Religious Individualisation: Archaeological, Iconographic and Epigraphic Case Studies from the Roman World 9781789259650, 9781789259667, 1789259657

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Religious Individualisation Archaeological, Iconographic and Epigraphic Case Studies from the Roman World

Edited by

Ralph Haeussler and Anthony King In collaboration with

Francisco Marco Simón and Günther Schörner

Oxford & Philadelphia

Published in the United Kingdom in 2023 by OXBOW BOOKS The Old Music Hall, 106-108 Cowley Road, Oxford, OX4 1JE and in the United States by OXBOW BOOKS 1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083 © Oxbow Books and the individual contributors 2023 Hardback edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-965-0 Digital Edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-966-7 (ePub) A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Control Number: 2022951774 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing.

Printed in the United Kingdom by Short Run Press For a complete list of Oxbow titles, please contact: UNITED KINGDOM UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Oxbow Books Oxbow Books Telephone (0)1226 734350 Telephone (610) 853-9131, Fax (610) 853-9146 Email: [email protected] Email: [email protected] www.oxbowbooks.com www.casemateacademic.com/oxbow Oxbow Books is part of the Casemate Group Front cover: Irregularly shaped marble bas-relief (30 × 32 × 11 cm) discovered in Histria in 1967, depicting a standing male figure, presumably Liber Pater. with a triangular, schematic face; he wears a short chiton and an unusually high belt, carrying a thyrsus in his left and an amphora or krater in his right hand. The large phallus may also indicate Priapus. To his right, under a tree, a smaller standing figure with similar features, perhaps an assistant or devotee, holding an altar (?) in his right hand. Dog or deer between the two figures (cf. Maria Alexndrescu Vianu, Les statues et les reliefs en pierre, 130, no. 177, plate 71. Bucarest, Ed. Enciclopedică (Histria IX), 1999; a comparable relief is e.g. Vianu, no. 177c, plate 72). Today at the Museum of Histria. Photo: courtesy of Ortolf Harl, Ubi Erat Lupa, http://lupa.at/21571. Back cover: Turibulum from Autricum/Chartres. Col. 1. Oriens; see Chapter 3 for further discussion (Photo: Service Archéologique municipal de Chartres).

Contents List of figures........................................................................................................................... v List of tables............................................................................................................................ ix Contributors............................................................................................................................ xi 1. Introduction: the dynamics of religious individualisation..........................................1 Ralph Haeussler, Anthony King, Francisco Marco Simón and Günther Schörner 2. Religious individualisation: a bottom-up approach to religious developments in the Roman world............................................................................................................4 Ralph Haeussler 3. Discrepant behaviour: on magical activities in the Latin West................................42 Francisco Marco Simón 4. Individual religious choice: the case of the ‘mystery’ cults......................................63 Jaime Alvar Ezquerra 5. Sons and mothers: the matres, the military and religious choice in Roman Britain...............................................................................................................76 Elizabeth Blanning 6. Pre-Roman deities along the north-eastern Adriatic: continuity, transformation, identification......................................................................................108 Marjeta Šašel Kos 7. Private devotions at temples in Central and Eastern Gaul......................................127 Isabelle Fauduet 8. Tradition, diversity and improvisation in Romano-British cremation burials in south-east England.......................................................................................146 Jake Weekes 9. Individual choices in burial ritual and cult activity in and around the Iron Age and Romano-British town of Baldock, Hertfordshire, UK.......................162 Gilbert R. Burleigh

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Contents

10. Religious individualisation in extremis: human remains from Romano-Celtic temples in Britain and Gaul .......................................................... 181  Anthony King 11. Indigenous arae and stelae: symbolic landscapes and individualisation in north-west Roman Hispania ................................................. 208 Fernando Alonso Burgos 12. Indigenism and identity shaping: the case of the Irrico group in Central Spain................................................................................................................ 230 Jesús Alberto Arenas-Esteban 13. The religious construction of ‘household’ in Roman Italy: the case of the Casa dei Vettii..................................................................................... 254 Günther Schörner 14. Types of Interpretatio and their users in the Keltiké: explicationes and translationes vs. identificationes and adaptationes..................................................... 264 Patrizia de Bernardo Stempel 15. Religious individualisation in an entangled world: how to pick and mix favourite deities in the Roman Keltiké............................................................. 294 Ralph Haeussler

List of figures

Fig. 2.1. Plans of sanctuaries with several shrines and temples: (a) Viuz Faverges, (b) Thun-Allmendingen and (c) Altbachtal�������������������� 8 Fig. 2.2. Graffito from the temple wall at Châteauneuf, dedicated to Nero and Limetus: [---] v(otum) a(nimo) l(ibens) m(erito) [s(olvit)] / Neroni / Limet[o] (Photo courtesy of B. Remy).������������������������������������������ 17 Fig. 2.3. Indian wayside shrine ‘with the form of Gaṇeśa emerging naturally out of a tree’ (Barcem, Goa) (Photo: Borayin Larios, source: Larios and Voix 2018).������������������������������������������������������������������������� 33 Fig. 3.1. Turibulum from Autricum/Chartres. Col. 1. Oriens.�������������������������������������� 43 Fig. 3.2. Lead sheets from Amélie-les-Bains (after RIG II, 2, fig. 139).��������������������� 46 Fig. 3.3. Defixio from Corduba mentioning Salpina. ����������������������������������������������������� 49 Fig. 3.4. Defixio from Salacia/Alcácer do Sal. ���������������������������������������������������������������� 50 Fig. 3.5. Execration text found in Via Ostiense, Roma (recto) (Illustration: Bevilacqua 2009, fig. 1). ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 51 Fig. 3.6. Defixio from Bologna (Illustration: Sánchez Natalías 2012). �����������������������53 Fig. 5.1. Epigraphic evidence for the matres and associated deities in Britain: forms of monument. ��������������������������������������������������������������������������� 78 Fig. 5.2. Iconographic evidence for the matres in Britain: forms of monument. ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 79 Fig. 5.3. Distribution of sculpture by iconographic type. ������������������������������������������ 79 Fig. 5.4. Distribution of inscriptions to the matres and associated deities. ������������81 Fig. 5.5. Distribution of portable finds associated with the matres. ������������������������82 Fig. 5.6. Distribution of sculpture representing the triple matres with (inset) detail of Hadrian’s Wall region. ���������������������������������������������������������� 83 Fig. 5.7. Provenances of matres inscriptions: site types. This figure includes one inscription from Lincoln, where the colonia succeeded a legionary fortress, and three from York where fortress and colonia existed side by side. Of the York inscriptions, two appear to have been found in the area of the colonia and the third to the north-east of the fortress.�������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 84 Fig. 5.8. Provenances of matres sculptures: site types. ����������������������������������������������� 84 Fig. 5.9. Ethnic appellations of military groups attested in dedication to the matres and associated deities. ������������������������������������������������������������� 91 Fig. 5.10. Religious dedications on stone recorded in RIB I and III: comparative data for classical and the most common non-classical deities found in Britain. ����������������������������������������������������������� 94

vi

List of figures

Fig. 5.11. Religious dedications on stone recorded in RIB I and III: comparative data for classical and the most common non-classical deities found in Britain with figures for the Suleviae, Parcae and Campestres separated out. ���������������������������������������������� 94 Fig. 5.12. Relief of the matres from Lincoln (CSIR I.8, 15).������������������������������������������� 96 Fig. 5.13. Relief of the matres from Ancaster (CSIR I.8, 16) together with the small altar that was found set before it.��������������������������������������� 98 Fig. 5.14. Relief of the matres from Corbridge (CSIR I.1, 63; Corbridge Museum catalogue number CO 23339). ��������������������������������������� 98 Fig. 5.15. Stylised relief of the matres from Cirencester (CSIR I.7, 116). �������������������99 Fig. 6.1. Map of the north-Adriatic region. ����������������������������������������������������������������109 Fig. 6.2. Dedication to Seixomnia Leucitica. ��������������������������������������������������������������116 Fig. 7.1. Map of central and northern Gaul, showing sites referred to in the text (Drawing: A. C. King). ������������������������������������������������������������������129 Fig. 7.2. Anatomic ex-voto (leg) from Essarois: Vind(onno) Mai f(ilia) | Iulia v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) (Photo: CIL XIII Project, Trier CIL XIII 5646 = ILingons 301). ��������������������������������������������������������������132 Fig. 7.3. Tabula ansata to Mercury and Apollo dedicated by L. Bovius, from the rural sanctuary at Viomenil (Photo: J. J. Gaffiot; AE 2011, 790). ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 135 Fig. 7.4. Pottery inscribed with Totatis graffito, from the temple area, Voingt (Photo: F. Lafon).��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 136 Fig. 7.5. Anepigraphic bronze figurine from Châteaubleau depicting a horse (Drawing: C. Hochstrasser-Petit, from Bontrond 1998, fig. 5).��������������������������������������������������������������������������� 138 Fig. 9.1. Maps showing Baldock in its region, and location of temples and shrines within the town.��������������������������������������������������������� 163 Fig. 9.2. Stane Street Roman cemetery, burial 7649, mother with triplets. ���������164 Fig. 9.3. Wallington Road Roman cemetery, burial 44/200, with mirror plate. ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 165 Fig. 9.4. Wallington Road Roman cemetery, cremation 120. ����������������������������������� 166 Fig. 9.5. Royston Road Roman cemetery, burial 5332-5336. ������������������������������������ 166 Fig. 9.6. California cemetery, burials 2487 and 2489. ����������������������������������������������� 167 Fig. 9.7. Icknield Way East, infant burial with Dea Nutrix figurine. ���������������������� 168 Fig. 9.8. Reconstruction drawing of the infant burial, in its wooden coffin, with caskets and the figurine. ������������������������������������������� 169 Fig. 9.9. California cemetery, probable sub-Roman inhumation 1413-1425.�������� 170 Fig. 9.10. Wynn Close Romano-British shrine and enclosure.���������������������������������� 172 Fig. 9.11. Large burial enclosure of the Late Iron Age and underlying doline. ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 173 Fig. 9.12. Ashwell End gold votive plaques from the Senuna temple treasure hoard. ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 175  

List of figures

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Fig. 9.13. Ashwell End silver figurine of Dea Senuna from the temple treasure hoard. ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 175 Fig. 9.14. Hinxworth, Middle Farm. Bronze figurine of Minerva-Fortuna-Senuna. ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 177 Fig. 10.1. Map of southern Britain, showing sites mentioned in the text. �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 187 Fig. 10.2. Map of central and northern Gaul, showing sites mentioned in the text. �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 188 Fig. 11.1. Gold-mining zones in the north-west of Iberia and location of case study areas. ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 209 Fig. 11.2. Votive and funerary epigraphy distribution in Western Zamora. ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 212 Fig. 11.3. Funerary epigraphy groups. �������������������������������������������������������������������������� 216 Fig. 11.4. Gold-mining zones in El Bierzo. El Corón de la Escrita’s pantheon.���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 219 Fig. 12.1. Simplified plan of the villa at La Dehesa together with its location in the peninsular context. Rooms preserving a mosaic floor have been marked with a reticulate, whereas those that do not preserve (or perhaps never had) mosaic floors are indicated with question marks. �������������������������������������������������� 231 Fig. 12.2. General view of the mosaic floor rediscovered in the villa at Cuevas de Soria and detail of Anagram A, which repeatedly appears in the floor’s geometric pattern.������������������������������� 232 Fig. 12.3. Details of the medallions containing Anagram A and B together with their location in the different mosaic floors of the villa at La Dehesa. �������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 233 Fig. 12.4. Altar of Eburos (photograph by the author). ���������������������������������������������234 Fig. 12.5. Epigraphs related to the group of the Irricones/Irici found in the vicinity of the villa of Cuevas de Soria (after Sanz Aragonés et al. 2011). ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 235 Fig. 12.6. Transcription of the anagram of the Irricones (Anagram A) displayed in several of the mosaics of the villa of Cuevas de Soria. ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 236 Fig. 12.7. Transcription of Anagram B. ������������������������������������������������������������������������� 237 Fig. 12.8. Dispersion of indigenous family names in the Upper Duero area (for the actual names and provenances see the Appendix). ������������������������������������������������������������������� 240 Fig. 12.9. Frequency of epigraphs recorded in the Upper Duero area between the first and fourth centuries CE (on the basis of Jimeno 1980). ����������������������������������������������������������������������� 242 Fig. 13.1. Plan of the Casa dei Vettii (reg. VI 15, 1.27). Space numbers according to Grahame 2000, 161.������������������������������������������������������������������ 257

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Fig. 13.2. Distribution of spaces in the Casa dei Vettii according to their relative ranking (only room number of nodes indicated). ����������������������� 260 Fig. 15.1. (a) Mars, from Tre Owen; (b) Mercury, from York; (c) Mercury, from Vindolanda. ������������������������������������������������������������������������ 299 Fig. 15.2. (a) Jupiter, from Beaucaire; (b) altar to the Dioscuri, from Domazan.������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 309 Fig. 15.3. (a) Bronze statuette of Sucellos; (b) limestone altar of Sucellos from Nîmes; (c) first-century CE Sucellos bronze figurine from Vienne; (d) bas-relief on a stone clipped into a cone-shaped form from Glanum; (e) anepigraphic altar from Glanum; (f–g) anepigraphic limestone altars from the curia in Glanum; (h) limestone altar to Silvanus.��������������������� 312

List of tables Table 5.1. Epigraphic evidence from shrines or temples.������������������������������������������� 86 Table 5.2. Groups of finds suggestive of the existence of temples/shrines to the matres. ���������������������������������������������������������������������� 87 Table 5.3. Epithets of matres.�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 88 Table 5.4. Occupations of donors. ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 90 Table 5.5. Attributes of the British matres. �������������������������������������������������������������������� 97 Table 8.1.  Sample adapted from Philpott (1991, 34, table 11), comparing combinations of vessel types in cremation burials. ��������������������������������� 148 Table 8.2. Simplified codification of combined burial contents. ����������������������������� 157 Table 8.3. Phased combined selection types in urban case studies. ����������������������� 158 Table 12.1. Indigenous family names and deities venerated in the Upper Duero area. ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 238 Table 13.1. Table of relative asymmetry and control values and their ranking for all spaces in the Casa dei Vettii (after Grahame 2000, 192). ���������������������������������������������������������������������������� 258

List of contributors Fernando Alonso Burgos

Fernando Alonso Burgos is a historian and archaeologist specialising in the prehistoric and Roman period of Iberia. He is particularly interested in religion and ritual in Antiquity. His doctoral thesis (2014) is entitled ‘Social Structure and Symbolic Landscape. Astures Communities and Roman Empire (3rd century BC–3th century AD)’, supervised by Prof. M. Ruiz-Gálvez at the Complutense University of Madrid. He currently works as an archaeologist guide in Pausanias-Archaeological and Cultural Travels, following in the footsteps of ancient cultures. [email protected]

Jesús Alberto Arenas-Esteban

Jesús Alberto Arenas-Esteban is Professor in Prehistory at the Open University of Madrid. His main field of study focuses on the archaeology of the Iron Age. He completed his PhD thesis in 1998 on the pre-Roman communities of Central Spain. In 2001, he was appointed to the Hogg Research Fellowship at the University of Wales, Lampeter, where he started his research on the sociology of ancient built spaces. [email protected]

Jaime Alvar Ezquerra

Jaime Alvar Ezquerra is Professor of Ancient History at the Universidad Carlos III of Madrid. He is corresponding member of the Real Academia de la Historia and the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, as well as co-director of ARYS and Revista de Historiografía. His lines of research include Iberian Protohistory and religion in the Roman Empire. He currently leads the project Religion: The Individual and the Communitas. [email protected]

Elizabeth Blanning

Elizabeth Blanning is an Honorary Research Fellow at the University of Kent whose interests lie in daily life and material culture in Roman Britain and whose contribution derives from work originally undertaken for her MA dissertation. She is currently Honorary Curator of Kent Archaeological Society. [email protected]

Gilbert R. Burleigh

Gilbert R. Burleigh is an independent field archaeologist working in the Hertfordshire area. Formerly the Keeper of Field Archaeology for North Hertfordshire Museums, he directed major excavations at Baldock 1978–1994, Ashwell 2003–2006, and other sites in the district. His work mainly concentrates on the later prehistoric to medieval periods. [email protected]

Patrizia de Bernardo Stempel

Patrizia de Bernardo Stempel is an Indo-Europeanist and Celticist who has widely published on Celtic languages and panthea as well as on the interpretation of ancient and medieval Celtic texts. Her latest work includes a monograph on the Celtic mother-goddesses (2021) and on Germania Inferior’s theonyms and personal onomastics (2022). She is a professor at the University of the Basque Country (UPV/EHU) and corresponding member of the Austrian Academy of Sciences (ÖAW). [email protected]

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Isabelle Fauduet

Isabelle Fauduet is an archaeologist specialising on Roman Gaul. Her research focuses on small bronzes and religion, notably temples of non-Roman design in Gaul for which she has created a database. She is currently completing the publication of the sanctuary of Argentomagus and contributes to the publication of Roman sculpture in the territory of the Bituriges Cubi. She has also worked on Latin epigraphy for the CNRS (L’Année épigraphique). [email protected]

Ralph Haeussler

Ralph Haeussler is a research fellow at Winchester University. Having completed his PhD at University College London in 1997, he taught ancient history and archaeology at the universities of Oxford, Osnabrück and Lampeter. He is a specialist in ancient religions, Celtic deities, cultural interactions, identities and ‘globalisation’ in the ancient world. [email protected]

Anthony King

Anthony King is Emeritus Professor of Roman Archaeology at Winchester University. He completed his PhD at the Institute of Archaeology, London, in 1985 and is a specialist in Romano-Celtic temples and religion, Roman villas, samian ware and animal bones. [email protected]

Francisco Marco Simón

Francisco Marco Simón is Emeritus Professor of Ancient History at the University of Zaragoza. He specialises in religious systems in the ancient world, processes of contact and cultural transfer, magico-religious practices in the Latin West, and the construction of identity and otherness. [email protected]

Marjeta Šašel Kos

Marjeta Šašel Kos had a research post at the Institute of Archaeology of the Research Centre of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts from 2001 as a senior research fellow. Her research includes Roman epigraphy, the history of Illyricum, as well as (pre-)Roman cults of the Eastern Alps and Adriatic. She retired in January 2021. [email protected]

Günther Schörner

Günther Schörner holds the chair of Classical Archaeology (with focus on Roman Archaeology) at the University of Vienna (Austria). His research focuses on religious studies, especially rituals and their visualisation in the Roman Empire, studies on the material culture of rural populations in the Roman Empire and studies on cultural change in the wake of a region’s incorporation in the Roman Empire more generally. [email protected]

Jake Weekes

Jake Weekes completed his doctorate at the University of Kent in 2005 where he also taught Roman Archaeology and Classics between 1999 and 2007. He is a Research Officer for the Canterbury Archaeological Trust. He is a specialist of funerary archaeology and published, among others, a volume entitled Death as a Process: The Archaeology of the Roman Funeral in 2017. [email protected]

Chapter 1 Introduction: the dynamics of religious individualisation Ralph Haeussler, Anthony King, Francisco Marco Simón and Günther Schörner

The concept of person is … an excellent vehicle by which to examine this whole question of how to go about poking into another people’s turn of mind. (Geertz 1974)

The Roman world was diverse and complex. And so were religious understandings and practices as mirrored in the enormous variety presented by archaeological, iconographic and epigraphic evidence. Conventional approaches, like ‘polis religion’, look for similarities, principally focusing on the political role of civic cults as a means of social cohesion, often considered to be instrumentalised by elites. But by doing so, religious diversity and contradictory evidence are frequently overlooked, thus marginalising, for example, household cults, ‘private’ cults, magical activities, GraecoOriental cults, the wide range of non-Latin and non-Greek theonyms and epithets, the ‘deviating’ representations of gods that do not fit the Classical canon, as well as the multitude of funerary practices and other religious activities that were all part of people’s everyday life. In the Roman Empire, a person’s ‘religious’ experiences were shaped by many and sometimes seemingly incompatible cult practices, whereby the ‘civic’ and ‘imperial’ cults might have had the least impact of all on individuals. Our goal therefore is to re-think our methodologies, aiming for a more dynamic image of religion that takes into account the varied and often contradictory choices and actions of individuals and social groups, and which reflects the discrepant religious experiences in the Roman Empire. Is it possible to ‘poke into the mind’ of an individual in Roman times, whatever his/her status and ethnicity, and try to understand the individual’s diverse experiences in such a complex, interconnected empire, exploring the choices that were open to an individual, if any? This also raises the question whether the concept of individuality is valid for Roman times. We need to consider chronological and geographical variability: in some periods individual actions seem more frequent than in others, and in certain periods their impact can be more momentous: for example, the very first adoption of Roman-style sculpture, cult

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Ralph Haeussler, Anthony King, Francisco Marco Simón and Günther Schörner

practices or Latin theonyms for indigenous deities, as we frequently see around the Augustan period, can set in motion further long-term processes that will significantly influence people’s perceptions of local deities, their characteristics and functions. Do individual choices, decisions and preferences prevail over collective identities in the civitates of the Roman Empire when compared to the late Iron Age or Hellenistic period? To examine these questions, this volume presents a series of case studies that analyse individual choices and actions in the religious sphere.1 In Chapter 2, Ralph Haeussler aims to set the agenda for this volume by discussing a range of methodological issues regarding the validity of the concept of (religious) individualisation in the Roman Empire, advocating a bottom-up approach to understand religious developments. Magical activities, revealing the tension between public and private as well as the dynamic nature of religious individualisation, are explored in Francisco Marco’s paper on ‘discrepant behaviour’. His paper provides an insight in cult activities and religious development that predate and contradict the Roman-style civic cults in Hispania and Gaul (Chapter 3). The next section explores the individual’s choice of specific deities. Jaimé Alvar explores initiation and mystery cults as particular areas of personal choice in the Roman Empire, including conversion as an inner personal experience (Chapter 4). This leads us to other local deities, like the study of the mother goddesses in Roman Britain by Elizabeth Blanning, showing, inter alia, how individual social agents made the decision to associate the matres with military understandings (Chapter 5). For the north-eastern Adriatic provinces, Marjeta Šašel Kos shows how personal choices of Roman colonists and other immigrants preserved and gradually transformed the existing local cults: while the worshippers’ diverging cultural knowledge may lead to a reinterpretation of a deity’s function, due to a shortcoming in understanding a god’s divine essence, the environment equally influenced the actions and ritual practises (Chapter 6). A comparable situation can be encountered in Gaul: based on epigraphic and archaeological sources, Isabelle Fauduet explores cases of personal choice at sanctuaries in Gaul, from an individual’s personal relationship to his/her deity to the dedicant’s choice of votive offering, anatomic representation, figurine, sculpture and theonym, emphasising the role of individuals and their own religious experience, education and level of literacy (Chapter 7). Also in a funerary context, we can often recognise a variety of practices employed simultaneously, taking up a range of elements from Graeco-Roman and indigenous practices – these choices reflect the beliefs and cognitions of the deceased’s heirs, not necessarily of the community. Jake Weekes’ paper investigates the crossover between tradition and personalisation of burial practice in the case of Romano-British funerary contexts at Canterbury, looking for innovations in funerary practices, with some innovations going on to become traditions, thus revealing the individuality and uniqueness of each burial (Chapter 8). Gil Burleigh analyses the diverse religious activities in the context of a Romano-British small town, exhibiting an enormous variety of cult practices relating to a range of classical and indigenous deities; preRoman and Romano-British cemeteries reveal a considerable range of burial practices,

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suggestive of varied religious beliefs and superstitions (Chapter 9). In his study of human remains in ritual sites, notably temples and sanctuaries in Britain and Gaul, Anthony King not only discusses the evidence for human sacrifice, but also the extreme aspect of religious individualisations and their relationship to orthopraxical rituals in these cult places where individuals – including some high-ranking individuals – became permanently associated with a sanctuary after their death, seemingly contradicting the collective zeitgeist of the Roman world (Chapter 10). Fernando Alonso Burgos focuses on the creation of particular symbolic languages in north-west Spain, by exploring ethnohistorical references, regarding emulation processes and criollo/mestizo religions (Chapter 11). Jesús Arenas-Esteban’s study of the Roman villa of Cuevas de Soria in Central Spain in the longue durée also discusses a domestic context, but equally public display: conscious personal choices of the villa’s owners to use Celtic theonyms and onomastics were instrumentalised to create the image of a common ‘indigenous’ ancestry to define their social position in a rural context (Chapter 12). Günther Schörner focuses on the relationship between social and spatial behavior in the Roman house. With household religion being firmly tied to an individual family’s tradition, the religious topography of each house appears to be specific for each familia (Chapter 13). Within the interconnected world of the Roman Empire, the individual is faced with a myriad of deities and divine concepts, prompting the individual to interpret unknown divine forces, by identifying them with, for example, Graeco-Roman deities, or translating epithets and theonyms, as shown by Patrizia de Bernardo Stempel (Chapter 14). The final chapter by Ralph Haeussler focuses on the choices that the individual – whatever his/her status, gender, age or ethnicity – had at his/her disposal in the entangled, almost ‘global’ Roman world. The aim is to scrutinise our archaeological and epigraphic evidence: which finds do really constitute religious individualisation? And what scope for interpretations do our finds provide: from individual choices within a certain ‘repertoire’ to expressions of ‘Otherness’ by diverging from a community’s ‘official’ cults and creating religious places that reflect a certain religious emancipation from the civic authorities (Chapter 15)? We have to thank all our contributors for their stimulating papers. Our thanks are also due to the whole team at Oxbow Books. Note

1 Several papers in this volume were originally presented in the session ‘The dynamics of religious individualisation in the Roman empire (200 BCE–300 CE)’, which Ralph Haeussler, Anthony King, Francisco Marco and Günther Schörner organised at the Roman Archaeology Conference at Oxford University. All the papers were received in revised form in 2021/22.

Reference

Geertz, C. (1974) From the native’s point of view: on the nature of anthropological understanding. Bulletin of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 28 (1), 26–45.

Chapter 2 Religious individualisation: a bottom-up approach to religious developments in the Roman world Ralph Haeussler

Individual and collective Our material and textual evidence seems to paint a complex picture of religious life in the Roman provinces of the first–third centuries CE that appears extremely diverse, pluralistic and multicultural. It is both traditional and innovative, concurrently local, supra-regional, imperial and one may even classify religious life as competitive, with some cults, deities and sanctuaries competing for followers. Having become subject to Roman rule, the societal structures and cultural understandings of hundreds of communities, civitates, nationes and gentes were undergoing significant adjustments and transformations. Most notably, people were exposed to and eventually became integrated in an intricately connected, interdependent and entangled world. Despite the efficacy of Roman imperialism and the magnitude of communication across the Roman Empire, this did not lead to a homogenisation of cultural or religious expressions but resulted in ever more diversity. Although the surviving archaeological and epigraphic evidence merely present the tip of the iceberg, we recognise thousands of gods and goddesses and a staggering number of monumentalised cult places as well as religious centres and sacred sites, some of which became the focus of empirewide pilgrimages. How was this possible? The traditional top-down model of social and religious organisation hardly suffices to explain this diversification. The increasing individualisation of social life across the Roman world must have been one major factor that needs to be explored further, notably during the first to third centuries CE (see below; cf. also Haeussler and Webster 2020). We already see some earlier developments, like ‘the differentiation of religious groups’ – in the words of John North (1992, 181) – as in the famous case of Bacchus worshippers spreading across

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the cities on the Italian peninsula in the early second century BCE, prompting the Roman state to curtail the cult(s) in 187 BCE. Over the past 30 years, the predominant model of religions in the Roman world presumes that magistrates, decuriones and municipal elites were almost exclusively responsible for the nature of local cults and for controlling and financing local sanctuaries (see, e.g., Dondin-Payre and Raepsaet-Charlier 2006 with review by Haeussler 2008a; cf. Beard et al. 1998). Similar to the idea of the ‘polis religion’ in Classical Greece, one takes for granted that the councillors of a civitas, colonia, municipium or polis had the exclusive responsibility to install a religious system and arbitrate the relationships between mortals and gods, as stipulated, rather clearly, so it seems, in the Roman lex for the new colonia Genetiva of Urso in the Baetica (§64): ‘All duumviri (…) shall bring, within ten days next following the commencement of their magistracy, before the decurions (…) the question as to the dates and the number of festal days, the sacrifices to be publicly performed, and the persons to perform such sacrifices’ (translation by Gabba and Crawford 1996). Even if not explicitly stated, many studies on provincial cults accept this notion of ‘polis religion’ (e.g. Van Andringa 2002). John Scheid clearly defines this view of ancient religion: not religion in a polis, but religion of the polis, ‘la religion est liée à l’idéal de la cité’ (Scheid 1998, 22; 1999, 385–7; cf. Rüpke 1999; on Scheid’s approach see Ando 2009; for ‘polis religion’ and critique of the concept, see Sourvinou-Inwood 1990; Woolf 1997; 2003, 138; Kindt 2009; Haeussler 2011; Rüpke 2013, 3–6). Based on this model, the rituals and religious festivals are meant to create a common identity for the inhabitants of a city or polis/civitas, binding them together in collective events, thus consolidating social hierarchies. In many academic works of the past 20–30 years, we can see that cults, sanctuaries and deities were not interpreted as local religious beliefs, but as political and ideological tools of a civitas, with each deity and cult having their role to play for social cohesion (see also Derks 1998, 185–99, on the role d’aggrégation of rural sanctuaries). This concept, however, does not appear fully convincing for a number of reasons when applied to the Roman world. First, there is the unprecedented level of interconnectivity and mobility in the Roman world, which has an impact on all aspects of life for people from all strata of society, as we shall discuss later in more detail. Second, one easily forgets that the so-called ‘local elite’, thought to oversee civic cults, was far from being a homogenous group of wealthy landowners and decurions with a common interest. In any one civitas, the decurions consisted of a group of individuals with very different backgrounds, interests and motivations, further diversified during the Principate: even in a Roman colonia, the epigraphic record generally shows that the ‘local elite’ consisted of wealthy landowners of both ItaloRoman and local, indigenous origin, of newcomers from other provinces, of individuals with careers and socio-economic interests far beyond the local community, as well

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as of individuals who acted as decurions, magistrates, priests or patroni in several civitates (see e.g., Haeussler 2013, 234). This implies not only that any one member of ‘the elite’ may not have necessarily identified with a particular civitas or polis, but we can also hardly imagine a consensus in religious understandings, apart perhaps from acknowledging the political inevitabilities of the day to honour the emperor, at least in public. Moreover, we can identify individual elite members taking advantage of existing ‘civic cults’ to display publicly their authority and wealth (dare I say, ‘philanthropy’ or euergetism): this represents less collective cult interests of the community, but individual endeavours to improve or consolidate one’s standing in the community. There are countless cases of wealthy elite members making unprecedented donations to cults and sanctuaries, thereby not only supporting (or rather, manipulating) existing cult places, but also promoting new cults. For instance, a large inscription from the colonia Nemausus, Nîmes, in southern Gaul commemorates an unknown wealthy ‘benefactor’ who made very generous donations to the religious life of the city, including the dedication of a temple for Isis and Sarapis and handing out a stipend of five denarii for each of the decuriones (councillors) so that they can dine in public (CIL XII 3058; Wierschowski 2001, 174, no. 213a). Such ‘generosity’ shows blatant impositions. Whether subtle or direct, these individual acts are likely to generate changing religious understandings, perhaps not instantly, but in the course of one or two generations (see e.g., Haeussler 2012a). Some sanctuaries of pre-Roman origin, like Nîmes’s spring sanctuary ‘La Fontaine’, became appropriated as a venue for elite self-display (Haeussler 2011). Sometimes, a local landowner may promote rural cults to strengthen his/her social and religious authority over a series of villages and farmsteads, carving out his/her little ‘domain’ within a civitas territory (see Haeussler 2008b; King 2020; see also Arenas-Esteban in this volume). In other words, (seemingly) ‘public’ cults may be considered the ‘plaything’ of individual members of the elite (see also Gordon 2015, 370 showing the role of religious action for innerelite competition as basis for ‘individualisation’). Third, certainly during the Principate (and in some regions already during the late Republic), we need to emphasise the actions of individual social agents and their capacity in making their own choices in religious matters, given that we seem to be dealing with a society in which the majority of people were required to look after themselves and thereby create – sometimes inadvertently – their own identities. We will return to this issue later, but let us just explore the situation of crafts(wo)men and trades(wo)men who were becoming increasingly visible in Roman times and for whom the existing cultural ‘repertoire’ was often not adequate to express their place in society (Haeussler 2013, 51 with further bibliography): these emerging social groups did not just ‘emulate’ the elite, but often a craftsperson decided to adopt a variety of features, objects and media, perhaps also to promote the cult of a particular ‘patron’ deity. At the outset we can imagine how these acts of individuals were subsequently setting in motion group dynamics that can lead to the establishment of new identities, new cultural repertoires and new local cults; in turn, these locally created features may become part of a wider discourse beyond the original ‘catchment area’ (for a

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discussion of bricolage and the mechanisms of group dynamics, see Haeussler and Webster 2020). We can also allude to the various forms of diaspora identities that were emerging across the provinces, like that of Batavian soldiers on Hadrian’s Wall, who were also making their own distinctive religious choices, not to mention the Palmyreans/Tadmoreans who installed their ancestral cults and deities for example in Rome, Sarmizegtusa (Dacia) and Messad (Numidia) (see Eckardt 2010 on diaspora identities, Nesbitt 2014 on multiculturalism on Hadrian’s Wall; for the Palmyrean temple in Dacia, see Piso and Tentea 2011). If we take into account the societal developments of the Principate, then the focus on a small number of civic cults (i.e. those financed by the collective, the vicani, ordo or boule) ignores the multifaceted religious world that people were subjected to, both in their local community and the wider world. Instead, it is necessary to emphasise the active role of individuals, whatever their gender, status, rank, profession, ethnicity or identity, both elite and sub-elite, and the ways in which they took their own religious decisions and how their actions – individually and put together – could shape local cults, cult practices and religious beliefs to such an extent that traditional and/or collective religious understandings may even have become contested and marginalised. As we shall see, individualisation must be considered an important factor in creating the enormous diversification of cult activities that we can recognise across the Roman Empire. Indeed, this diversity of cult practices and rituals as well as the myriad of sculptural representations, deities and theonyms (and divine names in the widest possible sense, see e.g. Bonnet 2021), which we find at many cult places, apparently contradicts the image of elite-controlled ‘civic cults’ that one may have expected in the Roman Empire; instead, it reflects personal decisions, often of contradictory nature, by individual social agents. For those personal religious decisions and activities that stand outside, in the words of Kindt (2015, 36–7), ‘the polis paradigm’ and reflect ‘more personal engagement with the supernatural’, the term ‘personal religion’ has become increasingly popular (Rüpke 2013; 2016; Kindt 2015). However, the term personal religion itself is controversial: first, it is hardly personal or private, but was ‘acted out in public’ (for the term sacra privata in Roman law, see e.g. Rüpke 2013, 7); second, it was hardly a ‘religion’, but reflects the individual’s religious understandings, interests and activities – many of which complement the existing ‘polis religion’. But we must avoid the view that ‘personal religion becomes fully subsumed into polis religion and vice versa’ (SourvinouInwood 1990). Kindt (2015, 42) convincingly argues that subsuming all religious activities under one ‘heading’ ‘renders both concepts meaningless by making them interchangeable’. If we consider the increasingly intertwined, interdependent and mobile Roman world, which makes the idea of a more or less coherent community almost meaningless, then it appears that the gap between publicly funded civic cults and all other cult activities in any given civitas increasingly was widening as we move from the first to the third century CE. We only need to look at the staggering number of individual votives, theonyms and of new cult places appearing in towns, in their suburbs and across their territories, like the concentration of temples and

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Fig. 2.1. Plan of sanctuaries with several shrines and temples: (a) Viuz Faverges (after Rebiscoul and Serralongue), (b) Thun-Allemedingen (drawing by Robert Hagmann; from Martin-Kilcher and Schatzmann 2009) and (c) Altbachtal (after Cüppers 1990).

shrines at sites, such as Altbachtal (Trier), Thun-Allmedingen (Martin-Kilcher and Schatzmann 2009) and Viuz-Faverges (Piccamiglio and Segard 2005) (Fig. 2.1), not to mention religious actors from other regions and cultural background.

What shapes the individual’s religious experience? This leads us to the next theme, religious experience. We do not limit ourselves to examples of ‘expressions of awe’, like gigantic, monumental statues, created, one might say, to satisfy (and promote) the ‘superstition of the masses’ (see discussion in Gordon 2015, 373–4 on Rüpke 2011; the idea of superstitio of the ‘masses’ can be seen, for example, in Cicero’s de divinatione 2.70 [33]). Instead, we are interested in the whole picture when it comes to the forging of an individual’s religious experience. This starts of course with processes of socialisation into a particular group at various stages in life, like the socialisation into a family with its household gods during childhood or the participation in coming-to-age ceremonies (see e.g., Rüpke 2013, 8); talking of which, we may allude here to Van Gennep’s concept of rites de passage which focuses, in the words of Michaels (2016, ch. 5), on ‘the constant overstepping of borders, as the individual moves in other groups and classes, indeed must move in them’. In fact, during adulthood, our hypothetical individual may decide to become a member of various institutions that shape his/her experience, such as a collegium or ‘guild’, the army, and many more.

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Moreover, an individual’s religious experience includes the visits to shrines during one’s travels, or the deliberate pilgrimage to a particular sanctuary or holy site; even emperors sought their personal religious experience, for example by climbing Mount Kasios in Syria, sacred to various ‘religions’ (Williams Reed 2020); also sites in Gaul became ‘supra-regional phenomena’, like Apollo Grannus at Grand (Woolf 2003, 139). Pilgrim ampulla, for example, help us to get a glimpse into the extent of pilgrimages in the ancient world (Anderson 2004; Rutherford 2020). And throughout one’s life, there are the passive and active experiences of religious events, festivals and processions, from being a mere bystander or perhaps an engaging observer (perhaps wishing to touch sacred objects, like sacred stones or trees, or being struck by the luperci’s leather straps during the Lupercalia – see Plutarch, Caesar 61) to becoming an active participant. For an individual this may involve, for instance, to be chosen (or volunteering) to help carrying certain sacred items in a procession, decorating divine statues, providing the sacrificial animals, re-enacting mythical accounts, putting on particularly ‘religious’ garments, performing religious dances, entering a state of trance, and many more. In addition, the individual is confronted with literary works that shapes religious comprehension, from Homer and Vergil to Stoic or Neoplatonic works, whether reading them personally and/or engaging with them in oral form, like in theatre performances or forum gossip. Indeed, any individual would have been bombarded by new religious expressions and media during his/her lifetime, many of which were taking place in the public sphere, like the omnipresence of altars, statues, religious iconography, the display of votive offerings, civic festivals and public processions (even for initiation cults, like Isis and the Eleusian mysteries), or engaging with wandering religious practitioners, miracle workers and prophets (see e.g. Koskenniemi 1998 on Apollonius of Tyana as θεῖος ἀνήρ; Rawson 2020 discusses the evidence for private religious practitioners and private initiation). The engagement with a large variety of religious features was even more diverse for people regularly travelling to other cities and provinces, be it on business or in the army, and those building up a private or business network of contacts. For these individuals, there was a constant need to interpret and re-interpret what they experienced; in turn, they must have found ways on how to address foreign deities to whom they addressed a prayer or offering. In this context, we must be careful not to marginalise rural communities as they, too, could not escape the zeitgeist of their time. We are dealing with a predominantly agricultural society and many city dwellers owned land, some of them were important landowners; moreover, there is continuing demographic change in rural areas since newcomers and veteran soldiers were acquiring land in rural areas; on the other hand, farmers – of whatever status – had to travel to market places to sell their produce, engage with other landowners or landlords, participate in (and cater for) urban lifestyles, and perhaps consider offering their own children different career options. In other words, people who lived in a rural context were equally faced with a wide range of religious ideas.

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There can be hardly any doubt that the individual’s religious experience in the Roman world must have been shaped by many and sometimes seemingly incompatible cult practices. ‘Civic’ and ‘imperial’ cults might have had much less impact on individuals than has been traditionally supposed. People’s diverse religious experiences may imply that the large civic festivals might have been increasingly exposed as what they really were: an orchestration to display the status and socioreligious authority of municipal, equestrian and senatorial elites. They were large gatherings that provided diverse forms of entertainment, like processions and ludi, including gladiatorial games, altogether perhaps not too dissimilar to a village festival, fête votive or Kerwe/Kermesse today. But how important are they really for shaping the individual’s religious experience? This may have been different from the more engaging, personal experiences in other cults and in the mysteries. The many healing sanctuaries in the Roman world have inspired thousands of votive inscriptions and offerings; amazingly, many of the ‘spas’ are particularly indicated iconographically on the Tabula Peutingeriana, like Aquae Sextiae, Aquae Bormonis, Aquae Segetae or Andesina (Grand) (see also Grünewald 2018, 45). In addition, whatever the size of a cult place, many local deities – be it a fertility, chthonic or celestial deity – would offer the individual a more active spiritual experience: not just the act of making a personal offering or vow (for heath, childbirth, etc.), but also the participation in acts of purification and ritual bathing, the experience the state of intoxication or trance, abstinence and ascetism, the promise of salvation or theurgy; many of these cults would also have required volunteers to take action, from making daily offerings or libations, cleaning the temple, to rehearsing musical or dance performances, and practising to carry a portable altar or effigy for a forthcoming procession, perhaps even up a mountain or into the sea. It is therefore no surprise that much of the material evidence for religious activities derives from cult places that were more ‘popular’ with a wider public who donated diverse offerings and votives to their favourite deities. In the words of Greg Woolf (2003, 139), ‘cults that flourished outside the civic context, cults sustained not by existing social institutions but by their power to attract adherents from within the vast choices offered by polytheism’. This reflects a certain competitive nature, leading us to the idea of a ‘marketplace’ which John North already suggested in 1992. This ‘marketplace’ is perhaps more apparent when one talks about ‘autonomous religions’ (in the words of North): we might think here of the competition for followers between Christianity versus the ‘traditional’ cults (Pliny epistulae 10.96.9–10 from 112 CE on the abandonment of temples in cities and rural areas of Bithynia due to the spread of Christianity; see also Chiai 2020, 334). But ‘autonomous religions’ hardly existed in Roman times: the ‘religious marketplace’ was predominantly concerned with an ever increasing number of deities, cult places and mythical accounts whose ‘propagators’ (e.g. priest(esse)s, self-declared holy (wo)men, local councillors, etc.) were competing not only for worshippers and pilgrims, but also for economic resources.

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Already the absence of any real frontiers within the empire must have contributed to an increasing market-like competitiveness between distant places of worship. We are not just talking about localised travelling, like within a civitas or province, but of individuals who could afford visiting far-flung sanctuaries. Apart from major Greek sanctuaries, made accessible to the wider public by Pausanias’ Description of Greece (see e.g., Funke 2010), we also find many other important centres of pilgrimage in the Roman West. In the western provinces, important supra-regional sanctuaries can be identified at Aix-la-Chapelle, Aquileia, Aquae Sulis/Bath, Fontes Sequanae, Grand, Hochscheid, Sanxay and Thun-Allmendingen, to mention just a few in alphabetical order, many of which also had hostels or guesthouses, like the explicitly mentioned hospitalia of the Mercury and Rosmerta santuary at Wasserbillig near Hochscheid (CIL XIII 4208; on pilgrimage in the Roman west, see Kiernan 2012; Grünewald 2018; for Grand, see Bertaux 1993). We even see emperors making dedications to presumed ‘native’ deities, like Diocletian and Maximinian to the god with the Celtic name Belenos in Aquileia (CIL V 732 (add. p. 1024) = ILS 625, c.  286–293 CE). Many deities may only have acquired unique epithets or surnames in Roman times in order to distinguish their cult from other ‘rival’ sanctuaries. In this competitive environment, votive offerings and votive inscriptions seem to have become an important means to advertise the powers of a healing deity; at the same time, they are generally the result of an individual’s vow, votum, rarely of a household or community, which seems so different from the evidence of other societies (e.g. pre-Roman Iron Age Europe, see Haeussler, Chapter 15). In addition to healing sanctuaries, oracular sanctuaries also attracted travellers from far away, just like the personal pilgrimages to particular initiation cult places, like Eleusis, that were open to a wider group of wealthy travellers. Many sites across the Roman world seem to acquire several functions through time that appear to have gone beyond a deity’s original meaning, like astrology, cursing, oracles, etc., and many include baths and guest houses. In order to survive in a changing world, many local shrines or sanctuaries had to be adapted and updated, for instance by investing in monumental architecture and monuments, in adopting new rituals in accordance with the zeitgeist, such as introducing the habit of writing curse tablets (defixiones) at the sanctuaries of Bath and Uley, or the astrological tablets of Egyptian origin at the Gaulish sanctuary of Grand (Goyon 1993; Kropp 2008). As in the case of defixiones and astrology, ideas were spreading across the empire, and it was down to individual ‘culture carriers’ (‘Kulturträger’) to transmit the knowledge across this interconnected world in which an individual can theoretically be instrumental in promoting and introducing innovations. But who is the human actor who is responsible for such innovation? Was it the local priest who decides to go beyond existing orthopraxic rituals and introduce new features? Was it the regular devotee or worshipper? Or was it perhaps the spontaneous act by a visitor or passer-by that sparked off a new development? We can often imagine a combination of different factors. If we look at modern Japan, for example,

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we can identify many Shinto shrines that are being reimagined or reinvented to suit contemporary concerns, such as the idea of a natural power spot where visitors from the cities can absorb the energy of nature and the divine (Carter 2018, 151–3). In a period of uncertainty – here the anxieties about nature and one’s life in the modern, urbanised world – we see a bilateral/dialectic relationship between the concerns of a shrine’s priesthood and those of pilgrims and devotees: on one hand, preserving traditional practices (ritual practices, priestly garments, purification rituals, etc.), while at the same time expanding or re-interpreting divine functions (ibid.). And in modern-day Japan, as in the Roman world, it is difficult to establish who initiated the process –priest or worshipper, local or outsider? Perhaps individual acts created a certain group dynamic that led to innovation, notably in periods of societal stress and uncertainties when existing sociocultural and behavioural models fail to convince. It is therefore no surprise that certain cult places kept developing and expanding in Roman times, adopting new features popular with worshippers, mirroring the ever-changing sociocultural understandings. In this respect, we can think of the well-known case of the snake-god Glycon, invented by Alexander of Abounoteichos in the second century CE, which became popular because it offered the worshippers three major ‘services’ – reflecting the zeitgeist – combined in one cult: (1) healing from illnesses, (2) prophecy and (3) salvation from fear of death by initiation into the mysteries (Chiai 2020, 334): the cult even spread from Anatolia to Syria and to the Danube provinces (see e.g. Šašel Kos 1991; on the concept of zeitgeist, see Haeussler and Webster 2020). This case shows the importance of a single individual, like Alexander as self-declared religious leader. In our attempt to re-think the existing approaches to religious life in the Roman Empire, we need to develop a dynamic model that takes into account the varied and often contradictory choices and actions, in the line of the ‘Balkanisation of the brain’, a term coined by P. Veyne in his ‘Did the Greeks believe in their Myths?’ (1983) to describe the ‘plurality of modalities of beliefs’. Even more so in Roman times, individuals and social groups held different ‘beliefs’ side-by-side, which reflects the diverging religious experiences that people acquired in the Roman Empire. Ted Kaizer (2002, 27) similarly suggested a dynamic ‘model of an additive extension of an open system’ (see also Bendlin 1997). But instead of considering the different autonomous religious groups, cults or systems that were mutually aware of each other, exchanging ideas and/or resenting each other (see also North 1992, 176), we should aim for a bottom-up approach at the centre of which is the social agent’s experience and actions – and each individual’s religio-cultural understandings and experiences did not stop at artificial boundaries between ‘religions’ and/or ‘cults’.

Individualising the ‘global’ Roman world The term ‘religious individualisation’ opens up a wide range of problems (Gordon 2015, 367–75). From a monotheistic viewpoint, individualisation is a much more ‘radical’

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concept as it may involve acting against one’s community and family, breaking with norms, and/or rejecting established traditions and rituals (see e.g. Kippele 2008). But in the religious world in Roman times, pluralism was always the norm, but so was participating in collective events where a certain group pressure might force individuals to attend a community’s large civic festivals. When we talk about ‘individualisation’ in the Roman world, we need to understand the changing societal structures within which any individual and/or social agent was acting in. Let us first consider the concept of an ideal ancient state, whether civitas, polis, natio or ‘tribe’, notably prior to the Roman conquest. This would be an autonomous community with a(n imagined) common ancestry, its own laws, behavioural patterns, its own deities and myths, demarcating itself from neighbouring communities. In such an ideal community, the choice of deities is hardly arbitrary: they were often considered active agents in a community’s history and present in a community’s sacred landscape. In Athens, for example, the entire landscape commemorates, so to speak, the divine presence, starting with the eponymous goddess Athena, to Artemis and Iphigenia at Brauron, and to the goddess Demeter who initiated the construction of her own sanctuary at Eleusis. The city of Rome was equally full of historical-religious associations, like the lacus Curtius and of course the lupercal, the den of the she-wolf who rescued Romulus and Remus (Cançik 1985–86). We see how closely intertwined a community, its history, deities and myths can be. In societies where religious, political, social and historical understandings can hardly be separated from each other, people were celebrating collective events for the safety and wellbeing of the entire community, whilst strengthening the bonds between individuals and consolidating existing hierarchies; and in some societies it would probably have been difficult for outsiders to become part of that community (e.g., on the question of restrictions imposed on the metics participating in Athenian cults, see Wijma 2014). In Iron Age Europe, we notice the construction of (probably seasonal) ceremonial and feasting enclosures that must have served these sociopolitico-religious purposes, like at Corent (Poux and Demierre 2016). Whether in the Greek, Roman or Celtic world, ostentatious display by some individuals may also mean social exclusion for others (for the case of Hinduism, see Michaels 2016, ch. 6). And if we believe the Classical accounts on the druids, then it seems likely that they were very much in control of any religious acts since, e.g. according to Caesar, the druids oversee both private and public sacrifices in Gaul (de bello Gallico 6.13). In the Classical world, individual deities and sanctuaries were at the heart of a polis. At Ephesos, for example, social, political and religious life converged for centuries around the cult of Artemis. And in Roman times, the high priestesses, responsible for the provincial cult of the emperor, were also the high priestesses of Artemis. An interesting case is a dedication to Claudia Crateia Veriana which lists six generations of women who were priestesses in Ephesos, notaby hiereia and kosméteira of Artemis, high priestess (archiereia) as well as prytanis and gymnasiarch of the polis (see e.g. Van Bremen 1996, 318, n°10; Haeussler 2012b).

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Whether this idealised concept of ‘polis religion’ ever existed in such a pristine form, even in Classical Greece, is another question, since aspects like magic, curse tablets and mystery cults were equally part of people’s religious experience in a polis (v. supra). Since Hellenistic times, and certainly in the increasingly ‘globalising’ Roman world, the very meaning of a ‘polis’ and ‘polis identity’ were gradually losing their significance not only for the economic and land-owning elites, who clearly looked beyond polis or civitas boundaries when it came to economic interests, political ambitions, inter-marriage, and so on, but for all strata of society. Yes, religion continued to be closely embedded in society, being used to promote municipal identities, but we see new developments that complement (and contradict) existing understandings and traditions, and go beyond the control of the established authorities. Certainly by the first century CE, the available evidence allows us to identify countless individuals who endeavoured to better their social and economic situation. Individuals decided to invest in new businesses, adopt new production methods, find niche markets, start trading across provincial boundaries, even move production centres to new places, or they took the risk to move to a distant Roman province to start a new life (see e.g. Wieschowski 2001; Haeussler 2013, 155–7; Haeussler and Webster 2020). There is no doubt that social agents from across all social strata could (theoretically) take a decision that would change their destiny. And this also relates to people’s religious experience. Let us just imagine those roughly 10,000 provinciali who, each year, chose to join the Roman legions and auxiliary units. For each of them, it meant engaging in new structures, experiencing aspects of Roman (military) religion (as we see in the example of the feriale Duranum, P.Dura 54), engaging with colleagues of culturally and ethnically diverse origin, being moved around the Roman Empire, even in peace time (see study by Herz 2017). After retirement, some decided to return home, while others made the decision to marry and found a family in far-away lands, like the Palmyrene Barates who married his freedwoman, Regina, a Catuvellaunian, setting up a bilingual Palmyran-Latin inscription in South Shield (RIB 1065 = ILS 7063 = CSIR-GB I.1. 247). Sometimes, ex-officers even enjoyed a civic career, like Gaius Valerius Clemens, a primus pilus, who achieved the high-ranking office of duumvir quinquennalis, as well as being a flamen of the emperor and patronus of the colonia Augusta Taurinorum (Turin) in the late first century CE (CIL V 7007 = ILS 2544). During their years of service, soldiers were not just experiencing and exchanging a variety of cultural and religious ideas, but they can also be instrumental in promoting cults: on Hadrian’s wall, soldiers set up dedications to the local mother goddesses of their home countries; other soldiers were instrumental in promoting Mithras or Jupiter Dolichenus in military contexts (e.g., a legionary donating aram [[et templum]] to Mithras: CSIR-D II.14, 14 from Bingen; see Collar 2012; 2013). For Richard Gordon, the cult of Mithras allowed ‘individual mystagogues to create their own personal religious constructions’ (Gordon 2015, 378, id. 2013), while John North (1992, 189–90) focusses our attention on the individual in the Mithras cult, trying to achieve a higher grade

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of initiation, even suggesting that Mithraism ‘may have been far more subversive of the normal assumptions of ancient life’ (North 1992, 189–90). Is there any place in the Roman Empire where people were not affected by this process of individualisation, of having to take one’s own decisions, and sometimes against existing local ‘traditions’? One may assume that rural communities reflect a close-knit society where ‘traditions’ survived much longer, being handed down from one generation to the next. But was this really possible in the Roman Empire? Rural communities were far from being isolated: apart from being part of a web of contacts, like patronage networks, landlord-tenant and buyer-seller relationships, not to mention the sons of farmers who joined the army (e.g., the large number of Batavians: Roymans 2004), we also see innovations, like the need to specialise on profitable products, which in turn creates more dependency of the rural population on imported goods and thus their need to engage with markets where they engaged with town dwellers, traders, craftsmen, as well as with urban cults and performative events. Our rural dweller might buy a mass-produced Venus or dea nutrix terracotta figurine – a simple object like that may influence people’s religious understanding in the long run. Cities like Alexandria, Antioch or Rome had become huge cosmopolitan and multiethnic hubs where different ‘religions’ were peacefully co-existing for generations (North 1992). On a smaller scale, we can find these cosmopolitan hubs across the Roman world, from the Roman foundations, notably coloniae consisting of citizens of various ethnic origin, to towns and cities at the empire’s margins (see for example Shaw et al. 2016; Leach et al. 2010 for Britain; Chiai 2020 for Phrygia). Multiculturalism must have been the norm in most parts of the Roman world. In such a world, it seems hardly possible that local elites managed to keep control over social, economic and religious affairs in their community. There might have been some attempts by local elites to create an identity for the Roman-style civitates, like the ordo financing public sacrifices and festivals in a Roman way, as stipulated by the lex de colonia Genetiva, but we have to question just how successful they were and how long these attempts survived beyond the initial phase of (re)foundation as a Roman community (Haeussler 2011). In the context of this volume, religious individualisation is embedded in a society in which the individual, i.e. the social agent, could make his/her own choices. Just like moving to a new town or acquiring property in another province or investing in a new business, individuals could also make religious choices regarding the worship of deities or the private initiation into a mystery cult, or provide their own ‘interpretatio’ of a local cult or sacred site, or introduce new types of votive offerings or even new deities. We just need to look at the available epigraphic, archaeological and sculptural evidence from across the Roman world to see the hugely wide range of deities and cults from which an individual can choose from. The important premise for religious individualisation is the availability of choices. In virtually every region of the empire, various religious options were available

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simultaneously, contributing the religious ‘marketplace’. We may categorise them – at the risk of oversimplification – as: 1. Local or autochthonous deities and divine entities, often – but not necessarily – originating from pre-conquest times and frequently associated with ethnic identities, topographical features and local myths. Pre-Roman deities habitually survived, most notably in the ‘Greek East’, sometimes virtually unchanged, but often adapted to new socio-cultural environments and the use of new media. One often talks about an indigenous substratum for many local religions, be it a Hittite substratum in Asia Minor, Celtic substratum in much of Europe, Semitic in Syria, and so on. The idea of a substratum, however, is not only unhelpful (Kaizer 2002), but also very vague; such a substratum may not even have been recognisable to the contemporary worshippers. Moreover, we need a more constructive approach to religion: for example, what does a ‘Celtic substratum’ look like: is it just a theonym in Celtic? But if so, we need to consider the possibility that this theonym may not have existed in pre-Roman times (Haeussler 2012a; see Šašel Kos and Fauduet, this volume). 2. Graeco-Roman deities can be found in numerous forms outside the Greek world and the city of Rome. We may find ‘proper’ Graeco-Roman deities, for example, in Roman coloniae and castra (see also the feriale Duranum, v.supra), often side-by-side with local gods; moreover, local gods were interpreted or identified by a Graeco-Roman deity (on interpretatio Graeca, Romana, indigena, see Chiai et al. 2012). Sometimes, the iconography of a Graeco-Roman deity was adopted (and adapted) to represent a local divine entity – this depends also on the cultural and religious identity of each worshipper and how he/ she interprets a particular deity or cult. Is it possible that individual acts of interpretatio led to the suppression of a deity’s ‘native’ theonym and identity? 3. The worship of the emperor and the divine house (traditionally assumed under the term ‘imperial cult’) can be found across the Roman Empire. But the form can vary enormously, ranging from the mere mentioning of the numen Augusti and domus divinae to actual dedications to individual emperors, from a political tool symbolising loyalty to an organised cult with priesthood and sacrifices. Some of these might reflect very personal decisions and devotions. A graffito dedicated to Nero and the local god Limetus, inscribed on walls of a Romano-Celtic temple at Châteauneuf, shows devotion by a sub-elite individual (Fig. 2.2; AE 1993, 1152). At the upper end of the social spectrum, there is the case of the wealthy benefactor Plancia Magna in Perge: she set up bilingual dedications to, inter alia, the deified Trajan and his niece, Matidia (Mitchell 1974; Haeussler 2012b). Other dedications may just reflect the zeitgeist or they were a sign of loyalty and patronage, while others may result from individual social agents, like a community’s flamen/ flaminica or patronus/patrona, who used their positions to influence the local

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ordo in setting up an altar or a statue to further their own career. 4. Then there are of course deities and mystery cults of so-called ‘eastern’ origin – from Asia Minor and Syria to Egypt – like Isis, Serapis, Mithras, Cybele Magna Mater and Jupiter Dolichenus; among the mystery cults, we can include a pan-Greek cult, like the Eleusian Mysteries in Attica. They are far from being Fig. 2.2. Graffito from the temple wall at Château­ evenly distributed across neuf, dedicated to Nero and Limetus: [---] v(otum) the Roman world. Often, it a(nimo) l(ibens) m(erito) [s(olvit)] / Neroni / was down to an individual’s Limet[o]. (photo: Centre Camille Jullian, Epigraphic initiative to create a cult Database Clauss/Slaby). place based on the social agent’s experience. For instance, in the small market town of Industria/ Bodincomagos (east of Turin) in Cisalpine Gaul, two families, the Avilii and Lollii, promoted the cult of Isis and Serapis, leading to the construction of an impressive Iseion-Serapeion, based, so it seems, on their own religious experience: for example, a certain Lucius Lollius minted coins with the head of (Zeus) Ammon as commander of the Antonine fleet while Aulus Avilius Flaccus was prefect of Egypt 32–37 CE: personal experiences shapes people’s individual actions (see Haeussler 2013, 231–5 with more literature). 5. And since the first century CE, two monotheistic faiths were rapidly spreading from Israel across all parts of the Roman world: Judaism and Christianity. Again, we see here the role of individuals, notably when it comes to proselytism and conversion. Converting to Judaism or Christianity may be considered a more ‘profound’ experience compared to the initiation into a Graeco-Syrian or Graeco-Egyptian mystery cult as it involved a ‘break’ from the other cults. Apuleius (Apology 55) claims to have been initiated ‘into almost all the Greek mysteries’ (see North 1992, 184), something which would not have been possible for someone who converted to Christianity or Judaism. However, from a ‘pagan’ perspective, it is possible that individuals merely wanted to be initiated in these religions, just like into the other ‘mystery cults’ and it is possible that the Jews were not yet perceived as a distinctive religious group (North 1992, 190). 6. This also leads us to other religious understandings that were becoming common during the Roman Empire. Concepts of the soul and afterlife beliefs

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Ralph Haeussler had been evolving for a long time: apart from the Greek understanding of the underworld – Hades – and the Roman Manes, concepts such as reincarnation and resurrection had become increasingly popular in Roman times (e.g. Neopythagoreans; Orphism), together with the idea of divine ascent and theurgy, as in the Chaldean Oracles and Neoplatonism. Again, the personal wish for a better afterlife (e.g., by initiation into a mystery cult) or for ascent by theurgical practices focuses on the individual taking over responsibility for his own life and his soul; it shows the increasing importance of the ‘self ’ in Roman society – rather than collective wellbeing. Here we also see networks at play that go beyond civitas or provincial boundaries, like the Platonic and Neoplatonic schools in Athens, Alexandria and Apamaea, which brought together philosophers from across the empire. 7. We also should not ignore the various types of ‘magical’ activities (see e.g. Sichet 2002; Gordon and Marco Simón 2010; Parker and McKie 2018; and Marco Simón, this volume). Here, it is important not to detach ‘magic’ from other religious activities and beliefs as even some of the more unusual ‘magical’ objects, like the so-called voodoo dolls (see study by Németh 2018) were sometimes found within sanctuaries. Let us consider the case of an individual desperately worried about childbirth who may have concurrently made vows and offerings to one of the many fertility deities (e.g., Artemis at Brauron) as well as employing magic, like wearing an apotropaic amulet. Richard Gordon also discusses the importance of so-called love magic ‘as a matter of individual strategies […] in the face of more or less critical situations’ (2017).

These seven categories are of course rather rudimentary and debatable. Not only was there ‘a great deal of mutual awareness, communication, and interchange between the different religious groups’ (North 1992, 176), but also an astonishing level of common ground, overlap and dynamic relationship between them which needs to be taken into account (see Albrecht et al. 2018, 2). While North (1992, 183–4) writes about ‘autonomous religious groups’, we need to question the concept since most devotees can belong to several religious groups in the Roman world. And even in Judaism and Christianity, we can recognise the continuous cross-fertilisation between each other and with other cults and the philosophies of the time (see e.g. the work by Chiai 2020 on the cross-fertilisation between Judaism, Christianity and Phrygian ritual practices). Kaizer (2002, 27) rightly describes the situation as a ‘continuous renegotiation of old and new elements’ in the case of Palmyrene religion. Ultimately, it is always down to human decision and action based on people’s religious experience that may challenge existing religious understandings, and thus lead to innovation and experimentation in one cult or to the gradual abandonment of another. Moreover, we can identify the individual’s capacity to combine the features of diverging origin freely, thus creating new religious expressions and new religious

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understandings. Occasionally, we see more ‘hybridised’ artistic representations, like a combination of Jupiter, Mars Ultor and ‘Taranis’ to create a statue of the local god of thunder in Séguret (near Vaison-la-Romaine): we should avoid problematic terms, like ‘hybridisation’, and focus instead on the creative aspect through which individuals conceived such a unique sculptural representation (Esp. I 303; see Haeussler and Webster 2020, fig. 3). Sometimes we see deities combined in one inscription: a procurator of the emperors (235–238 CE), for instance, set up an altar to seemingly Oriental, Roman and Celtic deities in Sarmizegetusa (Dacia): Invicto | Mithrae | Marti Camulo | Mercurio | Rosmertae (ILD 277); Mars Camulus and the divine couple Mercury and Rosmerta are predominantly attested in the Tres Gallia, including the Germaniae (with Camulus and Rosmerta being Celtic names), while the combination of Mithras and Mars is virtually non-existent, though Mithras and Mercury can be found occasionally, as in Apt (ILN-4, 7), Stockstadt (CIL XIII 11788a = CSIR-D II.13, 129) and Numidia (CIL VIII 4578 = ILS 3091). Sometimes, innovation may mean deliberately archaising certain cult features, such as using archaic language in dedications (and divine names) and/or employing archaic rituals in a cult or funerary context – at least aspects that appear to the worshipper to be ‘archaic’. The discovery of Gaius Verius Sedatus’ ‘atelier du magicien’ in Autricum (Chartres) is an interesting case in this respect, like the inscriptions on the turibulum (incense burner) that are meant to appear ‘archaic’, ‘Celtic’ and ‘magical’, while at the same employing objects of the Roman world: incense and turibulum (see Van Andringa 2010; Green 2017; and Francisco Marco, this volume). All these examples seem to insinuate that an individual has the possibility to create new original precedents of religious communication: individual acts like those in any one cult place give the impression of a continuing process of negotiation and re-negotiation, at the heart of which are actions by individuals that have a cumulative effect over time. Religious pluralism and individualisation can also be identified in other ancient societies which might provide food for thought for our study. On the Indian subcontinent, for example, religious choices were available to individuals as shown, for example, by the spread of ascetic religions, i.e. Buddhism, Jainism and Yoga, notably in the centuries just before and after the turn of the eras. But were the societal hierarchies in ancient India flexible enough to allow for real social agency and individualisation? Not if we follow Hegel who argued that the aim of Indian religions is the ‘annihilation of the individual’ (Hegel 1827, 77, quoted by Malinar 2015, 389; cf. Dumont 1960, 51): although ascetic traditions focus on the individual person, this kind of individuality results in ‘social death’ by becoming an individual outside the world. More recently, Angelika Malinar (2015) argued that the emergence of religious alternatives to Vedic ritualism was not only embedded in existing societal (‘caste’) structures, but these various religious options, like ascetic schools and monasteries, were also institutionalised – a view which reminds us of our earlier discussion on polis and personal religion in Antiquity.

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These developments in India also went hand-in-hand with ‘establishing new religious pathways with ideas of self, agency and personal relatedness being of central concern’ (Malinar 2015, 386). The importance of the self is also something we see strongly in the Roman world. While public and collective festivals to civic gods continued, financed by the local city and wealthy individuals who wanted to display their ‘euergetism’, we can also identify more and more individuals who were seeking more profound religious experiences, like revelation, divine ascent and a better afterlife, as in the above-mentioned case of Apuleius who got initiated into all Greek mysteries (though this, unlike Dumont’s view on India [1960, 51], did not result in Apuleius’ ‘social death’ as his initiations complemented existing beliefs rather than threaten them); philosophical schools in the Roman world contributed to the spread of new religious ideas. And for those who could not afford to travel to seek revelation, there was an increasing offer of local facilities available, like local mysteries (e.g. Isis and Mithras), new cults (e.g., Glykon), travelling religious practitioners selling amulets and tablets (like the Orphic gold tablets), and so on.

Individualism and agency vs. socialisation and experience Processes of individualisation can help us to understand the complexities of socio­ religious developments in the Roman West. But we still need a better understanding of ‘individualisation’. There are basically two definitions: first, there is the role of the individual in society – a concept closely related to that of social agency. Second, and more importantly, individualisation refers to societies in which individuals are required to construct their own lives while being increasingly freed from traditional conventions. Though this process is typical for contemporary societies, notably postindustrial societies, we can also recognise certain features in the Roman period. The term ‘individualisation’ derives from modern sociology and can already be found in the works of Émile Durkheim, Georg Simmel (1900–1971), Ferdinand Tönnies, Norbert Elias and others who endeavoured to understand how human beings were channelled into ‘individuals’ (see also below for the ‘Religiöse Individualisierung’ 2013–2018 and ‘Lived Ancient Religions’ projects). The work of Norbert Elias is vital in this respect: in The Civilizing Process (1939), he shows how the modern individual came into being as the result of long-term processes that created changing power balances and interdependencies in western societies, resulting in increasing selfreflexivity, which in turn caused people to perceive of themselves as individuals, separate from all others. Sociologists stress the independence of the individual, the developments of one’s own goals and desires, and reject external interference, for example by the government and other institutions, such as the church. Both Durkheim and Simmel saw the division of labour as one of the main processes behind increasing individualisation (Durkheim 1898; Simmel 1900; 1908), which also reflects of course the preoccupation of their time. We also find features, such as institutional reflexivity and de-traditionalisation, as reasons for societal individualisation. Foucault (1986)

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clearly focuses on the heterogeneity of the historical processes and on the specific local discourses that created the modern individual. This understanding of the independent ‘individual’ is related to the theme of social agency, which must be critically reviewed for our study of individualisation. We must jettison the idea that the individual can act and behave without any restriction (Haeussler 2013, 64–70 with further literature). For Ashcroft et al. (2009, 6–7), the individual’s actions are already ‘predetermined by the ways in which their identity has been constructed’. Bhaskar (1989, 36–7; 34) describes society as ‘both the everpresent condition and the continually reproduced outcome of human agency’. In other words, there is a dialectical relationship between the individual and society, i.e. social structures are the product of individual actions and they in turn are constrained by social structures, so that structures are in a continuous state of restructuration, or in the words of Tilley (1982, 31): ‘The activities of individuals and groups inevitably produce social conditions which in some respect constrain and set limits to the possibility for future actions’ (cf. Tourraine 1977, 3–4; Giddens 1984; Shanks and Tilley 1987, 175–85; Albrecht et al. 2018, 2 more basically refer to religion’s ‘ceaseless construction through individual action’, while their idea to distinguish a particular form of ‘religious agency’ [ibid. 4–5] appears questionable as it does not add anything to existing definitions). This has implications for our studies since stability and change are in constant interaction, i.e. normative rules and principles are continuously re-interpreted by the actions of individuals; we also need to emphasise the role of architecture (or the ‘setting’) and performances (e.g. ritualistic performances) to change social, cultural and religious understandings (see Haeussler 2013, 63–70). Often this only results in gradual change since the individual’s actions can only rarely profoundly change society, culture or religion. Individuals make their decisions within existing social and cultural structures, fulfilling social expectations and yielding to social pressures. We therefore need to consider the motivational factors that frame the actions of the social agent. Among others, we need to understand how people were socialised and what they experienced (in the widest possible sense). Regarding ancient religions, an individual may have been re-enacting rituals that (s)he experienced since childhood, like participating in annual and seasonal festivals of the community (v. infra). But this is not the limit of people’s experience. For example, even the inhabitants of a small rural hamlet were exposed to other cultural and religious experiences, for instance when visiting nearby market towns – some of which might be new (re)foundations – or when seeking help and therapy in a renowned healing sanctuary of their choice. Many people may have acquired firsthand knowledge of cult activities in other provinces, for example while serving as a soldier in the auxiliary units or the legions, or while travelling across the provinces as a merchant. Notably among the educated elites, there is also the increasing familiarity of Graeco-Roman literature in the Roman West, from Homer’s Iliad to Vergil’s Aeneid, all of which provide a view on religion and on the gods that might

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have been profoundly different from local understandings, resulting in increasing self-reflexivity. In the local context – both in a city and the countryside – we can consequently assume that a substantial segment of the population had accumulated a variety of experiences, which in turn shaped the religious life of a community. But since religious understandings are predominantly based on orthopraxy, we also need to consider the dialectic relationship between innovation and the importance, even obligation, to repeat and re-enact the same rituals in the prescribed form. And yet, we can clearly identify change. But just how much scope for change was there? The problem of agency in rituals has been discussed, among others, by Chaniotis (2010) and in Michaels’ work on the homo ritualis (2016, e.g. ch. 6). The latter reminds us again of the various actors involved: spectator, participant or a ‘leading ritual participant’, like a priest. In a Roman context, we should also mention the city council (ordo, boule) that finances the cult, the religious authority of office holders, like the duumviri, the benefactors who finance games, performances, decoration, incense, sacrificial animals, etc., the butcher who kills the sacrificial animal, the haruspex – if present – who interprets the entrails. Apart from the flutists, dancers and prophets, there are all the other attendants of whatever age, gender and status who, for instance, carry sacred objects, join the procession or sew the garments for the deity’s sculpture. The list of actors for one major religious event can potentially be almost endless. Despite their diverse role and their unequal social status, together the various actors can be expected to operate like a well-oiled machine, as actions and practices of the previous year are duplicated. Many children may have followed in their parents’ footsteps, like the young girls who were hydrophoroi in Didyma or the kosmeteira in Ephesos in Roman Asia Minor (Van Bremen 1996, 90–1; Haeussler 2012b). But this ideal situation was under threat in Roman times, for instance by demographic change, social mobility (e.g., some families could no longer afford traditional religious roles and were replaced by ‘newcomers’), and other challenges to traditional local belief systems. If we consider the large number of priestesses in Roman Asia Minor, unlike in Classical or early Hellenistic times, then we see not only how dominant women became in many poleis, both in the religious and political sphere, but also that some women seem to have instrumentalised the priestly role to create a female cursus honorum, as in the case of Crateia Veriana (v.supra; Haeussler 2012b). In other cities, ancestral cults, like Aphrodite in Aphrodisias, can seamlessly be integrated in the cult of the Julio-Claudian emperors and Rome (e.g., I.Aph. 12, 1020; Haeussler 2012b). How can we identify such developments in an archaeological context? Let us look at the example of those Romano-British sanctuaries where the nature of animal sacrifices was only changing very gradually – probably hardly visible to contemporary worshippers – during the 400 years between the pre-Roman Iron Age and the late Roman period (King 2005). This raises an important question: was there no scope for individual agency to innovate or improvise? Or did individualisation and agency predominantly impact complementary activities, such as setting up votive altars, making donations and the nature of performances and prayers? Was animal sacrifice

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such an important aspect that changes were inhibited, while other activities were more likely to change over time, like whether to deposit coins, miniature pots or anatomic votives? It gets more interesting when we see isolated or perhaps even seemingly contradictory actions in one site, like unusual offerings, inscriptions or artistic representations that seem out of place, as these seem to reflect the actions of an individual who does not follow prescribed ritual. This also leads us to the question on the individuals who had the capacity to introduce such ‘ad hoc changes’ (in the words of Michaels 2016, ch. 6). For instance, can a wealthy benefactor really introduce significant changes to an existing cult place, or will it dismay other worshippers? This may be different in periods of crisis: for example, after a natural disaster, changes to existing ritualistic activities might be considered necessary to appease the gods whilst responding to ‘public demand’.

Individualisation: shaping one’s own life Our use of the term ‘individualisation’ goes beyond mere human agency. In sociological studies, individualisation is considered a phenomenon of late modernity by which individuals are increasingly required to construct their own lives, suggesting that ‘individual behaviour was becoming less bound by traditional norms and values and sources of collective identity’ (Layte and Whelan 2001, 213; see also Furlong and Cartmel 1997; Bauman 2001; Beck and Beck-Gernsheim 2001; 2002; Brannen and Nilsen 2005; Rüpke 2013). This is particularly the case in post-industrial societies due to the extent of social change in a ‘global world’. Modern sociologists, like Zygmunt Bauman (2000; 2001), focus on the uncertainties of present-day society, such as the flexibility of labour, as powerful individualising forces. In such highly volatile societies, people have no one but themselves to fall back on because mutual engagements and reciprocal dependencies no longer exist. Similarly for Beck, individualisation reflects the disintegration of pre-existing social bonds as well as the increasing requirement to supply for oneself (Beck and Beck-Gernsheim 2002, xxii). For Antiquity, we need to assess the significance of such uncertainties. It seems certain that many people in the Roman Empire were uncertain about their future: it is not just colonists and veterans, but a large number of people who found themselves separated from their home communities and their families. And how many families and communities suffered from warfare; how many people were deported? How many individuals and families decided to start a new life in another province? In such uncertain times, many individuals found themselves in an alien environment. This caused many to set up funerary inscriptions, like this first-century CE inscription from Narbonne, aiming to preserve the memory of their family name in terra aliena, ‘foreign land’: ne terra aliena ignoti cum | nomine obissent, hic titulus | paruo proloquitur lapide (CIL XII 5276). Indeed, the massive increase in funerary inscriptions in the early Principate, some of which were set up during people’s lifetime, as indicated by the phrase vivus fecit, reflects the widespread uncertainties of the times, not

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just geographical mobility, but also the extent of social mobility, both upward and downward. And despite the importance of patronage structures in the Roman Empire, we should not overemphasise their significance to consolidate social structures and preserve a certain status quo: the traditional relationships between patronus and clientes  – if it ever existed outside Italy in any comparable way – might have been increasingly marginalised in a society where spatial and social mobility were commonplace, where wealthy people could easily acquire a cheap workforce of daylabourers, and where some ex-slaves acquired more wealth than members of the local elite. The commodification of social transactions in a monetised economy in Antiquity must have marginalised the importance of traditional social bonds across the western provinces. Furthermore, there are the many that lived in rather precarious conditions, not just day-labourers, but also rural and urban tenants who relied on mortgages and additional jobs to survive. We should ask us what motivated their religious action considering how distant their lives were from those of the ‘upper classes’ in the same community. The large civic festivals may provide subaltern classes with meat from a butchered animal, but what about their personal preferences for deities and cults? For instance, traders, craftsmen or day-laborers may have made personal vows to deities like Fortuna or Mercury and Rosmerta, asking for good business and prosperity, while workers in mines and quarries tried to appease chthonic deities, like Silvanus/Sucellos (see e.g. Dészpa 2012). Hypothetically, one can imagine that individual miners may have generated the group dynamic necessary to create a cult for Silvanus near the mine. In the dispersed settlements across the empire, an individual farmer may be responsible for individual ritual practices, like the planting, harvest or purification rituals (though (s)he did not necessarily have access to Cato’s prescriptions in the de agricultura 83, 132, 134, 139–41), not to mention the importance of funerary and ancestry cults within a family: if we look at the diverging developments of sites between Iron Age and Roman times, for example Uley (Gloucestershire) and those in and around Roman Baldock (Hertfordshire) (Burleigh 2020; Burleigh, this volume), then the role of individual social agents in replicating pre-existing practices or promoting innovation becomes clearer. The identities of some social groups that were evolving in Roman times seem to have become religiously defined, not just the various ‘guilds’ (collegia), which each had their patron deity, but also other groups. Was religion in the Roman world therefore a ‘constitutive force in subaltern consciousness’ (in the words of Chatterjee 1989, 169 regarding modern India)? If so, we need to wonder about the dialectic relationship between a subaltern group and those wealthy and influential members of society who were chosen as patronus of a particular social group (Haeussler 2013, 286) and between elite and subaltern discourses (Haeussler and Webster 2020). This leads us to Giddens (1991; 1994) who emphasises the reflexive nature of modernity as a main force in the individualisation process. Having been set free from the constraints of traditions, individuals and institutions are forced to structure their activities in the light of expert knowledge so that people are continually confronted with multiple options that require decision-making: individuals must now

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actively work ‘to resolve the question of how to live in a world of multiple options’ (Giddens 1991, 142). Here, we can already look at Classical democratic Athens and the development of philosophy and science: as we can see in the works of the late fifth and fourth century BCE, people reflected about the individual, about society and religion. It is therefore perhaps no surprise that Cato considered Greek philosophers a threat to Roman society in the second century BCE (Plutarch, Cato 23). How much more significant must have been the spread of Graeco-Roman paideia and humanitas for the people in, for example, Gaul, Britain and Spain, triggering a culture shock that must also have had repercussions for existing religious understanding? Across the Roman world, numerous philosophical approaches became popular. Stoic philosophy, for example, clearly focuses on an individual and the art of self-reflection on one’s actions: how can a person achieve a good life through askēsis and the four cardinal virtues (see e.g. Sellars 2013). Again, we need to look at the research on religious individualisation in modern times. Some scholars claim that individualisation leads to a secularisation of society, while others would argue that ‘traditional and institutionalized forms of religiosity will be increasingly replaced by more subjective ones detached form church, individually chosen, and syncretistic in character’ (Pollack and Pickel 2007, 603 who otherwise argue that religious individualisation is ‘only a component of the predominant secularization process’). In other words, religion becomes a kind of ‘private affair’ (in the modern sense of the term; see also Rüpke 2013, 19). In Roman times, we only need to bring to mind the multitude of small cult places in urban and rural areas, the presence of mithraea and other mystery cults that were exclusive to initiates, or the large number of house shrines (lararia). A ‘private affair’, so it may appear at first sight, though many of these sites are visible and accessible to the public. But the individualisation of society – with its uncertainties and ambiguities – may finally also have prompted some individuals to seek new communal forms of cults, such as Christianity. We seem to find a number of scenarios in the Roman Empire that seem comparable to early industrial and post-industrial societies. In the Roman West, there was profound social and economic changes, migration, warfare, and a cultural transformation that resulted in social uncertainties. In this context, the ‘disembedded individual’ in an increasingly ‘global society’ must have triggered even more change and growing individualisation – most notably around the first century CE. With local elites aspiring for higher office at a provincial and imperial level, the majority of individuals were largely left to their own devices to find out what they can do with their life and their abilities and how they can profit from the available socioeconomic opportunities (cf. Bauman 2000). Rather than to look at social groups – artificial collectives entitled ‘local elite’, ‘liberti’, ‘veterans’, ‘traders’, ‘slaves’ etc. – it is the individual social agent that must always be at the centre of our study. It is the individual who made the decision to worship a particular deity in a specific way, to adopt sculpture, epigraphy and

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architectural forms, to participate in religious collegia and follow their rules of initiation, to re-interpret local cults, adopt new deities or resist any innovation. But we are not only talking about members of the local elites: the subaltern classes were no passive recipients as they were active in cult activities. It is them who constituted the greater part of worshippers adopting new forms of rituals, cult practices, votive offerings, etc. But the actions of the individual are always constrained, for example by ‘traditions’ and ancestral behaviours (creating forms of group pressure) as well as by people’s personal experiences, such as their participation in foreign cults or in collective events, like civic cults or celebrations in honour of deified emperors. Large gatherings in honour of a civic deity and/or the domus divinae may be important to create a sense of identity within a community, but we should not overemphasise their importance as they are just one element in the individual’s religious identity.

Individualisation in the Principate Although individualisation in Antiquity never achieved the same ‘intensity’ as in contemporary twenty-first-century societies, many of the above-mentioned sociological criteria can also be found in the Principate. This is specifically the case in the Roman West where ‘traditional norms and values’ of the Iron Age seem to have been considerably transformed and discarded during the first centuries BCE and CE, while it is obscure which ‘norms and values’ could have replaced them if we exclude local elites aspiring to their individual blurred image of Roman senatorial values, lifestyle and morality; did the majority of people merely emulate the behavioural patterns of their local elites? Though prompted by events, like the municipalisation and urbanisation of indigenous societies, the sociocultural transformation in the Roman Empire was no top-down movement, but the result of numerous individual actions: for example, there may have been the individual member of the local elite who decided to set up a temple to Isis or Serapis (as in Bodincomagos, v. supra), a colossal Roman-style mausoleum (e.g. at Glanum and Argenton in the late first century BCE, Roth Congès 2011), who constructed a luxurious villa (usually not before the Principate in the provinces), adopted Roman names and titles (like the praitor(!) from Vitrolles or the lekatos(!) from Briona, RIG I, G-108), aspired for Roman citizenship, and acquired – or perhaps even internalised – Graeco-Roman education that motivated his actions, in all probability also in religious matters (Haeussler 2013). It is important to notice that individual actions of local elite members could have significantly undermined the fabric of Iron Age society, triggering further sociocultural changes. But much of the transformation processes must have been also due to a substantial part of the local populus having acquired experiences outside their local community, like the experience of tens of thousands of Galli in Caesar’s Civil Wars armies – an experience that could make them question and challenge existing hierarchies on their return: long-established symbols of power may have lost their power to convince people, existing cults, like the hero-ancestor and head cult in Southern Gaul, might

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have lost their meaning for the majority of local people (cf. Haeussler 2012a; 2013). Though it is individuals who challenged existing cultural understandings, this develops into a collective ‘feeling’ of the many and it might be that ‘feeling’ that eventually prompted the cultural and religious changes that we witness between the first century BCE and the first century CE across the Western provinces. It seems that the individual in the Roman Empire was largely in charge of his/her own destiny from the first to the third century CE and made his/her own choices to an extent rarely seen before in history. For example, across the Roman West we can recognise individuals and families who started a new life in another community, perhaps even migrated to a far-flung province, often due to a promise of land, like in Cisalpine Gaul where Roman centuriation provided plots of land for tens of thousands, going far beyond the exigencies for colonists. There are also the many that moved from rural areas to the new flourishing urban hubs that sprang up all over. Both in an urban and a rural context, people found new economic niches to make a living, specialising in new professions and crafts. We are not only talking about the development of ‘monocultures’, like the production of wine and olive oil, but we must also consider individual farmers who moved away from forms of subsistence farming and orientated their production to local market; a study by Maaike Groot (2008), for example, shows how farmers in a small hamlet in Lower Germany specialised on breeding animals for army and market, and as a consequence they had to buy essential commodities, like pottery, clothes and grain, from across Gaul rather than producing them themselves. In other words, even small, independent farmers must have increasingly participated in a ‘global economy’, having to re-think their place in a wider world. As a result, many people had to develop their own personal identities. Can we imagine that people gave up their ‘traditional’ identity when they moved, for example, from the countryside to the town? New hybrid identities were emerging, depending on people’s status and their self-consciousness, with people combining traditional, local features and Graeco-Roman elements that were readily available in a process of bricolage (cf. Terrenato 1998; Roth 2003), but we need to bear in mind that even an individual’s choice of clothes, names, language, diet and deities was also motivated by social expectations and social pressures, such as the wish to belong to a new community or a collegium, and so on. The formative period of towns and municipalities in the Roman West, roughly around Augustus’ reign, may have been the peak period for many communities to re-invent their identity, for example by creating new cults, temples and sanctuaries in order to forge a common identity and thus to counteract the destabilisation of society. This is the period when many Roman-style temples and sanctuaries were constructed: it is noticeable that virtually all podium temples in Southern Gaul were created around the 20’s BC (Glanum, Nîmes, Vernègues, Vienne), similar to the monumental sanctuary complexes, such as Nîmes’s so-called Augusteum. But the society of the Principate was developing at a staggering rate. The ancestral ‘tribal’ structures of pre-Roman origin and the role and importance of the Roman-style civitates, municipia and coloniae

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were becoming less and less important to the individual, having lost their power to ‘higher forms of integration’ within the Roman Empire, for example at provincial and imperial level (cf. Elias 1974). As a result, people must have challenged existing hierarchies: this must have been particularly the case with the traditions and social hierarchies that were conveyed in the collective cults of a civitas; this does not mean that religious festivals ceased to exist, but we have to consider that each participant experienced them in a different manner: people may no longer have internalised the values of such collective events. Particularly in an urban centre, the individual must have been confronted with many new and alien cultural and religious propositions during the Principate, providing the foundation for the enormous diversification of cult activities in the Roman Empire that we will repeatedly recognise in this volume. As we shall see, the various societal developments had a significant impact on the field of religion. Collectives must have increasingly lost the power to control the cults within their territory. In many civitates and coloniae, it seems that the political use of religion was increasingly limited to dedications to the domus divinae as an expression of their loyalty, devotion and subservience to Rome, while individuals made their own religious choices by selecting their own deities, their image of a deity and their media of religious communication. Of course, many of the cults may mirror not individuals, but small collectives or sub-groups of a town or civitas, but it is the social agent who could make a choice among the many cults that were available to him/her, both in a private and a public cult (here, we need to define public cult: it is not necessarily a civic cult organised by the decurions, but a cult that was accessible to the wider public); the large number of cults that can be identified at the cities’ peripheries may have been a deliberate choice to worship deities that contradict the mainstream of society. While cults in the city’s forum may have been limited to public acts on behalf of the decurions (ex-votos and votive inscriptions are comparatively rare in most fora), people may have expressed their religious devotion in many of the surrounding cult places, turning a spring, hilltop site or pile of rocks into a sacred place, and ultimately into an organised cult with cult buildings and cult personnel. Here, we should also allude to ‘army religion’. Official army cults may have focused on the cult of the emperor and a selected number of ‘Roman’ deities, as we know from army calendars, such as the one from Dura Europos (P. Dura 54), but outside many forts we find a variety of cult places that seem to contradict the official cults: at Hadrian’s Wall, for example, it is possible that the soldiers created new cult identities, gathering around the cults of Belatucradros, Cocidios and the Hveteri; sometimes, these cults appear to relate to diaspora identities, such as the cults for Germanic deities on Hadrian’s Wall. Perhaps we also need to investigate to what extent Roman authorities and local cities reacted to this process of individualisation. As in modern times, individualisation is likely to have caused destabilisation; in this respect, the promotion of the imperial cult might have been a reaction to this trend: already Augustus promoted identities,

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for example by laying down behavioural rules for knights and senators, in a society threatened by uncertainties. Finally, we need to ask whether the individual is always aware of his actions and their consequences. This is a very important question since we need to understand whether people consciously decided to change the nature of their local cults: were they aware that constructing a new temple or donating an anthropomorphic sculpture might change people’s understanding of a cult? In this respect, anthropological and sociological studies provide food for thought. For example, in the case of a Papua New Guinea village, a major language shift took place in the late twentieth century to such an extent that children under the age of ten no longer spoke the local, indigenous language; intriguingly, a study by D. Kulick (1992) has shown that parents were unaware that they themselves were responsible for this language change by developing new forms of linguistic interchange with their children (Kulick 1992, 7, 223; Ratner 2000). Similarly in the Roman Empire, it is possible that people might not have been able to understand the seemingly abrupt language shift that we witness in the Roman West, i.e. the use of Latin for theonyms and votive inscriptions that replaced many indigenous epigraphic habits; though graffiti may provide a more personal communication between dedicant and deity, most of them were equally written in Latin, sometimes vulgar Latin. In this respect, the use of indigenous languages, like Celtic, for theonyms and epithets might have been a conscious choice, but such an interpretation necessitates a better understanding of the specific local cultural discourse.

Methodological problems Rather than to reflect on some kind of global ‘individualisation’ phenomenon across the Roman Empire, it is particularly important to analyse specific, regional scenarios. Individuals made very different choices in the various civitates and poleis of the Roman Empire and we therefore need to understand our evidence in the context of the local discourses that may have motivated the individual to make specific choices. But our evidence also provides several problems for our study. First, it is difficult to identify the individual and his/her actions and motivations in our sources, especially those of sub-elite or subaltern status, and notably in the archaeological record. Even in a funerary record, which seemingly provides a wealth of data on an individual person, a group of people might have been involved in shaping the nature of the burial: it was the heirs, the relatives and the local community who eventually selected the funerary rituals, the deceased’s clothes, the grave goods and offerings, the epitaph, and so on; group pressure within a family or community – aiming to replicate conventions – may often suppress individual wishes which makes unique decisions and designs even more important. Similarly, the testimonies from a sanctuary usually result from the accumulated actions of countless individuals, among which we need to ‘isolate’ the individual act:

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sometimes, we can identify particular votive offerings that show the actions of one individual, such as a distinct altar or sculptural representations or a specific gift to a deity that stands out among the more standardised and/or mass-produced votive objects in any one sanctuary, or that contradicts the local practices or discourses; sometimes we are dealing with small artefacts (figurines, pots, etc., e.g. the inscribed face pot from Lincoln – Haeussler and Webster 2020, fig. 7), sometimes with large stone monuments for which there is no precedent, like the unusual two-sides ‘Venus-Vulcanus’ relief from Alzey (Haeussler 2012a, 159, fig. 4b–c). Epigraphy is an important source to identify individual social agents and their religious actions, even providing personal names, titles and perhaps even an insight into people’s motivation that goes beyond the common votum solvit libens merito ‘has willingly and deservedly fulfilled his/her vow’ or ex voto ‘out of a vow’, that dominate most dedicatory formulae. But being able to recognise individuals does not necessarily mean that we can identify acts of religious individualisation. Which features have the potential to indicate religious individualisation, i.e. not just the individual acting on his/her own behalf, but also freed – to varying degrees – from traditional norms and values. For example, diverging funerary customs within the same cemetery may reveal personal choices (as Jake Weekes and Gil Burleigh demonstrate for Canterbury and Baldock respectively in this volume); some people might have introduced new habits, like the first use of the Greek Charon coin, new grave goods, burial practices or tomb constructions, inhumation instead of cremation or vice versa. Some of these innovations and deviations might have clearly contradicted ancestral customs and religious understandings of the local community. This leads us to the realm of personal religion: many people have created their own religious understanding, taking on different elements that were present in their time (as a kind of bricolage/creolage: see Haeussler and Webster 2020 for discussion). This is most apparent in a domestic context, but also in the use of magical activities; the latter can also be found in large, ‘civic’ sanctuaries. A good source for individualisation are probably rural cults as they can be expected to show an extremely wide diversity regarding location, cult practices, votive offerings, cult architecture, cultores, cult personnel, etc. The persistence of pre-Roman rituals (v. supra), the creation of ‘syncretised’ or ‘hybridised’ cults, or the seemingly spontaneous creation of ‘un-Roman’ iconography (Haeussler 2012a) may also mirror religious choices that went against the mainstream dictated by the local community or ordo. The diverging spelling of certain theonyms, like the Celtic Belatucadros, Baliticaurus, Belautairus on Hadrian’s Wall (Haeussler and King 2017, 22), may be an indicator for a certain lack of overall control of a god’s cult, reflecting a movement from below. There are also more systematic regional differences, like the plurality of cults in one civitas vs. the ‘centralisation’ of cult activities in another, which reflect diverse local discourses on religion and individuality, revealing once more that there was no blueprint on how to ‘Romanise’ religions and cults in the provinces.

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In each case, we need to critically review our sources. For example, in many sanctuaries, we have the problem that we are largely dealing with personal ex-votos. But do they attest religious individualisation? What motivated an individual to make a specific offering? While the actions of a municipal magistrate or priest are rare, we are dealing with private people: did (s)he respect the ‘mainstream’ of society and the (local) ‘ancestral habits’, perhaps following the instructions of a priest? But perhaps (s)he introduced a different, alien cult object, cult practice, divine name or deity into an existing cult place. If so, we need not only to understand the individual’s motivation, but also to reflect about the long-term percussions of such innovations: did other worshippers copy or emulate this behaviour? Can the actions of an individual profoundly affect people’s behaviour? In a hypothetical sanctuary, we might find a Latin votive inscription to a Graeco-Roman deity, like Mercury, set up by an individual in fulfilment of a vow. How are we meant to interpret this? Does it reflect the official nature of the local cult – as promoted by the ordo – or is it merely the dedicant’s personal interpretatio, reflecting his/her aspirations to paideia, Latinitas and Romanitas? We can imagine travellers, pilgrims, provincial governors or army personnel making a dedication at a local sanctuary whilst interpreting the cult based on their own experience, notably in a Graeco-Roman way. On the other hand, if the dedicant choose a Celtic theonym or epithet in an otherwise perfectly Latin inscription, like Abianus or Maponus, the question arises whether this was a deliberate choice to express his/ her identity or perhaps even a statement of ‘cultural resistance’ (though we should be ‘resisting’ the concept of ‘resistance’ as Brown 1996 reminds us); then again, it might just be the deity’s time-honoured, ancestral name in the local community, while the choice of a Latin inscription and Roman-style formulae constitute the innovation. Sculptural representations may equally reflect personal interpretations. There are cases where a large stone sculpture may provide an insight into the official nature of a cult, like a larger-than-life sculpture of the goddess Juno in Vienne while inscriptions from the same sanctuaries are, as so often, not representative (see Haeussler, Chapter 15). Apart from a discrepancy between textual and visual sources, they also show that individual people made different choices at the same cult place. Does this mean that the local population had different religious concerns? It is common to find attestations for a variety of deities in one cult place. Let us take the example of the Bona Dea sanctuary of Glanum: it was perhaps the male, non-initiate cultores who set up altars to a variety of goddesses, perhaps reflecting their personal interpretation of the enigmatic goddess as Ops, Fortuna, the Matres and Parcae and perhaps Epona – all of which have in common that they relate to prosperity and fertility. Other written sources, like defixiones, may reflect a more personal form of communication; but are they a sign for religious individualisation? The curse tablets from Bath are interesting as each of them seems to have been written in a different hand, while the texts equally show an enormous diversity of formulae and incantations that is rare in curse tablets (Tomlin 2002). The diversity – and consequently the individualisation process – is becoming more visible with every new archaeological jigsaw pieces that

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we find, which also undermine the ‘grand dichotomy’ between religion and magic. The nature of these defixiones seemingly contradicts the role of healing and therapy in the monumental sanctuary of Bath/Aquae Sulis: are we dealing here with a habit that was merely tolerated in this healing sanctuary or was there an clash between the official nature of the sanctuary and people’s perception of the goddess? Or are we dealing with complementary practices within the same ritual space? And who created a precedence by throwing the first curse tablet into Bath’s sacred pond? Finally, we need to come back to the ‘individual’. There are of course differences among the individuals, like status, wealth, gender, age, origin and profession, resulting in their (diverging) capacities and opportunities to shape their own lives. A more affluent individual might have had more financial resources to shape a local cult place according to his/her preferences, embellishing it with marble altar, sedilia, porticoes, temple, statues and valuable votive offerings. But we must not forget the importance of a bottom-up approach: decisions by a wealthy individual may well have contradicted or innovated on established religious customs whilst innovation by elite members may have been rejected by the 99% of the local population or worshippers. Moreover, whatever their financial resources, we can identify individuals who made their contribution to a local cult. The actions of sub-elite individuals can perhaps be best recognised in a rural context, such as makeshift cult places, crude inscriptions, primitive carvings and sculptural representations, and many more, some of which can also be found in an urban context. Across the Roman world – as in other religions – conspicuous locations may acquire a certain ‘holiness’: even with modest resources, an individual may start the process of decorating or embellishing a particular site or natural feature which may have led to the development of a more permanent place of worship, attracting more devotees, and perhaps finally being approved by the local authorities. In modern-day India, we can identify comparable processes where local shrines represent a kind of bottom-up initiative, perhaps even a ‘defiant religiosity’ that goes beyond traditional social structures and dichotomies (Larios and Voix 2018); in addition, boundaries of religious communities are frequently crossed and images from different religious backgrounds being hosted in the same shrine (ibid.): Figure 2.3, for example, shows a wayside shrine, called ‘Shri Shakti Ganapati Devasthana’, whose holiness is based on an object of worship that is ‘self-manifest’, namely a tree naturally shaped in the form of Ganeśa. It is not in a remote rural location, but situated on the busy National Highway 66 at Barcem, Goa (ibid. 2018, fig. 4). But who was the first person to identify god Ganeśa? Who was the first to put a garland on the image/tree, who started to decorate the image and the shrine? The oral account recounts that a villager attempted to fell trees when god Ganeśa revealed himself; when the villager brought other villagers back, they found a large cobra over Ganeśa’s head which they interpreted as a divine sign, leading to devotional activities and the gradual construction of the enclosure (Borayin Larios, pers. comment, Sep. 2022). We see how individuals’ acts and initiatives can trigger a whole range of subsequent actions; for example, being situated on a hazardous road, motorists stop to pray for a safe

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Fig. 2.3. Indian wayside shrine ‘with the form of Gaṇeśa emerging naturally out of a tree’ (Barcem, Goa) (photo courtesy of Borayin Larios, source: Larios and Voix 2018).

journey, thus increasing the shrine’s popularity and its catchment area. And as this wayside shrine became an important place of worship in a public place, i.e. on a busy national highway, it subsequently also requires official approval to prevent it from being demolished as an ‘illegal religious structure’, reflecting the conflict between popular religion and the state (see Larios and Voix 2018, 29–35). Perhaps the common Latin phrase locus datus ex decreto decurionum (or paganorum), ‘place given by decree of the councillors (or pagani)’, is less a sign of the local council’s religious control, but at least in some instances a retrospective legal ratification of a site that had become a place of worship through the actions of individuals and groups of diverse social statuses. Ganeśa’s wayside shrine also reminds us how little of these perishable materials that make up the shrine would actually survive in the archaeological record; in other words, small stone altars, some of which uninscribed, may be all what is left of such ‘popular’ shrines in rural or suburban contexts or along roads (for the case of southern Gaul, see Haeussler 2008b). Moreover, we must bear in mind that there is no gender neutral ‘individual’ and we can expect, in the words of Delhaye (2006, 93), ‘feminine’ ways in which women have been transformed into ‘individuals’. Over one hundred years ago, Georg Simmel (1904, 309) suggested that fashion was the only sphere in which a woman could

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exercise her individuality; this freedom was denied her in other social spheres. But female individualisation in Antiquity might go far beyond Simmel’s assumption: this is particularly noticeable in the case of the Roman Empire where, apart from setting up altars in fulfilment of their vow to a deity, women could act as high-status priestesses (e.g. flaminicae), using their earned and inherited wealth to act as euergetes, thus playing a public role just like men – and all this they could often do on their own and not in partnership with their husband or family. The above-mentioned cult of Bona Dea was exclusive to women, and this might have been exactly the main reason that made it attractive outside Rome as it allowed women, primarily from the upper classes, to subsume an important role in society that might have been otherwise difficult in a male-dominated world. Sub-elite women – freeborn, freed and unfree – also play an important role as we can see above all from inscriptions. Children are another interesting group that has often been neglected: while we might expect them to learn cult practices from their parents, for example by going through various rites de passage and coming-of-age ceremonies (for example at the Lenus Mars sanctuary at Trier: Derks 2008), they also constitute the new generation that adopted new values and behavioural patterns, developed new identities and could thus stimulate religious innovation. Sometimes, we may even consider a subaltern ‘mockery’ of dominant religious and cultural discourses, as I aim to discuss in Chapter 15.

References

Abbreviations

AE = L’Année epigraphique. Paris, Presses universitaires de France, 1888–2022. CIL V = Mommsen, T. (ed.) (1872, 1877) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. V. Inscriptiones Galliae Cisalpinae Latinae, 2 parts. Berlin, Akademie der Wissenschaften. CIL VIII = Wilmanns, G. (ed.) (1881) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. VIII. Inscriptiones Africae Latinae. Berlin, Akademie der Wissenschaften. CIL XII = Hirschfeld, O. (ed.) (1888) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. XII. Inscriptiones Galliae Narbonensis. Berlin, Akademie der Wissenschaften. CIL XIII = Hirschfeld, O. and Zangemeister, C. (eds) (1899–1905) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. XIII. Inscriptiones trium Galliarum et Germaniarum Latinae. Berlin, Akademie der Wissenschaften. CSIR-GB I.1 = Phillips, E. J. (1977) Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani, Great Britain, Vol. I, fasc. 1: Corbridge, Hadrian’s wall east of the north Tyne. Oxford, British Academy. CSIR-D II.13 = Mattern, M. (2005) Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani, Deutschland, Vol. II, fasc. 13. Römische Steindenkmäler aus Hessen südlich des Main sowie vom bayerischen Teil des Mainlimes. Mainz, RömischGermanischen Zentralmuseum. CSIR-D II.14 = Boppert, W. (2005) Römische Steindenkmäler aus dem Landkreis Mainz-Bingen. Mainz, Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseum. Esp. I = Espérandieu, É. (1907) Recueil général des bas-reliefs, statues et bustes de la Gaule romaine, vol. 1. Alpes maritimes, Alpes cottiennes, Corse, Narbonnaise. Paris, Imprimerie Nationale. I.Aph. = Inscriptions from Aphrodisias. https://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/ala2004/index.html ILD = Petolescu, C. C. (2005) Inscriptii latine din Dacia (ILD) – Inscriptiones latinae Daciae. Bucarest, Institutul de Arheologie ‘Vasile Párvan’, Ed. Academici Române.

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ILN-4 = Gascou, J., Leveau, P. and Rimbert, J. (1997) Inscriptions Latines de Narbonnaise (I.L.N.), vol. 4, Apt. Paris, Gallia supplement. ILS= Dessau, H. (1892–1916) Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, 3 vols. Berlin, Weidmann. P.Dura = Welles, C. B., Fink, R. O. and Gilliam, J. F. (1959) The Parchments and Papyri. The excavations at Dura-Europos – final report, vol. 5.1. New Haven, Yale University Press. RIB = The Roman Inscriptions of Britain, 3 vols. Oxford and Stroud, Oxford University Press, Oxbow Books and Alan Sutton. RIG I = Lejeune, M. (1985) Recueil des Inscriptions Gauloises (R.I.G.), Vol. I, Textes gallo-grecs. Paris, Gallia supplement.

Ancient sources

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Wierschowski, L. (2001) Fremde in Gallien – Gallier in der Fremde: die epigraphisch bezeugte Mobilität in, von und nach Gallien vom 1. bis 3. Jh. n. Chr (Historia Einzelschriften, no 159). Stuttgart, Steiner. Wijma, S. M. (2014) Embracing the Immigrant. The participation of metics in Athenian polis religion (5th–4th century BC). Stuttgart, Steiner. Williams Reed, E. (2020) Environments and gods: creating the sacred landscape of Mount Kasios. In R. Häussler and G. F. Chiai (eds) Sacred Landscapes in Antiquity: Creation, Manipulation, Transformation, 87–94. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Wissowa, G. (1912) Religion und Kultus der Römer, 2nd edition. Munich, C. H. Beck. Woolf, G. (1997) Polis-Religion and its Alternatives in the Roman Provinces. In H. Cancik and J. Rüpke (eds) Römische Reichsreligion und Provinzialreligion, 71–84. Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck. Woolf, G. (2003) A Sea of Faith? Mediterranean Historical Review 18(2), 126–143, DOI: 10.1080/0951896032000230516

Chapter 3 Discrepant behaviour: on magical activities in the Latin West Francisco Marco Simón

Magical activities take place where there is a special tension between public and private. They are particularly suitable for studying the dynamics of religious individualisation in the Roman Empire, as already suggested by Bremmer (2010, 18): ‘If anywhere strict religious control was impossible, it was in the area of eschatology. The curse tablets therefore present an interesting case where we can compare polis religion with its possible opposite’. Earlier, Graf (1997, 229–32) had pointed out that many of the attested rituals and spells had been formulated more or less consciously in opposition to civic cults (by contrast, Gager [1999, 296] suggested that ‘it seems likely that the practitioners of the spells believed in their efficacy because they knew (and shared in) the world of civic piety’ (cf. also Marco Simón 2020)). In magical activities, context, local solutions and immediate aims are the key elements that we need to understand. This paper aims to analyse diverse examples of personal choices from the Latin West, which at the same time throw some light on the existing social problems, magic being a strategy to solve conflicts motivated by social unrest, fear or anxiety. These ritual options, although appealing to strategies or formulae partly standardised in diverse areas of the Roman Empire, are nevertheless characterised by a marked individualisation, which is expressed at different levels.1 I am referring to the innovations brought by an individual in ritual dynamics, that is ‘the understanding of rituals as complex socio-cultural constructs that are connected with tensions’ (Chaniotis 2011, 10), to the ‘individual agency’ (Sax 2006) of the defigens or person who puts his objectives into practice, especially in contexts such as magic, in which secrecy is predominant (Luhrmann 1989; Graf 1997; Passalis 2011; Alvar Nuño 2012; Gordon et al. 2020). The world of magico-religious practices is ideal for reflecting tensions in the social body, as well as ambiguities that do not sit well with the ‘great dichotomy’ (Braarvig 2003) between magic and religion. This separation is the result

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of a ‘separative cosmology’ (Oudemans and Lardinois 1987), typical of the modern western world and very different from an ancient ‘interconnected cosmology, which does not compulsively avoid ambiguities, and accepts that the ancients had to live with two (or more) indeed mutually exclusive realities and yet coped with the inherent paradoxes and inconsistencies’ (Versnel 2011, 84–5). Paul Veyne (1983) coined the expression ‘Balkanisation of the brain’ alluding to the way in which different ‘beliefs’ occurred side-by-side, and any attempt to make absolute classifications in ancient polytheism ‘does not do justice to the competitive variety of knowledge systems in any society, and ends up confusing patterns constructed by the outsider with the actual thought of the participants’ (Feeney 1998, 140).

A turibulum from Chartres In July 2005, during the terracing-work for the construction of an entrance stairway to an underground carpark, several ritual objects were discovered, among them a fragment of pottery with an inscription belonging to an incense-burner. The interest of the find caused a rescue excavation by the Service  Regional  de  l’Archéologie under the direction of Dominique Joly. A complete turibulum (incense-burner) with four inscriptions was restored, as a key element of an assemblage of ritual equipment collected in a subterranean cellar containing two other identical turibula, which also included three snake-vases, a typical knife used for sacrifices (culter), fragments of glass vessels and some carbonised animal bones. The editors of the extremely interesting complete turibulum, Gordon, Joly and Van Andringa (2010), think that the equipment (dating from the late first or early second century CE) was hidden by the owner or tenant of the house, probably the same G(aius) Verius Sedatus mentioned in the text (see also Aldhouse-Green 2017). This find and its context recalls how Apuleius was accused in his trial of having hidden magical equipment – instrumenta magica  Fig. 3.1. Turibulum from Autricum/Chartres. Col. – in a cloth and kept it in his lararium 1. Oriens (Photo: Service Archéologique municipal  (Apol. 53–4). de Chartres).

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It seems clear that the three turibula would contain the same text (in capitals with some tendency towards cursive) addressed to the omnipotentia numina by Verius Sedatus, requesting blessings to the cosmic powers on the grounds that he was their guardian (quae ille est vester custos) accompanied by voces magicae (Fig. 3.1) – on the power of names, ‘doubtful’ appeals or boasts about the knowledge of the divine names by the practitioner, see Versnel 2011, 52–4 and n. 109. For example, turibulum 1, column 1, contains this inscription: Oriens | Vos rogo omnipot[e]n|tia numina ut omnia | bona conferatis Verio | Sedato quia ille est | vester custos | Echar Aha | Bru Stna | Bros Dru | Chor [Dr]ax | Cos | Halcemedme | Halcehalar | Halcemedme.

One possibility is that each of the incense-burners was intended to mark out a ritual space at each cardinal point (Joly and Van Andringa, in Joly et al. 2010, 200–1), and that would imply that there were originally four turibula (Gordon et al. 2010, 491). Sedatus’ prayer can be interpreted in terms of Graeco-Egyptian magic. But the repetition of a prayer to obtain blessings in each cardinal direction has no strict parallels in the texts. There are certainly several references in the Greek Magical Papyri (PGrMag) to the four winds of the cosmos ruled by a supreme god, Agathodaimon (PGrMag IV, 1605–42; XIII, 761–92), and some recipes prescribe a ‘total’ ritual to turn the practitioner turning successively in different directions (to the east, to the south, to the north and to the west: PGrMag XIII, 640–5). But these parallels are much later than our turibula, dating from the end of the first or the beginning of the second century CE. My opinion, then, is that Verius Sedatus’ magical praxis is better understood within a ‘Druidic’ tradition – that is, in an at least partly nativised tradition. Let me summarise some arguments. The omnipotentia numina invoked are probably cosmic celestial powers, since we know that the Druids alone knew deos et caeli numina according to Lucan (Bell. civ. 1.452), and according to Pomponius Mela (Chor. 3.2.18) they knew the size of the earth and the world, the astral bodies and the will of the gods. Very few of the nine monosyllabic magical names invoked correspond to the Graeco-Egyptian lists or to Latin, and one of them, Dru, in line 9, seems to point to the Gaulish word for Druid. The late fourth-century BCE omphalos stone from Kermaria (Pont-L’Abbé, Finistère), now in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, with its four decorated faces, has an X-shaped cross incised on the top (Duval 1977; Kruta 1985, 111–2; Dayre and Villard 1996) that seems to express the Gaulish conceptualisation of the world in terms of four quarters, projected towards the four cardinal points, in the same way as the pool in Bibracte, Burgundy (Almagro-Gorbea and Gran Aymerich 1991, 193–7) or the ‘ritual spoons’ – which actually would have been paterae – documented in Ireland or Britain (Raftery 1984). The four portions (tetrarchies) into which each of the tribes of the Galatians was divided according to Strabo (12.5.1), or the partition of Ireland in four parts with a ‘fifth’ one in the centre, are other aspects of this Celtic traditional cosmology that possibly inspired Verius Sedatus’ magical practice (Marco Simón 2012a). These fourpart cosmological devices seem to have been kept from the medieval era until today, judging from traditions such as the ‘troménie’ of Locronan in Brittany (Laurent 1990),

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and are expressed similarly through the four seasons or divisions of the year (AlmagroGorbea and Gran Aymerich 1991, 198–201, with references). A similar four-part pattern of the concept of the world was held by the Roman agrimensores and would have been expressed in the notion of Roma quadrata around the mundus (Catalano 1978). Autricum is a place relatively remote from direct Roman influence, with few inscriptions, but it was at the very centre of pre-Roman Gallia. In Caesar’s days, all the Druids used to meet annually on holy ground in the territory of the Carnutes which was considered to be the centre of the whole of Gallia (BG 6.13.10: que regio totius Galliae media habetur), and Autricum (Chartres) was, as well as Cenabum (Orleans), a chief city of the ager Carnutum. From these perspectives, we might assume that C. Verius Sedatus acted within a submerged tradition (Druidism had been abolished in a process between Augustus and Claudius, as is well known: Zecchini 1999; Brunaux 2006; Marco Simón 2007) as an authentic specialist on the margins of the civic cults dominated by the interests of the local elite (Gordon et al. 2010, 508), and, like the defixiones written in Gaulish, can be in my opinion an extremely interesting testimony of religious individualisation among the Gallo-Roman elites c. 100 CE.

Local deities in magical contexts ‘Many of the characteristics of Latin literature can be attributed to its production by and for an elite that sought to maintain and expand its dominance over other sector of the population through reference to an authorising past’ (Habinek 1998, 3). This social and ideological function of literature extends also to the level of correct Latinity. Rules about acceptable use of Latin in fact provided ‘a vehicle for anxieties about ethnicity, social order, social status, and gender’ (Bloomer 1997, 6). And contrary to standardising constructions made by specialists in religious communication (Rüpke 2009, 31–41, esp. 40 and n. 48), the world of magical practices offers an ideal arena for the development of individualisation. With the exception of the Coligny calendar (dating from c. 200 CE: Le Contel and Verdier 1997), the most complete and characteristic Gaulish texts are magical (cf. Lambert 1994, 149–78; Gaillet 2007), as is the case with other texts produced in the contexts of local or dying languages, or languages threatened by other colonial powers (Belayche and Corre 2008). The bilingualism of diverse documents (Hispanic as well as Gallo-Roman: see Ruiz Darasse and Luján 2011; Marco Simón 2012b; Estarán Tolosa 2016) reveal individual initiatives contrasting with the great Latin inscriptions that were a key manifestation of the new imperial civic identity. Although I cannot deal with these interesting bilingual texts here, it seems convenient to analyse some cases within the context of religious individualisation. Thanks to diverse magical texts we are aware of the existence of several deities not mentioned at all in civic dedications. This is the case of the Niskae (Niscae) mentioned in the six rolled or folded-up lead sheets from Amélie-les-Bains (Pyrénées-Orientales) (Lambert 2002, fig. 139), all spirited away presumably to be sold on the antiquities market (Fig. 3.2). The word niska has been related to the Basque neska, ‘girl’, and

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Fig. 3.2. Lead sheets from Amélie-les-Bains (after RIG II, 2, fig. 139).

that would seem to fit the interpretation that the Niskae (mentioned as dom(i)nas Niskas, ‘Niska ladies’, or as Niskas aquis, ‘water Niskae’: RIG II.2, L-97) as local deities similar to the Roman nymphs or the Domina Fons to whom another defixio from Italica (Santiponce) is directed (AE 1975, 497). The Niskae present an interesting parallel to the god Niskus attested together with Neptune in a defixio from the Hamble Estuary directed against a thief called Muconius (AE 1997, 977; Kropp 2008, dfx. 3.11/1; Mees 2009, 46). All these theonyms point to water deities, since all these defixiones were found in watery contexts.2 The inscription found in the sanctuary at Sources-des-Roches in Chamalières (RIG II.2, L-100, with corresponding references), dating from the second half of the first century CE, refers, to the andedíon... diíuion (possibly the ‘infernal gods’) as well as to mapon(on) arueriíatin. The theonym is documented as Maponus, Apollo Maponus or Mabonus on some 10 altars in Britannia (Jufer and Luginbühl 2001, 50–1) and reappears, as we well know, in the figure of Mabon in the Irish and Welsh traditions. But what interests us here is the epiclesis arueriíatin, which has been explained with a functional value (‘the dispenser’) or as an ethnonymic epithet (Arvernus). If this is the case, we might have here a reference to the Mercury of the Arverni, hitherto unknown in the public epigraphy of this civitas; however, Mercurius Arvernus is invoked

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in various inscriptions from the Rhine area – Jufer and Luginbühl 2001, 24 – and a genius Arvernus is also attested in the Chamalières area – Mees 2009, 16). One of the two lead tablets found in tomb no. 71 of the necropolis at L’Hospitaletdu-Larzac, also written in the Gaulish language and, from the context, dating from the end of the first or beginning of the second centuries CE, refers on one side (1a) to the theonym Adsagsona (also unattested in the epigraphic record), while the other tablet has on its reverse (2b) the word antumnos, alluding to the infernal deity, if not the name of the ‘afterlife’ (RIG II.2, L-98, 251–66). On these tablets, the anonymous defigens, sex unknown, addresses the goddess Adsagsona in the belief that he/she is the victim of a plot by a group of women, perhaps led by Severa Tertionicna as a sorceress, in order to make them barren and immobilise them prior to a possible judicial action. Another possibility, suggested by Ciurli (2008), is that the women named were the priestesses of a certain cult to Adsagsona, the number of whom brings to mind the nine Gallisenae mentioned by Pomponius Mela (Chor. 3.40) on the coast of the Osismii. Other infernal powers unknown in votive epigraphy seem to be Bregissa and Branderix, mentioned in the curse tablet from Le Mas-Marcou (Le Monastère, Aveyron), dating from the first century and practically illegible today (RIG II.2, L-99). The golden lamella from Baudecet (Gembloux, Belgium) was found in the favissa of a Gallo-Roman sanctuary. Dating from the middle of the second century, the inscription – in the Gaulish language, it seems – is written inside an aedicula (AE 1993, 1203) and its content has been interpreted as a magic formula or else as a dedication to various deities. If the word tarain(i) which appears in the text is indeed a theonym, what we have here is the clearest epigraphic reference to the Taranis mentioned by Lucan (Phars. 1, 440ff) as one of the components of the divine triad of the Celts. Various bilingual texts with code-switching between different features also document the options or personal choices of the defigens or dedicant (Marco Simón 2012b). For example, nacracantum, ‘song of death’, is an interesting Graeco-Gaulish word borrowed from the Greek, contained in the defixio from Montfo, with a possible parallel in the duscelinata or ‘evil death song’ of the Larzac inscription, some 50 km from Montfo (Mees 2009, 70). The information provided by the silver lamella of Limonum (Poitiers), found in a funerary context and dating to the fourth century, is also very interesting. This is a bilingual Gallo-Latin text, written in cursive, invoking Magiarssus to protect Justina, including a formula in Gaulish on the harvest of the gontaurion plant. Bis gontaurion analabis bis gontaurion su|ce analabis bis gontaurion catalases | vim c anima vim s paternam. Asta / Magiarsse. tutate Iustina quem | peperit Sarra. (Kotansky 1994, 31–40, 33).

Another interesting case of a local deity that we only see in magical contexts is Duagena, documented recently on a funeral urn from Lugo / Lucus Augusti, dating from between the final quarter of the second and first half of the third centuries CE. In an inscription next to the edge of a funeral urn, potential desecrators of the urn of

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Satur(ninus?) are threatened with punishment from the goddess: [Quicumque] olla(m) Saturn[ini uiolauerit] habebit Duagena(m) irata(m) (Marco Simón 2011). These are good examples of the importance of individualisation in the naming and consignation of divine names through (magico-)religious dedications. In fact, there are countless deities that have not been attested more than once, especially the socalled minor deities, ‘der eigentliche Kern und Mittelpunkt der altrömischen Religion’ according to Wissowa (1904, 304), that can be included in the cultic sphere of ‘greater’ deities, in ‘Götterverbindungen’ (Kerényi 1933) that are frequently expressed at the linguistic level through the appearance of epithets derived from the theonym of the ‘greater’ god (Perfigli 2004). Attention has rightly been called to the innovation to be found in Graeco-Egyptian malign magic, in the design as well as in the content of the text (Gordon 2002), with the use of certain ‘inversion’ formulae seeking harm for the victims mentioned, according to the principle of similia similibus (Faraone and Kropp 2010). The twisting or scrambling of names in defixiones such as those from Deneuve or Bregenz is often thought to reflect the petitions that the victims (or their minds or tongues) be ‘twisted’ (Mees 2009, 98–9).

From Muta Tacita to Aurora, Orchi soror: new deities attested in epigraphy Another remarkable feature is the early chronology of some of the most interesting documents: at least 13 curse tablets from the area of modern Spain have been published that can (roughly) be dated prior to the Augustan period, before the spread of the epigraphic habit (MacMullen 1982; Haeussler 1998; Velaza 2011; Beltrán Lloris 2015a and b). The Greek texts (fourth to third century BCE) come from the port town of Amporion/Ampurias (Marco Simón 2010a), while the Latin texts (mid-second century BCE to early first century CE) were mainly found in the Guadalquivir valley (Fig. 3.3), most notably in the area surrounding Roman Corduba/Córdoba, the capital of the province of Hispania Ulterior/Baetica (Marco Simón 2019b, 376–7). This is also the case with some graffiti on wall paintings in Tarraco mentioning phorba phorbe (related to Hekate or Selene: Jordan 1985, 240, note a), dating from the second or first century BCE (HEp 2003, no. 539). Also noteworthy is the early mention of certain deities. Two of the defixiones found on the summit of Muntanya Frontera in Saguntum (on the Mediterranean coast of the Tarraconensis), where there was possibly a sanctuary, mention Iau (Iao). The texts date to the second half of the first century CE or the beginning of the second (HEp 2004, nos. 622, 623), and document for the first time the Jewish god, much earlier than the ancient inscriptions of Quintanilla de Somoza (León) or Jerez de la Frontera (Cádiz). The link in magical documents of divine personalities with features that would only later emerge in civic contexts is also worth mentioning. This is the case with Attis in the defixiones from Salacia (Alcácer do Sal, in Portugal; Marco Simón 2004) (Fig. 3.4) and Mogontiacum (Mainz) (Blänsdorf 2010). One feature of some of these

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Fig. 3.3. Defixio from Corduba mentioning Salpina. (Photo: Centro CIL II, Universidad de Alcalá de  Henares). 

defixiones, together with the use of mythical historiolae3 as resources of ‘persuasive analogy’, is the early documentation of Attis as a cosmic deity in the second half of the first century CE, that is to say, a long time before the ‘Attis transfigured’ sculpture from Ostia and other sources related to the resurrection and apotheosis of this deity in the context of the religion of the polis (Marco Simón 2013).4 Another example of religious individualisation may be seen in the epigraphic consignment of deities that had hitherto only been known through literature. This is the case with Muta Tacita, consigned in two inscriptions from Kempten and Sisak (Marco Simón 2010b). One comes from Siscia (Sisak) in Croatia where it was found in the River Kupa, a tributary of the Sava, a river that receives its name from the god Savus mentioned on the lamella. It is a curse dating from the first century CE directed against a group of important characters of foreign origin, including the Hispanic L. Licinius Sura, who belonged to the distinguished Tarraconensis family, a member of which with the same name was a close collaborator of Trajan.5 The other inscription comes from Cambodunum (Kempten, Bavaria), probably dating to the first century CE. It mentions the Mutae Tacitae, in the plural, as well as the Eriniae and Orcus, of whom it is requested that the victim of the curse, Quartus, be driven mad and that

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he flee like the bird before the basilisk (a fantastic creature that appears here for the first time in Latin inscriptions).6 One peculiarity is that the Mutae Tacitae are placed next to the golden gates of hell. Both defixiones request Muta Tacita to strike the adversaries dumb: such an appeal is logical if we remember that this very old Latin deity, clearly connected with hell, was the goddess who ‘silenced’ enemy mouths and tongues, as explicitly illustrated in the historiola referred to by Ovid in connection with the Feralia in Fasti 2.572–582. While in the case of the Sisak inscription, it is the reference to the river god Savus that is the element that seems to indicate the insertion of Muta Tacita within an indigenous cosmology, in the curse from Kempten I believe that the insertion of the divine personality of Muta Tacita into the Fig.  3.4.  Defixio from Salacia/Alcácer  do  Sal  traditional Celtic universe would have (Illustration: J. C. L. Faria 2000). been made through reference to her in the plural, the Mutae Tacitae, in the same way as the Matres, Matronae or Iunones (on plural divinities see Girardi 2018). In Peñaflor (Seville), the ancient Celti, a new tabella defixionis of a judicial nature has appeared. It requests that a certain Marcellus Valerius remain as dumb and silent as a frog without a tongue in a forthcoming action against Licinius Gallus, probably the defigens or author of the tablet.7 It is possible that the binomen mutus tacitus appearing in the text is not fortuitous and that it implies that the extremely ancient Muta Tacita was already known much earlier than in the transalpine areas, since the Celti tablet dates from the second half of the first century BCE (Stylow 2012). We should also mention here the most fascinating curse text to have appeared in recent years. It is a defixio found in the Via Ostiense in Rome. It is the product of a highly cultured atmosphere in first-century CE Rome. It has a romantic content and reveals valuable details about daily religious life. This text yields a complex and structured infernal pantheon, simultaneously reflecting the influence of the Greek mythical tradition in magical practices (that eschatological ‘inherited conglomerate’ alluded to by Bremmer 2010, 19) and the new elements introduced therein. This pantheon is made up of 18 numina deum inferum between gods and mythical figures (some unknown such as the Ustores inferi, or the Ossufragae, Ortygiae, mythical birds), invoked at the beginning of the text and later called upon to cause the death of the

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victim. Dispater, Proserpina and the canes Orcini (the dogs of Orcus) are at the head of the list, followed by monstrous, voracious female creatures (Fig. 3.5). The most characteristic of these is Aurora,  Orchi  soror, ‘Aurora, the sister of Orcus’ (in other

Fig. 3.5. Execration text found in Via Ostiense, Roma (recto) (Illustration: G. Bevilacqua 2009, fig. 1).

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words, of Dis Pater or Pluto), who comes onto the scene half-way through the text as the recipient of the victim’s remains – the wretched Cecilia Prima (AE 2007, 260). What we have here is a mythical variant of Aurora/Eos that was hitherto unknown (Bevilacqua and Colacicchi 2009; Bevilacqua 2010). Just as with the funerals of heroes when Aurora appears once the bones have been burnt and gathered into an urn, in the defixio Aurora appears once the curse has been carried out to collect the burnt and cut up bones of the victim. Thus, the case of the Via Ostense defixio is an excellent example of religious individualisation comparable to others that are known about in the eastern part of the Empire.8 Another example of individual or non-sanctioned practice might be the epigraphic mention in some magical texts from Britain and the Continent9 of a period of nine days (ante dies novem) within which the victim must be punished or put to death by the gods addressed by the author or petitioner of the defixio. The similarity with the Roman nundinal period might be explained by a common IndoEuropean heritage, but the fact that Roman provincial epigraphy of the imperial era did not preserve this use of the novena (nundinum) as a time scale suggests that these expressions reflect a Celtic cultural legacy (Marco Simón 2010c). The number nine figures so prominently in Celtic tradition that it has been described as ‘the northern counterpart of the sacred seven’ of Near Eastern cultures (Rees and Rees 1961, 192–4), and points interestingly to a computation of time unknown in civic or conventional epigraphy.

The target as a sacrificial victim offered to the gods The finds made in sanctuaries such as that of the Mater Magna and Isis in Mainz, where the curse tablets had an extraordinary importance, lead one to think that the deposit of tablets, which were also thrown into the fire, was considered by the community to be within the parameters of normative religion (Veale 2017, 301). Some of Mainz’s defixiones contain expressions typical of votive religion (uotum, deuoueo, religione).10 And, as is also the case in the temple of Sulis Minerva in Bath (Tomlin 1988), the language is markedly legal and contractual. One of the tablets found in Mainz (Blänsdorf 2012, nº 4) offers the target Tiberius Claudius Adiutor as a sacrificial victim to Attis (hunc hostiam acceptum), and the Magna Mater is asked to crush his heart and liver,11 which are, as is well known, the essential internal organs (exta) whose examination is mandatory in the sacrificial ritual and in the taking of auspices (Scheid 1998, 75). In another defixio from Arezzo (Italy), a certain Q. Letinius Lupus is also offered as a sacrificial victim, in this case to the Aquae Ferventes or Nymphae (CIL XI 1823). But perhaps the most interesting case is a curse tablet from Brandon (Suffolk), in which Mercury is asked to sacrifice the victim with the hazelnut tree, a local variant of ritual killing that will later be attested to in the medieval laws of Ireland (although it is possible there is an alternative interpretation: that the corulo mentioned in the text might not refer to the hazelnut tree, but to an epithet of Mercury (Caeruleo).12

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Fig. 3.6. Defixio from Bologna (Illustration: C. Sánchez Natalías 2012).

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A literary parallel for these victims being offered up for the execration of the gods as if they were a sacrificial victim is found in Ovid’s Contra Ibis (vv. 67–105), written during the poet’s exile on the Black Sea: after invoking the gods, demigods and various powers, he curses Ibis and offers him up as a victim (Marco Simón 2019c, 93–4).

An example of innovative iconography The iconography provides one last example of religious individualisation in the context of magico-religious practices, which at the same time displays a marked degree of creative originality. The recent discovery of a set of defixiones in the Museo Arqueológico Civico in Bologna has yielded an iconography on two defixiones, previously unknown in the context of curse tablets, which may date from between the fourth and fifth centuries CE (Viglione 2010; Sánchez Natalías 2011; 2012; Marco Simón and Sánchez Natalías 2022). A standing figure, with serpents emerging from both sides of the head, has been convincingly interpreted as being a figure of Hecate (Fig. 3.6). On one of the tablets the victim is reclining at the bottom, mummified and with the hands bound (Sánchez Natalías 2011, fig. 1). In both cases, the figure of the goddess (wearing a crown in the second of the defixiones that concern us here: Sánchez Natalías 2012, fig. 1) has her hands crossed over her belly and an eight-point star on the genital area. As far as the serpents are concerned, their presentation is similar to that of the ones that appear in the curse against Sura in the sanctuary of Anna Perenna in Rome (Blänsdorf 2010, 236–41) and in two of the Sethian defixiones (Wünsch 1898, nos. 16 and 17). But in the case of the Bologna pieces, instead of surrounding or attacking the victim (the physician Porcellus in one case, Fistus in the other), they emerge from the head of the deity, probably displaying the moment just before the aggression (Sánchez Natalías 2011, 203). What is really unusual is that the attitude of the figure, which in other cases serves to represent the victims, in this case documents the deity for the first time, thus underlining the specific nature of the Bologna figures and the importance of individual options in particular contexts.

Conclusion The ritual specialists we call magicians carried out an ‘underground work of cultural communication’ as a result of which all borders (regional, cultural, religious, linguistic) disappeared in a surprising cultural community (koiné), in which the old Egyptian cultural background harmonised a diverse universal knowledge with practical purposes (Suárez de la Torre 2012, 305), and this, which is but one of the manifestations of ‘religious globalisation’ in the old Roman Empire (Pitts and Versluys 2015), continued to operate in successive periods. The ritual moved from a central, static focus, based on the temple, to a mobile focus represented by the workshop of the itinerant magician, as the PGMs and amulets would show (Smith 1995). However, this magical-religious technology was adapted to the different spaces of the Roman world according to their own cultural traditions.

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‘Polytheism is a multidimensional network of cults and religions, ever varying according to context, places and individual interest’ (Versnel 2011, 116, my emphasis). In the case of the magico-religious documents that have been discussed here, the expression of these options and individual interests take on different forms. Sometimes certain ritual variants are attested which (like those of Verius Sedatus in Autricum/Chartres) do not fit exactly into the context of the eastern Mediterranean koiné of which the Graeco-Egyptian magical papyri are the prime example. At other times, the texts document an appeal to deities that do not figure in other public or civic epigraphic texts, or else they confirm the somewhat surprising functional reality of certain divine figures who, because they were referred to exclusively in literary texts, were thought to be reduced to mere myth with no connection with day-to-day ritual practice. And still other times theological ideas, or the consigning of nine-day periods in time, appear that (as usually happens with the use of different resources and strategies that are hard to understand outside the context in which they arise) are new, as is the iconography of Hekate in the Bologna defixiones. The offering of the target as a sacrificial victim to the gods is another interesting feature in some curse texts. However, the individual agency of these ritual practices with regard to other types of document appears as a common denominator, and this is a characteristic feature of these twilight spaces conceptualised traditionally in terms of magic, but which are better understood in terms of ‘unlicensed religion’ (Parker 2005, 116–35) or ‘instrumental religion’ (Gordon et al. 2020).

Acknowledgements This paper forms part of the research project ‘Espacios de penumbra: cartografía de la actividad mágico-religiosa en el occidente del Imperio’ (FFI 2008-01511/FISO), financed by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation. Notes

1 I am not dealing with ‘private theology’, theurgy or other forms of ‘higher magic’ typical of late Antiquity (Fowden 2005; Mastrocinque 2007). For the importance of individual options in religions of the polis, see Dasen and Piérart 2005; Bowes 2008; Versnel 2011, 119–42; Haeussler 2011, criticising the polis model and pointing out the advances in religious individualisation in the Roman era; Rüpke 2006, 25–6 on the advances of privatisation of religious communication in the Roman Empire: Raja and Rüpke 2015; Rüpke 2016. Likewise, Veyne 1986 and Eidinow 2007 on visions and divine oracles. For new approaches to Magic considered as a social construction of ambiguous or illegitimate rituals, see Edmonds III, 2019; Frankfurter 2019; Marco Simón 2019a. On materiality and in magical practices: Boschund and Bremmer 2015; Wilburn 2012; Parker and McKie 2018. Importance of contexts: Piranomonte and Marco Simón 2012; Gordon et al. 2020. 2 The practice of the lead curse tablets (Urbanová 2018; Sánchez Natalías forthcoming) can be considered as another of the manifestations of the religious transfers inherent to globalisation, with emotional responses by men and women belonging to all social spectrums in contexts of competition, uncertainty and risk. The defixiones correspond to ‘social scripts’ or widespread

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cultural representations, which individuals appropriate in crisis situations, in which the curse appears as one of the individual strategies in the solution of problems (Gordon 2013, 257–8 and 263). Specifically, these execratory texts contained a real consecratio of the victim, offered to the divinities in a process comparable to the devotio hostium (Marco Simón 2019a, 98–9), that is, the consignment of enemies to the gods in a traditional ritual of the Roman religion (Versnel 1976; Sacco 2011). Obviously there were, of course, other solutions: think, for example, of the phylacteries and protective amulets (Mastrocinque 2014; Dasen 2015; Nagy 2015). 3 Blänsdorf 2010, 186–7, no. 18: Quintum in hac tabula depono auersum | se suisque rationibus uitaeque male consum|mantem. ita uti Galli Bellonariue absciderunt concide|runtue se, sic illi abscissa sit fides fama faculitas. nec Illia | in numero hominum sunt, neque ille sit. quomodi et ille | mihi fraudem fecit, sic illi, sancta Mater Magn, et relegas | cucta. ita uti arbor siccabit se in sancto, sic et illi siccet | fama fides fortuna faculitas. tibi commendo, Attihi d(o)mine, | ut me uindices ab eo, ut intra annum uertere ….. exitum | illius ulem …. magum. See also Gordon 2012. On the magical historiolae, Frankfurter 1995. 4 Thus, for example, a defixio from Groß-Gerau mentions Attis together with the twelve gods of the zodiac (Scholz and Kropp 2004: Deum Maxsime Atthis Tyranne | totumque duodecatheum, commen|ndo deabus iniurium fas ut me vindicetis a Proscil(l)a Caranti (f.) quae nuberi er(r)a|vit. Pe[r] Matrem Deum vestrae ut | [v]indicate sacra pater[na o –ni?] | P[ri]sci(l)[a] | pere[at]), and another from Mainz refers to the Dioscuri as his attendants (Blänsdorf 2010, 166–7, no. 2: Bone sancte Atthis Tyran|ne, adsi(s), aduenias Libera|li iratus. Per omnia te rogo, | domine, per tuum Castorem, | Pollucem, per cistas penetra|les, des ei malam mentem, | malum exitum, quandius | uita uixerit, ut omni cor|pore uideat se emori prae|ter oculos), which seems to confirm the cosmic nature of Attis in those relatively early times. 5 Marco Simón and Rodà de Llanza 2008: I. Obverse: Advers{s}ar(i)o(s)·nos{s}tro(s) | G(aius)·Dom{e}tiu(s) Secund{o} | et·Lucius·Larci{o} | et Secund{o} Vacarus | Cyba(lenses) et· P(ublius) Citronius | Cicorelliu(s)·Narbone(nsis) | et· L(ucius) Lic{c}nius Sura is{s}pan(us) | et Luc{c}il {l}ius / Val{l} en{te}· ne possi(nt) | cntra s{s}e faceri | avertat· illo(s) am{a}ete(s) | c{a}ntra locui ne ma|li illor u{s} mutu o(s) fac(iat)(?) | G(aius) Domtius S{s}ecund{o} | et Lucius La(r)c(i)o L(ucii filius) Cyba(lenses) | Muta Tagita [--- | [b?]ona illorum [---]. II. Reverse: Data depr{e}menti | ma(n)data data istos | Savo cura(m) agat | depr{e}ma(t) adver(s)ar(i)o(s) | no{s}stro(s) omutua(t) ne | contra nos lucuia(nt). 6 Obverse: Mutae Tacitae ut mutus sit | Quartus agitatus erret ut mus | fugiens aut avis adversus basyliscum | ut e[i]us os mutu (¡) sit. Mutae | Mutae [d]irae sint Mutae | Tacitae sint Mutae | [Qu]a[r]tus ut insanita. Reverso: Ut Ernis rutus sit et | Quartus Orco ut Mutae | Tacitae ut Muta[e s]int | ad portas aureas (Kropp 2008, dfx.7/2/1) 7 Stylow 2012: Marcel(l)us Valerius mutus siet | adversus C. Licinio Gallo. Qumadmodum | rana sene (!) lingua muta tacita est, sic Marc|cellus mutus tacitus debilitatus siet | advrsus L i cinio Gallo. The use of the image of the frog without a tongue brings to mind another defixio from Carthage in which the defigens rips out the tongue of a live cockerel and binds (i.e. bewitches) it in a ‘persuasive analogy’ ritual (Tambiah 1973; Kropp 2010, 368–78) in an attempt to strike the victims dumb: quomodo huic gallo lingua(m) vivo extorsi et defixi, sic inimicorum meorum linguas me ommutescant (DTAud 222). 8 In Attic defixiones, for example, Hermes is featured prominently (although barely mentioned in the defixiones from Sicily), and other names are documented, such as Tethys and Lethe, with hardly any reference in epigraphy, or Hekate Chtonia and the Praxidikai who do not appear in any cult or literature (Bremmer 2010, 21). Similarly, eminent politicians had been using private diviners – in other words, not subject to the control of the polis – since the early fifth century (ibid. 35). 9 The texts were found in Aquae Sulis (Bath) (addressed to the goddess Sulis), Broomhill, London (to Metunus), Leicester (to Maglus) and Carnuntum (Petronell) (to Dis Pater, Verecura

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and Cerberus: Kropp 2008, dfx. 3./54, 3.5/1, 3.14/3, 3.18/2, 8.3/1; Mees 2009, 45). The gods Metunus and Maglus had not previously been documented in epigraphy. This is the text of the tabella found at London Bridge (AE 1987, 738 a): Tibi(!) rogo Metu|nus u(t) m(e) vndic|as de ist n|mne me vn|dicas ante q(u)o|d ven(iant) die(s) no|vem rogo te | Metunus ut (t) u | mi vnd[i]cas | ante q(u)o[d] | ven(iant) di(es) n[o]ve|m. The theonym Maglus from Leicester is linguistically related to the god Maglomatonius, documented in an inscription from Agen, Aquitania (CIL XIII 915 = ILA-Niti 2 = ILS 4681: Maglo|matonio | Atto | marmo|rarius | v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito). 10 Blänsdorf 2012, no. 2: ut me uotis condamnes et ut laetus libens ea tibi referam 11 Blänsdorf 2012, no. 4: Tiberius Claudius Adiutor | in megaro eum rogo te Ma|t[e]r Magna megaro tuo re|cipias et Attis domine te | precor ut hu(n)c (h)ostiam accep|tum (h)abatis et qui aget agi|nat sal et aqua illi fiat ita tu | facias dom(i)na it quid cor eoconora | c(a)edat || Devotum defictum | illum mebra | medullas {AA} | nullum aliud sit | Attis Mater Magn[a]. 12 See Marco Simón 2019c; AE 1994, 1112: SERADVASORISDVAS | s(i) serv(u)s si ancl(l)a si li(bertus) (!) liberta si m(u)lie[r] | si baro popia(m) fer(re)a(m) | EAENEC furtum fece|rit domino Neptuno | corulo pare(n)tatur.

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Chapter 4 Individual religious choice: the case of the ‘mystery’ cults Jaime Alvar Ezquerra

Individualisation and religious personal choice Van der Loo and Van Reijen (1993) define individualisation, in the context of modernisation, i.e. a complex process including differentiation, rationalisation, individualisation and domestication, as ‘the process in which the individual breaks away from the bonds of close and proximate groups and becomes dependent on more distant and anonymous social forces’ (English translation by Musschenga 2001, 5). Musschenga, following Van der Loo and Van Reijen’s dependence on Weber and Durkheim, adds additional key concepts borrowed from T. Luckmann, U. Beck and A. Giddens, such as ‘role distance’, ‘de-localisation’ and ‘de-traditionalisation’. All of them are relevant to conceptualise what I understand as individualisation, a step further than the mere evidence of the individual acting. If we take these premises as our starting points, religious identity becomes one of the most obvious instruments of change required for the concept of individualisation as we have just defined it. From this viewpoint, it will be our task to analyse to what extent personal religious experience in the Roman Empire, and more specifically in the ‘mystery cults’, contributed to the individualisation process. Although this issue has diverse implications that are not easily identifiable, I am going to assume that individualisation may be ascertainable through religious experience. However, individualisation calls for a religious experience that is not subject to the established order – that is to say, religious habitus – since analysis of individualisation is concerned with emphasising a break in the cultural pattern (Begemann et al. 2020, 13–17). The question of religious options is related to how one interprets the concept of Roman religion and whether there is any comparison between what was called the ‘civic religion’ – or if one prefers, the official religion(s) of the Roman Empire – and private expressions of religious feeling. Confrontation is one strategy of analysis,

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based on diversity and contradiction. However, this issue may also be seen from the perspective of complementarity, in that there are aspects that are resolved within public religion and others in the private religious context, with both options forming part of a coherent, all-embracing system, albeit one full of inconsistencies and anomalies (cf. Versnel 1990). Attempting to resolve this conflict of perspectives is to claim that we are able to delve, with the rudimentary tools at our disposal, into the workings of religious experience in the Roman Empire with the added inconvenience of the hiatus that exists between our own concepts and interpretations and those of the societies that we aim to understand and, if necessary, explain. Consequently, we run the risk of transferring an inadmissible question to the past when trying to find examples of religious freedom in the Roman Empire. In fact, no one would have been able to exercise this freedom better than the elite classes, but as Várhelyi (2010) has concluded, not even new provincial senators were interested in proselytising on behalf of their native deities; their option instead consisted of their own integration into the traditional cults, following a conservative path. However, the reality is more complex, since these same senators coming from provincial areas could act differently by virtue of the conditions of their religious action, since in their place of origin their religious behaviour would be shaped by circumstances quite different from those that social agentivity in Rome or in other provinces where they exercised a magistracy might force them to act. And the same could be said of the municipal elites and other magistrates operating in the most disparate corners of the Empire. At a more advanced stage we can take as an example the senator Calpurnius Rufinus, who around 300 CE remodelled a local sacred space in Panóias (Vila Real, Portugal) to convert it into a place of initiation into the mysteries of Serapis (Alvar 2012, nos. 192–8, pp. 138–46). Here we see the senator’s personal agency (Gasparini 2020), but also the social agentivity (Alvar 2018) in which he is involved. I wonder if, as North proposes (1992, 178; see commentary in Nongbri 2008) the possibilities of choice in the Roman Empire represented a radical change from the past. Indisputably, there was an increase in communicative alternatives with the supernatural, but all within the Graeco-Roman cultic space, as ritual exoticism was being domesticated into a consumable product. In these circumstances, the change would no longer be so radical, but rather non-breaking transitions, so that the individual would not be aware of the magnitude of his action with few exceptions. On this point, it is appropriate to suggest that the ‘mystery’ cults were re-tailored within the Hellenistic-Roman cultural system so that they could be understood by their new followers, who had no cultural connection to the hypothetical eastern origin of the cults’ gods (Gordon 1975). It is well known how the Egyptian cults and the Anatolian cult of Cybele were Hellenised, until the latter’s transformation into the Roman Mater Magna. The case of the god Mithras is also significant if, as it seems, his cult in the Roman Empire was an invention around the end of the first century CE, unconnected to his Iranian origins. This affirmation refutes the idea that these were

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alternative cults, options that went against the stablished order. Everything seems to point to the fact that their reception all around the Empire was at some extent favoured directly or indirectly by the Roman order, even in distant places where these cults enabled personal integration and promotion in local lives (Alvar 2002). I believe that the only example that might contradict this overall image is that of Judaism. In fact, it seems clear that adherence to it by uncircumcised gentiles was an action comparable to anything we might consider to be a free choice. The access to Judaism, or later to Christianism, was out of reach for the majority of inhabitants of the Empire. Once one cult is accessible, its capability of express free choice is lesser. Multiculturalism by itself is not a proof of religious options, as religious behaviours are an expression of the socialisation process, patterned by social learning, and the personal responses to it. Nevertheless, long term cultural processes sometimes contribute to a personal change of mind, a situation that could be labelled as ‘conversion’. That is the next point I would like to discuss.

The ‘mystery’ cults under the scrutiny of religious choice As I have already argued elsewhere (Alvar 2009), I believe that the term ‘mystery cults’ denotes a grouping operative within the Roman religious system. Of course, there is a long debate denying the category of ‘oriental religions’, or even ‘mystery cults’, that is out of consideration here (Alvar 2017, 23–6; Belayche and Massa 2020). For my current purpose, I merely ask that my reflection be understood as being formed only by the elements that make up its common denominator. In other words, I am talking about cults introduced to, or recreated in, Rome as a result of the integration of conquered territories in the Eastern Mediterranean and which, after undergoing a thorough ‘Hellenisation’ or ‘Romanisation’ process, offered an otherworld spiritual life linked to compliance with the ethical precepts and rituals established by their gods (Alvar 2008). In order to be part of this otherworld life, the new members were admitted to the cult via an initiation rite into the mysteries that were kept secret. Its gods had oriental names, but its cults were adapted, even re-created, to be accepted by the Roman system of which they ultimately formed part, in spite of the fact that they had initially been rejected by the more reactionary and conservative elements of the Roman state and its intellectuals. However, within a relatively short space of time, these cults were transformed to become a vehicle of social integration for those who had not managed to achieve it via the official religion. As auxiliary instruments of integration and social cohesion they were extremely useful for the established power which replaced rejection of these cults with the patronage, care and dissemination thereof throughout the Empire (Alvar 1991; 1994a; 1994b). It is precisely because, superficially, they have been seen as counter-cultural expressions or alternative religious manifestations, ever since the pioneering study by Cumont (1906), that many researchers have considered them to be paradigms

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for addressing the problems of change of religion or the possibility of free choice in Imperial Rome. This is because they seemed to be the only circumstances in which the individual really had to accept voluntarily the act of integration into the cult. The first person to disagree with this was Burkert (1987), recently endorsed, albeit with little deliberation, by Bremmer (2010, 61). In any case, the decision to become initiated in a cult of, for example, Isis and Sarapis, was undeniably personal, except in cases of familial engagement including children consacration. However, neither the reasons for becoming initiated nor the success of the ‘mysteries’ may be attributed solely to their undeniable appeal to the self. According to this point of view, there would have been different religious options from which the individual would pick in each occasion the one that seemed most likely to match his own needs, interests, desires, inclinations, concerns, motivations or convictions. These religious options would have provided a new reality in addition to the established structure of the official religion. The acceptance of this alternative function of the ‘mystery’ cults provides the researcher with a specific stance with regard to how religion in the Roman Empire is understood; a stance that echoes the old controversy over the problem of conversion (Nock 1933), albeit disguised, when the concept that allows itself to be restricted to change from the polytheistic model to Christianity is not employed. We are in a position to discuss this alternative nature of the ‘mystery’ cults because in their state of known evolution in the Empire, they were religious experiences designed to increase opportunities for social cohesion, although with a significant identity weight. I am convinced that membership of a particular cult, in the context of Roman polytheism, has not so much a burden related to the theological or moral convictions of an individual that joins it, as the fact that it is motivated by circumstances of a social nature (cf. Alvar 2002; 2008). At any event, the integration of someone into one of the cults we are referring to was effected via an initiation rite. Initiation is understood as being a person’s acceptance of certain ritual requirements in order to join the cult community. This action was a religious option of a personal nature by which the neophyte chose the ‘mystery’ cult into which he was being initiated as his most significant religious option, relegating remaining options into the background, at least temporarily. As such, ‘mystery’ cults were the clearest proof of the existence of religious options and an individual’s freedom to pick and choose. This way of looking at initiation was a precursor of another no less problematic concept, conversion, as interpreted by Nock (1933, 7); however, his views have not necessarily been accepted, not so much because of his distinction between conversion and adherence as for the religious implications of this distinction (Rives 2011). It is clear that the initiation rite, an act of simulated death culminating in a new life, was a ritual of disaggregation from the crowd, reinforced by the vow of silence regarding what had been communicated in that experience to differentiate the members of these groups from the rest of mankind (Gordon 1972). This personal willingness to take part

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in the rite is apparently the reason why the ‘mystery’ cults represent such a valuable testimony for those who believe that there were different religious options in Roman Empire. Though beyond any personal significance that the initiation experience may have had, it is true to say that initiation was an effective means of social control. Indeed, the possibility of membership and initiation became feasible when the reception of the cults, in Rome and in many provincial cities, had already made them part of the Roman system. There is no doubt that the mysteries provided their members with powerful identifying characteristics, but in fact these characteristics did not separate them from the established system but reaffirmed them as one of their most typical components, hence their identity potential (Alvar 2008, 146–8). I see initiation as an individual henotheistic expression, a procedure whereby one expresses one’s personal preference for one deity from all the others. This in no way means rejecting the other gods, something inconceivable in a polytheistic system, nor that this choice is definitive and unalterable. So it is the expression of a temporary or permanent leaning towards one god with a special devotion but without excluding the others. The individual chooses the deity that he considers will provide him with the most benefits, because he credits it with a greater potential than any other, but he would never dare to deny the existence of the rest (Versnel 1990, 35; 2011, 138–42, 280–304). Considering initiation as a henotheistic practice does not do away with the major psychological and religious importance that the rite would have meant for the initiates. Nevertheless, it is useful for reappraising the assumed protest, rupture or countercultural value that people have attributed to initiation. In fact, although henotheism was a growing tendency in the religious life of the inhabitants of the Empire, it is true to say that the choice of a deity as a guardian for an individual, his family or his group was a practice with roots in polytheism. The bond between emperors and their tutelary god, the structure of domestic shrines or patronage of a city by a particular deity were not exactly henotheistic practices, but they did represent the existence of personal and collective options within religion itself which did not lead to a confrontation with the established order aimed at formalising a new sense of identity. By proclaiming the supremacy of one deity over all the others, henotheism did not work against traditional customs but conditioned them to the new reality emanating from the political, social and economic transformations that arose from the implantation of the imperial political system. Thus, it was an adaptive solution and therefore, insofar as the ‘mysteries’ were henotheistic, they also represented forms of integration into reality (Belayche 2005; Alvar 2010; Gordon 2014). On the other hand, initiation is frequently considered to be a sacramental act comparable to baptism. Analogies with Christianity have helped to develop this false image of the ‘mysteries’ as alternative cults. For our immediate purpose, the question as to whether initiates experienced a real conversion is one of interest. This will be the next issue to be discussed.

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Conversion and change of name: expressions of individual religious choice? Conversion is another controversial concept since it is based on the exceptional experience of Paul of Tarsus. This example was projected into the collective imagery concerning all converts to Christianity so that it was deemed as being a common occurrence that could hardly be said to match reality. In fact, for most people, a change of religion would not have been an experience like the one Paul underwent, but rather a gradual accumulation of religious possibilities, one of which would have been the God of the Christians. In the polytheistic mindset, the integration of a new deity, Christ, would not have been incongruous, any more than his Jewish origin would have been considered reproachable. It was this sector of the population that gradually integrated Christ into their many deities which had to be induced to set aside all the rest. This would only be achieved with what was called the ‘Triumph of the Church’. Due to the importance given in Christianity to the phenomenon of conversion, understood as a break with one’s former life, it is not surprising that conversion can be interpreted as the highest manifestation of freedom of choice. This perspective would not include the experiences of change within the polytheistic system as part of the notion of ‘conversion’. However, there has been long debate over the use of this term to explain personal religious innovation in the Roman world. Narratives concerning persecutions have drawn a picture of Christian conversion that was far from reality. Most people, as I have already pointed out, would have embraced Christianity as just one more cult among many others; that would have been the most usual pattern in a polytheistic society. In relation to our topic, the discussion focuses on whether the initiatory experience can be considered as a kind of conversion. In the absence of evidence, scholars have tended to reflect their a priori assumptions in a debate that reached a peak when Nock (1933) denied the possibility of conversion outside Christianity (cf. Parente 1987; Mazza 1989). For the debate since Nock, see the painstaking discussion by Shumate (1996); also the replies to MacMullen (1984; 1985–86) by Babcock (1985–86) and Jordan (1985–86); and Malherbe (1987, 21–8), Gallagher (1990, 109–33), Goodman (1994), Stolz (1999, 13) and Muñiz (2003). The only surviving non-Christian testimony of conversion is the fictional one experienced by Lucius in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (cf. Schumate 1996). His change of outlook with regard to the order of the cosmos and the powers that regulated it, and to the moral claims made upon him, are sufficiently explicit for us to conclude that he did experience a transformation or change of heart, which we might consider close to the experience of conversion if we were to stick to Lucius’ words in Metamorphoses (Apuleius, Met. 11.13, for his transformation from donkey to human; 11.15 for the spiritual transformation). Lucius’ adhesion is complete and, reading his history, one has no trouble in locating his experience within the semantic range of our word ‘conversion’.

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However, it is important to accept that, although conversion is an inner personal experience complying with guidelines established by the current religious system which defines this experience, when it occurs it is already subject to the active influence of the social, religious and cultural milieu (cf. Snow and Machalek 1984; Neitz and Spickard 1990, 24; Yamane 2000). It is a different matter if we insist on a strict definition of the word to the exclusion of all others, which is really only appropriate to the hegemonic claims of Christianity, eager as it was to avoid any contagion from an earlier mode of religiosity. The case of Lucius, which I take to be typical of many other initiates, did not involve the setting aside of other religious practices: initiation was understood as a means of intensifying earlier religious experiences. We might therefore consider it to be not so much a conversion experience as a mystical option within the religious system, a specialised version of henotheism (Bradley 1998, 331). There is no simple solution here, since a great deal depends on what one considers ‘conversion’ to involve. If we take the ‘mystic’ track, it is surely the case that what we may characterise as henotheistic tendencies were something new in Roman religious practice. It involved a new way of conceiving and addressing the divinity, which we might call ‘henotheistic conversion’. I also find significant the fact that researchers look for examples where the ground has been covered previously. It is not usually the case that the religious experience of Aelius Aristides is offered as proof of conversion in that it was in an unexpected direction, at least in Behr’s opinion. After five years of intense devotion to Sarapis, he underwent a true conversion to Asclepius (Aristides, Or. 48.7; Behr 1968, 149). Indeed, Behr was under the strong influence of Beck’s ‘conversion’. It is clear, that Aristides maintained his devotion to Sarapis after his supposed ‘conversion’ to Asklepios (Aristides, Or. 49.45). It would be necessary to review Behr’s laborious reconstruction of Aristides’ biography because he uses the succession of devotions to put in chronological order the events narrated in the Sacred Discourses. This order gives rise to an Aristides devotee of the Egyptians to later become a devotee of Asclepius. However, it is likely that the boundaries were not so clear. In any case, what is important in this case, within the context being analysed in this paper, is that Aristides was making use of his individual freedom to choose his favourite god, but this in no way alters the religious reality of the Roman Empire, for his option is located in the usual devotions. In other words, there was no opposition, contradiction or intensification of an identity that might have breached the established rules. Before leaving this matter, we need to address another question, perhaps a minor one in this debate, but one that should not be sidestepped. As evidence of conversion, i.e. the conscious undergoing of a profound religious and personal change, another controversial phenomenon has been put forward, the changing of one’s personal name for a theophoric name. Effectively, the change of name practised by some initiates may be read as a desire to make such a new identity explicit, the moral

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transformation being figured in the new name (cf. Horsley 1987; for cases relating to Isis, see Witt 1971, 307, n. 39; 311, n. 16; 321, n. 55; Malaise 1972, 29). This is not the place to start a discussion of the religious significance of theophoric names, or of pseudonyms, nicknames or agnomina as evidence of religious conversion, which requires independent treatment (cf. Parker 2000). Suffice it to say here that such usages may, in any given case, be evidence of a desire to mark becoming a new man, one capable, thanks to initiation, of overcoming the ‘vices of the world’. However, it is much more likely that the theophoric names were not so much the product of what the bearer wanted as the will of whoever gave him that name. We cannot be certain that the change of name came about as the consequence of an initiation, and so caution in the interpretation of this phenomenon, whenever it exists, should be exercised.

Individual option versus social agentivity (Alvar 2018) The mystery cults became so integrated into the society of the Empire that from a fairly early point the members were not only recruited through ‘conversion’ or ‘selection’, but through family membership. Inscriptions are abundant mentioning parents and children, grandmothers and granddaughters, giving access to the idea that the transmission of religious inclination is family matter (cf. Wiegels 1979; Alvar et al. 1998). If that is so, the significance of the issue of conversion is greatly reduced. Furthermore, although the mysteries clearly did have their own accounts of the real world (which the neophyte would tend to prefer), the degree of integration of these cults with the wider culture makes it very difficult for us to differentiate meaningfully between the various systems. In this respect, even alleged conversions to Christianity should be reconsidered, since the reality is much more ambiguous than what people have assumed. The same goes for all the other religious options which should be seen as parts of a fairly homogeneous whole for the population. Canons 2–6, 55 of the Council of Elvira show us how, very early on in the fourth century, priests from the traditional cults, including flamines, embraced Christianity without abandoning their own religious duties; canon 45 reveals the existence of catechumens who did not even go to church. These examples show that adoption of the Christian faith did not necessarily represent a transcendental decision that would bring about a radical change in their lifestyles. Canon 56 permitted Christians to be civic magistrates so that the cursus honorum was not incompatible with the ecclesiastical cursus, in spite of the religious obligations assumed by anyone holding public office. Tertullian (De idol. 17), who was much stricter, stated that a Christian could be a magistrate if he did not offer or take part in sacrifices, concern himself with the care of temples, or pay for public spectacles, all of which represented a wholly insurmountable incompatibility (Fernández Ubiña 2007, 444).

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Thus, we should not be too particular about the significance of personal choice or about what we assume with our own perception of conversion. The religious offer in the Roman Empire enabled its inhabitants to accumulate their own choices of gods and cults. The idea that the goodness of one deity far exceeds that of others, and the worshipper’s preference for that deity, can perfectly well be interpreted, for example in the case of Lucius, as amounting to a henotheistic conversion. Wherever we do find substitutions, they are partly based on analogy – the antagonism of neighbours − and partly competitive: henotheism feeds on ambiguities of this kind, which makes it very difficult to interpret such cases correctly. Many authors feel that the great religious transformation that occurred in the Roman Empire was the move from membership of an ethnic religion to the choice of a personal religion. This idea calls for acceptance of the ‘religious market’ proposed by North (1992, 178–9; Beard et al. 1998; see also Bendlin 2000, 134–5; Beck 2006) in which anyone could choose the option that fitted him best. I see no contradiction between the fact that there were many options to satisfy personal concerns, which we can qualify as a ‘free market’, and the denial of extended ‘religious freedom’. We have to accept that the various cults were in competition because of the importance of the votive offerings. Those that were deposited in one sanctuary were not deposited in another, and so the attracting of resources was competitive, hence my backing for the term ‘market’. What are discussed in this article are the conditions of this supposed freedom of choice, something which is not in contradiction with market competition. Rives suggests that the process accelerated until ‘lastly, individual choice came to play a much greater role; that is, a more-or-less automatic adherence to the ethnic and cultural traditions of one’s people gradually gave way to a deliberate choice to adhere to a particular system or group’ (Rives 2011, 265–80). Two examples from the Iberian Peninsula may support the idea that the ‘mysteries’ were a true personal religious option. They are both related to a common mechanism for disseminating the Egyptian mysteries. Chronologically, they are sufficiently far apart for them to be considered a common procedure – individual willingness to found a sanctuary away from their place of residence. The precursor of these cases may be found in the divine mission entrusted to Apollonius to build a sanctuary to Serapis in Delos towards the end of the third century BCE (IG XI 4.1299). From then on there were further examples. In the cases that we are interested in, the first one concerns the founding of the sanctuary of the Nilotic gods by Noumas in Ampurias between the end of the second and beginning of the first centuries BCE (Alvar 2012, nos. 133, 98–100). He was from Alexandria, probably a merchant, who paid for the preparation of a site for a splendid sanctuary with statues and a portico. There is no doubt that Noumas was indebted to Serapis, and perhaps Isis too, which led him to build this compound for his favourite deities. The founding of the sanctuary by this religious agent was not an irrelevant episode in the subsequent development of the

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city, since it flourished until its assets were sold off at a later date, possible the end of the third century or even the fourth century CE. The second case concerns the senator already mentioned, Gaius Calpurnius Rufinus. At the end of the second or beginning of the third centuries CE, he remodelled a sacred site of traditional cults linked to gods of the underground in Panóias (Portugal) in order to build a sanctuary devoted to these traditional gods and to Serapis. Inscriptions show that what emerged from Rufinus’ intervention was a ‘mystery’ cult (Alvar 2012, no. 192, 138–46). It is impossible to tell in this case whether the local inhabitants were able to follow the cult taught by the senator. I am convinced that Noumas and Rufinus followed the same pattern of behaviour despite the three centuries that separated them. This pattern was feasible because they were devotees of universal deities aiming to appeal to everyone who could be worshipped anywhere that was adapted for the purpose, as against the typical local gods of traditional polytheism. But neither case involved a personal break with the dominant religion, thus ruling it out as an expression of individualisation, but not as a sign of henotheism or relevant personal religious choice. Be that as it may, Noumas and Rufinus, as well as Apollonius before them, were isolated cases in the religious day-to-day life of the Hellenistic and Imperial Roman Mediterranean. These spectacular cases that we know about from epigraphy are comportments comparable to those of intellectuality portrayed in literature. However, it would be methodologically unacceptable to extrapolate these cases to the entire population. This is a view that is overly condescending towards the individual capacities of the inhabitants of the Roman Empire. When our sources of information are literary, we must not think that they portrayed the capacity of the majority and when our sources are inscriptions of the ‘mystery’ cults, whose representation of society was extremely limited, we are almost certainly extrapolating what one might have done to what was usually done. However, even if the Roman Empire was not a religious free market, it did provide a cultural variety that was extensive enough for every individual to take part in the system with a certain amount of personal choice. This choice was integrated into the standard options without it being considered a break with their former status. Initiation involved a certain impact only for those individuals in whose family and social circles there had been no prior incidence of joining a ‘mystery’ cult. However, as I have pointed out previously, in many cases the members of ‘mystery’ communities would have come from families in which there had already been a precedent, which makes it extremely difficult to use these cults as an example of individualisation in the Roman Empire.

Acknowledgements This paper was initiated with the research project HAR2011-28461 financed by the Ministry of Science and Innovation, Spain. It was finished within the reseach project ‘Religion: the individual and the communitas’ (RICO: PID2020-117176GBI00, funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation.

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References

Abbreviation

IG XI = Inscriptiones Graecae, vol. 11, Inscriptiones Deli. Berlin, Akademie der Wissenschaften / Reimer.

Ancient sources

Apuleius, Met. = Hanson, J. A. (ed. and trans.) (1989, 1996) Apuleius. Metamorphoses (The Golden Ass), 2 volumes. Harvard, Loeb Classical Library. Arístides, Or. = Trapp, M. (ed. and trans.) (2017, 2021) Aelius Aristides. Orations, 2 volumes. Harvard, Loeb Classical Library. Tertullian, De Idol. = Waszink, J. H. and Van Winden, J. C. M. (eds) (1987) Tertullianus. De Idololatria. Leiden/New York, Brill (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, Vol. I).

Modern sources

Alvar, J. (1991) Marginalidad e integración en los cultos mistéricos. In F. Gascó and J. Alvar (eds) Heterodoxos, reformadores y marginados en la Antigüedad Clásica, 71–90. Sevilla, Universidad de Sevilla. Alvar, J. (1994a) Integración social de esclavos y dependientes en la Península Ibérica a través de los cultos mistéricos. In Religion et anthropologie de l’esclavage et des formes de dépendence. Actes du XXème Colloque du GIREA. Besançon, 4–6 nov. 1993, 275–93. Besançon, Presses universitaires de Franche-Comté. Alvar, J. (1994b) La mujer y los cultos mistéricos: marginación e integración. In Mª. J. Rodríguez, E. Hidalgo and C. G. Wagner (eds) Jornadas sobre roles sexuales: La mujer en la historia y la cultura, Madrid, 16–22 mayo 1990, 73–84. Madrid, Ediciones Clásicas. Alvar, J. (2002) Los misterios en la construcción de un marco ideológico para el Imperio. In F. Marco Simón, F. Pina and J. Remesal (eds) Religión y propaganda política en el mundo romano, 71–81. Barcelona, Universitat de Barcelona. Alvar, J. (2008) Romanising oriental gods. Myth, salvation and ethics in the cults of Cybele, Isis and Mithras. Leiden and Boston, Brill (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 165). Alvar, J. (2009) Promenade por un campo de ruinas. Religiones orientales y cultos mistéricos: el  poder de los conceptos y el valor de la taxonomía. In C. Bonnet, V. Pirenne-Delforge and D. Praet (eds) Les religions orientales dans le monde grec et romain: cent ans après Cumont (1906–2006). Bilan historique et historiographique. Academia Belgica - Institut Suisse de Rome - Accademia dei Lincei. Roma, 16–18 novembre 2006, 119–34. Brussels and Rome, Brepols. Alvar, J. (2010) Henotheismus und Essentialismus in den Kulten der orientalischen Götter. In P.  Barceló (ed.) Religiöser Fundamentalismus in der römischen Kaiserzeit, 41–55. Stuttgart, Steiner (Potsdamer Altertumwissenschaftliche Beiträge 29). Alvar, J. (2012) Los cultos egipcios en Hispania. Besançon, Presses universitaires de Franche-Comté. Alvar, J. (2017) The ‘Romanization’ of ‘Oriental Cults’. In S. Nagel, J. F. Quack, and C. Witschel (eds) Entangled Worlds: Religious Confluences between East and West in the Roman Empire. The Cults of Isis, Mithras, and Jupiter Dolichenus, 23–46. Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck. Alvar, J. (2018) Social agentivity in the eastern Mediterranean cult of Isis. In V. Gasparini and R. Veymiers (eds) Individuals and Materials in the Greco-Roman Cults of Isis. Agents, Images and Practices. Proceedings of the VIth International Conference of Isis Studies (Erfurt, May 6–8 – Liège, September 23–24, 2013), vol. 1, 221–47. Leiden and Boston, Brill (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 187). Alvar, J. (2018–2019) Accés au divin, Annuaire de l’École Pratique des Hautes Études. Section des Sciences Religieuses 127, 143–48. Alvar, J., Rubio, R., Sierra, R., Martín-Artajo, A. and de la Vega, T. (1998) La religiosidad mistérica en el espacio familiar. ARYS 1, 213–25. Babcock, W. (1985–86) MacMullen on conversion: a response. The Second Century 5, 82–89.

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Muñiz, E. (2003) Los relatos cristianos de conversión y sus efectos sobre la experiencia. Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne 29 (1), 137–53. Musschenga, A. W. (2001) The many faces of individualism. In A. van Harskamp and A. W. Musschenga (eds) The Many Faces of Individualism, 3–23. Leuven, Peeters. Neitz, M. J. and Spickard, J. V. (1990) Steps toward a sociology of religious experience: the theories of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and Alfred Schutz. Sociological Analysis 51 (1), 15–33. Nock, A. D. (1933) Conversion. The Old and the New in Religion from Alexander the Great to Augustine of Hippo. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Nongbri, B. (2008) Dislodging ‘embedded’ religion: a brief note on a scholarly trope. Numen 55, 440–60. North, J. (1992) The development of religious pluralism. In J. Lieu, J. North and T. Rajak (eds) The Jews among Pagans and Christians, 174–93. London, Routledge. Parente, F. (1987) L’idea di conversione di Nock ad oggi. Augustinianum 27, 7–25. Parker, R. C. T. (2000) Theophoric names and the history of Greek religion. In E. Mathews and S. Hornblower (eds) Greek Personal Names: their value as evidence, 53–79. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Rives, J. B. (2011) Religious choice and religious change in Classical and Late Antiquity. ARYS 9, 265–80. Shumate, N. (1996) Crisis and C in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press. Snow, D. A. and Machalek, R. (1984) The sociology of conversion. Annual Review of Sociology 10, 167–90. Stolz, F. (1999) From the paradigm of lament and hearing to the conversion paradigm. In J. Assmann and G. G. Stroumsa (eds) Transformations of the Inner Self in Ancient Religions, 9–29. London, Berkeley and Cologne, Brill. Van der Loo, H. and Van Reijen, W. (1993) Paradoxen van modernisering: een social-wetenschappelijke benadering. Bussum, Coutinho. Várhelyi, Z. (2010) The Religion of Senators in the Roman Empire: power and the beyond. Cambridge and New York, Cambridge University Press. Versnel, H. S. (1990) Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion 1. Ter Unus. Isis, Dionysos, Hermes. Three Studies in Henotheism. Leiden, Brill (Studies in Greek and Roman religion 6). Versnel, H. S. (2011) Coping with the Gods. Wayward readings in Greek theology. Leiden and Boston, Brill (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 173). Wiegels, R. (1979) Die Rezeption orientalischer Kulte in Rom – Umriß eines Forschungsfeldes zum Thema Religion und Gesellschaft in römischer Zeit. Freiburger Universitätsblätter 65, 37–61. Witt, R. E. (1971) Isis in the Graeco-Roman World, London, Thames and Hudson. Yamane, D. (2000) Narrative and religious experience. Sociology of Religion 61 (2), 171–89.

Chapter 5 Sons and mothers: the matres, the military and religious choice in Roman Britain Elizabeth Blanning

Introduction Individualisation intrudes even into the religious life of the Roman army where the evidence demonstrates both individuals and groups of soldiers expressing their personal religious choices. The mother goddesses of Roman Britain manifest themselves in various ways, but this paper focuses on the special relationship that the soldiers of Britannia seem to have had with the triple mothers – the matres – and with what appear, in Britain at least, to be some groups of kindred deities. Consideration of the matres immediately forces us to confront issues raised by the meeting and mingling of cultures. The matres are not part of the classical pantheon, there is no record of them in any classical text and they have often been viewed in the past as unproblematically Celtic (e.g. Ross 1967). Yet at the same time, the material expressions of their cults derive exclusively from the Roman period and are almost unequivocally ‘Roman’ in conception, if not always in execution. It must be said at the outset that the dating of most of the material is problematic. Very few of the inscriptions have any internal dating evidence and few finds from any category come from well-dated contexts. Stone monuments are often recovered from secondary contexts and have frequently been moved even in antiquity. Certain inscriptions from Hadrian’s Wall refer to the restoration of temples or shrines. It is logical to suggest (as per Barnard 1985, 232) that these structures were initially constructed in the second quarter of the second century, abandoned during the temporary move of the frontier to the Antonine Wall (c. 140–158 CE) and restored after the abandonment of the latter. Nevertheless, it is possible that shrines fell out of use for other reasons, such as the redeployment of troops who had worshipped at them. Owing to the brevity of its occupation, material from the Antonine Wall itself can be more closely dated. Romano-British sculptures are difficult to date, and the

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majority of sculptures collected in the Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani (CSIR) are simply dated to the second and/or third century CE. There have been two published English surveys of material relating to the British matres and other related deities. This first of these was by Francis Haverfield (1892) who acknowledged his indebtedness to the work of the German scholar Max Ihm in his discussion of the distribution and dating of the evidence, the geographical origins of the matres, their epithets, the identities of their worshippers and a consideration of similar deities. He provided a list of 63 monuments and small finds from Britain relating to the ‘Mothers’ and kindred deities, illustrating many of these. Some of these were regarded by Haverfield himself as dubious, were already lost or are not in fact of the matres and thus not included here. He concluded that the matres had a Germanic or Celtic origin, possibly being an amalgamation of different but similar cults indigenous to both and had been brought to Britain by the military. Theirs was a popular cult and ‘a poor man’s creed’ (Haverfield 1892, 319) although at the same time he noted that most of the British evidence derived from the military centres. The British material was surveyed again in 1985 by Barnard, who confined her study to inscriptions and sculpture. She noted that new discoveries had come to light in every part of Britain and in her opinion no longer supported the current view that the cult of the matres was centred on Gloucestershire and the environs of Hadrian’s Wall. Barnard drew heavily on Lewis’s work on temples in Roman Britain (1965) and considered the iconography and associations of the matres in greater depth than Haverfield, with the aim of discovering ‘what sort of person worshipped the matres, what appeal the cult had for him or her, and what effect, if any, the worship had upon the society’ (Barnard 1985, 237). Unlike Haverfield, who regarded the cult of the matres as ‘a pleasant worship’ (sic) and distanced them from any putative connection with the Roman Fates, Barnard, like other more recent writers (e.g. Green 1989, 192–3) believed the matres to be concerned with the entire life course including both human fertility and life after death. In the intervening years, yet more material has been discovered and, perhaps even more importantly, theoretical perspectives on life and religion in the Roman provinces have changed and developed. Haverfield and Barnard wrote against the background of an unproblematic view of the Romanisation of Britain, which has been challenged by writers such as David Mattingly (1997; 2002; 2004), Richard Hingley (1996; 1997; 2005) and (particularly regarding the ‘Romanisation’ of native religions) by Jane Webster (1997a; 1997b; 2001; 2003).

The nature of the evidence Before summarising the physical evidence, it is worth clarifying terms. The epigraphic evidence refers to matres or to groups of female deities such as the campestres. In other words, epigraphically the matres and associated deities are always plural, although

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their precise number is never stated (except, perhaps, at Benwell, RIB I 1334). Sculpturally, however, deities interpreted as mother goddesses are portrayed not only in triple and single forms, but also occasionally as pairs or groups of other sizes. This study (with the exception of a quadruple image from Blackfriars, London [Merrifield 1977; Toynbee 1977]) considers only the triple images consonant with the triple depictions of matres and matronae from mainland Europe. Monumental remains There are 63 inscriptions on stone from Britain dedicated to the matres and associated deities (Fig. 5.1). The epigraphic evidence is mostly in the form of altars (51 examples). Of nine dedication slabs, four imply the presence of a cult building, in two cases initiated, in two restored. The remaining three inscriptions are on statue or relief bases. The information contained in these inscriptions will be analysed more fully below. The sculptures fall into several different classes. There are just two altars depicting the matres, from Lund (Droop 1933) and York (CSIR I.3, 26). The majority of depictions are in the form of reliefs, most commonly bas-reliefs, but also occasionally high-reliefs; these are usually in the form of panels, but sometimes take the form of free standing images. There is a small but significant group of statuary in the round, mostly from Housesteads (Figs 5.2 and 5.3).

Fig. 5.1. Epigraphic evidence for the matres and associated deities in Britain: forms of monument.

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Fig. 5.2. Iconographic evidence for the matres in Britain: forms of monument.

Fig. 5.3. Distribution of sculpture by iconographic type.

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In Britain, iconography and epigraphy referencing the matres are rarely found together: just two relief panels have relevant associated inscriptions. Mat[ribus] can be read with difficulty on a relief from High Rochester (CSIR I.1, 243) whilst an image from Newcastle is dedicated to the Matres Transmarinae (CSIR I.1, 236). Additionally, a fragment of a relief from Colerne (CSIR I.2, 121) carries what appears to be part of a personal name. Interestingly, however, two reliefs – the unusual depiction of four mothers from Blackfriars mentioned above (Merrifield 1977; Toynbee 1977) and a triple image from Cirencester (Fig. 5.15; CSIR I.7, 116) – both have panels which look as if they were designed to carry inscriptions that were never executed; it may be that these were painted. At the same time, the majority of altars bear no imagery and the two examples that do depict the matres are devoid of inscriptions. Portable finds Before returning to the inscriptions and sculptures that form the main body of evidence, a small range of portable objects which also represent mother goddesses should be mentioned. The majority are pipe-clay figurines of dea nutrix (Jenkins 1957) type (thus single mothers and outside the remit of this review). Four rings bearing inscriptions to the matres are known. These derive from Vindolanda (Birley and Greene 2006, 119, no. 4), probably a dedication to the matres parcae (Fates); the Backworth Hoard (Charlesworth 1961), to the matres coccae; Great Walsingham, possibly to the matres tran(s)marinae (Bagnall-Smith 1999, 32), and Coventina’s Well (RIB II 2422.28; Allason-Jones 1996, 115–6). Three further portable objects may be directly associated with formal worship of the matres. These are a votive plaque from Moorgate Street, London (Toynbee 1978), which bears the most classically inspired depiction of the matres to have been found in Britain, another item from the Backworth Hoard, in this case an inscribed patera, and a sceptre head from West Berkshire, which originally bore three draped female busts, interpreted as matres (Henig and Cannon 2000). Undoubtedly many more small objects of this type must once have existed and no doubt some remain to be discovered to add to our knowledge of the cults of the matres, particularly in areas where stone monuments are uncommon. Distribution of the evidence Whilst we cannot discount the possibility that the matres were widely venerated by the civilian population, there is a distinct military bias to the distribution of the surviving (monumental) evidence. Indeed, 51 of the 63 inscriptions come from sites that either were, or were associated with, forts or fortresses (Figs 5.4 and 5.5). The seven inscriptions from civitas capitals include a group from Cirencester, a town which has, significantly, been suggested to have had a large component of veterans amongst its population (Wells 1982, 135). Although the distribution of the small number of portable objects is evenly divided between north and south (Fig. 5.6), the distribution of sculptures shows a similar bias towards the northern military zone and the Cotswolds, again with a group from Cirencester (Figs 5.7 and 5.8).

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Fig. 5.4. Distribution of inscriptions to the matres and associated deities. © Crown Copyright/database right 2011. An Ordnance Survey/EDINA supplied service.

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Fig. 5.5. Distribution of portable finds associated with the matres. © Crown Copyright/database right 2011. An Ordnance Survey/EDINA supplied service.

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Fig. 5.6. Distribution of sculpture representing the triple matres with (inset) detail of Hadrian’s Wall region. © Crown Copyright/database right 2011. An Ordnance Survey/EDINA supplied service.

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Fig. 5.7. Provenances of matres inscriptions: site types. This figure includes one inscription from Lincoln, where the colonia succeeded a legionary fortress, and three from York where fortress and colonia existed side by side. Of the York inscriptions, two appear to have been found in the area of the colonia and the third to the north-east of the fortress.

Fig. 5.8. Provenances of matres sculptures: site types.

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The distribution of known or implied temples or shrines to the matres also follows this pattern. Lewis (1965, 136) found that 16 reasonably certain matres temples could be identified in Britain, of which 12 derived from military sites. This number has increased: RIB includes 10 inscriptions that either relate to the construction or restoration of temples or shrines or that appear to have derived from their walls; concentrations of dedications, sculptures and/or the presence of small finds suggest at least 10 more (Tables 5.1 and 5.2). We should be careful not to take these distributions at face value. As Hadrian’s Wall alone accounts for close to half the total number of votive inscriptions from Roman Britain (Zoll 1995), a military bias in the evidence may be considered unsurprising. As Haeussler (2008, 16) points out, epigraphy provides a highly random view of cult activities in that it was not used equally at all sanctuaries. The same may be said of sculpture. The use of these essentially (in the British context) ‘Roman’ means of expression will have depended on a number of factors, including wealth, the availability of suitable stone and craftsmen, a degree of literacy in the case of epigraphy and above all the desire of individuals or groups to express themselves in this manner. Nevertheless, Mattingly (2008, 67) has found that in Britannia the practice of epigraphy was rare outside the military community and, where it existed, most common in the urban and semi-urban communities frequented by imperial officials, soldiers, veterans and foreigners. Additionally, he finds that even here the level of military involvement in public benefactions in Britain and Germany (as attested by epigraphy) was much higher than in the Gallic provinces and dedications by the civilian elite correspondingly lower (ibid., 63). Of the 19 urban dedications Mattingly lists that attest to the building or restoration of physical structures, 13 refer to temples or shrines (this figure includes the Cirencester Jupiter column, RIB I 103) and of these, no less than three are to the matres (at London, Winchester and Dover). This is a small number but suggests that the matres were not insignificant in civilian centres compared to other deities worshipped in Roman manner. Nevertheless, whilst the London dedication was made by a district (vicus) of the town, the other two were made by officials of the governor (beneficiarius consularis and strator consularis), who would either have been ex-military men or on secondment from the military. In Britain, the spatial distribution of Romano-Celtic temples in the primarily civilian South and East of England contrasts starkly with that of inscribed altars, most commonly found in the militarily dominated North and West (Millett 1995, 95). It is certainly the case that a lack of suitable stone in the lowland areas may partially account for the lower number of inscriptions from the South (as per Birley 1986, 103); the cluster of inscriptions and sculptures from the Cotswolds, the one area of significant overlap between the distribution of Roman-Celtic temples and inscribed altars supports the view that where the means (in terms of good quality stone) were available, such monuments might be created. Nevertheless, the lack of Romano-Celtic temples in the North cannot be explained in such a utilitarian manner.

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Table 5.1. Epigraphic evidence from shrines or temples: Inscriptions including aedes or templum or deriving from temple walls. Site

Primary inscription

Additional material

London

(Plinth) Matr[ibus] | uicinia de suo res[tituit...

Votive plaque, multiple Dea Nutrix figurines, 2 reliefs of matres

Benwell

(Altar) Matr(ibus) Tribus Campes[t]r[i]b(us) | et Genio alae pri(mae Hispano|rum Asturum [...|...] Gordi[a]nae T(erentius?) | Agrippa prae(fectus) templum a so(lo) res[tituit]

Nil

Castlesteads

(Altar) [Deabu]s | [Mat]ribu[s] | omnium | gentium | templum | olim uetus|tate conlab|sum G(aius) Iul(ius) Cu|pitianus c(enturio) | p(rae)p(ositus) restituit

(Altar) Matri|bus Tr[a]|mar[inis

Hadrian’s Wall, Milecastle 19

(Altar) Matrib(us) | templ(um) | cum ara | vex(illatio) coh(ortis) | I Vard(ullorum) | instante P(ublio) D(....) V(.....) |

Nil

Dover

(Altar) St co(n)s(ularis) | Ol(us) Cor[dius] | Candid(us) [Mat]|rib(us) Italic[is] aedem [fe]cit v(otum) s(olvens) [l(ibens) m(erito)]

2 Dea Nutrix figurines (not directly associated)

Chichester

(Pediment) Matr]bus Domesticis | [.....]us ark(arius | [d(e) s(uo)] p(osuit)

Further building materials inscription located on aedicula

Chester

(Dedication slab) ...] Matre | ...] opus quod | [conlapsum in rui]nam restitutum est

(Altar) Deae | Mar|rib(us) do|num Pipe-clay Dea Nutrix

Chesters

(Dedication slab) [Mat}ribus Com|[mun(ibus) p]ro salute de|[cur(iae) A]ur(eli) Seueri | [...

Head of pipe-clay Dea Nutrix

Old Carlisle

(Dedication slab) [Dea]bus Ma[tribus pro s]alute Marci) [Aur(eli) | Alexa]ndri [P(ii) F(elicis) | Aug(usti) et iu]liae M[am|eae matr(is) d(omini)] n(ostri et c[astr(orum) | ...]

Nil

Old Penrith

(Dedication slab) Deabus Matribus Tramarinis | et N(umini) imp(eratoris) Alexandri Aug(usti) et Iul(iae) Mam|meae matr(i) Aug(usti) n(ostri) et castrorum to|[tique eorum] domui diuine ae|[dem ruins dilapsam uexil]latio M[a]r|[sacorum...

(Altar) Deabus Ma|tribus Tramari(nis) | uexillatio germa[no]r(um) V[o]r[e]d(ensium) pro sa|lute R.T u(otum) s(oluit) l(ibens) m(erito)

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Table 5.2. Groups of finds suggestive of the existence of temples/shrines to the matres. Site

Evidence

Ancaster

Altar on low column found with relief of three matres apparently in situ in churchyard. Further reliefs of two female heads and one male head found in rubble infill of church wall.

Epithets

(Backworth)

Hoard including ring and patera dedicated to matres; possible temple treasure; original provenance unknowm (Lewis 1965, 124 suggests connection with relief of matres from Newcastle).

Binchester

6 altars; 1 Dea Nutrix figurine

Ollototae x 2 Ollototae siue Transmarinae x1 Suleviae (not matres) x 1

Bowness

Dedication slab with matres restored; altar to Matres Suae from further along wall

Suae

Carlisle (English St)

Base (? for relief) to Matres Parcae; altar to Parcae; relief of matres. Other votive objects including inscribed arch to Hercules, remains of statue of Cautes, figurine of Venus and bronze torc all suggest presence of temple complex

Matres Parcae; Parcae;

Carrawburgh

Altar to Matres Communae; altar to matres (reused as building stone in Mithraeum); sculpture of mother goddess (found in Mithraeum); ring to matres (found in Coventina’s Well).

Communae

Cirencester

Altar to Suleviae; 2 reliefs of triple matres; 2 statues of individual mothers; column; plain altar

Suleviae

Danglingworth

Dedication slab to Matres and Genius Loci; Relief of mother and Genii Cucullati; further partial relief of Cucullati; evidence of building speculated by Toynbee (1959) to be temple. Lewis (1965, ?) mentions an altar to the matres, but this is not confirmed

Housesteads

7 sculptures of individual mothers, 2 triple matres; 1 altar.

(Aldworth)

Sceptre head

It should be noted, however, that in the Cotswolds, the evidence for maternal deity cults is somewhat different from that of the northern frontier. Epigraphically, this is where dedications to the Suleviae are concentrated and whilst there are a number of

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triple sculptures of (un-named) groups of matres, there is also a sculptural tradition of single matres figures accompanied by (usually triple) cucullati (cf. for instance Yeates 2007). Meanwhile although the genii cucullati have a similar distribution pattern to the matres, being found, albeit in smaller numbers in both the Cotswolds and the northern frontier region, in the latter they are not found in direct association with matres. The implications of these patterns are not clear.

Epithets Of the 63 inscriptions mentioning the matres or associated deities, just one third refer to the goddesses generically. The rest give the matres some kind of epithet, geographical or otherwise (Table 5.3). Some of these epithets refer to specific geographical locations, if only in very general terms. Epithets such as communes or omnium gentium, along with the generic use of the unqualified title matres and the grouping together of the Italian, Germanic, Gallic and British mothers (RIB I 88) may be an attempt to cover all bases in a multi-ethnic environment. The possessive suae (their own), emphasises the very personal nature of the relationship of the donors with the matres but also allows for the possibility that a group of soldiers (presumably) responsible for an altar on Hadrian’s Wall (RIB I 2055: Matribus suis milite[s]…) simultaneously had these relationships with the mother goddesses of different places of origin in mind. It is possible that the apparent homogeneity of the matres in fact masks a reality of religious understanding that was much more diverse and individual. Others, such as Tra(ns)marinae, or Table 5.3. Epithets of matres. Domesticae again suggest that the deities Epithet Definite Possible being worshipped belong to foreign Alatervae(?) 1 0 homelands. One of the inscriptions Britannae 1 0 to the Ollototae from Binchester (RIB 1030) refers to them as Ollototae siue Campestres 6 2 Transmarinae, initially suggesting that Communes 2 0 this too may be a generic term for Domesticae 5 0 goddesses from overseas, although Gallae 1 0 it is in fact the Celtic equivalent of Germanae 2 0 omnium gentium, deriving from the Hananeftae 1 0 same root, touta (people or tribe) Italae 2 0 as the Celtic theonym Toutatis, the guardian of the tribe or town (De Ollototae 5 0 Bernardo Stempel 2007, 78; 2021, Omnium Gentium 1 0 76–7). Hananeftae (Tomlin 2009, 315; De Parcae 3 1 Bernardo Stempel 2021, 128) appears Suae 2 0 to be an isolated example of a specific Suleviae 5 0 Rhenish epithet in Britain (otherwise Tra(ns)marinae 6 0 attested at Cologne and Wissen: CIL XIII No epithet 21 1 8219 and 8629).

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With the exceptions of some small clusters of dedications to the Parcae, the Suleviae and the Matres Ollototae, there is little correlation between specific epithets and specific find-spots; these groupings may indicate the locations of shrines. Of the six altars to the Ollototae, four were discovered at Binchester (the epithet is putative in one case) whilst finds of moulded architectural stones and a column capital associated with one of the two outliers are suggestive of a cult building (RIB I 574; CSIR I.9, 21 from Heronbridge in Cheshire). Two of potentially four dedications to the Parcae are from Carlisle and again the location of a shrine may be indicated. It is interesting that three of the five dedications to the Suleviae are from the Cotswolds (two from Cirencester and one from Bath) particularly in the light of the close similarity between the names Suleviae and Sulis, assumed by writers such as Barnard (1985, 238) and Croon (1953, 83) to be related. More recent scholarship (Delamarre 2003, 287; De Bernardo Stempel 2008, 76; 2021, 81–2), suggests they are distinct and have different etymologies, Suleviae meaning ‘well-leading (goddesses)’ as opposed to Sulis, ‘eye’. The only other geographical bias in the epigraphic evidence is regional rather than site specific. The matres campestres were guardians of the parade ground, campestres probably translating the Celtic theonym Magaiae – based on magos ‘field’ – attested in France (Birley et al. 2013, 297; De Bernardo Stempel 2021, 69). They were, unsurprisingly, venerated by the Roman cavalry (Irby-Massie 1996), so one might assume that the deployment of cavalry alae and cohortes equitatae (part-mounted, partinfantry) must account for the bias in the distribution of their British inscriptions to the northernmost regions of the province. The evidence is rather mixed, however. The inscription from Ribchester is very poorly preserved and campestribus is only a possible alternative reading for matribus, suggested, and appropriate, on account of the donor being decurion of the ala II Asturum. Similarly, RIB I 2142 from Mumrills has been suggested to have been dedicated to the matres campestres simply because the fort housed a cavalry garrison and the donor was a signifier. An inscription from Cramond (RIB I 2135) was set up by the cohors I Tungrorum, not attested as having cavalry, unlike its sister cohors II. We cannot know whether an un-named cohort (the inscription is incomplete) from Gloster Hill, Northumberland (RIB I 1206) was mixed but perhaps they were members of the cohors I Vardullorum millaria whose cavalry used a training area at this fort (Holder 1982, 87). All these cases, of course, may be criticised on the grounds of circular reasoning. In the end, just three out of the possible seven dedications to the campestres have indisputable links with the cavalry. These were dedicated by the decurion of the ala Augusta Voconti at Newstead (RIB I 2121), the prefect of the ala I Hispanorum Astrurum at Benwell (RIB I 1334) and the prefect of the cohors III Gallorum at Castle Hill (RIB I 2195) whose rank (prefect, rather than tribune) indicates that the cohort under his command was part-mounted. The final altar in this northern group of dedications to the campestres (here with a group of other deities) was set up by legionary centurion M. Cocceius Firmus (RIB I 2177). The cavalry connection in this case is provided by evidence that this officer was almost certainly (as argued by Birley (1961, 100) a former member of the emperor’s horse guard, the equites singulares (see below).

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Dedicants The evidence above has led us naturally to a consideration of just who was worshipping the matres. Here we might consider occupational, ethnic and onomastic evidence. Occupational details are stated on just under half (29) of the inscriptions (Table 5.4). The great majority of these refer to military occupations and come from the north of the country. Just three (RIB I 151; 247; III 3037) are not of overtly military status. The epigraphic evidence both in terms of distribution and content might suggest that the veneration of the matres and associated deities – as expressed in this manner – was largely a military pre-occupation and consequently a male preoccupation. Only two dedications are definitely by women (RIB I 574; III 3183; possibly also I 130), although this is typical, epigraphically at least, of all cults since only about 20 inscriptions on stone from Britannia unambiguously represent religious dedications by or involving women. Of themselves, then, these statistics cannot be used as evidence for the true demographics of the cults in a society where the epigraphic habit was not particularly strong amongst civilians; many adherents (in particular women) will have left no archaeologically discernible evidence for their beliefs. However, this does not negate the fact that a significant number of soldiers, individually and in groups, did make vows to the matres subsequently honouring them with permanent monuments and, given that most are in the form of altars, implicitly continuing to worship them. We have noted that many of the epithets associated with the matres suggest that they are of foreign origin. It is tempting to try to associate these with ethnicities attested in the inscriptions. However, there are relatively few of these and where they occur, they are mostly in the titles of various auxiliary units (Fig. 5.9). It is often supposed that these units retained titles derived from the area where they were Table 5.4. Occupations of donors. Occupation

No.

Details

Locations

Arkarius

1

Chichester

Sculptor

1

Bath (donor also attested at Cirencester)

Curator

1

Lincoln

Groups of soldiers

12

Military sites in north

Individual soldier

1

Carrawburgh

Officers

9

Centurions

2

Castlestads; Auchendavy

Prefects/tribunes

3

Benwell; Binchester; Castle Hill Ribchester; Newstead

Decurions Other officials

4

2

Mumrills

Signifer

1

Beneficiarii consularis

3

Binchester (2); Winchester

Strator consularis

1

Dover

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Fig. 5.9. Ethnic appellations of military groups attested in dedication so the matres and associated deities.

originally raised long after those original ethnicities were diluted by local recruitment from places of deployment: if this is the case it is clearly unsafe to make such correlations. This assumption is now being questioned (e.g. van Driel-Murray 2009). However, the supposed association between the campestres and the cavalry certainly seems anomalous in this light since most of the alae attested in the inscriptions under consideration were Spanish in origin whereas the campestres have been argued to be of specifically Germanic origin (Irby-Massie 1996). Indeed, dedications to the matres in general are relatively uncommon in Spain: there are just 15 examples, mainly from Celtiberia along with a dedication to the Aufaniae, an epithet particularly associated with one of the most prominent groups of Rhineland matronae (Pedreño 2005). The one individual who does clearly state his place of origin seems to have been a civilian, or at least makes no claim to military status, despite making his dedication at Colchester (RIB I 192): Similis, son of Attus, was a native of Kent. His father’s name is of Celtic origin (Delamarre 2003, 59), as too are those of both M. Nantonius Orbiotalus (RIB I 618; Delamarre 2003, 232, 242) and Marulla, daughter (or wife) of Insequens, who dedicated an altar at Ribchester and whose father or husband was of possible Norican origin (Hassall and Tomlin 1994, 298, note 13; Delamarre 2003, 218). Nantonius’ aspirations towards citizenship are expressed by the manner in which his Celtic nomen and cognomen are styled as the tria nomina of the Roman citizen by

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the creation of a pseudogentilicium (the adaptation of a non-Latin paternal cognomen by the addition of an adjectival ending in -ius or –inius). Other names are suggestive of relatively recent citizenship. The nomen of Aelius Marcus, decurion of the ala Augustae Vocontiorum (RIB I 2121) indicates that he or his family received citizenship under Hadrian or even Antoninus Pius, whilst the aforementioned M. Cocceius Firmus takes his nomen from Nerva; if, as Birley argues, he had been a member of the equites singulares he would therefore almost certainly be of Germanic origin. Military devotion to the matres is attested at several levels, as we have dedications from entire cohorts, from vexillations and from individuals, while the variations of size and character seen in the altars suggest that the matres were being venerated by soldiers of differing stations and means. Information is not always available on dimensions, particularly where the originals have been lost, but it appears that most altars dedicated to the matres were of small to medium size with only a relatively modest number over 300 mm in width or 700 mm in height. These larger altars tend to be associated with named groups of deities rather than generic matres; in particular three or possibly four (depending on the reading of the inscription) were dedicated to the campestres (RIB I 586; 1206; 2121; 2177). Perhaps unsurprisingly these four altars were all dedicated by officers: two cavalry decurions, a centurion and the prefect of a cohort of Gauls. A few altars are diminutive in size: M. Minucius Adens, a soldier and gubernator (a unique title, translated as pilot) of the legio VI Victrix dedicated one just 254 mm high to the African, Germanic and Gallic Mothers (RIB I 653). Although such small altars may seem impractical for use, King (2017) suggests that they may have been both functional and portable, albeit that, as in this case, the stone is most usually local to the findspot. The altars vary in the competence of carving they display as well as in size; both may be indicators of the wealth of the donors, but the standard of epigraphic competence may relate also to the availability of skilled craftsmen and it is not unlikely that some were crafted by the donors themselves, an act which in itself would have added another layer to the individual’s devotion as they personalised the offering by their own labour. Minucius’ altar is competently crafted as is the inscription, although the latter is not of the highest quality. M. Nantonius Orbitalis’ inscription is noticeably well carved in monumental style, with use of serifs, ligatures and stops between words. Some of these donors may have been officers acting on behalf of their troops, sharing or aligning themselves with the religious choices of those within their units. Minucius may have been reflecting the ethnic makeup and beliefs of his fellow soldiers in legio VI as well as his own. His small altar has the only dedication in Britain to the African matres; it is highly likely that there were Africans serving in legio VI (Swan 1994) although Munucius’ own ethnicity is unclear. Other inscriptions are more personal or individual in nature, using formulae such as pro se et suis or mentioning individuals for whose welfare the intervention

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of the matres had been sought. We also find some radically different expressions of devotion, seemingly indicating differing local traditions. At Binchester, for instance, there are no sculptures, but various officers and groups of soldiers dedicated no less than six epigraphic/inscribed altars to the matres; by contrast, at Housesteads, there is just one inscribed altar, and the rest of the exceptional evidence is entirely iconographic, consisting not only of triple reliefs analogous to those from other sites, but also two groups of metre-high individual figures, possibly forming two trios of matres. Three of these (CSIR I.6, 166–8), which form an undisputed trio, are all different, but closely related in dress and style and appear to be by the same highly competent hand. The sculpture is naturalistic and of a high quality, comparable with that of the Rhineland matronae, as indeed is the basketwork chair in which one of the figures sits. A considerable degree of investment must surely have been made in these sculptures, suggesting involvement of the highest ranks and/or a substantial number of individuals.

Accounting for military interest in the matres Inscriptions are not representative of cult activity as a whole as they only give an insight into the activities of certain sections of the community. Nevertheless, if the epigraphic record is militarily biased in Britain, within that record the matres play a prominent role; our lack of knowledge of their relative importance to the civilian population does not negate the significance of their particular appeal to soldiers. This latter is only emphasised by the fact that, in Britain, there are more dedicatory inscriptions to the various groups of matres (taken as a whole) than there are (individually) to Fortuna, Silvanus, Hercules, Mercury or to the supposedly military cults of Mithras and Iuppiter Dolichenus; dedications to the matres are outnumbered only by those to Mars, Iuppiter Optimus Maximus and the Imperial cult (Fig. 5.10). Even when the campestres, Parcae and suleviae are removed from the equation, the only other category of dedications which outnumbers them is that devoted to Veteris/ the Veteres (various spellings; Fig. 5.11). This situation reflects, if only dimly, the situation in the territory of the Ubii (the region around modern Cologne) where the matres and matronae (alone or in combination with other deities) are the object of 66.6% of all dedications (Spickermann 2008, 189). In this latter area, however, military interest is less well attested. Spickermann notes that in Germania inferior a much lower proportion of all dedicatory inscriptions name military personal (25.5%) than is the case in Germania superior (41.5%). Where the matronae are concerned, this figure drops to about 10%; of these, one third made their dedications at the temple of the Aufaniae at Bonn (Spickermann 2008, 174, note 188), which is something of a special case (see below). Women, on the other hand, appear to have taken a relatively strong interest in the cults in Germania inferior (Spickermann 2008, 178). This requires us to question just why the military in Britannia appear to have been so interested in these maternal deities. There are several aspects to this question: how

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Fig. 5.10. Religious dedications on stone recorded in RIB I and III: comparative data for classical and the most common non-classical deities found in Britain.

Fig. 5.11. Religious dedications on stone recorded in RIB I and III: comparative data for classical and the most common non-classical deities found in Britain with figures for the Suleviae, Parcae and Campestres separated out.

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the cults may have operated at the level of the group (the function of the cults within a military community); how this manifestation of the cults appeared in Britain and the other, the appeal of these specific deities to individual soldiers.

Origins: the British cults in the light of the Ubian evidence It is in the Ubian territory of the Rhineland that the cults of the triple mothers are most strongly manifested: the matronae are represented by over 500 monuments (Rüger 1987, 2) whilst, as we have seen, 66% of dedicatory inscriptions from the Ubian region refer to the mothers (Spickermann 2008, 189). There is some debate over how the cults of the matronae developed in the Rhineland, and whether and in what form (anthropomorphic or not) they existed prior to the particular monumentalised form in which we now find them (see Rüger 1983; 1987, 22–7; Derks 1998, 119–30; Spickermann 2008, 61–77 for discussions of the genesis of the Rhineland cults). Spickermann (2008, 191) finds that the matronae had their strongest support base amongst the ‘Romanised’ native population in the hinterlands of the major cultural centres. In this context, the sanctuary of the Aufaniae at Bonn (Lehner 1930), which has featured prominently in earlier theories of the emergence of the cults of the matronae, stands out as unusual (as is noted also by Derks 1998, 130). The best of this sanctuary’s exceptionally fine altars are often reproduced as exemplars and therefore perhaps have an undue amount of influence over our perception of the cults of the matronae in general. In fact, these were dedicated by the elite of local society, both civilian and military; as Derks (ibid.) notes, the sanctuary benefitted from its location close to the camp of the legio I Minervia and ultimately gained its own prestige from the prominence of worshippers such as the legion’s commanders and their high-born wives as well as senior civic officials from Cologne. As a result, the Aufaniae rose to become the most prominent deities in Bonn. As far as the soldiers of the legio I Minervia were concerned, they made the Matronae Aufaniae their own, making no fewer than one third of their dedications to the cult (Stoll 2007, 466), thus perhaps providing if not a prototype of the matronae as regimental deities, at least a model. If the military bias to the nature of the evidence from Britannia lends strong circumstantial support to the view that the matres were introduced by the military, implicitly by auxiliary troops initially of Germanic origin, there does not seem to have been a wholesale transfer or copying of the Germanic cults: there are some significant differences between the evidence pertaining to the Ubiian matronae and that for the matres in Britain. The iconography of the matronae in Lower Germany is distinctive and in many ways standardised (Horn 1987, 36). Many inscribed altars carry the image of a young girl, flanked by two older women wearing characteristic local, Ubian costume and headdresses; the attributes associated with the trios are most often (though not exclusively) baskets of fruit. There are perhaps approaching 90 different groups (Herz 1989, 217-8) with names or epithets which tend to be clustered in local areas: Woolf

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(2003, 135) has characterised the well-defined distribution of the matronae as the superimposition of a large number of local distributions. Some of these epithets are linked to the names those of rivers, families or local communities lending support to the view that they are strictly ancestral mothers, rather than goddesses (Derks 1998, 123). Woolf (2003, 136) has challenged this opinion not least on account of the shifting nature of the region’s population (see infra). Nevertheless, whether they were mothers in the strict sense or respected senior women, whether they were long-worshipped ancestors or cult figures of more recent origin, the matronae are virtually never addressed as goddesses. In Britain, however, the distinction between matres and deities seems to have been rather hazy: 13 out of 63 inscriptions explicitly address the matres as goddesses. There are far fewer epithets and these are more general, referencing whole provinces or vague concepts rather than discrete ancestral groups and iconography and epigraphy tend to be divorced. Although British matres sometimes sit within aediculae, the aedicula altar with inscription and image which is so characteristic of monuments in Germania Inferior (Noelke 1990) is absent. The corpus of sculptural depictions of the matres seems to be rather more heterogeneous than that devoted to the matronae. The fact that the matronae are concentrated in a relatively geographic area no doubt contributes to their uniformity, but there are some practical considerations to consider. British sculptures tend to be made of rather coarse, local stone and the quality of the carving varies considerably. This is not the place for a discussion of the competence or otherwise of Romano-British sculpture (see Johns 2003), but it does seem that there was less incentive towards producing a standardised image of the matres beyond reproducing the essential elements of the three figures frontally posed (it is not always possible to tell if seated or standing) and bearing attributes (Fig. 5.12). They are, perhaps, monuments created and dedicated more in response to internal beliefs and religious hopes than of a desire to display status, as seems to have played an important part in the Ubian cults. Although details are hard to discern on many sculptures, the age difference so important in Ubian depictions is either missing or, if present (as has been suggested in two cases from Carlisle, CSIR I.6, 487–8), expressed in a different manner. Attributes, where visible, are rather varied (Table 5.5) and can include infants or dogs, although the more overtly maternal depictions tend to be focused away from the most Fig. 5.12. Relief of the matres from Lincoln (CSIR overtly military sites. The trees which I.8, 15), British Museum. Photo: Elizabeth Blanning.

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Table 5.5. Attributes of the British matres (table does not include sculptures where attributes are lost/unidentifiable). CSIR

Site

i.1,63

Corbridge

Loaf(?)

Loaf(?)

Loaf(?)

i.1,235

South Shields

Fruit

Fruit

Fruit

i.1,243

High Rochester

Upright object

Upright object

Upright object

i.4,61

Colinton

Fruit

Fruit

Fruit

Corn

Grapes

Basket

Beaker

Beaker

Beaker

Fruit(?)

Fruit(?)

Fruit(?)

i.6,173

Housesteads

Attributes

i.6,174

Housesteads

Basket/bowl

Basket/bowl

Basket/bowl

i.6,178

Vindolanda

Basket/bowl

Basket/bowl

Basket/bowl

i.6,487

Carlisle

Knife/distaff

Rounded object (?cake)

Plant

i.6,488

Carlisle

Basket/bowl

Basket/bowl

Basket/bowl

i.7,116

Cirencester

3 loaves

10 fruits(?)

3 round objects & 3 corn ears

i.7,117

Cirencester

Infant

Infant

Infant

Small dog i.7,118

Cirencester

Fruit

Infant

Cakes(?)

i.8,15

Lincoln

Sheaf/bunch

Infant/animal

Basket of fruit

i.8,16

Ancaster

Loaf

Dish of fruit

Patera and dish containing small animal

(none)

London

Basket of (?)fruit

Basket of (?)fruit

Basket of (?)fruit

so frequently feature on the side panels of the Ubian altars are absent, though occasionally replaced by more standardised Roman sacrificial imagery (such as jug and patera type motifs). There are also variations in styles of dress amongst the British matres. In a number of depictions, the matres wear a long-sleeved, girdled tunic rather than the Gallic coat thought to have been the normal form of female attire in Roman Britain (Wild 1985). Sometimes (as in the case of the Ancaster matres, Fig. 5.13), this has the effect of emphasising the matres’ abdomens and thus the maternal qualities of the image. Similar tunics are worn by a trio from Lincoln (CSIR I.8, 17), though with the addition of what are presumably cloaks swept behind their backs. Occasionally there seems to be a reference to the distinctive cloaks worn by the Ubian mothers with their conspicuous brooches. Such are worn by just one of a highly stylized trio from Cirencester (Fig. 5.15;

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CSIR I.7, 116), the outer two of the four figures from Blackfriars, London (Merrifield 1977; Toynbee 1977) and the Colinton matres (CSIR I.4, 61). Meanwhile, a trio from Corbridge (CSIR I.1, 63; Fig. 5.14) appear to be wearing the kind of short shoulder cape associated with the goddess Nehalennia; interestingly the objects which they hold also seem similar in shape to the loaves which appear on one of Nehalennia’s altars from Domburg (Hondius Crone 1955, 107). In a very few cases the matres seem more classically attired and, indeed, portrayed as in the animated example from Cirencester (CSIR I.7, 117); yet in this latter example the treatment of the lower bodies with prominent legs and zigzag folds of drapery is at the same time very similar to that of another otherwise strikingly different, stiff and stylised image from the same find spot (CSIR I.7, 116). It is impossible to know the meanings of these variations. Do they represent the intentions of those who commissioned the sculptures, of those who created them, or a combination of both? Are they idealised or are they representative of forms of dress with which the makers/dedicants were familiar? The best we can say is that some of these sculptures indicate some degree of familiarity with recognized forms of dress worn by classical and Germanic deities. We have noted that despite the evidence that there were temples and shrines dedicated to the matres, most of this evidence lies outside the zone of Britain where RomanoCeltic temples are to be found and

Fig. 5.13. Relief of the matres from Ancaster (CSIR I.8, 16) together with the small altar that was found set before it. Photo: Elizabeth Blanning, courtesy of Ancaster Parish Council and Lincolnshire County Council: Grantham Museum.

Fig. 5.14. Relief of the matres from Corbridge (CSIR I.1, 63; Corbridge Museum catalogue number CO 23339). Photo: Elizabeth Blanning, reproduced courtesy of English Heritage.

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there are no extant remains of any cult buildings. In contrast, several groups of matronae can be connected with specific sanctuaries or temple districts, with the Gallo-Roman temple, albeit modest in proportions, as the normal form (Derks 1988, 122). This would seem to reflect a contrast between the matronae as the focus of stable, civic cults and the matres as venerated by a more mobile and indeed temporary population of expatriate soldiers. Given these differences, are the matres actually derived from the Ubian matronae? Dating is a problem in both regions; the earliest securely attested date on an Ubian altar (that of Q. Vettius Severus from the shrine Fig. 5.15. Stylised relief of the matres from Cirencester of the Aufaniae at Bonn) is 164 CE and (CSIR I.7, 116). Photo: Ralph Haeussler, reproduced this has been used to argue a mid- courtesy of the Corinium Museum. second century date for the start of the cults as we know them (Rüger 1987). A building inscription may take the date of the shrine back to 138–162 CE (Derks 1998, 124), while archaeological (ibid, 126–30) and palaeographic (Raepsaet-Charlier 1993) evidence has been used to push the origins of the cult back into the Flavian period. In Britain the earliest internally dated dedication to the matres (RIB I 901, from Old Carlisle) is 222–235 CE, but the presence of four altars on the Antonine Wall (two to the matres and two to the campestres) indicates that the matres were already being venerated by troops in the mid-second century CE. Meanwhile we have inscriptions from Hadrian’s Wall referring to the restoration of shrines, possibly implying that these had initially been constructed prior to 140 CE, having been abandoned during the brief interlude in which the frontier moved north to the Antonine Wall. The Vindolanda ring has a potentially still earlier date, deriving from the period III fort (100–105 CE). The cults of the matres, then, seem to have existed among the soldiery in Britain prior to the major flowering of the Bonn Aufaniae, but probably not before the establishment of the Rhineland cults more generally. The differences between the Ubian matronae and the British matres are perhaps less surprising given the evidence that the matres were being venerated by the military in Britain at or even before the period when the standardised image of the matronae became prevalent in the Ubian region. This suggests that although their roots might be the same, their physical expressions are the result of two divergent lines of evolution, answering different but similar needs.

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The function of the cults Woolf (2003, 134) describes Roman Germany as a ‘shifting and diverse social landscape’. In this context, the cults of the matronae were not just associated with specific locales, but with places where ‘localism was being flaunted... by worshippers many of whom had no long-standing claims to be local’ (ibid. 137). Localism can here be seen as a response to a sense of the wider world rather than as an indication of the survival of primitive traditions (ibid.). Although the matronae might thus not have been ancestral mothers in the strict sense of the phrase – at least for a substantial proportion of their worshippers – and although they displayed no overt attributes of human fecundity, they perhaps became the adoptive (or adopted) mothers of particular groups of people at particular locales. If one prefers to eschew the maternal altogether, they might be regarded as patrons or guardians. For the military community in Roman Britain, the situation was somewhat different. Again, heterogeneous groups of individuals found themselves brought together by circumstance, but they were linked not so much by common locations (which were unstable and likely to change with different deployments) as by common institutions, specifically the Roman army and the particular units to which they were attached. Soldiers from the north-west provinces again needed mechanisms by which to understand their place in the wider world, a world in which they had several overlapping identities: ethnic, institutional, religious and personal. While the cults of the matronae seem to have brought individuals together by an inward focus on specific localities, the cults of the matres in Roman Britain did the same by looking outwards, back to countries of origin overseas. In this case the generality of epithets such as omnium gentium, ollototae, or transmarinae could unite soldiers of diverse backgrounds by their non-specific and all-embracing qualities. In both situations, therefore, we seem to be seeing the establishment of new traditions of religious practice which may certainly have had some basis in preRoman (but not necessarily autochtonous) beliefs but whose physical expressions and, implicitly, associated rites conformed to a new, imported set of cultural values. Traditions are a common feature of many institutions but are often invented and of surprisingly recent origin. These ‘invented’ traditions are particularly associated with periods of rapid societal transformation, when old social patterns are weakened or destroyed (Hobshawm 1983). In the context of rapid social change during the Roman period in Britannia and the north-west provinces we should not be surprised to see the rise of such new traditions, whether formally promulgated or naturally evolving; veneration of the matres and the matronae seem likely to be examples of such newly established traditions. They did not replace more ‘official’ Roman deities and cults but provided a counterpoint to them. Soldiers were obliged to take part in the official Roman calendar of religious observances. As individuals or groups, they also set up altars to major deities of the Roman pantheon (in particular Jupiter and Mars) and to others seemingly more appropriate for a military context, such as Hercules or

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Fortuna. This was part of their institutional, ‘Roman’ identity; the matres provided a focus that may have resonated more strongly at the level of personal (referencing the homeland) and group (unit) identity while at the same time outwardly conforming to ‘Roman’ ritual practices. Woolf (2003, 137) argues that in the Rhineland, we are seeing heterogeneous groups of worshippers that were formed specifically to venerate the matronae rather than congregations of local origin worshipping their ancestral mothers; these groups may have been united by little more than location and cult. This paper argues that similarly, in Britannia, we are seeing heterogeneous groups of soldiers joining to venerate the matres and associated deities, similarly united by circumstance and cult. In this context, it is inadequate to interpret the matronae of the Rhineland and the matres of Britannia merely as ‘Romanised’, syncretistic versions of pre-existing cult figures. Instead, it is more appropriate to regard them as new, hybrid entities, which developed in specific circumstances, to answer specific societal needs. As such, we might describe them as ‘creolized’ deities (Webster 2001), neither ‘Celtic’ nor Roman, but something new, born of the creative tension inherent in the colonial situation, which required the reinterpretation and renegotiation of relationships, identities and beliefs.

Why the matres? The question of why the matres were the focus for these new, invented traditions is not immediately obvious beyond the appeal of looking to the deities of one’s homeland for protection. The probability that troops from most areas of Gaul would have their own matres to whom to relate would immediately give them something in common, as opposed to importing multifarious local gods who might, individually, seem more fitting for military devotion. At the same time, the overseas associations of so many of the matres may also suggest that they were regarded as deities who must be assured that they had not been forgotten by the sons who had left their homelands to fight for the Roman regime. It may, therefore, be more pertinent to ask what the soldiers’ devotion to these cults implies about the nature of the matres themselves and whether this provides an alternative to Haverfield’s (1892) description of ‘a pleasant worship’ of beings who were the antithesis of the ‘terrible goddesses’, the Fates; the adoption of goddesses of fertility and abundance does superficially appear a strange choice in this context and suggests that they may have had other layers of meaning that spoke at a deeper level than their iconography suggests. The idea of the mother goddess is a powerful one which has resonated through the years from prehistory to the present day and often chimes more with the Jungian archetype of ‘the loving and the terrible mother’ (Jung 1969, 82) with ‘her cherishing and nourishing goodness, her orgiastic emotionality and her Stygian depths’ than the sentimentality of our modern celebrations of Mother’s Day. Mothers nurture, but if they cease to nurture, the consequences can be fatal. The emphasis on the

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abundant mother in iconography may disguise a deeper unease about the relationship between goddess and worshipper, be designed to appease, or indeed be iconographic euphemism: the equivalent of calling the Erinyes the Eumenides. It seems likely that the association between the matres and the Parcae is stronger than at first appears. Haverfield forgot that the Fates’ role is concerned with birth – the spinning of the thread – and with the passage of life as much as it is with death and the cutting of that thread. Indeed, Jung (ibid.) specifically cites this ambivalence, which is widely found in goddesses of Fate, as an aspect of the Mother archetype. Dasen (2009) has pointed out that the Fates are present in various classical depictions of rites of passage associated with birth. One of these is the first bath, something which may be reflected in depictions of the matres from Burgundy where attributes include napkins, bowls and sponges. As Green (1989, 192) points out, at Nuits St George, these are supplemented by a cornucopia, prow, globe and balance, thus incorporating iconography redolent of both the Parcae and Fortuna. A depiction from Carlisle (CSIR I.6, 487) shows one of the mothers holding an item interpreted as a distaff, one of the Parcae’s attributes; this feature is also found on images from Trier and Metz (Green 1989, 194). The above is, of course, speculative but suggests that the matres may well have been concerned with much more than fertility and abundance. This is not to say that all the groups of matres and matronae are exactly the same, but that an element of propitiation of deities who held sway over life, death and fortune was likely in the minds of their worshippers. The ‘well-leading’ Suleviae might fulfil a parallel role, leading their devotees through the uncertainties of life. The campestris, with their clear cavalry associations, are perhaps a little less problematic. Irby-Massie (1996) has suggested that they were the ancestors of the Valkyries, plucking heroic slain soldiers from the battlefield for honour after death. Another aspect to their relationship with the cavalry might concern the importance of parade grounds and training fields in the devotees’ daily lives. These were the places they frequented every day and where relationships were forged in the context of rigorous and sometimes dangerous conditions. It would not be surprising if the cavalry viewed these locations as their ‘home’, and they might well invoke the deities who looked over their training to protect them when out on active service. Indeed, the matres may have evoked relatively recent folk memories of real ancestral mothers. Caesar (De Bello Gallico 1.50) tells us that certain women (matres familiae) were regarded as seers amongst the Germans and implicated in strategic battle planning. Tacitus (Germania 8) also states that sanctity and prescience were held to be inherent in the female sex and names individuals held in veneration, but not as goddesses. Tacitus additionally places emphasis on the importance of women as motivational forces on the battlefield as sanctissimi testes... maximi laudatores (Germania 7). Might the matronae and thus the matres have had some conceptual link with memories of the veneration of these matres familiae (as suggested by Roach Smith, 1859, 37)? Whatever the origin of the matronae, it is surely not unlikely that Germanic

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troops saw in their austere images echoes of these women, strong providers at the edge of the battlefield, prescient, encouraging but also demanding. If the matronae and by extension the matres did carry such overtones, then it may help to explain how they became particularly suitable objects for worship by the military not only in Britain, but in specific locations in Germania Inferior: at Bonn, as we have already seen, and also at Nettersheim, where the Aufaniae appear to have been adopted by beneficarii stationed in the vicinity (Spickermann 2008, 174, note 188). Despite the above, there is unlikely to be a ‘one size fits all’ explanation for the related groups of triple mothers we find throughout the north-west provinces. We do find groups of matres who are overtly maternal, particularly in central France, but also sometimes in Britain and we cannot ignore the ubiquitous fruit basket imagery so strongly associated with the matronae. As with many other deities, the matres and matronae may well have been polyvalent, answering different needs in different circumstances.

Conclusions Although there is certainly evidence for the veneration of the matres and indeed other manifestations of maternal deities amongst the civilian population of Britannia, it is clear that the triple matres, along with the Suleviae, the Parcae and the campestres played a special role in the religious life of many soldiers, particularly in the northern frontier zone. It is difficult to find any clear patterning in the evidence. In particular, we can make no easy links between the ethnicities of those commissioning inscriptions and any ethnic connections of the particular mothers they name. Rather, the evidence suggests devotion to groups of deities chosen as a means of reinforcing collective identity in a way that helped individuals on the one hand to find their places within the institution of a Roman army unit and on the other to express an identity that was distinctly ‘non-Roman’ in the Mediterranean sense. The evidence is, for us, literally set in stone but the processes that led to its creation were dynamic ones in which individuals and groups positioned themselves in respect to both their backgrounds and the situations in which they found themselves in the pursuit of their daily duties. Although the evidence from Britain may be broadly contemporary with that from the Rhineland, the matres seem in many ways to be more nebulous in concept than the matronae. They appear to function on a level which sometimes seems very personal yet was broad enough to appeal to a diversity of ranks and ethnicities. Over time, the matres perhaps took on the aspect of ancestral mothers of the adoptive families – the military units – to which the soldiers belonged; unfortunately, the epigraphic evidence is too fragmentary to confirm named matres cults moving from station to station with individual units. Whether we see the matres as (possibly demanding) mothers, goddesses of fate or protective deities, any link with the past

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would be as much or more one of military tradition than of bloodline. The rather nebulous nature of the majority of the matres may have been an advantage: unifying, yet allowing soldiers of varying ethnic origins to view these ‘mothers from overseas’ as their own. Provincial recruits to the auxilia had no choice but to worship in the manner decreed by Roman tradition as they followed the rites prescribed in the official calendar, but they did seemingly have a degree of choice in whom they worshipped beyond it; it seems reasonable to suggest that the cults of the matres emerged as a new concept made possible only by this particular mingling of ‘Roman’ and ‘nonRoman’ cultures and traditions. This phenomenon is epitomised in the campestres: their very essence, as guardians of the cavalry’s training grounds, is to do with Roman military life, their altars attest to the use of Roman rites and yet they exist outside the classical Roman pantheon. The matres appear to have become regimental tutelary deities to whom soldiers of a variety of origins could relate. They thus provided a counterpoint to the official cults of the emperor and the state gods and a vehicle for the expression of group and individual devotion and identity.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Anthony King for giving me the opportunity to present my research at RAC 2010. This paper developed out of work initially undertaken for my MA dissertation, The Matres of Roman Britain (University of Kent 2009). I should like to thank Ellen Swift, who supervised that dissertation, and Steve Willis and Ben Croxford, whose helpful comments on earlier drafts of the present paper helped to clarify my thinking on several issues.

References

Abbreviations

CIL XIII = Hirschfeld, O. and Zangemeister, C. (1899–) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. XIII. Inscriptiones trium Galliarum et Germaniarum Latinae. Berlin: Preußische Akademie der Wissenschaften. CSIR = Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain (1975–). Oxford, Oxford University Press. RIB I = Collingwood, R. G. and Wright, R. P. (1965) The Roman inscriptions of Britain. Vol. I: Inscriptions on Stone. Oxford, Clarendon Press. RIB II = Collingwood, R. G., Wright, R. P., Frere, S. S., Roxan, M., Tomlin, R. S. O. et al. (1990– 1995) The Roman inscriptions of Britain. Vol. 2: Instrumentum domesticum, 8 fascicules. Oxford, Clarendon Press RIB III = Tomlin, R. S. O., Wright, R. P. and Hassall, M. W. C. (2009) The Roman Inscriptions of Britain. Vol. III: Inscriptions on Stone Found or Notified between 1 January 1955 and 31 December 2006. Oxford, Oxbow Books.

Ancient sources

Caesar, De Bello Gallico = Edwards, H. J. (ed. and trans.) (1917) Caesar. The Gallic War. Harvard, Loeb Classical Library.

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Tacitus, Ann. = Moore, C. H. and Jackson, J. (eds and trans) (1931–1937) Tacitus. Annals, 3 volumes. Harvard, Loeb Classical Library. Tacitus, Germania = Hutton, M., Peterson, W., Ogilvie, R. M., Warmington, E. H. and Winterbottom, M. (eds and trans.) (1914) Tacitus. Agricola. Germania. Dialogue on Oratory. Harvard, Loeb Classical Library.

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Chapter 6 Pre-Roman deities along the north-eastern Adriatic: continuity, transformation, identification Marjeta Šašel Kos

The coming of the Celts and the Roman conquest: superimposition of religions Towards the end of the fourth and in the third century BCE, Celtic peoples came to settle the eastern Alpine areas and western Pannonia (Birkhan 1997; Tomaschitz 2002; Laharnar and Turk 2018). They also brought the worship of their deities to the new homeland. Occasionally autochthonous cults influenced the imported ‘Celtic’ beliefs and prevailed, as could have been the case of Timavus, Aequorna, Laburus, Savus, Vidasus and Thana. The coming of the new Celtic settlers no doubt caused some destruction, as is sometimes confirmed by archaeological remains (Gabrovec 1994, 154–6). Eventually, however, the Celts must have found a modus vivendi with the population previously living in the areas they had occupied. It can be supposed that a large percentage of subjugated indigenous population survived, but their material remains became indistinguishable. What happened after the arrival of Celts is quite uncertain. What was the size of the groups of new settlers? What happened to the pre-Celtic population? All these questions must mainly remain unanswered (Laharnar and Turk 2018). Some areas may have been much less influenced by the Celts than has formerly been believed, such as the Nauportus (Vrhnika)-Emona (Ljubljana)-Ig Basin. This area, as well as Histria, Venetia, and Liburnia, were part of the extensive northern Adriatic onomastic landscape (Repanšek 2016; Fig. 6.1). In the Ig area (the territory of Emona), merely three votive monuments have come to light to date, two of them dedicated to Jupiter, representing an extremely small percentage compared to over a hundred funerary monuments. This would strongly suggest that in the Ig area, gods were worshipped by the indigenous population in an entirely different manner, namely in the manner of their great-grandfathers, in a totally non-Roman, but also not in a

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‘Romanised indigenous’ way. The third altar, broken off above, was erected to Acinor/Acinoris (?) and perhaps to another deity (Lovenjak 1997, 69–70; 87 = EDR148354). The god’s name was interpreted as Celtic, meaning ‘the one who is rich in fields’ (Hainzmann and de Bernardo Stempel 2007). However, in view of the recent onomastic studies demonstrasting that there are hardly any Celtic names in the Ig area (Stifter 2012; Repanšek 2016), it appears more probable to explain Acinoris as an indigenous, non-Celtic god. It is possible that a sanctuary of the god stood in the vicinity. That in certain other areas the Celts were presumably politically and economically dominant is particularly documented by onomastics, since most Fig. 6.1. Map of the north-Adriatic region (Computer graphics: Mateja Belak). of the non-Roman personal names attested in Roman inscriptions are of Celtic origin. In these areas where Celtic, nonRoman personal names dominate, the names of non-Roman deities are also mainly Celtic (Hofeneder 2005). But the ‘Celts’ also accepted the worship of certain old sacred places and indigenous local deities, in particular those that could be labelled as transregional, notably river gods, such as Timavus and Savus (Šašel Kos 2000; 2017). When the Galli transalpini, as Livy called the Celts on the other side of the Alpes Venetae (later known as the Julian Alps, Amm. Marc. 31.16.7), wanted to found a town in the area of future Aquileia, Rome promptly reacted by expelling them and forbidding them to settle in this area (Amm. Marc. 39.54.3; cf. Cass. Dio 19, Zon. 9. 21.6 [Boiss. I 293]; Dobesch 1980; Šašel Kos 1997, 21–5). The founding of Aquileia a few years afterwards, in 181 BCE, symbolised the beginning of the Roman expansion across the Alps, which were always regarded as the natural boundary between Italy on one side and the provinces on the other (Cuscito 2003). Cisalpine Gaul was included in Italy in 42 BCE but had even earlier been regarded as part of Italy. Strategically and administratively, however, regio X, later known as Venetia and Histria, actually reached as far to the east as the city of Emona and its territory (Šašel Kos 2002a; 2002b). The Transalpine area was ultimately conquered during the reign of Augustus by Tiberius, after he had crushed the great Pannonian-Dalmatian rebellion (6–9 CE). The Roman army was stationed in these regions for several decades before some legions moved from the interior to the Danube; Poetovio remained the legionary fortress until Trajan. Roman military and civil administration, soldiers and colonists,

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all these people, who soon mixed with the indigenous elite, brought with them – along with the material products of the Roman culture – also cults and religious manifestations connected with them (inferre deos was an old practice: Virgil Aen. 1.1–7), and, what was a novelty, literacy on a large scale and Latin language (Cooley 2002, esp. Haeussler 2002 with further reading). Latinisation was also reflected in the onomastics (Zaccaria 1991, 189–200). As is well known, the Roman state was in general quite tolerant towards the local deities if their worship did not directly interfere with Roman policies, and that was not often the case (Ando 2005, and for a slightly different view Beard et al. 1998, 156–66; 211–44). Although Roman ‘imperialism’ was in many ways felt as ruthless by the conquered people, the Romans were flexible and deferential towards local religions, partly because they feared the revenge of powerful foreign gods, and partly because they ultimately strove for peace and used local cults as a tool to promote their culture and civilisation in general (for some recent definitions of ‘Romanisation’, see Alföldy 2005; Janniard and Traina 2006). The comparatively slow process of cultural change thus began both for the natives and newcomers (e.g. Revell 2007). Since it was believed that all humans were guided by the divine, the Romans could impose their way of living in all its various forms in a much more efficient way (Spickermann 1997). This may have been one of the main reasons that ‘(self-)Romanisation’ was so successful. Each region, particularly if it was enclosed by natural borders such as hills and mountains, major rivers, deep valleys or swamps, was a world unto itself; it was settled by people who spoke their own language or dialect, had their own customs, and worshipped their own gods. Sometimes the worship of an indigenous deity transgressed the boundaries of narrowly local surroundings and had an impact within a (much) broader context, such as the pan-Celtic deities and in particular Epona (Euskirchen 1993). And occasionally (frequently?) a seemingly Roman deity may have concealed traits of an indigenous one; such were, in the regions in question, among others Hercules, Mars, Mercury, Silvanus and the Nymphs (Rendić-Miočević 1989). It is interesting that in mythological scenes decorating tombstones in Noricum, Hercules is the most favourite figure (Diez 1965, 209). Emblematic is the case of the local goddess Aecorna, worshipped at Emona. She fits well into the pantheon of local north-Adriatic female deities, but seems to have had a greater impact on the community than others. This is indicated by the fact that she was worshipped by persons of every social position, from slave or freedman to officer of equestrian order, as well as by the entire community of the inhabitants from Emona, who were living at Savaria: Emonienses qui consistunt finibus Savar(iae) (Šašel Kos 1999, 47–61). The local cults were not abolished, they lived on, but in time they became transformed in a ‘natural’ way, as it seems. Their continuity and change were influenced by many factors, in the first place no doubt also by the manner of the Roman conquest. While Histria and Illyricum (the future Dalmatia and Pannonia) were conquered in the course of several long-lasting wars, the Norican kingdom was annexed around 15 BCE and had never been occupied by a Roman army. Roman

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merchants and manufacturers had a major settlement at Magdalensberg (probably old Virunum), before the town was transferred to the plain below the hill, on the Zollfeld near Maria Saal, becoming a municipium Virunum under Claudius. Before that, Celeia was the most important town in the former kingdom where various privileges were bestowed on members of the local elite, as is indicated by the case of Gaius Iulius Vepo who was given Roman citizenship and immunitas by Augustus (Šašel 1954/1992). There is hardly any doubt that he must have contributed a great deal to the better collaboration between the newly established Roman officials and the local population. In Noricum many deities with Celtic names are attested to date (Scherrer 1984), and new ones have come to light in the last decades, such as Aesus (Piccottini 1996, 97–103), Senabos (Dolenz and De Bernardo Stempel 2004, 737–44, plates 1–2) and Savercna (Lovenjak 2007). On the other hand, the local pre-Celtic or Celtic divinities are much rarer in Pannonia, which may partly be due to the bloody conquest of the country by Tiberius, or perhaps by late ‘Romanisation’ (Mócsy 1962, col. 745), which, however, does not seem likely. It can also be hypothesised that some areas may not have been very populous prior to the coming of the Romans: they may have settled in the regions that had only been thinly settled before their arrival, such as deserta Boiorum (Kovács 2014, 15–22). The Roman colonists and other newcomers adopted the local gods, both preCeltic and Celtic, although they probably did not understand their divine essence in the same way as the indigenous inhabitants. Religious practices were traditionally transmitted from generation to generation; however, an individual was also influenced by the environment which he/she was acting in as well as by ‘new fashions’, such as the Latin script. Thus, many indigenous gods and goddesses are documented only in Roman inscriptions and in a typically Roman way. For this and other reasons it is not always easy to identify a deity’s origin: it may be pre-Celtic, such as Timavus or Aequorna, or Celtic, such as the majority of indigenous deities in Noricum. Or else it may be a ‘Celtic’ deity influenced by Roman culture, such as Nutrices bearing a Latin name, or a Roman deity transformed under the influence of a local cult, such as the many cases of Silvanus.

Timavus, the Argive Hera and the Aetolian Artemis at Fons (Lacus) Timavi Before the Roman conquest and the subsequent process of ‘Romanisation’ (the process was ultimately always reciprocal), native deities were worshipped in different, non-Roman ways. Very few cult practices and other ways in which the local people honoured their gods are known to us, and it may well be assumed that even as late as the Principate some of their ex-voto had been made of perishable material: hence they will remain for ever unknown. In some cases, the indigenous gods must have been ‘worshipped in ways quite strange to Roman observers’ (MacMullen 2000, 89), while in other cases Romans may have recognised many familiar features in foreign

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divinities. However, most of them were soon adopted and their worship was more or less transformed, while it may be assumed that some of the deities, perhaps minor ones, gradually sank into oblivion. Clearly not all local gods and goddesses were of the same importance; some had a wide circle of worshippers, including foreigners, while others had little or no impact outside their community. A well-known example of an upper-class worshipper of a foreign local god is Gaius Sempronius Tuditanus, who had conducted military campaigns in the hinterland of Aquileia during his consulship in 129 BCE. He successfully fought against the Iapodes, Histri and Taurisci (ILLRP 335 = EDR072272; Bandelli 1989; Šašel Kos 2005, 321–9; Chiabà 2016). What is interesting for us, he ascribed his victory to his local protector, the river god Timavus. Other deities may have also been mentioned in the fragmentary inscription, but their names have not been preserved. Timavus was an important water deity worshipped particularly at the sacred site at Fons Timavi (Cuscito 1989; Verzár-Bass 1991, 255–60; Vedaldi Iasbez 1994, 160–77 and 180–1; Fontana 1997, 30; Zaccaria 2009), but also elsewhere in northern Italy (Buora and Zaccaria 1989; Lettich 1994, ad p. 39 no. 11). In the time of Tuditanus, when the region was to a large extent settled by the Celtic Carni, the main divinity of the site must have almost certainly been Timavus. According to Polybius, however, the local inhabitants called the course of the river Timavus, from where it reappears from the earth, ‘the origin and mother of the sea’ (Polybius, in Strabo 5.1.8 C 214). This suggests that the area was a cult place with complex religious connotations. The site was known to the Greeks, which is reflected in the worship of Diomedes there, indicating the existence of a harbour; all along the eastern Adriatic coast, Diomedes’ sanctuaries were located at important harbours (Kirigin and Čače 1998). Two goddesses, the Argive Hera and the Aetolian Artemis, had sacred groves in the vicinity: a probable interpretatio Graeca transmitted by Strabo (5.1.8 C 214; Adam 2000; Ardovino 2002, 211). It is interesting that both Juno and Diana, approximate Roman equivalents, were worshipped by Alpine Celtic populations (probably the Noricans or Taurisci), as is known from other sources. Virgil mentioned the worship of Juno when speaking of the animal plague in Noricum (Georg. 3.531–533). Her statue used to be carried to her sanctuary on a hill in a wagon driven by cows, but because of the epidemics during which cows had perished (Šašel 1980a/1992; Graßl 1982), the inhabitants had to harness aurochs of uneven size to the cult carriage, who clumsily pulled it upwards to the goddess’ sanctuary (Graßl 2007). The chronology is not at all clear and it is impossible to know whether these descriptions refer to pre-Celtic or Celtic Noricans. There are differences between what we know of the cult of ‘Juno’ in Noricum and that of Hera at Argos. The two cows of equal size, which usually pulled the carriages in Noricum, would suggest a procession, while there was only one cart at Argos, driven by oxen, in which the priestess of Hera drove to the sanctuary. There is no mention of a priestess in Noricum, which, however, does not mean that there was no priestess; indeed, that would be most unusual. Even if single other features of either worship may

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not correspond in detail, the Norican Juno could well have evoked to the Greeks – if they knew of her, which is far from certain – the ‘Argive Hera’ (contra Grassl 2007). One should only think of Lucian’s description of the Celtic Ogmios equated with Hercules (Lucian, Hercules): most of the characteristics of Hercules cannot be recognised in Ogmios at all. It has been tentatively suggested that the Norican Juno as described by Virgil could have been the great mother goddess of the Noricans, their central goddess named Noreia (Hainzmann 2006; Grassl 2007), for which, however, there is no proof. What is known of the goddess Noreia later, under the Roman Empire, would indicate that she was officially worshipped as a personification of the province by Roman magistrates and members of the Roman army and administration (Šašel Kos 1999, 33–9; Scherrer 2007). Virgil’s Norican Juno rather suggests, so it seems, that goddesses with characteristics of Hera/Juno were also worshipped on the fringes of the Mediterranean world. The Argive Hera near Fons Timavi, as perceived by the Greeks, is a testimony to a widely spread worship of a goddess like Juno among the Veneti (Mastrocinque 1991, 224–5), where her sanctuary in Patavium (Padova) played a major role, and where she was a civic goddess protecting Patavium. Livy writes that after the Patavians defeated King Cleonymus from Sparta, whose fleet had attacked them in 302 BCE, they dedicated the beaks of his ships as spoils to the goddess in her sanctuary (Livy 10.2.14; Mastrocinque 1991; cf. Càssola 1979). Cleonymus could escape with only a few of his ships intact. Afterwards a contest of ships took place every year in the river flowing through Patavium in commemoration of this battle. Strabo mentioned that in the groves of Argive Hera and Aetolian Artemis near the Timavus River and Diomedes’ sanctuary, all animals were living together harmoniously, deer in the company of wolves, and all were behaving tamely; if any animal, pursued by dogs, took refuge in these groves, no harm could have been done to it (Strabo 5.1.9 C 215). The nature of Artemis was polyvalent in the Greek world; however, if the goddess was linked to a sacred precinct where wild animals and beasts became tame, as was the case in the Timavus region, there is hardly any doubt that she was worshipped in her role as the mistress of wild animals, pótnia therôn. Very probably this must have been her main domain in Aetolia (Wernicke 1895, 1344), where Oeneus, the grandfather of Diomedes and the mythical king of Calydon, had once forgotten to sacrifice to Artemis. The angry goddess then sent the Calydonian boar to ravage the country. The story of Oeneus and the boar probably points to the widespread worship of the goddess in Aetolia. The worship of Diana among Celtic populations, who were most probably either the Noricans or the Taurisci, was described by Arrian, who had himself visited Noricum in the retinue of the Emperor Hadrian (Graßl 1982b, 251). In his vivid narrative, he mentioned how some of the Celts organised a festive party once a year, crowning their hunting dogs with wreaths and sacrificing to Artemis, the patroness of hunting, an animal which they bought with money they had been saving the whole year for this feast. Throughout the year every hunter paid a bounty

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into the treasury of the goddess for each animal he caught, the least for a rabbit, the most for a deer; during the festival they sacrificed either a sheep, a goat or a cow (Arrian, Kyn. 34.1–3; Graßl 1988). The inhabitants of the pre-Celtic Noricum may have also worshipped a deer goddess similar to Artemis, as is indicated by the cult wagon from Strettweg (c. 600 BCE) in which the symbolism of antlers plays an important role and where the main figure is female (Egg 1996); the cult should rather be explained in terms of a cult of Artemis and not Noreia (Gleirscher 1993, 89–94), for which there is no evidence. Carvonia, too, may have been a kind of a deer goddess, as is indicated by her name which is related to the Celtic word *carvo-s with the meaning of ‘deer’ (Holder 1896, 820; cf. Alföldy 1974, 239; Delamarre 2007, 59); she was worshipped at a later date in the region of Celeia, at Doberteša vas near Šempeter (AIJ 17 = HD066993: [Ca]rvoniae | Aug(ustae) sacr(um). | P[r]o salute | C[n(aei)] Atili | Iuliani; cf. Šašel Kos 1999, 137–8). The worship of Diana is attested on an early altar from Iulium Carnicum, dedicated to the goddess by the two seviri bearing indigenous, presumably Venetic, names, Q(uintus) Pipponicus Tae[---] and C(aius) [---] Veitor (Mainardis 2008, 88–90 no. 3). Ptolemy located the town in the border region ‘between Italy and Noricum’ (2.13.4 ed. Nobbe; at 8.7.5 it is situated in Noricum). This may indicate that towards the end of the Republican period, Iulium Carnicum – then a Caesarian vicus governed by magistri vici (see Mainardis 2008, 85–88 no. 1; 93–96 no. 7) – must have played an important role as an intermediary settlement between Venetia/Carnia (with Aquileia) and the Norican kingdom. It was very well situated just below one of the most important Alpine passes, the Monte Croce Carnico (Plöckenpass), and had close connections with Noricum ever since its existence (Zaccaria 2001; Mainardis 2008, 21–82). Diana’s worship in the context of an important Alpine pass could well be compared to the worship of the Celtic Belestis in the region of Ljubelj/Loiblpass, an important pass across the Karavanke range and the shortest connection between Emona and Virunum, the capital of the province of Noricum (ILLPRON 446 = HD042481; ILLPRON 654 = HD057853). Belestis is unique but seems to be closely related to the Norican and Aquileian Belenus/Belinus (for Belenus, see Zaccaria 2004; Piccottini 2017; Handy 2018).

Minerva Flanatica and Minerva Polensis Apart from Juno and Diana, a goddess similar to the Roman Minerva must have also played an important role in the northern Adriatic area. In Venetia, for example, she may have replaced certain indigenous goddesses, such as Reitia (also Pora or Sainate Reitia Pora), one of the most important deities in the area, the health-bringing goddess who also supervised the (commercial) traffic along the river, as well as war, the knowledge of writing, weaving and childbirths (Capuis and Chieco Bianchi 2002, 233–47; 296; cf. Mastrocinque 1991, 222–4; 1995, 274–5). In Istria and northern Liburnia, too, Minerva imposed her name on at least two goddesses, which can be inferred from

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her epithets Polensis and Flanatica (Šašel Kos 1999, 79; Girardi Jurkić 2005, 151–6). It is noteworthy that in Venetia, Minerva was also worshiped as a health-bringing goddess (Mastrocinque 1991), while otherwise this Italian goddess was most of all known as a deity of handicrafts. In the Venetic, Istrian and Liburnian regions, Minerva held an important place (Verzár-Bass 1991, 274–5; Fontana 1997, 115–24); worshippers seem to have replaced important local female deities with this goddess. Such must have also been the case with the Prepotto Minerva, who would have originally been an epichoric deity (Calderini 1930, 159–60; Degrassi 1932, 91). Mutatis mutandis, an analogous process may be reflected in Strabo’s Argive Hera and Aetolian Artemis in the area of the Timavus River where the worship of these two goddesses was seen through the Greek optic. Interestingly, Aegean influences in the Caput Adriae area could be traced back to the early Iron Age, mirrored in moon-shaped fibulae with attributes of a pótnia therôn (Teržan 1990). Minerva Flanatica is attested only in an inscription from the territory of Parentium (Inscr.It. X.2, 194 = EDR134011; Degrassi 1932, 87–91), while Minerva Polensis is documented three times on tombstones from Pola, which were erected by slaves of the goddess to their wives and in two instances also to themselves; she must have been an important civic goddess (CIL V 244 = Inscr.It. X.1, 158 = EDR136200; CIL V 162 = Inscr.It. X.1, 159 = EDR136201; cf. Inscr.It. X. 1, 85 = EDR135440; see Girardi Jurkić 2005, 151–6, for inscriptions and figurines of Minerva). The goddesses were most probably two indigenous deities who had previously been worshipped in Flanona and Pola, very probably under their Liburnian and Histrian names respectively (Degrassi 1932). Minerva Flanatica, whose cult is documented near the Istrian Parentium (Poreč), was named after the Liburnian Flanona (Plomin); the man who set up the dedication, [---]dius Bassus, may have been from Flanona, although this is not the only possible explanation (Degrassi 1932, 91). Evidently, the differences between Minervas must have existed, even if they were not particularly significant. Why were the goddesses not called by their epichoric names? This was the result of Latinisation of their theonyms, regardless of the reasons that brought about the change. The gentilicium of the dedicator, whose connections with Flanona are not known, is not preserved, thus nothing else can be inferred from the data offered by the altar. The cult of Minerva was among the earliest ones attested epigraphically in Aquileia and its territory, as is documented by a Republican dedication to the goddess from Aquileia (Inscr.Aquil. 13 = EDR118606) and by two votive monuments from the town’s territory near the village of Prepotto di S. Pelagio (Slov. Praprot near Šempolaj) – formerly erroneously attributed to the ager of Tergeste (Trieste). These two were erected by slaves or freedmen of the socii who were the leaseholders of the Aquileian portorium (Inscr.Aquil. 14; 15 = EDR118820; EDR118963; see Zaccaria 1992, 232). Minerva’s cult may have been connected with the exploitation of saltus publici, attested in the area (Inscr.It. X 4, 340 = EDCS-04200807; Šašel 1980b/1992; Zaccaria 1992, 235–6), the breeding of sheep, goats and pigs, as well as wool-producing (Fontana 1997, 115–24).

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Seixomnia Leucitica and Veica Noriceia Goddesses with two names seem to be quite characteristic of this area. One of the earliest inscriptions found to date in Istria, near Karojba in the territory of Ruginium (Rovinj), is a dedication by the Polates to Seixomnia Leucitica (Fig. 6.2; Inscr.It. X 1, 642 = EDR139284: Seixomniai | Leuciticai | Polates; Girardi Jurkić 2005, 135). The name of this enigmatic goddess is Histrian and may be compared to names such as Voltiomnus (Degrassi 1932, 618; Polaschek 1951, 1241), while her epithet may be related to some toponym (Šašel Kos 1999, 71–3). Polates were probably called the inhabitants of Pola (Pula) Fig. 6.2. Dedication to Seixomnia Leucitica (from before it became a Roman colony, hence Girardi Jurkić 2005, 135). the dedication to Seixomnia may be one of the earliest inscriptions found to date in Istria (Càssola 1995). The place of its discovery south of Ruginium may have been a sacred site in Antiquity. Seixomnia’s epithet, Leucitica, could perhaps be related to the name of the Celtic god Leucetius. He was occasionally associated with Mars and his name was derived from the word ‘lightning’ that could well be interpreted also as ‘white, bright’ (De Vries 1961, 57–8; Birkhan 1997, 638–9; Delamarre 2003, 199; De Bernardo Stempel 2014, 25). Although it is not certain whether the epithet Leucitica could indeed be related to this word, such a meaning would have well corresponded to a deity related to the nature in broad sense of the word. In such a case this should of course be regarded as coincidence since the goddess is certainly not Celtic but Histrian (Šašel Kos 1999, 71–3; Falileyev 2017, 422–4). On the other hand, however, the adjective Leucitica could be interpreted in geographical terms, and should be linked to the name of a hill or a place, such as Minerva Flanatica or Minerva Polensis. An enigmatic goddess is Veica Noriceia, the Norican Veica: Veicae | Noriceiae. | A(ulus) Poblicius D(ecimi) l(ibertus) A[nt(iochus)], | P(ublius) Postumius P(ublii) l(ibertus) Pau(---) | coir(averunt) (!). ‘To Veica Noriceia, A(ulus) Poblicius A[nt(iochus)], the freedman of D(ecimus), and P(ublius) Postumius Pau(---), the freedman of Publius, took care (of the dedication).’ (Inscr.It. X.3, 1* = ILLRP 268 = EDCS-04200810 = Scherrer 1984, no. 373)

What can be said about Veica Noriceia? Unfortunately, the exact provenance of her dedication is unknown; according to Mommsen, it should either be Histria or Carnia

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(ad CIL I 1465), while according to Degrassi, Histria is less likely (ad Inscr.It. and ILLRP, he mentions no arguments). Carnia can denote many different regions, such as the hinterland of Aquileia, or perhaps Carniola in present-day Slovenia. However, it seems beyond doubt that the stone was found within the borders of the former Gallia Cisalpina. The nature of the object of the dedication is unknown; this could have been a statue or merely an altar or even a sanctuary. It should be dated to the second half of the first century BCE, and was erected by two freedmen, Aulus Poblicius Antiochus and Publius Postumius Pau(-). The first dedicator seems to have been the same person who had donated the bronze statue of the Youth at the (unidentified) sanctuary at Magdalensberg, old Virunum (Hainzmann 2000; for the sanctuaries there see Dolenz 2008). The Aquileian family of Poblicii was well known for its economic activities in Noricum. This should also be true of the gens Postumia, who is likewise well attested in Aquileia (Inscr.Aquil., see onomastic index). Its members are not documented at Magdalensberg, but it is noteworthy that in the second century CE they are attested at Virunum, and could be regarded as descendants of the unattested Republican Postumii from Magdalensberg. There are only a few possibilities how to expand the cognomen of Publius Postumius Pau(-), but Paullus and Paullinus are by far the best attested (OPEL III 129–30). The name of the goddess Veica Noriceia, the Norican Veica, is eloquent. In my opinion, Veica may be explained as a northern Adriatic, perhaps even Histrian/ Liburnian goddess, such as Iutossica; ‘ica’ seems to be a characteristic part of these divine names. It should be noted that the suffix -ico, -ica is well attested in the northern Adriatic toponomastic and onomastic material from Venetia to Dalmatia (Untermann 1961, 103–4); Lopsica and Tarsatica can be cited among place names and Moicus and Oplica among personal names. A Histrian goddess Ica/Ika should also be mentioned among the northern Adriatic goddesses (Falileyev 2017, 421–422); she may have been related to the water and water springs (Matijašić 2017). Her name is certainly not Celtic, as has been erroneously presumed (Delamarre 2007, 108). As regards the first part of the name Veica, personal names such as Veius, Veia, Veitor and Veionius are attested, for example, among the Veneti (Krahe 1929, 148–9; 124); the name Veico is also documented in Pannonia (OPEL IV, 151). The meaning of Veica, this northern Adriatic divine name, seems to be unknown; however, it has recently been explained as Celtic, with the meaning of ‘she who fights’ (De Bernardo Stempel, in ead., Hainzmann 2020, 457; see 456–60; 917–18). ‘Noriceia’ seems to have been derived from Noricum or the Norici (De Bernardo Stempel, in ead. and Hainzmann 2020, 457), and should be regarded as a synonym for ‘Norica’ (Gregoratti 2015, 241). Thus her epithet cannot be related to the place name Noreia, and used in a similar manner as Argive Hera, Minerva Polensis and Minerva Flanatica, i.e. ‘Veica, such as she is worshipped in Noreia’. The goddess has also been identified with the rare Roman goddess Vica Pota, the ‘Norican’ Vica Pota, which does not seem plausible (Egger 1956, 55–7; Vetters 1977, 342–3; Kenner 1989, 887–8; Scherrer 2007, 227). To link the name of Veica Noriceia to some ‘Norican village’ (vicus) seems most unlikely (see Weinstock 1958, s.v. Vicani di and Vica Pota, 2013 and 2014–15 respectively), as

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also the thesis of her name being Celtic (Holder 1896–1913, III, 138); however, there are Celtic names Veicu/Veico (Delamarre 2007, 192). It is also possible that her epithet may reflect the (sporadic) Norican settlement outside the boundaries of the Norican kingdom.

(H)Eia as Bona Dea A most interesting example in this area illustrating the adoption of an indigenous deity by a member of the Roman senatorial aristocracy is that of Calpurnia, the daughter of Lucius Calpurnius Piso the Augur, consul in 1 BCE. This case is quite different from that of Gaius Sempronius Tuditanus and the river god Timavus, mentioned at the beginning, since Calpurnia equated the goddess Heia with Bona Dea, which means that certain characteristics of Heia would have been similar to those of the Roman goddess (ILJug 260 = HD016279; Šašel 1963; PIR2 C 290). The Calpurnii Pisones possessed estates in Histria and also in Dalmatia (Tassaux 1984), notably in the Liburnian part of Dalmatia on the island of Cissa, present-day Pag, where the altar was discovered. In Histria, the cult of Eia has so far been attested four times in Pola and Nesactium (an altar was discovered at Dvigrad in the territory of Nesactium); in all cases she was given the epithet augusta and was not associated with any Roman deity. Girardi Jurkić suggested that a female bust in the wreath in a relief on a gable from an unidentified building at Nesactium might represent Eia (2005, 122–4). At Nesactium, two indigenous devotees dedicated altars to her: Lucius Torius Stephanus and Brissinius Ier[---] (Inscr. It. X.1 no. 660 = EDR139418; 659 = EDR139416); by contrast, Gnaeus Pollentius from Dvigrad seems to have had close connections with the city of Pola (Marušič 1971, 19, plate 20/1 = EDR139421). He may have been a descendant of former town’s slaves since one of the official names of the city was Pollentia. The altar from Pola was dedicated by one Antonia Severina (Inscr.It. X.1, no. 3 = EDR134865). In all four instances Eia’s name is not spelled with an H at the beginning; this letter is optional, such as in the case of Hylluricum/Illyricum or Histria/Istria. In Liburnia, the goddess is only attested in Calpurnia’s dedication. This may insinuate that Calpurnia might have come to know the goddess Eia in Histria and brought her cult to Liburnia. Her family had close connections with Pola where Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus was not only the first duumvir of the town when it was founded as a Roman colony, probably under Caesar, he was also the brother of Caesar’s third wife (Münzer 1899; Degrassi 1954, 65–6). We must also bear in mind that the northern Liburnian islands were closely connected with the Istrian peninsula since its eastern part had been inhabited by the Liburni; it is therefore not at all impossible that (H)Eia was also worshipped outside the boundaries of the Histri. This would certainly confirm the presumed important role of the goddess (Šašel Kos 1999, 68–70). Calpurnia’s uncle, Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso, the man of ill reputation and involved in the affair of the unexplained death of Germanicus in 19 CE, had estates in Illyricum (Caballos et al. 1996, 130); Dalmatia was then still officially called Illyricum. It is known from Tacitus that on his journey back from Cilicia to his trial in Rome, he made a

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long detour by stopping in Dalmatia where he hoped to meet Drusus; however, he missed him (Tac. Ann. 3.8.1–5; on Drusus in Dalmatia: Rendić-Miočević 1952). The family continued to have close connections with Dalmatia and Lucius Calpurnius Piso governed the province in 43–46 CE (Thomasson 1984, 90, no. 19). On the altar, Calpurnia had a verse inscription engraved in which she equated the goddess Heia with Bona Dea; Calpurnia seems to have dedicated another altar, or even two, now lost, possibly to the same goddess (Sticotti 1940, 179–80; Šašel 1963/1992, 75). The altar must be dated to the late Augustan or early Tiberian period (Šašel 1963/1992, 78). In the dedication Calpurnia invoked the goddess as: triumphalis terrae marisque dominatrix, conservatrix mentiumque bonarum ac remediorum potens dea bene iudicans. ‘triumphant mistress of land and sea, she, who preserves good thoughts/intentions, mighty goddess of remedies, who well judges/adjudges’.

The first line of the inscription containing the name of the goddess is not clearly legible, but it seems beyond doubt that both Bona Dea and Heia are assured readings. Dominatrix is a very rare word in Latin literature, used in the divine context only in Anonymi Epici et Lyrici: Diomeden modo magnum dea fecit, dea belli dominatrix ... (fr. 87, vv. 1–2). Very likely, (H)Eia must have been one of the central goddesses in the local Histrian – and perhaps also Liburnian – pantheon, which is well in accordance with the fact that Calpurnia sought her help in a difficult situation. In Calpurnia’s dedication, Heia appears as Bona Dea, the ‘Good Goddess’ whose real name is unknown. She was worshipped most of all in Rome and in central Italy, while outside Italy and Gallia Narbonensis dedications to her are rare. In Rome, in the house of the chief magistrate, upper class women performed a nocturnal ceremony in her honour, during which men were strictly excluded. On the other hand, altars were erected to her by devotees of both sexes and from all social classes (Brouwer 1989, 127–9 no. 127; 389; for her worship in the Adriatic area, see Delplace 2000; on Bona Dea Heia, ibid. 119–22). The link of Bona Dea to medicine and other health-bringing deities has often been noted (Šašel 1963/1992, 76–77; Delplace 2000), as was also the interesting connection between mens bona and Bona Dea (Šašel 1963/1992, 77). The last epithet given to Bona Dea Heia by Calpurnia, bene iudicans, may perhaps allude to one of the several trials in which various members of her family were involved. The most probable occasion would have been that of her father’s trial for laesa maiestas in 24 CE during which he died a natural death (suggested as a possibility by Šašel 1963/1992, 78); Tacitus described him as nobilis ac ferox vir (Ann. 4.21.1–2). The family was known for its wealth and independence of mind, both rather precarious distinctions in the post-Republican period. The family belonged to old nobility and provided many consuls during the Republican and Imperial periods. Under the early Empire, the Calpurnii Pisones were always close to the emperor and members of the imperial family, which brought them not only advantages but also several disadvantages.

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So many exalting adjectives, given to Bona Dea Heia by Calpurnia, as well as other epithets of Bona Dea documented elsewhere in the Adriatic area (Delplace 2000, 122–3), suggest that she was a universal, polyvalent goddess. This is further indicated by Macrobius who equated Bona Dea with Mother Earth (Sat. 1.12.21: eandem esse Bonam deam et Terram). Interestingly, the goddess was linked by way of some of her epithets, attested epigraphically and in Roman literature, to other goddesses, such as Magna Mater. Both Mother Earth and Magna Mater are deities of universal character. In Aquileia, Bona Dea bore the epithet Cereria, as did also Mater Magna (Inscr.Aquil. 164 = EDR116847; 291 = EDR093892). In any case, it could be concluded that Calpurnia, as Bona Dea devotee, recognised in the cult of (H)Eia this same universality. In some other aspects and details of her cult, however, Calpurnia’s comparison might have been purely subjective, which was very likely true of many other instances of the so-called interpretatio Romana.

Conclusion As has been seen, pre-Roman deities worshipped along the north-eastern Adriatic were highly diverse. They became known to us only after the Roman conquest of the area and the adoption of the so-called epigraphic habit by the indigenous inhabitants who may have adapted their cults to the new reality (Haeussler 2012). Gods and goddesses range from the river gods, such as Timavus, Aesontius and Savus, who were undoubtedly among the oldest known deities of the region, to the enigmatic Seixomnia Leucitica and Veica Noriceia, who have not yet been explained properly. In contrast, goddesses such as Argive Hera and Aetolian Artemis, mentioned by Strabo, shed light on the interpretatio Graeca of probably Venetic goddesses, and on the fact that this ancient cult place had been frequented by the Greeks. The goddesses had their sacred groves in the vicinity of the sanctuary of Diomedes, near the sacred site where the Timavus River reappears from the earth. Minerva Polensis and Minerva Flanatica indicate that autochthonous goddesses with traits more or less similar to the Roman Minerva were worshipped in Histria and Liburnia. One of the most remarkable votive monuments from the north-eastern Adriatic is the dedication to Heia/Eia, found on Cissa. The goddess was one of the most outstanding Histrian deities known to us (on these deities see Girardi Jurkić 2010 and Falileyev 2017), whom Calpurnia, daughter of Lucius Calpurnius Piso Augur (consul in 1 BCE), equated with Bona Dea and worshipped in Liburnia. This may mean that the worship of the goddess was not limited only to Histria. New settlers, including members of the senatorial order, did not disdain seeking aid from the local deities, attesting to their influence – perhaps greater than expected – and to their significance.

Acknowledgements I owe special gratitude to Ralph Haeussler for having kindly read my paper and for offering valuable comments and improvements. The research was financially supported by the Slovenian Research Agency (P6-0064).

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Chapter 7 Private devotions at temples in Central and Eastern Gaul Isabelle Fauduet

Introduction The civitates in Gallia Ludgunensis, Belgica and Aquitania provide a wealth of evidence on religious activities during the Roman period. In scholarship, there has been an attempt to focus on the coherence of each civitas and interpret their religious activities in the form of Greek-style polis religions, organised and financed by the local decurions who for the most part aspired to a Roman lifestyle (see e.g. Van Andringa 2013). But if we look more closely at the available evidence, we can identify an enormous amount of diversity that makes it hardly possible to clearly identify the deities that received a civic cult, i.e. a cult publicly financed by the civitas. Although some 60 Romano-Celtic temple sites have yielded religious dedications (Fauduet 2008a, 2010), we are predominantly dealing with personal ex-votos, across the Tres Galliae, reflecting individual religious choices by the dedicants, not official inscriptions set up by the local ordo, its magistrates and priests. Some individuals may have made a donation to the local cult place as an act of euergetism and self-display, but this does not mean that their choice of theonyms and epithets reflects the ‘official’ identity of a deity or that there is not some contradictory epigraphic or archaeological evidence. We therefore need to revisit the evidence from cult places across the Tres Galliae to understand the diversity and individuality of religious practices. Even when seemingly ‘Roman’ deities were worshipped, we can often identify a certain local or autochthonous ‘substratum’ as the names of deities, notably Apollo and Mars, are generally associated with a local or regional epithets and theonyms, whose etymology is Celtic in our area of study. For instance, there are a number of healing sanctuaries, some of which have yielded dedications to the Graeco-Roman god Apollo. But who was this Apollo really and how did the worshippers saw him? After all, Apollo was often combined with local, Celtic divine names, like Grannos and Belenos

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in Gaul. Was he really the polis god of a civitas or the deity already honoured prior to a site’s monumentalisation in Roman times? We should not jump to conclusions since many cult places also contain evidence for other deities, suggesting much more diverse religious activities. In this respect, sculptures help us to identify the deities that were worshipped at a site. In some cases, we might only find evidence for one deity at a cult place. This may suggest that this was the main cult of a sanctuary, though often the archaeology reveals more complex arrangements – perhaps a series of temples in an enclosure – so that we can presume that the nature of other deities and cults at this site might not have been preserved or that the worshippers did not use the same media – epigraphy and anthropomorphic sculptures – to express their devotion. Moreover, our evidence repeatedly attests a multitude of deities in most cult places. This in turn raises the question regarding the role of each deity within the sanctuary: which deity reflects people’s personal choices, and which reflect the ‘official’ cult of a sanctuary – if indeed one can make such a distinction? Local deities are regularly associated with statues of Classical deities. For example, we find the cross-legged god together with other deities, notably Mercury and Apollo (see below) – this is of course similar to the famous relief of the antlered god from Reims (Esp. V 3653) – and we need to look into the meaning of these combinations or if we can establish a chronological development. The precise dating of inscriptions, sculptures and votive offering is rarely possible and only few inscriptions provide a consular date. Moreover, the majority of our finds cannot precisely located within a find within a sanctuary, especially if we are dealing with old excavations or finds that were discovered in secondary contexts. When there is no epigraphic attestation of a deity, how are we meant to interpret our evidence? In Gallia Belgica, the monumental Gallo-Roman sanctuary of Blicquy (Leuze-en-Hainaut – see Gillet et al. 2009) provides an interesting example. Despite the amount of financial resources spent in creating this impressive sanctuary, there are virtually no inscriptions apart from some fragments (ILB 5a–b, 152a–b, 153)? There are, however, bronze figurines of the god Mars. But can we be sure that we are really dealing with a temple dedicated to him? And is this conclusive evidence that Mars received a civic cult at Blicquy, i.e. financed by the ordo of the civitas? Sometimes, building inscriptions can reveal a site’s relationship to the civitas or to a local pagus or vicus, but for the majority of sites in the Tres Galliae, we do not have any evidence. In Blicquy, it is possible that is was merely a personal choice of some individuals – locals or pilgrims – to honour Mars, based on their own religious experience, their education and level of literacy. Other worshippers seem to have preferred other deities, notably Mercury, whose figurines have also survived at Blicquy, while the majority of worshippers must have made offerings in perishable materials. In this and most other cases, our interpretation of a cult site generally depends on a small range of finds that just happen to have survived. A series of sculptures and figurines of deities have been found in some of the more modest rural temple sites (Fig. 7.1). But we need to ask a series of questions: First, were

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Fig. 7.1. Map of central and northern Gaul, showing sites referred to in the text. Key: 1, Blicquy; 2, Eu, Bois-l’Abbé; 3, Mesnil-Saint-Nicaise; 4, Schwarzenbach; 5, Berthouville; 6, Genainville; 7, Forêtd’Halatte; 8, Allonnes; 9, Orléans; 10, Sceaux-du-Gâtinais; 11, Châteaubleau; 12, Mesves-sur-Loire; 13, Bouhy; 14, Entrains; 15, Ménestreau; 16, Alésia; 17, Essarois & Le Tremblois; 18, Source-de-la-Seine; 19, Malain; 20, Nuits-Saint-Georges, Les Bolards; 21, Mirebeau; 22, Bourbonne-les-Bains; 23, Vioménil; 24, La Roche, Poitiers; 25, Antigny; 26, Saint-Marcel; 27, Drevant; 28, Bourbon-Lancy; 29, Etang-sur-Arroux; 30, Verteuil; 31, Agris; 32, Rivières; 33, Chassenon; 34, Voingt; 35, Margerides; 36, Le Mont-Dore; 37, Puy de Dôme; 38, Culoz. (Drawing: A. C. King).

they specifically made for this cult place or did worshippers and pilgrims acquire these figurines during their last visit to a market town; the latter is particularly likely in the case of mass-produced artefacts, like the common clay pipe figurines representing Venus, nutrix, and so on. Second, were these sculptures and figurines offered as part of a collective offering or gift to the god, for instance during a community fête, or are they not rather personal choices of the individual? The votive inscriptions that provide us with the name of a deity in roughly 60 Romano-Celtic temple sites in Gaul pose a number of problems. In general, only very

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few inscribed altars and stone blocks were actually discovered inside a cult place or even in situ and the majority of inscriptions therefore provides limited evidence on the construction of a temple or adjacent building, or provide information on the status of divine practitioners, like the nature of priests, collegia and public communities. We also have to ask what evidence we need if we wish to distinguish between private and civic intentions, between private religious understandings and the ancestral role of a sanctuary for a community. Moreover, what is the motivation behind people visiting specific sanctuaries. Why did they act as dedicants and euergetes outside the ‘civic’ cults? And to what extent can we recognise the dedicant’s motivations in his or her choice of votive formulae, sculpture, cult objects and other ex-votos, if indeed the choice was theirs and not that of a priest, the stone-cutter or societal pressure by the community?

The personal relationship between devotee and deity in healing cults In some cult places, the majority of our evidence derives from worshippers who had to fulfil their votum, ‘vow’, to a deity. This is most prominent in the case of healing deities and healing sanctuaries: devotees set up an ex-voto after they were restored to health. This personal motivation can sometimes be recognised in the votive inscription when formulae, like pro salute or pro filia/filio, were employed. Some of the deities that function as healing gods were evoked by a Celtic theonym or epithet, like Bormo/Borvo, Cnabetius, Damona, Grannos, Vindonnus and many more. An interesting cluster of finds can be found at the sanctuary of the ‘Sources de la Seine’, north-west of Dijon, dedicated to the goddess Sequana. Two dedications refer to the safety of a son and a grand-child respectively, and one dedication was inscribed on an anatomic ex-voto, a leg, for the health of Gaius M. (pro C(aius) M() – CIL XIII 2863, ILingons 279, CAG-21/3, p. 127). Two women wrote a relatively long inscription on two rather small items, a ring and a bronze plate depicting a breast (Deyts 1994, 126–7; ILingons M8–9). Some of these inscriptions have a faulty orthography that reflects the ‘individuality’ of people’s action and the personal relationship between devotee and deity, unlike many monumental stone inscriptions that often served to display elite status and philanthropy, and which were produced by professional stone masons. On the anatomic offering and one of the altars to Sequana (CIL XIII 2862–2863), the dedicants also added the formula Aug(usto) sac(rum), i.e. ‘sacred to Augustus’. This need not be an indication for a civic cult but may merely represent the zeitgeist and perhaps the wish to place themselves under the protection of the emperor, even if one inscription from the site mentions a sacerdos Augusti, though only together with his other civic magistracies (CIL XIII 2870 = ILingons 284). Many important sanctuaries, notably healing sanctuaries, show some form of recognition of the imperial household, but this is part of the epigraphic habit and does not necessarily infringe on people’s personal religious understandings. In addition, there is a female bust with the dedicatory inscription D(eae) Seq(u)an(ae) de | mon(itu) (or perhaps ex mon(itu) which is

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more common), i.e. the bust was set up following the personal order – by admonition, dream or omen – from the god, which again manifests the personal relationship between devotee and deity (CIL XIII 2858; ILingons 278; Deyts 1994). The formula pro salute and its variants appears in many spring sanctuaries for various deities with the Celtic names Bormo/Borvo and Damona. At Bourbon-Lancy (Saône-et-Loire), the Roman citizen Gaius Iulius Magnus, whose father had the Celtic name Eporedorix, made a dedication to Bormo and Damona for his child, Lucius Iulius Calenus. The inscription was discovered in the castle’s foundation in 1792 and therefore comes from a recycled, secondary context (CIL XIII 2805, ILS 4659, CAG 71/3, p. 85). Bormo and the more frequent spelling variation Borvo are the Celtic names of healing deities that we find in numerous sites in Gaul, including Aix-en-Provence and Aix-les-Bains. Bormo might have been chosen here since Bourbon-Lancy seems to have been known as Aquae Bormonis on the Tabula Peutingeriana. An even larger cluster of dedications to Borvo and Damona can be found at the monumental sanctuary of Bourbonne-les-Bains in the territory of the Lingones (Maligorne 2011). Among others, a Roman citizen fulfilled his vow to Borvo and Damona for his daughter: pro salute Cocillae fil(iae) ex voto (CIL XIII 5916 = ILingons 203; exact provenance unknown). Borvo is also worshipped in eastern Gaul, sometimes in combination with Damona, both by peregrini and Roman citizens as well as by women that are generally more infrequent in the role of the dedicant in Gaul in public spaces (Tassaux 2003). Damona is known from a number of central Gaulish sites, including Alésia where she was worshipped together with Apollo Moritasgus – who seems to have taken Borvo’s place (CAG-21/1, p. 499 = AE 1965, 181). We also find the pro salute formula near the site of a presumed sanctuary at Bouhy (Nièvre), though the nature of the cult is difficult to establish. In the second or third century CE, a decurion set up a votive inscription for himself, his son and wife (CIL XIII 2899 = ILS 4547 = CAG-58, p. 76 = ILGL-Aed 517; see Bouthier 2006): Aug(usto) sacr(um) | Marti Bolv|inno Duna(e) | C(aius) Domit(ius) Viri|lis decurio pro | salut(e) sua et Iul(i) | Thalli Virilli/ani fili(i) et Avi|tillae Aviti fil(iae) | uxoris v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito). ‘Sacred to Augustus. The decurion Gaius Domitius Virilis has willingly and deservedly fulfilled his vow to Mars Bolvinnos (and) Duna for the sake of his health and for the health of Iulius Thallus Virillianus, his son, and of Avitilla, his wife, daughter of Avitus.

In this otherwise perfectly Latin inscription of a high-ranking member of the community, which starts with ‘sacred to the emperor’, Virilis took extra care to name the local deities of Bouhy: Mars Bolvinnus Duna (for Duna / Dunatis, see RE vol. V.2 (1905), col. 1793). Bolvinnus is otherwise only attested once, also at Bouhy (CIL XIII 2900), and may just be a topographical epithet, the Mars of Bouhy. The Latin theonym Mars often seems to have been employed by individuals who considered him more of a protector than a healing deity. At the Romano-Celtic temple of Schwarzenbach (St Wendel, Saarland), a Roman citizen with a rather Celtic cognomen, Gaius Elvonius Caddimarus, made a dedication

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Mars Cnabetius on a bronze tabula ansata which was found together bronze figurines of Mars. The Celtic epithet or theonym Cnabetius is also attested at a few other sites of the Treveri, Mediomatrici and also on the Upper German Rhine-Danube Limes, notably at Osterburken where we find the dedicatory string paterio | cornice(n) Mar(ti) | Cnabetio which can be translated as: ‘To the paternal horn-player Mars Cnabetius’; the cornicen might have a military association so close to the Limes, but it could also allude to cult practise and myth, like a horn-playing god (CIL XIII 6572; see also Miron 2000; AE 2001, 1411, 2014, 895). The decision of Gaius Elvonius Caddimarus to set up an inscription to the local Mars Cnabetius therefore seem to be a conscious decision reflecting his own personal identity – as indicated by his cognomen – and probably aimed to preserve the memory of local religious understandings and myths that were about to get lost. Recently, Daniel Burger (2012) has suggested that the temple at Schwarzenbach was a ‘Pilgerheiligtum’, a pilgrim shrine where a healing cult was practiced; he primarily based this on a small number of anatomic votive parts of the body and figurines of Apollo that were discovered (Burger 2012) but we should be careful with this hypothesis as already shown by Scheid (1992). Apart from a few figures depicting devotees, stone anatomic ex-votos have been found, for example at the Apollo Vindonnus temple at Essarois in the territory of the Lingones (CIL 5644–46 = ILingons 300–302). On one of the inscriptions, an inscribed leg, the Celtic divine name Vindonnus appears on its own (Fig. 7.2; CIL XIII, 5646 = ILingons 301 = CAG 21/2, p. 316: Fig. 7.2). Here we see another personal choice of the dedicant to leave out the reference to Apollo. As in the case of other deities, like Bormo and Sulis, this may help us to understand how individual decisions were made and how they may have influenced naming practices. The temple at Essarois belongs to a series of rural cult places, such as nearby Le Tremblois where a wide range of portraits of devotees has been found (Deyts 2002). Further north, in the Forêt Fig. 7.2. Anatomic ex-voto (leg) from Essarois: d’Halatte (Ognon, Oise), we find similar Vind(onno) Mai f(ilia) | Iulia v(otum) s(olvit) representations of devotees as well as l(ibens) m(erito) (Photo: CIL XIII Project, Trier, CIL anatomical representations, though we XIII 5646 = ILingons 301).

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are dealing here with a female deity and there are no votive inscriptions (Durand 2000). This may once again emphasise the individuality of the religious gestures, showing that they reflect personal choices that depend on particularly local and subjective understandings. At the Roman statio of Aquae Segetae, according to the Tabula Peutingeriana (today Sceaux-du-Gâtinais, Loiret), a marble plaque to the eponymous goddess Segeta was discovered. Marble inscriptions are rare and in this act of private devotion, we can see a daughter, Maria Sacra (notice the theophoric name), fulfilling the vow that her father had given, though it was decided not to express the purpose of the vow and the object of the offering: Aug(ustae) deae | Segetae | T(itus) Marius Priscinus | v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) | efficiendum curav(i)t | Maria Sacra fil(ia) ‘To the august goddess Segeta, Titus Marius Priscinus has willingly and deservedly fulfilled his vow. His daughter Maria Sacra looked after the implementation (of his vow).’ (AE 1974, 423; Roncin 1976; CAG-45, p 172; AE 2016, 68).

A series of anatomical ex-votos have been found in the area excavated south of the Romano-Celtic temple, near the adjacent baths and near the well where the plaque to Segeta was discovered, which may underline the role of water in the healing cult. The temple itself is unfortunately only known only from aerial surveys which limits the scope of our understanding of the site. There are other types of ex-votos that need to be considered. For example, near Cenabum (Orléans), heads, eyes and other parts of the body on small metal plaques have been discovered during the excavation of a Romano-Celtic temple site by Franck Verneau in 2008 (Canny 2015). It is located near the site of a drainage system connected to water basins which was already discovered in the nineteenth century and where a now-lost stone slab with the dedication Aug(ustae) Acionnae sacrum, set up by the peregrinus Capillus, son of Illiomarus, was discovered; all names are of Celtic origin (CIL XIII 3063; ILS 4695; CAG-45, p. 102). Capillus offered a portico with ornamenta to the ‘august Acionna’. In front of the temple, in the courtyard surrounded by a second-century portico – presumably the one donated by the dedicant – recent excavations have found that the deposit of metal ex-votos began to decrease; the statuette of a seated feminine deity was found in a pit inside a small square building (Verneau 2014). We need to ask in what circumstances the devotee fulfilled his vow. An interesting parallel might be the goddess Clutoida from Mesves (Nièvre) (CIL XIII 2895): the inscription was discovered in the foundations of the church Saint-Julien where is had been re-used as sarcophagus in the Middle Ages. Did the dedication originally come from the area of a spring that is only located 500 metres away? This building inscription is above all a private offering, paid for by the dedicant from his own money (DSD – de suo dedit). Mediusacer did not use this act of euergetism to provide a memory of his own achievements, as is so often the case in Roman times, nor is there any reference to the local ordo being involved. But he does dedicate a

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murus inter arcus duos c[um] suis ornamentis for the goddess Clutoidae and the vicanis Masavensibus (today Mesves). Is this the result of a wealthy individual in the role of a patron of the vicani? Again, we see the choice to promote a Celtic divine name in a Latin inscription: the name Clutoida is only attested twice; it was written Clutoiða at Etang-sur-Arroux (CIL XIII 2802). Following Xavier Delamarre (2003), it means ‘renommée, célèbre’; this suggests that it was merely an epithet. Its uniqueness might have been an attempt to create a particular identity for this cult place in the context of the ‘globalising’ Roman world where local cult places may have lost their supra-regional importance. In all these cases we notice individual choices, where local deities often are chosen to express people’s personal motivations, whether by Roman citizens or peregrini, and sometimes also by women who do not often act publicly in Gaul (Fauduet 2008b).

Personal religiosity: dedications for a safe return In regions that present a certain danger to life and one’s possessions, like mountainous passes and frontier regions, we find many dedications by individuals who thank the gods for a safe journey. An interesting case can be found at the top of the Puy-deDôme in the Massif Central, which must have been a major sanctuary in connection with Augustonemetum (Clermond-Ferrand), the capital of the Arverni. There we find many travelling merchants who made private dedications to thank Mercury for a safe trip and for financial success, like negotiatores (ILA-Arvernes, 48). One inscription on a metal tabula ansata is addressed to the numen of the emperor and Mercurius Dumias – a geographical epithet, as argued by Gorrochategui (2007), related to a hill: Num(inibus) Aug(ustorum) | et deo Mercuri(o) | Dumiati | Matutinius | Victorinus | d(onum) d(edit). ‘To the divine spirit of the emperor and the god Mercury Dumias, Matutinius Victorinus gave this gift.’ (CIL XIII 1523 = ILS 4600 = ILA-Arvernes, 69)

Although it must have been strenuous to walk to the top of the mountain, especially in certain periods of the year due to heat or bad weather, people decided to climb the mountain because of their religious beliefs in the sacredness of the location. Another cult site seems likely at the foot of the mountain at La Tourette d’Enval where several dedications to Mercury were found (ILA-Arvernes, 44–6). On the road to the top of the Puy de Dôme, at the col de Ceyssat, a wide range of potsherds were discovered, some of which have graffiti on the rim that may have been possible abbreviations of votive formulae (cf. Trescarte 2007). We have parallels in nearby provinces. At the Grand-Saint-Bernard pass, many inscriptions – on stone and metal – were dedicated to the local mountain god Poeninus, often associated with Jupiter in Roman times, and many included the formula pro itu reditu (Acolat 2008; Wiblé 2008). And negotiatores made countless dedications for a safe trip to the goddess Nehalennia at Colijnsplaat on the North Sea coast (e.g. AE 2001, 1460, 1464, 1466).

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Finally, when we look at temples erected at the limits of two territories, some of them seem to have been dedicated to Mercury as a deity that protects the community. For instance, the famous hoard of silver wares from Berthouville (Eure) contains dedications to Mercury, sometimes with the Celtic geographical epithet Canetonnessis. The benefactors include both peregrini and Roman citizens. Did they act individually, or did they participate in a kind of civic cult, taking into account and specifying the cost to give offerings to the temple ‘treasure’ (Deniaux 2006; Lajoye 2008; Lapatin 2014)? Beside two small sculptures of the god and the silver vessels, there is no evidence for any other kind of offerings except for two or three ex-votos representing eyes. What about the finds in the temple area at Bois l’Abbé at Eu (Seine-Maritime), located at the limits of the Ambiani and Veliocasses territories? A civic cult may be suggested on the basis of a dedication to Mercury Brigensis and the pagus Catuslovius by Publius Magnius Belliger, who donated a basilica, but this was again a private gift to the pagus and the deity as the formula d(e) s(uo) d(edit) emphasises (AE 2007, 980). The silver figurine of Mercury found in a pit inside the cella of one of the temples in the courtyard of the third century may have belonged to the cult accessories (Mantel 2010). At the rural sanctuary of Viomenil (Vosges), situated near a road on the margin of the territories of Leuci and Sequani, an astonishing series of sandstone sculptures was discovered near square cult buildings that can be dated to the second and third centuries after the pottery evidence. Among these sculptures, there is one representing a mother-goddess and two of Mercury as well as a rather crude votive inscription within a tabula ansata to Mercury and Apollo, set up by a Roman citizen – not a magistrate – and without any reference to the emperor (Fig. 7.3). Were Mercury and Apollo honoured by a community of craftsmen, attested in the area, or also by travellers and passers-by (Castorio et al. 2007; Fetet 2011; AE 2011, 790)?

Fig. 7.3. Tabula ansata to Mercury and Apollo dedicated by L. Bovius, from the rural sanctuary at Viomenil (Photo: J. J. Gaffiot; AE 2011, 790).

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Other sanctuaries have not yielded any indications for civic cults. This is the case, for example, of the temple site at Les Margerides (Corrèze) near the margins of the territory of the Lemovices, Inside the sanctuary, containing three square temples, two of which have an ambulatory, not a single inscribed fragment has so far been discovered. But there are several sculptures, including a seated mother goddess holding a purse (?) inside the Fig. 7.4. Pottery inscribed with Totatis graffito, from cella of the major temple, and another the temple area, Voingt (Photo: Fr. Lafon). female goddess – resembling Rosmerta sculptures known elsewhere in Gaul – as well as bronze figurines of a horned god and a goat, cock and tortoise which are the common attributes for Mercury (Sirat 1974; Montzamir 2016). Very few religious inscriptions have been found in the territory and the local stone (granite) surely made it difficult to develop an epigraphic practise in rural areas, but several gods are attested (Mavéraud-Tardiveau 2011); the sculptures therefore insinuate the survival of local cult understandings. In the temple area at Voingt (Puy-de-Dôme), we find several pieces of pottery inscribed with the divine name Toutatis (Fig. 7.4), the protector of the community (Clémençon and Ganne 2009). But this Romano-Celtic temple is actually situated along a major artery of Gaul, the Roman road from Lyon to Saintes, at a site called Fines – according to the Tabula Peutingeriana – on the western fringes of the Arverni. Would not we have expected more offerings and cult finds, also from travellers, in such a prominent location?

Private devotion in small towns When investigating the evidence from small towns and vici, we need to examine the circumstances in which anatomic ex-votos and sculptural remains were deposited. Let us look at the well-known temple site of Alesia, at La Croix-Saint-Charles, located at the town’s eastern extremity and close to a spring. During the recent excavations, it was possible to take a closer look at the previous discoveries and some of the exvotos that were just published (Cazanove et al. 2012; Cazanove 2014). Among others we see that Apollo Moritasgus was worshipped at Alesia (CIL XIII, 11240-11242), similar to the Apollo Vindonnus from Essarois (see above). One dedication was made by a certain Catianus, a peregrinus – judging by his single name of Celtic origin; another dedication was made by a freedman. The third dedication was inscribed on the fragmented handle of a patera where we can read Appol (sic) (CIL XIII 11239). Do they reflect the dedicant’s Romanitas?

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A similar case can be found at Mesnil-Saint-Nicaise (Somme) where an inscribed ceramic mortarium was discovered in a shaft adjacent to the newly discovered temple (Cocu et al. 2013): There, a certain Iunianus offered the vessel to the god Apollo Vatumarus – a new Celtic name. His cult seems to be once more connected to a healing cult as wooded anatomic legs were found. Even members of the elite could just worship Moritasgus – without adding Apollo – as in the case of Tiberius Claudius Professus Niger who had acquired all the offices among the Aedui and Lingones, and provided a legacy in his will to construct a porticus to Moritasgus (the inscription, now lost, was found in another part of the town – CIL XIII 2873). The idea of a civic cult for the Mandubii at Alesia (for the the Mandubian pagus was suggested by RaepsaetCharlier (2013), but the fact that we have an honorary inscription to a sacerdos Romae et Aug(ugstorum) from Alesia only means that the inhabitants honoured one of their patrons and benefactors, not that there was such a priesthood in Alesia (CIL XIII 11250)? These finds look like those found at the Sources de la Seine and offered to Sequana (see above). At Nuits-Saint-Georges (Côte-d’Or), in the territory of the Aedui, near the frontier with the Lingones, Mars Segomo was worshipped together with Apollo and Diana (AE 2001, 1384–5). Sculptural evidence include a head of the god Mars, a divine triad, a goddess with the features of Venus and presumably Lucina, the Roman goddess of childbirth (Deyts and Lambert in Pommeret 2001, 133–42; AE 2001, 1387). The choice of Lucina, unique for Gaul, on a dedication combining Latin and Celtic words (a dedicant Sabrina and at the end the object of dedication in Celtic) is intriguing as it may reflect the dedicant’s knowledge of Roman mythology. Was this his personal choice against the mainstream that interpreted the local deities as Mars Segomo, Apollo and Diana? The sanctuary at Les Bolards is shared by different deities. The guardian deity seems to have been Mars Mullo at Allonnes (Sarthe). By contrast, at Cassinomagus (Chassenon), situated at the margin of the civitas Lemovicum, it was Mars Grannus who was honoured on an inscription that was recently discovered in the Roman baths near the huge octagonal temple (Hourcade and Maurin 2012; AE 2013, 1058); the other ones for private devotions by different people, as ex-votos and terra-cotta figurines suggest. In the area of a double cella temple at Genainville (Val-d’Oise), a number of sculptures of devotees were discovered. A possible cross-legged deity dates to the first phase of the cult complex, and mother goddess – so common across Gaul – were depicted on an ornamental block together with a nymph. But again, the local worshippers took different decisions: there are no inscribed altars; only two bronze sheets reading Mercury and possibly Rosmerta (AE 1996, 1077–8) and the otherwise so common formula v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) can be found on the base of a broken sculpture that represent two feet (Mitard 1993, 311–3). The bronze figurine of Mercury with caduceum must equally have been a personal offering. It has recently been proposed that the Roman bronze mask could be an imperial effigy (Jobelot 2012), though any connection to the imperial cult at Genainville is elusive.

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Beside these large cult areas, including a Romano-Celtic temple with classical features, where we find private offerings by individuals, there are also towns where we find several adjacent temples. For instance, at Riobe (Châteaubleau, Seine-et-Marne), four square temples were constructed inside a monumentalised enclosure near the theatre. Despite the monumentality of the site, people chose not to use epigraphy. Only one inscription has been found: it is a graffito on a bronze patera dedicated to Mercurius Solitumarus without any votive formula. The patera was discovered in the filling of a shaft together with several bronze images depicting horses (Fig. 7.5; Bontrond 1998) and a similar figurine and relief Fig. 7.5. Anepigraphic bronze figurine from depicting Epona on her horse (AE 1998, Châteaubleau depicting a horse (Drawing: C. 948 = 2001, 1388; Parthuisot 1993, 163–4); Hochstrasser-Petit, from Bontrond 1998, fig. 5). Mercurius Solitumarus must be here an agrarian god. P.-Y. Lambert (2008, 147–54) points out that the Celtic epithet Solitumarus was not a theonym related to sight, as was previously suggested, but a functional epithet. We are dealing with Mercury, the protector of abundance. This in turn fits Epona’s original role as fertility goddess. The case of Argentomagus (Saint-Marcel, Indre) – an oppidum of the Bituriges – provides some interesting examples for our study. We are dealing here with a town where three adjacent temples, two of which with ambulatory, were discovered on the site of the Iron Age oppidum. The nature of the evidence seems to be of rather ‘indigenous’ character, reflecting individual, personal choices of the cultores, as we shall see. In order to understand the religious practices at Argentomagus, we need to investigate the precise locations of the finds. We have several deities, notably Apollo, Mercury, mother goddess, etc. (Coulon 1996, 125–46; Fauduet 2014, 38–44): Apollo and the mother goddess seem to have been associated with Temple 1 and Mercury with Temple 2 and in its surroundings. In front of Temple 1, several pieces of a cult statue of a cross-legged god were discovered. This is not only interesting because it may suggest a link between Apollo and a cross-legged deity (see above for the example of Reims), but also because there are traces of the inscription on the statue base consisting of the letters AVG E. This could have been a dedication to [numen] Aug(usti) e[t]; before AVG, there is sufficient room on the stone for a word like numen which is commonly used in Aquitania. If this were the case, we see another combination

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of an indigenous or ‘Celtic’ deity being associated with the cult of the emperor by anonymous dedicant(s). Unfortunately, this is the only known sculpture of a crosslegged god bearing a dedication. Other sculptures have been found in temple sites in the past years, and they seem particularly numerous in central and western Gaul. Does this mean that this (presumed) ‘native’ god was still an ‘official’ god of the community in the region after the first century CE? In this respect, it is interesting that the Celtic title of a magistrate is attested at Argentomagus. The inscription Vergobretos readdas was scratched on a pot and deposited, together with pieces of oxen and pigs on successive layers, in a ritual pit that can be roughly dated to 40 CE (Allain et al. 1981; CAG-36, p. 71). According to Caesar’s commentary on the Gallic Wars (1.16), the vergobretos would have been the highest magistrate of a community, at least among the Aedui. The Celtic word readdas has been interpreted as ‘give’, similar to Latin dedit, suggesting that the vergobretos made an offering or performed a sacrifice (RIG II, L-78). But in this context, it is unlikely that he acted as the Bituriges’ official magistrate; perhaps he carried an honorary title to reflect his involvement in an ancestral ritual. Just outside the temple precinct, which was excavated in the1970s, two limestone plaques were found in a building identified as a private house, a domus, that were dedicated to the numina Augg(ustorum) and Mercury. They show that a Roman citizen offered the repair or rebuilding of an aedes (AE 1973, 341–2). Since the dedicant does not give his position in the community (duumvir, aedilis, sacerdos, flamen, etc.), it suggests that this was again a personal gesture, a sign of euergetism, though we can only guess which temple he was referring to. Temple 4 was recently excavated by S. Sindonino (see Dumasy 2013, 107–10). It is adjacent to the domus where the inscriptions were found. It could be surprising that this temple is connected to them, there is no evidence for Mercury and the ocular anatomic ex-votos in the form of eyes found in the demolition layers do not seem fitting for this god (can the domus be a building connected to some kind of collegium?). Another dedicant was a sacerdos who is attested on a fragmentary limestone piece, worshipping – as a private person – the mater deum (AE 1973, 343) as D. Fishwick (2004, 302) suggested (‘following rather than during his term of office’). No other temple site in a town of the Tres Galliae – apart from civitas capitals – has yielded any dedication by a sacerdos. In the sacred area, pieces of sculpture of Attis and Serapis are the only other testimonies to Greco-Oriental gods and there are no specific buildings. Unfortunately, it is not possible to date all these statues (and to detect an evolution of the cults linked to them) as they were found in the demolition layers. How can we understand the nature of the devotion when we find a bronze jug dedicated to Mercury at the bottom of a shaft in the courtyard of another RomanoCeltic temple of the Bituriges territory at Saint-Ambroix, excavated by Christian Cribellier (Dondin-Payre 2014)? The inscription, dei Mercuri, means that the vessel was his property. The donator, Atespatus, added his name below, while a certain Magno, the dedicant of another jug, did not mention the deity. Private devotions from two

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peregrines between the second half of the second century and the first half of the third century. Also at Ménestreau, situated near Intaranum (Entrains, Nièvre), we find an inscription on a silver vessel discovered in a second-century ritual pit. It shows that the dedicant, bearing the Latin name Vitellius Mansuetus, chose to make a dedication at a cult site founded before the first century CE (Bonneau et al. 1996) to a god that he called by the Celtic name Grinovantis (AE 1993, 1197), a local god of the neighbourhood (a pagus?) connected to Apollo who is honoured at Entrains (Deyts 2004); on the base of a votive sculpture, the same theonym seems to be inscribed (AE 1996, 1074) while a Romano-Celtic temple with classical features (see the pieces of two Hercules at the entrance) was built in the second century (Bonneau 2014). Surprisingly, on a dedication at Entrains, a templum was offered (donavit) – and not just rebuilt – in honour of the Celtic goddess Epona by a wealthy peregrinus with Celtic name and patronymic: Augusto sacrum deae | Eponae | Connonius Icotasgi fil(ius) | templum cum suis orna|mentis omnibus de suo donavit l(ibens) m(erito). (CIL XIII 2902 = ILS 4839 = CAG-58, p. 140)

We have here an example of Roman-style euergetism by a peregrinus for Epona who otherwise is attested at Entrains on another votive inscription by a peregrine who did not mention the purpose of his act; this could be earlier than the second century. Both were found at the same spot where archaeological remains recorded in the nineteenth century and recent survey suggest the location of a temple site though this cannot be conclusively interpreted; it suggests the importance of Intaranum where a templum has been erected (usually in civitas capitals in Gaul) (Fauduet 2010). Epona, connected to protection, is well known in central-eastern Gaul (Euskirchen 1993; Boucher 1999) but is seldom documented in sanctuaries (see above at Châteaubleau and a statuette at Poitiers, see below: De la Croix 1887) and especially not epigraphically in Gaul (see one at Alesia on a bronze plate, ILTG 327 = AE 1939, 235; under the name of the dedicant Satigenus Sollemni(s) fil(ius)). The dedicants of a marble plaque from Antigny in the civitas of the Pictones may have been the marmorarii (AE 1990, 718) who worked on the construction of the richly ornamented second-century rectangular temple. The inscription is unfortunately too fragmentary to indicate whether this was a private offering to Apollo. The fact that we are dealing with a group of craftsmen suggest a collective donation, though not necessarily connected to a public cult as they presumably acted as a private group who made an offering to the god whose temple they were building (Richard 1989). Among the other gods worshipped in this temple site, there is a cross-legged god that must be related to the first-century temple and to Mercury; regarding the latter, various sculptural fragments, notably a head and two hands holding a purse, were discovered in the demolition layers of two small quadrangular buildings contemporaneous to the second-century temple (Richard 1993; 1996 and Bertrand 2018, 420–9). In other small towns in Gaul, it is generally difficult to identify the local deities. For instance, in Drevant (Cher), the name of the deity after the formula to the numen

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of the emperor has not survived (CIL XIII 1364); at other sites, sculptural fragments cannot be located precisely within a cult place or sanctuary since they were re-used as building material in later times or there are no sculptures in the context of any early, first-century temple. In some of the major towns, it is difficult to detect any kind of cult practice since very few finds actually come from excavated sanctuaries, including some of the recently excavated sites. Only a few large temple sites founded at the periphery have yielded some information, such as La Roche at Poitiers where the name of the god, Mercurius Adsmerius, was inscribed on a bronze jug; the text does not provide any information on the nature of the dedication, but we know that it was donated by a certain I(ulius) Venixxam(us) – a Roman citizen with a Celtic cognomen (CIL XIII 1125). This Celtic theonym, Adsmerius, also appears on an inscription from Limonum (AE 1967, 301), and the stem smer- is known in Lugdunensis (Gorrochategui 2007, 116). At Allonnes – at the margin of the chief town of the Cenomani (Vindinum / Le Mans) – a vast temple area with classical features succeeded a Romano-Celtic building where Mars Mullo, on three inscriptions related to the first-century temple (ILTG 343–345), received private dedications, one from a publicus servos, another one from a peregrine (Brouquier-Reddé et al. 2004). Mullo has been interpreted as a polis god due to the presence of imperial and honorific dedications in the second-century temple. This vast cult site is more or less the only one in the Tres Galliae which could indicate a civic cult, similar to the well-known Lenus Mars sanctuary at Trier. But P. Le Roux reminds us to be cautious with such a generalisation (Le Roux 2006). In the precinct of a Romano-Celtic temple in another part of Allonnes, at Les Perrières, a dedication to Minerva has been found together with anatomical ex-votos in bronze representing eyes (Biarne 2006). Even in the temples on the periphery of major towns, the evidence predominantly suggests individual practices.

Conclusion Focusing on Romano-Celtic temples, we have seen that the finds suggest above all personal, individual practices. The archaeological and epigraphic evidence scarcely identify any collective ceremonies and there is hardly any evidence for civic gestures at temple sites. Even members of the elite, be it Roman citizens or peregrini, acted as individuals and not on behalf of a community or the ordo, as we can see by dedicatory formulae, like de suo dedit as well as de monitu and de visu that suggest that the dedicant had a close religious experience with a deity. Practices inspired by personal motivations are far more numerous than indications for a civic cult. We also need to examine the extent to which the introduction of writing led to a transformation of local customs and religious understandings. We see a diversity of gestures, from the graffiti scratched on pottery sherds, the votum on small personal items to precious gifts (for the temple funds) and altars which reveal some kind of ‘show off’. Which gods were honoured before the construction of stone temples and development of inscriptions? When no inscription is found, how can we judge from

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the pieces of sculpture (style and size, context)? We must look for evidence of ritual practices from ceramic and coin deposits, particular concentrations, which cannot be described here. They suggest some custom linked to the spot, but that show once more individualisation even if they give evidence of new customs inspired by Roman influence.

References

Abbreviations

AE = L’Année Épigraphique, Paris 1888–. CAG 21/1 = Carte archéologique de la Gaule, 21/1: La Côte d’Or (Alesia), Paris 2009. CAG 21/3 = Carte archéologique de la Gaule., 21/3: La Côte d’Or (Nuits-Saint-Georges-Voulaines-les-Templiers), Paris 2009. CAG 36 = Carte archéologique de la Gaule, 36: L’Indre. Paris 1992. CAG 45 = Carte archéologique de la Gaule, 45: Le Loiret. Paris 1988 CAG 58 = Carte archéologique de la Gaule, 58: La Nièvre, Paris 1996. CAG 71/3 = Carte archéologique de la Gaule, 71/3: Saône-et-Loire. Paris 1994 CIL XIII = Hirschfeld, O. and Zangemeister, C. (eds) (1899–1916) Corpus Inscrtptionum Latinarum, vol. XIII: Inscriptiones trium Galliarum et Germaniarum Latinae, 5 parts. Berlin, Preußische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Esp. = Espérandieu, É. (1913) Recueil général des bas-reliefs, statues et bustes de la Gaule romaine, vol. V: Belgique – première partie. Paris, Imprimerie Nationale. ILA-Arvernes = Rémy, B. (1996) Inscriptions Latines d’Aquitaine, vol. 4, Arvernes. Bordeaux, Institut de Recherche sur l’Antiquité et le Moyen Age. ILB = Deman, A. and Raepsaet-Charlier, M.-T. (1985) Les inscriptions latines de Belgique. Brussels, Éd. de l’Université ILGL-Aed = Bérard, F. and Le Bohec, Y. (2015) Inscriptions de la cité des Éduens. Inscriptions sur pierre. Inscriptiones latinae Galliae Lugudunensis, vol. 2, Aedui. Barcelona, Universitat. Publicacions y edicions. ILingons = Le Bohec, Y. (2003) Inscriptions de la cité des Lingons. Inscriptions sur pierre. Paris, Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. ILS = Dessau, H. (1892–1916) Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, 3 vols. Berlin, Weidmann. ILTG = Wuilleumier, P. (1963) Inscriptions Latines des Trois Gaules, Paris, Centra Nationale de la Recherche Scientifique. RE = Pauly, A., Wissowa, G. and Kroll, W. (1894–1978) Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, 83 vols. Stuttgart, Metzler. RIG II.1 = Lambert, P.-Y. (2002) Recueil des inscriptions gauloises, vol. 2, fasc. 1: Textes gallo-latins sur instrumentum. Paris, Éd. du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (Supplément à Gallia, 45).

Ancient sources

Caesar, Gallic Wars = Edwards, H. J. (ed. and trans.) (1917) Caesar. The Gallic War. Harvard, Loeb Classical Library.

Modern works

Acolat, D. (2008) Prophylaxie et syncrétisme, quelques témoignages de cultes d’altitude en Gaule romaine. In Haeussler (ed.), 111–26. Allain, J., Fleuriot, L. and Chaix, L. (1981) Le vergobret des Bituriges à Argentomagus. Essai d’interprétation d’une fosse cultuelle. Revue Archéologique de l’Est 123–124, 11–32.

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Chapter 8 Tradition, diversity and improvisation in RomanoBritish cremation burials in south-east England Jake Weekes

Introduction An immediately noticeable feature of Romano-British cremation burials is the frequent diversity of their contents. Yet broad surveys of this burial practice have by their very nature tended to emphasise aspects of commonality and tradition, outlining widespread patterns in burial components at regional and, to a lesser extent, local levels. In collecting data and preparing my own database for doctoral research (Weekes 2005a), I increasingly felt uneasy that typical collective and comparative approaches to classes of object types in burials only give us part of the picture: an overview of general trends. This is at the expense of recognising the potential idiosyncrasies of each cremation burial in terms of the number, types and combinations of objects deposited: diversity and improvisation. In emphasising ‘tradition’ we certainly risk de-contextualisation of the material, imposing researchled analytical categories on a context that in the past was originally comparative in a completely different way. In the original context – the particular funerary event – choices were no doubt made, more or less consciously, as to how much this particular burial would conform to perceived traditions, and what was to be particular to and special about this burial. Perhaps not surprisingly the evidence, if interrogated more sensitively, actually seems to reflect this more improvised and creative approach.

Methodology: de-emphasising the prevalent Jones’ 1982 survey of ‘cemeteries and burial practice in the western provinces of the Roman Empire’ was openly concerned with ‘broad systems of burial practice followed by the bulk of the populations’ (Jones 1982, 17). In advocating his methodology, Jones

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produced weighty citation in the form of Mortimer Wheeler (himself apparently quoting Pitt-Rivers), who argued that ‘common things are of more importance than particular things, because they are more prevalent’ (Jones 1982, 17). Despite an impressive and ground-breaking attempt to codify a large number of object types and spatial relationships found in burials in a computer database (ibid, 202–3, table 1.1), when it came to analysis, Jones was forced to eschew the complications of diversity that such a database must have held in favour of rationalising data in order to generate less complicated models (see for example ibid, 80, fig. 1.11). It is perhaps not surprising therefore that Jones came to the general conclusion that ‘homogeneity was the pattern of most sites’ (ibid, 198). Robert Philpott’s (1991) classificatory approach to data available from Roman Britain as a whole was obviously seminal, and remains the most important basis for classification of Romano-British burial practices. Yet it too can be questioned in terms of its entirely understandable propensity to look for broad patterns in the data as opposed to valuing significant variability. Philpott’s work categorises cremation burial ‘grave treatment and furnishing’ first of all in terms of secondary containers of the remains such as cists of various types, boxes, caskets and amphorae (1991, 9–29), before going on to look at pottery both as primary container of cremated remains and as accessory vessel (1991, 30–44), and subsequently dealing with various other types of burial contents. In each case, Philpott’s analyses consider the same dataset purely in terms of a particular object category, with the result that the same burials are discussed in different ways in different sections of the work. The obvious draw back with such an approach is that it does not treat each burial as a separate event with its own circumstances, references and object assemblage. Such a viewpoint can only give a generalised view of the sorts of objects that might traditionally be included in burials at any given time, rather than the unique qualities of each burial event, and in particular the specialised combination of objects placed in the burial pit. Other potentially significant factors in terms of burial diversity, like spatial aspects of object placement and deliberate modification of certain objects, are also not compared systematically in Philpott’s survey. Even where Philpott’s analyses investigate combinations of certain objects in more detail, he again emphasises the prevalent above the particular and the generic above the specific. For example, a sample of Kent and Essex sites from Philpott’s ‘Table 11: Forms of Pottery in Cremations’ (1991, 34) clearly demonstrates variability, presenting no less than 17 categories of vessel combination (including category of ‘no vessels’) found in varying numbers at the different sites (Table 8.1). Again, the categories of combination used here are in themselves admittedly quite reductive in order to ‘smooth’ comparison (1991, 35). In the end Philpott was able to come to the generalised and particularly influential conclusion that: [A]t least by the second century, there is a distinct preference in the south-east of England for grave groups consisting of three or four vessels of different forms, a jar to act as a cinerary urn, a flagon, a beaker or cup, and platter or bowl (ibid).

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This rationalisation in effect confuses the functional types of vessels most often selected for burial by tradition with the actual and often diverse combinations   Ospringe Canterbury Kelvedon of such vessels that we find within JFBD 25 4 3 particular burials. In fact the evidence JFD 15 2 presented by Philpott himself does JFB 30 2 not bear out the assertion of a single JBD 9 3 generalised pattern for burial contents; FBD 10 the alternative picture that might be derived from the same data is that JF 16 2 there are actually only two significant JB 17 1 3 groups represented: one group of burials JD 8 with no accessory vessels (Philpott’s BD 5 ‘J’ group), and another with a variety FB 9 of diverse combinations (all the other FD 3 1 groups represented). This interpretation is developed more fully below. J 23 10 13 More recent database methods F 11 1 have also tended to be focussed on B 4 2 drawing out patterns and trends in the D 1 2 classes of objects placed burials (see for A 6 example Biddulph 2002; 2005; and most of Weekes 2005a). These and earlier 0 9 methods remain valid when seeking Total 186 27 32 to understand regional, local and site (J= jar, F= flagon, B= beaker, D= dish, A= amphora level traditions, but what about the only, 0 = no vessels) apparently deliberate exceptions to, or rather variations on,‘the rules’ that we find in specific and contemporaneous burials? Is there not something significant in diversity itself? Table 8.1. Sample adapted from Philpott (1991, 34, table 11), comparing combinations of vessel types in cremation burials.

Case studies in cremation burials in South-East England In order to re-think the validity of what we might call homogenising approaches, this paper draws on the findings of my own survey of cremation burials in south-east England (Weekes 2005a), an attempt to devise and test a more sensitive analytical method. The survey looked in detail at case studies in East Kent (Canterbury and nearby; Bennett et al. 1984; Bennett 1985; 1987; Garrard 1987; Pollard 1987; Hicks 1998; Savage 1998; Rady 2000; Diack 2003; Bevan 2004; Cool 2004; Lyne 2004), the eastern cemetery of Roman London (Lloyd-Morgan 1986; Pierpoint 1986; Whytehead 1986; Barber and Bowsher 2000; Betts 2000; Wardle et al. 2000) and Colchester, Essex (Benfield 2000; 2003; Black 2000; Crummy 2000; 2003; Crossan 2000; Shimmin 2003).

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To reiterate, in this paper I look specifically at the burial context; comparative analyses of human and animal bone, pyre goods and environmental analyses from the 2005 sample are considered elsewhere (Weekes 2005b; 2008). All the cremation burials in the survey were first compared in rather standard fashion in terms of the number, types, degree of modification and absolute and relative positioning of specific classes of objects. These object classes were defined, for the purposes of analysis, as: ‘primary containers’ (containing cremated bone deposits), ‘secondary containers’ (large containers housing primary containers or all or most objects in the burial, such as amphorae, boxes, and cists), ‘accessory vessels’ (ceramic) and ‘other accessories’ (anything other than the preceding object types). General profiles were developed for each site and then compared between sites and between case study areas. Again, this method was more akin to that of Philpott and largely confirmed his findings in relation to the general range of objects traditionally placed in Romano-British cremation burials. On the other hand, it was noted that even specific object type analyses began to show up the diversity of numbers and types of burial contents at a local level and within particular cemeteries. Clear local and cemetery level traditions emerged, but there was equally much scope for considerable diversity between sites and between contemporary burials from the same site. Primary containers Not surprisingly for anyone who has excavated a Romano-British cremation cemetery, my survey showed the ceramic jar form as being the most favoured primary container of cremation deposits in practically all the case studies. This was perhaps the most uniform aspect in terms of deposition seen in the entire study, showing a distinct tradition, flourishing in tandem with increased numbers of burials overall in each of the urban cemeteries studied. This finding was therefore in keeping with Philpott’s assertion that ‘[B]y far the most common type of primary cinerary container in Roman Britain is the pottery jar, but other ceramic forms were occasionally used’ (1991, 30). In the latter instances, flagons and flasks (often apparently modified or selected already broken in order to house cremation deposits more easily), beakers, cups and bowls were all sporadically used in a minority of the examples from each case study. Jars, bowls, etc. chosen for use as primary containers seem most often to have been local types, although this may not necessarily be a simple matter of selection from what is locally available. In this respect, the London assemblage was especially interesting in terms of chronologically phased provenance (see Barber and Bowsher 2000, 122–3). Several strands of evidence in this case study led the excavators to suggest that ceramic primary containers had initially been stockpiled for use as funerary urns. Provision of primary containers may have formed ‘part of the service’ provided by specialists, although alternative mechanisms such as setting aside such vessels within households or more ad hoc selection are equally viable (cf. Biddulph 2005). The latter could also be put forward as an alternative explanation for many of

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the kiln seconds or otherwise burnt or damaged vessels noted in all of the urban case studies particularly in the study, another common enough and well known feature of cremation burials (cf. Biddulph 2002). Loose or bagged cremation deposits (often termed ‘un-urned’) in burials would seem to have become much more visible in the archaeological record as a result of recent developments in excavation methods. Such burials made up a significant and similar sized minority in each of the urban case studies, and were also fairly evenly dispersed throughout the early Roman period, again according with Philpott’s assessment of the frequency of ‘unurned burials’ (1991, 47). On the other hand, burials from the ‘Pepper Hill’ cemetery near Springhead in Kent provided good evidence that distinct and variant local traditions can be found for primary containers. On previewing of the archive (information from the archive was kindly provided by Oxford Archaeological Unit and by courtesy of Union Railways (South) Limited; see Boyle 2001), I estimated a much higher proportion of loose or bagged cremation deposits in cremation burials (with accessory vessels and/or other accessories often placed beside or on top of the cremated bone) at this site compared with others, and therefore some sort of localised tradition. Moreover, it later emerged that the loose/bagged burials at the site seem to belong primarily to earlier phases of the cemetery, with jars being increasingly used as primary containers over time, in line with an overall increase in burials (Angela Boyle, pers. comm., and this would seem to be the confirmed finding in the published account; see Booth et al. 2011, 319, noting figure 5.47). Interestingly, then, in this case an early local style of the ritual may have gradually ‘succumbed’ to the broader influence of a more dominant tradition. Although no glass primary containers were located within any of the case studies considered in my own survey (and are rarely found in larger urban cemeteries; Philpott 1991, 26), it might be suggested that such specialist containers represent another particular way of diversifying and elaborating burials (perhaps even a ‘countertradition’ among rural elites?). Neither were any examples of ‘lead ossuaria’, stone vases or cists, nor ‘pipe burials’ represented in the case studies for my survey (these are found in both the rural and urban settings – Philpott 1991, 28). These choices of container again seem to mark instances of specialised selection of primary containers for cremation deposits, perhaps in contravention to the accepted ‘norms’ of locally produced ceramic jars and (occasionally) other vessel forms, or loose/bagged deposits, as a way of setting them apart. There was no evidence in the case studies considered here of certain types of ceramic primary container being associated with particular combinations of objects; no predictive model can be generated of the sorts of objects one might find associated with a jar as a primary container, for example, as compared with a bowl. No general, regional, local or intra-site patterning of location of cremated bone or primary container within the pit could be discerned. A distinct lack of rigid tradition or specialisation in terms of deliberate positioning of the material is therefore suggested.

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Secondary containers All my study areas produced a minority of burials using various forms of box or casket (or possibly wood shuttering of burial pits in some cases), amphorae or tile cists as secondary containers for cremated remains and other burial objects. This would appear to be a feature taken up in a minority of cases throughout the region. Limited numbers of such burials among the findings of this study therefore fit within Philpott’s broad chronologies and spatial distributions for ‘wooden cinerary containers’ (Philpott 1991, 12–21), ‘amphora burials’ (1991, 22–5) and ‘ceramic tile cists’ (1991, 10–11). Secondary containers were noticeably found in discrete spatial groupings in some cemeteries, as with the three adjacent amphora burials at Crundale Limeworks, Kent (Bennett et al. 1984; Bennett 1985, fig. 2), and various types of secondary container along with possible burial superstructures in ‘plot 2’ of the east London cemetery (Barber and Bowsher 2000, 23, fig. 18). In some cases, then, small-scale intra-site traditions, perhaps associated with particular families or other small groups, can be posited within a general tradition. There was no evidence in the survey of a general pattern whereby the use of a secondary container presupposed the inclusion of either particular types of primary container or of certain numbers and types of accessory vessels and/or other accessories. In other words, the use of a secondary container seems to have been an area of elaboration in itself and not necessarily in tandem with elaboration of other burial components. This is especially noticeable in the east London case study where distinctively low numbers of accessory vessels and other accessories (characteristic of the site as a whole) were supplied with the amphora burials just the same way as other burials (see below). Again, it would seem that the putative boxes, as well as amphorae and tile cists, in the east Kent and Colchester case studies might be found among the more ‘richly furnished’ as well as less elaborate examples. This correlates with Philpott’s finding in terms of the relationship between the use of amphorae in burials and numbers and types of accessory vessels, that ‘[I]n general, amphora burials display the same regional patterns of furnishing that can be seen with nonamphora burials’ (1991, 24). However, Philpott’s site-level finding in relation to amphora burials from Ospringe, Kent, is worthy of note here. Philpott found that while proportions of ‘amphora burials’ and ‘non-amphora groups’ with either one accessory vessel type or three types are relatively similar, there were (proportionally) less amphora burials with two types of accessory vessel than the non-amphora groups (1991, 23–24). Moreover, while admitting that the ‘sample is too small to carry much weight’, he suggested that ‘amphora burials tend to have a slightly greater variety of vessel type and a higher quality of vessels than non-amphora burials’ (1991, 24). Alternatively, we might simply suggest that such variables in numbers and types of accessory vessels are a separate matter unconnected with the use of amphorae per se; the more significant local feature at Ospringe (on the basis of the available evidence) would rather appear to be the larger number (proportionally) of burials that use amphorae as secondary

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containers. This feature in itself would therefore seem to be a distinctive site-level trait: another instance of a local tradition? The majority of amphorae used in cremation burials seem to have been modified in a fairly standard way, with removal of the upper part, usually just beneath neck and handles, apparently in order to allow insertion of objects (N.B. this could have been done deliberately for the funerary context, but not necessarily). Again, certain variants were possible, however, and amphora burials from the east London cemetery area with holes in the base for insertion of remains are known (Barber and Bowsher 2000, 338). In terms of spatial arrangements of secondary containers, the apparently deliberate design of pits in order to exactly fit the amphora or box was noted in many (although not all) cases. Again, no tradition in terms of a particular location of such objects within larger pits was discernable, suggesting that wider spatial references (e.g. cosmological) were not expressed in this way, at least traditionally. Beyond this, the most significant spatial aspect of such secondary containers appeared to be the complex relationship between this object class and other objects within the burial. In many burials, all objects were placed within the secondary container, while in others most or all objects had been placed outside. This was certainly an area for diversity between burials, in some cases even on the same site. In the case of Crundale Limeworks amphora burials, the three adjacent deposits were all spatially arranged in different ways (Weekes 2005a). Accessory vessels At site assemblage level, a proportional count of types of accessory vessel often seems to conform broadly with Philpott’s suggestion of flagon/flask, cup/beaker and dish forms being most commonly used in cremation burials, followed by other types in increasing minority (1991, 35). Some possible local patterns can be discerned in terms of particular types within vessel categories, such as the use of local forms of dish in broadly contemporary burials at Cranmer House (Bennett 1987) and St Dunstan’s Terrace (Diack 2003; Lyne 2004), Canterbury, or low levels of samian being a feature of all the urban case studies, and especially the east London plots (Barber and Bowsher 2000; Wardle et al. 2000). However, it was impossible to ignore the considerable diversity in accessory vessels at intra-site level where the selection of types and of numbers of accessory vessels could be remarkably varied from one burial to another. It would appear that the numbers and combinations of accessory vessels selected for deposition, including the duplication of vessel forms in burials or the use only of ‘special’ types, marks one of the most important contexts for burial level diversity (see below). We therefore need to modify any generalisations based on Philpott’s much cited assertion that burials (by the second century CE) increasingly contained a model set of vessels based on vessel function (e.g. jar/flagon/cup/platter), and that: recurrence of such groups suggests a persistent and widespread belief that this represents an appropriate level of furnishing for the deceased (1991, 35).

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An alternative general chronological patterning of accessory vessel provision can in fact be suggested. A comparison of the urban case studies considered in my own survey (Canterbury, Colchester and east London) shows that they all share a very similar development of two general ‘types’ of burial, in line with increasing numbers of burials overall in the second and early third centuries. The pattern seems to be of a consistent ‘group’ (increasing proportionally with increasing numbers of burials overall) with no accessory vessels, and another concurrent ‘group’ (again increasing incrementally in line with increased numbers of burials) of burials supplied with diverse numbers and types of accessory vessel. This is visible even when further qualified by additional aspects of a localised profile, such as lower overall numbers of accessory vessels in the London plots (Barber and Bowsher 2000; see Wardle et al. 2000). While these two general ‘groups’ in terms of accessory vessels need further investigation, particularly in relation to possible tautologies resulting from typological and assemblage date ranges, the pattern in fact correlates and contributes to a more general trend of either complexity or lack of it in terms of entire burial assemblages including other accessories (see below). The sporadic use of ‘substandard’ vessels as accessory vessels, such as wasters, was also noted in all the urban case studies, as was the provision of apparently damaged objects. Already noted by researchers (e.g. Biddulph 2002), I would emphasise here that these could represent a further mode of diversification in burial contents. Whether the broken or ‘substandard’ pots reflect deliberate modification or selection of objects as part of the ritual, or whether such objects were already singled out for mortuary ritual on the basis of pre-existing condition remains opaque. In terms of spatial aspects of object placement, no convincing patterning of accessory vessels in burials in relation to points of the compass (and therefore possible cosmological or other general spatial referents) was discernible in any of the case studies. Such location does not appear to have been a consideration in placement of accessory vessels in burials. On the other hand, complex spatial relationships between objects, such as placement side by side of the same sort of vessel, stacking of vessels, placement (often of miniature or small vessels) within the primary container, as well as intrinsic spatial features such as inversion of certain vessels, seem to be a further dimension for considerable diversity between burials at all sites investigated. Other accessories Provision (or not) of ‘other accessories’ is in the main an area for considerable diversity at burial level (indeed the definition ‘other accessories’ is an attempt to account for this in a catch-all term for anything other than accessory vessels). Some types within this category appeared commonly enough for local and even regional patterns to be suggested. In other cases, objects were so unique in terms of the type of object and/ or any further special qualities or modification, as to strongly suggest some sort of

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personal connection between the object and the deceased (such as ownership), or at least deliberate specialisation of the burial in some way. Among the more general classes of such accessories was footwear placed intact in the burial. Distribution of this practice can be much more sharply defined than has previously been suggested. For instance, the broad view taken by Philpott produced a distribution of cremation burials with footwear as ‘heavily concentrated in south-eastern England’ (1991, 165). Yet neither Colchester nor the east London case studies for this survey, nor any of the background material relating to these areas (even Philpott’s own data), produced any convincing examples of footwear having been placed intact in the burial at the deposition stage, suggesting that the ‘southeastern’ concentration of the practice, while generally true in comparison with the rest of Britain, is too broad brushed at a local level. In fact, the only examples in the Colchester or east London material seemed rather to be ‘scatters’ of hobnails, associated with pyre material, either in pyre related deposits or cremation burials (often a difficult distinction to make in itself). Our interpretation would be that there was an association of this type of object with the pyre rather than the ‘grave’ in these cemeteries and funerals at least. The Canterbury and east Kent case studies included in my study produced notable evidence of a localised traditional practice of footwear deposition in burials. The Canterbury examples could also be demonstrated to incorporate a particular cemetery tradition (counting the sites at Cranmer House and St. Dunstan’s Terrace as the same cemetery area; see Bennett et al. 1987; Diack 2003), apparently afforded to a particular sub-group of burials that rose in numbers in proportion with increasing overall numbers of burials in the second and early third centuries (see below for additional spatial emphasis in the placement of these objects). The inclusion of certain other types of object in cremation burials (such as brooches, bracelets, coins, lamps and mirrors) tends also to be considered by Philpott from the broad perspectives of regionality and overall chronology, and sometimes such objects are grouped by Philpott under more general headings such as ‘personal ornaments’, ‘pendants, gems and amulets’, etc. (see Philpott 1991, 128–64). Such categories appear at least to produce some significant regional distributions, such as concentrated distributions of ‘personal ornaments’ in cremation burials in the southeast of England and in York (see Philpott 1991, fig. 10), but are once again bound to homogenise contemporaneous diversity at site level. It could be argued that sporadic finds in various case studies of objects such as mirrors, lamps, brooches and other dress accessories in cremation burials appear to fit within the broad regional and chronological traditions in the south-east of England noted by Philpott (1991, fig. 10), yet how such large-scale distributions articulate with site-level traditions or specific funerary sequences is as yet unclear. Certainly, local sub-groups or minor traditions, such as the inclusion of coins in certain burials can be delineated in the urban case studies (as in certain east London plots, see Wardle et al. 2000), suggest a minority adherence to a wider tradition across the entire survey area.

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In the east London case study, if provisional diagnoses of the age and sex of individuals represented by cremated remains are to be accepted, it was just possible to delineate (‘through a glass darkly’) a gender and/or age-based provision of other accessories in favour of elderly females (see Barber and Bowsher 2000, 18, fig. 13; Weekes 2005a, vol. 2, 93–5), although whether such a division was limited to a particular case study will remain unknowable without more high quality comparanda. Another most interesting possibility of a localised, family or even priestly tradition is that of the pipe clay goddess figurines found on three separate occasions in the St Dunstan’s cemetery area at Canterbury (Diack 2003; Weekes 2005a, vol. 1, 192–3). Although pipe clay figurines have been noted in cremation and inhumation burials elsewhere there may be other reasons for suspecting a site-specific profile here in terms of special modifications of the objects (see below). Again, a regional and broadly chronological approach to specific artefact types cannot account for diverse combinations of object types, repetitions of object types within the same burials, or extremely rare objects. A good number of burials in the survey (from all case studies) contained variations on such ‘themes’, and it would seem that this was the ultimate context for diversifying burials. The extraordinary burial 1092 from West Tenter Street, London (Whytehead 1986) is an exemplar, containing five perhaps highly personalised items including two mirrors (one apparently ‘pidginised’ in design), two coins (one modified as a possible amulet), and a glass ring. At least some of these items may have been of some considerable age when deposited. With this and other examples it is difficult to avoid the suggestion that such objects may have had some personal resonance with the deceased. Consider for instance the amphora burial (Burial 1) from Crundale Limeworks near Canterbury, which contained at least 10 ‘other accessories’ including an imported copper alloy box with an inscription (Bennett et al. 1984). Burial 46 at Cranmer House, Canterbury, included a miniature sword complete with wooden scabbard (Bennett 1987). A further area of specialisation is the modification of such objects. It must be reiterated that it is a matter of interpretation to suggest that modification occurred as part of the ritual sequence. However, the fact that each of the goddess figurines found in each of the various St Dunstan’s burial contexts seems at least to have been ‘beheaded’ (and may also have had the feet removed) is perhaps suggestive of a very particular ‘tradition’ (ibid.)? There was again no evidence from the case studies of any reference to north, south, east or west in terms of positioning of other accessories in the burial pit, and it is complex spatial relationships between objects that seem once more to have been more important. A particularly interesting example of this is the placement of other accessories within the primary container, either on top of or ‘mixed’ in some way with the cremated bone (a diverse variant was noted in one of the St Dunstan’s, Canterbury, burials: placement of a pewter dish in the base of the primary container and the bone deposit on top). Varied examples were found in varying numbers in each of the study areas, and it might be suggested that there is again an element of diversification of burials here, but through a more generalised and perhaps ‘ritually

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logical’ practice. The latter could also be a function of post-depositional revisiting of the burial, of course, of ‘secondary rites’ focussed on the cremation deposit within the established burial, whereby new objects could be introduced to the burial after initial deposition. A localised form of spatial emphasis would certainly seem to be apparent in the repeated placement of footwear either side of the primary container of cremated remains at both the St Dunstan’s sites, as well as overlapping of footwear. Such positioning, noted by Philpott when only the Cranmer House material was available (1991, 166) and reiterated by the more recent St Dunstan’s Terrace results, is not seen elsewhere in Kent, although sporadic examples further afield have been noted, for example at Skeleton Green (see Black 1987, fig. 4). Combined selection: comparing profiles of entire burial assemblages In conducting the above analyses on particular burial object types, I began to feel that the entire contents of burials were a more appropriate unit of comparison between funerals in that the combined objects found within each burial can be seen to represent the choices made as part of a specific ritual sequence. A final comparison between burials was therefore conducted as part of this research, in order to treat each burial as a unique expression within the tradition. While for many excavators the diversity of burial contents will not in fact come as any surprise, I felt that this important aspect had not been adequately treated in comparative analyses. In order to achieve an alternative survey to account for difference between entire burials, a simple codification of burial objects had to be devised. The codification system (Table 8.2) was intended mainly to be diagnostic of any patterns in the assemblage and dealt only in types of object found in combination in burials, with no comparison of special qualities of deposited objects, modification or spatial features. Even this qualitative scheme was of course necessarily heavily simplified in response to perceived variables within the survey data and restricted to the analytical criteria imposed in the survey. The code for each burial incorporated the number and type of ‘primary container’, if present, the number and types of ‘secondary container’, if present, numbers and types of ‘accessory vessels’ if present, and numbers and types of ‘other accessories’ if present. Thus, for example, a burial with a ceramic primary container, no secondary container, and no accessories could be codified ‘CN0000’, while a burial with a ceramic primary container, a flagon, a cup and a brooch, all contained within an amphora, could be codified ‘CA2FC1B’. Despite the restricted sample of burials where entire contents could be confidently established, and the evident simplification of the scheme for codifying them, a very interesting overall pattern emerged from the analysis as a hypothesis for further research. Of a total of 247 burials from all case studies and all phases that could be confidently subjected to such detailed analysis (burials that were apparently not redeposited and where all [non-perishable] components were known), no less than 111 ‘types’ could be

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Table 8.2. Simplified codification of combined burial contents. Stage

Burial component

Variable

1

‘Primary container’

N = none (no cremated bone) L = loose/bagged G = glass C = ceramic U = unknown

2

‘Secondary container’

N = none W = wood A = amphora T = tile cist U = unknown

3

Number of ‘accessory vessels’

‘00’ = none Or number of accessory vessels

4

Types of ‘accessory vessels’ in a designated order (also used for comparison of ‘accessory vessel’ combinations, above)

F = flagon, flask or other pouring vessel C = cup, beaker or other drinking vessel D = dish, platter, etc B = bowl J = jar S = ‘special’ (e.g. miniatures, etc.) U = unknown

5

Number of ‘other accessories’

‘00’ = none Or numbers of other accessories

6

Types of ‘other accessories’ in a designated order

F = footwear (counted as one object) G = glass vessel L = lamp B = brooch M = mirror C = coin S = ‘special’ meaning any other types U = unknown

distinguished. In other words, the vast majority of object groups within burials in this survey, when considered as a whole, were diverse in at least one aspect. It is notable, moreover, that the largest single group were the apparently relatively ‘simplistic’ burials containing cremated bone in a ceramic primary container with no secondary container and no accessories of any kind (82 burials with the code ‘CN0000’ = 33% of the sample). As we might expect, the majority of diversifications were in the area of accessory vessel and/or other accessory combinations. A provisional phasing of this data produced a further interesting finding: a general chronological pattern of development. It would seem that, as numbers of burials increased overall in the second to third centuries in all urban case studies considered here (225 burials subjected to this analysis), so did the proportion of burials with diverse combinations of objects, while a smaller ‘group’ of burials, apparently merely containing a ceramic primary container and no accessories (only partially augmented

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Jake Weekes Table 8.3. Phased combined selection types in urban case studies.

Phase

Number of burials in area case studies

Total burials

‘CN0000’ burials

Burials of diverse types

Canterbury = 29 Colchester = 13 East London = 15

57

24

33 (29 types) (58%)

2

Canterbury = 51 Colchester = 29 East London = 59

139

3&4

Canterbury = 0 Colchester = 11 East London = 14

25

1

(42%) 50 (36%) 6 (24%)

89 (60 types) (64%) 19 (17 types) (76%)

if more certain burials with loose/bagged cremation deposits and no accessories are included) remained significant, but gradually decreased in favour of the more diverse profiles (see Table 8.3). The development of a general tradition of diversity of combined selection of objects in burials in the second and early third centuries was therefore be suggested by these albeit limited data, in line with increased numbers of burials overall; on the other hand, a substantial but decreasing minority were afforded no elaboration in the form of secondary containers, or accessories or any kind (at least that have survived post-depositional processes, we should also keep caveats around relative dating of pottery assemblages firmly in mind here). Further elaborations in the form of complex spatial relationships, more specialised selection, and modification of objects would add further detail to the picture of an increasingly diverse tradition.

Interpretation The question as to exactly how these general groups of relatively simple and of more elaborate burials articulated with groups among the living is also an area requiring both more and better data for further research. Interpretation can also of course be a matter of theoretical standpoint (compare for example Alcock 1980; Black 1987; Philpott 1991; Pearce 1997; Biddulph 2002; 2005; Williams 2004; Weekes 2017). Yet the evidential starting point for interpretation – for depositional rites at least – would appear to be that, while an overall ‘structure’ suggesting potential types and uses of objects in cremation and associated deposition can be deduced from the collected evidence, so too can agency on the part of particular actors in each ritual sequence, through improvisation on the general themes. Anthony Giddens’ structuration theory (1984) provides a useful model here, with the perceived structure of rituals being the stage for the development of new versions of the rite, and each separate event informing the continuing development of the structure overall. Of key significance in this process is surely the continuing and changing translation of the structure as perceived by agents; in effect,

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each burial ritual can be seen as a new translation of the ‘rules’, and each new translation will itself inform and engender further translations through emulation and development of ideas in subsequent funerals. As we know, much can be lost and found in translations, and it is easy to see how new elements introduced to particular burial events could themselves go on to become wide ranging traditions via such a mechanism. Other elements may only have a relatively short ‘life’ within the tradition, or remain ‘one-offs’, forever qualifying a particular funeral as unique in that respect at least. To use a typical linguistic analogy, we might re-cast the structure of the burial rite as a ‘vocabulary’ and ‘grammar’, denoting the commonly expected types and uses of types of objects. Such structures perhaps equate with the general ‘form’, or the ‘rule governed behaviour’ (Parkin 1992) of the given type of ritual, an underlying framework indicating potential ritual objects and actions. Above all else, however, just like and oral tradition, the perceived structure of the ritual was only ever the starting point, themes for improvisation in the particular funerary event, reflected in burial diversity.

Conclusion What seems to emerge from a more holistic and qualitative approach to burial assemblages is an alternative view of the ‘mechanism’ driving the development of a new creolised style of mortuary ritual in south-east England in the first to early fourth centuries: a dialectic between structure and agents where deposition of burial contents was perhaps increasingly an area for diversification and improvisation. The typical framework for the Romano-British cremation burial rituals would no doubt include such general traits as deposition of cremated bone within primary containers that were more often than not ceramic, and most often local jar forms, frequently associated with accessory vessels such as flagons or flasks, beakers or cups, dishes or bowls. This overall ‘vocabulary’, ‘grammar’ or ‘structure’ should not be allowed to overshadow particular regional, local or site-level traditions, however, or the diverse ways in which such components were translated and articulated in particular burials in the context of ritual improvisation. Our data collection and analytical frameworks need to accommodate and interrogate diversity alongside homogeneity: the improvisation of each and every burial in Roman Britain and beyond is just as significant as the ways in which each might ‘fit’ within broader patterns.

References

Alcock, J. (1980) Classical religious belief and burial practice in Roman Britain. Archaeological Journal 137, 50–85. Barber, B. and Bowsher, D. (2000) The Eastern Cemetery of Roman London: excavations 1983–1990. London, Museum of London Archaeology Service Monograph 4. Benfield, S. (2000) The Roman pottery. In Crossan 2000, 12–7.

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Benfield, S. (2003) Listing of pottery from the Roman burials. In D. Shimmin, Turner Rise: Roman cremation cemetery. Colchester Archaeological Trust Archive Report. Colchester, Colchester Archaeological Trust. Bennett, P. (1985) Crundale Limeworks (N.G.R. TR 074489). Archaeologia Cantiana 101, 285–8. Bennett, P. (1987) Cranmer House, London Road. In S. S. Frere, P. Bennett, J. Rady and S. Stow, Canterbury Excavations: Intra- and Extra-Mural Sites, 1949–55 and 1980–84, 56–73. Maidstone, Kent Archaeological Society. Bennett, P. (1984) Crundale Limeworks 1984: Archive, housed at Canterbury Archaeological Trust. Betts, I. (2000) Ceramic building material and stone. In Barber and Bowsher 2000, 340–8. Bevan, L. (2004) St Dunstan’s Terrace, Canterbury (Site Code) SDT EX 04) Small Finds. Archive report. Booth, P., Champion, T., Foreman, S., Garwood, P., Glass, H., Munby, J. and Reynolds, A. (2011) On Track: The Archaeology of High Speed 1 Section 1 in Kent. Oxford: Oxford Wessex Archaeology Monograph 4. Biddulph, E. (2002) One for the road? Providing food and drink for the final journey. Archaeologia Cantiana 122, 101–11. Biddulph, E. (2005) Last orders: choosing pottery for funerals in Roman Essex. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 24.1, 23–45. Black, E. W. (1987) Romano-British burial customs and religious beliefs in south-east England. Archaeological Journal 143, 201–39. Black, E. W. (2000) The tile. In Crossan 2000, 37–38. Boyle, A. (2001) Waterloo Connection, Southfleet, Kent. ARC PHL 97, ARC NBR 98. Detailed Archaeological Works Assessment Report, Volume 1. Oxford, Oxford Archaeological Unit. Union Railways (South) Limited. Cool, H. E. M. (2004) The Roman glass from St Dunstan’s Terrace (SDT EX 01). Archive report. Crossan, C. (2000) Archaeological Excavations at the Garrison Sports Pitch, Circular Road North, Colchester, Essex (Abbey Field) February–March 2000. Colchester, Colchester Archaeological Trust Report 138. Crummy, N. (2000) The small finds. In Crossan 2000, 21–33. Crummy, N. (2003) The small finds from the cremations. In D. Shimmin, Turner Rise: Roman cremation cemetery. Colchester Archaeological Trust Archive Report. Colchester, Colchester Archaeological Trust. Diack, M. (2003) St Dunstans Terrace, Canterbury, Stratigraphic Report. Unpublished client report. Canterbury, The Canterbury Archaeological Trust. Garrard, P. (1987) The small finds and glass (with contributions by G. Lloyd-Morgan, S. Greep, F. Jenkins, P. Blockley, V. Tatton-Brown, M. Metcalf and L. Webster). In S.S. Frere., P. Bennett, J. Rady and S. Stow, Canterbury Excavations: intra- and extra-mural sites, 1949–55 and 1980–84, 271–84. Maidstone, Kent Archaeological Society. Hicks, A. J. (1998) Excavations at Each End, Ash 1992. Archaeologia Cantiana 118, 91-172. Jones, R. F. J. (1982) Cemeteries and Burial Practice in the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire. Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis. University of London, Institute of Archaeology. Lloyd-Morgan, G. (1986) The lid mirror. In R. Whytehead, The excavation of an area within a Roman Cemetery at West Tenter Street, London E1. Transactions of the London & Middlesex Archaeological Society 37, 90–1. Lyne, M. (2004) The Pottery from St. Dunstan’s Terrace, Canterbury. Archive report. Philpott, R. A. (1991) Burial Practices in Roman Britain: a survey of grave treatment and furnishing AD 43–410. Oxford, British Archaeological Reports British Series 219. Pierpoint, S. J. (1986) The Romano-British pottery. In R. Whytehead, The excavation of an area within a Roman cemetery at West Tenter Street, London E1. Transactions of the London & Middlesex Archaeological Society 37, 68–88. Pollard, R. J. (1987) The pottery. In S. S. Frere, P. Bennett, J. Rady and S. Stow, Canterbury Excavations: intra- and extra-mural sites, 1949–55 and 1980–84, 284–97. Maidstone: Kent Archaeological Society.

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Rady, J. (2000) An Archaeological Evaluation at 27, St Dunstan’s Terrace, Canterbury (Telephone Repeater Station). Unpublished client report. Canterbury, The Canterbury Archaeological Trust. Savage, A. (1998) The Roman pottery. In A. J. Hicks, Excavations at Each End, Ash 1992. Archaeologia Cantiana 118, 132–50. Shimmin, D. (2003) Turner Rise: Roman Cremation Cemetery. Colchester Archaeological Trust Archive Report in Preparation. Colchester, Colchester Archaeological Trust. Wardle, A., Shepherd, J., Symonds, R., Riddler, I., Lloyd-Morgan, G. and Hammerson, M. (2000) Catalogue. In B. Barber and D. Bowsher, The Eastern Cemetery of Roman London: excavations 1983–1990, 142–263. London, Museum of London Archaeology Service, Monograph 4. Weekes, J. (2005a) Styles of Romano-British Cremation and Associated Deposition in South-East England. Unpublished Ph.D Thesis, University of Kent, Canterbury. Weekes, J. (2005b) Reconstructing syntheses in Romano-British cremation. In J. Bruhn, B. Croxford and D. Grigoropoulos (ed.) TRAC 2004, Proceedings of the fourteenth annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference. Durham 2004, 16–26. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Weekes, J. (2008) Classification and analysis of archaeological contexts for the reconstruction of early Romano-British cremation funerals. Britannia 39, 145–60. Weekes, J. (2017) Afterword – process and polysemy: an appreciation of a cremation burial. In J. Pearce and J. Weekes (ed.) Death as a Process: The Archaeology of the Roman Funeral, 288–301. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Whytehead, R. (1986) The excavation of an area within a Roman cemetery at West Tenter Street, London E1. Transactions of the London & Middlesex Archaeological Society 37, 23–124. Williams, H. M. R. (2004) Potted histories – cremation, ceramics and social memory in early Roman Britain. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 23.4, 417–27.

Chapter 9 Individual choices in burial ritual and cult activity in and around the Iron Age and Romano-British town of Baldock, Hertfordshire, UK Gilbert R. Burleigh

The aim of this paper is to study the diversification of burial rituals and cult activities, and the extent of religious individualisation, by examining some examples in the Romano-British rural ‘small town’ at Baldock (Hertfordshire) and its hinterland (Fig. 9.1). Work at Baldock has established that it probably originated as an Iron Age oppidum, and had a defined territorium, within which a notable level of cult activity and burials took place (Burleigh 2005; 2008; 2015; 2018; 2020; 2022). During the Roman period, Baldock became a so-called ‘small town’ or vicus, and served as a regional centre (Burleigh 1995). It was on the Icknield Way, a major east–west route in the Iron Age and Roman periods and at a junction of pre-Roman and Roman roads from Verulamium, Braughing and London, including what later became the Great North Road, leading north to contemporary settlements at Sandy, Godmanchester and beyond. It appears to have developed a distinctive character for cult activities and burials, possibly acting as a centralised, collective focus for the region in this guise.

Cemeteries at Baldock Around the core Baldock settlement, 22 pre-Roman and Romano-British cemeteries have been excavated (Burleigh 1993; Burleigh and Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2010; Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2016). Given the total of approximately 2,500 graves in these cemeteries, it can be suggested that the Baldock site was a regional focus for burials, possibly resulting from its previous central role as an Iron Age oppidum. It is possible that individuals were brought into the Baldock cemetery areas from surrounding settlements, where burial evidence is much less known. The burials themselves reveal a considerable range of burial practices, suggestive of varied religious beliefs, magic and ‘superstitions’, as well as varied ways of remembrance of the deceased and their

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Fig. 9.1. (Upper) Map showing Baldock in relation to its Roman region. Number 4 indicates Hinxworth, and number 8 Ashwell End. (Lower) Baldock area in the Roman period, showing location of temples and shrines. I, Wynn Close; 2, & 3, Baker’s Close; 4, Walls Field; 5, Large Burial Enclosure and doline; 6, Shrine F137 (Drawn by Jane Read, Copyright North Hertfordshire Museum).

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social roles. The following examples aim to gain a better insight into the nature of individualisation of religious beliefs and practices. The examples given provide a small selection of inhumation and cremation burials with unique rituals concerning grave goods, manipulation of human remains, etc. Although the cemeteries appear ‘normal’ for the period, they often contain unusual or even ‘unique’ burials, in some cases amounting to a significant proportion of burials in a particular cemetery. For example, of the inhumation burials in the late/sub-Roman California cemetery and the Iron Age and Roman cemeteries by the Royston Road, a significant percentage are either decapitated or prone, although in other respects the burials are ‘normal’ for the periods, i.e. some have grave-goods and/or are in coffins (Burleigh 1993; Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2016). In one cemetery, Stane Street, excavated in 1989, a late first-century BCE to late first-century CE grave (7652), aligned north-north-west to south-south-east, contained a mature adult female (7649), with her head to the south-south-east, and accompanied by three eight-month foetuses (Fig. 9.2): one (7648), in the south-west corner of the grave, one (7683) by the hips of the adult female, and the other (7688) in the region of the birth canal. The adult had been laid on her right side, with her lower body twisted so that her legs were parallel and facing down, with a slight angle at the knees. Her right arm lay beneath the body and the hand beneath her left hip, while her left arm was bent 90 degrees at the elbow, the hand pointing away from the body. The foetus in the southwest corner of the grave appeared to have been laid in a supine position, with the head to the south-south-east and the legs flexed towards the west. The other two foetuses were less well preserved. Burial (7688) appeared to be in a breech position in the adult female’s birth canal and (7683) was probably still in her womb. This rare burial suggests that it contained a mother and her three still-born infants. Multiple births were frequently difficult in the ancient world (the Classical Roman name Gemellus recording a successfully born twin; Lewandowska 2021), and it is likely that there were considerable complications Fig. 9.2. Stane Street Roman cemetery, inhumation with the births of these three premature burial 7649, mother with triplets (Copyright North babies, the second of which may have Hertfordshire Museum)

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Fig. 9.3. Wallington Road Roman cemetery, cremation burial 44/200 (B17/181). Left: plan showing burial vessels above the mirror. Right: photo showing mirror plate found under the vessels. (Copyright North Hertfordshire Museum).

been in a breech position. Her relatives clearly mourned the loss of the mother and her babies and gave them a carefully laid out burial in a formal cemetery, maybe close to other buried relatives. As far as is known, this burial is unique in the Roman world and featured in a 2011 BBC television programme in the series, History Cold Case, available on YouTube (Burleigh 1993, 41–9; 2022; Fitzpatrick-Matthews and Burleigh 2006; 2007; Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2016; 2020). In the Wallington Road cemetery, Burial 44/200 (B17/181) (Fig. 9.3), a second/ third-century CE burial group, consisted of two vessels. Vessel A was a jar used as the cinerary urn for the cremated bones of a mature adult female. Vessel B, to its southeast, was a decorated colour-coated beaker; such vessels typically accompanied female burials in this cemetery at Wallington Road (but not elsewhere in Baldock). Beneath the pottery vessels, on the base of the grave pit, was a silvered bronze mirror-plate between two groups of small nails, suggesting that the mirror had originally been contained in a wooden box or frame (Burleigh and Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2010, 49, 168–9). This is the only Romano-British mirror burial from any of the 22 cemeteries recorded at the town of Baldock, and one might speculate that this rite could be a continuation of the well-known, but uncommon, late pre-Roman Iron Age practice in south-east Britain of burying mirrors with cremations, usually of females. In the first century BCE, the western and southern boundaries of the territory of Baldock appear to be marked by several decorated mirror burials at Old Warden (Dyer 1966, 55–6; Spratling 1970, 9–16), Ruxox (Burleigh and Megaw 2011, 51–8), Pegsdon (Burleigh and Megaw 2007, 109–40), and Aston (Rook et al. 1982, 18–34). The mirror might have magical qualities or divine symbolism. Burial 120 (B93) (Fig. 9.4), another second or third-century CE burial in the Wallington Road cemetery, consisted of two vessels. Vessel A, a jar used as the cinerary urn for the bones of a child, and inside it with the cremated bone, vessel B, a small necked jar probably intended as a drinking vessel. The two large nails

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recovered with the cremated bone may represent an original coffin burnt with the body. A natural flint with two hollows, resembling the eyes on a human face or skull, was carefully placed on the edge of the pit, with the ‘eyes’ facing the urn. This was virtually the only flint, and certainly the only one of any size, in the pit fill and there is little doubt that it was deliberately placed in the grave as part of the burial Fig. 9.4. Wallington Road Roman cemetery, (Burleigh and Fitzpatrick-Matthews cremation burial 120 (B93) (Copyright North 2010, 103–4). What the spiritual or Hertfordshire Museum). emotional purpose of this grave gift was is unknown, but there could be many reasons for its placement in this child’s grave, maybe to represent a parent or deity watching over and protecting the child in the afterlife. One might wonder, for instance, whether it had any connection with the well-known pre-Roman Celtic cult of the human head (Aldhouse Green 2001, 93–110). Burial 5332 (5266) (5336) was a late second – early third-century CE grave in the Royston Road cemetery (Fig. 9.5). It contained the extended supine inhumation of an older adult female who had been decapitated. The inhumation was within the remains of a nailed wooden coffin, placed in a broad, sub-rectangular cut. The upper half of the axial element of the skeleton was no longer present, with the head Fig. 9.5. Royston Road Roman cemetery, burial replaced face up in the northern corner 5332–5336 (Drawn by Jane Read, Copyright of the coffin area and fragments of North Hertfordshire Museum). other bones being left behind during the disturbance. However, the osteologist analysing the skeleton suspected that the morphology of the skull might be different to that of the rest of the body (Roberts in Fitzpatrick-Matthews and Burleigh 2007). Given the differences in the grave fill from one area to another, it may be that the head of the person buried was subsequently removed, only to be replaced by that of another person, though the reason for this is not apparent. This is one example of many for the manipulation of human remains in a grave, so common in both Iron Age and Romano-British cemeteries at Baldock,

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which reminds us of the manipulation of skulls in late Iron Age cemeteries in Gaul, often embalmed, preserved and on display. The site records suggested that the disturbance was likely to have taken place before the integrity of the coffin was lost through decay, reinforced by the positions of the coffin nails which were in situ. It is also likely that it occurred at a time when the grave cut had only been about a third filled, in other words, to the level of the coffin lid. By the right side of each foot were recovered bronze rivets totalling fifteen, presumably from shoes. The pottery recovered from eleven soil contexts within the grave represented a jar, a flagon and a colour-coated beaker. These sherds appear to have been scattered in the soil fills at different times as the grave was gradually back-filled. Four postholes were identified on the north-western and north-eastern sides of the grave, suggesting the possibility of a superstructure over the burial. This structure would have to some extent protected the exposed coffin from the elements while the grave was in-filled over time. There are other examples of similar practices in other burials at Baldock (Burleigh 1993; Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2016). In the California cemetery, Burial 2489 (2602) was an early second-century CE inhumation grave located in a ditched enclosure on the eastern side of a roadway (Fig. 9.6).

Fig. 9.6. California cemetery, burials 2487 and 2489 (Drawn by Jane Read, Copyright North Hertfordshire Museum).

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The grave contained a mature adult male, buried in an extended supine position with his right hand by his right thigh. Near this hand were two whetstones. Subsequently, another early second-century grave, 2487 (2619), was cut at about 90 degrees to 2489, and into the fills of the latter, but not disturbing the male inhumation, 2602. The upper fills of 2487 had a secondary burial inserted of a small dog, 2618, contained by a wooden box, presumably a pet. The primary burial in 2487 was that of a young mature adult female, 2619. Remarkably, her lower legs had been broken to fit her into the grave. More astonishingly, her right arm had been stretched by the grave diggers to reach out with her hand almost touching the right hand of the male in grave 2489. Perhaps these burials represent a powerful example of individualisation, one of undying, eternal love. In the Icknield Way East cemetery, burial 3960 (3958) was an early fourth-century CE infant inhumation in a nailed coffin set in a large rectangular grave-pit surmounted by a timber superstructure, presumably a mausoleum or mortuary house (Fig. 9.7). The infant in the coffin was apparently accompanied by three small wooden caskets, two of which were placed at either end of the coffin while the third rested on the

Fig. 9.7. Icknield Way East, excavation plan of infant burial with pipe-clay Dea Nutrix figurine (Drawn by Keith McBarron, Copyright North Hertfordshire Museum).

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chest of the infant (Fig. 9.8). Placed on top of this casket was a complete pipeclay figurine of a so-called Dea Nutrix, nursing two infants, presumably twins, and dating to the second century CE, so probably a family heirloom. RomanoGaulish mother goddesses of this type represent a personal cult and were associated with fertility, pregnancy, childbirth, lactation and well-being, healing, renewal, rebirth, the span of human life on earth, resurrection in the other world and the afterlife (Burleigh, Fitzpatrick-Matthews and Aldhouse-Green 2006, 273–94). Deae Nutrices from Romano-British graves are rare and include examples from Welwyn and Canterbury. This Baldock Fig. 9.8. Reconstruction of the infant burial in its example is the only one nursing two wooden coffin, with caskets and the figurine (Drawn infants. Perhaps the infant in the grave by Keith McBarron, Copyright North Hertfordshire had a twin sibling who survived it and Museum). the grief-stricken parents placed this unusual figurine with the deceased infant to acknowledge the fact, marking a deeply personal and individual choice of ritual. Burial 7012 (7013) in the Icknield Way East cemetery contained the urned cremation burial of a mature/older adult of indeterminate sex. The burial pit comprised a large jar and a folded colour-coated beaker with a pedestal base and a wide mouthed trumpet neck; the latter is an unusual form which dates to the late fourth century CE. The burial is a rare example of an individual choosing to be cremated in the late fourth or even early fifth century, at a time when inhumation had been the vast majority’s preferred choice of burial rite from the later third century onwards (Burleigh 1993; Burleigh and Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2010; Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2016). We know that there were probably Christian believers in Romano-British Baldock. A possible Roman Christian cemetery of the late third–late fourth-century CE or later can be identified at The Tene, on the west side of the settlement. Excavated in 1978, it contained only extended supine inhumations, all aligned east-west with heads at the west end of the graves, facing east. There were no coffins and no grave goods (Burleigh 1980, 35–7). Elsewhere in the town, off the Clothall Road, from the upper fill of a late Roman roadside ditch, the silver bezel from a fourth/fifth-century CE Roman signetring inscribed with the Christian prayer VIVAS (‘may you live’ or ‘long life to you’) was found (Henig in Phillips et al. 2009, 95, pl. 4, 117 and 120). The word VIVAS is in the lower

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left-hand quadrant while the unusual personal name CIMARLIUS (the M and A are ligatured) forms the remainder of the inscription surrounding an image of a male bust, seemingly wearing a diadem, wreath or crown of thorns, perhaps either a representation of Jesus Christ or the owner of the fingerring. The owner of this signet ring would have used it to impress seals on legal and other documents and must have been someone of considerable wealth and status, perhaps a highranking official in the local Christian community (Keith FitzpatrickMatthews pers. comm.; Delamarre 2007 and 2019; Burleigh 2022). Burial 1413 (1425), in the late/ sub-Roman California cemetery, was an adult female inhumation, buried in an extended supine position with the head at the north-western end of the grave (Fig. 9.9). There were several grave goods by her feet, the whole burial being contained by a Fig. 9.9. California cemetery, probable subnailed wooden coffin. At the left foot Roman inhumation 1413-1425 (Copyright North were 24 hobnails from a pair of shoes Hertfordshire Museum). or boots. In the corner of the coffin, also by the left foot, was a small single-handled cup and by the right foot a singlehandled jug. These vessels are a matched pair, both being colour-coated, and both of unusual forms, not comparing precisely any type known from the Oxfordshire kilns or elsewhere. The vessels were probably manufactured in the late fourth century CE, and the burial made in the fifth century, since sub-Roman handmade pottery sherds were found scattered in the same grave. Here we find Romano-British burial rituals continuing beyond the official end of the Roman occupation of Britain (Burleigh and Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2010; Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2013 and 2016).

Cult activity This section aims to show examples of different cult activities and sites in and around Baldock. Some of these indicate individual decisions as well as collective. It will be seen that there is diversity and individualisation in both Iron Age and Roman periods,

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but that these vary. For example, in the late Iron Age there are not just cremation cemeteries, but also inhumation and mixed rite ones. Similarly, in the Roman period, although at first cremation burials tend to dominate the various cemeteries, some of which continued in use from the late Iron Age, there are examples of inhumations too, while the latter rite became overwhelmingly the norm in the later third to fifth centuries CE. However, some individuals still chose to be cremated as late as the late fourth or early fifth century CE (see burial 7012 (7013) above). Most of the recorded late Iron Age and Romano-British cemeteries and temples/ shrines are located either to the east of an Iron Age pit alignment on the settlement’s eastern edge, or on the western edge of the settlement (Burleigh and FitzpatrickMatthews 2010, figs 11, 13, 16 & 18). The so-called ‘small town’ of Baldock does not appear to be a Romano-British town in the generally accepted sense. What has not been found to date are identifiable administrative buildings, market buildings, military buildings or public baths. There are at least six temples/shrines, of a variety of types, including only one Romano-Celtic temple. It would seem that these were not public buildings, but instead reserved for members of particular, maybe exclusive, religious cults, as many of the cemeteries may have been too. The large building excavated in 1991 on ‘The Engine’ public house site at the junction of the Roman road between Sandy–Baldock–Verulamium and the Icknield Way has been interpreted as a possible mansio (Richmond et al. 1992), but may have been a hostel for visitors to the temples and cemeteries. Ditched enclosures were common in late pre-Roman Iron Age settlements and it is surprising to see them across the settlement throughout the Roman period, not just enclosing cemeteries, but domestic areas also. The excavated evidence suggests that Baldock was some kind of religious sanctuary settlement, not unlike Springhead, Kent (Andrews et al. 2011), home to a number of cults, and a centre for a large number and variety of cemeteries, probably organised by specialist burial clubs, perhaps attracting believers and the bereaved from a wide area and various cults to bury their dead in one or another cemetery. Upper Walls Common On the east side of the town, on Upper Walls Common, at what is now Wynn Close, lay a Romano-British large, trapezoidal, ditched enclosure, approximately 64 by 40 m. It contained an 8 m diameter, perhaps second or third century CE, circular timber building and several large pits (Fig. 9.10), including a well by the enclosure entrance on the south-east side, filled with what are probably the remains of ritual feasting and numerous votive objects. The latter included miniature objects, such as axes, a spear and an antler. Other religious artefacts from features in the enclosure included an iron rattle, maybe used in priestly divination, a small fragment of bronze apparently from a large statue and a remarkable collection of 44 iron spearheads, 33 of them in one pit. A number of pits contained Iron Age coins, apparently deposited as votive offerings well into the Roman period. The enclosure ditch and the features in which the ritual remains were found may be dated to the third–fourth century CE (Stead

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and Rigby 1986, 85–6). We may conclude that the enclosure and its features were for religious purposes and that the circular timber building was probably a simple shrine. From an earlier, preenclosure, phase, about 60 CE, a pit held the butchered remains of a flock of sheep which seems to be clear evidence for a religious feast (ibid., 85–6). The shrine may have been dedicated to Mars, who is depicted on intaglios from Baldock (Henig in Stead and Rigby 1986, 190–1), and/or an indigenous hunting deity, hence the deposited spearheads and votive model antler and spear (Green 1992; Aldhouse Green 2001). A devotion to Mars in this rural market town may not have been a purely classical understanding. Elsewhere in the Baldock area, e.g. at Barkway, Mars Fig. 9.10. Wynn Close Romano-British shrine and enclosure (Copyright North Hertfordshire was equated with other ‘Celtic’ deities Museum). (Jackson and Burleigh 2018, 63–73). These depositions and rituals appear to be a mix of collective, e.g. the butchered sheep, and individual rituals, e.g. the deposition of single coins and other artefacts, including personal, for instance, brooches. This mixture applies also to the other sites with their rituals and depositions mentioned below. Adjacent to the south-west corner of the first-century BCE Large Burial Enclosure at the California end of Upper Walls Common, there was a natural solution feature, or doline, in the chalk bedrock, about 18 m diameter and at least 2 m deep (Fig. 9.11). It had been modified in the Iron Age for a number of ritual activities. Near its base were two late Iron Age inhumations and evidence for the deposition of fragmentary human bone as early as the fifth century BCE. Above the inhumations a chalk-floored structure, about 4 by 3 m, revealed several phases, as did its hearth. A sequence of associated deposits contained much charcoal, burnt bone and pottery, melted bronze and glass fragments, human bone, brooches, amphorae sherds, nails, but also fragments of quern, a clay loom weight, spindle whorls, a pottery disk, daub and a fragment of painted plaster. These features were broadly contemporary with the use of the Large Burial Enclosure, although several phases of activity were observed, and they may represent the evidence for ritual involving both high-status as well as ‘domestic’ activities associated with the adjacent burial enclosure. It has been suggested, in connection with a major late Iron Age ceremonial centre further east along the

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Fig. 9.11. Large Burial Enclosure of the Late Iron Age, and underlying doline (Copyright North Hertfordshire Museum).

Icknield Way at Thetford, that weaving was a high-status activity, while spinning was a domestic activity (Gregory 1991). At Thetford, weaving was represented by finds but not spinning; at Baldock both activities are in evidence. The structure with the inhumations could be interpreted as a mortuary house or shrine where bodies were exposed before cremation and burial. The sequence of hearths in the structure may have been where offerings were ritually burnt. The finds also suggest that feasting was part of the rituals. The brooches indicate that activity continued from the later first century BCE through to the mid-first century CE. Early in the Romano-British period the entire hollow was sealed by a very carefully laid flint gravel surface which followed the contours of the hollow. Interestingly, at the lowest point at the centre

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of the now-metalled hollow, a flat area was left of about the same size as the floor of the now-sealed shrine. Apparent rubbish deposits that accumulated over the gravel surface subsequently may be also a consequence of ritual feasting. Although not representing one event associated with one burial, but several phases of activity, there are possible similarities here with the mortuary house in a large pit associated with the princely burial at Folly Lane, Verulamium (Niblett 1999). It is possible that at least some of the elements of the ritual and structures involved with both the Folly Lane cremation burial and some high-status cremation burials at Camulodunum (Crummy 1993; 2007), have their origins in precedents which are perhaps partly represented by these discoveries at Baldock (Burleigh 1982, 3–18; 1983, 70–4; 1995, 105; Burleigh and Fitzpatrick-Matthews 2010, 50–2). In the light of the discovery at Ashwell, north of Baldock, of the Senuna temple treasure hoard in 2002 and the associated ritual feasting site excavated 2003–2006 (Jackson and Burleigh 2018), with its homogeneous organic soils, the accumulated deposits and activities in the doline and surrounds may be re-interpreted as a religious ceremonial place and shrine receiving votive offerings, and ritual feasting and burial site also, in use from the fifth century BCE to, not just the second century CE (as originally published), but extending perhaps to the seventh century CE (Burleigh 2008; 2015; 2020; 2021.). The late Roman inhumations in the upper deposits of the doline (F466, F479, F516, F534 and F548), in the tops of the adjacent wells, e.g. F18, F92 and F557, and the fifth/sixth-century ‘hall-like’ post and sill-beam timber structure over the upper deposits, were all connected to continuing ritual activities in and around the doline, including the late and sub-Roman California enclosed cemetery sited a few metres to the north, and the sub-Roman ditched enclosure with its post-built gateway nearby to the north-west of the doline. In fact, it may not be a gateway, but the posts supporting a platform for a wooden shrine, similar to the ditched enclosures at Coombe Bottom, Kelshall; Radwell Grange, Radwell; and Baldock Road, Royston (Burleigh 1978, 27–8; 2022; Billington and Browne 2020). Ashwell End Four kilometres to the north of Baldock, near the west bank of the river Rhee, at Ashwell End, a hoard of Romano-British temple treasure was found in 2002 (Figs 9.12 and 9.13), comprising gold and silver votive leaf plaques, gold jewellery and a silver figurine of a female deity, Senuna, iconographically associated with Fortuna, and perhaps Ceres. The silver base for the figurine was recovered in the subsequent excavation and it had an inscribed dedication to Senuna, not Fortuna. Fieldwork has revealed a late Iron Age and Romano-British settlement extending along both banks of the river. The settlement may lie at the northern limit of Baldock’s territory. Several of the inscribed votive plaques, as well as the base for the Senuna figurine, show that they were dedicated by individual votaries. The base was dedicated to Senuna by a female devotee, Flavia Cunoris. Five of the seven gold votive leaf plaques represent named individual devotees (four male and one female): Claudius Celsus, Nerus, Quintianus, Bell( ) Memorianus and Cariatia Ressa. Of the 13 silver votive leaf plaques in this temple treasure hoard, five are dedicated by individually named

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Fig. 9.12. Ashwell End gold votive plaques from the Senuna temple treasure hoard (Copyright The Trustees of the British Museum).

devotees (four male and one female): Lucius L( ) Herbonianus, Servandus (× 2), Firmanus, and Lucilia Sena (Tomlin in Jackson and Burleigh 2018, 110–6). The suite of gem-set gold jewellery included in the temple treasure hoard suggests personal offerings by one or more individual devotees too. Subsequent to the discovery of Senuna’s temple treasure hoard, archaeological excavations showed that it had been buried on the edge of a large artificial hollow which had served as a place for collective ritual feasting and the deposition of votive offerings, as well as offerings by individual votaries, as evidenced by the deliberate placings of personal dress items, such as brooches, finger-rings and pins. The votive leaf plaques from the hoard and artefacts uncovered by the excavations show that the worshippers were venerating a pantheon of deities, not only Senuna, including Minerva, apparently connected with Senuna,

Fig. 9.13. Ashwell End silver figurine of Dea Senuna from the temple treasure hoard (Copyright The Trustees of the British Museum).

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herself apparently connected to Ceres and Fortuna, as evidenced by the votive inscriptions and the figurine, Mars, Mercury, Roma with Sol, and Victory. Finds from the ritual feasting site add the following to the list of deities and their associates venerated: Apollo, Silenus and Venus (Jackson and Burleigh 2018; Burleigh 2019). Hinxworth On the spring-line at the foot of the chalk scarp, one kilometre west of the Ashwell End Romano-British settlement, at Hinxworth, on the west bank of a stream that has a confluence with the Rhee at the north end of the Ashwell End settlement, two features lie in close proximity that are visible as crop and soil-marks on aerial photographs. One is the severely plough-damaged masonry remains of a possible Romano-Celtic temple. Nearby is a curious arrangement of square, narrow-ditched enclosures, the outer 130 m across, each one set within the next, so that each in turn is smaller than the enclosing one, like a nest of boxes inside each other. The Gosbecks temple at Colchester is similar in plan (Lewis 1966, 196; RCHME 1992; 2011). Surface finds from the area of these features consist almost entirely of Roman coins with a few Iron Age examples. Apart from much Romano-British pottery, there are very few other finds except a handful of Romano-British personal dress items and a well-preserved late Bronze Age spearhead of the same type as the numerous examples found in the Ashwell End ritual hollow. Probably from this field, in about 1911, a headless and armless Roman marble statue of a goddess was found which may be intended as an image of Venus (Toynbee 1964, 82; Coombe et al. 2014, no. 10), or possibly another representation of Senuna, or an amalgamation of both. It seems that this site is a religious and ceremonial one, closely connected to the Ashwell End temple and ritual feasting site, perhaps all elements of a wider cult sanctuary. In 2004, a very unusual Roman bronze figurine was found in the same field as the features just described. It depicts a standing female deity in Graeco-Roman dress (Fig. 9.14). On her head she wears a Greek-style helmet, which is pushed back to reveal her face and hair. On the top of the helmet, the fixing for a crest is evident. Her face is comparatively very worn, as if from fingering or kissing. On her torso is a cuirass of scale armour, with traces of an aegis in the form of a gorgon’s head on the breast plate. Underneath the cuirass, she wears a long folded and draped dress which entirely covers her legs. Her crooked left arm supports a cornucopia, or horn of plenty, while her right arm is bent upwards at 90 degrees from the elbow. The right hand is clenched allowing a hole between fingers and palm, suggesting that the figure once held a spear in a throwing or flourishing motion. Her clenched left hand originally perhaps held an ear or pair of ears of corn. This figurine seems to represent an amalgamation of the Greek twinned deities, Athena-Tyche, and the very unusually Roman twinned deities, Minerva-Fortuna. In view of the character of the figurine, the find-spot and its link with the Ashwell End cult site, it may be suggested that this unique figurine is another manifestation of the re-discovered goddess Senuna. In this case not simply Senuna–Minerva,

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Fig. 9.14. Hinxworth, Middle Farm bronze Minerva–Fortuna–Senuna figurine (Drawn by Craig Williams. Copyright The Trustees of the British Museum).

but Senuna–Minerva–Fortuna–Ceres, as we now know the silver figurine from the temple hoard at Ashwell End was intended to be also (Burleigh and Jackson 2009, 63–7; Burleigh 2015, 99–101, fig. 5.4; 2020, 387–8; 2022; Jackson and Burleigh 2018, 335–7, figs 366–8). Just as the votary, Flavia Cunoris, whose dedication to Senuna is on the silver pedestal base of the figurine in the Ashwell End temple treasure hoard, seems to have made an individual choice of a representation of Fortuna–Ceres, but inscribed to Senuna, so whoever chose the Athena–Tyche–Minerva–Fortuna figurine deposited at the Hinxworth temple may have intended this individual choice to represent Senuna also, at least in the mind of the votary.

Conclusion This paper has provided a few examples to illustrate the diversification of cult activities and religious individualisation in the case of a Romano-British rural ‘small town’ at Baldock, Hertfordshire, and its hinterland. The latter has been defined recently as a sacred landscape (Burleigh 2020, 369–99). The examples given in this paper include the identification of individuals, e.g. the woman and her triplets; the man and woman with outstretched arm, her hand touching his; and the lavishly furnished infant burial, possibly one half of a pair of twins, with a Dea Nutrix figurine nursing twins. Examples of individual religious/ritual choices include the late fourth/early

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fifth century CE cremation burial at a period when the social norm had long been inhumation burial; the cremation burial with a mirror, the only example from Iron Age and Roman Baldock’s 22 known cemeteries; and the cremation burial of a child with a carefully placed natural flint resembling a human face watching over the child. Individuals are named by the inscribed dedications on the votive leaf plaques and figurine base from the Ashwell temple treasure hoard, seven males and three females. Some of the examples given above are unique, or at least rare, in the context of Baldock, Roman Britain and the wider Roman Empire, for example, the woman and her triplets; the mirror burial; and the sub-Roman fifth-century inhumation with the matched pottery jug and cup and hobnailed shoes in a Roman burial tradition. These examples show people were making conscious individual choices. They were deliberately choosing what they placed in the graves of their deceased loved ones, just as they deliberately chose to use an image of Minerva or Fortuna to represent the ‘native British’ goddess, Senuna, probably because the deities had the same or similar attributes to each other. Their choices were not accidental or forced on them because something more appropriate was not available. They were careful and conscious selections, even if the reasons are not always obvious to us now. The former idea seems to be a modern utilitarian or pragmatic viewpoint which would not have been a consideration influencing the choices of past peoples on such sensitive and significant matters as their religious beliefs and how they treated the burials of their loved ones. These and other individual and communal choices, such as the deposition of burnt and unburnt animal bones (Jones and King in Jackson and Burleigh 2018, 314–20; Rainsford et al. 2021, 186–99), or the deposition of Iron Age and early Roman coins, as well as Bronze Age artefacts, in later Roman contexts at the Ashwell End ritual feasting site, are described and discussed elsewhere (Burleigh in Jackson and Burleigh 2018, 321–39; Burleigh 2020, 371–401; 2022; Knight et al. 2019).

Acknowledgements The author is grateful for advice, assistance and comments from Keith FitzpatrickMatthews, Ralph Haeussler, Ralph Jackson and Tony King.

References N.B. All North Hertfordshire District Council (NHDC) Museums Field Archaeology Section Reports in the references below are available at: https://northhertsmuseum. org/north-hertfordshire-museum/research/archaeological-reports/ Aldhouse Green, M. (2001) Dying for the Gods. Stroud, Tempus. Andrews, P., Biddulph, E., Hardy, A. and Brown, R. (2011) Settling the Ebbsfleet Valley: High Speed 1 Excavations at Springhead and Northfleet, Kent. The Late Iron Age, Roman, Saxon, and Medieval Landscape, Vols. 1–3, Oxford, Wessex Archaeology.

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Billington, L. and Browne, D. (2020) An Enclosure to the North of Baldock Road, Royston, Hertfordshire: Archaeological Excavation Report. Oxford, Oxford Archaeology. Burleigh, G. R. (1978) Excavations at Coombe Bottom, Kelshall, 1977, Hertfordshire’s Past 5, 27–8. Burleigh, G. R. (1980) A Roman inhumation cemetery, The Tene, Baldock, North Herts. Hertfordshire’s Past 9, 35–7. Burleigh, G. R. (1982) Excavations at Baldock, 1980‒81: an interim report. Hertfordshire’s Past 12, 3‒18. Burleigh, G. R. (1983) Baldock. Current Archaeology 8.3 (86), 70–4. Burleigh, G. R. (1993) Some aspects of burial types in the cemeteries of the Romano-British settlement at Baldock, Hertfordshire, England. In M. Struck (ed.) Römerzeitliche Gräber als Quellen zu Religion, Bevölkerungsstruktur und Sozialgeschichte: Internationale Fachkonferenz vom 18.–20. Februar 1991 im Institut für Vor- und Frühgeschichte der Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz, 41–9. Mainz, Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz, Archäologische Schriften 3. Burleigh, G. R. (1995) The plan of Romano-British Baldock, Hertfordshire. In A. E. Brown (ed.) Roman Small Towns in Eastern England and beyond, 177–82. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Burleigh, G. R. (2005) Romano-British remains on a site near Baldock, Hertfordshire. Council for British Archaeology Mid-Anglia Newsletter, Spring 2005, 6–10. Burleigh, G. R. (2008) Temples, shrines and deities in Iron Age and Romano-British Baldock and its territorium, Hertfordshire, GB. In J. d’Encarnação (ed.) Divindades indígenas em análise. VII workshop FERCAN, Cascais, 25.‒27.05.2006, 189‒219. Coimbra, CEAUCP. Burleigh, G. R. (2015) Burials, ditches and deities: defining the boundaries of Iron Age and RomanoBritish Baldock. In K. Lockyear (ed.) Archaeology in Hertfordshire: Recent Research: A Festschrift for Tony Rook, 89-116. Hatfield, Hertfordshire Publications. Burleigh, G. R. (2018) Finds from sacred places in the landscape around the Romano-British town at Baldock, Hertfordshire. Lucerna 54, 5–12. Burleigh, G. R. (2019) Images of Silenus from the territorium of Romano-British Baldock, Hertfordshire. Lucerna 56, 4–6. Burleigh, G. R. (2020) Temples, treasures, heroic burials and deities: a sacred landscape bounding Iron Age and Romano-British Baldock. In R. Haeussler and G. F. Chia (eds), Sacred Landscapes in Antiquity: Creation, manipulation, transformation, 369–99. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Burleigh, G. R. (2022) A territory and sacred landscape bounding Iron Age, Romano-British, suband post-Roman Baldock in its national context. Unpublished PhD by Published Works Critical Commentary, Cardiff University. Burleigh, G. R. and Fitzpatrick-Matthews, K. J. (2010) Excavations at Baldock, Hertfordshire, 1978‒1994. Volume 1: An Iron Age and Romano-British Cemetery at Wallington Road. Letchworth Garden City, NHDC Museums Archaeological Monograph 1. Burleigh, G. R., Fitzpatrick-Matthews, K. J. and Aldhouse-Green, M. J. (2006) A Dea Nutrix figurine from a Romano-British cemetery at Baldock, Hertfordshire. Britannia 37, 273–94. Burleigh, G. R. and Jackson, R. (2009) An unusual Minerva-Fortuna figurine from Hinxworth, Hertfordshire. Antiquaries Journal 89, 63‒7. Burleigh, G. R. and Megaw, V. (2007) The Iron Age mirror burial at Pegsdon, Shillington, Bedfordshire: an interim account. Antiquaries Journal 87, 109‒40. Burleigh, G. R. and Megaw, V. (2011) An Iron Age Mirror from Ruxox, Maulden, Bedfordshire. Antiquaries Journal 91, 51–8. Crummy, P. (1993) Aristocratic graves at Colchester. Current Archaeology 132, 4–6. Crummy, P. (2007) Stanway: an elite burial site at Camulodunum. London, Britannia Monograph 24. Delamarre, X. (2007) Noms de personnes celtiques dans l’épigraphie Classique. Paris, Éditions Errance. Delamarre, X. (2019) Dictionnaire des thèmes nominaux du gaulois I, Paris, Les Cent Chemins. Dyer, J. F. (1966) A second Iron Age mirror-handle from Old Warden, Bedfordshire Archaeological Journal 3, 55–6.

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Fitzpatrick, A. (2007) The fire, the feast and the funeral. Late Iron Age burial rites in southern England. In V. Kruta and G. Leman-Delerive (eds) Feux des Morts, Foyers des Vivants. Les rites et symboles du feu dans les tombes de l’Âge du Fer et de l’époque romaine, 123–42. Lille, Revue du Nord, hors série, Collection Art et Archéologie 11. Fitzpatrick-Matthews, K. J. (2013) Defining fifth-century AD ceramics in North Hertfordshire. Internet Archaeology 41. https://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue41/index.html [accessed 16/07/2021]. Fitzpatrick-Matthews, K. J. (2016) The cemeteries of Roman Baldock. Fragments 5, 34–60. Fitzpatrick-Matthews, K. J. (2020) https://northhertsmuseum.org/the-woman-and-three-babiesthe-sad-story-of-a-real-person/ [accessed 30/08/2022]. Fitzpatrick-Matthews, K. J. and Burleigh, G. R. (eds) (2006/2007) Excavations at Baldock 1978–1994: Fieldwork by G R Burleigh, NHDC Museums, Letchworth Garden City. Also available at: https:// www.scribd.com/.../Excavations-at-Baldock-1978-1994-fieldwork-by-G-R-Burleigh [accessed 30/08/2022]. Green, M. J. (1992) Animals in Celtic Life and Myth, London, Routledge. Gregory, T. (1991) Excavations in Thetford, 1980–1982, Fison Way. Dereham, East Anglian Archaeology Report 53. Jackson, R. and Burleigh, G. R. (2018) Dea Senuna: Treasure, Cult and Ritual at Ashwell, Hertfordshire. London, British Museum Research Publication 194. Knight. M. G., Boughton, D. and Wilkinson, R. E. (eds) (2019). Objects of the Past in the Past: Investigating the significance of earlier artefacts in later contexts. Archaeopress Access Archaeology. https://www. archaeopress.com/Archaeopress/download/9781789692488 [accessed 25/10/2021]. Lewandowska, D. (2021) Ciąża mnoga i wieloraczki w starożytności / Multiple Pregnancy and Multiple Births in Antiquity. University of Warsaw. Niblett, R. (1999) The Excavation of a Ceremonial Site at Folly Lane, Verulamium. London, Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, Britannia Monograph 14. Phillips, M., Duncan, H. and Mallows, C. (2009) Four Millennia of Human Activity along the A505 Baldock Bypass, Hertfordshire. East Anglian Archaeology Report 128. Rainsford, C., King, A. C., Jones, S., Hooker, R. and Burleigh, G. R. (2021) Cremated animal bone from two ritual/ceremonial sites in Britannia. In S. Deschler-Erb, U. Albarella, S. Valenzuela Lamas and G. Rasbach (eds) Roman Animals in Ritual and Funerary Contexts. Proceedings of the 2nd meeting of the Zooarchaeology of the Roman Period Working Group, Basel, 1st–4th February 2018, 185–99. Frankfurt, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Römisch-Germanischen Kommission, Kolloquien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 26. Richmond, A. D. W., Went, D. A. and Burleigh, G. R. (1992) An Archaeological Evaluation at The Engine Public House, Baldock, Hertfordshire, North Hertfordshire Museums Field Archaeology Section Report 17. Rook, T., Lowery, P. R., Savage, R. D. and Wilkins, R. L. (1982) An Iron Age bronze mirror from Aston, Hertfordshire. Antiquaries Journal 62, 18–34. Spratling, M. G. (1970) The late pre-Roman Iron Age bronze mirror from Old Warden, Bedfordshire. Bedfordshire Archaeological Journal 5, 9–16. Stead, I. M. and Rigby, V. (1986) Baldock: the excavation of a Roman and pre-Roman settlement, 1968–72. London, Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, Britannia Monograph 7. Toynbee, J. M. C. (1964) Art in Britain under the Romans. Oxford, Clarendon Press.

Chapter 10 Religious individualisation in extremis: human remains from Romano-Celtic temples in Britain and Gaul Anthony C. King

This paper examines the individual in Romano-Celtic religion in two ways. Firstly, it considers individuals who may have lost their lives in the course of religious rituals, or whose remains had the memory of their individuality transformed through ritual treatment after their deaths. Secondly, there is the wider issue of orthopraxis and decision-making processes in Romano-Celtic rituals: were individuals a major element in rituals, or was the collective will of the ‘clan’ (i.e. the social group of worshippers and their priests) paramount? A starting point is the small assemblage of human bones from Hayling Island temple (King and Soffe 2001; 2008; 2013). There were 27 disarticulated and abraded skull and limb bones, representing at least four individuals. They were of adults aged in their 20s or 30s, mainly male, but some female or adolescent. Their findspots are all, except for four pieces, within the area of the Iron Age temple, six being from the Iron Age phase, three either Iron Age or Roman and nine from Roman levels. Most of them are mixed into deposits of animal bones, pottery, metal finds, etc., which are almost certainly the remains of sacrifices, ritual meals or votive offerings. Another point to consider is that the human bones from Roman levels are in contexts where they could be redeposited from Iron Age contexts, and therefore none is unequivocally Roman. So, the questions can be put: Are these the remains of human sacrifices? If so, could the practice have continued into the Roman period, despite official abhorrence and ban? Answers could be provided tentatively by reference to the Hayling evidence alone, but it is the purpose of this discussion to explore the questions more fully by examining evidence from other Iron Age and Romano-Celtic religious sites, and from the surviving literary sources. Other researchers have explored the notion of continuation of Iron Age ritual practices into the Roman period. In general terms, it is widely accepted that developments in rituals marked out the Late Pre-Roman Iron Age as a period of

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innovation in religious practice, that paved the way for significant further changes in the early Roman period, resulting in what is termed Romano-Celtic, or sometimes Gallo-British religion (cf. King 1990; Haeussler and King 2007 for discussion, also Derks 1998; Woolf 2000). This view of religious development during the transition to Roman political domination contrasts with the traditional historical view of Roman moral condemnation of Iron Age practices, particularly in the area of human sacrifice, and the consequent suppression of their priesthood, the Druids (Marco Simón 1999; Webster 1999; Aldhouse Green 2001, 187–93). This has been called into question by the authors just mentioned, in part because of the continuity of practice seen in the archaeological record, but also historical references to the continued, if possibly revived existence of Druids in late Roman times (Clavel-Lévêque 1985; Ross 1999, 40–3). Clearly the possibility of continuing human sacrifice must be discussed within the same agenda of questioning of the historical view. A major step in this direction was the article by Rafael Isserlin (1996), suitably entitled ‘Thinking the unthinkable: human sacrifice in Roman Britain?’ New evidence from archaeological contexts pointed to widespread deposition of human remains in unusual contexts, some, such as the bog bodies, exhibiting clear signs of violence, which could be interpreted as execution, ritualistic or legal. The context of deposition and the concept of ‘structured deposition’ were all-important in being able to advance new interpretations, especially of scattered human remains mixed with other species such as dogs, for instance at Colchester (Isserlin 1996, 94; cf. Fulford 2001; Craig et al. 2005; Armit 2012, 5–9). Similarly, Miranda Aldhouse Green, in her wide-ranging survey of human sacrifice in Iron Age and Roman Europe (Aldhouse Green 2001; cf. also Green 1998), focused on context, with much added detail from a forensic standpoint. Her work is notable for its detailed discussion of methods of sacrifice, and the associated archaeological evidence. Interestingly, the approach of this book was to elide the pre-Roman and the Roman evidence, which enhanced the notion of continuity, but at the expense of not contextualising the Roman-period evidence in its political and provincial Roman setting. Both these major reviews of the evidence tended to focus on deposition at locations other than known temple sites, and in several cases, in fact, at places such as bogs or caves that could be considered as away from the gaze or knowledge of official Roman administration. However, in Britain and Gaul, temple sites were much more visible to Roman eyes. It is therefore the purpose of this paper to return to these sites, with the aim of examining the extent of human skeletal deposition, and whether it is possible to interpret any of them as human sacrifice, taking place within Roman jurisdiction, and at socially and administratively significant foci of ritual practices. Another change of view concerning Iron Age and Roman religion, that has taken hold widely during recent decades, is a recognition of how localised many cults were. This is especially true of ‘Celtic’ cults and deities in north-west Europe, for most of which only a single place of worship is evident (Jufer and Luginbühl 2001). There are notable exceptions, such as Epona, with much more widespread traces, perhaps spread

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as a result of migration of worshippers across the Roman provinces. The archaeological equivalent of this diversity is that temple sites display many localised features, for instance in the deposition of animal remains (King 2005; Lauwerier 2004, 67–8) or other artefacts (King 2007a), but at the same time are usually housed in a markedly standardised architectural setting, the Roman-Celtic temple type (cf. Horne and King 1980; King 2007b; Fauduet 2010). This implies a widespread adoption of a common architectural style for worship, but at the same time, local orthopraxis in terms of the rituals, festivals and sacrifices (cf. King 2003, 297–301). Human remains at temples presumably fit into the latter notion, and may reflect a continuation of Iron Age practices as part of the local tradition at that cult centre. In this context, any clear evidence of human sacrifice (as opposed to ritual deposition of human remains) would imply that a local practice derived from the Iron Age, had managed to survive the ostensible Roman ban on such sacrifices, and become an element of the cult within Roman-administered territory.

Sacrifice and human sacrifice A sacrifice was essentially a ceremony designed to draw the attention of the spirit world to the doings of humans – in other words, a means of communication, and because of this, it was the act of sacrifice and the way in which it was performed that formed the most important aspect of the ritual. What happened to the physical remains of the sacrifice was of lesser importance, especially after the ceremony had run its course. This has implications for site taphonomy and archaeological interpretation, as we shall see. For further definition of a sacrifice, Plato (Euthyphro 14c) gives it as a gift to the gods, and this was a widespread view in the ancient world. It is also possible to focus upon the spiritual recipients of the sacrifice, for instance gods, heroes or the dead, and on differences between private and public sacrifices. In terms of classification of different forms of sacrifice, the categories can emphasise the material of the sacrifice, e.g. vegetable or animal offerings, and on the way in which the sacrifice was executed (e.g. feast, holocaust, burial, libation, etc.; cf. Thomassen 2004; Roberts 2007, s.v. Sacrifice, Greek; Sacrifice, Roman). Obviously, Plato and the ancient authors had the Mediterranean world in mind when they formulated their views, but the essentials still apply to Iron Age and Romano-Celtic religions (Piggott 1974, 98–9; Ross 1974, 67; Woodward 1992, 78–80; Aldhouse Green 2001, 19–28). In the various categories of sacrifice that are picked out here, the act of human sacrifice occupies a fairly well-defined place (Aldhouse Green 2001, 30–6; Haeussler 2014, 38–45; cf. Rives 1995; Cancik Lindemaier 1999; Schultz 2010; Bonnechere and Gagné 2013; Shaw 2016; Di Fazio 2017; Recht 2019). All mentions of the subject in the Iron Age European context state or imply that it was usually a public act, usually to gods rather than any other kind of spirit, but it seems that the form of the sacrifice was variable. Divination was apparently an important part of the sacrifice; for instance,

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both Diodorus Siculus (5.31.3–4) and Strabo (4.4.5) refer to victims being stabbed in the diaphragm or back and omens cast from their convulsions, and Tacitus (Ann. 14.29) mentions that it was part of the religion of the inhabitants of Mona to ‘consult their gods by means of human entrails’. Such sacrifices with divination necessarily involved the preservation of the body, even if only temporarily, after death. In all probability, a blood libation on the altar (or the pre-Roman equivalent of an altar) was the main rite in the whole ceremony (Aldhouse Green 2001, 84; cf. Lucan, Phars. 3.372–417). Other methods of sacrifice include shooting to death with arrows, impalement and the notorious holocaust in a wicker figure, mentioned by Strabo (4.4.5) and Caesar (BG 6.16), probably following Poseidonius. The references to these methods of sacrifice bring to the fore the major problem in interpreting the literary sources for human sacrifice: how much can we accept and how much can be attributed to bias on the part of Greek and Latin authors (Haeussler 2014, 38–41)? For instance, archaeological evidence for arrows in this period is virtually non-existent (Piggott 1974, 98) and no traces capable of interpretation as wickerwork holocausts have yet been found. It is extremely doubtful that any of our authorities actually witnessed these practices. All the references are probably hearsay, and many are indeed quotes from other Graeco-Roman writers. In addition, since human sacrifice was ostensibly counter to their moral code, there is a good chance that mentions of the subject are slanted so as to place the Romans in a superior moral position, and so that the practice can easily be condemned (cf. Rives 1995; Lanzillotta 2007; Várhelyi 2007, 283–5; Haeussler 2014; also Di Fazio 2001; 2017; Bonfante 2016 for a similar situation relating to Greek and Roman attitudes to Etruscan sacrifice). In this respect, Tacitus’ passage on the capture of Anglesey that culminates in the sentence about human entrails is a good case in point, for the issue of human sacrifice is used as justification for the destruction of the islanders’ sacred places (cf. Hutton 2011a, 137). Despite such potential and actual bias in the sources, there does seem to be a broad basis in fact, to a certain extent supported by archaeology, as we shall see below. Before we move onto that evidence, however, it is worth bringing out three further points from the literary references. Firstly, the type of victim seems almost exclusively to be that destined for death anyway. Tacitus mentions captives, and Caesar says: They think that the gods prefer the execution of men taken in the act of theft or brigandage, or guilty of some offence: but when they are short of criminals, they do not hesitate to make up with innocent men. (BG 6.16)

This is in contrast to the usual practice, in the Mediterranean world at least, of choosing sacrificial victims (both animal and human) that were without blemish, in case the deity was offended otherwise (Henrichs 1980; Hughes 1991). Does this mean that Iron Age sacrifice was in general different from its Mediterranean counterpart, or were human sacrifices placed in a category apart from animals when it came to choosing the victim? It may have been desirable to have someone with no known relatives who might avenge the death, for instance. Another possibility is that at one time innocent and spotless victims were chosen, but that contacts with the

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Mediterranean world in the late Iron Age brought about a change in attitude. A further notable feature about the type of victim is that the references seem to imply that they were men rather than women. An aspect of the sacrifice, about which none of our sources gives any details, is unfortunately the one that is of most concern to archaeologists. This is what happened to the body after death. In the case of a holocaust, of course, we can reasonably infer that the cremated remains would be buried or left at the site of burning (unless some unattested practice took place, such as removing and washing the bones for further rituals). For other sacrifices, however, we are faced with three main options: simple burial, removal of one or more parts of the body, especially the head and the internal organs, or dismemberment, perhaps in fulfilment of further rituals. On the basis of what is known of religious thought in the Roman and Iron Age worlds, it is possible to argue that ordinary burial is, in fact, the least likely fate for a sacrificial victim. The nature of the sacrifice is to convey the victim to the god, which means that, in terms of the belief in reincarnation that the Celts were supposed to hold (Piggott 1974, 102–4; Hofeneder 2020), the spirit or soul was, as it were, taken out of circulation, because it was thought of as effectively immortal. On the other hand, ordinary burials are rituals for the safe passage from the living world to the spirit world, a means of appeasement for the soul in case it takes revenge in some future existence, and a means of assuaging the feelings of those left behind. None of this applies to a sacrificial victim, for the very act of sacrifice and its attendant rituals, assuming that no ill-omened acts or divinations occurred, was probably taken as ensuring the safe transition of the soul away from the world of the living. Also, the rituals associated with the sacrifice formalised and emphasised the moment of death in such a way as to require little of the ritual surrounding a burial in addition, for they were in themselves a rite de passage. Lastly, burial rites were the first stage in the transition from the status of person to that of ancestor, and as such were not strictly applicable to the preferred class of sacrificial victim: captives or criminals. Thus, it does not seem likely to find sacrificial victims in a burial ground. Instead, it seems likely that one or both of the other two possibilities occurred, namely removal of parts of the body or dismemberment. The head is an obvious candidate for removal, given the Celtic belief that the head was the source of life, and the existence of a head cult. However, it is not clear from the literature whether this in fact took place, for references to severed heads suggest that they were war trophies or the severed heads of heroes (Ross 1974, ch. 2; Haeussler 2014, 40–3). Livy (23.24) records the placing of the head of an enemy chieftain in a temple of the Boii (Italy), which of course is just the sort of complication that we have to remember when assessing the archaeological evidence for sacrifice. As to dismemberment, for this too there is no positive literary evidence, but if divination took place, a certain amount of organ removal of dismemberment can be inferred. Further insights into this matter can only be gained by looking at the archaeological evidence.

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To conclude this brief survey of the ancient references, it is worth considering the places where sacrifice took place. By implication, but not by direct reference in the literature, the rites were performed on sacred ground, possibly in the infamous sacred groves (cf. Caesar, Pliny, Livy, etc.). This presumably would be the case for public sacrifices, which appear to have been the main occasions for a human victim. However, a private sacrifice, for instance if someone was seriously ill (Caesar, BG 6.16), may have required a human victim on the spot, as it were. If the remains were left at the site where the sacrifice took place, we might expect to find some archaeological traces, i.e. in a situation that would otherwise be entirely secular in archaeological terms. As a supplementary note to that possibility, it seems, in both Graeco-Roman and Iron Age worlds (Caesar, BG 6.17), to have been forbidden to remove material from sanctified sites, either the remnants of a food sacrifice or votive offerings. The act of making as important a sacrifice as that of a person may have, in itself, sanctified the place in which it was performed, and have required the disposal of the sacrifice on the spot.

The archaeology of human sacrifice Having reviewed the possibilities of human sacrifice from the point of view of the literary evidence, let us now turn to the archaeology of the subject. First of all, the immediate problem arises of what it is permissible to accept as a sacrifice, archaeologically speaking. The resolution of this lies in two distinct areas – the state of the skeletal remains themselves, and the findspots of the remains. Unfortunately, no specific skeletal pathology can be associated with a sacrifice, since there is no need to consider it as other than a form of murder. Strabo’s reference to stabbing in the back, for instance, need have no effect at all on the bony tissues. Fatal wounds or evidence of decapitation are much more likely to be interpreted as the result of war, murder, justice or post-mortem ritual than sacrifice. However, the possibility does remain that the act was carried out in such a way as to preclude any interpretation of a skeleton other than as a sacrifice. This has been the usual explanation for many of the bog bodies, especially those, such as Lindow Man, who have apparent evidence for a triple manner of execution (Ross 1999, 71–4; Fischer 2012, 180–2; Woolf 2015, 470–1; Chapman and Gearey 2019; cf. Armit 2018; Giles 2020). However, there is also healthy skepticism about the nature of the evidence underpinning this interpretation (Hutton 2011a). The evidence of what happened to a body after death is more helpful, if less direct. Dismembered and partial skeletons, or scattered bones in primary positions may be a pointer to human sacrifice, especially if they are not found in a burial ground (as suggested for human remains at Gordion, Turkey; Selinsky 2015). However, it must be said straightaway that other activities could have produced the same result, e.g. the exposure of corpses, which has been suggested for the Iron Age (Ellison and Drewett 1971; Carr and Knüsel 1997; Carr 2007), which could easily result in the scattering of

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bones before burial, and the disarticulation of the buried remains. Cannibalism (Knüsel and Outram 2006, 258) and necromancy, too, may have been practised. It is the findspots and associations of the remains that will give the most clues (cf. Nieuwhof 2015 for extensive discussion of this topic). Temple sites, of course, are obvious candidates, but there are also such features as shafts or pits, where it can be shown that the contents are out of the ordinary. In other words, as with so much archaeological evidence, the context has to be securely identified before the artefacts, in this case human bones, can be interpreted. The odd human bone in a well full of building debris could be mere charnel, but if it is found in a shaft with votive offerings on a probable sacred site, the possibility of human sacrifice or a related ritual practice is greater. Iron Age ritual sites If we bear all this in mind, let us turn to some examples, first of all from the Iron Age (see Figs 10.1 and 10.2 for maps showing location of sites). The well-known site at Libeniçe, Czech Republic (Rybová and Soudský 1962; Petres 1972), is dated to the third century BCE and consists of an oblong ditch 100 × 25 m, with a central burial and at one end a series of interconnecting, recut pits, positions for upright pairs of posts and a large stone. The structure has reasonably been interpreted as a sanctuary of some sort. Within the pits were found pottery and scattered animal and human bones. No direct evidence for sacrifice is available, but if the animal bones are accepted as the

Fig. 10.1. Map of southern Britain, showing sites mentioned in the text.

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Fig. 10.2. Map of central and northern Gaul, showing sites mentioned in the text.

remains of sacrifices or ritual meals, then it is hard not to include the human bones as well, unless the filling of the pits was a mundane rubbish collecting operation for material from various different ritual activities. At Gournay-sur-Aronde, northern France (Brunaux et al. 1985), the middle La Tène oppidum contains a square ditched enclosure, in the centre of which were further ditches covered by a small shrine of the late first century BCE and then a RomanoCeltic temple. The ditches of the square enclosure contain a great many finds such as weapons, animal bones and other finds interpreted as offerings. Amongst these, there are also the scattered remains of about a dozen bodies, including neck vertebrae showing signs of decapitation, and limb bones with wounds. As at Libeniçe, the evidence is not direct, but the limb bone wounds may indicate something more secular, such as the remains of an attack on the oppidum or the killing of prisoners of war. The temple site of Ribemont, near Amiens in northern France (Brunaux et al. 1999; Fercoq du Leslay 2000), presents a more complex picture. Dating from La Tène C, end of

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the third century BCE, a trophy of human remains seems have been set up and added to. Up to 400 male individuals are known, their bodies being separated into parts located in different sectors of the enclosure. Armaments are present, too, and the excavators suggest that it is some sort of trophy, perhaps of prisoners, or a celebratory monument of a victory. Isotope analysis suggests that the bones represent individuals from the Maine region, 350 km to the south-west of Ribement (Clauzel et al. 2022). One aspect of note is that there are very few crania, but the cervical vertebrae have good evidence for decapitation post mortem. The monument was becoming ruinous when it was destroyed c. 30 BCE, not long after the Roman conquest. Subsequently, a large Romano-Celtic temple and sanctuary was constructed (Brunaux et al. 1999, 213–21), demonstrating a reasonable level of ritual continuity, but evidently not in the display of human, possibly sacrificial, remains. Fesques, near Dieppe, northern France (Mantel 1997), has some similarities to Ribemont in being a probable trophy site. It has an inner enclosure containing a temple, commencing in La Tène C2/D1 and continuing to the late first/early second century CE. The much larger outer enclosure has human remains from its outer ditch, i.e. marking the outer periphery of the sanctuary. These remains take the form of foot bones and ankles, apparently the only surviving parts of suspended skeletons. More than a hundred individuals are spaced along the perimeter, and other human skeletal material, including crania, are mixed with animal bone from ditches and postholes (Guillot et al. 1997). Only a few scattered human bones were recovered from the interior of the enclosures. The human remains are early in the site sequence, dating up to c. 120 BCE, and seem to have been a clear delimiter, an ‘awful boundary’ that had to be crossed to gain access to the central part of the ritual space. Both Fesques and Ribemont represent acts of apparent de-individualisation: the subsuming of the individual to the cult in such a way as to emphasise the paramount power of the deity and the cult worshippers over the people displayed in the trophies. This can be viewed in the perspective of its apparent opposite, the heroisation of individuals (Castella 2008; Haeussler 2010), sometimes at cult sites, e.g. Folly Lane, Hayling Island (see below), but more usually in cemeteries. In Iron Age Gaul, the recently recognised phenomenon of seated burials, perhaps of mummified or desiccated individuals, possibly exposed to the air (Liégard and Pecqueur 2014, 100; Lamb 2018), demonstrates the celebration of individuals who were displayed in poses reminiscent of the seated sculptures of warriors that are found across Gaul (Arcelin and Rapin 2003). These burials are in cemeteries, often of relatively high status, and can be linked to settlement peripheries, e.g. Les Pierrières at Batilly-enGâtinais (Liégard and Pecqueur 2014). These are not the only Iron Age ritual sites with human remains, but they illustrate well the type of evidence usually encountered and the conclusions that can be drawn. Many other finds are in fact much less clear than these examples, and it is only by proceeding cautiously in our interpretations that the less likely candidates can be sorted out. Nevertheless, from the sites just discussed, it is possible to conclude that

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human sacrifice probably did take place in the Iron Age, and that the information given by the ancient authors, especially those based on Poseidonius, who was writing close in time to the currency of many of these activities, has a certain measure of archaeological confirmation. Of course, just a few examples would strike most readers as fairly minimal confirmation, but very few Iron Age ritual sites are known, so the presence of potentially sacrificial remains, even at only a handful in total, is a significant representation. Another Iron Age site gives us a good example of the problems to be encountered in interpretation. From Croft Ambrey hillfort (Stanford 1974, 220) a human humerus has knife cuts similar to animal butchery marks. This at first sight would seem to be indicative of cannibalism, perhaps associated with ritual killing, but other possibilities exist, particularly that of the use of redeposited or defleshed bones for some practical purpose. There is no reason to suppose that any distinction would have been made between human and animal bones in such circumstances. This possibility also applies to the frequent occurrence of fragments of human bone within hillforts and other Iron Age settlements, of which the best-known is Danebury (Walker 1984; Cunliffe 1991, 418–25; 1995, 72–9; Poole 1995), a site that has sparked much debate on the taphonomy and depositional practices concerning structured deposits of semiarticulated human and animal skeletons (cf. Wilson 1981; Hill 1995, 11–13; Craig et al. 2005; for Gallic sites, cf. Delattre et al. 2000). Much of this debate has little to do with human sacrifice, but it is relevant to human remains at temple sites, such as Hayling, since their deposition in a disarticulated state amongst large numbers of animal bones indicates circumstances similar to Croft Ambrey, Danebury and other sites with structured deposition. Roman-period temples Moving on to the Roman period, a new question interposes itself. Can finds of sacrificed human remains definitely be associated with Roman levels in temples, or could they be redeposited, especially in view of the increasing evidence for preRoman shrines under or near Roman ones? The site of Fesques, discussed above, raises the possibility that the human skeletal trophies around the boundary were still in existence, if quite old, at the time of the Roman conquest. Subsequently, they had been covered over and a new peripheral ditch constructed so as to include the old boundary and its human remains within the enclosure. It is distinctly possible, therefore, that the memory of human deposition at the site was deliberately curated, and would have been powerful for the cult practised at the temple in the early Roman period, as also for Ribemont and Gournay (cf. Hutton 2011b, 15). The evidence for scattered human bone in Roman levels at temple sites points mainly to redeposition, but with some significant exceptions. Hayling Island has already been mentioned; other sites with similar deposition include Uley, which has human bone from all phases, mainly adult, but interestingly three infant skeletons and a small number of scattered infant and young adult bones (Bell and Rogers 1993),

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which are less likely to represent redeposition. Similarly, Witham has adult bones, but also four infant or foetal burials, of which two infant and two adult long-bone fragments, four coins and a jet bead were found together in a post-pit of the temple (Luff 1999, 220; cf. Crummy 2010 for the link between jet objects and infant burials). From Frilford, Oxfordshire, there are two fragments of human skull from material under the double-square Romano-Celtic temple (Bradford and Goodchild 1939, 25), likely to have been redeposited, especially in view of the apparently secular nature of the building underneath the temple (Harding 1987; Kamash et al. 2010, 98–100). Elsewhere, Higham Ferrers has three disarticulated human bones from the shrine interior (Witkin 2009, 283), Farley Heath has rib, long-bone and cranial fragments (Ayres 2007, 77), and Chanctonbury has probably residual human cranial and long bone fragments from Roman levels, as well as a pre-Roman pit with human and animal bones, similar to the structured deposits noted at Danebury (see above; Bedwin 1980, 179; Brothwell and Sibun 2001; Rudling 2001, 99). A Gallo-Roman site, Faye-l’Abbesse in western France (Lunier and Monnet 1853) yielded a human tibia with a shackle round it from an occupation level within the Roman temenos of the temple. However, other finds, such as Iron Age weaponry and Celtic coins suggest that the nineteenthcentury excavators missed the signs of a pre-Roman temple (Lejars 1989), and that despite their attribution to the Roman period, this bone represents an Iron Age sacrifice, trophy or votive offering. Foundation burials and display of skulls at Roman-period temple sites There is an interesting series of finds of a different sort from various RomanoCeltic temples, namely burials within the temple precincts. Bourton Grounds, Buckinghamshire (Green 1965) is the most unusual of these, consisting of the disarticulated remains of an adult male embedded in the mortar and tile fragments of the foundation of the floor of the temple entrance. It was positioned so that worshippers at the shrine walked over the skeleton on approaching the doorway to the cella. There were no cut marks or pathologies on the skeleton which might help in ascertaining the cause of death. Therefore, it is not really possible to say that this was definitely a deliberate ritual killing for a foundation burial. It may well have been the use of a cadaver from a person that had died of natural causes, or a reused burial. The last possibility is particularly appropriate in view of the disarticulated nature of the bones and the existence of a cemetery close by (Johnson 1975). A similar burial has been found at Glanville in Normandy (De Vesly 1909, 14), probably also in the area of the entrance to the temple, but articulated and extended. Unfortunately, the excavation details are so minimal that we are not certain of date or stratigraphy, and the burial may post-date the temple. A burial just to the south of the temple at Cosgrove, Northamptonshire (Quinnell 1991, 52–3) may be similar to the previous two examples, since it appears to be an isolated interment contemporary with the temple, and therefore representing greater significance than a burial in a cemetery context. A notable feature is that the hand

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bones were from two individuals. Cosgrove also has two skulls set into the temple wall, both adult, one male and the other possibly male. They were on the east side of the building, just to the north of the putative entrance, and seem to have been display objects. If this is the case, it would therefore be a Roman-period example of the widespread Iron Age practice, especially in southern Gaul, of the display of skulls on ritual (and non-ritual) structures (cf. Rousseau 2000, 286; Arcelin and Brunaux 2003, 246). The Gallic example of the Forêt-d’Halatte (Durand 2000) has a clear depositional context, but is equivocal on whether the observed damage to the skull is pre- or post-mortem. A human cranium and mandible were found in the eastern part of the cella of a Romano-Celtic temple, dating to the mid-first century CE (Rousseau 2000; Thillaud 2000; Thiol 2000). It was face up, and a pot had been placed immediately above the top of the skull. The excavators interpret the skull as a foundation deposit: an adult male with some incisors and canines missing post-mortem. This is possible evidence for suspension or exposure before the skull was placed in the cella. There is also damage to the first and second cervical vertebrae, suggesting decapitation, but this may also have occurred post-mortem. It therefore cannot be stated with any certainty that this was a sacrifice, because of the possibility that the bones had been dismembered after death. A possible alternative interpretation is that the skull is a relic, preserved and then carefully buried in a significant location: this would imply a skull of some status, e.g. an ancestor, holy person, hero or severed head of an enemy (see below; also Woodward 1993). Related to the display of real human skulls is the use of stone human heads. This is mainly a phenomenon of southern Gaul, notably the Iron Age sites of Entremont, Glanum and Roquepertuse, but an excavated example from Roman Britain, at Friars Wash, Redbourn, Hertfordshire, demonstrates that skull-like stones may have had a display role in Romano-Celtic temples. The stone was found in topsoil over the cella of the northern of the paired Romano-Celtic temples; it had a natural skull-like shape with dimples for eyes and mouth enhanced artificially, and was in a non-local stone, probably of glacial erratic origin (Wessex Archaeology 2009, 10). Infant Burials at Temples Two sites, Uley and Witham, with infant burials in or very close to temples have been discussed above. At Springhead, Kent, temple IV (Penn 1960, 121–2; Lewis 1966, 76–7), we have a different and altogether more complex example. In each angle of the front part of the shrine was an infant skeleton, two being associated with an early floor of mid-second century date, and two with a later floor put after a lapse of a decade or two. The earlier burials were on the west side, the burial at the south-west corner being decapitated. The later burials were on the east side, with the northeastern one being decapitated. Clearly, we have evidence of a complex ritual, with exceptionally good archaeological remains preserved. These circumstances and the fact that the children were all about six months old at the time of death, led the

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excavator, W. S. Penn, also Michael Lewis in his book Temples in Roman Britain, and Eleanor Scott in her discussion of infant sacrifice (1999, 86–8), all to conclude that the burials were the result of ritual killings. In fact, Penn says, ‘If the burials had all been made at the same time the deaths could perhaps be explained by natural causes’, meaning presumably an epidemic (Penn 1967). Since there were two separate episodes to the ritual, Penn felt that ‘it seems rather more than coincidence that two children happened to die conveniently each time’, and thus that they were sacrifices. Although there is the possibility that these burials could be the result of sacrifice, since they were thought in Roman belief not to have souls until named and accepted by the paterfamilias, the arguments put forward in its favour in this case seem unhelpful. Ordinary deaths are equally likely (Woodward 1992, 80), given firstly the high rate of infant mortality in nearly all early societies, and secondly the probability that the shrine was in fact a focus of worship for mothers with young children. The evidence for this comes from the small portico adjacent to the shrine, where a number of contemporary infant burials were excavated. From elsewhere in the settlement were many more infant burials of early and mid-Roman date, and their analysis highlighted the unusual demographic structure represented at Springhead, with 80% of the burials from the recent excavations being foetal or neonatal (McKinley 2011), and most coming from houses or putative shrines adjacent to the spring of the river Ebbsfleet (Andrews and Smith 2011, 208). The temple could have been a healing shrine devoted particularly to young children, in which case, the likelihood of the ritual burials being the result of natural deaths from disease, etc., is quite high. However, it has to be said that there was clearly deliberate selection of the four children or child corpses for temple IV, since only these were in the temple precinct, all the others being confined outside. A parallel for a children’s cemetery adjacent to a temple can be found at Alésia, central France, temple C (Espérandieu 1910a; 1910b; Joly 1951; 1954), where metal exvotos of parts of the body, associated with healing cults, have also been found. Two infant burials, contemporary with the Claudian foundation of a Romano-Celtic temple, and a few metres to the south-west of the cella, within the temple enclosure, have been identified at Les Mureaux, Authevernes (Michel 2014, 199–201), and discussed by the excavator as being potential foundation offerings of an apotropaic nature (Michel 2014, 239). Related to all the infant burial sites given above is the argument that many perinatal deaths in Roman Britain may be the result of infanticide (Mays 1993; Scott 1999, 70–6, 86, 110–5). Simon Mays advanced this on the basis of statistical analysis of infant burials in cemeteries, which showed a different pattern from medieval infant burials in churchyards. Sites such as Hambleden villa also yielded large numbers of infant burials, one of which had cut marks indicative of obstetric procedures (Mays and Eyers 2011; Mays et al. 2014). Deliberate intervention that raised child mortality and perhaps implies selective infanticide must have had repercussions in religious and ritualistic terms. It is possible that the temple sites contained propitiatory offerings,

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especially so in the case of Springhead, where the relatively large number suggests that this was a primary element of the cult practice. In contrast, the small number of infant burials at Uley and Witham may be the result of similar motivation on the part of worshippers at these rural temple sites, but the low incidence implies that it was a secondary element of their cults. Heroes and ancestors: temples as mausolea and cenotaphs Earlier discussion in this article concerning seated burials has relevance to the potential continuance of ancestor/hero cults from the Iron Age into the Roman period. A notable example is at Avenches, where the round temple (a shape associated with heroa in classical religion) in the Grange des Dîmes precinct overlies two seated burials of the late Iron Age (Moinat 1993; Morel and Blanc 2008, 38–40). Part of the cranium of a third individual was found nearby. While Morel and Blanc rightly express caution about a direct link between the burials and the overlying temple structures, dated to the early/mid-first century CE, it is hard not to associate this unusual burial rite with the later temples in terms of some sort of commemorative activity. This zone of the Roman town has seven temples, a theatre and an amphitheatre, and is regarded as a religious quarter (Morel and Blanc 2008, fig. 3). Did this new disposition for the area after the Roman conquest simply sweep away earlier Iron Age funerary traces, or was the round temple a suitable commemorative form? Three of the other temples have late Iron Age (La Tène D1) cremations under them (Castella 2008, fig. 19), highlighting the difference apparent in the seated inhumations under the round temple. Elsewhere in Avenches, the more obvious extra-mural cemetery area of En Chaplix has Roman mausolea along one side of a road, while on the other side, two Romano-Celtic temples yielded underlying and closely associated Augustan-Tiberian high-status cremation assemblages (Castella 2008). The excavator emphasises the wealthy mausolea on the other side of the road, and suggests that this an example of a family burial group, possibly linked to a nearby suburban villa. If so, the ancestral burials of the post-conquest period mark an underlying stratum that was recognised by builders of the later structures. Although less spectacular than the round temple within Avenches, this suburban example nevertheless brings to notice the link between ancestors and, presumably, the worship of Romano-Celtic chthonic deities in associated temples. Turning to Britain, the most well-known instance of such an association is at Folly Lane, St Albans, just to the north of the Roman town (Niblett 1999). The elite cremation burial of the conquest period, c. 55 CE, within a rectangular enclosure, became the site of a Romano-Celtic temple in the late first century, in such a manner as to place the expected open-air altar on the east side of the temple immediately over the turf dump that filled the burial pit. This would allow for continuing consecration of the burial by means of libations and sacrifices at the altar above it. As Niblett suggests, ‘the burial site of a local king might well in time become a religious focus for the tribe’ (1999, 70; see also Niblett 2000). In terms of positioning in the landscape, the  Folly

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Lane temple would have been prominent on the skyline when viewed from the Roman town, and as such, a continuing reminder of the ancestral burial. The Folly Lane site also had subsidiary human remains, principally a male cranium with clear cut marks, probably for defleshing at or soon after death, and perforations, either fatal injuries or post-mortem mutilation (Mays and Steele 1996; 1999, 314–20). It was placed upright in the base of a second-century pit or shaft, together with bones of a young dog, then overlain with clay and further dog bones (Niblett 1999, 86–7), in what is one of the best examples of structured deposition in a deep feature from Roman Britain. It is noteworthy that the skull had not been cremated, which was the predominant local burial rite in the region at this time, and it had definitely been separated out for special treatment in its deposition. It would be pushing the evidence too far to claim that this was a sacrifice, but it is certainly the case that ritual treatment of a corpse after death has led to an abnormal burial in this particular case, as would be expected from the rituals linked to sacrifice (see above). It is possible that the scattered human remains at Hayling represent subsidiary deposition, too, but in this case there are no surviving remains of a primary highstatus burial. Instead, it has been argued elsewhere that the temple was linked to the Atrebatic royal house, either as a tribal ancestral shrine or even as a cenotaph or empty mausoleum for Commius, Verica and Togidubnus (Creighton 2000, 191–7; Haselgrove 2005, 399–400; King and Soffe 2013, 26). More conventional Romano-Celtic temples that also functioned as mausolea are located in the vicinity of villas at Lullingstone, Kent (Meates 1979, 122–32), and Bancroft, Buckinghamshire (Williams 1994). Both had high-status burials in chambers under the cella, as probably did the tower mausoleum at Wood Lane End, Hertfordshire (Neal 1984; Black 1986, 206–9), located a short distance to the west of the major villa of Gorhambury (cf. Forcey 1998, 89; Esmonde Cleary 2000 134; Struck 2000, 88). All three presumably had a primary function as ancestral shrines, linked to chthonic deities within the architectural space of the familiar regional temple form. Temples and cemeteries On present evidence, temples and contemporary cemeteries are not often found together (Esmonde Cleary 2000, 133–4). There seem to be not more than a dozen fairly well-attested examples of Romano-Celtic shrines having contemporary burials immediately outside their walls or in close vicinity (Horne and King 1980; Forcey 1998, 89). This is out of a total of more than 450 shrines in north-west Europe. Even allowing for poor recording in a large number of cases, which could mean that were more associated burial grounds, the percentage is really very low. One site has burials within a few feet of the shrine itself, at Lancing, Sussex (Bedwin 1981; Black 1986, 203–4), the others having some area of separation or a physical boundary such as a wall or ditch between the temple and the cemetery. Lancing seems to be exceptional, and the best explanation for it is probably to do with some sort of hero or ancestor cult (Forcey 1998), that may have permitted burials

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of kinsmen or retainers within the sacred area. Normally, the temenos of a temple provided a boundary around the shrine, within which it would usually have been profane to make a burial, the only burials within being the ritual skeletons or remains associated with the temple itself. As an example of this, it is possible to return to Folly Lane, where the shaft with the cranium (see above) came from a zone of burials extending down the slope from the temple towards the Roman town, alongside a road (Niblett 1999, 78–119; 2000, fig. 10.5). This was connected to the temple by an entrance through the temenos enclosure on its south side (Niblett 1999, fig. 8), suggesting that rituals at the temple site also linked with burial rites in the cemetery. The nature of the cemetery, too, indicates probable continuation of Iron Age practices: a scatter of disarticulated bones that may indicate the Iron Age rite of excarnation as late as the third century (Mays and Steele 1999, 323; Niblett 1999, 404), the use of shafts/deep pits for deposition of human and animal skulls, face-pots and other probable ritual debris (Fulford 2001, 210), and the use of cremation rites of the sort seen in the region in the Late Iron Age. It seems likely that the heroon of the Romano-Celtic temple over the primary high-status burial also formed the focus for a chthonic cult linked to the burials between the temple and the emerging Roman town of Verulamium (Niblett 1999, 414–5). A different aspect of the relationship between temples and cemeteries is the existence of cemeteries that succeed temple sites, and appear to mark the closure of the cult, or its mutation into one that concentrates on burials at the expense of the dilapidation of the temple buildings. A good example is at Frilford, where eight burials, orientated east-west, possibly Christian, and radiocarbon-dated to the late fourth or early fifth century, were located in the eastern entrance area of the semiamphitheatre in the ritual complex, and seem ‘to mark the closure of the arena as a functioning monument’ (Kamash et al. 2010, 120–1). Other late Roman and early Anglo-Saxon burials are found near the Frilford temple site, in large cemeteries, that probably used the ruinous complex as a focus. At Henley Wood, Somerset, an extensive inhumation cemetery, dated to the post-Roman period, lies immediately to the south-east of the Romano-Celtic temple, but within its temenos area (Watts and Leach 1996, 45–75, esp. 71–2). Five of the graves were in the temple’s ambulatory, cut through demolition debris. Watts and Leach are undecided as to whether the temple had continued sacred significance, possibly in the form of a taboo on burials over the temple cella itself, or alternatively that it was a deep pile of rubble in which it was impractical to place burials (cf. Esmonde Cleary 2014, 274–6). By contrast, the demolition debris of the octagonal temple building at Nettleton, Wiltshire, was used for deposition of scattered human bones in the very late Roman or early post-Roman period (Wedlake 1982, 84–5). At least 14 individuals were represented, and there was clear evidence of violence: ten cranial fragments had chop or cut marks, and seven atlas or axis vertebrae with cut surfaces ‘consistent with decapitation by a single blow with a very sharp weapon’ (Richardson 1982). There were cuts also on ribs, arm and leg bones. The excavator interprets the remains

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as resulting from a massacre at the site itself, but a more likely explanation is that the temple retained some sanctity, even in a collapsed state, and the bones were deliberately redeposited there, either as an act of closure and purification (for the individuals who had been murdered or executed elsewhere), or because it was known that the individuals had religious links to the temple, and thus were reburied in an act of ‘sacred memory’. A last example requires some reconsideration of the original interpretation. At Lowbury Hill, Oxfordshire, the skeleton of a woman aged 30–40 was found in what the excavator, Donald Atkinson, thought was a foundation for the temenos wall of a sacred enclosure (Atkinson 1916, 7–11). He inferred that it was a foundation sacrifice, especially as the cranial vault appeared to have been crushed in antiquity. However, a reading of the details of the stratigraphy prompts the suggestion that the burial was in fact in a robbing trench, since ‘the cement with which the trench had been filled had perished into a loose dusty gravel’, an unlikely material to be used as the basis of a wall in the Roman period, and much more reminiscent of the loose material remaining in a trench after the stones and flints had been dug out. This hypothesis was confirmed by a radiocarbon date placing the skeleton in the late sixth/midseventh century (Firth 1994, 189). Renewed fieldwork at the site now suggests that a Roman temenos became the focus for a pagan Saxon barrow and burials (Fulford and Rippon 1994, 201–6), and thus is similar to Frilford and Henley Wood (see above; also Semple 2011). The separation of contemporary burial ground and Romano-Celtic temple is explicable in terms of their rather different religious natures. Temples were concerned primarily with the living and their relationship with the spirit world. Worship at shrines was needed to serve the spiritual needs and fears of the community and to fulfil personal vows. As such, temples were probably a major focus of everyday life, while some of them, such as the healing cults, also provided for exceptional occurrences during an individual’s life. By contrast, burial grounds were the focus for one very specific event in each person’s existence, namely their transfer from the living world to the one beyond the grave. In Iron Age and Graeco-Roman religion this transfer seems to have taken place without the help of the gods worshipped at the temple, but through the intervention of specific deities of the dead (manes in Graeco-Roman parlance). Also, burial and the rites repeated on later occasions at the grave, were particularly activities that allowed the living to, as it were, fix the memory of the dead person and raise him or her to the status of ancestor. In other words, there was no spiritual requirement to position cemeteries and Romano-Celtic temples together as they formed parallel and not interdependent functions in society. Neither was subordinate to the other. A further consideration is topographical, in that temples were usually within communities, i.e. integrated in social groups, or conversely at a significant distance, often being the object of sacred journeys or pilgrimages. In contrast, most cemeteries were peripheral to, but not inconveniently distant from communities of the living.

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Human remains in Roman shafts, wells, caves and watery places Since the evidence discussed above comes from temples, sites that had been affected by a certain degree of Romanisation, and therefore potential Roman official oversight and control, we could easily be dealing with a biased sample. Virtually nothing is known of the un-Romanised shrines or holy places of Roman Britain, and it is in these that possible indications of continuing human sacrifices may be found. The best evidence from such sites is the well-known circumstance of bog deposition, which for Britain mainly concerns one site, Lindow Moss, Cheshire. Much discussion has centred on this find, both on its date, and the forensic detail of the death and its motivation (Hutton 2011a; cf. Sitch 2019; Giles 2020), and the details do not need to be repeated here, except to observe that doubt now surrounds the ‘triple murder’ (druidic sacrifice) interpretation, and an ordinary murder, probably within the Roman period, is as likely as a ritualised killing or human sacrifice. As we have seen, none of the burials from Roman-period temples need have been the result of deliberate ritual killing, and are as, if not more likely to have been the use or re-use of corpses. Very much the same conclusion can be drawn about the human remains from shafts or wells. The pioneering work of Anne Ross (1968; 1974, 50–4) and Ross and Feachem (1976; cf. Webster 1997; Esmonde Cleary 2000, 134–5; Fulford 2001; Woodward and Woodward 2004, 77; Morris 2011, 3–4) has shown that many deep holes in the ground have fillings that are best explained as ritual, which accords with the Celtic belief that such holes were entrances to the otherworld and needed to be neutralised or propitiated in some way. Many of the known Roman-period shafts contain human remains, sometimes in bizarre arrangements. For instance, at Newstead (railway pit 10), there is the skeleton of a man nearly erect in a pit 3.4 m deep (Ross 1968, 268–70; Ross and Feachem 1976); elsewhere on this site several deep pits contain human remains, usually in specific depositional arrangements (Clarke 1997, 76). At Biddenham there is a skeleton associated with an altar slab, a mutilated statue, a slab incised with a crane (a holy bird in the Celtic world; Green 1992, 176) and animal bones (Ross 1968, 260; 1974, 54). Both of these could represent deliberate sacrifices, but burials are just as plausible, and probably just as effective in religious terms for making the gateway to the otherworld secure. A remarkable group of thirteen or more shafts has been excavated in Cambridge, adjacent to a small pentagonal shrine, and dated to the mid/late Roman period (Alexander and Pullinger 1999, 53–8), each one containing a mature dog and an infant burial in the remains of a basket or mat. The shafts were filled immediately after the burials had been placed. In her discussion of this site, Alison Taylor (in Alexander and Pullinger 1999, 78–9) highlights the parallels between Folly Lane (see above) and Cambridge, and the significance of the dog burials as guardians after death. The prominent presence of infant burials differentiates this group of shafts from most others, and may link to a cult associated with childbirth (see above).

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In his discussion of Newstead, Clarke points out that assemblages from deep pits/ shafts differ in their composition from temples (Woodward 1992, 75; Clarke 1997, 76). They are more like Iron Age structured depositional practices, as seen at Danebury and elsewhere (Hill 1995), and therefore represent a continuing tradition that implies different ritual practices from the orthopraxis that was emerging at Late Iron Age and early Romano-Celtic temples. However, there are shafts in or near temple precincts (Forcey 1998, 90), as the Folly Lane example, discussed above, makes clear; and also shafts in the vicinity of Roman burial grounds, as noted by Black (1986, 211) for south-east England, interpreted by him as ‘depositories for offerings’, presumably as an adjunct to the burial rite. There are other sites, with multiple human crania, that are worthy of further comment. At Icklingham (West and Plouviez 1976), six skulls were found, together with a lathe-turned column, in a pit plugged with chalk. One of the skulls had been decapitated by a strong blow, which was perhaps a beheading. They may be rubbish from a ritual site of some sort cleared away to make way for the Christian church on the site (Thomas 1980, 146). In which case, it is possible to envisage ritual sites adorned with severed heads and skulls as late as the fourth century. If so, where did the skulls come from? Were they relics of pre-Roman days, or were such practices as head-hunting still in existence, as has been suggested for forty mainly adult male skulls with peri-mortem and healed injuries from the Walbrook Valley, London (Redfern and Bonney 2014; cf. Armit 2012; Schulting and Bradley 2013)? The same questions arise with the seventeen skulls from Wookey Hole, Somerset (Ross 1974, 142), found in and around a pool in the cave together with first- and second-century pottery. The de-individualisation implied by these finds can be linked to practices from the Iron Age, such as the trophy sites, discussed earlier (cf. also Tucker 2015 for discussion of decapitation).

Conclusion To conclude, the questions raised by the human remains from Hayling Island have, in a qualified way, been answered by the information from other sites, and more importantly, by the inferences that can be made from the literature and more general ideas about religious practice. A skeptical viewpoint has not given scope for saying that human sacrifices are easy to detect; however, ritualised burials of skeletons or fragmented bone are much easier to find and account for, and in the case of RomanoCeltic temples and shafts, it is clear, with one or two exceptions, that the only burials associated with them are those deposited in unusual circumstances, and thus almost certainly the result of rituals associated with the cult of the shrine. A second conclusion relates to the question of orthopraxis raised at the start of this paper. The archaeology allows us to see the growth of a number of local ritual practices in the Late Iron Age, which in many cases continued into the Roman period. These local rituals incorporated human remains, both of possible sacrifice,

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and more clearly, of partial, scattered or whole burials, with the result that some temple sites must have made use of these remains in their orthopraxy. Individuals, usually high-status, might be celebrated, indeed heroised, as the focus of a cult; or they might be subsumed into ritual practice in a more anonymous way, by forming part of foundation offerings, or scattered human remains amongst other sacrificial debris. Trophies formed of human remains, or individual elements such as skulls with evidence of post-mortem damage or separation from the rest of the skeleton, demonstrate extreme loss of individuality as a consequence of ritual activity. Fullscale trophies may have been an Iron Age phenomenon that did not continue into the Roman period, but individual skulls are known, and may represent the continuation of this practice on a lesser scale after the Roman conquest.

References

Ancient sources

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Wedlake, W. J. (1982) The Excavation of the Shrine of Apollo at Nettleton, Wiltshire, 1956–1971). London, Society of Antiquaries, Reports of the Research Committee 40. Wessex Archaeology (2009) Friars Wash, Redbourn, Hertfordshire. Archaeological evaluation and assessment of results. Unpublished report for Videotext Communications Ltd. West, S. and Plouviez, J. (1976) The Roman site at Icklingham. East Anglian Archaeology 3, 63–125. Williams, R. J. (1994) The ‘mausoleum’ excavations. In R. J. Williams and R. J. Zeepvat, Bancroft. A Late Bronze/Iron Age settlement, Roman villa and temple-mausoleum, volume I: excavations and building materials, 13–113. Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire Archaeological Society Monograph 7. Wilson, C. (1981) Burials within settlements in southern Britain during the pre-Roman Iron Age. Bulletin of the Institute of Archaeology, University of London 18, 127–69. Witkin, A. (2009) The human skeletal remains. In S. Lawrence and A. Smith, Between Villa and Town. Excavations of a Roman roadside settlement and shrine at Higham Ferrers, Northamptonshire, 275–87. Oxford, Oxford Archaeology Monograph 7. Woodward, A. (1992) Shrines and Sacrifice. London, Batsford, English Heritage. Woodward, A. (1993) The cult of relics in prehistoric Britain. In M. Carver (ed.) In Search of Cult. Archaeological investigations in honour of Philip Rahtz, 1–7. Woodbridge, The Boydell Press. Woodward, P and Woodward, A. (2004) Dedicating the town: urban foundation deposits in Roman Britain. World Archaeology 36, 68–86. Woolf, G. (2000) The religious history of the northwest provinces. Journal of Roman Archaeology 13, 615–30. Woolf, G. (2015) Ritual traditions of non-Mediterranean Europe. In R. Raja and J. Rüpke (eds) A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, 465–77. London, John Wiley and Sons.

Chapter 11 Indigenous arae and stelae: symbolic landscapes and individualisation in north-west Roman Hispania Fernando Alonso Burgos

Introduction This paper attempts to offer a new approach to the transition between the symbolic landscapes of the pre-Roman and Roman worlds. Case studies from two different rural areas in Asturia serve to offer insights into the use of altars and tombstones (Fig. 11.1) (Alonso 2014). Though there are elements which clearly entail Roman practices, they are often ascribed to pre-Roman ‘Celtic’ traditions. This paradigm must be revised, paying particular attention to the stones themselves as potential symbols in the formation process of indigenous aristocracies, with individuals choosing to converge on a language of power that was common throughout the Empire.

The pre-Roman background: castro culture and highlanders The late Iron Age in the Iberian north-west is characterised by the enclosed hillfort settlement model called castro culture. In opposition to traditional social models for this period, focussing on the social hierarchy of warrior aristocracies with ‘Celtic’ jewellery (Parcero 2003; González García 2009; González García et al. 2012; Parcero et al. 2021) or Lévi-Strauss’ société à maison as reference (González Ruibal 2006; González Ruibal and Ruiz-Gálvez 2016), the model used here, based on Fernández-Posse and Sastre, suggests a non-triangular social perspective, i.e. a segmentary agrarian society in line with current critical approaches (Sastre 2002; 2008; 2012; Sastre et al. 2010; Sastre and Sánchez-Palencia 2013; Sastre et al. 2021a and 2021b; related with the uniqueness of Castro golden diadem-belts of Moñes in Alonso 2018). This kind of society relies on a material record which highlights the importance of self-sufficiency for the household, making optimum use of natural resources in its environment. Their settlements display minimum differentiation throughout the

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Fig. 11.1. Gold-mining zones in the north-west of Iberia and location of case study areas.

domestic compounds placed around the enclosure, the greatest symbol of community of the castro culture. In this social model, the social actors, when facing the presence of Rome, tended to respond in two very different ways. On the one hand, in some areas of northern Portugal or the Meseta, the tendency was to become proto-urban

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through a process of synoecism which generated the so-called oppida system. On the other hand, in the more mountainous areas of the interior, consisting of most of the north-west, people’s reaction was much more what Clastres would call an ‘againstthe-state’ reaction, by emphasising those social mechanisms which counteracted or negated hierarchising trends. In this way, the segmentary agrarian model stubbornly persisted until the final conquest and reorganisation carried out by Augustus. Given the absence (or invisibility) of any pre-Roman funerary and votive records, it can be imagined that these social responses must have been channelled towards non-monumentalised outcomes. Resistance to hierarchy in late Iron Age society was apparently not displayed through funerary or votive means. As we have seen above, evaluating the perception of the symbolic landscape by oral communities requires leaving behind aesthetic considerations and assessing the practicality it had in the eyes of Late Iron Age inhabitants. In fact, Strabo also applied this vision when appraising the peoples of the highlands: radical poverty, barren soils, extreme customs such as atheism or grandiloquent sacrifices, etc. (Strabo 3.3–3.4.16). Thus, the real richness of these lands was only truly brought to light by the ‘civilised Romans’ in the form of the gold mines, turning this ‘terrible country’ into a strategic advantage.

Symbolic appropriation of the western finis terrae and the first legal documents The first symbolic appropriation in the north-west is attested by the mention of the arae Sestiane which were set in the westernmost finis terrae by Augustus’ general Lucius Sextus (Pomponius Mela, Chor. 3. 13; Pliny, NH 4.111; Ptolemy, Geogr. 2.6.3), possibly related to the mention in the Tabula Lougeiorum of a later unknown conventus araeaugustae (Morillo and Fernández Ochoa 2002). Some have proposed that these arae did not really exist, but were possibly related to the turris augustae, the lighthouses which signalled the Atlantic coast of Hispania (an example being the Campa Torres in Gijón, with an associated Augustan inscription: CIL II 2703; Fernández-Ochoa et al. 2005). In any case, evidence points to an early Roman interest, from the very end of the first century BCE, in introducing structural elements symbolising the new order through the imperial cult and the use of arae or lighthouses as triumphs over the edge of the conquered land. This habit was not new, for we have triumphal monuments like Pompeius’ altar in the Pyrenees (La Jonquera, Girona) and the so-called Altar of the Three Gauls (Lyon). Following this idea of symbolic appropriation of conquered territory, some legal documents, such as the ‘Bierzo Edict’ (HEp 7, 378 = AE 1999, 915) or the ‘Tabula de O Caurel’ (AE 1961, 96), show an effective reorganisation which took place in the northwest following the end of the Cantabrian Wars (29–19 BCE). The first document is dated to the year 15 BCE and was validated by Augustus himself in Narbonne. It deals with an argument between the castellae of the Paemeiobrigenses and the Aliobrigiaecini, belonging to two neighbouring civitates – though they are called gentes (castellanos

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Paemeiobrigenses ex gente Susarrorum y castellanos Aliobrigiaecinos ex gente Gigurrorum). The problem starts with Rome’s usage of tribute as a means of punishing or rewarding these communities, possibly due to their differing role during the recent war. One community is exempted, and their tribute is added to the other community’s obligations (cf. Sánchez-Palencia and Mangas 2000). The second document, the ‘Tabula de O Caurel’ is dated to 27 CE, a hospitality agreement between an individual and his family (Tillegus Ambati f Susarrus Aiobaiciaeco) and the castellani belonging to another civitas (Lougeis castellanis Toletensibus). Unlike the first document, which sees Rome directly meddling in local organisation, the second document is highlighting one of the mechanisms which best served Rome to install the new territorial and social model: clientage (hospitium and patrocinium). These was the beginning of aristocratic alliances which were materialised through bronzes and tabullae, like the one in Astorga, the so-called Tabula Zoelarum, or the recent discovery in El Picón (Pino del Oro, Zamora). Here, like in O Caurel, we have a pact between an individual and a civitas: senatus populusque bletisamense (Sastre et al. 2009a and b). In the section that follows, we will make a short presentation of the evidence at hand, both funerary and votive, in two regions. The first is in south Asturia augustana, and belongs to a fairly unknown civitas, that of the Zoealae. There is a great abundance of funerary inscriptions with very characteristic iconography which has traditionally been related to surviving Celtic symbolism. The second is the upper Bierzo area, a mountainous land near the conventual capital at Astorga. Gold mining is abundant and there is a large corpus of inscriptions dedicated to traditional pre-Roman gods.

Stelae: case study in the Zoela area The epigraphic corpus comes from both sides of the Spanish-Portuguese border in the area of Zamora province (western Tierra del Pan, Aliste, Alba and Sayago) and Trás-os-Montes region (Bragança, Macedo de Cavaleiros, Vimioso, Miranda do Douro and Mogadouro). This territory has been regarded as the extent of the gigantic civitas of the Zoela.1 Inscriptions are mainly funerary (see Fig. 11.2 for graph and distribution map), with just a few rare votive, military or monumental inscriptions. The fact that the settlement pattern was predominantly rural underlines the exceptional density of epigraphic finds with approximately 500 funerary stelae, equally distributed between western Zamora and Trás-os-Montes. The only two settlements of clear Roman character were the military camps, possibly associated with cannabae, of Paetavonium and Albocela, though these are not located in regions that yielded particularly large numbers of epigraphy. Epigraphic density, therefore, does not correlate with urbanisation, as has been proven in other areas of the Empire which were ‘relativity under-urbanised, but highly militarised’ (Woolf 1996, 23). Recently, two fragments belonging to a legal document in bronze, discovered in El Picón (Sastre et al. 2009a; 2009b; Sastre and Beltrán 2010) have allowed to reconsider the south-western frontiers of the Zoela. The document, dated to 27 CE (though

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Fig. 11.2. Votive and funerary epigraphy distribution in Western Zamora.

other dates are equally possible: 14 BCE, 64 CE and 87 CE) seals a pact between an individual – as suggested by the use of ipse2 (Sastre et al. 2009b, 17) – and the senatus populusque Bletisamensis: [… hospitium …reno]|vavit. cum s[enatu populul]|oq(ue) Bletisam[ensi…eum]|que senatus [populusque] | Bletisamen[sis liber]|os. posterosq(u)e. ei[us... in...am]|icitiamque su[am receperunt] | ita. ut civem […] | in perpetu[o…] | egit ipse A[…]|TONE[…] (Sastre et al. 2009a; 2009b, 17).

This hospitality pact would have been between an indigenous individual and the civitas of Bletisama, which would have awarded local citizenship to the individual.3 The use of the term amicitia is a novelty within a hospitality pact, but it is coherent if this pact is understood within a client relationship of fides4 (Sastre et al. 2009b, 18–9). Apart from the new legal issues arising from this document, it also provides an insight in the organisation of civitates in this region. Traditionally, Bletisama was located in its namesake Ledesma, in opposition to Mirobriga, located in Ciudad Rodrigo, both in the Salamanca region. Both were mentioned on two Augustan termini from 3–6 CE (CIL II 859 for Ledesma; CIL II 857 = 858 for Ciudad Rodrigo). The Bronce de El Picón has opened the possibility that Bletisama was either the region known as Sayago, the southwest quadrant of Zamora, or else Sayago and other regions furthers south, possibly bordering on Ledesma itself (Sastre et al. 2009b, 20-1), which would make sense of the location there of the terminus. If this area to the south of the Duero was not Zoelan, then it would have been part of Lusitania, and finding a hospitality pact right across the Duero River would make much more sense (Beltrán et al. 2015).

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Perhaps that client relationship had much to do with the dynamics of rural areas which were becoming interconnected regionally within the new provincial structures. The changing power networks in the region were probably responsible for the explosion of epigraphy from the late first century CE in the neighbouring plateau of Miranda do Douro, which had very few earlier inscriptions. Traditional epigraphic studies in this area (Tranoy 1981, 52, 159) were undertaken within the paradigm of the iconographic similarity with other northern and north-western inscriptions, as well as with other regions of the empire (García y Bellido 1949). This region was dominated by a specific type of morphology, the ‘style de Picote’ (Tranoy 1981), stemming from a type of marble locally abundant in Miranda do Douro. Navarro denominated this epigraphic type as ‘steles made of Santo Adrião marble with solar wheel on a base’ (translated from Navarro 1998, 189–90). The attempt to understand all the epigraphy of the region, which consists mainly of granite inscriptions, based on the marble record has led to synchronic interpretations, always beginning in the last quarter of the first century CE (for Bragança district, see Redentor 2002; for western Zamora in Abásolo and García Rozas 1990; 1991–92). The granite inscriptions, however, can be clearly ascribed to the beginning of that century. Initial epigraphic analyses always stressed the transnational nature of this corpus, sitting between the northern Meseta and the north-west (Gómez Moreno 1904). There are, however, distinct differences between the granite inscriptions of Salamanca and Zamora and the marble ones from the Miranda do Douro area. Understanding how both types of epigraphy were adopted would shed light on this difference. Stemming from a common basic morphology of semi-circular stelae, discs and lower arches, the marble pieces belong to a later period and context, which we know thanks to a detailed chronological study that will be reviewed below. In parallel, the similarity between the inscriptions of the different areas of this region does not imply a common ethnic or political context, which should forestall the misleading use of denominations like ‘Zoelan epigraphy’ or ‘Picote-style stelae’. Understanding the processes behind epigraphy – from the officina to the geo-political dynamics – offers new insights into the similarities and differences in the epigraphic record of this region (Beltrán 2016). The most recent chronological studies underline the Romanitas of this epigraphic corpus, including an early dating using parallels with military tombstones, but with a cautionary half-century delay (Abásolo and García Rozas 1990, 551; 2006, 164; Abásolo and Marco 1995, 330; Navarro 1998, 188–9; Redentor 2002, 211). Our approach coincides in the military parallels associated with the legio X Gemina Felix, one of the legions that participated in the conquest of north-west Iberia. I propose, however, that the indigenous adaptation begins immediately after the army was transferred under Tiberius from Asturica (Astorga) to the nearby permanent camp of Petavonium (Rosino de Vidriales) and possibly within the conquest-period camp in Albocela (Villalazán), both in western Zamora (Beltrán and Alonso 2010).

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Few tombstones were made for legionaries of that army, but they are very interesting. Their decorations were adopted by members of the local aristocracy who conferred them with deep symbolism: the semicircular stone with the six-petalled rose drawn using a compass, all framed by corner-grooves and an architectonic simulation to enhance the epigraphic panel. The reproduction of this iconographic model in local granite by indigenous individuals had already happened in Emerita Augusta (Edmondson 2006). There, these richly decorated tombstones are associated with individuals from the margins of Roman society – slaves and non-citizens – and their prosperity as a result of pursuing a military career. The display of personal success and social advancement would have been natural in Roman-style epitaphs, such as the progression from slave to freedman or from peregrine to Roman citizen. It is worthwhile to explore this idea of the nouveau riche using certain decorative elements in order to decorate their inscriptions in a fashion different from those of ordinary citizens. This, together with the possible differential organisation of the necropolis, which has offered interpretive insights in some military corpora such as those from Mainz (Mogonticum), where legionaries and auxiliaries had clear preferences in iconography. Sixty-one percent of legionaries preferred simpler decoration, while most auxiliaries opted for displaying symbols of their military status (horses, weapons, emblems, servants, etc.), which could have helped them to be the ‘champions of the Roman people’ (Hope 2000, 176). In her analysis, Hope argues that the organisational difference in the necropolis was probably due more to a chronological order (2000, 178). In Rome, the late Republic was a time when funerary ostentation was increasingly accepted as a symbol of social success. In the colonies, under Augustus, the trend was to be much more austere. As we have seen, in the Augustan colony Emerita, only a few peregrini or military individuals broke with the prevailing decorative restraint by adding timid floral motifs in imitation of a style which was abandoned decades before in Italy. Understanding funerary spaces as areas of social competition and status identity has been much explored by ethno-historical studies in the USA and the United Kingdom (McGuire 1988; Cannon 1989; Small 2008). Today, modern Spanish cemeteries are known for the flair of gipsy tombs which supports the idea that ostentation is not a direct reflection of higher social status. Cannon’s ‘expressive redundancy’ implies that when non-elite imitated the funerary format of the elite, these would in turn resort to austerity (Cannon 1989). A comparative study between different anthropological examples leads to the conclusion that a necropolis is a space for groups to structure and transform their identities and converging social relationships beyond kin (Williams 2009). Analysing the funerary spaces of Emerita, or in the transformation from a legionary camp to a city in Asturica, we see that ‘social distances’ were reinforced. Different social strata display themselves through different versions of a specific iconographic format: the round-topped stele. The progressive development of astral motifs on simulated architecture is proof of a funerary ideology shared by

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military and peregrine individuals. The effect of this commonality will be studied in our Zamora-Bragança study area. Funerary epigraphy in this area was initially imitating military inscriptions left by the 10th legion in Astorga (see legio X group: Fig. 11.3a) and Petavonium (see legio X group: Fig. 11.3b), with a round-headed stele format already common in Emerita under Augustus. In the rural Zamora-Bragança region, the only revealing difference is the six-petalled rose that was drawn freehand around a central button, without using a compass like the military. The panel was recessed between two mouldings imitating columns and the text was very basic: single name, affiliation and age (examples in Villalazán, Villalcampo, Pino del Oro, Muelas del Pan and Picote). Though a symbolic reinterpretation is not excluded, there certainly is an artistic imitation which is evident in the crude imitation of the shallow circle drawn by the compass originally used to design the petals. In these cases, the circle is considered part of the decoration. A remnant central button would be the reference to the rose, an element which would long outlive it in the iconography (see Group I, Fig. 11.3c), as we shall see. The astral composite which would become so common in Hispania as well as in other provinces of the empire, Pannonia and Africa Proconsularis, stems from the emulation of the military six-petalled rose structure. The roses turned into wheels, initially with the same number of curved spokes as petals on the rose, while maintaining the central button. The architectural structure would gain in detail – including Corinthian capitals – and slenderness. With time, the wheel’s number of spokes and depth of the grooves increased (cf. Group II, Fig. 11.3d). The architectural structure in turn became more standard and schematic (cf. Group II, Fig. 11.3e), with simpler columns around the panel and a mould resembling an entablature topped with the corner-grooves that frame the wheel. The final phase seems to reinforce this symbolisation of a sacred temple space with arches below the columned space (cf. Group III, Figs 11.3f and 11.3g). This iconographic interpretation has certain consequences in dating. In Western Zamora, most inscriptions predate the diis manibus formula associated with a bipartite structure, which would become common in the first half of the second century CE (cf. Group IVb, Fig. 11.3j and 11.3k). This suggests that the moment of greatest epigraphic activity corresponds to the period of greatest aristocratic competition, the first century. In Bragança, the situation is different. The origin seems to be the six-petalled rose and the waxing moon above an entablature. But the trends are very different, particularly in the area of Miranda do Douro. There, the above-mentioned marble was used and the wheel with curved spokes on a pedestal with corner-grooves. Underneath the wheel, there is space for animal reliefs (probably linked to funerary sacrifice) and lower arches which were at first horseshoe (cf. Group IVa, Fig. 11.3h) and subsequently gladius-shaped (Group IVa, Fig. 11.3i). Most of Mirandan inscriptions use the diis manibus formula, attributing most of them to the first decades of the second century. Later, the arches became simpler, representing a gladius-handle, superlative expressions (-issimus/a) and commonly tripartite structure which betray a late second

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Fig. 11.3. Funerary epigraphy groups: legio X group a) Epitaph of C. Pelgus Clemens veteran of legio X Gemina from Astorga/Asturica Augusta (CIL II 5076 = 5662) © SST-LA b) Stela of P. Cosconius miles of legio X Gemina from Rosino de Vidriales/Petavonium (AE 1928, 179) © SST-LA; Group I c) To Comene Corici f(ilia) from Villalcampo (CIRPZa 253) © Museum of Zamora, Junta de Castilla y León; Group II d) from Villalcampo (CIRPZa 256) © SST-LA e) from Fariza (CIRPZa 36) © SST-LA; Group III f) Iemuria’s stela from Villalcampo (CIRPZa 264) © Museum of Zamora, Junta de Castilla y León g) Cudia’s stela from Villardiegua de la Ribera (CIRPZa, 313) © Museum of Zamora, Junta de Castilla y León; Group IVa h) To Silvia Anulla from Picote, Miranda do Douro (Alves, 2000: t. IX, 70-71, nº 36) © Museu Nacional de Arqueologia, Lisboa i) To Valerio from (CIL II, 5661) © Museu Nacional de Arqueologia, Lisboa; Group IVb j) Bipartite stela from Villalcampo k) Bipartite epitaph from San Mamed, Rábano de Aliste (CIRPZa 163); Group V l) tripartite epitaph from Villalcampo (CIRPZa 289) © Museum of Zamora, Junta de Castilla y León.

century to early third-century chronology (cf. Group V, Fig. 11.3l). At that same time, in Zamora, the production of large granite tombstones was rapidly decreasing. This iconography refers to a symbolic structure based on the locus sacrum, figuratively represented through a sacred building (templum) made explicit through its architectonic representation. The evolution of this representation seems to lose detail (we have façades decorated with rosetta and acroteria) in favour of more celestial

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evocations where the columns represent the stellar dome. In order to understand the significance of these changes, we have to enter the funerary beliefs underlying this symbolism. In the early Principate, there was a tendency in Iberia to adopt an astral funerary ideology based on Orphism and Pythagorism which involved astral immortality; hence the Isles of the Blessed which were the Sun and Moon. Souls rose to the starry sky where they joined the shared matter, the metempsychosis (e.g. within the destination to the moon in Plutarch, De fac. lun., 9, p. 925c; 27, p. 942–3). Interestingly, this was a belief which would come to substitute the belief in the underground afterlife symbolised by the lower arches and walking souls as larvae, manes, umbrae or simulacra. Thus, in inscriptions from this period we witness an eclectic funerary ideology where belief and custom are intertwined. The extension of the diis manibus formula in the second century is considered to be a symptom of a merely formulaic creed (Hope 2007, 226), which had already lost its philosophical hold on mentality. Within this symbolic structure, the six-petalled rose turned from mere decoration into astral symbolism (sun, moon, star, planet) suspended in the sky dome, the semicircular top of the tombstone. Traditional studies of this iconography systematically refer to a Celtic belief wherever these symbols are repeated, and a Celtic culture is presumed in the regions where the 10th and 7th legions were present, i.e. in northern Hispania, Noricum and the Pannoniae. This narrative had the Roman military bearing an epigraphic culture with decorative elements (roses, moons) and local populations incorporating preRoman symbolism which evoked the immortality of the soul and astral symbolism. These symbolisms, however, must be understood within the trends present in the Roman world itself, without requiring any Celtic explanations. This does not mean that indigenous aristocracies, which spread this ideology, did not play a part in reinterpreting previous traditions in order to homogenise the iconography and make it coherent with the Roman mentality and inter-regional competition within the provinces. Arae: a case study in the upper Bierzo Initiatives such as F.E.R.C.AN. have increased the known number of votive inscriptions in north-west Iberia (117 in Spain and 63 in Portugal). From them, we can extract up to 72 indigenous theonyms of different typologies — usually interpreted as preRoman gods — compared to 10 deities belonging to the Classical pantheon. Most theonyms include an epithet deriving from a toponym or gentry (González Rodríguez 2008, 86; for a current study of Hispanic theonym distribution patterns using GIS cf. Arenas and López 2010). The concentration of dedications on behalf of indigenous groups as well as peregrine individuals in the Hispanic North-West led Tranoy to the conclusion that Jupiter was, in fact, the face of a pre-Roman ‘assimilated’ deity through a cult which played a substantial role in the religious integration of the peoples of the region (Tranoy 1981, 315–21). This idea of pre-Roman inheritance relies mainly on the Celtic nature of iconography associated to Jupiter in the Germanic,

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Gallic or Britannic provinces. The spoked wheel or the swastika were associated with the allegedly pan-Celtic Taranis (Green 1986, 59; 1991, 86; Hatt 1989, 83). Thus, an ‘indigenous Jupiter’ or the ‘wheel god’ is ever-present in the sculpture of the socalled Jupitergigantenreiter (‘Jupiter-giant columns’) and Viergöttersteine (the ‘four-god stones’). In Hispania, however, no similar pre-Roman deity or iconography has so far been found. The origin of the spoked wheel has been analysed in the previous section, relating it to the military symbol of the six-petalled rose. Nonetheless, the name of Jupiter, so common in rural collective dedications, in areas where it shares religion with many indigenous gods, is considered to mask a pre-Roman tradition (Olivares 2000; 2002a, 183–6; Brañas 2007, 407–12). Some studies from Gaul seem to contradict this association between Jupiter and a presumed pre-Roman deity. In reality, Jupiter was the superior god of the Roman pantheon, above any indigenous god, and that in itself explains why social groups sought its protection and patronage. The superiority of Jupiter had to be acknowledged regardless of local gods, as happened in the cases of the Treveri, Helvetii, Mediomatrici and Aedueni as argued by Van Andringa (2002, 277). The collegium of nautae from Lutetia (Paris) offered a votive column which included reliefs of different Roman and indigenous gods. On this dedication in honour of the emperor Tiberius, Iuppiter Optimus Maximus plays the main role, for it is the deity to which this votum is dedicated. Votive custom seems to spread from citizen elites to other aristocracies and social groups, centred on the imperial house and the state gods. For Van Andringa, the political and religious integration under Tiberius and later emperors was subjected to the new collective dynamics of the city. This had consequences for the religion as a whole and the associated rites of local communities which were, after all, the ones that ‘posent en effet tout autant la question de l’établissement de nouvelles règles du sacré que celle de l’affirmation de nouveaux comportements sociaux’ (2002, 81). Returning to the Upper Bierzo (Sastre et al. 2014), we know the clear example Iovi of the Queledini (AE 1928, 162) from San Andrés de Montejos (Fig. 11.4 B). Nearby, in the Roman fort El Corón de La Escrita, an altar, dating to the Julio-Claudian period, was erected by a social group, the castellani, whose members remain anonymous, for a local patron deity, the dea Cenduedia (ERPL 45; Fig. 11.4 A1). Other collective indications to Madarso Soelagarum (AE 1997, 871) from El Vigo de Sanabria could refer to the Zoela civitas (Abásolo and García Rozas 2006). These and other collective dedications to indigenous deities probably bear witness to the process of ‘creolisation’, not in the sense of a counter or sub-culture (Webster 2003), but as the result of a local indigenous ‘mestizo’ elite which reinterpreted collective traditions to favour its own interests under the new Roman order. This concept can be fruitfully applied to Gaulish examples of deity representations, which were not used before, and which served to structure a new Gallo-Roman religion. Within that same iconography, the associations between local gods and Roman gods reveals both the dominatio of Jupiter, and the peregrine fides.

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Fig. 11.4. Gold-mining zones in El Bierzo. El Corón de la Escrita’s pantheon: A1) To Deae Cenduediae from castellani (ERPL 4), A2) To Matribus (ERPL 23), A3) To Coss(ue) (ERPL 10) and A4) To Deo Domino Cossue Segidiaeco (ERPL 8) © ERPL and SST-AL; B) Collective dedication from j Queledini to Iuppiter from San Andrés de Montejos, Ponferrada (AE 1928, 162) © ERPL; C) Dedication to Madarsus Soelagarum from El Vigo de Sanabria (AE 1997, 871) © Abásolo and García Rozas 2006: lám. V, 2; D) Dedication to Consus from San Pedro de Trones, Puente de Domingo Flórez (AE 1998, 764) © SST-LA; E) Dedication to IOM Cossus from Nida-Heddernheim, Frankfurt am Main (AE 1929, 114) © Epigraphische Datenbank Heidelberg.

In order to understand how the religious pantheons were conformed in the Bierzo rural area, we must analyse how they hinged on the Flavian reform and its urban foundations and the subsequent rural dynamism (Zubiaurre 2018). For this, we must return to the anonymous castellani that made a vow to dea Cenduedia in the Corón de La Escrita site (Fig. 11.4 A1). There, other vota were found, including a dedication to the Matres6 (Fig. 11.4 A2), a divine force called Rivaoduo7 and two dedications deo domino Cossus8 (Fig. 11.4 A3 and A4) (Orejas and Alonso 2014). The Matres inscription has traditionally been interpreted as a dedication to the divine couple Cossus and Cusuena. I, however, make an alternative reading which turns the dedicator into pa|gus Ve|ne[---]. If this reading were correct, we would have two dedications on behalf of communities in the same place: one from the local castellani, thus unnamed, and one from the neighbouring pagani. The use of the same religious space by different types communities is also known from North Africa,9 and castellani/ vicani groups sitting alongside each other in Aquae Flaviae (Chaves, Portugal).10 Any considerations of whether the pagi were Roman citizen rural communities, in contrast with castella or vici, is debatable, particularly in provincial landscapes which had transformed pre-Roman settlement strategies – the ‘romanised castro’, so common

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in the region – in order to make them fit for the only real territorial and fiscal unit: the civitas (Orejas and Sastre 1999). These sub-civitas units were integrated into the civitas, whose ager was per extremitatem mensura comprehensus, as described by ancient surveyors (Frontinus, De agrorum qualitate, Th. 1–2; Orejas 2002; Orejas et al. 2005). The ager civitatis could include many types of peregrine property, protected by the ius peregrinus. As the Bierzo Edict bears testimony, suburban entities were not units with territorial, fiscal or religious cohesion, but rather the result of the inequalities which formed the provincial landscape. Castella, vici and pagi are just ways of calling ‘local groups of the civitates, recognisable within them and unequal (unequal access to land, unequal monumentalisation, unequal taxing), but with no autonomy in Rome’s eyes’ (translated from Orejas and Ruíz del Árbol 2010, 1109). Cosus is a deity with great presence in the three conventus of the Hispanic North-West.11 In the Bierzo area, at the heart of this region, the greatest density of dedications can be found. This has led authors to ponder on the possible local origin of this cult and on inter-regional migration from more seaward regions, a dubious theory for no Bercian examples includes a Gallaecian origo (Olivares 2007). Some have sought to identify Cosus with the Ares that Strabo described; this may be supported by the warrior nature which some inscriptions confirm,12 playing into the hands of a Dumézilian second function (Bermejo 1986). This association has been strongly objected, but no resolution has been reached due to lack of new epigraphic insights (Andrés Hurtado 2005, 241–8). Etymological analysis of the name, often used to understand the function of a deity – an approach strongly criticised by González García and García Quintela (2005) –, have reached the conclusion that the oldest form, Consus (AE 1998, 76413) (Fig. 11.4 D), originates from the Bierzo region. Some authors have attempted to relate this deity with a Mars epithet found in Gaul and Britain, which has led to different secondary associations. In any case, it is an indigenous deity with ‘undoubtedly warrior connotations’ (translated from Brañas 2007, 434), which harks back to the idea of a ‘Celtic warrior society’ which is far from evident (a critique of castro warrior society in Sastre 2008). A recent re-reading of an inscription from Portas, which turned a Reo Cosoesoaego (CIRG II 12814) to a Reo Coso Esoaego or Reo Cosoe Soaego (HEp 13, 505; Búa 2003, 159) has helped to support Búa’s hypothesis that the indigenous god Reve was behind the generic deus (1997, 79–82; 2000, 60, 167). The Portas example would be the key to identify the theonym Reve with Cossus, the epithet (Guerra 2008, 130). In this case, palaeolinguistic analyses are useful because they put in relation indigenous theonymic reinterpretations with Roman structures which, after all, would have shaped these processes. For Guerra, the possible pre-Roman significance of the etymological studies could very well be simply the adjective derived from the toponym of the cult-place, in which case not even the suffix is unequivocally palaeo-Hispanic, for it could well be Latin’ (translated from Guerra 2008, 134–5). The depth of time in this process can also be appreciated because dedicants were probably unaware of the original indigenous theological concepts associated with their deities, as can be seen in the

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use of theonyms like dea Apa-deva, ‘goddess Apa-goddess’ (Arenas and De Bernardo 2005). The fact that other epithets, like Larauco, were associated to Reve (AE 1976, 298), as well as in later inscriptions to Jupiter as socio Larocuo (HEp 2, 874), might have more to do with different entitling strategies like the deo Coso example. Or are Reve and Cossus just ways of calling Jupiter in an indigenous context? A recent hypothesis aiming to explain the density of Cossus dedications in the Bierzo area has sought to relate the gold-mining related immigration with the importation of the Cossus cult from the Atlantic coast to the interior (Olivares 2007). The archaeology of mining areas there, however, have shown no signs of anything like massive migration, for the workforce was systematically brought from local communities which paid their taxes in kind (Sastre, Beltrán and Sánchez-Palencia 2010). Another criticism is that there is no solid argument in favour of an Atlantic origin of this deity, for most of those dedicants displayed their names in simple abbreviations, such as Aeb. Ati (CIRG I 22), G. Iul. Nepos (CIRG I 68), Q. V. C. (CIRG I 9) or P. S. (CIRG I 70) – which is a sign of late epigraphy, from the mid-second century onwards. Quite different is the idea that Cosssus might be related to mining since the Latin etymology of the name indicates termites: Cossus cossus. The somewhat bookish example from Puente de Domingo Flórez15 may just offer a further insight into who were actually dedicating the vows, and what their mythological reference was: an archaic chthonic deity from Rome itself. This research line centred on the link between Roman power mechanisms and the generis of indigenous deities has been very fruitful in the vicus Niddensius/Nidda (Frankfurt-Heddernheim) of the civitas Tauniensium on the German limes. There, one of the largest and most monumental corpora of Jupiter cults has been thoroughly studied (Meier-Arendt 1983). One of the altars dedicated to the supreme couple Jupiter and Juno entitles the first as IOM Cossus (AE 1929, 114; Fig. 11.4 E). Thought the nominative ending would indicate a dedicant, in that case it is sitting right between the two deities16 while in all the other vows, the dedicator is mentioned after the votive formula.17 In that inscription, therefore, Cossus is an undeclined epithet of Jupiter, dating from the same period as the Hispanic examples, after the mid-second century CE. My conclusion is that Cossus is really a god, created by the local aristocracy after the Roman conquest and evolving with the process of legal promotion during the first century CE. For them, the ample mining activities in the Bierzo area, but also present throughout north-west Hispania, was the backdrop to this version of Jupiter as guardian of underworld exploitation. The cults of these communities, both the rural peregrine and the citizen colonies, were varied in names and cult practices. Local parameters and processes helped to shape them, always under the guiding light of Roman official practice. The cult system is reflected in polyadic pantheons which are ritualised through the symbolic power of the ara. This is not a philhellene behaviour, or a copy of the polis religious system, for the Roman state synthesised the ideological model of the polis with the concept of the ‘ethnic state’. The first, inherited from the Hellenistic world, was the divine

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monarchies inserted in civic pantheons. The second is more related to an imperial vocation through the assimilation of the ethnic mosaic of cultures. In the rural part of the civitas, the poliade aspect is reinforced through the articulation on behalf of city-level aristocracies. During the Flavian period of social and city promotion, the peregrine communities adopted common cults and incorporated them into local pantheons, including various deities and genii/tutelae/lares.

Conclusions We know that Roman authorities had little influence on the res sacrae peregrinae, which were free of the norms pertinent to official Roman religion (solum peregrinae civitatis capax non sit dedicationis, quae fit nostro iure, ‘…for the soil of a foreign city may not be suitable for the consecration which our laws enjoin.’ Pliny, Ep. 10.50). In a legal sense, loca sacra were those which were part of the ager publicus populi Romani. Sacred spaces belonging to colonies and municipalities would be loca publica (belonging to the city’s deities), and those belonging to non-Roman civitates would be ruled by local mores (quod in provinciis non ex auctoritate populi Romani consecratum est, proprie sacrum non est, tamen pro sacro habetur, ‘that (ground) that is not consecrated in the provinces by the authority of the Roman people, is not properly sacred, yet it is regarded as sacred’ – Gaius, Institut. 2.7). As I have attempted to demonstrate here, these mores do not imply that rural peregrini inherited pre-Roman religion, with the complacency of the Roman state, or that it is an element of mute indigenous resistance. Along the lines applied by Van Andringa for Gaul, the diversity of pantheons and funerary iconography is – far from being the result of Roman laissez faire – directly generated by the autonomy of the civitas, and the role it plays ‘dans l’édifice impérial’ (Van Andringa 2002, 9). Beyond inducing evidence into forced parallels with Gaul or Britannia, which each had their particular pre-Roman backgrounds, I believe in the potential of exploring ethnohistorical references, regarding emulation processes and criollo/mestizo religions, for the creation (and transformation) of cults and symbolic iconography (Webster 2001). The insights offered could be useful for other indigenous communities throughout the Western Empire. These new cults were generated by the newly created political structures and the aristocracies which held power and used them for their own promotion. These elites were comfortable in using Roman media for developing a new symbolic language. Starting in the first century CE, individuals and groups of power made themselves visible by utilising the symbolic potential of the written altar and gravestones. These were built using Roman standards, but with a very particular  significance within their local context. They were used for their legitimation to their co-citizens, and also, in a perverse example of colonial dual-significance, to the Roman state. It is part of an indigenous emulation process generated at the local level, an adaptive and varied reaction on behalf of part of the population, which dramatically advanced the articulation of power and exploitation throughout the Empire (Mattingly and Orejas 2009, 134).

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Acknowledgements This paper is part of my doctoral research under the supervision of M. Ruiz-Gálvez (Complutense University of Madrid), having been presented during the Roman Archaeology Conference session coordinated by C. Gosden and Z. Kamash at Oxford. I would like to thank R. Häussler and F. Marco Simón for their kind invitation to participate in this book. Finally, I am very grateful for the participation into the research group ‘Social Structure and Territory-Landscape Archaeology’ (SST-LA; EST-AP) of the Spanish National Research Council (CSIC) during my PhD career. For their comments, thanks are due to my colleagues A. Beltrán, D. Romero and E. Zubiaurre, and to G. Reher for assisting in the English translation. All the mistakes and misunderstandings are entirely on my own. Notes

1 The association stems from the mention of the ordo Zoelarum found on a votive inscription from the Castro de Avelães, Bragança (CIL II 2606) and the information contained in the Zoelan pact found in Astorga, the conventual capital (CIL II 2633). 2 P. López Barja offers an alternative reading: the ipse could make reference to some individual representing a group (López Barja 2010, 63). 3 This same process is documented in Herrera de Pisuerga and Paredes de Nava. It might even be another example of the formula civem et patronum cooptavit found in Arre (Sastre et al. 2009b, 18). In any case, it seems like an ‘honorary citizenship’, which would be substantially different from pacts from the Baetica, following an indigenous tradition. Others, however, see it as perfectly understandable within the Roman perspective where an individual residing in Pino del Oro, where the piece was found, could have been a patronus of the peregrine civitas of Bletisama. 4 Caesar refers to the receptio in fidem of hostages (de bello Gallico 4.16; 8.3) as a synonym of client relationship (6.12) and related with loyalty to Caesar himself (5.3; 8.26). 5 Deae | Cendu|ediae | sacru|m cas|tellani (AE 1995, 855 = HEp 6, 626 = ERPL 4). 6 Matri|bus Pa(---) | Cusue|na(e) sa[cru(m)] (HEp 8, 1998, 321 = ERPL 23). An alternative Matri|bus pa|gus Ve|ne[…] sacr[u]m is possible. 7 Riva|oduo | - - - - - - (AE 1990, 550 = HEp 2, 1990, 450 = HEp 8, 1998, 322). 8 Cos(sue) | S(egidiaeco| -acrum?) Fl(a)|v(u)s Tv(ro)|ni [filio] ex/(v)oto l(ibens) (ERPL 10); Deo Domino | Cossue | Segidi|aeco L(ucius) | Aur(elius) Fr(onto) | ex voto | l(ibens) m(erito) p(osuit) (IRPLe 58 = AE 1967, 232 = ERPL 8). 9 The epigraphic corpus of the Cirta Confederation, in Numidia, displays a large amount of castella and pagi. Though initially this was considered a consequence of Roman-peregrine opposition, later studies has proven that the difference is not clear cut, as some places apparently have both magistri and an ordo (Gascou 1984). See also case of Collias in Nîmes’s territoriy (southern Gaul): Haeussler 2020. 10 These are dedications to Jupiter by the ⊃ (castellani) Sermaceles (CIL II 2494) from the area of Aquae Flaviae and from Valpaços. Vila Real, by the vicani Vagornicenses (HEp 2, 883). 11 From the conventus Asturum: d(eo) Cosuo (Viana do Bolo, IRG IV, 113), Cos[ue] (San Pedro Castañero, AE 1983, 595), Cossue (Noceda del Bierzo, ERPL 8), Cos[ue] (San Esteban del Toral, ERPL 10), deo domino Cossue (Arlanza, ERPL 8), C[o]s[ue] y Co[ssue] (El Valle, AE 1983, 593 and 594), Cosiovi (Villablino, ERPL 6), dei Cos[ue] (Candín, AE 1998, 760), Conso (AE 1998, 764); from the conventus Bracaraugustano: Cusue (Cartelle, HEp 8, 380), deo C(oso?) (Penafiel, HEp 8, 611), deo domeno Cusu

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(Santo Tirso, CIL II 2375); and from the conventus Lucense: Coso (Meis, CIRG I 68), Coso domino (Negreira, CIRG I 22), Coso (Brandomil, CIRG I 7), Coso (Outes, CIRG I 70), Reo Coso (Portas, CIRG II 128), Coso (Meirás, CIRG I 9). 12 Three epigraphs have a direct association between Cosus and Mars: a wall inscription in the cave of Auga (Denia), which used to be read Mars Semmus Cosus (CIL II 3588 = 5960), though more recent studies read otherwise; in Santiago de Compostela there was a supposed Cosus Mars (CIL II 5071); finally an Aquitanian inscription which used to be considered –wrongly– Hispanic, and which read Cososus Deus Mars (CIL II 5960). 13 Conso | S[- - -]ensi | P(ublius) Arquius | Clemens | Gigurrus (HEp 7, 387 = AE 1998, 764). 14 Reo Co|soeso|aego Fla|us Victo|[ri]s v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) (CIRG II, 128 = HEp 6, 762 = AE 1994, 959). 15 This dedication to Consus, located on the edge of the Roman gold mine of Las Médulas, offers a testimony which can also be found in Rome, guarding grain reserves in the vicinity of the Circus Maximus (Varro, De lingua latina. I, 6-20). This Hispanic example might be better explained as a ‘cultism’ displayed an individual promoted among the gigurri. 16 I(ovi) o(ptimo) m(aximo) | Cossus | et I(u)non|i Regin(a)e | v(otum) l(ibens) l(aetus) | m(erito) C(aius) Iulius (AE 1929). 17 Some examples in CIL XIII 7347, 7348, 7349, 7350(?), 7351, 7352(?).

References

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AE = Année Epigraphique CIL = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum CIRG I = Pereira Menaut, G. (1994) Corpus de Inscripciones romanas de Galicia, I: A Coruña. Santiago de Compostela. CIRG II = Baños Rodríguez, G. (1994) Corpus de Inscripciones Romanas de Galicia, II: Pontevedra. Santiago de Compostela. CIRPZa = Alonso Ávila, A. and Crespo Ortíz de Zárate, S. (1999) Corpus de inscripciones romanas de la provincia de Zamora. Fuentes epigráficas para la historia social de Hispania romana. Valladolid. ERPL = Rabanal Alonso, A. and García Martínez, S. (2001) Epigrafía romana de la Provincia de León: revisión y actualización. León. HEp = Hispania Epigraphica. Madrid, Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Archivo Epigráfico de Hispania, since 1989. IRG IV = Lorenzo, J., D’Ors, A. and Bouza, F. (1968) Inscripciones romanas de Galicia IV. Provincia de Orense. Santiago.

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Sastre, I., Currás, B. X. and Alonso, F. (2010) Parentesco, desigualdad y formas de identidad en la Edad del Hierro del Noroeste. Arqueología de la Población, Arqueología Espacial 28, 169–86. Sastre, I., Beltrán, A. and Alonso, F. (2014) La epigrafía de las zonas mineras de ‘Asturia Augustana’. In F. J. Sánchez-Palencia (ed.) Minería romana en zonas interfronterizas de Castilla y León y Portugal (Asturia y NE de Lusitania: 35–62. León, Junta de Castilla y León, Consejería de Cultura y Turismo. Sastre, I. and Sánchez-Palencia, F. J. (2013) Nonhierarchical Approaches to the Iron Age Societies: Metals and Inequality in the Castro Culture of the Northwestern Iberian Peninsula. In M. Cruz, L. García and A. Gilman (eds) The Prehistory of Iberia: Debating Early Social Stratification and the State: 292–310. Hoboken, Taylor and Francis. Sastre, I., Currás, B. X., Sánchez-Palencia, F. J. and Orejas, A. (2021a) Costes de sumisión frente a costes de rebelión. Por qué no hay jerarquización social en el noroeste de la Península Ibérica hasta la dominación romana. In P. Díaz del Río, K. Lillios and I. Sastre (eds) The Matter of Prehistory: Papers in Honor of Anotnio Gilman Guillén, 337–43. Madrid, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Sastre, I., Currás, B. X. and Romero, D. (2021b) Peasant economies in Northwestern Iberia: from Iron Age egalitarianism to Roman Imperial dominion. In J. A. Quirós (ed.) Archaeology and history of peasantries, vol. 2, 95–112. Bilbao, Universidad del País Vasco. Small, D. B. (2008) Rethinking the historical dimensions of mortuary practices: a case from Nisky Hill Cemetery, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Archaeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 11 (1), 161–6. Toutain, J. (1967 [1905]) Les cultes païens dans l’Empire romain. 3 vols. Paris, Ernest Leroux. Tranoy, A. (1981) La Galice Romaine. Recherches sur le nord-ouest de la péninsule ibérique dans l’Antiquité. Paris, Publications du Centre Pierre Paris VII, Collection de la Maison des Pays ibériques 7. Van Andringa, W. (2002) La Religion en Gaule romaine. Piété et politique (Ier–IIIe siècle apr. J.-C.). Paris, Errance. Vasconcelos, J. L. de (1989 [1905]) Religiões de Lusitania, vol. II. Lisboa, Imprensa Nacional. Vasconcelos, J. L. de (1989 [1913]) Religiões de Lusitania, vol. III. Lisboa, Imprensa Nacional. Webster, J. (2001) Creolizing the Roman Provinces. American Journal of Archaeology 105, 209–25. Webster, J. (2003) Art as resistance and negotiation. In S. Scott and J. Webster (eds) Provincial Art and Roman Imperialism, 24–51. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Webster, J. (2005) Necessary comparisons: a post-colonial approach to religious syncretism in the Roman Provinces. World Archaeology 28.3, 324–38. Webster, J. and Cooper, N. (eds) (1996) Roman Imperialism. Post Colonial Perspectives. Leicester, Leicester University Press. Williams, H. M. R. (1999) Identities and cemeteries in Roman and Early Medieval archaeology. In P. Baker, C. Forcey, S. Jundi and R. Witcher (eds) TRAC 98. Proceedings of the Eighth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, 96–107. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Woolf, G. (1996) Monumental writing and the expansion of Roman society in the early empire. Journal of Roman Studies 86, 22–39. Zubiaurre, E. (2018) El impacto de las reformas flavias en las zonas mineras del Noroeste peninsular: cambios y continuidades a lo largo del s. I d. C. In J. Cortadella, O. Olesti and C. Sierra (eds) Lo viejo y lo nuevo en las sociedades antiguas: homenaje a Alberto Prieto. Groupe International de Recherche sur l’Esclavage dans l’Antichité, 345–62. Besançon, Presses universitaires de Franche-Comté.

Chapter 12 Indigenism and identity shaping: the case of the Irrico group in Central Spain Jesús Alberto Arenas-Esteban

Introduction In the Iberian Peninsula, Celtic onomastic evidence is often known through epigraphic documents written after the Roman conquest. Initially, the opinion prevailed among scholars that such elements were a direct product of surviving cultural traits of the indigenous populations developed during the first millennium BCE in a large part of the peninsular territory (Untermann 1961; Romero Ruiz 1985, 346; Olivares Pedreño 2002). For the last two decades, however, a more contextual approach has been spreading, starting from an unquestionable fact: except for a few Celtic epigraphical testimonies of the first century BCE, most of the inscriptions with indigenous names were written during the imperial period. Furthermore, such evidence was significantly increasing from the second century CE onwards. It therefore seems to be a contradiction that the frequency of Celtic names increases while the Roman conquest of Iberia gets more and more remote. For the Flavian period, we would expect indigenous structures to have lost the validity they had in Republican and Julio-Claudian times rather than to be even better represented both in public and private epigraphy. Since this phenomenon does not appear in a uniform and/or sequential manner over time, it is clear that we are facing something more complex than a simple cultural persistence across the centuries. It is therefore necessary to investigate the causes of such ‘indigenous revivals’ and, above all, the socio-political contexts in which they arise. This paper offers an overall analysis of archaeological evidence relating to a large Roman villa – Cuevas de Soria – and a series of iconographic and epigraphic elements found in and around it. Though they were already known, they have never been studied from a sociological perspective. The whole site is linked to a social group which, between the second and fourth centuries CE, uses its indigenous ancestry in order to define its social position within a rural setting subject to the decline of those social structures which characterised the first centuries of Roman Hispania.

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The archaeological and epigraphic evidence The site of Cuevas de Soria is one of the most interesting Roman villas in Central Spain. The archaeological work I conducted there in 2010 made it possible to document several iconographic elements which had previously gone unnoticed and which, thanks to the publication of a series of epigraphic testimonies from the surrounding area, provided evidence of the social and symbolic network connected with this building. The villa occupies approximately 4100 m2 and consists of 30 rooms distributed around a rectangular courtyard of 22 by 41 m (Fig. 12.1). On account of its functional distribution the villa can be identified as a stately residence (Fernández Castro 1982) and belongs, according to the classification of J. G. Georges (1979), to the group of the so-called villae aulicae since its rooms are arranged around a peristyle and contain significant sumptuous elements. Regarding this latter aspect, it is worth highlighting

Fig. 12.1. Simplified plan of the villa at La Dehesa together with its location in the peninsular context. Rooms preserving a mosaic floor have been marked with a reticulate, whereas those that do not preserve (or perhaps never had) mosaic floors are indicated with question marks.

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the abundance and quality of the mosaics with which their rooms were paved: mostly with geometric patterns and only occasionally with stylised vegetal motifs. Work on the site was first carried out between 1928 and 1929 under the direction of Blas Taracena and José Tudela (Taracena Aguirre 1930; 1941). At that time most of the premises of the villa were excavated, namely the northern and eastern rooms as well as a good part of the western ones. Afterwards, the site was not reopened until 1980–1985 when the southern bathing area, unnoticed up to then, was brought to light (Mariné 1984). In 2006, before covering the archaeological remains, the pile foundations of the bathing area and some other parts of the villa still poorly known were excavated. This revealed the presence of new mosaics and allowed, above all, to record the remains of Flavian structures located under the building of the fourth and fifth centuries CE (Sanz Aragonés et al. 2011, 443). Finally, the archaeological activity was resumed in 2010 in order to organize the site as a musealised space. Obviously, one of the most interesting aspects of the project was the presentation and explanation of its mosaics. This required not only their restauration, but also the excavation of the last apparently unexplored spaces in the western part of the building. This new campaign led to the rediscovery of a mosaic floor whose decorative scheme insistently repeats an anagram (Anagram A) embedded in a geometric design that combines six-pointed stars with stylized four-petalled flowers framed by octagons (Fig. 12.2). The pattern, whose generic appearance already suggested

Fig. 12.2. General view of the mosaic floor rediscovered in the villa at Cuevas de Soria and detail of Anagram A, which repeatedly appears in the floor’s geometric pattern.

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Fig. 12.3. Details of the medallions containing Anagram A and B together with their location in the different mosaic floors of the villa at La Dehesa.

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it to be a combination of several letters of the Latin alphabet, is composed by a series of strokes inscribed in an octagon. Furthermore, its presence in other mosaics of the building suggested it to be not just a decorative resource, but a symbolic element whose meaning was important for the occupants of the villa even if it could not be elucidated at the time. This impression became even stronger when we realised that there was another anagram (Anagram B) which, though attested only once, seemed to be spatially and conceptually related to the first (Fig. 12.3). Doubts about the interpretation of Anagram A were, however, dispelled shortly afterwards, thanks to the publication of an epigraphic set coming from the surroundings of the villa; a find which broadened our knowledge of the site and consequently extended the possibilities of its interpretation (Sanz Aragonés et al. 2011). The element that led to this study is an altar dedicated to the god Eburos, whose Celtic name was unknown until then, in association with the Celtic family name Irrico of the altar’s dedicant. The sandstone altar (Fig. 12.4) measures 75 × 36 × 33 cm (height × width × depth). The Fig. 12.4. Altar of EBUROS (photograph by the following text appears in the frontal author). epigraphic field: TITVS . IR RICO . RV FI . F. EBV RO . V. S L.M The text can be transcribed as: Titus Ir|rico Ru|fi f(ilius) Ebu|ro v(otum) s(solvit) | l(ibens) m(erito) ‘Titus Irrico, son of Rufus, willingly, deservedly fulfilled his vow to Eburos.’

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Based on this reading, the authors of the altar’s editio princeps (Sanz Aragonés et al. 2011) made a series of remarks: • • •

•

•

The onomastic formula by which Titus is presented fits in better with the Hispano-Celtic tradition (name + family group + filiation) than with the genuinely Roman one, based on the tria nomina. On the basis of the correspondences with other inscriptions found in the villa’s close environment, the onomastic element Irrico can be identified as an indication of belonging to an indigenous family group. It is worth noting that the name Irrico is a nasal-stem derivative of the Celtic adjective *irikos, formed from IE *piH-ro- ‘rich, opulent’; an adjective that fits in well with the intention of showing a family name recalling prestige. A similar case, though on an individual level, is the idionym of the group’s first known member, Rufus: a translation name masking the Celtic name Roudos with the literal meaning ‘red’ and known from Insular Celtic in the sense of ‘strong, fierce’. On account of the indigenous environment taking shape here, they propose that Titus Irrico was a ‘Romanised’ native. Furthermore, the mention of the Irricones on the altar of Eburos allows the authors to correlate this inscription with others previously found in the vicinity. The tombstone of Lucius Terentius Rufino Irrico, son of Rufus (Fig. 12.5a) commissioned by his brother, was most likely erected by the same Titus Irrico son of Rufus who dedicated the altar to Eburos (now lost).

Fig. 12.5. Epigraphs related to the group of the Irricones/Irici found in the vicinity of the villa of Cuevas de Soria (after Sanz Aragonés et al. 2011).

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The fragmented votive altar showing the text: MLVS D[EO] | AVVO | IRICO (Fig. 12.5b), can be translated as ‘Deservedly, willingly fulfilled his vow to the God Avvus Iricus’. This is particularly interesting because it provides us with the name of a deity linked to the family group, acting as ancestor god of the Irricones/Irici.

The appearance of the onomastic elements Irrico and Iricus in the altar of Eburos and the related epigraphs allow for a very plausible interpretation of the emblem found in the villa described above. The first author to address this point was D. Fernández Galiano (2011, 203–4) who proposed that the anagram is shaped by the letters that make up the name alluding to a family or supra-familiar association plus a symbolic element (it should, however, not be discarded that the sign corresponded to the ‹T› of Titus). For the same reason, he attributes to the villa a shared use by the collective of the Irricones/Irici, who would use it as a referential space of probably funerary character, given the abundance of funerary inscriptions existing in the surrounding area. In a later paper, J. M. Abascal presents a more elaborate reading of the pattern, identifying a new variant of the name with two letters ‹C› (Abascal 2017, 99). According to this new proposal the decoding of the anagram would be as given in Figure 12.6. This new version leads Abascal (ibid.) to a series of interesting assessments. First, he suggests the existence of a precise link between the cognatio IRRICO of the inscriptions dating to the Principate and the form IRRICCO displayed in the later monograms of the mosaics (for an explanation of the geminated consonants ‹R› and ‹C› see Sanz Aragonés et al. 2011, 447). Furthermore, he maintains that this is the first time that a link between an indigenous family group and a territory can be established, with the villa of Cuevas de Soria constituting its centre. And finally, though aware of the difficulty in accepting the continuity of pre-Roman social structures as late as the fourth century CE, he does admit the possibility that one of them might have had enough strength or prestige to perpetuate their name until the Constantinian period. In addition to what has been said so far, it is worth recalling the presence of a second anagram (Anagram B), whose interpretation has been neglected for some time. Nearly three decades ago, J. Arce (1993, 272) recognised Fig. 12.6. Transcription of the anagram of the the use of this type of representation Irriccones (Anagram A) displayed in several of as a means of self-affirmation of the the mosaics of the villa of Cuevas de Soria.

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owners of the villas and proposed a tentative reading of anagram B: Faventini. However, this name seems to contradict the villa’s onomastic environment and thus does not really match the actual pattern of the mosaic. I would, therefore, like to propose a different reading, in particular one including the letters ‹D›, ‹A› ‹ℇ› and ‹I› (Fig. 12.7). The appearance of an epsilon (‹ℇ›) replacing the ‹E› is characteristic of late Latin writing, especially from Fig. 12.7. Transcription of Anagram B. the third century onwards (Cagnat 1914, 11–24), which fits in perfectly with the chronology of the mosaics of Cuevas de Soria. Although there seems to be room for a letter ‹N› (as assumed by Arce 1993, whose reading Faventini, however, is not plausible), it is improbable for the craftsman to have produced such a letter in a completely different style, that is, without the volute on the top of its right pole that would have helped the reader to acknowledge its presence. Also, in the case of Anagram B the possibility of a letter ‹T› cannot be completely discarded. Unlike the anagram of the Irriccones, Anagram B has only been represented once (at least as far as recorded in the floors preserved), but it certainly is of great importance within the architectural ensemble of Cuevas de Soria since it is the Central motif of one of the most sumptuous mosaics of the villa (Fig. 12.3) and may refer to the deities linked to the family. It seems probable that, while the letter ‹I› refers to the family group, the ‹D› represents a case of Dii and that the letters ‹A› and ‹E› correspond to the names of the family gods Avvus and Eburos. The setting of both motifs within the mosaics seems to point to the most symbolically charged spaces of the building: • • • •

First of all, there is a strong representation of the Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici in two rooms with apsides at the southern corners of the villa. Other instances of the family anagram are located at key points of the peristyle floor, just at the entrance of the two most important rooms of the compound. In one of the two rooms just mentioned, we find Anagram B, which seems to contain the initials of the deities venerated by the family and even, if the reading proposed here is confirmed, the letter ‹I› of the Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici. Finally, further anagrams of the Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici appear in two rooms adjacent to the large lounge with apsis that presides the compound, suggesting that they had a complementary role with respect to the latter.

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Moreover, it is very significant that, unlike what can be observed in other Central Spanish villas of Late Antiquity, the theme of the mosaics in Cuevas de Soria is not figurative, but based on geometric and vegetal patterns so as to frame the two anagrams recorded in the building. This fact may provide a clue as to the building’s primary function.

The social background All these observations show that in the Principate a family group of apparent indigenous origin emerged within a fully ‘Romanised’ society and lasted, at least, until the middle of the fourth century CE; a phenomenon that should be analysed in sociological terms. The key element of this social network is the Celtic-named group of the Ir(r)ic(c) ones/Irici, linked to several features of different nature: sumptuous buildings (villa), exclusive graphical symbols (anagrams), funerary monuments (stelae), and even specific deities: either related exclusively to the group (as in the case of the ancestor god Avvus) or shared with neighbouring indigenous families, such as Eburos, also venerated by the Eburanci (cf. Table 12.1). Table 12.1. Indigenous family names and deities venerated in the Upper Duero area. No. 1

Location

Family name as attested

Deity invoked

Source

Cuevas de Soria

Irrico

Eburos

HE 28580

Irico

Avvus

HE 28082

2 3 4

Burgo de Osma

5 6

Alcubilla del Marqués

7

San Esteban de Gormaz

Irrico

CIL II 2843 (p 930)

Medutticorum

AE 1925, 22 / HE 6370

Urcico

Lugovibes

CIL II 2818 (p XLV) / HE 8644

Abliq

Iuppiter

CIL II 2817 / HE 8643 CIL II 2827 / HE 8653

Auvancum

HE 16355

8

Caebaliqum

9

Calnicum

10

[D]ocilico

Hercules

HE 24670

11

Docilico

Hercules

CIL II 2816 / HE 8642

12

Eburanco

CIL II 2828 / HE 8654

13

Letondiq

ERPSo 118 / HE 28594

14

Meduttiq

CIL II 2823 / HE 8649 HEp 9, 1999, 530 / HE 14492

15

Montejo de Tiermes

Docilico

16

Saldaña de Ayllón

Meducenicum

17

San Juan del Monte

Lougesterico

Drusuna

CIL II 2825 / HE 8651

Arco

HE 96 HEp 2, 1990, 141 / HE 14180 (Continued)

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Table 12.1. (Continued) No.

Location

Family name as attested

18

Coruña del Conde

Arquocus

ERClu 96 / HE 14192

19

Meduttiq

HEp 7, 1997, 257 / HE 16475

20

P[i]nganco

CIL II 2803 / HE 8629

21

Piganco

HEp 7, 1997, 255 / HE 16473

22

Deity invoked

Source

Urcaloco

CIL II 2800 / HE 8626

Aquilliorum

ERClu 90 / HE 14188

Aeggu

ERClu 45 / HE 14171

25

Antia

HEp 2, 1990, 123

26

Bundalico

CIL II 2785

27

Caniabur

HEp 1,1989,143k / HE 14853

28

Carancus

ERClu 27 / 14162

29

Cloter

HEp 3, 1993, 110

30

Ligirico

HEp 3, 1993, 111

31

Morcicum

AE 1976, 358

23

Peñalba de Castro

24

32

Usseitio

ERClu 83 / 14182

33

Ussueitio

ERClu 77 / HE 14177

Balatuscun

CIL II 2795 / HE 8621

34

Alcubilla de Avellaneda

35

San Leonardo de Yagüe

Saigleiniq

HEp 9, 1999, 533 / HE 17257

36

El Royo

Crastuniqum

HEp 6, 1996, 884 / HE 16350

37 38

Culeric

SILVANO

HEp 9, 1999, 532 / HE 17256

Santervás de la Sierra

Casarico

HEp 11, 2001, 518 / HE 28620

39

Dombelas

Ebur(a)nco

HEp 9, 1999, 529 / HE 17255

40

Numancia

Laturico

ERPSoria 00112

41

Trévago

Culterico

HE 24187

42

Pozalmuro

Caranicum

ERPSo 25 / HE 8676

43

Torrubia de Soria

Laturico

ERPSo 112 / HE 28706

44

Lara de los Infantes

Belvicon

ERLara 49/ HE 25717

45

Braecarorum

ERLara 124 / HE 6673

46

Cabuecon

ERLara 51 / HE 25719

47

Elaesic

ERLara 84 / HE 25776

48

Canales de la Sierra

49 50

Avilioc

MATRES VETERES

Nieva de Cameros

Calaedico

SILVANUS

Munilla

Caericiocon

HEp 1, 1989, 502 / HE 14651 HE 14640 HEp 1, 1989, 507 / HE 8730

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It is known that from the second century CE onwards parts of the population organised themselves, on the basis of an alleged pre-Roman ancestor, in family groups with an indigenous name. This is a phenomenon known from the whole peninsula, though in the area of the Upper Duero basin it is more noticeable than in other regions (Fig. 12.8). In view of this situation, we may envisage a Roman context in which part of the population virtually became indigenous. But this statement immediately raises an important issue: were people integrated into those groups clearly aware of being ‘aliens’ within the imperial society or, on the contrary, considered themselves fully Roman citizens devoted to Latin culture? A question not to be answered with merely linguistic and epigraphic arguments. In any case, the political and administrative context in which those people lived, their predominantly Roman forms of life (including architecture, funeral practices and epigraphic habits) and even their generic religious profile suggest that they had been regarding themselves as Roman citizens for generations, even though they were somehow aware of an indigenous past perceived with more or less intensity. However, as I already stated elsewhere (Arenas Esteban and López Romero 2010, 174), I think that the social reorganisation processes that made use of this kind of ‘indigenism’

Fig. 12.8. Dispersion of indigenous family names in the Upper Duero area (for the actual names and provenances see Table 12.1).

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were prompted by the changes in the legal status of the population caused by the reforms of the Flavian period and the later Constitutio Antoniniana in 212 CE. We may suppose that in Julio-Claudian times most of the Hispanic population were aware of their indigenous origin and had to accept their submission to the Empire and that there was, therefore, a huge gap between the local population and the aristocratic elite. But later, during the Flavian period, all the inhabitants of Hispania benefited from the ius Latii, so that their social and legal roles were noticeably equalised; a phenomenon that increased from the third century CE onwards, when emperor Caracalla extended Roman citizenship to all free individuals of the Empire. Thus, the differences that had developed (and been accepted) over centuries were suddenly erased, and it is possible to think that new processes of social negotiation would be triggered. As we will see below, a very effective means of differentiation could be the restoration (and even invention) of identities whose ostentation had not been necessary until then. The reformulation of these identities was achieved in different ways: changes in the onomastic system, the reorientation of religious practices (with an unprecedented explosion of cults to deities with vernacular names) and introducing new material forms, among which architecture took a very important place. In short, it was a question of shaping a new identity based on the cultural tradition of the respective area, whether or not there was a direct link between the Roman individual of the second and third centuries CE and the pre-Roman world existing several centuries before. The contextualization of the name Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici in the onomastic systems of Roman Central Spain It has already been said that Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici is a family name of Celtic origin first attested in the middle of the second century CE. This might suggest that we are facing a logical and natural survival of the indigenous population at a time when the ‘Romanisation’ of Hispania was at its peak. It must be said, however, that, although there is evidence of vernacular languages up to that moment, epigraphy shows that, at the end of the first century CE, the indigenous population was rapidly being Latinised, so that by the middle of the second century CE, Latin would have become the first language of many people (Beltrán Lloris 2011, 23–4). Hence it is necessary to analyse the position of the family name Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici in the context of the onomastic systems in Central Spain during Late Antiquity. Most of the studies dealing with the development of indigenous onomastics in Hispania point out that as ‘Romanisation’ progresses, an increase in the components of indigenous origin is observed. The absence of family names accompanying indigenous idionyms suggests that the pre-Roman naming system reflected in the bronzes of Botorrita I and III disappears in Julio-Claudian times (Beltrán 1996, 71), which has been interpreted as the decline of the indigenous organisational systems (Curchin 2004, 119). Nevertheless, the studies on this subject carried out in the area of the Upper Duero show that, although at the end of the first century CE the use of

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the Roman nomenclature (i.e. the use of the Roman nomen gentile) had reached a significant impact, indigenous names or assimilated forms, such as the Decknamen mentioned above, were still often used (Gallego Franco 2016, 255). From the middle of the second century and, above all, during the third century CE, indigenous onomastics experience a remarkable increase. This Fig. 12.9. Frequency of epigraphs recorded in the Upper Duero can be observed both in area between the first and fourth centuries CE (on the basis of the theonymic and the Jimeno 1980). anthroponymic sphere (Arenas Esteban and López Romero 2010, 167, 173; cf. also Abascal 1994, 28; Ramírez Sánchez 2002, 147). In the Upper Duero region, where Cuevas de Soria is located, this becomes especially evident when analysing the chronology of the 82 Roman epigraphs published by A. Jimeno (1980, 235) (Fig. 12.9). Some scholars have explored the relationship between the morphology of personal names and the social and legal status of their holders (Gorrochategui, Navarro and Vallejo 2007; Navarro Caballero et al. 2011). Especially interesting for this study are the following variants because they include indigenous onomastics under different modalities: 1. Roman name + indigenous family name (RN+IFN). 2. Roman name + indigenous family name + father’s name with or without filius (RN+IFN+FN Roman vs. indigenous). 3. Latin tria nomina + indigenous family name + father’s name with or without filius (3N+IFN+FN Roman vs. indigenous). However, it is important to bear in mind that, despite the Latin aspect of the name, we can sometimes be faced with undercover indigenous names, be they ‘assonance names’ or ‘translation names’, as seems to be the case of Rufus (see Dondin-Payre 2012; Raepsaet-Charlier 2012; Zeidler 2012). It is interesting to note that in the Duero basin these variants are inscribed in a temporal sequence with a strong sociopolitical significance (Gallego Franco 2012, 137–9): most of the testimonies with an indigenous name (81%) date from the second and third centuries CE, thus comprising the concession of the ius Latii by Vespasian in 74 CE and the Constitutio Antoniniana by Caracalla of 212 CE and fully in accordance with Late Antiquity.

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In fact, in the area under study, Late Antique onomastics were undergoing the same changes as in other areas of the Empire, basically consisting in the progressive abandonment of the traditional sequence (tria nomina) and its substitution by alternative formulae. These changes must be attributed to the devaluation of the gentilic name as an indicator of Roman citizenship, since after Caracalla’s edict all free inhabitants of the Empire had become Roman citizens (Lassère 2011, 102–3). In this context, Cuevas de Soria represents an interesting case not only because it shows two of the onomastic variants described above (RN+IFN+FN and 3N+IFN+FN with filius), but also because these evidences refer to persons belonging to two generations of the same family (Sanz Aragonés et al. 2011, 440): the first represented by Rufus who bears a translated, i.e. originally indigenous name, and the second by his sons Lucius and Titus, with typically Latin names. The formulae used indicate that, despite the indigenous components contained in their names, these individuals can be considered full Roman citizens (Romero Ruiz 1985, 346; González Rodríguez 1986, 109). That one of the sons bears a typically Latin name (Lucius Terentius Rufinus) accompanied by the family name Irrico and the other one a mixed formula (Titus Irrico) shows that these variants do not have a chronological explanation but are clearly optional. The case of Cuevas de Soria and other similar ones recorded in its surroundings (Gallego Franco 2016, 228–9) reinforce this idea. One of them, found at Clunia, is particularly revealing: […] | Viscunos an(norum) XX | Arria Paterna | mater et Sem|pronia soror | f(aciendum) c(uraverunt). (Peñalba de Castro, Burgos, CIL II 2809; ERClu 99; CIRPBu 201)]

Sempronia must have been the daughter of a Roman citizen with the same name, as we know that her mother was Arria Paterna with a duo nomina naming formula. Instead her brother [...] Viscunos (probably Sempronius Viscunos) retains in his name the indigenous component (Gallego Franco 2012, 139). We are therefore dealing with a new case in which the mixing of Latin and indigenous names at both the intergenerational (parents–children) and generational (brother–sister) level shows that the choice of the naming formula depended on the individual himself rather than on the legal and social context. The importance of pragmatics in Indo-European naming formulae is stressed by De Bernardo Stempel (2010–2011). The aforesaid inscriptions of Clunia and Cuevas de Soria go back to the second century CE and are therefore prior to the Constitutio Antoniniana. Despite the presence of indigenous elements, the onomastic structures employed allow us to suppose that all the persons involved were free individuals in the process of ‘assimilation’, so that they would ‘Romanise’ their (indigenous) onomastic formula. In Julio-Claudian times and especially in the Flavian period, the ‘Romanisation’ of indigenous names can be interpreted as the desire of local individuals to adapt to the new legal situation resulting from the edict of Vespasian by means of bestowing a more Roman appearance to their personal names (Gallego Franco 2013–2014, 227). But it is also true that the granting of ius Latii to all free inhabitants of Hispania gave way to a new social and legal context increasingly reflected in the naming formulae. In fact, the tendency to use the Roman nomen as a unique anthroponym not only indicates that the praenomen

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had lost its exclusive character (Abascal 1994, 28), but also that the nomen was losing its legal content (Gallego Franco 2012, 137) and, therefore, failing to provide significant information on the subject’s social condition. This phenomenon seems to be in accordance with the mention of the tribus as a legal promotion resource. Studies on this subject carried out in the Upper Duero basin show that such a resource had a limited impact during the Julio-Claudian period (when the attachment to the Galeria tribus was usual), but it becomes more important under the Flavian dynasty (when the dominant tribus was the Quirina). However, this element began to disappear from the naming formulae since the middle of the second century CE and loses its value as an indicator of Roman citizenship after the Constitutio Antoniniana (Gómez Martín 2018; 2019). It is noteworthy that simultaneously to the weakening of the legal significance of the appurtenance to a Roman tribus, there is a progressive increase in the mentions of social groups with indigenous names. It seems that from the middle of the second century CE on the mention of the tribe is replaced by another type of formula as an element of social legitimation. And the promotion of vernacular family names seems to be one of them. These remarks lead to a further consideration. Usually, scholars who have studied the interaction processes between the native population and the Roman state in Hispania envisage (with nuances) a process of ‘assimilation’ of the former model to the Roman one. In general terms, this approach is assumable for the time of the Principate, but from the middle of the second century onwards it is necessary to ask what we understand by ‘assimilation’: assimilation from indigenism to ‘Romanitas’, or from a foreign ‘Romanity’ to another type of ‘Romanity’ related to the legal and social changes that led to the progressive extension of Roman citizenship during the second and third centuries? Rome’s arrival marked a total change in the political, social and ideological structures of the Hispanic indigenous world. Nevertheless, we see how even in the fourth century CE the Hispanic population continued to use indigenous names as personal and group identifiers. Does this mean that the pre-Roman world subsisted without mutations throughout the Roman rule of the peninsula? Obviously not, because persistence does not mean immutability, since the Roman presence produced changes that affected to a greater or lesser extent the indigenous social structures (González Rodríguez 1986, 96). As I have already stated, in my opinion the indigenous names we are investigating cannot be taken as a direct survival of the cultural substrate Rome encountered upon its arrival at the peninsula. On the contrary, I believe that their proliferation since the middle of the second century CE is part of the process of social readjustment imposed by the political development of the Roman state. One of the resources used in this process seems to have been the incorporation of some family names which until then were not relevant for the community as a whole, but which, from then onwards, gained in importance. The possibility of Hispanic Roman citizens being aware of their indigenous origin cannot be denied; what is proposed here is that their indigenous

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origin had remained the exclusive heritage of family intimacy until it was necessary to externalise it in order to define or reinforce one’s identity in social spaces wider than the immediate nuclear family. The role of architecture in the shaping of social identities Another important element of the social framework we are studying is the villa of Cuevas de Soria itself: an opulent building that not only brings together the epigraphic evidence of the Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici, but incorporates in its constructive design iconographic elements referring to that group. That is why we have to look into what role the building played and how. When analysing the connection of any architectural work with the cultural system in which it arises, we must start from a basic premise (Rapoport 1993; 1998): the different ways of organising the space must be understood as physical expressions of specific cognitive schemes. Accordingly, the term setting is to be understood as a cultural creation consisting of a physical space linked to specific activity systems and, therefore, structured by the codes ruling within the respective societies. These sites are entities of a marked polysemic nature by virtue of various mental ways of building space (dependant on different priorities, such as ownership or control of resources, accessibility to strangers, degree of isolation, etc.). Once organised, these mental schemes can be expressed through physical means, resulting in built environments, i.e., architecture. Architecture becomes then a basic tool for social representation; it is a catalyst and at the same time a product of social action, a cultural device for building the social landscape (Ayán Vila 2003, 17). In such environments not only persons, but also building and furnishing materials act as codes that transmit the appropriate attitude. For these reasons households become a fascinating repository of culture and meaning (Bahloul 1996, 2) and, therefore, an appropriate instrument for social interaction. There is no doubt that the villa of Cuevas de Soria fits into the concept of built environment, and we should consider several aspects for its further study. Some authors regard the manifestations of Hispano-Roman indigenism as part of a process of monumentalisation at the service of social promotion. From this perspective, and bearing in mind that the remains of the villa containing the emblems of the family of the Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici are about 150 years later than the first epigraphic evidence recording that name, we might think that the appearance of rural villas such as Cuevas de Soria is the completion of a process of self-affirmation of indigenous social entities. Ramírez Sánchez (2013) points out that this monumentalisation began in the funerary sphere during the Principate since Latin tombstones with an indigenous name appear in the Julio-Claudian period; in the area of the Upper Duero this phenomenon goes back even to the first century BCE as shown by the discoidal stelae of Clunia. Although these stelae are in most cases anepigraphic, some of them are known to include indigenous names in epichoric writing (Simon Cornago 2018, 16). In any case, Latin tombstones with an indigenous name reach their highest frequency

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during the second and third centuries CE (Ramírez Sánchez 2013). The exaltation of indigenism also extends to public spaces in Augustan times, notably through euergetic attitudes such as the one undertaken by [---Proc?]ulus Spantamicus when funding the forum pavement of Segobriga (Abascal, Alföldy and Cebrián 1994; this case is particularly interesting because it is, as illustrated by De Bernardo Stempel 2013, a ‘Hispanicised’ Gaulish name and, therefore, an element alien to Hispanic ‘indigenism’ and of later implantation than genuinely Celtiberian names). But what is noticeable during the third century and, above all, the fourth century CE is that this monumentalisation extends to the domestic spaces, either for the individual promotion, as is the case of the villa of Maternus in Carranque (Arce 2003), or for the collective one, as it seems to be the case of our Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici villa at Cuevas de Soria. We must therefore clarify the political and ideological context in which the domestic architecture we are analysing arises. This will allow us to understand two of its most outstanding features: its monumentality and the fact that it develops in a rural area. As illustrated above, its monumentality is shown by the huge size of the building (it is one of the largest in Central Spain) and by its lavish layout, with spacious meeting rooms paved with mosaics around a large courtyard. Moreover, the repetition of the family symbol on these pavements suggests that the complex had a basically aulic meaning; the meeting centre of a collective that would be identified by an indigenous name insistently embedded in the most significant parts of the building. Against the common opinion that these buildings were the occasional residence of rich landowners who otherwise lived in town, various proposals have been offered in recent years that attribute a greater symbolic role to them. Fernández-Galiano (2011, 172–5) points out that in the fourth century CE most of these sites were built ex novo, a phenomenon that starts in the previous century when most of the early Roman villas experienced enlargements and increased their luxury and structural complexity. He therefore argues that late Roman villas can be considered to be a new archaeological phenomenon, directly connected to the social and ideological environment of their time. Contrary to the traditional explanation that they were agricultural compounds belonging to an individual owner, they now appear as places of multiple purposes, often collectively owned, used as centres of social relationship and even as places of worship and burial. This interpretation has been received with scepticism by some scholars, but there is some data to support it: for instance, in 380 CE, the council of Saragossa mentions villae alienae, in reference to rural mansions where followers of Priscillian congregated to practise their liturgy (Bravo-Bosch 2016, 161). The emergence of these large villas is parallel to the process of ruralisation of the late Hispano-Roman society – a process that started in the third century CE when the urban centres were losing part of their autonomy and entered into a period of apparent decline (Gómez Fernández 2006, 195). This phenomenon was interpreted as a crisis of the urban system, but nowadays it is conceived as the reflection of a process

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of transition between the ways of life postulated during the Principate and the new social, economic and religious realities typical of Late Antiquity (Bravo-Bosch 2016, 180). This era of change also favours social restructuring, and with it, the emergence of new identities. It has already been outlined what the historical catalysts and the means for expressing these new identities (onomastics, religion and architecture) might have been, but at this point it seems appropriate to analyse the terms or mechanisms of this emergence.

Social psychology and identity The central thesis of this paper is that the use of indigenous onomastics in Late Antique Hispania is part of a process of social restructuring fostered by the new legal, social and ideological contexts that resulted from the progressive granting of Roman citizenship to all free inhabitants of Hispania between the second and third centuries CE. In his study of the relationship between language and identity in Hispania, F. Beltrán Lloris (2011, 47) maintains that the process by which Latin imposed itself on vernacular languages was relatively quick and voluntarily accepted by the local population due to the multiple advantages of using the imperial language. Perhaps for this reason, neither language nor indigenous onomastic elements were relevant with regard to identity during the Republican and Julio-Claudian era. The same could be said about the indigenous invocations that remained rather insignificant as to quality and quantity until the middle of the second century CE. From that time onwards, they seem to have acquired an identifying role since they were linked to individuals, family groups, villages and even regions with a high component of indigenous population (Olivares Pedreño 2002–2003, 210; Arenas Esteban and López Romero 2010, 174). What has to be explained is why, after more than two centuries of interaction with Latin culture, individuals in the ‘Hispano-Roman society’ favoured and promoted indigenous onomastics and cults. The answer to this question is very probably the need to redefine (individual or collective) identities as part of a process of social change and cultural hybridisation. While boasting an indigenous identity was not a common practice in the Iberian peninsula during the first century BCE and CE, the evidence increases considerably in the second and third centuries, i.e. after the consolidation of the municipal order that emerged in the Flavian period. This is very important because the time between the definitive pacification of the peninsula (19 BCE) and the time of the Antoninian and Severan dynasties is too long for the pre-Roman ideological structures to remain unchanged. Therefore, the keys to the reactivation of indigenism at the end of the Principate are not to be found in the direct survival of ancestral genealogies and devotions, but in their intentional remembrance. L. Curchin (2004, 122–3) states that during the process of ‘Romanisation’ of Hispania, the construction of new identities by the native population was gradual and closely linked to the acquisition of Roman citizenship. It would therefore be logical to

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think that, while the dichotomy between Roman citizens (with full rights) and Latin (with partial rights) was maintained, the individual’s natural attitude would be to get as close as possible to Roman citizenship and its privileges. But when this condition extended to all free inhabitants of the Empire, it ceased to make sense and a reverse process was triggered: to avoid commonness, the population tried to establish new social positions, perfectly delimited and recognisable. Personal names and religion are perhaps the most powerful means available to a social group for showing self-awareness and to distinguish themselves from neighbouring groups (Giles 1978; Wilson 1994). From this perspective, what could begin as ‘continuity’ (or a feature of the personal past to be hidden) might eventually become a disruptive device to claim one’s own position in the new Roman provincial society. Through their ethnic profile – expressed by means of language and religion – the new citizens claimed a space of their own in a social environment that, especially since the concession of the ius Latii, was in the process of being readjusted. In this context, the revitalisation of indigenism might prove useful to Rome in consolidating the sense of belonging to the new order but, above all, it must have been useful for the new leading groups that were emerging after a decree that granted a broad segment of the population equal opportunities they had not possessed previously. Fortunately, there are studies in the field of social psychology that provide us with appropriate frameworks for understanding this process which clearly concerns social identity, that is to say, that part of an individual’s self-affirmation which derives from knowing to belong to a social group (or groups) together with the value and emotional significance this includes (Tajfel 1978, 63). Castells points out that collective identities, which is the level we are now considering, are always constructed. While forming such identities, the manner in which the different elements employed are categorised and combined determines the meaning and symbolic content of those identities. Accordingly, three basic ways of constructing a collective identity can be distinguished depending on the actors, the objectives, and materials involved (Castells 2000, 29–30): 1. Legitimising identity: introduced by the dominant institutions of society in order to extend and rationalise their domination over social actors. 2. Resistance identity: generated by those actors who are in devalued or stigmatised positions by the logic of domination. 3. Project identity: created by social actors who build a new identity based on the cultural materials available to them. Legitimising identities produce a civil society and those of resistance express a collective response against oppression. By contrast, project identities ‘produce’ individuals, meaning by ‘individual’ a collective social actor by which persons achieve a holistic sense of their existence (Castells 2000, 32). It is clear that the social context of the villa of Cuevas de Soria fits perfectly with the idea of ‘project identity’. In our case, the hybridisation between the vernacular

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elements (onomastics and religion) and those typical of the superimposed culture (epigraphic habits and monumental architecture of the Italic type) resulting in a new ‘social individual’. This happens when people do not feel particularly threatened by their social environment although they maintain a high degree of commitment to the original group they belong to. It has been noted that in such cases people attempt to create a distinctive identity by distinguishing and differentiating the group from outgroups in the comparative contexts. ‘[T]he aim is not simply to make sense of the external world, but to define the group-self as distinct from other groups’ (Ellemers et al. 2002, 169). Other studies focus on the way of representing social identity and, in particular, on the three basic components involved in such a process (Cameron 2004, 241–3): 1. Cognitive centrality: this is the amount of time spent thinking about group membership. Centrality is defined by (1) how often the group comes to mind and (2) the subjective importance of the group for self-definition. 2. Ingroup affect: this refers to specific emotions arising from group membership. This effect is achieved through the positive evaluation of the social group by its members. 3. Ingroup ties: these are perceptions of similarity, bond, and belonging to other members of the group. It is a sense of emotional closeness that is shared with other members of the group. Once again, these components may be projected into the village of Cuevas de Soria. A large building, sumptuously furnished, with a remarkable display of markers of collective identity, reinforced by the religious feeling of housing private or personal gods and with the emotional incentive to be the burial place of the relevant members of the group, had to reinforce the ingroup affect and the ingroup ties. It is important to note that this building, in addition to the names of social identification, probably housed the names of private gods as well: one of them, Avvus, acting as the ancestral referent of the group, and other one, Eburos, establishing a connection with the past and with other family groups of similar characteristics. Thus, we come close to other models implemented in other provinces of the Empire for shaping collective identities. R. Häusssler (2010, 219) points out that in Gaul and Britain cults to divinised ancestors were developed with the intention of establishing a solid model that would provide common values and, therefore, a shared identity. According to this author ‘cataclysmic sociocultural change initiates a search for a new identity. In the wish to return to traditional values, people seek to link up with a heroic past by employing mythical heroes as well as monuments and material culture of an earlier period, thus reinventing their shared history’. Obviously, the granting of Roman citizenship to all free individuals of Hispania did not produce a sociocultural cataclysmic change, but set in motion a chain of events that had to produce progressive changes in the medium term, but significant enough to modify the devices by which social intercourse had traditionally been conducted.

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These approaches, supplied by social psychology, provide an appropriate framework for understanding why and what for the indigenous elements we discussed in this paper were used. Let us remember that they are of different nature (linguistic, religious and architectural) and that, although they embrace a period of more than 200 years, they represent the material expression of the gradual construction of a social identity. The process begins with the empowering of a family name and culminates with the construction of a collective space to reinforce their cohesion as a group by using a set of differentiating features. The evidence analysed in this paper reveals the configuration of a network of social connections in which groups of ethnic significance and religious concepts of different nature are involved. This should not surprise us, but what is striking is that this network, made up of individuals fully integrated into the Roman state, used elements of the past, i.e. from culturally ‘out-dated’ environments, to define their social position in the present. From this perspective, the appearance of the Ir(r)ic(c)ones/Irici group, with its tombstones, gods and monumental buildings, requires a much more complex interpretation than the mere survival of vernacular cultural traits or the translation of the power spotlights from the city to the countryside. The apparently indigenous elements studied here are certainly not social or ideological features inherited from the past, but the output of a voluntary decision within the specific social environments that the communities of Late Antique Hispania had to face. In short, I think that the complex set of material evidences recorded at the villa of Cuevas de Soria shows that, at least in the Upper Duero basin, the ‘indigenism’ of the third and fourth centuries CE is a boasting identity construction which makes use of the greatest value a cohesive group can show to its neighbour: a common past rooted in land and tradition, even if this past is a re-elaborated or even an invented one.

References

Abbreviations

AE = Année Epigraphique CIL II = Hübner, A. (1869) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. II, Inscriptiones Hispaniae Latinae. Berlin, Preußische Akademie der Wissenschaften. CIRPBu = Crespo Ortiz de Zárate, S. and Á. Alonso Ávila (2000) Corpus de inscripciones romanas de la provincia de Burgos. Fuentes epigráficas para la historia social de Hispania romana. Valladolid, Pórtico Libr. ERClu = De Palol, P. and J. Vilella (1987) Clunia II: La epigrafía de Clunia. Madrid, Ministerio de Cultura, Dirección General de Bellas Artes y Archivos, Subdirección General de Arqueología y Etnografía Excavaciones arqueologicas en España 150. ERLara = Abasolo Alvarez, J. A. (1974) Epigrafia romana de la región de Lara de los Infantes. Burgos, Publicac. de la Excma Diputación. ERPSoria = Jimeno, A. (1980) Epigrafía romana de la provincia de Soria. Soria, Ed. de la Diputación de Soria. HEp = Hispania Epigraphica. Madrid, Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Archivo Epigráfico de Hispania, since 1989.

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Abascal Palazón, J. M. (1994) Los Nombres personales en las Inscripciones latinas de Hispania. Murcia, Universidad de Murcia-Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Anejos de Antigüedad y Cristianismo 2. Abascal Palazón, J. M. (2017) Notas de epigrafía Soriana y salmantina (Santervás del Burgo, Las Cuevas de Soria y Espino de los Doctores). Oppidum. Cuadernos de Investigación 13, 8–104. Abascal [Palazón], J. M., Alföldy, G. and Cebrián, R. (2011) Segóbriga V: Inscripciones romanas 1986–2010. Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia (BAH 38). Arce, J. (1993) Los mosaicos como documentos para la historia de la Hispania tardía (siglos IV–V). Archivo Español de Arqueología 66, 265–74. Arce, J. (2003) La villa romana de Carranque (Toledo, España): identificación y propietario. Gerión 21 (2), 17–30. Arenas Esteban, J. A. and López Romero, R. (2010) Celtic divine names in the Iberian Peninsula: towards a territorial analysis. In J. A. Arenas Esteban (ed.) Celtic Religion across Space and Time. IX Workshop F.E.R.C.AN (Molina de Aragón, 2008), 148–79. Toledo, Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha. Ayán Vila, K. (2003) Arquitectura como tecnología de construcción de la realidad social. Arqueología de la Arquitectura 7, 17–24. Bahloul, J. (1996) The Architecture of Memory. A Jewish-Muslim household in colonial Algeria, 1937–1962. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology. Beltrán Lloris, F. (1996) La estructura del texto como listado de fórmulas onomásticas. In F. Beltrán Lloris, J. de Hoz and J. Untermann (eds) El Tercer Bronce de Botorrita (Contrebia Belaisca), 66–96. Zaragoza, Diputación General de Aragón, Departamento de Educación y Cultura. Beltrán Lloris, F. (2011) Lengua e identidad en la Hispania romana. Palaeohispanica 11, 19–59. Bravo-Bosch, M. J. (2016) Urbanismo y territorio en la Antigüedad tardía en Hispania. Revista Digital de Derecho Administrativo 16, 145–91 (available in https://cutt.ly/KrWEtLt). Cagnat, R. (1914) Cours d’épigraphie latine. París, Albert Fontemoing Editeur (Reprinted in Pamplona 2008, Analecta Editorial). Castells, M. (2000) El Poder de la Identidad. First published 1997. Madrid, Alianza Editorial. Cameron, J. E. (2004) A three-factor model of social identity. Self and Identity 3, 239–62. Curchin, L. A. (2004) The Romanization of Central Spain. Complexity, diversity and change in a provincial hinterland. London and New York, Routledge. De Bernardo Stempel, P. (2010–2011) Zur Interpretation keltischer Inschriften im Lichte indogermanischer Namenformeln. Incontri Linguistici 33, 2010, 87–123 (part one) and Incontri Linguistici 34, 13–31 (part two). De Bernardo Stempel, P. (2013) Spantamicus en Segobriga y Usseitio en Clunia. Veleia 30, 319–325. Ellemers, N., Spears, R. and Doosje, B. (2002) Self and social identity. Annual Review of Psychology 53, 161–86. Fernández Castro, M. C. (1982) Villas romanas en España. Madrid, Ministerio de Cultura. Fernández Galiano, D. (2011) Los Monasterios paganos. La huida de la ciudad en el Mundo Antiguo. Córdoba, Ediciones el Almendro. Gallego Franco, H. (2001) Familia nuclear y romanización. Onomástica en la epigrafía del territorio castellano-leonés. Hispania Antiqua 35, 185–215. Gallego Franco, H. (2012) Onomástica y estatuto jurídico individual. Las denominaciones personales de nomen único en la epigrafía romana de Castilla-León. Hispania Antiqua 36, 131–150. Gallego Franco, H. (2013–2014) Reflexione sobre la incorporación del nomen en las denominaciones personales de la epigrafía romana del valle del Duero. Hispania Antiqua 37–38, 219–32. Gallego Franco, H. (2016) Hábito epigráfico y promoción jurídica en las civitates de la Meseta Norte en el s. I d.C. Su reflejo en la onomástica personal. Hispania Antiqua 40, 227–59.

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Georges, J. G. (1979) Les villas hispano-romaines. Inventaire et problématiques archéologiques. Paris, CNRS. Giles, H. (1978) Linguistic differentiation in ethnic groups. In H. Tajfel (ed.) Differentiation between Social Groups. Studies in the social psychology of intergroup relations, 361–93. London, Academic Press, European Monographs in Social Psychology 14. Gómez Fernández F. J. (2006) La decadencia urbana y bajoimperial en la Diócesis Hispaniarum: la primacía del argumento del declive, sobre la de la metamorfosis ciudadana. Hispania Antiqua 30, 167–208. Gómez Martín, G. (2018) Promoción personal y familiar a través de la onomástica: la Galeria tribus en el Conventus Cluniensis. Hispania Antiqua. Revista de Historia Antigua 42, 88–122. Gómez Martín, G. (2019) Promoción personal y familiar a través de la onomástica: la Quirina tribus en el Conventus Cluniensis. Hispania Antiqua. Revista de Historia Antigua 43, 202–45. González Rodríguez, M. C. (1986) Las unidades organizativas indígenas del área indoeuropea de Hispania. Anejos de Veleia 2. Vitoria-Gasteiz, Universidad del País Vasco. Gorrochategui, J., Navarro, M. and Vallejo, J. M. (2007) Reflexiones sobre la historia social del valle del Duero: las denominaciones personales. In M. Navarro Caballero and J. M. Palao Vicente (eds) Villes et territoires dans le bassin du Douro à l’époque romaine. Actes de la table-ronde internationale (Bordeaux, septembre 2004), 287–339. Bordeaux, Universidad de Zaragoza & Conseil Régionale d’Aquitaine. Haeussler, R. (2010) From tomb to temple: on the rôle of hero cults in local religions in Gaul and Britain. In J. A. Arenas Esteban (ed.) Celtic Religion across Space and Time. IX Workshop F.E.R.C.AN (Molina de Aragón, 2008), 201–26. Toledo, Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha. Jimeno, A. (1980) Epigrafía romana de la provincia de Soria. Soria, Publicaciones de la Diputación Provincial de Soria. Colección Temas Sorianos 2. Lassère, J. M. (2011) Manuel d’épigraphie romaine. 2 vols. Paris, Éditions A. et J. Picard. Mariné, M. (1984) Las ‘termas’ de la villa de Cuevas de Soria. In I Simposium de Arqueología Soriana, 403–15. Soria, Publicaciones de la Excma. Diputación Provincial de Soria, Colección Temas Sorianos 9. Navarro Caballero, M., Gorrochategui, J. and Vallejo Ruiz, J. M. (2011) L’ònomastique des Celtiberes: de la dénomination indigène à la dénomination romaine. In M. Dondin-Payre (ed.) Les Noms de Personnes dans l’Empire Romain. Transformations, adaptation, évolution, 89–304. Paris, Ausonius Éditions, Scripta Antiqua 36. Olivares Pedreño, J. C. (2002) Los Dioses de la Hispania Céltica. Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia & Universidad de Alicante, Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 15. Olivares Pedreño, J. C. (2002–2003) Religión romana y religión indígena en las ciudades de la Céltica hispana. Lucentum 21–22, 207–25. Ramírez Sánchez, M. (2002) Estelas funerarias y grupos de parentesco en la región celtibérica. Actas del VII Congreso Internacional de Estelas Funerarias vol. 1, 141–55. Santander, Fundación Marcelino Botín. Ramírez Sánchez, M. (2013) La visibilidad de los grupos de parentesco en la epigrafía de la Hispania Indoeuropea: soportes y textos. In J. M. Iglesias Gil and A. Ruiz Gutiérrez (eds) Paisajes epigráficos de la Hispania romana. Monumentos, contextos, topografías, 159–79. Rome, ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider, Hispania Antigua, Serie Histórica 9. Rapoport, A. (1993) Systems of activities and systems of settings. In S. Kent (ed.) Domestic Architecture and the Use of Space, 9–20. 2nd edition. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Rapoport, A. (1998) Spatial organization and the built environment. In T. Ingold (ed.) The Companion Encyclopaedia of Anthropology, 460–502. London and New York, Routledge. Romero Ruiz, R. M. (1985) Datos sobre la integración de gentilicios en el sistema onomástico romano. Habis 16, 329–48. Sanz Aragonés, A., Tabernero Galán, C., Benito Batanero, J. P. and De Bernardo Stempel, P. (2011) Nueva divinidad céltica en un ara de Cuevas de Soria. Madrider Mitteilungen 52, 440–56.

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Simón Cornago, I. (2018) El primer horizonte epigráfico de Clunia: promoción jurídica, latinización y memoria. Epigraphica 80 (1-2), 9–43. Tajfel, H. (1978) Social categorization, social identity and social comparison. In H. Tajfel (ed.) Differentiation between Social Groups. Studies in the social psychology of intergroup relations, 61–76. London, Academic Press, European Monographs in Social Psychology 14. Taracena Aguirre, B. (1930) La villa romana de Cuevas de Soria. Investigación y Progreso 4,78–80. Taracena Aguirre, B. (1941) Carta Arqueológica de España. Soria. Madrid, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Untermann, J. (1961) Sprachräume und Sprachbewegungen im vorrömischen Hispanien. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz. Wilson, B. (1994) Religion and the affirmation of identity. Revista de Antropología Social 3, 111–26.

Chapter 13 The religious construction of ‘household’ in Roman Italy: the case of the Casa dei Vettii Günther Schörner

[H]ouseholds are fundamental elements of human societies, and their main physical manifestations are the houses their members occupy. […] The remains of houses are among the most common and obtrusive of archaeological sites. It is for this reason […] that something called household archaeology has begun to emerge as an area of research in various parts of the world.

This quotation of Wilk and Ashmore’s seminal work (1988, 1, cited in Steadman 1996, 55) is valid not only for Mesoamerican households, but also for households of the Roman world. Most important is the connection between household as a social entity and the physical remains of the house. In looking for a correlation of social and spatial behaviour the study of the physical remains of houses allows us to draw conclusions on the behaviour of the members of a household. In this paper I focus on domestic rituals in Pompeii as a case study for religious individualisation. The best material evidence for the setting of domestic rituals are the household shrines that were widely preserved in Pompeii at the point at which they were sealed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE (Boyce 1937; Orr 1972; 1978; Fröhlich 1991; Bassani 2008; Giacobello 2008). The design of these shrines varies in different ways regarding the design (painted, sculpted) and the deities represented. House cults play a prominent role in both defining individualised religious behaviour and detecting a specific individuality in Roman antiquity (e.g. Stowers 2008). An evident indication for religious individualisation is the rather diverse make-up of the personal pantheon venerated as penates. As one example, the famous paragraph in the Historia Augusta describes the penates collected and worship by the emperor Severus Alexander (SHA Alex. Sev. 28). The components of material culture in the context of domestic cults could be used to investigate the religion of individuals or at least of the members of single households. As social anthropologists ascertained a long time ago, the precondition for

13. The religious construction of ‘household’ in Roman Italy: the case of the Casa dei Vettii 255 any form of individualisation is a process called individuation, whereby individuation is best described as the development of personal identity (cf. the fundamental work of Musschenga 2001; for Antiquity, cf. Rüpke 2011). Individuation is always linked with socialisation. Because primary socialisation took place in the elementary social group of the family it is significantly connected with the house. Houses shape the material setting for this social function and therefore differentiations and similarities between different houses could be responsible for different ways of socialisation (cf. e.g. Osiek and Balch 1997, 48–87). Identifying and measuring these divergences could help to suppose different ways of ritual behaviour and different modes of expressing it. It is self-evident that by using this methodology the approach is mainly focused on the pater familias as being responsible for building and furnishing the domus. According to different written sources, especially Cato, Cicero and Plautus, the domestic deities were venerated in a regular periodical way and it would be most probable, of course, that the sacrifices attested took place in front of these shrines (Bodel 2008) These rituals were performed or at least attended by the inhabitants of the house, the entire familia or domus, i.e. both by the free inhabitants and the slave members (George 1997a; Wallace-Hadrill 2003). In addition to the general topic of individualisation, another point in this context needs to be addressed. In recent years the assumption of a collective worship of the free inhabitants of the house, the slaves and possibly the clients has been called in question. Based on the location of the shrines in or near service areas, such as kitchens, and the doubling of domestic shrines within a house, together with the epigraphically attested connection of slave members to collegia outside the confines of the household, it was postulated that the veneration of the genius, the lares and the other gods in any domus was separated between the free members of the house on the one side and the servants, slaves and liberti on the other (Dwyer 1991; Foss 1994, 45–56; 1997). This segregation is assumed even when only one single shrine is archaeologically attested as in the famous Casa dei Vettii (for the shrine, cf. Giacobello 2008, 180–2). It should be evident that this suggested separation of cult places and ritual performances would have a major impact on what could be called the religious construction of Roman household. Therefore we should ask instead, whether there really was any social specialisation in the house and whether this specialisation was connected to social stratification. In this way, domestic cult could be used either to foster the connection between the free and slave members of the familia by performing the same rituals together at the same cult shrine or to deepen the social gap by using different ritual areas according to social rank. The discussion, of which way and by which group domestic cult was performed in the Roman house is still complicated by the archaeological problem of finding material evidence for the presence and living conditions of the domestic staff. This is due to the ‘archaeological invisibility’ of slaves in Roman houses, until an archaeology of servitude can be fully developed, as Jane Webster observed a few years ago (Webster 2005). To detect sleeping quarters or whole parts of the domus used only by slaves is

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an archaeologically impossible task in Pompeii because a strict separation of the free and unfree inhabitants of a house is rather unlikely (George 1997b). We therefore have the perplexing situation that some shrines are said to have been frequented only by slaves because of their location within the house’s servile tract, despite the fact that one is unable to unambiguously define or locate such a servile tract. In this way, studies regarding domestic religion of the familia came into a deadlock. A relatively fresh methodological approach to this problem is proposed here which can help us to get out of this impasse. One of the greatest problems in the study of Roman domestic life, as Penelope Allison pointed out a few years ago, is the use of unrelated textual and archaeological data, especially imposing secondary labels to the material remains of Roman houses like cubiculum or slave quarter (Allison 2001, 185–8; 2004, 63–4). Instead, we have to focus entirely on the archaeological evidence, especially the ground plans. To analyse these, a methodological framework to describe spatial order as precisely as possibly needs to be employed. This approach, called space syntax analysis, was developed by two British architects, Bill Hillier and Julienne Hanson (Hillier and Hanson 1984). It gives emphasis to the spatial arrangement of all rooms in any given house and forms the starting point for the calculation of different indices by which we are able to describe and explain spatial organisation accurately in a quantifiable and therefore methodologically comprehensible way without mixing primary and secondary evidence, as happened very often in former studies. This approach will be used in studying the Casa dei Vettii (Grahame 2000, 161, 192). This house in the regio VI, insula 15 (Fig. 13.1) in Pompei is most famous because of its splendid decoration in the so called Fourth Style and its mythological paintings (La Rocca et al. 1979, 269–78; Sampaolo 1994). Rather different, but actually executed by one of the painters who ornamented the grand ‘cubicula’ with mythological decoration, is the lararium L (Fröhlich 1991, 94). It is situated in an open court (room 14) off the main atrium (room 2) in the part of the house which Fröhlich calls a ‘Gesindetrakt’ (‘domestic wing’) (Fröhlich 1991, 279). Although there is only one household shrine in the house, it is therefore supposed that it was used only by servants because ‘atrium v’ is close to the kitchen. This hypothesis derives from the assumption that the dominus and the free members of the familia did not enter this part of the house, since their residence is related only to the rooms along the main axis, fauces – atrium – peristyle. Since this is an extreme case, as the suspected separation of the house influences the performance of domestic rituals, the Casa dei Vettii is chosen as an example for contesting the usefulness of space syntax analysis. Starting from a plan of the domus and access map of the building (Fig. 13.1), the mean depth of the house has to be calculated. Mean depth (MD) for a space means the average depth (or average shortest distance) from one space to all the other spaces (Hillier and Hanson 1984, 108–9; Grahame 2000, 34–5). This value measures

13. The religious construction of ‘household’ in Roman Italy: the case of the Casa dei Vettii 257

Fig. 13.1. Plan of the Casa dei Vettii (reg. VI 15, 1.27). Space numbers according to Grahame 2000, 161.

how ‘deep’ the house is, that is how many spaces one has to cross on average from one room to all others rooms by using the formula MD = Σdk/k-1 with d standing for the depth values and k for the number of spaces. For the Casa dei Vettii space 14 with a sum of 32 spaces equals a mean depth of 2.3605 (Table 13.1). The MD value

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Table 13.1. Table of relative asymmetry and control values and their ranking for all spaces in the Casa dei Vettii (after Grahame 2000, 192). Space number

Asymmetry value

Control value

Rank AV

Rank CV

Ext

0,1552

0,7000

–

–

1

0,1100

0,5909

5

13

2

0,0605

7,8095

1

1

3

0,1048

0,2909

4

17

4

0,1492

4,0000

14

3

5

0,2117

0,2000

27

18

6

0,2117

0,2000

29

18

7

0,2117

0,2000

29

18

8

0,1230

0,0909

7

27

9

0,1230

0,0909

7

27

10

0,1230

0,0909

7

27

11

0,1230

0,0909

7

27

12

0,1230

0,0909

7

27

13

0,1230

0,0909

7

27

14

0,0907

4,0909

2

2

15

0,1532

0,1666

20

21

16

0,1532

0,1666

20

21

17

0,1492

0,1666

14

21

18

0,2117

0,5000

29

15

19

0,1532

0,1666

20

21

20

0,1452

0,6666

13

9

21

0,2036

1,5000

25

5

22

0,2661

0,5000

29

15

23

0,1190

0,5909

6

13

24

0,1492

0,6429

14

10

25

0,0907

3,9242

3

4

26

0,1532

0,1429

20

25

27

0,1532

0,1429

20

25

28

0,1512

0,6429

18

10

29

0,1512

0,6429

18

10

30

0,1452

1,1429

13

6

31

0,2056

0,8333

26

7

32

0,2056

0,8333

27

7

13. The religious construction of ‘household’ in Roman Italy: the case of the Casa dei Vettii 259 is the starting point to determine the relative asymmetry value of each space: RA = 2(MD-1)/k-2. The relative asymmetry (RA) describes the integration of a space. All the RA-values are standardised and vary between 0 and 1. A high result, approaching 1, will point to a low level of accessibility and therefore integration, a low result to a high level of accessibility and integration. For example, atrium 14 gets a value of 0.0907 is a relatively accessible room within the house compared with all RA values of the Casa dei Vettii. The next value to determine by space syntax analysis is the so-called control value (CV). The control value relates to the distributed-nondistributed dimension of the house (Hillier and Hanson 1984, 15–16). The control value is established by letting each space give the total value of 1 equally distributed to its connected spaces or – as Hillier and Hanson put it – ‘each space is partitioning one unit of value among its neighbours and getting back a certain amount from its neighbour’ (Hillier and Hanson 1984, 109; Grahame 2000, 33–4). By that the extent to which a space controls access to its direct neighbour spaces can be measured. For atrium 14 in which the shrine is located we can calculate a value of 4.0909 which is the second position of all rooms (cf. Table 13.1) and is therefore one of the strongest control spaces of the entire house. To allow for a clear-cut analysis, only the most important rooms of the Casa dei Vettii, defined as those which give and control access to other rooms, will be considered. These are the spaces with a control value greater than or equal to 1 forming a summary structure of the access map of the Casa dei Vettii and a summary table of the rankings (Fig. 13.2). It is obvious that there is a direct correlation between control value and for the first two spaces but then the correlation begins to fade away. Thus space 14 is globally accessible and has a relatively high control value. According Hanson and Hillier the correlation of both values, control value and accessibility value, shows how high the presence availability may be with nodes 2 and 14, as the rooms where it is most likely to meet other persons. To the space with domestic cult installations will be attributed a high presence availability regarding to the inhabitants of the house or household members. As M. Grahame attested, rooms with this rate of presence availability were used both for formal and informal encounters (Grahame 1997, 155–6). Concerning the intensity of social interaction, the domain of atrium 14 is only second to the main courtyard and thus the general characterisation fits perfectly the frequent and regular performance of household rituals in the presence of the familia, both free and slave members. Another point should be considered: our analyses so far are associated with behaviour on an inhabitant to inhabitant-reference. Regarding relationships with strangers, the depth from the exterior has to be taken into consideration (Grahame 1997, 157–61). Atrium 14 is relatively deeply embedded within the house, giving only limited access to strangers. The expected low density of interactions between inhabitants and strangers also points to activities tightly connected to the members of

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Fig. 13.2. Distribution of spaces in the Casa dei Vettii according to their relative ranking (only room number of nodes indicated).

the familia itself. This outcome corroborates that atrium 14 was the locale deliberately chosen for household rituals, as it was located off the main axis of the house and away from the primary locations for the reception of strangers.

Conclusion For the interpretation of room function and disposition we used space syntax analysis to calculate expected interaction densities and presence availability. By adopting a proven methodological framework, it was possible to acquire objective quantification (for the use of space syntax analysis in Roman archaeology, cf. DeLaine 2004; Stöger 2008; 2009; critique: Allison 2001, 198–9) instead of subjective conjectures, the utilisation of secondary literary evidence and the unhistorical application of so-called ‘common sense’. This has demonstrated that nothing points – at least in the case of the Casa dei Vettii in Pompeii – to a separation of domestic rituals in the domus between slaves and the free inhabitants; especially there are no hints that household shrines were used only by slave members of the familia. Instead atrium 14 must have been deliberately chosen to locate these rituals in an adequate space within the house.

13. The religious construction of ‘household’ in Roman Italy: the case of the Casa dei Vettii 261 The separation of the core citizen-family from its servants is an effect of the internal demarcations of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century middle-class house and is very different from the spatial organisation of pre-modern large houses (cf. Wallace-Hadrill 1994, 8–16; George 1997, 21–4). In a review of Roman domestic space, Penelope Allison stresses also the impossibility to identify servile spaces in Roman houses (Allison 2001, 194). Thus the separation of household-shrines only for slaves on the one hand, and for the dominus with his wife and children on the other, is doubtful and corresponds more with modern conceptions of clear cut segregation of domestic staff than with the Roman ideal of familia. With regard to religious individualisation, the aim of this case study is to show that domestic cults were deeply imbedded in the Roman house as a complicated web of rooms and communication ways, of spaces and nodes. It is important to notice that the spatial and functional fabric of each domus is unique. By measuring this ‘individuality’ we are able to come closer to the individualised religious behaviour of its owners and inhabitants. The localisation of a lararium in a well frequented courtyard like atrium 14 in the Casa dei Vettii is as individual as the composition of the deities venerated which has been regarded until now as the only way to detect individualised religious practice in the Roman house. Because the dominus has to be regarded as the customer of the domestic shrine, he is responsible for its design and localisation. It is not known whether other members of the household, especially the wife of the dominus, influenced the composition of the household shrine. Thus it is to be assumed that the lararium is the outcome of the house owner’s conception of domestic religion: which rituals have to be performed, who should attend them and which architectural location was conceived as fitting (see also Schörner 2011). Having picked this very option out of a wide range of possible solutions, his choice is highly significant. Thus, the spatial analysis of the setting of domestic cult shrines could help to approach religious individuality in the Roman empire.

References

Ancient sources

SHA Alex. Sev. = Magie, D. and Rohrbacher, D. (eds and trans.) (2022) Historia Augusta, 3 volumes. Harvard, Loeb Classical Library.

Modern sources

Allison, P. (2001) Using the material and written sources: turn of the millennium approaches to Roman domestic space. American Journal of Archaeology 105, 181–208. Allison, P. (2004) Pompeian Households. An analysis of the material culture. Los Angeles, The Cotsen Institute of Archaeology at UCLA. Bassani, M. (2008) Sacraria: ambienti e piccoli edifici per il culto domestico in area vesuviana. Rome, Quasar, Antenor Quaderni 9. Bodel, J. (2008) Cicero’s Minerva, Penates, and the mother of the Lares: an outline of Roman domestic religion. In J. Bodel and S. M. Olyan (eds) Household and Family Religion in Antiquity: contextual and comparative perspectives, 248–75. Malden, MA and Oxford, Wiley-Blackwell.

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Boyce, G. K. (1937) Corpus of the Lararia of Pompeii. Rome, American Academy at Rome, Memoirs of the American Academy at Rome 14. DeLaine, J. (2004) Designing for a market: ‘Medianum’ apartments at Ostia. Journal of Roman Archaeology 17, 147–76. Dwyer, E. J. (1991) The Pompeian atrium house in theory and practice. In E. Gazda (ed.) Roman Art in the Private Sphere. New perspectives on the architecture and decor of the domus, villa, and insula, 25–48. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press. Foss, P. W. (1994) Kitchens and Dining Rooms at Pompeii: the spatial and social relationship of cooking to eating in the Roman household. PhD thesis, University of Michigan. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan. Foss, P. W. (1997) Watchful Lares: Roman household organization and the rituals of cooking and dining. In R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill (eds) Domestic space in the Roman world. Pompeii and beyond, 196–218. Portsmouth, Rhode Island, Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 22. Fröhlich, T. (1991) Lararien- und Fassadenbilder in den Vesuvstädten. Untersuchungen zur volkstümlichen pompejanischen Malerei. Mainz, Philipp von Zabern, Römische Mitteilungen Ergänzungsheft 32. George, M. (1997a) Repopulating the Roman house. In B. Rawson and P. Weaver (eds) The Roman Family in Italy. Status, sentiment, space, 299–319. Oxford and Canberra, Clarendon Press. George, M. (1997b) Servus and domus: the slave in the Roman house. In R. Laurence and A. WallaceHadrill (eds) Domestic Space in the Roman World. Pompeii and beyond, 15–24. Portsmouth, Rhode Island, Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 22. Giacobello, F. (2008) Larari Pomepiani. Iconografia e culto dei Lari in ambito domestico. Milano, LED. Grahame, M. (1997) Public and private in the Roman house: the spatial order of the Casa del Fauno. In R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill (eds) Domestic space in the Roman world. Pompeii and beyond, 137–64. Portsmouth, Rhode Island, Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 22. Grahame, M. (2000). Reading Space: Social interaction and identity in the houses of Roman Pompeii. A syntactical approach to the analysis and interpretation of built space. Oxford, Archaeopress, British Archaeological Reports International Series 886. Hillier, J. and Hanson, B. (1984) The Social Logic of Space. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. La Rocca, E., de Vos Raajmakers, E. and de Vos, A. (1979) Lübbes archäologischer Führer Pompeji. Bergisch Gladbach, Bastei Lübbe. Musschenga, A. (2001) The many faces of individualism. In A. van Harskamp and A. Musschenga (eds) The Many Faces of Individualism, 3–24. Leuven, Peeters Publishers. Orr, D. G. (1972) Roman Domestic Religion. A study of Roman household deities and their shrines at Pompeii and Herculaneum. Ph.D. thesis, University of Maryland. Ann Arbor, University Microfilms International [1980]. Orr, D. G. (1978) Roman domestic religion. The evidence of the household shrines. In Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II.16.2, 1557–91. Berlin, Walter de Gruyter. Osiek, C. and Balch, D. L. (1997) Families in the New Testament World. Households and house churches. Louisville, KY, Westminster John Knox Press. Rüpke, J. (2011). Aberglauben oder Individualität? Religiöse Normabweichung im römischen Reich. Tübingen, Mohr-Siebeck. Sampaolo, V. (1994) Casa dei Vettii (reg.VI 15, 1.27). In G. Pugliese Carratelli (ed.) Pompei. Pitture e mosaici V: Regio VI Parte seconda, 468–572. Roma, Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. Schörner, G. (2011) Lokalisierung von Hauskulten im römischen Italien: Fremdbestimmte vs. individuelle Religion. Hephaistos 28, 135–47. Steadman, S. R. (1996) Recent research in the archaeology of architecture: Beyond the foundations. Journal of Archaeological Research 4 (1), 51–93. Stöger, S. (2008) Roman Ostia: space syntax and the domestication of space. In A. Posluschny, K. Lambers and I. Herzog (eds) Layers of Perception. Proceedings of the 35th International Conference on

13. The religious construction of ‘household’ in Roman Italy: the case of the Casa dei Vettii 263 Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology (CAA), Berlin, Germany, April 2–6, 2007, 322–7. Bonn, Habelt Verlag. Stöger, H. (2009) Clubs and lounges at Roman Ostia. The spatial organisation of a boomtown phenomenon (Space syntax applied to the study of second century AD ‘guild buildings’ at a Roman port town). In D. Koch, L. Marcus and J. Steen (eds) Proceedings of the 7th International Space Syntax Symposium, 108.1–108.12. Stockholm, KTH. https://hdl.handle.net/1887/14297 [accessed 10/07/2020]. Stowers, S. S. (2008) Theorizing the religion of ancient households and families. In J. Bodel and S.M. Olyan (eds) Household and Family Religion in Antiquity: contextual and comparative perspectives, 5–19. Malden, MA and Oxford, Wiley-Blackwell. Wallace-Hadrill, A. F. (1994) Houses and Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Wallace-Hadrill, A. F. (2003) Domus and insulae in Rome: families and housefuls. In D. Balch and C. Osiek (eds) Early Christian Families in Context. An interdisciplinary dialogue, 3–18. Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge, William B. Eerdmans Publishing. Webster, J. (2005) Archaeologies of slavery and servitude: bringing ‘New World’ perspectives to Roman Britain. Journal of Roman Archaeology 18, 161–79. Wilk, R. R. and Ashmore, W. (1988) Household and Community in the Mesoamerican Past. Albuquerque, NM, University of New Mexico Press.

Chapter 14 Types of Interpretatio and their users in the Keltiké: explicationes and translationes vs. identificationes and adaptationes Patrizia de Bernardo Stempel

1. Types of Interpretatio: a partly personal choice Interpretatio is a natural phenomenon in cultural contact situations, aptly defined by Parker (2017, 74) as ‘a bridge over which ideas can pass’. As stated, among others, by Belayche and Prost (2005, 323) ‘Les rencontres culturelles [...] donnent nécessairement lieu à une interpretatio des dieux de l’Autre’. The interesting fact is, however, that there were different ways of interpreting foreign deities and that the dedicants were making individual decisions in relation to one’s personal knowledge when using one or the other kind of ‘bridge’ between different cultual milieus. As I outlined at some length in the proceedings of the 11th international F.E.R.C.AN. workshop (De Bernardo Stempel 2013a, 27–34), even the most Classical type of interpretatio did not escape the influence of the dedicant’s individuality on the actual votive string of an epigraphic document (I define ‘votive string’ as the portion of a votive inscription that actually contains all divine names, while ‘theonymic string’ is defined as the restituted nominative case of each segment of such a votive string involving one deity). Since the individual agents making the interpretatio of their choice belonged to different social groups and were prompted by different motives, one can recognise several ways in which the actual interpretationes took place. While studying, on behalf of the Austrian Academy of Sciences’ project Fontes epigraphici religionum Celticarum antiquarum,1 those linkages of ‘Mediterranean’ deities or divine names (be they Latin, Greek or even oriental) and indigenous ones which are attested in the Roman provinces and traditionally referred to as ‘interpretatio Romana’, it was possible to distinguish at least four main subtypes of the basic phenomenon of interpretatio (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2014b, whereas my first attempts at defining these processes can be viewed in ead. 2007a; 2008a; 2008b; De Bernardo Stempel and Hainzmann 2006).

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Given that several scholars are still unaware of the important differences between a theonymic interpretation done either by a Roman or an indigenous person (preferably referred to with the umbrella-term interpretatio Romana vel indigena), it is perhaps not superfluous to repeat here the basic distinctions which are to be made. The various subtypes are described in detail, with several examples and including the worshippers’ reasons for their choice, in the following sections 2–5 and 7: A) Adaptatio, that is the adaptation of a foreign significant in order to make it fit into the grammatical system of the target language (cf. Hainzmann and De Bernardo Stempel 2013, 208 section III.4.2, diagram 22; note that the terms ‘transliteration’ and ‘phonetic assimilation’ used by Parker [2017, 63 and 183] are imprecise). Well-known is the adaptatio Latina a lingua Graeca, that is, the adaptation to the Latin language of a Greek word, in which the foreign significant was a Greek theonym: attending to the various grammatical subsystems of the Latin language, it transformed Κάστωρ into CASTOR,2 ̓Απόλλων into APOLLO, and ΄Ηρακλη̂ς into HERCULES (Hainzmann and De Bernardo Stempel 2013, 209, section III.4.4, diagram 24 where VESTA is to be deleted for being a cognate of Ἑστία, that is, an inherited theonym). For a discussion with some examples of the adaptatio Latina a lingua Celtica, by which, analogously, a Celtic divine name is adapted to the Latin language, see below in section 3. B1) Explicatio Latina, that is, the explanation of a linguistically foreign theonym by means of the Latin language. Very often the Latin rendering is so accurate that it is actually preferable to speak of ‘explanation or translation into Latin’, that is, of explicatio vel translatio Latina. It is then possible to specify the language of the original divine name which is being rendered by means of the Latin language: accordingly, one can distinguish explicationes vel translationes Latinae a lingua Graeca, that is, on the basis of a Greek divine name, from explicationes vel translationes Latinae a lingua Celtica, that is, on the basis of a Celtic one, and so on. Analogously, in the explicationes or translationes Latinae a lingua Celtica, resulting from the procedure which most interests us here, the signifiant or signifier is Latin and the signifié or signified corresponds to the semantic content of a Celtic divine name, mostly a theonym. For a discussion of this phenomenon and some examples see below in section 4. B2) Parallel to the explicatio vel translatio Latina there was, of course, also an explicatio vel translatio Graeca, that is, an explanation or translation into Greek, which is, however, only of typological interest in our western context. According to the language of the original divine name one can, for example, distinguish between explicationes vel translationes Graecae a lingua Phoenicia (one instance, reported by Eusebius, of such a Greek paraphrase or translation of a Phoenician theonym is quoted by Parker 2017, 63 with n. 112) and explicationes vel translationes Graecae a lingua Latina. Five good examples of Greek paraphrases or translations of a Latin theonym are recorded by Dionysius of Halicarnassus: The Romans call these gods PENATES. Among those who translate the name into Greek some call them PATROOI [‘Ancestral’], some GENETHLIOI [‘of Descent’], some KTESIOI [‘of Property’], others MUCHIOI [‘of Recesses’], others HERKEIOI [‘of the Courtyard’]. Each seems to be choosing the title

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Patrizia de Bernardo Stempel in accord with one of their characteristics, and they all seem to mean roughly the same. (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1, 67, 3, transl. Parker 2017, 54)

Also, according to Freyburger (2005, 109), the epithet in the theonymic string Iuppiter victor was translated into Greek as νικαι̂ος and νικήφορος. C) Explicatio Barbarica, that is, the description of one of the qualities of a foreign deity by means of a non-Classical language. Whenever the language of the rendering was a Continental Celtic dialect, mostly Gaulish, it is appropriate to speak of explicatio Celtica and, even better, of explicatio vel translatio Celtica, that is, of ‘explanation or even translation into Celtic’. At times, in fact, the Celtic rendering thus obtained matches quite accurately one of the known Latin or Greek functional epithets of a Classical deity. Such great similarity might indeed even point to a process of loan-translation in spite of the fact that the context was almost certainly an oral one, Schriftlichkeit being a minority asset at the time: similar to people’s knowledge about certain saints nowadays, the worshippers may not have known a particular or even rare Greek or Latin epithet for Apollon, Zeus or the likes, but they will have known that a given Classical god had certain functions, a knowledge that enabled them to create for that god adequate Celtic epithets. Accordingly, in the resulting explicationes or translationes Celticae the signifiant or signifier is Celtic and the signifié or signified corresponds to a quality, often an epithet, of the involved Classical deity. For a discussion of this phenomenon with some examples see below in section 5. It has also been possible to spot some cases in which foreign divine names, be they Latin or Celtic, are rendered in an ancient Germanic dialect, for which I analogously speak of Explicatio vel translatio Germanica (examples in De Bernardo Stempel 2014a, 95–6 and 102–5). D) Identificatio, that is, the equation of two pre-existing and wholly independent divine concepts which, in spite of the different meaning of their respective names, share at least one function or one element of their iconography (see also Parker 2017, 47–8). Therefore, the process can be described as an ‘equivalence without identity’ (Parker 2017, 55). Through it, two signifiants, that is, signifiers belonging to different languages are joined together in order to establish an equivalence not between their respective semantic contents or signifiés, but between their actual referents. The subtype of this rather general phenomenon in which a Greek and a Roman divine name were joined together is best called identificatio Graeca vel Romana, that is ‘identification done either by a Greek or by a Roman’, whereas for the subtype in which a ‘Mediterranean’ divine name was linked to a western epichoric one, a phenomenon by far not as widespread as traditionally assumed, the term identificatio Romana vel indigena, that is, ‘identification done either by a Roman or by an indigenous person’, can be selected as the most accurate. A discussion of this subtype is offered with some examples below in section 2. In the process of identificatio there is hence no bilingualism involved, and the chosen predicate Romana vel indigena makes clear that the equation thus described was not a linguistic one: this is, in fact, the very reason for qualifying (D) as Romana instead of **Latina. On the contrary, the adjectives Latina and Celtica used for (B)

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and (C) explicitly refer to the direction in which the linguistic transposition I call explicatio vel translatio took place. Accordingly, in the process of explicatio vel translatio Latina Latin is the goal language, no matter whether the starting point of the involved procedure is to be found in the Greek or in the Celtic theonymy; and in the process of explicatio vel translatio Celtica, the goal language is a Celtic dialect, no matter whether the starting point of the involved procedure is to be found in the Latin or even in the Greek theonymy, and so on. Another important distinction that ought to be made is that regarding the frequency of the various phenomena: that is, between nonce or ephemeral and consuetudinal interpretationes. Unfortunately, one can classify according to this parameter with a certain assurance only those interpretationes that are attested several times; it is by contrast not sure that votive strings resurfacing just once were really that rare at the time they came into being. True ephemeral interpretationes, be they just explicationes vel translationes or actual identificationes, obviously ought to be viewed as the product of a conscious choice made by their individual author. Different is the case of consuetudinal instances of interpretatio, where individual creativity was expressed only by the person who first adapted, explained or translated a certain divine name to/in/into a different language or who first made a link between an indigenous and a ‘Mediterranean’ deity, while all the followers who simply repeated a preexisting formulaic string made almost no use of their individual choice. It must be stressed that, although the procedures listed above under (A)–(D) imply a very different level of education and Latinitas, as we are going to see in the following sections, it is never possible to establish which language was spoken by the person who coined and used (or later just used) a certain type of theonymic string, not even in cases of actual translatio rather than of simple explicatio. Also, in all and each of the aforementioned cases both the first and the later users of a certain theonymic string may have indifferently belonged to the Roman, the Italic or to any other indigenous ethnicity or nationality (in this sense also Parker 2017, 64–9, who gives an overview on previous research).

2. Identificatio Romana vel indigena It is well known that the religious equation of two pre-existing divine concepts, a Classical and an epichoric one, notwithstanding the different semantic content of their names, has traditionally been considered in scholarship to be all what interpretatio was about (for examples of this old-fashioned kind see below in section 6). It was therefore only after the explicatio subtypes (B) and (C) had been identified that I renamed subtype (D) of interpretatio as identificatio Romana vel indigena in order to better express the dissimilarity between these completely different types of phenomena. Meanwhile, two different levels of interpretatio are also acknowledged by Lambert (2008, 139), who points out that Gaulish compound adjectives such as ANEXTLOMAROS or ATEPOMAROS as opposed e.g. to BELENOS ‘look as if they had always been epithets [...]’.3

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It becomes, therefore, apparent that only those theonymic equivalences are apt to be classified as identificationes Romanae vel indigenae which, for being not linguistically, that is, semantically motivated, do not qualify either for explicatio vel translatio Latina or for explicatio vel translatio Celtica. Before inquiring into the actual social agents who made these choices, we shall take a look at instances of this type. Such as: •

•

•

• •

The linkage of Esus with Mars, given that no linguistic connection exists between ‘God’ (originally probably ‘the Veneration’, see CF I/1, 109–14, as well as De Bernardo Stempel 2010a, 119–23) and the ancient name Mamers / Mavors / Mars of the Italic deity (see CF I/1, 320 with references). The linkage of the aforementioned Mars with the British Nodons since ‘Fisher’, the meaning of this Celtic theonym, is neither the meaning of Latin Mars nor describes, as far as one knows, any of the ‘Mediterranean’ god’s qualities or attributes (De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 75; see also Haeussler 2017a, 355–8). Hispanic dedications in which Turobriga ‘night time’-goddess Ataicina (on her name see now De Bernardo Stempel 2011, 179 with n. 20; on the deity Abascal Palazón 2002 together with Goffaux 2006, 62 with n. 70, and 67-9) is linked to Proserpina, whose name is rather related to snakes (DÉLL 540 together with DKP, col. 1188, on the Latin reinterpretation of the Greek Περσεφόνη as Proserpina) and as such completely different: for example at Emerita Augusta in the votive string dea . Ataeci^na Tur^r^ibrig(ensis). Proserpina (CIL II 462, my reading). The linkage of the Celtic god invoked by the name of Sucellos or ‘Good striker’ and the Roman wood-god Silvanus (cf. Sergent 2016). The linkage of the name of the Celtic goddess Hercura, originating as *Perk’urā in the primeval oak, with that of Iuno inferna in the Norican defixio CF-Nor 002 (variants and etymological details of the Celtic theonym are now discussed in CF I/1, 196–8; see also CF I/1 195, 198–200 and, respectively, 251–5 on the two deities).

More difficult to classify are those theonymic strings in which the indigenous divine name involved might as well be a simple Celtic attribute: for example, in the case of the theonymic string in which the divine name Brigantia, actually a simple female present participle meaning ‘high, eminent’, is added to dea Victoria (De Bernardo Stempel 2010a, 108). Also the alleged linkage of Victoria with the divine name Noreia (CF I/1, 365–77) in a Norican theonymic string lacking the theonymic determiner dea implies very probably no identification at all. Two alternative possibilities come to mind: (α) given the preceding multitheonymic asyndetic votive-string Marti (scil. et) Herculi, it is most likely for Victoriae Noreiae in the same inscription CF-Nor 019 to be just another string of the same type, namely an invocation addressed to both the goddesses Victoria and Noreia; (β) Noreia might otherwise represent in this sequence just a simple deethnonymic or detoponymic adjective.

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This is, therefore, a syncretistic phenomenon which required from the social agents only theological notions and no linguistic competence at all. Accordingly, it is probably to be placed at a time when the indigenous languages had already faded in the various Roman provinces while the various constituents of the Romano-Celtic society had attained some equilibrium in a very connected world. As to the worshippers’ individual involvement, it can be said that linking deities belonging to different panthea with each other depended more on the qualities and attributes actually shared by those deities than on the decisions of any social agents. Accordingly, most identificationes Romanae vel indigenae were certainly well established and rather ‘official’ religious equations, as in the frequent theonymic strings GRANNOS APOLLO and APOLLO GRANNOS (see for them CF I/1, 228–34; CF II/1, 82–5). Beside those, however, also ephemeral and more ‘private’ identifications would exist, which were not the outcome of theological doctrine or speculation, but prompted by the actual needs of the individual worshipper or worshippers, the more so since, as stated by Haeussler (2013, 273), ‘it is rarely possible to make a clear one-to-one identification between local [i.e. indigenous] and Roman deities’, a point also stressed by Parker (2017, 48): Functional identification was in itself highly approximate and subjective, since the powers of, say, a Roman and a Gallic [better: Celtic] god would never overlap precisely, and even the underlying presumption that the Gallic [better: Celtic] pantheon consisted of functionally distinct powers like the Roman may have been mistaken.

As mentioned, among others, by Haeussler (2012), this complexity is aptly illustrated by Tacitus when he speaks of an ancient temple dedicated to SERAPIS and ISIS at Alexandria (fuerat illic sacellum Serapidi atque Isidi antiquitus sacratum), because he tells us that ‘Many suppose the god himself to be AESCULAPIUS, for he heals the sick bodies (deum ipsum multi Aesculapium, quod medeatur aegris corporibus, [....] coniectant), some suppose him to be OSIRIS, a very ancient deity among those people (quidam [scil. eum] Osirin, antiquissimum illis gentibus numen, [coniectant]), many again suppose him to be IUPPITER, as he is master over all things (plerique [scil. eum] Iovem ut rerum omnium potentem [coniectant]), most suppose him to be DIS PATER because of the hallmarks that are manifest in him, or else for his darkness’ (plurimi [scil. eum] Ditem patrem isignibus, quae in ipso manifesta, aut per ambages coniectant) (Tacitus Hist. 4, 84, 16–7 and 22–6, my translation). Indeed, ‘a god of culture a may overlap with several gods of culture b, or may need to be broken down into several gods of culture b, and vice versa. But the underlying logic was never spelt out’ (Parker 2017, 52).

3. Adaptatio Latina a lingua Celtica To this type belongs, on the one hand, SIRONA, which represents a solely phonetic adaptation to Latin of the true Celtic forms Đirona / Θirona, name of a (morning-?) star goddess (CF I/1, 438–41; see also Moitrieux 2016).

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On the other hand, one finds the forms Matres and also Matrae, which are mainly morphological adaptations to Latin of the true Celtic nominative plural Μάτερες, the oldest known form of the theonym designating the indigenous divine mothers (CF I/1, 348–55; De Bernardo Stempel 2021, 21–2, summarised in ead. forthcoming-a). In this phenomenon there is almost no creativity involved. The individual apport is practically limited to the choice of the addressed deity as well as by the worshipper’s or worshippers’ level of Latinitas: for example, in his/her/their choice of either Latin Matres or its substandard variant Matrae when adapting the Celtic theonym Μάτερες to the Latin morphology. Unlike the process of identificatio, the adaptatio Latina a lingua Celtica does not require any theological notions, but just a very superficial knowledge of Latin phonology and morphology. Finally, it ought to be noted that almost every Celtic divine name attested in a Latin inscription has actually been adapted to the declension if not necessarily to the phonetics of the Latin language.

4. Explicatio vel translatio Latina and its parallels The purpose of explicatio vel translatio Latina is obviously to provide ‘cover theonyms’ for worshipping epichoric deities under Latin appearances, a phenomenon which is not without parallels in other ancient cultural areas (the umbrella term Decktheonyme I used in De Bernardo Stempel 2007a, 68, matches Decknamen, a word coined by Leo Weisgerber for designating the Latin translation and assonance names that substituted Celtic idionyms in Gaul and the other Celtic-speaking provinces). Even in modern times, the so-called ‘hidden Christians’ in Japan used to modify the images of Holy Mary so that they might resemble statues of Buddha (El Correo, 24. 11. 2019, V 16). Much in the same way, the Latin theonym Caelus is the result of a translation into Latin, albeit from a Greek original: ‘Ce n’est pas un dieu romain, mais la traduction en latin du nom du dieu grec Ouranos [Οὔρανος], qui joue un rôle très important dans la théogonie et la mythologie helléniques’ (Grimal 2005, 74; see also Parker 2017, 179–80 on further deities later qualified as οὐράνιος / οὐράνια). It has even been supposed that Mercurius owes his very Roman name to a Latin rendering of one of Hermēs’ salient qualities, namely his association with merchandise: Mercurius ← merx (CF II/1, 129–40 with references; for a study of Hermēs’ powers and their Greek invocations see Bevilacqua 2009). Analogously, the theonymic string Iuppiter liberator translates into Latin the Greek theonymic string Ζεὺς ἐλευθέριος, while the Greek string Ζεὺς τρόπαιος becomes an Italic Iupiter versor. A Latin translation of the Greek epithet ἀλεξίκακος ‘averter of evil’ is embedded in the theonymic string Hercules defensor, and there is also a Latin invocation Iuppiter depulsor or repulsor that seems either to be a replica of the Greek Ζεὺς τρόπαιος or to

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mirror the aforesaid ἀλεξίκακος (see respectively De Bernardo Stempel 2008b, 67 n. 20, and CF I/1, 292–5). Theonymic translations into Latin are even known from the Middle Ages: in the Indiculus superstitionum et paganiarum, a document of the first period of the Saxons’ Christianisation, only the names of some pagan ceremonies are expressed in the Saxonic dialect, whereas the names of the Germanic deities are rendered by means of what Ramat (1969, 9 n. 2) calls an ‘interpretatio Latina’. The phenomenon of explicatio vel translatio Latina a lingua Celtica was tentatively identified, albeit not named, by Siegfried Gutenbrunner, who in the British votive string deabus Matribus omnium gentium (RIB 1988) recognised the indigenous British MATRES OLLOTOTAE (RIB 574, 1030, 1031, 1032): ‘Ma. omnium gentium ist vielleicht eine Übersetzung von kelt. Deabus Ma. Ollototis, weil beide in Britannien vorkommen’ (Gutenbrunner 1936, 154; in this sense also Schmidt 1987, 147–8). More examples were proposed by Léon Fleuriot (1982, 126 and 1984=1997, 162–3), even if his ‡GUBERNATRICES is a vox nihili (details in De Bernardo Stempel 2014b, 9 n. 10) and the appurtenance epithet TEUTATIS does rather reflect πολιεύς or πολια̂τις, πολιάς, πολιου̂χος than the Latin epithet VICANUS. Clear instances of this phenomenon, systematically discussed for the first time at the 6th international F.E.R.C.AN. Workshop in London in April 2005, are: • • •

•

DEUS FANO,

a Latin rendering for a Celtic sanctuary-god like NEMEDOS and his likes (De Bernardo Stempel 2005, 145; 2008a, 76, and, more extensively, CF II/1, 98–9). The divine name NUTRICES which corresponds to the Celtic ALOVNAE designing the divine mothers in Noricum (see CF I/1, 115–21 and 378–81, together with De Bernardo Stempel 2021, 29–30). ROBUR, a Latin divine name substituting EXPRCENNIOS in Aquitania, a syncopated or faulty variant of Celtic *EXPERCÉNNIOS (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2007b, 61; 2014b, 9, both unknown to Simkin 2017, 227 where Exprcennio in n. 86 is to be deleted). VETERIS pluralised as VETERES, Latin labels used instead of the Celtic theonyms SENA / SENUNA and SENAE in the plural form (discussed at length in De Bernardo Stempel 2008e; see also CF I/1, 428–32 and De Bernardo Stempel 2021, 44 and 81).

In addition, one observes that the Latin divine names FONS and FONTANUS sometimes correspond to the Celtic theonym BELENOS (De Bernardo Stempel 2013b, 78–80; CF I/1, 151–6); that the latter designed a ‘real’ local (spring-)god later identified with Apollo is testified by Herodian (cf. Parker 2017, 54). Further semantic correspondences can be established, in Pannonia, between DEA LUNA and SERANA, which seems to represent a variant of the original SIRONA with vowel assimilation after the archaic stress had been moved to the antepenultima: SÍRONA > *SÍRANA > *SIRÁNA (see CF I/1, 439–40).

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One may also wonder whether the semantic connection between Bona dea and Dexiva as worshipped at Le Castellar in the Narbonensis is more than a simple parallelism. Indeed, the fact that there is just one dedication to Bona dea vs. four to Dex(s)iva points to a further case of explicatio vel translatio Latina (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2014b, 12 with n. 30). Last but not least, Latin Matronae actually ‘translates’ the original Celtic Mát(e)res (De Bernardo Stempel and Hainzmann 2009, 81; 2010, 32), and there are also many Latin (and even Germanic) epithets of the divine mothers reproducing the original Celtic ones (De Bernardo Stempel 2021, 21–31, summarised in ead., forthcoming-a, § 1), while P.-Y. Lambert (2006) recognises in the Dominae the Celtic Comedovae (De Bernardo Stempel 2021, 38 and 61, summarised in ead., forthcoming-a, § 5.1). Meanwhile, the phenomenon studied here is tacitly acknowledged also by Marco Simón (2008, 1022 and 1024–5; 2010, 417 and 421). The only caveat is that in such cases it is difficult to establish the priority of the Celtic theonym with respect to the Latin. Indeed, whenever the Latin names do not involve ad hoc translations, but are already documented in the ancient Classical panthea, one is confronted with one of two possibilities (in this sense already De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 72, where, however, what is said about Saxanos and the actually dehydronymic Acaunos must be deleted as not applicable): α) a pre-existing Italic theonym was reemployed for worshipping a Celtic deity under a Latin name, which seems to be, among others, the case of the pluralised Poetovian Nutrices; β) it was not the Celtic theonym which was being rendered by means of a Latin equivalent, but the old Italic theonym which was being translated into Celtic, so that one would be facing an explicatio vel translatio Celtica instead (more in the following section 5). Regarding the often discussed relationship between Silvanus and its Celtic synonym Callirios ‘The one of the trees’ (CF I/1, 433–7), the dedication deo barbaro Silvano from North Africa (CIL VIII 24519) seems to imply that the Latin theonym was indeed used to designate some indigenous (‘barbarous’) deity of the woods, thus pointing in this particular case to alternative α (further evidence in De Bernardo Stempel and Hainzmann 2021, 88-90). Moreover, one also finds Silvanae used as a Latin equivalent of the Matronae described as vocallineae ‘who live under the trees, that is, in the wood’, later invoked as vacallinehae (De Bernardo Stempel 2005, 144, and, more extensively, 2021, 90–1, 151; CF II/1, 240–3). In this context, I should like to stress that the joint evidence of these two parallel theonymic strings speaks against Delamarre’s (2015 = 2017, 146–7) altogether unconvincing proposal (implicitly followed by Mees 2019, 44 n. 21) to trace back the theonym Callirios to an alleged compound ‘hoof-free’ for a wild horse, in which the Gaulish determinans would be a cognate of the Brittonic word for ‘testicle’ (DLG3 99). Translation processes always involve a high amount of individual creativity, even if not as high as when new labels are freely put together like in the process of explicatio vel translatio Celtica discussed in the following section. Anyhow, for the social agent coining a Latin rendering of a given Celtic divine name, mostly a theonym, it was

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sufficient to have some passive knowledge of a Celtic language in order to understand the divine name in question. He or she also needed to know more Latin as when just adapting to it a Celtic divine name. Unlike in the process of identificatio, in the explicatio vel translatio Latina no theological competence was required, since the various characteristics of the involved Celtic deity had no bearing on their name’s rendering.

5. Explicatio vel translatio Celtica and its parallels While the explicatio vel translatio Latina a lingua Celtica mostly implies, as illustrated in the previous section, the actual translation of a Celtic theonym into Latin as the target language, what I analogously call explicatio vel translatio Celtica does usually not imply a proper translation of the theonym, but mostly just the general rendering of a characteristic quality of the deity involved, its target language being a Celtic dialect, mostly of the Gaulish type. Moreover, even in the cases where the resulting Celtic description matches a well-known epithet of the involved Classical deity, one cannot always be sure that such an epithet has been translated in the narrow sense of the word: long before the adoption of writing, matching epithets would be coined by the worshippers on the basis of what the inhabitants of the Keltiké knew about a Greek or Roman deity and the myths involved. In this direction also points the fact that the first Mediterranean deities incorporated into early Celtic Continental panthea seem to have been treated much like the indigenous ones: on the one hand, they were at times subject to variatio generis et numeri (see in section 6 below); on the other, they could even be worshipped as patron deities of a Gaulish tribe and invoked as TOUTATIS, an epithet akin to the Greek epiklesis πολιάς / πολια̂τις / πολιεύς / πολιου̂χος. To quote just one example, I.O.M. CONSERVATOR TEUTANOS in Pannonia appears to translate Ζεὺς πολιεύς (CF I/1, 331–2). The accuracy of most Celtic theonymic descriptions resulting from this procedure, be they proper translations or just approximative explications, leads us to suppose that the first of them began to appear during the early and intensive contacts of the Celtic speakers in Gaul and Italy with the Greek and Roman world (for the evidence of an early knowledge about Greek cults among the Celtic speakers see in section 7 below). Parallels for the adoption of foreign deities by expressing their attributes in the language of the adopting community can be found both in Antiquity and in modern times. As stressed, among others, by Gschlössl (2006, 11), syncretism is a normal phenomenon when different religions meet and is found both in polytheistic and in monotheistic religious systems: the idea of a ‘pure’, non-contaminated religion that does not absorb foreign elements is a figment of the imagination; on the contrary, all religions can be described as syncretistic, because all societies which are not completely secluded keep absorbing external cultural elements. It is well-known that, while one does simply adapt the Jewish names of Jesus and Mary, their characteristic qualities are usually translated into the other languages. For example, Jesus is described as the Saviour / il Redentore / der Heiland, and Mary as

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the Virgin / la Vergine / die Jungfrau. The same occurs with the attributes of the saints as opposed to their names, as in the case of St Iago, the killer of the infidels, a rendering of Santiago matamoros. Moreover, different qualities of one and the same deity can be thematised from time to time. Accordingly, in the Anglo-Saxon epos Heliand ‘Krist heißt [...] nicht immer etwa der heilige, sondern ein andermal der mächtige, der waltende, der allwaltende, der gütige oder der liebe’ (Genzmer 1966, 8). Analogously, in ancient times the salient quality of Iuppiter pluvius is rendered as ‘the irrigating Jupiter’ in the Oscan dedication written Diúveí regatúreí and pronounced [Dyovei regatorei] (so already Aufrecht 1852, 90; cf. also Untermann 2000, 631): the theonym’s form [Dyovei] (dat. sing.) indicates that the Oscan string is not just a fortuitous coincidence referring to a different, albeit cognate Indo-European weather god, but a true rendering of the Latin one. That one does not deal with inheritance is, moreover, shown unambiguously by the Sabellian votive strings Ioviois puclois and Iovies pucles involving the originally Greek Διόσκουροι as opposed to their entirely different Latin renderings (cf. Poccetti 2015). For the Celtic world, the phenomenon of explicatio Celtica has been en passant assumed although, again, not named by Léon Fleuriot (1982, 123). Also, for this phenomenon as well, his evidence was not the best. Firstly, he spoke of a Celtic adjective *ollodagos allegedly translating Jupiter’s epithet optumus / optimus, although an adjective of this kind is actually only attested in the derivative Ollodagia designating a Roman curia embedded in a dedication from Germania inferior to the Genius curiae Ollodagiae (CF II/1, 101–2). Secondly, Fleuriot (1982, 125) saw in Smerios, Smert(ri)os, Smertullos (together with their compounds and further derivatives) the translation of the Latin epithet domesticus as applied, among others, to Mercurius and to some female deities. Nevertheless, the theonymic strings Mercurius atesmerios / Mercurius adsmerios remind us rather of ῞Ερμης χαριδώτης ‘Hermes, the giver of boons’ (see now CF I/1, 181-182 and 409 with earlier references), while the Latin epithet domesticus is employed with up to five different meanings according to the deity invoked (De Bernardo Stempel and Hainzmann 2021). Much better evidence is, however, available for illustrating the phenomenon of Explicatio vel translatio Celtica. Since the examples are very numerous, unlike for the other phenomena described up to now, I am going to group them according to the deity involved: As to Apollo, all his epithets, Celtic as well as Latin and Greek, have now been systematically studied by De Albentiis Hienz and De Bernardo Stempel (2013). Among the theonymic strings involving this god at least Apollo amarcolitanos, Apollo atepomaros, Apollo demioncos, Apollo mogounos, and Apollo vindonnos or ‘the brilliant Apollo’ besides the more or less synonymous Apollo livicos, are accurate renderings of the numina otherwise known as ‘Απόλλων τηλεσκόπος or ‘Apollo, far-sighted’ and, respectively, ‘Απόλλων βοηδρόμιος or ‘Apollo running to help’, ’Απόλλων σκιαστής or ‘Apollo of the shadows’, Apollo potens, and ’Απόλλων αἰγλάτας / αἰγλήτης / αἰγλήεις / ἀσγελάτας / ἀργεώτας / λαμπετοών as well as Apollo candens / nitens / radian(tissimu)s / argenteus / niveus. In the

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case of the aforementioned epithet AMARCOLITANOS, the original τηλεσκόπος provides an additional reason for not accepting Marco Simón’s (1999, 486) translation ‘with many horses’. Regarding Jupiter, at least the theonymic string I.O.M. ADCÉNEICOS with its variants I.O.M. AGGANÁICOS (De Bernardo Stempel 2013b, 84), I.O.M. UXELLIMOS (CF I/1, 297-300), and I.O.M. TANAROS (De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 79; 2013c, 95) are accurate renderings of Ζεὺς γενέτωρ / γεννήτωρ / γεναρχής / γενηται̂ος and, respectively, Ζεὺς ὕψιστος or ALTISSIMUS and IUPPITER TONITRATOR. The case of the Norican I.O.M. CONSERVATOR ARUBIANOS is only apparently ambiguous, since various factors point to a Celtic rendering of IUPPITER CULMINALIS (see CF I/1, 281–91, and De Bernardo Stempel 2013c, 96–7). Also several of the strings referring to Mars appear to be translating Greek or Latin theonymic strings involving the same deity: MARS BARIOS or ‘the furious Mars’ an original ῎Αρης θου̂ρος (De Bernardo Stempel 2014b, 17); MARS BUDENICOS and MARS COROTIACOS, two synonymous invocations for the ‘Mars of the troops’, an original MARS MILITARIS (De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 79); MARS OLL(O)UDIOS or ‘Mars All-Lord’ an original ῎Αρης ἡγεμόνιος (Hainzmann and De Bernardo Stempel 2007, 141; ead. 2014b, 18); MARS RIGISAMOS or ‘the Kingly Mars’ an original MARS REX (De Bernardo Stempel 1999, 392-3, 429). MARS RUDIANOS and the synonymous string MARS COCIDIOS for ‘the bloody Mars’ correspond to the provincial Latin MARS MULLO (De Bernardo Stempel 2003, 57–8; 2007a, 72; further references in Mathieu 2016, 81 n. 4, while Mees 2019, 44 with n. 21, is for various reasons implausible). Related to Mars and, more specifically, to the MARS CAMPESTER translated into Celtic as MARS MAGIANOS, are the MATRAE (!) MAGIAE, whose theonymic string translates the invocation to the military MATRES/FATAE CAMPESTRES (see now De Bernardo Stempel 2021, 37 and 69, where the opinion expressed in ead. 2008a, 72, has been corrected, and also CF I/1, 205–8). A very clear translatio Celtica involving Hermes aka Mercury lies in the theonymic string ERMES (!) DEVORIS matching MERCURIUS DEORUM REX. Another one is to be found in the bilingual dedication with complex theonymic string DEUS MERCURIUS VICTOR MAGNIACOS VELLAUNOS, a mixed rendering of the Greek string ῞Ερμης ἡγήτωρ, given that it means ‘the god Mercury the winner, the leader of Magniacum’ (cf. Lambert 2008, 133, who points out that this dedication was found at a short distance from the place called Magnieu [Ain]; the Greek model was recognised already in De Bernardo Stempel 2008, 71, but my commentaries in ead. 2008b, 68, and 2014a, 104 with n. 61, need correcting). Further Celto-Latin theonymic strings exactly reproducing Classical invocations to the same god are: MERCURIUS DEUS ANDESCOCIUS or ‘the (down)leading Mercury’ for ῞Ερμης πομπαι̂ος; MERCURIUS GEBRINIOS for both ῞Ερμης κριοφόρος and ῞Ερμης κραναίος, that is, ‘Hermes, the ram-carrier’ and ‘Hermes with a ram’; DEUS MERCURIUS IOVANTUCAROS for ῞Ερμης παιδοκόρης or ‘Hermes cherishing the youths’; AUGUSTUS DEUS MERCURIUS SOLITUMAROS for MERCURIUS LUCRORUM POTENS (see respectively LEIA-S-56–57 s.v. scuch-; CF II/1, 138–40; De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 71 and 79; Lambert 2008, 137–41, who also compares Mercury’s epithets MERCALIS and NUNDINATOR).

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At least one theonymic string was translated into Celtic for the goddess Athena aka Minerva at Bath: ̓Αθήνη ὀφθαλμίτις is rendered by Minerva sulis or ‘Minerva of the Eye’ (see De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 80). It is also probable that two epithets actually referring to Dionysos resurface as translationes Celticae of epithets referring to Faunus: cf. the theonymic strings Faunus blotugos and Faunus narios matching the Greek Διόνυσος ἄνθινος and Διόνυσος βουγενής (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 78–9; Nash Briggs 2017 on Faunus in general). The evidence increases immensely if one takes into account that the phenomenon discussed here only sometimes produces proper translationes Celticae: more often, it just renders with independent, individual wording the essence of the ‘Mediterranean’ deities involved. In such cases the results are not exact replicas of the attested Latin and Greek epicleseis and epithets, but simply describe one among the qualities of the deity worshipped, mostly a Classical one; they can be, therefore, classified as explicationes Celticae. For Apollo we can select, on the one hand, from the huge corpus assembled in De Albentiis Hienz and De Bernardo Stempel 2013 theonymic strings such as Apollo anextlomaros, that is, ‘Apollo great at protection’, rendering both ’Απόλλων προστατέριος and ’Απόλλων προστάτης; Apollo cunomaglos, that is, ‘Apollo, lord of the wolves’, rendering the strings ’Απόλλων λυκη̂ιος / λύκειος / λύκιος beside Apollo lycius ‘Apollo of the wolves’, all with a shorter epithet, as well as ̓Απόλλων λυκοκτόνος ‘Apollo, killer of the wolves’ and ’Απόλλων λυκογένης ‘Apollo, wolf-born’; Apollo dubnocaratiacos, that is, ‘Apollo promoting the world’s peace treatises’, which renders both the Greek string ’Απόλλων κοσμοπλόκος and the Roman Apollo pacifer; Apollo matuicis or matuicios mirroring, if it is an ‘Apollo of good health’, Apollo salutaris and saluber (unless its epithet was rather matuicos, that is, the description of an ‘Apollo fighting for the well-being’, akin in that case to ’Απόλλων παυστήριος νόσου); Apollo toutiorix, that is ‘Apollo, the citizens’ king’, rendering ’Απόλλων λεσχηνόριος as well as ’Απόλλων πρύτανις. Also the epithet embedded in the Bulgarian theonymic string theòs kurmillēnos Apollōn has a quasi-equivalent in the god’s Greek attribute σικερηνός, which vinculates him to an intoxicating drink other than beer (Gaul. curmi). On the other hand, though lacking a match in the Greek or Latin theonymy, even a string like Apollo maponos, aptly describing the god as Zeus’ progeny, namely as ‘Apollo, the godly son’, belongs to this group of free renderings. Furthermore, when Iuppiter optimus maximus conservator is also qualified, in a mixedlanguage string, as et ambisagros, this is very probably a Celtic rendering of some I.O.M. (conservator et) sanctissimus (De Bernardo Stempel 2013b, 84). Also under this more approximative modality of explicatio, most epithets refer to Mars. It was obviously of particular importance to characterise the warrior god by means of the own language in order to prevent him from helping the enemy instead. Although few of his new Celtic epithets find a match in the Classical languages, the following theonymic strings are certainly suitable characterisations of Ares aka Mars: Mars albiorix for ‘Mars, the king of this world’ (De Bernardo Stempel 2005, 142); the

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British MARS BELATUCADROS for ‘Mars, strong at destruction’, and the shorter Gaulish MARS BELADO or ‘Mars, the destruction’s one’ (De Bernardo Stempel 2003, 56; 2007a, 72); MARS CAMULORIX for ‘Mars, Lord of the slaves’, whose epithet was later shortened to CAMULOS (De Bernardo Stempel 2008c, 55–6 with n. 20, and CF II/1, 118–20); MARS CATURIX and MARS VECTIRIX for a ‘Mars, king of the battle’ akin to MARS INVICTUS as also MARS CICOLLOS for an ‘all-muscles Mars’ (De Bernardo Stempel 2005, 139; CF II/1, 121–2); MARS EXOBINNOS for a ‘fearless Mars’ (CF II/1, 126, 96–7; not pertinent are the arguments adduced by Raepsaet-Charlier [2017, 230–1], who proposes for Majerou a gentilice Exsobin(ii) instead of the epithet Exsobin(no)); MARS LATOBIOS for a ‘Mars striking in battle furor’ (CF I/1, 324–44, and in particular 325–6 on the epithet’s etymology); MARS LOUCETIOS, probably a Celtic rendering for MARS VELOX, given that expressing the concept of speed by means of a lexeme indicating brilliance or clarity is quite frequent in the world’s languages; MARS RANDOSATIS for a ‘Mars of the abundance of territories’ (De Bernardo Stempel 2007b, 61); MARS SEGOMU or ‘Mars, the strongest one’, vaguely resembling MARS VICTOR (De Bernardo Stempel 2007a, 72; epigraphic evidence collected by Mathieu [2016], who mistakes the apposition SEGOMU for an original theonym); MARS VICINNOS or ‘the pugnacious Mars’ in the Lugdunensis, a free rendering of MARS PROPUGNATOR or ‘Mars, the frontline fighter’ (De Bernardo Stempel 2014b, 25). In the votive string Marti dinomogetimaro the epithet seems actually to consist of the juxtaposition of two attributes in the dative case, namely DINOMOGETIS and MAROS, for a ‘Mars, mighty at protection and big’ (De Bernardo Stempel 2014b, 24 with n. 71 and 72). As regards Hermes aka Mercurius, very frequent is the theonymic string MERCURIUS CISSONIOS which seems to describe a ‘Mercury of the market(-basket)s’ akin to the ‘Hermes of the marketplace’ invoked as ῞Ερμης ἀγοραι̂ος and ῞Ερμης ἐμπολαι̂ος, unless it refers to the ancient Celtic causeways paved with wickerwork, called ces in Old Irish (CF II/1, 135–7). By contrast, the theonymic string MERCURIUS ESUNERTUS would only belong to this group if his attribute meant ‘with a god’s strength’, but not if it meant ‘with the strength of ESUS’, in which case it would represent a case of identificatio such as those discussed above in section 2 (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2005b, 20; 2010a, 119–23). Once more, just one string involving Athena aka Minerva resurfaced. It is MINERVA BELISAMA or ‘Minerva, the strongest’, an approximative rendering of the MINERVA qualified as VICTRIX as well as CRASSA (De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 68, 2010b, 23, and 2014b, 28). One also finds, again, some theonymic strings involving Faunus, of which FAUNUS AUSECOS unambiguously describes as ‘big-eared’ the wolf-like FAUNUS LUPERCUS or λύκαιος, whereas DEUS FAUNUS MEDUGENOS, ‘the mead-begotten god Faunus’, attributes once more to Faunus a quality belonging to the god Dionysos, this time in his manifestation as Διόνυσος μειλίχιος. In the later variant MEDIGENOS, the composition vowel was partially assimilated to the vowel of the stressed syllable (De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 78–9; on Faunus in Britain see Nash Briggs 2017). Also with regard to Faunus, I should like to stress that a genitival epithet of appurtenance ANDICROSE containing the Gaulish ā-stem substantive crosa is necessary in order to explain

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the final -e in the votive string dei Fau(ni) andicrose ‘of the god Faunus of the deep cavern’ (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2008a, 79, together with the evidence in ThesLGall, 59, LexGaul I, 174, and Grzega 2001, 146–7, all three to be added to Nash Briggs 2017, 88–90). Object of an explicatio Celtica is also Saturn, who is aptly described as deus alos Saturnus, ‘the nourisher god Saturn’ (De Bernardo Stempel 2013b, 84 with ns. 112 and 113). Finally, two theonymic strings of this approximative subtype are documented for the demigod Hercules: firstly, the complex string Hercules andossos ilunnos or ‘Hercules inferus fuscus’, that is, ‘the dark underground Hercules’ in Aquitany, with Celtic renderings of the Greek epithets χθόνιος and, respectively, νύχιος for a ʽΗρακλέης ψυχοπόμπος. This analysis rests, on the one hand, on variants such as Andotius / Andostus in the (theophoric) personal onomastics; on the other, on the Indo-European base īlu- ‘dark’ (listed in IEW 499 and contained in the votive string Ilugno ‘to the darkness born’ on the magic Grafenstein brick *L-95 in RIG II/2) from which *īluno- was derived by adding the Celtic theonymic suffix *-no-. Due to the phonetic lengthening of the open syllable under the stress, the epithet indicating ‘the godly dark’ became in Gaulish ilúnno-, whereas the traditional attempt at a Basque-Aquitanian etymology poses phonological as well as morphological and semantic problems (see already De Bernardo Stempel 2007a, 70; 2008d, 147 [with references] ‒ neither taken into account by Gorrochategui 2011, 85 with n. 57; De Bernardo Stempel 2014b, 28; 2010c, 71–5). The second votive string involving the demigod is Hercules magusenos, originally probably an invocation *Hercules mogisenos for ‘Hercules, the mighty old’, whose epithet shows progressive Germanicisation in magusanos and macusanos (see De Bernardo Stempel 2010b, 23, 2006, 35, and CF II/1, 106–11, all in the wake of Toorians 2003). Furthermore, one has to bear in mind that the explicationes vel translationes Celticae may not/no longer appear as qualifying epithets of a Classical theonym, being also/ rather used alone, that is, sine dei nomine as full, albeit secondary, theonyms. This is a usage very well known in the Greek world, ‘que ce soit dans l’usage poétique ou cultuel’ (Zografou 2005, 536), given that there is a ‘permanent tendency of the epithet to achieve at least quasi autonomy’ (Parker 2017, 19–20, who lists on p. 29 ‘various ways in which a theonym can be replaced by an epithet’; cf. also p. 2 n. 5). Van Andringa (2002, 152) illustrates how even Roman citizens could dedicate to the same deity at the same sacred place, and roughly at the same time, by using different theonymic strings: in the case of Saint-Plancard to Mars sutugios ‘Mars of fertility’ as well as, sine dei nomine, to Sutugios deus and simply to Sutugios. Fauduet (2007, 184) raises the question: ‘Est-ce par manque de place ou tout simplement parce que l’appellation indigène était suffisante pour le dédicant?’ Surely, financial reasons together with the wish to express a particular nearness to the deity also played a very important rôle. It goes without saying that the detection of this subgroup is made much more difficult by the ellipsis or suppression of the Classical theonym involved.

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Nevertheless, a remarkably clear case of this kind can be seen in the Gaulish votive string iorcae gnato Hiduae on a vase dedicated ‘to the son of the Mount Ida goat’ (L-80 in RIG II/2): the resulting theonymic string IORCAE HIDUAE GNATOS was indeed recognised by Lambert (2002, 212, commented in De Bernardo Stempel 2007b, 59) to be a Gaulish description of ZEUS, an explicatio Celtica according to the terminology used here. Evident instances of this kind are also: • • • •

•

BELATUCADROS, a shortened theonymic string for the MARS BELATUCADROS discussed above (according to Parker 2017, 45, in Britain short strings prevail over the Romano-Celtic). BUDENOS, a variant of the theonymic string MARS BUDENICOS discussed in the first part of this section (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2006, 39). CAMULICCOS, a shortened Aquitanian theonymic string (Delamarre 2007, 55) whose hypochoristic deminutive represents, as a secondary theonym, the MARS CAMULOS discussed at the beginning of this section. SULIS, a shortened theonymic string for the MINERVA SULIS discussed above, beside which also the variant SOLIMARA is attested. The latter divine name continues the older compound *Suli-mára ‘Big-eyed’ and corresponds to Athena’s/Minerva’s Greek epithet ὀξυδέρκης (De Bernardo Stempel 2007b, 62; ead. 2014b, 29). VISUCIOS besides MERCURIUS VISUCIOS for a Mercury expert in magical plants and juices (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2007b, 63; 2010b, 20–1. On the mythological character Gwion, whose name continues a proparoxitone *wīsu-no-s, see Meid and Anreiter 2005, 9–13).

A few other instances are less evident, but still quite probable: • • • •

The divine name ADACRIOS, which may go back to an epithet of IUPPITER like CULMINALIS (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2013c, 97 with n. 33). The divine name ALAUNIOS, that is, the Celtic equivalent of Lat. viator substituting the theonymic string MERCURIUS VIATOR (ead. 2007a, 72). The divine name DUROTINCIOS, ‘The gate-protector’, which seems to be a rendering of ῞Ερμης πυληδόκος (cf. De Bernardo Stempel 2007b, 59, together with 2010b, 23–4). Even the Cantabrian votive string DEUS ERUDINOS which has received a very imaginative ad hoc explanation as ‘Last year’s god’ by Ramírez Sádaba (2016, 176–7) and Prósper (2017, 208–11, where De Bernardo Stempel 2007a, 72, is also ignored) seems more likely to represent an alternative label for the aforementioned ‘bloody’ MARS RUDIANOS which came to be adapted to some adstrate language that did not tolerate the phoneme r- in word-initial position: indeed, were it not an indigenous Hispanic, but an imported invocation, it would resemble ERRIAPPE, a morphophonetically Aquitanised variant of the Roman theonym PRIAPUS.

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The Norican divine name Nemnicos which, on account of its semantics, may represent the god Caelus if not the former Οὐ̂ρανος mentioned above in section 4 (CF I/1, 353–6). The Aquitanian divine name Ibosos which, if from an original *(P)iboty-o-s ‘The drinker’, may be a Celtic description of Βάκχος (De Bernardo Stempel 2007b, 59). The invocation Vibes for ‘The weaving ones’, which may have been just a Celtic description of the Greek Μοι̂ραι instead of the name or epithet of a group of divine mothers (see CF I/1, 466–70); Last but not least, the Norican divine name Vocretanos, probably an invocation to a stormy Ζεὺς μαιμάκτης (CF I/1, 477–80).

By contrast, on account of the Germanicised divine name Alateivia with mutatio generis in Germania inferior, it is at least improbable for the Norican label Ollodevos to have been coined simply as a replica of Pantheus (see now CF I/1, 393–6, and De Bernardo Stempel 2005a, 145, as well as more extensively CF II/1, 75–6). It should be noted that, if the equivalences illustrated in this section had been the result of Indo-European heritage and not the product of cultural and language contact between the Greeks and Romans and the Celtic speakers, one would expect, firstly, to see an etymological coincidence between both the signifiés and the signifiants of the divine names and not, as it is, to find a mere semantic equivalence between them. A coincidence as, for example, in the case of Lithuanian Perkúnas and Celt. Hercura which continue, together with the Narbonensic Nymphae Percernae, the Indo-European theonym *Perkwunos and its feminine form *Perkwunā, later assimilated to *(P)erkura (see CF I/1, 196–8). Secondly, one would expect to see a coincidence between the very theonyms and not just between their attributes. An etymological coincidence as, for example, in the case of aisos, which, documented in Celtic as Aesos, Esos and Esus, also exists in Italic albeit with the general meaning ‘god’ (see CF I/1, 109–13). It is possible that there are more, still unidentified examples of the phenomenon of explicatio vel translatio Celtica. However, we must not forget that it consisted in the assimilation of some, but not of all Classical deities into the Celtic panthea. The examples adduced here are, in any case, sufficient for proving that the phenomenon of rendering the qualities inherent to a Classical deity by means of a Celtic dialect existed as such. They are also too numerous and often too precise to be dismissed as the product of mere coincidence. On the whole, ‘The cultic double name is an attempt [...] to stop the god slipping away like water through the hands’, whereby ‘The epithet related to a particular need of the worshipper [...], a particular attitude the worshipper wished the god to adopt [...] or not to adopt [...], or a particular occasion on which the god was addressed’ (Parker 2017, 14 and 30). Indeed, when choosing a functional epithet, ‘there was scope for creativity and individual choice’, given that ‘fixed and regulated forms of address evidently did not exist, and it looks as if worshippers sometimes improvised and innovated’ (Parker 2017, 27, 30–1).

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In particular, individual creativity was at its highest whenever new Celtic labels for Classical deities were coined by means of explanations, that is when the new epithets did not exactly match pre-existing Greek or Latin epithets. The only prerequisites for this procedure were the active knowledge of a Celtic dialect, mostly of the Gaulish variety, together with some notions of the Greek and Roman religions and myths. On how this was possible in the Keltiké already at an early time see below in section 7.

6. Celtic and Roman religion and an updated view of interpretatio in the West The most striking aspect of such an updated view of western interpretatio is the fact that many of the worshipped deities, though being described by means of an old Celtic dialect, are actually of Classical origin. As a consequence one should, on the one hand, include into the distribution maps of Roman cults such as those of MARS, MERCURIUS, and MINERVA also the sites where explicationes vel translationes Celticae of them, such as BUDENOS and, respectively, VISUCIOS, SULIS or the likes came to light (see above, section 5). On the other hand, when studying the distribution of the cult of BELENOS one ought to take into account also the evidence for his Latin renderings FONS and FONTANUS, as well as that for VETERIS and VETERAE when studying the distribution of SENA / SENUNA and SENAE, and so on (see above, section 4). Analogously, the distribution of the cult of HERCULES has to be studied together with that of SAXANUS, whose name results from a shortening of HERCULES’ Latin epithet SAXETANUS ‘belonging to a saxetum’ (see CF I/1, 235–42 and 416–23 with map 22-[2] on p. 241). It becomes apparent, once more, that the multitude of Celtic divine names otherwise unparalleled in other panthea of the Indo-European world actually represents a much smaller number of deities. The more so, if one also takes into account what may be called name-splitting by synonyms, that is, the usage of different Celtic labels for the same deity: the identity being very probable, among others, in the case of the dialectal Celtic divine name CLUTOIDA and the Germanicised divine name HLUθENA or of the theonymic strings NYMPHAE PERCERNAE and MATRES DERVONNAE, with a Proto-Celtic and, respectively, a Gaulish epitheton; it is also possible that, for example, DUITERA and *DUBRICOS, actually spelt TUBRICOS, may be just alternative invocations for ATAECINA and GOBANOS if not for VULCANUS (on these two newly discovered divine names see Alfayé et al. 2017 and, respectively, De Bernardo Stempel and Hainzmann 2018 with the addendum of 2019; for the rest cf. De Bernardo Stempel, 69, and CF II/1, 112–3). The phenomenon of polynomy, in which a deity is usually ‘many-epitheted’ (Parker 2017, 2), is hinted at in the Roman inscription CIL XI 1823 from Arezzo in Italy with the Latin formula sive quo alio nomine voltis appellari, that is, ‘or by which other name you wish to be addressed’ (for a study of the usage of Latin sive in naming formulae and theonymic strings see De Bernardo Stempel and Hainzmann 2009 and 2010; cf. also the references in De Bernardo Stempel 2008b, 70 n. 46).

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In particular, the alternative theonymic string Dea domina Turibrigensis for the aforesaid Celtic night-goddess more often called Ataecina shows that even a geographical invocation such as Deus Alisanus might actually represent a god usually invoked by means of another, semantically more transparent label, which in the present case could perhaps be that of the smith-god known as Goban(n)os (De Bernardo Stempel 2010b, 115–9). According to Parker (2017, 2 and 9): ‘Periphrastic avoidance of the actual god’s name’, a phenomenon that ‘occurred in all contexts’, is due to ‘euphemism; replacement of the theonym by an honorific accompaniment that has become fixed; emphasis on divine attributes particularly desirable in a particular case [...]; uncertainty about the entity of the power addressed; [...] habitual usage’.

A further multiplicating effect on the Celtic invocations had both gender-splitting or variatio generis and number-splitting or variatio numeri: that is, the creation of both a masculine and a feminine name-form for the same divine principle on the one hand, and the creation of both a singular and a plural name-form for the same divine principle on the other (many examples for these phenomena can be found in De Bernardo Stempel 2006; cf. also ead. 2010d and 2013b, 86–7). Even if several scholars keep taking western divine names at face value (among many others Marco Simón 2010; Hutton 2011, 66; Brunaux 2016; Mathieu 2016; Ramírez Sádaba 2016, § 1.4; Schipp 2016; Rémy 2017; Koch 2019, and even Parker 2017, 66, as opposed to CF I/1, 73–84), that is, so as if each name represented an originally different, separate divine entity, an acknowledgement of the phenomenon of explicatio vel translatio Celtica accounts in particular for: 1. the great number of Celtic divine names, which is unparalleled in the older Indo-European panthea: it becomes now evident that only few of them are really Celtic theonyms, whereas their majority simply paraphrase, be it by means of explications or else of translations, Classical theonyms and epithets or describe Classical deities; 2. the numeric gap between the scanty Celtic theonyms invoked in the not yet Romanised, old Celtic inscriptions and/or contained in ancient literary and medieval Celtic mythological texts on the one side, and the countless Celtic divine names mentioned in Roman sources (for this evidence see Hofeneder 2013 and De Bernardo Stempel forthcoming-b): it becomes now evident that most of the latter just introduce some ‘Mediterranean’ deities in provinces partly inhabited by Celtic speakers; 3. the asymmetry between theonymic strings in which one and the same Celtic epithet accompanies the name of an each time different Classical deity: it becomes now evident that the theonyms involved are mostly sharing the same epithet or epiclesis also in Greek and/or Latin sources (in this sense already De Bernardo Stempel 2007a, 69; examples of rather general epithets that came to be shared by many of the greater Classical gods are offered by Parker 2017, 15).

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4. the inconsistency, noticed by Olivares Pedreño (2008) and Marco Simón (2010; 2012; 2013), between the many strings from Gaul and Central Europe where a Mediterranean theonym is accompanied by a Celtic, mostly Gaulish epithet, and the extremely few of this type found in the Iberian Peninsula: the reason appears now to be that, unlike in the Gauls and Central Europe, Gaulish was only rarely spoken in the Iberian Peninsula, and even less at the time when the Roman votive inscriptions were written (more details in De Bernardo Stempel 2017, 190-1). 5. the inconsistency, noticed by Parker (2017, 66), between the ‘many nonRoman god’s names [recte: divine names] found in Latin inscriptions of the West’ and ‘the Greek inscriptions of Anatolia’, where ‘non-Greek names are a rarity’: the reason appears now to be that western worshippers often felt the need to describe foreign deities by means of epithets using a Celtic dialect, one of the languages Westerners were used to express themselves in. In one respect, however, one can apply to the western territories C. Bonnet’s view of eastern interpretatio: ‘To speak of interpretatio as if it was a question of a single and easily defined process [...] is certainly a delusion’ (2012, 512–3 as quoted by Parker 2017, 75).

7. Relative chronology, aim and milieu of the various types of interpretatio Even if there are no clues as to when each one of the single descriptions or equivalences documented in our corpora and ‘bridging’ the Celtic and the Classical cultual milieus was first established, it is possible to deduce their general relative chronology from the kind of knowledge required from the worshipper or worshippers who first devised one or the other kind of interpretatio and also from their respective aims. The oldest procedure (i.) seems to be represented by what I call explicationes and translationes Celticae, given that one of their prerequisites was for the worshipper or worshippers to still have active competence of the Celtic language. As to their other requirement, namely some knowledge of the Greek and Roman religions and myths, the following evidence shows not only that such knowledge was available in the Keltiké, but also that it was available at a quite early time: •

•

Non-Greek offerings in Greek sanctuaries are archaeologically known from the eighth century BC (Parker 2017, 37). In particular, several Celtic votive offerings of the Hallstatt type, dated from the eighth to the sixth century BCE were found in sanctuaries on the coast near Rome, in Sicily, and on the southeastern coast of the Greek mainland (listed by Verger 2000 and 2003). The Phocean colony of Mασσαλία, today Marseille, founded c. 600 BCE, exerted a noticeable influence on all Gaulish territories (for the Cisalpina cf. Haeussler 2017b, 741).

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•

• •

•

•

•

• •

Imported goods show that regular exchanges with the Mediterranean territories took place from the Hallstatt period on (LKA I, 727; cf. also Haeussler 2017b, 720, on imports into Cisalpine Gaul). Even apart from the Boian citizen calling himself Βοιος at Gerona in the sixth century BCE (De Bernardo Stempel 2015, 93 with n. 84 and further bibliography), it is well-known that the Celts adopted quite early the Greek alphabet. ‘Galli are attested throughout Magna Graecia and Sicily in the fourth and third centuries, taking part in most conflicts between Rome, Syracuse and Carthage’, as stated by Haeussler (2017b, 727). On Celtic mercenaries see now extensively Baray (2017a; 2017b). Ephoros of Cyme described in his ἱστορίαι the Celtic speakers of the fourth century BCE as φιλήλληνας, that is, as ‘fond of the Greek culture’ (Hofeneder I, 4 T 1, 30–3), a testimony also mentioned by Haeussler (2017b, 727). Beginning with the fourth century BCE, Celtic coinage was strongly influenced by the Greek system (cf., inter alia, Arslan and Morandini 2008; CC II, 461–3; De Bernardo Stempel 2014c, 186–7 and 194–5. Further references in Haeussler 2017b, 720 and 739–41), where some deities were represented. In particular, a likeness of Apollon/Apollo with his lyra, Alcestis and the three Moirai was engraved on a big seventh-century BCE black ceramic vase of Hallstattic type from Sopron-Várishegy in Hungary (Naturhistorisches Museum Wien, Inv.-Nr. 35424, cf. Eibner 1986, 39, 48, and 307 with table 1; 2000–2001, 109–11; C. Eibner 2012, 196–7). A likeness of Dionysos banqueting in a vineyard is depicted on a black-figured Attic oinochoe, ‘enhanced’ by local goldsmiths with plated Celtic-style decor and basis and rim covered in gold, which was discovered at Lavau near Troyes in a fifth-century BCE ‘princely tomb’ (see Dubuis et al. 2021). We also need to take into account that knowledge of the Hercules myth probably was acquired long before the Roman conquest as we already find bronze statuettes of Hercules that date between the mid-fourth and third centuries BCE at Borgosesia (Turin) [...]’ (Haeussler 2013, 274-5, here 274). Finally, ‘By the third century BCE, gods bearing Greek names were worshipped from Spain to Afghanistan’ (Parker 2017, 1). Linguistically Greek theonyms and epithets are found beside Celtic and Roman divine names, at times even in one and the same votive string: e.g. in the dative Ermaei devori near Chaves in Portugal, where Ermes devoris stands for Hermēs devorix, that is, ‘Hermes, the gods’ king’; in the Norican defixio where the Greek Plutōn is invoked together with the Celtic Eracura; or the in the dative string Soli aniceto from Britain, a dedication to the ‘invincible’ Sol ἀνίκητος (see respectively De Bernardo Stempel 2016, 208-9; CF I/1, 397–401, 195–200 together with CF I/2, 560, on CF-Nor 002; De Albentiis Hienz and De Bernardo Stempel 2013, 99 with ns. 122 and 100 on RIB 1397).

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Given that ‘Le panthéon gaulois qui s’était enrichi de divinités indigènes qu’il avait trouvées sur place, avait les mêmes facilités pour adopter les dieux des étrangers’ (Brunaux 2000, 76, in the wake of Vendryes), one may even wonder whether the architectural change detected in Gaulish sacred buildings around the third century BCE (see references in De Bernardo Stempel 2007a, 69 n. 27) was by any chance induced by the enlargement of that pantheon.

As to the further question, why later on, during the Roman Empire a person who was dedicating something to a Graeco-Roman deity in perfect Latin should feel the need to add a Celtic epitheton, one can think of at least three coexisting reasons: 1. because it was how, in his/her family that deity had been understood and worshipped for several generations; 2. because he/she wanted to make the actual dedication better accepted to his/her surroundings; 3. because he/she wished to redefine his/her own personal identity in a meanwhile insufferably levelled, Romanised context, in an act of ‘resistance’ to the impending anonymity. The second oldest procedure (ii.) seems to resurface in the adaptationes Latinae a lingua Celtica, given that, on the one hand, they did no longer require from the worshipper or worshippers any notion of the Celtic language and, on the other, they did not yet require an active knowledge of Latin, but just very superficial notions about its phonology and/or morphology. The old Celtic theonyms which got adapted to Latin morphophonetics may, in fact, have been just traditional labels for the worshippers involved, that is, devoid of any semantic transparency. Slightly younger (iii.) seem to have been the first explicationes vel translationes Latinae, since they required a proper, active competence of the Latin language beside some passive knowledge of a Celtic dialect in order to understand the meaning of the indigenous theonyms to be rendered into Latin. To the youngest procedure (iv.) belong, finally, the first identificationes Romanae vel indigenae, which did not require any linguistic competence, but just theological notions about the Greek, Roman and Celtic religions. Such a relative chronology is corroborated by the aims of the four procedures. In fact, the explicatio vel translatio Celtica aimed at integrating foreign prestigious deities into the early Celtic panthea already at a time when the Celtic world was still independent; the adaptatio Latina a lingua Celtica made indigenous Celtic divine names acceptable to Roman ears, while the explicatio vel translatio Latina a lingua Celtica aimed not only at making the indigenous Celtic deities acceptable to the ‘elegant’ Roman society, at a time when it was the dominant one, but also at venerating them in a more private way. The identificatio Romana vel indigena, finally, strived to unifiy the different panthea of a globalised empire, at a time when the various constituents of the Romano-Celtic world had already attained some equilibrium. It ought to be noted that neither procedure (ii.) nor (iii.) aimed at amplifying the original Celtic panthea. If we now attempt to ascertain the proportion of individuality involved in the four modalities recognised up to now, one would obtain a decreasing scale from the

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phenomenon of explicatio vel translatio Celtica to that of explicatio vel translatio Latina a lingua Celtica and then from the phenomenon of identificatio Romana vel indigena with its syncretistic equivalences down to the rather linguistic phenomenon of adaptatio Latina a lingua Celtica: the reasons have been outlined in the sections 2-5 above. Nevertheless, the actual individual contribution was in each case quite high given that, as stressed by Parker (2017, 59), even when the gods are the same, ‘apprehensions of them differ: some gods have not yet been discovered by some peoples; every people’s understanding of them is different and, very probably, in some measure imperfect.’

Acknowledgements I should like to express my warmest thanks to the organisers and editors for their interest in the subject and I am particularly indebted to Ralph Haeussler and Manfred Hainzmann for some comments on previous drafts of this paper. For a longer and more detailed version of this topic, see also De Bernardo Stempel (2014b). Notes

1 Please, note that ‘Celticarum’ is here only used in a linguistic sense and that the plural hints at the various aspects of the religious system acquired across space and time; in short F.E.R.C.AN., cf. De Bernardo Stempel and Spickermann 2017. 2 As usual in the context of F.E.R.C.AN., restituted forms of divine names, that is, of both epithets / epicleseis and theonyms, are printed in italicised small capitals, whereas simple italics are reserved for the actually attested forms. 3 Restituted forms of the nominative singular shall distinguish between the original Celtic endings -os and -us for the o- as opposed to the u-stems, while the nominative singular of nasal stems shall be restituted with the etymological Celtic ending -u.

References

Abbreviations

CC = Koch, J. T. (ed.) (2006) Celtic Culture: A Historical Encyclopedia, 5 vols. Santa Barbara, CA, ABC-CLIO. CF I = De Bernardo Stempel, P. and Hainzmann, M. (2020) Fontes epigraphici religionum Celticarum antiquarum I: Provincia Noricum. Fasc. 1: Die Gottheiten in ihren sprachlichen und kultischen Erscheinungsformen (with a chapter by G. Bauchhenß); fasc. 2: Die epigraphischen Testimonien. Vienna, Austrian Academy of Sciences (Mitteilungen der Prähistorischen Kommission 89). CF II/1 = De Bernardo Stempel, P. (2022) Die sprachliche Analyse der niedergermanischen Votivformulare und Dedikantennamen = Vol. 1 of W. Spickermann (ed.) Fontes epigraphici religionum Celticarum antiquarum, II: Provincia Germania inferior. Vienna, Austrian Academy of Sciences (Forschungen zur antiken Religion 1). DÉLL = Ernout, A. and Meillet, A. (1959) Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue latine: Histoire des mots. 4th edition. Paris, Klincksieck. DKP = Ziegler, K. and Sontheimer, W. (ed.) (1979) Der Kleine Pauly: Lexikon der Antike in fünf Bänden, 2nd edition. Munich, DTV.

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DLG3 = Delamarre, X. (2018) Dictionnaire de la Langue gauloise. Une approche linguistique du vieux celtique continental. 3rd edition. Paris, Errance. IEW = Pokorny, J. (1959–1969) Indogermanisches etymologisches Wörterbuch. Bern and Munich, Francke. LEIA = Vendryes, J., Bachellery, É. and Lambert, P.-Y. (1959–) Lexique étymologique de l’irlandais ancien. Dublin and Paris, DIAS and CNRS. LexGaul = Degavre, J. (1998–2004) Lexique gaulois: recueil de mots attestés, transmis ou restitués et de leurs interprétations, 3 vols. Bruxelles and Libramont, Société Belge d’Études Celtiques, Mémoires 9, 10, and 20. LKA = Sievers, S., Urban, O. and Ramsl, P. C. (2012) Lexikon zur keltischen Archäologie, 2 vols. Vienna, Austrian Academy of Sciences (Mitteilungen der Prähistorischen Kommission 73). RIB = Collingwood, R. G., Wright, R. P., Frere, S. S., Tomlin, R. S. O., Hassall, M. W. C. and Roxan, M. (eds) The Roman Inscriptions of Britain, 3 vols. Oxford, Oxford University Press; Stroud, Alan Sutton; Oxford, Oxbow Books. RIG II.2 = Lambert, P.-Y. (2002) Recueil des Inscriptions gauloises, vol. II.2: Textes gallo-latins sur instrumentum. Paris, CNRS, Gallia supplément 45. ThesLGall = Billy, P.-H. (1993) Thesaurus Linguae Gallicae. Hildesheim, Zürich, and New York, OlmsWeidmann, Alpha–Omega A144.

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Chapter 15 Religious individualisation in an entangled world: how to pick and mix favourite deities in the Roman Keltiké Ralph Haeussler

Introduction: Iron Age and Roman evidence In many Roman provinces, we find a wealth of evidence that seem to indicate an unprecedented diversity of religious activities in urban, suburban, rural and natural locations. This is particularly striking in many regions of the ‘Keltiké’ (i.e. regions characterised by predominantly ‘Celtic-speaking’ populations – with regard to onomastics, toponyms, theonyms and epithets – and/or a pre-Roman La Tène material culture). This phenomenon gives the impression of an exponential increase of religious activities when compared to pre-Roman times. Among the innumerable altars, dedications, figurines and sculptures, of varying size and quality, depending among others on the individual’s social and financial status, we find many names and representations of gods that seem to bear scarcely any relation to pre-Roman ‘Celtic’ or Graeco-Roman/Mediterranean antecedents, and instead reflect new creative forms, sometimes absolutely unique (see Haeussler 2012 for ‘iconographic interpretatio’; Webster 2001 for ‘creolisation’; Haeussler and Webster 2020 for ‘creolage’ in a global world). The cult places likewise come in a wide range of forms and dimensions: some comprise monumental stone constructions while others have no recognisable monumental structure, at times merely consisting of a cult pit, structured deposition, a simple altar or a sacred tree or pond, not to mention increasing religious activities being identified in domestic contexts. Though difficult to quantify, it seems that ritual activities in the Roman period have left so many more physical remains in the archaeological record that allow to identify a large diversity of cult practices, divine entities and religious architecture. We just have to imagine the myriad of diverse activities, experiences, emotions and mind-sets of the devotees – whatever their sex, age, social or legal status – who actively and passively participated at the many religious centres in the western provinces,

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be it at more contained sanctuaries, such as the Martberg, Châteauneuf or Hayling Island, or at much more complex sites, like Thun-Allmendingen with at least seven temples on 6000 m2 (Martin-Kilcher and Schatzmann 2009), Viuz-Faverges with at least a dozen shrines and temples and a single-naved building within a temenos/nemeton of the same size (Piccamiglio and Segard 2005), the Altbachtal with some 70 temples on 5 ha (Scheid 1995), or the hexagonal sanctuary-town of Gisacum (Vieil-Évreux) covering 60 hectares. We should of course avoid any argument e silentio: the relative rarity of religious finds in the Iron Age does not mean that certain activities did not exist, merely that they did not leave any traces for us to discover easily. A considerable amount of our evidence from these provinces north of the Alps is different from what we find in Rome and Italy, such as the widely attested square temple design with ambulatory (Umgangstempel, fanum – see Fauduet 2010), the iconography, the theonymic repertoire and strings, or the structured depositions in pits and ditches, to name but a few. But more importantly many of our finds are also profoundly dissimilar from what we find in the late Iron Age, despite some cases of continued frequentation of cult places and the persistence of certain cult practices, notably regarding the selection of sacrificial animals (King 2005; Méniel 2012 states that ‘la romanisation est parfaitement insensible’ when it comes to animal bone deposition and selection of anatomic parts). At the risk of oversimplification, it seems that collective cult places and collective votive depositions dominated in pre-Roman times while individual acts are more difficult to identify; regarding the latter, certain acts may rather qualify as magic, like an urn with the remains of a grass snake – with its head and tail cut off – buried in a house in the ‘oppidum’ of Nages, probably as apotropaic magic (CAG 30/3, pp. 499–500). Towards the end of the Iron Age – though often in a nominally Roman period – individual votive offerings became more frequent, such as coins as ex-votos and some inscribed dedications, though the latter can repeatedly be interpreted as principally collective acts, like the first-century BCE bilingual Latin-Gaulish dedication of a campus (‘grove, sanctuary, nemeton’?) to deis et hominibus by the ‘silver master’ (argantocomatercus) from Vercelli in Cisalpine Gaul; as in this case, the explicit naming of theonyms is also uncommon in inscriptions prior to first century BCE (detailed discussion of the Vercelli stela in Haeussler 2013, 118–22 with further literature). Collective religion Overall, collective religious activities seem to dominate in late pre-Roman Iron Age Europe from Cisalpine Gaul to Britain. The architecture, too, provides the scene for collective gatherings: for instance, there are single- and multi-vallum rectangular ceremonial enclosures whose systems of ditches, embankments and palisades created a well-defined sacred space, access to which was limited to one entrance (not unlike many Graeco-Roman sanctuaries, like the Apollo sanctuary in Pompeii). We can find these enclosures across Europe north of the Alps, for example at Thetford (Fisons Way) where one can see the enormous investment of resources during a short period of time

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before the site’s abandonment around 60 CE (see Gregory 1991); similar rectangular enclosures can be found in many parts of Europe, as in Fellbach-Schmiden where wooden ‘cult images’ of the late La Tène period were discovered in a (ritual?) shaft (overview by Wieland 1995 who overall argues that we need to go beyond a purely ‘cultic’ function of the ‘Viereckschanzen’). Some Iron Age rectangular enclosures yield monumental buildings that could be classed as a ‘temple’, as in the case of Hayling Island (King and Soffe 2013); this site also typifies the comparatively incremental development of cult practices over a period of roughly 500 years, from the Iron Age to the late Roman period: the persistence of the layout and cult practices goes hand in hand with a certain lack of innovation in this case, such as the lack of epigraphic ex-votos so common at other sites. Other Iron Age sites clearly demonstrate another important collective activity: feasting. This is particularly well studied in the case of the ceremonial enclosure at Corent (Puy-de-Dôme) in the territory of the Averni. Butchering and banqueting seem to have been activities that occupied virtually the entire space inside the enclosure, thus putting more emphasis on the control and redistribution of resources and revealing the extent to which the socio-political sphere was closely intertwined with the religious one (Poux 2002; see Meniel 2012 for animal sacrifice in sanctuaries in Gaul; King 2005 for those in Britain). This can also be seen when we look at the importance of ancestor cults and conspicuous burials, such as those associated with Iron Age ramparts (Arcelin and Brunaux 2003; Haeussler 2010). The collective nature of many Iron Age ritual depositions may also provide an insight into their function: the well-being of the entire community and the protection against calamities. There is also evidence for collective religious activities taking place inside preRoman central places. There are some purpose-built ‘temples’ – using this term in the widest possible sense – inside the Iron Age proto-urban towns in the south of Gaul, though, if we exclude Glanum, largely limited to rectangular elongated portico-like structures that were often inserted in a densely occupied and planned settlement, such as at Entremont (overview in Arcelin et al. 1992); their precise role remains uncertain, but we can once again recognise a close connection between their religious and their socio-political functions, with the sculptural finds possibly insinuating a form of ancestor cult or hero worship (see Haeussler 2010 for further examples and bibliography). There is also increasing evidence of a type of both rectangular and circular ‘temples’ inside some of the late Iron Age oppida, for example at Manching (Sievers 2003). Only few sites yield a series of (presumed) ‘shrines’ or ‘temples’. The most fascinating but – at the same time – also the most perplexing example comes from the Iron Age village of Acy-Romance (Ardennes) where, in the second and first centuries BCE, a series of large square timber structures was constructed which are also associated with isolated human burials (Méniel 2016). Votive offerings at natural sites, like springs, groves or caves, exist, but the religious nature of a votive offering is more apparent when we deal with large collective dedications, such as in the case of the Llyn Cerrig Bach hoard with 150 artefacts being cast in a lake in Anglesey

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during the late Iron Age (Fox 1946), though we must be careful not overinterpret the evidence or generalise regarding the alleged worship of natural sites. On the whole, it appears that a community’s collective resources in the Iron Age were above all invested in activities that do not relate to ‘religion’ but to more practical aspects, like the construction of impressive fortifications, which also constitute an undeniable representative and monumental aspect for many ‘oppida’ (‘town’, ‘hillfort’, central place – see Haffner 2001; Fichtl 2005), even at smaller hilltop sites, such as Pen-y-Bannau (Pontrhydfendigaid) which has an imposing monumental multivallate entrance, still visible today from far away (Driver 2016). Though monumentalising or embellishing cult places seem to have been less important for many late Iron Age communities, the evidence suggests that certain elite groups consciously employed religious activities to express their exclusive authority to communicate with the divine world, to assert and legitimise their own social status and probably to create a sense of cohesion and identity among tribes and communities. Votive offerings, such as large hoards of metal objects and weapons (Brunaux 2000) and the scale of animal sacrifices and collective feasting (Poux 2003; Méniel 2006), mirror the huge scale of people and resources involved and thus the collective nature of the majority of these late Iron Age cults. Indeed, for the most part, the visible evidence for Iron Age cults appears rather like a prime example for the kind of ‘polis religion’ that we usually attribute to Classical Greece: we seem to be dealing with cults that were closely intertwined with the well-being, identity and social cohesion of the local population, organised and financed by the local ‘gentry’, perhaps even dominated by a specific priestly caste who took over the communication with the gods on behalf of the community – a role that Caesar attributed to the druids, at least in the case of Gaul (BG 6.14, 16) if we wish to believe Caesar’s account (see Haeussler 2014a for a textual critique). This situation distinctly contrasts with the multitude of cults and cult places that we can identify in the Keltiké in Roman times. Even though cult activities are much more visible in the Principate, we have to bear in mind that our archaeological and epigraphic sources still only provide a minuscule glimpse in the overall cult activities and people’s religious understanding. So much more must have been happening than what can be identified archaeologically – we may just allude to dances, prayers, processions, purifications, recitations, etc. that rarely leave any physical remains for us to discover. But already the available evidence indicates an unprecedented diversity of cult places and cult activities, including the worship of hundreds of deities, some from a Graeco-Roman background, many from Greek-Oriental origin – like Mithras, Isis, Serapis and many more – as well as those deities that were evoked by a Celtic name (for an overview of hundreds of Celtic theonyms, see Jufer and Luginbühl 2001; since its publication many more Celtic theonyms have been identified). This seems to indicate an unparalleled scale of cultural and religious pluralism in the Roman West. It does not only contradict the evidence from the Iron Age – and the hypothesised control by rulers, elites and/or priestly casts – nor can this be explained by the presumed overall

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control of official Roman-style institutions, like the local ordo in a polis-religion or civic religion model, as discussed in Chapter 2 of this volume. Instead, it must have been stimulated by the increasing individualisation of society in many parts of the Roman empire that led to innovation and creativity in religious communications (for a discussion of societal individualisation, see Haeussler and Webster 2020). From the collective to the individual As we set out in the Introduction to this volume, ‘individualisation’ is more than just emphasising the individual person’s social agency and his/her capacity to make his/her own choices. It also reflects a period in which many people no longer felt compelled by existing ‘traditions’ – a shorthand that includes inter alia the perpetuating of existing forms of cultural and religious communication, socioeconomic hierarchies, cultural models, norms and behavioural patterns. We need to remember the dialectic relationship between continuity and innovation: to put it simply, the latter should be the norm if each individual truly had free choice to take any decision without any constraints, but this is rarely the case. Through socialisation and enculturation since childhood, by participating in collective events, like festivals and rites-de-passage, witnessing the seasonal and annual replication of cult practices and the recitation of mythical and historic narratives, by being forced to adhere to age- and gender-related behavioural norms, dress codes, social expectation, and many more, the individual’s decision-making motivations were framed and hampered, making it often difficult for any individual to go against group pressures and/or break the norms and behaviours that one’s family, friends and community expects. The result is that change was often rather gradual and hardly recognisable to the individual, while periods of rapid change, i.e. within one generation, may be considered to reflect periods of legitimation crisis regarding existing sociocultural and hierarchical patterns (for detailed discussion see Haeussler 2013, 65–72 with further literature). In this respect, a community’s ‘traditions’ might well have been challenged by many individuals of all ways of life who had acquired experiences elsewhere in the Roman world. In an interconnected empire, spatial mobility was the norm, with many individuals and groups moving to other provinces, while the authority of local elites may also have been threatened by the thousands of local people who, after having travelled around the Mediterranean world as auxiliarii and legionarii under Roman rulers, such as the 500 Gauls and Germans stationed in Alexandria under Aulus Gabinius to protect Ptolemy XII (Caes. Civ. 3.4.4), may have challenged existing hierarchies and understandings on their return to their home community (Haeussler 2013, 142–3). We may also remember that many inter-regional developments only started at the end of the Republic: for example, to Cicero, still in 44 BCE, it seemed exceptional to personally meet a ‘Gaul’ in Rome, namely the Aeduan ‘druid’ Divitiacus (De divinatione 1.41 [90]); just a century later spatial mobility seems to have become the norm with multi-ethnic and multi-cultural urban hubs across the Keltiké.

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With conventional cultural, social and religious structures losing their motivational force to local residents and passers-by as we move in time through the first century BCE to the third century CE, the individual acquired much more freedom to make different, personal choices, to develop new sculptural and iconographic representations, or adopt new types of sacrifices, rituals and votive offerings. The use of new media, like epigraphy, bronze figurines and stone sculptures, by sub-elite groups may reveal religious beliefs that contradicted (pre-)existing elite ‘norms’, including a certain (conscious or intuitive) expression of ‘otherness’ by sub-elite individuals and groups demarcating themselves from the religious identity and the performances of the local elites. Perhaps we can consider a certain ‘subaltern voice’ (in the terminology of postcolonial discourses – see e.g. Spivak 1995) and not only associate some of our evidence to a sub-elite or subaltern religious discourse, but perhaps even as a denunciation or mockery of the elite discourse; this would allow us to bring the individual social agent to the forefront of our discussion. Let us take the example of a crude-looking graffito of a standing god holding a sword in his right hand and a round shield in his left, together with the graffito MATDO discovered at Tre Owen (near Newtown, Powys): not only is the graffito expanded to make it sound perfectly Latin – Ma(r)t(i) d(e)o ‘To Mars God’, though this is the reverse of what one would expect, deo Marti (CSIR I.5, p. 14, no. 15; soon after the discovery, Hassall and Tomlin read MATROI) but the representation, too, is conventionally been considered at face value, taken as evidence for the existence of a ‘native’ ‘warrior god’ in Britain (see Green 1989, 112) (Fig. 15.1a). Other iconographic representations

Fig. 15.1. (a) Mars / ‘warrior god’ from Tre Owen; greyish-green stone, roughly 20 cm in diameter and 5mm thick, discovered in 1976 in a pit or well – today lost (Hassall and Tomlin 1978, 473, no. 4; plate XXXb = CSIR I.5, p. 14, no. 15 (plate 6)). (b) Mercury holding a purse in his right hand and a caduceus in his left hand, flanked by a goat and a cock; the depicted altar is inscribed Deo Mer(curio) – from York (RIB 655 = CSIR I.3, p.4, no. 7 (plate 2)); (c) Relief from Vindolanda depicting a naked Mercury holding a caduceus in his left hand and purse in his right, beneath which an attendant or dedicant, dressed in a tunic, sacrificing on a small altar with the dedication Deo | Mer|curio (today lost; RIB 1693 = CSIR I.6, no. 79 (plate 21)).

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could also be attributed to a category of subaltern ‘art’ (also see book cover), such as the unusual depiction from York that shows a stylised Mercury with an oversized and abstract head, sitting above (or standing behind?) an altar, holding a large purse in one hand and a crude caduceus in the other, and flanked by a goat (not the usual ram) and cock (Fig. 15.1b – RIB 655 = CSIR I.3, p. 4, no. 7 plate 2); unusual is also the scene discovered at Vindolanda in which a naked Mercury – standing to the right of an altar dedicated in his honour – seems to put a large conic hat on a worshipper standing on the opposite side of the altar (RIB 1693 = CSIR I.6, no. 79 (plate 21)); the conic hat looks less like Mercury’s petasos but rather a kind of pilleus, which was inter alia given to slaves in Rome on their manumission as a sign of freedom – a symbolism that might consciously have been employed here. We at least ought to consider the possibility that such representations represent a kind of subaltern discourse, not as ‘cultural resistance’, but as engagement with the dominant elite discourse. The deliberately ‘simplistic’ representation of a ‘warrior god’ combined with a short graffito to Mars from Tre Owen discovered in a military province where Mars was widely worshipped, is perhaps not so dissimilar to modern expressions that we find, for example, in street art (see e.g. Awan 2021 who studies the evolution of – almost ubiquitous – subaltern agency in relation to notions of vulnerability and the spiritual in Pakistan). On the other hand, the top elites in the Roman provinces may find themselves under pressure to demarcate themselves in ever new ways from the other 99.9% of the population (Haeussler 2013, 281). Judging from the evidence from many villa sites across the Roman empire, they principally seem to engage with – and indulge in – Graeco-Roman mythical narratives: villa mosaics, for example, do not only represent commonly known Greek myths, but also depict rarer mythical narratives that reflect their paideai (e.g., the mosaic from Rutland depicting the fight between Achilles and Hector, including a scene inspired not by the Iliad, but by Aeschylus’s drama; Thomas et al. 2022). At the same time in the public sphere, the same elites engaged with different religious understandings, setting up dedications to a variety of local, Roman and Graeco-Oriental deities as well as the emperor and the domus divinae (Fishwick 1969). Though the gap between top elite members’ religious understandings and the subaltern’s ones was getting bigger and bigger, there are lots of religious expressions and experiences between these two extremes, and there was of course also a form of dialogue. In a post-conquest scenario, sociocultural and economic transformations must have profoundly affected many communities across the Roman West by putting pressure on existing cultural and social norms. This religious individualisation process was accelerated by people given the opportunity to act in a much wider, almost ‘global’ world, certainly from the first century CE onwards. The local communities – be it town, village or ‘tribe’, or in Roman terminology, vicus, pagus, civitas, colonia or municipium – were increasingly losing their significance as focus of their identity to the individual, having been largely downgraded to an administrative unit within

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artificially created provinciae (Haeussler 2013, 152–3). Unlike pre-Roman times, many people would have acquired cultural and religious experiences outside their home community and outside their provincia, been subjected to the cultural and religious practices and habits of various ethnic communities and acquired knowledge of different deities and rituals, perhaps actively assisting in the introduction of new cults in a local community, leading to a(n often unconsciously) re-definition of their own personal religious identities. For instance, their ‘Egyptian’ experience seems to have inspired some members of the Lollii and Avilii to set up an Isis and Serapis sanctuary in the remote Cisalpine Gaulish market town of Bodincomagos (Cresci Marrone 1993; Zorat 1993). On the whole, all these developments must have made the concept of ‘polis religion’ or ‘civic cult’ virtually meaningless in the Principate, both for the local elites as well as for the traders, merchants, craftsmen, farmers, colonists and soldiers who increasingly operated beyond the boundaries of their civitas, who owned land and engaged in trade across civitas and provincial boundaries, who travelled and migrated across the empire, who visited faraway sanctuaries – in the north-western provinces and beyond – to make use of their healing, mystical and oracular powers, and who travelled from Europe to religious centres and philosophical centres of the empire, such as Athens, Alexandria, Apamea, Antioch, all of which would challenge the individual’s ‘traditional’ (i.e. existing) religious views (Haeussler 2011; for longdistance pilgrimages in the Roman world, notably in Latium and the Greek-speaking provinces, see e.g. Graham 2020; Rutherford 2020).

From socio-economic shrines to subaltern cults So far for the theory. But as we shall see, it is much more difficult to identify unambiguously acts or processes of religious individualisation in our sources. For instance, the multitude of cult places on its own may not necessarily provide evidence for religious individualisation as this may be the result of societal ‘fragmentation’ and division of labour. We find countless village shrines and temples within the urban and peri-urban topography that might simply reflect the particular interests and identities of social groups within a civitas, while these cult places may still be run, organised, financed and/or patronised by members of the ruling, land-owning elite. Monumental sanctuaries with a multitude of temples and shrines within a clearly demarcated ‘sacred’ space may be indicative of a certain pluralism in religious activities and understandings, for example at the above-mentioned sites of Thun-Allmendingen, Trier-Altbachtal and Viuz-Faverges, but pluralism may not mean individualisation as these sanctuaries may merely represent an attempt by local elites to create an environment in which a number of cults remain under their control. Other examples include cult activities associated with professional associations, like the various socii involved at the Mercury sanctuary at Villars (Vaucluse), north of Iulia Apta in Gallia Narbonensis (Haeussler 2008a). This also includes many other semi-economic, semireligious collegia (‘guilds’, like the collegia fabrum or centonarium), who each had their

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‘patron deity’, such as an unnamed association of piscatores –fishermen – under the leadership of a vicarious, who set up an altar to their patron god, Neptune, at Pedona/ Borgo San Dalmazzo at the western fringes of Cisalpine Gaul (CIL V 7850 = ILS 3287). For many of these associations, we know that they chose influential members of the elite as their patroni (Haeussler 2013, 286–7) which may well demonstrate that these semi-religious associations did not contradict the idea of ‘civic religion’ per se, though they are indicative of an ever increasingly fragmentised society, providing sub-elite members to choose their patroni. Though the multitude of deities, cults and cult sites might merely be the result of population increase, demographic change and increasing societal complexity, this is not to deny the role of the individual in this process: from the social agents who aspired to membership in such a collegium to those who created the new structures which combined socio-economic structures with a semi-religious focus points, sometimes resulting in the ‘creation’ of a new and unique deity. This may also have been the case of the goddess Nehalennia at Colijnsplaat and to a lesser extent at the neighbouring site of Domburg where economic and religious interests were equally combined (cf. Ferlut 2022). Nehalennia’s sanctuary is located at the transitional place between the Rhine-Maas-Scheldt Delta and the North Sea. It has become an important economic and religious hub where those involved in river haulage and those in high-sea trade – from boatsmen and sailors to the merchants involved in the salt trade (notably the salt merchants of Cologne, negotiatores salarii coloniae Claudiae Arae Agrippinensium) and those trading with Britain (negotiatores Britanniciani) – made offerings for a safe journey, resulting in roughly 100 inscribed altars for the goddess Nehalennia (Ferlut 2022, vol. 1, pp. 199–202, 246–50). Apart from the essential importance of salt and the popularity of salted products in the Roman empire, leading to the growth of harvesting salt around Colijnsplaat, the label ‘salt merchant of Cologne’ insinuates that some form of association of those traders may have developed whose focus may not necessarily have been a collegium or societas, but a patron goddess whose Celtic theonym has been related to salt if we understand ne-halen-ia as being related to Celtic words, like halen, the Welsh word for ‘salt’ (for this etymology see De Bernardo Stempel 2004; 2022, 141–7). And since our devotees and merchants were not native to – nor resident in – the local civitas of the Menapii, we can only hypothesise on the decision-making that resulted in the Colijnsplaat sanctuary and the subsequent organisation of the cult; unlike merchants, local dignitaries are hardly attested; and as convincingly demonstrated by Ferlut (2022), the iconography and dedicatory formulae at Colijnsplaat resemble those for the Matronae in the Ubian territory around Cologne, situated some 300 km upstream, thus insinuating a certain bottom-up movement in which the merchants and haulers from the Rhineland might have been instrumental, before her cult developed into a kind of ‘diaspora’ hub that allowed merchants of diverse origins to meet around the Nehalennia temple. A different type of raison-d’être may be identified on the former ‘oppidum’ of Le Castellar (Cadenet, Vaucluse) where an extra-urban or rural sanctuary to the otherwise

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unknown goddess Dexiva is attested (Haeussler 2008a, 179–81; 2011; Golosetti et al. 2010). Situated north of the river Durance at the northern margin of the territory of the Roman colonia Aquae Sextiae (Aix-en-Provence), different scenarios can be imagined. Leaving aside a possible pre-Roman origin of the goddess, the choice of Dexiva may have aimed to promote a particular local identity that may have been consciously chosen in opposition to the identity of the colonia Aquae Sextiae to which the rural inhabitants around Le Castellar belonged since the late first century BCE: the cult for a goddess with a deonomastic, ethnic name inside a former ‘oppidum’ also leads us to the idea of a ‘lieu de mémoire’ (Golosetti et al. 2010), though – at least in my opinion – merely of a constructed and imaginary memory. It is hypothetically feasible that Dexiva relates to the local ethnos Dexivates, mentioned as regio Dexivatium – together with the neighbouring Cavares in the territory of Cavaillon–Avignon – by Pliny (NH 3.34 [Loeb]; 3.20 [Teubner ed. 1906]). One should not jump to the conclusion that we are dealing here with just another case of a civic cult, whereby Dexiva provided the aggregative hub for a pagus of the Dexivates in order to consolidate the patchwork of communities making up the Roman colonia Aquae Sextiae (perhaps in the sense of Ton Derks 1998). However, not only is there no evidence for any ‘official’ involvement of any decurions or the ordo, but the Dexiva sanctuary is just one of many cult places plotted around the local sacred topography, thus providing a sense of ‘competition’ in this ‘religious market place’ with lots of other deities, such as Lanovalus, Mars Divannos, Silvanus, Avianus, Bona Dea, being worshipped within short distance. Individual elite members might have promoted – or even invented and instrumentalised – such a local identity that seemingly relates to the remembrance of an ancient identity and cult place, with the aim to consolidate their own social status and their religious authority (Haeussler 2008a, 179–81). Wealthy landowners – both men and women – had the resources to endorse their own religious interests, as we can also see in the case of the Isis and Serapis sanctuary at the remote town of Bodincomagus-Industria (Monteu da Po) in Gallia Cisalpina (Haeussler 2013, 231–4) or of the wealthy individual who not only instituted and financed the cult of Isis and Serapis (dedicatione templi Isis et Serapis) in the south Gaulish city of Nîmes, but also compelled his views on the councillors by paying each of them five denarii ‘so that they can dine in public’; the same benefactor also furnished statues of Isis, Serapis, Vesta, Diana and Somnus worth 6,000 sesterces, showing that he/she did not exclusively worship Egyptian cults, nor does the choice of deities reveal any obligation to worship the ‘civic cults’ of Nîmes (CIL XII 3058; SIRIS 728). But this is not to deny that – simultaneously – sub-elite and subaltern social agents were equally instrumental in shaping religious developments in the Roman world. In this increasingly complex and global empire, we may be dealing with disembedded individuals, uprooted individuals or members of the many diaspora groups across the empire, who were merely seeking to belong to a community and therefore joined religious communities, such as the Graeco-Oriental mystery cults that were becoming popular across the Roman empire. As initiation cults they were

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attractive to the provincial populations in times of social and economic uncertainties and insecurities which in turn might have further triggered processes of increasing individualisation of Roman provincial societies where the individual was faced with an unprecedented level of mobility, migration and demographic change, and where – even in Roman Britain – towns had become cultural melting pots with people of various ‘ethnic’ identities who spoke various languages and worshipped a diverse range of deities. Our main problem concerns the interpretation of the evidence. Though we can easily recognise the individual act of a social agent, such as the dedication of an inscribed altar as ex-voto by an individual, it is more difficult to identify acts of religious individualisation since our evidence – even in the best scenarios – presents us only with a tiny snapshot of the religious activities and understandings while many practices and understandings did not leave any physical remains for us to discover. Let us look at some samples to show the problem of extrapolation based on the existing evidence. For example, religious individualisation appears to be more improbable in regions where we find a certain degree of ‘standardisation’ in the available evidence. This is the case of the Roman colony of Vienne and its territory in the north-east of Gallia Narbonensis (Haeussler 2014b): there, in the region of the Allobrogi between Vienne and Geneva, the majority of epigraphic dedications was not only set up by upper class individuals, but also by people who explicitly identified themselves as municipal magistrates and public priests, notably flamines of the imperial cult, flamines Martis – which are characteristic for the colonia Vienna – and sacerdotes as well as praefecti of the local pagus; most dedications are of high quality and, within one region of Vienne’s territory, the inscriptions, their layout, the support and decoration often appear comparatively uniform. Although we are dealing with dedications set up by named individuals, these persons seem to be responsible in promoting cults in the various vici that might mirror or mimic the civic cults of the civitas capital Vienne, though this is not to deny that there are certain regional differences, notably in the preference of certain deities in some parts of the civitas. Moreover, we can also recognise local particularities, such as unique theonyms (e.g., Limetus) and epithets (e.g., Apollo Virotutus) as well as large sanctuaries without any epigraphy. Overall, this may merely be the tip of the iceberg, revealing existing ambiguities of the religious discourses taking place in Vienne’s territory during the Principate. While the epigraphic record among the Allobrogi is largely dominated by elite individuals, the religious activities and understandings of the majority of the population might just be as difficult to identify in our archaeological and epigraphic record during the Roman period as they were in the pre-Roman Iron Age. The relatively homogeneous evidence of cults in Vienne’s colonia contrasts with other regions where we find an enormous degree of variation. In the territory of the colonia Aquae Sextiae (Aix-en-Provence), for example, it is difficult to establish any pattern in our evidence: among the multitude of epigraphic and sculptural testimonies, people in each tiny area of this comparatively modest territory seem to

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have expressed rather different religious preferences and ‘identities’ (see overview in Haeussler 2008a; 2014b). Above all, the crude and simple nature of many altars insinuates that a larger proportion of the populace made use of Roman-style votive altars and epigraphy compared to many other civitates, and this may explain why we are dealing with a more creative and spontaneous processes whereby people did not follow the standard Roman-style formulaic layout. Another feature concerns the popularity of iconography on many epigraphic and anepigraphic altars, hardly extant in Vienne’s civitas, providing an important key for the understandings of the subaltern classes of society and their concepts of religious communication. Even if many of these rural cults in Aquae Sextiae’s territory may have provided a cult centre for a local community (village or dispersed settlement, sometimes in vicinity to or perhaps even on the territory of an elite residence), the nature of the evidence seems to suggest a ‘free’ space for religious expression– outside the control of the local ordo – which made it possible to create cults that might have reflected more closely the understandings of the local population (in contrast to the top-down imposition of cults in many vici in Vienne’s territory). Similarly, the urban periphery often appears as a space for people to express themselves, highlighting the religious pluralism that was available to the individual (Haeussler 2008a contra Pechoux 2010). Examples, like Aquae Sextiae, also show one of the major themes of religious individualisation: we seem to be dealing with individuals that do not follow the ‘ancestral’ practices and conventions of their community: for instance, it is difficult to see a continuity of the ancestor or hero cult (v. supra) that seems to have dominated in pre-Roman times, nor do we the wholescale adoption of Roman deities, whilst the evidence attests a preference for anepigraphic and often very small altars, an unusual iconography (e.g. the use of the pictograms hammer, wheel and tree to represent three divine concepts) and an inclination to Celtic divine names. Many people used the opportunity to create something different by giving sacred sites new meanings and by making their own religious choices. By demarcating themselves from certain ‘traditions’, such as the ancestor/hero cult with its human heads (in flesh and in stone) and sculptures of humans in cross-legged position, sub-elite people also distanced themselves from the landowning elites who may well have controlled socio-religious structures in the late Iron Age: the Iron Age stone sculptures of ‘ancestors/heroes’ may well have been decapitated because they served to consolidate the lineage and power of certain elite families; interestingly, some destructions seem to have occurred prior to the Roman conquest, as in the case of the Iron Age hillfort Roquepertuse – south of Aix-en-Provence – which saw a violent destruction phase in the third century BCE (CAG 13/1, no. 112, 5*, pp. 322–7). If local elites had lost their traditional religious authority, one may hypothesise that they may have searched for new forms to combine their social authority with a religious or mythical basis. The diversity of religious testimonies from Roman Aix-en-Provence may insinuate that there was no unified top-down installation of a ‘civic cult’, but numerous individual initiatives that created a dialectic relationships between ‘small people’ and ‘landowners’, between local religiosity and official religious discourses

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(cf. Christensen 2019 on ‘great and little tradition’ and , Haeussler and Webster 2020 for further discursive models). One possible way to recognise individualisation is to look for diverging rituals within the same cult context or the variety of theonyms and epithets that were used by different people to evoke the same divine concept in a cult place and at the range of sculptural representations for a specific deity. This also leads us to phenomena, like bricolage, when the individual – be it dedicant or stonecutter – made use of a variety of cultural features that were readily available, be it stone cutting techniques, epigraphic habits, iconographic conventions, mythical narratives, sacrificial rituals and the available range of votive offerings – individual acts that may, in the long run, lead to new forms of religious communications that were neither pre-Roman nor Roman in nature (for bricolage cf. Roth 2003; a concept based inter alia on Lévi-Strauss 1974, 16–36; for a review of bricolage, creolisation and creolage in Roman times, see Haeussler and Webster 2020). In this way, people could adopt, for example, elements from Graeco-Roman symbolic language and combine them with local mythical and iconographic understandings in order to represent an indigenous divine concept (a feature that we shall discuss below in the case of the ‘mallet god’). We also should not forget that we are dealing with dynamic developments by which the individual made new religious choices, diverging from the existing ‘norms’, which in turn instituted a discourse for other people to engage with.

Iconography and individualisation Whilst epigraphy recurrently follows the constraints of Roman conventions and formulae, iconography and sculptures are important sources for the study of individualisation as they can reveal how individual dedicants and stonecutters created new variations of cult images or perhaps even a completely new visual language that was different from both Roman and pre-existing local customs. Greek or Roman iconography was often copied to represent important local deities, but we can also see how ‘standard types’ were adapted to suit the local religious and cultural context, such as variations of the Versailles-type Diana being used to represent diverse mother-goddesses in the various regions of the Roman West (Schörner 2013), Minerva for local deities, like Sulis at Aquae Sulis (Bath) in Britain, or the way how the Augustan image of Mars Ultor – ‘Mars the Avenger’ wearing a military dress – came to represent a local Mars in many parts of Gaul (cf. Gury 2013), not to mention more obvious modifications, for example adding new divine attributes or merging different Graeco-Roman models into new anthropomorphic deities: for example, a sculptor not only represented a Roman ‘Jupiter’ with its typical attribute, the eagle, but also in military gear, resembling the Mars Ultor image, while adding a large wheel and a snake as attributes in order to represent – at the risk of oversimplification – some form of ‘native weather god’ (from Séguret; Esp. I 303; Carré 1978; Haeussler and Webster 2020, fig. 3).

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We also need to take into account that certain standardised artefacts were also available on local markets, like the ‘mass-produced’ clay-pipe figurines produced in Gaul that depict various deities of which Venus and dea nutrix are the most popular, and which were exported all over the Roman empire (Bémont et al. 1993; Fittock 2015): buying one of these figurines on a local market or from a travelling merchant was one individual’s personal choice whether motivated by purely aesthetic reasons, by the artefact’s novelty aspect or by any religious understandings; in any case, such representations had generally not been known in the local iconographic repertoire and may thus have inspired local people’s understanding of religious iconography and in particular subaltern perceptions if we take into account that these claypipe figurines seldom derive from elite contexts. Despite representing deities, the majority of them was interestingly found in burials and rubbish pits with only a small proportion coming from sacred sites; Fittock (2015) also points out that the local distribution across the provinces varies, showing that people made different choices (or had diverging access to the clay-pipe figurines). Art and iconography may reveal nuances of a deity or a cult that neither epigraphic nor literary sources may disclose. In each case, we need to take into account the context as closely as possible: some sculptures resulted from a dedicant’s personal interpretation of the local deity, while others may indicate a cult’s ‘official’ nature. At the same cult site, we might see a dialogue and perhaps even contradictions between the official discourse and an individual’s personal religious understandings: due to the importance of orthopraxy, existing cult understandings and cult practices may be considered ‘conservative’ and therefore lack innovation, as we might see in the continuous nature of animal sacrifices in Britain that were only evolving rather gradually over many centuries (see King 2005 for bone assemblages from sanctuaries); knowledge of the precise function and meaning of cult practices may be lost over time, as the case of Rome’s famous Lupercalia festival shows (see Plutarch’s interesting speculations in his Quaestiones Romanae 68; on the Lupercalia see Radke 1989; Mastrocinque 2014). In contrast to these orthopractic ritual activities, individual devotees may be inspired by his/her personal experiences and more contemporary understandings when making a votive offering. Rituals at any one cult place at any given time may therefore simultaneously mirror several layers of meaning that originate from different periods, societies, myths, interpretation, including scholarly interpretations, like those of Roman scholars regarding the Lupercalia, Bona Dea, and many other deities. At some cult places we find interesting scenarios with sculptures mirroring the official nature of a cult while other testimonies from the same site reflect alternative or complementary interpretations. On the site of the pre-Roman hilltop site SainteBlandine in Roman Vienne, for example, a colossal head of what must have been originally a roughly five-metre-tall sculpture of the goddess Juno (or perhaps Tutela) (NEsp. Vienne 053) suggests that this cult statue most likely reflects an official ‘civic’ cult, perhaps at the time of the colonia’s official creation (under the triumvirs or

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Augustus), due to the enormous resources necessary to finance such a sculpture that go far beyond the philanthropy or euergetism of a private individual. But interestingly Juno is comparatively rare in Vienne and its vast territory: north of the city, at Villette-de-Vienne (Isère), a comparable head of the goddess Juno was discovered (CIL XII 1891; ILN-5.1, 291) and at Seyssel we find the colonia’s only written dedication to Juno Regina Augusta (CIL XII 1816; ILN-5.1, 293). This sharply contrasts with the presence of other deities across Vienne’s territory. Moreover, the other testimonies from the Saint-Blandine sanctuary paint a very different picture, notably the triad of indigenous mother goddesses, such as an altar with a bas-relief depicting three matres (Esp. I 338; NEsp. Vienne 100); also from Saint-Blandine, there are dedications to Diana and Fortuna (ILN-5.1, 4–5). This lack of ex-votos for ‘civic cults’ is a common phenomenon. In many towns the number of votive inscriptions is surprisingly low for important cults: for example, no votive inscriptions were found at the forum of Nîmes which stands in stark contrast to the myriad of inscriptions from Nîmes’s other major religious hub, the so-called ‘Augusteum’, just a few hundred metres to the west, and there are only two dedications at the impressive podium temple of Vernègues. Similarly at Glanum, the deities worshipped in the twin temples remain enigmatic, while the Roman healing goddess Valetudo, promoted by Marcus Agrippa, did not receive any votive inscriptions at Glanum, although she had her own temple (Roth Congès 1997; 2010; Haeussler 2011; 2017). This raises the questions whether civic cults in general did not attract as many worshippers and devotees on a daily basis – and therefore fewer ex-votos – compared to, for example, healing cults. It is therefore possible that many ‘non-civic’ cults might have reflected more closely people’s daily concerns, interests and beliefs, such as cults associated with healing and fertility, as those generally received a larger variety of ex-votos, such as altars with anatomic representations in a healing context, terra cotta figurines of mother goddesses, and many more. We need to ask whether our evidence provides a false image on the popularity of civic cults or whether there was a real difference in people’s religious preferences, predominantly opting for suburban, rural and extra-urban cult places – sites that were often related to particular ‘sacred’ spaces (like hilltops and springs) and to aspects of healing, fertility, prosperity, childbirth, and many more. At Ugernum (Beaucaire), at the south-eastern frontier of the colonia Augusta Nemausus, we find a situation comparable to Vienne. At the sanctuary ‘Fer à cheval’, approximately four kilometres to the south of the town and the via Domitia, just west of the river Rhône, a large marble sculpture (height: 95 cm) represents the Romanstyle Jupiter, sitting on a throne, carrying a lightning bolt and accompanied by an eagle; in his left hand he probably held a sceptre, today lost (Esp. IX, 6864; CAG 30/2, no 032, 74*, p. 227, fig. 200) (Fig. 15.2a). The marble statue could well have stood in the cella of a temple and may indicate that this sanctuary was primarily dedicated to Jupiter – or a local variant thereof – who was widely worshipped across the entire territory of Nîmes’s civitas, often as ‘wheel-deity’ (Haeussler 2020).

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The only other testimony for Jupiter at Fer à Cheval is a bronze statuette of Jupiter Dolichenus standing on a bull (CAG 30/2, pp. 227–8). As the weather god of the Syrian city of Doliche was quite different in nature, going back to the Hittite Teshub, this statuette may have been the personal ex-voto of a dedicant, perhaps of a soldier returning from the Danube provinces where Dolichenus is widely attested. But then Fig. 15.2 (a) White marble statue of Jupiter from again one could argue that Dolichenus Beaucaire (Beaucaire Museum; photo: courtesy of also appears rather suitable for the CCJ); (b) Stone altar of the Dioscuri from Domazan regional context as we are in the bull- (Gard) (height 58 cm) (Photo: V. Lassalle, CAG). breeding region of Camargue, and may have been the reason why the dedicant offered it to the god at Beaucaire: this would imply that Dolichenus’ original meaning was either not understood or re-interpreted to suit the local socio-cultural environment. Otherwise, the evidence from Fer à Cheval bears no relation to Jupiter with people setting up altars to Minerva and the Dioscuri instead. The latter are surprisingly common in the area around Beaucaire and the Garrigues (e.g., at Bezouce: CIL XII 2999, add. p. 833). A 58 cm-high altar from Domazan, for example, shows a rather ‘provincial’ or ’local’ production of the Disocuri (Fig. 15.2b): one of the Dioscuri is represented as naked, beardless men, with a chlamys round his neck, holding a bridle – or probably more likely a whip – in his right hand; with his left hand, he is holding a horse which stands behind him facing to the right and which, with its large ears and short legs, resembles more a donkey (AE 1959, 195; Esp. XV 8789; CAG 30/2, no. 103, p. 355; fig. 369). The inscribed dedication is rather basic, dedicated to Castor by a certain Varius Gentinus. This representation is not only different from those in Italy (notice the lack of important attributes, such as the pileus, considered a Roman symbol of liberty – see Richardson 2013, 912) but also from many other provincial productions, like an elegant Dioscur from Aquincum/ Budapest (Nagy 2007, no. 59). Divergences from the ‘standard’ – or the ‘elite discourse’ – may reflect different spheres of religious individualisation. In our first scenario, individual devotees present ex-votos and set up altars to deities that seemingly contradict the ‘intended’ purpose or function of a sanctuary to such an extent that Juno at Vienne and Jupiter at Beaucaire are not attested at all epigraphically despite the presence of votive inscriptions to other deities at the same sites. How can we explain this? Did the individual devotees have other religious preferences or did they understand the cult in a different way? It is possible that these impressive cult statues merely provide a tiny snapshot of a time when local elites – or perhaps individual wealthy benefactors – aimed to define or re-define a local cult, perhaps without long-lasting success, as these top-down

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impositions might not have been ‘meaningful’ to local worshippers and/or due to the fact that people’s social, cultural and religious understandings were progressing too rapidly in the Principate. It is possible that Juno at Vienne was an attempt of a group of decurions, aspiring to Roman culture, humanitas and paideia and observing the imperial cult in a particular period of time (notably the early Principate), to redefine an already existing cult, such as the triad of mother goddesses that may have dominated the civitas of Vienne. It is even possible that this statue aimed to associate the local sanctuary with the imperial cult, as the cult statue resembles closely the so-called Juno Ludovisi from Rome which is an idealised representation of Augustus’ niece Antonia Minor (36 BCE–37 CE) as Juno. Secondly, we have seen regional particularities that seem to bear no relationship with any civic cults, such as the Dioscuri that are popular around Beaucaire, but nowhere else in Nîmes’s vast territory. The Dioscuri were hardly the civic deities of the colonia Augusta Nemausus, nor do they seem to play the same role around Beaucaire/ Domazan as they played in Rome, as defenders of Republican values (Richardson 2013). Such regional deities are a phenomenon that we encounter in many civitates where deities seem to reflect particular local identities, sometimes even crossing civitas boundaries. Here, we can also allude to the Proxumes that were widely worshipped between Nîmes (mainly in form of small and simple altars) and in Vaison-la-Romaine, but virtually unknown elsewhere (Haeussler 2011). Third, there is bricolage, creolisation and creolage (a review of these models in Haeussler and Webster 2020). In the case of the Dioscuri, an existing Graeco-Roman iconography seems to have been adapted for a local divine pair. The un-Roman depictions, like the Dioscuri’s large heads, their unusual gestures and attributes, do not necessarily reflect the stonecutter’s crude workmanship, but might well have mirrored aspects of local culture and local mythical narratives.

The mallet god in southern Gaul The so-called mallet god is widely attested across southern Gaul by a variety of media, from small, predominantly anepigraphic altars, often just depicting a mallet or hammer, to rather elaborate sculptures in stone and bronze. Some of these explicitly state the Celtic theonym, Sucellos (su-cellos, ‘The Good Striker’), but in inscriptions he was more generally evoked by the Latin theonym Silvanus (Haeussler 2007). An interesting case to study the diversity within a single cult place comes from Glanum, an originally Iron Age ‘oppidum’ just a few miles east of Beaucaire and north-east of Arles, which flourished down to the mid-third century CE (on the religious topography, see Roth Congès 1997; Haeussler 2017). Around twenty votive altars in his honour were discovered during archaeological excavations, mainly in the north-west corner of the forum-basilica complex (CAG 13/2, no. 100, 48*–63*). Two features are worth noticing: the enormous diversity of the evidence and the prevalent lack of selfrepresentation; these are no ‘standardised’ altars as virtually each of them seems to

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be of unique design. This is different from many other cults where dedicants often seem to imitate and emulate each other, or just follow a Graeco-Roman blueprint; such a phenomenon appears indicative of a certain lack of overall control or authority by the local decurions or priests at Glanum, suggesting that individual worshippers (the quality may indicate sub-elite/subaltern worshippers, as we shall see below) were able to create new iconographic and epigraphic variations by employing and adapting existing motives. This is even more striking as more ‘high-status’ sculptures and inscriptions do exist at Glanum, such as the altars for Hercules and for Glanis and the Glanicae that were set up around the sacred spring. The evidence for the mallet god is clearly different: most of the altars are anepigraphic and only consist of basic iconographic representations, while others show sculptural representations of the deity; unlike the devotees of Hercules, those of the mallet god largely remain anonymous as inscriptions rarely mention their names or titles. There is also a small bronze statuette (height: 11 cm) from Glanum which shows Sucellos’ typical attributes: the mallet in his right hand and the olla in his left hand (N.B. usually it is the other way around) (Fig. 15.3a). This type of representations is widespread in Southern Gaul, for example, in the colonia Augusta Nemausus (Nîmes) (see overview in Haeussler 2011; Fig. 15.3b). They reflect a certain form of bricolage – or rather, creolage – whereby certain aspects of Romano-Etruscan deities, such as Dispater’s or Charu’s hammer and Silvanus’ theonym and dog (but not Silvanus’ nudity which is common in Roman iconography), were linked and merged with existing local understandings, as we can see in the long mallet, the olla, the deity’s dress and hairstyle. Though absent from the bronze figurines, one of Silvanus’ attributes is the dog that appears on virtually all South Gaulish bas-reliefs of Sucellos, as on the altar from Nîmes (Fig. 15.3b). But did the dog play any mythical or cultic role for Sucellos, for example as a chthonic dog, like the Welsh ‘Cŵn Annwn’, or a symbol for healing, or merely a hunting or herding dog? Or does the dog on our south Gaulish reliefs simply represent an attribute that was meaninglessly copied from Roman iconography? But then again, the role of the dog of the Italo-Roman Silvanus seems to be equally obscure; in the words of Franklin (1921, ch. 8), ‘the dog was attached to Silvanus because of an art convention’, representing the ‘watchful dog’. Moreover, we can recognise differences between the various representations: unlike the Glanum figurine, the Sucellos from Nîmes wears a different dress, a tunic tightened at the waist and the sagum, and there is the deity’s hairstyle, notably the lack of a crown, as well as the fact that the god is beardless. Whoever was the first to depict the concept of this divine entity in this manner, emphasising the role of the mallett and the olla, it eventually led to the development of a new anthropomorphic representation, but not one that was standardised. With individual social agents creating their ‘type’, major socio-religious hubs, such as Nîmes and Glanum, may have (unintentionally?) facilitated the dissemination of a certain iconographic repertoire. We might well deal here with a dialogue across social strata and across religious discourses – the ‘Great and Little Traditions’ (based on a study

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Fig. 15.3 (a) Bronze statuette of Sucellos (Musée de Sade, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence; Rolland 1958, 75 (plate 25.3); Roth Congès 1997; CAG 13/2, no 100. Photos: H. Rolland); (b) Limestone altar of Sucellos (height: 35 cm) from Nîmes (Gard), avenue Jean-Jaurès. (Esp. I 436; CAG 30/1, no. 493, p. 437; Musée archéologique de Nîmes; photo: author; (c) first-century CE Sucellos bronze figurine (height: 32cm with base) discovered in a lararium in Vienne; the god, wearing a wolf skin, holds an olla in his right hand and (today lost) a mallet in his left; behind him a mallet with five smaller mallets radiating from it. from Vienne (today in Walters Art Museum, Baltimore) (copyright: Wikimedia Commons / Walters Art Museum). (d) Bas-relief on a stone clipped into a cone-shaped form (height: 23cm), discovered in House VII/VIII (Esp. 7862 (plate XI); Musée de Sade, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, inv. no 1205. (e) Anepigraphic altar (height 25 cm) from Glanum (Rolland 1958, 75, plate 26,1; Esp. 7870 (plate XIII); CAG 13/2, no 100, p. 356-357; Photo: H. Rolland.). (f-g) anepigraphic limestone altars (height 37 and 38.5 cm) from the curia in Glanum (Musée de Sade, cf. Rolland 1958, 76 (fig. 26,2, 26,3); Esp. 7866 and 6695; Roth Congès 1997; 2010; CAG 13/2, no 100, p. 338, photo: Henri Rolland). (h) Limestone altar (height: 57 cm). Siluanu(!) | L(ucius) Vale(rius) | Voco(ntio?). ‘To Silvanus(?), Lucius Valerius of the Vocontii (?)’ (Musée de Sade, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, inv. no 1148; AE 1925, 33; ILGN 146; Esp. IX 6695; CAG 13/2, p. 338, photo: CCJ).

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by Bhattacharji 1981 on Indian religion; for the application to the Roman  world, see Christensen 2019; though the terminology is problematic, it does provide a useful approach): a sub-elite idea is taken up by members of the elite who – in our case – may have been responsible for a certain canonisation of the iconography which in turn affects the ‘little tradition’; among the elaborate sculptures of the mallet god – very different from the evidence at Glanum – there is the renowned Sucellos bronze figurine from Vienne, discovered in the lararium of a domus, which also shows certain important divergences: the god resembles Hercules, but he wears a wolf skin instead of the Nemean lion, not to mention the large mallet behind him from which five smaller mallets radiate (Fig. 15.3c). The Sucellos iconography cannot be identified prior to the first century CE; even depictions of a mallet or hammer are rare in the pre-Roman Iron Age. It is therefore problematic to talk about an ‘indigenous deity’ as this particular iconography seems characteristic for the Principate, though it may refer to Caesar’s allusion to ‘Dispater’ from whom all Gauls are said to have descended, as the hammer is the main attribute of the Etruscan god Charu (Caes. BG 6.18: Galli se omnes ab Dite patre prognatos). However, despite superficial similarities among Sucellos depictions, the various representations differ enormously, insinuating that the individual works did not establish – nor follow – any canonised iconography of the god. Some more unusual objects from Glanum are also attributed to Sucellos, like a rather crude representation of the deity with basic anatomic features: he holds a mallet in one hand, an olla in the other hand over a tiny altar, but the dog is missing (Fig. 15.3d; Esp. 7862 (plate XI); Rolland 1958, 75–6, fig. 8; Roth Congès 1997; CAG 13/2, p. 356). Though the motive of Sucellos holding an object over an altar can also be found elsewhere (e.g. at Nîmes: Esp. 434; CAG 30/1, no 174, p. 289; also Esp. 511), the stone’s conic shape is unusual for this period but reminiscent for late Iron Age tombstones; the depiction of the face resembles other ‘crude’ sculptures from Southern Gaul, notably the depictions of ‘têtes coupées’ at Nages and Entremont in the late Iron Age, or of a human head with large eyes on a bas-relief from Montsalier (first century BCE–CE?) (Esp. 37). A representation of a human or deity wearing a tunic and a long coat, holding a long shaft or mallet in his left hand, is also attributed to the mallet god: instead of an olla, he holds a patera; the dog is missing, and the person’s head is covered with a veil. Is this Sucellos ‘sous l’aspect d’un prêtre’ (Rolland 1958, 75), considering that we also find a veiled Mercury at Glanum, wearing his wings under the veil (Rolland, 1960, 81, plate 35; Esp. IX 6697; Roth Congès 1997, 183–4, fig. 14)? On the other hand, many altars in the region between Glanum, Nîmes and Vaison-la-Romaine merely depict a mallet or hammer; though most of these are anepigraphic, we also find the hammer on inscribed dedications which demonstrate the direct relationship between the mallet god and Silvanus (e.g. at Goult, ILN-4, 142; Saint-Laurent-d’Aigouze: ILGN 516 = Esp. IX 6859). In Glanum we find critical variations as the mallet is associated with anatomic representations, like a lower arm on two altars, one of which having a hand with six fingers (Fig. 15.3e–g); this indicates that Sucellos must have been a healing deity at Glanum, at least in the view of some devotees, which may also explain the large number of ex-votos in his

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honour (Roth Congès 1997; 2010). The few epigraphic testimonies for Glanum’s mallet god equally show an enormous diversity. It is noticeable that writing is generally of very poor quality, as seen on the altar dedicated to Silvanu (Fig. 15.3h), which is either a mistake or stonecutter for Silvano or, as suggested by Janon (CAG 13/2, p. 338), Silvan(a) e, i.e. a rare female version of Silvanus; notice also the small mallet at the beginning of line 3. A certain Titus Quadri(nius) Valerianus employed an unusual dedicatory formula for Silvanus: Numini Sil|vani Sanct(o), ‘To the holy numen of Silvanus’, which may reflect the devotee’s experience and knowledge, perhaps copying epigraphic habits from other regions of the empire as we see in a dedicatin to the numen Silvanus Augustus from Cirta (Numidia, CIL VIII 6963) (Rolland 1958, 74; AE 1958, 307a; CAG 13/2, p. 319, fig. 273). Altogether, the individualistic nature of the evidence in the case of the mallet god – with almost each object being unique – shows that some individuals had the opportunity and the capacity to make their own choices how to communicate with the god. Unlike the standardised row of votive altars one finds at many sanctuaries (including at Glanum, like the altars to Hercules just a couple of hundred metres away at the sacred spring), which also often serve people’s self-representation, resulting in copying, emulating and outdoing each other’s votive offerings, people expressed a more personal devotion to the mallet god: it is the thought that counts, one might say, showing gratitude to the god for services provided. This resulted in more unusual representations, such as the combination of anatomic representations with the mallet in the case of healing. The form, shape and quality of these ex-votos is equally important: similar to our earlier discussion on the ‘warrior god’ from Tre Owen, these offerings may have been set up by people of sub-elite status. Glanum was not a small rural shrine, but an important town with a long history. During Augustus’ reign, Marcus Agrippa visited Glanum and founded a temple to the Roman goddess of health and hygiene, Valetudo (CAG-13/2, p. 305 = AE 1955, 111b; Roth Congès 1997). During the same period, two Roman-style podium temples and the forum were constructed. The individual’s actions were thus framed by a monumentalised environment with a closely-spaced sacred topography resulting in the ubiquity of cult activities to various deities in a confined area (Roth Congès 1997, 2010; Haeussler 2017 discusses individual findspots of religious artefacts). In this context, it is even more surprising that these rather unusual ex-votos for the mallet god were not only produced and deposited, presumably on public display, but that they also survived down to Glanum’s abandonment. If we witness here the ‘subaltern’ expressing their religious devotion, then it is interesting that these altars were discovered between forum and Bona Dea temple, i.e. perhaps deliberately not at the sacred spring.

Conclusions Taking into account all the available evidence, including the countless non-Roman theonyms and their countless spelling variants, the many enigmatic sculptures and

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iconographies, the makeshift cult places, the diversity of cult practices, ex-votos and sacrifices, then the interpretation of Roman cults as merely ‘political tools’ of the ordo and the municipal elites, notably to create a ‘common identity’ and social cohesion within a Roman-style municipality, soon fades away. Only if we limit our attention to a small selection of cults and cult institutions can we recognise patterns – however superficial they may be – that would make it possible to compare provincial cults with the situation in Rome and Italy or with the ‘polis cults’ of Classical Greece, as we already discussed in Chapter 2. Taking into account that pre-Roman Iron Age cult activities appear largely dominated by collective offerings, sacrifices and feasting – often at a large scale, as we saw in the case of Corent – then one may argue that religious activities and understandings were virtually ‘liberated’ in the first couple of centuries CE, set free from existing constraints, such as the religious authority of certain elite groups. In the Roman period, there is an enormous diversity of cults, rituals, cult architecture, forms of religious communication and iconographic representations of the divine across the ‘Keltiké’ that reflect above all individual decisions by countless social agents of various social standing. Apart from the architectural environment, most of our evidence in this period comes from personal votive offerings and votive inscriptions, and, as we have seen, even people with rather modest financial resources fulfilled their vows in rural and urban areas. Instead of elaborate votive altars, those people often opted for rather simple votive altars, frequently of small size and crude craftsmanship, and often focusing on iconographic elements rather than text. These objects might also provide an insight into popular religiosity among those devotees who did not abuse religious communication as a means of self-display and self-promotion, as their wealthier counterparts did, but to communicate with the divine. Apart from the individual’s personal accumulated religious experiences, he or she acted in a community in which there were already multiple religious layers of understandings. The image of great and little tradition evoked earlier, of elite and sub-elite religious discourse is a useful tool, but still too basic if we aim for a better understanding of religious developments in the Roman world. Already the ‘superstructures’ must have been rather diverse in any given community of the empire, comprising of official ‘civic’ cults financed by the local ordo (though they, too, did not remain static), the cult of both living and deceased emperors and empresses, cults funded and propagated by individual elite families (e.g., on their villa estate), a community’s mythical history (which may show a community’s place in GraecoRoman narrative of travelling gods and heroes, such as Homeric heroes or Hercules), not to forget elite engagement with philosophical thinking, such as Neoplatonism, and empire-wide developments that led to the spread of henotheistic deities (e.g. Isis and Sarapis) as well as of Judaism and Christianity. In many western provinces of the Roman West, the evidence suggests that these multiple and simultaneous religious discourses – many of which were visually present with their temples, public

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sacrifices, festivals and processions – did hardly constrain sub-elite individuals, but it provided opportunities to express themselves, to pick and mix their own religious understandings, to develop something new (in Haeussler and Webster 2020 we have aimed to show how an individual act or innovation can set off a process with wider percussions). Moreover, we need to take into account a complex web of social relations between each individual, including one’s dependency on wealthy patrons and matrons, leading to multifaceted ‘negotiations’ when it comes to religious beliefs: a pendulum between tradition and innovation, between acceptation and rejection (Haeussler and Webster 2020). Some of the wealthy merchants, traders, farmers, freedpersons, newcomer and/or immigrants might employ their religious expressions tactically, for example by making a significant offering to an important cult. The case of Gaius Iulius Tiberinus from Beirut is characteristic in this respect: 4,000 km away in Nîmes, he not only explicitly demonstrated that he was not an ‘alien’, but a Roman citizen – hence mentioning the tribus Fabia – and a Roman soldier; he also set up an impressive altar to the local god Nemausus and to Jupiter Heliopolitanus (CIL XII 3072 = ILS 4288). At the same time, the majority of inhabitants never had the necessary financial resources. And as the gap between rich and poor was widening in the Roman Empire, we need to look at the choices available to the subaltern inhabitant and thus to aspects of rejection, for example by creating or developing alternative views of the divine (e.g. by making different choices of theonyms and epithets, developing a different iconography, etc.), which may eventually have led to contempt and mockery of the official ‘elite’ or ‘civic’ discourses (e.g. the graffito from Tre Owen, v. supra). Already in pre-Roman times, there may have been some layers of religious understandings that might have been supressed by elite discourses and therefore hardly visible to us: this may have been the case for the triad of mother goddesses – a concept that is so well known for the western Roman provinces although there is hardly any reliable evidence for this triad in pre-Roman times (the two Gallo-Greek dedication to the mothers, matrebo [Dat.], from Nîmes and Glanum are dated to the first century BCE simply because the Greek alphabet was employed but they are more likely to date to the first/second century CE). Again, we seem to be dealing with a ‘popular’ – i.e. sub-elite – belief in mother goddesses. Leaving aside the case of the Matronae in predominantly Ubian territory around Cologne and Bonn, the quality of many of the altars and reliefs for the matres appear more like sub-elite products, frequently standing in contrast to contemporary high-quality epigraphic and iconographic objects, like funerary stelae. One may perhaps imagine that certain individual ‘sub-elite’ person were the first to give these ‘mothers’ a physical, which was then taken up – or rather, appropriated – by some elite individuals who in turn may have subsequently created a physical space for their worship, thus placing the matres under the auspices of individual elite families; at the same time, the sub-elite worship of the matres continued without any restraint by civic authorities as we can see in the countless and diverse dedications to mother goddesses by people of all ways of life.

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Some wealthy individuals were clearly responsible for religious innovation, for example by promoting specific cults close to their own interests and experiences. The case of individuals establishing, funding and endorsing Isis and Serapis in towns like Nîmes and Bodincomagus-Industria is just one example to demonstrate the influence of people who had the financial resources to finance cults, sacrifices, sculptures, buildings and religious festivals; others consciously re-defined the meaning of cult places, like Marcus Agrippa establishing a temple to the Roman goddess of hygiene and health, Valetudo, next to the sacred spring at Glanum. Some of these decisions by members of the elites – a wide term that encompasses not just the local decurions and priests, the Roman magistrates, but all wealthy individuals including women – may have mirrored the religious ‘feelings’ of the wider populace, but some of their decisions were also rejected: establishing a new god or goddess needs to be intelligible to the local inhabitants in order to be successful. Marcus Agrippa’s Valetudo never really seems to have taken off, judging from the lack of votives in her honour (Haeussler 2011), while at the same site, the mallet god (‘Sucellos’) became extremely popular though we do not see any elite involvement. Rather than a topdown decision to institute the cult of the mallet god, this may well be an example of a grassroots movement: the small, simple, often anepigraphic votive altars – placed in a public space – set off a process that not only popularised the local chthonic deity at Glanum, but also propagated his function as a healing god (seemingly contradicting Sucellos’ functions in other contexts, e.g. near the entrances of mines) and further expanded the iconographic repertoire through creative processes: While certain wealthy individuals may have merely indulged themselves in displaying their paideia and ‘Romanitas’, their knowledge of Graeco-Roman myth – from Homer to Vergil – in public, it was predominantly the sub-elite population who expressed a multitude of religious understandings and myths, associating countless epithets with the indigenous concept of mother goddesses, expressing divine concepts in simple logograms – such as the mallet/hammer, wheel and tree that we see in one of the allegedly ‘most Romanised’ provinces, Gallia Narbonensis (Haeussler 2008a). This is not to deny a dialogue between these two ‘extremes’. A popular cult place might well have attracted the interests of wealthy individuals or even decurions, who instrumentalised it to consolidate their personal power in a region by, for example, spending huge amounts of money for votive offerings and cult installations, such as sedilia, fountains, statues, porticoes, temples, etc. (a certain Helvius dedicated sedilia – ‘benches’ –in the Dexiva sanctuary we discussed earlier, ILN-3, 222). In this way, they demonstrate their religious piety to local sub-elite worshippers, while actually appropriating, corrupting and manipulating the cult, trying to control it for their own purposes: many smaller cult places may not have required large funds to function, just the devotion of sub-elite worshippers; but this may change once elites start to invest in them. In addition, epigraphy also reveals the many wealthy passers-by who stop at a cult place en route and make votive offerings to powerful local deities. In this way, there is a dialogue about religious concepts between social agents of divers

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social statuses which not only means that elite concepts trigger down to the local population, but also vice versa. The situation is of course more complex: rather than a bipolar view between ‘elite’ and ‘subelite’, the enormous extent of migration and interaction over huge distances in an ever more entangled Roman Empire created the potential for a constant re-interpretation of existing cults as well as the widening the individual’s own religious experiences. To use Spivak’s phrase – ‘Can the subaltern speak?’ (1995) – we have seen that the post-conquest scenario seems to have provided opportunities for the other 99% of the population to express themselves: men and women, merchants, craftsmen, farmers, farmhands or haulers – whatever their social or legal status – did not only express themselves in the ‘Celtic’ provinces in the Roman empire, from Cisalpine Gaul to Britain, as we know from the epigraphic record, but they also developed their own forms of religious communication, including new divine names and art forms, and some of these sub-elite – even subaltern – acts would also shape the nature of the religious discourses as they took place in the public arena, whether someone made an offering in one of the large urban or rural sanctuaries or in one of the smaller shrines or in ‘holy sites’ – whether permanent or temporary – that might just consist of the basics, such as an altar, cult pit or shaft, a peribolos or ditch as demarcation. Though a cult place might have been venerated for generations, it may only have been a few individuals who took the personal decision – against the mainstream of devotees of that shrine – to use particular types of votive offerings, like an altar (inscribed or anepigraphic), as did a soldier setting up the only attested votive altar in the sanctuary of Hayling Island (RIB III 3042). At the end it is down to the individuals’ religious experiences, understandings and knowledge to shape the sacred landscapes and local pantheons in the Roman West. This is not to deny the existence of collective cults and civic festivals, but the staggering complexity of society during the first–third centuries CE must have resulted in an unprecedented religious diversity: political motives behind a cult were challenged by the aspirations and understandings of individuals, both among elite and sub-elite individuals who might even have expressed a certain intuitive expression of ‘Otherness’ by diverging from a community’s ‘official’ cults. And while the social and political role of women was extremely limited across the Roman empire, cults can provide them with a certain freedom of expression, especially if we look at cults that were exclusive to women, like the goddess Bona Dea that had her own cult place, for example, in Glanum, distinct from the other cult places (Roth Congès 1997). There are many cults that were dominated by women, like the cult of Diana at Savigliano in the west of Cisalpine Gaul where we find, among others, two magistrae (Inscr.It. 9.1, 175–176). For many segments of society, potential ‘sacred’ locations, like a spring, rock, hilltop, mountain, river or tree, could be invested with new meaning in the Principate, depending on people’s origin, status, education and religious experiences, with the aim to provide a place for a certain religious emancipation from the civic authorities.

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