Roman Seas: A Maritime Archaeology of Eastern Mediterranean Economies 2019039695, 2019039696, 9780190083656, 9780190083670, 9780190083663, 9780190083687

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Preface

This book is about using the maritime archaeological record—​especially shipwreck cargos but also ports—​to study long-​term economic structures in the Roman and Late Antique Mediterranean. It centers on a question that should be fundamental in the wake of a new generation of connectivity studies following the tradition of Fernand Braudel (1972), Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell (2000), and, most recently, Cyprian Broodbank (2013): how did seaborne contacts influence the development of economic—​and by extension social—​communities at different scales around the shores of the Mediterranean? That communication, travel, and exchange across mare nostrum flourished during the Roman era is hardly in doubt, but a preference for viewing the grandest long-​distance trade among major urban centers against a Brownian motion of small-​scale, short-​haul exchange has tended to flatten the finer and varied contours of maritime interaction and coastal life into a featureless blue Mediterranean. My goal is to shed light on how economic regions, neighborhood communities of sorts, developed around maritime space over the extended Roman and Late Antique era. What did busy seaborne contacts mean for the cadence of economic life in the ancient Mediterranean, the availability of goods and patterns of consumption not only in but also beyond the metropoleis, how (and how often, and how far) one might acquire and dispose of goods, and where groups of producers, merchants, and consumers organized themselves into communities and markets? And how did these patterns of economic and social life shift over time, in particular with the rise of Rome and the subsequent transformation of the Mediterranean world into Late Antiquity? An alternative framework is necessary to address these vii

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distinctly regional and diachronic issues through a maritime archaeological record marked by opportunistic preservation and exploration. Through detailed study of a rich assemblage of sites in one corner of the Mediterranean, I attempt to bridge two divergent approaches to shipwrecks: on the one hand, the analysis of a single site, studied in detail and often fully excavated, and on the other hand, the massive database of wrecks more cursorily treated across the expanse of the ancient Mediterranean. Qualitative and quantitative methods each offer critical insights and distinct advantages in terms of depth and breadth of study, yet there have been few syntheses of the two. A middle ground could capitalize on the growing body of shipwreck data while also profiting from details of individual well-​explored sites. There are probably many reasons for this gap, but among the most important is a comparative lack of well-​ developed systematic survey within the mainstream of underwater fieldwork in the Mediterranean, which has resulted in a near-​exclusive focus on (well-​preserved) shipwrecks and ports rather than a synthetic socioeconomic treatment of the full range of maritime archaeological evidence. Examining long-​term trends in maritime regional interaction is dependent on a multiscalar analytical framework that embraces both the growing corpus of data and the nuance gleaned from close study of complex cargos and related archaeological assemblages. My interest in these problems arose over the course of some 15 years of maritime archaeological fieldwork in Cyprus and Turkey, but no less out of a keen awareness of six decades of remarkable accomplishments by others whose long-​term research programs and constant methodological innovations have brought hundreds of shipwrecks, ports, and related sites to light along these coasts. This book hardly amounts to a comprehensive treatment of the archaeological evidence for the Roman maritime Mediterranean, but with it I aim to move the discussion a step further by offering an approach to synthesizing maritime archaeological data through the dual lenses of landscape and network in one corner of the ancient world. While explicitly Roman and eastern Mediterranean in its focus, this volume offers considerations of economy, exchange, mobility, regionalism, markets, and community identity that may be of utility for intellectual voyages into other periods and areas.

Roman Seas

Roman Seas A Maritime Archaeology of Eastern Mediterranean Economies

Justin Leidwanger

1

1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2020 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Leidwanger, Justin, author. Title: Roman seas : a maritime archaeology of eastern Mediterranean economies / Justin Leidwanger. Other titles: Maritime archaeology of eastern Mediterranean economies Description: New York : Oxford University Press, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019039695 (print) | LCCN 2019039696 (ebook) | ISBN 9780190083656 (hardback) | ISBN 9780190083670 (epub) | ISBN 9780190083663 | ISBN 9780190083687 Subjects: LCSH: Shipping—Rome—History. | Shipping—Mediterranean Region—History. | Trade routes—Rome—History. | Shipwrecks—Mediterranean Region—History—To 1500 | Underwater archaeology—Mediterranean Region. | Underwater archaeology—Rome. | Merchant marine—Mediterranean Region—History. | Rome—Commerce—History. | Mediterranean Region—Commerce—History. Classification: LCC HE597. R6 L45 2020 (print) | LCC HE597. R6 (ebook) | DDC 387.5/240937—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039695 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039696 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

Chapter 1

Maritime Interaction and Mediterranean Communities The Mediterranean has no unity but that created by the movements of men, the relations they imply, and the routes they follow. . . . [T]‌he essential task before us is to measure the relationships this network implies, the coherence of its history, the extent to which the movement of boats, pack animals, vehicles and people themselves makes the Mediterranean a unit and gives it a certain uniformity in spite of local resistance. The whole Mediterranean consists of movement in space. —​Braudel (1972, 276–​7 7)

In the wake of the monumental work of Braudel, the Mediterranean Sea is now widely recognized as a structuring feature of ancient life along its shores.1 Its unity, Braudel tells us in the opening quote to this chapter, derives from its role as a connective force that drew people, ships, goods, and ideas across the waves. These movements were as definitive of the Mediterranean as its particular climate, ecology, and geography.2 Bound together into a conceptual, economic, and cultural unit, the Mediterranean became not only the stage on which the Classical world unfolded but also one of its principal actors. Yet the movements that provided unity to Braudel’s Mediterranean unfolded over different spatial and temporal scales, and the sea played many different roles as actor. Horden and Purcell focus on the fundamental connectivity of small links and short distances that sustained communities through the uncertainties of a world marked by ecological fragmentation, local windfalls, and temporary shortages.3 Broodbank emphasizes the trajectories and geographies through which connections developed, first on a small scale but eventually extending across the entire Mediterranean, in the millennia leading up to the Classical world.4 What emerges clearly from studies of seaborne

  Braudel  1972.   Braudel 1972, 231–​354. 3   Horden and Purcell 2000. 4   Broodbank  2013. 1

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Roman Seas. Justin Leidwanger, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190083656.001.0001

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interaction are both its powerful contribution to shaping the Mediterranean past and its diversity across space and time. At no point in antiquity were these movements more intensive and deeply woven into the local cultural fabric than under Rome, when the Mediterranean achieved a political unity to rival—​at least temporarily—​this Braudelian unity. And at no point in antiquity were the dynamics behind these movements more complex and entangled, more varied and multivalent. The tendency to view the Roman world as a uniform hyperconnected mass, a single mare nostrum, conceals a richer topography of diverse marine environments and multiscalar movement. This book explores the contours of such topography, emphasizing the socioeconomic conditions and practical logistics that created regional patterns of maritime interaction and in turn shaped the lived experience of those on and around the Mediterranean’s many constituent seas. The maritime material remains in the eastern Mediterranean, particularly shipwrecks but also ports, offer case studies for detecting the structures and scales of seaborne interaction and—​to paraphrase Braudel—​for measuring the relationships they imply and their coherence over time. Embracing nearly a millennium, from the 2nd century bc through the 7th century ad,5 allows us to sharpen the focus on stability and change that accompanied the consolidation of Rome’s hegemony over Mediterranean waters through its Late Antique transformation. : : :

Movement, Connectivity, and Economic History How is the movement so central to Braudel’s definition of the Mediterranean and its past linked to the development of strong unity? Movement is the precondition for communication, whether at a village level or across the breadth of the Mediterranean. For economies and societies in which face-​to-​face interaction formed the basis for the sharing of knowledge and building of trust, the creation of relationships went hand in hand with integration.6 Between town and hinterland, across city or territory, to shared sanctuaries or games, or from port to port, repeated movements provided the essential architecture from which connections were built over time. These movements involved not only people but also the ideas and values that accompanied them, as well as transfers of goods. Such objects play a key role as material markers of connections while also shaping the relationships that produce them.7 Exchange in durable goods is therefore both a core component

  All dates are ad unless specified otherwise.   On trust, see recently Johnstone 2011. 7   Knappett  2011. 5

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of this unity and one of our best metrics for it since the processes were mutually reinforcing, with exchange enabled by these ties and in turn contributing to their maintenance. Through movement these bonds create social and economic geographies that can overlap or intersect ethnic, political, or other identities. Such human connections spread across an uneven topography where movement was difficult and limited, and friction or even barriers could arise to the transfer of people, goods, and ideas. The formidable first enemy, according to Braudel, was distance.8 Travel or transport over short distances required little infrastructure and was perhaps a routine aspect of Mediterranean life,9 but the slow and challenging conditions typical of longer journeys should give pause to modernizing assumptions about movement as the norm. Braudel relates the seemingly constant delays encountered by letters of correspondence and the spread of news in the Early Modern Mediterranean and Europe,10 and we should imagine no more efficient a situation for antiquity. The sea provided the most valuable weapon against this enemy of distance. Ships facilitated transfers with greater speed, not to mention reliability and bulk capacity, thereby reducing practical distances. Beyond the coasts, the difficulties of movement multiplied more rapidly, especially when transfers involved weighty loads. The contraction of distance at sea broadened the horizons for movement and individual human social and economic connections, but it also placed them at the mercy of the marine environment and available technology. Broodbank emphasizes how the growth and expansion of maritime technology from east to west over the course of the Bronze Age progressively shrank the Mediterranean to a more manageable human scale that would eventually be unified under Rome.11 Even so, delays in transit were inevitable as travelers and goods awaited the next properly bound ship, the assembly of a complete cargo, the passing of poor weather, or simply the tedious accounting of customs officials. Predation was largely suppressed through the stability of the Roman state, but wreckage from storms and ancient concerns over the perils of seafaring remind us that setting out across the waves was never without danger. The environmental, technological, and economic obstacles to seaborne movement were significant, but the masses of imported ceramics that litter Mediterranean shores and shallows are just one of the more obvious attestations of the routine persistence with which Roman seafarers overcame these challenges. The backdrop of essential Mediterranean unity envisioned by Braudel meets a portrait of intense fragmentation in the work of Horden and Purcell.12 For them,

  Braudel 1972,  355.   Moatti  2004. 10   Braudel 1972, 355–​58 and 365–​68. 11   Broodbank 2013, 345–​4 44; Broodbank 2016. 12   Horden and Purcell 2000. 8

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communication and movement were integral to a strategy among the largely agricultural base for coping with the risks created by the Mediterranean’s distinctively fragmented ecologies. Their building blocks of Mediterranean unity are “microregions” that were interdependent thanks to variable cycles of windfall and shortage, against which the movements of goods and people were social and economic insurance. Where the land divided, the sea connected, not in an instant but as a continually unfolding process. As landscape and topography pushed Mediterranean peoples toward the coasts, ports and seafaring became the principal tools to resolve regular supply problems and to capitalize on resources. Here the authors give pride of place to short-​haul coastal movements now commonly described with their preferred term of “cabotage.” The resulting pattern of “connectivity” lent the Mediterranean, especially its maritime world, a basic organizational principle. Comprising their own diverse collections of environmental niches, microregions formed the topography on which other structures of interaction and exchange were built in fractal patterns that entangled the whole into a connective mass. This push and pull of fragmentation and connectivity defines Horden and Purcell’s Mediterranean, or rather the innumerable individual worlds through which they reconfigure, from the bottom up, Braudel’s vision of a singular Mediterranean. The scale of any one of these worlds proves immaterial in comparison with the repetitive pattern of the system as a whole. The character is evident in their description of microecologies: It matters that they are kaleidoscopic; it does not matter what their actual size might be. The fragmentation is more important than the scale. So we shall not attempt to propound a typical size for our microregions. . . . We shall, without hesitation, use the term impartially.  .  .  . The underlying concept, rapid variation in the reaction of the producer to the surrounding world in all its complexity (variation which can take place over time as well as over distance), is fluid and inconstant.13

This is not to suggest a lack of awareness of scale in the model put forward by Horden and Purcell; their vivid portraits of microregions are rich with human experience of geography.14 Rather, the fractal landscape of microregional variation and connective pull offers a crucial opportunity to break apart Braudel’s expansive Mediterranean unity with a nested sequence of unities. The purposeful

  Horden and Purcell 2000, 79.   E .g., Horden and Purcell 2000, 54–​7 7.

13

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disavowal of geographical scale offers much-​needed flexibility to an environmentally informed model examining long-​term structural features and history “of” the Mediterranean, as the authors distinguish. Yet just as different people, goods, and institutions can generate different types of movement, so too are the worlds created by these movements different in scale and nature. Understanding the trajectories of maritime activity and integration that marked the Roman world demands temporal and geographical scale as well as history “in” the Mediterranean.15 Differences of scale, I  argue, are a fundamental component in the structure of Roman maritime economies and the ground-​level experience of those living along the empire’s many shores. The movements that realized connectivity and generated levels of coherence and unity owed much to environment, not only the kaleidoscopic dynamic of Horden and Purcell but also the particular marine conditions of different areas. The Mediterranean waters were hardly an equitable or passive connector, variously favoring or impeding certain crossings, presenting danger and unpredictability alongside resources and opportunities. Patterns of movement and geographies of connectivity across the ancient Mediterranean were also dependent on economic, social, political, and technological variables that shifted across space and time even long before (and certainly also long after) the Classical world.16 Unities were environmentally grounded but also historically contingent, created through continual movements and relationships and subject to change over time. Thanks to earlier foundational works that have explored the primary role of human connections in shaping the Mediterranean, we have a firm footing now on which to build regional and diachronic analyses. This book examines maritime connectivity through case studies in the long history of the Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean, exploring the multiple scales generated by seaborne interaction across this varied human and environmental landscape. I draw on the maritime material record—​namely shipwrecks and ports along southwest Turkey and the shores of Cyprus and its nearby mainland—​to identify patterns and densities of connections through the movements of people and goods between the 2nd century bc and the 7th century ad. Archaeologically driven case studies trade Mediterranean comprehensiveness for finer resolution, allowing us to define meaningful regionalisms in seaborne connectivity, to explore continuity and change in the east, and to contextualize particular patterns against the broader arc of Mediterranean integration and disintegration. Working with shipwreck cargos and maritime infrastructure, my   On their distinction between history “of ” and “in” the Mediterranean, see Horden and Purcell 2000,  2–​3. 16   See in particular Abulafia 2011; Broodbank 2013. 15

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main concern is naturally the economic ties that drew people together; these cannot easily be disentangled, though, from the social bonds through which they benefited and to which they contributed. I  focus on the strong and distinctive regionalism generated by repetitive journeys of small ships and cargos over a few days’ sail that shaped maritime economies in this area and intersected with shifting larger structures over the long term. Evaluating the groundbreaking work of Horden and Purcell, Woolf has recently noted that “in their passionate advocacy of the enduring structures of Mediterranean life ‘before Braudel,’ they have left to others the task of analysing change across the long period they treat, and of establishing the limits of mobility and connectivity.”17 Regional diachronic views are in order, and the present study takes a step toward a more richly textured historical understanding of maritime connectivity in one part of the Mediterranean at its height under Rome and in the aftermath. : : :

Roman Maritime Economies The primary drivers behind maritime movement, at least during the Roman centuries, were economic. Much of the historical debate over ancient economies, extending back more than a century, questioned the degree to which households and communities were effectively self-​sufficient and transport costs prohibitively high, or conversely, how important and widespread the exchange and movement of goods were in antiquity.18 While certain literary traditions celebrate the autarchic farmer as the ideal, the archaeological record provides clear evidence for the reality of routine exchange.19 The extent of consumption of imported wine, oil, and other goods visible from their durable containers leaves little doubt that the Roman world saw transfers of both prestige goods and regular commodities.20 The connectivity of Horden and Purcell is grounded in such exchanges. The distinctive Mediterranean geography and the bulkiness of these goods placed the sea at the center of these movements. Maritime transportation therefore accounted for a large sector of the distribution stage within the tripartite division of ancient economies into production, distribution, and consumption.21 The location and nature of supply and demand are essential parameters for understanding Roman maritime distribution. Horden and Purcell describe the   Woolf 2016, 448. See also Shaw 2001, 423; Harris 2005, 7.   E .g., Jones 1974, 35–​40; Hopkins 1983. 19   Bresson 2000, 109–​30; Horden and Purcell 2000, 112–​15. 20   E .g., Panella and Tchernia 1994; Reynolds 1995; Wilson 2009, 229–​37. 21   See generally Scheidel et al. 2007. On the distribution stage, see particularly the overview provided by Morley 2007a. 17

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environmental vagaries that brought unpredictable glut and scarcity across local landscapes.22 Roman agriculture may have seen a gradual rise in productivity due to strategic investment in marginal landscapes, improvements through irrigation and larger-​scale processing facilities, and practices that were likely more varied and niche specific than surviving texts reveal.23 The consolidation of agricultural plots into larger elite landholdings and the growth of imperial—​and in Late Antiquity, church—​estates probably yielded greater shares of marketable agricultural goods. Even modest surpluses of individual peasants and farmsteads could be cumulatively substantial.24 At least for the first few imperial centuries, a slow rise in per capita productivity ran parallel with growing populations that were contributing to supply.25 Specialization seems to have taken hold in some areas—​for example, in oil-​producing Baetica and grain-​rich Egypt—​and this trend continued well into Late Antiquity.26 By virtue of their near-​ubiquitous survival, ceramics have gained outsized archaeological importance in comparison with their ancient economic role, but they too offer a helpful glimpse into distribution: clay was readily available in most parts of the Mediterranean, yet certain areas came to be known for their fineware production.27 Agricultural and other staples were to some extent ubiquitous, but the Mediterranean was not so impartial in its allocation of other basics. Metals and stone provide the most obvious examples, with the mines in Spain and the marble and granite quarries that dotted the east offering vivid testimony to the increasing supplies available under Rome.28 The same microecological cycles ensured recurring demand for staples (and labor) at the most local level throughout the empire’s towns and countryside.29 Rethinking of early “consumer city” models has brought more attention to the specialized productive and other complex economic roles played by ancient urban centers.30 The logistical reality remains, though, that a significant proportion of the urban population was removed from—​while also entirely dependent   See also Garnsey 1988, 55–​63; Morley 2007b, 24–​25.   On improvements and investment, see generally Bowman and Wilson 2013; Malouta and Wilson 2013; Marzano 2013. On the diversity of farming practices, see most recently the ethnoarchaeological work of Halstead 2014. 24   Saller  2002. 25   On total productivity and its rise under Rome, see generally Hopkins 1980; Hopkins 2002; Lo Cascio and Malanima 2009; Scheidel and Friesen 2009. 26   A mong many, see Remesal Rodríguez 1998 (Baetican oil); Erdkamp 2005, 206–​58; Rickman 1980a (grain, especially from North Africa and Egypt). For Late Antiquity, see generally Ward-​Perkins 2000. 27   E .g., Eastern Sigillata A in the present study area: see Hayes 1985; Lund et al. 2006. 28   Wilson 2007 (metal); Russell 2013a, 61–​65 (stone). 29   For labor demand, see Grey 2004. 30   Parkins 1997; Alston 1998. See also generally Whittaker 1995; Mattingly 1997; Finley 1999; Erdkamp 2001. 22 23

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on—​the routines of agricultural life.31 Even if the urban sector accounted for perhaps only around 10% of the total population,32 its growth served to concentrate demand. Some of these urban dwellers farmed lands outside the city gates, but most depended on others staying in the fields.33 As a result, populations of many of the larger cities far outstripped the capacity of their local agricultural hinterlands, thereby generating asymmetries in the movements of certain goods. Many of the empire’s densest populations were in the east: in our study area, Syria and Cyprus together had a likely population of 5–​6 million by ad 165.34 Several hundred thousand soldiers stationed mostly at the edges of the empire created another hotspot for demand and one-​way flows. When cities could approach several tens or hundreds of thousands of inhabitants—​or the million inhabitants that Rome likely reached—​meeting basic sustenance meant massive imports from near and far.35 Add to this large quantities of other goods from household implements to building materials.36 The concentration of wealth in these cities generated demand that went beyond basic necessities, encompassing elite interests in exotics and luxuries, but also preferential consumption across the socioeconomic spectrum enabled by per capita growth. Wine may have been produced in most locations across the Mediterranean, but it came in widely varying qualities and styles that responded to different tastes, a phenomenon attested in the diverse record of urban imports.37 Cities and towns of all sizes were the stage for patronage and competition, creating demand for materials—​rudimentary structural stone, decorative marble, wood, components for concrete, etc.—​as well as the labor to fashion them into monuments.38 Bridging this geographical and social distance between supply and demand was the goal of Roman transport economies, and the sea provided the most efficient tool to this end. Of course some exchanges did not require maritime or other significant transport: for example, local produce in town marketplaces or   Erdkamp 2001; Erdkamp 2005.   Wilson 2011a (based on a minimum urban size of 5000); Scheidel 2007, 78–​79 (based on 2000 urban centers). See also Goldsmith 1984, 272; Maddison 2007, 42. 33   On this rate, see generally Scheidel 2007, 74–​80; Scheidel 2008. 34   Frier 2000, 814 table  6; Maddison 2007, 35 table  1.2; Scheidel 2007, 48 table  3.1. See also Kennedy 2006. 35   Morley 1996; Tchernia 2000; Kingsley and Decker 2001, 2–​5; Lo Cascio 2001. See also generally Papi 2007. 36   Harris  1993. 37   Stanley 1999; Kaldeli 2009. See also the general discussion of “semi-​ luxuries” by Foxhall 1998,  306–​7. 38   See most recently Bernard 2018 on the economic role of the building industry in the urban growth of Rome under the Republic. On wood as an indispensable but understudied commodity, see Harris 2018. 31

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the periodic markets that dotted the countryside.39 But for most exchanges outside the community, and even for imports that made their way into these same local contexts, some transport was necessary. This often meant one or more journeys by sea, particularly when the goods were bulky or needed to move over longer distances. Taking advantage of maritime transportation often still necessitated carting goods to or from a port, but the sea was generally not far away, particularly in the eastern Mediterranean study area that is our focus here. Goods moved alongside people, including merchants, sailors, and travelers. Just as the number and types of materials traversing the sea varied, so too did the individuals, vessels, and mechanisms involved. Chapters 2 and 3 discuss the ships and activities that characterized Roman maritime economies for their specific logistics and the patterns of movement they generated, but it is worth noting here briefly some of the different mechanisms that helped to foster seaborne interaction. Much of this routine movement was accomplished through market mechanisms that were seemingly ubiquitous throughout the Roman world. Some transfers of goods among elite estates, and perhaps among elites as reciprocal gifts, remained outside the commercial market.40 Yet produce from wealthy farms also found its way into the hands of profit-​driven merchants, who were often their freedmen or other dependents. Prejudices against commerce, especially maritime commerce, are well attested among landed elites, but clearly these commercial merchants were integral for acquiring the luxuries that maintained their lifestyles.41 The same market-​based distribution brought wine and other goods for more occasional purchase by a broad swath of city, town, and rural dwellers. Commerce sufficed for much distribution, but the greatest logistical challenges were not left wholly to these market forces. Top-​down efforts ensured that the megacities of Rome and eventually Constantinople, and the soldiers situated at the edges of the empire, were provided with goods and services through a complicated system of state-​driven supply collectively known as the annona. In the west, packaged Baetican oil was shipped in sturdy Dressel 20 amphoras to the northwest provinces;42 in the east, provisions were amassed for transfer to the northern Balkans and across the deserts. Communities in the eastern Mediterranean became major military suppliers for the Danube area in Late Antiquity, making these shipments all the more crucial to maritime economies.43 Providing basic foodstuffs for Rome amounted to a monumental maritime undertaking as the

  De Ligt 1993; Frayn 1993; Rosenfeld and Menirav 2005. On urban shopping, see Holleran 2012.   W hittaker 1983, 169–​73; Verboven 2014. 41   See most importantly D’Arms 1980; D’Arms 1981. 42   See especially Martin-​K ilcher 1987; Carreras Monfort and Funari 1998. 43   W hittaker 1994. On the Danube region, see Karagiorgou 2001; Rizos 2013. 39

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city outstripped the ability of the central Italian countryside to meet its growing needs.44 Much if not most of this supply, including later to Constantinople, could not have been accomplished without market mechanisms.45 But the grain and oil of Egypt, North Africa, and Spain to feed the masses were ensured also in part by this annona, which may have been allotted to a full quarter of the populations of the metropoleis.46 While few have discounted the significance of both commerce and directed exchange in ancient economies, major debate has centered on the relative importance of each in driving interaction and growth, and the extent to which they created shared markets for goods and services across the Mediterranean.47 The material and historical records are hardly clear on the former point. The basic Roman land tax generated a complex mix of private and state shipment. Contracted local agents or cities collected taxes variously in cash or in kind (or in some combination), creating different dynamics of distribution that shifted across the empire and over the centuries.48 The province of Asia, for example, seems to have taxed in kind, at least early in its history, although money taxes may have been levied on certain occasions or goods.49 Other parts of the east, including Cilicia and Syria, seem to have demanded such obligations be settled in currency.50 Access to tax-​ grain from certain provinces ensured crucial supplies, and collecting in kind may also have provided a measure of stability in the face of inflation, prompting some scholars to argue for a rise in this practice during the later empire. But this system was also more complicated for the state, which had to organize storage and transport through its agents. It is not surprising, then, that tax payments levied in kind were often commuted into monetary equivalents and many other goods collected as tax were quickly and locally sold off to simplify logistics.51 The seemingly more straightforward practice of monetary taxation likewise necessitated transportation of local produce for sale in plausible areas of consumption; the burden then rested not with the state but with the individual.52 In each case, tax obligations led to the movement of considerable volumes of goods through private or state agencies, especially locally but also in some cases over longer distances. 44   Panella and Tchernia 1994; Aldrete and Mattingly 1999; Brandt 2005. See also more generally Morley 1996. 45   K ingsley and Decker 2001, 13. 46   Casson 1980; Rickman 1980a; Carrié 2003a. 47   E .g., Durliat 1990; Lo Cascio 2006. 48   Banaji 2001; Ziche 2006. 49    Duncan-​Jones 1990, 190–​92. 50   Duncan-​Jones 1990,  189. 51   Liebeschuetz 1961. 52    Duncan-​Jones 1990, 193–​94.

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Commercial and noncommercial movements therefore appear mutually dependent, either through different transport stages of a particular good or through the shipment together of commercial and noncommercial goods in the same merchant holds.53 While the annona was fostered and underwritten by the state, it appears to have been left largely in the hands of private commercial contractors who used these same journeys and routes to deliver goods for profit in the marketplace.54 The particular balance between mechanisms clearly varied across different parts of the Mediterranean, where some communities were relatively disconnected from command economies and others (e.g., southern Spain) found themselves more strongly dependent on state systems. This balance also varied through time, with state-​and church-​tied distribution playing a leading role in more sectors of the late empire, if perhaps unevenly between west and east.55 The progressive inclusion in the annona of oil, followed by wine and pork, reveals the growing scope of state supply in addressing the needs of a million residents of Rome, a burden that was extended to other important centers and ultimately transferred to Constantinople, where it eventually fed perhaps 80,000 of the city’s half-​million residents.56 By the 6th century, between 300,000 and 400,000 soldiers also needed state provisioning.57 Certain increases in the productivity of frontier provinces may have mitigated some demands of locally stationed armies. Yet growing numbers of regulars and campaigns, payments to allies and enemies, and the permanent institutionalization of the military annona each increased the burden.58 The famous Edict of Diocletian stipulating prices for transport, the rendering of the annona structure into a hereditary obligation from the 4th century, and any increasing reliance on collection of taxes and rents in kind may all be read as indicators of wavering confidence in commercial mechanisms.59 The second question, regarding the extent to which commercial and other mechanisms generated market integration, has taken on central importance for discussions about economic complexity in antiquity and bears directly on the overarching question of unity raised earlier.60 How effectively did individual markets operate across the vast Roman world? How closely did prices correlate with supply and demand? How monetized were these transactions? How was market   Ward-​Perkins 2001, 174; Wilson and Bowman 2018.   R ickman 1980b; Sirks 1991; De Salvo 1992. 55   W hittaker 1983; Ward-​Perkins 2001, 172–​74. 56   Carrié 1975; Durliat 1990. 57   K ingsley and Decker 2001, 6. 58   Giardina 2007, 757–​58. 59   Whittaker 1983, 170. 60   E .g., Carandini 1986; Woolf 1992; Harris 1993, 18–​20; Erdkamp 2005; Bransbourg 2012; De Haas and Tol 2017. 53

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knowledge transferred within and among communities? And which sectors and products were most closely tied to market mechanisms? At one extreme, Temin asserts that the cost of wheat can demonstrate the existence of a single unified product market throughout the Mediterranean, noting that prices for the commodity fall off with distance from the main center of consumption at Rome.61 Perhaps the most formidable challenge to this vision has been from Bang: The world of the Roman trader was an uneven, rough, and heterogeneous place. Imbalances, asymmetries, and bottlenecks in transport, goods, information and social institutionalisation, were a chronic feature. This made for relatively low transparency and high unpredictability.62

Bang’s cross-​cultural bazaar model is marked by transport that was too erratic and information that was not transparent, sufficient, or reliable enough to allow effective planning and market integration.63 Contrasting evaluations of market integration depend on the efficiency of various institutions that underpinned exchange. The circulations of larger and smaller coinage suggest that money was readily available for different scales of commercial shipping, while the transfer of resources on paper played an important role in facilitating routine exchange at a distance.64 Shared weights and measurement practices, at least for certain common commodities, helped to streamline their transfer.65 Maritime loans are attested alongside insurance in contracts that reveal how capital was assembled for a journey and how risk was distributed.66 Resources could be pooled and cargos combined for individual journeys involving several backers, multiple merchants, a ship owner, and a separate captain.67 While landed aristocrats might traditionally have shunned commerce, the slaves, freedmen, or other intermediaries working on their behalf ensured their participation in the risks and rewards.68 High interest rates indicate both the profitability and dangers associated with maritime commerce. Legal sources hint at traditions, limitations, and recourse in the case of accidental loss or broken agreements, although the law may have been limited in its practical use for many transactions.69 Likely   Temin 2001; Kessler and Temin 2008; Temin 2012.   Bang 2008,  195. 63   Bang 2006; Bang 2008. 64   Howgego 1992; Howgego 1994; Banaji 1996; Carrié 2003b; Harris 2008; Lo Cascio 2011. 65   Lo Cascio 2006, 221–​22. 66   Rougé 1980; Andreau 1999, 54–​56; Sirks 2002. 67   Rathbone  2003. 68   Aubert 1994; Tchernia 2011a, 19–​55. 69   A ndreau 2006; Sirks 2007; Sirks 2018. 61

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more important were the extended social worlds in which these agreements were made, which could go a long way toward ensuring that both parties delivered on their obligations. Societies of traders rose to prominence based on goods or routes.70 In many instances shared ethnic or geographical origins, often underpinned by common religious traditions, formed the basis for partnerships and pooled resources across the expansive Mediterranean world; threat of expulsion from the community was a powerful deterrent that helped to safeguard trust.71 On a broader level, we should not overlook the less quantifiable factors of the Roman state, including the suppression of piracy, widespread adoption of common currency, and enforcement of a general legal framework, in creating a more stable and safer environment for maritime activity; nor should we discount the potential negative impact of their erosion in the last centuries of antiquity.72 These varied movements of goods and people, and the varied human and environmental landscapes that helped to foster them, are matched by diverse ships, seafarers, and seafaring patterns. Together they reflect something other than one coherent and unchanging economy; rather, the Roman world presents multiple contrasting, overlapping, and evolving economies that varied in time and space, tied as they were to shifting political and social worlds. This study explores the contours of these maritime economies and their regional development, interaction, and integration over the long run of the Roman Empire in the eastern Mediterranean. The complexity of maritime distribution demands a dataset that speaks, directly and loudly, to the movements of goods and people on which this Mediterranean history depended. The material record of shipwrecks and ports provides the best available multiscalar and diachronic view of the economic patterns these connections generated. Wrecks in particular present a large and robust dataset—​67 sites in the area under study here—​comprising a wealth of individual glimpses into the diverse movements, mariners, and cargos at the heart of maritime distribution across nine centuries of activity. : : :

Shipwreck Datasets Recent research on ancient economies has come to rely on quantitative analysis to evaluate long-​term growth as well as institutional and structural change.73   Broekaert 2011; Verboven 2011; Broekaert 2012; Rice 2016a.   E .g., Rauh 1993; Verboven 2002; Hasenohr 2007; Terpstra 2013. See also Greif 2006 on Medieval Mediterranean institutions, and on the impact of social relations on modern markets and economic behavior more generally, see Granovetter 1985. 72   Scheidel 2011; Lo Cascio 2018. 73   E .g., Bowman and Wilson 2009; de Callataÿ 2011; de Callataÿ 2014. 70 71

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As a result, shipwreck numbers have taken on new importance as a metric for the movements of goods and people and economic prosperity more broadly. The potential of bulk wreck data was evident more than 25 years ago with the publication of Parker’s seminal catalog of approximately 1200 ancient and Medieval wrecks in and around Mediterranean lands.74 In its wake, these numbers have become a dominant lens—​perhaps the dominant lens—​through which archaeologists and historians examine the maritime material evidence for distribution economies. Graphs of shipwreck sites have often served as shorthand to narrate not only the rise and fall in maritime exchange but also the growth and decline of ancient economies more broadly.75 Recent efforts have made the catalog more extensive, more accessible, and ultimately more contextualized both spatially and historically. Since 2005, the Oxford Roman Economy Project (OXREP) has incorporated shipwrecks into its holistic view of the empire’s economic history.76 Its database of sites, which spans from the earliest seafaring through ad 1500, stood at 1781 as of its recent release (2017), reflecting an approximately 50% increase over Parker’s catalog. Nearly three-​quarters of these most likely date to the Roman or Late Antique centuries, a figure that far exceeds the entire known corpus from just 25  years previous.77 Simultaneously, the Harvard-​based Digital Atlas of Roman and Medieval Civilizations (DARMC) has also integrated shipwrecks from its earliest iterations. With 1238 sites as of the last release (2017), DARMC’s more restricted and later chronological focus on the first 1500 years ad shifts the

  For the catalog, see Parker 1992a, with additional exploration of the dataset in Parker 2008.   The routine appearance of Parker’s famous histogram (illustrated in Parker 1992a, fig. 3) is the most obvious indicator of this trend: among many examples, see Horden and Purcell 2000, 371 table 5; Gibbins 2001, 278 and 279 fig. 10.2; Morley 2007a, 572 fig. 21.1. Wilson 2011b, 33 n. 2 compiles the ongoing life of this shipwreck diagram, although earlier copies of Parker’s aggregate data were used to similar ends: e.g., Hopkins 1980; Whittaker 1989. In the interest of showing this broad arc in the context of economic discussions, not all replication of this histogram has included substantial source criticism of the data or method. 76   See http://​oxrep.classics.ox.ac.uk/​databases/​shipwrecks_​database/​. This source adds hundreds of wrecks that became known through publication only after the appearance of Parker’s (1992a) volume. For the initial data collection on which the catalog was based, see also Strauss 2007. 77   The OXREP figures published in 2011 stood at 1646 total wrecks, of which approximately 1200 were most likely dated within these nine centuries, reflecting again nearly three-​quarters of the total. Figures from Parker’s (1992a, 8–​9) compilation are only slightly higher for this period, amounting to 77% Roman wrecks and suggesting that the broad trend has not changed significantly over time: “Roman wrecks number over 75% of all wrecks earlier than AD 1500.” Thus, despite a focused interest in the discovery of earlier maritime activity, the rate of finds of Roman and Late Antique sites appears not to be diminishing. Note that the numbers used for total wrecks in both of these catalogs include undated sites, meaning that the figure of three-​quarters reflects a comparison between dated Roman and Late Antique sites against all dated and undated pre-​ad 1500 wrecks. Very likely this undated group includes many Roman and Late Antique sites that would push the figure still higher. 74

75

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economic lens squarely onto the transformation of the Classical world into the Medieval and up to the Early Modern era.78 Such compilations aim to tap the analytical potential of bulk shipwreck evidence but also tend to expose weaknesses within the dataset that must be addressed. Unevenness in the discovery, reporting, and publication of wrecks, and in the preservation of different sites and materials, represents a crucial caveat when evaluating the data’s representativeness and reliability as a resource for exploring economic questions. The limitations of using the maritime archaeological record for the present study are discussed at length in c­ hapter 2,79 but we should note up front the widely varying levels of detail within these datasets. Entries for sites reported only as “Late Roman or Byzantine” in Parker’s catalog appear side by side with descriptions of thoroughly excavated and systematically published wrecks. Scatters of material are generally treated as wrecks, although in some instances these could represent anything from a lost ship to jettison, to the normal accumulation of material at anchorages. Strategies for coping with broad date ranges and for distinguishing the material signatures of different depositional events offer some hope for improvement,80 but practical issues dictate that the dataset will remain uneven. My concern for the benefits afforded by this particular mix of fine-​grained detail and bulk material evidence underscores an important (if generally overlooked) reality within common approaches to analysis of Roman maritime economies: a growing corpus of shipwreck data—​regardless of its size and detail—​will never reach the critical mass or perfection the scholarly community seems to be awaiting in hope of some spontaneous order. The material evidence demands better contextualization, constant innovation in analytical approaches, and newly creative ways of capitalizing on data both old and new, fine and coarse grained. One path taken by such digital database initiatives has been to situate shipwrecks, often treated discretely, alongside other evidence for economic activity and maritime connections. Drawing on a wide range of mostly literary, historical, and topographical evidence, de Graauw’s massive compilation of approximately 2900 ports (as of 2017) has been incorporated into the DARMC geospatial

  See http://​darmc.harvard.edu/​. This focus on the first millennium and a half ad means that the database does not include material from the first two centuries of interest here (2nd–​1st century bc). 79   See c­ hapter 2, pp. 35–40. 80   On assigning dates to shipwreck sites, see critiques in Wilson 2009, 222; Wilson 2011b, 33–​34; and c­ hapter 4, pp. 112–113. On distinguishing and utilizing other depositional events alongside shipwrecks, see most importantly the pioneering work by Muckelroy 1978, 157–​214. See also Lenihan 1983, 56–​58; Gould 2000, 12–​14; Martin 2011; and, for the Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean, Leidwanger 2013a. 78

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database.81 As points of transfer and communication between land and sea, these ports add spatially grounded data and a crucial counterpart to the material evidence for goods and people in motion attested by shipwrecks. Together, this maritime dataset of ships and ports can also be viewed alongside other economic indicators such as mines, villas, and markets. Benthos: Digital Atlas of Ancient Waters has recently begun adding maritime spatial data to the digital initiatives of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill’s Ancient World Mapping Center. Benthos aims to weave together the physical and cultural geography of the sea, allowing shipwrecks and their cargos, together with ports, to be viewed and analyzed against the backdrop of coastal topography and bathymetry, urbanization, and perhaps eventually natural factors of direct maritime relevance like prevailing winds and currents. The potential of such a tool for understanding bulk shipwreck data, seafaring routes, and economic practices within their spatial contexts appears enormous, a promising point not lost on the editorial team, which notes, “the correlation of these three spheres—​site of shipwreck, location of ports, and network mapping of cargo origins has the potential to reveal patterns that will prove to be of great interest for studies of both the Mediterranean economy and patterns of travel and transportation.”82 The most recent wave of scholarship has shifted the emphasis toward alternative analytical and contextual approaches that can maximize the utility of bulk shipwreck evidence.83 Boetto uses case studies of five well-​preserved wrecks from the western Mediterranean, some with mixed and others with homogenous cargos, to propose a set of models for different scales of commercial exchange; in the process she demonstrates that small cargos need not be limited to one single or uniform type of low-​end exchange.84 Rice, also working with a subset of mostly western wrecks, identifies different structural features and organizational principles behind Roman maritime trade, creating models that can in turn serve as a framework for approaching the broader corpus of significantly coarser data.85 Delving deeply into the remains of about 100 wrecks for which reasonable tonnage estimates are available, Nantet’s synthesis examines long-​term trends in

81   For the dataset by Arthur de Graauw in its most recent form (2017), see http://​w ww.ancientportsantiques.com/​. 82    See http://​awmc.unc.edu/​awmc/​applications/​benthos/​; for the quote, see http://​awmc.unc.edu/​ wordpress/​benthos/​a rchives/​68. 83   Current and past OXREP-​a ffiliated researchers have generated a series of studies tackling economic sectors from the marble trade and river transport to ports and fishing: see Heslin 2011; Rice 2011; Schörle 2011; Wilson et al. 2012; Marzano 2013; Franconi 2014. 84   Boetto  2012. 85   Rice  2016b.

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cargo sizes and ship capacities from the Archaic period through Late Antiquity.86 Russell explores the dynamics behind the trade in stone through, in large part, the compiled evidence of dozens of marble and other fine stone cargos that reveal their own discrete rise and decline.87 Wilson situates well-​established trends in shipwreck numbers alongside improvements in nautical and related infrastructure to posit a small but sustained role for maritime technological growth in overall Roman economic prosperity.88 Such contributions have capitalized on this new wealth of readily accessible data, elucidating in the process more diverse and precise trends and trajectories in the longue durée of Roman maritime activity. By doing so, these studies have helped to drag shipwrecks—​often viewed as the purview of a discrete archaeological specialization—​back into the mainstream study of ancient economies. : : :

An Eastern Mediterranean Case Study This book examines a geographical subset of Roman and Late Antique shipwreck evidence from an economically dynamic area of the imperial east: the southwest and south coasts of Turkey as well as the northeast corner of the Mediterranean around Cyprus and the adjacent mainland of Cilicia and the northern Levant. The area includes some of the wealthier and more populous centers in the east—​Caria, Cyprus, and Syria—​and incorporates the coastal territories of not only several modern states but also various Roman and later administrative units. Selecting a study area oriented around maritime space is fundamental to this project’s focus on how seaborne activities drew people together into economic communities. Placing this corner of the Mediterranean Sea at the conceptual center, the study area derives its importance as a corridor for ancient maritime movement. Most seafarers traveling between Egypt and the Levant on the one hand and the Aegean or western Mediterranean on the other would have passed along these shores, creating opportunities for interaction over longer and shorter distances. This strong maritime profile combined with rich resources for export played no small role in drawing Rome into local affairs here over the course of the 2nd and 1st centuries BC. The annexation of Asia as a province in 133 bc brought Caria into the Roman administrative structure, after which imperial connections extended farther east, culminating in the incorporation around the mid-​1st century bc of the entire southern Anatolian coast from Lycia to Cilicia as well as Syria and

  Nantet  2016.   Russell 2013a, 114–​18; Russell 2013b, 344–​49. See also Wilson 2011b, 38. 88   E .g., Wilson 2009; Wilson 2011b; Wilson 2011c. 86 87

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Cyprus. Following several centuries of relative peace and prosperity, the changing fortunes and focus of Rome in the east generated Late Antique shifts in local administrative divisions. Diocletian’s reforms fragmented certain provinces but simultaneously lumped large parts of western, central, and southern Anatolia into the single Diocese of Asia, and the northeast corner of the Mediterranean—​ including Cilicia, Cyprus, and Syria in our study area—​into the Diocese of the East. The Praetorian Prefecture of the East came to control the study area for most of the remainder of the period, although the important institution of the Quaestor of the Army (Quaestura Exercitus) linked the wealthy and prosperous lands of Cyprus, Caria, and the Aegean Islands to the Danubian provinces in a bid to provide economic support on this crucial military frontier. Even before this geographically awkward administrative shift in the 6th century, the core territories of the study area were recognized as valuable agricultural lands and important economic drivers in the eastern Mediterranean. A wide range of goods are recorded as exports, from the slaves, murex dye, and pitch of Lycia to the flax, grain, and timber of Cilicia. The maritime contribution of Cyprus is celebrated in descriptions of the island boasting the full range of shipbuilding materials as well as the ability to fashion them into sturdy seagoing vessels.89 But among the bulk goods that filled the cargos of eastern Mediterranean merchantmen, wine and oil held a particularly important place both for their economic impact as everyday foodstuffs and for their archaeological detectability.90 These were packaged in sturdy transport amphoras that can be readily linked to different parts of the area throughout the periods of interest.91 In general, the earlier Roman world featured more geographically restricted forms to contain these goods:  Knidian-​, Koan-​and Rhodian-​style jars across southwest Anatolia; several shared types (pinched-​handle, Agora M54, etc.) along parts of Cyprus and Cilicia; and a wealth of additional forms extending through Cilicia and down the Levantine shore. While Late Antiquity saw diminished formal variety here in transport amphoras—​dominated now by Late Roman 1 (LR1) and Late Roman 2 (LR2)—​t heir frequent discovery stands as proxy evidence for ongoing production and export of these major agricultural goods across the study area.92 From this study area, I  have assembled a total of 67 wrecks with cargos using a variety of available sources. Site locations are shown on the maps in

89   On the wealth and resources of Cyprus, see generally Michaelides 1996; Leonard 2005, 210–​14 and 824–​58. 90   Decker 2009, 235–​36 and 243–​46. See also see Kolb 2008; Rice 2012, 162–​7 1; Tuna 2012, 18–​19. 91   For more detailed discussion of the challenges and opportunities of transport amphora evidence in the study area, see c­ hapter 2, pp. 39–​40. 92   See generally Empereur and Picon 1989; Reynolds 2005; Kaldeli 2008; Autret 2012.

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appendix 1 (figs. A.1 and A.2), and fundamental information on date, context, and cargo composition—​primarily wine or oil signaled by these durable and diagnostic amphoras—​a lso appears in table A.1.93 Published and unpublished survey reports served as the starting point for gathering data, and the resulting compilation is as inclusive and comprehensive as possible at present. In many cases, I have been able to supplement original survey records with restudy of individual finds. For approximately half of the wrecks off southwest Turkey, I  undertook reanalysis of amphoras and any other materials raised on survey and available in the storerooms of the Bodrum Museum of Underwater Archaeology.94 My own archaeological fieldwork led to the initial or reinvestigation of several of the sites discussed here, especially off the coast of Cyprus. New study of older materials has resulted in the exclusion of certain sites that had previously been counted among the wrecks in Parker’s catalog and the digital databases it informed. Certain revisions to dates and cargo compositions have been proposed based on an updated understanding of ceramic typologies and production locations. In other cases, the duplicate reporting or conflation of two sites has been corrected.95 Assemblages that upon further study did not meet certain minimum details were necessarily excluded, namely some description of cargo type or origin and a date with a minimum specificity of either the Roman or Late Antique period.96 These criteria resulted in the rejection of certain poor data   Wrecks discussed throughout this study are identified by their common name along with site numbers specifically assigned for this purpose in appendix 1, table A.1. Correspondences between the present case study wrecks and the inventories of Parker 1992a, OXREP, and DARMC are given in this table. 94   Th is restudy was undertaken with the permission and support of the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism, the Bodrum Museum of Underwater Archaeology, and the Institute of Nautical Archaeology’s Bodrum Research Center. For access to this material and support of efforts at restudy during this research, particular thanks are due to Yaşar Yıldız, Hande Savaş, Tuba Ekmekci, and Esra Altınanıt Biçer. Additional thanks to George Bass and Cemal Pulak for their permission to include Roman and Late Antique sites from their surveys along the Turkish coast. 95   Internal contradictions in the literature, likely caused by changing naming or reporting conventions, appear to be responsible in these instances. For example, four of Parker’s sites off the Datça peninsula at İskandil Burnu (A and B) represent just two wrecks that had been reported twice over the course of several different field seasons: see Parker 1992a, 159 and 217. Cf. Lloyd 1984. Off the western tip of the Bodrum peninsula, the mixed remains at Küçük Kiremit Adası (A and B) entered Parker’s catalog under the single label “Mandalya Gulf A” based on a misreading of the location noted in the survey report: see Parker 1992a, 257. Cf. Bass 1986, 214–​15. 96   These two broad periods, for which the shipwreck evidence here is examined in further detail in ­chapter 4, were delimited as follows: Roman denotes 2nd century bc to mid-​4th century ad, and Late Antique denotes mid-​4th through 7th century ad. This division of the two periods at the mid-​4th century is perhaps a half-​century later than some recent and more inclusive definitions of Late Antiquity but takes advantage of a natural break in the shipwreck dataset and allows several broadly dated but clearly Mid-​Roman wrecks (#33 and #34) to fall within the earlier period. 93

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unsuitable for the analytical approaches adopted here: for example, a wreck with unspecified “Roman amphoras” or a “Late Roman or Byzantine” wreck with no finer chronological resolution.97 Culling the data in this way directly affects what questions can be asked and how, since quantitative study is necessarily a balancing act between maintaining a sufficiently large sample to ensure representative results and a sufficiently precise analytical framework to allow meaningful interpretation. Cross-​referencing the final list of 67 sites reveals that approximately one-​half (34) are presently included in any of the databases discussed previously. Some wrecks represent recent additions to the published literature, although few postdate the most recent release dates of the databases. In general, those sites not included in these bulk sources were inadvertently overlooked, almost certainly due to the cursory—​and often local and specialist—​nature of their publication. This discrepancy is a clear indication of the difficulties involved in data collection at the vast Mediterranean-​w ide scale demanded by synthetic endeavors like Parker’s. It underscores the need to delve deeply into more geographically and temporally limited subsets of this data. As anticipated, the resulting dataset shows concentrations along certain shores as well as considerable variation in level of detail and preservation. The larger group (54) is situated off the coast of southwest Turkey (fig. A.1), where underwater investigations by the Institute of Nautical Archaeology have brought to light one of the densest concentrations of known shipwrecks in the Mediterranean.98 Discovered through routine diving surveys and reports by sponge divers and fishermen over more than a half century, these sites are mostly within coastal areas at midrange depths of up to ca. 50 m (fig. A.3). These are joined by wrecks discovered through other recent survey efforts in both shallower and deeper waters, the latter of which have provided data on vessels that are sometimes better preserved if only preliminary documented.99 Most of these 54 wrecks are concentrated off the 97   Certain shipwrecks that lacked sufficient detail therefore could not be included without additional evidence from notes or restudy of finds. In rare instances, a lack of information on the cargo type necessitated exclusion from the dataset. 98   On finds from the Institute of Nautical Archaeology underwater surveys, see generally Bass 2005. Most of these sites have been published preliminarily in reports for the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism’s Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı and occasionally elsewhere. Of these, the most important publications for the present study are Bass 1974; Rosloff 1981; Bass 1982b; Yıldız 1985; Bass 1986; Pulak 1986; Pulak 1989; Pulak 1990; Pulak 1998. Other sites are known only from the survey archives and, at times, from recovered materials now stored in the Bodrum Museum of Underwater Archaeology. The 54 sites in the table of appendix 1 are largely unchanged from the list presented in Leidwanger 2017, 601–​2 ­tables 1 and 2. 99   These include long-​term surveys of the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts of Turkey by Harun Özdaş of Dokuz Eylül University:  see Özdaş 2007; Özdaş 2009a; Özdaş 2009b; Özdaş 2010; Özdaş et al. 2012. Work in deeper water was undertaken by RPM Nautical Foundation: see Royal 2006; Royal

Maritime Interaction and Mediterranean Communities 21

Bodrum, Datça, and Bozburun peninsulas, with a few lying farther east toward Göcek, Kalkan, and Kaş. The smaller group of 13 wrecks comes from the shores of Cyprus and the nearby mainland (fig. A.2). These were most often found in shallow waters (fig. A.3), which helps account for their comparatively poor preservation in many instances. The great majority (11) are distributed along the east, west, and south of Cyprus, including several explored through my own survey work conducted between 2003 and 2009.100 Only two sites from the coasts of Cilicia and Syria were sufficiently well documented and published for inclusion in the present study. As a whole, however, the dataset across the study area exhibits good representation of both Roman and Late Antique wrecks at all depths, from shallow to middepth but also beyond (fig. A.4). Like the Mediterranean-​w ide databases, this subset of shipwrecks reflects several biases. The southeast Aegean today belongs to two modern nation-​states that were closely connected in antiquity, but the picture offered here is devoid of wrecks from Greek waters. The efforts of the Ephorate of Underwater Antiquities of Greece have resulted in a substantial corpus of shipwrecks, but well-​founded concerns for the protection of these sites along one of the most extensive, accessible, and tourist-​friendly coastlines of the Mediterranean have meant that only a small fraction of sites in the Greek seas are widely known to the academic community.101 Large stretches of the southern Turkish coast—​around the Bay of Antalya, for example—​are comparatively underexplored due to difficult sea conditions and practical logistics that have kept the work by the Institute of Nautical Archaeology and others focused primarily on the sinuous coast west of Cape Gelidonya.102 Maritime archaeology farther east along Cilicia has until recently seen only intermittent survey, and Syrian waters have only briefly been touched by scientific work.103 The political situation has affected investigations off the north 2008; and by the University of Rhode Island: see Brennan et al. 2012; Brennan et al. 2016; and most recently Opaiţ et al. 2018.   See generally Leidwanger 2007; Leidwanger 2010; Leidwanger 2013b; Leidwanger 2018a.   A general overview of the database can be found in Micha 2007, but the database itself is not available to the public. For Greek efforts to preserve local underwater cultural heritage, see generally Dellaporta 2002; Dellaporta 2004. The urgent need for such protective measures was captured well by Gibbins (2001, 283) in his description of the 5th-​century bc Alonnesos wreck: “The pristine state of this wreck is one reason to be thankful for the prohibitive stance on wreck diving in Greece; elsewhere in the Mediterranean such a site would have been looted and destroyed long ago.” 102   On weather conditions here, see Pryor 1988, 90 and 98; Heikell and Heikell 2013, 249. 103   For new maritime landscape work in Cilicia, see most recently Varinlioğlu et  al. 2017. Earlier underwater survey work is described in Atauz 2001; Evrin et al. 2002; Evrin, Ayaroğlu, et al. 2004; Evrin, Zoroğlu, et al. 2004; Evrin et al. 2005; Ward 2005. In Syria, an important exception to this overall trend is Frost’s (1966) pioneering work in the 1960s, on which see also Kampbell 2013. The general trajectory is clear, with very few sites known, let alone well explored. 100 101

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coast of Cyprus; a four-​decade lapse in field research was only recently brought to a close by heritage assessment surveys around the Karpaz peninsula.104 The nature of different shipwreck investigations also varies considerably. In lieu of comprehensive documentation of all finds, some surveys aimed at locating and evaluating well-​preserved, historically important, and chronologically underrepresented wrecks with an eye toward future excavation; often this means that the often plentiful Roman and Late Antique wrecks, particularly when not well preserved, are less thoroughly documented. Other investigations inspired by maritime landscape research have undertaken more complete recording of finds over smaller areas.105 Where surveys raise objects, the wrecks that appear most detailed and diverse are often those with the greatest number of finds available for restudy. At least two wrecks (#31, #63) were subject to systematic recording, while two others have been excavated in part (#38) or in full (#64), yielding the richest accounts of cargos and connections. The various field approaches all resulted in important bulk data for shipwrecks but with widely differing levels of detail.106 This material record of 67 shipwrecks is ready for new analysis. Some unevenness in the dataset presents challenges but also offers an opportunity to synthesize two contrasting approaches that have dominated studies of ancient shipwrecks: quantitative evaluations of economic historians seeking broad trends from raw numbers and qualitative views provided by specialist investigations into individual well-​explored sites. Few studies to date have attempted to bridge these analytical traditions despite their evident complementarity.107 Single shipwrecks that have been fully excavated or otherwise surveyed in detail are regularly contextualized against a backdrop of broad data trends; likewise, data trends hypothesized from bulk evidence are often illustrated with select case studies revealed through intensive maritime archaeological investigations. With this set of 67 wrecks, the present study aims to offer a synthetic approach that capitalizes on the growing shipwreck data without losing some of the crucial nuance provided by well-​explored sites. To this end, the level of detail may be uneven, but the dataset is quantitatively robust and sufficiently fine grained for flexible analytical methods, especially with the culling of problematic sites and the reexamination of promising ones. In his own employment of shipwreck evidence for writing economic

  Harpster 2008, 4–​8; Harpster 2010.   For maritime landscape approaches in shipwreck investigations and surveys more generally, see ­chapter 3, pp. 77–82. 106   Th is discrepancy is most notable when the search for wrecks from earlier periods resulted in more cursory documentation of Late Antique and Byzantine material. Ceramics and other finds available for restudy here were therefore fundamental to folding such sites into the current analysis. 107   See generally discussion in Leidwanger 2017, 595–​97. See also Harpster 2017. 104 105

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history, McCormick asserts that “such large numbers muffle the ‘noise’ of imperfection and error.”108 With reasonable analytical approaches, the clustering of so many sites in the waters off southwest Turkey and around the northeast corner of the Mediterranean allows us to assemble a diachronic inquiry into the movements of goods and people that generated maritime economies in the Roman and Late Antique east. : : :

The Route Ahead The two chapters that follow provide the essential environmental, archaeological, theoretical, and methodological background for this study. Chapter 2 opens with an exploration of the local marine environment, in particular the topography, currents, winds, and other natural factors of most direct relevance for ancient seafaring. Following a brief overview of the archaeological evidence and allied iconographic and textual sources for Roman and Late Antique seafaring, the chapter discusses ship construction and types, sizes of vessels and cargos, rigging and outfitting, as well as sailing speeds, capabilities, and journey conditions in the study area. These basic parameters are key to modeling the Roman and Late Antique maritime movement and economic activities at the center of my study. Chapter 3 outlines the theoretical background and methodology I adopt to work across scales in constructing an archaeological model of maritime interaction. After problematizing concepts of regionalism, the chapter draws on maritime cultural landscape studies to embrace the diverse geographies and temporalities of different seaborne mobilities that integrated communities around maritime space. To organize this material record of diverse seafaring practices, I  explore the conceptual approaches and formal modeling tools of networks. These provide the framework for a multiscalar model of maritime interaction that unfolds over the next two chapters. Chapter 4 applies this methodology systematically to the dataset of 67 wrecks introduced earlier. Varied quantitative analyses serve to contextualize spatial and diachronic trends in the study area against the broad backdrop of the east and Mediterranean as a whole. Two discrete peaks of activity provide the basis for constructing comparative Social Network Analysis visualizations of Roman and Late Antique connections within and among the geographical areas represented by cargos. The analytical tools of Geographic Information Systems, together with environmental parameters and seafaring capabilities, allow me to ground spatially these network links using likely sailing times; such journey lengths reflect

108

  McCormick 2012, 79.

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a superior ground-​level understanding of the “costs”—​and therefore the potential regularity and investment—​represented by these connections. Chapter  5 turns from shipwrecks to the comparative evidence provided by Roman and Late Antique ports. Discussion focuses first on the methodological challenges associated with modeling the full range of port-​based activities and facilities from complex built protective structures down to the least conspicuous sandy beaches. Two limited case studies illustrate the extended world of maritime networks: a series of sites around the Datça peninsula in southwest Turkey and another along the south-​central coast of Cyprus. Together, these views allow me to examine the diversity and distribution of ports in the local material record as well as the likely roles these spaces played in networks and rhythms of economic activity throughout their hinterlands. Chapter 6 brings together insights into the structures and dynamics of networks outlined throughout the study. I  stress the need to approach maritime interaction as a spatially and temporally grounded network phenomenon. Discrete and dynamic regional maritime economies—​featuring their own small mariners, simple ports, and flexible mobilities—​form the fundamental basis for distribution tied into the agricultural economy and reaching beyond urban centers. The intersection of these regions with Mediterranean-​w ide connections offered the opportunity for integration, but this integration varied widely throughout the period: loose but geographically expansive networking under Rome gave way to more spatially restricted but coherent interregional structure in Late Antiquity. My approach sheds new light on the emergence and evolution of maritime networks across the eastern Mediterranean, as well as the stability and dynamics of their network scales in light of the broader economic, political, and social shifts that marked the transformation to Late Antiquity. This bottom-​up archaeological view illustrates the many diverse seas, made and remade through seaborne movements, beneath Braudel’s Mediterranean and Rome’s imperial mare nostrum. The chapter ends by considering briefly the broader application of this methodology to the increasingly rich datasets for connectivity outside this corner of the Roman world.

Chapter 2

Topography and Tools of Interaction Just look at the harbours and the sea full of bulky timbers. The majority of humankind is now on the water. —​Juvenal (14.275–​7 7, trans. Braund)

Ships and boats were common sights under Rome, whether in its ports, on its waters, or throughout its extensive iconographic and literary repertoire.1 Even so, the detailed 3rd-​century mosaic at Althiburus in central Tunisia offers an unusually rich and revealing example of Roman interest in nautical themes (fig. 2.1). Some 25 vessels are depicted in considerable detail and on sufficiently large a scale to necessitate squeezing them into the floor space (perhaps of a frigidarium) at various orientations despite its considerable size (about 8 m in length).2 The vast majority of these well-​preserved images are labeled with diverse terminology for different types of craft, some of them common terms, to judge from their appearance also in literature. Their shapes, sizes, modes of propulsion, and functions vary widely. Some are employed for fishing and others for merchant ventures on seas and rivers. These contrasting tasks and environments are likely signaled also by the images that partially frame the cluttered vessels on three preserved edges:  representations of a river god and Oceanus on either side, and a coastal scene on the third side adjacent to the fishing boats.3 The large scale on which the mosaic is rendered would seem to mask considerable differences in ship sizes, revealing a preference for capturing vessel variety even if particular details may reflect artistic convention more than a shipwright’s typology. Certain vessels are more rounded and others more elongated; some show a curved stem while many display a cutwater bow. The means of propulsion is not always clear—​a single

  For just a glimpse at this extensive repertoire, see generally Basch 1987, 418–​92.   On the mosaic, see generally Gauckler 1905; Duval 1949, as well as discussion in Basch 1987, 482 and 488; Friedman 2011, 154–​55. 3   Duval 1949,  121. 1

2

Roman Seas. Justin Leidwanger, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190083656.001.0001

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Fig. 2.1. A 3rd-​century mosaic floor from Althiburus, Tunisia, showing representations of different vessels (from Gauckler 1905, plates IX–​X).

figure rows with double oars in many instances—​but some vessels appear to have been sailed with one or two masts, while others were rowed (by multiple rowers) or towed. The mosaic’s physical location is also worthy of note:  rather than on the coast where such iconography would have obvious referent, it appears in an agriculturally rich zone more than 120 km from the nearest port. The nautical and marine imagery and glossed terminology may speak to interest and connections to maritime activities far beyond the coast, in this case to an area that surely was involved in the production of goods for export by sea.

Topography and Tools of Interaction 27

Even allowing for poetic hyperbole in Juvenal’s statement at the start of this chapter about crowded seas and ports, ships and seafaring were nearly ubiquitous across the Roman world. But the Althiburus mosaic also makes it clear that the vessels, activities, and conditions that drew so many onto the water were remarkably diverse. This chapter explores ancient seafaring through the ships and boats that provide our primary evidence. I focus on the marine environment in which Roman and Late Antique seafarers operated:  the seas, winds, and currents, as well as their vessels, technologies, and capabilities. Together with discussion of maritime activities in ­chapter  3, these explorations of sailing provide essential parameters for the model that unfolds in later chapters. Environmental discussion concentrates on conditions in the study area as well as the eastern Mediterranean more generally. Yet ancient maritime activity was fluid by nature and the evidence is uneven, particularly for the east where fewer shipwrecks have been scientifically investigated than along the coasts of France and Italy. As a result, I draw here as necessary on a wider material record to present a succinct but holistic view of the mariners who crowded the eastern waters of the Roman and Late Antique world. : : :

Marine Environment of the Eastern Mediterranean Topography and Navigation The marine and coastal topography of the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean is described comprehensively in modern sailing guides,4 but a few salient points should be stressed regarding ancient seafaring in the study area. The Aegean is characterized by mountainous headlands and islands that provide handy navigational aids and subdivide maritime space into smaller zones. Its sinuous shores account for about half of the total Mediterranean coastline’s length, despite representing a small fraction of its surface area.5 The Datça peninsula offers a prime example of this environment. This long and narrow feature is marked by mountains and undulating bays; together with the adjacent Bodrum and Bozburun peninsulas to the north and southeast and the nearby islands of Kos and Symi, it nearly encircles the two deep gulfs of Gökova and Hisarönü. The southeast Aegean landscape, a model of the fragmentation described by Horden and Purcell, sets the stage for complex and intensive maritime activity: coast-​hugging populations, short seas and easy connections, a wealth of navigational reference points,

  See generally Heikell 2012; Heikell and Heikell 2013; United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016.   Davis 2009,  18.

4 5

28  Roman Seas

dynamic and highly localized environmental variables, and diverse shelters for nearly any weather conditions. To the east, the long coastline of southern Turkey is backed by high mountains that likewise provide a useful landmark for sailors as well as routine opportunities for shelter. Protection from the major winds is possible behind islands and headlands along Caria and Lycia. Still farther east, the Cilician coast was famous in antiquity for its rugged topography of concealed coves and seaside settlements perched along the slopes.6 The northern shore of Cyprus is also well defined by its tall chain of mountains that extend to the northeast tip, leaving the island and opposite mainland within visual range of each other under good conditions. Cyprus’s other major mountain landmark lies in the west central part of the island: the Troodos range with its associated foothills, rivers, and valleys. On the whole, Cyprus’s west, south, and east present a diverse sequence of coastal scarps and sandy beaches along lengths of alternating sinuous and straight shores.7 At the northeast corner of the Mediterranean, mountains define the Gulf of Iskenderun, and outcrops of similar terrain mark much of the northern Levantine coast. This situation changes markedly farther south along the Levant and then westward across the North African shore of Egypt. Here, seafaring was challenged by low-​ lying—​and therefore inconspicuous, exposed, and potentially dangerous—​coasts as well as offshore hazards like sandbars and shallow reefs. These mountainous coastlines and complex topographies offered mariners handy navigational aids.8 Their effective use for orientation at sea, however, depended on the degree to which natural landmarks were visible at any point on a voyage, whether as a destination on the horizon before setting out or as a series of headlands along a coastal circuit. According to Horden and Purcell, “mutual visibility is at the heart of the navigational conception of the Mediterranean, and is therefore also a major characteristic of the way in which microregions interact across the water, along the multiple lines of communication that follow those of sight.”9 Davis’s study of ancient navigation reevaluates this often-​overlooked factor, demonstrating the spatially and temporally varied influence it exerted over ancient mariners. Ideal conditions rarely occur in the Mediterranean environment, so Davis explores the more routine haze that reduces visibility on the water, particularly during the busiest maritime travel of late spring through early autumn.10 A  greater proportion of the open sea, it seems, lies beyond reliable   Rauh 2003, 169–​201; Rauh et al. 2013.   E .g., Leonard 1995a; Karyda 2016. See also the discussion of the diverse coastline along south-​ central Cyprus in ­chapter 5, pp. 172–​180. 8   Medas 2004,  71–​80. 9   Horden and Purcell 2000, 126. 10   Davis 2009, 46–​50. See also generally Meteorological Office 1962, 167–​7 1. 6 7

Topography and Tools of Interaction 29

visual contact with land. At the height of the Mediterranean summer, visibility is reduced to less than 10 nm (ca. 18.5 km) on average one out of every four days. The challenges in this regard are particularly acute in the Aegean. While its shorter distances and generally high headlands should aid sailing—​contributing to its early role as a “seafaring nursery”11—​Aegean waters experience reduced visibility at roughly twice this rate (i.e., one in every two days). Brief windows of a day or two with pristine local clarity are not uncommon, but these are generally followed again by worse conditions. Short bouts of fog are infrequent but can occur nearly anytime in winter or even in spring and summer.12 The large concentrations of suspended sand and dust brought by winds from the south and southwest (scirocco, see “Winds”) can similarly limit visibility for several days or more across broad swaths of the eastern Mediterranean and Aegean. This new assessment of practical visibility at sea leads Davis to assert that even journeys over more limited distances could encounter many of the marine environmental challenges that scholars have traditionally associated only with open-​sea and longer-​distance voyages.13 Relatively few sea spaces in our study area lie beyond sight of land regularly or for extended periods. Nonetheless, familiarity with local marine and coastal topography and first-​hand experience in the vagaries of reduced conditions were surely among the greatest assets for an ancient mariner aiming to operate in this part of the Mediterranean. Lighthouses could extend visible reach for certain locations, although these were comparatively few and largely restricted to some of the major urban ports like Alexandria, Patara, and potentially also Knidos, Side, and Paphos.14 The sequences of ports, headlands, and other features that structure periploi hint at mariners’ reckoning of unfolding linear distances along coastal journeys.15 References in literature and art to prominent navigational aids and dangerous points (e.g., Cape Malea), sometimes personified or mythologized (e.g., Sirens, Scylla, and Charybdis on the Strait of Messina, or Cynossema on the Hellespont), reveal how the sea and coastal features became ingrained as common knowledge even outside the circle of mariners.16 The sun and stars also provided navigational reference points according to the season since their position allowed estimation of a vessel’s latitude. In the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean, the predictability of certain consistent winds and currents (see “Tides and Currents”)

  Broodbank 2000, 111; Broodbank 2006, 218; Howitt-​Marshall and Runnels 2016; Jarriel 2018.   United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 40. 13   Davis 2009,  49–​50. 14   On the potential lighthouse at Paphos, see ­chapter 5, pp. 174–175. 15   A rnaud 2014. See also later, p. 61. 16   Eur. Hec. 1265; on Sirens as marine personifications, see Neils 1995. 11

12

30  Roman Seas

made them a handy reference for gauging directions on the open sea.17 Additionally, birds were used to spot approaching land,18 and sounding leads were known for centuries but employed widely and consistently for practical seafaring perhaps only from the 2nd century bc. These simple devices allowed sailors to detect water depth and shoals, to observe seabed composition that might determine where and how to anchor, and, in the case of Roman fishermen, to choose the best seabed topography for improving catches.19

Tides and Currents Tides and surface currents exert obvious environmental influence over the movement of ancient vessels, yet both are quite limited in the Mediterranean. While small in amplitude—​as little as 0.1 m, and generally under about 0.4 m—​tides here exhibit considerable variation depending on particular location, coastal geometry, and bathymetry. Inflow from the Atlantic creates higher tides (ca. 1.0 m) near the Strait of Gibraltar, but these dissipate quickly as one moves eastward. Around the central and eastern Mediterranean tides are generally less significant still, with the exception of certain localized geographical conditions (e.g., northern Adriatic). As a result, they would have only minimally affected coastal communities and maritime infrastructure in the study area.20 This limited tidal activity means that tide-​generated currents are also a minor concern beyond certain areas marked by strong inflows like Gibraltar and the Hellespont. Surface currents in the eastern Mediterranean and Aegean are instead more directly related to dynamics of sea temperature, salinity, and sustained winds, as well as limited inflows from the Nile (particularly before its modern controls). On the whole, such currents are weak in the study area and throughout the eastern Mediterranean, flowing at only 0.25–​0.5 kn; significantly higher flow rates are extremely rare and short-​lived, except for a few enclosed straits like that between Euboia and the Greek mainland or Samos and the Turkish shore, where they can more routinely reach 3–​4 kn.21 The gently counterclockwise mass in the eastern Mediterranean moves in a wide band along the North African coast to Egypt, extending northward along the Levant around Cyprus before turning westward and passing southern Turkey. Upon reaching Rhodes and Crete, a branch splits

  Morton 2001, 208 and 217–​19; Medas 2004, 155–​81; Davis 2009, 120–​57; Arnaud 2014, 47–​54.   Wachsmann 1998, 300; Morton 2001, 225–​27; Medas 2004, 86–​93. 19   Oleson 2000; Oleson 2008. 20   Heikell and Heikell 2013, 34; United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 21. 21   Davis 2009, 26–​30; Heikell and Heikell 2013, 34 and 165; United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 18 and 19–​20 figs. 1.121.1–​1.121.2. 17

18

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off and heads into the Aegean. This flow and another that enters through the Hellespont to the north generate a complex series of local currents in all directions among the multitude of islands that dot the Aegean. Along southwest and western Turkey, these vary seasonally, flowing weakly northward for most of the autumn through winter and early spring. Summer currents are more consistent but again weak, passing in the opposite direction. Generally south-​flowing currents characterize the central and western Aegean throughout the year.22 The low strength of currents here leaves them more easily affected—​enhanced and altered—​by the sustained action of strong winds and local features. The forceful seasonal etesian (Turkish meltem) winds from the north are largely responsible for the shift in currents in the southeast Aegean from north flowing to south flowing in the summer. Complex island topography can channel or deflect these flows to create contrasting patterns from one location to the next, and certain eddies can develop downstream from islands. Even currents that appear broadly reliable and weak year-​round can exhibit highly localized and sometimes seasonal variations, particularly near shore.23 With an effectively shaped hull (see “Ship Construction and Types”), a mariner could harness these currents to add speed or stay on course when sailing with advantageous wind, or to aid on occasion in making progress in contrary or still winds: for example, when sailing westward along parts of the southern Turkish coast, where currents generally run counter to prevailing winds.

Winds Currents could help or hinder a particular voyage, but their effects on sailing practice were generally minor in comparison with those of winds. For an ancient mariner, deciding whether a journey was feasible probably began with an evaluation of wind conditions. Comparisons between modern tables and ancient literary references suggest that prevailing wind patterns have not changed markedly since antiquity, so modern data can provide the essential parameters for understanding ancient voyages.24 For the eastern Mediterranean and Aegean areas of interest, the most important and consistent winds—​t hose exerting the greatest influence on open waters—​come from the north and west. From May through September, the reliable etesians blow along a wide arc that curves counterclockwise from the northern Aegean toward

  United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 18 and 19–​20 figs. 1.121.1–​1.121.2.   Palmer 2009a,  26–​27. 24   Murray 1987. For Cyprus in particular, see Murray 1995. 22 23

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the Levant.25 These winds pick up around midmorning and increase in intensity throughout the afternoon before dying down in the evening. As northerlies in the Aegean, they can be particularly strong when they wrap around complex island topographies and intersect other local winds. After passing through the southeast Aegean as northwesterlies, the etesians fan out into the eastern Mediterranean. Continuing as westerlies along southern Turkey, they form the major winds that govern sailing along Cyprus before turning northeast into the northern Levant. Other etesians continue from the Aegean across the open sea toward the Mediterranean’s southeastern and southern littoral, sometimes encountering contrasting scirocco winds from the south or southeast. Particularly in the winter and spring (and occasionally early summer), these short-​lived but powerful sciroccos bring reduced visibility from suspended sand and dust. They are typically limited to a few days per month, and the prevailing regime returns quickly thereafter. While summer winds are more consistent in direction, winter winds seldom blow from the same quarter for more than a few days at a time.26 Seasonal patterns exert influence also through the swell and wave action they generate; these factors are common throughout the year but most reliable in summer. Stretches of coast that see consistent prevailing winds are generally marked by stronger wave action and swell (i.e., the southern and eastern Mediterranean shores), although even these rarely exceed 2–​4 m in height. Much like the winds behind them, higher seas become more common and their direction more variable in the winter.27 These conditions reflect broad wind patterns across the study area, but as was the case with currents, local factors can also strongly influence seafaring. The complex topography in such areas as the Aegean deflects northerlies and northwesterlies, creating sudden and strong squalls in the lee of high landmasses.28 Headlands and other features that often serve as important navigational points tend to feature dynamic conditions, and these can vary even over relatively short distances. Prevailing winds also interact with the diurnal cycle of on-​and offshore breezes caused by the differential heating and cooling of land and water throughout the day. This condition results in local winds from the sea (sea breezes) that rise over the course of the late morning and afternoon as the land heats up, followed by contrasting winds as the land cools overnight. The breezes can extend several kilometers or more out to sea. In certain topographical settings and when combined with prevailing winds, they can become difficult or even dangerous. More

25   See generally Meteorological Office 1962, 78–​79; Heikell and Heikell 2013, 29–​30; United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 28. 26   Davis 2009,  34–​39. 27   United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 21 and 22–​25 figs. 1.129.1–​1.129.4. 28   United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 37.

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often, though, they provide a helpful and reliable resource for ancient mariners traveling up and down the coast.29 For example, midway along the southern shore of the Datça peninsula at Burgaz, summer sea breezes pick up reliably around 11:00 a.m., increasing gradually until early evening when they drop to a still. This intersection of prevailing winds and local conditions creates a dynamic marine and coastal environment that would have presented different opportunities and challenges for ancient mariners. Appendix 2 collates wind data by season for major coastal locations in the two parts of the study area.30 The southeast Aegean demonstrates immediately these wind regimes across scales, illustrating both the prevalence of northerly and westerly winds as well as the individual local variations (figs. A.5–​A.8). The major winds follow the pattern of the prevailing etesians: they arrive from the north or northwest for areas in the southeast Aegean as far as the Datça peninsula but blow more directly from the west as one ventures farther east down the Turkish coast. In many of these locations, however, contrasting conditions are common, even punctuating the otherwise reliable etesians. Winds in Bodrum and Datça, for example, come from the south and southeast approximately one-​t hird of the time over the course of the year; these conditions are as typical in summer as they are in winter. Even among the dominant westerlies at locations like Rhodes or Kaş, opposite winds are not uncommon during the winter season (at Kaş, during the autumn as well). Figures A.16–​A.19 reveal a similar situation around the northeast corner of the Mediterranean. Winds here arrive primarily from the west and occasionally (along the northern Levant) from the south, but again considerable diversity is evident over the course of the year and even within seasons. Wind direction was not the only factor determining suitable conditions for ancient mariners. Their strength and reliability also played key roles. On the whole, the prevailing offshore etesian winds in the study area average around Beaufort 2–​3 (4–​10 kn, light to gentle breeze) or 3–​4 (7–​16 kn, gentle to moderate breeze, producing small waves). These can increase to Beaufort 5–​6 (17–​27 kn, fresh to strong breeze, generating moderate to large waves) off southwest Turkey, and less commonly around Cyprus and the northeast Mediterranean.31 Most coastal locations record reasonably consistent wind speeds—​even if the particular direction might change—​t hroughout the year (figs. A.9–​A.15 and A.20–​A.26).

29   United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 37. See also Meteorological Office 1962, 92–​95; Davis 2009,  39–​43. 30   Winds collated in appendix 2 are derived from windfinder.com, which offers more site-​specific data on a monthly or annual basis. For broad seasonal patterns across the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean, see also United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 32–​35 figs. 1.141.1–​1.141.4. 31   United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 32–​35 figs. 1.141.1–​1.141.4.

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Where more seasonal variability is evident, the stronger winds are typically found in summer: for example, at Rhodes (fig. A.12) and Iskenderun (fig. A.22). Only at a few locations do these conditions regularly rise to Beaufort 4 or greater force, in which cases they are again typically associated with summer. The likelihood at Rhodes of winds at or above Beaufort 4 rises from around 20% probability in the winter to 45–​77% between May and September. Even so, such conditions are extraordinarily uncommon in other parts of the study area around Bodrum (fig. A.9), Marmaris (fig. A.13), Kaş (fig. A.15), and Silifke (fig. A.20). The most prohibitive conditions (Beaufort 7+, 28+ kn, high wind to gale) are rare throughout the study area, but these too exhibit considerable variability by location and season (figs. A.5–​A.8 and A.16–​A.19). Areas farther north in the Aegean tend to see greater frequency of gale-​force winds than the waters east of Rhodes. Such difficult conditions are most frequent in winter (6–​16%) and least common in spring and summer ( 80%). Eliminating those with practically empty holds raises this average to nearly two-​t hirds (64.8%) capacity. These figures offer a cautious reminder that the material assemblage scattered on the seabed, even when well preserved, might reflect a smaller load in transit than the total size of the vessel. Translating these tonnages into dimensions, a maximum capacity of about 70 tons might necessitate a basic length around 20 m.123 Vessels meant to carry several hundred tons could easily achieve 30+ m. Among Nantet’s dataset, those vessels whose material remains allow reasonable reconstruction of hull dimensions yield a mean length of 18.66 m.124 A slightly shorter average length of ca. 16 m characterizes his 44 “small” vessels falling at or below 70 tons. The well-​studied Early Hellenistic Kyrenia shipwreck again offers a useful benchmark: clearly more than adequate for seagoing operations, this vessel was ca. 14 m in length and carried an essentially full load of 400 amphoras totaling nearly 20 tons.125 The crew complement naturally depended on the size of the ship and the technology it employed as well as the journey length. Archaeological evidence from shipwrecks has provided important clues for crew size, particularly on small to midsized vessels, through sets of ceramic dining wares on board. Evidence from the Kyrenia ship galley argues convincingly that four sailors undertook this eastern Mediterranean voyage.126 The wares from the slightly larger early 7th-​century Late Antique periods reflects a drop of 31.4% (theoretical) and 27.4% (at sinking). The real drop may be even more significant given that the calculated tonnage Nantet (2016, 524–​27) uses for the Late Antique Marzamemi shipwreck is likely too high, perhaps twice the total reflected in the archaeological assemblage: see Leidwanger and Tusa 2017, 118–​19. 122   On this practice in the carrying of stone, see Throckmorton 1972, 76; Russell 2013a, 130. Cf. the early 7th-​century Yassıada A (#64) vessel, which was loaded with approximately 37 tons out of a total capacity of 53–​60 tons (61.7–​69.8%): Steffy 1982, 85–​86. 123   Assuming typical length-​to-​beam ratios of between 3:1 and 4:1: Casson 1995b, 188; McGrail 2014, 22–​23. See also the various hull lengths and corresponding tonnage calculations in Nantet 2016, 524–​27. 124   The Roman shipwrecks are in general longer, at 18.85 m, in contrast to the 18.12 m for Late Antique vessels. 125   Katzev 2008; Nantet 2016, 323–​26. 126   Katzev 2005,  76.

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Yassıada A (#64) wreck included sets for likely five persons.127 These and similar assemblages from the western Mediterranean suggest that three to five was the common crew for small to midsized Roman or Late Antique craft.128 Larger vessels demanded mariners with varied operational responsibilities, a few of whom might be permanent while others were hired only for a voyage.129 Whitewright suggests that even ships over 100 tons probably required no more than a dozen crew members, perhaps fewer for journeys of short duration.130 Complex commercial arrangements could dictate additional merchants or their representatives, increasing the contingent on board. Variation again appears to be the norm, with sizes of ships and their cargos depending on the particular economic and other conditions in which mariners were operating. The different trajectories in tonnages are more easily tracked in time and space for larger ships, but variation should also be expected within the smaller vessels that were often strongly tied to smaller-​scale maritime economic developments. Most “small” ships were well below the traditionally cited 70-​ton threshold, and many appear even under the 20–​50 tons that Arnaud emphasizes.131 But broad ranges and single averages for the ancient Mediterranean can provide only a backdrop for our multiscalar diachronic model, a context in which to situate the local archaeological record from our own study area in the Roman East. : : :

Ancient Mediterranean Sailing Rigging and Maneuverability Although ship gear is preserved archaeologically with far less frequency than hull remains, we are fortunate to have considerable iconographic evidence to shed light on the rigging and operating of vessels. The Althiburus mosaic’s emphasis on diversity extends beyond hull shapes to reveal both rowing and multiple sailing configurations (fig. 2.1). Oars were ubiquitous for warships but appear also on other vessel types. Dedicated merchant galleys were an unlikely solution for routine nonmilitary activity; with little space left for cargo after the rowers and their provisions were loaded, these typically light ships were ill-​suited to all but certain expensive or time-​sensitive deliveries of goods, people, and information.132

  Bass 1982a,  188.   Beltrame 2002c,  48–​50. 129   Casson 1995b, 314–​21. 130   Whitewright 2016, 882. 131   Arnaud 2011,  73. 132   Casson 1995a; Casson 1995b, 157–​68. 127

128

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Practicality dictated that the oars of merchantmen were primarily for maneuvering into and around port or over very short distances if the wind died and progress was necessary. Both the iconographic record and the hints of rigging elements preserved in the archaeological record clearly indicate the dominance of sail-​ driven vessels for merchant activity. A swift, sleek, and maneuverable hull was advantageous, but no less integral was a rig able to effectively capitalize on as broad a spectrum of wind conditions as possible. Contrasting winds on outbound and return journeys, routine shifts throughout the day, and geographical variations even across small areas meant that the vessels best equipped for diverse conditions were most likely to make steady and safe progress. In practical terms, this meant that the closer they could sail into the wind, the better they could maintain speed along the journey (fig. 2.4). Any Roman or Late Antique vessel could sail effectively downwind on a “run” (wind directly behind) or a “broad reach” (wind from the quarters). The latter was probably the most efficient position for many ancient

Fig. 2.4. Points of sail for an ancient vessel (by Sheila Matthews, after schoolofsailing.net).

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vessels.133 Progress was also reliable on a “beam reach” (wind at a right angle to the vessel). But sailing into the wind depended greatly on vessel form and rig plan as well as mariner skill, wind strength, and sea conditions. An experienced captain and crew with a maneuverable sail could work on a “close reach” up to a certain point. Turning more directly into the wind could render the vessel unable to move (“in irons”). Precisely how close to the wind (“close-​hauled”) an ancient vessel could effectively maneuver remains a point of contention. Traditional nautical practice measures this capability using 32 points of a compass.134 These points reflect the angle between the vessel’s heading and the direction from which the wind blows; the lower the number of points, the closer into the wind a vessel might make progress. Most ancient rigs probably could not sail reliably closer than 5–​6 points (ca. 56–​67°) off the wind, regardless of the particular sail configuration.135 Even at this modest angle, the critical ability to achieve a close reach allowed some progress by tacking. This zigzag path required vessels to cross directly into the wind when shifting from close reach on one side to close reach on the other. Hence, the closer into the wind one could sail, the more efficient this zigzag path became, reflecting greater progress in the intended direction so long as momentum was maintained throughout the tack. Continuous beating upwind in this manner was hardly ideal; even the figure of 5–​6 points is optimistic and could be reduced significantly to 8 points (90°) if the wind gained strength.136 But these few points could mean the difference between slow progress and simply being stuck, with no choice but to await more fortuitous conditions. Flexibility was surely part of the motivation behind diverse choices in sail and rig designs. The iconographic record and the limited but consistent archaeological evidence reveal that a single brailed square sail, placed slightly forward of midships, was the rig of choice for most merchant vessels sailing the Roman Mediterranean. The square sail, initially with a fixed boom at its lower edge, had been in use since at least the 2nd millennium bc (if not the 3rd), providing vessels with strong propulsion in any following wind.137 By the end of the Bronze Age, the attachment of brail lines and the removal of the boom allowed the sail to be manipulated with greater ease and speed, and in more directions and shapes that gave the mariner adaptability to different winds. Even so, square-​sailed   The extent to which this was exploited by jibing or following a zigzag path of broad reaches rather than running directly ahead of the wind is unclear, but see Cariolou (1997, 93) on its effectiveness in the Kyrenia II sea trials. 134   That is, the compass rose of 360° is divided here into 32 points, each point reflecting 11.25°. 135   Whitewright 2011b, 11–​13. 136   Whitewright 2011b, 12. 137   Roberts 1987; Roberts 1991; Georgiou 1991; Vinson 1993; Wachsmann 1998, 248–​54. For broader context, see also Broodbank 2013, 325–​39. 133

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vessels probably lacked the maneuverability to sail closer into the wind than a beam reach, at least not without significant difficulty and perhaps only unreliably. Early vessels were intended to be variously sailed or rowed as conditions warranted, meaning that the sail was just one component of propulsion.138 This square sail, with certain adaptations and additions, continued in use across the Mediterranean throughout the Greek world and into Late Antiquity. This single main sail might be accompanied by a smaller artemon sail forward of the main mast, and in some cases another small mizzen mast toward the stern. These additions reflect a primary interest in effective maneuverability into the wind, but they may also have been helpful as larger (and more difficult-​to-​manage) vessels became widespread over the Roman era.139 The need for additional propulsion created by larger vessels resulted in the development of rigs comprising twin full-​size square sails from at least the 2nd century ad (and probably earlier).140 Archaeological finds of rigging elements make it clear that, within the broadly shared square sail technology, different choices were common across the Roman Mediterranean through Late Antiquity, what Whitewright describes as “technological variation on a central theme.”141 One development that has received considerable scholarly attention is the fore-​and-​aft rig, a sail set parallel to the keel.142 The arrival of such configurations has long been hailed as offering new flexibility and greater maneuverability with respect to diverse and challenging wind conditions, creating more effective sailing on a close reach and, presumably, better tacking.143 The increasing prevalence of one fore-​and-​aft rig from perhaps the 2nd century ad onward—​ the Mediterranean lateen rig, with its generally triangular sail set against a long, angled yard—​has been treated as implicit proof of this superior windward performance. The rig seems to have become more widespread during Late Antiquity and was eventually the sail of choice for Medieval mariners.144 A loosely similar but unrelated rig—​t he four-​sided spritsail placed forward near the bow and secured to the mast by a diagonal spar—​appears sporadically in iconography but evidently offered some mariners another alternative from at least the 2nd century bc.145 Yet sea trials of replica vessels demonstrate that the lateen sail offered no significant   Casson 1995b, 274; Whitewright 2018, 29–​31.   Casson 1995b, 240; Davey 2015; Whitewright 2018, 32–​33. Such additional sails are well attested in the iconography of larger vessels. 140   Whitewright 2018, 33–​34. 141   Whitewright 2018, 35. 142   Casson 1995b, 243–​45. 143   E .g., McCormick 2001, 458; Castro et al. 2008, 351; Polzer 2008, 241–​42. 144   Castro et al. 2008; Whitewright 2009; Whitewright 2012. 145   Whitewright 2018, 35–​36. 138 139

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improvement over the square sail in terms of windward performance.146 The even longer-​lived spritsail, which probably did allow the best performance into the wind, never achieved the same prevalence; it saw only limited use alongside the age-​old square rig. The removal of the boom and addition of brails to square sails long before the Roman period had allowed the yard to be pulled around, and with the aft end of the sail brailed, it could mimic some of the function of a fore-​and-​aft rig.147 The loose-​footed, brailed square sail remained the rig of choice for merchant vessels throughout the Roman period and into Late Antiquity. It was only in the 6th century that the lateen sail finally displaced the square sail, which then disappears from iconography, although it seems highly unlikely that the sail itself was ever fully abandoned in the Mediterranean.148 The contemporaneous use of several rig configurations hints at more complexity and variation in maritime practice than is often allowed in scholarly narratives emphasizing a linear march of progress driven by advances in windward sailing capabilities. Even the key advantage of windward sailing, long presumed to have favored the lateen rig, appears equivocal in light of Whitewright’s recent evaluation. The tacking maneuvers that were required to make progress into the wind on a close reach may have been more complicated on a lateen sail than on its square counterpart, slowing these efforts and requiring larger crews.149 But surely any advantage, such as greater maneuverability in quickly changing winds, would have offered benefits for some vessels and mariners. The iconographic evidence hints that fore-​and-​aft rigs were more common among smaller vessels, including those whose activities were likely concentrated in coastal waters. In such instances, maneuverability in constantly shifting local winds was an important asset, and the operation of smaller sails could be undertaken with fewer hands.150 A simple square sail, by contrast, was sufficient—​perhaps more efficient than its lateen counterpart—​when running ahead of a good wind. With the addition of other features (artemon, mizzen, etc.), even larger ships could be maneuvered with greater ease. These advantages may have been most helpful for larger ships and lengthier journeys along established routes with predictable and steady winds. The available evidence suggests not a linear evolution but a series of technological choices involving the particular considerations of different mariners. Whitewright has suggested that the varying successes of these rigs resulted from preexisting structures of maritime activity in the Mediterranean—​from

  W hitewright 2011a; Whitewright 2011b.   Casson 1995b, 277. See also Tilley 1994; Polzer 2008, 243. 148   Castro et al. 2008, 348. 149   Castro et al. 2008, 351. 150   Tilley 1994,  312. 146 147

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routes to knowledge and traditions—​that had been largely developed around centuries of crosswind and downwind sailing. The lateen sail fit with the available principles of hull design and systems of seafaring practice while providing mariners with potential reductions in cost and maintenance.151 The advantages of upwind sailing offered by the spritsail, by contrast, were insufficient to spur its more widespread adoption since it required a fundamentally different practical knowledge and, perhaps, a more optimized hull design for this specific rig.152 That is, the investment sunk into this system over centuries created a form of path dependence that rendered most mariners less willing to experiment, at least during the Roman and following few centuries, for the perceived advantage. The limited evidence at hand for the spritsail suggests that it was employed primarily by smaller craft. These mariners were perhaps not so firmly entrenched and had more to gain through added performance on short routes in diverse wind conditions with frequent return voyages. If smaller coastal craft used the spritsail for maneuverability, then the paucity of attestations may reflect an iconographic preference for representing larger vessels more than a lack of popularity. Given the various options facing Roman and Late Antique mariners, rig choice was governed by environmental and economic factors from speed and flexibility to manpower and resource availability.

Speed and Journey Times That Duncan-​Jones opened his 1990 work on Roman economics with a chapter on the speed of communication is testimony to the central importance of seaborne journey times for any understanding of the structure and scale of maritime economies.153 The diverse rigs and hull shapes of Mediterranean seagoing vessels, though, make for complicated evaluation of sailing speeds. Most often these are based on total journey times attested in historical or literary accounts. Complementary evidence from experimental archaeology and computer simulation has added quantifiable data to these figures, allowing for consideration of performance in light of differing environmental conditions. Together, these sources offer a reasonably consistent picture of both the range of vessel capabilities and the practical routine speeds an ancient sailor might expect to achieve over journeys in different conditions. With its typical wine-​glass hull and brailed square sail, the Kyrenia vessel provides an obvious departure point for analysis.154 The series of replica sailing   Whitewright 2011a, 98–​102.   Whitewright 2018, 40. 153    Duncan-​Jones 1990,  7–​29. 154   Katzev  2005. 151

152

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trials facilitated by the extensively preserved remains provide perhaps the most extensive and reliable evidence for the performance of an ancient vessel in eastern Mediterranean conditions.155 During September 1986, Kyrenia II sailed from Piraeus to Cyprus, returning the following year in April. In both instances, the vessel operated in coastal and open waters across the study area at two distinct periods within (September) and on the edge (April) of the presumed busiest season for ancient sailing.156 The voyage to Cyprus took advantage of late summer winds and covered 600  nm in 15  days at sea (including some towing and with an additional 10 days in port), winding southeast through the Aegean Islands to Rhodes, then southeast across the deep to Paphos.157 The vessel averaged 2.95 kn in conditions that ranged from calm to strong winds (Beaufort 6). The return voyage, planned to follow the reverse route in April, highlights the challenges of sailing without the aid of prevailing etesian winds and the unpredictability associated with these waters. Light but unhelpful wind heading out from Paphos forced a southwest deviation before the crew was able to turn northwest toward Rhodes. Keeping along this path and back through the Aegean involved bouts of strong winds, rain, and storms from three different directions and seas of 3.5–​4 m; the sailors record two broken steering oars and damaged sails, fog and reduced visibility (< 50 m), not to mention strings of days lost awaiting better weather. In the end, the Kyrenia II covered approximately 700 nm in 12 days at sea (including some towing and with an additional 7 days in port), averaging 2.85 kn in conditions that ranged from very light to routine strong winds (Beaufort 5–​6) and even occasional storms (up to 10 Beaufort).158 Over the two voyages, sailing speeds at any moment varied considerably, as did the amount of time spent under sail on any given day, but averaged nearly identical speeds in each direction: a consistent 2.85–​2.95 kn (5.28–​5.46 kph). Speeds of around 11–​12 kn were achieved for short durations (5.8–​6 hours) in extremely favorable winds and during gales, although the latter obviously brought new dangers.159 The Kyrenia II voyages also provide insights into how an ancient square-​rigged vessel handled the different wind directions discussed earlier. In general, the ship performed best while running or on a broad reach but also proved efficient on a beam reach. Any heading much closer into the wind than 5 points (ca. 56°) was impossible, but even a close reach allowed some headway provided winds were not

155   For sailing performance, see Tzalas 1987; Katzev 1989; Katzev and Katzev 1989; Katzev 1990; Cariolou 1997. 156   On the conditions and presumptions regarding sailing season, see “Temporality and Seasonality.” 157   Katzev 1990, 245–​51. 158   Katzev and Katzev 1989; Katzev 1990, 251–​55; Cariolou 1997. 159   Katzev 1989, 7; Cariolou 1997, 94.

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overly strong. At around 5 points off the wind and in Beaufort 2 conditions, the vessel achieved speeds of 2 kn or better.160 Tacking on this close reach was therefore effective but also difficult, and impractical beyond light to average winds (up to Beaufort 4).161 These general limits to the windward performance are broadly consistent with figures offered by Whitewright and Roberts in their evaluations of ancient Mediterranean and similarly rigged premodern craft.162 Whitewright has suggested that tacking on a close reach, even at a reasonable speed, would have resulted in moving the vessel no more than ca. 2 kn in the intended direction (“velocity made good”).163 The extent to which this modest windward capability was put to use remains a point of contention. Roberts argues that “reliable close-​reaching ability bordering on sailing close-​hauled would have made sailing to places upwind of the home port attractive both for trade and piracy.”164 For Whitewright, on the other hand, sailing only at great difficulty and without reliability could have made these journeys less appealing.165 A  slightly stronger breeze could quickly render close reaches impossible; these conditions characterized much of the Kyrenia II’s return journey precisely when tacking would have been most beneficial. In the end, the drive to undertake a more difficult trek into the wind would have depended on the journey distance (and perceived duration of the challenging conditions), the particular mariner, and the voyage’s economic circumstances. Figures for the Kyrenia II’s upwind sailing seem to accord well with the few surviving ancient descriptions of eastern Mediterranean journeys. The 5th-​century voyages of Mark the Deacon (Vita Porphyr. 6, 26, 35–​37) provide a rare example of repeated sailing against the prevailing winds here. Requiring windward movement from the southern Levant to Cyprus, southern Turkey, and the Aegean, as well as northward across the Aegean, his journeys seem to have averaged an effective speed of just under 2 kn (1.7–​1.8 kn) assuming round-​t he-​clock sailing.166   Katzev and Katzev 1989, 8–​10; Katzev 1990, 254; Cariolou 1997, 84.   Cariolou 1997,  93. 162   Roberts 1995; Whitewright 2011b. 163   W hitewright (2011b, 3–​4) calculates “velocity made good” as the effective speed directly into the wind along a straight course. Thus, while the speed on a close reach might be greater, the process of tacking back and forth from one reach to another meant a longer path that translated to respectively slower windward progress of around 2 kn. 164   Roberts 1995, 314. Cf. Tilley 1994, who minimized the capabilities and importance of sailing into the wind. For additional hydrodynamic considerations, see Palmer 2009a. 165   W hitewright 2011b; Whitewright 2018. 166   We do not know how direct these voyages were, but the discussion of departure and arrival points suggests an intended vector that would have necessitated tacking, making such journey speeds a broad reflection of “velocity made good,” on which see earlier n. 163. All of the journeys quoted here assume 24 hours of sailing per day. 160 161

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A particularly good voyage between Ashkelon and Thessalonika required 13 days for an average speed of ca. 2.6 kn,167 but normally such journeys seem to have taken longer. Several voyages from the southern Levant (Gaza and Caesarea) to Constantinople took 20  days, and from Rhodes to Constantinople required 10  days.168 Lucian (Nav. 7)  describes a journey of just under 7  days between Alexandria and western Cyprus in not very strong winds, suggesting a slow trek of ca. 1.6 kn; the voyage he records from Sidon to Cape Gelidonya, along the Lycian coast, required just under 10  days at ca. 1.5 kn on average, including at least one stormy bout. From such ancient testimony, Casson estimates a 2–​2.5 kn average speed for vessels operating against the wind, although this figure must have depended greatly on both storm-​free conditions and winds that were neither too strong nor too weak.169 Whitewright’s more modest figure of up to 2 kn is probably a reasonable reflection of effective speed on a windward trajectory in generally good conditions.170 For downwind sailing in this same environment, Mark the Deacon’s testimony again offers typical figures, suggesting journeys required about half the time of the opposite voyage. From Constantinople to Rhodes thus took 5 days, and from the capital to the southern Levant required 10–​12 days.171 According to Diodorus Siculus (3.33), the distance of 325 nm from Rhodes to Alexandria could be accomplished in just 3.5 days, yielding an average speed of nearly 4 kn.172 A similar figure can be inferred from Strabo’s (10.475) note regarding the 3–​4  days’ journey from eastern Crete to Alexandria.173 In helpful winds, Casson argues that vessels could sail 4–​6 kn in open water, and 3–​4 kn when navigating along coasts, islands, and channels.174 This speed accords well with the performances Whitewright notes for experimental voyages, averaging 4–​6 kn (7.41–​11.11 kph) in good conditions on a reach or running course.175 In general, vessels seem to have achieved roughly twice the speed or slightly better on a downwind journey than when heading into the wind. These rough figures depended heavily on good conditions and consistent winds. Stormy weather could take a toll on speed, as could winds that abruptly shifted or blew too strongly or too weakly. Just as importantly, many times provided by   Marc. Diac. Vita Porphyr. 6.   Marc. Diac. Vita Porphyr. 26 and 35–​37. 169   Casson 1951; Casson 1995b, 291. 170   Whitewright 2011b, 9. 171   Marc. Diac. Vita Porphyr. 27, 55, and 6 (from Thessalonika). 172   See also Appian Bell. Civ. 2.89 on a time of 3 days for this journey. 173   Lambrou-​Phillipson (1991), for the Bronze Age, suggests a speed of 4 kn in the generally favorable winds between Crete and Egypt. 174   Casson 1951,  142. 175   Whitewright 2011b, 10. 167

168

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ancient sources should be understood as segments—​for example, the open-​sea crossing of the eastern Mediterranean—​rather than complete voyages. In these cases, projecting a calculated speed across the entire journey presumes a direct trip without intervening stops for supplies and shelter. On the other hand, figures for journeys that wound north or south through the Aegean may well have involved such delays, but they remain undocumented. This distinction between sustained speed at sea in given conditions and the actual duration of complex journeys involving ports of call is an important one. It presents a challenge to understanding the overall pace of communication and travel, as has been explored by Duncan-​Jones and Arnaud.176 Even considering such complexities, the calculations of roughly 2–​6 kn (3.70–​11.11 kph) remain helpful for estimating the “best average” speeds that ancient vessels could aim to achieve in particular conditions. The appearance of common distance intervals (600, 700, and 1000 stadia) within ancient geographical works, a topic explored most extensively by Arnaud, raises the possibility that similar “rule of thumb” figures may have been employed by ancient mariners. The 24-​hour nykthemeron of 1000 stadia was probably the most common estimate for a full day’s sail, at least in reasonably favorable conditions. This unit was used as early as the 4th century bc by Pseudo-​Skylax, and would have corresponded to a speed just over 4 kn.177

Temporality and Seasonality Multiday journeys across the open waters of the eastern Mediterranean leave little doubt that ancient mariners could operate routinely at night.178 Some sailors and vessel types, including galleys that required frequent supply, may have been more hesitant to venture out to sea in darkness unless absolutely necessary.179 Yet even with galleys, the exceptions are easy to find. The same literary testimony that gave rise to the minimalist reading of nighttime sailing offers ample evidence for overnight voyages by both rowed and sailed vessels. Certain catches and methods of fishing also demanded that sailors be out at night, to which we might add the impetus to bring fresh fish for the day’s market.180 The diurnal pattern of on-​and offshore winds allowed mariners to make reliable progress through the night along a coast. Such helpful breezes could aid a vessel setting out from port

  Duncan-​Jones 1990, 7–​29; Arnaud 2005, 126–​38.   A rnaud 2005, 74–​83. See also Davis 2009, 62–​64. The figure of 4 kn assumes a stade of 185 m. 178   Basch 1974; Morton 2001, 206–​10. 179   Pryor 1988; Dotson 1995; Pryor 1995. 180   Marzano 2013, 34–​36; Lytle 2018b. See generally c­ hapter 3, pp. 93–​97. On fishing for the market, see Bekker-​Nielsen 2002, 36 n. 14. 176

177

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at night, a common situation as offshore winds pick up after sunset.181 Along certain treacherous coasts, lighthouses were built in part with the intention of aiding nighttime navigation.182 The strongest indicator of such practices, though, comes from references to celestial observations, which reveal how navigators used stars in the clear night sky to determine orientations and perhaps to estimate times and distances traveled. The general lack of detail in such literary glimpses, however, prevents evaluation of how widespread this knowledge was among groups of mariners.183 On the open sea sailors had little recourse but to carry on, hopefully with stars to keep them on course. For those traveling near the coast, the decision to proceed through the night would have depended on the particular marine topography and familiarity with local conditions; in the 6th century, for example, Procopius (De Bello Persico 1.14.5–​6) noted that Red Sea mariners opted to shelter overnight rather than risk this sea’s many dangerous reefs and shoals. A similar minimalism has also characterized scholarly evaluations of the seasonality of ancient maritime activity. Seafaring is typically associated with the nonwinter months, when the seas are calmer, nights are shorter, visibility is more reliable, storms are milder and less frequent, and the weather is generally more predictable.184 Some of these factors appear already in the most famous passage on the topic, Hesiod’s advice (Op. 618–​94) to avoid the sea outside a very restricted period of under two summer months. Nearly a millennium later, Vegetius (Mil. 4.39) was only a bit more generous, prescribing a narrow sailing season of about three and a half summer months, with another several months in spring and autumn deemed marginal; four months around winter were described as “closed sea.” Nearly half the year from November into April is to be avoided in the late 4th-​century Edict of Gratian.185 We might reasonably expect a lower level of overall activity in the winter months, but the enduring scholarly notion of a mare clausum is based largely on such a handful of disparate and equivocal sources. These are often prescriptive and reflect particular types of seafaring, and therefore cannot be safely assumed to represent the entire spectrum of real maritime practices. The story of the autumn shipwreck that left Paul stranded on Malta records the captain’s earlier efforts to find winter haven on Crete before his freighter was blown off course; but the story likewise notes that, three months later (presumably

  Beresford 2013,  206.   See earlier, p. 29. 183   Davis 2002; Davis 2009, 138–​55; McGrail 2014, 48–​51. 184   See work on the topic in Rougé 1952; Casson 1995b, 270–​7 1. For more recent discussions concerned with this dichotomy between “closed” and “open” sailing seasons, see Simonsen 2003; Tammuz 2005. 185   For discussion and analysis, see Beresford 2013, 22–​32. 181

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late January or early February), a second grain carrier that had been wintering on Malta set sail with Paul from that island via Sicily to Puteoli (Acts 28.11–​13). This final leg of Paul’s journey reveals both sheltering and sailing in winter, and is just one of many textual references to seafaring outside the recognized “sailing season.” In many instances these winter voyages are described as unusual, leading Casson and other scholars to treat them as the exceptions that prove the rule, whether formal or informal.186 Recent scholarship on the issue has tended toward more flexibility in the interpretation of “off-​season” maritime activities but has hardly abandoned the broad paradigm of a mare clausum.187 Tammuz, for example, marshals evidence from several Near Eastern and Classical sources to suggest that the sailing season was longer than traditionally described by Hesiod or Vegetius, and that limited routes like that between Egypt and Rhodes stayed open throughout the year.188 The balance of evidence still favors a reduced level of winter activity, but the accumulating indicators of year-​round sailing suggest that the debate is better framed in terms of relative frequency and diverse economic conditions. The question is not whether there was a wholesale, long-​term mare clausum for Mediterranean seafaring in the Roman or Late Antique world—​clearly there never was—​but where, how, and to what extent the greater difficulties that winter presented prompted a reduction in different maritime activities, and, by contrast, what mariners, activities, and parts of the sea remained busy throughout the year. The handful of literary sources on which the mare clausum concept rests overwhelmingly reflects the high-​profile seafaring of long-​distance movements, urban supply, and military or political necessity.189 Vegetius speaks specifically of naval matters rather than seafaring more broadly. Gratian’s Edict was most likely limited to a brief period in the late 4th century and concerned only shippers (navicularii) engaged in government contracts for transport from North Africa. More mundane activities, including basic commercial voyages and fishing, tell a different story. The 5th-​century bc Ahiqar customs scroll from Elephantine lists vessel arrivals and departures from early March through mid-​December, implying both open-​sea (from Ionia) and coastal (along the Levant) voyaging from perhaps February and into late December, and casting doubt on whether any period was truly off limits.190 At Carthage, a series of 4th-​century ad ostraca explored by Peña lists several shipments of oil in around 200 amphoras that arrived by sea starting from early February. These must reflect a brisk trade in small short-​haul cargos

  Rougé 1952; Casson 1995b, 270–​7 1.   E .g., Simonsen (2003, 267): “In the winter, the Mediterranean was not completely closed.” 188   Tammuz 2005. For the route between Egypt and Rhodes, see Dem. 56.29–​30. 189   For insightful critique of this overreliance on certain literary sources, see Beresford 2013, 1–​5. 190   Yardeni 1994. For further discussion, see Tammuz 2005; Beresford 2013, 17–​22. 186 187

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along the North African coast even in midwinter.191 Beyond commerce, the realities of fishing and marine resource exploitation meant that certain tasks could not be restricted to the summer.192 Certain marine species can or must be caught in the winter, and the influx of migratory fish like tuna represents a late autumn and winter economic windfall for certain parts of the Aegean and Mediterranean.193 Oppian’s (Hal. 3) descriptions of fishing practices indicate activities throughout the winter, while Bintliff’s ethnographic study of traditional Aegean fishermen reveals their convergence on key passages for migrating fish during the winter months.194 The minimalist attitude regarding open sea, nighttime, and winter seafaring is informed by literary evidence that belongs within a larger trope of early elite wariness toward the maritime world in general and seaborne commerce in particular. Profit-​driven merchants are condemned as foolhardy for venturing out in winter, and stereotypical “landlubber” Romans hug the coast, relying on daytime and summer journeys.195 This recurrent theme should be viewed alongside the more specific rules and structures created to control and limit involvement in seafaring, most famously the late 3rd-​century bc Lex Claudia that attempted to curtail aristocratic engagement in maritime commerce.196 A dichotomy quickly becomes evident between what activities may at times have been disavowed or even technically disallowed and how merchant mariners and their backers were conducting themselves in practice.197 Should we then admit even more exceptions to presumed limitations governing seafaring, or should we view maritime activity through a broader lens? In place of single mechanisms, we should imagine diverse traditions, environments, and economics guiding the activities of sailors in different areas, scales, and periods. The array of eastern Mediterranean winds granted considerable flexibility, from the diurnal patterns that facilitated near-​shore sailing at night to the

  Peña 1998. For further discussion, see Tammuz 2005; Beresford 2013, 27–​30.   Beresford 2013, 258–​ 61. See also the keen observations on winter seafood transport in Marzano 2011. 193   Bintliff 1977, 117–​22; Mylona 2008, 43 and 49. 194   Bintliff 1977, 217–​18. 195   E .g., Juv. 14.288–​302; Pliny HN 2.47.125; Veg. Mil. 4.39. Hesiod’s warning reflects the same conservative outlook, where seafaring was a distant secondary pursuit behind the more noble agriculture. 196   See discussion by Beresford 2013, 265–​68. 197   The appearance, on board the various shipwrecks at Grand Congloué and elsewhere, of large cargos of jars stamped by the aristocratic Sestius family has been interpreted as evidence for wealthy merchant families operating either in violation of such regulations as the Lex Claudia or through freedmen or other intermediaries so as to remain within the strict interpretation of the law: see Benoit 1961; Will 1979; Nicolet 1980; McCann 1987, 34–​35; D’Arms 1981, 55–​62. 191

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changing conditions outside the summer that allowed travel in different directions. Demosthenes (56.30) explicitly contrasts winter conditions in the Aegean with those of the route between Rhodes and Egypt, which he claims remained in use throughout the winter. Beresford stresses the need to appreciate differences across the Mediterranean; for example, the relatively consistent and often mild conditions along the Levant would have permitted more activity throughout the year,198 although this same coast was also susceptible to powerful storms and high waves.199 Local knowledge of marine topographies and environmental conditions were fundamental to capitalizing on these different opportunities and mediating risks of winter or overnight journeys. This situation lent itself to experienced mariners operating in known waters. Rapidly changing conditions might have favored shorter or segmented coastal journeys. In winter or during other challenging conditions, sailors embarking on longer voyages may have found shorter legs along a coast preferable to more direct, open-​sea routes that were advantageous in summer. Yet the more common overcast conditions in winter would have added a new challenge for this coastal activity, when the dangers of shallows became all the more acute under the limited light of the night sky.200 The reality of longer hours of darkness during the winter months may have made sailing at night a more routine necessity in winter. In these conditions, the benefits of local knowledge, a sturdy but flexible vessel, and skill in harnessing the sometimes fierce and shifting winter winds would have privileged some mariners over others. In the end, a similarly challenging environment may have prompted contrasting responses among different mariners to the cost-​benefit analysis of setting out. For some, the small-​scale movements of goods outside the summer may have offered an opportunistic complement to other seasonal activities.201 By comparison, longer-​haul journeys bore a larger risk but also greater reward in the low season, for which a separate logic was in play among those with the resources, seaworthy vessels, and perhaps sufficiently distributed risk to venture out. Exchange limited to certain routes or areas—​like the scenario described by Demosthenes (56.30)—​provided an extra winter opportunity that may have appealed also to those typically engaged over longer distances during the summer. In certain instances navigable rivers may have presented an alternate routine for merchants as the winter rainy season brought greater flows and created their own seasonality.202 For fishing, winter likewise presented new challenges but not necessarily   Beresford 2013, 20–​22 and 57–​58.   On waves along the Levantine coast, see Beresford 2013, 319–​20 figs. 2.11b–​2.11c; United Kingdom Hydrographic Office 2016, 22–​25. 200   Beresford 2013, 90–​91 and 208. 201   Beresford 2013, 262–​64. 202   Beresford 2013, 274–​75. On the logistics of river trade, see generally Campbell 2012; Franconi 2014. 198

199

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the end of the year’s activity: it might reduce options and profitability for some, prompt shifts in location of activity for others, and generate new possibilities for still others when shoals of pelagic fish arrived.203 Such maritime rhythms involved consideration of diverse factors from scale of activity to the availability of other sources of income as well as local economic structures and markets. : : :

Diversity and Dynamism Examining the breadth of evidence reveals general parameters that framed ancient maritime practice: major winds and currents, visibility and navigational conditions, and the construction techniques, capacities, rigging, and performance of vessels. Among these, prevailing winds take on a critical role, often discussed as nearly deterministic of Mediterranean routes. In the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean, the etesian winds were a major force shaping the natural development of connections. Yet assessments based solely on prevailing direction fail to capture the varying ways in which winds—​especially over smaller areas—​ could affect this landscape and mariners’ choices. Their relative strength and reliability and their intersection with local patterns and shore breezes were all factors to be considered. This interplay of strong prevailing winds with diurnal cycles and varied local conditions, all set against a navigational backdrop of headlands and islands, made marine environments like the southeast Aegean both a challenge and an opportunity. Experience and local knowledge were key, and those mariners whose lives were spent on these waters enjoyed a natural advantage. The lengthy discussion surrounding night and winter sailing aimed to highlight the contrasting opportunities these conditions afforded to different sailors and scales of maritime activity. Ship technology, in turn, sees broad developmental trajectories that enabled the creation variously of sturdier or more materially efficient hulls and bulkier or more hydrodynamic shapes. Ship design, construction technologies, and perhaps navigational techniques may have seen modest and incremental improvements over the period of interest, but in general these appear not to have been on a scale that would have resulted in fundamental changes to sailing capabilities.204   Bintliff 1977, 217–​18, 350, and 539–​40; Morton 2001, 260; Beresford 2013, 258–​61.   Harris (2011) offers broad discussion and evaluation of the impact of maritime technology on ancient economies, while Pomey and Tchernia (2006) give one example drawing on Archimedes’s famous vessel Syracusia. In the same volume, Scheidel (2011) argues against quantitatively substantial gains from improvements in shipping compared with the more important role played by key institutions underpinning maritime economies, but Wilson (2011c) leaves more room for small and incremental improvements, the cumulative impact of which may have been more than incidental, particularly in the context of premodern economic development. 203

204

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Several flexible rig configurations allowed vessels utilizing different designs and manpower to maintain similar progress in varying wind conditions. Whitewright summarizes the situation well in his overview of rigging and hull technology: There is no “best” or “most efficient” sailing rig. There is simply a range of technological options, traced through the sometimes patchy evidence, that are available for use in a range of different social, political, and economic contexts. The same can be said to be true of ancient hull forms, which at different times, or at the same time, exhibit deep-​keeled vessels seemingly suited for crosswind and upwind work, as well as hulls with flatter floors and limited draught.205

The technologies available to ancient seafarers, like the marine topographies in which they operated, offer parameters for characterizing Roman and Late Antique maritime activity. Yet the diversity of vessels—​depicted so vividly in the Althiburus mosaic—​reveals the varied practical solutions achieved for different environmental and economic conditions. The chapter that follows picks up this theme of variability to examine the different practices and patterns of seaborne activity that generated connections and created maritime economic structures within the eastern Mediterranean.

205   W hitewright 2018, 42. On the social, economic, and political context of ship construction, see also Pomey and Rieth 2005, 38–​41.

Chapter 3

Modeling Maritime Dynamics Adjoining the Sicilian Sea are the Cretan, the Saronic, and the Myrtoan Seas. The Myrtoan Sea is between Crete, Argeia and Attica. . . . Next beyond the Myrtoan Sea comes immediately the Aegean Sea, with the Gulf of Melas and the Hellespont; and also the Icarian and Carpathian Seas, extending to Rhodes, Crete, Carpathus, and the first regions of Asia. . . . Again: the arm that begins at Rhodes and forms the Egyptian, the Pamphylian, and the Issican Seas, stretches towards the east as far as Issus in Cilicia for a distance of five thousand stadia along Lycia, Pamphylia, and the whole coastline of Cilicia. Thence, Syria, Phoenicia, and Egypt encircle the sea on the south and west as far as Alexandria. And Cyprus must lie both in the Issican and the Pamphylian Gulfs, since it borders on the Egyptian Sea. —​Strabo (2.5.21–​24, trans. Jones)

The Roman Mediterranean was not one sea but many. Ancient descriptions of maritime space emphasize a multiplicity of seas delineated by sometimes imperceptible borders, to say nothing of the countless straits, gulfs, and smaller bodies that further fragmented and diversified the marine topography. The varied nomenclature reflects a particular understanding of how space was utilized and bounded, and how distance and proximity were reckoned according to individual familiarity with the sea. In this case, the picture is informed by ancient geographers. Those best acquainted with the environment, the seafarers of antiquity, employed their own naming conventions. Rougé outlined this conceptual geography a half century ago, compiling the intricate divisions from these ancient sources (fig. 3.1).1 Perhaps nowhere is this picture more revealing than in the Aegean, a relatively small area that nonetheless comprised five seas.2 This book’s study area embraces what Rougé’s ancient authors identified as at least a half-​ dozen discrete seas.3 Dramatic differences in size and orientation, and clustering   Rougé 1966,  41–​45.   For a discussion of naming conventions in the Aegean region, see Ceccarelli 2012. 3   These include substantial parts of the Cretan Sea, the Carpathian Sea, the Lycian and Pamphylian Sea, and the Cypriot Sea, as well as bits of the Icarian Sea, the Egyptian Sea, and the Phoenician and Syrian Sea. 1

2

Roman Seas. Justin Leidwanger, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190083656.001.0001

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Fig. 3.1. Rougé’s “maritime space of the ancient Mediterranean,” showing the diverse shapes, sizes, and names given to the waters of the Mediterranean area. The major regions of interest to the present study include Mare Icarium (14), Mare Creticum (15), Mare Carpathicum (16), Mare Aegyptiacum (18), Mare Phoenicium vel Syriacum (19), Mare Cyprium (20), and Mare Pamphylium vel Lycium (21) (by Sheila Matthews, after Rougé 1966, 43).

of critical junctures around points of navigational difficulty may reflect their creation in part through everyday practices of maritime communities situated along the coasts. The specific east-​west orientation of the Aegean’s divisions, for example, hints at the comparative efficiency of movement along such axes given the prevailing winds and sailing capabilities. Yet modern scholarly convention that lumps this vast Mediterranean expanse into two or three large basins—​west, east, and sometimes central—​speaks to dominant east-​west historical narratives and our own remove from the ground-​level experience of maritime life along ancient shores.4 This chapter outlines the human landscape of Mediterranean interaction as a framework for approaching the Roman and Late Antique maritime archaeological record. With the goal of defining more meaningful communities based on maritime activity, I first problematize the concept of “region” as both analytical unit and experienced space. The rich tradition of maritime cultural landscape studies then provides a bottom-​up view encompassing the full range of activities along and across the sea that served to organize maritime space. These mobilities

  E .g., Tomber 1993; Reynolds 1995; Reynolds 2010. This contrast between the ancient multitude of seas and the modern convention of several Mediterranean basins is discussed in Rougé 1966; Braudel 1972, 109; Arnaud 2005. 4

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exhibit diverse geographies, scales, and temporalities, and are key to understanding how discrete and interacting communities were created and sustained. Methods for interrogating structures generated by mobilities form the focus of the latter sections. There, I explore network perspectives on material culture, particularly network tools for modeling interaction. My approach here sets the stage for a closer analysis of the Roman and Late Antique maritime archaeological record that unfolds in subsequent chapters. : : :

Regionalisms Strabo’s rich nomenclature for seas suggests that the eastern Mediterranean and Aegean were not only named but also conceptualized and experienced as a series of smaller “regional” units with distinct topographies, practices, and communities. Yet the varied sizes, defining features, and blurred boundaries that make “regions” an appealing scale for capturing the fluid geography of maritime interaction also raise significant challenges to their analytical utility.5 A lack of specificity in scholarship is partly to blame for this dilemma. Maritime regions can represent both empirical units—​in that they existed in antiquity, had meaning for coastal communities, and can be the target of inquiry—​and ideational units for analytical convenience today.6 Strabo hints at the former, and the latter are ubiquitous in archaeological research, but the relationship between the two is not always clear or explicit. Both types of regions are relevant here, since spatially delimited case studies form the basis for exploring Roman and Late Antique communities. An informed and critical approach to regionalism provides a first step toward accessing the structures of interaction around maritime space, and in turn the dynamics of regional maritime economies. Concepts of regionalism have become fundamental to both historical and archaeological research on the ancient world. Their spatial and thematic flexibility allows regions to describe anything from a river valley or a town’s surrounding landscape to whole Roman provinces or the entirety of the eastern or western Mediterranean basin. Often regions are predicated on particular scholarly traditions, available datasets, and, in the case of archaeology, political necessities. With such broad leeway, it is hardly surprising that “regional” is a popular framework for analysis: virtually any scale might constitute an effective region depending on the particular questions being asked. The present study is no exception,

  On regions in geography, see generally Nir 1990; Storper 1997; Agnew 2013.   On the nature of units and the importance of distinguishing between these two, see generally O’Brien and Lyman 2002. 5

6

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embracing the realities and liabilities—​but also the potential—​of the maritime archaeological evidence unevenly distributed and treated across two areas of the Roman east. Functional and wide-​ranging definitions offer productive room for modern inquiry, but accessing economic geographies that were meaningful within an ancient setting requires a focus on the people and processes that created and sustained them. In the context of maritime interaction and distribution, “regional” tends to occupy an ambiguous middle ground between an often equally ill-​defined “local” and the much-​discussed but no less vague category of “long distance.”7 In comparing these three relative scales, Reger problematizes the issue clearly: “Regional” must lie somewhere in the middle—​a lthough what exactly constitutes a “region,” whether different criteria produce different regions, and whether the boundaries, however labile, of a given region change drastically enough over time to create a new region, or destroy an old one, are very difficult questions. . . . “Local” itself is a slippery term, for what constitutes “local” production, distribution, and use?8

Through examples centering on the manufacture or circulation of different products like ceramics, Reger demonstrates how “regional” can describe contrasting but economically meaningful spatial scales, from the relatively widespread distribution of a fineware to the comparatively restricted range of a particular cup shape.9 His point is well taken, especially for the most easily traced goods. A similar outlook is reflected in Alcock’s concluding comments to the collected papers from the conference Old Pottery in a New Century: “Defining a ‘region’ is, of course, no straightforward enterprise: what precisely constitutes a meaningful region in terms of ceramic production, exchange and consumption?”10 Spatially limiting regions to the scale at which interaction could be routine would seem a key element, more important than offering a strict geographical definition for this or any other particular scale. “Regions become harder to define and frequently less useful heuristically the larger they get,” observes Purcell succinctly.11

  For further discussion of these contrasting scales of “local” and “regional,” and the particularly slippery use of the term “region,” see generally Hopkins 1983, 85; Elton and Reger 2007; Giardina 2007, 747 (on Late Antiquity); Mango 2009; Archibald 2013, 194–​96; Whittow 2013; Lund 2015, 44–​48 (situated in the northeast corner of the Mediterranean that forms part of the present area of focus). 8   Reger 2007b,  65. 9   Reger 2007b, 69–​7 1. E.g., Lund 1999; Lund 2005. 10   Alcock 2006,  583. 11   Purcell 2003,  17. 7

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Topography offers an obvious starting point for investigating maritime regions, and perhaps no feature is more symbolically or physically central to ancient connectivity than islands. Mediterranean islands have long served as natural regions for archaeological fieldwork.12 Yet the opportunities afforded by seaborne interaction here mean that even comparatively remote outcrops are hardly isolated “island laboratories.”13 In the Aegean, sets of islands or island-​mainland groupings can comprise meaningful conceptual units, while other individual islands may reflect more than a single coherent and self-​identifying region. Larger islands such as Crete and Cyprus can function like “miniature continents” with not one but several regional identities, some better connected to adjacent islands or mainlands than to other parts of the same island.14 Even when islands offer viable topographical or political regions, these need not map onto the economic or social regionalisms of antiquity. Constantakopoulou acutely problematizes the concept of insularity within the sociopolitical history of the Classical Aegean, where the technical fact of “islandness” had relatively little correlation with what constituted an island conceptually. Islands were as much a Greek idea as a physical reality: islands and peninsulas were described similarly, islands were crafted literally or figuratively out of mainlands (and mainland-​like larger islands), and stretches of coast opposite islands formed integral territorial units of those islands.15 The southeast Aegean demonstrates the contrast between self-​professed regional communities and island geographies. Kos subsumed neighboring Kalymnos and several other small islands into its region. The Knidians attempted, with a channel across their narrow peninsula, to cut their way to insularity.16 Rhodes, at its height in the early 2nd century bc, incorporated not only the neighboring Peraia but also various islands extending as far as Megiste (modern Kastellorizo, near Kaş), whose inhabitants were fully included within the Rhodian citizenry and identity.17 This drive toward interaction is a defining feature in Constantakopoulou’s political, religious, and economic regionalism. The interplay of “microregions” and small-​scale connectivity lies at the economic core of Horden and Purcell’s

  E .g., on the islands of Keos, Kythera, and Antikythera:  Cherry et  al. 1991; Bevan and Conolly 2004; Bevan and Conolly 2013. 13   Evans 1973; Broodbank 2000, 26–​27. 14   E .g., Rackham and Moody 1996 for the case of Crete; Lund 1999; Lund 2015 for this situation on Cyprus. 15   Constantakopoulou 2007. On the island topos in the ancient imagination, see in particular Brun 1996. 16   Herodotus 1.174.3–​6. 17   Constantakopoulou 2007, 151–​52 (Knidos), 185–​87 (Kos), and 187–​94 (Rhodes). See also her more recent work (Constantakopoulou 2017), which delves deeply into the case study of Delos, arguing for a strong regional Nesiotic League identity in the Cyclades. 12

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Corrupting Sea.18 Necessitated by the vagaries of agricultural production, regular distribution over short sea distances set the rhythm by which the Mediterranean system thrived.19 Their “definite places” offer case studies of regional coherence created through such shared economic systems and interaction.20 Yet as much as political, religious, social, and economic regionalisms clearly intersected, they need not have precisely overlapped. For the southeast Aegean, the focus on maritime connections might favor a regionalism based not on the Datça or Bodrum peninsulas, or even the island of Kos, but on the Gulf of Gökova, which together they nearly enclose. Communities hugging the northern shore of the Datça peninsula may have considered themselves citizens of the Knidia but for routine exchange and communication ventured down and up and across the gulf more frequently than overland.21 This organization of space around bodies of water is evident in Strabo’s discussion of sea names. The projection of Roman imperial order, including a new provincial worldview, was a primary inspiration for geographical works of the period.22 The marine naming conventions that Rome inherited in the east, though, suggest a conceptual geography grounded in earlier traditions that perhaps included seafaring practices. In noting this tendency to fragment Mediterranean maritime space, Rougé argues that regions reflected the depth and character of their seafaring cultures. For example, as the last landmark and port for ships sailing with prevailing etesian winds from the Aegean to Egypt, the otherwise unpromising island of Carpathos lent its name to the sprawling expanse of open sea along that route. The limits of this Carpathian Sea are blurry in the ancient geographers, particularly across the depths toward the Egyptian Sea, where Alexandria awaited as the common destination. The long-​haul connections that linked these communities left their mark on the practical geography that, according to Rougé, even influenced the construction of myth and eventually informed Strabo and others.23 The broad contrasts Strabo describes between west and east Mediterranean, between their larger and smaller divisions, depended on particularities of regional maritime practice that generated their own lore: small seas were characterized by a deep history of small-​scale maritime activity, whereas larger ones were sailed

  Horden and Purcell 2000, 77–​80.   See c­ hapter 1, p. 3. 20   Horden and Purcell 2000, 54–​7 7. 21   See c­ hapter 5, pp. 167–​172. 22   See generally Nicolet 1991; Talbert 2004; Turner 2014. 23   For a particularly rich case study of the sea and fleet named for the island of Carpathos, see the detailed discussion spanning myth, literature, economy, law, and imperial administration in Rougé 1963. 18

19

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regularly only later, when more direct and larger-​scale journeys had become the norm.24 Braudel suggests a similar correlation in his analysis: The Mediterranean is not a single sea but a succession of small seas that communicate by means of wider or narrower entrances. In the two great east and west basins of the Mediterranean there is a series of highly individual narrow seas between the land masses, each with its own character, types of boat, and its own laws of history; and as a rule the narrowest seas are richer in significance and historical value.25

These spatial realities are predicated on shared geographical experiences within the communities of sailors, merchants, fishermen, and other travelers whose patterns of interaction inscribe the economic and social topography of maritime regions. Practical experience and regular accumulated knowledge about space, travel, and boundaries gave rise to what Geus and Thiering call “common sense geography,” in contrast to more scientifically reasoned concepts and cartographic projections.26 Arnaud explores the mechanics of these “mental maps” among mariners, demonstrating their reliance on journey durations, easily observed natural phenomena, and sequences of places along routes to communicate spatial configurations.27 The contrast between such ground-​level practice and the higher spatial ordering of Roman geographers is productively examined by Bekker-​Nielsen as a tension between “hard” and “soft” spaces: the former impose top-​down structure through official and formalized (political, legal, administrative) boundaries, while the latter arise from less formal but often powerful negotiation of everyday space.28 The sea and its shores present particularly blurred bounds, and our eastern Mediterranean study area offers a microcosm of this phenomenon. With four discrete seas, Strabo orients Cypriots outward across the water, reflecting more complex maritime regionalisms than a single island unit might otherwise suggest to the detached modern observer:29

  Rougé 1966, 41–​45. Broodbank’s (2013, 416–​17) recent discussion of the spread of seafaring technologies during the Bronze Age from east to west across the Mediterranean may be read similarly. 25   Braudel 1972,  108–​9. 26   Geus and Thiering 2014b. See particularly the introductory chapters: Dan et al. 2014; Geus and Thiering 2014a. 27   Arnaud  2014. 28   Bekker-​Nielsen  2014. 29   See also Clarke 2017, 48–​49. 24

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It remains for me to describe . . . Cyprus. I have already said that the sea surrounded by Egypt, Phoenicia, Syria, and the rest of the coast as far as Rhodia consists approximately of the Aegyptian and Pamphylian Seas and of the sea at the gulf of Issus. In this last sea lies Cypros; its northern parts closely approach Cilicia Tracheia, where they are closest to the mainland, and its eastern parts border on the Issic Gulf, and its western on the Pamphylian Sea, being washed by that sea, and its southern by the Aegyptian Sea. Now the Aegyptian Sea is confluent on the west with the Libyan and Carpathian Seas, but in its southern and eastern parts borders on Aegypt and the coast next thereafter as far as Seleuceia and Issus, and towards the north on Cypros and the Pamphylian Sea; but the Pamphylian Sea is surrounded on the north by the extremities of Cilicia Tracheia, of Pamphylia, and of Lycia, as far as Rhodia, and on the west by the island of the Rhodians, and on the east by the part of Cypros near Paphos and the Acamas, and on the south is confluent with the Aegyptian Sea.30

Strabo’s deliberate topography places the marine environment as the fundamental reference point, and the resulting maritime regionalisms offer a stark contrast with the image of an island and administrative unit. The testimony of ancient geographers cannot be expected to correlate one to one with practical maritime regions for the merchants and other mariners who plied these waters. But their complex and often blurred regional topographies underscore how routine interaction informed common perceptions of sea space. Maritime regionalism and “common sense geography” were negotiated through the interaction of natural topography, patterns and traditions of seafaring, and shared spatial representations. Certain waters could be conceived as continuous and active places, while informal boundaries delineated maritime spheres with distinct practices, mariners, and perhaps economic mechanisms and social communities. The diverse and dynamic environmental conditions outlined in the previous chapter laid the foundations for this regional topography, and different ship technologies provided the tools for its development. The complex economic, social, and political map of the eastern Mediterranean offers rich grounds for exploring maritime regions from the bottom up. But this analysis requires a holistic approach to the material record of diverse maritime practices that gave rise to shared conceptions of space among communities who called these waters their seas.

  Strabo 14.6.1, trans. Jones.

30

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: : :

Landscapes To analyze these regional dynamics, we might turn to an approach that has greatly influenced Mediterranean research above the waterline: landscape archaeology.31 The rapid growth of field survey from the 1980s has brought about new emphasis on spatial analysis and intensive reading of artifact distributions to foreground themes of human-​environment interaction.32 Part of a broad “mobility turn”—​and “spatial turn” more generally—​in the humanities and social sciences, this work focuses attention on how landscapes inform and reflect community identities.33 For the artifact-​rich Mediterranean, dense material records allow examination of long-​term trends in settlement patterning, land use, daily life, demography, communication, and economies. Increasingly sophisticated spatial studies have demanded innovative systems for management and analysis of this bulk material evidence, with geographic information systems (GISs) fulfilling a key role. Through such approaches, a more spatially grounded and fine-​grained view has emerged of ancient economies and societies, especially for the materially well-​represented countryside of the Roman and Late Antique Mediterranean.34 Landscape archaeology’s focus on spatial interaction has much to offer the maritime material record. Westerdahl’s groundbreaking work on the “maritime cultural landscape” develops landscape archaeology concepts for the distinctive coastal and offshore realm.35 Originally associated with cultural resource management and relegated primarily to northern Europe, this approach has gained wider scholarly interest over the last two decades.36 It offers an opportunity to embrace all aspects of maritime life, the full range of actors and activities, and their attendant sites both on land and in the sea: shipwrecks, boatbuilding, historic vessel types, sailing routes, ports, harbors, landing sites, portages, fishing grounds, coastal markers, topographical nomenclature, beliefs, traditions, and the like.37 Through its synthetic   Kanter 2008. See also Totten 2011 (especially 23–​34), who uses landscapes to help define regional systems of rural economic interaction. 32   On the so-​called new wave of surveys that gained hold in the Mediterranean from the 1980s and 1990s, see generally Cherry 1994; Barker 1996. 33   Sheller and Urry 2006; Urry 2007; Cresswell 2011. For archaeology see Blake 2004. 34   A lcock 1993; and more recently the five volumes in the Archaeology of Mediterranean Landscapes series: Barker and Mattingly 1999–​2000. 35   Defining contributions in Westerdahl 1986; Westerdahl 1992; Westerdahl 2009; Westerdahl 2011. See also Jasinski 1993; Tuddenham 2010. 36   Westerdahl 1994, 266; Westerdahl 2011, 735–​42. 37   A n extensive list of elements that can make up the maritime cultural landscape is provided in Westerdahl 2009, 212–​16. 31

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approach to maritime culture, both material and nonmaterial, this landscape crosses the traditional disciplinary and conceptual boundary at the water’s edge. Fluidity between marine and terrestrial space is crucial for the present study. The activities that generated maritime interaction extend across Bekker-​Nielsen’s “soft spaces” of everyday engagements to link individuals and objects in coastal communities, throughout their hinterlands, and across their seas. There is no predetermined inland limit to the maritime landscape, but a primary advantage is its focus on how the sea helped to structure life beyond its shore for the communities whose livelihoods and routines were tied into rhythms of seaborne interaction. This productive spatial ambiguity, however, has sometimes rendered the maritime landscape concept difficult to implement on a practical level. Archaeological and ethnographic studies framed around “coastscapes,” “seascapes,” and “islandscapes” have met with some success employing certain similar approaches and tools as the broader maritime landscape adopted here.38 Given the tendency noted earlier by Mediterranean researchers to focus on islands as units of inquiry, it is hardly surprising that “islandscapes” have garnered interest. Yet a truly maritime perspective necessitates—​as Rainbird advocates in his influential discussion of island archaeology—​a shift in dialog surrounding human activity toward an “archaeology of the sea” where communities coalesce around maritime practice. The Mediterranean exists, he argues, as “a web of seaways fusing maritime communities on islands and continents in fluid and complex social interactions.”39 Given the holistic nature of this approach, many successful landscape-​inspired projects have tended toward smaller spatial scales: an inlet, a port and its hinterland, etc.40 They have likewise often emphasized more recent historical eras, from which written records and ethnography provide a rich complement to the spotty material evidence (evidence that only becomes less complete as one moves back into antiquity).41 The maritime landscape survey at Strangford Lough in Northern Ireland offers an excellent example of one such exploration. It incorporates a wide range of both land-​and sea-​based survey alongside detailed historical and documentary research to shed light on seafaring, trade, and the entire breadth of human economic activity with and on the sea.42 Parker has been among the proponents of landscape theory and methodologies for modeling maritime culture   E .g., Broodbank 2000; McNiven 2003; O’Sullivan 2003; Berg 2010. See also in general the contributions to the 2003 “seascapes” volume of World Archaeology. 39   Rainbird 2007, with quote at 88, and 44 for discussion of the dilemma of islands as default units of analysis. 40   E.g., Indruszewski  2004. 41   E .g., see the various contributions to the edited volume by Ford 2012. 42   McErlean et al. 2002. See also the maritime landscape studies off the east African coast: Breen and Lane 2004; Pollard 2008. 38

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and communication, providing several analyses of historic ports like Bristol.43 The Baltic and North Sea areas have seen a particularly rich tradition of these studies.44 This approach to maritime culture has taken longer to gain a foothold in the ancient Mediterranean world despite a strong tradition of landscape survey and dense artifactual and textual records. Knapp’s early call for maritime landscape studies of the material culture, seafaring traditions, and human geography of the Mediterranean takes Bronze Age Cyprus as its case study.45 Comparatively few projects of this type, though, have been undertaken or published to date. Working from the conceptual framework of island archaeology, with the joint terrestrial-​marine “islandscape” as its central feature, Broodbank advocates for a more holistic approach that aims “to search for traces of sea-​paths and modes of maritime interaction, movement and trade, and to engage with the detailed attributes and distribution of island material culture.”46 His analysis of early Cycladic cultural interaction is heavily influenced by the long tradition of archaeological and anthropological approaches to Pacific seafaring.47 The complex links Broodbank explores provide a strong foundation on which subsequent analyses of Mediterranean seaborne interaction and the development of maritime communities draw. Tartaron’s recent multiscalar model of Mycenaean interaction builds on a maritime landscape foundation that embraces contrasting actors, vessels, voyage lengths, knowledge, traditions, and activities. These analytical scales cover the full spatial range, beginning with the “coastscape,” essentially the maritime landscapes of an individual port. His “maritime small world” comprises a group of intensely connected coastscapes, while the “regional/​intracultural maritime interaction sphere” reflects a larger cultural and geographical unit like the Aegean Sea. Still farther-​flung activities are included in the extended “interregional/​intercultural maritime interaction sphere.” While the coastscape provides the fundamental unit within Tartaron’s nested system, his small worlds feature much of the routine interaction with which larger structures intersected and through which communities developed across maritime space.48   Parker 1999; Parker 2001.   In addition to the work by Westerdahl and select others noted earlier, see the contributions to the 2004 volume of the Estonian Journal of Archaeology, and work by Ilves 2009; Ilves 2011. 45   Knapp  1997. 46   Broodbank 2000,  363. 47   Terrell 1977; Irwin 1992; Hage and Harary 1991; Hage and Harary 1996. 48   Tartaron 2013, 185–​203 (for this interpretive framework); Tartaron 2018. Tartaron’s “maritime small world” should not be confused with the employment of “small world” concepts from complexity science: see Watts and Strogatz 1998. For applications of these concepts in Mediterranean antiquity, see Malkin 2011; Knodell 2013. Also see the general discussion in Brughmans 2013, 643–​4 4. 43

44

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Maritime landscape studies are rare in the Mediterranean, and the few ambitious projects to date are largely relegated to the pre-​Classical era. This may seem odd given the strong maritime landscape tradition in other historical contexts. In part the situation probably results from the Classical tradition in which Greco-​ Roman archaeology developed separately from the discipline of anthropology that has strongly influenced Mediterranean prehistoric archaeology. An exception that draws on the diachronic maritime material record to understand an evolving landscape is Castagnino Berlinghieri’s study of the Aeolian Islands. Her exploration focuses principally on long-​term patterns of maritime resource use and interaction, particularly trade and seafaring, from the prehistoric period up through the end of antiquity. Castagnino Berlinghieri synthesizes a corpus of nearly 20 surveyed shipwrecks and about as many nonwreck underwater sites, of which the Roman period accounts for the majority. Extensive topographical and environmental analysis contextualizes the local challenges and opportunities of connections. The approach sheds light on enduring features and shifts in economic dynamics in the south Tyrrhenian.49 On the whole, however, the particularly rich Roman representation within the Mediterranean record of shipwrecks noted in ­chapter 1 contrasts starkly with the very few maritime landscape surveys focusing on long-​term interaction as a defining feature of Classical antiquity.50 How can a maritime landscape analysis advance the study of economic communities and interaction across the Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean? One of the most obvious advantages is its inversion of the traditional vantage point for exploring human interaction with, in, on, and across the sea. The sea becomes a dynamic agent in human activity and interaction rather than a backdrop for that activity, a null area filling gaps between opposite shores.51 “An appreciation of the maritime aspects of the historical landscape,” according to Parker, “requires archaeologists to adopt a mariner’s perspective.”52 This conceptual centrality of the sea focuses attention on the wide range of maritime activities and their diverse material assemblages. The sea’s many connective roles mean that these practices may not present neatly circumscribed and mutually exclusive spheres. For example, the line between fishing and short-​haul exchange may easily have been blurred as fishermen undertake occasional delivery of goods; in the same way, the extension of an agricultural economy to primary seaborne redistribution might entail an overlap in individuals and their roles. While trade obviously

  Castagnino Berlinghieri 2003, 1–​4 (on the shipwrecks) and 92–​106 (for the Roman period).   See also, e.g., survey work off the coast of Morocco in Erbati and Trakadas 2008. For the rich Roman maritime archaeological record, see c­ hapter 1, pp. 13–​16. 51   Cooney 2003; Ilves 2004. 52   Parker 2001, 39. 49 50

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served as a major manifestation of seaborne interaction—​t hey are generally the best represented in the material record and certainly are the most frequently discussed—​a landscape model contextualizes these activities and the individuals involved as part of a multifaceted system. The comprehensive landscape necessarily incorporates material evidence that is often relegated to separate archaeological spheres:  shipwrecks, port remains, scattered underwater debris, artifact distributions on shore, and the spatial patterning and dynamics of sites involved in activity tied to the sea. These diverse maritime activities and interaction continually “made” not only the Mediterranean, as Broodbank cogently describes,53 but also its many constituent seas, regions, and communities. People connected by the water—​or rather those creating and participating in common maritime space—​became part of a shared region that included neighbors from different coasts, Roman provinces, and modern states. These connections may have been stronger than those with groups located inland or farther down their own coast who became, in concept and practice, more “distant.” Regionalism reflects the horizons of routine maritime activity in this landscape, and its cohesiveness depends on the extent and reliability of interaction. The different maritime topographies and seafaring technologies outlined in the last chapter created a decidedly non-​Euclidean surface, one marked by uneven and preferential opportunities for connections. Considerations like prevailing winds have often been used to assert that certain routes were particularly advantageous and reliable for speed and safety. In some cases, these environmental features have been translated into a deterministic—​ and therefore spatially and temporally flat—​topography rather than an opportunistic and diverse one. The frequently cited counterclockwise circuit of sailing between the Aegean, Egypt, and the Levant provides one prevalent example of this tendency. In many instances (e.g., the Uluburun shipwreck), such a model might make sense, but distilling eastern Mediterranean seafaring across millennia into a single route results in entirely too much rigidity. Such a model cannot account for the inherently complex movements of people, goods, and ideas evident in the material record.54 The assumptions discussed in the last chapter regarding sailing at night and during winter reflect the equivalent temporal facet of this determinism.55   Broodbank  2013.   For the Uluburun shipwreck, see Pulak 2008, 298 fig.  97. Discussion of this route during the Bronze Age can be found generally in Vercoutter 1956, 419–​22; Lambrou-​Phillipson 1991; Cline 1994, 91–​93; Wachsmann 1998, 299; Davis 2001, 195–​200. For the projection of this route forward to the Greco-​Roman period, see McGrail 2001, 96–​97; Shaw 2003, 99. The many alternative routes across these waters during the Classical era are described in Arnaud 2005, 218–​23. 55   See c­ hapter 2, pp. 62–65. 53

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Addressing interaction with a more flexible model of environment and geography is challenging, but the alternative cannot simply be to ignore these factors. The problem lies in assessing the role and extent to which they affected various scales and rhythms of activities. The maritime landscape approach undermines the rigid and static paradigm, encouraging exploration of how interaction between environment and mariners—​a dynamic and continually unfolding process—​ produced regional communities. For Westerdahl, the diverse facets of the maritime landscape converge spatially in “traditional zones of transport geography,” or “transport zones,” which he characterizes as route corridors in elongated and easily recognizable sociocultural space, but not identical with any single route or only following coasts. . . . The zones are influenced by and have an influence on cultural borders and border zones. Some of the boundaries of these zones appear to be based on natural conditions, such as topography (dangerous spits of land), prevailing wind directions, and currents as well as conditions of maritime culture and transport (type of goods, adapted boatbuilding, type of propulsion, etc.).56

These zones depend variously on environmental, social, economic, technological, and cultural parameters that can manifest themselves in geographies of different shapes and sizes. Their diversity is ensured through varied winds and currents, and through varied production systems and economies that generate individual patterns of exchange, fishing, or other maritime activities. Mechanisms of movement, and the vessels themselves, may also exhibit important differences.57 While Roman shipbuilding has often been treated as a singular triumph of mortise-​ and-​tenon technology, contrasting construction techniques hint at more regionalism:  for example, the sewn-​boat tradition from the pre-​Roman era enjoyed ongoing popularity and distinctive features in certain contexts like the vessels used for transport in the river systems and along the coast of the northwest Adriatic.58 In his landmark study, Braudel argues for the need “to measure these expanses of water in relation to human activity.”59 The imperative to understand

  Westerdahl 2011, 748–​49. See also Westerdahl 1995 for his original analysis of these transport zones, with an emphasis on northern Europe but including the Mediterranean area. 57   On the connections between ship types and zones of sociocultural contact, see generally Maarleveld 1995; Westerdahl 2009. 58   Beltrame 2002a; Beltrame 2002b; Willis and Capulli 2018. On sewn vessels more generally, see ­chapter 2, p. 52. 59   Braudel 1972, 103–​67, with quote at 103. 56

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human-​environment dynamics remains acute in maritime archaeological work, particularly in the Mediterranean basin. The landscape approach offers a bottom-​ up view of the spatial and temporal variability of maritime regionalism by incorporating the range of activities and agents that produced it, from commerce and other forms of exchange to travel and fishing. : : :

Mobilities The maritime landscape approach emphasizes diverse scales, temporalities, and geographies. Yet traditional binaries such as “long distance” versus “short haul” fail to capture the full variety of activity along a spectrum. The same holds true for the dichotomy often constructed between “small-​scale” and “large-​scale” ventures. Critiques of environmental determinism—​for example, strictly daylight and seasonal sailing—​quickly reveal different mariners situated along a continuum of frequency that goes beyond any simply binary. Rather, we can imagine individual maritime movements occupying a three-​dimensional space defined by geographical, scalar, and temporal axes (fig. 3.2). Approaching these variables as three intersecting axes underscores their interaction but forces us to recognize their distinction. While the ancient world likely featured activities populating all

Fig. 3.2. Schematic representation of the different facets of maritime mobility along three intersecting geographical, scalar, and temporal axes. Each of these three facets should be treated as a continuum rather than a dichotomy, with each instance of maritime mobility occupying a place in this three-​dimensional space.

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areas of the graph, there were some clear concentrations, hotspots that changed depending on the period and area of focus. Certain characteristics may have appeared more frequently together than others—​for example, long distance and large scale, or short haul and occasional—​but the illustration aims to demonstrate that they are neither parallel nor wholly codependent. To cite just one example, short-​haul activity could take the form of an occasional journey carrying seasonal produce to market or a more routine redistribution of goods from a major port to outlying communities; it could involve not only smaller loads like the agricultural goods of a few farmers but also larger ones shipped among warehouse centers like Portus and Rome. Similar diversity could be found in the record of long-​haul interaction. These axes serve several purposes: to disentangle assumed couplings among variables, to systematize thinking about these variables across the potential ebb and flow of different mariners and mechanisms, and to maintain focus on spatial and temporal rhythms of movement that create distinct patterns. We can in turn use this framework to identify the varying mobilities reflected in the record of Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean seafaring.

Trade Discussions of Mediterranean interaction at all scales are generally dominated by commerce and other forms of exchange of goods that left durable material markers. The movement of commodities was a crucial incentive for ancient maritime activity, yet the archaeological and historical record speaks to different motivations and mechanisms behind these seaborne transfers.60 Market-​based commerce can be traced over longer and shorter distances, in smaller and larger loads, and with greater and lesser frequencies. The trade in luxuries is one of the better-​attested facets of commerce, evident in descriptions of elite consumption and through occasional shipwrecks with high-​value finished goods, especially during the Late Republic and early years of the empire.61 The search for high-​value goods knew seemingly no spatial bounds, extending across the Indian Ocean and beyond. Massive ships rode the seasonal monsoons to retrieve exotics for Roman consumption, distributed thereafter along well-​traveled paths among urban centers where wealth was concentrated.62 The trade in marble and other prestigious building stone reflects an economically unlikely large-​scale phenomenon within

  See more generally c­ hapter 1, pp. 6–​13.   E .g., Formigue C wreck (Baudoin et al. 1994), Mahdia wreck (Hellenkemper-​Salies et al. 1994), and Antikythera wreck (Kaltsas et al. 2012). Given the historical context of the period, though, such assemblages are sometimes interpreted as Roman plunder rather than commerce: see Miles 2008. 62   See recently Tomber 2008; McLaughlin 2010; Sidebotham 2011; Gurukkal 2016. 60 61

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luxury consumption, prompting the movement of hundreds of tons over long distances. Russell’s analysis of dozens of shipwrecks underscores the efficiency of the mechanisms that mobilized quarries across the empire to satisfy imperial projects and private elite consumption.63 Yet while stone cargos were generally quite large, homogenous, and expensive, the simultaneous appearance of marble on a smaller scale in mundane contexts—​for example, on the surfaces of Pompeian bars—​hints at material and economic links between luxury and more routine consumption.64 The commercial movements of more common goods, from simple and processed agricultural staples to mundane building supplies, involved a broad range of seafaring activities. Short occasional hauls helped convert seasonal surplus of the dominant agrarian base into income with which to procure other goods and pay taxes.65 The ease of maritime transport and the near-​ubiquitous accessibility of the sea meant that ships were an option even over short distances. These commercial “goods to market” movements were often individually modest and seasonal but played a role in combatting the scarcity endemic to the microregions of Horden and Purcell. Yet one hallmark of Roman maritime commerce was the movement of these same basic goods over seemingly improbable distances: whole loads of ceramic roof tiles could travel not only down the coast but also over hundreds of kilometers, while jars of Gaulish-​style wine found their way across the expanse of the Mediterranean and beyond. The preferential consumption of goods situated somewhere between staples and luxuries reflects a powerful motivator behind commerce.66 Wine is the most obvious example. Most of the population consumed it in some quantity, but its many origins, varieties, and qualities made it an object of choice along the socioeconomic spectrum: diverse wines were consumed frequently by the well-​off, but imports still remained within the occasional purchasing power of those with more modest resources. The phenomenon of Cilician “imitations” of recognizable vintages may owe much to this practice, offering generally similar products to a different geographical or socioeconomic base.67 This situation translated to an extensive market for commerce of different wines—​in smaller and larger quantities, over shorter and longer distances, and   Russell 2011; Russell 2013a; Russell 2013b.   Fant et al.  2013. 65   See generally Hopkins 1980; Hopkins 1983; Wickham 2005, 697–​99. No doubt barter also continued to play a role in such small-​scale conversion of surplus production into necessary consumables. 66   See Foxhall’s (1998) study of this phenomenon as “semi-​luxuries” in the Archaic Greek world. 67   Rauh (2004, 336) is surely correct to draw attention to this phenomenon as a basic “indicator of economic well-​being” in this part of the Roman world. For imitations elsewhere in the study area, see also Hesnard 1986; Kaldeli 2009. For the side-​by-​side seaborne transport and marketing of Gaulish wine and its Cilician imitation, see the cargo of the Fig Tree Bay South A wreck (#31) off southeast Cyprus: Leidwanger 2013b. 63

64

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with lesser and greater frequencies—​and maritime interactions that cut across scale, distance, and regularity. But the complex economies of Rome meant that commerce was not the only mechanism that could move goods down the coast or across the deep. The geographical expanse and variable surplus productivity of the empire, and the uneven concentrations of its urban populations and building programs meant that extraction of resources and their transfer provided a powerful impetus for seafaring.68 This activity too involved different frequencies, distances, and scales. Its varied forms include most famously the state-​directed shipments tied to imperial collection of taxes as well as urban and military provisioning.69 Supplying several hundred thousand soldiers, many concentrated on the empire’s fringes, demanded transportation across significant distances. The scholarly focus here has naturally been on bulk, longer-​distance, and most routine redistribution: for example, the shipments of Baetican oil in Dressel 20 amphoras to the northwest provinces, and the transfers from the eastern Mediterranean basin to the northern Balkans and across the eastern deserts. The other largest concentration was the imperial capital. Long-​distance transfers from southern Spain once again provided key support, with state-​subsidized olive oil reflected in the systematic piling of tens of millions of discarded amphoras at Monte Testaccio along the docks of the Tiber River.70 Estimates of grain imports vary depending on the period and population estimate, but the maritime transfer of this one staple from Sicily, North Africa, and especially Egypt may have required nearly 1000 shiploads annually, assuming a fairly generous cargo capacity of 250 tons.71 To this might be added more than 100 similarly sized shipments of olive oil as well as about 640 cargos of wine annually for Rome alone at its height.72 Massive building programs also generated large-​scale movement of materials: not only the marble and other

  See generally c­ hapter 1, p. 7.   E .g., Rickman 1980b; Fulford 1987; Duncan-​ Jones 1990; and the various contributions in Papi 2007. 70   See the six volumes published to date as Estudios sobre el Monte Testaccio (Roma) by Blázquez Martínez and Remesal Rodríguez (1999–​2016). 71   A ldrete and Mattingly 1999, 193. This figure is based on the assumption of an urban population of one million. An average size of 250 tons for ships supplying Rome is perhaps a reasonable starting point, but see also the discussion of cargo sizes in ­chapter 2, pp. 47–53. In the specialized transport conditions for a large urban market, a greater-​t han-​average mean vessel size might be realistic even if smaller consignments more effectively distributed risk: see Hopkins 1983, 100–​102. 72   A ldrete and Mattingly 1999, 194–​96. 68 69

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decorative stones mentioned earlier but also vast quantities of bricks, tiles, and timber, along with sand and ash for concrete.73 Long-​distance transfers of goods—​both commercial and noncommercial—​ were nothing unusual in the Roman or Late Antique world, but it is crucial to connect these to the other shipments on which they depended. Taxes in kind were logistically complicated for the state, requiring transfer to a plausible consumer base. Where tax extraction was monetized, the need to convert surplus production into coin would have generated both local commercial exchange and short-​haul shipment of goods to areas where they could be more effectively marketed.74 For soldiers at the end of this supply chain, the mass consumer presence spurred allied commercial activity as individuals bought a wide range of other goods from near and far.75 Some of these moved on the very same vessels since state-​driven cargos were generally handled not by “state fleets” per se, but through consignment to privately operated ships. Under the empire detailed legislation emerged concerning this mixing of state and private cargos as well as certain exemptions from port taxes for such commercial “add-​ons.”76 For Late Antiquity, Wickham argues that the fiscal movement of goods was the fundamental driving force behind long-​distance connections.77 McCormick likewise stresses the strong stimulus toward mobility created by the annona framework, although he emphasizes the simultaneous challenge this created for those attempting to compete from outside the system.78 The mobility generated by nonmarket mechanisms could offer new opportunities for market activity. For the building industry, this included the private consumption of marble noted earlier and the shipment of unlikely goods over seemingly prohibitive distances. Simple ceramic building materials from central Italy, for example, routinely made their way to Sicily and North Africa, almost certainly in the holds of merchants whose major impetus was traffic of bulk grain and oil in the opposite direction.79 These glimpses reveal the fundamental interdependence of different forms of exchange. The fact that similar shipwrecks along

73   Figures for the movement of building materials are less clear, but see generally Fant 2001 (marble); Lancaster 2005, 12–​18 (concrete); Bukowiecki 2012 (brick); Russell 2013a, 201–​55 (stone). See also the general discussion of shipping in the urban supply of Rome in Boetto 2016. 74   Hopkins 1983, 86–​88; Carrié 2003b, 277–​78. 75   See generally Kehne 2007. For the Roman Balkans, see Duch 2017, and for Late Antiquity, see Kingsley and Decker 2001, 5–​9. 76   See generally Sirks 1991; De Salvo 1992. 77   Wickham 1984; Wickham 2005. 78   McCormick 1998; McCormick 2001, 87–​92. 79   Parker 1996, 99–​100; Parker 2008, 184–​87.

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this major central Mediterranean conduit have often been explained effectively through both commercial and state-​driven mechanisms highlights the overlap.80 Given the massive scope of these endeavors, the geographies of production and consumption, the practical limits of human organization, and the entangled nature of economic mechanisms, it should not be surprising that vessels and merchants representing the entire space of fi ­ gure  3.2 were involved. Our study area in the east presents a microcosm of this phenomenon. Commercial activity ranged from the short shipments down the coast to longer voyages within and beyond this zone. Though a small city by Roman standards, Knidos surely had outstripped its very limited local resources even before its incorporation into the empire. Its position at the tip of a topographically challenging peninsula meant that short-​haul supply by sea—​some seasonal and some more routine—​was as critical to its survival as the longer-​distance exchange that made its situation particularly advantageous.81 Not all vessels headed to Rome or Constantinople would reach the 250 tons conveniently used earlier for calculations; in many instances, we should imagine 5–​10 or more small vessels required to deliver 250 tons, perhaps in stages. These commercial and noncommercial movements focused on the capital and other major centers passed through the present study area on vessels of all sizes, up to the greatest grain freighters. Infrastructure projects like the warehouse complexes of Lycia underscore the importance of bulk cargos and the active local role this shore played in collection, transshipment, and further distribution.82 The Late Antique shift toward the eastern Mediterranean made the area even more crucial to urban and military supply, both for the routes that passed through these waters and for the produce that could be mobilized on small scales for transfer in bulk. The obvious point should not be left un-​emphasized: mobilities surrounding commerce and other exchange across spatial and temporal scales were discrete but also interconnected. The solution of reframing trade around the fundamental variables common to all maritime activity—​scale, size, and frequency—​offers flexible parameters for modeling economic relationships. Frequency and reliability of journeys were integral to the development of maritime connections and regions across different spatial scales. More frequent trips imply that parties might become better known   E .g., see the shipwrecks at Skeri Bank in deep water between northwest Sicily and southeast Sardinia:  McCann and Oleson 2004. State-​d irected supply has been raised as a possibility in the 4th-​century Levanzo I shipwreck surveyed off the islands of western Sicily: see Royal and Tusa 2012; Royal 2015. 81   See discussion of Knidos in ­chapter 5, p. 167. For its particular expansion and maritime connections, see also Greene and Leidwanger 2019. Tuna (2012, 31) provides details about the likely carrying and productive capacities of the peninsula. 82   R ickman 1971, 137–​40; Wörrle 1975; Cavalier 2007; Rice 2012, 129–​7 1. 80

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to each other, resulting in greater levels of economic and perhaps also social integration. Closely related is the professionalization of these ventures, since ample testimony is available for social and economic organization among groups of dedicated merchant mariners.83 The extensive evidence for trade specialization and coordination of activity, markets, and credit across the Mediterranean would seem to emphasize the role of dedicated merchant groups, at least for the longer-​ distance exchange that was sufficiently high profile and large scale to warrant more complex financial arrangements. Yet the idea of part-​time mariners and occasional short ventures remains appealing in certain situations, even if little historical and archaeological evidence is available to substantiate Hesiod’s farmer (Op. 618-​94).84 This may not be surprising in light of such individuals’ presumably low profile, not only on account of their modest maritime activity but also through the equally low-​profile livelihoods (agriculture, fishing, etc.) to which this was a complement. Whenever and wherever such activity may have taken place, it would almost certainly have been opportunistic, and most likely over a relatively restricted geographical area. Focusing on frequency and other basic facets of maritime activity also helps us to identify potential lacunae in our evidence and to evaluate its reliability for analyzing interaction within and among maritime communities. The annona and its related activities of major urban supply would seem important for the area, and warehouses offer at least some indirect evidence for the grain that is missing in the archaeological record. Yet comparatively few individual shipwrecks can be linked safely to official supply. Only fortuitous preservation, full excavation, and many decades of study identified the Yassıada A assemblage (#64) as sent at the church’s behest for military campaigns in the east. Even so, its mixed, surprisingly hodgepodge amphoras reveal a more complex economic background involving prior voyages, merchants, financiers, ships, and goods.85 Transport amphoras provide invaluable proxy evidence for many varied seaborne movements along these spectra, but only directly for certain processed agricultural goods. Beyond individual missing commodities, a crucial gap is the underrepresentation of the shortest transfers of goods that did not always necessitate heavy ceramic amphoras: among neighbors, within towns, between town and countryside, or between   De Salvo 1992; Terpstra 2013.   Beresford (2013, 262–​64) stresses the challenges of undertaking seafaring and attending to an agricultural cycle that was most demanding precisely during the traditionally busiest seafaring months, though we might also imagine that these schedules would have encouraged setting out in brief windows or outside the most intensive agricultural months, particularly over short distances in known waters. 85   On the interpretation of this vessel, see generally van Doorninck 2015, with bibliography and discussion of earlier theories regarding the assemblage. 83

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city and port.86 Surely many goods (fresh produce, timber, fodder, etc.) were not only candidates for bulk sea transport but also marketable principally over short distances. These movements can sometimes be inferred from the distribution of farmsteads and production centers, coastal infrastructure, agricultural landscapes, and other features.87 The surviving maritime material record cannot convey a complete picture of each facet of maritime trade. When contextualized as part of a broader landscape, however, it offers a sample from across the diverse scales, sizes, and routines illustrated in ­figure 3.2.

Travel The dense material record of amphoras underscores the importance of trade, but their visibility should not obscure the role of other mobilities in creating maritime connections. Only a handful of shipwrecks or other remains to date have been reliably linked to activities other than exchange of one form or another, yet migrants and travelers have for millennia found their way to foreign eastern Mediterranean shores, among them Greek and Phoenician colonists, Roman soldiers and veterans, and Late Antique pilgrims.88 Moatti emphasizes travel as a defining structural feature of antiquity, demonstrating a range of institutions developed to manage human mobility among communities especially in the Roman world.89 Such journeys must be recognized and evaluated along these same axes of size, scale, and regularity: numbers of individuals moving, distances, frequency, and duration. Opportunistic transport of passengers probably added to the profits of mariners shipping goods in many corners of the Mediterranean, but large-​scale activity on some routes—​for example, along the southern Turkish coast—​evidently could amount to big business.90 Paul’s journey (Acts 27.37) makes it abundantly clear that travelers were routine on vessels here; his merchant ship left Myra for Rome with not only grain but also some 276 passengers and crew. More than twice this

  E .g., Peña (1998) argues persuasively from 4th-​century ostraca at the harbor of Carthage that much of the state-​mobilized olive oil exported from this major production area of North Africa was carted to the port not in amphoras but in large skins (utres). The oil would then have required repackaging at the coast in more durable containers for shipment. Despite the large scale of this short-​haul mobility from extended hinterland to port, it would naturally be underrepresented in the archaeological record. 87   Such inference is integral to the establishment of short-​haul movements in our study area: see ­chapter 5, pp.  181–​182. 88   E .g., for the Late Antique world, see Elsner and Rutherford 2005, Handley 2011, and various chapters on the eastern Mediterranean in Kristiansen and Friese 2017. 89   Moatti 2006. See also Moatti 2004; Moatti et al. 2009. 90   Beltrame 2002c,  90–​91. 86

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number, some 600 passengers, are recorded by Josephus (Vit. 3)  when he suffered shipwreck in the Adriatic. The individuals huddled aboard massive grain-​ carrying freighters bound for Italy underscore the importance of the interrelated mobilities of goods and people. With the boom in pilgrimage to the Levant in Late Antiquity, these movements across the eastern Mediterranean probably took on still greater economic and social importance.91 But even with such crowded decks, the overall numbers of travelers voyaging over long distances probably remained low. Woolf offers a rudimentary but reasonable calculation of one in a thousand Romans in any given year. Such figures are necessarily about orders of magnitude rather than real numbers. But even admitting imprecision, it seems clear that long-​distance crossings were not routine for the average Roman, and only a small fraction may have ventured on such journeys even over the course of a lifetime.92 We should not overlook a potentially important role for human mobility over more limited distances: before he boarded the longer-​haul vessel at Myra, Paul’s journey was one of short legs interspersed with downtime in ports mingling with other passengers.93 In noting the origins of individuals commemorated, the epigraphic record reveals more permanent resettlement over short distances. The overall migration rate appears quite low, but of those nonlocals commemorated in Roman Spain, Gaul, and the Near East, most had traveled from village to village, from countryside to city, or otherwise within provinces and over relatively limited distances.94 These movements were driven by economic opportunities in both urban and rural settings for skilled and unskilled labor. Some moved on a permanent basis, but many others followed temporary or seasonal patterns. Grey emphasizes the role of recommendation letters carried by Late Antique peasants seeking employment as they moved from estate to estate.95 Regular patterns of movement would have contributed to the formation of ties within and among communities, and in turn allowed individuals to draw on shared bonds and institutions for support. Even if this travel reflects a quantitatively smaller sector of maritime activity compared to trade, its contribution must have been significant for the building of relationships in a world where face-​to-​face contacts were still the norm for interaction. Merchants themselves made up a significant proportion of these travelers. When transplanted over longer distances, merchants could rely on shared

  Hunt 1984, 50–​82.   Woolf 2016,  462. 93   Reynier  2009. 94   Woolf 2016, 455–​56. On Spain, see also Haley 1991; Holleran 2016. On the Near East, see Zerbini 2016 (including papyrological evidence). 95   Grey 2004. See also Whittaker and Garnsey 1998, 293–​94. 91

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cultural origins for bonds of trust underpinning exchange.96 These merchants also accounted for significant and diverse temporary mobility, and the role of fairs and markets is worth special attention. MacMullen’s early study of periodic markets in Campania, for example, reveals the temporal and spatial dynamics that allowed efficient circulation of merchants and products across a limited area. Events took place in a particular town anywhere from once every seven or eight days to monthly or less frequently still.97 Settlement patterns and economic factors dictated different local arrangements. A  partially preserved calendar from Dura Europos shows that eight days was the normal market cycle there in the early 3rd century ad.98 The dense populations of Palestine were served by an intricate system of permanent markets centered on the fora of several larger cities as well as less formal events held elsewhere on designated days.99 Our study area reveals some evidence for periodic markets and festivals that would have drawn communities together.100 Two Late Antique references to a commercial fair at the Cilician town of Aegae suggest that merchants came not only from ports nearby but also from as far away as “the west” to enjoy tax-​free trade over a 40-​day period.101 These institutions were a regular feature of the rhythm of Roman and Late Antique life, cutting across the varied sizes, scales, and frequencies of maritime activity. Moreover, they extended beyond the economic sphere to facilitate services, social gathering, and the transfer of information alongside goods. The scheduling of markets around religious festivals is the most obvious expression of this interdependence.102 The phenomenon of markets and fairs underscores another notable point about maritime mobilities: people and goods moved on land in conjunction with movements at sea. Discussions of seaborne interaction in the ancient Mediterranean generally stop at the water’s edge, although embracing the full range of maritime mobility—​adopting a maritime landscape approach—​necessitates that we consider how social and economic activities linked harbors, ports, and the hinterlands they served.103 In contributing goods to merchant cargos and receiving other imports from up the coast and overseas, a much larger swath of any given community was tied into the broader currents of maritime interaction. Like Aegae, ports of all shapes and sizes became markets for exchange and by extension focal   Terpstra 2013; Terpstra 2015; Schörle 2017.   MacMullen 1970. 98   Snyder 1936. 99   Safrai 1994; Rosenfeld and Menirav 2005. 100   MacMullen 1970, 335–​36; de Ligt 1993, 69–​70, 72–​74, 255–​56. 101   de Ligt 1993, 69 and 255. 102   MacMullen 1970, 336; Frayn 1993, 133. 103   Mills 2018,  248. 96 97

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points for local congregation and communication. These spaces drew individuals throughout their hinterlands who needed to convert their seasonal surplus production into cash, or more routinely to acquire goods and services.104 In this way, maritime mobilities reverberated simultaneously across the water and throughout the countryside, contributing to the rhythm of socioeconomic life and the construction of regional communities that could extend far beyond the harbor basins or city walls.

Fishing A remaining major facet of seaborne mobility concerns fishing. The economic and social contributions of this activity to maritime communities are difficult to evaluate archaeologically in the eastern Mediterranean,105 but its routines, spaces, infrastructure, and people surely overlapped with those of exchange. The marine-​ oriented topography would suggest a strong place for fishing, and the topic has received some attention in recent years from those interested in its place within ancient economies.106 Diet varied widely according to geography and status in the Roman and Late Antique worlds, and fish occupied a complicated place in the social hierarchy of food. Descriptions of elaborate dishes involving choice cuts of large and exotic fish point to selective consumption among the wealthiest circles; inexpensive preserved products were available for the masses, and the impoverished fisherman serves as a trope underscoring the negative valence around those who earned their livelihood on the sea.107 Archaeological evidence reveals fish remains across the socioeconomic spectrum, with the poor seemingly consuming the cheaper and smaller catch.108 Isotope analysis of bones confirms that marine resources fulfilled a significant proportion of diet among at least certain Roman populations, higher than in many Medieval and Early Modern communities.109 Notwithstanding these class issues, a growing body of evidence indicates a substantial and diverse role for fishing in Roman and Late Antique economies.110 The   For Anatolia in Late Antiquity, Trombley (2001) documents the routine overlapping social and economic contacts that seem to have existed between towns and their hinterlands. 105   Mylona 2018. 106   E .g., Purcell 1995; Bekker-​Nielsen 2005; Wilson 2006; Mylona 2008; Marzano 2013; and various other contributions to the Journal of Maritime Archaeology 13.3. 107   Marzano 2018, 438–​42. On the social status and general lack of visibility of fishermen in antiquity, see Mylona 2008, 67–​74. 108   Mylona 2015, 157–​58. For the diverse world of fish in the Classical period, see in particular Davidson 1997; Lytle 2018a. 109   Prowse et al. 2004; Keenleyside et al. 2009. 110   In contrast to the earlier, minimizing view of fish as a subordinate and supplementary economic undertaking in antiquity, as advocated most prominently by Gallant 1985. 104

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massive fish-​salting and related operations in southern Spain and Portugal suggest growth toward an industrial scale.111 Marzano has recently brought together a wealth of data for the many aspects of marine resource exploitation from boat-​ and shore-​based fishing to shellfish cultivation, fish farming, processing, and salting. She describes significant Roman economic investment—​particularly through farms and other infrastructure projects requiring no small amount of experimentation and capital—​as a lucrative source of income in key parts of the empire.112 In light of this massive production and distribution, and in particular the processing and packaging at maritime villas along the central Italian coast, we should probably read at least some truth in Juvenal’s (Sat. 5) complaint about overfishing the Tyrrhenian Sea, with the sad result that the provinces were left supplying Roman tables. Yet for as common as fishing was in the eastern Mediterranean, it appears not to have reached the industrial scale of the west.113 Economic strategies and maritime practices of fishing were as diverse in antiquity as the Mediterranean’s marine topography and environment, to judge from the techniques outlined in Oppian’s Halieutica. Mylona emphasizes the exploitation of inshore, marine shoaling, and migratory fish populations requiring varied technologies, skills, geographies, and temporalities as well as different infrastructures and mechanisms for processing and distribution.114 The material culture of nets and other gear reveals similar diversity.115 Inshore work offered a reasonable catch for relatively limited investment and technology. Individuals or families could own their boats, and fishing could be practiced freely on different scales year-​round. Large shoals provided another opportunity, at times also close to the shore; this catch required more specialized skill and knowledge, targeted certain types of fish, and depended on seasonal cycles and often extensive facilities (vats, salt works, etc.) for processing sudden windfalls. Capitalizing on migratory fish like tuna likewise demanded considerable skill and knowledge, as well as the coordination of large amounts of manpower and infrastructure (elaborate nets, watch towers, etc.). The high investment costs associated with more complex and larger-​scale fishing methods meant that most of its practitioners probably did not own their own boats or nets. The pooling of resources was surely common in the Roman period as in more recent

111   Étienne et al. 1994; Wilson 2006; Marzano 2013, 111–​22; Wilson 2014, 157–​60; Bernal-​Casasola et al. 2018. See also Marzano 2007 for the development of maritime villas. 112   Marzano and Brizzi 2009; Marzano 2013, 199–​233. 113   Mylona 2018; Weingarten 2018. 114   See generally Mylona 2008, 33–​66; Mylona 2015. 115   See the contributions in Bekker-​Neilsen and Bernal Casasola 2010.

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eras, and professional associations are attested at Ephesus and elsewhere that included from two to several dozen fishermen.116 The patterns of mobility generated by these diverse fishing practices reflect a full range of size, scale, and regularity.117 While some could make a living remaining close to shore and their own communities, others traveled over considerable distances in what was essentially an open and unregulated sea.118 Depending on the home port, trips to fishing grounds could mean anything from short-​term absences of a few days to seasonal migrations. As with other types of seafaring, the varying strategies described by Oppian (Hal. 3) for different seasons clarify that fishing could continue throughout the winter as well.119 Bintliff’s ethnographic observations help us appreciate the breadth of possibility within ancient fishing. He suggests that the concentration of major stocks of migratory fish (e.g., tuna, sardines, mackerel) at several key points would have prompted prehistoric fishermen to converge from all over the Aegean, contributing to the growth of connections.120 Interviews with traditional Greek fishermen reveal how certain Aegean islands drew boats from various parts of the mainland to create new communities as well as interaction with local island inhabitants: We can note that migrant fishermen visit a number of different grounds, and often coincide there with crews from other regions; the advent of motor traction brought no great extension to the movements followed with sailing craft; in former days the catch was consumed by the inhabitants of the district where the catches were made, and the network is not a consequence of interregional commerce; migratory fishermen camp on the beaches where the catch is concentrated, and anchor offshore or draw their vessels onto the beach; these “foreign” fishermen have a social contract with local people and barter for food with them.121

Such ground-​level relationships of trust and shared knowledge fall below the radar of the ancient historical record, making it ever more crucial to document this rapidly disappearing form of comparative maritime perspective on human

  Marzano 2013, 80–​84, which also includes helpful comparative analysis of collaborative fishing practices and community investment from more recent periods. 117   Marzano 2013,  85–​88. 118   Lytle 2012, based on epigraphic data for the pre-​Roman Greek world. See also Ørsted 1998 on the lack of control of Roman seas. 119   See c­ hapter 2, p. 64. 120   Bintliff 1977, 117–​22. 121   Bintliff 1977,  118. 116

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geographies.122 One potential clue lies in the common ancient vocabulary for fish within the Aegean—​in contrast with the highly localized terms given to inland lake catch—​t hat Lytle observes, pointing to shared knowledge across a geographically disparate community.123 We should similarly note the importance of fishing as a social activity that unfolded over long periods in close contact, where the sea, boats, and ports served as central places for communication among fishermen. Knowledge of the environment and resources was likely transferred not only within these groups but also with different types of merchants and other mariners. The mobility associated with fishing extends to subsequent distribution, which clearly presented a logistical challenge greater than that of products like wine and oil. Unless they were salted or otherwise preserved, fish had a viable window for sale of only a day or two. The construction of fish tanks at numerous sites around the Mediterranean, particularly during the imperial centuries, probably responded in part to this concern.124 This practical impediment to long-​distance transfer meant that fresh fish-​eating communities were generally coastal or located within a short distance of where fishermen landed.125 In some instances the fish were perhaps sold directly to consumers or their agents, presumably on the beach or docks, but nearby marketplaces provided more permanent infrastructure, as seems to be the case at Roman Corinth and Pompeii.126 Even so, the regularity of fresh fish at inland communities is surprising. A Hellenistic inscription of fish prices from Akraiphia analyzed by Lytle lists various saltwater species that must have traveled 20 km or so, probably from the port of Anthedon, to reach this site.127 At Itanos in eastern Crete, fish were sent at least 9 km across a difficult   In many areas of the Mediterranean, the decline in traditional small-​scale fishing means that this possibility is rapidly disappearing. Leonard’s (1995a, 150–​52) interview of a local fisherman at Kioni, off western Cyprus, is limited in its discussion to the sailor’s use and experience of that anchorage rather than the sea space in which he operated. See also Tartaron’s (2018) use of knowledge transfer among Greek fishermen to understand better Mycenaean maritime activity. The potential is immense, and this sort of maritime perspective might add valuable comparative evidence, with cognitive maps of seafarers evident in their naming conventions for bodies of water, as Nash (2009; 2010; 2012) demonstrates in the case of fishing grounds in the southwest Pacific and off Australia. The dramatically varied names of fishing sites might offer an indirect hint, revealing the extent to which perceptions of the water and hidden seabed inform the practice of those utilizing and creating these places. On these ground-​level geographical constructs of space in antiquity, see earlier, pp. 75–76. 123   Lytle 2010,  272. 124   In the eastern Mediterranean, see Davaras 1974; Francis 2010. 125   Not surprisingly, coastal sites produce the highest proportions of fish bones within archaeological assemblages: see Mylona 2008 table 5.1; Mylona 2015, 155. 126   Mylona 2015, 157. Strabo (14.2.21) recounts the tale of how residents of Carian Iasos in southwest Asia Minor abruptly departed a performance they were attending to converge on the fish market at the sound of the bell signaling the arrival of the day’s catch. 127   Lytle 2010,  277. 122

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terrain during Late Antiquity.128 The distribution of fish products also likely included short-​haul shipments up and down the coasts to beaches and markets. Despite a generally rich material record for fish processing, comparatively little maritime archaeological evidence is available for fishing activities at sea. Hooks, spears, and other tools are not uncommon finds on coastal settlements and shipwrecks, but the remains that can be reasonably associated with the fishing boats themselves are few and humble. Most fishing vessels were probably well under 10 m in length, and the surest identification to date—​Fiumicino 5 from Portus—​is only 5.6 m in length. This small craft carried its own tank within the hull, which is thought to have aided in carrying live fish.129 For such basic operations, coastal sailing and short distances were the norm. Boetto argues that the construction and propulsion of the Fiumicino 5 vessel would have limited its operations to the Tiber River and delta, nearby lagoons, and perhaps certain near-​shore ventures. Two small Early Roman craft found without cargos at Herculaneum and along the Sea of Galilee may also reflect fishing craft with limited zones of operation.130 Distinctive archaeological signatures of fishing are extraordinarily rare (and even more rarely preserved) within a group of vessels that are otherwise simply nondescript small boats. This may help to explain why fishing craft feature so rarely in the archaeological literature: small vessels are generally found thanks to their visible ceramic cargos, which in turn allow them to be identified as coastal traders by scholars interested primarily in exchange.131 This dearth of unequivocal archaeological evidence may also reflect the overlap and interdependence of maritime mobilities and their infrastructures. Vessels plying the eastern Mediterranean could take on passengers alongside cargos as opportunity arose. Marzano notes that in more recent eras, “when fishing was slow and where geographic conditions allowed it, fishermen with a boat usually worked transporting goods.”132 Some ancient fishermen likely used their marine knowledge and boats to become either occasional or professional merchants, an overlap that Tartaron has noted among the traditional practitioners at Korphos on the Saronic Gulf in Greece: “the more ambitious or better connected aspired to be sea traders.”133 Vessels of similar size could effectively become fishing boats, local merchant craft, or simply multipurpose boats, used variously depending on need,

  Mylona  2003.   Boetto 2006; Boetto 2010. 130   Steffy 1985 (Herculaneum vessel); Wachsmann 2000 (Sea of Galilee vessel). 131   See c­ hapter 2, p. 37. 132   Marzano 2013, 81. At times these “goods” have been archaeologists, as research teams often undertake specialized maritime archaeological work from fishing or other multipurpose vessels. 133   Tartaron 2013,  266. 128 129

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season, or economic conditions. Only certain of these activities would have left material markers. This intersection presents an archaeological challenge, but it is also a fundamental feature of maritime mobility. Horden and Purcell emphasize fishing as a supplement to other livelihoods,134 while Marzano demonstrates that larger-​scale operations, particularly in the west, could function independently and professionally as major economic industries. The different facets of maritime mobility—​size, scale, and regularity—​must be kept in mind while evaluating the interdependence of these seafaring practices. The opportunistic transfer of goods in a fisherman’s home waters and the occasional employment of mercantile vessels and crews for shoaling fish were manifestations of the same linked infrastructure, labor, and environment. : : :

Thinking through Networks The dynamic landscape of diverse mobilities offers fertile ground for exploring how communities emerged and were sustained through maritime economic interaction. But this broad framework also presents analytical challenges, requiring a methodology that can capture the complex and rapidly growing dataset for seaborne mobility. Network concepts and tools provide an opportunity to model the maritime material record. At their most basic level, networks are composed of nodes (vertices) and links (edges). For studies of Mediterranean antiquity, network nodes generally represent the individuals, artifacts, communities, or other actors/​objects whose relations are of interest. The particular questions determine the nature of these nodes as well as the links between them, which in turn can reflect attested relationships, material culture similarities, or environmental or topographical attributes (e.g., proximity or intervisibility). Relative weighting of links allows them to affect each other and the overall network in different ways. The network approach offers strengths for archaeological inquiry, which Knappett summarizes succinctly: First, [networks] force us to consider relations between entities. This makes them good for thinking about assemblages and their interactions. Secondly, they are inherently spatial, with the flexibility to be both social and physical. Thirdly, networks are a strong method for articulating scales. Fourthly,

  Horden and Purcell 2000, 194:  “historians should not undervalue fisheries just because there are few places where a population can afford to rely on fishing alone. For similar reasons, fishing even outside the Mediterranean rarely serves as an independent subsistence activity; and there are no other strategies on which the wise Mediterranean primary producer relies exclusively either.” 134

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networks can incorporate both people and objects. And last but not least, more recent network analysis incorporates a temporal dimension that means networks can begin dynamically to unravel the complexities of how spatial patterns are generated by processes over time.135

With their focus on multiscalar connections across space, networks hold great conceptual potential for the study of Mediterranean seaborne interaction. The basic vocabulary involved—​ such as networks, hubs, and centrality—​ carries immediate and universal (if generic) meaning without being overly technical. Systematic analytical representation of spatial data strikes at the heart of longstanding archaeological distribution studies,136 making networks more approachable within the discipline. The flexible properties encoded in network topologies allow them to model the sorts of economic structures that are of central concern to my study. Yet the translation of maritime archaeological data into formal network parameters is hardly straightforward. The discussion that follows explores the trajectories of network studies of the ancient world before moving into their particular problems and potential for interrogating complex Mediterranean maritime interaction in the next section. Together, these discussions inform the network modeling in c­ hapter  4. Network approaches reflect a growing body of case studies and theoretical concepts that have much to offer the study of ancient maritime economies.137 Given the diversity of historical and archaeological questions to which networks have been applied,138 only those of broadest significance or direct relevance to the economic questions posed here are addressed. Networks have a long history in sociology and complexity science, yet their direct influence on archaeology was sporadic and generally limited until the 21st century. Brughmans traces certain roots of network visualization in archaeological analysis to a productive dialog with graph theory, a branch of pure mathematics that helped to foster network analysis from the 1960s.139 A  series of studies around the turn of the millennium bridged complex systems and material culture, offering a promising point of departure for archaeological networks.140 Simultaneous breakthroughs related to network dynamics, together with the tremendous growth in online social networking since the early 2000s, prompted a   Knappett 2011,  10.   E .g., Hodder and Orton 1976. 137   See generally Leidwanger and Knappett 2018a. 138   For overviews and background on networks in archaeology, with a major focus on Mediterranean antiquity, see in particular Brughmans 2010; Knappett 2011; Brughmans 2013; Collar et  al. 2015; Knappett 2016; Mills 2017. 139   Brughmans 2013. 140   E.g., Bentley and Maschner 2001; Bentley and Maschner 2003. See also Bentley and Shennan 2003. 135

136

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wave of literature introducing the public to complexity theory.141 It was through this broad popularization that networks have entered mainstream research on Mediterranean antiquity over the past decade, helped along by a combination of visual clarity and thematic timeliness.142 Viewed in tandem with the ongoing concern for Mediterranean connectivity, the convergence of the familiar and elegant, yet powerful and new helps to explain the rapid growth in ancient studies. Current approaches are as varied as the questions they seek to answer; their engagement ranges from broad adoption of network concepts and thinking to specific employment of analytical tools and models.143 These latter formal methodologies offer hope for more systematically detecting and interpreting patterns in the relationships among individuals, objects, and even whole sites or communities. Translation to the ancient Mediterranean of network approaches developed largely in sociology and complexity science demands careful consideration. Borrowing beyond the discipline can bring innovative concepts, well-​tested analytical rigor, and new toolkits for crunching unwieldy (or sometimes simply old) data that has thwarted compelling synthesis to date. But the different datasets and questions require reflection on the nature of this translation and the proper utility of approaches beyond their original field and purpose.144 One fundamental but rarely addressed problem concerns the largely complete, standardized, and fine-​grained datasets that network methodologies tend to privilege.145 This situation may be practical for mapping friendships among schoolchildren or citations in journals, but it is generally inconceivable for typical archaeological data; in archaeology fragmentation is the rule and unevenness creeps in through vagaries   E .g., Watts 1999; Barabasi 2002; Buchanan 2002; Watts 2003.   A range of conferences, often with subsequent publication, have explored network approaches to the material and historical records of the ancient Mediterranean: e.g., Malkin et al. 2009; Knappett 2013; Preiser-​Kappeler and Daim 2015; Brughmans et al. 2016; Teigen and Seland 2017. See also the collected papers published as part of the Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology conference series (e.g., Clark and Hagemeister 2007) and as discrete volumes of Österreichische Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaften (2012, Vol. 23.1), Les nouvelles de l’archéologie (2014, Vol. 135), and Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory (2015, Vol. 22.1). Note also recently the series of “Connected Past” meetings (connectedpast.net) and the new and broadly conceived Journal of Historical Network Research (https://​jhnr.uni.lu/​index.php/​jhnr/​index). 143   Fulminante 2014a; Knappett 2016. In many instances, networks can serve productively as a way of conceptualizing connections rather than a specific means for their modeling:  see Malkin 2011; Molloy 2016 (various contributions); Sommer 2017. Here my discussion focuses primarily on those studies that integrate elements of formal network modeling. 144   See the insightful critiques offered in Brughmans 2010, 278–​ 84; Evans 2016; Rivers 2016; Brughmans 2018. Scott (2011) discusses how this problem plagues scientific disciplines more generally. 145   For recent discussion of this dilemma, see Bevan and Wilson 2013; Sindbæk 2013; Düring 2016; Knappett 2016, 28–​29; Peeples et al. 2016, 74–​78; Tsirogiannis and Tsirogiannis 2016; Prignano et al. 2017. 141

142

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of preservation, investigation, and publication. The lowest-​hanging ancient fruit, therefore, has tended to be not material record but the dense textual record of literature, papyrology, and epigraphy. Ruffini examines social dynamics in Late Antique Egypt through a wide range of rich documentary papyri that reveal strongly horizontal village-​level ties and extensive regional connections.146 The individual correspondence of Late Antique Syrian religious leaders allows Schor to emphasize the power of social network structure over ideology in the theological disputes that plagued this formative period of Christianity.147 One of the fundamental network studies on the premodern era emerged from such a fortuitous Mediterranean dataset:  Padgett’s exploration of the networks that were instrumental to the rise of the Medici in Renaissance Florence.148 With the fine-​grained detail they afford, ancient texts offer fertile ground for the tools of social network analysis: individuals are nodes, and their links are grounded in direct speech, correspondence, or other ties.149 Such rich sources of small-​scale social relations are comparatively few and strongly slanted toward certain periods (especially Late Antiquity) and regions (especially Egypt). These datasets provide valuable case studies but hardly represent the full breadth of the Mediterranean across many centuries.150 The material record raises similar challenges, so the requisite caveats must be acknowledged about its unevenness and layers of selectivity.151 Even so, archaeology offers a potential windfall of bulk data for network analysis of interaction, particularly as archaeologists increasingly treat artifacts as active agents in these social relations.152 For example, Knappett and others provide frameworks for understanding the vast, multiscalar, and dynamic relationships encoded in the material record among individuals or communities, between objects and people, and among objects.153 These approaches give artifacts enormous potential for both affecting and mapping material and social connections across the ancient world. Key to placing archaeological finds within this network context is understanding what sorts of relationships are embedded in different objects and contexts. The growing

  Ruffini 2008. See also more recently O’Connell and Ruffini 2017.   Schor  2011. 148   Padgett and Ansell 1993; Padgett 2001; Padgett 2010; Padgett and McLean 2011. 149   E .g., Kydros et al. 2015. 150   See recently Stoner 2014; Brand 2017; Broux 2017. 151   For examples of these practical challenges in network analysis of archaeological artifacts, see the discussions of the Roman ceramic datasets analyzed in Brughmans 2010, 284–​85; as well as Graham 2006a; Graham 2014. 152   E .g., Knapp and van Dommelen 2010; Kiriatzi and Knappett 2016. 153   K nappett 2011; Knappett 2016. See also Van Oyen 2016a; Van Oyen 2016b; and also recent work focusing in particular on “entanglements” between humans and things in Hodder 2012; Hodder 2016. 146 147

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repertoire of network-​inspired archaeological studies in the Mediterranean is beyond summary here,154 but a few case studies can demonstrate their potential in two areas of thematic relevance: first, the emergence and role of central places through interaction, and second, integration across scales of connections, including detection of meaningful communities within network structures. A primary thread through network approaches has been the emergence and role of central places and centrality in past landscapes. Foundational studies by Rihll and Wilson explore early settlement patterning in central Greece through computational gravity models. This approach estimates interactions based on comparative size and importance or attractiveness of sites and their relative distances, revealing the power of geography, or at least proximity, in guiding growth and emergence of different poleis during the Classical era.155 Beyond settlement location, the archaeological record here plays a limited role in the model, primarily for evaluating the significance of certain places predicted to be central to the network. This pioneering study inspired alternative models for urbanization in Greece by Evans and Rivers.156 In central Italy, Fulminante’s evaluation of Final Bronze Age and Archaic urbanism relies on settlement size analyzed through different centrality lenses that account for natural paths of communication along rivers and roads. Her approach identifies interaction—​its intensity, control, and infrastructure—​as key to the prosperity of different communities at different times.157 Such a focus on location within natural vectors of interaction offers obvious comparison with the maritime Mediterranean, where network approaches should be well suited to explore issues of centrality.158 Sindbæk’s investigations into location and artifact patterning at coastal Viking settlements have already demonstrated the fruitfulness of sea-​centered network research for identifying central nodes in long-​distance trade and interaction. His work elucidates associations between routine local markets serving hinterlands and trading spaces that were sufficiently central to spur broader political economies and incipient urbanism.159 In the Mediterranean world, Broodbank’s influential early maritime network study analyzes the complex dynamics of Late Neolithic to Early Bronze Age   For such overviews, see in particular Brughmans 2013.   R ihll and Wilson 1987; Rihll and Wilson 1991. 156   R ivers and Evans 2014; Evans and Rivers 2017. In a similar way, Mizoguchi (2009; 2013) offers analysis of the emergence of hierarchy among the small regional units that make up the complex topology of interaction in early 1st-​millennium Japan. 157   Fulminante 2012; Fulminante 2014b; Fulminante et al. 2017. For research on the same area in a preceding period, see also van Rossenberg 2012. 158   L eidwanger and Knappett 2018b. 159   Sindbæk 2007; Sindbæk 2009; Sindbæk 2010; Sindbæk 2015. 154 155

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interaction across the Aegean, marked by a dense matrix of small and medium-​ sized islands connected by short-​haul voyages.160 Building on earlier network-​ influenced models of island colonization across large areas like the Pacific and Caribbean,161 Broodbank employs a relatively simple proximal point analysis to hypothesize connections based on daily rowing (20–​40/​50 km) and sailing (100–​ 150 km) distances. This landscape approach to the creation of links offers an improvement over the flat topographies that characterize many spatial network studies. Distance, visibility among islands, and travel technologies all become key considerations for the model, against which the material record is then situated. By connecting sites to their nearest neighbors, Broodbank explores how communities might have built social and economic ties across this island matrix. The patterns vary by period and input but demonstrate the converging influence of island size, proximity, and demography, as well as each community’s situation within the emergent structure. In the resulting networks some larger islands turn inward, some smaller islands gain high centrality and play a strongly connective regional role, and some comparatively well-​integrated areas eventually fragment. Combining an “islandscape” framework with network tools, Broodbank’s work provides a strong foundation on which many subsequent analyses have been built, including by Knappett and his collaborators on the Bronze Age southern Aegean.162 Using a more nuanced gravity model of their own design (ariadne), they tackle one of the fundamental problems at the heart of earlier studies of maritime interaction: “an assumed equivalence between physical, geometric space on the one hand, and relational, social space on the other.”163 An average daily transport distance at sea of 100–​150 km—​reflecting the influential new technology of the sail—​again lends the model a more meaningful geographical and temporal scale. The ariadne network accounts for differences in demography and resource availability through known site sizes and the working assumption that large sites are more likely to connect to other large sites that offer more opportunities. Bringing this model to bear on the longstanding question of Minoan collapse, they suggest that the network centrality of Thera lent it unusual importance for maritime power; its destruction had significant ramifications for the sustainability of the ties on which the Minoan system was built.164

  Broodbank  2000.   E .g., Irwin et al. 1990; Callaghan 1999; Callaghan and Scarre 2009. 162   K nappett et al. 2008; Evans et al. 2009. For details of the ariadne model developed specifically for this analysis by the authors, see Evans et al. 2012. 163   K nappett et al. 2008, 1009. 164   K nappett et al. 2011; Rivers et al. 2016; Rivers 2018. 160 161

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The second relevant theme from recent network models of interaction is inherent to the entire archaeological process:  scale. The explicit incorporation of multiple scales in network approaches remains unusual, although the tools to think systematically across human spatial and social geographies are available and would seem a clear match for networks.165 Certainly the range of mobilities outlined previously underscores the need to tackle simultaneously connections of widely varying extents.166 Tartaron explicitly confronts this phenomenon in the Mycenaean world through interdependent but discrete nested scales.167 His individual “coastscapes” or “maritime small worlds” are not necessarily microcosms of broader structures but rather exhibit their own rhythms and dynamics that can link to, but also function independently from, larger frameworks. Tartaron’s approach conceptually bridges polarizing models of elite exchange (e.g., the Uluburun shipwreck) and the cabotage-​ style interaction advocated most importantly by Horden and Purcell.168 More than a spatial dichotomy, this framework embraces the different social structures, agents, activities, and temporalities of maritime mobility across scales. Refocusing the discussion on variation of interaction, including smaller scales by nonspecialist seafarers, serves first to provide a more nuanced view of typical Mycenaean seafaring practice. It also makes explicit how and when such smaller scales may (or may not) have interacted with each other and the celebrated “high commerce” conducted over longer distances by professionals. Although Tartaron opts to avoid formal graph visualizations, his modeling offers a powerful example of how the typically discrete social space of networks can be overlaid with the real geographical space that was an integral factor in human mobility. Closely tied to networks’ multiscalar flexibility is their capacity to detect natural communities. This area of research in social and biological sciences is gradually finding applicability for the study of antiquity.169 The number of archaeological case studies remains small, but the approach may provide a critical new window into how patterns of interaction evident in the material record contributed over the long term to regional community formation. Sindbæk’s research on Viking

  Knappett 2016,  25–​26.   E .g., Gamble (1998) characterizes the Paleolithic through a series of scaled links from the intimate up to the global. 167   Tartaron 2013; Tartaron 2018. For discussion of Tartaron’s scales, see earlier, p. 79. 168   For the Uluburun shipwreck, see Pulak 2008. 169   On community detection in network science broadly, see Girvan and Newman 2002. The intersection of community formation and network interaction is discussed in Taylor and Vlassopoulos 2015, 8–​18. See also the study by Graham (2014) detecting network communities within the stamps of brick producers in central Italy. 165

166

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Age connections noted earlier features a prime example.170 From a network based on distributions of a dozen common artifact types, he divides the more than 100 sites by particular densities within the network topology and contextualizes these groups in geographical space to reveal meaningful zones of interaction. The distinct form of regionalism Sindbæk reveals, marked by dense internal linkage, is credited with influencing the transfer of ideas and technologies. Long-​distance relationships were important among a core group of hubs, but the connections they created did not extend into their hinterlands. Within the Mediterranean, Blake’s studies of Bronze Age Italy likewise stand out for their interest in community detection.171 Her formal networks are also constructed from links based on shared material assemblages, with a special focus on imported items. To recognize practical limits on routine communication and exchange, Blake uses a maximum functional distance of 50 km, reflecting about two days’ overland travel. The resulting network structure provides the basis for identifying the emergence of communities whose coherence may have contributed toward the stability of their identities into later history, even forming the basis of ethnic groups into the early Roman centuries. To explain this stability, Blake explores the notion of path dependence: that is, successful group cohesion created robust structure that continued to guide network dynamics over subsequent eras. The network thus does not merely reflect the summation of interactions, but its structure can also influence future trajectories. : : :

From Ancient Mobility to Dynamic Networks The focus on mobility as a foundation for constructing networks reflects an important step forward for studies of ancient maritime interaction. Yet the practical constraints and opportunities afforded by environment and technology remain difficult to incorporate into these models.172 For example, Sindbæk contextualizes and interprets his Viking networks spatially, but the flat marine topography is largely free from the challenges and dynamics of seafaring described in ­chapter 2. That links involve different “costs” has implications for the formation and behavior of network systems.173 Even the simple framing of connections in terms of travel days adds a welcome new layer of economic and social meaning to

170   Sindbæk (2010) tackles the issue of community detection and regionalism. For other examples of networks from this same period and region, see earlier n. 159. 171   Blake 2013; Blake 2014a; Blake 2014b. 172   L eidwanger et al. 2014; Leidwanger and Knappett 2018b. 173   See in particular Barthélemy 2011.

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the model, but detailed network explorations of centrality, scales, and communities necessitate rich and robust data sources for these mobilities. The infrastructures of mobility in the Roman world—​ its roads, rivers, and sea routes—​ seem to lend themselves naturally to network approaches. Laurence’s analyses of Roman Italy and Britain, for example, show how expansive, well-​integrated, and efficiently maintained roads reduced effective distances across provinces, thereby fostering social cohesion and political integration.174 Scholarship on the cursus publicus has addressed how these official connections structured communication and administration.175 Much research on transportation has tilted toward the macro scale in this way, drawing often on the epigraphic evidence for the “global” imperial system or a single province. Fine-​grained urban street networks have also recently gained attention as the subject of formal analysis of traffic flows, centrality, control, and access.176 Yet the workings of transport infrastructure between these macro-​and micro-​scales remain comparatively understudied.177 One fortuitous example comes from Cyprus, where Bekker-​ Nielsen explores roads and paths using not only the island’s extensive epigraphy but also topography and archaeological survey of the physical remains.178 Connections among the island’s major urban centers are viewed alongside the various minor roads and simple paths that integrated the Cypriot countryside. Even small coastal sites were often tied into the road system by minor branches that represent little more than dirt paths.179 These features are invisible at the imperial level, yet they provide fundamental evidence for the multiscalar nature of transportation networks. This integration of geographically grounded data on roads and paths with the tools of network modeling offers much promise, even if it requires working across specialized platforms including GISs and social network analysis. Important efforts have been made in this direction by combining least-​ cost paths with the structural modeling of networks. For example, Groenhuijzen and Verhagen explore the dynamics of movement through the landscape of the Roman Netherlands by building networks on top of GIS-​driven transportation cost models.180 At the juncture between land and sea, ports represent the transportation infrastructure most relevant to the maritime world. As the quintessential spaces of

  Laurence 1999; Laurence 2001; Adams and Laurence 2001.   E .g., Chevallier 1972; Kolb 2000. 176   E.g., Poehler  2017. 177   For Anatolia, see recently Verhagen, Polla, et al. 2014; Turchetto 2018; Vandeput forthcoming. 178   Bekker-​Nielsen 2004. See also more recently Bekker-​Nielsen 2013; Bekker-​Nielsen 2016. 179   See c­ hapter 5, p. 177, for the minor path leading down to Avdimou Bay on the island’s south. 180   Groenhuijzen and Verhagen 2017. See also Verhagen, Brughmans, et al. 2014. 174

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interaction—​the hubs, in the metaphorical and now the technical sense—​these nodes reflect the varied facilities, connections, and scales of operation one would expect from the diverse maritime activities of the Mediterranean.181 The Portus Limen project, directed by Keay and Arnaud, aims explicitly to tackle such port networks through their spatial layout and organization, infrastructural development, and commercial and social connections.182 Multiscalar relationships among ports are the focus of Schörle’s case study of Tyrrhenian Italy. Drawing on the comparative sizes of facilities, she explores interaction beyond the largest and best-​k nown facilities like Portus/​Ostia and Puteoli.183 The expansion of artificial harbors at the heart of the empire speaks to the contrasting geographies and scales of maritime ventures prompted by significant agricultural production and the ancient world’s largest consumer market at Rome. Vast new ports functioned as satellite facilities for Portus, while a dense matrix of smaller, often private facilities served local transportation needs. While ostensibly hierarchical, Schörle’s typology reveals maritime relationships that step outside this structure and cut across different scales, with midsized ports not only serving to collect and transfer materials from smaller outlying locations but also engaging in their own longer-​ distance connections distinct from the grandest harbors. What evidence can reveal network patterns of interaction tied to this infrastructure? Itineraries have offered a helpful starting point. Isaksen and Graham build on Laurence’s foundational work on roads to explore the cognitive space and movement patterns across Roman Spain and elsewhere. They use networks built from surviving itineraries to reveal variable levels of integration in different provinces.184 For seaborne connections, Seland offers another network case study drawing on the most famous of the maritime itineraries, the Periplus of the Red Sea. This unique source allows him to link ports based on the commercial goods they imported and exported, resulting in a network that visualizes the system structure as a whole and allows exploration of centrality and integration. Seland focuses in particular on the comparative roles of different centers and commodities, as well as the identification of groups of ports exhibiting high densities of commercial connections, in effect maritime regionalism.185 For the Mediterranean, Arnaud has mined these sources most extensively, drawing   E .g., Bouras 2016; Heher et  al. 2017. For network approaches to modern ports, see especially Ducruet 2016; Arvis et al. 2019. 182   http://​portuslimen.eu. See also Arnaud 2010. 183   Schörle 2011. See this evidence also within the broader perspective on Roman maritime connectivity in Wilson et al. 2012. For a comparative example from North Africa, see Stone 2014. 184   Graham 2006b; Isaksen 2008. These authors draw on the Antonine Itineraries as well as, in the case of Isaksen, the Ravenna Cosmography. 185   Seland 2016b. See also Seland 2010; Seland 2013; Seland 2016a. 181

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also on marine environmental conditions and sailing technologies. He outlines a framework of intersecting connections that moved goods and people, particularly through interdependent shorter-​and longer-​distance routes. This “segmented sailing” forms a core organizational principle behind his model of ancient Mediterranean seafaring, a hierarchical and multiscalar structure wherein larger warehouse ports were connected over distances of four to five days’ sail, from which goods continued along smaller, more localized routes.186 Taking the Edict of Diocletian as one case study, he demonstrates that prices for sea transport correspond to the expected duration in sailing days for such multistage journeys rather than the actual direct distance from origin to destination. Such conceptual measurements of a day’s journey make good sense when one considers that distances (in stadia) commonly reported by Strabo and other geographers reflect multiples of this unit.187 Open-​sea routes were often more appealing and cheaper than longer coastal ones; shorter hauls, by contrast, moved products beyond these major ports, resulting in lengthier chains of transactions that were inevitably more expensive, monetarily and temporally.188 These contrasting journey durations and port centralities organize maritime activity into distinct spatial and economic scales. The concepts underlying Arnaud’s maritime framework are easily translated into formal network models. Scheidel’s ORBIS project effectively incorporates these sea routes alongside major roads and rivers into an interactive geospatial model of maritime and terrestrial transportation.189 Focusing on the practical logistics of movement, the model converts approximate travel times drawn from a range of sources—​especially itineraries, attested journeys, and simulations—​into costs. This data is recast as an empire-​w ide map of connectivity using the tools of network visualization. The resulting network encourages inquiry into levels of integration and fragmentation, imperial coherence, and the overall success of the Roman state as a political, military, and economic unit in space.190 The model also offers insight into the practical infrastructure and ground-​level experience of interaction within the Mediterranean, including the potential real costs involved in moving objects and people across the Roman world. These tools emphasize the macro-​scale that guided development of the ORBIS project and its interpretive framework.

186   A rnaud 2005, 107–​26. See also Arnaud 2011 for Lycia and Caria in the present study area. Nieto 1997 provides important earlier work in a similar direction. 187   A rnaud 2005, 61–​69; Arnaud 2007, 327; Arnaud 2014. See also discussion in c­ hapter 2, p. 61. 188   Arnaud  2007. 189   http://​orbis.stanford.edu. 190   Scheidel 2013; Scheidel 2014.

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: : :

Maritime Archaeology and Network Potential The costs and opportunities of multiscalar interaction inform my study of the Roman and Late Antique maritime world of the eastern Mediterranean. Networks offer both a conceptual approach to connections and a suite of tools for their organization, visualization, and analysis. They facilitate exploration of the structure of seaborne ties and the regional communities—​t he many smaller human seas of Strabo and Rougé—​t hat developed through interaction. But successful modeling requires an explicit understanding of the breadth and diversity of practices that marked the maritime landscape: not only commerce and other forms of exchange but also travel, fishing, and the associated movements of goods and people on shore. The myriad seafarers, vessels, and mechanisms involved reflect widely varying distances, scales, and frequencies of activity: in short, the entire three-​ dimensional space of ­figure 3.2. My approach focuses on shared patterns across these practices, patterns that generated and sustained economic links at different levels. But rather than focus from the top down as do the models of Arnaud, ORBIS, and others, I build networks from the bottom up, examining local and regional dynamics best attested in the maritime archaeological record. Shipwrecks and ports reflect the most relevant, abundant, and diverse material manifestations of maritime interaction, our best opportunity to embrace emerging “big data” for quantitative studies of ancient maritime economies. A clear approach to mobility can help transform potential messiness inherent to the archaeological record into a rich texture of links on which network structure is built. The two chapters that follow explore maritime networks using the shipwrecks and ports that provide the bulk evidence from the study area. Chapter  4 combines quantitative studies with network modeling and interrogation of connections among shipwreck cargos, while the integration of ports and their hinterland communities into this framework occupies c­ hapter 5.

Chapter 4

Exploring Shipwreck Data Although the measurement and modelling of communications are vital in geographical studies . . . it is not clear how this is to be done archaeologically. —​Parker (2001, 28)

The corpus of ancient Mediterranean shipwreck data is massive and growing. Of the 1781 compiled sites, more than three-​quarters belong to the Roman imperial and Late Antique eras.1 Faced with such bulk evidence, the scholarly tendency has been to fall back on raw numbers at the expense of finer detail. Yet when surveyed or excavated, these wrecks reveal rich individual accounts of the movements of goods and people, snapshots of the diverse mobilities outlined in the previous chapter. Dense and well-​explored archaeological datasets like those off southwest Turkey are not without their own unevenness, but they demand a wider and more robust array of analytical approaches that can detect patterns of economic interaction. The shipwreck databases first pioneered by Parker offer an invaluable resource, but they reflect just the starting point for broader archaeological approaches to measuring and modeling maritime communication in the eastern Mediterranean. Using the dataset of 67 wreck sites from the study area introduced in ­chapter 1 and compiled in appendix 1 (figs. A.1–​A.2 and table A.1), this chapter draws together three approaches to build a more dynamic model of maritime interaction and an example more generally of how the material record of shipwrecks can inform economic history. These approaches to modeling are complementary: (1) quantification that focuses comparatively across the study area and against the backdrop of overall eastern and Mediterranean-​w ide trends, (2) network modeling of geographical links based on cargo compositions for the two major periods (Roman and Late Antique), and (3) Geographic Information Systems (GIS)-​based analysis of these networks to illustrate journey lengths and temporal cadences of maritime interaction in light of technology and the dynamic marine environment.

  On the bulk dataset of Mediterranean shipwrecks, see ­chapter 1, pp. 13–​35.

1

Roman Seas. Justin Leidwanger, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190083656.001.0001

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If the quantitative study offers insights into the general ebb and flow of interaction around different parts of the eastern Mediterranean, then the network view allows us to evaluate its shifting structural features through time. Spatial analysis embeds these patterns in a more meaningful maritime landscape of routine human mobilities. : : :

Number Crunching Shipwreck numbers, compiled by date and location, offer the obvious entry point for analysis that follows in the established tradition of Roman economic studies.2 Even these basic calculations quickly reveal broad features and distinctions worthy of note. Thanks to ongoing surveys and geospatial database initiatives, the growing body of well-​organized data offers a context for understanding patterns across the spatial and temporal breadth of the Mediterranean. Local glimpses discerned through analysis of fine-​grained datasets in this corner of the ancient world can be situated against the backdrop of diachronic Mediterranean trends through Late Antiquity. While the quantitative analytical approach is relatively straightforward, it also reveals the unevenness and challenges of shipwreck datasets. Alongside the general critiques of wreck data in c­ hapter 1, a few particular methodological notes are in order here related to the spatial and temporal analyses this data enables.3

Pitfalls and Perils The geographical unevenness of shipwreck finds presents an important caveat that bears directly on how quantitative comparisons can be structured within the study area and across the broader Mediterranean. High numbers hint at intensive maritime activity, but they can also correspond to the areas of most focused archaeological attention: for example, the waters of southwest Turkey. By contrast, the lack of wrecks reported along other coastlines—​a long much of the Syrian, Cilician, and northern Cypriot coasts, for example—​should not be taken as evidence of minimal activity. This discrepancy places certain constraints on analysis, and in particular on the range and reliability of comparisons that can be made among different areas of the Mediterranean. The reexamination undertaken here

  E .g., Hopkins 1980; Whittaker 1989; Morley 2007a; Wilson 2009.   For general caveats of working with shipwreck datasets, including the present collection of 67 wrecks, and the maritime archaeological record more generally, see respectively c­ hapter 1, pp. 21–​22, and c­ hapter 2, pp. 35–​40. 2 3

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of certain subsets of eastern Mediterranean data presents another layer of complication. Viewing trends in wrecks restudied off southwest Turkey against a simple compilation from Parker’s and other catalogs for Israel—​one of the other well-​ explored coasts in the east—​would make for unscientific comparison given the different levels of detail in the two datasets. Analysis between the two parts of the present study area offers at least one alternative view that depends only on data for which we have more immediate control over quality and representativeness. Yet even between these two areas, the limited dataset from Cyprus and its nearby mainland provides a less robust comparison with the much larger material record off southwest Turkey. Geographically aggregating available data from across the eastern Mediterranean basin offers an opportunity for working across scales but necessitates consistency in the procedures for inclusion. Here, comparative analysis is undertaken not only between parts of the study area but also against broad baseline numbers for the east, and for the Mediterranean as a whole, as reflected in the available databases. Comparisons across periods are also complicated by several factors. Clearly any discrepancies in the visibility of earlier and later wrecks will affect quantitative analysis, although the strongest critique—​that poorly preserved barrels replaced amphoras during Late Antiquity—​should not be a major concern for the eastern Mediterranean.4 Any raw counts of sites reflect numbers of wrecks rather than volumes of goods or movements of people since they obscure changing vessel sizes. Perhaps the most persistent practical challenge of quantitative analysis, though, has been the assignment of dates. Intensively surveyed sites can often be dated to periods as narrow as a half century, and excavated wrecks on occasion can be attributed even more precisely. For example, the early 7th-​century Yassıada wreck (#64) can be dated reliably within the latter part of the 620s thanks to many converging lines of evidence that include coins and other small finds only discovered through excavation.5 Most sites, on the other hand, are discovered as casual finds or only preliminarily reported, resulting in more general descriptions of their material remains and date:  many sites bear such identifiers as “Roman” or even “Late Roman or Byzantine.” The several long-​lived transport amphora forms—​especially Late Roman 1 (LR1) and Late Roman 2 (LR2)—​t hat dominate the eastern Mediterranean archaeological record for Late Antiquity also limit our ability to assign more precise dates for wrecks during this period.6 Wilson has

  See c­ hapter 2, p. 39.   van Doorninck (2015) offers the most recent interpretation of the 7th-​century Yassıada wreck and its historical context. 6   The important LR1 and LR2 forms extend broadly from at least the 4th through the 7th century. While morphological variants can sometimes allow more precise dates, these are not yet typologically 4 5

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recently highlighted the far-​reaching implications of broad date ranges for quantitative studies. Assigning dates based on a midpoint, as Parker initially calculated and others have generally followed,7 has resulted in artificial peaks in the middle of certain long date ranges. Among the most notable results is the concentration of Roman sites within the early 2nd century ad, reflecting the midpoint between Parker’s chosen chronological bounds of “Roman” between 150 bc and ad 400; that is, any wreck assigned with no more specificity than “Roman” becomes by default a 2nd-​century wreck. Wilson’s revised quantitative convention assumes an equal probability of a ship sinking within any year of the overall date range, offering a superior approximation of long-​term trends that is employed in the present study. This approach yields some comparatively small but important revisions to the overall Mediterranean picture: most notable is the shift forward in the absolute peak from the 1st century bc to center more squarely, and more intuitively, on the early empire in the 1st century ad.8 Parsing the data into finer intervals than a century is the logical corollary step, providing a more precise—​but not necessarily more accurate—​evaluation of trends. In this study, intervals of a century and quarter century were tested, but a half century was selected as a compromise. Given the tighter dates often afforded by restudy of survey artifacts, this interval allowed finer contours of activity than at the century scale without creating the false confidence and precision that can sometimes accompany still smaller intervals.9 Wilson reaches a similar conclusion, arguing that century and half-​century divisions produce broadly similar trends, but further division into quarter-​century and 20-​year periods generates what are likely some spurious peaks and troughs.10 Excluding wrecks that are only dated in the very broadest of terms presents another option for improving the resolution of the dataset. As a reminder, the minimum criteria for wrecks from the study area included a date no less specific than “Roman” or “Late Antique.”11

well understood for the entire range of production. And since many survey and other brief reports list cargo finds only by type, they necessitate correspondingly long date ranges.   Parker 1992a,  10.   Wilson 2009, 222 and figs. 9.2–​9.3; Wilson 2011b, 33–​34 figs. 2.1–​2.2. 9   For a demonstration of the disproportionate effect a well-​dated wreck can have on quantification using shorter intervals, particularly within small datasets, see later, p. 118. The early 7th-​century peak visible in the histogram in fi ­ gures 4.4–​4.5 is partially the result of including the Yassıada wreck, tightly dated to the late 620s: Bass and van Doorninck 1982; van Doorninck 2015. 10   Wilson 2014, 153–​54. 11   Th is means that no wrecks only datable to, e.g., “Late Antique or Byzantine” or “Roman or Late Antique” were included in the study. These two broad periods were delimited as follows: Roman, 2nd century bc to mid-​4th century ad, and Late Antique, mid-​4th through 7th century ad. See also discussion in ­chapter 1, p. 99. 7

8

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Additional filtering in this manner was tested by Wilson, who found that it highlighted certain possible historical patterns but did not substantially change the overall picture.12 Selecting further to include only those of our 67 sites datable to within a 100-​year range did not alter the results here, indicating that even datasets marked by unevenness may be sufficient for identifying general trends of interaction. Although the coarser data was ultimately included in the analysis, these tests provided a useful check on the quality of the data. This choice also serves as a timely reminder of the significant limitations still today on our ability to assign, often through preliminary visual survey, dates based largely on amphora typologies.

Quantifying Eastern Mediterranean Wrecks Examination of the data compiled in the OXREP and DARMC databases—​both of which integrate Parker’s 1992 compendium—​reveals a total of 186 wrecks scattered about the eastern Mediterranean.13 These are predictably concentrated in several major areas that have long enjoyed intensive maritime archaeological fieldwork: namely the Aegean and the coast of Israel. Although our study area is generally well represented thanks to decades of fieldwork, this count of 186 does not include the vast majority of the wrecks presented here. Only about half of these 67 are published in sufficient detail to be collected in some form into these general database initiatives.14 I return to these wrecks later when discussing finer-​ grained quantification within the study area since I am here concerned with general eastern Mediterranean trends evident in the baseline data of 186 sites. The

  Wilson 2009, 224 and figs. 9.4–​9.6; Wilson 2011b, 35.   In an effort to reflect seafaring throughout the entire eastern Mediterranean area, this number includes wrecks in the Aegean Sea and the Sea of Marmara, as well as those in the Mediterranean basin itself as far west as the Ionian coast of Greece. 14   Comparatively few of the 67 sites under study here are included in the corpus of eastern Mediterranean wrecks in the available databases, and no additions have been made to this group of 186 for the present quantification. The rationale behind this decision is based on an interest in maintaining a consistent baseline in data collection for reliable comparison across scales. Their inclusion, by contrast, would have introduced another layer of unevenness since only one part of the eastern Mediterranean dataset would have been updated, particularly from southwest Turkey. In practical terms, adding dozens of additional sites along this coast would have slanted the larger eastern Mediterranean dataset so severely that trends across this basin would have mirrored those off southwest Turkey, thereby inhibiting the ability here to analyze effectively across scales. While more data is generally positive, the benefits gained from raising the overall number of sites were not deemed sufficient in this instance to outweigh the drawbacks. For other analytical purposes and if other datasets become available in the future to counterbalance that from southwest Turkey, their inclusion might be warranted. 12 13

Exploring Shipwreck Data 115 18 16 14 12 10 8 6 4 2

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resulting histogram reveals a telling picture (fig. 4.1): a broad Hellenistic rise over the last two centuries bc, culminating in a peak in the latter half of the 1st century bc before a slight decline over the following century and a generally consistent level from the 2nd through the 5th century ad. A subsequent Late Antique resurgence is evident for the 6th and early 7th century. The early boom in the east compares well with that of the overall Mediterranean picture provided by the OXREP corpus, from which 1424 wrecks were identified with potential Roman and Late Antique dates (fig. 4.2).15 A  rise in the last two centuries bc culminates in an Early Roman peak, though at the Mediterranean-​w ide scale the peak falls slightly later, squarely in the 1st century ad. Both scales see a sharp drop in the early 2nd century—​across the Mediterranean this reflects a 56% decrease—​after which a generally consistent level is maintained through the early 4th century. The Late 15   Th is total of 1424 reflects all wrecks from which data was drawn to create the histogram in fig. 4.2. Sites falling at either end of this nine-​century date range are therefore included fully in this number, so the count should be understood as a maximum possible number of Roman and Late Antique wrecks represented within the databases. The convention used here to assign wrecks based on probability per annum, however, means that the tallies in the histogram represent a total of approximately 1281 sites, effectively reduced by the cumulative probabilities that various sites are potentially earlier (pre-​200 bc) or later (post-​ad 700). Note that this Mediterranean-​w ide dataset includes the same 186 eastern sites discussed previously, which were drawn from the same sources, but not the full new group of 67 analyzed in detail from the specific study areas under investigation here.

116  Roman Seas 180 160 140 120 100 80 60 40 20

–1 1– 5 50 0 –1 0 10 0 0– 1 15 50 0– 2 20 00 0– 2 25 50 0– 3 30 00 0– 3 35 50 0– 4 40 00 0– 4 45 50 0– 5 50 00 0– 5 55 50 0– 6 60 00 0– 6 65 50 0– 70 0

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Fig. 4.2. Roman and Late Antique shipwrecks (n = 1424) in the Mediterranean zone, based on OXREP data provided by Andrew Wilson (2017) and grouped by half century.

Antique trajectories are remarkably different on the two contrasting scales: the strong rebound in the east contrasts with the overall Mediterranean situation, where a drop into the later 4th sets the stage for continued gradual decline into the 7th century. Testing a subset of wrecks that includes only those datable to within three centuries offers an opportunity to evaluate the reliability of the dataset. The 300-​ year threshold tends to exclude assemblages not scientifically reported while still benefiting from those sites only cursorily surveyed. This culling diminishes the dataset by about 20% (n = 150) but produces a graph with a shape that mirrors nearly perfectly the full group of 186 wrecks (fig. 4.3). It exhibits similar peaks and troughs, rises and falls. The reduction in numbers is evident throughout the graph, but most visible in the 2nd through 4th centuries. This period is marked by the fewest wrecks in general, so the exclusion of sites dated in the vaguest of “Roman” terms here reflects a comparatively larger drop. At the Mediterranean-​ wide scale, Wilson excludes sites less precisely dated than a century and finds a similar decline for this period.16 Regardless of this slight change, the consistent shapes of the two graphs (figs. 4.1 and 4.3) demonstrate that, at least for basic   Wilson 2011b, 35 fig. 2.4 and 36 fig. 2.6. See also Wilson 2014, 154.

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Exploring Shipwreck Data 117 16 14 12 10 8 6 4 2

–1 1– 5 50 0 –1 10 00 0– 1 15 50 0– 2 20 00 0– 2 25 50 0– 3 30 00 0– 3 35 50 0– 4 40 00 0– 4 45 50 0– 5 50 00 0– 5 55 50 0– 6 60 00 0– 6 65 50 0– 70 0

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quantitative evaluation, the overall dataset does not appear to suffer greatly from including coarser data. Additional tests of the dataset’s reliability were made by graphing only wrecks datable to within two centuries (n = 138) and one century (n = 91). In both instances the trends again appear largely consistent.17 These comparisons illustrate a methodological point for quantitative studies of shipwrecks here and, perhaps more broadly, a point that may offer encouragement to those engaged in the compilation of uneven shipwreck evidence. The inclusion of less well-​dated and otherwise incompletely documented sites in calculations need not be assumed automatically to compromise the overall dataset or diminish its utility for studying long-​term trends. More data here is, in fact, better. Care should be taken to maximize the detail of any shipwreck evidence, and internal tests should be run to ensure reliability. But even cursorily reported sites can be helpful for filling out the broad picture of diachronic maritime activity. Against this Mediterranean-​ w ide backdrop, spatial patterns emerge from the analysis of data across smaller scales. Parker’s initial work demonstrates

17   Th is is particularly evident in the case of wrecks dated to a period of no more than two centuries. The reduction of the sample to only those wrecks datable to within a single century more severely limits the dataset to less than half of the original number. Even so, this culling does not appear to change the overall picture of maritime activity, although it certainly highlights a general limit in dating precision achieved here in shipwreck surveys.

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geographical hotspots in the dataset produced by archaeological practice.18 Although Roman and Late Antique wrecks are well represented in the eastern Mediterranean area, the east itself accounts for only a small percentage (just over 13%) of the Roman and Late Antique total across the entire Mediterranean. The contrast is stark between the generally rich archaeology of the east and its comparatively fewer wrecks, particularly when viewed alongside the many better-​ explored central and western Mediterranean shores where Roman sites dominate the underwater record.19 Disaggregating shipwreck data into smaller spatial analytical units that can be studied and compared represents an obvious avenue for any quantitative approach extending across millennia and thousands of kilometers of sea. At smaller scales, the expansion of the datasets through the incorporation of newly discovered or restudied sites can dramatically improve the robustness of analysis. Restudy of the corpus off southwest Turkey (n = 54) and around the northeast Mediterranean (n = 13) resulted in an approximately fourfold jump over the former total for the area. This increase is most dramatic along the southwest Turkish coast and underscores the utility of continued systematic restudy of under-​or unpublished maritime sites alongside efforts to expand survey to new and underrepresented coasts.20 When viewed together, these 67 shipwrecks from the study area reveal a story that in some ways is similar to the eastern Mediterranean picture as a whole (fig. 4.4): two distinct peaks point to heightened levels of activity in the Late Hellenistic period and the 5th to 6th centuries AD. Yet comparing these two peaks is most telling:  the later one is both larger and more abrupt, showing a dramatic rise from the mid-​4th century and an equally dramatic fall after the mid-​7 th century. The histogram’s absolute peak in the early 7th century is in part a result of the unusually precise date offered by the dataset’s only fully excavated and studied site (Yassıada A, #64).21 The tail end of the histogram in the latter 7th century also   Parker 1992a, figs. 6–​7. Parker (2008, 187–​94) builds further on this early spatial study.   E .g., shipwreck distributions tallied by region in Parker 2008, 186 fig. 11, 193 table 1. 20   See ­chapter  1, pp. 18–​21. This fourfold growth in the number of sites off southwest Turkey is largely the result of nearly annual shipwreck surveys that were preliminarily published throughout the 1970s and into the early 2000s. Without scientific reports in English, however, such sites have often escaped notice of the major databases that have undertaken the updating of the corpus. Off the coasts of Cyprus, Cilicia, and the northern Levant, the coverage of these databases is generally more up-​to-​ date, in part because relatively few new sites have come to light here. 21   The effect of such artificial peaks is partially mitigated by choosing a larger date range for quantification: i.e., half-​century instead of the quarter-​century or even narrower date range to which the Yassıada A wreck can be safely assigned. For details on the wreck’s date, see earlier, p. 112. For the current dataset, only the fully excavated Yassıada A wreck is known in sufficient detail for this dilemma to arise. Other sites either intensively surveyed (Fig Tree Bay South A, #31; İskandil Burnu A, #63) or partially excavated (Yassıada B, #38) can be assigned at best to a half century. 18

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Fig. 4.4. Roman and Late Antique shipwrecks (n = 67) from the study area, grouped by half century.

likely overestimates activity, given our limited precision in dating some of these late amphora forms.22 Even so, the prosperity of the Late Antique period here is clear in this long-​term maritime archaeological record. The trough between the earlier and later peaks is also unmistakable, pointing to a low level of detectable activity from the 3rd and early 4th century. Separately quantifying the two parts of the study area offers the obvious next step, allowing us to explore finer spatial trends. In this case, however, the approach can shed only minimal additional light since wrecks off southwest Turkey make up the overwhelming majority of the dataset. It is no surprise, then, that a histogram from southwest Turkey follows closely the patterns described earlier for the overall area (fig. 4.5). The dataset clustered around Cyprus and the nearby mainland is much more limited, so statistically adequate numbers are lacking. The trend would appear to be generally similar (fig. 4.6): a prosperous Late Hellenistic and early imperial era followed by

22   See earlier, p. 112. To cite just one practical example here, a jar lacking any other detail beyond a listed type of “Late Roman 1” (LR1) can be dated only roughly to the 4th to 7th century, yet the abrupt general decline in economic activity across the eastern Mediterranean around the mid-​7 th century makes a date in the latter half of this century significantly less likely than one in the first half (or in earlier centuries). On the related problems presented by the widespread production of relatively few amphora types during this period, see later, p. 123.

6 5 4 3 2 1

50 –1 0 10 0 0– 1 15 50 0– 2 20 00 0– 2 25 50 0– 3 30 00 0– 3 35 50 0– 4 40 00 0– 45 45 0 0– 5 50 00 0– 5 55 50 0– 60 60 0 0– 6 65 50 0– 70 0

–1

50

1–

50

50

0

10

0–

10

0–

15

20

0–

15

0

0

Fig. 4.5. Roman and Late Antique shipwrecks (n = 54) from the study area along southwest Turkey, grouped by half century. 1.4 1.2 1 0.8 0.6 0.4 0.2

20 0

–1 15 50 0– 10 10 0 0– 50 50 –1 1– 5 50 0 –1 10 00 0– 1 15 50 0– 2 20 00 0– 2 25 50 0– 3 30 00 0– 3 35 50 0– 4 40 00 0– 4 45 50 0– 5 50 00 0– 5 55 50 0– 6 60 00 0– 6 65 50 0– 70 0

0

Fig. 4.6. Roman and Late Antique shipwrecks (n = 13) from the study area around the northeast Mediterranean, grouped by half century.

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a lacuna of nearly two centuries before a burst of activity in Late Antiquity from the 5th century onward. Trends in the material record here are particularly revealing against the backdrop of eastern and pan-​Mediterranean syntheses. While the peak Wilson identifies in the 1st century ad may accurately reflect activity on a Mediterranean-​w ide scale, the eastern boom seems to have begun earlier and grown gradually throughout the period of emerging Roman hegemony to its height in the late 1st century bc. The precipitous drop from the 1st century ad into the 2nd was felt both here and across the empire. The situation in our study area suggests further decline that reached a nadir in the 3rd and early 4th century even as maritime activity generally leveled off across the Mediterranean, including in other areas of the east, to judge from the eastern Mediterranean trend in figure 4.1. Different corners of the Roman world experienced very different 3rd centuries. How the tide turned thereafter is no less informative. The numbers suggest that the east saw a rebound in Late Antiquity while the Mediterranean as a whole suffered another gradual decline. A  Mediterranean-​w ide histogram offers the fundamental background, but it can conceal important geographical differences. In this case, the comprehensive dataset not only subsumes this second peak in the Late Antique east but also muffles the correspondingly steeper decline of maritime activity in the west. Several decades ago, Parker had already perceived such emerging patterns, including the more abrupt rise and fall in parts of the west as well as hints of a second late burst in certain areas of the east.23 The present analysis suggests that the eastern Mediterranean as a whole fared generally well during Late Antiquity, and the areas of particular interest here show their most dramatic rise and peak during this period. The rebound is most evident off southwest Turkey, but it may be part of a general shift in the focus of maritime activity toward the more stable and (politically and economically) unified waters of the eastern Mediterranean. The finer chronology of this resurgence merits closer observation: southwest Turkey shows a marked rise in wrecks from the middle of the 4th century, while across the east as a whole this uptick is only measurable from the early 6th century. That is, southwest Turkey demonstrates signs of recovery comparatively early, while growth around Cyprus and its nearby mainland appears perhaps only a half century later. The small sample size precludes more secure findings, but these hints of diverse regional trajectories within the eastern Mediterranean offer a productive path for future research. This brief quantitative exploration across spatial scales offers an opportunity to add nuance to shipwreck datasets through comparative analysis focusing on

23

  Parker 1992a, fig. 7.

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case studies from different areas. The Mediterranean-​w ide patterns of growth and decline in maritime activity have featured prominently as a metric for Greco-​ Roman economies, but they also serve well as a backdrop against which finer patterns can be contextualized spatially and historically. Such complementary multiscalar views give a distinct impression of diachronic change and the important role geographical and scalar differences can play in the Mediterranean economic story. But the structures of interactions remain hidden beneath these raw numbers, which provide an index of the intensity of maritime activities but not their particular shape or dynamics. Do the specific connections or features of this interaction change over time and space? In the section that follows, exploratory network visualizations build on this basic quantitative scheme to provide a closer analytical view of shifting connections that defined the Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean. : : :

Connective Structures Network metaphors are among the most common within the scholarly literature on ancient mobility and maritime connectivity:  “shipping hubs,” “trade networks,” and similar concepts are handy descriptors that call to mind the complexity of Mediterranean seaborne interaction. Yet beyond this generic framework, systematic theoretical and methodological network studies now offer both much-​ needed conceptual clarity and a potentially transformative toolkit.24 Network tools are specifically geared toward complex systems and rich datasets like the dense historical and material records of communication and exchange. This trajectory of scholarly interest in networks as a window into Mediterranean history and archaeology, and specifically communication and transportation, is outlined in ­chapter 3.25 Here, I build on that conceptual foundation by employing Social Network Analysis (SNA) for exploratory visualization and exploration of the bulk dataset of 67 shipwrecks from across the study area. By shifting the focus from the location of sites themselves toward the geographical links within cargos, the network approach offers insights into the underlying spatial structures of interaction to complement those provided by quantification in the previous section.

  L eidwanger et al. 2014; Leidwanger and Knappett 2018a.   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 98–108.

24 25

Exploring Shipwreck Data 123

From Shipwrecks to Networks The number of ancient shipwrecks in the Mediterranean would seem to present an ideal body of material evidence for network analysis. In contrast to recent archaeologically informed network models that use pottery or other artifact distributions to infer the relationships and processes underlying their movement, shipwreck cargos reflect objects and people in motion. These assemblages are directly tied to seaborne interaction, to the economic processes and relationships that brought goods and people together. Wrecks should therefore represent some of the most fundamental, direct, and quantitatively significant material remains currently available for modeling ancient maritime networks. But building these models across maritime space from this dataset of diverse, fragmentary, and partially explored assemblages is hardly straightforward. Various hurdles must be overcome regarding the attribution of origins, the comparability of data across time and space, and even the potential meaning behind a wreck’s location.26 The most basic network modeling dilemma is an obvious but formidable one: who precisely is connected? For a shipwreck, either end of the journey it cut short would seem to present a reasonable reference point, but assigning origins to shipments raises complications. Even when the source for an individual object is known, this need not reflect the origin of the shipment or starting point of a specific link. The prevalence of compound cargos drawn from disparate parts of the Mediterranean world over various legs of one or more journeys—​t he “normality of the mixed cargo” as Horden and Purcell aptly describe it27—​underscores the precariousness of this assumption. The sources of cargo components themselves can often be difficult to assert reliably from simple surface survey, particularly in periods when complex production systems meant that similar amphora types were manufactured across large swaths of the Mediterranean.28 The form of any individual jar belonging to the famous Dressel 2-​4 (Koan-​style, bifid-​handle) family of Roman transport amphoras tells more about the jar’s likely content (Koan-​ style wine?) than its geographical origin. Amphoras in this same general style were produced not only around the southeast Aegean island but also as far afield as Spain, North Africa, and Italy.29 In other instances, amphoras can be attributed with more geographical precision during the earlier Roman centuries than in Late   On the methodological challenges and opportunities of modeling shipwrecks as networks, see also Greene 2018. 27   Horden and Purcell 2000, 368–​72. On reading models of mobility and interaction into compound shipwreck cargos, see c­ hapter 3, pp. 83–​97. 28   See also ­chapter 2, p. 39. 29   On the Mediterranean-​w ide spread of the distinctive bifid-​handle Koan-​style jars, better known in the west as Dressel 2–​4, see generally Hesnard 1986; Moore 2011. 26

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Antiquity. For the southeast Aegean, Roman Knidian jars are largely associated with the Datça peninsula, but that same peninsula was part of the broader LR2 amphora koiné that extended across much of the Aegean during Late Antiquity.30 The same holds true for parts of Cyprus and Cilicia that produced a mix of Roman types before converging on a single widely manufactured Late Antique form, the LR1 amphora.31 Compositional analysis to provide more specific origins is undertaken only rarely on excavated material and hardly ever during routine underwater survey. Late wrecks in particular might benefit most from this analytical attribution but receive the least such attention.32 If postulating the starting point for a link is problematic, then one would hope the more concrete “known” of a site’s location might be more straightforward. Yet a wreck is hardly equivalent to a site of consumption or even redistribution. As a result, even this most basic spatial archaeological detail is of questionable immediate value for constructing network links. The haphazard nature of vessel sinking problematizes the translation of wreck location into raw data that can be incorporated within network analysis to produce consistently meaningful results. To cite just one example, a ship carrying Black Sea and east Aegean amphoras that sinks off the coast of North Africa seems fundamentally distinct from—​and begs a different interpretation than—​an identical cargo off the western coast of Turkey. If one ignores wreck location in this instance, the same pattern of linkage would result from these two assemblages. If we wish to include wreck location, how can we systematically account for the different points reached by each ship when it sank? Does the fact that wrecks rarely appear outside the broad geographical area delimited by their combined cargo assemblages suggest any significance to their location?33 The challenge of integrating cargo origin and wreck location in network models is further complicated by perhaps the greatest unknown in shipwreck 30   For Knidian amphoras of the Roman period, see Grace 1979, fig. 66; Bezeczky 1993; Imbert 2002. Late amphora production on the Datça peninsula and its connection to earlier periods is addressed in Tuna et al. 1987; Tuna 1989; Sakarya et al. 2019. On the varied production centers for LR2 amphoras around the Aegean more generally, see Pieri 2005, 90–​92. 31   E .g., among the most important Early Roman jars produced in the area were the Agora G199 (“pinched-​handle”) amphora and the Agora M54 (“Pseud-​Cos en cloche”) jar. The former was manufactured on the island’s west coast as well as on the opposite mainland in the area of Anemurium: see Williams 1989, 91–​95 and figs. 54–​55; Lund 2000; Rauh 2004, 331–​32; Reynolds 2005, 564; Autret 2012, 255–​56; Lund 2015, 172–​74. The latter type is the product of a number of sources along the island’s south coast and the opposite mainland of Cilicia: see Lund 2015, 174–​76; Reynolds 2005, 564–​65; Autret 2012, 256–​57. For Roman diversity in amphora production along the study region of Cyprus in general, see Kaldeli 2008. 32   E .g., Leidwanger 2014b; Leidwanger et al. 2015. 33   Greene 2018, 139 and 142–​43.

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archaeology: intended destination. This location can only rarely be proposed, and hardly ever with the sort of certainty upon which one would want to depend when constructing a data-​rich formal model, even from some of the best-​preserved and thoroughly excavated assemblages. Scholars sometimes assume—​ particularly when limited to survey—​that wrecked vessels originated wherever their largest cargo components were derived, while destinations are implied on the basis of where similar finds to the cargo are most common. Of course, any suggestions of intended endpoints are at best mere possibilities. We should be cautious about retrojecting back from find spots on land to create links for particular shipments. Such assumptions flatten out the finer details of varied and overlapping maritime practices that might be gleaned from wreck assemblages. In an economic environment in which diverse mechanisms and mobilities were all integral to the multiscalar movements of goods and people, a linear connection between a single origin and a single destination may not be the best way to conceptualize the dynamic links in maritime networks. How can we utilize the unique and growing data of ship assemblages in transit, given all of these interpretive challenges, to inform a multiscalar network model of maritime economic interaction? The approach taken here to formal modeling focuses on the most consistent, detailed, and reliable relational data available: copresence of objects for exchange within cargos. The construction of links based on copresence offers a common solution to the need in archaeological network models for data on relationships among people, places, or objects.34 Rather than hypothesize links between shipping origins that are rarely discernible in specific terms and destinations that are even more obscure, it is more advantageous to think in terms of links among objects that came together within cargos. In other words, different parts of the Mediterranean are tied together by virtue of their representation alongside each other in the materials that filled the holds of merchant vessels. Note that only identifiable cargos are considered here, rather than the shipboard assemblages (galley wares, personal possessions, etc.), so as to keep the focus on discrete journeys and take advantage of the most common artifacts identified through survey.35 Distilling cargos into their component links allows us to bypass the thorny problem of distinguishing primary from secondary distribution and to focus on the underlying connections between places rather than specific routes. Relying on cargos to build links prioritizes exchange within construction of the formal models, but this reflects a practical solution to the need   Many of the network models discussed in ­chapter  3 were built on this basis of copresence of objects: Sindbæk 2007; Sindbæk 2010; Blake 2013; Blake 2014a; Blake 2014b. See also examples in Mills et al. 2013; Arthur et al. 2018. 35   On the preferential visibility of cargos in underwater survey, see c­ hapter 2, p. 40. 34

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for specific relational data, of which these assemblages remain our best option from the material record of seaborne distribution. Network methods also offer a natural advantage in that coarser resolution of data does not necessarily impede clear insights. More precise origin attributions for cargos can at times prove counterproductive, resulting in more numerous but less densely connected nodes and a less structurally robust network overall. Less specific locational data, such as an amphora that originated across a general area rather than an individual site, often frustrates scholarly attempts to delineate a particular wrecked ship’s route. For the construction of an overarching network system, though, these geographic designations are cumulatively more useful. This observation speaks to a broader imperative that we not confuse the resulting network graphs with maps of routes sailed by mariners. Rather, we must understand such representations as alternative visual measures of connectivity and structure. Shipping origins and destinations like those tackled by Arnaud speak to routes, while copresence in cargo holds reveals the general shape of maritime interaction, including those regions more and less central, with stronger and weaker internal and external links. The methodology here employs SNA to model links within and among the 67 cargos from the combined shipwreck dataset for our study area. Dividing the wrecks into earlier and later groups allows us to investigate changing structures behind the diachronic trends revealed by quantification. Detection previously of two major periods of intensive activity separated by an intervening drop around the 3rd century ad suggests that we might productively divide the Roman and Late Antique shipwrecks and compare the resulting networks. The two subsets are approximately equal in number of sites if not in period length: 34 earlier (2nd century bc to mid-​4th century ad) and 33 later (mid-​4th through 7th century ad) sites. This comparison focuses attention squarely on the shift from an imperial to a Late Antique Mediterranean and its impact on economic integration.36 The division allows each subset to maintain a sufficiently large sample size to generate meaningful network structure through cargo links. Diachronic analysis of more slowly changing structural features may be possible in the future but would require a larger dataset to maintain its robustness. Finer spatial trends can be investigated within this sort of dataset, and certain observations are possible for the smaller area of southwest Turkey, but reliable comparisons between areas would necessitate a larger group of wrecks than the currently available 13 for Cyprus and its neighboring mainland. The growing pace of shipwreck discoveries and database collection certainly bodes well for future comparisons in the eastern Mediterranean and beyond. At present, however, an expansive view of network

  See c­ hapter 1, pp. 17–​19.

36

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structure requires maintaining as large and even a sample size as possible within the dataset, making it preferable to subdivide by period rather than geographically. Our de-​emphasis on wreck location also favors more meaningful divisions along chronological lines. As was the case with quantitative study, observations made in this corner of the ancient world cannot automatically be applied to larger scales like the eastern Mediterranean. On their own terms, however, they provide one particularly rich vantage point for examining the structure and dynamics of long-​term maritime network interaction. The network visualization software Gephi (v. 0.9.1) provides the tools to map maritime links.37 Two types of nodes are used simultaneously to incorporate shipwrecks and geographical areas, creating a so-​called two-​mode network in which wrecks are connected to any areas represented in their cargos.38 A wreck node can connect only with area nodes, but it can have as many links to as many of these different area nodes as there are distinct origins within its cargo. Wrecks, then, are connected variously to one another based on the origins of their cargos. An area node can connect only to shipwreck nodes, but these links can be as numerous as there are wreck nodes that include cargo components from the area. The nodes used in this study for geographical areas include the following: Aegean Sea, Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant, S Levant, Egypt/​Red Sea, Black Sea, Adriatic Sea, Gaul, and N Africa.39 The identification of shipwrecks as a second type of node alongside geographical nodes serves as a means of building spatial links among areas reflected by their cargos. This two-​mode network approach provides a powerful basis for visually interrogating the shipwreck dataset and revealing patterns that are often ambiguous or hidden beneath simple statistics like shipwreck quantities. But since this format mixes data types, two-​mode networks are rarely used directly with the various analyses allowed by SNA software packages.40 The conversion of a two-​mode network into a one-​mode network (using Gephi’s MultiMode

37   See gephi.org. I am grateful to Liz Greene for sharing her ideas about networks and lending her particular expertise in the creation of the network graphs included here. For more details about the method, see Leidwanger 2017, 607–​12. See also generally Greene 2018, 145–​54. 38   Relevant archaeological applications of two-​mode networks can be found in Sindbæk 2010; Larson 2013; Mol 2014; Arthur et al. 2018; Greene 2018. 39   For the sake of clarity, I use the term “Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant” to refer to a spatial analytical unit solely in the context of network visualization. This overlaps largely with one of our modern study areas comprising 13 wrecks off Cyprus and the nearby mainland, but the two should not be confused. Note that only area nodes that are linked by at least one cargo appear in the network visualization for that period. 40   Th is limitation is changing thanks to new methods that allow direct measurement and more robust interpretation of two-​mode networks: see Borgatti and Everett 1997; Latapy et al. 2008; Everett and Borgatti 2013.

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Networks plugin) resolves the problem.41 Shipwreck nodes are transformed into weighted links between area nodes to which they had been connected in the earlier network; the relative strength of a given link is dependent on both the number and proportions of cargos it reflects. This streamlined one-​mode representation loses some detail of intra-​area dynamics but highlights better the interarea patterns of connections evident in the cargos. Given their complementary strengths, both two-​mode and one-​mode networks are explored in this case study. In methodological terms, each of the 67 assemblages was divided into its various cargo components, which were then assigned to origins to create links. All links were constructed as undirected; that is, a cargo is connected to an area in the same manner as an area is connected to a cargo. Different proportions within cargos were reflected through differential weighting of these connections such that major components factored more strongly, yet even smaller loads created links that were individually weaker but sometimes cumulatively significant. While cargo diversity was therefore a primary concern in mapping connections, the overall size of assemblages played no analytical role here. Each wreck was allotted the same total weighting of five points, which were divided according to the strengths of links. So the 900 jars on board the early 7th-​century Yassıada A wreck (#64) received the same five points as the 133 jars recorded on the Fig Tree Bay South A site (#31). This five-​point scale allowed differential weighting of smaller and larger proportions within cargos down to a minimum weighting for the smallest cargo components of a half point. As an example, the Kepez Tepe A wreck (#36) was assigned three points for its major cargo from Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant and one point each for its minor components from the Aegean Sea and Black Sea. By contrast, a shipwreck like the Gümüşlük A  site (#35), with a more geographically homogenous cargo (Aegean Sea), had its single link counted for all five points.42

   https://​gephi.org/​plugins/​#/​plugin/​multimode. See also Leidwanger 2017, 610–​12.   Wreck cargos were assigned the weighted values that follow using the following geographical abbreviations: Adriatic (AD), Aegean (AE), Black Sea (BS), Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant (CC), Egypt/​Red Sea (ERS), Southern Levant (SL), North Africa (NA), Southern Gaul (SG). For wreck numbers, see appendix 1, table A.1. Roman: #1: AE (5); #2: AE (5); #3: AE (5); #4: AE (5); #5: AE (5); #6: AE (5); #7: AE (5); #8: AE (5); #9: AE (5); #10: AE (5); #11: AE (4), ERS (1); #12: AE (5); #13: AE (5); #14: AD (5); #15: AD (5); #16: AE (5); #17: AE (5); #18: AE (5); #19: AD (5); #20: AE (5); #21: CC (5); #22: AE (5); #23: AE (5); #24: AE (5); #25: AE (5); #26: AE (5); #27: CC (5); #28: AE (5); #29: AE (5); #30: CC (5); #31: CC (4), SG (1); #32: AE (2.5), AD (2), BS (0.5); #33: NA (5); #34 AE (5). Late Antique: #35: AE (5); #36: CC (3), AE (1), BS (1); #37: AE (5); #38: AE (3), CC (2); #39: CC (5); #40: CC (5); #41: CC (3), SL (2); #42: BS (4), CC (1); #43: AE (5); #44: SL (4), CC (1); #45: CC (5); #46: CC (5); #47: CC (5); #48: CC (3), SL (2); #49: SL (5); #50: CC (4), AE (1); #51: CC (3), SL (2); #52: SL (5); #53: CC (5); #54: CC (5); #55: CC (5); #56: AE (5); #57: AE (5); #58: AE (5); #59: CC (5); #60: CC (5); #61: CC (3), 41

42

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In an effort to emphasize different aspects of the relationships encoded in the networks, the visualizations vary somewhat in their layouts. For the initial visualizations (figs. 4.7–​4.8) I have relied on the Force Atlas 2 layout, a default Gephi layout algorithm for displaying network spatialization.43 The size of a node (with its label) and its relative placement indicate its centrality within network structure, but this centrality can be evaluated in several different ways. Here, the visualizations depend on “degree centrality,” which situates nodes based on the number of network links they exhibit. The more links a node has, the more central it becomes to the network’s structure, and the larger and more central its representation on the graph.44 For the one-​mode networks that transform shipwrecks from nodes to links (figs. 4.13–​4.14), I use Gephi’s GeoLayout plugin, which considers latitude and longitude coordinates to locate nodes according to geographic rather than relational space.45 In this case, since the position of nodes is determined by other factors, centrality is reflected only in the size of nodes (and their labels). The relative strengths of connections are illustrated in all network graphs by the varying thicknesses of lines representing links. Choices of scale and weighting used throughout the graphs merit some discussion. In attempting to select nodes of effective geographical size, one confronts the related dilemma of ascribing origins to cargos, typically accomplished by assigning an area of production based on known typologies. But as noted previously, the precision with which origins can be attributed, particularly without compositional analysis, varies considerably over time and across our study area. The geographical divisions chosen for nodes must therefore reflect a common baseline that can facilitate direct comparison between the structures of the earlier and later networks. This requires reducing, in certain instances, the finer Roman spatial resolution to match the more general areas of known Late Roman amphora production. In practice, this means aggregating several smaller units into fewer larger ones: for example, the southeast Aegean becomes simply the Aegean. The

AE (2); #62: CC (5); #63: SL (4), CC (0.5), ERS (0.5); #64: AE (3.5), CC (1), SL (0.5); #65: CC (5); #66: AE (5); #67: CC (5).    https://​g ithub.com/​gephi/​gephi/​w iki/​Force-​Atlas-​2.   In Gephi’s network terminology, this “degree centrality” used here for display of two-​mode networks reflects the sum of the number of links for that node, contrasting with other common measures like “betweenness centrality.” These two-​mode visualizations offer a helpful representation of the connectedness of different sites and areas in the network, but the mixture of contrasting data types limits the use of Gephi’s inbuilt analytical capabilities. The measures applied to these networks are not reliable since shipwrecks and regions are not logically equivalent and cannot at present be compared in such terms. For this reason, other metrics are calculated separately as the basis for the observations offered in this study. 45    https://​gephi.org/​plugins/​#/​plugin/​geolayout-​plugin. 43

44

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resulting geographical nodes in the visualizations here (Aegean, Cyprus/​Cilicia/​ N Levant, etc.) surely mask finer contours of seaborne interaction that might be elucidated in the future with uniformly fine data resolution. Generalization is always necessary in bulk data analysis, as McCormick has succinctly stated: “like it or not, economic history requires simplifying and aggregating the data.”46 But to the extent that the present solution represents a compromise, it also reveals an added benefit of this geographical macro-​scale. Even shipwrecks that are less well documented, with fewer specific cargo details available, can provide functional data from which to build networks. Equal weighting of wrecks regardless of size reflects the other important data simplification. Cargo and vessel size are often impossible to determine on the basis of surface survey, especially for sites that are not well preserved.47 The few sites that provide this data from the study area can prove helpful for later comparison with trends revealed through quantitative and network analysis.48 In lieu of comprehensive data on cargo sizes, however, weighting each wreck equally affords a measure of consistency and comparability in the model. This represents the most pragmatic path forward at this stage of research. Even so, the size variable merits more attention in the future as quantitative and network approaches continue to converge and data with improved resolution becomes readily available to facilitate spatial and temporal distinctions.

Exploratory Networks and Numbers The first (two-​mode) network visualizations offer an immediate and sharp contrast between the structures of maritime interaction in the Roman era and those in Late Antiquity. Although the Early Roman representation (fig. 4.7) includes the only cargo elements drawn from the Adriatic or western Mediterranean (N Africa), the graph clearly reveals the fractured nature of the network created by this dataset. The few more distant ties between the Aegean and the Adriatic, Black Sea, and Egypt/​Red Sea are tenuous, reflecting connections created by only two cargos (#11, #32). One wreck in particular (#32) is responsible for linking both   McCormick 2012,  80.   See ­chapter 2, pp. 47–​53. Excavated wrecks may appear to have more links and therefore greater centrality than surveyed wrecks, as the rare items that might suggest weak ties are less likely to be recorded during brief surface documentation. Only two sites in the group of 54 wrecks were excavated in part or in full—​Yassıada B (#38) and Yassıada A (#64) respectively—​a nd another was investigated in detail (İskandil Burnu A, #63). Since the rare items reported from these and other sites are typically not interpreted as part of the cargo, these are not included here and make no difference to the overall picture. 48   See the general trends in cargo and ship size analyzed in Nantet 2016. 46 47

Fig. 4.7. Two-​mode network visualization for Roman shipwrecks (n = 34) across the study area. Site names and numbers correspond as in appendix table A.1, where additional information is available: Kioni A (#1); Moulia Rocks A (#2); Alakışla Bükü A (#3); Knidos D (#4); Cape Zevgari B (#5); TK06-​AC (#6); Hayırsız Burun (Marmaris) A (#7); Arap Adası A (#8); Bozukkale Kale A (#9); Kıyrak Liman B (#10); Kıyrak Liman A (#11); Çaycağız Koyu B (#12); Karaburun (Fethiye) A (#13); Yalıkavak A (#14); Yalıkavak B (#15); Toprakada A (#16); Kepçe Burnu B (#17); TK05-​AI (#18); Cape Kiti B (#19); Sancak Burun A (#20); Cape Andreas A (#21); Küçük Kiremit Adası B (#22); Küçük Kiremit Adası A (#23); Yassıada D (#24); Çaycağız Koyu C (#25); Knidos J (#26); Knidos H (#27); Kızılkuyruk (Fethiye) B (#28); Ragged Bay A (#29); Kioni B (#30); Fig Tree Bay South A (#31); İskandil Burnu B (#32); Kumlu Burun (Marmaris) A (#33); Knidos I (#34).

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the Adriatic and Black Sea; without this, the Adriatic, which is well represented in the cargos of three wrecks carrying only amphoras of that origin at Yalıkavak (#14, #15) and Cape Kiti (#19), would have fallen off the network. The apparently homogenous N African cargo (#33) is wholly detached from the rest of the graph. More striking, however, is that the several Cypriot/​Cilician/​N Levantine assemblages (#21, #27, #30) are likewise not integrated into the overall network structure, although one maintains connections to S Gaul (#31). With the exception of only three sites (#11, #31, #32), the Roman assemblages are restricted to single connections (31 of 34 wrecks); the overwhelming majority of these (24 of 31, or more than three-​quarters) have their sole link to the Aegean. Of the remaining assemblages, three are connected only to Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant, the second most common unique link among the Roman cargos. Perhaps surprising is that Adriatic material is similarly strongly represented, but generally in contexts without additional connections. This picture contrasts starkly with the Late Antique two-​mode visualization (fig. 4.8). All sites are tied into the network in some form or another, and multiple connections generally link different areas of the graph. Like their earlier Roman counterparts, these late wrecks show a strong Aegean representation, with 7 sites connected only to this node out of a total of 12 exhibiting Aegean links. But another area, Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant, now emerges as the most central. Over half (13) of its 24 connected sites are linked only to this node. This shift represents a remarkable development for a network constructed from a great majority of sites outside this immediate area. From the perspective of centrality in network structure, much of the importance of Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant is based on its crucial role in integrating the S Levant and beyond with the Aegean. While two-​t hirds of the sites (22 of 33) still show links to a single area, there is a notable increase in the number of links per wreck over the Roman dataset. The average number of geographical connections per assemblage in Late Antiquity rises to 1.424 against the average for the earlier period of 1.118 (fig. 4.9). In other words, the relative proportion of cargos carrying goods from a single area drops even if it remains high overall. This shift toward cargo assemblages reflecting multiple areas may be small, but it suggests a potential threshold needed to bolster integration across the network. Examining the proportions of links that represent the lone geographical connections of cargos offers another vantage point for these networks. We can see these proportions drop among those area nodes that are connected to more than a single shipwreck. In the Early Roman period, 75–​100% of the links within shipwreck cargos are the sole connections exhibited by those wreck assemblages (fig. 4.10). In Late Antiquity this figure falls to 0–​58% (fig. 4.11), underscoring the

Fig. 4.8. Two-​mode network visualization for Late Antique shipwrecks (n = 33) across the study area. Site names and numbers correspond as in appendix table A.1, where additional information is available: Gümüşlük A (#35); Kepez Tepe A (#36); Yalılavak C (#37); Yassıada B (#38); Kalkan A (#39); Sıçak Burnu (Kekova) A (#40); İçada (Kekova) A (#41); İnce Burun (Kalkan) A (#42); Yılan Ada A (#43); Avdimou Bay A (#44); Cape Zevgari A (#45); Arwad B (#46); Marmaris Çiftlik A (#47); Kızılkuyruk (Fethiye) A (#48); Kekova Adası B (#49); TK05-​A D (#50); Arap Adası B (#51); Büyük Kiremit Adası A (#52); Knidos A (#53); Kargı Adası A (#54); Çirinko Burnu A (#55); Palamutbükü A (#56); Knidos Port B (#57); Payamlık Burnu B (#58); Knidos C (#59); Yılanlı Ada A (#60); Burgaz A (#61); Cape Andreas C/​E (#62); İskandil Burnu A (#63); Yassıada A (#64); Cape Andreas B (#65); Knidos Port A (#66); İnce Burun (Datça) A (#67).

35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0

1

2 Roman

3 Late Antique

Fig. 4.9. Number of Roman (light gray) and Late Antique (dark gray) shipwrecks (y) in the study area plotted against average number of links per wreck (x). 30 25 20 15 10 5 0

Aegean

Cyprus

Adriatic

N Africa

S Gaul

Black Sea Egypt/Red Sea

Fig. 4.10. Number of unique links (light gray) versus total links to each geographical area for Roman shipwrecks in the study area.

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Cyprus

Aegean

S Levant

Black Sea

Egypt/Red Sea

Fig. 4.11. Number of unique links (dark gray) versus total links to each geographical area for Late Antique shipwrecks in the study area.

critical role of geographically diverse cargos in the emerging integration of the later network.49 We can also examine this phenomenon of spatially limited cargos from another angle, one that takes account of site location. The individual find spots of wrecks would seem useful to explore alongside these trends despite methodological problems surrounding their incorporation into networks. Even if not formally modeled in the visualizations, this data can nonetheless be instructive by evaluating the relative proportions of cargos that are derived from the area in which the ship sank. This approach effectively produces another metric for geographical homogeneity and diversity within these assemblages. Using the basic network models and cargo weighting, we can identify the proportions of such “local” cargos for each period and distinguish also between the two parts of the study area (fig. 4.12).50 For the entire study area, the proportion of cargos that originate in the

  For clarity, the specific proportions are as follows:  Roman:  Aegean (92.3%, 24 of 26), Cyprus/​ Cilicia/​N Levant (100%, 4 of 4), Adriatic (75%, 3 of 4); Late Antique: Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant (54.2%, 13 of 24), Aegean (58.3%, 7 of 12), S Levant (25%, 2 of 8), and Black Sea (0%, 0 of 2). All remaining areas, including N Africa, S Gaul, Black Sea, and Egypt/​Red Sea in the Roman era, and Egypt/​Red Sea in Late Antiquity, are linked to a single cargo in that period. 50   Th is analytical approach relies on the same figures for cargo components that informed the proportional strengths of different links within the networks. 49

136  Roman Seas 100.0% 90.0% 80.0% 70.0% 60.0% 50.0% 40.0% 30.0% 20.0% 10.0% 0.0%

Overall

SW Turkey

NE Mediterranean

Fig. 4.12. Proportion of Roman (light gray) and Late Antique (dark gray) cargos from the study area that originate from the geographical area in which the shipwreck was found.

same area as the wreck site drops from the 73.8% in the Roman period to 43.3% in Late Antiquity. This drop presumably again reflects the emergence of key connections between areas that played a more prominent role in Late Antique exchange. More suggestive, though, is the same comparison when further distinction is made between the two parts of the study area: while the Aegean sees a drop in the dominance of such “local” cargos from 82.6% to 33.7% between the Roman era and Late Antiquity, the Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant area experiences a corresponding rise in their proportion from 40.0% to 86.7%. Converting these two-​mode visualizations into a pair of one-​mode networks helps to clarify patterns of network connections across space and allows some evaluation of their relative strengths (figs. 4.13–​4.14). The one-​mode networks display areas as nodes connected by shipwreck links. For both graphs, the GeoLayout ties each area node to its approximate position in the Mediterranean, allowing easier spatial comprehension and exploration of the physical scale of connections alongside their dynamics.51 Recall that the relative strengths of connections are encoded in the thickness of each connection line, and the different sizes of area nodes (and their labels) serve as proxies for their relative centrality. The Roman one-​mode network is geographically expansive but also predictably simple and diffuse in its structure (fig. 4.13). Its few connections are generally

51   Note that this modification means that the relative positions of nodes no longer indicate their centrality, although this centrality is still reflected in the node sizes.

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Fig. 4.13. Georeferenced one-​mode network visualization for Roman shipwrecks (n = 34) across the study area.

weak despite sometimes extending across great distances: from Cyprus/​Cilicia/​ N Levant to S Gaul, from the Black Sea to the Adriatic. The Aegean remains most central, without which the network would disintegrate into scattered single or pairs of area nodes. By contrast, the Late Antique one-​mode network shows more limited geographical reach but significantly greater overall integration as well as diversity in the number of connections and their strengths (fig. 4.14). The corridor between the Aegean, Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant, and S Levant exhibits the strongest ties, but even the comparatively weak links are often stronger than their earlier Roman counterparts.52 The area of Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant clearly emerges as the most central, while the Aegean and S Levant also show significant centrality. Numbers of connections per area node offer one helpful metric for distinguishing more systematically between these two structures (fig. 4.15): with 2.800 links per node, the Late Antique network is marked by a greater density of connections than the Roman period, which demonstrates on average only 1.428 links for each node.

  The strength of this network corridor passing through Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant is possibly also reflected in the presence of jars from either the Black Sea or central Levantine coast on the Arwad B wreck (#46). Since the origin of this possible component of the cargo remains uncertain, it is not included as a link in the network modeling here. On the jars, see Kampbell 2013, 421–​22. 52

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Fig. 4.14. Georeferenced one-​mode network visualization for Late Antique shipwrecks (n = 33) across the study area. 4

3

2

1

0

0

1

2 Roman

3

4

Late Antique

Fig. 4.15. Number of Roman (light gray) and Late Antique (dark gray) connections (y) plotted against the number of geographical areas (x) for shipwrecks from the study area.

The network approach to cargo composition provides a relational view of structure and scale to complement the quantitative analysis in the previous section. While shipwreck numbers offer a useful barometer for increases and decreases in maritime activity, they say little about how this ebb and flow unfolded. Networks provide a methodological framework for modeling and interrogating the changing

Exploring Shipwreck Data 139

shape of connections, which can then be measured and evaluated with certain basic statistics. Most of the metrics presented in this section were compiled from the raw shipwreck data and therefore did not depend directly on any statistical outputs from the Gephi software package. But the relative simplicity and striking clarity of these visualizations make them a useful tool for drawing out and interrogating these patterns. My analysis works from only a fraction of the larger maritime network to which the chosen study area was tied. Although the connections of the Aegean and Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant in particular are well represented in this dataset, any conclusions about their particular places within an overall network remain tentative. The direct influence of connections from cargos outside this limited study area remains impossible to evaluate, as does the indirect pull of network dynamics in other parts of the Mediterranean on the structures here. Even so, both quantification and network exploration reveal that distinct patterns governed Roman and Late Antique maritime interaction in this part of the eastern Mediterranean. These particular contrasts in dynamics are clearest in the one-​mode visualizations and merit further examination in light of environment, seafaring technology, and the temporal cadences of movement by sea. : : :

Spatial Topography of Seafaring Just as connections overland are influenced by topography and other landscape features, movement by sea is complicated by the environmental and technological parameters outlined in c­ hapter 2. While sailing capabilities did not shift markedly over the period of study, the practical limitations of wind-​driven shipping must feature in any discussion of interaction based on the maritime archaeological record. To cite just one obvious example, a merchant sailing from Cyprus to the southeast Aegean faced a greater investment—​in time and therefore other resources—​than on the return journey due to prevailing wind patterns. The abstract spaces from the previous section must be grounded in this dynamic environment, particularly given the contrasting network structures that appear to have characterized the earlier and later periods. Parker advocated the integration of just such landscape features years ago: The modelling of sea-​transport links would thus involve the topographic distortions of conceptual mapping. . . . Even distribution of artefacts should, for this purpose, be plotted on a scale of dispersal which takes ease of movement or economic forces into account as a weighting factor.53   Parker 2001, 29.

53

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By situating network structure within a more contoured marine topography, we can measure the costs and opportunities, in real-​world terms, of the various links outlined in the previous section. In this way, maritime connections can take on the human scale of, for example, a day’s sail or week’s round-​trip journey. This section uses GIS to ground spatially the relational network data from the previous section. The design of GIS software around the specific challenges of spatial analysis offers a powerful tool for investigating past archaeological landscapes whether on land or at sea. Human interaction has taken on central importance in archaeological GIS,54 and the present study extends these capabilities to a spatial analysis of ancient seafaring and maritime networks. The technical details behind the development and implementation of this particular GIS methodology have been outlined elsewhere.55 Here, the broader framework, applicability for movement by sea, and practical results for maritime network studies are my central concerns.

Modeling Ancient Seafaring with GIS No knowledge was of more immediate relevance for making progress at sea than a deep understanding of the effective use of various winds. Models of ancient voyages must account for prevailing wind direction as well as the range of conditions that could be utilized advantageously given available technologies. The present GIS model combines wind data, particularly speed and direction, with the capabilities of ancient sailors to respond to these different situations, known obliquely or directly through literary testimony, material remains, and experimental archaeology.56 Estimating “averages” for sailing performance and journey times, even in broad terms, is challenging, but it reflects a crucial step toward adding human scale to the otherwise spatially and temporally abstract networks of the previous section. The calculation of sailing times raises a number of methodological challenges. While presumably rational in most circumstances, mariner choices cannot be predicted with any greater reliability than other human behaviors. Seafarers might wait out poor winds at anchor to ensure a more direct route rather than commit to a circuitous journey that permitted an immediate departure. Others might prefer indirect routes to capitalize on some incidental economic or social opportunity along the way. Still others might assume elevated risk of stormy

  Batty 2005. See also generally Polla and Verhagen 2014.   On the construction of this GIS model and its specific environmental and technological parameters, see generally Leidwanger 2013c. I owe thanks to Dana Tomlin for his advice and help in development of these analytical procedures. 56   See c­ hapter 2, pp. 53–​61. 54 55

Exploring Shipwreck Data 141

weather to maximize potential returns. The variable predictability of winds in different seasons and areas would have made it difficult for mariners—​particularly those outside of their home waters—​to anticipate reliably these challenges at every stage. Certainly they are impossible to quantify completely here. Yet deviations from the norm by individual mariners are to be expected and need not confound a model that looks to add basic human scale. The temporalities in our model should be understood to reflect not one or a few journeys but broad consistencies over many thousands of voyages. Estimates of sailing times, even with the most carefully defined environmental and technological parameters, are bound to be an unreliable guide for any singular journey. This metric of connective “cost” is sorely missing in formal analyses of Mediterranean maritime economies, where more deterministic interpretations of set routes remain the norm for environmental discussions of seafaring practice. All models are necessarily simplifications, but the present one derived from wind data and seafaring technology allows new consideration of maritime interaction in light of geography, environment, and technology. Studies of maritime interaction have long recognized the importance of an environmentally informed framework, and the various approaches to connectivity and networks described in c­ hapter  3 aim to organize these factors in a meaningful manner.57 On the other hand, formal models for movement by sea, generated through GIS or other computational methods, are comparatively lacking despite some early and promising forays in Pacific and northern European waters.58 Endeavors to model the long-​distance voyages of Viking craft have demonstrated the potential of such approaches when supported by strong datasets with well-​preserved craft and historical records. Archaeologically recovered seagoing vessels are particularly helpful if they give rise to experimentation with faithful replicas that can be compared directly to the historical and literary record. Research by Indruszewski and Barton on a 9th-​century ad Viking voyage

  These considerations are most notable in studies of early Mediterranean seafaring and Greco-​ Roman commercial routes:  see Broodbank 2000; Arnaud 2005; Broodbank 2006; Broodbank 2013; Tartaron 2013. Morton (2001) collects the bulk of literary and historical data for the environmental conditions of ancient seafaring. See also Beresford 2013 on seasonality in Mediterranean maritime activities. Farther afield, see the seafaring capabilities that led to prehistoric contacts along the western seaways of coastal Britain and Ireland, which have drawn the interest of scholars: see Case 1969; Wooding 1996; Davidson et  al. 2010. Although focusing on Crusader voyages during the Medieval period, Pryor’s (1988) landmark volume has heavily influenced subsequent analyses of the environment of premodern seafaring in the Mediterranean, including during the Classical world. 58   See the pioneering computational work on early voyages to the Pacific Islands by Geoffrey Irwin and colleagues: Irwin et al. 1990 and more recent models of the “Western Seaways” in Callaghan 1999; Callaghan and Scarre 2009. See also more recently Di Piazza 2014. 57

142  Roman Seas

across the Baltic represents one such pioneering effort. The authors combine the capabilities of mainstream GIS software with historical accounts and experimental archaeology to hypothesize plausible routes given known environmental and technological parameters.59 Even without data from well-​preserved vessels, Newhard and colleagues have undertaken basic estimates of integrated land-​sea travel through the Bronze Age Argolid and across the adjacent Saronic Gulf in an effort to evaluate costs and opportunities of different routes.60 An effort by Gustas and Supernant to model maritime migration along the Pacific Northwest similarly brings GIS to bear on the marine environment and distinctive capabilities of the earliest seafarers there.61 Jarriel has recently revisited Broodbank’s proximal point analysis of the Bronze Age Cyclades with GIS and a more dynamic marine and coastal topography.62 Meanwhile, Safadi and Sturt have recast eastern Mediterranean maritime space successfully to reflect the relative ease of different seaborne connections given Bronze Age capabilities and the marine environment.63 These progressive approaches and the new insights they have already demonstrated leave no doubt regarding the potential for continued research in this area, yet such examples are unfortunately rare. Despite its dominant place in Mediterranean narratives, the paradigm of connectivity has yet to prompt more widespread implementation of formal spatial modeling for maritime interaction. The lack of appropriately specialized tools within mainstream GIS packages has not helped the situation, especially given the complicated relationship between wind direction, speed, and vessel movement. Modeling the dynamics of these seafaring parameters raises significant technical methodological hurdles. For sailing vessels that undertook most journeys in the eastern Mediterranean, wind provided the primary means of propulsion and the most crucial environmental factor in determining performance at sea. Close correspondences between modern data and the intermittent (and generally oblique) ancient references lend confidence to the use of the modern marine environment for modeling Roman and Late Antique voyages.64 In the study area, the prevailing winds off southwest Turkey arrive from the north and northwest, while those around Cyprus are 59   The voyage is that recounted by Wulfstan from Haidaby (Schleswig-​Holstein, Germany) to Truso (Poland); see Indruszewski and Barton 2007; Indruszewski and Barton 2008. See also Indruszewski and Godal 2009. 60   Newhard et al.  2014. 61   Gustas and Supernant 2017. See also Howey 2007 for an analysis of mobility across the Great Lakes region. 62   Jarriel  2018. 63   Safadi and Sturt 2019. See also Safadi 2016. 64   For detailed discussion of the wind and sea conditions in the study area, see generally c­ hapter 2, pp.  30–​34.

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Fig. 4.16. Prevailing winds for the eastern Mediterranean utilized in the GIS model: arrows indicate direction, and their relative sizes reflect wind speeds.

predominantly westerlies, and the northern Levantine coast experiences varied conditions (figs. A.5–​A.8 and A.16–​A.19). Year-​round measurements and statistical modeling from more than 100 locations inform my study: these include more than 50 coastal stations spread throughout the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean basin and an approximately equal number of offshore points situated along a regular latitude/​longitude grid at a distance of generally 1° (around 100 km) or less.65 These data points are then interpolated into surfaces that provide full coverage of wind speed and direction for the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean basin (fig. 4.16). Seasonality presents a crucial variable that has only rarely been incorporated into formal models despite widespread general recognition of its role in the temporal rhythms of maritime activity.66 Given that our GIS analysis reflects broad

  The primary data for offshore locations was provided by Medatlas Electronic Atlas (v. 7.0). Thanks to the Map Library of the University of Toronto for providing access to this resource. Shore-​based information comes from a variety of sources, particularly windfinder.com. 66   E .g., Ilves 2004, 170–​7 1; Jarriel 2018; Safadi and Sturt 2019. See also generally Beresford 2013. 65

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“averages,” year-​round conditions offer a baseline for initial exploration. Seasonal variation can then be explored through more localized patterns within the study area. Since Mediterranean currents result primarily from inflow of waters from surrounding basins via a few key locations outside the study area, these would have exerted less impact on ancient sailing here than winds. The varying technical proficiencies of ancient mariners may have played a more significant role, but these cultural parameters—​like risk tolerance and local knowledge—​are presently impossible to reflect in these models. Performance—​ defined here as speed dependent on wind direction and strength—​is the essential technical factor of interest. This issue is largely a function of rigging technology and vessel shape below the waterline, and here we are fortunate to possess a significant body of knowledge about both sail configurations and hull profiles of vessels during the period under study. The particular details of Roman and Late Antique ships have been discussed in ­chapter 2, including key aspects that translate into parameters informing the GIS model. First, hull profiles may have varied somewhat over the centuries in question, but the preference for a slight “wine glass” section from the late Classical era seems to have set the standard for Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean vessels before the arrival of more box-​like Byzantine shapes that benefited storage efficiency. With most seagoing merchant craft exhibiting a normal length-​to-​beam ratio of between 3:1 and 4:1, capacity took precedence so long as decent speed and maneuverability were retained. The concern for speed may have caused some vessels to be designed with sleeker lines, but this general ratio seems to have reflected the norm for merchant mariners in our period and study area. Finally, with regard to sail configuration, Whitewright’s analysis of the relative performances of different rigs has forced a reevaluation of the longstanding assumption that the fore-​ and-​aft (especially the lateen) type offered greater maneuverability into the wind. As a result, even though the relative popularities of the fore-​and-​aft rig and square rig seem to have changed throughout the period, the same performance can be assumed broadly for both Roman and Late Antique vessels.67 These general merchant vessel parameters form a consistent baseline for modeling journey times, and the extensively preserved remains of the Kyrenia ship offer the best opportunity to illustrate them in action. The hull, 14 m in length and capable of carrying up to perhaps 30 tons, was reconstructed as a full-​size sailing replica Kyrenia II, offering primary evidence for the GIS model here. While interpreting the results from historic reconstructions is never straightforward,

67   See ­chapter 2, pp. 53–​57. For Whitewright’s analysis of the sailing performances of the two rigs, see Whitewright 2011a; Whitewright 2011b; Whitewright 2018.

Exploring Shipwreck Data 145

the varied conditions and extensive documentation of the Kyrenia II sea trials provide the best fine-​grained data available on the likely performance of a typical merchant vessel in the ancient Mediterranean. This evidence is incorporated into the various discussions throughout ­chapter 2, but a few points are reiterated here for the GIS model.68 By the end of a round trip between the Aegean and Cyprus, the crew had achieved an overall average speed of 2.85–​2.95 kn (5.28–​5.46 kph). Winds proved particularly favorable when on a broad reach or run. Sailing any closer into the wind than a beam reach (i.e., a close reach) proved challenging; progress became minimal to impossible and highly inconsistent beyond about 5 points off the bow (i.e., sailing closer into the wind than about 56º off the bow). Ancient mariners’ ability to tack allowed slow progress even in certain adverse winds. These figures compare well with speeds calculated from reports of eastern Mediterranean journey times by various ancient authors in prevailing wind conditions and with ancient geographers’ conceptions of daily sailing distances. Any innovations in navigation, ship design, and construction technologies over the period probably did not yield major improvements to windward sailing or reductions in journey times on the whole. Future discoveries may prompt revisions to these assessments that could be easily incorporated into GIS models, but the present study relies on consistent figures for speed and performance across both the Roman and Late Antique eras.

Network Distance as Time The spatiotemporal model uses ArcGIS (v. 10.4.1) to factor these normative speeds in different conditions alongside modern eastern Mediterranean wind data. It allows calculations of sailing times from any given origin, computed in minutes but converted here for presentation as days of sail. These can then be utilized to provide a human scale to several facets of the network models described previously:  first, to approximate real-​world sizes of spaces under discussion, and second, to estimate average journey durations for the network links outlined in the previous section. Estimated sailing distances from Seleucia, Paphos, Rhodes, and Samos are provided as examples (figs. 4.17–​4.20). These representations are not intended to suggest routes but rather the time required to cover a given area most efficiently, even if by an indirect path that might involve shifting winds and tacking. Measuring the entire length represented by the area of Cyprus/​Cilicia/​ N Levant reveals an eastward crossing of no more than 2.5–​3 days from one end

68   See generally Katzev 1989; Katzev and Katzev 1989; Katzev 1990; Cariolou 1997; Katzev 2008; and discussion in c­ hapter 2, pp. 58–​61.

Fig. 4.17. One-​way sailing times, calculated in days, from the port city of Seleucia.

Fig. 4.18. One-​way sailing times, calculated in days, from the port city of Paphos.

Fig. 4.19. One-​way sailing times, calculated in days, from the port city of Rhodes.

Fig. 4.20. One-​way sailing times, calculated in days, from the port city of Samos.

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to the other, and a westward return trip that could be accomplished in only 3.5–​ 4 days; many short hops within the area, such as between Cyprus and the adjacent mainland, could have been accomplished within a day in either direction. From these figures we can estimate the maximum “size” of the area, for routine activity of an average merchant mariner like the Kyrenia II, as no more than approximately a week’s round-​trip journey. The Aegean is slightly larger but could still be crossed west to east or east to west in 2–​3 or 4–​6 days, respectively. North-​south journeys were highly variable and in general more time-​consuming, depending on direction relative to the prevailing etesian winds. Even so, most of the Aegean could feasibly have been covered with a round-​trip journey of a week to 10 days. Constantinople was only a few days more distant if conditions were favorable, although the northerly winds and currents through the Hellespont could cause delays.69 The southeast Aegean that accounts for much of the cargo aggregated in this study as “Aegean” reflects a rather small area traversed in both directions in a matter of only a few days.70 Like journeys within geographical areas represented by nodes, expected sailing times between areas are also highly variable based on which specific locations one selects as endpoints. In general, the crucial link in the previous network visualizations between the Aegean and Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant could have been accomplished with a round trip of between a week and a half to two weeks and three to four weeks, depending on whether we assume a southeast Aegean or more distant terminus (e.g., W or N Aegean, Constantinople, etc.). Egypt/​Red Sea, S Levant, and Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant effectively form a triangle with each leg separated by approximately a week and a half of sailing. Longer journeys can also be estimated. A trip back and forth between the Aegean and the Black Sea—​or at least many parts of this large area, including the northern Turkish coast that produced much of the Black Sea cargo analyzed here—​would have required about three weeks; that between Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant and the Black Sea required more than a month, perhaps around five weeks or even a bit more. We can gauge some of the longest distances in the model in such terms, including the eight weeks or so represented by a journey between Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant and S Gaul. In the figures that follow (figs. 4.21–​4.22), I have annotated the previous one-​mode network graphs with approximate round-​trip journey times calculated for each conceptual link. The resulting georeferenced network visualizations add a sense of human geography and temporality to these Roman and Late Antique maritime models.

  Barnes 2006. See also ­chapter 6, p. 219.   The southeast Aegean study area is presented in more detail, using the case study of the small Archaic ship that wrecked at Pabuç Burnu, in Leidwanger 2013c, 3306–​7. 69 70

Fig. 4.21. Georeferenced one-​mode network visualization for the Roman era, based on shipwrecks from the study area, showing estimated round-​trip travel times for links between areas.

Fig. 4.22. Georeferenced one-​mode network visualization for Late Antiquity, based on shipwrecks from the study area, showing estimated round-​trip travel times for links between areas.

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Archaeologists have long struggled to incorporate environmental factors systematically without imposing a rigid and reductive determinism on the societies being studied.71 While GIS has made significant progress, some have cautioned against too uncritical an adoption or wholesale reliance on models that provide hypotheses and parameters for testing rather than factual representations of the past.72 The GIS analysis here incorporates certain predictive modeling capabilities, but these are intended to create an opportunistic topography rather than a deterministic one. The emphasis is not on defining routes or other rigid structural features, or even particular journey durations and distances between major hub ports or other sites; such goals are effectively modeled at the Mediterranean scale through the work of Arnaud and the ORBIS project.73 Rather, the present model aims to facilitate a bottom-​up understanding of how the fuzzy connections embedded in the maritime material record relate to the human experience of movement and the contrasting scales that movement entailed within and between geographical areas. Individual sites are secondary to areas, and journey lengths are secondary to the sizes—​in both spatial and temporal terms—​of the worlds in which different maritime actors operated. There is certainly room for continued improvement. Allied developments in GIS-​based archaeological viewshed analysis may hold considerable promise for network investigations, including the role of intervisibility in guiding movement and interaction within maritime landscapes.74 The reliability of visual contact with more and less distant locations across the water would seem productive ground for exploring how perception and experience can inform conceptual maritime spaces akin to Rougé’s observations of the diverse ancient naming practices for Mediterranean waters.75 Since the present GIS model does not distinguish separate seasonal communication patterns but rather relies on a single, year-​round representation, this too offers a prime area for future work. Closer study could profitably analyze quarterly or monthly trends to compare the effects of seasonality on potential sailing patterns at these contrasting scales, with further implications for the degree and reliability of connectedness maintained within and among different areas during different times of the year. The GIS estimates of time adduced here represent generally positive normative figures since they do not account for interim stops, adverse conditions, or

  See discussions in Gaffney and Leusen 1995; Wheatley 2004.   Ebert 2000, 130. Caution has been encouraged particularly in the field of cultural resource management. 73   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 107. 74   E .g., Wheatley and Gillings 2000; Lock et al. 2014. 75   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 69–​74 and fig. 3.1. 71

72

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similar complicating factors. Additional calls along the way and lengthy waits in port would have added to journey durations. In most instances these would have varied too widely to allow systematic quantification. It is worth considering, however, that the largest and busiest ports may have seen the greatest congestion and lengthiest stops, making these ostensibly more desirable central locations at times less appealing.76 Extreme or otherwise atypical weather, specifications of hull design and maintenance, and simple human ability all would have imparted variability in actual performance at sea, and in many cases would likewise have reduced the effective speed.77 Slightly higher or lower speeds may be advocated, but the numbers here provide a relative sense of the cost and ease of connections across the network informed by cargo assemblages. The figures reflect best estimates of what we might consider reasonable maximum distances in a given time and with generally favorable sailing conditions. In short, sailing times may have differed among mariners and from one journey to the next, but a framework built on normative vessels and performances over many iterations offers our best window into the practical routines of ancient maritime activity. This human measure correlates more meaningfully with the movements that could tie together different communities and corners of the eastern Mediterranean. Working simultaneously with cost surfaces and network modeling in this way presents new methodological challenges but also unlocks opportunities to explore the characteristics of communication through the maritime archaeological record. By advocating a more dynamic landscape for the seaborne movement of people and goods, the impact of geography upon maritime network development and structure becomes more meaningful. The correlation of spatiotemporal models with networks and quantification offers a framework for approaching eastern Mediterranean interaction within and across different scales. : : :

Toward Big Data for Maritime Economies The multifaceted methodology outlined in this chapter approaches the dense but uneven shipwreck dataset from three complementary angles. Quantification, which has long guided the incorporation of shipwrecks into studies of ancient economies, provides the point of entry. Numbers highlight broad eastern and Mediterranean-​w ide trajectories of intensification and abatement in maritime activity, against which the finer lens of 67 sites offers more focused comparative 76   The modeling of traffic movement through ports would seem to offer great potential for revealing maritime dynamics at either end of the journey. On this theme, see the recent work of the Portus Project and Portus Limen Project, including Keay 2012. 77   Palmer 2009b, 328–​29; Whitewright 2011a, 91–​93.

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case studies. Working across the data in this way elucidates long-​term patterns in the overall system as well as key developments on contrasting scales and in different areas that speak to variable structures underlying interaction. The spatial dynamics of these different areas are effectively explored through network visualizations. Together with some basic metrics, these graphs reveal strengths and densities of links within this connective structure. But the economic implications for the individuals and communities whose movements generated these structures require understanding their temporal rhythms alongside these spatial patterns. Lengths of journeys in either direction serve as one new proxy for the ease of seaborne communication, providing a baseline for measuring the distances over which connections were established and maintained at different points in antiquity. In this way, each analytical component individually adds texture to the picture of maritime activity, but it is the particular combination of methods that offers a more refined and multiscalar archaeological model of movement and interaction in the eastern Mediterranean. Rather than flattening out the material record into a few details of wreck date and location, this approach capitalizes on the spatial and relational data embedded within Roman and Late Antique shipwreck cargos. Reframed around the temporality of sailing in a dynamic landscape, these links bring us back to the vivid and constant movement that shaped Braudel’s Mediterranean, defining for him the practical limits of this sea as “sixty days long.”78 Yet these movements connected unevenly, both within and across scales, contouring the Mediterranean with a complex topography of dense “regional” seas and communities and highly variable “interregional” geographies, to return to our own earlier terms.79 Diversity once again comes to the forefront, with implications for our understanding of how communities formed and economies integrated around maritime space. The human scale proves central to these representations, allowing us to connect different patterns in an archaeologically informed model to the varied mariners and mobilities outlined in c­ hapter 3. Many merchant mariners on the rocky slopes of a southeast Aegean island or the Cilician coast lived in a regional world not 60 but rather a few days wide; these worlds entailed routine activity, strong relationships, and probably limited investments and mitigated risk. By contrast, journeys of several weeks or even months would have required more substantial resources and probably also inherent uncertainty, relying on different types of seafarers and merchants, and engendering other forms of looser or more specialized relationships. The strengths of various connections must always be evaluated against the

78

  Braudel 1972,  387.   See c­ hapter 1, p. 5.

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relative ease of these links if we are to understand the investment and regularity of movement that contributed to maritime economies. Informed also by the discussion of ports in the next chapter, the extended implications of this model are the focus of the concluding ­chapter 6, which explores regional and interregional structures and their shifts over the long run.

Chapter 5

Ports and Everyday Economies After Daedala of the Rhodians, then, one comes to a mountain in Lycia which bears the same name as the city, Daedala, whence the whole voyage along the Lycian coast takes its beginning; this coast extends one thousand seven hundred and twenty stadia, and is rugged and hard to travel, but is exceedingly well supplied with harbours and inhabited by decent people. —​Strabo (14.3.2, trans. Jones)

If modeling shipwreck cargos facilitates a better understanding of the geographies and temporalities of maritime economic networks, then the question that naturally follows asks how communities on either side of journeys were connected within this multiscalar system. Wrecks provide unique insights into the structures of seaborne interactions—​especially for the distribution stage of ancient economies—​but they stop short of explaining what happened before the ship departed or upon its arrival. Complementing the archaeological picture from wrecks are the myriad ports that served as the interface between land and sea for the ships featured in the previous chapters. These “nodes of density in a matrix of connectivity,” to borrow the network imagery of Horden and Purcell,1 reflect more than convenient locations for the transfer of goods. They make up dynamic zones of social and economic contact: spaces where ideas, information, and values come together alongside agricultural and other products.2 Informed by maritime cultural landscape approaches, recent studies of Mediterranean ports have begun to embrace the full spectrum of coastal life—​different facilities, actors, activities, values, beliefs, etc.—​central to communities in this marine-​oriented context. As a result, studies of local dynamics at ports are being gradually textured with themes of fluidity, liminality, and opportunity.3 This interest in a more social archaeology of ports creates occasion to investigate these spaces as a cornerstone for building

  Horden and Purcell 2000, 393.   E.g., Rickman  1996. 3   E .g., Rauh et  al. 2008; Reger 2016. On maritime cultural landscapes, see Westerdahl 1992; Westerdahl 2011. See also c­ hapter 3, pp. 77–​82. 1

2

Roman Seas. Justin Leidwanger, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190083656.001.0001

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economic communities across regions of the Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean.4 This chapter explores port spaces as windows into the everyday workings of maritime networks onshore. Analysis of the structural interplay of seaborne connections and coastal communities can illustrate how varied maritime mobilities intersected with the economic rhythms of those who produced and consumed what ships carried across the waters. To extend this picture onto shore, this chapter again considers maritime networks both spatially and relationally. First, I  advocate for an inclusive and archaeologically driven approach to the identification and interpretation of port sites by examining the breadth of their facilities, infrastructure, and economic activities, as well as their possible topographical and material signatures. This framework sets the stage for case studies analyzing port development and use along two stretches of coastline in the study area: Turkey’s Datça peninsula and south-​central Cyprus. For both settings, the focus ranges widely from built harbor infrastructure down to the coves and beaches that offered the simplest sites and at times little to no natural or artificial shelter. Viewing coastal economic life in this way, from the bottom up through archaeology and topography, offers a parallel perspective on ports to complement that on wrecks in the previous chapter. The multiscalar framework again helps to counterbalance Mediterranean-​w ide or single-​site studies that often prioritize those communities, activities, and infrastructure that fit the dominant conception of ancient maritime life:  for ports, this means the larger-​scale, generally urban and artificially constructed facilities that have gained the most attention but represent just one part of the total network. Examining the spatial patterning of maritime sites alongside the temporality of local movements onshore reveals the costs and opportunities of participation in maritime networks. Through this approach, we can consider who might have used different spaces and infrastructure, and how port accessibility might have affected local routines throughout hinterlands. The final section draws together several key themes regarding the varying roles of ports in maritime network dynamics in this corner of the Roman and Late Antique Mediterranean.

  On the social archaeology of ports, see generally Rogers 2013. Rogers 2011 focuses on the social facet of specifically Roman port spaces. Mediterranean work on this theme was pioneered particularly by Rickman 1985; Rickman 1988. 4

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: : :

Situating Roman Ports The distribution of ports along the Mediterranean is often taken to reflect a pinnacle of ancient engineering and technology. The durable material remains of Greek and Roman maritime infrastructure have long stood as a reminder of the central importance that seaborne communication and movement held among coastal communities in antiquity. They bear witness to the application of technical knowledge to practical environmental problems at the dynamic interface of land and sea. Investigations of installations of all shapes and sizes have brought to light distinctive features, adaptations, and innovations in design and materials that offer a rich narrative of the technological history of ancient ports: these range from the simple coves and river mouths favored by the earliest seafarers to the ashlar-​fortified basins of the Greek and Near Eastern worlds, and finally the imposing concrete structures effected by Roman engineers and described by Vitruvius.5

A Broad Spectrum For the Roman period, this last category—​artificial basins enclosed with concrete-​ built walls—​has enjoyed the most sustained scholarly interest; this is not surprising given the remarkable achievement that this technology represented. The crucial importance of ensuring the food supply, particularly for the metropolis, was not lost on imperial powers whose rule was intimately tied to the reliability of links across the sea. Some of the most important Mediterranean port investigations to date have taken place near Rome and along its extended Tyrrhenian hinterland: these include early investigations at Puteoli, pioneering work at Cosa, and the recent Portus Project. This last initiative focuses on the infrastructure and associated urban and hinterland development of Rome’s maritime outlet, where elaborate facilities were first constructed by Claudius and then greatly expanded under Trajan.6 The interdisciplinary ROMACONS (Roman Maritime Concrete Study) project has shed new light on the materials and techniques as well as on the origin, adaptation, and broad diffusion of transformative concrete technology across the Mediterranean.7 Yet the best-​studied sites often reflect the exception 5   See generally Frost 1972; Blackman 1982a; Blackman 1982b; Raban 1995; Blackman 2008. Vitruvius (De Arch. 5.12) discusses the technology and engineering related to port construction. 6   For Puteoli, see Günter 1903. For Cosa, see McCann 1987. Among the publications of the Portus Project, see generally Keay et al. 2005; Keay and Paroli 2011; Keay 2012. For analysis of the range of ports constructed along the Tyrrhenian coast, see Schörle 2011. 7   Brandon et al.  2014.

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rather than the norm for Roman ports. Herod the Great’s monumental project at Caesarea Maritima in Israel, for example, stands as testimony not only to a massive economic investment in overcoming the lack of natural shelters but also equally to the grand political ambitions of its sponsor.8 Simpler port solutions, down to the smallest and unadorned facilities, must likewise be understood within their immediate economic, social, and political contexts. Even during the height of the Roman era, when hydraulic concrete provided seemingly limitless opportunities to create protected installations along the least hospitable coasts, maritime activity often focused on simple coves or low sandy beaches that sufficed for a few mariners to load or unload quickly.9 The employment of a wide range of practical solutions underscores how ports across the Mediterranean responded not only to technological needs and environmental conditions but also to the particular local circumstances and their contrasting places in network structures. Emblematic of a more diverse spectrum of facilities is the example of Aperlae, situated along the well-​traveled Lycian coast described by Strabo (14.3.2). The town stood to gain from the prosperous exchange along a stretch of southern Anatolia that saw no shortage of large ports accommodating the grandest ships plying the Roman grain routes.10 Even in the face of challenging westerly winds that swept directly into Aperlae’s sandy bay, local residents evidently opted for nothing in the way of harbor enclosure, constructing only a simple shoreline wall that served as a quay. Regardless of the technological capacity and financial resources available, the town developed a port that suited its particular economic situation, its range of maritime resource opportunities, and its place in evolving seaborne networks from the Hellenistic period through Late Antiquity. Hohlfelder argues that maritime livelihoods at Aperlae centered on several specialized activities, including opportunistic interactions with small ships that stopped to take on provisions

  Holum et al. 1988; Hohlfelder 2003; Raban et al. 2009.   E .g., Rougé 1966; Karmon 1985; Houston 1988; Oleson and Hohlfelder 2011; Stone 2014, 579–​80. See in particular the insightful discussion on this phenomenon at the heart of central Italy in Purcell 1996. For such low-​tech ports in other early contexts, see also Külzer 2017 on the Byzantine region, Schmiedt 1978 on Medieval Italy, and a series of North Sea case studies in Segschneider 2002; Ulriksen 2004; Ludowici et al. 2010; Kennecke 2017. 10   The most famous testimony to the routine and large scale of maritime activity along this coast comes from the description of Paul’s boarding at Myra and subsequent journey as one of many passengers on an Alexandrian grain freighter en route to Italy: see later, pp. 158. Archaeological attestation for the vital role of the Lycian coast in the grain trade comes from the warehouses built by Hadrian at Myra and Patara: see Rickman 1971, 137–​40; Rickman 1991, 107–​8; and more generally Rice 2012, 129–​7 1. On their potential use as horrea for grain storage, see Cavalier 2007. 8

9

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or exchange occasional cargo before continuing along the coast.11 A second inlet over the isthmus 1.5 km to the east offered superior protection from the prevailing winds as well as a short sail (16 km, in generally sheltered waters) to the bustling major port of Andriake; a stretch of road across the isthmus suggests that locals may have carted goods this small distance to take advantage of a quicker sail to Andriake’s markets.12 But back at Aperlae, the sandy seabed and simplest of docks, the lack of visits by larger or deep-​hulled ships, and stopovers easily facilitated by just a few hours of morning calm probably meant that financial resources were more productively invested elsewhere. These coastal spaces exhibited no small amount of variation in scale and infrastructure, and similar variation extended to the activities undertaken there: commerce and other forms of exchange of course, but also travel, fishing, boat building, and related maritime practices. Aperlae appears to have capitalized on network connections passing its shore to stimulate not only small-​scale exchange but also an allied marine industry in purple dye production.13 Fishing likely also played some role for this community that was oriented as much toward the sea as to the rocky and challenging land behind. Paul’s famous journey (Acts 27:5–​6) was just one of numerous undertaken along this coast by passengers crowding the decks of both large and small vessels that offered passage to lands near and far. Despite the variety in coastal sites and activities, a range of assumptions still tends to restrict thinking to a rather narrow conception of Roman ports.14 Much as scholars elide larger vessels with longer distances and direct shipments, so too are larger built facilities tied into this same model, while smaller sites and natural shelters are linked to occasional and short-​haul cabotage.15 Infrastructure complexity is presumed to run parallel to port centrality, economic importance, and even urban development more generally. Perhaps the best counterexample comes from Medieval Amalfi, an example of what Kreutz describes as “rather puzzling maritime success stories.”16 This port city flourished in the 9th and 10th

  On Aperlae and the interpretation of its role in local connectivity and broader eastern Mediterranean maritime networks, see generally Hohlfelder and Vann 2000a; Hohlfelder and Vann 2000b; Hohlfelder 2005a; Hohlfelder 2005b; Hohlfelder 2011; Hohlfelder 2015. 12   On the port of Andriake, see generally Brandt and Kolb 2005, 52–​53; Akyürek 2016. 13   Hohlfelder 2015, 151. See also Hohlfelder and Vann 2000a; Leadbetter 2003. 14   On the common assumptions made about the archaeology of ports in general, see Ilves 2009; Ilves 2011. I draw here on some of Ilves’s observations regarding approaches to “landing sites” in the Baltic region, but I opt to retain the more traditional, if sometimes ambiguous, Mediterranean terminology of “ports.” On terminology for maritime infrastructure, see later, pp. 165. 15   See ­chapter  3, pp. 83. On the connections between the size and infrastructure of harbors and scales and modes of exchange, see generally Wilson 2011c, 224; Hohlfelder and Oleson 2014, 223. 16   K reutz 1988, with quote at 103. See also Horden and Purcell 2000, 117–​18. 11

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centuries as a central node of Mediterranean maritime activity even without a well-​developed harbor basin or even much suitable coastline. Across the spectrum of ports, the exclusive or primary livelihood of coastal sites is assumed in many cases to have been tied to commerce, in part a response to the ubiquity of amphoras and the portrayal of seafaring as the norm in Mediterranean-​w ide models of interaction.17 Yet the archaeological record outside the Classical world gives numerous examples of island populations that made little or no use of the sea for resources or transport, and we cannot assume that all coastal sites functioned as commercial ports.18 For some small inlets, seasonal exports of agricultural surplus probably played a less important economic role than more regular activities such as fishing, boat building, and the like. Assertions of maritime commercial importance at coastal sites may hold in many (even most) cases, but when they stand in place of systematic analysis, they flatten out multifaceted maritime landscapes.19 They undercut the impetus for more detailed archaeological work that might reveal alternative patterns in activities and network structure: which communities interacted through different coastal spaces, in what ways and with what regularity, by what economic, social, or other mechanisms? An archaeology focusing on Roman port societies and economies has fallen behind the better-​ developed emphasis on engineering technology and its functional adaptability.20 Situating coastal sites of all forms within a dynamic maritime landscape necessitates an approach to ports that can read the mixed material assemblages resulting from varied seafaring and related economic practices.

Finding the Inconspicuous The methodological challenges raised by such a broad approach are acute.21 The most elaborate artificial infrastructure is often subject to the most dynamic environmental processes, which can result in poor preservation or heavy siltation over time. But however poor the preservation may be, such built structures are generally more visible archaeologically than the sandy beaches, piled stone features, or ceramic detritus that mark ports closer to the other end of the spectrum. Even   On this portrayal of perpetual connectivity, see c­ hapter 1, p. 2.   Ilves (2011, 3–​4) notes this default assumption in the Baltic region and discusses a wide range of counterexamples to the predominant thought that coastal populations must interact in a meaningful way with the sea. On the different roles of ports, see Reger 2016, 18–​19. 19   Ilves 2004; Ilves 2009; Ilves 2011. 20   See generally Rogers 2013. 21   These challenges are explored in more detail in Leidwanger 2013d; Leidwanger 2018b. Discussion here of the simplest of ports, their activities, and material signatures draws on certain observations in these earlier published works. 17

18

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with comparatively well-​preserved basins, the associated infrastructure onshore rarely survives to provide contextual evidence for local maritime activities. This situation is prevalent along built-​up urban regions of Aegean Turkey and southern Cyprus. While visible construction features often yield dates for the establishment of facilities, the end of maritime activity is much more difficult to gauge if ongoing use did not require major interventions. Excavation can shed light on chronologies of use, but the number of such intensive investigations to date is limited and often focused on exceptional facilities rather than the ordinary. The time and financial resources required for this intensive work imply that general surface survey is likely to continue providing the bulk of archaeological data for everyday port use. Survey brings its own limitations but offers a baseline for comparative analysis across the spectrum.22 Often quite simple, these less conspicuous ports provide much-​needed balance to the picture of Roman maritime activity, and yet they present significant methodological hurdles for analysis. The most obvious first clue that one should look for a port—​the presence of a settlement onshore—​offers little help if the communities utilizing the sites were small, diffuse, or scattered across the hinterland. Without built structures along the shore, locations of maritime activity may be difficult to recognize archaeologically and their functions challenging to identify.23 Loading and unloading goods and people can be undertaken at nearly any coastal strip that is accessible from both sea and land.24 So long as vessels can stop temporarily and people can maneuver through the shallows, a simple beach might suffice as a location for exchange or fishing. Note the discrepancy today between the Mediterranean’s large commercial ports serving container ships, its smaller but well-​appointed facilities for yachts, and its rudimentary spaces still utilized by local craft.25 Ferrying of goods through shallows in small boats has provided a solution to a lack of port infrastructure even into the modern era.26 Wherever a low sandy beach was available and marked by a gentle incline, pulling

  For example, see the recent comparative analysis of Late Antique maritime activity at Caesarea focusing on survey not of Herod’s famous built harbor but of the southern anchorage in Ratzlaff et al. 2017. 23   See generally McGrail 1981, 19–​23; Horden and Purcell 2000, 160. 24   Karmon 1985. 25   As one opportunistic example, the modern cutting of a simple vehicular path into the eroding sea cliffs west of Kourion, originally to facilitate the retrieval of sand for construction into the 1980s, allowed the space to serve thereafter as a small fishing harbor through the addition of a few improvised wooden docks: see later, pp. 163, fig. 5.2. 26   Th is unloading and loading of goods through the shallows is still common in parts of the study area today. For an example near Kekova, see Hohlfelder 2011, 215 fig. 12.6. Another instance at Halasarna on Kos is discussed in Kokkou-​A levras et al. 2016, 169 n. 7. 22

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Fig. 5.1. Roman mosaic of the 3rd century, now in the Bardo Museum in Tunis but originally from Sousse (Hadrumetum), Tunisia, showing activities at a simple port. The merchant vessel has been driven into the shallows to be unloaded directly onto shore without infrastructure. To the left two other individuals appear to be engaged in measuring some goods (Scala/​Art Resource, NY).

at least smaller vessels ashore could provide a solution that required little infrastructure: perhaps a few timbers and simple manpower.27 An early 3rd-​century ad mosaic from Sousse (Tunisia) depicts a boat maneuvered into the shallows and unloaded onto the beach by hand (fig. 5.1). More durable remains onshore—​a path or road to the interior, storage facilities, and a source of fresh water for replenishing supplies—​would have been helpful in some instances but unnecessary in others. If many of these spaces saw only occasional activity—​for example, seafaring limited to the calmer months or concentrated around certain agricultural cycles—​ the necessity of shelter from different winds and waves may be exaggerated. This point would seem to be underscored by contrast with ancient geographers’ references to certain “winter” and “closed” ports.28 Discussion in ­chapter 2 outlined the local diversity of weather conditions across the eastern Mediterranean study area but also certain predictability, especially over the short term and between the late spring through early autumn when traffic was probably heaviest.29 For example, the southeast Aegean’s etesian winds from the north and northwest can be quite strong but are also rather reliable, offering a window for activity before they pick up with force starting in the early afternoon. Winds from the south and

  Rougé 1978; Schmiedt 1978; McGrail 1981, 22; Houston 1988, 560–​61 and n. 42. But see also Votruba 2017 on the challenges and limitations of beaching vessels. 28   Blackman 1982b, 194; Leonard 1997, 170. 29   See c­ hapter 2, pp. 27–​34. 27

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southeast are also hardly unusual here, such that even coastal sites facing directly into these northerlies featured intermittent shelter. The complex interplay of human activity and environment proves challenging for efforts to locate the sorts of small and relatively inconspicuous sites that are common in our study area. Early work by Flemming focuses on synthesizing archaeological and geological indicators of sea-​level change during the last few millennia that are of greatest interest to archaeologists and historians.30 Since then, interdisciplinary projects have brought an array of geomorphological methods to the dynamic coastal zones of the eastern Mediterranean.31 The technological focus on major urban infrastructure, however, means that such methodologies have generally played only a limited role in understanding more modest spaces, particularly during the Roman period. Blue’s classification of Bronze Age ports reflects one influential model that is clearly applicable more widely. She draws distinctions not only based on coastal shape but also between high-​and low-​energy shores that create different challenges and opportunities for ancient maritime activities.32 Tartaron builds on this typology, proposing more sensitive ways to detect Late Bronze Age Aegean shoreline features and installations despite millennia of physical change.33 Attention to the relationship between natural and anthropogenic factors will become vital for more systematic recognition of these overlooked ports and the multiscalar interactions they facilitated, and for interpreting more effectively the shifting environmental contexts in which coastal communities faced decisions about maritime landscape development.34 Yet topography and geomorphology alone cannot detect all port sites, particularly those situated along shores that were as unpromising in antiquity as they are today. Some of the least sinuous and sheltered coastlines of Cyprus, for example, generated maritime activities that played a locally important economic and connective role for communities. Evaluating the specific nature of these activities, however, presents the next methodological hurdle. The most distinctive archaeological signatures of exchange—​coins, weights, recording tablets, etc.—​ may be few in the case of routine activity that likely relied as much on personal   Flemming  1978.   For Mediterranean geomorphological studies of these coastal features in general, see Marriner and Morhange 2007; Morhange et al. 2014. Among the many important large-​a rea studies are those undertaken in Lebanon by Marriner 2009, and in the Nile Delta by Stanley 2007. See also the recent multidisciplinary work at Ephesus and Miletus described in Stock et  al. 2013; Brückner et  al. 2014; Delile et al. 2015. 32   Blue  1997. 33   Tartaron 2013, 171–​74. See also Tartaron et al. 2003; Chryssoulaki 2005. 34   Marriner et al. 2014 offers models of this dynamic interplay of human intervention and natural processes. 30 31

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connections as on official instruments and procedures. Such inconspicuous clues are unlikely to be found through typical surface survey. While ceramic and other material remains may be more frequent, linking these to specific maritime practices is more problematic.35 Lost anchors, derelict moorings, and discarded ballasts reflect ancient seafaring broadly but may have been left by vessels seeking only temporary shelter rather than interaction with local communities. Both on-​ and offshore, casual ceramic debris serves as a crucial indicator of activity, from transport amphoras broken en route or during handling to the worn or cracked cooking and table wares that once served crews.36 Any identification of low-​profile port spaces from surface survey is likely to be based on the overall evaluation of many complementary factors: coastal accessibility and topography, submerged remains near shore, ceramic and other material onshore, etc. Especially when contextualized within the wider landscape of seafaring along an entire coastline, the collective presence of indicators may allow us to recognize locations that plausibly served maritime interaction. Ceramic debris often provides the first material clue of coastal economic activity, but much of this evidence is flexible in interpretation. In maritime contexts, broken amphoras are commonly associated with the collection, temporary storage, and transfer of goods but can also point to the preparation and consumption of food or production activities depending on context.37 The density and nature of the assemblage, including the proportion of amphoras versus other ceramics, may help to evaluate traces of exchange in possible port settings. Such exchange may also represent just one facet of overlapping local maritime activities. The fishing practices described in c­ hapter 3 provide another context for understanding Roman ports, but they are often overlooked due to their low visibility compared to exchange. The simplicity of contemporary fishing infrastructure underscores the ease with which these activities can be missed. A simple wooden jetty, improvised several decades ago by resourceful local Cypriots, effectively created a small seasonal fishing port in an otherwise unpromising setting below the precipitous cliff west of ancient Kourion (fig. 5.2).38 Traditional Mediterranean fishing practices rely on spaces that often lack basic infrastructure, suggesting that ancient fishermen could have required no more than the merchant mariners who appear in the Sousse mosaic (fig. 5.1). Other fishermen moored in the shallows of the small cove at Drousha-​Kioni, off the Akamas peninsula on the island’s west, similarly

  See c­ hapter 2, pp. 39–​40.   Cf. the vast and diverse quantity of more recent historical finds that attest to exchange and a wide range of other likely activities centered on the jetty at Holdfast Bay, South Australia: Rodrigues 2002. 37   See generally Peña 2007. 38   See also later, p. 175 and n. 83. 35

36

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Fig. 5.2. Two boats with an improvised wooden dock, the only feature used to transform this space into a simple fishing port at the base of the cliffs just west of Kourion, Cyprus.

highlight this flexibility.39 Unfortunately, many of the archaeological signatures of fishing—​nets, lines, floats, etc.—​have poor survival rates. Although small weights, fittings, and tools for their repair are better attested archaeologically, it is often impossible to distinguish shore-​based activity from the provisioning of sailors at sea.40 Given the limitations of survey, the variety of facilities, and the multiple uses of certain material remains and spaces, interpreting the roles of ports between sea and hinterland becomes challenging. Many sites across the study area were topographically suited to a wide range of functions; other seemingly unpromising sites still welcomed opportunistic and diverse activities. The process of identifying ports and distinguishing their various maritime practices and communities must proceed from a ground-​level evaluation of material and topographical signatures, with plausible identifications depending on the cumulative weight of many otherwise equivocal factors.

  L eonard 1995a, 150 fig. 25.   Beltrame  2010.

39

40

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Also critical to this analysis is well-​defined terminology. The variety of coastal sites under study here argues in favor of terms that embrace the full breadth of spaces, communities, and activities. Ilves has critiqued the indiscriminate use of certain terms and the resulting archaeological preconceptions that accompany them regarding the roles of different maritime sites.41 In advocating for a social archaeology of unadorned shoreline spaces away from major settlements, she defines “landing sites” as “water-​bound contact zones—​sites where movements and meetings of various kinds, both on land and by watercraft, are facilitated by situation and place, i.e. by locality.”42 While the term “landing sites” offers an instructive counterbalance to more loaded terminology, here I aim to situate the simplest and most elaborate (urban and nonurban) maritime sites together within the economic landscape that gave rise to network interaction. To this end I retain the term “port” in its broadest sense to describe the full range of coastal facilities or locations at which goods and people can pass between marine and terrestrial contexts. I  include not only those sites typically considered as “ports” but also Ilves’s “landing sites” as well as the full range of “pocket beaches” and “escales”/​ “scale” described by Rougé and others.43 “Port” and its allied term “harbor” are often used interchangeably and without precision when referring to maritime infrastructure. In this study, “harbor” refers to the protected, sometimes partially or fully enclosed space used by vessels for shelter at locations of activity onshore. The two are therefore complementary: a harbor often forms the sheltered basin within the overall port complex that includes the docking, warehousing, and other infrastructure allowing the space to look both inland and out to sea. For the sake of clarity, I define an “anchorage” in its most common broad usage as a space, often (but not necessarily) providing some shelter where a vessel can wait at anchor during a temporary stopover. This may describe the open anchoring area at a port that lacks a harbor, or the space may be farther removed from a site onshore: for example, in the lee of a headland or island. At other times, an anchorage serves as a place for ships to rest outside a harbor while awaiting access to the basin proper.44 As interfaces between land and sea, locations with some sheltering   Ilves  2009.   Ilves 2011,  6. 43   For “pocket beaches,” see Marriner et al. 2014. For “escales”/​“scale,” see Rougé 1978; Purcell 1996, 272. See also generally Horden and Purcell 2000, 142; Leonard 2005, 39. 44   On the employment of various diverse terminology for harbors, ports, anchorages, and related infrastructure, see the compilation from modern maritime manuals in Leonard 1997, 189–​92. A wide range of vocabulary is used for sites characterized by anchoring practices, including not only anchorages but also roadsteads and offshore moorings; often areas where vessels anchor temporarily en route without waiting on a particular port are described as “roadsteads.” The precise activities that would offer functional definitions for these spaces are unclear. For simplicity here and since the emphasis is on maritime facilities as interfaces between land and sea for local communities, these roadsteads and 41

42

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function—​whether artificially enclosed harbors with infrastructure or less formal, opportunistic beaches and coves with an open anchorage—​form the core of this inquiry and are collectively described as “ports.” : : :

Two Miniature “Archipelagos” The case studies that follow situate ports and their hinterlands within their local maritime settings and the broader networks outlined in previous chapters: one is centered on the Datça peninsula in southwest Turkey and the other along the south-​central coast of Cyprus. These two areas serve as complementary vantage points from which to look outward at seaborne connections and inward at hinterland interaction. They represent different coastal topographies and geographies, but each is marked by a sample of ports from across the spectrum described previously: larger and smaller facilities, sandy beaches as well as natural and built harbors, situated variously in urban and outlying locations. While archaeological surveys of such diverse coasts are generally rare, these areas have been the focus of investigations on-​and occasionally offshore that help to fill out the picture of two dynamic maritime landscapes.45 Even so, the sites chosen here for discussion do not represent a full catalog of ports along these shores, but rather a sampling from across this broad spectrum. A  range of archaeological and topographical signifiers provides the basis for identifying each port, although the particular combination of factors differs from case to case. These two landscapes are to some degree opportunistic since they represent areas in which I have worked; future research could productively expand to new areas. But even these limited coastal stretches capture a sample of the rich evidence for port-​based activities in our eastern Mediterranean area of focus. Emphasis on diverse individual ports allows us to understand how such spaces served as interfaces between land and sea, and to situate maritime connectivity at the core of their economic livelihoods. Stringing together these isolated ports into coastal systems or miniature “archipelagos”—​to borrow the imagery of Horden and Purcell—​frames them as integral components of the multiscalar network systems under study.46

conceptually related spaces are all included under the basic and most commonly employed term of “anchorage.”   See later, n. 47 for coastal survey around the Datça peninsula, and n. 68 for a summary of previous work along the relevant coast of Cyprus. 46   For their description of “extended archipelagos” in the Mediterranean, see Horden and Purcell 2000, 133–​36. 45

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The Datça Peninsula in Southwest Turkey “All but a small part of the Knidian territory,” Herodotus (1.174.2) notes, “is washed by the sea.” Jutting westward from the Carian mainland, the narrow Datça peninsula that was home to the Knidians features a dramatic terrain (fig. 5.3). A prominent mountain ridge runs along the north and outcrops cleave the south, making for uneven and sometimes difficult overland access for coastal communities that would generally be expected to rely instead on the sea. The low-​lying strip across the central peninsula contrasts with these high mountains to the west. Two larger urban centers dominated local economic life in antiquity: Knidos and Burgaz. These were connected by a road that ran through the peninsula’s interior and beyond into Caria, and both have been the focus of sustained archaeological attention. Other ports strung along these shores, however, were brought to light through preliminary survey in the 1980s by Tuna,47 revealing the landscape’s internal dynamics and links to broader Roman and Late Antique networks of the eastern Mediterranean. This range of ports offered varied opportunities for local communities to engage by sea down the coast and beyond, particularly through the movement of processed agricultural goods—​wine, but also almonds, honey, and oil—​for which the area was (and remains today) renowned. Perched on a rocky slope at the tip of the peninsula, Knidos straddled a strategic maritime juncture between the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean.48 Although surrounded by comparatively little agricultural terrain, the city was well known for its double harbor, with basins situated on either side of a narrow spit of land—​ perhaps initially a mole—​that connected rocky Tekir to the mainland. The two harbors may originally have reflected a separation of military and commercial functions, but the northwest-​facing and southeast-​facing basins could also have provided all-​weather shelter for merchant vessels, particularly during the quiet Roman era.49 Neither has been excavated, but architectural recording and survey

47   Observations onshore were undertaken by Tuna as part of his broad Datça peninsula survey carried out from the early to mid-​1980s. On this research, see generally Tuna 1983a; Tuna 1983b; Tuna 1984; Tuna 2012, 31–​40. Sites across the Datça peninsula are discussed subsequently also in Tuna 1985; Tuna 1986; Tuna 1988; Tuna 1989; Sakarya 2016; Sakarya et al. 2019. 48   On Knidos during the Roman and Late Antique periods, see generally Bruns-​Özgan 2013; Doksanaltı et al. 2018. 49   On the “trireme harbor,” see generally Strabo 14.2.15; Büyüközer 2012, 103–​21; Baika 2013, 218–​20; Büyüközer 2013. The distinction between the military (north) harbor and commercial (south) harbor would seem to run counter to the other common assertion that the two facilities provided protection for mariners against the two dominant winds that blow throughout the year. The notion that the two basins could communicate via a canal to allow ships to transfer from one to another is similarly dependent on how the complementarity of their functions is interpreted: on the possibility of such a canal, see Büyüközer 2012, 122–​24; Büyüközer 2013, 11. Year-​round wind conditions are not available for Knidos itself, but for the modern town of Datça: see figs. A.5–​A.8 and A.11 in appendix 2 and discussion in c­ hapter 2, pp. 31–34.

Fig. 5.3. Map of the Datça peninsula showing ports and other sites of the Late Hellenistic to Early Roman era, and the Mid-​Roman to Late Antique period. The major road through the peninsula is indicated, as are locations of ports discussed.

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on-​and offshore reveal important details of the port’s development. The smaller and shallower one opened to the northwest, into the etesians that complicated access. Built breakwaters and a series of strong fortifications and towers have been associated with early military use. Commercial infrastructure and mooring stones surround the larger and deeper basin on the opposite side of the spit of land. Opening to the southeast, this harbor provided good natural protection from northwesterly winds, augmented by breakwaters that extend 100–​150 m in length and rise from a depth of more than 25 m.50 The infrastructure here represents an enormous material investment, probably originally from the 4th century bc,51 but which was clearly maintained and augmented—​including with a monumental Roman portico—​through Late Antiquity.52 Underwater survey has revealed evidence for maritime exchange throughout the period of interest, including strong representation of Late Antique Aegean and eastern materials (Late Roman 1 [LR1], Late Roman 2 [LR2], and southern Levantine amphoras).53 Even today the southern basin is a common stopover for yachts traversing the southwestern Turkish coast; in antiquity its depth and protection—​and, of course, its famously nude cult statue—​made Knidos a favorite port of call for merchants, mariners, and other travelers.54 Some 40 km by sea to the east along the Gulf of Hisarönü, Burgaz offers a stark contrast to Knidos.55 Situated adjacent to the peninsula’s most extensive and low-​ lying agricultural lands, Burgaz played a dominant role in local maritime exchange during the Archaic and Classical periods, when much of its extensive port infrastructure was first developed.56 Roman and Late Antique maritime activity here centered on a large harbor some 500 m to the northeast of the original settlement, protected naturally from the most challenging etesians and through additional walls from southerly winds as well.57 These massive rubble breakwaters left a wide opening to the 300-​m-​broad basin, which was surrounded by open dock space as well as wine-​processing workshops and storage warehouses; amphoras for packaging were likely brought in from the large-​scale workshops a few kilometers

  Büyüközer 2012, 41–​102.   Blackman 1982b, 196 and 202. On the port complex as part of town planning in the 4th century, see Büyüközer 2012, 129–​38. 52   Özgan 1998,  135. 53   Aslan 2015, 105 fig. 3. 54   Lucian, Imagines 6. 55   On Burgaz during the Roman and Late Antique periods, see generally Tuna 2012, 49–​78. 56   On the history of Burgaz’s port complex, see generally Greene and Leidwanger 2019; Greene et al. 2019. 57   Year-​round wind conditions are available for Burgaz at the nearby modern town of Datça: see figs. A.5–​A.8 and A.11 in appendix 2 and discussion in c­ hapter 2, pp. 31–​34 50 51

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away at Reşadiye.58 Survey underwater and along the coastline suggests a particular boom in activity during the Hellenistic to Early Roman period and again in Late Antiquity. A small shipwreck within this harbor (Burgaz A, #61) indicates an ongoing stake in the transfer of local agricultural produce up to the end of our period. The site’s various earlier ports had each been carefully enclosed in the Classical period by moles and towers that aided protection but also promoted siltation. In subsequent centuries, though, these basins seem to have maintained some secondary role by accommodating traffic that was no doubt occasional and small in scale (i.e., small boats with limited draughts). The Late Antique era also saw new storage facilities adjacent to some of these older facilities.59 The comparative underrepresentation of Roman ceramics and other material remains on-​and offshore raises the possibility of a period of reduced activity between the earlier and later peaks. The topography of the Datça peninsula fragmented and pushed settlement toward its coasts, creating a Roman and Late Antique landscape that flourished with maritime activity. Beyond the few larger ports like Knidos and Burgaz that have garnered the most scholarly attention, at least another dozen smaller coastal locations linked these communities to each other and beyond. Tuna’s survey across the peninsula provides the fundamental point of reference for analysis of these sites.60 Of the many possible case studies, the three described here serve to demonstrate the general features of local ports and the nature of their local maritime economies: Mersincik and Killik along the north, and Mesudiye on the south coast (fig. 5.3). Approaching these sites raises various interpretive challenges, particularly since underwater survey has not been carried out in the shallows to complement the work at Knidos and Burgaz. Minor submerged features may in some cases have been obscured over time, although it is clear that these sites all lack significant port infrastructure. Even so, each can be safely identified as a simple port thanks to its particular topography and archaeology: stretches of low-​lying accessible coast (sometimes offering natural shelter from certain winds) combined with indicators of agricultural packaging for export. Together, these signatures reveal how, at this nexus between the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean, coastal activity developed in tandem with evolving maritime interactions modeled in the previous chapter.

  Koparal et al.  2014.   Radloff et al. forthcoming. 60   See earlier, n. 47. For the list of sites and locations, see in particular Tuna 1983a, 306–​7 and 309–​11; Tuna 1983b, 364 fig. 2. 58 59

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Mersincik offers an obvious and dramatic starting point. Backed by high mountains, this small valley along the peninsula’s north is particularly challenging to access except by sea.61 Any steep and winding paths that might have led to the site from the interior would have been difficult terrain, particularly for bulk movements of goods. The northeast-​facing inlet offers some shelter from the prevailing winds behind its western headland, making it one of the better options along an otherwise difficult stretch of coast; still today some small vessels anchor along its western edge.62 A few jumbled stones and reef are evident in the shallows, but in no discernible pattern that might suggest harbor works. Toward the center, near a source of fresh water, are the remains of a workshop with walls, a pottery kiln eroding into the sea, and associated ceramic debris spread over more than 1 ha. Finds onshore indicate a period of very busy activity during the latter Hellenistic and Early Roman era, during which time several amphora types—​the predictable Knidian-​style but also a Koan-​style form—​were produced for the packing of agricultural goods along with tiles and common wares.63 Limited Late Antique activity is also apparent. The kiln and workshop waste suggest a larger scale of production than strictly necessary for the few farmsteads that could have made a living in this tiny valley. While some amphoras would surely have contained local exports, others may have been shipped down the coast for the packaging of produce by neighboring communities. Farther west beyond several headlands, the site of Killik is situated near the middle of a wide bay that opens to the northwest.64 Little in the local topography suggests shelter from the prevailing winds, making this location less than obvious for a port. But ceramic scatters and the remains of a pressing and processing installation with stone-​built dolia, likely for wine, at the water’s edge underscore the extent to which potential agricultural lands along the peninsula were exploited for a maritime-​oriented economy. Hellenistic, Roman, and Late Antique ceramics lie scattered about, suggesting a long history of settlement and agricultural production throughout the period of interest. A minor stream brings fresh water and an opportunity to pull very small vessels into protected areas behind or up onto the beach. Again, no major harbor works are visible along the coast. Shallow formations of beach rock and apparent erosion, though, raise the possibility of a slightly different coastal configuration in antiquity. With its production, packaging, and coastal access, this small community bears the markers of exchange in local agricultural produce by sea. Overland transportation to Knidos, just a few   Tuna 1983a, 385–​86 (site W6/​1).   Heikell and Heikell 2013, 217–​18. 63   Tuna 1989, 148 and 157–​58 figs. 14–​16. 64   Tuna 1983a, 381 (site X6/​4). 61

62

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kilometers to the west, may also have been possible, but anchoring in the shallows or perhaps beaching small vessels would have been the easiest solution for export and interaction on a routine basis here. The peninsula’s southern shore is marked by many small inlets that enjoy better shelter from etesian winds—​but worse protection from southerlies—​than most of their counterparts on the north coast. Roughly halfway between Knidos and Burgaz, Mesudiye sits on a narrow but fertile valley that meanders from the mountainous interior to twin small bays: Ovabükü to the west and Hayıtbükü to the east.65 These coves are popular tourist and yacht destinations today,66 but in antiquity seem to have served as the outlet for local agricultural produce. Heavily eroded remains of a ceramic workshop are evident along the scarp toward the western edge of Ovabükü, indicating the production of (Knidian-​style?) amphoras as well as other basic wares during the Hellenistic and Early Roman period. Tuna recorded extensive remains of pressing and processing installations along this shore, including more than a dozen stone-​built dolia in several groups with associated structures. Together, these finds indicate a busy phase of port activity,67 and Tuna suggests another period of use during Late Antiquity. No remains of ancient port infrastructure have been reported in the water, but a small modern breakwater and pier constructed near the western end of neighboring Hayıtbükü mark one of the most promising locations for any such features. As today, ships would have found safety in most conditions lying at anchor or potentially drawn up onto the low sandy beach.

The South-​Central Coast of Cyprus Facing not an enclosed bay but the open waters of the eastern Mediterranean, the south-​central shore of Cyprus offers a striking contrast to the Datça peninsula (fig. 5.4).68 The topography here is gentler overall, marked by a sequence of valleys that lead down from the Troodos mountains in the western central part of

  Tuna 1983a, 363–​65 (site X7/​14).   Heikell and Heikell 2013, 218 and 222. 67   Finds raised from underwater by local swimmers and currently displayed in a local restaurant here can also be dated to the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman period. 68   A long the south-​central coast of Cyprus, the two sites of Avdimou Bay and West Akrotiri were investigated by me as part of surveys along the island’s coast between 2003 and 2009, with a particular focus on the underwater remains. Leonard undertook investigations across the island as part of his Cyprus Coastal Survey, including at Avdimou Bay as well as the larger ports of Paphos, Kourion, and Amathus: see generally Leonard 2005. Sufficient details both on-​and offshore have been published—​ by Leonard, Manning, and others—​to allow synthesis and limited comparative analysis of the small site of Zygi-​Petrini. 65

66

Fig. 5.4. Map of Cyprus showing locations of Late Antique ports referenced in the text along with the major road network. Dashed segments of road reflect additions during Late Antiquity.

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the island. The coast features cliffs punctuated by shallow bays as well as long stretches of exposed beach, both of which were used during the Roman and Late Antique periods as ports. The emergence, development, and interaction of these sites reflect the local economic trajectories of Cypriot communities and their integration within broader networks. The best starting point for analysis is the dense chain of urban facilities that served local political and economic interests long before the island’s incorporation into the Roman state.69 But contextualizing these requires simultaneous analysis of the simpler ports used by communities beyond these urban centers. A well-​developed coastal road circuit strung together the island’s cities and coastal areas by the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman era.70 Despite viable overland transport, communities both large and small evidently turned toward the sea for the movement of goods and people. Along the southwest coast, Paphos served as the Hellenistic and then Roman administrative center for the island.71 The site had obvious maritime potential, featuring the best natural shelter along this stretch of coast behind a promontory that shielded the basin from prevailing westerly winds.72 Probably constructed originally with Ptolemaic patronage, the port is recorded as having a “triple harbor for all winds,” a likely reference to this inner basin and the two outlying anchorages near the headland.73 The eastern anchorage was best in prevailing westerly winds, but the western one could afford protection if winds shifted. Underwater investigations here revealed two breakwaters, perhaps with towers (and a lighthouse?), constructed of carefully set ashlars in the Early Hellenistic tradition. One projects a short distance from the west headland; the other juts some 500 m or more from the shore to the east.74 The elaborate harbor reflects a major investment and presumably included smaller features throughout the basin and onshore (piers, jetties, warehouses), but later development and coastal change have obscured any such traces.75 No major expansion is evident under Rome or 69   On the Classical and Hellenistic harbors around the island, see generally Theodoulou 2007; Theodoulou 2012. 70    Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 108–​13. 71   On Paphos during the Roman and Late Antique periods, see generally Maier and Karageorghis 1984, 247–​97. For the date of Paphos’s foundation and its importance through the Roman period, see generally Mitford 1980, 1309–​12. 72   Year-​round wind conditions are available at Paphos: see figs. A.16–​A.19 and A.25 in appendix 2 and discussion in ­chapter 2, pp. 31–​34. 73   Stadiasmus 297. For discussion of the interpretation, see Leonard 1995b, 232; Leonard 1997, 172. 74   On the important underwater work at Paphos in the 1990s, see Hohlfelder and Leonard 1993; Leonard and Hohlfelder 1993; Hohlfelder 1995a; Leonard et al. 1998. For the possible lighthouse, see particularly Leonard 1998; Leonard et al. 1995; Vitas 2010. 75   A possible decorative colonnade is discussed in Leonard and Hohlfelder 1993, 375. For an account of interventions during the modern era, see Leonard 2005, 588–​90.

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during Late Antiquity, but a few hints of later interventions signal the port’s ongoing relevance: these include a cutting in the eastern breakwater and the addition of a parallel secondary feature along its exterior that may indicate attempts by Roman engineers to combat siltation.76 Some 45 km around the coast to the southeast, Kourion prospered on a bluff overlooking the Kouris River and Episkopi Bay.77 Strabo (14.6.3) mentions a harbor here, although this detail is absent from other descriptions.78 The only currently visible submerged feature is a single rubble wall that juts 70–​100 m into the sea. Once assumed to reflect the extent of Kourion’s port infrastructure, it offers relatively little protection given the exposed coastline and prevailing westerlies.79 The wall is constructed mostly of rubble, along with some cut blocks, likely indicating part of an outer breakwater with perhaps several phases of development.80 The low-​lying fields beneath the cliff are sometimes wet with brackish water, and coring here has suggested the Roman shoreline was at least 25 m further inland, where additional (inner?) harbor works may be concealed below the sand.81 Kourion’s Roman and Late Antique port infrastructure therefore seems to have included at least one semiprotected basin capable of providing shelter from prevailing winds, if not in all conditions.82 A rock-​cut passage extending from the cliffs west of the city down to the modern fishing shelter discussed previously (fig. 5.2) may indicate use also of this space as a secondary shelter for mariners requiring only basic facilities.83 The sandy Roman coast identified through coring may have made

76   Roman officials appear to have assisted in rebuilding efforts at the harbor following damaging earthquakes in 15 bc and ad 77 or 78: see Mitford 1980, 1310–​11; Leonard and Hohlfelder 1993, 369. On the cutting and secondary feature, see Hohlfelder 1995a, 199 and 205. Hohlfelder (1996, 92–​101) has raised the plausible scenario that Roman imperial engineers may have been involved in project maintenance or additions here. 77   On Kourion during the Roman and Late Antique periods, see generally Soren and James 1988; Davis 2013; Costello 2014. 78   See discussion of possible reasons for this absence in Leonard 1995b, 232; Leonard 1997, 170; Leonard 2005, 556. 79   E .g., Mitford 1980, 1317. Year-​round wind conditions are not available for Kourion itself, but from nearby at Paramali (ca. 7 km to the west on Episkopi Bay) and Akrotiri: see https://​w ww.windfinder. com. 80   L eonard 1995b, 238; Leonard 2005, 561–​62. 81   Leonard 2005, 563–​65. 82   L eonard 1995b, 236 and 238; Leonard 2005, 565. 83   See earlier, p. 163. Traces of a path lead also from the top of the cliff to the nearby sanctuary of Apollo. No evidence of maritime activity was found during survey of these shallow waters at the base of the cliff, but reports indicate that some archaeological material including anchors may have been found during sand removal years ago; any remaining artifacts here are likely buried by fall from the eroding cliff: see Bullard 1987, 61 and figs. 28–​29; Leidwanger 2004, 19–​20 and figs. 4–​5; Leonard 2005, 566–​68.

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beaching another viable solution for small vessels, particularly as sand accreted from longshore drift. If the Christian basilica investigated in the 1990s beneath the cliff served as spiritual guardian of the city’s port, its construction in the 6th century hints at Kourion’s ongoing maritime traffic throughout Late Antiquity.84 About 25 km east along the coastal road—​or about 40 km sailing around the Akrotiri peninsula—​lies the city of Amathus.85 Considerable coastal change has again affected the local topography, which likely once featured a natural indentation as the basis for a port here along an otherwise difficult coastline marked by westerly (and rarer northeasterly) winds.86 The ashlar-​built walls visible in the shallows are of varying lengths (130–​180 m) but point clearly to an Early Hellenistic monumentalization of the city’s port complex. Investigations in the 1980s by Empereur clarified not only the layout and construction of the enclosed basin but also its probable impetus and limited use life.87 Roughly cut limestone was used to protect the seaward face of certain wall sections, but the walls themselves were composed of thousands of large ashlar blocks held together with massive lead clamps. The size and technique far surpass what would have been strictly beneficial for commerce; instead, they suggest a conspicuous base for military operations and possible royal sponsorship.88 If Empereur is correct in his suggestion of initial Ptolemaic construction followed by rapid abandonment between 315 and 310 bc, the result is an elaborate complex that may never have been finished or used, at least not to its intended scale or function. Our earliest Roman mariners would have encountered a silting hulk of a harbor, but one that perhaps still allowed anchoring or mooring for some vessels. Whatever the case, commercial activity was clearly not a sufficient stimulus to warrant regular maintenance through later periods. The silence of Strabo (14.6.3) is perhaps telling, and the later Stadiasmus (297–​317) describes the city as “harborless.” A series of Late Antique freshwater wells, a new ceramic workshop (with local production of LR1

84   Christou and Nicolaïdes 1998. Survey in the vicinity revealed evidence for this late period of use:  Swiny and Mavromatis 2000, 438. Basilicas are attested at other Roman ports across the Mediterranean, including on Cyprus: Christou 1997. Leonard (2005, 565), however, raises the possibility that the series of earthquakes of the 4th century may have reduced the viability of this facility. 85   On Amathus during the Roman and Late Antique periods, see generally Petit et al. 1996, 176–​82; Aupert 2009. 86   Year-​round wind conditions are not available for Amathus itself but are for Vassiliko (ca. 15 km to the east): see https://​w ww.windfinder.com. 87   Empereur and Verlinden 1987; Empereur 1995; Empereur et al. 2017. 88   Empereur et al. (2017, 113–​19) have connected this project with the Early Hellenistic naval contest between the Antigonids and Ptolemies. Amathus may have served as a Macedonian naval outpost that, after Ptolemaic control was secured, no longer presented a useful investment but rather a threat should it be occupied by a competing force.

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and late derivatives of LR2 amphoras), a Christian basilica on the coast, and a rich repertoire of imports indicate some ongoing maritime activity.89 Vessels visiting Amathus in its last centuries, though, must have made do at anchor in or around the silted basin. This same densely populated southern coast of Cyprus provides a wealth of lower-​profile ports that served maritime activity outside urban areas. Like their counterparts along the Datça peninsula, these ports have been identified using the broad topographical and archaeological criteria that collectively suggest maritime activity in some form. Many more such sites are known than can be addressed in any comprehensive manner here, and Leonard’s coastal survey provides key evidence for their density during the Roman centuries.90 Once again, three case studies have been selected to illustrate some of the variety these spaces entailed:  Avdimou Bay and West Akrotiri at either edge of Episkopi Bay, and Zygi-​Petrini just east of Amathus (fig. 5.4). All are situated along the same coastal stretch as the urban centers mentioned earlier, and each has been either investigated by me or published in sufficient detail to allow preliminary comparison. As a group, these sites provide a complementary perspective on networks that highlights the diverse and multiscalar interaction in the Roman and Late Antique eastern Mediterranean. Once the outlet for a small river, Avdimou Bay today serves the few local fishermen who moor here seasonally (fig. 5.5).91 Its many layers of maritime history extend into the modern era, with ruined warehouses for the storage of carobs for export in ships transiting the coast.92 Roman and Late Antique mariners found shelter from the prevailing westerly winds in the relatively small and shallow area behind the low western headland; scattered ceramics and small stone anchors at only 3–​4 m of depth indicate the activities of commercial and perhaps other craft.93 The shoreline here is narrow but sufficiently low to allow easy dragging of light vessels onto the sandy beach. Visible along eroding bluffs at several locations are Hellenistic, Early Roman, and especially Late Roman ceramics, including probable local Cypriot amphora types as well as transport jars from the Levant. A heavily disturbed underwater assemblage of Late Roman amphoras and several 89   Aupert 1996, 61–​65; Procopiou 1996; Leonard 2005, 503–​5. On the amphoras produced here during Late Antiquity, see Demesticha 2003, 471–​73. 90   See generally the catalog of Leonard 2005, 321–​634. 91   Compare this with the situation of small fishing boats in the shallows at Drousha-​Kioni off the Akamas peninsula in the western part of the island, described by Leonard 1995a and discussed earlier, p. 163. 92   L eonard 2005, 570–​7 1. See also Swiny 1982b, 161. 93   Year-​round wind conditions are available for the area of Avdimou Bay at nearby Paramali: see https://​w ww.windfinder.com. On the port at Avdimou Bay, see generally Leidwanger 2013d, 230–​33.

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Fig. 5.5. View of the simple port at Avdimou Bay from the east, showing the semiprotected shallows behind the western headland and low sandy beach for easy access.

millstones in the shallows reflects all that remains of one small vessel that called at this port (Avdimou Bay A, #44). Few features that can be connected to port infrastructure or related activities are discernible among the copious surface pottery. Bekker-​Nielsen has traced a simple earthen path that branches off the main coastal circuit road only to end at this bay, indicating that the port was also linked overland to nearby communities in Late Antiquity.94 The material record points to a space for transshipment of local agricultural produce from around the valley, although other maritime activities like fishing may too have been practiced then as today. Directly across Episkopi Bay, on the other side of Kourion, lay several inconspicuous coves here collectively termed “West Akrotiri.” Scattered pottery underwater points to use of this area just north of Cape Zevgari as a simple port for communities

94   Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 218. Regarding the date of use, he notes “no traces of paving, but numerous fragments of Hellenistic and Roman pottery were found on the surface.”

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on the Akrotiri peninsula.95 The most prominent topographical feature along Cyprus’s south coast, the peninsula was once an island before the present tombolo formed, but the date of this major topographical change and its effects on coastal use here remain unclear.96 Facing into the prevailing westerlies, these coves are hardly promising locations for maritime activity.97 Strong winds create impossible conditions, and even routine afternoon breezes can prevent navigation or anchoring. Reports of small roads and paths traversing southwest Akrotiri hint at the movement of people and goods,98 but these narrow rocky beaches are backed by a scarp rising to the south that would have limited options for easy access to the peninsula’s interior.99 Communication was possible around the northern edge of these bays, but few material remains there shed light on the spatial organization of maritime activities or inland connections.100 Brief investigations in these shallows have revealed amphoras as well as cooking pots, common wares, and other ceramics from the Hellenistic through the modern era. The largest assemblages reflect Late Antique exchange, particularly amphoras drawn from around Cyprus and the neighboring mainland and perhaps associated with nearby Katalymata.101 The dispersed and fragmentary finds are consistent with the routine activities of ships at anchor: loading and unloading, dumping of trash, etc. No anchors or other shipboard items were found,102 and little port infrastructure survives beyond a few simple cuttings in the rock that may indicate mooring. The material record and topography suggest that these shallow inlets served small vessels with minimal draught on short stops, perhaps limited to the calmer morning conditions or when the winds shifted direction. The inlets were likely just one of several focal points for local maritime activity, alongside at least one other port that was better protected a few kilometers east at Dreamer’s Bay.103

95   On the site formation processes and material remains at West Akrotiri, see generally Leidwanger 2009, 25–​27; Leidwanger 2013d, 227–​30. 96   On this local geomorphology and chronology, see Stanley Price 1979, 8; Collombier 1987, 167–​68; Leonard and Demesticha 2004, 189–​91. 97   Year-​round wind conditions are available for the Akrotiri area: see https://​w ww.windfinder.com. 98   Wessex Archaeology 2002, 9; Sollars 2005, 72 and 82. 99   Vertical change in sea level here is not yet understood but may have altered somewhat the local topographical conditions. For the suggestion of local subsidence a few kilometers to the east, see Flemming 1978, 415. 100   No significant material record was located in the areas immediately north and south of these shallow inlets, suggesting that the bays reflect a discrete area of maritime activity. 101   Procopiou 2014; Procopiou 2015. 102   These inlets are accessible for swimming and fishing, and modern intervention is likely; reports from a local spear fisherman confirm that much of the loose and better-​preserved material was removed casually. 103   Dreamer’s Bay has been investigated intermittently: see Leonard and Demesticha 2004; Leonard 2008, 135–​37; Leidwanger and Howitt-​Marshall 2006, 14–​15. The current “Ancient Akrotiri Project”

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The final example, Zygi-​Petrini, is situated less than 20 km east of its nearest urban center at Amathus. The beach here is largely open to predominant westerlies,104 and Leonard suggests that prior to recent erosion this stretch of coast may have been still more exposed.105 Little evidence points to settlement or major economic activity before Late Antiquity, when architectural features collapsing into the sea seem to represent the remains of several terrestrial structures.106 An amphora workshop active during the 6th and early 7th centuries indicates participation in the packing and transfer of agricultural goods, again in LR1 jars and late derivatives of the LR2 form.107 Other southern Levantine amphoras on-​and offshore represent comparatively rare but important testimony for seaborne connections.108 Even so, no built maritime infrastructure has been identified thus far at Petrini. Erosion may account for part of this, but evidence points to the same pattern farther east off Maroni-​Tsaroukkas, where pottery alongside various anchors and other debris indicate Late Bronze Age followed by Roman and Late Antique activity.109 Rautman, drawing on survey and excavation throughout the hinterland, argues that the site served as a convenient port for the towns and farmsteads of the Vasilikos Valley and adjacent coastal plain: “the seaside setting and period of occupation suggest that Petrini was one of many small commercial points along the S coast that prospered as ships anchored offshore to take on and unload their cargoes.”110 : : :

Ports, Hinterlands, and Network Interaction The sites described previously represent a sample of the many ports strung along the south-​central Cypriot and Datça peninsula coasts, from elaborate and sometimes monumental urban facilities to simple coves and inconspicuous beaches. Their ubiquity across these landscapes underscores the sea’s fundamental aims at more comprehensive study of the remains on-​and offshore here and elsewhere around the peninsula:  see generally https://​w ww2.le.ac.uk/​departments/​a rchaeology/​research/​projects/​ ancient-​a krotiri. 104   Year-​round wind conditions are available for the area of Zygi-​Petrini at nearby Vassiliko:  see https://​w ww.windfinder.com. 105   L eonard 2005, 483–​84. Flemming (1978, 415) observes a small rate of subsidence of around 0.13–​ 0.3 m per millennium at Amathus. If the same general pattern holds for the coastline further east, this would help to account in part for the submergence of onshore remains at Petrini. 106   Manning et al. 2000, 235–​37; Rautman 2003, 241. 107   On the amphoras produced in the workshop here, see Demesticha 2003, 471–​73. 108   Manning et al. 2000, 251. 109   Manning et al. 2002, 118–​21. 110   Rautman 2003, 241. See also discussion in Rautman 2013, 198–​99.

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importance for communication and economic opportunity, particularly the mobilization of agricultural produce. Yet their diversity reflects the varied economic interests and maritime relationships as well as the different communities they served. Understanding how these spaces functioned within the multiscalar network structure under study necessitates looking not only outward at interactions among ports but also inward toward their local communities. This challenge amounts to gaining a better understanding of the hinterlands for which such ports served as gateways.

Modeling Hinterlands The “hinterland” has taken on various more and less technical usages in the literature on ports and maritime logistics. It can be defined generally as the area that provides materials for export (e.g., surplus agricultural produce, raw materials) and consumes imports that arrive by sea through the facility.111 To embrace the breadth of maritime activities, this definition can be extended to the geographical community for which a port offers regular access to exchange and a base for other economic sectors like fishing. Imports and exports need not always run parallel,112 nor should all such goods reflect a single spatial patterning; in the case of south-​ central Cyprus, for example, copper, timber, wine, and oil reflect different areas of production, as do the various products of pastoralists. Even so, if we conceive of the hinterland as the terrestrial catchment of a port, it might broadly reflect the areas and communities that were economically oriented around a particular coastal space.113 In this way, hinterlands can provide a productive framework for thinking about the regularity and routine of different maritime activities and how mobility onshore contributes to network integration.114 As spatial and temporal phenomena, hinterlands are—​like Braudel’s Mediterranean—​defined by movement and critically supported by transport infrastructure, which in antiquity and still today can extend and diversify port economies.115 We must therefore again

111   E .g., Weigend 1958, 192–​95; Bird 1971, 124–​47. For the ancient Mediterranean, see Karmon 1985,  2–​3. 112   Weigend (1958, 194)  describes these two different facets as “import hinterlands” and “export hinterlands.” 113   E .g., Bonnier 2016; Lindhagen 2016. 114   E .g., Archibald 2013, 223–​27; Archibald 2016. 115   E .g., Notteboom and Rodrigue 2005. See also Bird (1971, 125): “Hinterlands might also be defined by method of inland transport used.” This logistical element has likewise been stressed by Karmon (1985, 2): “The size of a hinterland depends on political conditions . . . and especially on the conditions of inland transport.”

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conceptualize distance in meaningful human terms, examining proximity and travel times as factors in the lives of local communities. The hinterlands of urban ports might at first glance seem relatively straightforward: presumably the inhabitants of the city and its immediate environs were the major beneficiaries of access to the sea, with facilities providing for import and export as well as a base for other maritime activities. The use of loose terms like “environs” here, though, reflects the challenge of formally modeling the spaces of economic relationships. If quick and reliable access were key to building these connections, the environs probably constituted no more than a few hours’ round trip for the transport of farm produce or other bulk goods. Even in the case of larger ports that were constructed first as political, military, or civic statements—​ for example, the monumental complexes at Knidos and Amathus—​t hese spaces clearly served as critical nodes for exchange. Yet with so many additional ports marking the landscape, and with such a large proportion of the ancient population living outside cities,116 the question remains as to how these dispersed communities interacted with and across the sea. For routine maritime activity, and with all other factors being equal, it seems reasonable to assume that individuals would have depended on the closest available facility that met their immediate needs. Given the minimal infrastructure required by small boats engaged in exchange or fishing, any facility along the coasts described previously would have sufficed for a basic level of maritime activities. The critical factor would have been the practical distance to some port. Were these sites convenient for day-​to-​day life across the Datça peninsula or south-​central Cyprus? Who could easily and reliably reach Petrini, Mersincik, and other maritime sites? How might different communities have converged on nearby urban centers and outlying ports? Estimates of travel times across this diverse topography offer a first metric for establishing likely hinterlands of local ports. As was the case in c­ hapter  4, Geographic Information Systems (GIS) provides the starting point, allowing incorporation of local topography and rudimentary transportation infrastructure into a basic model of movement and access.117 Many of the same caveats of   See c­ hapter 1, p. 7.   The GIS-​based analysis undertaken here was accomplished using ArcGIS 10.4.1. Round-​trip times in hours assume foot travel. Travel times are derived through costing tools that use slopes calculated from topographical maps in conjunction with tables of speed values based on common GIS practice involving Tobler’s hiking function (Gorenflo and Gale 1990; Tobler 1993). Roads present a complicating factor and are unevenly known in the two study areas. Along the Datça peninsula, a road was created for the model using a least-​cost path that aligns reasonably well with ancient traces observed by Bean and Cook (1952, 179–​81). In Cyprus, the major circuit roads are generally established, and even some smaller branches have been investigated and dated to either the Roman or Late Antique period: see Bekker-​Nielsen 2004. Where possible, these roads are factored in as facilitating slightly 116 117

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movement across the sea also hold on land regarding the dataset and resulting interpretations.118 Most importantly, the figures produced by such analysis are necessarily coarse and tentative, reflecting not one trip but an average of many accomplished under generally positive conditions. Broad estimates of this type cannot take account of the many ways in which the landscape would have been further textured with smaller roads and paths that are often impossible to discern even through intensive survey, let alone date, or identify consistently across large areas.119 Just as importantly, varied human interests, behaviors, and experiences of different groups would surely have affected individual choices of movement beyond simply finding the fastest path, the sole criterion for this GIS model.120 Nonetheless, these idealized figures can inform a baseline understanding of the potential community catchments of ports, thereby facilitating broad comparison within and across landscapes. The calculations used here—​given as round-​trip travel times in hours—​reflect common practice in spatial analysis, including historical studies of communication and modern route planning.121 Yet even if alternate calculations yield different figures, the relative times and broad differences remain informative for hypothesizing how the distribution of ports may have structured certain temporal and spatial aspects of economic life.

Ports and Access on the Datça Peninsula The dramatic and diverse topography of the Datça peninsula, marked by a single attested major road running its length, naturally exerted a strong influence on patterns of local movement.122 The survey work by Tuna provides the fundamental dataset for understanding not only the several small ports discussed earlier but also the development and patterning of settlement and agriculture

faster speeds over ground. In accordance with the widely used tables of Tobler’s hiking function, a basic speed over level terrain of 5 kph is assumed, reduced by 40% to reflect uneven surfaces for areas off established roads. 118   For caveats in general regarding estimates of ancient travel times, see ­chapter 4, pp. 140–​144. 119   I have taken here a generally conservative approach that assumes only a minimum of transport infrastructure limited to securely identified roads. Small paths were also critical conduits of traffic but are scarcely known in detail and certainly not sufficiently to allow comparison across areas. For the rich complexity that can be added by intensive study of smaller local paths, see Sollars 2005. 120   Th is point is underscored by recent diachronic study of small-​scale movement in the Cypriot countryside: see Gibson 2005; Gibson 2007. 121   See generally Conolly and Lake 2006, 252–​55; Kantner 2012. 122   Th is road’s specific path through the low central part of the peninsula is less clear than its route through the more confined mountain setting to the west, which was traced notably by Bean and Cook (1952, 179–​81).

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that drew on these maritime spaces (fig. 5.3).123 While the diachronic resolution of surface survey data remains coarse, a broad distinction is possible between earlier (Hellenistic and Early Roman) and later (Mid-​Roman and Late Antique) patterns. Given that topography, land resources, and general livelihoods did not change markedly across the period of interest, GIS modeling can also provide clues to possible activity in the countryside by identifying potential agricultural land. Most farming demanded a certain amount of minimally sloping land before extensive terracing was necessary. The modern estimate of 20% arable land on the Datça peninsula underscores the strong limitations the environment placed on the spatial ordering of economic activity here.124 Topography offers valuable proxy data for possible agricultural production, which can then be compared to the distribution of settlements and other sites of processing activity.125 The maps that follow reflect the location of Tuna’s surveyed sites and GIS-​ modeled agricultural land during the Late Hellenistic to Early Roman period (fig. 5.6) and the Mid-​Roman through Late Antique period (fig. 5.7). A strong correlation is immediately apparent between actual site locations and predicted agricultural lands, a correspondence that lends support to the modeling parameters. For the purpose of modeling mobility and interaction, I include additional ports and other sites on the Datça peninsula alongside the five discussed previously.126 More intensive work in the future might reveal port-​based activity at additional coastal locations,127 but the conservative estimate aims to establish a maritime landscape baseline for the peninsula. The distribution of these ports appears generally stable across time; the small reduction in number from the earlier period (12) to the later (10) is limited to the low-​lying plain near Burgaz, where it has little effect on the overall pattern of coastal use. Especially during the earlier period but even during

  See especially Tuna 1983a; Tuna 2012, 31–​40.    Mater 1974–​1977,  207–​8. 125   The analysis here assumes a slope of 7% as a maximum practical limit for good agricultural land without extensive terracing. See also the parameters used for modeling in the “Borders of Attica” project: http://​w ww.bordersofattica.org/​mapping-​t he-​agricultural-​surfaces-​of-​attica/​. After selecting for this low slope, some aggregation of results was carried out, and small outlying lands below 1 ha (10,000 m 2) in contiguous area were removed to clean the data. The final resulting figure reflects 24.7% of the total area of the Datça peninsula, not far off from the estimate given by Mater 1974–​1977 for arable land, suggesting the 7% slope offers a reasonable first parameter for estimating typical agriculture in this landscape. 126   For modeling purposes, only sites on the peninsula itself could be designated as ports (i.e., not from its offshore islands). “Other sites” are those that either were scattered throughout the countryside away from the coast or, if along the coast, lacked port indicators or were only briefly occupied. 127   E .g., Murdala, on the next bay west of Mersincik, seems an obvious candidate for port activity, at least from a topographical point of view, although this is not yet clear from the reported archaeological record. 123

124

Fig. 5.6. Map of the Datça peninsula showing ports and other sites of the Late Hellenistic to Early Roman era. Hypothetical agricultural land is indicated in gray, along with estimated round-​trip travel times to the nearest port facility and the catchment area of each port.

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Late Antiquity, this fertile agricultural land yielded the highest concentration of archaeological sites. Inland settlements dwindle significantly in number between the dense Late Hellenistic to Early Roman and the thinner Mid-​Roman to Late Antique record. These two contrasting trends—​the drop in number of overall sites through time but the general stability of port numbers—​are captured by a simple metric: earlier ports constitute just over 30% of the total sites, while later ports account for 40% of the total sites (fig. 5.8).128 By comparison, the western part of the peninsula remains generally consistent in port distribution and site numbers, with inland activity here focused along the east-​west extent of the narrow central valley. The two maps reflect likely travel times, providing a window into patterns of movement along the peninsula. All figures reflect round-​trip costs from a given point in the landscape to the nearest (i.e., most quickly reached) port; the divisions of the peninsula (dashed black lines) signal hypothetical boundaries between catchment areas of different ports. The contours (light gray lines) visible throughout these catchment areas represent 1-​hr intervals. From this analysis, we can calculate mean round-​trip journey times to the nearest port for the two periods of interest. During the Roman era (fig. 5.6) local settlements and agricultural lands were located on average 2.02 hrs from the nearest port. In the Late Antique period (fig. 5.7) the average rose slightly to 2.36 hrs.129 To contextualize these figures, compare a 2-​hr journey with the 16 or more hrs required (even following the ancient road) to travel between the agricultural lowlands around Burgaz and the major port of Knidos. The mountainous western peninsula exhibits similar catchments for the two periods since port locations remain consistent. The slight rise in mean travel time to the nearest port results largely from the disappearance of two small sites east of Burgaz, creating much longer distances to ports in this particular corner of the peninsula. Otherwise no communities on the wide swath of low-​lying agricultural heartland were situated more than about 3 hrs (round trip) from some facility. Even those along the central corridor of the western peninsula could reach a port along the south or north coast within 3–​4 hrs. Virtually no productive agricultural land on the Datça peninsula was beyond a 4-​hr round trip. The rhythms of economic movement here were set largely by the 2-​hr round trip that brought communities into close and easy contact with some maritime outlet,

128   The total number of late inland sites is perhaps exaggerated slightly by a few short-​lived locations in the mountains dating to the final years of Late Antiquity, arguing that the real proportion of port and coastal sites active during the prosperous Late Antique centuries is even higher than the figure of half: Tuna, personal communication 2016. 129   For the Roman period, the mean round-​t rip travel time is 2.02 hrs with a standard deviation of 1.28 hrs. For Late Antiquity, the mean is 2.36 hrs with a standard deviation of 1.38 hrs.

Fig. 5.7. Map of the Datça peninsula showing ports and other sites of the Mid-​Roman to Late Antique period. Hypothetical agricultural land is indicated in gray, along with estimated round-​trip travel times to the nearest port facility and the catchment area of each port.

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50 45 40 35 30

Other

25 20 15

Other Coastal

Other Coastal

10 5 0

Other

Ports

Ports

Roman

Late Antique

Fig. 5.8. Number of port sites, other coastal sites, and other (noncoastal) sites along the Datça peninsula during the Roman (left, n = 43) and Late Antique (right, n = 25) periods.

providing access to resources (fish, local and farther-​flung imports), markets, and movement along the coast and beyond.

Ports and Access along South-​Central Cyprus Movement across Cyprus’s southern terrain presents fewer dominant environmental constraints but no less intriguing spatial dynamics (fig. 5.4). Most communities were located either on the coastal plain or along river valleys that funneled activity toward ports like those discussed earlier. Cyprus has enjoyed a tradition of intensive landscape investigations,130 yet the evidence for the south-​central part is uneven. For example, the Vasilikos River just inland from Petrini has a long history of study, while the hinterland of Amathus remains less thoroughly documented.131 Farther west, an assortment of preliminary investigations around Kourion, Avdimou Bay, and West Akrotiri are helpful; their contrasting survey

  E.g., Given and Knapp 2003; Given et al. 2013a; Given et al. 2013b. See also generally Iacovou 2004.   For the Vasilikos Valley, see generally Rautman 2003; Todd 2004; Todd 2013. For Amathus, see Petit 1996; Hermary 2015. 130 131

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goals, though, make direct comparison difficult.132 As a result, the modeling is split to focus discretely on these two areas, and potential agricultural land offers a crucial baseline for spatial analysis and comparison of hinterlands. In select instances such as the Vasilikos Valley, these figures can be tested against archaeological site distributions.133 Thanks to Bekker-​Nielsen’s detailed investigations into the road system of Cyprus, this communication infrastructure can be incorporated into formal modeling.134 By the end of the Hellenistic period, the establishment of a complete circuit around the island provided an important complement to movement by sea. Small additions to this system between the Roman and Late Antique periods hint at certain changes in movement and offer clues to the interdependence of these forms of transport and communication. The area around Episkopi Bay, including Kourion and its several neighboring ports, provides a helpful first view.135 Since both Avdimou Bay and West Akrotiri were utilized primarily during Late Antiquity, this period is the more revealing for discussion (fig. 5.9). Most communities and agricultural producers in the coastal plain and valleys would have been within a couple of hours’ reach of some port, reflecting a mean round trip of 3.18 hrs; virtually none were beyond about 4–​5 hrs’ round-​trip journey.136 While certain low-​lying lands included here may have been unsuitable for agriculture—​especially the sandy tombolo around the Akrotiri Salt Lake—​the territories of Kourion lent themselves to good farming. Perhaps most striking are the extensive tracts of potential agricultural land situated within a short few hours of Avdimou Bay, making this port a useful location for the movement of goods, communication, and other maritime activities. The single addition to the local road network during Late Antiquity, an unpaved spur

132   On the Avdimou River Valley, see Swiny 1981. Investigations in the immediate environs and hinterland of Kourion are published in Leonard Jr. 1987; Swiny and Mavromatis 2000; and more generally Swiny 1982a. Roman and Late Antique sites surveyed in the wide hinterland of Kourion to the east indicate considerable occupation of farmsteads that were most likely engaged in mixed agriculture, olive, and vine cultivation: Swiny and Mavromatis 2000, 438–​42 and 447. There is no reason to doubt that the Avdimou River area was likewise a settled and agriculturally productive region throughout the periods of interest here. 133   Estimates of agricultural lands follow the same procedures and general parameters of GIS modeling as employed for the Datça peninsula described earlier in n. 125. 134   See generally Bekker-​Nielsen 2004. 135   Since the facility at Dreamer’s Bay likely functioned together with the more exposed West Akrotiri in service of the maritime needs of communities throughout the southern Akrotiri peninsula, these two sites are analyzed here together. For this additional port facility, see earlier, n. XX. 136   For this study area around Episkopi Bay represented in fi ­ gure 5.9, including the ports of Kourion, Avdimou Bay, and West Akrotiri/​Dreamer’s Bay, the mean round-​trip travel time is 3.18 hrs with a standard deviation of 1.71 hrs.

Fig. 5.9. Map of the south-​central coast of Cyprus around Episkopi Bay showing ports of the Late Antique period: Kourion, Avdimou Bay, and West Akrotiri (with Dreamer’s Bay). Hypothetical agricultural land is indicated in gray, along with estimated round-​ trip travel times to the nearest port facility and the catchment area of each port. Thicker lines correspond to the road network.

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off the coastal circuit leading down to Avdimou Bay, underscores the integration of simple ports into the routine of economic life.137 This model naturally holds for the valleys and coastal plains that probably produced the bulk of local agricultural surplus, rather than the more distant inland areas from which mineral and other resources derived.138 Limited material remains provide some evidence for earlier (Late Hellenistic and Early Roman) activity at both Avdimou Bay and West Akrotiri. If these centuries were as agriculturally productive, though, the movement of goods may have been more dependent on the urban port facility down the coast at Kourion. This larger catchment area for Kourion, extending some 10 km to the west and southeast along the entire bay, would have reflected fundamentally different spatial and temporal patterns of mobility for the Roman period. Routing more local maritime activity through Kourion would have added substantially to travel times for many (often doubling them). But the well-​established coastal road facilitated journeys to Kourion in a long day from across the entire area, and perhaps the economic opportunities associated with this larger center made the trip worthwhile for some during the Roman era.139 The second example offers a comparative picture of movement farther east along the coast (fig. 5.10). Well-​published surveys from the Vasilikos Valley near Petrini offer a chance to model patterning of local activity and the accessibility of ports beyond urban centers. About half of the towns identified for the Roman and Late Antique periods here were within a 4-​hr round trip, while the remaining half required 4–​8 hrs for such a journey. Virtually no areas on the coastal plain between Amathus and Petrini were more than about 6 hrs (round trip) from one or the other port, in part thanks to the road network that connected Amathus with nearby coastal and inland territories. The same pattern is reflected in the mean round-​trip travel time calculated using potential agricultural land:  3.96 hrs.140 As was the case near Episkopi Bay, Petrini seems to have enjoyed its greatest prosperity during Late Antiquity. If so, its growth as a port may have had a

  Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 218. Note that this road is not included in his maps of major roads for the Roman period: see 108 fig. 13 and 110 fig. 14. 138   South 2002; Iacovou 2013; Zavagno 2017, 128–​29. Bulky copper and timber probably capitalized on water transport where and when possible, although rivers in the area that were not otherwise problematic for navigation generally seem to have been seasonal. Following river courses presumably required more specialized logistics than the basic overland mobility modeled here. 139   Journeys from lands around Avdimou Bay would have required perhaps 6–​8 hrs, while those from much of the western Akrotiri peninsula could have been accomplished in 8–​10 hrs. 140   For this particular area along south-​central Cyprus represented in ­figure  5.10, including the ports of Amathus and Zygi-​Petrini, the mean round-​t rip travel time is 3.96 hrs with a standard deviation of 2.47 hrs. 137

Fig. 5.10. Map of the south-​central coast of Cyprus showing Amathus, Zygi-​Petrini, and nearby sites in the Vasilikos Valley during the Late Antique period. Hypothetical agricultural land is indicated in gray, along with estimated round-​trip travel times to the nearest port facility and the catchment area of each port. Thicker lines correspond to the road network.

Ports and Everyday Economies 193

profound impact on the nature of local interaction not only by sea but also on land, obviating the need for certain longer trips to Amathus. Use of the facility at Petrini during Late Antiquity would have cut significantly the round-​trip time to the nearest port for at least those communities in the lower valley, down from around the 8–​9 hrs it would have taken to reach Amathus and return along the coastal road. Travel estimates suggest that communities farther up the valley may have benefited less, but the organization of economic life in a valley setting probably encouraged communication along this river axis rather than over more difficult terrain. A branch road hypothesized by Bekker-​Nielsen as running from the coast up through this valley certainly makes sense, reducing travel time and further marking the difference between journeys to the two ports, but no such remains have been brought to light.141 : : :

“Nodes of Density” Maritime networks extended beyond the water’s edge, through ports into the hinterlands that linked communities into the economies of the eastern Mediterranean. Understanding the ground-​level movements and scales of mobility that generated patterns of integration requires a systematic approach embracing different ports: that is, ports in urban centers as well as those serving the smaller communities that formed the agricultural basis for much exchange. The less conspicuous maritime sites present acute challenges for archaeological detection and interpretation, but their integration into spatial models of movement and economic interaction opens a new window into network dynamics and the routines of daily life. First, it reveals a dense set of rudimentary ports that dotted the coastlines of the Datça peninsula, south-​ central Cyprus, and surely many other corners of this eastern Mediterranean world. And second, these sites significantly extended the reach of maritime networks into the rhythms of the countryside and communities whose agricultural products filled the bulk cargos from the previous chapter. These two observations lay the foundations for analysis, using both shipwrecks and ports, of the structures and shifts of maritime networks taken up in the concluding ­chapter 6. The longstanding archaeological interest in grand urban harbors and elaborate infrastructure—​in the case of Rome, generally technological feats in concrete—​ reflects one facet of our privileging the larger-​scale features of seaborne interaction

141   Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 194–​98. Given the lack of secure evidence for this hypothesized road, it is not included in the map or analysis here.

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for which the Classical world was famous.142 In the case of the Datça peninsula and south-​central Cyprus, the extensive facilities constructed for trading and administrative centers like Knidos and Paphos dominate local maritime landscapes. They illustrate that such projects often were as much about reflecting local monumentality and civic or cultural importance as they were about responding to economic needs. Yet the comparatively inconspicuous ports emerge here as major factors in the development of maritime networks and the connections of communities throughout the landscape. Houston highlighted the fundamental role of these sites (and their correspondingly small ships) three decades ago: “viewed in broader contexts—​of either non-​Roman societies or of other Roman coastal towns—​t he great ports of the Roman Empire emerge as anomalous.”143 Marzano’s work has also drawn overdue attention to small maritime facilities incorporated into central Italian coastal villas.144 Schörle, in turn, has shown that even along the busy and heavily built-​up Tyrrhenian coast, ports were normally rather small (or at least smaller than one might expect for the heart of the Roman world) at under 30 ha; some were under 1 ha in size and quite minimally outfitted.145 Much like the cabotage of Horden and Purcell, the profile of these ports is gaining scholarly interest, but the practical challenges of studying ground-​level relationships through their material record remain.146 The many small ports offer a welcome counterbalance but also demand analysis of their distribution and functioning if we are to interpret their role in network dynamics and community interaction. Their density is immediately striking. Even a conservative accounting places ports of all kinds no more than about 10 km apart for the stretches of south-​central Cyprus explored here. The topography of the Datça peninsula makes this coastline more variable, with ports located as close as 1.5–​2.0 km or as far as 19.6 km; on average, there is a port technically every 12.6–​15.1 km; the peninsula’s highly undulating coast makes practical sailing distances considerably shorter, roughly 8.7–​9.5 km, and therefore comparable to Cyprus.147 These figures are only minimum values, reflecting sites of activity

142   On the scholarly focus on other large-​scale structures like long-​d istance shipping, see c­ hapter 3, pp.  84–​87. 143   Houston 1988,  564. 144   See, among the many good examples, the tiny 3-​m 2 pier at Punta San Paolo: Marzano 2007, 355. The evidence for tiny harbors in Istria is noted in Wilson 2011b, 50–​51. 145   Schörle 2011, 96 table 5.1, 97. 146   Horden and Purcell (2000, 137–​43, and 160): “Low-​level connectivity proves hard enough to document in any period because it is of its essence to leave few traces in the official record.” 147   The figure of one port about every 12.6–​15.1 km is based on dividing the total measured length of undulating coast along the peninsula study area (151.4 km, as calculated in GIS) by the number of

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visible to surface survey. Other spaces likely to have been used, even on an occasional basis, can easily be overlooked. For much of the Cypriot coast, Leonard has suggested that sites for maritime activity may be found every 5–​10 km.148 As many as seven simple facilities have been suggested for just one 20-​k m stretch of coastline around Petrini.149 Along the island’s west coast, various ports seem to have played a fundamental role in local mobility near Roman Paphos.150 Reframing these figures using broad demographic measures underscores the extent to which these spaces were fixtures of local life. For a study area along the Datça peninsula of 313.6 km2, the dozen or so ports amount to one about every 26.1 km2, or every 6.5 km2 (650 ha) of potential farmland as modeled earlier. This figure translates to a single port serving on average a community of perhaps 970–​1300 individuals.151 In the case of Mersincik, the immediate valley was likely home to no more than about 50–​70 people and probably fewer.152 These numbers are obviously tentative estimates, and liberal at that, since they reflect potential rather than attested agriculture. But if the broad picture presented here captures only the simple majority of ancient ports in use, the record already points toward a more intensive and active coastal landscape than is often recognized in studies of Roman maritime economies. The practical impact of this dense string of ports should not be underestimated. Travel for 8–​9 hrs or more on foot or cart to the nearest urban center was certainly possible when access to larger markets or social activity was in order. Local ports radically reduced the cost involved in more routine maritime access. This highly localized geography enabled communication and movement of goods with greater ease and frequency, allowing more regular and reliable connections. The figure of 2 hrs, on average, for a round-​trip journey to a port on the Datça peninsula aligns well with observations of daily mobility in traditional agricultural

attested ports (10–​12, depending on period), while the average practical sailing distance was adduced by measuring the straight-​line minimum distance from point to point around headlands between attested ports, resulting in a figure of 8.7 km for the earlier period and 9.5 km for the later period.   L eonard 1995b. See also generally Leonard 2005.   Karyda  2016. 150   Giangrande et al. 1987; Howitt-​Marshall 2003. For synthesis of this coast, see also Leonard 1995a; Leonard 2005, 574–​630; Leidwanger 2018b, 231–​32. 151   The calculations here assume a per capita requirement of 0.50–​0.67 ha for production of grain: Malamina 2013, 30. This figure would depend on the particular productivity of the land, fallowing practices, and diversification and specialization of agriculture to include wine, oil, and other products: Gallant 1991, 60–​112; Jongman 2007, 602–​5; Sallares 2007, 27–​34; Hin 2013, 27–​29; Şenol and Walz 2015; and more generally Halstead 2014. Tuna (2012, 31) suggests a carrying capacity for the entire Datça peninsula of 12,000, near the lower end but within this range. 152   At 34 ha of farmland as defined previously, n. 125. 148 149

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communities, where 1–​2 hrs per day can be expected for travel to and from fields or for carting produce back to the village.153 Backed by high mountains, communities on and around the small bays and sandy shores dotting the Datça peninsula must have realized their maritime potential as an alternative to lengthier and more arduous overland journeys. Routine bulk transport—​particularly for amphora-​borne goods like wine and oil—​naturally lent itself to short sea links. The overland option was most viable for communities situated in close proximity to the road that passed through the central valley. Even these groups, however, were easily connected to the coasts by a round trip of no more than 3–​4 hrs, still a feasible day’s journey for communication or exchange. From the agricultural hinterlands of Avdimou Bay or Mesudiye to their ports, short distances would have allowed much greater frequency of trips as well as longer stays before returning, critical factors in the growth of these sites as spaces of exchange, fishing, and perhaps other activities. Viewed from the sea, the few hours of calm that are typical of the morning, even along more exposed coasts like the northern Datça peninsula or western Akrotiri, probably gave a sufficient window for small-​scale maritime activities envisioned here. The combination of predictable prevailing winds and routine shifts, seasonality, and opportunism created a landscape where each port had a role to play in the maritime economic strategies that framed local life. Viewing these simple coastal spaces as one part of a broad and continuous spectrum—​“nodes of density in a matrix of connectivity”154—​offers a productive counterbalance to models of Mediterranean-​w ide maritime interaction that stress larger urban facilities. In his call for scholarly attention to the modern history of what he termed “unimportant ports,” Jackson challenged that “we should forget about their comparative status and study them for what they did on their own terms and within the overall port system.”155 This chapter has aimed to study local ports in their own environmental and economic contexts and to integrate them into a network model of Roman and Late Antique maritime interaction. Situating ports alongside shipwrecks in a common framework allows us not only to capitalize on fundamentally different forms of material evidence but also to explore the network structure and dynamics in the lives of those back onshore. The cargos that informed the modeling from the previous chapter hint at the prevalence of short-​haul connections within key parts of the study area (especially the Aegean and Cyprus/​ Cilicia/​ N Levant). The shipwrecks, though, are less helpful for

  Marchetti 1994. On travel and transport times between village and field in modern Greece, see Halstead and Jones 1989; Halstead 2014, 110. 154   Horden and Purcell 2000, 393. 155   Jackson 2001,  7. 153

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establishing the shape and nature of these finer links, which require a bottom-​ up perspective to detect small scales. Local ports and their hinterlands, by contrast, offer a close view of how interaction played out on the ground as a smaller but vibrant form of maritime activity. The final chapter (­chapter 6) synthesizes these observations on ports with those based on shipwreck assemblages. It draws together the varied evidence to outline a larger economic model of maritime networks around this corner of the Mediterranean between the Roman world and Late Antiquity.

Chapter 6

Maritime Networks in the Roman East Electing a spatial perspective on the organization of economic process—​be it for local patterns, regional cadences, or inter-​regional flows—​offers one way to follow out alternative sets of behavior, while still allowing for their mutual influence, if not outright integration. —​A lcock (2007, 695)

The multiscalar approach throughout this study emphasizes the complexity of movement and interaction within maritime economies. For the eastern Mediterranean, a spatial perspective means situating connections in the distinctive contexts that produced them, adding texture and dynamism to a maritime world often portrayed as flat, frictionless, and infinitely connected. The bewildering array of distant relationships, whether merchant diasporas or far-​flung goods, can make the Roman Mediterranean seem like a singular and uniformly integrated maritime space. Yet the networks that linked individuals and communities were necessarily rooted in a marine geography that afforded its own particular environmental challenges and opportunities, variously favoring some connections over others. At the same time, different social, technological, and political variables fundamentally shaped the human geography on which maritime economies were built. Exploring the contours and diversity in these connections necessitates that we examine structure as a whole and in parts, looking comparatively across Mediterranean spaces and the breadth of the long Roman world. The archaeological record provides a bottom-​up and diachronic perspective on the varied mariners, cargos, ships, and ports that mark different scales and their intersections within evolving Mediterranean networks. In this final chapter, I evaluate the structural features of Roman maritime economic networks and their major changes between the early centuries and Late Antiquity. Regionalism emerges as a key concern through the formation of coherent communities and economies within this spatial and relational network. My focus is on the internal patterns of mobility and the workings more generally of discrete regions, as well as their intersections with larger Mediterranean scales of Roman Seas. Justin Leidwanger, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190083656.001.0001

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interaction. I contextualize these structures and their interplay within a broader historical understanding of integration in the Roman east, and the role maritime connectivity played in the eventual transformation of the empire. Viewed from our study area, networks and their evolution reveal particular responses to a shifting political, economic, and social landscape that generated, at least temporarily, renewed prosperity and even stronger integration in the Late Antique east. This multiscalar approach provides a new window into the long-​term history of certain communities here, but I also hope in the process to demonstrate the viability of an alternative theoretical and methodological approach in Mediterranean maritime archaeology: that is, work that moves beyond the individual site and basic quantification to integrate the record of shipwrecks and ports more fully within the mainstream study of ancient economies. : : :

Small-​Scale Activity and Regional Integration The “unimportant ports” with which the last chapter ended provide the best point of entry for examining complex maritime networks from the bottom up. Clustered every 5–​10 km along these coasts, simple ports had the power to shape the experience of interaction. By providing access to a wider world and a ready outlet for local produce, these spaces made the sea a more immediate presence in the lives of eastern Mediterranean communities. Most importantly, this access extended to areas beyond the urban centers that have generally dominated models of maritime connectivity to date. Integrating primarily agricultural communities more directly into maritime structures would not only facilitate the quick mobilization and transfer of their goods but also generate new links and patterns of interaction. But what were these new opportunities? The collection and transshipment of cargos between larger urban ports and their outlying areas was certainly one facet of this activity: for example, between urban Knidos and the communities at Killik or Mersincik, the latter in particular more easily tied by sea than overland. Even in the case of sites like Avdimou Bay that were also accessible by coastal road, a maritime link offered quicker and easier bulk transfer of goods to the larger and well-​networked communities down the coast at Paphos and Kourion, and from there to the Mediterranean world beyond. But this fundamental infrastructure brought more than simply improved integration of outlying communities with their nearby urban centers. These dense strings of ports extended local economic horizons into regional economies. A brief look at the material record of imports to the hinterland of the simple port of Petrini reveals the practical impact, providing a view backward from consumption to the

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routine distribution mechanisms that likely converged at these ports. The most prominent Late Antique market town in the Vasilikos Valley upriver from Petrini, Kalavasos-​Kopetra boasted a rich ceramic repertoire and generally high standard of living for its modest population of about 600 residents (fig. 5.10). Of the imports reflected in the durable material record of transport amphoras, roughly three-​ fifths (59.3%) originated in the area of Cilicia and northwest Syria, while just a few jars came from the southern Levant, Egypt, and the Aegean (0.1–​1.3%).1 These imports from the nearby mainland represent the major component of the overall ceramic assemblage, appearing in numbers even greater than local amphoras, yet they were drawn almost exclusively from a restricted area a short sail away. Comparison with the material record at Amathus, the nearest urban port to the west, is instructive. For this same period, Amathus shows imports drawn widely from across the island and the whole of the Late Antique world. The urban pattern is reflective of the geographical breadth of the late empire’s maritime network; the nearby mainland that accounted for most of the imports at Kopetra features minimally at Amathus, rarer even than imports from the western Mediterranean.2 The sharp contrast in material records for two sites within a very short journey suggests rather dissimilar patterns of import acquisition. Not only were different ports involved but also different commodities, ships, and agents structured the Late Antique network connections of these different communities. Although the maritime activities around Petrini were likely small in scale given the local population and its productive and consumptive capacity, they were evidently not limited to the shortest hops down the coast to Amathus. Rather, strong connections were developed to other ports across a region, almost certainly including direct connections to the neighboring mainland.3 This distinction between the import records of two ports in south-​central Cyprus raises questions regarding the particular network structures and scales of different urban and extra-​urban communities. In situating ports within a hierarchical scheme,4 recent broad-​reaching discussions of Roman maritime interaction

  Rautman et al. 1999; Rautman 2003, 168–​75; Rautman 2013.   See generally Kaldeli 2008, especially 153–​58, 238–​41, and 500 table 13, fig. 23. Kaldeli’s quantification of transport amphoras from several urban contexts at Amathus show that products from around Cyprus make up the greatest part of the assemblage at 63.3%; the southern Levant and Egypt are well represented at 20.8%, while at 7.8% Aegean finds are not uncommon. Cilicia and Syria/​L ebanon account for just 3.0% of the imports, less even than those farther-​flung examples from the western Mediterranean at 5.2%. 3   The comparative material evidence from Amathus and Kopetra is explored in detail in Leidwanger 2013d, 234–​36; Leidwanger 2018b, 227–​28. On the evolving relationship and potential for divide between town and countryside in Late Antiquity more generally, see Whittaker and Garnsey 1998, 308–​9. 4   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 106–​107. 1

2

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have tended to proceed from the top down: long-​distance activity, the hallmark of successful integration of mare nostrum, drew on and fed into the masses of shorter-​haul movements. Arnaud’s model of navigation segmentée, for example, comprises longer-​distance links among larger warehouse ports separated typically by four or five days’ sail, while smaller-​scale exchange carried goods over shorter distances between these hubs and outlying secondary ports.5 This second tier of ports represents about the maximum resolution of detail typically incorporated into overarching models of maritime communication, where figures of 50–​70 km are given as the functional distance among Roman ports.6 The densely urbanized parts of the east might be expected to fall toward the lower end of this spectrum, and in fact these larger ports in the study area are situated on average 40–​50 km apart.7 Continuing down the scale in a sort of single dendritic network, we might naturally imagine that the tertiary or smaller maritime sites—​t hose that account for the vast majority of sites in our study area—​were subordinated to and oriented around the nearest of these secondary ports. The contrast in imported goods for routine consumption at Kopetra and Amathus, however, reveals a different reality. Those living in the hinterland of an “unimportant port” along southern Cyprus were strongly linked into a regional network that extended to the nearby mainland, while those at Amathus had the Roman world delivered to their docks through an empire-​w ide network. The top-​down and urban-​centered models that dominate the literature on ancient ports generally prioritize overall transaction costs across the whole Mediterranean system and efficient movement of goods and people between geographical scales as the primary drivers behind maritime activity.8 This focus on the largest structures and their vertical interactions is at least partly due to the nature of the evidence. With their empire-​w ide scope, such sources as periploi and the Edict of Diocletian focus on the broadest features, where hierarchical models make sense for particular sets of ports and certain economic questions.9 Scheidel’s

  A rnaud 2005, 107–​26. See also Hohlfelder and Oleson 2014, 223; Stone 2014.   E .g., Nieto 1997, 154–​56; Rickman 2003, 135; Rickman 2008, 12. 7   Given the primary interest in sailing distances between these sites, the figures here are calculated using approximate coastal lengths, simplified to reflect direct routes, rather than linear distance between sites or road distance. For the southeast Aegean (including Kos, Halikarnassos, Knidos, and Rhodes), the distribution is more varied but on the whole averages just under 40 km. Extending along the southern coast of Cyprus to include not only Paphos, Kourion, and Amathus but also Kition and Salamis to the east produces an average distribution of just over 50 km. 8   Cf. “dendritic” models of market distribution of goods in the pioneering economic geography work on politically centralized and complex urban societies in Smith 1974; Smith 1976. 9   See also Arnaud 2007 for a reading of the Edict of Diocletian within this framework of navigation segmentée. 5

6

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ORBIS network evaluates overall imperial structure through transportation and communication.10 Schörle’s Tyrrhenian network places Rome at the center of intersecting scales involving maritime infrastructure ranging from the massive works at Portus down to the tiny pier of a maritime villa.11 Looking from the bottom up, by contrast, shifts the perspective to smaller-​scale material assemblages, diverse and locally grounded economic concerns, and the general topography of daily life for communities linked by the sea not necessarily to Rome or even to Paphos or Knidos but to each other.12 In this context, we should draw attention to the sometimes surprising connections Schörle has noted among second-​tier or smaller ports like that at Cosa. Although its mainstay activities seem to have centered on fishing and the mobilization of local agricultural produce, Cosa nonetheless enjoyed direct regional links to destinations in northern Italy and southern Gaul (and perhaps North Africa too), revealing the emergence of alternative patterns of network connections even within a central Italian context marked by a strong gravitational pull toward Rome.13 The case studies examined here demonstrate the flexibility of small ports in building connections and developing regional economies. Given the varied locations of agricultural processing and ceramic workshops at key coastal sites around the Datça peninsula, regular movements—​of empty jars, primary produce, and processed goods—​back and forth among cooperating communities must have been necessary to mobilize exports. Yet the manufacture also of Koan-​style jars at Mersincik, to cite just one example, hints at participation in regional economies for even this tiny port community:14 an easy sail could bring goods to other small ports around the Gulf of Gökova, on nearby Kos or the Halikarnassos peninsula. Burgaz, for its part, served as a point of transshipment throughout the Gulf of Hisarönü and the southeast Aegean,15 a role attested into the final centuries of our period by the diverse set of jars found on the lone wreck (Burgaz A, #61) within its Late Antique harbor.16 Key indicators of short-​haul distribution, whether local

  Scheidel 2013; Scheidel 2014.   Schörle 2011. See also the Ostia-​and Portus-​centered views provided by Heinzelmann 2010; Keay 2016. 12   A potentially interesting parallel to this situation can be found in recent work in the physical sciences, which has demonstrated how networks can grow efficiently by adding links that bypass the most central nodes, seemingly a countermeasure against “congestion” caused by high demands on network flows to hubs: e.g., Watts 2003, 113–​14 and 277–​80. 13   Schörle 2011, 102. On Cosa’s development and maritime connections, see generally McCann 1987; Will and Slane 2019. McCann 2008 explores the possible North African connections of Cosa’s port. 14   Tuna 1989, 148 fig. 16. See c­ hapter 5, p. 171. 15   Wilker et al.  2019. 16   Leidwanger et al.  2015. 10 11

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Koan-​style jars for export from Mersincik or Cilician imports to Petrini, identify a regional scale of economies operating with more geographical flexibility than Mediterranean-​w ide models of port hierarchies suggest. Examining particularly the material record on Hellenistic and Roman Cyprus, Lund has tracked spheres of exchange that linked the island to its neighboring mainland to the north and east. He notes how economic geographies coalesced over the Roman period, creating close relationships between the island’s west and western Cilicia on the one hand and between its east and eastern Cilicia and the northern Levant on the other. Drawn largely from diverse survey ceramics outside the island’s urban centers, this view is particularly helpful for emphasizing the different regionalisms that undermined Cyprus’s insular coherence through everyday economic routines.17 The phenomenon of identical amphoras produced both in Cilicia and on parts of Cyprus may likewise hint at deeper shared economies of production and distribution.18 In this sense, Cyprus was surrounded by multiple different human seas, an observation Rougé noted long ago among the ancient sources describing the island’s marine setting.19 This economic regionalism provides the major context in which our small ports and single-​area cargos participated. Just as these ports reveal changing levels of use through time, we should not assume that the regional maritime economies they underpinned were static. Lund’s analysis suggests that some consolidation took place between the last centuries bc and the first centuries ad, creating the two larger east and west regions of Roman Cyprus out of a more complex map of earlier Hellenistic ones. The combined network and Geographic Information Systems (GIS) modeling in ­chapter 4 reveals the broad human scale implied by this regionalism, with round trips only requiring from a few days up to a week, but with many journeys accomplishable even in a single day.20 The assembly of different areas into nodes was necessary, in light of the more general attributions of Late Antique amphoras, to allow the construction of comparable earlier and later networks from the bulk shipwreck data. This choice masked finer spatial details that can sometimes be evaluated at the level of the individual wreck. For example, most of our “Aegean” cargos were drawn from the southeast corner of the Aegean, a more limited area easily crossed with a round trip of only a few days.21 This is

  Lund 2015. See also Lund 1999; Lund 2006; Lund 2013. Gordon 2018 likewise emphasizes the diverse outward-​looking connections of the island. For Cilician connections to the island, see Autret and Marangou 2011; Autret et al. 2014. 18   Kaldeli 2009, 377–​79. 19   On these regions, see Rougé 1966, 43, and more generally c­ hapter 3, pp. 74–75. 20   See c­ hapter 4, pp. 145–​150. 21   E .g., Leidwanger 2013c, 3306–​7. 17

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overwhelmingly the case for the Early Roman period, when Rhodian-​style, Koan-​ style, and some Knidian-​style jars dominate the assemblages:  for example, the location of the wrecked cargo of Knidian jars at Kepçe Burnu (#17), 30 km east of Bodrum, strongly suggests that it was circulating within the Gulf of Gököva. The dataset is more limited for the eastern part of the study area around Cyprus, but the two clearest regional assemblages here align well with Lund’s observations: the cargo off the west of Cyprus at Kioni (#30) featuring a jar type connected to that coast and western Cilicia, and the wreck off the island’s east at Fig Tree Bay (#31), with its cargo drawn largely from eastern Cilicia and northwest Syria. The generally coarser data resolution for Late Roman amphoras and the limited nature of surveys on wrecks of this period inhibit detection of finer regionalisms within shipwreck cargos from our later centuries. These challenges, however, should not blind us to the possibility that maritime regions may have been shifting in Late Antiquity. We might read the emergence of fewer shared amphora types manufactured across wider areas as one indicator of expanding horizons of regional economies.22 From at least the 4th century, the Aegean was refocusing production on one broad type (Late Roman 2 [LR2]), although other jars connected to more circumscribed areas survived in certain instances (e.g., Late Roman 3 [LR3], East Aegean bag shaped).23 A single form (Late Roman 1 [LR1]) also seemingly came to dominate production throughout Cyprus and along the entire coast of Cilicia.24 Typologies of these broadly manufactured Late Roman amphoras remain less well known than we would like. The fact that different areas chose—​in some cases seemingly abruptly—​to shift away from traditional forms distinctive of particular contents or smaller production zones toward a common shape may signal new economic cooperation. This standardization would be helpful for coordinating the mobilization and marketing of processed agricultural goods within the region. The area connected by standardized manufacture can be read as one possible geographical indicator of economic integration and the practical manifestations of maritime regions. Maritime activities at these regional scales may have escaped the bureaucratic interest of imperial authorities and their delegates at the customs house. For this reason, certain types of mariners may be systematically underrepresented in the historical record. Arnaud has noted the extent to which Rome regulated port traffic to ensure effective collection of customs,25 but how such bureaucratic 22   See general discussion of this trajectory among the various Late Roman amphora types in Tomber 2004; Karagiorgou 2009. 23   Karagiorgou 2001, with discussion of the LR2 amphora’s strong regional distribution at 139–​45. See also Karagiorgou 2009; Opaiţ 2014. 24   Reynolds 2005; Reynolds 2008. 25   A rnaud 2010, 111–​12; Arnaud 2011, 66–​67. See also Cottier 2010.

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practices worked at ground level clearly depended on the scale and geography of a merchant’s activity. Within our study area, an inscription from Andriake seems to indicate that Lycia had its own customs zone, and the rich testimony of the Lex Portorii Asiae lists many urban ports that collected customs—​in this case 2.5%—​on goods entering or leaving Asia.26 Since ports across the empire seem to have levied a 2–​5% tax on goods moving between provinces or larger districts,27 much of the regional exchange identified here could have operated freely, bypassing these major ports. We also cannot discount the possibility that simple ports beyond the watchful eye of officials may have enabled smaller vessels to skirt these obligations even across customs borders, as seems to have regularly frustrated authorities from Classical Athens to Early Medieval Italy and even 20th-​century Cyprus.28 If no such stop was required for clearance, mariners could stand to gain by avoiding larger ports, where diligent officials created shipping bottlenecks as boats waited for dock space and goods were checked before being sent along.29 These larger ports offered access to certain urban markets as well as improved maritime infrastructure, but often this infrastructure came at the cost of separate fees levied by the individual port. An inscription from Seleucia, the Mediterranean outlet for Antioch, provides particularly helpful insights into such practices during the early 6th century, when connections between Cyprus and the nearby mainland were particularly strong.30 The port inspectors here seem to have concerned themselves with only a couple of distinctions based on simplified categories of cargo origin and size. Ships from Cyprus, Phoenicia, and probably also Cilicia were held to half the rate of those coming from Palestine and Egypt. Vessels with tonnages under about 7–​8 tons were evidently exempted from fees. The higher rate may not have been particularly burdensome, but the basic definition of a discounted fee zone around the northeast corner of the Mediterranean may reflect precisely our regional economic system in operation.31 The lower limit

26   On Lycia, see Takmer 2007. On the harbors and procedures of the Lex Portorii Asiae, see Nicolet 1993; Cottier et al. 2008, including Mitchell 2008 on the boundaries of the province and the list of port towns that served as customs stations. 27    Duncan-​Jones 1990, 194–​95. 28   Dem. 35.28–​30, 53 (Classical Athens); McCormick 2001, 420 (Early Medieval Italy); Leonard 2005, 663–​64 (early 20th-​century Cyprus). 29   Casson 1995b, 298 n. 5. Cf. Keay 2016, 317. 30   Dagron 1985. 31   Broodbank (2013, 597) offers a long view of Mediterranean network persistence, raising the prospect that historical Roman administrative units may trace the “phantom outlines and evolutionary histories of older maritime connections.” One wonders whether the initial linking of Cyprus and Cilicia into a single province in the 1st century bc may also have built on preexisting regional maritime connections.

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on tonnages of interest to port inspectors attests at once to the noteworthy presence of small operators in this system and to the relative disinterest of customs officials in their minor cargos. The rich material record makes it clear that profits could be made outside larger urban ports, while the limited cargos and small ships that carried them are precisely those that seem to have fulfilled the role. Most often the archaeologically attested cargos studied here were drawn from only a single area, and generally that area overlaps the location of the wreck itself, lending a strong sense of regionalism to these assemblages. Some vessels, like Avdimou A (#44), sank in the simple ports they frequented and for which they were well suited. Their few tons of goods could be shuttled through the shallows without need of much infrastructure or more than a few hours of calm;32 the next journey could be underway with little of the downtime that characterized busier large ports. Thus, even if the generally modest customs fees had minimal detrimental effect on larger movements of goods, the small regional mariner had reason enough to stay away.33 Lasting a few days up to a week or slightly more, regional journeys represent a comparatively simpler undertaking than larger-​scale shipments.34 With cheaper vessels, limited cargo investments, fewer uncertainties, and known local waters, these voyages may have been appealing to prospective merchant mariners with limited resources and lower risk tolerance. Regional maritime activities would have allowed more frequent and regular trips, generating a high level of “common sense” geographical knowledge.35 Voyages may have been possible throughout the year as weather conditions—​a few days of clear visibility or a fortuitous shift in wind—​coincided with economic opportunity. The persistence of certain shipbuilding technologies like sewn boats in particular spatial contexts and the more flexible adoption of the spritsail on some small vessels might be read in this same light, by which two otherwise marginal developments emerge as indicators of flexibility among regional mariners. In contrast to the well-​k nown mare clausum, which seems more connected to the insurance and financing of interregional ventures,36 no such formal restrictions need to have limited operators carrying small loads over shorter distances. In their own home waters, mariners could more easily wait out an unhelpful wind or ominous sky, in summer and in winter, offering greater flexibility and reliability to the routine exchange of both goods and information. At this scale, overlap between exchange and fishing may have offered still more

  Cf. Katzev 2008, 79–​80.   Scheidel 2011,  28. 34   Cf. Hopkins 1983, 96–​97. 35   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 75–​76. 36   See c­ hapter 2, pp. 63–​64. 32 33

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flexibility in adapting to economic and environmental conditions, as mariners shared small port spaces, socioeconomic communities, geographical knowledge, and perhaps also similar multipurpose boats.37 Repetition of connections was key to fostering trust and economic integration on the whole. Much recent work on merchant networks has emphasized the importance of social relations in underpinning economic exchange across the sea; this principle holds not only for diasporas of Palmyrene and Nabataean merchants but also for those whose regional routine ensured face-​to-​face contact with their producing and consuming communities.38 The Lex Portorii Asiae hints at a certain degree of flexibility in how customs could be collected from merchants whose business took them regularly throughout the province.39 : : :

Emergence and Evolution of Maritime Networks This discrete regional scale accounts for the great majority of maritime archaeological evidence in the study area and reflects the primary scope of most communities’ direct participation in economies beyond the local. The diverse mariners and mechanisms behind connections suggest that both the shape of this regionalism and its relationship with larger patterns of interaction must have varied across the temporal and geographical breadth of the Roman world.40 The material record here reveals structures that were hardly static but rather shifted with the ebb and flow of maritime activity over the nine centuries under study. While the quantitative data attests to a flurry of maritime activity around the height of the Roman period and again in Late Antiquity, the intervening drop centered on the 3rd century highlights the most obvious possible break in maritime structures over this long term. The resulting two periods must be examined separately and comparatively. This dearth in wrecks dating to the Mid-​Roman era coincides with the commonly noted “crisis,” marked by drought, disease, political instability, inflation, and general economic uncertainty.41 Quantification   For the diverse practices of fishing in this small-​scale context and their interaction with other maritime activities, see c­ hapter 3, pp. 93–​97. Recent ethnographic work by Tartaron underscores the circumscribed geographies of marine knowledge and their development among long-​term practitioners in small maritime communities: Tartaron 2013, 265–​70; Tartaron 2018, 83–​88. 38   On Palmyrene merchants, see Schörle 2017; on Nabataean merchants, see Terpstra 2015. See also ­chapter 1, p. 12. 39   Corbier 2008,  220. 40   E.g., Leidwanger  2014a. 41   The economic situation around the 3rd century is addressed and problematized by many:  see especially De Blois 2002; Corbier 2005; Giardina 2007, 757–​64; Jongman 2007; Liebeschuetz 2007; Esmonde Cleary 2013, 18–​41. 37

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of shipwrecks at the Mediterranean scale reveals no hint of such a crisis in the 3rd century, when numbers of sites remain steady from the previous century and reflect substantially more sites than for any of the subsequent Late Antique centuries. The Mid-​Roman drop in our study area must therefore be understood either as an anomaly in the dataset or as a meaningful reflection of some geographically discrete economic downturn against a backdrop of ongoing maritime activity in other parts of the Mediterranean. The latter explanation seems preferable given the size of the present shipwreck sample and the apparent length of this dip at more than a century. When viewed individually, each part of the study area reveals this drop in activity, although the wreck data for southwest Turkey is more robust. The area also sees minimal evidence for activities centered on the many small ports that constituted the basis for regional interaction. The 3rd century seems to have brought some temporary downturn, but the effects were felt unevenly, striking hardest at some of the traditionally prosperous areas of the empire in the east. Yet trajectories are varied even within this basin, and the decline is more muted in the overall eastern Mediterranean dataset, highlighting the need for other spatial views of maritime economic development.42 This dearth of wrecks from around the 3rd century naturally divides the larger dataset into two nearly equivalent subsets for comparative analysis across periods; the contrast between the resulting two networks would seem to emphasize the validity of this division. Situating the earlier Roman peak in the study area against broader Mediterranean trends offers insights into the development of the network here with the arrival of imperial hegemony in the east. The Mediterranean as a whole shows increasing maritime activity in the last two centuries bc, reaching its busiest mark in the 1st century ad, while the peak in the east appears at least a half century earlier. By itself this slight distinction—​staggered peaks between otherwise parallel trajectories—​might be easy to overlook. It raises the possibility, though, of a westward maritime pivot from what was traditionally the wealthier, more urban, and perhaps more economically integrated east toward the core of the imperial heartland. The lack of strong Early Roman links between west and east among the study area cargos, even into the 2nd century ad, suggests that the offset trends may reflect discrete network developments, particularly given the bustling regional activity. These discrepancies raise questions regarding how a rising Roman maritime world intersected with preexisting structures. Was a Hellenistic system simply obliterated by a new Roman order? Was it absorbed into its successor? Could the broad Mediterranean-​w ide linkage of the Pax Romana have its roots in an extension of earlier structures out of the east?

  See also Alcock 2007, 696.

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One possible clue regarding the emergence of Roman interregional networking comes from the profiles of the earliest wrecks carrying cargos outside their regions. Of the 2nd-​and 1st-​century bc interregional cargos, the earliest three are found in the waters of Cyprus and contain goods drawn exclusively from the Aegean. This Aegean-​to-​Cyprus directionality may indicate that the eastern Mediterranean basin, and Cyprus and the Levant in particular, were important agents behind integration. The subsequent appearance in our study area of imports from the Italian orbit—​the homogenous Adriatic cargos of two 1st-​century bc wrecks at Yalıkavak (#14, #15)—​in turn raises questions regarding how regional economies and prior trajectories in the east responded to new interregional currents entering from the west.43 We might consider whether the in-​k ind mobilization of land taxes from the province of Asia may have helped generate specific longer-​distance movements that placed the Aegean more centrally within emerging Roman networks.44 These limited views of the networking process, though, can do little more than raise possibilities at present. With a greater sampling of wrecks from the last several centuries bc and the inclusion of earlier Hellenistic material, future distinction may be possible between a pre-​Roman network and an Early Roman one here, shedding new light on this issue of evolving structure. The emergence of the Late Antique network, on the other hand, offers much ground for analysis in the study area, particularly given the sharp divide around the Mid-​Roman maritime slump. A Late Antique boom in shipwreck numbers in these parts of the east contrasts starkly with the overall Mediterranean situation, which on the whole saw wreck numbers decline. The 4th century witnessed substantial falloff during its latter half, but the greatest Mediterranean-​w ide drop set in only around the turn of the 5th century, after which the decline continued for several centuries through the 7th before bottoming out with a near-​total dearth of activity in the 8th century.45 By contrast, both the southwest coast of Turkey and the area around the northeast Mediterranean entered their busiest period of maritime activity from the latter 4th and especially the 5th century. The 6th and early 7th centuries are also well represented along these shores and also at the scale of the eastern Mediterranean more broadly, where they reach a level of activity nearly as high as (if shorter-​lived than) that of the Early Roman era.46

  See generally Tchernia 1989; Woolf 1992; Rathbone 2007. For the south Aegean in this period, see Lawall 2004; Reger 2007a, 482–​83. For Cyprus and its neighboring mainland, see Lund 2015, 238–​4 4. 44   See c­ hapter 1, p. 10. 45   The present study ends with the close of the 7th century, but for details on this trajectory into the 8th century, see generally Parker 1992a, fig. 3; Wilson 2011b, 35–​36 figs. 2.3–​2.6. For discussion of the maritime evidence for this late period, see detailed discussion in McCormick 2001, 592–​604. 46   See also McCormick 2012, 86 fig. 3.13. 43

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Comparisons between east and west remain complicated by the basins’ uneven numbers of known wrecks, and certain areas of the west seem to have experienced their own rise in maritime activity during Late Antiquity.47 In general, however, it appears that the downturn must have been sufficiently grave in the west that overall Mediterranean figures obscure this uptick in activity across much of the east. Although coarser in resolution, the evidence for activities at our small ports points broadly in the same direction.48 An earlier Roman presence is certainly not lacking along south-​central Cyprus, but the Late Antique centuries were clearly the busiest, reflecting a general trajectory of growth also visible in the dense settlement throughout the countryside. Along the Datça peninsula, even if the number of ports remained relatively constant between periods, their proportion among all sites actually increases during the last centuries under study. Levels of use are difficult to gauge here, but the pattern may be more difficult to generalize: some ports appear to have been busier in the Roman period and others in Late Antiquity. In instances such as Burgaz, Late Antiquity represents a period of resurgence following a low-​key Roman (and Mid-​Roman) presence. For Cyprus, the increasing use of such simple spaces as beaches and coves is probably reflected in Bekker-​ Nielsen’s observation on the additions to the Cypriot road circuit:  several new Late Antique segments, often unpaved paths, lead from the main coastal circuit inland to the countryside and also down toward locations like Avdimou Bay.49 This trajectory toward greater importance of simple ports may also be inferred from Late Antique and Early Medieval traveler accounts of stopovers at beachside locations.50 One might imagine that an increase in wrecks and port-​based activity during any given period would signal a broader intensification of seafaring activity that would manifest itself likewise in more geographically extensive connections. That is, quantitative growth in maritime activity—​numbers of ships at sea and perhaps also larger ship sizes—​would go hand in hand with expanding geographic horizons; conversely, dwindling numbers of wrecks would correspond to more spatially limited networks. This does not appear to be the case in this study area. For the period of decline in overall shipwreck numbers from around the latter 2nd into the early 4th century, falling numbers do not seem to have been accompanied

  E .g., the Aeolian Islands: Castagnino Berlinghieri 2003, 95–​97 t­ ables 32–​34.   The slightly different periodizations of data along the Datça peninsula and south-​central Cyprus complicate comparisons, but the general trajectory is clear. 49   Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 116–​20. Farther west, another short spur is evident in the coastal road circuit leading to an anchorage near Palaipaphos (modern Kouklia): see Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 119. On the maritime landscape and local port here, see Howitt-​Marshall 2012. 50   Rougé 1978; McCormick 2001, 419–​21. 47

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by shrinking networks. The Mid-​Roman cargos here instead reflect the most consistently diverse and far-​flung connections in the dataset. In many cases, these ships were carrying goods from outside the east, including from the still comparatively bustling western Mediterranean: southern Gaul (Fig Tree Bay South A, #31), North Africa (Kumlu Burun A, #33), and the Adriatic and Black Sea (İskandil Burnu B, #32). This contrast suggests that the mechanisms moving goods within our regions and those driving movements of goods interregionally may not have been well integrated or codependent. That is, maritime activities at different scales may have been largely distinct and conducted independently here during this time. Separate network structures would have allowed trans-​Mediterranean exchange to continue for certain mariners and markets while regional activity, at least in our areas of focus, ground nearly to a halt. Our lone Mid-​Roman cargo circulating within its region involves an assemblage of probable east Cretan jars that sank near the southwest Turkish coast (Knidos I, #34). Urban centers continued to import, in contrast to the temporary reduction in activity at small ports noted earlier.51 Such different 3rd-​century experiences may not be surprising given the strong connection of regional distribution to the countryside.52 The sample size remains small for this key transformative period, so observations based on the few cargos at hand should be read as hypotheses for future testing. An expanded dataset might productively approach shorter-​term patterns by modeling a discrete Mid-​Roman network. From the 4th century onward, the maritime world of the study area was shrinking geographically, but it was also experiencing more integration within the east than before. Although relatively weak, the long-​distance links that characterized prior Roman activity here involved cargos drawn from well outside the study area, some with far-​flung material assemblages that served a crucial structural role in connecting disparate corners of the empire. Exotic cargo components are important indicators of the spatial scale of economic interaction achieved under Rome, but these imports seem to have been disconnected from much of the traffic circulating regionally in this corner of the Mediterranean.53 This disjoint between scales of interaction aligns well with Bransbourg’s assertion, based largely on price distributions, of only limited market integration rather than the unified economy advocated by Temin.54 With the uptick in activity during Late Antiquity, those connections to the central and western Mediterranean that had threaded together

  On Mid-​Roman imports to urban centers on Cyprus, see Kaldeli 2008, 268.   On survey evidence for the Mid-​Roman countryside, see generally Pettegrew 2007, 747 table 1. For Cyprus, see Rautman 2000, 323. 53   Cf. Kaldeli 2009; Kaldeli 2013. 54   Bransbourg 2012. Cf. Temin 2001; Kessler and Temin 2008; Temin 2012. 51

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the loose and uneven but extensive Roman network were largely abandoned here. At the same time, this renewed maritime activity saw stronger integration among the east’s thriving regional economies as cargo assemblages reflect, on the whole, more than single regions. The average number of geographical links per shipwreck cargo increased by what may have been a comparatively small percentage, but this increase was evidently enough to generate much stronger interregional structures. The resulting Late Antique maritime world was bustling both regionally and interregionally, but its network was now largely consolidated around the dense core of the eastern Mediterranean basin, Aegean, and Black Sea. Urban import records on Cyprus reveal this same trajectory, with the shedding of earlier Roman links to the west.55 These developments over the long term within the study area raise some intriguing possibilities regarding the formation and continuity of maritime networks. The Aegean view moves from loosely connected but busy and largely regional (Aegean-​focused) Early Roman maritime activity toward a hub of key eastern Mediterranean connections in Late Antiquity. Cyprus and its adjacent mainland, however, emerge as most central with the growth of maritime activity in these later centuries. This shift in centrality from the Aegean to Cyprus/​Cilicia/​ N Levant (to return to the spatial units used for network analysis) is all the more noteworthy given that the shipwreck dataset on which it is based is slanted heavily toward the (southeast) Aegean. If maritime activity within discrete regions played the most quantitatively significant role, as seems to be the case for both major periods, then we might expect these small single-​area cargos to bolster the centrality of their own respective regions. The Aegean should then dominate network centrality not only during the Roman era but also in later centuries given the much larger dataset from this part of the study area. This is evidently not the case. A closer geographical view of the material evidence reveals more nuance to the dynamics between these areas. The growing centrality of Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant is based not on cargos from that particular corner of the study area but on two factors: first, the emergence of the S Levant in this network, which places Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant in the middle of a central corridor, and second, the presence of materials from Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant within assemblages outside their region, namely on sites from along southwest Turkey. By contrast, few Aegean products appear on vessels off these northeast Mediterranean shores during this same period; a strong east-​to-​west orientation (i.e., Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant to Aegean) underlies the intensified interregional links of Late Antiquity. That is, maritime activity between regions primarily involved goods moving from the

  Kaldeli 2008, 232–​34.

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east—​including this corner and the Levant more generally—​toward the Aegean. This pattern contrasts with what may be an opposite orientation during the last centuries bc, a situation that merits further discussion alongside potentially related trends “From Maritime Archaeologies to Economic Histories.” For the moment, however, it should be noted that the general network view of an area like Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant is rather different depending on whether the vantage point is inside or outside the region; revealing this deeper network texture necessitates multiple convergent analytical approaches. Viewing the numbers of wrecks in the study area alongside the eastern Mediterranean picture provides still more insights into the relationship between economic recovery and the emergence of these Late Antique network structures. Southwest Turkey sees a comparatively early rebound in the latter 4th century, with a sudden jump to levels unseen since the 1st century ad; around the northeast corner of the Mediterranean, growth is only detectable from the 5th century.56 This distinction could be an artifact of the comparatively fewer wrecks available for this eastern part of the study area. Yet the further contrast between southwest Turkey and the general eastern Mediterranean situation—​which sees a pronounced uptick only from the 6th century—​seems to indicate that different parts of the east took off at different points. Given that Late Antiquity saw better maritime integration of the east than the earlier Roman era, the offset patterns in this chronology can help us understand the comparative roles of different regions in the emergence of new network dynamics. Its earlier start raises the possibility that southwest Turkey may have been among the first to recover economically from the Mid-​Roman slump. If so, this region’s position in the network and its early momentum may have resulted in it playing a leading role in the broader recovery that spread gradually across the eastern Mediterranean over the following years. We should expect that growth and structural development of maritime interaction would unfold unevenly across the eastern Mediterranean. Network models like those offered here necessarily collapse material assemblages from centuries into a select few snapshots that can hardly capture the varied diachronic trajectories of a rich maritime archaeological record. The evidence at hand suggests that the Late Antique network’s evolution, like the emerging Roman one a half millennium earlier, represented a gradual and dynamic process. Having used individual wrecks as the data points throughout this study, it is worth returning briefly to the question of ship and cargo sizes in an effort to explore the detail and diversity within this common analytical unit. My approach

56   Growth from the 5th century is also evident from landscape survey on Cyprus: e.g., Caraher et al. 2014, 291–​95.

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rejects the common practice of lumping all ships under 70–​80 tons into a single category of “small,” thereby glossing over potential diversity in mariners and mechanisms.57 The few reasonably secure tonnage figures among the cargos studied here prevent incorporation of size into our formal modeling, but we can still seek general trends and patterns to attach to the network structures described earlier. The tonnages would appear to follow Nantet’s general outline: smaller vessels are consistently visible across periods, while larger vessels peak in the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman era.58 The biggest ships that mark the material record here—​which hardly approach the largest by Mediterranean standards—​are concentrated in the last century bc. The two wrecks of exclusively Adriatic jars at Yalıkavak (#14, #15) reflect interregional traffic that shows little local connection.59 The vessels may have been passing through the southeast Aegean when they were lost off the tip of the Bodrum peninsula. In Late Antiquity, nothing approaching this size appears again in the archaeological record of the study area, and in general the Mediterranean of this period seems to have seen a reduction in maximum vessel size.60 The few larger late cargos still reflect more limited tonnages than their earlier counterparts and are again generally tied to interregional exchange. In this case, they exhibit strong eastern connections, particularly along the important axis of Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant to the Aegean: for example, the ca. 52-​and 36-​ton amphora loads excavated at Yassıada (#38, #64), and perhaps also certain assemblages surveyed in deeper waters near Knidos (#53, #59). Comparatively few assemblages are sufficiently preserved here to allow tonnage estimates, and it is important not to conflate small surviving archaeological assemblages with small ancient loads. In general, however, those identified as small cargos are connected to voyages within regions: for example, the 4–​6 tons that comprise the cargos of the Fig Tree Bay South A (#31) and Cape Zevgari A (#45) wrecks.61 These small shipments fall routinely near the lower end of the broad range of up to 70–​80 tons traditionally discussed together as “small,” a spectrum that includes even most of those described previously as the “larger” cargos within the study area. In this context, it is worth recalling the Seleucia inscription noted earlier, which exempted vessels carrying under about 7–​8 tons from certain local port taxes.62   See c­ hapter 2, p. 48.   Nantet 2016, 121–​63. 59   The actual quantities of amphoras from these two surveyed wrecks are unknown, but the surface numbers recorded by Brennan and colleagues (544 and 365) clearly reflect just the top of much larger cargos, particularly given the surface area of the wrecks and their significant depths: see Brennan et al. 2012, 64 t­ ables 1–​2. See also Carlson 2014, 61 n. 41. 60   Nantet 2016, 153–​60; McCormick 2001, 415. 61   For calculations, see Leidwanger 2011, 370–​73; Leidwanger 2013b, 200–​2. 62   See earlier, p. 205. 57

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Like so many other variables here, the particular mix of ship and cargo sizes probably shifted across the geographical and temporal breadth of the Roman world, and better evidence for this variation could shed new light on the diverse mechanisms behind regionalism and integration. At present, this contrast of “small” underscores the need to rethink—​and to define more explicitly in each case—​t he particular ships, cargos, and mariners that characterized different facets of multiscalar networks. Within this context of evolving networks and contrasting scales of maritime activity, certain hints of changing shipbuilding and seafaring practices become particularly meaningful. Chapter 2 discussed the new options brought about by the introduction of “skeleton-​first” hull construction, including perhaps savings in labor, time, and resources thanks to less demanding carpentry and lighter timbering.63 Some vessels came to assume a more box-​like shape, better suited for maximizing cargo space at the expense of performance. By contrast, the finer lines of the Yassıada A ship (#64) have been attributed to an interest in speed.64 Pitch coating offered a reliable, lighter, and cheaper alternative to lead sheathing. While different merchant priorities, environments, and resources would have dictated different optimal solutions to hull shape and construction, these new Late Antique developments offered shipwrights alternative choices in economy and efficiency.65 This period also saw the more rapid adoption of the lateen sail, a rig design that had been available for centuries. It apparently offered no significantly better performance into the wind, but its lower costs for assembly and maintenance made it a popular choice with the shifting economic and labor environment.66 These maritime technological developments would have benefited mariners across the spectrum. Larger merchants could have more effectively maximized their investments and distributed their risk. Smaller operators and regional economies, though, may have stood to gain the most since many of these developments served to lower the entry point into maritime activity. The identification of differences across time and space should not cause us to overlook consistent patterns of interaction in the study area. Cargos drawn from a single delimited area and representing short round-​trip sails remained the defining form of mobility for regional maritime economies of the Roman east. These are the most numerous sites during both periods, even as assemblages became more geographically diverse during Late Antiquity. Some measure of consistency in maritime practices is to be expected since traditional livelihoods of small   See c­ hapter 2, p. 45. See also generally Hopkins 1983, 97; Wilson 2011b, 42.   Steffy 1982,  84–​86. 65   Royal 2002, 185–​87; Kingsley 2004, 62; Pomey 2011; Wilson 2011c, 217–​24. 66   W hitewright 2009; Whitewright 2011a, 100–​101. See also discussion in ­chapter 2, pp. 55–​57. 63

64

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mariners may have tended toward the conservative.67 Small was the norm for these regional vessels, a consistent feature to which Braudel calls attention even as late as the 16th and 17th centuries, noting that ships under 50–​100 tons outnumbered larger vessels 10-​fold.68 Yet the vessels here, or at least their cargos, skew toward the smaller end of the size spectrum, with many reflecting just a fraction of the tonnages that have been grouped together as “small” by scholars. Simple and unassuming ports, densely lining the coasts but often lacking any significant infrastructure, were the most routine destinations for these ships. Such spaces formed the basis for robust regional economic integration that extended beyond the cities and throughout the countryside. Linking these regions, the corridor between the Aegean and Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant remains a prominent feature across the networks from the earlier Roman era through Late Antiquity. : : :

From Maritime Archaeologies to Economic Histories Changes in the material record of shipwrecks and ports reveal clues to the development of Roman networking during the last centuries bc; certain hints of drastic changes to come from the mid-​7 th century are also not hard to find in our latest assemblages. But the central transformation in this part of the east, and the one around which our datasets are organized, is the shift from the Early Roman era into Late Antiquity. The contrasts identified earlier in the maritime archaeological evidence should be understood against a backdrop of historical continuity and change. Networks can exert their own momentum and agency, becoming a force of either persistence or change over time.69 But similar structures and features can also arise independently based on comparable economic (and related social and political) conditions. To understand whether similarities in patterns of maritime activity and interaction on either side of the Mid-​Roman divide amount to continuities across the transformation requires that we contextualize interaction and integration within the long-​term economic development of the eastern Mediterranean. But beyond fitting into prevailing historical narratives, this multiscalar approach offers a critical framework to inform new and spatially grounded economic histories using the diverse maritime archaeological record. The strong regionalism that characterizes the bulk of earlier and later maritime activity reflects a natural extension of agricultural economies. Integrated 67   See the ethnographic observations on seafaring livelihoods together with discussion of possible implications for our understanding of Bronze Age Mediterranean maritime activity in Tartaron 2013, 265–​70; Tartaron 2018, 83–​88. 68   Braudel 1972,  296. 69   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 55–57.

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through small ports and short but dense links, these regions were predicated on mobilizing and distributing primary and processed agricultural goods, suggesting that they were generated by consistent or at least comparable Roman and Late Antique economic conditions. With so many discrete communities engaged in similar pursuits and tied to the sea through these bottom-​up processes, the resulting dynamics embody—​at a distinctly regional scale—​the basic push and pull of fragmentation and connectivity described by Horden and Purcell.70 The ease and regularity of connections on this spatial scale would likely have fostered common knowledge, trust, and considerable integration of supply and demand as well as prices, allowing regions to serve as the basis for markets of staple goods. With regional interaction dependent on agriculture, the fate of economic regions becomes tied to conditions in the countryside. Regional maritime activity might decline with setbacks in agricultural settlement and productivity but could bounce back with improvement in rural livelihoods. This is precisely the correlation we see during the Mid-​Roman period in our study area, where parallel drops can be traced in shipwreck numbers, small port activity, and rural settlement. The resurgent maritime regions from the latter 4th and 5th centuries follow an uptick in what has been appropriately described as the “busy countryside” of Late Antiquity.71 Mounting archaeological evidence for agricultural continuity and even growth in many parts of the empire speaks against an overall decline, and this rebound may have included not only the large landowners from earlier centuries but also new smaller producers.72 Readily available coinage, even if produced first and foremost to meet the needs of the state, also probably helped streamline the commercial movement of agricultural goods into the market.73 Examining the development of local agricultural economies through transport amphoras, Reynolds has stressed robust and generally self-​sufficient regional and local exchange as the fundamental basis for the broader Late Antique prosperity.74 A mosaic of regions functioning according to their own internal rhythms fits well with the profile of variation in mariners and maritime activities emphasized in

  Horden and Purcell 2000. See c­ hapter 1, p. 104.   For the “busy countryside,” see Rautman 2000 (Cyprus); Pettegrew 2007 (Greece); Deligiannakis 2008 (Dodecanese); Izdebski 2013 (Anatolia). For important early investigations, see especially the work on Syria in Tchalenko 1953–​1958. On Cyprus, survey in the Vasilikos Valley brought to light at least 32 sites during the prosperous Early Roman period, a number that rises to 44 during the unprecedentedly prosperous Late Roman centuries:  Rautman 2003; Todd 2004; Todd 2013. See also more generally the discussion of the trajectories of rural change and growth in Late Antiquity in Whittaker and Garnsey 1998; Decker 2001; Papacostas 2001; Rautman 2001; Decker 2009; Grey 2012. 72   W hittaker and Garnsey 1998, 285–​87 and 298. 73   Carrié 1993, 775–​82; Carrié 2003b, 277–​78; Banaji 2006. 74   Reynolds  2018. 70 71

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c­ hapters 2 and 3: not one sea “sixty days long” as Braudel famously described,75 but rather a variety of seas scaled to their own particular communities, mariners, and mechanisms. These new regional economies may have been somewhat larger in geographical scope than their previous Roman iterations, but the fundamental character and agricultural basis appear unchanged. Interregional connections in turn can reflect the integration of markets and the creation of new ones across maritime spaces of the Mediterranean. In this sense, it is worth recalling that interregional cargos, though always a distant minority, are the only ones that appear consistently throughout the nine centuries of interest, including during the Mid-​Roman decline in regional activity. Maritime interaction on a broader scale seems to have carried on, independent of setbacks that took their economic toll on certain regional contexts. At least within the present study area, these farther-​flung cargos are generally also composed of processed goods tied to agricultural economies. Their circulation on a larger spatial scale, however, reveals a level of preferential consumption, particularly in urban settings that were likely the major links for interregional merchants and voyages. Some cities experienced a decline in population and wealth from around the 3rd century, and some were even abandoned in Late Antiquity; others, however, increased in size and prosperity during these same centuries, including in our study area.76 In short, urban centers were still important concentrations of wealth and consumption and therefore remained driving forces behind much longer-​distance movement, irrespective of different regional economic downturns.77 Looking broadly across the Roman world, this interregional maritime scale—​featuring different mechanisms, ports, and probably more specialized merchants—​ensured the maintenance of lifestyles to which Romans had become accustomed.78 Russell’s inventory of marble and other stone-​carrying wrecks, for example, indicates a peak of shipments precisely in the 3rd century as well as a pull on these resources toward the imperial heartland of Italy.79 The persistence of maritime activity across nine centuries might therefore be understood as an indicator of entrenched urban lifestyles in the face of economic and demographic challenges that struck the empire unevenly. Beyond sustaining the masses and catering to the tastes of increasingly wealthy elites in the city (and on the estates

  Braudel 1972,  387.   E.g., Trombley  1987. 77   Garnsey and Whittaker 1998, 326–​28. 78   On urban centers as integral components of the Roman port networks more generally, see Arnaud 2016. 79   Russell 2011, 144–​47 and figs. 8.3–​8.4; Russell 2013b, 344–​49 and figs. 3–​5. See also the discussion in Wilson 2011b, 37–​38. 75

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from which they drew resources),80 these movements ensured imperial survival also through public building and military sustenance. Yet none of these broader network structures required that all regions flourish uniformly or simultaneously. The vastness of the Mediterranean and its ecologically fractal nature outlined by Horden and Purcell provided enough redundancy that interregional movements could continue despite some regional setbacks. At this scale, the system was sufficiently robust to meet urban needs even when suppliers changed as different regions prospered and economic conditions shifted.81 With their grounding in distinct economic contexts, regional and interregional systems reveal considerable interaction but also flexibility. Regions clearly could flourish or falter independently of broader Mediterranean-​w ide trends, as we see in our study area during the Mid-​Roman period. Interregional movements depended on regional economies to mobilize agricultural goods, and changing demand could therefore contribute to regional patterns of growth or decline. That different regions of the east experienced varied periods of growth in Late Antiquity is clear from the maritime archaeological data: recovery set in from the latter 4th century in the Aegean and then spread across Cyprus, its adjacent mainland, and the eastern Mediterranean more generally. The contours of this resurgence and the simultaneous consolidation of interregional connections within the east offer an opportunity to explore possible structural interdependence of these Late Antique economies. The consistent presence of materials from Cyprus/​ Cilicia/​N Levant alongside Aegean goods in cargos off southwest Turkey gives this axis a strong east-​to-​west orientation. Together, these features would seem to suggest that some interregional gravitational pull, from the Aegean or beyond, may have helped stimulate maritime activities in our study area. The official shift of empire toward the east from the 4th century presents the most obvious possibility for a sudden pull and economic stimulus.82 Demands for agricultural and other goods rose sharply as elites and masses converged on the new imperial capital, swelling it from perhaps 20,000 before Constantine to 500,000 (or even a bit more) by the era of Justinian.83 The city’s own productive hinterland could hardly keep pace with such growth, and repeated efforts to improve and dramatically expand port infrastructure underscore the integral connective role played by the local maritime landscape.84 From 332, Alexandria was   Garnsey and Whittaker 1998, 335–​37; Whittaker and Garnsey 1998, 299–​304.   For the case of changing imports to Rome, see most famously Tchernia 1986; Panella and Tchernia 1994. For Cyprus, see Kaldeli 2008; Kaldeli 2009; Kaldeli 2013. 82   McCormick 1998; Kingsley and Decker 2001, 2–​9; Panella 2001, 179–​80; Deligiannakis 2016, 95–​96. 83   Mango 1985, 51; Durliat 1990, 259–​61. 84   See generally Müller-​Wiener 1994; Dark 2005; Berger 2015; Daim 2016. See also Magdalino 2000; Mango 2000. 80 81

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charged with supplying much of the new capital’s needed grain: perhaps 80,000 benefited directly from the annona under Justinian, but another 400,000 or more also needed to be fed through commerce.85 The construction of grain warehouses on the small island of Tenedos, just 20 km outside the Hellespont, enhanced the reliability of supply for the capital by divorcing it from the seasonal circuits of the Alexandrian grain fleets. If large freighters were prevented by strong northerly winds and currents from entering the Hellespont—​evidently a precarious but common situation—​t hey could stop, unload, and set off on their return journey without delay, thereby allowing multiple round trips within the year. Local mariners ferried the grain the remaining distance from Tenedos to Constantinople on their own schedule whenever conditions permitted.86 Among the (at least) 37 wrecks uncovered at Yenikapı are many that have been interpreted as small and local merchant craft; these are mostly of later Byzantine date but surely point to the types of mariners and short-​haul movements within the area that would have converged on the city’s harbors in these earlier centuries.87 But grain was just one of several staples, and we might read the development of Constantinople’s immediate northeastern Aegean and southern Pontic hinterlands as tied to this massive demographic growth. The expansion of the wine industry and its associated amphora workshops at Sinope offers one of the clearer examples of economic growth almost certainly tied to this same gravity.88 This pull on the system created by the massive market of the capital compares with the earlier situation in the Tyrrhenian and central Mediterranean more broadly, where certain key maritime economies and connections were organized around the needs of Rome.89 It should come as no surprise that the shift of imperial capital created new opportunities and demands on the east and its mechanisms of maritime distribution. Major transfers of food and other goods were also necessitated by the renewed or ongoing prosperity of other major cities and the growth of military garrisons in the east, now numbering some 300,000–​400,000.90 The residents of Alexandria accounted for nearly an equal number, and although the city had been a major population concentration for centuries, responsibility for meeting its import needs

  Sirks 1991, 323–​27.   Procop. De Aed. 5.1.7–​16; Barnes 2006. 87   E .g., Kocabaş 2015, 11–​18; Pulak et al. 2015, 57–​62. 88   On the massive growth of Sinope, see Kassab Tezgör 2010a; Kassab Tezgör 2010b. For glimpses of Late Antique shipping in this area, see Kassab Tezgör et  al. 1998; Ballard et  al. 2001; Ward and Ballard 2004. 89   Purcell 1996; Schörle 2011; Keay 2012; Wilson et al. 2012, 379–​84. 90   McCormick 2012, 85. See generally ­chapter 1, p. 11. 85

86

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now fell exclusively on the east.91 Together these drew more—​and more distant—​ economies into the orbit of consumer centers, especially Constantinople. By the latter 4th century, the southeast Aegean was suddenly more central to larger economic networks, and even the quietly prosperous backwater of Cyprus was soon closer—​not only geographically but also in network terms—​to the center of action than ever before when Rome was the capital. Thereafter, exports from these areas appear quickly and routinely near the Danube.92 Viewed in this light, the interregional activities prompted by changing focal points of consumption, combined with the loss or greater (network) distance of certain productive regions in the west, seem to have helped stimulate new development within eastern regions. The resulting pull from the top suggests greater integration and interdependence between maritime scales than in previous centuries here; the ensuing trajectory reveals a crucial capacity of regional economies, which had generally followed their own distinct paths thus far, to respond in part to interregional structures, albeit through their own particular internal dynamics. That interregional patterns could help drive regional economic growth seems clear enough here, but this development ultimately raises the next (and longstanding) question of the extent to which this interregional exchange was itself driven by the state or private commerce.93 Wickham, for example, sees the Roman state, particularly its taxation, as the essential driving factor behind interregional connections that enabled a Mediterranean “world system” based on the large-​scale fiscal movements of bulk everyday goods; once this structure was removed in Late Antiquity, he argues, the system was allowed to fragment into its constituent regional economies.94 While it is generally impossible here to weigh—​or even to distinguish—​state and commercial mechanisms within these different network scales and links or the individual cargos that created them,95 two observations seem reasonable to assert for the study area: first, the state played an important role in helping generate interregional connections here during Late Antiquity, whether directly through military and urban provisioning or indirectly through the creation of new centers of gravity, and second, this role was dependent on and inextricably linked to a larger world of diverse commercial exchanges that moved the bulk of goods both within and among regions.   Population estimates for Alexandria are notoriously difficult, as for any ancient urban center, but see generally Delia 1988; Scheidel 2004; Papaconstantinou 2012. 92   E .g., Karagiorgou 2001; Sazanov 2007; Rizos 2015. 93   A strong hand of the state in exchange is a particularly common theme in studies focusing on Late Antiquity: see most importantly Jones 1964; Abadie-​Reynal 1989; Durliat 1998. The proportions of each are of course impossible to know: see Garnsey and Whittaker 1998, 316–​22; McCormick 1998. 94   Wickham  2005. 95   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 84–​89. 91

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Sufficient gravitational pull meant that equivalent shipments in the opposite direction were not always a strict economic necessity. Even so, interregional imports into the study area include likely return cargos, which reflect evolving connections and the economic benefits of new integration. Particularly conspicuous is the sudden increase throughout the eastern Mediterranean basin of processed agricultural goods from the Black Sea. While Pontic amphoras were not unknown on slightly earlier wrecks here—​an assemblage appears among the 3rd-​ century İskandil Burnu B cargo (#32)—​t heir presence is especially marked from around the latter 4th and especially the 5th century (Kepez Tepe A, #36; probably Arwad B, #46). Seen in the light of Constantinople’s centrality, the otherwise anomalous load of Late Antique Black Sea imports in the eastern Mediterranean from the İnce Burun (Kalkan) A wreck (#42) makes sense as the product of an economic network: the vessel off the Lycian coast was seemingly headed into the eastern Mediterranean on one leg of an interregional journey that earlier may have delivered agricultural goods to the imperial capital. Sinopean carrot-​shaped amphoras became so commonplace in certain contexts here that a massive deposit of sherds at Seleucia was once thought to represent a production center. Only later study indicated their more likely explanation as routine debris from warehousing of imports to the city; this city played a key role in the mobilization of Syrian and Cilician goods, especially oil, for other markets like Constantinople.96 Certain finewares may likewise have benefited from their fortuitous network topography.97 The merchants who now converged on Constantinople and its region also found opportunities for higher-​end cargos. Unusually rich Proconnesian marble decorations shipped in for monumental projects (especially basilicas) at Cape Drepanon, on the western tip of Cyprus, have been linked to this otherwise unpromising site’s location as an anchorage stopover for Alexandrian grain ships.98 Exotic imports were thus hardly relegated to major urban centers during Late Antiquity, and even the occasional Sinopean jar found its way within a regional circuit into the houses of Kopetra.99 Of course movements of processed agricultural staples

96   On the initial identification, see Empereur and Picon 1989, 237–​39. See also Kassab Tezgör and Touma 2001. For restudy and clarification of the context, see Reynolds 2005, 566. On the mobilization of surplus oil in this area, see Decker 2001; Decker 2009; Elton 2005. The Sinopean production of late jars sharing morphological traits with the LR1 type might best be viewed in this light of close interregional connection and economic coordination of the two areas: cf. Pieri 2012, 47–​48. 97   E .g., Phocaean Red Slip Ware from the Aegean: see Abadie-​Reynal 1989; Wickham 1998, 284. 98   Bakirtzis 1995; Michaelides 2001. See also more generally Papageorghiou 1985; Papacostas 2001, 115–​20; Nicolaou 2013. For the eastern Mediterranean broadly, see Sodini 1989. 99   On Sinopean wine at Kopetra, see Rautman 2003, 198. See also the discussion of imports to Pyla-​ Koutsopetria in Caraher et al. 2014, 295; and more generally Whittow 2013.

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between these two scales were on the whole asymmetrical.100 This corridor was formalized by Justinian in his provincial reorganization of 536, when Cyprus, together with Caria, the Aegean Islands, Scythia Minor, and Moesia Secunda, were assigned to the Quaestor of the Army (Quaestura Exercitus). Peculiar from a geographical standpoint, the arrangement was seemingly built on a preexisting network structure and may be understood as an attempt to reinforce and routinize interregional links.101 If regularity of activity was the key to the formation of maritime economic markets, both within and among regions, then the vibrant interregional exchange and bustling regions suggest a stronger multiscalar integration of eastern Mediterranean markets than ever before. The 6th century reflected a high point in prosperity for the east, despite well-​documented and severe social and economic challenges like climate change as well as disease that set in from the time of Justinian.102 This strong interregional system may have contributed a certain level of resilience in the face of pressures throughout the 6th century, even if the same ships spread disease.103 The century that followed, however, brought different and variable trajectories ranging from long-​term environmental challenges to devastating wars against Persia followed by raids and conflict with the emergent power from Arabia.104 Within a few generations, Constantinople lost control of much of its economically prosperous territory, and parts of our study area that were once heartland became new frontier. The capital city may have remained the central hub for Mediterranean maritime activity,105 but the rapidly shrinking network surrounding it raises questions regarding the practical impact these structures may have had on this process of disintegration. During periods of economic growth, network integration and efficiency offered obvious benefits. Yet it is worth considering whether this same structure may have presented challenges in the context of rapid downturn and loss of productive regions. Could interregional 100    Far greater numbers of these Black Sea jars—​ at least the ones that made it beyond Constantinople—​a rrived at the docks of larger ports such as Seleucia and from there to urban centers like Antioch, which drew from both the nearby region and the farther reaches of the empire. Cf. “consumer city” models discussed in ­chapter 1, p. 7. See generally Uggeri 2006. 101   Lokin 1986, 7; Swan 2004; Swan 2007. For background on the local provincial structures here, see c­ hapter 1, pp. 17–​18. 102   On 6th-​century prosperity in this part of the eastern Mediterranean, see generally Tate 1992 (Syria); Bagnall 1993 (Egypt); Foss 1994 (Lycia); Whittow 2001 (Asia Minor); Decker 2009 (Syria); Deligiannakis 2016 (Aegean). For the plague and its economic aftermath, see Meier 2016; Harper 2017, 199–​245. 103   The pressures and resilience of 6th-​ century Antioch are addressed in Mordechai 2019. McCormick 1998 draws together key evidence for the maritime mobility of disease and its vector. 104   See generally the contributions in Izdebski and Mulryan 2019. 105   Magdalino 2016.

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integration have left economic networks more exposed to collapse? Disruptions at one scale, if sufficiently widespread, may have had more drastic impacts on other scales to which they were tightly linked. As we have seen, flexibility in earlier Roman interregional networks may have allowed them to adapt to the varied regional economic (and other) problems of the 3rd century. Given its reduced size, the broad Late Antique world may not have so effectively withstood downturns as it had before. Could tighter integration and consolidation have rendered the structure less flexible to change and less resilient to shock? Testing this notion would require maritime archaeological evidence of later centuries for comparison, but at least a few clues suggest that decline and disintegration, like earlier growth and integration, were uneven. As had been the case in the west for some time, regions of the east now faced variable histories. Urban decline and settlement changes seem to have set in throughout the northern Balkans by the 6th century.106 The rich and densely populated lands of Syria may have suffered economic setbacks in the 6th century, but they largely prospered throughout the political transformation of the 7th and well into the 8th century (or longer).107 Palestine seems to have fared similarly well.108 On Cyprus, the mid-​7 th century has long been linked to widespread decline, especially in urban centers, but some parts of the island seem to have been fading already earlier, and others flourished later into the century and beyond.109 Some connections can be detected across the eastern Mediterranean basin into the 8th century. It seems generally clear, though, that interregional network links were in many cases disrupted or reoriented across much of the study area starting especially in the latter 7th century.110 The different regional cadences here clearly demonstrate that this was a complex process rather than a single trajectory,111 one in which regional economic disruptions may eventually have left the broader interregional network less resilient to the large-​scale political, social, and environmental challenges it faced in the last years of antiquity. : : :

Further Journeys Threaded through the various preceding discussions, particularly those in ­chapters  4 and 5, has been a common desire for more (or more detailed) data.   Curta  2001.   Kennedy 1985; Walmsley 2007; Haldon 2010. 108   Magness  2003. 109   Papageorghiou 1993; Papacostas 2001, 120–​21; Cosentino 2013. 110   E.g., Armstrong  2009. 111   See generally McCormick 2001, 1–​119; Wickham 2005, 693–​824; Haldon 2012. 106 107

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Thanks to their collection into geospatial databases, the corpuses of shipwrecks and ports now offer more analytical possibilities than ever before but likewise lay bare the geographical, temporal, and other unevenness in our evidence. While this concluding chapter has focused on the varied persistent or changing scales and structures that characterized the Roman and Late Antique east, the image of networks here reflects the particular vantage point of the chosen study area. In the case of ports, the view is informed by a subset of studies consisting of limited stretches of the Turkish and Cypriot coasts. Comparative analysis of maritime material assemblages from other regional contexts, both within the east and beyond, would allow this picture to expand and zoom out: for example, the dense record of shipwrecks off Israel would offer an ideal opportunity to test further the emergence and evolution of networks in the east; the rich datasets off Sicily or southern France would provide alternative views of changing dynamics from central and western Mediterranean perspectives. At the same time, more intensive shipwreck survey could help provide improved baseline data for quantitative studies. Larger and finer-​grained assemblages would allow tracking along shorter temporal intervals, the exploration of intersections with pre-​Roman and later Byzantine structures only hypothesized here, and perhaps also the identification of more diversity within and among our regions. But the potential for better and more data should not discourage us from recognizing and pursuing the research paths already open to us with the evidence at hand, a maritime material record that is both quantitatively and qualitatively richer than ever. Key to maximizing these new opportunities are methodologies that can bridge the low-​resolution bulk data with the more limited but high-​resolution data of individual cargos and ports. In this sense, the approach employed here offers a single eastern Mediterranean Roman case study but also a model that might be more broadly employable. The particular dynamics of mobility and communication, the shape and nature of regions, and their interaction will no doubt vary geographically and temporally, but a systematic focus on scales and their integration can help guide research into the development and structuring of maritime economies. Given the high cost in time and resources required to investigate in full any maritime site, the numbers of such projects are bound to remain small. It is therefore imperative that we make the most of each, especially in light of the mounting threats to Mediterranean underwater cultural heritage (looting, destructive fishing, offshore development) and a growing emphasis on balancing intrusive investigations with in situ preservation as a core component of responsible long-​term management.112 “Meticulous studies of individual

  U NESCO 2001. See also Guérin and Egger 2010, 98–​99; Greene et al. 2011.

112

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shipwrecks show us more when viewed against the broader backdrop of all shipwrecks,” argues McCormick.113 Yet a rich picture of maritime regionalism and integration depends on more than just shipwrecks and ports; it requires situating this material record alongside other major indicators of mobility, interaction, and economic development throughout the hinterlands. Much work remains to be done, and other Roman seas demand attention. With the case studies explored here, though, I hope to have demonstrated one approach through which a more complex and multiscalar picture of Mediterranean maritime economies can emerge by making the most of the strengths within the unique archaeological record of shipwrecks and ports.

  McCormick 2012,  80.

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Chapter 6

Maritime Networks in the Roman East Electing a spatial perspective on the organization of economic process—​be it for local patterns, regional cadences, or inter-​regional flows—​offers one way to follow out alternative sets of behavior, while still allowing for their mutual influence, if not outright integration. —​A lcock (2007, 695)

The multiscalar approach throughout this study emphasizes the complexity of movement and interaction within maritime economies. For the eastern Mediterranean, a spatial perspective means situating connections in the distinctive contexts that produced them, adding texture and dynamism to a maritime world often portrayed as flat, frictionless, and infinitely connected. The bewildering array of distant relationships, whether merchant diasporas or far-​flung goods, can make the Roman Mediterranean seem like a singular and uniformly integrated maritime space. Yet the networks that linked individuals and communities were necessarily rooted in a marine geography that afforded its own particular environmental challenges and opportunities, variously favoring some connections over others. At the same time, different social, technological, and political variables fundamentally shaped the human geography on which maritime economies were built. Exploring the contours and diversity in these connections necessitates that we examine structure as a whole and in parts, looking comparatively across Mediterranean spaces and the breadth of the long Roman world. The archaeological record provides a bottom-​up and diachronic perspective on the varied mariners, cargos, ships, and ports that mark different scales and their intersections within evolving Mediterranean networks. In this final chapter, I evaluate the structural features of Roman maritime economic networks and their major changes between the early centuries and Late Antiquity. Regionalism emerges as a key concern through the formation of coherent communities and economies within this spatial and relational network. My focus is on the internal patterns of mobility and the workings more generally of discrete regions, as well as their intersections with larger Mediterranean scales of Roman Seas. Justin Leidwanger, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190083656.001.0001

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interaction. I contextualize these structures and their interplay within a broader historical understanding of integration in the Roman east, and the role maritime connectivity played in the eventual transformation of the empire. Viewed from our study area, networks and their evolution reveal particular responses to a shifting political, economic, and social landscape that generated, at least temporarily, renewed prosperity and even stronger integration in the Late Antique east. This multiscalar approach provides a new window into the long-​term history of certain communities here, but I also hope in the process to demonstrate the viability of an alternative theoretical and methodological approach in Mediterranean maritime archaeology: that is, work that moves beyond the individual site and basic quantification to integrate the record of shipwrecks and ports more fully within the mainstream study of ancient economies. : : :

Small-​Scale Activity and Regional Integration The “unimportant ports” with which the last chapter ended provide the best point of entry for examining complex maritime networks from the bottom up. Clustered every 5–​10 km along these coasts, simple ports had the power to shape the experience of interaction. By providing access to a wider world and a ready outlet for local produce, these spaces made the sea a more immediate presence in the lives of eastern Mediterranean communities. Most importantly, this access extended to areas beyond the urban centers that have generally dominated models of maritime connectivity to date. Integrating primarily agricultural communities more directly into maritime structures would not only facilitate the quick mobilization and transfer of their goods but also generate new links and patterns of interaction. But what were these new opportunities? The collection and transshipment of cargos between larger urban ports and their outlying areas was certainly one facet of this activity: for example, between urban Knidos and the communities at Killik or Mersincik, the latter in particular more easily tied by sea than overland. Even in the case of sites like Avdimou Bay that were also accessible by coastal road, a maritime link offered quicker and easier bulk transfer of goods to the larger and well-​networked communities down the coast at Paphos and Kourion, and from there to the Mediterranean world beyond. But this fundamental infrastructure brought more than simply improved integration of outlying communities with their nearby urban centers. These dense strings of ports extended local economic horizons into regional economies. A brief look at the material record of imports to the hinterland of the simple port of Petrini reveals the practical impact, providing a view backward from consumption to the

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routine distribution mechanisms that likely converged at these ports. The most prominent Late Antique market town in the Vasilikos Valley upriver from Petrini, Kalavasos-​Kopetra boasted a rich ceramic repertoire and generally high standard of living for its modest population of about 600 residents (fig. 5.10). Of the imports reflected in the durable material record of transport amphoras, roughly three-​ fifths (59.3%) originated in the area of Cilicia and northwest Syria, while just a few jars came from the southern Levant, Egypt, and the Aegean (0.1–​1.3%).1 These imports from the nearby mainland represent the major component of the overall ceramic assemblage, appearing in numbers even greater than local amphoras, yet they were drawn almost exclusively from a restricted area a short sail away. Comparison with the material record at Amathus, the nearest urban port to the west, is instructive. For this same period, Amathus shows imports drawn widely from across the island and the whole of the Late Antique world. The urban pattern is reflective of the geographical breadth of the late empire’s maritime network; the nearby mainland that accounted for most of the imports at Kopetra features minimally at Amathus, rarer even than imports from the western Mediterranean.2 The sharp contrast in material records for two sites within a very short journey suggests rather dissimilar patterns of import acquisition. Not only were different ports involved but also different commodities, ships, and agents structured the Late Antique network connections of these different communities. Although the maritime activities around Petrini were likely small in scale given the local population and its productive and consumptive capacity, they were evidently not limited to the shortest hops down the coast to Amathus. Rather, strong connections were developed to other ports across a region, almost certainly including direct connections to the neighboring mainland.3 This distinction between the import records of two ports in south-​central Cyprus raises questions regarding the particular network structures and scales of different urban and extra-​urban communities. In situating ports within a hierarchical scheme,4 recent broad-​reaching discussions of Roman maritime interaction

  Rautman et al. 1999; Rautman 2003, 168–​75; Rautman 2013.   See generally Kaldeli 2008, especially 153–​58, 238–​41, and 500 table 13, fig. 23. Kaldeli’s quantification of transport amphoras from several urban contexts at Amathus show that products from around Cyprus make up the greatest part of the assemblage at 63.3%; the southern Levant and Egypt are well represented at 20.8%, while at 7.8% Aegean finds are not uncommon. Cilicia and Syria/​L ebanon account for just 3.0% of the imports, less even than those farther-​flung examples from the western Mediterranean at 5.2%. 3   The comparative material evidence from Amathus and Kopetra is explored in detail in Leidwanger 2013d, 234–​36; Leidwanger 2018b, 227–​28. On the evolving relationship and potential for divide between town and countryside in Late Antiquity more generally, see Whittaker and Garnsey 1998, 308–​9. 4   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 106–​107. 1

2

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have tended to proceed from the top down: long-​distance activity, the hallmark of successful integration of mare nostrum, drew on and fed into the masses of shorter-​haul movements. Arnaud’s model of navigation segmentée, for example, comprises longer-​distance links among larger warehouse ports separated typically by four or five days’ sail, while smaller-​scale exchange carried goods over shorter distances between these hubs and outlying secondary ports.5 This second tier of ports represents about the maximum resolution of detail typically incorporated into overarching models of maritime communication, where figures of 50–​70 km are given as the functional distance among Roman ports.6 The densely urbanized parts of the east might be expected to fall toward the lower end of this spectrum, and in fact these larger ports in the study area are situated on average 40–​50 km apart.7 Continuing down the scale in a sort of single dendritic network, we might naturally imagine that the tertiary or smaller maritime sites—​t hose that account for the vast majority of sites in our study area—​were subordinated to and oriented around the nearest of these secondary ports. The contrast in imported goods for routine consumption at Kopetra and Amathus, however, reveals a different reality. Those living in the hinterland of an “unimportant port” along southern Cyprus were strongly linked into a regional network that extended to the nearby mainland, while those at Amathus had the Roman world delivered to their docks through an empire-​w ide network. The top-​down and urban-​centered models that dominate the literature on ancient ports generally prioritize overall transaction costs across the whole Mediterranean system and efficient movement of goods and people between geographical scales as the primary drivers behind maritime activity.8 This focus on the largest structures and their vertical interactions is at least partly due to the nature of the evidence. With their empire-​w ide scope, such sources as periploi and the Edict of Diocletian focus on the broadest features, where hierarchical models make sense for particular sets of ports and certain economic questions.9 Scheidel’s

  A rnaud 2005, 107–​26. See also Hohlfelder and Oleson 2014, 223; Stone 2014.   E .g., Nieto 1997, 154–​56; Rickman 2003, 135; Rickman 2008, 12. 7   Given the primary interest in sailing distances between these sites, the figures here are calculated using approximate coastal lengths, simplified to reflect direct routes, rather than linear distance between sites or road distance. For the southeast Aegean (including Kos, Halikarnassos, Knidos, and Rhodes), the distribution is more varied but on the whole averages just under 40 km. Extending along the southern coast of Cyprus to include not only Paphos, Kourion, and Amathus but also Kition and Salamis to the east produces an average distribution of just over 50 km. 8   Cf. “dendritic” models of market distribution of goods in the pioneering economic geography work on politically centralized and complex urban societies in Smith 1974; Smith 1976. 9   See also Arnaud 2007 for a reading of the Edict of Diocletian within this framework of navigation segmentée. 5

6

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ORBIS network evaluates overall imperial structure through transportation and communication.10 Schörle’s Tyrrhenian network places Rome at the center of intersecting scales involving maritime infrastructure ranging from the massive works at Portus down to the tiny pier of a maritime villa.11 Looking from the bottom up, by contrast, shifts the perspective to smaller-​scale material assemblages, diverse and locally grounded economic concerns, and the general topography of daily life for communities linked by the sea not necessarily to Rome or even to Paphos or Knidos but to each other.12 In this context, we should draw attention to the sometimes surprising connections Schörle has noted among second-​tier or smaller ports like that at Cosa. Although its mainstay activities seem to have centered on fishing and the mobilization of local agricultural produce, Cosa nonetheless enjoyed direct regional links to destinations in northern Italy and southern Gaul (and perhaps North Africa too), revealing the emergence of alternative patterns of network connections even within a central Italian context marked by a strong gravitational pull toward Rome.13 The case studies examined here demonstrate the flexibility of small ports in building connections and developing regional economies. Given the varied locations of agricultural processing and ceramic workshops at key coastal sites around the Datça peninsula, regular movements—​of empty jars, primary produce, and processed goods—​back and forth among cooperating communities must have been necessary to mobilize exports. Yet the manufacture also of Koan-​style jars at Mersincik, to cite just one example, hints at participation in regional economies for even this tiny port community:14 an easy sail could bring goods to other small ports around the Gulf of Gökova, on nearby Kos or the Halikarnassos peninsula. Burgaz, for its part, served as a point of transshipment throughout the Gulf of Hisarönü and the southeast Aegean,15 a role attested into the final centuries of our period by the diverse set of jars found on the lone wreck (Burgaz A, #61) within its Late Antique harbor.16 Key indicators of short-​haul distribution, whether local

  Scheidel 2013; Scheidel 2014.   Schörle 2011. See also the Ostia-​and Portus-​centered views provided by Heinzelmann 2010; Keay 2016. 12   A potentially interesting parallel to this situation can be found in recent work in the physical sciences, which has demonstrated how networks can grow efficiently by adding links that bypass the most central nodes, seemingly a countermeasure against “congestion” caused by high demands on network flows to hubs: e.g., Watts 2003, 113–​14 and 277–​80. 13   Schörle 2011, 102. On Cosa’s development and maritime connections, see generally McCann 1987; Will and Slane 2019. McCann 2008 explores the possible North African connections of Cosa’s port. 14   Tuna 1989, 148 fig. 16. See c­ hapter 5, p. 171. 15   Wilker et al.  2019. 16   Leidwanger et al.  2015. 10 11

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Koan-​style jars for export from Mersincik or Cilician imports to Petrini, identify a regional scale of economies operating with more geographical flexibility than Mediterranean-​w ide models of port hierarchies suggest. Examining particularly the material record on Hellenistic and Roman Cyprus, Lund has tracked spheres of exchange that linked the island to its neighboring mainland to the north and east. He notes how economic geographies coalesced over the Roman period, creating close relationships between the island’s west and western Cilicia on the one hand and between its east and eastern Cilicia and the northern Levant on the other. Drawn largely from diverse survey ceramics outside the island’s urban centers, this view is particularly helpful for emphasizing the different regionalisms that undermined Cyprus’s insular coherence through everyday economic routines.17 The phenomenon of identical amphoras produced both in Cilicia and on parts of Cyprus may likewise hint at deeper shared economies of production and distribution.18 In this sense, Cyprus was surrounded by multiple different human seas, an observation Rougé noted long ago among the ancient sources describing the island’s marine setting.19 This economic regionalism provides the major context in which our small ports and single-​area cargos participated. Just as these ports reveal changing levels of use through time, we should not assume that the regional maritime economies they underpinned were static. Lund’s analysis suggests that some consolidation took place between the last centuries bc and the first centuries ad, creating the two larger east and west regions of Roman Cyprus out of a more complex map of earlier Hellenistic ones. The combined network and Geographic Information Systems (GIS) modeling in ­chapter 4 reveals the broad human scale implied by this regionalism, with round trips only requiring from a few days up to a week, but with many journeys accomplishable even in a single day.20 The assembly of different areas into nodes was necessary, in light of the more general attributions of Late Antique amphoras, to allow the construction of comparable earlier and later networks from the bulk shipwreck data. This choice masked finer spatial details that can sometimes be evaluated at the level of the individual wreck. For example, most of our “Aegean” cargos were drawn from the southeast corner of the Aegean, a more limited area easily crossed with a round trip of only a few days.21 This is

  Lund 2015. See also Lund 1999; Lund 2006; Lund 2013. Gordon 2018 likewise emphasizes the diverse outward-​looking connections of the island. For Cilician connections to the island, see Autret and Marangou 2011; Autret et al. 2014. 18   Kaldeli 2009, 377–​79. 19   On these regions, see Rougé 1966, 43, and more generally c­ hapter 3, pp. 74–75. 20   See c­ hapter 4, pp. 145–​150. 21   E .g., Leidwanger 2013c, 3306–​7. 17

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overwhelmingly the case for the Early Roman period, when Rhodian-​style, Koan-​ style, and some Knidian-​style jars dominate the assemblages:  for example, the location of the wrecked cargo of Knidian jars at Kepçe Burnu (#17), 30 km east of Bodrum, strongly suggests that it was circulating within the Gulf of Gököva. The dataset is more limited for the eastern part of the study area around Cyprus, but the two clearest regional assemblages here align well with Lund’s observations: the cargo off the west of Cyprus at Kioni (#30) featuring a jar type connected to that coast and western Cilicia, and the wreck off the island’s east at Fig Tree Bay (#31), with its cargo drawn largely from eastern Cilicia and northwest Syria. The generally coarser data resolution for Late Roman amphoras and the limited nature of surveys on wrecks of this period inhibit detection of finer regionalisms within shipwreck cargos from our later centuries. These challenges, however, should not blind us to the possibility that maritime regions may have been shifting in Late Antiquity. We might read the emergence of fewer shared amphora types manufactured across wider areas as one indicator of expanding horizons of regional economies.22 From at least the 4th century, the Aegean was refocusing production on one broad type (Late Roman 2 [LR2]), although other jars connected to more circumscribed areas survived in certain instances (e.g., Late Roman 3 [LR3], East Aegean bag shaped).23 A single form (Late Roman 1 [LR1]) also seemingly came to dominate production throughout Cyprus and along the entire coast of Cilicia.24 Typologies of these broadly manufactured Late Roman amphoras remain less well known than we would like. The fact that different areas chose—​in some cases seemingly abruptly—​to shift away from traditional forms distinctive of particular contents or smaller production zones toward a common shape may signal new economic cooperation. This standardization would be helpful for coordinating the mobilization and marketing of processed agricultural goods within the region. The area connected by standardized manufacture can be read as one possible geographical indicator of economic integration and the practical manifestations of maritime regions. Maritime activities at these regional scales may have escaped the bureaucratic interest of imperial authorities and their delegates at the customs house. For this reason, certain types of mariners may be systematically underrepresented in the historical record. Arnaud has noted the extent to which Rome regulated port traffic to ensure effective collection of customs,25 but how such bureaucratic 22   See general discussion of this trajectory among the various Late Roman amphora types in Tomber 2004; Karagiorgou 2009. 23   Karagiorgou 2001, with discussion of the LR2 amphora’s strong regional distribution at 139–​45. See also Karagiorgou 2009; Opaiţ 2014. 24   Reynolds 2005; Reynolds 2008. 25   A rnaud 2010, 111–​12; Arnaud 2011, 66–​67. See also Cottier 2010.

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practices worked at ground level clearly depended on the scale and geography of a merchant’s activity. Within our study area, an inscription from Andriake seems to indicate that Lycia had its own customs zone, and the rich testimony of the Lex Portorii Asiae lists many urban ports that collected customs—​in this case 2.5%—​on goods entering or leaving Asia.26 Since ports across the empire seem to have levied a 2–​5% tax on goods moving between provinces or larger districts,27 much of the regional exchange identified here could have operated freely, bypassing these major ports. We also cannot discount the possibility that simple ports beyond the watchful eye of officials may have enabled smaller vessels to skirt these obligations even across customs borders, as seems to have regularly frustrated authorities from Classical Athens to Early Medieval Italy and even 20th-​century Cyprus.28 If no such stop was required for clearance, mariners could stand to gain by avoiding larger ports, where diligent officials created shipping bottlenecks as boats waited for dock space and goods were checked before being sent along.29 These larger ports offered access to certain urban markets as well as improved maritime infrastructure, but often this infrastructure came at the cost of separate fees levied by the individual port. An inscription from Seleucia, the Mediterranean outlet for Antioch, provides particularly helpful insights into such practices during the early 6th century, when connections between Cyprus and the nearby mainland were particularly strong.30 The port inspectors here seem to have concerned themselves with only a couple of distinctions based on simplified categories of cargo origin and size. Ships from Cyprus, Phoenicia, and probably also Cilicia were held to half the rate of those coming from Palestine and Egypt. Vessels with tonnages under about 7–​8 tons were evidently exempted from fees. The higher rate may not have been particularly burdensome, but the basic definition of a discounted fee zone around the northeast corner of the Mediterranean may reflect precisely our regional economic system in operation.31 The lower limit

26   On Lycia, see Takmer 2007. On the harbors and procedures of the Lex Portorii Asiae, see Nicolet 1993; Cottier et al. 2008, including Mitchell 2008 on the boundaries of the province and the list of port towns that served as customs stations. 27    Duncan-​Jones 1990, 194–​95. 28   Dem. 35.28–​30, 53 (Classical Athens); McCormick 2001, 420 (Early Medieval Italy); Leonard 2005, 663–​64 (early 20th-​century Cyprus). 29   Casson 1995b, 298 n. 5. Cf. Keay 2016, 317. 30   Dagron 1985. 31   Broodbank (2013, 597) offers a long view of Mediterranean network persistence, raising the prospect that historical Roman administrative units may trace the “phantom outlines and evolutionary histories of older maritime connections.” One wonders whether the initial linking of Cyprus and Cilicia into a single province in the 1st century bc may also have built on preexisting regional maritime connections.

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on tonnages of interest to port inspectors attests at once to the noteworthy presence of small operators in this system and to the relative disinterest of customs officials in their minor cargos. The rich material record makes it clear that profits could be made outside larger urban ports, while the limited cargos and small ships that carried them are precisely those that seem to have fulfilled the role. Most often the archaeologically attested cargos studied here were drawn from only a single area, and generally that area overlaps the location of the wreck itself, lending a strong sense of regionalism to these assemblages. Some vessels, like Avdimou A (#44), sank in the simple ports they frequented and for which they were well suited. Their few tons of goods could be shuttled through the shallows without need of much infrastructure or more than a few hours of calm;32 the next journey could be underway with little of the downtime that characterized busier large ports. Thus, even if the generally modest customs fees had minimal detrimental effect on larger movements of goods, the small regional mariner had reason enough to stay away.33 Lasting a few days up to a week or slightly more, regional journeys represent a comparatively simpler undertaking than larger-​scale shipments.34 With cheaper vessels, limited cargo investments, fewer uncertainties, and known local waters, these voyages may have been appealing to prospective merchant mariners with limited resources and lower risk tolerance. Regional maritime activities would have allowed more frequent and regular trips, generating a high level of “common sense” geographical knowledge.35 Voyages may have been possible throughout the year as weather conditions—​a few days of clear visibility or a fortuitous shift in wind—​coincided with economic opportunity. The persistence of certain shipbuilding technologies like sewn boats in particular spatial contexts and the more flexible adoption of the spritsail on some small vessels might be read in this same light, by which two otherwise marginal developments emerge as indicators of flexibility among regional mariners. In contrast to the well-​k nown mare clausum, which seems more connected to the insurance and financing of interregional ventures,36 no such formal restrictions need to have limited operators carrying small loads over shorter distances. In their own home waters, mariners could more easily wait out an unhelpful wind or ominous sky, in summer and in winter, offering greater flexibility and reliability to the routine exchange of both goods and information. At this scale, overlap between exchange and fishing may have offered still more

  Cf. Katzev 2008, 79–​80.   Scheidel 2011,  28. 34   Cf. Hopkins 1983, 96–​97. 35   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 75–​76. 36   See c­ hapter 2, pp. 63–​64. 32 33

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flexibility in adapting to economic and environmental conditions, as mariners shared small port spaces, socioeconomic communities, geographical knowledge, and perhaps also similar multipurpose boats.37 Repetition of connections was key to fostering trust and economic integration on the whole. Much recent work on merchant networks has emphasized the importance of social relations in underpinning economic exchange across the sea; this principle holds not only for diasporas of Palmyrene and Nabataean merchants but also for those whose regional routine ensured face-​to-​face contact with their producing and consuming communities.38 The Lex Portorii Asiae hints at a certain degree of flexibility in how customs could be collected from merchants whose business took them regularly throughout the province.39 : : :

Emergence and Evolution of Maritime Networks This discrete regional scale accounts for the great majority of maritime archaeological evidence in the study area and reflects the primary scope of most communities’ direct participation in economies beyond the local. The diverse mariners and mechanisms behind connections suggest that both the shape of this regionalism and its relationship with larger patterns of interaction must have varied across the temporal and geographical breadth of the Roman world.40 The material record here reveals structures that were hardly static but rather shifted with the ebb and flow of maritime activity over the nine centuries under study. While the quantitative data attests to a flurry of maritime activity around the height of the Roman period and again in Late Antiquity, the intervening drop centered on the 3rd century highlights the most obvious possible break in maritime structures over this long term. The resulting two periods must be examined separately and comparatively. This dearth in wrecks dating to the Mid-​Roman era coincides with the commonly noted “crisis,” marked by drought, disease, political instability, inflation, and general economic uncertainty.41 Quantification   For the diverse practices of fishing in this small-​scale context and their interaction with other maritime activities, see c­ hapter 3, pp. 93–​97. Recent ethnographic work by Tartaron underscores the circumscribed geographies of marine knowledge and their development among long-​term practitioners in small maritime communities: Tartaron 2013, 265–​70; Tartaron 2018, 83–​88. 38   On Palmyrene merchants, see Schörle 2017; on Nabataean merchants, see Terpstra 2015. See also ­chapter 1, p. 12. 39   Corbier 2008,  220. 40   E.g., Leidwanger  2014a. 41   The economic situation around the 3rd century is addressed and problematized by many:  see especially De Blois 2002; Corbier 2005; Giardina 2007, 757–​64; Jongman 2007; Liebeschuetz 2007; Esmonde Cleary 2013, 18–​41. 37

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of shipwrecks at the Mediterranean scale reveals no hint of such a crisis in the 3rd century, when numbers of sites remain steady from the previous century and reflect substantially more sites than for any of the subsequent Late Antique centuries. The Mid-​Roman drop in our study area must therefore be understood either as an anomaly in the dataset or as a meaningful reflection of some geographically discrete economic downturn against a backdrop of ongoing maritime activity in other parts of the Mediterranean. The latter explanation seems preferable given the size of the present shipwreck sample and the apparent length of this dip at more than a century. When viewed individually, each part of the study area reveals this drop in activity, although the wreck data for southwest Turkey is more robust. The area also sees minimal evidence for activities centered on the many small ports that constituted the basis for regional interaction. The 3rd century seems to have brought some temporary downturn, but the effects were felt unevenly, striking hardest at some of the traditionally prosperous areas of the empire in the east. Yet trajectories are varied even within this basin, and the decline is more muted in the overall eastern Mediterranean dataset, highlighting the need for other spatial views of maritime economic development.42 This dearth of wrecks from around the 3rd century naturally divides the larger dataset into two nearly equivalent subsets for comparative analysis across periods; the contrast between the resulting two networks would seem to emphasize the validity of this division. Situating the earlier Roman peak in the study area against broader Mediterranean trends offers insights into the development of the network here with the arrival of imperial hegemony in the east. The Mediterranean as a whole shows increasing maritime activity in the last two centuries bc, reaching its busiest mark in the 1st century ad, while the peak in the east appears at least a half century earlier. By itself this slight distinction—​staggered peaks between otherwise parallel trajectories—​might be easy to overlook. It raises the possibility, though, of a westward maritime pivot from what was traditionally the wealthier, more urban, and perhaps more economically integrated east toward the core of the imperial heartland. The lack of strong Early Roman links between west and east among the study area cargos, even into the 2nd century ad, suggests that the offset trends may reflect discrete network developments, particularly given the bustling regional activity. These discrepancies raise questions regarding how a rising Roman maritime world intersected with preexisting structures. Was a Hellenistic system simply obliterated by a new Roman order? Was it absorbed into its successor? Could the broad Mediterranean-​w ide linkage of the Pax Romana have its roots in an extension of earlier structures out of the east?

  See also Alcock 2007, 696.

42

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One possible clue regarding the emergence of Roman interregional networking comes from the profiles of the earliest wrecks carrying cargos outside their regions. Of the 2nd-​and 1st-​century bc interregional cargos, the earliest three are found in the waters of Cyprus and contain goods drawn exclusively from the Aegean. This Aegean-​to-​Cyprus directionality may indicate that the eastern Mediterranean basin, and Cyprus and the Levant in particular, were important agents behind integration. The subsequent appearance in our study area of imports from the Italian orbit—​the homogenous Adriatic cargos of two 1st-​century bc wrecks at Yalıkavak (#14, #15)—​in turn raises questions regarding how regional economies and prior trajectories in the east responded to new interregional currents entering from the west.43 We might consider whether the in-​k ind mobilization of land taxes from the province of Asia may have helped generate specific longer-​distance movements that placed the Aegean more centrally within emerging Roman networks.44 These limited views of the networking process, though, can do little more than raise possibilities at present. With a greater sampling of wrecks from the last several centuries bc and the inclusion of earlier Hellenistic material, future distinction may be possible between a pre-​Roman network and an Early Roman one here, shedding new light on this issue of evolving structure. The emergence of the Late Antique network, on the other hand, offers much ground for analysis in the study area, particularly given the sharp divide around the Mid-​Roman maritime slump. A Late Antique boom in shipwreck numbers in these parts of the east contrasts starkly with the overall Mediterranean situation, which on the whole saw wreck numbers decline. The 4th century witnessed substantial falloff during its latter half, but the greatest Mediterranean-​w ide drop set in only around the turn of the 5th century, after which the decline continued for several centuries through the 7th before bottoming out with a near-​total dearth of activity in the 8th century.45 By contrast, both the southwest coast of Turkey and the area around the northeast Mediterranean entered their busiest period of maritime activity from the latter 4th and especially the 5th century. The 6th and early 7th centuries are also well represented along these shores and also at the scale of the eastern Mediterranean more broadly, where they reach a level of activity nearly as high as (if shorter-​lived than) that of the Early Roman era.46

  See generally Tchernia 1989; Woolf 1992; Rathbone 2007. For the south Aegean in this period, see Lawall 2004; Reger 2007a, 482–​83. For Cyprus and its neighboring mainland, see Lund 2015, 238–​4 4. 44   See c­ hapter 1, p. 10. 45   The present study ends with the close of the 7th century, but for details on this trajectory into the 8th century, see generally Parker 1992a, fig. 3; Wilson 2011b, 35–​36 figs. 2.3–​2.6. For discussion of the maritime evidence for this late period, see detailed discussion in McCormick 2001, 592–​604. 46   See also McCormick 2012, 86 fig. 3.13. 43

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Comparisons between east and west remain complicated by the basins’ uneven numbers of known wrecks, and certain areas of the west seem to have experienced their own rise in maritime activity during Late Antiquity.47 In general, however, it appears that the downturn must have been sufficiently grave in the west that overall Mediterranean figures obscure this uptick in activity across much of the east. Although coarser in resolution, the evidence for activities at our small ports points broadly in the same direction.48 An earlier Roman presence is certainly not lacking along south-​central Cyprus, but the Late Antique centuries were clearly the busiest, reflecting a general trajectory of growth also visible in the dense settlement throughout the countryside. Along the Datça peninsula, even if the number of ports remained relatively constant between periods, their proportion among all sites actually increases during the last centuries under study. Levels of use are difficult to gauge here, but the pattern may be more difficult to generalize: some ports appear to have been busier in the Roman period and others in Late Antiquity. In instances such as Burgaz, Late Antiquity represents a period of resurgence following a low-​key Roman (and Mid-​Roman) presence. For Cyprus, the increasing use of such simple spaces as beaches and coves is probably reflected in Bekker-​ Nielsen’s observation on the additions to the Cypriot road circuit:  several new Late Antique segments, often unpaved paths, lead from the main coastal circuit inland to the countryside and also down toward locations like Avdimou Bay.49 This trajectory toward greater importance of simple ports may also be inferred from Late Antique and Early Medieval traveler accounts of stopovers at beachside locations.50 One might imagine that an increase in wrecks and port-​based activity during any given period would signal a broader intensification of seafaring activity that would manifest itself likewise in more geographically extensive connections. That is, quantitative growth in maritime activity—​numbers of ships at sea and perhaps also larger ship sizes—​would go hand in hand with expanding geographic horizons; conversely, dwindling numbers of wrecks would correspond to more spatially limited networks. This does not appear to be the case in this study area. For the period of decline in overall shipwreck numbers from around the latter 2nd into the early 4th century, falling numbers do not seem to have been accompanied

  E .g., the Aeolian Islands: Castagnino Berlinghieri 2003, 95–​97 t­ ables 32–​34.   The slightly different periodizations of data along the Datça peninsula and south-​central Cyprus complicate comparisons, but the general trajectory is clear. 49   Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 116–​20. Farther west, another short spur is evident in the coastal road circuit leading to an anchorage near Palaipaphos (modern Kouklia): see Bekker-​Nielsen 2004, 119. On the maritime landscape and local port here, see Howitt-​Marshall 2012. 50   Rougé 1978; McCormick 2001, 419–​21. 47

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by shrinking networks. The Mid-​Roman cargos here instead reflect the most consistently diverse and far-​flung connections in the dataset. In many cases, these ships were carrying goods from outside the east, including from the still comparatively bustling western Mediterranean: southern Gaul (Fig Tree Bay South A, #31), North Africa (Kumlu Burun A, #33), and the Adriatic and Black Sea (İskandil Burnu B, #32). This contrast suggests that the mechanisms moving goods within our regions and those driving movements of goods interregionally may not have been well integrated or codependent. That is, maritime activities at different scales may have been largely distinct and conducted independently here during this time. Separate network structures would have allowed trans-​Mediterranean exchange to continue for certain mariners and markets while regional activity, at least in our areas of focus, ground nearly to a halt. Our lone Mid-​Roman cargo circulating within its region involves an assemblage of probable east Cretan jars that sank near the southwest Turkish coast (Knidos I, #34). Urban centers continued to import, in contrast to the temporary reduction in activity at small ports noted earlier.51 Such different 3rd-​century experiences may not be surprising given the strong connection of regional distribution to the countryside.52 The sample size remains small for this key transformative period, so observations based on the few cargos at hand should be read as hypotheses for future testing. An expanded dataset might productively approach shorter-​term patterns by modeling a discrete Mid-​Roman network. From the 4th century onward, the maritime world of the study area was shrinking geographically, but it was also experiencing more integration within the east than before. Although relatively weak, the long-​distance links that characterized prior Roman activity here involved cargos drawn from well outside the study area, some with far-​flung material assemblages that served a crucial structural role in connecting disparate corners of the empire. Exotic cargo components are important indicators of the spatial scale of economic interaction achieved under Rome, but these imports seem to have been disconnected from much of the traffic circulating regionally in this corner of the Mediterranean.53 This disjoint between scales of interaction aligns well with Bransbourg’s assertion, based largely on price distributions, of only limited market integration rather than the unified economy advocated by Temin.54 With the uptick in activity during Late Antiquity, those connections to the central and western Mediterranean that had threaded together

  On Mid-​Roman imports to urban centers on Cyprus, see Kaldeli 2008, 268.   On survey evidence for the Mid-​Roman countryside, see generally Pettegrew 2007, 747 table 1. For Cyprus, see Rautman 2000, 323. 53   Cf. Kaldeli 2009; Kaldeli 2013. 54   Bransbourg 2012. Cf. Temin 2001; Kessler and Temin 2008; Temin 2012. 51

52

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the loose and uneven but extensive Roman network were largely abandoned here. At the same time, this renewed maritime activity saw stronger integration among the east’s thriving regional economies as cargo assemblages reflect, on the whole, more than single regions. The average number of geographical links per shipwreck cargo increased by what may have been a comparatively small percentage, but this increase was evidently enough to generate much stronger interregional structures. The resulting Late Antique maritime world was bustling both regionally and interregionally, but its network was now largely consolidated around the dense core of the eastern Mediterranean basin, Aegean, and Black Sea. Urban import records on Cyprus reveal this same trajectory, with the shedding of earlier Roman links to the west.55 These developments over the long term within the study area raise some intriguing possibilities regarding the formation and continuity of maritime networks. The Aegean view moves from loosely connected but busy and largely regional (Aegean-​focused) Early Roman maritime activity toward a hub of key eastern Mediterranean connections in Late Antiquity. Cyprus and its adjacent mainland, however, emerge as most central with the growth of maritime activity in these later centuries. This shift in centrality from the Aegean to Cyprus/​Cilicia/​ N Levant (to return to the spatial units used for network analysis) is all the more noteworthy given that the shipwreck dataset on which it is based is slanted heavily toward the (southeast) Aegean. If maritime activity within discrete regions played the most quantitatively significant role, as seems to be the case for both major periods, then we might expect these small single-​area cargos to bolster the centrality of their own respective regions. The Aegean should then dominate network centrality not only during the Roman era but also in later centuries given the much larger dataset from this part of the study area. This is evidently not the case. A closer geographical view of the material evidence reveals more nuance to the dynamics between these areas. The growing centrality of Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant is based not on cargos from that particular corner of the study area but on two factors: first, the emergence of the S Levant in this network, which places Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant in the middle of a central corridor, and second, the presence of materials from Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant within assemblages outside their region, namely on sites from along southwest Turkey. By contrast, few Aegean products appear on vessels off these northeast Mediterranean shores during this same period; a strong east-​to-​west orientation (i.e., Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant to Aegean) underlies the intensified interregional links of Late Antiquity. That is, maritime activity between regions primarily involved goods moving from the

  Kaldeli 2008, 232–​34.

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east—​including this corner and the Levant more generally—​toward the Aegean. This pattern contrasts with what may be an opposite orientation during the last centuries bc, a situation that merits further discussion alongside potentially related trends “From Maritime Archaeologies to Economic Histories.” For the moment, however, it should be noted that the general network view of an area like Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant is rather different depending on whether the vantage point is inside or outside the region; revealing this deeper network texture necessitates multiple convergent analytical approaches. Viewing the numbers of wrecks in the study area alongside the eastern Mediterranean picture provides still more insights into the relationship between economic recovery and the emergence of these Late Antique network structures. Southwest Turkey sees a comparatively early rebound in the latter 4th century, with a sudden jump to levels unseen since the 1st century ad; around the northeast corner of the Mediterranean, growth is only detectable from the 5th century.56 This distinction could be an artifact of the comparatively fewer wrecks available for this eastern part of the study area. Yet the further contrast between southwest Turkey and the general eastern Mediterranean situation—​which sees a pronounced uptick only from the 6th century—​seems to indicate that different parts of the east took off at different points. Given that Late Antiquity saw better maritime integration of the east than the earlier Roman era, the offset patterns in this chronology can help us understand the comparative roles of different regions in the emergence of new network dynamics. Its earlier start raises the possibility that southwest Turkey may have been among the first to recover economically from the Mid-​Roman slump. If so, this region’s position in the network and its early momentum may have resulted in it playing a leading role in the broader recovery that spread gradually across the eastern Mediterranean over the following years. We should expect that growth and structural development of maritime interaction would unfold unevenly across the eastern Mediterranean. Network models like those offered here necessarily collapse material assemblages from centuries into a select few snapshots that can hardly capture the varied diachronic trajectories of a rich maritime archaeological record. The evidence at hand suggests that the Late Antique network’s evolution, like the emerging Roman one a half millennium earlier, represented a gradual and dynamic process. Having used individual wrecks as the data points throughout this study, it is worth returning briefly to the question of ship and cargo sizes in an effort to explore the detail and diversity within this common analytical unit. My approach

56   Growth from the 5th century is also evident from landscape survey on Cyprus: e.g., Caraher et al. 2014, 291–​95.

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rejects the common practice of lumping all ships under 70–​80 tons into a single category of “small,” thereby glossing over potential diversity in mariners and mechanisms.57 The few reasonably secure tonnage figures among the cargos studied here prevent incorporation of size into our formal modeling, but we can still seek general trends and patterns to attach to the network structures described earlier. The tonnages would appear to follow Nantet’s general outline: smaller vessels are consistently visible across periods, while larger vessels peak in the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman era.58 The biggest ships that mark the material record here—​which hardly approach the largest by Mediterranean standards—​are concentrated in the last century bc. The two wrecks of exclusively Adriatic jars at Yalıkavak (#14, #15) reflect interregional traffic that shows little local connection.59 The vessels may have been passing through the southeast Aegean when they were lost off the tip of the Bodrum peninsula. In Late Antiquity, nothing approaching this size appears again in the archaeological record of the study area, and in general the Mediterranean of this period seems to have seen a reduction in maximum vessel size.60 The few larger late cargos still reflect more limited tonnages than their earlier counterparts and are again generally tied to interregional exchange. In this case, they exhibit strong eastern connections, particularly along the important axis of Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant to the Aegean: for example, the ca. 52-​and 36-​ton amphora loads excavated at Yassıada (#38, #64), and perhaps also certain assemblages surveyed in deeper waters near Knidos (#53, #59). Comparatively few assemblages are sufficiently preserved here to allow tonnage estimates, and it is important not to conflate small surviving archaeological assemblages with small ancient loads. In general, however, those identified as small cargos are connected to voyages within regions: for example, the 4–​6 tons that comprise the cargos of the Fig Tree Bay South A (#31) and Cape Zevgari A (#45) wrecks.61 These small shipments fall routinely near the lower end of the broad range of up to 70–​80 tons traditionally discussed together as “small,” a spectrum that includes even most of those described previously as the “larger” cargos within the study area. In this context, it is worth recalling the Seleucia inscription noted earlier, which exempted vessels carrying under about 7–​8 tons from certain local port taxes.62   See c­ hapter 2, p. 48.   Nantet 2016, 121–​63. 59   The actual quantities of amphoras from these two surveyed wrecks are unknown, but the surface numbers recorded by Brennan and colleagues (544 and 365) clearly reflect just the top of much larger cargos, particularly given the surface area of the wrecks and their significant depths: see Brennan et al. 2012, 64 t­ ables 1–​2. See also Carlson 2014, 61 n. 41. 60   Nantet 2016, 153–​60; McCormick 2001, 415. 61   For calculations, see Leidwanger 2011, 370–​73; Leidwanger 2013b, 200–​2. 62   See earlier, p. 205. 57

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Like so many other variables here, the particular mix of ship and cargo sizes probably shifted across the geographical and temporal breadth of the Roman world, and better evidence for this variation could shed new light on the diverse mechanisms behind regionalism and integration. At present, this contrast of “small” underscores the need to rethink—​and to define more explicitly in each case—​t he particular ships, cargos, and mariners that characterized different facets of multiscalar networks. Within this context of evolving networks and contrasting scales of maritime activity, certain hints of changing shipbuilding and seafaring practices become particularly meaningful. Chapter 2 discussed the new options brought about by the introduction of “skeleton-​first” hull construction, including perhaps savings in labor, time, and resources thanks to less demanding carpentry and lighter timbering.63 Some vessels came to assume a more box-​like shape, better suited for maximizing cargo space at the expense of performance. By contrast, the finer lines of the Yassıada A ship (#64) have been attributed to an interest in speed.64 Pitch coating offered a reliable, lighter, and cheaper alternative to lead sheathing. While different merchant priorities, environments, and resources would have dictated different optimal solutions to hull shape and construction, these new Late Antique developments offered shipwrights alternative choices in economy and efficiency.65 This period also saw the more rapid adoption of the lateen sail, a rig design that had been available for centuries. It apparently offered no significantly better performance into the wind, but its lower costs for assembly and maintenance made it a popular choice with the shifting economic and labor environment.66 These maritime technological developments would have benefited mariners across the spectrum. Larger merchants could have more effectively maximized their investments and distributed their risk. Smaller operators and regional economies, though, may have stood to gain the most since many of these developments served to lower the entry point into maritime activity. The identification of differences across time and space should not cause us to overlook consistent patterns of interaction in the study area. Cargos drawn from a single delimited area and representing short round-​trip sails remained the defining form of mobility for regional maritime economies of the Roman east. These are the most numerous sites during both periods, even as assemblages became more geographically diverse during Late Antiquity. Some measure of consistency in maritime practices is to be expected since traditional livelihoods of small   See c­ hapter 2, p. 45. See also generally Hopkins 1983, 97; Wilson 2011b, 42.   Steffy 1982,  84–​86. 65   Royal 2002, 185–​87; Kingsley 2004, 62; Pomey 2011; Wilson 2011c, 217–​24. 66   W hitewright 2009; Whitewright 2011a, 100–​101. See also discussion in ­chapter 2, pp. 55–​57. 63

64

216  Roman Seas

mariners may have tended toward the conservative.67 Small was the norm for these regional vessels, a consistent feature to which Braudel calls attention even as late as the 16th and 17th centuries, noting that ships under 50–​100 tons outnumbered larger vessels 10-​fold.68 Yet the vessels here, or at least their cargos, skew toward the smaller end of the size spectrum, with many reflecting just a fraction of the tonnages that have been grouped together as “small” by scholars. Simple and unassuming ports, densely lining the coasts but often lacking any significant infrastructure, were the most routine destinations for these ships. Such spaces formed the basis for robust regional economic integration that extended beyond the cities and throughout the countryside. Linking these regions, the corridor between the Aegean and Cyprus/​Cilicia/​N Levant remains a prominent feature across the networks from the earlier Roman era through Late Antiquity. : : :

From Maritime Archaeologies to Economic Histories Changes in the material record of shipwrecks and ports reveal clues to the development of Roman networking during the last centuries bc; certain hints of drastic changes to come from the mid-​7 th century are also not hard to find in our latest assemblages. But the central transformation in this part of the east, and the one around which our datasets are organized, is the shift from the Early Roman era into Late Antiquity. The contrasts identified earlier in the maritime archaeological evidence should be understood against a backdrop of historical continuity and change. Networks can exert their own momentum and agency, becoming a force of either persistence or change over time.69 But similar structures and features can also arise independently based on comparable economic (and related social and political) conditions. To understand whether similarities in patterns of maritime activity and interaction on either side of the Mid-​Roman divide amount to continuities across the transformation requires that we contextualize interaction and integration within the long-​term economic development of the eastern Mediterranean. But beyond fitting into prevailing historical narratives, this multiscalar approach offers a critical framework to inform new and spatially grounded economic histories using the diverse maritime archaeological record. The strong regionalism that characterizes the bulk of earlier and later maritime activity reflects a natural extension of agricultural economies. Integrated 67   See the ethnographic observations on seafaring livelihoods together with discussion of possible implications for our understanding of Bronze Age Mediterranean maritime activity in Tartaron 2013, 265–​70; Tartaron 2018, 83–​88. 68   Braudel 1972,  296. 69   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 55–57.

Maritime Networks in the Roman East 217

through small ports and short but dense links, these regions were predicated on mobilizing and distributing primary and processed agricultural goods, suggesting that they were generated by consistent or at least comparable Roman and Late Antique economic conditions. With so many discrete communities engaged in similar pursuits and tied to the sea through these bottom-​up processes, the resulting dynamics embody—​at a distinctly regional scale—​the basic push and pull of fragmentation and connectivity described by Horden and Purcell.70 The ease and regularity of connections on this spatial scale would likely have fostered common knowledge, trust, and considerable integration of supply and demand as well as prices, allowing regions to serve as the basis for markets of staple goods. With regional interaction dependent on agriculture, the fate of economic regions becomes tied to conditions in the countryside. Regional maritime activity might decline with setbacks in agricultural settlement and productivity but could bounce back with improvement in rural livelihoods. This is precisely the correlation we see during the Mid-​Roman period in our study area, where parallel drops can be traced in shipwreck numbers, small port activity, and rural settlement. The resurgent maritime regions from the latter 4th and 5th centuries follow an uptick in what has been appropriately described as the “busy countryside” of Late Antiquity.71 Mounting archaeological evidence for agricultural continuity and even growth in many parts of the empire speaks against an overall decline, and this rebound may have included not only the large landowners from earlier centuries but also new smaller producers.72 Readily available coinage, even if produced first and foremost to meet the needs of the state, also probably helped streamline the commercial movement of agricultural goods into the market.73 Examining the development of local agricultural economies through transport amphoras, Reynolds has stressed robust and generally self-​sufficient regional and local exchange as the fundamental basis for the broader Late Antique prosperity.74 A mosaic of regions functioning according to their own internal rhythms fits well with the profile of variation in mariners and maritime activities emphasized in

  Horden and Purcell 2000. See c­ hapter 1, p. 104.   For the “busy countryside,” see Rautman 2000 (Cyprus); Pettegrew 2007 (Greece); Deligiannakis 2008 (Dodecanese); Izdebski 2013 (Anatolia). For important early investigations, see especially the work on Syria in Tchalenko 1953–​1958. On Cyprus, survey in the Vasilikos Valley brought to light at least 32 sites during the prosperous Early Roman period, a number that rises to 44 during the unprecedentedly prosperous Late Roman centuries:  Rautman 2003; Todd 2004; Todd 2013. See also more generally the discussion of the trajectories of rural change and growth in Late Antiquity in Whittaker and Garnsey 1998; Decker 2001; Papacostas 2001; Rautman 2001; Decker 2009; Grey 2012. 72   W hittaker and Garnsey 1998, 285–​87 and 298. 73   Carrié 1993, 775–​82; Carrié 2003b, 277–​78; Banaji 2006. 74   Reynolds  2018. 70 71

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c­ hapters 2 and 3: not one sea “sixty days long” as Braudel famously described,75 but rather a variety of seas scaled to their own particular communities, mariners, and mechanisms. These new regional economies may have been somewhat larger in geographical scope than their previous Roman iterations, but the fundamental character and agricultural basis appear unchanged. Interregional connections in turn can reflect the integration of markets and the creation of new ones across maritime spaces of the Mediterranean. In this sense, it is worth recalling that interregional cargos, though always a distant minority, are the only ones that appear consistently throughout the nine centuries of interest, including during the Mid-​Roman decline in regional activity. Maritime interaction on a broader scale seems to have carried on, independent of setbacks that took their economic toll on certain regional contexts. At least within the present study area, these farther-​flung cargos are generally also composed of processed goods tied to agricultural economies. Their circulation on a larger spatial scale, however, reveals a level of preferential consumption, particularly in urban settings that were likely the major links for interregional merchants and voyages. Some cities experienced a decline in population and wealth from around the 3rd century, and some were even abandoned in Late Antiquity; others, however, increased in size and prosperity during these same centuries, including in our study area.76 In short, urban centers were still important concentrations of wealth and consumption and therefore remained driving forces behind much longer-​distance movement, irrespective of different regional economic downturns.77 Looking broadly across the Roman world, this interregional maritime scale—​featuring different mechanisms, ports, and probably more specialized merchants—​ensured the maintenance of lifestyles to which Romans had become accustomed.78 Russell’s inventory of marble and other stone-​carrying wrecks, for example, indicates a peak of shipments precisely in the 3rd century as well as a pull on these resources toward the imperial heartland of Italy.79 The persistence of maritime activity across nine centuries might therefore be understood as an indicator of entrenched urban lifestyles in the face of economic and demographic challenges that struck the empire unevenly. Beyond sustaining the masses and catering to the tastes of increasingly wealthy elites in the city (and on the estates

  Braudel 1972,  387.   E.g., Trombley  1987. 77   Garnsey and Whittaker 1998, 326–​28. 78   On urban centers as integral components of the Roman port networks more generally, see Arnaud 2016. 79   Russell 2011, 144–​47 and figs. 8.3–​8.4; Russell 2013b, 344–​49 and figs. 3–​5. See also the discussion in Wilson 2011b, 37–​38. 75

76

Maritime Networks in the Roman East 219

from which they drew resources),80 these movements ensured imperial survival also through public building and military sustenance. Yet none of these broader network structures required that all regions flourish uniformly or simultaneously. The vastness of the Mediterranean and its ecologically fractal nature outlined by Horden and Purcell provided enough redundancy that interregional movements could continue despite some regional setbacks. At this scale, the system was sufficiently robust to meet urban needs even when suppliers changed as different regions prospered and economic conditions shifted.81 With their grounding in distinct economic contexts, regional and interregional systems reveal considerable interaction but also flexibility. Regions clearly could flourish or falter independently of broader Mediterranean-​w ide trends, as we see in our study area during the Mid-​Roman period. Interregional movements depended on regional economies to mobilize agricultural goods, and changing demand could therefore contribute to regional patterns of growth or decline. That different regions of the east experienced varied periods of growth in Late Antiquity is clear from the maritime archaeological data: recovery set in from the latter 4th century in the Aegean and then spread across Cyprus, its adjacent mainland, and the eastern Mediterranean more generally. The contours of this resurgence and the simultaneous consolidation of interregional connections within the east offer an opportunity to explore possible structural interdependence of these Late Antique economies. The consistent presence of materials from Cyprus/​ Cilicia/​N Levant alongside Aegean goods in cargos off southwest Turkey gives this axis a strong east-​to-​west orientation. Together, these features would seem to suggest that some interregional gravitational pull, from the Aegean or beyond, may have helped stimulate maritime activities in our study area. The official shift of empire toward the east from the 4th century presents the most obvious possibility for a sudden pull and economic stimulus.82 Demands for agricultural and other goods rose sharply as elites and masses converged on the new imperial capital, swelling it from perhaps 20,000 before Constantine to 500,000 (or even a bit more) by the era of Justinian.83 The city’s own productive hinterland could hardly keep pace with such growth, and repeated efforts to improve and dramatically expand port infrastructure underscore the integral connective role played by the local maritime landscape.84 From 332, Alexandria was   Garnsey and Whittaker 1998, 335–​37; Whittaker and Garnsey 1998, 299–​304.   For the case of changing imports to Rome, see most famously Tchernia 1986; Panella and Tchernia 1994. For Cyprus, see Kaldeli 2008; Kaldeli 2009; Kaldeli 2013. 82   McCormick 1998; Kingsley and Decker 2001, 2–​9; Panella 2001, 179–​80; Deligiannakis 2016, 95–​96. 83   Mango 1985, 51; Durliat 1990, 259–​61. 84   See generally Müller-​Wiener 1994; Dark 2005; Berger 2015; Daim 2016. See also Magdalino 2000; Mango 2000. 80 81

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charged with supplying much of the new capital’s needed grain: perhaps 80,000 benefited directly from the annona under Justinian, but another 400,000 or more also needed to be fed through commerce.85 The construction of grain warehouses on the small island of Tenedos, just 20 km outside the Hellespont, enhanced the reliability of supply for the capital by divorcing it from the seasonal circuits of the Alexandrian grain fleets. If large freighters were prevented by strong northerly winds and currents from entering the Hellespont—​evidently a precarious but common situation—​t hey could stop, unload, and set off on their return journey without delay, thereby allowing multiple round trips within the year. Local mariners ferried the grain the remaining distance from Tenedos to Constantinople on their own schedule whenever conditions permitted.86 Among the (at least) 37 wrecks uncovered at Yenikapı are many that have been interpreted as small and local merchant craft; these are mostly of later Byzantine date but surely point to the types of mariners and short-​haul movements within the area that would have converged on the city’s harbors in these earlier centuries.87 But grain was just one of several staples, and we might read the development of Constantinople’s immediate northeastern Aegean and southern Pontic hinterlands as tied to this massive demographic growth. The expansion of the wine industry and its associated amphora workshops at Sinope offers one of the clearer examples of economic growth almost certainly tied to this same gravity.88 This pull on the system created by the massive market of the capital compares with the earlier situation in the Tyrrhenian and central Mediterranean more broadly, where certain key maritime economies and connections were organized around the needs of Rome.89 It should come as no surprise that the shift of imperial capital created new opportunities and demands on the east and its mechanisms of maritime distribution. Major transfers of food and other goods were also necessitated by the renewed or ongoing prosperity of other major cities and the growth of military garrisons in the east, now numbering some 300,000–​400,000.90 The residents of Alexandria accounted for nearly an equal number, and although the city had been a major population concentration for centuries, responsibility for meeting its import needs

  Sirks 1991, 323–​27.   Procop. De Aed. 5.1.7–​16; Barnes 2006. 87   E .g., Kocabaş 2015, 11–​18; Pulak et al. 2015, 57–​62. 88   On the massive growth of Sinope, see Kassab Tezgör 2010a; Kassab Tezgör 2010b. For glimpses of Late Antique shipping in this area, see Kassab Tezgör et  al. 1998; Ballard et  al. 2001; Ward and Ballard 2004. 89   Purcell 1996; Schörle 2011; Keay 2012; Wilson et al. 2012, 379–​84. 90   McCormick 2012, 85. See generally ­chapter 1, p. 11. 85

86

Maritime Networks in the Roman East 221

now fell exclusively on the east.91 Together these drew more—​and more distant—​ economies into the orbit of consumer centers, especially Constantinople. By the latter 4th century, the southeast Aegean was suddenly more central to larger economic networks, and even the quietly prosperous backwater of Cyprus was soon closer—​not only geographically but also in network terms—​to the center of action than ever before when Rome was the capital. Thereafter, exports from these areas appear quickly and routinely near the Danube.92 Viewed in this light, the interregional activities prompted by changing focal points of consumption, combined with the loss or greater (network) distance of certain productive regions in the west, seem to have helped stimulate new development within eastern regions. The resulting pull from the top suggests greater integration and interdependence between maritime scales than in previous centuries here; the ensuing trajectory reveals a crucial capacity of regional economies, which had generally followed their own distinct paths thus far, to respond in part to interregional structures, albeit through their own particular internal dynamics. That interregional patterns could help drive regional economic growth seems clear enough here, but this development ultimately raises the next (and longstanding) question of the extent to which this interregional exchange was itself driven by the state or private commerce.93 Wickham, for example, sees the Roman state, particularly its taxation, as the essential driving factor behind interregional connections that enabled a Mediterranean “world system” based on the large-​scale fiscal movements of bulk everyday goods; once this structure was removed in Late Antiquity, he argues, the system was allowed to fragment into its constituent regional economies.94 While it is generally impossible here to weigh—​or even to distinguish—​state and commercial mechanisms within these different network scales and links or the individual cargos that created them,95 two observations seem reasonable to assert for the study area: first, the state played an important role in helping generate interregional connections here during Late Antiquity, whether directly through military and urban provisioning or indirectly through the creation of new centers of gravity, and second, this role was dependent on and inextricably linked to a larger world of diverse commercial exchanges that moved the bulk of goods both within and among regions.   Population estimates for Alexandria are notoriously difficult, as for any ancient urban center, but see generally Delia 1988; Scheidel 2004; Papaconstantinou 2012. 92   E .g., Karagiorgou 2001; Sazanov 2007; Rizos 2015. 93   A strong hand of the state in exchange is a particularly common theme in studies focusing on Late Antiquity: see most importantly Jones 1964; Abadie-​Reynal 1989; Durliat 1998. The proportions of each are of course impossible to know: see Garnsey and Whittaker 1998, 316–​22; McCormick 1998. 94   Wickham  2005. 95   See c­ hapter 3, pp. 84–​89. 91

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Sufficient gravitational pull meant that equivalent shipments in the opposite direction were not always a strict economic necessity. Even so, interregional imports into the study area include likely return cargos, which reflect evolving connections and the economic benefits of new integration. Particularly conspicuous is the sudden increase throughout the eastern Mediterranean basin of processed agricultural goods from the Black Sea. While Pontic amphoras were not unknown on slightly earlier wrecks here—​an assemblage appears among the 3rd-​ century İskandil Burnu B cargo (#32)—​t heir presence is especially marked from around the latter 4th and especially the 5th century (Kepez Tepe A, #36; probably Arwad B, #46). Seen in the light of Constantinople’s centrality, the otherwise anomalous load of Late Antique Black Sea imports in the eastern Mediterranean from the İnce Burun (Kalkan) A wreck (#42) makes sense as the product of an economic network: the vessel off the Lycian coast was seemingly headed into the eastern Mediterranean on one leg of an interregional journey that earlier may have delivered agricultural goods to the imperial capital. Sinopean carrot-​shaped amphoras became so commonplace in certain contexts here that a massive deposit of sherds at Seleucia was once thought to represent a production center. Only later study indicated their more likely explanation as routine debris from warehousing of imports to the city; this city played a key role in the mobilization of Syrian and Cilician goods, especially oil, for other markets like Constantinople.96 Certain finewares may likewise have benefited from their fortuitous network topography.97 The merchants who now converged on Constantinople and its region also found opportunities for higher-​end cargos. Unusually rich Proconnesian marble decorations shipped in for monumental projects (especially basilicas) at Cape Drepanon, on the western tip of Cyprus, have been linked to this otherwise unpromising site’s location as an anchorage stopover for Alexandrian grain ships.98 Exotic imports were thus hardly relegated to major urban centers during Late Antiquity, and even the occasional Sinopean jar found its way within a regional circuit into the houses of Kopetra.99 Of course movements of processed agricultural staples

96   On the initial identification, see Empereur and Picon 1989, 237–​39. See also Kassab Tezgör and Touma 2001. For restudy and clarification of the context, see Reynolds 2005, 566. On the mobilization of surplus oil in this area, see Decker 2001; Decker 2009; Elton 2005. The Sinopean production of late jars sharing morphological traits with the LR1 type might best be viewed in this light of close interregional connection and economic coordination of the two areas: cf. Pieri 2012, 47–​48. 97   E .g., Phocaean Red Slip Ware from the Aegean: see Abadie-​Reynal 1989; Wickham 1998, 284. 98   Bakirtzis 1995; Michaelides 2001. See also more generally Papageorghiou 1985; Papacostas 2001, 115–​20; Nicolaou 2013. For the eastern Mediterranean broadly, see Sodini 1989. 99   On Sinopean wine at Kopetra, see Rautman 2003, 198. See also the discussion of imports to Pyla-​ Koutsopetria in Caraher et al. 2014, 295; and more generally Whittow 2013.

Maritime Networks in the Roman East 223

between these two scales were on the whole asymmetrical.100 This corridor was formalized by Justinian in his provincial reorganization of 536, when Cyprus, together with Caria, the Aegean Islands, Scythia Minor, and Moesia Secunda, were assigned to the Quaestor of the Army (Quaestura Exercitus). Peculiar from a geographical standpoint, the arrangement was seemingly built on a preexisting network structure and may be understood as an attempt to reinforce and routinize interregional links.101 If regularity of activity was the key to the formation of maritime economic markets, both within and among regions, then the vibrant interregional exchange and bustling regions suggest a stronger multiscalar integration of eastern Mediterranean markets than ever before. The 6th century reflected a high point in prosperity for the east, despite well-​documented and severe social and economic challenges like climate change as well as disease that set in from the time of Justinian.102 This strong interregional system may have contributed a certain level of resilience in the face of pressures throughout the 6th century, even if the same ships spread disease.103 The century that followed, however, brought different and variable trajectories ranging from long-​term environmental challenges to devastating wars against Persia followed by raids and conflict with the emergent power from Arabia.104 Within a few generations, Constantinople lost control of much of its economically prosperous territory, and parts of our study area that were once heartland became new frontier. The capital city may have remained the central hub for Mediterranean maritime activity,105 but the rapidly shrinking network surrounding it raises questions regarding the practical impact these structures may have had on this process of disintegration. During periods of economic growth, network integration and efficiency offered obvious benefits. Yet it is worth considering whether this same structure may have presented challenges in the context of rapid downturn and loss of productive regions. Could interregional 100    Far greater numbers of these Black Sea jars—​ at least the ones that made it beyond Constantinople—​a rrived at the docks of larger ports such as Seleucia and from there to urban centers like Antioch, which drew from both the nearby region and the farther reaches of the empire. Cf. “consumer city” models discussed in ­chapter 1, p. 7. See generally Uggeri 2006. 101   Lokin 1986, 7; Swan 2004; Swan 2007. For background on the local provincial structures here, see c­ hapter 1, pp. 17–​18. 102   On 6th-​century prosperity in this part of the eastern Mediterranean, see generally Tate 1992 (Syria); Bagnall 1993 (Egypt); Foss 1994 (Lycia); Whittow 2001 (Asia Minor); Decker 2009 (Syria); Deligiannakis 2016 (Aegean). For the plague and its economic aftermath, see Meier 2016; Harper 2017, 199–​245. 103   The pressures and resilience of 6th-​ century Antioch are addressed in Mordechai 2019. McCormick 1998 draws together key evidence for the maritime mobility of disease and its vector. 104   See generally the contributions in Izdebski and Mulryan 2019. 105   Magdalino 2016.

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integration have left economic networks more exposed to collapse? Disruptions at one scale, if sufficiently widespread, may have had more drastic impacts on other scales to which they were tightly linked. As we have seen, flexibility in earlier Roman interregional networks may have allowed them to adapt to the varied regional economic (and other) problems of the 3rd century. Given its reduced size, the broad Late Antique world may not have so effectively withstood downturns as it had before. Could tighter integration and consolidation have rendered the structure less flexible to change and less resilient to shock? Testing this notion would require maritime archaeological evidence of later centuries for comparison, but at least a few clues suggest that decline and disintegration, like earlier growth and integration, were uneven. As had been the case in the west for some time, regions of the east now faced variable histories. Urban decline and settlement changes seem to have set in throughout the northern Balkans by the 6th century.106 The rich and densely populated lands of Syria may have suffered economic setbacks in the 6th century, but they largely prospered throughout the political transformation of the 7th and well into the 8th century (or longer).107 Palestine seems to have fared similarly well.108 On Cyprus, the mid-​7 th century has long been linked to widespread decline, especially in urban centers, but some parts of the island seem to have been fading already earlier, and others flourished later into the century and beyond.109 Some connections can be detected across the eastern Mediterranean basin into the 8th century. It seems generally clear, though, that interregional network links were in many cases disrupted or reoriented across much of the study area starting especially in the latter 7th century.110 The different regional cadences here clearly demonstrate that this was a complex process rather than a single trajectory,111 one in which regional economic disruptions may eventually have left the broader interregional network less resilient to the large-​scale political, social, and environmental challenges it faced in the last years of antiquity. : : :

Further Journeys Threaded through the various preceding discussions, particularly those in ­chapters  4 and 5, has been a common desire for more (or more detailed) data.   Curta  2001.   Kennedy 1985; Walmsley 2007; Haldon 2010. 108   Magness  2003. 109   Papageorghiou 1993; Papacostas 2001, 120–​21; Cosentino 2013. 110   E.g., Armstrong  2009. 111   See generally McCormick 2001, 1–​119; Wickham 2005, 693–​824; Haldon 2012. 106 107

Maritime Networks in the Roman East 225

Thanks to their collection into geospatial databases, the corpuses of shipwrecks and ports now offer more analytical possibilities than ever before but likewise lay bare the geographical, temporal, and other unevenness in our evidence. While this concluding chapter has focused on the varied persistent or changing scales and structures that characterized the Roman and Late Antique east, the image of networks here reflects the particular vantage point of the chosen study area. In the case of ports, the view is informed by a subset of studies consisting of limited stretches of the Turkish and Cypriot coasts. Comparative analysis of maritime material assemblages from other regional contexts, both within the east and beyond, would allow this picture to expand and zoom out: for example, the dense record of shipwrecks off Israel would offer an ideal opportunity to test further the emergence and evolution of networks in the east; the rich datasets off Sicily or southern France would provide alternative views of changing dynamics from central and western Mediterranean perspectives. At the same time, more intensive shipwreck survey could help provide improved baseline data for quantitative studies. Larger and finer-​grained assemblages would allow tracking along shorter temporal intervals, the exploration of intersections with pre-​Roman and later Byzantine structures only hypothesized here, and perhaps also the identification of more diversity within and among our regions. But the potential for better and more data should not discourage us from recognizing and pursuing the research paths already open to us with the evidence at hand, a maritime material record that is both quantitatively and qualitatively richer than ever. Key to maximizing these new opportunities are methodologies that can bridge the low-​resolution bulk data with the more limited but high-​resolution data of individual cargos and ports. In this sense, the approach employed here offers a single eastern Mediterranean Roman case study but also a model that might be more broadly employable. The particular dynamics of mobility and communication, the shape and nature of regions, and their interaction will no doubt vary geographically and temporally, but a systematic focus on scales and their integration can help guide research into the development and structuring of maritime economies. Given the high cost in time and resources required to investigate in full any maritime site, the numbers of such projects are bound to remain small. It is therefore imperative that we make the most of each, especially in light of the mounting threats to Mediterranean underwater cultural heritage (looting, destructive fishing, offshore development) and a growing emphasis on balancing intrusive investigations with in situ preservation as a core component of responsible long-​term management.112 “Meticulous studies of individual

  U NESCO 2001. See also Guérin and Egger 2010, 98–​99; Greene et al. 2011.

112

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shipwrecks show us more when viewed against the broader backdrop of all shipwrecks,” argues McCormick.113 Yet a rich picture of maritime regionalism and integration depends on more than just shipwrecks and ports; it requires situating this material record alongside other major indicators of mobility, interaction, and economic development throughout the hinterlands. Much work remains to be done, and other Roman seas demand attention. With the case studies explored here, though, I hope to have demonstrated one approach through which a more complex and multiscalar picture of Mediterranean maritime economies can emerge by making the most of the strengths within the unique archaeological record of shipwrecks and ports.

  McCormick 2012,  80.

113

Appendix 1

Roman and Late Antique Shipwrecks from Southwest Turkey and the Northeast Mediterranean

The shipwreck dataset that informs the present analysis has been collated from a number of sources and is, in general, of uneven detail. This is particularly apparent in the discrepancy between the volume of data off southwest Turkey (54 sites, fig. A.1) and that from around the northeast Mediterranean (13 sites, fig. A.2). On the following two maps, the shipwrecks are numbered in chronological order, from the Roman era (#1–​34, 2nd century bc to mid-​4th century ad) and Late Antiquity (#35–​67, mid-​4th through 7th century ad). These numbers correspond to those used in the table that follows (table A.1), which also includes the identifiers of these same wrecks (where available) published in major databases (Parker’s 1992 catalog, the Oxford Roman Economy Project, and the Digital Atlas of Roman Medieval Civilizations) as well as date and cargo components. For more detailed discussion of this data, see ­chapter 1, pp. 18–​22.

227

Fig. A.1. Map of southwest Turkey and adjacent areas showing Roman and Late Antique shipwrecks as well as other locations discussed in the text. Shipwreck numbers correspond to those in table A.1.

Fig. A.2. Map of the northeast Mediterranean showing Roman and Late Antique shipwrecks as well as other locations discussed in the text. Shipwreck numbers correspond to those in table A.1.

230

Kioni A

Moulia Rocks A

Alakışla Bükü A

Knidos D

Cape Zevgari B

TK06-​AC

Hayırsız Burun (Marmaris) A

Arap Adası A

Bozukkale Kale A

Kıyrak Liman B

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Site

Probable Date

Parker #548 (“Knidos A”); OXREP #24

—​

Parker #50; OXREP #26

—​

OXREP #8862

—​

—​

—​

—​

2nd or 1st c. bc

2nd or 1st c. bc

2nd or 1st c. bc

Late 2nd or early 1st c. bc

Latter 2nd c. bc

2nd c. bc

2nd c. bc(?)

Late 3rd or 2nd c. bc

Late 3rd or early 2nd c. bc

Parker #554 Late 3rd or early (“Koppo”); OXREP 2nd c. bc #122

Database IDs

Shipwreck Data from the Study Area

Table A.1.

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

NE Med.

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

NE Med.

NE Med.

Location

Shallow to middepth

Middepth

Deep

Middepth

Deep

Shallow/​reef

Deep

Shallow/​reef to middepth

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​reef

Context

Bass and Katzev 1968; Leonard 1995a

Primary Reference(s)

Leidwanger 2005

Brennan et al. 2012

Bass and Joline 1968

Finewares and common wares: kylikes, lamps, perhaps also cups(?) and plates(?)

Pulak 1998

Wine(?) in Özdaş 2010 amphoras: Rhodian style

Wine(?) in amphoras: Rhodian style(?)

Wine(?) in amphoras: Koan Özdaş 2010 style and Rhodian style

Wine(?) in Royal 2008 amphoras: Rhodian style

Wine(?) in amphoras (32+): Rhodian style

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: Koan style

Wine(?) in Pulak 1989 amphoras: Rhodian style

Wine(?) in Hohlfelder 1995b amphoras: Rhodian style

Wine(?) in amphoras (36+): Rhodian style

Documented Cargo

231

Kıyrak Liman A

Çaycağız Koyu B

Karaburun (Fethiye) A

Yalıkavak A

Yalıkavak B

Toprakada A

Kepçe Burnu B

TK05-​A I

Cape Kiti B

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Latter 1st c. bc or earlier 1st c. ad

1st c. bc

1st c. bc

1st c. bc

1st c. bc

1st c. bc(?)

2nd or 1st c. bc

2nd or 1st c. bc

Parker #213; OXREP Early 1st c. ad #123; DARMC #164

OXREP #8859; DARMC #90

Parker #325 (“Çökertme B”); OXREP #29

—​

—​

Parker #1238; OXREP #28

—​

—​

Parker #549 (“Knidos B”); OXREP #25

NE Med.

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

Shallow/​reef

Deep

Shallow/​reef

Middepth

Deep

Middepth

Middepth

Shallow/​reef

Shallow to middepth

Pulak 1998

Brennan et al. 2012

Brennan et al. 2012

Özdaş 2009a

Wine in amphoras: Dressel 6A

Wine(?) in amphoras: late Rhodian style (2 types), unknown (probably regional, perhaps also Rhodian) type

Wine(?) in amphoras: Knidian

(Continued)

Engvig and Beichmann 1984; Demesticha 2015

Royal 2006

Rosloff 1981

Wine(?) in amphoras: Koan Pulak 1986 type

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: Lamboglia 2

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: Lamboglia 2

Wine(?) in amphoras: Rhodian style (many types), some Knidian style

Wine(?) in amphoras: Koan Özdaş et al. 2012 style

Tiles: pan and cover; amphoras: Egyptian; some finewares(?)

232

Sancak Burun A

Cape Andreas A

Küçük Kiremit Adası B

Küçük Kiremit Adası A

Yassıada D

Çaycağız Koyu C

Knidos J

Knidos H

Kızılkuyruk (Fethiye) B

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Site

Table A.1  Continued

—​

—​

—​

—​

Parker #534 (“Karabağla”); OXREP #34; DARMC #415

Parker #642? (“Mandalya Gulf A”); OXREP #32?; DARMC #506?

Parker #642? (“Mandalya Gulf A”); OXREP #32?; DARMC #506?

Parker #202; OXREP #7625; DARMC #155

Parker #1026; OXREP #31; DARMC #849

Database IDs

Late 1st or 2nd c. ad

Latter 1st or 2nd c. ad

1st or 2nd c. ad

1st or 2nd c. ad

Mid-​to late 1st or early 2nd c. ad

Ca. late 1st c. ad

Mid-​to late 1st c. ad

Mid-​2nd c. bc to mid-​3rd c. ad

Early to mid-​1st c. ad

Probable Date

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

NE Med.

SW Turkey

Location

Middepth

Deep

Deep

Shallow/​reef to middepth

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​reef

Middepth

Context

Özdaş et al. 2012

Frost 1963

Bass 1986

Bass 1986

Green 1973

Bass 1974

Primary Reference(s)

Wine(?) in amphoras: late Rhodian style

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: Agora M54

Özdaş 2010

Brennan et al. 2012

Oil/​w ine in Brennan et al. 2012 amphoras: Rhodian style

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: similar to Dr 24(?, 2 types)

Wine(?) in amphoras: late Rhodian style, late Koan style

Wine(?) in amphoras: Dressel 24

Wine(?) in amphoras: late Koan style (3 types)

Tiles: Corinthian-​style

Wine(?) in amphoras: late Rhodian style (2 types)

Documented Cargo

233

Ragged Bay A

Kioni B

Fig Tree Bay South A

İskandil Burnu B

Kumlu Burun (Marmaris) A

Knidos I

Gümüşlük A

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Parker #491; OXREP #7907; DARMC #375

—​

—​

Parker #519 (=#353, “Datça C”); OXREP #7933 (=#7771); DARMC #400 (=#259)

OXREP #8988; DARMC no#

DARMC no#

DARMC no#

Late 4th c. ad

3rd or 4th c. ad

3rd or 4th c. ad

3rd c. ad

Mid-​to late 2nd c. ad

2nd c. ad (?)

Early to mid-​2nd c. ad

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

NE Med.

NE Med.

SW Turkey

Middepth

Deep

Shallow/​reef

Middepth

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​harbor

Middepth

Leidwanger 2013b

Leonard 1995a

Pulak, survey notes, 1995, INA archives

Wine or oil or fish product in amphoras: E Aegean bag shaped

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: Zemer 57

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: Africana I

Rosloff 1981

(Continued)

Brennan et al. 2012

Özdaş 2010

Wine in Köyağasıoğlu 2006 amphoras: Forlimpopoli, Kapitän II; wine or resin in amphoras: Dressel 24 similis; amphoras of unknown content: MR5

Wine in amphoras (133+): Agora M54, Gauloise 4, Cilician Dressel 30, Ras el Bassit type

Wine in amphoras (44+): pinched handle

Wine(?) in amphoras: late Rhodian style, Knidian style; unknown content (wine?), in amphoras: unidentified E/​SE Aegean(?)

234

Kepez Tepe A

Yalılavak C

Yassıada B

Kalkan A

Sıçak Burnu (Kekova) A

İçada (Kekova) A

İnce Burun (Kalkan) A

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

Site

Table A.1  Continued

DARMC no#

—​

—​

DARMC no#

Parker #1240; OXREP #8610; DARMC #1029

—​

DARMC no#

Database IDs

Mid-​5th c. ad

Late 4th or 5th c. ad

Late 4th or 5th c. ad

Early 5th c. ad

End of 4th or early 5th c. ad

4th or 5th c. ad(?)

Latter 4th c./​ earlier 5th ad

Probable Date

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

Location

Middepth

Middepth

Middepth

Middepth

Middepth

Deep

Middepth

Context

Özdaş 2009a

Bass 1982b

Bass and van Doorninck 1971

Brennan et al. 2012

Yıldız 1985

Primary Reference(s)

Wine in amphoras: Sinopean carrot shape

Yıldız 1985

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1; Özdaş 2010 wine(?) in amphoras: LR5/​6

Oil/​w ine(?) in amphoras: LR1 (2 types)

Wine or oil in amphoras: LR1

Wine or oil in amphoras: LR1 (2 types; up to ca. 330), E Aegean (2 types; ca. 800)

Terracotta pipes

Wine or oil in amphoras: LR1 (2 types), Sinopean style; wine or oil or fish product: E Aegean bag shaped; unknown content: unidentified type

Documented Cargo

235

Yılan Ada A

Avdimou Bay A

Cape Zevgari A

Arwad B

Marmaris Çiftlik A

Kızılkuyruk (Fethiye) A

Kekova Adası B

TK05-​A D

Arap Adası B

Büyük Kiremit Adası A

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

5th or early 6th c. ad

Latter 5th c. ad

5th c. ad

—​

DARMC no#

OXREP #8860; DARMC #91

OXREP #9022; DARMC no#

—​

—​

5th to 7th c. ad(?)

6th c. ad

Latter 5th or 6th c. ad

Early 6th c. ad

5th or 6th c. ad

5th or 6th c. ad

Parker #59; OXREP 5th or early 6th #7491; DARMC #41 c. ad

OXREP #9036; DARMC #167

OXREP #9037; DARMC #48

DARMC no#

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

NE Med.

NE Med.

NE Med.

SW Turkey

Deep

Middepth

Deep

Middepth

Middepth

Middepth

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​harbor

Middepth

Özdaş 2010

Frost 1966; Kampbell 2013

Leidwanger 2007

Leidwanger 2007

Pulak 1998

Wine in amphoras: LR5/​6 (2 types)

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1 (2 types); wine in amphoras: LR4

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1 (2 types)

Wine(?) in amphoras: LR5

(Continued)

Brennan et al. 2012

Pulak 1990

Royal 2006

Yıldız 1985

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1; Özdaş 2010 LR4(?)

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1 (2+ types) and other (central Levant or southern Black Sea area)

Oil/​w ine in amphoras (150+): LR1

Wine in amphoras (30+): LR4; millstones (3+)

Wine(?) in amphoras: Almagro 50 or San Lorenzo 7 (or similar); wine or oil in amphoras: unidentified Aegean(?)

236

Knidos A

Kargı Adası A

Çirinko Burnu A

Palamutbükü A

Knidos Port B

Payamlık Burnu B

Knidos C

Yılanlı Ada A

Burgaz A

Cape Andreas C/​E

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

Site

Table A.1  Continued

Parker #204 (=#206); OXREP #7627 (=#7629); DARMC #155 (=#157)

—​

—​

—​

—​

—​

—​

—​

—​

—​

Database IDs

Late 6th or 7th c. ad

Latter 6th or 7th c. ad

6th or 7th c. ad

6th or 7th c. ad(?)

Latter 6th or early 7th c. ad

Latter 6th c. ad

6th or early 7th c. ad

6th or early 7th c. ad

6th or early 7th c. ad

Latter 5th, 6th, or 7th c. ad

Probable Date

NE Med.

SW Turkey

NE Med.

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

Location

Shallow/​reef to middepth

Shallow/​harbor

Middepth

Deep

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​harbor

Shallow/​reef

Shallow/​reef to middepth

Shallow/​reef to middepth

Deep

Context

Evrin et al. 2005

Brennan et al. 2012

Özdaş, personal communication

Aslan 2015

Özdaş et al. 2012

Özdaş, personal communication

Özdaş 2009b

Brennan et al. 2012

Primary Reference(s)

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1 (2 types) and LR2b; clay sarcophagi

Green 1973

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1; Leidwanger et al. 2015 LR2

Oil/​w ine in amphoras (60+, possibly 200–​300?): LR1

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR2

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR2

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR2

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1 (2 types)

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR1

Documented Cargo

237

Knidos Port A

İnce Burun (Datça) A

66

67

—​

—​

Parker #203; OXREP #7626; DARMC #156 7th c. ad

7th c. ad

Very late 6th to 7th c. ad

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

NE Med.

SW Turkey

SW Turkey

Middepth

Shallow/​harbor

Shallow/​reef

Middepth

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR2b/​LR13 (3 types)

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR2

Oil/​w ine in amphoras: LR2b (2 types)

Wine(?) in amphoras: LR5 (2 types); LR4 (2 types)

Pulak 1989

Aslan 2015

Green 1973

Lloyd 1984

Note: Additional identifiers are given in parentheses when shipwreck sites could otherwise be confused with similar toponym-​derived wreck names along other parts of the coast. Where available, numbers used in other database initiatives are given, particularly those from Parker 1992a, the Oxford Roman Economy Project (2013 release), and the Digital Atlas of Roman and Medieval Civilizations (2013 release, using “2010 Wreck ID” for numbers; those listed as “DARMC no#” can be found in the database but without a specific numerical identifier). Contexts are divided generally according to depth such that those in the often disturbed dynamic zone are described as “shallow” (often situated on a reef or in/​near a harbor) and those beyond routine diving depths as “deep”; those at diving depths beyond the shallow disturbed zone are considered here as “middepth.” For any wrecks reported in several publications, generally the most recent and/​or most thorough is given here, sometimes with an update where relevant; unpublished material is cited according to archive or other source.

Cape Andreas B

65

Wine and oil and Bass and van other agricultural Doorninck 1982 contents in amphoras: LR2a and b; LR1 (various types)

Middepth

Late 620s ad

Parker #1239; OXREP #8609; DARMC #1028

Yassıada A

Early 7th c. ad

64

Parker #518 (=#351, “Datça A”); OXREP #7932 (=#7769); DARMC #399 (=#257)

İskandil Burnu A

63

Appendix 2

Wind Patterns in the Southeast Aegean and Northeast Mediterranean

The wind data referenced in the present analysis has been collected for coastal locations using the freely available web resource Windfinder (www.windfinder. com). For each of the two major parts of the study area, seven representative locations have been selected to provide a sense of broad patterns and seasonality, while still keeping the visualization simple: Bodrum, Kos (airport), Dalaman, Datça, Marmaris, Rhodes, and Kaş in the southeast Aegean; Anamur, Silifke, Iskenderun, Lattakia, Tripoli, Famagusta, and Paphos around the northeast corner of the Mediterranean. Monthly data for wind direction has been aggregated into three-​month periods, reflecting roughly spring (April–​June), summer (July–​September), autumn (October–​December), and winter (January–​March). These are displayed as a series of seasonal maps for each of the two areas. The geographic information system modeling and analysis in ­chapter 4 involves additional data sources, a wider range of both onshore locations and offshore data available through the Medatlas Electronic Atlas (v. 7.0). For more detailed discussion and interpretation of these wind patterns as a factor in maritime activity, see ­chapter 2, pp.  XX–​X X.

239

240  Appendix 2 60 50

Shallow, 14

40 30 Middepth, 27

20 10 0

Deep, 13

Shallow, 11.5

Southwest Turkey

NE Mediterranean

Middepth, 1.5

Fig. A.3. Number of wrecks from different depth contexts, by part of the study area.

40 35 30 25

Shallow, 15

Shallow, 10.5

20 15

Middepth, 11

Middepth, 17.5

10 5 0

Deep, 8

Roman

Fig. A.4. Number of wrecks from different depth contexts, by period.

Deep, 5

Late Antique

Fig. A.5. Wind roses for representative points around the southeast Aegean in spring (April through June).

Fig. A.6. Wind roses for representative points around the southeast Aegean in summer (July through September).

Fig. A.7. Wind roses for representative points around the southeast Aegean in autumn (October through December).

Fig. A.8. Wind roses for representative points around the southeast Aegean in winter (January through March).

Appendix 2 245 Bodrum

8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.9. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Bodrum, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray).

14 12 10 8 6 4 2 0

Kos

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.10. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Kos, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray). Datça

12 10 8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.11. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Datça, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray).

246  Appendix 2

14 12 10 8 6 4 2 0

Rhodes

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.12. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Rhodes, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray). Marmaris

6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.13. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Marmaris, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray). Dalaman

12 10 8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.14. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Dalaman, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray).

Appendix 2 247 Kaş

8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.15. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Kaş, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray).

Fig. A.16. Wind roses for representative points from around the northeast Mediterranean in spring (April through June).

Fig. A.17. Wind roses for representative points from around the northeast Mediterranean in summer (July through September).

Fig. A.18. Wind roses for representative points from around the northeast Mediterranean in autumn (October through December).

Appendix 2 249

Fig. A.19. Wind roses for representative points from around the northeast Mediterranean in winter (January through March). Silifke

6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.20. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Silifke, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray).

250  Appendix 2 Anamur

8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.21. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Anamur, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray). Iskenderun

8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.22. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Iskenderun, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray). Lattakia

10 8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.23. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Lattakia, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray).

Appendix 2 251 Tripoli

10 8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.24. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Tripoli, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray). Paphos

12 10 8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.25. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Paphos, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray). Famagusta

12 10 8 6 4 2 0

Annual

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Fig. A.26. Average monthly wind speeds (in kn) at Famagusta, with the probability of winds greater than or equal to Beaufort 4 (overlaid in light gray).

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Index

Tables and figures are indicated by t and f following the page number For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–​53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Aegean, 17, 21–​22, 27–​34, 61–​62, 64–​66, 67, 69–​ 70, 71, 73–​75, 79, 81, 95, 102–​3, 114–​16, 123–​ 24, 127–​28, 129–​39, 142–​48, 159–​60, 162, 167–​69, 196–​97, 203–​4, 209, 212–​15, 219 agriculture continuity,  216–​18 economic impact, 216–​18 Late Antiquity, 6–​7, 189–​91 production, 6–​8, 194–​95,  202–​3 Roman, 6–​7,  106–​7 specialization,  6–​7 urban populations and, 7–​8 Alexandria. See urban centers Amathus. See urban centers Amphoras (as cargo), 89–​90 as evidence of processed goods (oil and wine,) 18, 89–​90 Late Roman, 129–​30, 177–​78, 204 LR1, 18, 39–​40, 112–​13, 123–​24, 167–​69, 176–​77, 180, 204, 234t LR2, 18, 112–​13, 123–​24, 167–​69, 176–​77, 180, 204, 234t types of, 171, 203–​4

ancient geographers, 69–​70, 74–​75, 76, 144–​ 45, 161–​62. See also Strabo annona, 9–​10, 11, 64–​65, 87–​88, 89–​90, 219–​20 Aperlae. See urban centers Archipelagos, 166 ariadne network, 102–​3 artifact patterning, 102 Arwad B (#46). See shipwrecks Avdimou A (#44). See shipwrecks Axes of mobility (geographical, scalar, and temporal), 83–​84, 83f,  90–​91   Baetica,  6–​7 Ballast, 37, 52, 162–​63 Barrels, 39–​40, 42, 112–​13 Benthos: Digital Atlas of Ancient Waters,  15–​16 Braudel, Fernand, 1–​2, 3, 74–​75, 82–​83, 215–​18 Broodbank, Cyprian, 1–​2, 3, 79, 81, 102–​3,  141–​42 Burgaz, 32–​33, 133f, 167, 169–​70, 172, 184–​88, 202–​3,  209–​10 Burgaz A (#61). See shipwrecks

317

318  Index cabotage (including caboteur), 3–​4, 39–​40, 47, 104, 158–​59, 193–​94 Cape Kiti (#19). See shipwrecks Cape Zevgari A (#45). See shipwrecks cargo composition (including compound), 123, 125–​26,  130–​35 geographical links within, 122, 125–​26 intended destination, 124–​25 network approach to, 138–​39 of interregional systems, 209, 218–​19 organic, 37, 40 origins, 123–​24, 125–​26, 135–​36,  215–​16 size, 47, 130 sources of, 123 spatially limited, 135–​36 stone, 16–​17, 37, 38, 40, 51f,  84–​85 tonnage, 41, 48–​53, 49f, 51f weighting, 128, 129–​30, 135–​36, 139 Casson, Lionel, 48, 60–​61, 64 ceramics as evidence of exchange, 3, 6–​7, 72, 163–​ 64, 177–​78,  202–​3 as evidence of settlement (including longevity), 171–​72,  202–​3 Cilicia, 10, 17–​18, 20–​22, 69, 76, 199–​200, 202–​4,  205–​6 cities. See urban centers coastscapes. See landscapes coins. See currency commercial exchange. See trade complexity theory, 99–​100 computational gravity model, 102 connectivity, 5–​6, 35, 99–​100, 122, 125–​26, 166, 199, 216–​18 role of, 3–​4, 141–​42, 198–​99 small-​scale, 1–​2,  73–​74 Constantinople. See urban centers Corrupting Sea, The, 1–​2, 3–​7, 28–​29, 47, 73–​74, 85–​86, 97–​98, 104, 123–​24, 154–​55, 166, 216–​18, 219 cost of sea transport, 57–​58, 106, 108, 140–​41, 150–​51,  195–​96 crews (including size), 36–​37, 41, 52–​53, 54–​ 55, 90–​91,  144–​45 social and economic organization of, 88–​ 89, 91–​92, 97–​98, 152–​53,  204–​7 currency, 10, 12–​13, 112–​13, 162–​63

currents, 15–​16, 23, 27, 29–​31, 38–​44, 67, 142–​ 44, 145–​48, 209, 219–​20 customs (duties/​houses), 3, 41, 64–​65, 204–​7 Cyprus, 7–​8, 17–​18, 20–​22, 23–​24, 28, 31–​32, 69, 73, 76, 79, 106, 111–​12, 118–​21, 123–​24, 126–​27, 142–​44, 155, 159–​60, 162–​63, 166, 172, 182–​83, 188, 193–​95, 200–​1, 202–​6, 209–​12, 219, 222–​23, 224   databases. See shipwreck: databases Datça peninsula, 23–​24, 27–​28, 32–​33, 73–​74, 123–​24, 155, 166, 167, 172–​74, 177, 180–​81, 182, 183–​88, 185–​88f, 193–​96, 202–​3,  209–​10 Digital Atlas of Roman and Medieval Civilization (DARMC), 13–​16, 114–​16 dolia, 40, 171–​72   Edict of Diocletian, 11, 107–​8, 201–​2 environmental determinism, 83–​84, 140 Ephesus. See urban centers Episkopi Bay, 175–​76, 177, 178–​79, 189–​91, 190f excavation methodologies, 21–​22 experimental archaeology, 141–​42. See also replica ships   fairs. See markets Fig Tree Bay South A (#31). See shipwrecks finewares, 40, 222–​23 fish, consumption according to class, 93 fishermen (including as merchants), 80–​81, 94–​98,  163–​64 fishing boats, 25–​26, 37, 41, 46–​47, 97–​98 commercial, 93–​95,  96–​97 distribution of goods, 96–​97 onshore activities, 96–​97 resultant patterns of mobility, 95 winter fishing, 64–​65, 66–​67, 95 fore-​a nd-​a ft rig. See rigging   galleys (including warships, rowed vessels), 25–​26, 37, 41, 46–​47, 53–​54, 55–​56, 62–​63 size of, 46–​47, 130 Geographic Information Systems (GIS), 77, 106, 110–​11, 140, 141–​45, 150–​51, 182–​84,  203–​4 geographical nodes. See nodes, types of

Index 319 geomorphology,  162–​63 georeferenced network visualization. See social network analysis grain ships, 47, 50–​51, 222–​23 Gümüşlük A (#35). See shipwrecks   harbors. See ports hinterlands, 155, 180–​81 economic development, 92–​93, 102 interaction throughout, 182, 196–​97 mobility throughout, 182 travel time to ports, 182–​83, 195–​96 Horden, Peregrine, 1–​2. See also Corrupting Sea, The hull shape. See ship construction   İnce Burun (Kalkan) A (#42). See shipwrecks Institute of Nautical Archaeology, 20–​22 integration community, 88–​89, 101–​2, 105–​6, 199–​200 economic, 88–​89, 126–​27, 189–​91, 204, 206–​7, 215–​16,  222–​23 interregional systems, 152–​53, 211–​12, 218–​24 cargos ( see cargo) exchange, 209, 212–​15, 223–​24 intersections within, 24 maritime scale, 79, 218–​19 İskandil Burnu B (#32). See shipwrecks islands (as regions), 73 groupings as conceptual units, 73, 77–​78 islandscapes. See landscapes   journey lengths, 151–​52 link to area size, 145–​48 long(er) distance, 74–​75, 83–​84, 83f, 88 short(er) distance, 83–​84, 87–​88   Kalavasos-​Kopetra, 199–​200 Kepçe Burnu B (#17). See shipwrecks Kepez Tepe A (#36). See shipwrecks Killik, 170, 171–​72, 199 Kioni B (#30). See shipwrecks Knidos. See urban centers Knidos A (#53). See shipwrecks Knidos C (#59). See shipwrecks Knidos I (#34). See shipwrecks Kos, 27–​28, 73–​74, 202–​3, 245f

Kourion. See urban centers Kumlu Burun A (#33). See shipwrecks Kyrenia. See shipwrecks   landing sites, 77–​78, 165–​66 landscape archaeology, 77–​78 landscape theory and methodology, 78–​79,  102–​3 landscapes coastal and offshore, 77–​78 coastscapes, 77–​78, 104 islandscapes, 77–​78, 79, 102–​3 Late Antique, 170 seascapes,  77–​78 lateen sail. See rigging: fore-​a nd-​a ft rig lex Claudia, 48–​49, 65 lex Portorii Asiae, 204–​5,  206–​7 long-​distance. See journey lengths luxury goods, 7–​8, 9–​10, 84–​86 Lycia, 17–​18, 28, 69, 76, 88, 154, 204–​5   Madrague de Giens ship, 37–​38, 46–​47,  49–​50 mare clausum, 63–​65,  206–​7 mare nostrum, 2, 24, 200–​1 maritime economies, 8–​9 maritime interaction, regional patterns of, 2, 71, 219, 225–​26 spheres of, 79 structure in Late Antiquity, 132–​35, 133f structure in Roman era, 130–​32, 131f maritime links, mapping, 127–​28 maritime mobility, 208, 209 trends in, 83–​84, 88 variables common to, 88–​90 markets,  91–​93 commercial,  94–​95 fishing, 93–​96, 97 resultant patterns of mobility, 95 Mediterranean, 75 geographic wreck distribution, 117–​18 naming conventions for waters of, 150 periods of heightened activity in, 118–​21, 119–​20f merchant societies, 12–​13 Mersincik, 170, 171, 182, 194–​95, 199, 202–​3 Mesudiye, 170, 172, 195–​96 microecologies, 4

320  Index microregions, 3–​5, 28–​29,  73–​74 military, impact of, 11, 87–​88 needs of, 7–​8, 9–​10, 86–​87 mobility, internal patterns. See maritime mobility; networks: internal patterns infrastructure, 106 modeling approaches, 78–​79, 88–​89, 99,  110–​11 mortise-​a nd-​tenon construction. See ship construction movement,  2–​3 impact of, 3 impediments to, 3 types of, 11   natural communities, patterns of interaction,  104–​5 navigation, 28–​29, 67–​68,  200–​1 aids, 27–​30, 32–​33,  62–​63 hazards, 28–​29,  178–​79 network modeling, 110–​11 concerns,  123–​24 networks approaches, 98–​100, 102 centrality, 102–​3, 105–​6, 107–​8, 129, 132–​35, 136–​37,  212–​13 composition of, 98, 107–​8, 127–​28, 138–​39 continuity, 212–​13, 216 internal patterns, 107–​8, 198–​99 Late Antique, 132–​35, 136–​37, 167, 199–​200, 209–​10,  213 links (edges), 98 nodes (vertices), 98, 196–​97 one-​mode, 127–​28, 129, 136–​37, 148 onshore, 155 pre-​Roman, 209,  224–​25 roads ( see road networks) Roman, 130–​32, 136–​37, 209, 210–​12, 216 scales, 24, 104, 220–​21 structures, 101–​2, 139, 157, 200–​1, 210–​11, 213–​15,  218–​19 tools, 70–​71, 122 two-​mode, 127–​28, 130–​35, 131f, 133f,  136–​37 types of data for, 100–​1 vocabulary of, 99 night-​time sailing, 62–​63, 65 nodes, types of, 127–​28, 129–​30, 132–​35 size of, 129

oil, 6, 11, 18, 39–​40, 64–​65, 167, 181–​82, 222–​23, 230t Baetican, 9–​10,  86–​87 Olive,  86–​87 ORBIS Project, 108, 109, 150, 201–​2 organic cargos. See cargo Oxford Roman Economy Project (OXREP),  13–​15   Paphos. See urban centers Parker, A.J., 13–​15, 19–​20, 48, 50–​51, 78–​79, 80–​81, 110, 111–​16, 117–​18, 121, 139 performance, definition of, 144–​45 variables, 140, 144 periploi, 29–​30, 41, 201–​2 piracy, 3, 12–​13, 59–​60 points of sail. See sails ports as markets for exchange, 92–​93, 157–​58,  160–​61 Avdimou Bay, 177–​78, 178f, 188–​91, 190f, 195–​96, 199,  209–​10 built, 23–​24, 155, 158–​61, 166, 176–​77, 180 debris, 162–​64,  178–​79 development, 155 distribution of, 156, 160–​61, 184–​86 fees,  205–​7 infrastructure, 160–​61,  163–​64 Late Antique, 172–​74, 173f, 175–​76, 188f locating, 159 qualitative evaluation, 195–​96 quantitative evaluation, 151–​52, 199–​200 natural, 157, 158–​59, 166 networks,  106–​7 roles of, 193–​95 Roman, 156–​57, 158–​59, 163–​64,  200–​1 size, 106–​7,  200–​1 small, 199–​200, 209–​10,  215–​16 terminology related to, 165–​66 urban, 29–​30, 182, 199, 204–​5, 206–​7 West Akrotiri, 177, 178–​79, 188–​91, 190f Zygi-​Petrini, 177, 180, 192f, 199–​200 Portus, 35–​36, 37, 83–​84, 106–​7, 201–​2 Portus Limen Project, 106–​7 Portus Project, 156–​57 Purcell, Nicholas, 1–​2. See also Corrupting Sea, The

Index 321 Quaestor of the Army, 17–​18, 222–​23   Red Sea, 62–​63, 107–​8 regionalism (including regional systems), 71–​72, 73–​74, 76, 81, 107–​8, 198–​99, 202–​4 , 206–​7,  216–​18 maritime, 75, 76, 82–​83, 107–​8, 225–​26 regions, definition of, 72 ambiguity of, 70–​71, 72 as an analytical unit, 70–​71 as experienced space, 71 boundaries of, 71 development of communities, 82 economies of, 24, 203–​4 maritime, 71 scale flexibility, 71–​72 topography of, 75 replica ships, 34, 43–​44, 58–​60, 141–​42,  144–​45 rigging, 23, 53–​56, 67–​68, 144 fore-​a nd-​a ft rig, 56–​58, 144, 215 roads (including road networks), 84–​85, 102, 106, 107–​8, 172–​74, 176–​78, 182–​83, 188–​89,  191–​93 Roman Maritime Concrete Study Project (ROMACONS),  156–​57 Rome. See urban centers routes coastal, 97, 107–​8 open-​sea, 28–​29, 61–​62, 64–​66,  107–​8 segmented sailing, 41, 65–​66, 107–​8   sailing directions, 29–​30, 81 sailing speeds, 23, 58–​62, 144–​48, 150–​51 sailing times, 61–​62, 140–​4 1, 145–​4 8,  150–​51 one-​way, 146–​47f round-​trip, 140, 145–​48, 149f, 182–​83, 185f, 186–​88, 187f, 189–​93, 190f, 192f, 195–​96,  203–​4 variables involved in, 140–​41 sailors. See crews sails. See also rigging lateen sail ( see fore-​a nd-​a ft  rig) points of sail, 54f spritsail, 56–​58,  206–​7 square sail, 42, 55–​59 scales, differences in, 5, 121–​22

seafaring, levels of, 151–​52, 206–​7, 208,  216–​18 motivations for, 84–​85 practices, 23, 35, 74–​75, 97–​98, 215 seas, naming conventions, 69–​70. See also Mediterranean seas, scales of, 69–​70 seascapes. See landscapes seasons sailing seasons, 41, 63–​64, 95 seasonal variation, 30–​31, 142–​44 seasonality, 63–​64, 66–​67, 142–​44, 150, 195–​96, 239 winter, 63–​67, 95 segmented journeys. See routes: segmented sailing settlement patterning, trends in, 77, 102 sewn-​boat construction. See ship construction shell-​based construction. See ship construction ship construction (including design) hull shape, 37–​38, 45, 57–​59, 144, 150–​51 mortise-​a nd-​tenon construction, 44, 45–​ 46, 49–​50, 82 sewn-​boat construction, 44, 45–​46, 49–​50,  206–​7 shell-​based construction,  45–​46 skeleton-​based construction, 45–​46, 215 shipwrecks, 131f, 133f; for details on all sites, including others not listed here below. See 227, 230t Arwad B (#46), 222–​23 cargo ( see cargo) comparative analysis, 112–​13 databases ( see DARMC; OXREP; Benthos: Digital Atlas of Ancient Waters) data biases, 21–​23 dating of, 112–​14 disaggregation of data, 117–​18 Fig Tree Bay South A (#31), 128, 130–​32, 203–​4, 210–​11,  213–​15 Gümüşlük A (#35), 128 İnce Burun (Kalkan) A (#42), 222–​23 İskandil Burnu B (#32), 211 Kepçe Burnu B (#17), 203–​4 Kepez Tepe A (#36), 128, 222–​23

322  Index shipwrecks (Cont.) Kioni B (#30), 130–​32, 203–​4 Knidos A (#53), 213–​15 Knidos C (#59), 213–​15 Knidos I (#34), 210–​11 Kumlu Burun A (#33), 130–​32, 210–​11 Kyrenia, 52–​53, 58–​59,  144–​48 Late Antique, 13–​15, 17, 115–​34f, 117–​18,  126–​27 location, 124, 135–​36 preservation, 15, 20–​21, 36–​38, 41, 89–​90, 102,  225–​26 qualitative analysis, 22–​23 quantitative analysis and concerns with, 110–​21,  151–​52 quantitative analysis and diachronic trends,  126–​27 Roman, 13–​15, 17, 18–​21, 115–​31f, 117–​18, 126–​27,  134f Yalıkavak A (#14), 130–​32, 209, 213–​15 Yalıkavak B(#15), 130–​32, 209, 213–​15 Yassıada A (#64), 36–​38, 52–​53, 89–​90, 112–​13, 118–​21, 128,  213–​15 Yassıada B (#38), 213–​15 short-​haul. See journey lengths skeleton-​based construction. See ship construction social network analysis, 23–​24, 100–​1, 106, 122,  127–​28 georeferenced visualization, 137f, 138f, 148, 149f Gephi, 127–​28, 129, 138–​39 network visualization, 99–​100, 108, 121–​ 22, 130–​32, 131f, 133f, 148, 151–​52 soldiers. See military space, organization of, 74–​75, 106–​7, 178–​79 spatial analysis, 77, 110–​11, 140, 182–​83,  188–​89 spatial configurations, 75, 76 “hard” and “soft” spaces, 75, 77–​78 spatial patterns, 117–​18 spatiotemporal modeling, 145–​48, 150–​51 spritsail. See sails stone, as cargo. See cargo storms, 3, 58–​59, 61–​62, 63–​64, 65–​66 Strabo, 41, 60–​61, 69, 71, 74–​75, 76, 107–​8, 109, 154, 157–​58, 175–​77. See also ancient geographers

survey methodologies, 20–​21, 78–​79,  159–​60   tacking, 34, 54–​55, 56–​57, 59–​60, 145–​48 taxes, 204–​5, 209, 213–​15 extraction of, 87–​88 grain, 10 money, 10 tides, 30 tonnage (cargo). See cargo tonnage (ship), 16–​17, 48, 50–​51 topography (coastal and marine), 2, 3–​4, 15–​16, 23, 27–​28, 29–​31, 32–​33, 36–​37, 62–​ 63, 69–​70, 73, 75, 76, 81, 82, 93, 94–​95, 105–​6, 139–​40, 141–​42, 150, 152–​53, 162–​ 63, 170, 171–​74, 176–​77, 178–​79, 182–​84, 194–​95,  222–​23 trade commodities,  84–​86 directed exchange, 10, 11, 85–​88, 89–​90 exchange, spheres of, 202–​3 financing of, 12–​13 impact of market generation, 11–​12 luxuries,  84–​85 maritime commerce, 6–​7, 12–​13, 65, 85–​86,  167–​69 market-​based distribution, 84–​85 wine, 18–​19,  85–​86 transport zones, 82 travel, 90 costs, 108, 141–​42 (see also cost of sea transport) distance,  90–​91 hindrances to, 3 number of individuals moving, 90–​91 round-​trip times, 186–​88, 189–​93, 195–​96,  203–​4 times, 108, 186–​88, 195–​96 travelers, traits of, 91–​92 Tyrrhenian Italy, 80, 93–​94, 106–​7, 156–​57, 193–​94, 201–​2,  219–​20   urban centers and imports, 7–​8 Alexandria, 29–​30, 60–​61, 69, 74–​75, 219–​21 Amathus, 176–​77, 180, 182, 188–​89, 191–​93, 192f, 199–​201 Aperlae,  157–​58

Index 323 Constantinople, 9–​10, 11, 60–​61, 219–​20,  222–​24 decline of, 224 Ephesus,  94–​95 Knidos, 29–​30, 88, 167–​70, 171–​72, 182, 186–​88, 193–​94, 199,  201–​2 Kourion, 163–​64, 164f, 175–​76, 188–​91, 190f, 199 Paphos, 29–​30, 58–​59, 146f, 174–​75, 193–​95, 199, 251f Rome, 7–​8, 9–​10, 11–​12, 17–​18, 24, 25–​26, 40, 86–​87, 88, 106–​7, 156–​57, 193–​94, 201–​2, 204–​5, 211–​12,  219–​21

  visibility, weather-​related, 28–​30, 31–​32, 37, 58–​59, 63–​64, 67,  102–​3 intervisibility, 98, 150   wave action, 31–​32, 36–​37 Westerdahl, Christer, 77–​78, 82

wind data, 140, 141–​42, 144–​45. See also 239 direction, 33–​34, 140, 141–​42, 239 speed, 33–​34, 142–​44, 143f, 245f, 247f, 249f, 251f winds,  142–​44 etesian, 30–​31, 33–​34, 58–​59, 67, 74–​75, 145–​48, 161–​62,  172 offshore, 32–​34,  62–​63 onshore, 32–​33,  62–​63 prevailing winds, 31–​32, 58–​59, 67, 74–​75, 81, 142–​44, 143f,  145–​48 windward sailing. See sails, points of sail winter. See seasons wreck sites. See shipwrecks   Yalıkavak A (#14). See shipwrecks Yalıkavak B(#15). See shipwrecks Yassıada A (#64). See shipwrecks Yassıada B (#38). See shipwrecks