd c. BC 4th c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

Date

Don Don Kamyshovka

Don

Don Don watershed Don/ Voronezh Veduga

Don

Voronezh Veduga

Voronezh

Riverlocation

Razuvaev 1985, 96 Razuvaev 1985, 96 Kovalevsky 1994, 109

Razuvaev 1999, 110; Moiseev 2005, 190–191 Razuvaev 1985, 96

Golotvin 2006, 166; Golotvin 2007, 108–109 Gulyaev 2010, 128–129 Liberov 1965, 22 Puzikova 2001, 9–46

Medvedev 1999, 77–89 Mosieev 2008, 183–184

Medvedev 1999, 31–39. 77–86

Literature

no no no

no

no

yes yes yes

no

no no

no

Greek objects

256 Sabine Huy

Ksizovo

Ksizovo Muchino 2

Valachninskoe Pos. Kurgan u st. Vvedenki Zamyatino 5 Zamyatino 10

Zamyatino 14 Kamenko 4 Gorod. Kurgan Studënovka

Nechaevo 2

137

137 138

139

141 142

143 144 145 146

147

140

Name

No.

settlement settlement settlement site of unknown character site of unknown character

settlement settlement

burial field site of unknown character site of unknown character kurgan

settlement

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

5th–4th c. BC

5th–4th c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

5th–4th c. BC 5th–4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

Date

Khmelinka

Don Don Don Khmelinka

Don Don

Don

Sosna

Don Sosna

Don

Riverlocation

Biryukov 1995; Biryukov 2000 Ivashov 1999; Ivashov 2000; Ivashov 2001 Bessudnov 2002, 91–92 Biryukov 2002, 93 Biryukov 2001, 107 Ostapenko 2008, 192–193; Ostapenko 2009, 118–119 Ostapenko 2009, 119

Sinyuk et al. 1974, 80

Ivashov 1998, 108

Smol’yaninov et al. 2004; Smol’yaninov et al. 2005 Oblomsky et al. 2013 Zemtsov 2002, 125

Literature

no

no no no no

no no

no

no

no no

no

Greek objects

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

257

Maly Lipyag Syrskoe Gorod.

Lipetsk

Zhëltye Peski Skorodnoe 1+2

Dubiki Bol’shoe Gorodishche Arkhangel’skoe 1 settlement Sarzhin Yar settlement Dergachi burial field

150 151

152

153 154

155 156

157 158 159

Karamyshevo 1

149

site of unknown character settlement site of unknown character settlement settlement

site of unknown character site of unknown character settlement settlement

Karamyshevo 5

148

Type

Name

No.

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

4th–3rd c. BC 6th–4th c. BC 5th–4th c. BC

6th–4rd c. BC 5th–4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

5th–4th c. BC 4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC

Date

Seversky Donets Lopan’ Lopan’

Krasivaya Mecha Korochi

Voronezh Ptan’

Voronezh

Voronezh Voronezh

Voronezh

Voronezh

Riverlocation

Sarapulkin 2007, 187–188 Shramko et al. 2008, 157–162 Liberov 1962, 9

Razuvaev, 1987, 121–128 Shramko 1969, 244

Mel’nikov 2000, 84–85 Ryazansev et al. 2005, 219–220

Razuvaev 1999, 110 Biryukov 1995, 102; Biryukov 2000, 53 Biryukov 2004, 101–102

Chivilev 2001, 239

Smol’yanikov et al. 2002, 183–184

Literature

yes yes no

no no

no no

no

no no

no

no

Greek objects

258 Sabine Huy

171 172

169 170

166 167 168

164 165

Peresechnoj Dvurechny Kut Mala Rogozyanka 1 Grishkovka Chervonosovskoe Gor. Kukolevskoe gor. Lyubotino

Bol’shaya Gomol’sha Vvedenka Babi Pesochinsky Mogil’nik Korotich Solonitsevka

160

161 162 163

Name

No.

settlement settlement

burial field settlement

kurgan settlement kurgan

kurgans settlement

settlement settlement burial field

burial field

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

6th–4th c. BC 6th–4th c. BC

5th–4th c. BC 6th–5th c. BC

4th c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC 4th c. BC

4th–3rd c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC 5th–4th c. BC

5th–4th c. BC

Date

Odrinka Lyubotinka

Mza Ol’khovatki

Udy Udy Udy

Udy Udy

Udy Udy Udy

Seversky Donets

Riverlocation

no

Greek objects

Bujnov 2000–2001 Shramko 1998

Grechko 2005/2007 Zadnikov et al. 2003

Babenko 2004 Shramko et al. 2008, 146 Bandurovs’ky 2001

Aks’onov et al. 2005/2007 Shramko et al. 2008, 147

yes yes

no yes

no no yes

yes no

Golubeva et al. 2006–2007, 73–76 no Shramko et al. 2008, 153–154 no Babenko 2002; Babenko 2004 yes

Shramko 1967, 210

Literature

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

259

Name

Lyubotino

Koropove

Melovoe Shpakovka Bunakovo Razdol’e Shvedovka Vorenzovka Kupyansk

No.

172

173

174 175 176 177 178 179 180

site of unknown character settlement kurgan kurgans kurgans settlement kurgans kurgans

burial field

Type

Table 9.1 Legend to map fig. 9.2 (cont.)

5th–3rd c. BC 6th c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC 5th–3rd c. BC

5th–3rd c. BC

6th–4th c. BC

Date

Seversky Donets Seversky Donets Bereka Bereka Oskol Oskol Oskol

Seversky Donets

Lyubotinka

Riverlocation

Liberov 1962, 6 Liberov 1962, 69 Liberov 1962, 7 Liberov 1962, 7 Liberov 1962, 63 Liberov 1962, 6 Liberov 1962, 6

Liberov 1962, 9–10; Chernenko 2004 Shramko 1970, 277

Literature

no no no no no no no

no

yes

Greek objects

260 Sabine Huy

Rivers as Routes of Connectivity ?

261

Bibliography Aks’onov et al. 2005–2007: Aks’onov, V. S. – Babenko L. I., Pokhovannya IV st. do n. e. poblizu smt Korotich, Arkheologichni doslidzhennya v Ukraïni, 2005–2007, 72–75. Arinchina et al. 1986: Arinchina, T. Ju. – Berezucky, V. D. – Pogorelov, V. I., Raboty Voronezhskogo pedinstituta, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1986, 47–49. Atulla et al. 2013: Attula, R. – Dally, O. – Greski, J. – Larenok, P. A., Beglitsky mogil’nik na Miusskom poluostrove. Arkheologicheskie i antropologicheskie ob“ekty, Arkheologicheskie Zapiski 8, 2013, 93–108. Babenko 2002: Babenko, L. I., Zhinochij golovnij ubir 4. ct. do n. e. z kurganu 8 bilya s. Pisochin Kharkivs’koi Oblasti, Arkheologiya Kiiv, 2002 (4), 59–69. Babenko 2004: Babenko, L. I., Antichny import v pogrebeniyakh Pesochinskogo Mogil’nika, Rossiskaya Arkheologiya, 2004 (3), 147–159. Bandurovs’ky 2001: Bandurovs’ky, O. V., Antichni amfori z kurganiv skifs’kogo periodu livoberezhnoï lisostepovoï Ukraïni, Arkheologiya Kiiv, 2001 (1), 68–69. Belinsky et al. 1986: Belinsky, I. V. – Bespalyj, E. I. – Volkov, I. V. – Parusimov, I. N., Raskopki Azovskogo kraevedcheskogo muzeya, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1986, 110–113. Berezutsky 1993: Berezutsky, V. D., Raskopki v Ostrogozhskom rajone Voronezhskoj Oblast, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1993, 47–48. Berezutsky 1995: Berezutsky, V. D., Donssledovanie Mastishchenskogo kurgana, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1995, 101–102. Berezutsky 2001: Berezutsky, V. D., Okhrannye raskopki kurganov v Voronezhskoj oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2001, 98–100. Berezutsky 2008: Berezutsky, V. D., Okhrannye raskopki v Voronezhskoj oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2008, 104–105. Bespalyj 1982: Bespalyj, E. I., Raboty Primorskogo Otryada, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1982, 109–110. Bespalyj et al. 1989: Bespalyj, Е. I. – Golovkova, N. N. – Larenok, P. A., Pominal’nye pamyatniki 4. v. do n. e. – 3. v. e. Dono-Kagal’nitskogo vodorazdela, Sovetskaya Arkheologiya, 1989 (3), 154–162. Bessudnov 2002: Bessudnov, A. N., Issledovaniya v Zadonskom i Stanovlyanskom rajonakh Lipetskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2002, 91–92. Biryukov 1995: Biryukov, I. E., Issledovaniya pamyatnikov rannego zheleznogo veka v Lipetskoj oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1995, 102–103. Biryukov 2000: Biryukov, I. E., Issledovaniya pamyatnikov rannego zheleznogo veka v Lipetskoj oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2000, 53–54. Biryukov 2001: Biryukov, I. E., Issledovanie pamyatnikov rannego zheleznogo veka v Lipetskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2001, 107–108.

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Petrenko 1989: Petrenko, V. G., Lokalnye gruppy skifoobraznoj kul’tury lesostepi vostochnoj evropy, in: Melyukova, A. I. (ed.), Stepi evropejskoj chasti SSSR v skifosarmatskoe vremya (Moscow 1989) 67–80. Posegun 2009: Posegun, A. A., Raskopki kurgana Dyunnyj v Aksajskom rajone Rostovskoj oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Zapiski 6, 2009, 114–127. Prokof’ev 2014: Prokof’ev, R. V., Raskopki u kh. Dugino v del’te Dona v 2009 g. (Rostovon-Don 2014). Pryakhin et al. 1973: Pryakhin, A. D. – Sagajdak, V. I., Raskopki na Bityuge, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1973, 72–73. Puzikova 1969: Puzikova, A. I., Poseleniya Srednego Dona, in: Smirnov, A. P. (ed.), Naselenie Srednego Dona v skifskoe vremya, Materialy i issledovaniya po Arkheologii SSSR 151 (Moscow 1969) 41–81. Puzikova 2001: Puzikova, A. I., Kurgannye mogil’niki skifskogo vremeni Srednego Podon’ya (publikatsiya kompleksov) (Moscow 2001). Razuvaev 1985: Razuvaev, Yu. D., Razvedka po r. Don v Voronezhskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1985, 96. Razuvaev 1987: Razuvaev, Yu. D., Gorodishche u s. Dubiki, in: Pryakhin, A. D. (ed.), Arkheologicheskie pamyatniki epochi zheleza vostochnoevropejskoj lesostepi. Sbornik nauchnykh trudov (Voronezh 1987) 121–128. Razuvaev 1999: Razuvaev, Yu. D., Raskopki v Voronezhskoj i Lipetskoj Oblastyakh, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1999, 110. Razuvaev et al. 1987: Razuvaev, Yu. D. – Medvedev, A. P., Kurgan-Zol’nik u s. Chertovitskoe, in: Pryakhin, A. D. (ed.), Arkheologicheskie pamyatniki epokhi zheleza vostochnoevropejskoj lesostepi. Sbornik nauchnykh trudov (Voronezh 1987) 111–121. Rogudeev 1999/2000: Rogudeev, V. V., Issledovanie poseleniya «Koluzaevo-1» v delt’te r. Don, Istoriko-Arkheologicheskie issledovaniya v gorodde Azove i na Nizhnem Donu 17, 1999/2000, 169–175. Rogudeev 2007: Rogudeev, V. V., Issledovaniya kurganov v Bokovskom i Sal’skom rajonakh Rostovskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2007, 310–312. Ryazantsev et al. 2005: Ryazantsev, M. S. – Milovanov, S. I. – Sviridov, A. A. – Uvarkin, S. V., Razvedochnye raboty na territorii Verkhnego Dona, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2005, 219–220. Sarapulkin 2007: Sarapulkin, V. A., Razvedki i raskopki na territorii Belgorodskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2007, 186–188. Schmid-Merkl 2016: Schmid-Merkl, C., Der Oberrhein. Archäologie einer metallzeitlichen Flusslandschaft, Materialhefte zur Archäologie in Baden-Württemberg 103 (Darmstadt 2016). Shilov 1961: Shilov, V.P., Raskopki Elizavetovskogo mogil’nika v 1959g., Sovetskaya Arkheologiya 1961, 150–168.

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Shirochenko 2007/2008: Shirochenko, E. B., Arkheologicheskie razvedki v bassejne reki Kagal’nik v Azovskom rajone v 2007 g., Istoriko-Arkheologicheskie issledovaniya v gorode. Azove i na Nizhnem Donu 24, 2007/2008, 242–253. Shramko 1962: Shramko, B. A., Drevnosti Severnogo Dontsa (Kharkiv 1962). Shramko 1967: Shramko, B. A., Issledovaniya pamyatnikov skifskogo vremeni v basseijnakh Vorskly, Suly i Severskogo Dontsa, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1967, 209–210. Shramko 1969: Shramko, B. A., Raskopki v bassejne Severnogo Dontsa i Vorskly, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1969, 243–244. Shramko 1970: Shramko, B. A., Raboty Skifo-Slavyanskoj ekspeditsii Khar’kovskogo Gosudarstvennogo Universiteta, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1970, 276–277. Shramko 1972: Shramko, B. A., Issledovaniya v Khar’kovskoj i Poltavskoj oblastyakh, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya 1972, 351–352. Shramko 1998: Shramko, B. A. (ed.), Lyubotinskoe gorodishche. Sbornik nauchnykh trudov (Kharkiv 1998). Shramko et al. 2008: Shramko, I. B. – Zadnikov, S. A., – Pelyashenko, K. Yu., Novye issledovaniya pamyatnikov skifskogo vremeni na Khar’kovshchine, in: Natsional’naya Akademiya Nauk Ukrainy (ed.), Problemy Arkheologii Vostochnoj Evropy. K 85letiyu Borisa Andreevicha Shramko (Kharkiv 2008) 146–163. Sinyuk et al. 1974: Sinyuk, A. T. – Kilejnikov, V. V., Issledovaniya na Srednem Donu, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1974, 79–80. Skorobogatov 2007: Skorobogatov, A. M., Issledovaniya v Priust’evoj chasti reki Tikhaya Sosna, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2007, 192–193. Smirnov et al. 1976: Smirnov, K. F. – Maksimenko, V. E. – Luk’yashko, S. I. – Gorbenko, A. A., Issledovaniya v mezhdurech’e Dona i Severskogo Dontsa v predelakh Rostovskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1976, 120–121. Smirnov et al. 1977: Smirnov, K. F. – Maksimenko, V. E., Raskopki kurganov v mezhdurech’e Dona i Severskogo Dontsa, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1977, 142. Smol’yaninov et al. 2002: Smol’yaninov, R. V. – Dubrovsky, P. Ya., Raskopki poselenij v Gryazinskom rajone Lipetskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 183–184. Smol’yaninov et al. 2004: Smol’yaninov, R. V. – Bessudnov, A. N. – Ivashov, M. V. – Mel’nikov, E. N. – Ryazantsev, M. S. – Sviridov, A. A., Issledovaniya v Lipetskoj oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2004, 227–228. Smol’yaninov et al. 2005: Smol’yaninov, R. V. – Bessudnov, A. N. – Ivashov, M. V. – Uvarkin, S. V. – Sviridov, A. A., Arkheologicheskie issledovaniya v Lipetskoj oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2005, 247. Teigelake 2003: Teigelake, U., Tracing Ship Traffic without Ships – Alternative Methods of Finding Evidence for Pre- and Early Historical Inland Water Transport, in: Beltrame, C. (ed.), Boats, Ships and Shipyards. Proceedings of the Ninth International Symposium on Boat and Ship Archaeology Venice 2000 (Oxford 2003) 154–159.

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Tolochko et al. 2007/2008: Tolochko, I. V. – Garbuzov, G. P., Razvedki v del’te Dona i na yuzhnom poberezh’e Taganrogskogo zaliva, Istoriko-Arkheologicheskie issledovaniya v gorode Azove i na Nizhnem Donu 24, 2007/2008, 115–123. Treister 1999: Treister, M., The Workshop of the Gorytos and Scabbard Overlays, in: Reeder, E. D. (ed.), Scythian Gold. Treasures from Ancient Ukraine. Exposition Catalogue San Antonio (New York 1999) 71–81. Voroshilov 2003: Voroshilov, A. N., Arkheologicheskaya razvedka v bassejne reki Izmajla v Voronezhskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2003, 111–113. Wagner 2003: Wagner, B. B., 7 Rek Rossii (Moscow 2003). Zadnikov et al. 2003: Zadnikov, S. A. – Shramko, I. B., Pamyatniki skifskogo vremeni v bassejne reki Ol’khovatki, in: Problemi istoriï ta Arkheologiï Ukraïni. Zbirnik materialiv Mizhnarodnoï naukovoï konferentsiï do 100-richchja XII Arkheologichnogo z’ïzdu v m. Kharkovi 25–26 žovtnya 2003 r. (Kharkiv 2003) 37–40. Zav’yalov et al. 1972: Zav’yalov, V. A. – Zakharenkova, I. A. – Lagotsky, K. S. – Bestuzhev, G. N. – Bianki, A. A. – Sharafutdinova, E. S., Raskopki kurganov na Nizhnem Manyche, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 1972, 126–128. Zemtsov 2002: Zemtsov, G. L., Arkheologicheskie issledovaniya v Zadonskom rajone Lipetskoj Oblasti, Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya, 2002, 125–126. Zhukova 2007: Zhukova, S. V., Malye reki Donskogo Rayona. Analitichesky obzor (Rostov-on-Don 2007).

Victor Ostapchuk

The Zaporozhian Cossacks and the Dnipro River Refugium Aside from considerations of global history, there are good reasons for including the Black Sea basin in a conference and volume dedicated to Mediterranean rivers and river communities. The two seas are physically connected, and throughout much of their history there was close connectivity between them thanks to projection of political power and colonization, as well as commercial and cultural interaction. If we consider Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Italian, and Ottoman presences in the Black Sea and its coastal areas, it can be said that more often than not it was within the orbit of the Mediterranean rather than a region apart. On the other hand, control of the northern Black Sea coast by these powers was always limited, if not precarious, in the face of nomadic or semi-nomadic powers that ruled the Pontic steppe – for example, the Scythians, Sarmatians, Pechenegs, Polovtsians-Qipchaqs, and Mongols. Even the presence of the Ottomans in the northern Black Sea did not extend far beyond the coast into the steppes to the north, despite their suzerainty over the Crimean Khanate, a Tatar successor state to the Golden Horde ruled by a Chinggisid dynasty, whose dominions did extend beyond the Crimean peninsula into these steppes. Leaving aside physical and human connections between the two seas, their basins are vastly different in their physical geography. There are superficial similarities – approximately half of the Mediterranean basin (western North Africa and most of the northern side) and half of the Black Sea basin (Anatolia, Caucasus, southern coast of Crimea) have a mainly rugged even mountainous coastal area. The remainder – the Sahara coast (Libyan and Egyptian deserts) and the Pontic steppe (both western and northern) – are primarily flat. The fluvial spaces of the two mostly rugged zones also exhibit some superficial similarities – the total respective lengths of the main rivers are about the same, though the catchment area of this portion of the Mediterranean is greater than the total for the Anatolian, Caucasus, and southern Crimean portions. However, when it comes to the mostly flat zones, there is a world of *   I would like to thank Caroline Finkel, Peter Golden, Oleksandr Halenko, Michael Khodarkovsky, Markus Koller, Maryna Kravets, and Joo-Yup Lee for their comments on earlier versions of this article.

© Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, 2019 | doi:10.30965/9783657786367_011

Figure 10.1 Mediterranean and Black Sea drainage basins with a dividing line between these two basins (V. Ostapchuk and Agata Chmiel)

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difference between the largely riverless southern Mediterranean basin from the Red Sea to the Atlas Mountains, and the western and northern portions of the Black Sea basin. The arc of the latter, from the Bosporus Straits to the Caucasus Mountains (including the Azov Sea, which is essentially an inlet of the Black Sea), is one of the larger drainage basins zones in the world. To appreciate how much better-endowed with fluvial spaces the northern and western arc of the Black Sea basin is than the entire Mediterranean, it is enough to glance at a physical map. While the Mediterranean has one great river, the Nile, the Black Sea can boast at least three, namely the Danube, Dnipro, and Don. If a list of the top ten rivers for both basins is drawn up, be it according to length, or the extent of their catchment areas, only three rivers from Mediterranean Sea basin would be part of such a list, compared to seven from the Black Sea basin. If the Nile and the Danube, the two longest rivers in the respective basins with the vastest watersheds are excluded, then the combined length and drainage areas of the main Black Sea rivers essentially dwarf those of the Mediterranean rivers. Perhaps the best way to get an appreciation of the relative sizes of the combined drainage areas of each of the two basins is to be cognizant of the fact that while the surface area and volume of the Mediterranean Sea are respectively about six and seven times greater than the surface area and volume of the Black Sea, the drainage basin of the latter sea is 40% larger than that of the former sea if one excludes the distant and environmentally foreign sub-Saharan Blue Nile and White Nile. We have no way of knowing the degree to which this contrast in fluvial spaces was perceived in the past, though there are hints that the waters of the Black Sea fed by its rivers commanded a somewhat privileged place. Thus, before it was known that there is an interchange of water between the Black and Mediterranean Seas, with the surface flow going from the former to the latter and a subsurface flow going in the reverse direction, the Black Sea was regarded as the main source for the waters of the Mediterranean. In the mid-17th century the great Ottoman traveler Evliya Chelebi articulated such a perception by categorically stating “but if the truth of the matter is looked at, the source of all the seas is the Black Sea.” Along similar lines, his contemporary Emidio Portelli d’Ascoli, an Italian Dominican resident missionary in Crimea, asserted that no other sea flows into it and that it was not only a source, but rather the main supply of water for all the other seas.1

1  See Ostapchuk 2001, 33.

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1 The Wild Field, the Cossacks, and the Dnipro River Nomadic peoples were known to traverse along rivers and organize their dominions along great rivers.2 In some cases they even regarded a major river as being the core of their realm. Occupying a special place in their collective consciousness, great rivers would, according to Omeljan Pritsak, even be referred to by a generic name that connoted “the river par excellence”. Thus, the 11thcentury scholar and lexicographer of Turkic languages Mahmud al-Kashgari informed that the Syr-Darya was such a river for the pre-Seljukid Oghuz – they called it Öküz, which meant ‘river’.3 Along similar lines, the Turkic name for the Dnipro, the great river of the northern Black Sea region, was Özi, stemming from the word öz, which means ‘essential, inner, own, self’ as well as ‘river, valley’.4 It was on the Dnipro River that a militarized society – the Zaporozhian Cossacks, who were equally at home on land, river, and eventually sea – came into being sometime in the late 15th century. The qazaqlïq or cossack phenomenon that was widespread in post-Mongol Central Eurasia played a particular historical role in the Black Sea steppes.5 Thanks to a combination of features of physical and human geography, a relatively short stretch of the lower Dnipro River that became known in Slavic languages as ‘Beyond-the-Rapids’ (Zaporozhzhzia < za porohamy [za + porohy]; henceforth simply Zaporozhia) 2  For example, the travel accounts of John of Plano Carpini and William Rubruck to the Mongol Empire in the mid-13th century make it clear that the Mongols organized their dominions in eastern Europe using the great rivers flowing into the Black and Caspian Sea to separate various nomadic groupings (Dawson 1980, 55. 124. 209–210). 3  “[T]heir cities are along it, and those among them who are nomadic camp along its banks. This word is used in the names of many rivers in the lands of the Turks” (al-Kashgari 1982, 103). 4  Pritsak 1954, 248. 5  The cossack phenomenon was a product of a complex set of factors that came into play in the post-Mongol Empire period starting from the second half of the 15th century in Central Eurasia, from Ukraine to Central Asia to as far as the Indian subcontinent. The recent monograph by Joo-Yup Lee on qazaqlïq, mainly in Central Asia (Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan) but also in Eastern Europe and South Asia, has demonstrated that the particular conditions of political fragmentation during this period combined with the existence of a surfeit of Chinggisid princes competing for power gave rise to a socio-political phenomenon qualitatively different from those of previous periods of political fragmentation in Central Eurasia. For this reason the term qazaqlïq, which can be rendered as ‘political vagabondage’ or ‘ambitious brigandage’, came into being. See Lee (2016). On the origins of Ukrainian and other Slavic cossackdoms see Brexunenko (2011). The English translation of the seventh volume of Mykhailo Hrushevsky’s multivolume history of Ukraine still provides an excellent introduction to Ukrainian cossackdom; much of the presentation of it in this section stems from this work (Hrushevsky 1999).

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was a key component enabling this historical role. The crucial physical geographic feature was a vast steppe zone combined with an extensive fluvial network, including most significantly a great river with a formidable barrier at a certain point along its length – 70 km of cataracts unnavigable to most vessels. The crucial aspect of human geography was the sway of the nomadic Nogays and semi-nomadic Crimean Tatars, mounted warriors who controlled this steppe zone known to outsiders as the ‘Deserted Places’ (Loca Deserta) or the ‘Wild Field’ (Pol. Dzikie Polie, also plural Dzikie Pola, Rus. Dikoe Pole, Ukr., Dyke Pole; see Fig. 2).6 Ottoman entry and takeover of the northern Black Sea in the late 15th century bolstered the Crimean Khanate as it became the main supplier of slaves from the Slavic lands in the north for the huge Ottoman slave market.7 The demands of this market stimulated constant slaving raids that made the steppe zone more dangerous than ever and ensured that it remained sparsely populated, essentially off limits to the subjects of the power to the north and west, namely Poland-Lithuania. As a consequence, the lower and even middle Dnipro region, with its low population, constituted a lush natural preserve. Contemporary accounts marvelled at the great abundance of fish in the lakes and rivers, and wildlife in the fields and forests. For example, the 16th-century tract De moribus tartarorum, lituanorum et moscorum (On the Customs of Tatars, Lithuanians and Muscovites) by Michalo Lituanus (Michael the Lithuanian) describes the wondrous natural wealth of this region thus:

6  Since the 9th century BC the Black Sea steppes were under sway of successive nomadic peoples or polities, including the Scythians, Sarmatians, Huns, Magyars, Pechenegs, QipchaqsPolovtsians, and the Mongols and Tatars. The typical pattern was for nomadic confederations to arrive from the east and push out or assimilate previous inhabitants of these steppe. Why east to west migrations predominated has yet to be fully explained. One factor may have been the attractions of raiding sedentary civilizations in the western portions of Eurasia. Another factor may have been the possibilities of trade offered by ports on the Black Sea. In his soon to be published book on the Golden Horde Uli Schamiloglu has suggested that the prime reason for east to west migrations was the less harsh climate and much richer pasturage west of the Ural Mountains, particularly in the winter pastures beyond the Black Sea and Caucasus Mountains. 7  Fisher 1972; Kołodziejczyk 2006; Kizilov 2005 and 2007. – D. Kołodziejczyk has convincingly argued that the Black Sea slave trade in the 16th and 17th centuries involved about 2 million souls and that, furthermore, this was greater than the traffic in the trans-Atlantic slave trade (1.6 million for the same time period); in the 18th century the Black Sea slave trade declined sharply, while the trans-Atlantic trade grew to involve more than 6 million souls. See his “Slavery and Slave Trade in the Atlantic and the Black Sea – a Comparative View” and other articles in the forthcoming edited volume based on the 2017 conference at Leiden University “Slavery in the Black Sea Region, c. 900–1900: Forms of Unfreedom at the Intersection between Christianity and Islam”.

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There is such an abundance of game in the forests and fields that aurochs, wild horses, and deer are killed only for their skins. Only the sirloin and the fattier parts of the meat are taken: the rest is abandoned, because there is so much of it […]. Such a multitude of wild goats come from the steppes to the forests in winter and to the steppes in summer that the peasant kills thousands of them. There are a great many beaver lodges in the rivers. There is a wondrous multitude of birds, so that in springtime boys gather duck eggs by the boatful, as well as the eggs of wild geese, cranes, and swans, and then fill their sheds with young birds […]. Dogs are fed animal meat and fish. The rivers there are full of fish when enormous schools of sturgeon and other large fish enter fresh water from the sea. That is why some of the rivers are called golden […].8 Despite the dangers of capture by Tatars, this natural abundance, combined with the freedom from control and oppression by the Polish-Lithuanian authorities and landholders that the frontier zone offered, constituted a significant pull factor drawing desparate and/or bold inhabitants of the Ukrainian lands of southeastern Poland-Lithuania to infiltrate the steppes and eventually relocate into them. One of the great ironies of the history of this region is that while Ottoman takeover of the Black Sea in the latter half of the 15th century served to protect the Crimean Khanate, strengthen its sway over the steppes, and increase the pressure on populations in the north, this increased pressure stimulated a response. To survive in the steppes those who were drawn to them imitated lifeways of Tatars. Such adaptations combined with the use of gunpowder weaponry brought about a transformation of Turkic qazaqlïq into a powerful game-changing institution that turned the tables not only on the Tatars, but also on the Ottomans. That is, the Turkic-dominated steppe frontier spawned a new force, namely cossacks (Pol. and Ukr. kozak; Belarus. and Rus. kazak; from Turkic qazaq), consisting primarily of East Slavs who not only learned how to defend themselves and survive in the steppes, but also went on the offensive to raid those who had traditonally raided them. There was also a push factor – the sharp increase in exploitation of the peasantry in 16th and 17th-century Eastern Europe (the so-called ‘second serfdom’) that in the case of the southeastern lands of Poland-Lithuania compelled Ukrainian serfs to flee and infiltrate the Wild Field. Over the course of the second half of the 16th and early 17th century Ukrainian cossackdom became a formidable military power, not only harrassing the 8  Cited in Hrushevsky 1999, 3; on the luxuriant ecological situation in this zone during in the post-Mongol period see 3–5.

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Crimean Tatars and Nogays in the steppes and attacking Ottoman fortresses and settlements in the nothern Black Sea region, but also making incursions into neighboring Moldavia and Wallachia, and even threatening its suzerain, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Aside from military threats, cossackdom also challenged the social order of Poland-Lithuania as its oppressed peasantry was drawn to the freedom of the cossack way of life. Attempts by the state and landlords to reverse this trend and force cossacks back into serfdom led to rebellions and even wars between the Commonwealth and the cossacks. The great revolt led by Bohdan Khmelnytsky that broke out in 1648 – by far the most violent and destructive of the so-called ‘Seventeenth Century Revolutions’ – brought the Commonwealth to the brink of collapse. This same cossack rebellion also drew Muscovy into involvement in Ukraine. The Treaty of Pereiaslav of 1654 placing the Ukrainian cossacks under its suzerainty led to war after war in the second half of the 17th century, involving Muscovy, the Commonwealth, the Ottoman Empire, and of course the cossacks, a period known in Ukrainian historiography as ‘the Ruin’. However, the most significant aspect as far as the Ottoman Black Sea was concerned, was the transformation of an inland, non-seafaring people into a formidable naval power. From the last decades of the 16th century through the middle of the 17th century the Zaporozhian Cossacks became the scourge of the Ottomans, with their bold raids on settlements along the Black Sea coast. Major Ottoman towns and fortresses such as Kefe, Aqkerman, Sinop, Trabzon, Varna, and even the suburbs of Istanbul on the Bosporus, suffered attacks and sackings. Along with the Zaporozhians, cossacks based on the Don River to the east also learned to mount sea raids. The Zaporozhians and Don Cossacks also carried out joint naval expeditions. Thus during the heyday of the cossack sea raids, the Black Sea was no longer a secure and thriving Ottoman lake as it had been hitherto.9 The Dnipro River played a defining role for the Zaporozhian Cossacks. It would be hard to overestimate its importance in their origin and development. In particular, the physical geographic features of two distinct areas of the lower Dnipro were crucial for their lifeways and self-image – the Dnipro Rapids (Ukr. porohy), and the complex wetlands in the steppes below the rapids known as the Great Meadow.

9  Ostapchuk 2001.

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2 The Dnipro Rapids The Dnipro Rapids, or Cataracts, were a series of cliffs and rocks in the riverbed along the stretch where the river runs north-south across the Ukrainian Crystalline Shield. They began where the present-day city of Dnipro (until recently Dnipropetrovsk) is located and ended at the modern city of Zaporizhia. Where the rocks and cliffs partly cut across the river they were known as barriers (zabory), and where they cut across completely they were called rapids (porohy). This stretch of river crossing the Ukrainian Shield was about 70 km long and its drop in elevation about 40 m. The nine rapids on this stretch were given names that evoked their qualities. For example, the most treacherous was

Figure 10.3 Dnipro Rapids (N–S part marked ПОРОГИ) and six 16th–18th century Zaporozhian siches (E–W part, sich marked with Січ) in the Velykyj Luh, “Great Meadow”

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known as Insatiable (Nenasytec’), while the calmest was known as Superfluous (Lyshnij).10 The Dnipro Rapids were a serious impediment to navigation until 1932 when the Dnipro Hydroelectic Station at Zaporizhia was completed and the rapids were completely flooded. Prior to this, navigating upriver by boat was out of the question: boats were either left behind or had to be portaged past the cataracts. Going downriver, however, there were more possibilities than leaving boats behind and trekking overland to the last rapid. One possibility was to drag the boats around each rapid while at the less risky ones guide the boats without the passengers and with only a minimal crew and the goods on board. Navigating all the way was possible only when the river was high, but even then it was dangerous.11 However, according to 16th12 and 17th-century13 travel accounts, the Zaporozhian Cossacks were experts at navigating these cataracts, using ropes and poles to bypass rocks and cliffs, and knowing where submerged rocks were located. These same accounts describe not only the dangers in the water, but also when out of the water the perils of being ambushed by Tatars passing through on their slaving raids. The Dnipro Rapids were known to be a barrier centuries prior to the cossack period. The mid-10th-century rulership and geographic treatise De administrando imperio by Byzantine Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus provides a description of the rapids and notes the difficulties of navigating through them, along with the dangers that the nomadic Pechenegs posed to anyone disembarking from their boats.14 That the rapids and their surroundings made for a barrier rather than a passageway had crucial implications for trade and human geography. Had there been no such stretch of cataracts, the Dnipro might have been a busy international highway for trade and other contacts between the northern lands and the Black Sea. This barrier to easy access by river navigation combined with the presence of a dangerous population – Tatars, cossacks, adventurers, and outlaws – meant that it was impossible for the Polish-Lithuanian administration to establish regular control south of the rapids in the Zaporozhia. The rapids also served as an impediment to Ottoman expansion at the expense of the northern countries. In an undated15 schematic Ottoman map 10  Kubijovyč 1984. 11  Kubijovyč 1984. 12  Lassota 1975, 81–82. 13  Beauplan 1993, 25–28. 14  Konstantin 1991, 44–51. 15  Z. Abrahamowicz (1969) proposed dating the map to the late 15th century, though the mid-16th century or even later are also possibilities.

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Figure 10.4 Nenasytec’ (Insatiable) Rapid

of the Dnipro River preserved in the Topkapı Palace Archive, a short note addressed to the sultan and written next to the location of the rapids, states that “rocks that were there since the time of Nemrud” will be opened (presumably blown up) so that Ottoman ships may reach the “king’s capital” (a reference to Kyiv) unharmed.16 One of the earliest Polish chroniclers to discuss the Zaporozhians, Marcin Bielski remarked s.a. 1574 that “no galley or ship can go further up the Dnipro than the rapids, which were made thus by God himself. If it were not for these rapids the Turks long ago would have cleared the area.”17 The Dnipro Rapids provided not only natural conditions for Zaporozhian Cossack isolation and safety; they also constituted a key component of their identity. Not only was their appellation derived from the phrase ‘Beyond-theRapids’ (za porohamy), referring to their location below the rapids, but also their official name as a military and political entity. By the mid-17th century, the polity that modern historians refer to as the Hetmanate was known as the Zaporozhian Host (Vоjsko Zaporozhskoe). An example of the role of the 16  Abrahamowicz 1969, 76–97; Bennigsen et al. 1978, 79–80. 17  Lassota 1975, 113. – This comment of Bielski notes that the Zaporozhians were protected from the Ottomans by the rapids, which is incorrect as they were located downriver from, that is, south of the rapids; this observation would have made sense if it stated that the rapids protected the Commonwealth from the Ottomans. We will see below that there were, however, other natural features impeding Ottoman access to the Zaporozhia.

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rapids in the self-image of the Zaporozhians as intrepid masters of their domain was their pride in their ability to navigate them. Thus, the 17th-century account by the French engineer and cartographer Guillaume Le Vasseur, Sieur de Beauplan informs that one was not considered a true Zaporozhian Cossack until one had successfully navigated through all of the rapids.18 3 The Great Meadow (Velykyj Luh) and the Concept of Refugium Thanks to the flatness of the steppes below the rapids, the Zaporozhia was a landscape dominated by the waters of the Dnipro and its tributaries – in some places it overflowed in rivulets across the steppes as widely as 25 km. Extending downriver more than 100 km, this waterworld landscape, that was known as the Velykyj Luh, or Great Meadow, was full of islands, marshes, reeds, tall grass, thickets, and woods. Though surrounded by steppes that were dominated by Tatars and Nogays, in the 15th century this complicated wetland zone provided bold adventurers or desperate fugitives – early Zaporozhian Cossacks or precursers to them – with a forward post for infiltrating the Wild Field with relative impunity. The Great Meadow provided them and eventually the cossacks with an abundance of game, fish, honey, and pasture. It was among its remote islands that the cossacks would construct their palisade or stockade strongholds, the so-called siches.19 In 1955–1957 almost all of the Great Meadow was flooded after the construction of the Kakhovka Hydroelectic Station. 16th and 17th-century writers or travelers were impressed by the inaccessibility and treacherousness of this watery zone for outsiders and by the adeptness of the cossacks in utilizing such terrain to their advantage. Thus the Polish chronicler Marcin Bielski, referring to the numerous islands and sandbars, comments on how easily defendable the area was, to such an extent that “if any one of them were occupied by several hundred men then even the most numerous army could do nothing if it dared to attack them” and notes that by his time (mid-16th century) the Turks and Tatars were forced to avoid these places.20 Carlos Gamberini, who prepared a report on the cossacks for the Vatican in 1586, describes the cossack use of forests, how they split and bent trees to block cavalry from harassing them, while “in winter they prevent 18  Beauplan 1993, 26. 19  Interestingly, both Eurasian nomads and the Zaporozhians constructed a palisade within their most secure, inner, refuge. For example, Gök Türk and Uighur palisades were known as chït (von Gabain 1950, 36; Klyashtornyi 2012, 95–96). 20  Lassota 1975, 112.

The Zaporozhian Cossacks and the Dnipro River

Figure 10.5 Velykyj Luh (Great Meadow) map 1894

Figure 10.6 Reedbeds of the Velykyj Luh (Great Meadow)

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Figure 10.7 Lower Dnipro River today (Google Maps)

cavalry from attacking across the frozen Boristhene (Dnipro) by chopping the ice near the islands into a sort of levee or wall”, and “in warmer seasons they need no other protection than the vast river itself which cannot be forded […]. Furthermore, there are many miles of marshes which render the islands impregnable to anyone who is not thoroughly familiar with the paths”.21 Simeon Okolski, a Catholic monk who served as chaplain for the Polish army and left a diary of a campaign against the cossacks in 1638, noted their toughness – “ability to withstand hunger, thirst and every sort of discomfort” – and their skill in defending themselves before an enemy taking advantage of the “slightest of natural defenses – swamps, bushes, and other.”22 Beauplan’s Description of Ukraine provides a most revealing and compelling account of the cossack sanctuary in the Zaporozhia.23 Serving the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the 1630s and 1640s as an advisor on the construction of fortifications on the Ukrainian frontier and as a map-maker of the region Beauplan knew both first-hand and through informants the land and its peoples, be they Ukrainian cossacks, peasants, and townsfolk, as well 21  Lassota 1975, 117. 22  Okolski 1896, 215. 23  First published in 1651 in Rouen. The most cited edition is the second published in 1660 also in Rouen under the title Description d’Vkranie, qui sont plvsievrs Prouinces du Royaume de Pologne contenvës depvis les confins de la Moscouie, iusques aux limites de la Transilvanie. Ensemble leurs moevrs, façons de viures, & de faire la guerre.

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as Poles and Tatars. Working closely with forces of the Polish Crown he himself witnessed the Zaporozhians in battle. His account is considered the best surviving contemporary source on the habitat and lifeways of the Zaporozhian Cossacks: A little way downstream from the River Czartomelik, approximately in the middle of the Dnieper (Dnipro), there is located a fairly large island with ruins upon it. This island is surrounded on all sides by more than 10,000 other islands and islets, lying scattered about in an irregular, disordered and confusing pattern. Some of them are dry, and others are marshy. In addition, they are all covered with reeds as big as pikes, which prevent one from seeing the channels separating the islands. It is in this confused area that the Cossacks have their place of retreat, calling it Skarbnica Wojskowa, which means, the treasury of the army. All these islands are flooded in springtime, and only the spot where the ruins are located remains dry. The river is at least a league across from shore to shore. Here, all the forces of the Turks would be completely powerless. In this area, many Turkish galleys have been lost while pursuing Cossacks returning from the Black Sea. Having become entangled in this labyrinth, they were unable to find their way out, and the Cossacks made sport of them with their boats, sniping at them through the reeds. Since that time, the galleys have gone no further than four or five leagues upriver. It is said that in the Skarbnica Wojskowa, there are numerous pieces of cannon that the Cossacks have hidden in the channels, and the Poles are unable to determine where they are. Beside the fact that the Poles do not venture into that area, the wily Cossacks refuse to reveal their secrets, and as well, only a few Cossacks are privy to them. All the cannon that they take from the Turks are deposited on the [river] bottom, and even their money is hidden there, to be reclaimed only in time of need. Each Cossack has his own individual hiding-place, for after pillaging among the Turks, they divide their spoils, once they are back in this region. Each Cossack then hides his small share under water, so it is said, [but only] things that cannot be harmed by water.24 Beauplan’s description presents the waterways of the Zaporozhia not only as an impenetrable sanctuary, but also as in effect the naval base of a maritime power: 24  Beauplan 1993, 29–30.

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It is in this place that they construct their czółna, or seagoing craft, which are about sixty feet long, ten or twelve feet wide, and eight feet deep, with two rudders, as will be seen shortly in the illustration […]. In it may be seen bundles of reeds, of the width of a barrel, joined together end to end, until they extend from one end of the boat to the other, bound tightly with cords […] when they are full of water, the reeds attached all the way around keep them from sinking into the sea […]. When they make the resolution to go to war […] they muster five or six thousand men, all wellarmed and able Cossacks, and travel to Zaporozhe to build their boats. Groups of sixty men set about constructing these craft, which are ready in two weeks, since each Cossack knows all the trades, as I have said. Thus, in two or three weeks’ time, they can prepare eighty or one hundred boats, of the type I have described above. Fifty to seventy men set out in each boat, each man carrying two firearms and a saber. There are four to six falconets as well as a supply of proper provisions. Each man is dressed in a shirt and a pair of underpants, of which he has an extra pair, along with a shabby robe, a cap, six pounds of gunpowder, a sufficient quantity of lead, cannon balls for the falconets, and a compass. Such is the mobile camp of the Cossacks upon the Black Sea, which is capable of assaulting the most important towns of Anatolia.25 Thereafter Beauplan recounts the expertise of the Zaporozhian Cossacks in crossing the Black Sea in their longboats, known in Ukrainian as chajkas (‘seagulls’), raiding settlements, and attacking Ottoman galleys. Although the Zaporozhians were well adapted to life on the steppes and while many of them led a peripatetic existence – depending on the season or circumstances, spending time also in towns or rural areas in the Ukrainian territories of the Commonwealth – they were essentially sedentary rather than nomadic. Nonetheless, their habitat in the Zaporozhia as described in the aforecited 16th and 17th-century sources resembles sanctuaries of Eurasian steppe peoples known in modern scholarship by the Latin word refugium.26 This term was coined by Annemarie von Gabain in 1950 and used thereafter most frequently by Pritsak. Von Gabain applied it to the Gök Türk Kaganate (552–630, 683–734), in reference to an area of the Ötüken Mountains known as the Ötüken yïsh. The Turkic word yïsh has been rendered as ‘mountain-for25  Beauplan 1993, 64–66. 26  Not to be confused with the usage of refugium to denote ecological niches for various species, or with fortifications constructed by villagers as temporary refuges in medieval times.

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Figure 10.8 The Zaporozhian longboat (chajka) according to Beauplan

est’, but according to von Gabain it actually denoted an area in the mountains with forests and well-watered valleys or meadows – terrain suitable for pastoral nomads. According to the Orkhon inscriptions, being in possession of the Ötüken yïsh, which was infused with magical, even sacred, qualities, the Türks were sure to be safe from their enemies and empowered to rule their empire ‘forever’. The Uighur Kaganate (744–840) that succeeded the Gök Türks occupied the same sacred territory. The exact location of the Ötüken Mountains is unknown, but it is assumed to be somewhere in the Khangai range in central Mongolia where the Orkhon River has its source.27 A crucial feature of a refugium was the difficulty of access to it for enemies of its possessors because of its remoteness and/or treacherousness of the terrain on the approaches to it. For example, Ötüken was secure from the Türks’ main rival, T’ang China, thanks to the Göbi Desert that the latter’s armies could not easily cross. Pritsak has developed the notion of refugium further. In his view it was important for a refugium to be in a remote and secure enough place, but not too distant from trade routes or from the limes of sedentary states so that the nomadic power could harass, raid, or blackmail by offering to refrain from acts of violence in exchange for payment.28 Pritsak suggested other places in Eurasia as refugia, for example, Semirechye/Yetisu, that is, the area between Lake Issyk Kul and Lake Balkash for the West Türk Kaganate and later the

27  von Gabain 1950, 33–37. 42–49. 28  Pritsak 1988, 776. – For further comments on refugia and other elements of steppe empires see also Pritsak 1954.

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Türgesh29 and the Blue Forest on the Samara River, an eastern tributary of the Dnipro, for some groupings of the Polovtsians-Qipchaqs.30 He also suggested other places in Eurasia that played a similar historical role to the refugium, but did not apply this term to them. For example, Scandza Island (Scandinavia) was seen by the 6th-century Gothic historian Jordanes as an officiana gentium […] velut vagina nationum (‘manufactory of peoples […] or vagina of nations’). In his narrative, it was from this remote location that the Goths, after building up their population and training it militarily, set out on their conquests.31 Another feature of a refugium, according to Pritsak, was that it served as a military training ground. After a period spent learning the arts of war in the refugium, professional warriors would emerge under the command of a charismatic ruler to raid or establish some form of dominance in the outside world. In Pritsak’s view it was in such remote places that common folk – peasants, pastoralists, or fishermen – would be turned into professional warriors. Such training centers were not only found in Mongolia and Scandinavia in the first millennium, but included the Zaporozhia in the 16th and 17th centuries.32 The aforegoing discussion suggests that the myriad of islands and channels in the Great Meadow of the Zaporozhian Cossacks was very much like the ­refugia of steppe empires. It provided refuge for the cossacks even on the rare occasions that their siches, or palisade or stockade strongholds, were taken by overwhelming forces.33 For taking the sich was not enough to flush the cossacks out of the Zaporozhia as a whole as they could withdraw with their boats and ordnance into the maze of channels and islands of the Great Meadow until it was safe to re-emerge. It was in the concealment of the waterways of the Zaporozhia that the chajka flotillas were constructed and based, though a significant number were also built further north and floated downriver. In this refuge the cossacks could hone their military skills unmolested. And, as in the case of steppe empires, they too would emerge without warning from their 29  Pritsak 1951, 275. 277. 30  Pritsak 1967, 1621–1622. 31  Pritsak 1981, 10–11. – One could apply the same concept to, for instance, the Vikings. 32  Pritsak 1983, 383–385. For more on refugia and other elements of steppe empires see Pritsak 1954, 239–240; see also Golden 2010, 79. – Spatial concepts of nomads and their leaders, including the possible notion of the refugium, is in need of investigation in other contexts. For example, the region of Gerrhus (also the name of a river on the left bank of the Dnipro, as yet not satisfactorily identified), that according to Herodotus was the remotest part of the Scythian realm and a place where the tombs (kurgans) of Scythian kings were erected, can perhaps also be considered as a refugium (Herodotus 1973/1974, 135. 138). 33  For example, when with Ottoman and Moldavian support the Crimean Tatars managed to destroy the first sich on the island of Khortycja in 1557 (Hrushevsky 1999, 93).

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refugium to raid a nearby Eldorado – in this case, the prosperous Ottoman Black Sea.34 Where the Zaporozhian refugium may be considered to have differed from those of steppe empires was the degree to which the latter ascribed sacred qualities to their refugia. In the latter, special rituals would be held, for example during the enthronement of a kagan, and it was there that the divine would impart charisma (qut) upon the ruler.35 While it is true that the Zaporozhians also held special rituals when electing a new leader, more evidence is needed before we can infer the same level of sacrality to the Zaporozhia or their sich strongholds. Yet it is evident that the Dnipro refugium and the Dnipro River in general played a defining role in the self-image, indeed identity, of the Zaporozhians, as well as in their material lifestyle. Thus, in 1630 Polish commissioners who were negotiating an agreement with the Zaporozhians after one of their uprisings, commented most tellingly as follows: […] the Dnieper is their Fatherland, and there is no place like it anywhere. The Don cannot be compared to the Dnieper, or the slavery of those parts to the freedom here: as a fish cannot live out of water, so a Cossack cannot live away from the Dnieper, and whoever owns the Dnieper also owns the Cossacks.36 Whatever the degree of sacredness in the case of the Zaporozhia for the Zaporozhians, the concept of refugium is clearly useful for understanding the degree of causality of physical geography in the formation and nature of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, as well as in appreciating their connections to their 34  Though not as significant as the Great Meadow of the Zaporozhia, there were other regions in the Black Sea steppes that served as refuges and might even qualify as refugia. In 1569 the Polish diplomat Andrzej Taranowski travelled throughout the Black Sea steppes following the Ottoman and Tatar armies during the so-called Don-Volga campaign. Describing the Mius River that flows into the Sea of Azov from the north, Taranowski informs that one of its branches has a small but dense grove that “our cossacks,” that is, the Dnipro rather than Don Cossacks, used as a refuge from the Tatars (and Nogays) of the surrounding steppes and that a mere two hundred of them could hold off several thousand Tatars. What is also interesting is that this grove was apparently more than a onetime refuge since, according to Taranowski, Prince Dmytro Vyshnevec’kyj, the founder of the first Zaporozhian sich, on the Dnipro island of Khortycja in the 1550s, also used this grove as a hiding place; Taranowski even claimed having seen the ruins of Vyshnevec’kyj’s fort there (Holod et al. 2015, 362). Below we will see another cossack refuge/refugium in the Danube delta. 35  von Gabain 1950, 36–37; see also Golden 2010, 79; Golden 2013, 42. 36  Sysyn 1986, 82.

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environment – we have noted that there were other factors behind their formation, be it historical legacy or conjuncture, and we do not propose geographic determinism. While surely both nomadic steppe folk and the Zaporozhians were aware that their habitat protected and empowered them, it is important to remember that the term and the concept of refugium is an invention of modern historians, rather than an explicit concept current in any given historical context. Might our historical actors have had such a notion? If they did, then would there not have been a term or terms denoting it? Von Gabain and Pritsak have suggested that yïsh and quz were essentially synonyms for refugium, but we cannot be sure about this, knowing only that these words denoted two different landscapes – respectively, a mountain-forest-meadow and a place where the sun did not reach, such as the northern side of a mountain.37 In addition it is important to distinguish simple places of refuge that certain physical terrains provide, for example, in partisan warfare, be they forests, mountains, or other terrains, and full-fledged refugia that provide not only refuge, but have a special significance as a center for a social, military, or political formation with possible spiritual or ideological significance.38 4 The Zaporozhian Cossacks as a River People? If refugium is a useful explicatory term for the domain of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, what about the notion of them as a ‘river people/folk/­community’? In contrast to cossacks who served in towns and fortress garrisons of the Commonwealth’s Ukrainian territories, such a classification certainly seems apt. A qualification is necessary, however. In the 17th century the Zaporozhian Host grew in size from thousands to tens of thousands, and could not be 37  von Gabain 1950, 33–34; Pritsak 1955, 249–250. – There are other terms related to refuges that may or may not have denoted refugium. For example, qorug/qorïg, an enclosed area, was used to denote protected places where only the ruler could hunt, but also a place where warfare was rehearsed or where equipment, such as bows and arrows, would be stocked. See Klyashtornyi 2012, 94–97; Golden 2013, 45–46. Peter Golden is engaged on a larger project on the political language of the Medieval Turkic world that will include the questions of refugia, as well as frontiers. 38  Thus were certain areas of the Caucasus Mountains that served as refuges for the Circassians who struggled with the Russians in the 19th century, or for the Chechens in their struggle with the same foe in recent decades: were these simple refuges, or can they be considered refugia? Similarly, might parts of the Hindu Kush Mountains be regarded as refugia for the Afghan mujahideen during the Soviet intervention, or even more recently by the Taliban during the intervention by the Americans and their allies, or were these places too mere refuges?

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Figure 10.9 The Zaporozhia in the 18th century (Zaporozzhya, Encyklopedija ukrajinoznavstva (u 10 tomax). Ed. by V. Kubijovych. Paris and New York: Molode Zhyttja, 1954–1989)

accommodated in their sich stronghold or even in the vicinity of the Dnipro. And by the 18th century the term ‘Zaporozhia’ was applied to territories far beyond the immediate Dnipro, including much of today’s Zaporizhia, Dnipropetrovsk, Kirovohrad, and Donetsk oblasts, that is, much of southern Ukraine. The riverine reference was not lost, however, because practically all of the territorial units established in the 18th century that were based on regiments and known as palankas were named after rivers: Boh, Inhul, Protovcha, Orel, Samara, Kalmijus, and Prohnij.39 We can be sure that for the Ottomans the Zaporozhians, with their exploits in the Black Sea, were very much a people of the river. They are referred to in Ottoman documents and chronicles not only as the ‘Ruthenian (i.e. Ukrainian) Cossacks’ (Rus qazaqlarï), but also as the ‘Dnipro Cossacks’ (often the singular form Özi qazagï was used as a collective, but the plural form Özi qazaqlarï is also attested).40 Their leader was often referred to as the ‘Dnipro Hetman’ (Özi hatmanï).41 39  Palanka 1993. 40  For examples of Özi qazagï see Hacı Mehmed Sena’i 1971, 17. 19–21. 27–28. 33. 38–39. 41. 43–47. 49; Evliya Çelebi 1999a, 75. 101; Evliya Çelebi 1999b, 163; Evliya Çelebi 2001, 96. For Özi qazaklarï see Evliya Çelebi 2001, 95. 41  e.g., Ostapchuk 2011, 374; Letter of Mehmed Gerey IV to Jan Kazimierz, Biblioteka Czartoryzkich [Cracow] 609, p. 61.

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The Zaporozhians were both sailors and infantry, and consequently an amphibious force as well. Moreover, they were innovators in building naval craft, using the reeds that were ubiquitous in their habitat as a strategic material. As Beauplan informs us in the last passage from his work quoted above, they bundled reeds into fasces and attached these to the sides of their keelless river boats, making these vessels stable in high seas and giving them a buoyancy that rendered them difficult to sink, apparently even after taking in much water. Moreover, the Zaporozhians were adept at utilizing reedbeds to conceal themselves, not only within their habitat, but also on the shores of the Black Sea and in its other rivers. When overwhelmed by Ottoman naval forces along a coast, their go-to tactic was to head for shallow waters (particularly on the northern shores, which from the Danube to the Crimea and in the Azov Sea are particularly shallow) or river mouths, where galleys could not reach them; once they disappeared into the extensive reedbeds, it was difficult for the Ottomans to pursue them.42 The Danube delta, for instance, with its maze of channels and reedbeds, provided a forward refuge, perhaps even temporary refugium for the cossacks. They were known to ensconce themselves there for months at a time, even over the winter, and raid Ottoman Danubian shipping and nearby villages, while the delta’s fishing grounds provided them with sustenance.43 Most telling of the close connection between cossacks and wetland landscapes, such as reedbeds, is this statement made by a cossack in 1638 expressing delight that his fellows had taken possession of the Ottoman fortress of Azaq (Azov) and can now live in a town with proper buildings including roofs and even palaces: “thus far we have only sought places in the reeds; under any reed there lived a cossack.”44 It is unclear whether this statement refers to cossacks in general or specifically to the Don or Zaporozhian Cossacks, but it would be a most fitting, albeit hyperbolic, characterization of the latter, whose Dnipro refugium was a virtual jungle of reeds, surpassing anywhere on the Don. In any event, it is no surprise that one of the names that the Ottomans used for the Zaporozhian Cossacks, even in official correspondence, was ‘Cossacks of the Yellow Reed’45 (Sarï Qamïsh qazaqlarï), while their leader could even be referred to as ‘Hetman of the Army of the Yellow Reed’ (Sarï Qamïsh ‘askerinün

42  Ostapchuk 1987, 58–60. 79. 83. 88. 92. 95. – For a text, translation, and commentary of Katib Chelebi’s account of Piyale Kethüda’s encounter with the cossacks near Kerch Strait and up the Kuban River in 1638 see Ostapchuk et al. 1996, 383–394. 413–416. 43  Ostapchuk 2001, 64–65. 44  Novosel’skij 1948, 271. – In 1637 the Don Cossacks together with the Zaporozhians captured this fortress on the mouth of the Don River and held it until 1642. 45  Pritsak 1953, 293–295.

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hatmanï).46 In other documents they are referred to as the ‘island cossacks’ (ada qazaqlarï).47 Just as our knowledge of the origins of Ukrainian, or for that matter Slavic cossackdom in general, is at best vague because of the paucity of sources, so too we know little of how the Zaporozhians learned to thrive in a river environment and eventually become able mariners. One possibility is acquisition of skills by trial and error, combined with willingness to take huge risks. In their eagerness to plunder in the Black Sea they were surely capable of great courage as well as foolhardiness. Their skill and boldness on the sea, as well as their heavy losses, are evident from Ottoman sources. For example, reports by Ottoman naval commanders show that the cossacks ventured out to sea when the weather made sailing perilous, and even towards or beyond the end of the Ottomans’ naval campaign season.48 On the other hand, the first Zaporozhians may have tapped into knowhow on boat construction and sailing that was current among whatever earlier river folk that lived on the lower Dnipro – Turkic, Slavic, or other. There were a number of river crossings along and below the rapids that, for example, served the Tatars on their slaving raids into Ukraine to the west of the Dnipro. These crossings were presumably operated by professional ferrymen who possessed expertise that would have been of use to the cossacks in their formative period; we recall here that in the 14th century the Turks owed their maritime careers as ‘sea gazis’ in the Aegean Sea to cooperation with indigenous Greek mariners and transfer of naval technology from them.49 In addition, sources from the 12th and 13th centuries have fragmentary references to a group of unknown ethnicity living on the lower stretches of the Danube, Dnister, and Don Rivers, that the Slavic sources call brodniki, which means ‘those of the brod, or ford’; though they are attested on these rivers, given the sparcity of sources referring to them one cannot rule out their being on the Dnipro as well. Very little is known about this group beyond their purported profession of manning river crossings. Even their name is problematic, for it implies that they were running fords, which would mean that boats were not necessary. However, the major rivers in this region were not fordable, and so the brodniki might well have been ferrymen. They were apparently also warriors: in the chronicles they are mentioned as fighting in the Battle of the Kalka River in 1223, switching sides and joining the Mongols to defeat the allied Rus’ 46  Pritsak 1953, 293; Riedlmayer et al. 1984, 457–458. 469. 472. 47  Bennigsen 1978, 177. 48  Ostapchuk 1987, 60. 94. 98–100. – Traditionally the Ottoman fleet’s campaign season was over by the Ruz-i Qasïm (26 October O.S., in the 17th century 5 November N.S.) and its ships were to be back in their home ports. 49  cf. Inalcik 1985, 183–185.

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and Polovtsian-Qipchaq forces. In any event, it has been suggested, and this is recognized by historians as speculation at best, that they may have played some role in the origins of Slavic cossackdom.50 One way or another, there is the possibility that the cossacks of the Dnipro acquired boatmaking and sailing capability from populations there that preceded them. It is perhaps no accident that practically all the various Slavic cossack groupings were associated with rivers, both by name and physical location (Dnipro, Don, Terek, Iaik, Volga). Their activities, however, were not restricted to their river. For example, the Zaporozhians were a formidable infantry force and ranged in their campaigns far from the Dnipro, from Moldavia to the Baltic to Muscovy. Similarly the Don Cossacks were adept as cavalry. Yet without investigations along the lines carried out here, it is premature to consider the Don, Terek, and other Russian cossacks to have been river folk to the extent that the Zaporozhians were. Similar to the Zaporozhians, the Don Cossacks had a storied career on the Black Sea, yet the physical geography of the lower Don did not provide a refugium resembling that of the lower Dnipro (this fact must give us pause in making categorical claims about the pivotal role of the Zaporozhians’ physical geography in their origins and eventual characteristics and identity). And as with the Zaporozhians, we will probably never know how the Don Cossacks learned to navigate on the Black Sea. The fact that the two groups are known to have mounted sea raids together, and that when the Commonwealth succeeded in suppressing the Zaporozhians (particularly after the uprisings of 1637 and 1638) many of them relocated to the Don, suggests that there might very well have been some transfer of maritime knowhow from the former to the latter. What is undeniable is that the historical role of Ukrainian cossackdom, in which the Zaporozhians played a central part, was far greater than that of the various cossack groups on the Don and further east. While the latter remained essentially a frontier phenomenon marginal to Muscovy/the Russian Empire, cossackdom in Ukraine followed a very different path. After the Khotyn campaign of 1621, in which the Zaporozhians played a key role in the Commonwealth’s effective defeat of the Ottoman army led by Sultan Osman II, their hetman, Petro Sahajdachnyj, enrolled the entire Zaporozhian Host into the influential Kyiv Brotherhood (confraternity), and cossackdom became an integral part of the Orthodox revival and the struggle against Polish-Catholic hegemony. Soon after, with the Khmelnytsky revolt and the formation of a cossack polity, the cossack officer class became the immediate rulers in their lands until cossack autonomy and the Hetmanate were abolished in the late eighteenth century by Catherine II.51 50  Pritsak 1965, 93–94. 51  Kohut 1988.

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Following the elimination of cossackdom from the territories of present day Ukraine by the Russian Empire and the transfer of the remaining Zaporozhians to the eastern Azov Sea and the Kuban valley, the cossack epoch continued to resonate in the realm of Ukrainian historical consciousness and identity. What is pertinent for present purposes is that in modern times, hand in hand with the memory of cossackdom, the notion of the centrality of the Dnipro River in the fate of Ukraine has played a role in Ukrainian national consciousness. The intimate connections between the river and its people over the past millennium has been expressed in folk songs, poems, and statements. For example, the line “The sich is the mother, the Great Meadow the father, and there one must also die” in a folk song frequently cited in 19th-century works is a likely echo of attitudes to the Dnipro River and its environs from the times of the Cossack Hetmanate.52 Further such examples can be found in a new monograph by Roman Cybriwsky entitled Along Ukraine’s River: A Social and Environmental History of the Dnipro River. In the late 1920s, for instance, prior to the flooding of the rapids, Dmytro Javornyc’kyj, who authored several important books on the Zaporozhians, expressed the following sentiment when touring the rapids on a final expedition before their flooding: The Dnipro, mighty, wide, full-flowing, rich in fish, the Dnipro, with its lush green bottomlands, waters teaming with life, bountiful with great varieties of birds, animal life, and forests; such a Dnipro could not have failed to catch the rapt attention of the first human to see it.53 Even stronger is the lament in the following stanzas of a 19th-century folk song: Where the waves of our Dnipro roll, swift rapids roars It is there where Ukraine’s green bounty unfolds And there too was born the fight for freedom by the Cossacks of Ukraine. The Zaporozhian Host is no more, there is no hetman Across the steppes of Ukraine now clang the chains of slaves And like the sun over the field, a bird awaits resurrection and freedom.54 The destruction of this iconic historical landscape, with the damming of the river and the inundation of the Dnipro Rapids and the Great Meadow during the Soviet era, is still commonly viewed as a wound inflicted on the Ukrainian 52  Javornyc’kyj 1990, 27–28. 53  Cybriwsky 2018, 10. 54  Cybriwsky 2018, 66.

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national psyche. The persistence of this emotional attachment to the Dnipro River suggests that, mythic aspects apart, the sentiments of connectedness to this river expressed since the elimination of the Hetmanate can be considered an authentic legacy of the Zaporozhian Cossacks as a true river people. 5 Conclusion The protective and empowering nature of the Zaporozhian habitat is very reminiscent of the habitats of Eurasian steppe nomads, to which some historians, most notably von Gabain and Pritsak, have applied the Latin term refugium. Aside from providing a safe haven, the waterworld of the Great Meadow afforded the Zaporozhian community various levels of identification with this environment. There are of course distinctions to be made, because the cossacks were not pastoral nomads, nor even semi-nomads, and their social and political formations cannot therefore be equated with those of typical steppe societies, despite their relations with the latter. So too, the notion of refugium needs more exacting scrutiny and more rigorous definition. Comparative study of historical communities and their specific circumstances, both in the Eurasian world and beyond, should help clarify the usefulness and applicability of refugium as an analytical concept, revealing whether it is a well-defined phenomenon or merely an impressionistic notion. The Zaporozhian Cossacks are a striking example of how a great river, and the particularities of its physical and human geography, can play a crucial, defining role in the origin and development of a social formation. Thanks to the Dnipro Rapids and the Great Meadow, adventurers of primarily Ukrainian ethnicity managed to establish possession of a rich ecological niche by learning how to survive and prevail in the face of predominately hostile elements in the surrounding steppe. Contact with steppe Tatars and adaptation of the post-Mongol institution of qazaqlïq led to the formation of Ukrainian cossackdom (and also several other strains of Slavic cossackdom further east). The complexity of the countless channels and islands of the Zaporozhia provided not only a safe haven, but also a platform from which to launch forays into the steppe and, with the acquisition of a naval capacity, raids to far-off corners of the Ottoman Black Sea. That so many of the primarily Ukrainian and Russian cossack groups of the northern Black and Caspian Sea steppes were associated by name and location with rivers – the Dnipro, Don, Volga, Iaik, and Terek – leaves no doubt that the region’s fluvial spaces played an important role in their formation and eventual nature. In the case of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, without overemphasizing

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physical geography and thereby underemphasizing historical deveopments it is safe to say that their Dnipro habitat played a most crucial role in their development and identity. Bibliography Abrahamowicz 1969: Abrahamowicz, Z., Staraja tureckaja karta Ukrainy s planom vzryva dneprovskix porogov i ataki tureckogo flota na Kiev, in: Tveritinova, A. S. (ed.), Vostochnye istochniki po istorii narodov Jugo-Vostochnoj i Central’noj Evropy, vol. 2 (Moscow 1969) 76–97. Beauplan 1993: Guillaume Le Vasseur Beauplan, A Description of Ukraine. Trans. and ed. by A. B. Pernal and D. F. Essar (Cambridge, Mass. 1993). Bennigsen et al. 1978: Bennigsen, A. – Boratav, P. N. – Desaive, D. – Chantal Lemercier-Quelquejay, Ch. (eds.), Le khanat de Crimée dans les Archives du Musée du Palais de Topkapı, Publication de l’Équipe de Recherche Associée 529. Histoire de l’Europe Orientale et de l’Empire Ottoman d’après les Fonds d’Archives Turcs (Paris/ The Hague 1978). Brexunenko 2011: Brexunenko, V., Kozaky na stepovomu kordoni Jevropy. Typolohija kozac’kyx spil’not XVI-pershoji polovyny XVII st. (Kyiv 2011). Cybriwsky 2018: Cybriwsky, R. A., Along Ukraine’s River. A Social and Environmental History of the Dnipro River (Budapest/New York 2018). Dawson 1980: Dawson, C. (ed.), Mongol Mission (Toronto 1980) [accounts of John of Plano di Carpini and William Rubruck]. Evliya Çelebi 1999a: Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 2. Topkapı Sarayı Kütüphanesi Bağdat 304 Numaralı Yazmanın Transkripsiyonu – Dizini. Ed. by S. A. Kahraman and Y. Dağlı (Istanbul 1999). Evliya Çelebi 1999b: Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 3. Topkapı Sarayı Kütüphanesi Bağdat 305 Numaralı Yazmanın Transkripsiyonu – Dizini. Ed. by Z. Kurşun, S. A. Kahraman, Y. Dağlı (Istanbul 1999). Evliya Çelebi 2001: Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 5. Topkapı Sarayı Kütüphanesi Bağdat 307 Numaralı Yazmanın Transkripsiyonu – Dizini. Ed. by Y. Dağlı, S. A. Kahraman, İ. Sezgin (Istanbul 2001). Fisher 1972: Fisher, A., Muscovy and the Black Sea Slave Trade, Canadian-American Slavic Studies 6, 1972, 575–594. von Gabain 1950: von Gabain, A., Steppe und Stadt im Leben der ältesten Türken, Der Islam 29, 1950, 30–62. Golden 2010: Golden, P., Türk Imperial Tradition in the Pre-Chinggisid Era, in: Sneath, D. – Kaploinski, C. (eds.), The History of Mongolia, vol. 1. The pre-Chinggisid Era, Chinggis Khan and the Mongol Empire (Folkestone 2010) 68–95.

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Golden 2013: Golden, P., Courts and Court Culture in Proto-urban and Urban Developments among Pre-Chinggisid Turkic Peoples, in: Durand-Guédy, D. (ed.), Turko-Mongol Rulers, Cities and City Life (Leiden/Boston 2013) 21–73. Hacı Mehmed Sena’i 1971: Historia Chana Islama Gereja III. Trans. and ed. by Z. Abrahamowicz, ed. by O. Górka, Z. Wójcik (Warsaw 1971). Herodotus 1973/1974: Herodotus: On the Scythians, in: From the Lands of the ­Scythians. Ancient Treasures from the Museums of the U.S.S.R. 3000 B.C.–100 B.C, Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 32 (5), 1973/1974, 129–149. Holod et al. 2015: Holod, R. – Halenko, O., The Harsh Landscapes of “Mother Sarmatia”. Steppe Ukraine through the Eyes of a Sixteenth-Century Polish Diplomat, in: Koropeckyj, R. – Tarnawsky, M. – Koznarsky, T. (eds.), ЖНИВА. Essays Presented in Honor of George G. Grabowicz on His Seventieth Birthday, Harvard Ukrainian Studies 32–33 (2011–2014) (Cambridge, Mass. 2015) 349–76. Hrushevsky 1999: Hrushevsky, M., History of Ukraine-Rus’, vol. 7. The Cossack Age to 1625. Trans. by B. Strumiński, ed. by S. Plokhy and F. E. Sysyn (Edmonton/Toronto 1999). Inalcik 1985: Inalcik, H., The Rise of the Turcoman Maritime Principalities in Anatolia, Byzantium, and Crusades, Byzantinische Forschungen 9, 1985, 179–217. Javornyc’kyj 1990: Javornyc’kyj, D., Istorija zaporiz’kyx kozakiv v trjox tomax, vol. 1. Trans. by I. Svarnyk (Lviv 1990). al-Kashgari 1982: al-Kashgari, M., Compendium of the Turkic Dialects (Diwan Lugat al-Turk), vol 1, Sources of Oriental Languages and Literatures. Turkish Sources 7 (Cambridge, Mass. 1982). Kizilov 2005: Kizilov, M., Black Sea and Slave Trade. The Role of Crimean Maritime Towns in Trade in Slaves and Captives in the Fifteenth to Eighteenth Centuries, International Journal of Maritime History 17, 2005, 211–235. Kizilov 2007: Kizilov, M., Slave Trade in Early Crimea from the Perspective of Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Sources, Journal of Early Modern History 11, 2007, 1–31. Klyashtornyi 2012: Klyashtornyi, S., Qasar-qurug. Western Headquarters of the Uighur Khagans and the Problem of Por-Bazhyn Identification, Archaeology, Ethnology and Anthropology of Eurasia 40, 2012, 94–97. Kohut 1988: Kohut, Z. E., Russian Centralism and Ukrainian Autonomy. Imperial Absorption of the Hetmanate, 1760s–1830s, Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute Monograph Series (Cambridge, Mass. 1988). Kołodziejczyk 2006: Kołodziejczyk, D., Slave Hunting and Slave Redemption as a Business Enterprise. The Northern Black Sea Region in the Sixteenth to Seventeenth Centuries, Oriente Moderno N. S. 25 (86), 2006, 149–159. Konstantin 1991: Konstantin Bagranorodnyj [Constantine Porphyrogenitus], Ob upravlenii imperiej. Tekst, perevod, kommentarij. Ed. by G. G. Litavrin and A. P. Novosel’cev (2nd ed. Moscow 1991).

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Kubijovyč 1984: Kubijovyč, V., Dnipro Rapids, Internet Encylopedia of Ukraine, 1984, [online] Available at: [Accessed 10 April 2018]. Lassota 1975: Lassota, E., Habsburgs and Zaporozhian Cossacks. The Diary of Erich Lassota von Steblau, 1594. Trans. by O. Subtelny, ed. by L. Wynar (Littleton, Colo. 1975). Lee 2016: Lee, J.-Y., Qazaqlïq, or Ambitious Brigandage and the Formation of the Qazaqs. State and Identity in Post-Mongol Central Eurasia (Leiden/Boston 2016). Novosel’skij 1948: Novosel’skij, A., Bor’ba Moskovskogo gosudarstva s tatarami v pervoj polovine XVII veka (Moscow/Leningrad 1948). Okolski 1896: Okolski, S., Dnevnik Simeona Okol’skogo, 1637–1638, in: Memuary, otnosjashchiesja k istorii Juzhnoj Rusi. Trans. by K. Mel’nik (Kyiv 1896). Ostapchuk 1987: Ostapchuk, V., Five Documents from the Topkapı Palace Archive on the Ottoman Defense of the Black Sea against the Cossacks (1639), in: Lewis, B. – Pritsak, O. – Tekin, G. A. – Tekin, S. – Veinstein, G. (eds.), Raiyyet Rüsûmu. Essays Presented to Halil Inalcik on his Seventieth Birthday by his Colleagues and Students = Journal of Turkish Studies 11, 1987, 49–104. Ostapchuk 2001: Ostapchuk, V., The Human Landscape of the Ottoman Black Sea in the Face of the Cossack Naval Raids, in: Fleet, K. (ed.), The Ottomans and the Sea = Oriente Moderno N. S. 20, 2001, 23–95. Ostapchuk 2011: Ostapchuk, V., Political-Personal Intrigue on the Ottoman Frontier in Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytsky’s Relations with the Porte. The Case of Ramażān Beg vs. Velī Beg, in: Andriewsky, O. A. – Kohut, Z. E. – Plokhy, S. – Wolff, L. (eds.), Tentorium Honorium. Essays Presented to Frank E. Sysyn on His Sixtieth Birthday = Journal of Ukrainian Studies 34 (2008/2009) (Edmonton/Toronto 2011) 365–379. Ostapchuk et al. 1996: Ostapchuk, V. – Halenko, O., Kozac’ki chornomors’ki poxody u mors’kij istoriji Kjatiba Chelebi “Dar velykix muzhiv u vojuvanni moriv”, in: Mappa mundi. Studia in honorem Jaroslavi Dashkevych septuagenario dedicata (New York/Kyiv/Lviv 1996) 341–426. Palanka 1993: Palanka, Internet Encyclopedia of Ukraine, [online] Available at: [Accessed 10 April 2018]. Pritsak 1951: Pritsak, O., Von den Karluk zu den Karachaniden, ZDMG 101 (n.F. 26), 270–300. Pritsak 1953: Pritsak, O., Das erste türkisch-ukrainische Bündnis (1648), Oriens 6, 1953, 266–298. Pritsak 1954: Pritsak, O., Kultur und Sprache der Hunnen, in: Vasmer, M. (ed.), Festschrift für Dmytro Čyževs’kyj zum 60 Geburtstag am 23. März 1954, Veröffentlichungen der Abteilung für Slavische Sprachen und Literaturen des Osteuropa-Instituts (Slavisches Seminar) an der Freien Universität Berlin 6 (Wiesbaden 1954) 238–249.

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Pritsak 1955: Pritsak, O., Qara. Studie zur türkischen Rechtssymbolik, in: Zeki Velidi Togan’a Armağan (Istanbul 1955) 239–263. Pritsak 1965: Pritsak, O., Deremela = Brodnyky, International Journal of Slavic Linguistics and Poetics 9, 1965, 82–96. Pritsak 1967: Pritsak, O., Non-‘Wild’ Polovtsians, in: To Honor Roman Jakobson. Essays on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday, Ianua linguarum. Series maior 32 (The Hague/Paris 1967) 1615–1623. Pritsak 1981: Pritsak, O., The Origin of Rus’, vol. 1. Old Scandinavian Sources other than the Sagas, Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute Monograph Series (Cambridge, Mass. 1981). Pritsak 1983: Pritsak, O., The Slavs and the Avars, in: Gli Slavi occidentali e meridionali nell’alto medioevo, 15–21 aprile 1982, Settimane di studio del centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo 30 (Spoleto 1983) 353–432. Pritsak 1988: Pritsak, O., The Distinctive Features of the “Pax Nomadicaˮ, in: Popoli delle steppe. Unni, Avari, Ungari, 23–29 aprile 1987, Settimane di studio del centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo 35 (Spoleto 1988) 749–788. Riedlmayer et al. 1984: Riedlmayer, A. – Ostapchuk, V., Bohdan Xmel’nyc’kyj and the Porte. A Document from the Ottoman Archives, Harvard Ukrainian Studies 8, 1984, 453–473. Sysyn 1986: Sysyn, F., Between Poland and Ukraine. The Dilemma of Adam Kysil 1600– 1653, Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute Monograph Series (Cambridge, Mass. 1986).

Christopher Morris

The American River? The Mississippi River in Global Historical Perspective In February, 1863, in the midst of the United States Civil War, Alfred H. Guernsey of Harper’s Monthly magazine published an editorial, in which he proclaimed that North American geography, and in particular, the Mississippi River, had made the Union indivisible. “It is impossible to overestimate the influence of the Mississippi River system in binding all the area drained by it into one organic whole.” The “great Mississippi Valley can not without suicidal folly consent to be dismembered.” Guernsey concluded that there was just no way of dividing the river. “Nature had made none, and so no one can be permanent.” Moreover, the Mississippi Valley was huge. “In extent it is the second great valley of the world, being exceeded only by that of the Amazon,” and exceeding in extent “the whole of Europe, exclusive of Russia, Norway, and Sweden. It would contain Austria four times, Germany or Spain five times, France six times, the British Islands or Italy ten times.” Whereas the people of Europe remained divided by ethnic and cultural differences, the people of America were “fused into a homogeneous whole” and into a single “American race,” by the vast Mississippi Valley. Left out of this “American race” were, of course, Americans of African ancestry, who, Guernsey was certain, would wither in the temperate climate of North America. However, Africans had a river valley of their own to settle, for just as Europeans moved west into the Mississippi Valley where they became a single race, so would Africans move into the Amazon Valley and make it their own. Leading the way would be those Africans who had benefitted from the tutoring in civilization received during the course of their North American sojourn.1 For Guernsey, the Mississippi River explained the Union cause in the Civil War. Never mind the Emancipation Proclamation issued by President Lincoln just a few weeks earlier; the chief editor assured Harper’s readers that the war would see the rebirth of a new nation peopled by a single white race. The Mississippi River connected most of the continent into a single space, with a temperate climate suitable for Europeans of all sorts. Here diversity would merge to form a distinct people and nation, as distinct as the Mississippi was from the rivers of Europe, Africa, and South America. Guernsey concluded 1  Guernsey 1863, 415–417.

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by imagining the river as a metaphor for the United States. “The basin of the Mississippi is the body of the nation,” he wrote, and “To dismember it is death.”2 Since Europeans first settled in the interior of North America over three centuries ago, the Mississippi River has rarely been considered in any way other than through a global perspective. The Harper’s editorial of 1863 places the Mississippi within the context of the world’s great river systems, connecting history and space to make a case for the indivisibility of a white nation that was unlike any other the world had seen. To be sure, the imperatives of this particular discussion of the Mississippi River were entirely of the moment. Nevertheless, other moments in the history of the river produced other writers who made their own global comparisons. Four such moments stand out: the early eighteenth-century effort by France to establish a colony on the Mississippi River Delta; the mid-nineteenth-century studies and proposals of engineers to control flooding along the Mississippi; the twentieth century global trade in fish and shellfish from river delta environments; finally, the discussion, ongoing since Hurricane Katrina, to understand the problems of New Orleans within a global context of river deltas struggling with climate change, rising oceans, and river control. 1 France and the Mississippi River Delta In 1699, Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville arrived from France at the mouth of the Mississippi River, where he was to establish a settlement. Iberville and his men found their task to be more difficult than expected. The delta wetlands and the river’s frequent inundations of even the highest ground around frustrated efforts to construct quarters and to plant familiar food crops, such as wheat, a French staple. For the French, including those who were Canadian-born – Iberville was born in Montreal – the Mississippi River delta was unfamiliar geography, to which they adapted slowly, through trial and error. Not until 1718 did they establish New Orleans, their first permanent settlement in the delta wetlands.3 Success came when French authorities began to perceive in the delta a natural environment that was perhaps not entirely unique. Antoine Crozat, who held the proprietary charter for the Louisiana colony, thought the delta was “to some degree like China.” Crozat had made money in the China trade, centered at Canton, on the edge of the Pearl River delta. That he never visited 2  Guernsey 1863, 416. 3  Dowdy 2009; Powell 2013.

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China or America probably helped him to imagine similarities between them that agents on the ground failed to see. “One is able to cultivate in Louisiana as much rice as one wants,” Crozat wrote, and to make silk “from the quantity of mulberry trees that are found naturally” in a countryside. He was mistaken about the silk and mulberry trees, but within a few years the Louisiana colony was feeding itself on rice.4 In 1751 French horticulturalist Joseph-Francois Charpentier de Cossigny visited Canton. In a memoir he recorded his impression of the scene along the Pearl River: “The immense quantity of boats, going and coming, the flooded plains which present rice fields, on which one sees sailing some boats, the towers placed on the river banks, the picturesque mountains.” He recalled the Mississippi River, where, he had read, the marshes “are covered with wild oat, which rises in tufts with the top of water, and which the savages make each year of abundant harvests; they reduce this grain to flour, by crushing it in a mortar.” Charpentier de Cossigny proposed turning wetlands in France into productive rice fields, following the Chinese and Native American examples, an idea he further developed in a book on the wetlands of India’s Bengal delta.5 The French engaged four river deltas at about the same time. In 1638 they built a trading post on the delta at the mouth of the Senegal River. In 1674 they established themselves at Pondicherry, on the Coromandel Coast of presentday Chennai, where they traded for rice and cotton textiles produced in the nearby Kaveri River delta. Then, in 1738, they moved onto the Kaveri delta directly, following successful negotiations with the King of Thanjavur for dominion over several delta villages. In 1687 Chinese authorities permitted a French Jesuit mission, and soon after, a French trade office, at Canton (present-day Guangzhou), abutting the upper Pearl River delta. Finally, in 1718, came the establishment of New Orleans on the Mississippi River delta. In addition, some visitors to the Mississippi River were familiar with deltas in Europe. For example, Charpentier de Cossigny may have visited the Camargue, as the Rhone River delta is known, but even if not, he surely knew about it from his father, who was born in the nearby city of Marseille.6 French officials imported hundreds of West Africans from wetland ricegrowing regions of Senegambia, to develop agriculture in the Mississippi River delta on Indian and Chinese models. The French looked at the Mississippi River and saw the Pearl River, and so they went to the Senegal River for laborers 4  Crozat n. d.; Crozat 1716, 55–56; Ménard 2017. 5  Morris 2011, 135–163; Charpentier de Cossigny 1799a, 72. 124–129. 342; Charpentier de Cossigny 1799b, 175–220. 6  Gray 1958, 246–249.

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familiar with delta agriculture. Whereas the nineteenth-century Harper’s editorial imagined the Mississippi River as exclusive, as the body of a nation rightfully peopled only by the descendants of white Europeans, French colonial authorities imagined that same river as inclusive, as the basis for a society built by Europeans on Indian and Chinese models with African laborers, a blend of cultures and histories all in the command of the French. Both French colonials and U.S. nationals shared ideas of geographical determinism and white supremacy. River deltas can take different shapes. The Rhone River delta is the largest in Western Europe. The combined effects of river sediment deposition and Mediterranean Sea erosion have made for a broad delta that, like the Bengal delta, does not protrude into the sea. The Kaveri River crosses its delta in three channels of approximately equal size, giving it the more typical fan shape, similar to the Nile River delta. China’s Pearl River delta is situated at the confluence of several rivers and a shattering of channels. It is a relatively recent formation, the result of upriver deforestation and agriculture that produced the sediment that has filled much of the broad Pearl River basin. The Mississippi now has two large channels, including the Atchafalaya River, its largest distributary, and several small ones. From east of New Orleans west to the outlet of the Atchafalaya, the delta sprawls along the Louisiana coastline for over one hundred miles, although it is the birdfoot portion of the delta, where the main channel reaches into the Gulf of Mexico, that is the formation’s most distinguishing feature. The coastal deltas of meandering, silted rivers are similar the world over. Broad, flat marsh-grass savannahs only a few inches above sea level, peppered with small tree-covered islands, they are ecotones, middle grounds between freshwater river and saltwater sea. Although delta environments are harsh, they are also highly productive of plant and animal life. In the Mississippi Delta, terrestrial creatures such as raccoons and otters procure oysters and other estuarial shellfish. Shrimp and herring feed on planktons that thrive on the bacteria-laden soils and plant detritus brought downriver. Sharks, dolphins and other deep water creatures sometimes arrive from off shore, and move upriver, attracted by fish. The roots of cord grasses and other marshland plants catch sediment, holding it in place to create wetland. Over time, here and there, sediment can accumulate to a height sufficient to support oak and other trees that cannot tolerate salt or very much water. The differences between the four places incorporated into the eighteenthcentury French world stand out to our eyes. The Pearl and Kaveri river deltas were heavily populated and intensely cultivated. The Mississippi River delta

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was sparsely populated and only lightly touched in a few places by cultivation. The Senegal delta fell between these extremes. However, the similarities should not be overlooked, for they were what caught the attention of Crozat, Charpentier de Cossigny, and others. For expansionist Europeans, large rivers offered access to the interiors of foreign continents. Not all the rivers they encountered had deltas, of course, the St. Lawrence, Amazon, and the Congo, being prominent examples. But the Mississippi, the Orinoco, and the Senegal, among many others, had broad, flat deltas, and they would have been familiar terrain for any European sailors who had visited the Rhone delta in France, the Po delta in Italy, or the RhineMeuse-Scheldt delta in the Netherlands. These low, wet spaces were middle ground between sea and land, and often served as staging areas for continental contest and conquest. In 1699, French encountered native peoples on the Mississippi delta, who helped them to select a dry location for a fort. They had just begun to establish themselves when an English ship challenged them. At a bend in the river below present-day New Orleans, memorialized by the name English Turn, the French forced the English captain to bring his ship about and head back out to sea. Over six decades the French succeeded in colonizing the Mississippi River delta by imagining it not as a uniquely American geography, but as a familiar space, and even as a global space. At the end of the Seven Years’ War, France transferred to Spain a modified landscape of rice, indigo, and sugarcane fields, of plantation villages and the small but vital town of New Orleans. Much of this landscape lay behind a low but nearly continuous earthen wall intended to separate land from water. One might have squinted and seen something of what Antoine Crozat had envisioned, a river delta that resembled the Pearl and Bengal deltas. 2 American Engineers and the Mississippi River In the nineteenth century, U.S. engineers grappled with the problem of flood control along the lower Mississippi River, and in so doing, they learned about the successes and failures of other engineers who worked on similar rivers around the world. The emerging science of hydrology sorted rivers into types based on common behaviors, regardless of size or location. Thus, for example, hydrologists placed the Mississippi, a meandering river with a delta, in the same category as the Nile, the Brahmaputra, and the Po. However, America’s leading river engineer at the time was highly skeptical of the generalizations

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produced by hydrological theory. He was more inclined to see the Mississippi River as exceptional, as not usefully comparable to any other river, and therefore as resistant to theory. In the summer of 1854, Andrew Atkinson Humphreys returned from a tour of the Po, Rhone, Vistula, and Neman rivers in Europe, and began his study of the Mississippi River. Humphreys was the chief of the Army Engineers, and he had been charged with devising a plan for controlling the Mississippi. Since the days of the French governors, many methods had been proposed, often based on the successful flood control projects along other rivers. For example, the French compared the Mississippi to the Loire, and proposed planting rice and Louisiana cypress trees to control flooding and disease in the Loire Valley. They also drew on the experiences of the seventeenth-century engineers who constructed the Canal du Midi in the south of France, to connect the Garonne River to the Mediterranean.7 In 1861 Humphreys completed his report, co-authored with his assistant, Henry Larcom Abbot. In nearly six hundred pages of pedantic discussions of hydraulics, the best methods of gauging velocity and discharge, and theories of water in motion, supported with over one hundred pages of tabulated gauge registers, soundings, velocities, and computed dimensions of river crosssections, the report built a case for flood control with levees only. Whereas others recommended cut-offs, spillways, and contraptions called wing dikes, Humphreys claimed that his study proved that the mighty Mississippi could be tamed with a wall of levees down each side, from Cape Girardeau in presentday Missouri to the Gulf of Mexico.8 Humphreys and Abbot believed that no theory derived from data taken from other rivers could usefully be applied to the Mississippi River. Other engineers might compare the Mississippi to Italy’s Po, or Germany’s Rhine, or India’s Ganges, but they were mistaken. Humphrey’s had seen Europe’s rivers and he believed the Mississippi River was like none of them. In part because Humphrey’s was a committed empiricist, but also because he was midnineteenth century American nationalist, and an officer in the U.S. Army, he thoroughly believed the Mississippi was exceptional and therefore had to be understood on its own terms. Knowledge of other rivers, he was convinced, would not take engineers very far toward understanding how to control the Mississippi, an American river rooted in geography as exceptional as the American nation.

7  Sutton 1977, 252; Mukerji 1997; De Cubières 1809. 8  Humphreys 1924, 142; Humphreys et al. 1861, 30. 417.

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Charles Ellet was Humphrey’s primary rival, and his own report, also sponsored with Congressional funding, could not have been more different. Completed in just two years, and coming in at half the length, it considered the Mississippi River not as unique, but as typical of meandering streams with broad floodplains and large deltas. For Ellet, such rivers were giant machines that moved water and earth, in some cases in great quantities, over thousands of miles, according to laws that predicted the effects of interactions of water with land.9 A good example of the different approaches of Humphreys and Ellet to the problem of flood control can be found in their disagreement over the question of the effect of levees on the riverbed in the lowest reaches of the river. Reviewing the research of Italians Antonio Tadini and Elia Lombardini on the Po, where levees had raised the riverbed and increased the risk of flooding, Ellet warned that a levees-only policy along the Mississippi similarly could increase the long-term risk of flooding. Humphreys countered that levees, by constricting the river and increasing force of flow, would scour and deepen the channel. Ellet argued otherwise, pointing out that Humphreys had not taken into account the elongation of the channel that would result from sedimentary deposition at the river’s mouths. Ellet granted that the process would occur gradually – his estimate was twenty centuries – and so the issue was of no real concern. Nevertheless, Ellet’s point was that the Mississippi behaved like other, similar rivers, and for that reason much could be learned by comparative analysis. Humphreys disputed the facts of the Po River, not so much because they mattered – Ellet had conceded they did not – but to advance his case that to study the Po was not to learn about the Mississippi, and that only he had provided a full study of America’s great river. Ellet viewed delta elongation as a natural process of all delta rivers. Humphreys would have none of that.10 All the delta rivers studied and engineered in Europe and India drained water from high mountains, the Alps and the Himalayas, Humphreys claimed, whereas the Mississippi, in contrast, “is emphatically a river which drains a plain.” Most of the Mississippi’s waters consisted of rain that fell in the valley, not in the highlands. In addition, the Mississippi’s tributaries were much larger than those of other rivers. They served as navigable arteries but they presented their own flood problems. These “peculiarities” of the Mississippi meant that flood control devices, 9   Ellet 1853. 10  Humphreys et al. 1861, 14. 15; Ellet 1853, 64–77. Thomassy 1860, 175, argued, correctly as it turns out, that the riverbed was rising in its lower reaches from accumulated deposits of sediment.

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such as reservoir lakes, while effective in Europe, simply would not work on America’s great river. Flood control along the Mississippi had to be based on a thorough understanding of that river and its “peculiarities.” The Mississippi River may have been a delta river, but for Humphreys, it presented unique challenges to American engineers.11 Humphreys won his debate with Ellet. Congress accepted his levees-only plan for flood control along the Mississippi River, and for the next half century that was the policy of the Corps of Engineers. Following the disastrous flood of 1927, the Corps acknowledged a need for additional control devices, including spillways and cut-offs, however, the purpose of these modifications was to protect the levees, which remained the primary means of dealing with Mississippi River flooding. During the 2011 flood, engineers opened the levee at Bird’s Point, Missouri, to relieve pressure on the levee at Cairo, Illinois. The Corps subsequently rebuilt the levee, but claims the right to open it again, should the need arise, on the grounds that they are the regulators of the river. Farmers affected by the 2011 breach have filed suit, challenging the Corps’ claim. A decision against the Corps could signal a return to an era when flood control was handled privately and locally, which would be the most significant change in the nation’s approach to flood control since the days of Andrew Humphreys. 3 Global Trade In the twentieth century, global markets connected the Mississippi River to similar rivers around the world. In 1880, the New Orleans Times observed Louisiana’s growing rice trade and declared the state would soon be “the China of America.” By the end of the twentieth century, the lower Mississippi Valley, including Louisiana, Mississippi, and Arkansas, produced annually more than 14.6 billion pounds of rice, and was indeed competing on the global market with China and India. Meanwhile, rice cultivation, although traditional in much of West Africa, where it inspired the French to raise rice in Louisiana, is receiving new attention from primarily western and Chinese agronomists who see industrialized rice production as a key to relieving famine in Africa. In September, 2016, a group of African agronomists sponsored by the U.S. Department of Agriculture visited Louisiana State University to learn how wheat, corn, and rice can be raised more efficiently. Among them were representatives from the Senegal River Delta Land Management Corporation.12 11  Humphreys et al. 1861, 384. 12  McClure 2016.

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Mississippi Valley fish producers compete with producers from similar river environments in Vietnam, Thailand, and China. In 2008, inland aquaculture production in Africa surpassed that of the Americas, although African-raised fish are nearly all eaten locally. Tilapia, native to the Nile River, has proven to be a more suitable species than American and even Asian catfishes for raising on farms. Consumers certainly have no quarrel with it. Since 2010, Americans have consumed more tilapia than any other finfish but for salmon and canned tuna. Frozen Chinese tilapia raised on Pearl River fish farms, and fresh tilapia from Honduras and elsewhere in Central and South America are putting Mississippi Valley catfish farmers out of business.13 Transportation offers yet another example of how the Mississippi River is a global river. In 2014, barges carried roughly 24,000 American tons of imported fish and shellfish, fresh and prepared, up the Mississippi River. This volume accounted for a tiny fraction of the more the 200 billion tons of imports shipped up the river. In the same year, Mississippi River barges carried over 500 million tons of domestic commodities, much of them headed to points overseas. Fish distributors may not make much use of it, nevertheless, the Mississippi River is America’s busiest highway, and it connects the heart of the country to the rest of the world. Traffic is heaviest in grains and petroleum products. By comparison, in the year 1859–1860, steamboats carried what was for that time a recordbreaking 2.1 million tons of commodities to New Orleans. Cotton accounted for more than half the value of the Mississippi steamboat trade, with most of it landing in New Orleans en route to mills in England.14 4 The Mississippi River in a Time of Global Climate Change Since Hurricane Katrina, the need to restore of the Louisiana coastline, the Mississippi River delta, and much of the lower river – all three regions being hydrologically connected – has become an urgent priority. More than a century of flood control has disrupted patterns of sediment deposition, caused erosion, salt water incursion, and ecological degradation in the delta and along the coast. Over the same time dams, floodplain surface alterations, and other changes in the Upper Mississippi River Valley and up major tributaries such as the Missouri River have reduced the sediment carried into the lower 13   S FP 2016. See also the Pearl River Fishery Research Institute, [Accessed 12 May 2017]; FAO 2015; FAO n. d.; Senaga 2016. 14   U SACE n. d.; Dixon 1909, 34.

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Mississippi River Valley. Hurricanes lose force, often quite rapidly, when they move inland. Thus, as the land barrier between New Orleans and the gulf disappears, the city’s vulnerability to hurricanes increases. When the French established New Orleans, nearly fifty miles of more or less solid land separated town and sea. Today, water laps at the city’s municipal boundaries. In addition, New Orleans is sinking under the weight of concrete and asphalt, impermeable surfaces that have also caused the land beneath to dry and shrink. The rate of subsidence varies across the city, in response to localized combinations of human-induced and natural geological processes. In some places, the rate of subsidence has reached two inches per year. Approximately half the city’s area remains above sea level, much of it empty or otherwise underutilized. Subsidence may not have reached a crisis, nevertheless, it will necessitate serious reconfigurations of the urban footprint. Rising ocean levels attributable to global climate change are exacerbating the problems of subsidence, delta erosion, and vulnerability to hurricane storm surges.15 The problems faced by New Orleans are not unique, as rising ocean levels threaten river delta populations around the world. Some American engineers, urban planners, and policy makers look abroad for suggestions on how to protect New Orleans from inundation. As was the case in the nineteenth century, discussions tend to divide over whether a global perspective is very useful, with some emphasizing that there is much New Orleans and the United States can learn from the experiences of others, while some instead emphasize the uniquely American context of the city and its river delta. Perhaps the best illustration of this occurred in the midst of the Katrina disaster, when citizens of New Orleans transported to Houston, Atlanta and other places objected to news reports that referred to them as refugees. Disasters elsewhere have produced refugees, but during the Katrina crisis, the concept was rejected as decidedly un-American. The preferred term was evacuee. In the words of Civil rights activist Al Sharpton, Katrina’s victims “are not refugees,” because “they are citizens of the United States.” Those who did not leave New Orleans when city officials first issued evacuation orders were overwhelmingly poor, with no means of leaving the city, and with no place to go. They were, in addition, overwhelmingly African American. Many found the term ‘refugee’ to be offensive because, applied only to those who did not or could not get out of the city ahead of its inundation, in effect, the word blamed victims for their plight. “It is racist to call American citizens refugees,” said the Rev. Jesse Jackson.16

15   A SCE 2007; Campanella 2007. 16  Pesca 2005; Noveck 2005.

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Not addressed in the debate over the appropriateness of the word “refugee” is the assumption of American, and of Mississippi River, exceptionalism. In fact, New Orleans and the Mississippi Delta are among the world’s locations most vulnerable to climate change and rising oceans. Climate change will cause a global crisis of refugees and massive population relocation, including in the U.S., as people abandon flooded coastal zones. A study published in 2013 ranked Guangzhou and New Orleans one and two on a list of global cities most at risk from climate change.17 Reports on the progress of flood control, storm protection, and delta restoration projects initiated since Katrina make few or no references to similar problems and proposed solutions elsewhere around the world.18 Louisiana’s Comprehensive Master Plan for a Sustainable Coast, updated and approved in 2017, discusses the need to plan for and fund “community-­scale relocation,” as populations will need to “retreat” from the delta and from other receding coastal areas. In fact, this is a process that has been ongoing along Louisiana’s coast for years. Since 2005, households have been moving inland, often only a few miles, to higher ground. In addition, the number of people working the coast, but who commute from homes inland, has been growing. Such relocations mimic historical responses to floods. Native peoples inhabited wetland areas seasonally, moving between low and high areas as needed. Similarly, French colonial settlers, at least those who could afford to do so, built homes on stilts, or with an upper story to which they could retreat during inundations.19 All along the lower Mississippi River, from Cairo almost to Baton Rouge, population is declining. This fits a national, and even global, trend that is seeing migration out of rural areas and into urban settings. In the Mississippi Valley above the delta, population loss, while not a response to inundation, is changing political dynamics in ways that may increase flooding in the future, as engineers, conservation groups, and sport hunters and fishers are able to propose opening the levees and re-wilding the floodplain without fear of overwhelming political backlash from shrinking numbers of floodplain residents.20 However, there is much the city can learn from counterparts elsewhere. According to the C40 Cities Climate Leadership Group (C40) and Connecting Delta Cities (CDC), “New Orleans is in need of a transformative vision and 17  Halegatte et al. 2013. – The vulnerability of cities to climate-related flooding ca be measured in different ways, of course. Hallegatte et al. 2013 measure economic cost. For an examination of global cities based o flood vulnerability, see Balica et al. 2012. Unfortunately, this study did not include New Orleans. 18  Link 2010, 4–12. 19  Hobor et al. 2014. 20  Proximity One n. d.

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process for water management.” The same group declared Rotterdam “the perfect showcase for climate change adaptation.”21 Rotterdam, in the Rhine-Meuse-Scheldt delta in the Netherlands, with which New Orleans is often compared, has since the disastrous flood of 1953 been protected by a massive storm surge barrier. Like New Orleans, Rotterdam lies largely below sea level. However, unlike New Orleans, Rotterdam in more recent times has made great strides to move beyond flood control methods and instead to incorporate into their approach what might be termed flood adaptation methods. Flood control systems incorporate the natural environment, including human landscapes – farmland and urban spaces, such as city parks – that serve as reservoirs if needed, harnessing buildings and outdoor spaces for water storage and drainage, so that rainwater may be kept where it falls, which has restored the ground’s “sponge function.” The ground beneath Rotterdam holds more water and, unlike the delta ground beneath New Orleans, is not shrinking or compressing. City residents and area farmers are encouraged to seek ways of transforming flood costs and flooded areas into livable, useful spaces, for example, through hydroponic gardens and floating homes. In New Orleans, in contrast, there is a persistent conflict over the delta, between the needs of the river and the needs of people. Places set aside for flooding are deemed uninhabitable, and places set aside for people must be kept dry.22 Venice, Italy, is another river delta city, or at least, it was a delta city, with much in common with New Orleans and other delta cities. Venice sits on an old Brenta River delta. In the fourteenth century, engineers began to redirect the mouth of the Brenta away from Venice, and eventually away from the lagoon in which the city sat – and sits – in an effort to keep the city’s harbors from filling with silt. Wooden piles cut from millions of trees cleared from the area around Venice, including along the Brenta River, continue to prop up most buildings and squares. However, deforestation, for piles and other building materials, caused increased siltation in the river and along the Adriatic coast south of Venice. Like New Orleans, Venice has been sinking, about ten inches over the last century, in part from the absence of silt in the places where it might do some good. What silt the river brings is deposited away from Venice. Another primary cause of subsidence is the pumping of fresh water, primarily for drinking, from beneath the sea bed. As the aquifer beneath Venice is emptied, the city slowly falls into it. 21   [Accessed 12 May 2017]. 22   [Accessed 12 May 2017]; Watson et al. 1995, 516–520; Goldenberg 2009; Schleifstein 2009; Kroeger 2007.

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Rising sea levels threaten the life of Venice, spurring some heroic, not to mention expensive, engineering. Under construction since 2003, the Modulo Sperimentale Elettromeccanico (MOSE) will, when fully operational, protect the city from so-called “freak” tides. Seasonal acqua alta, as the moon and wind powered tides of the Adriatic are known in Italy, will continue to flood much of Venice, and to cleanse the Venetian Lagoon of toxic pollutants, benefits of high-tech engineering that will, no doubt, bring unintended and only vaguely predictable environmental and ecological consequences. In the meantime, Venice’s residents, workers, and tourists need to be prepared for sudden inundations.23 Its geography dominated by the giant Ganges-Brahmaputra delta, Bangladesh may be the world’s wettest nation. As such, Bangladesh offers insightful comparison with the Mississippi River delta. In 1998, a flood inundated two-thirds of the country, leaving 30 million people at least temporarily homeless. While floods will only become more frequent and severe with climate change, they are not new to Bangladesh. Within the constraints of poverty, people have adapted to their wet land. The nation is a world leader in production of rice, jute, and farmed fish, three economic activities well-suited to alluvial lands. Increasingly, people are elevating their homes by placing them upon earthen mounds. Hydroponic agriculture is also becoming widespread. Perhaps the greatest problems the nation faces, in addition to rising sea levels, come from upstream farmers in neighboring India diverting much water from the Ganges into fields. A smaller river downstream means less sediment to replenish the delta, which, as with the Mississippi Delta, hastens erosion. In addition, the country faces a growing shortage of fresh drinking water. And yet, Bangladeshis are increasingly adept at skimming fresh rainwater off the surface of more dense salt water. These and other “adaptation initiatives,” are supported by government agencies in Bangladesh and the U. K., along with the World Bank, and several local and international NGOs through the Chars Livelihood Project. Ainun Nishat, a water resources engineer, has observed that rain, floods, cyclones, and tidal surges were natural happenings in Bangladesh and that “we must remain prepared to live with them.” There is much that Louisiana and Bangladesh could learn from each other, as they grapple with changing river delta environments.24

23  Deheyn 2007; Fletcher et al. 2005; Water Technology 2012; Weaver 2008; Hooper 2008. 24  Huh et al. 2004; Anam 2008; Vidal 2008; Chowdhury 2009; Mirza et al. 2003; Nishat 1993; Haq et al. 2004; Haq et al. 2005; Sendzimir et al. 2007, 214; De Villiers 2008, 200–201.

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5 Conclusion Since the arrival of Europeans in the Mississippi Valley, the Mississippi River has always existed within a global context, both in terms of how it was imagined and in terms of its material relationships with other similar river environments. French colonial authorities imagined that the Mississippi River delta was a familiar environment, that it was like other places they knew in France, but also around the world. Whether or not they were correct in their estimations – they were most definitely not correct in thinking that mulberry trees and silk worms could be cultivated along the Mississippi, as along the Pearl River in China – is beside the point. In later periods, United States engineers considered the Mississippi River within a global context when they debated what they might learn about flood control from engineers who worked on other rivers. Andrew Humphreys may have concluded that the Mississippi River was unlike any other river, and whether he was right or wrong, is again, beside the point, which is that he came to his conclusion by first considering the Mississippi River within a context of other rivers around the globe. Regardless of how colonial officials and U.S. engineers have imagined the Mississippi River, it has existed for three centuries now in a context of global trade that connects similar environments that produce similar commodities, and that are worked by people with similar knowledge and skills. In particular, rice and fish produced in river deltas compete for global markets in ways that, in retrospect, make Antoine Crozat’s thoughts on the Mississippi seem very reasonable. The Mississippi River is an American icon. It recalls the books of Mark Twain, the songs of Al Jolson and Paul Robeson, the age of steamboats, of wild men and gambling dens in rough and tumble river towns, fighting with knives they called Arkansas toothpicks. In the twenty-first century, dozens of casinos are open for business along the Mississippi River. Tens of thousands of tourists every year pay more than $2000 to cruise the Mississippi River on boats built to look like they are leftover from the nineteenth century. Some cruises provide Mark Twain impersonators, to convey a richer sense of the great American river’s rich history. One wonders what has changed over the last century or more. The Mississippi River seems as American as ever. In fact, the tours work to globalize the Mississippi. Nowadays, anyone from anywhere can, for a few thousand dollars, be a nineteenth-century American riding the river at the height of its glory. The river cruise industry, already substantial in Europe and growing in North America and elsewhere, markets an American Mississippi River fantasy. Hidden by the fantasy of the Mississippi as a uniquely American

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river is the river’s long history of global intersections, which persist and which will thicken as the world moves further into an era of climate change. Rivers and river delta environments are among the places most vulnerable to climate change. Disappearing mountain glaciers and changing patterns of precipitation will make river behavior unpredictable. Rising sea levels will transform coastal river deltas. In the years to come New Orleans will share more than ever with other delta cities. In fact, of the top ten cities most vulnerable to rising oceans, five are delta cities that once figured prominently in French imperial ambitions: Guangzhou (Canton), Shenzen (a new city on the Pearl Delta between Guangzhou and Hong Kong), Calcutta (where the former French settlement of Chandannagar is a suburb), Ho Chi Minh City (on the edge of the Mekong Delta), and New Orleans. The best way to understand rivers – past, present, and future – is through global comparison.25 Bibliography Anam 2008: Anam, T., Losing the Ground Beneath Their Feet, The Guardian, 4. Sept. 2008. ASCE 2007: American Society of Civil Engineers Hurricane Katrina External Review Panel, The New Orleans Hurricane Protection System: What Went Wrong and Why (Reston 2007). Balica et al. 2012: Balica, S. F. – Wright, N. G. – van der Meulen, F., A Flood Vulnerability Index for Coastal Cities and its Use in Assessing Climate Change Impacts, Natural Hazards 64 (1), 2012, 73–105, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Campanella 2007: Campanella, R., Above-Sea-Level New Orleans. The Residential Capacity of Orleans Parish’s Higher Ground, 2007, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Charpentier de Cossigny 1799a: Charpentier de Cossigny, J. F., Voyage à Canton (Paris 1799). Charpentier de Cossigny 1799b: Charpentier de Cossigny, Voyage au Bengale. Tome 2 (Paris 1799). Chowdhury 2009: Chowdhury, Sh. I., Weak Embankments Fail to Withstand Tidal Surge: Experts, New Age (Dhaka), 27 May 2009.

25  Ghose 2013.

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Crozat 1716: Crozat, A., Mémoire sur La Louisiane, 11 fevrier 1716, Archives Nationales, AC, C13A, IV. Crozat n. d.: Crozat, A., Mémoire sur La Louisiane, n.d., Archive Nationales, AC, C 13. De Cubières 1809: de Cubières, S. L. P., Mémoire sur le Cyprès de la Louisiane (Versailles 1809). Deheyn et al 2007: Deheyn, D. – Shaffer, L., Saving Venice: Engineering and Ecology in the Venice Lagoon, Technology in Society 29, 2007 (2), 205–213. Dixon 1909: Dixon, F. H., A Traffic History of the Mississippi River System (Washington, D.C. 1909). Dowdy 2009: Dowdy, Sh. L., Building the Devil’s Empire: French Colonial New Orleans (Chicago 2009). Ellet 1853: Ellet, Jr. Ch., The Mississippi and Ohio Rivers (Philadelphia 1853). FAO n. d.: Food and Agricultural Organization of the United Nations, Globefish – Analysis and Information on World Fish Trade. Tilapia Market Reports, n. d., [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. FAO 2015: Food and Agricultural Organization of the United Nations, Global Aquaculture Production Statistics Database Updated to 2013, 2015, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Fletcher et al. 2005: Fletcher, C. A. – Spencer, T. (ed.), Flooding and Environmental Challenges for Venice and Its Lagoon: State of Knowledge (Cambridge 2005). Ghose 2013: Ghose, T., The 20 Cities Most Vulnerable to Flooding, 18 Aug. 2013, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Goldenberg 2009: Goldenberg, S., U.S. Urged to Abandon Ageing Flood Defenses in Favour of Dutch System, The Guardian, 5 June 2009. Gray 1958: Gray, J., A Note on Joseph Francois Cossigny Carpenter (1736–1809), Tanganyika Notes and Records 51, 1958, 246–249. Guernsey 1863: Guernsey, A. H., Editor’s Table: Indivisibility of the Nation, Harpers New Monthly Magazine, 1863 (2), 413–418. Hallegatte et al. 2013: Hallegatte, S. – Green, C. – Nicholls, R. J. – Corfee-Morlot, J., Future Flood Losses in Major Coastal Cities, Nature Climate Change 3, 2013 (9), 802–806, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Haq et al. 2004: Haq, A. H. M. R. – Ghosal, T. K. – Ghosh, P., Cultivating Wetlands in Bangladesh, LEISA India. Magazine on Low External Input and Sustainable Agriculture 6 (4), 2004, 17–19. Haq et al. 2005: Haq, A. H. M. R. – Ghosh, P. – Islam, M. A., Wise Use of Wetland for Sustainable Livelihood Through Participatory Approach: A Case of Adapting to

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Climate Change. Asian Wetland Symposium, Bhubanaswar, India, February 6–9, 2005, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Hobor et al. 2014: Hobor, G. – Plyer, A. – Horwitz, B., The Coastal Index: The Problem and Possibility of Our Coast, The Data Center, 20 April 2014, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Hooper 2008: Hooper, J., Venice Flood Fails to Damp Down Fight over Sea Walls, The Guardian, 6 Dec. 2008. Huh et al. 2004: Huh, O. – Hart. G. F. – Coleman, J., Ganges-Brahmaputra River Delta, India, Asia, World Delta Database, 2004, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Humphreys et al. 1861: Humphreys, A. A. – Abbot, H. L., Report of the Physics and Hydraulics of the Mississippi River (Philadelphia 1861). Humphreys 1924: Humphreys, H. H., Andrew Atkinson Humphreys. A Biography (Philadelphia 1924). Kroeger 2007: Kroeger, A., Dutch Pioneer Floating Eco-homes, BBC News, 1 March 2007, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Link 2010: Link, L. E., The Anatomy of a Disaster, an Overview of Hurricane Katrina and New Orleans, Ocean Engineering 37, 2010 (1), 4–12. McClure 2016: McClure, O., African Agriculture Officials Visit AgCenter for Training, 7 September 2016, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Ménard 2017: Ménard, P., Le Français qui possédait l’Amérique. La vie extraordinaire d’Antoine Crozat, milliardaire sous Louis XIV (Paris 2017). Mirza et al. 2003: Mirza, M. M. Q. – Dixit, A. – Nishat, A. (eds.), Flood Problem and Management in South Asia (Dordrecht 2003). Morris 2011: Morris, Ch., Wetland Colonies: Louisiana, Guangzhou, Pondicherry, and Senegal, in:, Ax, Ch. F. – Brimnes, N. – Jensen, N. T. – Oslund, K. (eds.), Cultivating the Colonies: Colonial States and their Environmental Legacies (Athens Oh. 2011) 135–163. Mukerji 1997: Mukerji, Ch., Territorial Ambitions and the Gardens of Versailles, Cambridge Cultural Social Studies (Cambridge 1997). Nishat 1993: Nishat, A., Freshwater Wetlands in Bangladesh: Status and Issues, in: Nishat, A. – Hussain, Z. – Roy, M. K. – Karim, A. (eds.), Freshwater Wetlands in Bangladesh: Issues and Approaches for Management (Dhaka 1993) 9–21.

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Noveck 2005: Noveck, J., Use of Word ‘Refugee’ to Describe Katrina’s Displaced Stirs Dispute, Lincoln Journal Star, 5 September 2005, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Pesca 2005: Pesca, M., Are Katrina’s Victims ‘Refugees’ or ‘Evacuees?’, NPR, 5 September 2005, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Powell 2013: Powell, L. N., The Accidental City. Improvising New Orleans (Cambridge, Mass. 2013). Proximity One n. d.: Proximity One, Demographic Trends 2010–2060, Population Estimates & Projections for U.S., States, Metros & Counties, [online] Available at:  [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Schleifstein 2009: Schleifstein, M., U.S. Sen. Mary Landrieu: U.S. Should Adopt Netherlands-like Policies for Flood Control, The Time-Picayune, 5 June 2009. Senaga 2016: Senaga, K. A., Tasteless, Cheap, and Southern? The Rise and Decline of the Farm-Raised Catfish Industry (Ph.D. Diss. Mississippi State University 2016). Sendzimir et al. 2007: Sendzimir, J. – Flachner, S., Exploiting Ecological Disturbance, in: Scherr, S. J. – McNeely, J. A. (ed.), Farming with Nature: The Science and Practice of Ecoagriculture (Washington, D.C. 2007). SFP 2016: Sustainable Fisheries Partnership, Chinese Tilapia Aquacultural Improvement Project, 2016, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Sutton 1977: Sutton, K., Reclamation of Wasteland during the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, in: Clout, H. D. (ed.), Themes in the Historical Geography of France (New York 1977). Thomassy 1860: Thomassy, R., Géologie Pratique de la Louisiane (Paris 1860). USACE n. d.: U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Navigation Data Center, Cargo By Waterways, Part 2, Calendar Year 2014, Sheet 77, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017]. Vidal 2008: Vidal, J., Bangladesh: A Country on the Frontline of Climate Change, The Guardian, 10 Sept. 2008. De Villiers 2008: De Villiers, M., The End. Natural Disasters, Manmade Catastrophes, and the Future of Human Survival (New York 2008). Water Technology 2012: Water Technology, MOSE Project, Venice, Venetian Lagoon, Italy, 2012, [online] Available at: [Accessed 12 May 2017].

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Watson et al. 1995: Ian Watson, I. – Burnett, A. D., Hydrology. An Environmental Approach (Boca Raton 1995). Weaver 2008: Weaver, M., Venice Sees Worst Flooding in Twenty Years, The Guardian, 1 Dec. 2008.

Indices Rivers Adige 128, 182 Aksaj 214–215, 250–251 Aksu Çayı see Lykos Aleos 115 Amazon 303, 307 Anio 137 Atbara 80 Atchafalaya 306 Bacchiglione 182–183, 195, 203 Bereka 260 Bityug 212, 216–217, 253 Blue Nile 79–80, 275 Boh 293 Borovaya 252 Brahmaputra 26, 307, 315 Brenta Nova 189, 195 Bubnov Erik 215, 246, 247 Bystraya 217, 242, 251 Cayster 18, 117 Czartomelik 287 Chir 217, 252 Clanis 137 Colorado 67 Congo 307 Danube 2, 10, 12, 18, 19, 22, 91, 107, 136, 140, 275, 291, 294–295 Devitsa 216, 255 Dnepr 23, 208, 243, 273–276, 278–299 Dnieper see Dnepr Dnipro see Dnepr Dnjepr see Dnepr Dnister 295 Don 22–24, 205–218, 220–223, 225, 229–232, 235–243, 245, 247–248, 250–252, 255–257, 275, 280, 291, 293–296, 298 Donau see Danube Ebro 63 Elbe 11 Etsch see Adige

Euphrates 91, 107, 167 Euros 115 Ganga Ma 2, 24–26, 50, 167, 308, 315 Ganges see Ganga Ma Garonne 62, 308 Harpasos 112, 116 Hermos 109, 114 Hybandos 105 Iaik see Ural Inhul 293 Irtysh 23 Jenissei 23 Je’or see Nile Jordan 11, 17 Kabachny Erik 246 Kagal’nik 214–215, 225, 247–248, 250 Kalitva 251 Kalka 295 Kalmijus 293 Karochi 216, 241, 258 Kaveri 305, 306 Khmelinka 216–217, 242 Khoper 212–214, 216–217, 252 Khopyor see Khoper Kojsug 214–215, 225, 248–249 Kuban 294 Lagutnik Erik 212, 218, 247 Lena 23 Loire 7, 308 Lykos 113 Maeander 17–18, 94–95, 97, 99–102, 104, 109, 117–118, 137 Malakhovsky Erik 214, 245–246 Manych 212, 215, 250–251 Mekong 317 Meles 115 Memel 11 Mertvy Donets 212, 218, 225, 247

324 Mississippi 25, 26, 50, 303–313, 315–316 Mius 249, 291 Morsynos 100, 101, 110–111, 113 Mosel 3 Nar 137 Neman 308 Nera see Nar Nezhegol 241 Niger 168 Nile 4, 12–13, 18–19, 28, 49–55, 58, 60, 65–71, 74–78, 80–85, 108–109, 120, 163–176, 275, 306–307, 311 Oglio 189 Oskol 241, 260 Orel 293 Orinoco 307 Orontes 17 Pearl 304–307, 311, 316–317 Piave 181 Pischon see Nile Po 128, 181–182, 188–189, 194, 307–309 Potudan’ 212, 216–217, 238, 241–242, 253–254, 258 Prohnij 293 Protovcha 293 Red Nile 79 Rhein 3, 5–7, 11–12, 19, 25, 50, 67, 308 Rhine see Rhein Rhone 8–9, 15, 17, 43–48, 235, 305–308 Sal 251 Samara 290, 293 Sambek 236 Senegal 25, 305, 307, 310 Seversky Donets 209, 212–213, 215–217, 230–231, 241–243, 251, 258–260 Sibirka 23 Sosna 211, 216, 217, 242, 257 St. Lawrence 307 Syr Darya 276 Terek 296, 298 Tevere 17, 20, 120, 127–158 Thames 19 Tiber see Tevere

Indices Tikhaya Sosna 212, 215–217, 235, 238, 241, 253–254 Udy 217, 235, 242, 252, 259 Ural 296, 298 Veduga 216, 256 Vistula 308 Volga 11, 208, 211, 291, 296, 298 Vorona 252 Voronezh 211, 214–217, 241, 256, 258 White Nile 79–80, 275 Yangtze 58 Zagista 251

Topography Abyssinia see Ethiopia Aegean Sea 22–23, 94, 206–208, 221, 234, 236, 239, 243, 295 Africa 51, 53–54, 63, 66, 273, 303, 310–311 Aigues Mortes 47 Alabanda 95–97, 99, 101, 103, 116 Alexandria 52, 163–164, 167–171, 173–175 Alinda 99, 103, 116 Alps 309 America (Latin) 66 America (United States) 303–305, 307, 309–312 Anatolia 273, 288 Andalusia 165 Aphrodisias 98–100, 105, 109 Apennin 128, 136 Apollonia 98, 100, 110 Aqkerman 280 Arabia 127 Arkangelskoe 216, 255, 258 Arkansas 310, 316 Arles 43–44, 47 Asia 91, 94–95, 114, 117, 163, 238, 276 Aspendos 110 Assuan 167 Aswan  53–54, 62, 70–71, 79, 80, 84 Athens 127

325

Indices Atlantic Ocean 25, 62 Atlas Mountains 275 Austria 303 Aventin 140 Avignon 44 Azhinov 250 Azalq 209, 248, 294 Azov see Azalq Azov Sea 22, 205–206, 208–209, 211, 275, 291, 294, 297 Babylon 127, 169, 170 Baetica 136 Balkash 289 Bangladesh 26, 315 Bargasa 99, 112 Baton Rouge 313 Battaglia Canal 195–197 Battaglia Terme 197 Beglitskij Nekropol’ 209, 249 Belgium 199 Bird’s Point (Missouri) 310 Black Sea 22–23, 95, 205–206, 208, 221, 224, 236, 239–240, 243, 273–276, 278–280, 282, 287–288, 291, 293–296, 298 Blue Forest 290 Bol’shoe Storozhevoe 229, 255 Bosporus 275, 280 Bourg-vieux d’Arles 44 Brăila 22 Burundi 28, 71 Cairo 53, 167–168, 172–175, 310, 313 Cairo (Illinois) 310, 313 Calcutta 21, 317 Camargue 44, 305 Canton see Guangzhou Cape Crio 92 Cape Girardeau 308 Caria 18, 91–95, 97–104, 106, 116–118, 120 Caucasus 273, 275, 278, 292 Caunus 92 Chastye Kurgany 215, 232–233, 238, 240–241, 251, 256 Chertovitskoe 216, 255 Chervonosovske 229, 260 China 25–26, 58, 62, 66, 252–253 Chioggia 183, 189

Chios 238 Chumbur Kosa 250 Clazomenai 238 Cnidos 94, 239 Constanţa 22 Crimea 273, 275, 294 Damascus 165, 168 Delos 114 Denizli 113 Didyma 105 Dnipropetrovsk 281, 293 Dnipro Rapids 280–283, 297–298 Donetski 217, 293 Donskoj 214, 250 Dubiki 216, 258 Durovka 234, 254 Dyunnyj 250 Egypt 19, 51–54, 58, 60, 62, 65, 70–72, 75, 79, 81–83, 85, 91, 163–174 Eldorado 291 Elephantine 71, 75–76, 79, 80–84 Elizavetovka 218–223, 225, 227–228, 230, 234, 236, 239, 242–243, 245 Emilia 185 England 13, 199, 303, 311 Ephesos 105, 109 Epidauros 150, 158 Erythrai 109 Este 192 Ethiopia 54, 79, 80, 167, 172 Eugean Hills 183, 184, 189 Eurasia 22–23, 206, 236, 243, 276, 278, 288–290, 298 Europe 16, 49, 51–52, 65, 165, 185, 188, 190, 198, 276, 279, 303, 305–306, 308–310, 316 France 5, 7–8, 10, 25, 62, 199, 303–305, 307–308, 316 Franche-Comté 5 Friuli 180, 183, 185 Gaevka-Kajmakchi 249 Gatun Lake 62 Germania 136 Germany 3, 5–7, 11, 199, 303, 308 Geyre 100

326

Indices

Göbi Desert 289 Granada 165 Grand Canal 62 Great Meadow 23, 280–281, 284–285, 290–291, 297–298 Greece 52, 95 Guangzhou 304–305, 313, 317 Gubarevo 229, 256 Gulf of Mexico 306, 308

Koropove 241, 260 Krasnoe Znamya 250 Krasnogorovka 238, 256 Kreninsky Mogil’nik 250 Ksizovo 216, 229, 235, 257 Kuban Valley 297 Kukolevskoe 233, 240, 259 Kyiv 283, 296 Kythnos 127

Halicarnassos 101 Harpasa 112, 116 Haydere 112 Herakleia Pontica 221, 224, 228, 239–240 Himalayas 209 Hindu Kush Mountains 292 Ho Chi Minh City 317 Honduras 311 Houston 312 Hyllarima 100

Labraunda 103 Lagutnik 247, 252 Lake Albert 54 Lake Tana 54 Lake Victoria 54 Lakedemonovka 249 Lancashire 53 Languedoc 25, 46 Laodikeia 109 Latium 137 Latmos Region 97 Levinsadovka 209, 249 Limyra 110 Lipetsk 210, 215–216 Lombardy 185, 188, 194 Louisiana 304–306, 308, 310–311, 313, 315 Lugans’k 217 Luxembourg 3 Luxor 168 Lycia 92, 110 Lyon 43, 45 Lyubotino 214, 216, 259–260

Illinois 310 India 21, 25, 127, 134, 169, 305, 308–310, 315 Ionia 107, 113, 116, 238, 240 Isinda 110 Issyk Kul 289 Istanbul 280 Isthmus of Panama 62 Italy 10, 22, 179–180, 183, 185–186, 189, 191–192, 194–195, 304, 307–308, 314–315 Kabachny Erik 246 Kalmykia 217 Kazakhstan 276 Kefe 280 Kelainai 104 Keramos 105 Khangai 289 Kharkiv 209, 214–217, 229, 239 Khapry 224, 237, 247 Khartoum 79, 82 Khmelnytsky 296 Khortycja 290–291 Khotyn 296 Kidrama 100 Kirovohrad 293 Kirovskoe 216, 229, 254 Klaudioseleukeia see Seleukeia Sidera Konstantinovska 252

Magnesia 92, 105, 109 Magydus 110 Mainz 14 Malakhovsky Bugor 245–247 Marghera 194–195 Mastyugino 233, 255 Mecca 165, 167–168, 172, 174 Medina 174 Mediterranean Sea 25, 50, 56, 79, 164–166, 168–169, 173, 175, 273–275, 306, 308 Melovoe 241, 160 Memphis 79, 82 Mende 221, 226, 239–240 Middle East 49, 60 Milan 189–190 Miletus 92, 94–95, 99, 105, 109, 112, 238

327

Indices Missouri 308, 310–311 Mius-Peninsula 209, 213, 215, 218–220, 225, 236, 249 Mizraim see Egypt Mobolla 116 Moesia 136 Mogil’nik see Beglitskij Nekropol’ Mokraya Kugul’ta 250 Moldavia 280, 296 Mongolia 217, 289–290 Monselice 183 Montreal 304 Mopsuestia 111–112 Moscow 209 Mostishche 223, 253 Mylasa 103, 105, 109, 116 Myndos 101 Naviglio Pavese Canal 189, 195 Naxos 127 Netherlands 307, 314 New Orleans 25–26, 304–307, 311–314, 317 Norway 303 Novoaleksandrovka 226, 248 Novomargaritovo 214, 250 Novosadovky 251 Novo Zolotovka 209, 219–221, 223–224, 240, 249 Nubia 75, 82 Nysa 94, 105 Ol’khvatovskoe 241, 252 Ostia 135–136 Ostroverkhovka 215, 252 Ötüken Mountains 288–289 Ötüken yïsh see Ötüken Mountains Özi 276, 293 Padua 22, 180, 182–183, 189, 192, 194–197, 200 Palestrina 50 Pamphylia 110 Panama Canal 62 Panamara 105 Pavia 189 Pavlo-Ochakovskoe 250 Pekshevo 229, 231–233, 256 Phokaia 109 Pidasa 116 Pisidia 110, 115

Peloponnes 150 Pergamon 105 Perge 110 Poland-Lithuania 24, 278–280 Pont-Saint-Esprit 45 Portus 136 Priene 92 Prostanna 110 Provence 46 Qûs 168, 171 Red Sea 71, 167, 168, 275 Rhine-Meuse-Scheldt delta 307, 314 Rialto 186 Rome 19, 20, 25, 50, 52, 127–129, 132–133, 137–138, 142, 148 Rostov 208, 211, 217 Rotterdam 26, 314 Ruanda 28, 71 Russia 24, 209, 296, 303 Russkaya Trostyanka 229, 232, 254 Russkij Kolodets 249 Sagalassos 110 Scandinavia 290 Scandza see Scandinavia Sebastopolis 98 Seleukeia Sidera 110 Semiluki 229, 238, 256 Semirechye 289 Senegal 25 Senegambia 305 Serafimovich 212 Seyssel 43, 47 Shpakovka 215, 260 Siberia 23 Sicily 127 Sinai 167 Sinope 239–240, 280 Skorodnoe 216, 258 Sladovsky 235, 251 Smyrna 109, 114–115 Spain 63, 165, 303, 307 Spakovka see Shpakovka Sri Lanka 66 Starozhivotinnoe 238, 255–256 Stratonikeia 99, 102–106, 112, 114, 116 Sudan 54, 65, 71, 79

328 Suez Canal 55 Sulina 22 Surovikino 212 Syria 17, 95 Tabai 98, 100 Taganrog 206, 209, 211, 214, 218, 237–239, 245 Taganrog Bay 209, 211, 218 Tanzania 71 Tarascon 44 Ternovoe-Kolbino 231, 234–235, 254 Thailand 311 Thasos 221, 239–240 Three Gorges Dam 62, 66 Thyateira 109 Titchikha 230, 255 Tivoli 131 Trabzon 280 Tralleis 92, 102, 109 Treviso 22, 180, 194 Troia 154, 158 Tsmilyansky Resevoir 208, 211, 214, 242 Tula 209–210 Tulcea 11 Uganda 71 Ukraine 217, 276–281, 286, 288, 292–293, 295–298 United States see America Ust’-Kojsug 248 Valence 43, 45, 47 Varna 280 Velykyj Luh see Great Meadow Veneto 179, 180, 182–183, 185, 188–193, 195–196, 198, 200 Venice 22, 26, 158, 180, 183, 185–186, 189, 191–192, 194, 195, 198, 314–315 Venice Lagoon 22, 179, 183, 187, 189, 191, 315 Verkhnepod-pol’nyj 250 Vesuv 132 Vietnam 311 Vicenza 183 Voloshino 229, 232, 240, 254 Voronezh 209–212, 214–217, 238, 240, 242, 255–256 Vvedenki 216, 257

Indices Wallachia 280 Yetisu see Semirechye Zankle 132 Zaporizhia 281–282, 293 Zaragoza 63

Persons Abulafia, David 17, 26 Abul-Saadat, Kamel 52 Ackroyd, Peter 11 Aelius Aristides 127–128, 158 Aeneas 153–154, 158 Aesculapius 150–151 al-Kashgari, Mahmud 276 Alexander the Great 51, 75, 95, 99 Almeida, Rodríguez 152–153 Atkinson Humphreys, Andrew 308–316 Augustus 98–99 Backouche, Isabel 8 Bayly, Christopher 20–21 Bielski, Marcin 283–284 Blackbourn, David 11 de la Blanche, Paul Vidal 5–6, 14 Bloch, Marc 5, 7, 14 Böhme, Hartmut 10 Braudel, Fernand 8, 14–17, 26, 50, 56 Broodbank, Cyprian 16 Burchard 164–165, 167–173, 175–176 Cabrier, Philibert 47 Campbell, Brian 136 Catherine II 296 Charpentier de Cossigny, Joseph-Francois  305, 307 Chelebi, Evliya 275, 293 Chelebi, Katip 294 Conrad, Sebastian 20 Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus 282 Cooper, John 19 Cozat, Antoine 304, 307, 316 Das Gupta, Ashin 22 Demangeon, Albert 6–7

329

Indices Dion, Roger 7 Edgeworth, Matt 11 Ellet, Charles 309–310 Frederick I Barbarossa 165 Febvre, Lucien 5–8, 11–12, 14–15 Gamberini, Carlos 284 Greene, Molly 16 Guernsey, Alfred H. 303–304 Hanning Speke, John 52 Hausmann, Guido 3, 11 Havrelock, Rachel 11, 17 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 4 Herodotus 51, 104 Horden, Peregrine 15–17, 26, 69, 72, 83 Iason Iasonos 105 Jackson, Jesse 312 Javornyc’kyj, Dmytro 297 Jolson, Al 316 Jordanes 290 Jubayr, Ibn/Abu Al-Husain Muhammad Ibn Ahmad Ibn Jubayr al-Kinani 165, 167–176 Kapp, Ernst 4, 10, 13 Khmelnytsky, Bohdan 280 Kontogeorgis, Dimitrios G. 22 Koselleck, Reinhart 3 Larcom Abbot, Henry 308 Lefebvre, Henri 7 Le Monye d’Iberville, Pierre 304 Lepetit, Bernard 8 Le Vasseur de Beauplan, Guillaume 284, 286–289, 294 Lincoln, Abraham 303 Lituanus, Michalo 278 Livingstone, David 52 Lombardini, Elia 309 Magris, Claudio 10 Malkin, Irad 16 Manning, Joe 16

Michael the Lithuanian see Lituanus, Michalo Morton, Tom 52, 84 Nishat, Ainun 315 Oestigaard, Terje 77–85 Okolski, Simeon 286 Osman II 296 Palladio 186 Philippson, Alfred 13–14 Pirenne, Henri 14–16 of Plano Carpini, John 276 Pliny the Elder 128 Portelli d’Ascoli, Emidio 275 Purcell, Nicholas 15–17, 19, 26, 69, 72–76, 83 Rada, Uwe 11 Ratzel, Friedrich 4, 6, 13 von Reden, Sitta 19 Reinhard, Wolfgang 24, 107, 113 Ritter, Carl 4 Robertson, Roland 21 Robeson, Paul 316 Rossiaud, Jacques 8–10, 17 Rubruck, William 276 Sabbadino, Cristoforo 184 Sahajdachnyj, Petro 296 Saladin 165, 167–168, 173–174 Sanfermo, Marco Antonio 188–189, 193–194 Schmitt, Carl 5, 13 Schwartz, Seth 16 Seixas, Peter 84 Septimius Severus 137–138 Sharpton, Al 312 Soja, Edward 11 Stanley, Henry Morton 52 Tadini, Antonio 309 Taranowski, Andrzej 291 Thonemann, Peter 17 Tomalin, Emma 24–25 Tudela, Benjamin of 164, 167–172, 174, 176 Turola, Francesco 192 Tusun, Umar 18 Tvedt, Terje 18–19, 69, 71, 76–78, 82–83

330

Indices

Twain, Mark 316

Wickham, Chris 16

Valerian 110, 112 Vespasian 107, 132–133 Vestri, Antonio 187 Vyshnevec’kyi, Dmytro 291

Xenophon 104 Zaporozhia 277, 282, 284, 286–298 Zeus 106, 110, 115–116