Sacred Landscapes in Antiquity: Creation, Manipulation, Transformation 1789253276, 9781789253276

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SACRED LANDSCAPES IN ANTIQUITY

SACRED LANDSCAPES IN ANTIQUITY CREATION, MANIPULATION, TRANSFORMATION

edited by

RALPH HÄUSSLER AND GIAN FRANCO CHIAI

Oxford & Philadelphia

Published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by OXBOW BOOKS The Old Music Hall, 106–108 Cowley Road, Oxford, OX4 1JE and in the United States by OXBOW BOOKS 1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083 © Oxbow Books and the individual authors 2020 Paperback Edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-327-6 Digital Edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-328-3 (epub)

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937142

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing.

Printed in the United Kingdom by CMP Typeset by Versatile PreMedia Services (P) Ltd For a complete list of Oxbow titles, please contact: UNITED KINGDOM Oxbow Books Telephone (01865) 241249 Email: [email protected] www.oxbowbooks.com UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Oxbow Books Telephone (610) 853-9131, Fax (610) 853-9146 Email: [email protected] www.casemateacademic.com/oxbow Oxbow Books is part of the Casemate Group

Front cover: Lago di Nemi (Italy), a volcanic lake associated with the goddess Diana (photo: Francesca Diosono). Back cover: top left: Mont Gaussier in the Alpilles (France) (photo: Ralph Häussler); top right: Mount Kasios (modern-day Jebel al-’Aqra‘/Kiliç Daği) (© J. Aliquot); bottom left: The monumentalised sacred spring of prehistoric and Roman Glanum (France) (photo: Ralph Häussler); bottom right: the sacred landscape of San Trocato (Spain) (photo: M. J. Correia Santos)

Contents

List of contributors ix Preface xiii 1. Interpreting sacred landscapes: a cross-cultural approach Ralph Häussler and Gian Franco Chiai

1

Section 1 – Manipulation of sacred sites: monumentalising natural features 2. Inside the volcano and into the trees. The sacred grove of Diana Nemorensis in archaic Latium between the literary and archaeological sources Francesca Diosono 3. Sacred landscape and rock-cut sanctuaries of the Iberian Peninsula: the principle of duality or harmony of complementary oppositions Maria João Correia Santos 4. The transformation of cult places during the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east (third–first century BC) Leticia López-Mondéjar 5. Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality Ruth Ayllón-Martín 6. Nature as sacred landscape in Roman Dacia Csaba Szabó 7. Environments and gods: creating the sacred landscape of Mount Kasios Eris Williams Reed

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43 57 77 87

Section 2 – Transformation of sacred landscapes 8. Over the rainbow: places with and without memory in the funerary landscape of Knossos during the second millennium BC Lucia Alberti 9. Material forms and ritual performance on Minoan peak sanctuaries Christine E. Morris and Alan A.D. Peatfield 10. Transforming landscapes: exploring the creation of a sacred landscape in north-east Cyprus at the beginning of the Late Bronze Age Louise Steel 11. Monumentalisation of watery cults in Tarraconensis and Lusitania Francisco Marco Simón 12. Romano-Celtic temples in the landscape: Meonstoke, Hampshire, UK, a hexagonal shrine to Epona and a river deity on a villa estate Anthony C. King

97 111

121 133

147

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Contents

13. Past and present: the Ilissos area of Athens in the second century AD Sarah McHugh 14. The impact of economics on sacred landscapes: hoarding processes in Attic sanctuaries 625–475 BC Rita Sassu and Rosa Di Marco 15. Landscape, Christianisation and social power in Late Antique and early medieval Galicia Marco V. García Quintela and José C. Sánchez-Pardo

159 169 179

Section 3 – Myth and memory: landscapes invested with meaning 16. Pan’s sacred landscapes in classical Arkadia 197 María Cruz Cardete 17. Creating sacred landscapes in Roman Phrygia: the cases of Laodicea on the Lycus and Aizanoi 209 Gian Franco Chiai 18. On urban rock sanctuaries of eastern Greece 219 Florian Schimpf 19. Landscapes of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia 229 Julie Balerieux 20. Performing sacred landscapes: worship and praise of land in Greek drama 239 Elena Chepel 21. Integration and interaction in Egyptian non-royal sacred landscapes: a study of the tomb-chapel of Neferhotep (TT50) 247 Maxwell Stocker 22. Desacralised landscapes: Nilotic views in the Ethiopian Story by Heliodorus 259 Marco Palone 23. The temple of Contrada Marafioti in Locri Epizephiri: a new approach 267 Viviana Sia Section 4 – Experiencing sacred landscapes 24. The sacralisation of landscape as memory space in medieval China: ‘Ascending Mount Xian with several Gentlemen’ Thomas Jansen 25. ‘God is on the journey too.’ Sacred experiences on the road in Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age southern Britain Andy Valdez-Tullett

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Section 5 – Landscape, identity and social cohesion 26. Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive? Katharina Zinn 27. Spatialising sacralised places: landscape as analytical category for understanding social relations and spatial interaction of Graeco-Roman sanctuaries in the Hauran Anna-Katharina Rieger 28. Sacred landscape manipulation in the sanctuary of Apollo of Delos: Peisistratus’ purification and the networks of culture and politics in the sixth-century BC Aegean Matteo Fulvio Olivieri 29. Cyrus the Great of Persia and acculturation of religion at Sardis Selga Medenieks 30. Presence in the landscape: encountering Neo-Assyrian kingship and divinity ‘from the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea’ Anastasia Amrhein

297

311

333 345

355

Contents 31. Temples, treasures, heroic burials and deities: a sacred landscape bounding Iron Age and Romano-British Baldock Gilbert R. Burleigh 32. Remembering and inventing: the dynamic rewriting of sacred landscapes in the colonia Nemausus Ralph Häussler 33. (Re)Constructing the sacred landscape of Nubia in the early nineteenth century Daniele Salvoldi

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371 403 419

Index 429

List of contributors

Lucia Alberti Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche – Istituto di Scienze del Patrimonio Culturale (CNR-ISPC) Area della Ricerca di Roma 1 Via Salaria, km 29,300 – C.P. 10 00015 Monterotondo St. (RM), Italy [email protected] Anastasia Amrhein University of Pennsylvania Elliot and Roslyn Jaffe History of Art Building 3405 Woodland Walk Philadelphia, PA 19104-6208, USA [email protected] Ruth Ayllón-Martín Grupo de Investigación CEIPAC Despacho 2091 – Facultad de Geografía e Historia c/Montalegre nº6 08001, Barcelona, Spain [email protected] Julie Baleriaux University of Oxford (alumna) Avenue Adolphe Demeur 55 1060 Saint-Gilles, Belgium [email protected] Gilbert Burleigh Freelance Archaeologist Pirton, Hertfordshire, England [email protected] Elena Chepel Institute of World History of the Russian Academy of Sciences [email protected]

Gian Franco Chiai Fachbereich Geschichts- und Kulturwissenschaften Friedrich-Meinecke-Institut Historische Geographie des antiken Mittelmeerraumes Freie Universität Berlin Koserstraße 20 14195 Berlin, Germany [email protected] Maria João Correia Santos Universidade de Lisboa Centro de Estudos Classicos Alameda da Universidade 1600-063 Lisboa, Portugal [email protected] María Cruz Cardete del Olmo Departamento de Prehistoria, Historia Antigua y Arqueología Universidad Complutense de Madrid Avd. Profesor Aranguren s/n 28040 Madrid, Spain [email protected] Rosa di Marco Humanities Teacher ‘G. Carducci’ High School, Bolzano, Italy [email protected] Francesca Diosono Institut für Klassische Archäologie Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München Katharina-von-Bora-Straße 10 80333 München, Germany [email protected]

x Matteo Fulvio Olivieri Dipartimento di Studi Storici Università degli Studi di Milano Via Festa del Perdono 7 20122 Milano, Italy [email protected] Marco V. García Quintela Grupo de Investigación Síncrisis – USC Facultade de Xeografía y Historia Universidade de Santiago de Compostela Praza da Universidade, 1 15782 Santiago de Compostela, Spain [email protected] Ralph Häussler Department of Archaeology, Anthropology and Geography University of Winchester Sparkford Road Winchester SO22 4NR, England [email protected] Thomas Jansen Institute of Education and Humanities University of Wales Trinity Saint David Lampeter SA48 7ED, Wales [email protected] Anthony C. King Department of Archaeology, Anthropology and Geography University of Winchester Sparkford Road Winchester SO22 4NR, England [email protected] Leticia Lopez Mondejar CSIC – Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas Institute of Heritage Sciences, Spain [email protected] Francisco Marco Simón Departamento de Ciencias de la Antigüedad Universidad de Zaragoza. Edificio Cervantes. C/ Corona de Aragón, 42 50009 Zaragoza, Spain [email protected]

List of contributors Selga Medenieks Hermathena Department of Classics Trinity College Dublin College Green Dublin 2, Ireland [email protected] Sarah McHugh The Queen’s College University of Oxford High Street Oxford, OX1 4AW, England [email protected] Christine Morris Department of Classics Trinity College Dublin College Green Dublin 2, Ireland [email protected] Anna-Katharina Rieger Institut für Antike Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz Universitätsplatz 3/II 8010 Graz, Austria [email protected] Marco Palone Department of European Languages and Cultures School of Literatures, Languages & Cultures 50 George Square Edinburgh, EH8 9LH, Scotland [email protected] Alan Peatfield School of Archaeology University College Dublin Newman Building Belfield Dublin 4, Ireland [email protected] Daniele Salvoldi Arab Academy for Science, Technology and Maritime Transport College of Engineering and Technology Department of Architectural Engineering and Environmental Design P.O. Box 12577 Smart Village B 2401 6 October, Egypt [email protected]

List of contributors José C. Sánchez-Pardo Grupo de Investigación Síncrisis – USC Facultade de Xeografía y Historia Universidade de Santiago de Compostela Praza da Universidade, 1 15782 Santiago de Compostela, Spain [email protected] Rita Sassu ‘La Sapienza’ University of Rome Piazzale Aldo Moro 5 00185 Rome, Italy [email protected] Florian Schimpf Institut für Archäologische Wissenschaften Goethe-Universität Frankfurt am Main Norbert-Wollheim-Platz 1, Hausfach 7 60629 Frankfurt, Germany [email protected]

Maxwell G. Stocker School of Classics University of St Andrews Fife, KY16 9AL, Scotland [email protected] Csaba Szabó University Lucian Blaga Sibiu Department of History and Cultural Heritage Bdul. Victoriei nr. 5-7, 550024 Sibiu, Romania [email protected] Andy Valdez-Tullett Wessex Archaeology Portway House Old Sarum Park Salisbury, SP4 6EB, England [email protected]

Viviana Sia Università degli studi Roma Tre Via Ostiense, 159 00154 Roma, Italy [email protected]

Eris Williams Reed Department of Classics and Ancient History Humanities Building University of Warwick Coventry, CV4 7AL, England [email protected]

Louise Steel Institute of Education and Humanities University of Wales Trinity Saint David Lampeter SA48 7ED, Wales [email protected]

Katharina Zinn Institute of Education and Humanities University of Wales Trinity Saint David Lampeter, SA48 7ED, Wales [email protected]

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Preface

This is an exciting time for the study of sacred landscapes in the ancient world. There has been significant advancement in our understanding of landscapes across several disciplines in recent years. We therefore thought it would be useful to bring scholars from several disciplines together and provide a multi-disciplinary environment in which to exchange ideas and discuss methodologies on sacred landscapes from around the ancient world. For that reason we organised a major international conference entitled ‘Sacred Landscapes: Creation, Transformation, Manipulation’, 5–7 May 2014 at Wales’ oldest university, in Lampeter. The second event was dedicated to sacred landscapes in the eastern Mediterranean and the Near East; it was a one-day session that was part of the British Association of Near Eastern Archaeology (BANEA) conference entitled ‘Land, Sea and Sky in the Near East’ in Lampeter, 6–8 January 2016. These two events

provided the venue for some 40 archaeologists, historians, prehistorians, numismatists, Classicists, Egyptologists and Sinologists to examine a wide range of phenomena and to rethink our interpretations, methodologies and theoretical approaches. We are very grateful to all the contributors in this volume, each of them an expert on the study of sacred landscapes and sacred topography. Special thanks go to Prof. Marco Simón who gave the keynote lecturer on the monumentalisation of aquatic cults on the Iberian Peninsula in 2014. Our thanks are also due to our peer-reviewers as well as to those who helped with the editing process, notably Chris Fleming and Elizabeth Webster. Finally, we very much indebted to our publisher, Oxbow Books, and their team for all their support, assistance and advice. Gian Franco Chiai and Ralph Häussler

1 Interpreting sacred landscapes: a cross-cultural approach Ralph Häussler and Gian Franco Chiai

Towards a ‘thick description’ of sacred landscapes Studies of sacred landscapes have become very popular in the past 20 years. One is no longer just interested in describing facts, such as the precise measurements of manmade religious structures (e.g. temples, shrines, henges, altars and tumuli) and the details of material and artistic finds (ex-votos, statues, reliefs, faunal and floral remains, textual sources, etc.). These are important, but we have long gone beyond this. Apart from a site’s (hypothetical) symbolic meaning, there has been a growing interest in understanding the actions, experiences and emotions of worshippers, pilgrims and priests. One attempts to understand the complexity of a sacred site and its relationship with other sites and features, both man-made and natural. How did the natural environment influence human activities, perceptions and religious understandings, and in turn how did humans interpret, shape and transform their natural environment? One may argue that the sacred landscape is not simply what we see, but a way of seeing: we see it with our eyes but interpret it with our mind. In other words, any given sacred place may be perceived differently depending on the observer’s cultural and religious experiences and subject to time and space. We also must not forget that the landscape – in the widest possible sense – is also shaping us and that we are shaping the landscape: to put it simply, both ‘nature’ and humans not only have agency, but they are also in a constant dialogue: Landscapes are mutable, holistic in character, ever-­changing, always in the process of being and becoming. (Tilley and Cameron-Daum 2017, 2)

How much more is this the case when it comes to sacred landscapes? Have we really made significant advances

in our methodologies? Some studies merely provide a gazetteer of cult places scattered around the landscape, plotted on a map, perhaps discussing some aspects of intervisibility or reflecting on people’s choices of myth and deities. This is an important first step in identifying the evidence necessary for a subsequent deeper interpretation. We must be circumspect of a certain ‘pragmatic’ approach that advocates a functionalist interpretation of cult places that has become common in recent years, in which the relationship between cult place and natural environment is marginalised and even disputed, for example by interpreting hilltop sanctuaries as mere ‘landmarks’ or ‘geosymbols’ that were appropriated by elites to consolidate their power (e.g. Golosetti 2016; see discussion in Häussler 2019). This almost appears as a reaction to approaches inspired by anthropology, sociology and philosophy, like those advocated by Chris Tilley and Tim Ingold. For the latter, the above-mentioned ‘functionalist’ view is interpreted as a ‘building perspective’ in which nature is objectified and the influence of the environment on humans negated (Ingold 2000, 178–81). For the study of sacred landscapes, Chris Tilley’s seminal work A Phenomenology of Landscape (1994) – based very much on Heidegger’s and Husserl’s concept of ­phenomenology – has been highly influential. It shows how archaeologists can interpret a monument in its landscape setting and aims to understand how it may have been perceived by the ‘builders’, thus hoping to provide an insight into the builders’ original intentions and motivations (see review by Barrett and Ko 2009). One of Tilley’s essential concepts may be described as human engagement or experience of both the material conditions and the landscape. One can hardly deny that this must be important in order to improve our understanding of ancient sacred landscapes. But, for Tilley, the archaeologist’s personal experience of the

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landscape – having jettisoned his/her own understandings in order to experience objectively a past ‘Being-in-the-world’ (to use Heidegger’s term Dasein) – became an important factor in archaeological interpretation. Unfortunately, the results of this endeavour, as in the case of Tilley’s Neolithic landscapes, cannot necessarily be recreated by other scholars as these are highly subjective experiences, as demonstrated by Barrett and Ko (2009, 280–1): we all experience the environment differently since each person is ‘historically conditioned’. In their view, it is difficult to ‘decode’ an ancient landscape unless one presupposes that the ‘builders’ had a ‘predetermined plan’ how temples, tombs, mounds, avenues and any other features were meant to relate to each other, spatially and visually, which may often seem unlikely. Were ancient architects, carpenters and stonemasons really imagining how the finished temple or monument might be perceived by subsequent worshippers, for example when climbing up to a mountain sanctuary during sunrise? Or were they more concerned with pragmatic choices, such as finding a plot of land large enough for the building complex, ideally with access to water and easy access for the transport of large quantities of building materials and the workforce to the construction site? Instead of looking for symbolic meaning, Barrett and Ko (2009, 287–9) emphasise the role of the social agents whose actions, such as building a tumulus, were challenging their own understandings and thus changing their awareness of materials and the environment. Let us conclude at this stage with a recent definition from Tilley and Cameron-Daum (2017, 7): the landscape provides ‘an existential ground for our embodied being: we are both in it and of it, we act in relation to it, it acts in us. […] the agency of landscape is embodied because it acts on us through the mediation of our bodies’. This leads us to the social anthropologist Tim Ingold and his work on the temporality of the landscape (1993). It has inspired, in the words of Kolen (2011, 41) ‘an archaeology that is less interested in symbolic landscapes than it is in taskscapes […] and less interested in the mirror game of semiotic reflection and discourse analysis than it is in real-world encounters with the (material) past’ (cited by Hicks 2016, 6). The term taskscape can be understood as a constructed space of related human activities, recognising that ‘all tasks are interlocking, and that any one task is embedded in the way that other tasks are themselves seen and understood’ (Oxford Reference 2020). Among others, taskscape reminds us that we must not fall into the trap of grouping those activities, which we can identify archaeologically at any given sacred place, into artificial categories, such as ‘ritual’, ‘votive’, ‘funerary’, etc. More importantly for our study, Ingold also emphasises the agency of the natural environment – fauna, flora, topographical features – in shaping human behaviour. It is vital to investigate people’s interrelation with their environment and how this shaped their ‘processes of thinking,

perceiving, remembering and learning’ (Ingold 2000, 171). But his approach also has shortcomings, such as certain flaws of his concepts of taskscape and temporality, as exposed by Dan Hicks (2016), or the failure to consider power structures and the ‘specificity of social relations’ (Bender 2001). Whether adhering to the functionalist approach or following in the footsteps of Barret, Bender, Ingold or Tilley, each approach has advantages and drawbacks. This reveals that we are currently still scratching the surface when it comes to understanding ‘sacred landscapes’ and humans’ diverse relationships with their natural environment. As we shall see in this volume, each discipline has different approaches to sacred landscapes. Some studies, for example, adopt a phenomenological approach, but in each case it needs to be adapted to the particular archaeological, historical and cultural context that one is dealing with. It was therefore the aim of two international conferences that we organised in Lampeter in May 2014 and January 2016 to provide a venue to exchange ideas and discuss methodologies. Each case study in this volume improves our understanding of how ancient sacred landscapes can be identified and experienced and how people in Antiquity manipulated, transformed and engaged with their landscapes. By studying examples of sacred landscapes from across the ancient world in a comparative analysis, we endeavour to re-think and refine our methodologies and interpretations. A crosscultural, multi-disciplinary approach allows us to compare phenomena and evidence from different ancient cultures. For instance, several papers discuss the diverse form of divinity associated with rivers, springs and lakes (e.g. chapters by Francesca Diosono, Francisco Marco Simón, Sarah McHugh, Marco Palone, Gian Franco Chiai, etc.). Others discuss sanctuaries on hilltops and mountains (see e.g. the chapters by Maria João Correia Santos, Florian Schimpf, Thomas Jansen, Eris Williams Reed, Ruth AyllónMartin, Ralph Häussler, etc.), and together they provide valuable insights into how people used, saw, experienced and interacted with their natural environment on a mountain, e.g. by carving texts or images into the surface of a rock. We can identify the diverse practices and motivations that people from different cultures were carrying out at a particular ‘category’ of sanctuary. In this respect, modern religious experiences can provide additional food for thought. While our ancient evidence is like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle (with 95% of the pieces missing), we can still ask people today about their religious understandings, their emotions, their interpretations and myths. Talking about rock sanctuaries, Busacca (2017), for example, has demonstrated that, in the case of the Inuit and Aborigines, the acts of carving or painting the images of animals or ancestral spirits on rocks are perceived as ‘deeply significant moments of relation’ with the depicted entity. This ‘entity’ is not simply represented in stone, it is

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1.  Interpreting sacred landscapes: a cross-cultural approach embodied in the stone face. In addition to the act of carving or painting, we can imagine that engaging with these depictions may have involved ritual performances based on the ‘animation’ of images and the evocation of depicted animals or spirits. During such performances, which might also involve sound, scents or substances that may induce altered states of consciousness, the images were possibly regarded as alive and active. Ultimately, animal depictions carved in stone and their architectural arrangement both constituted the privileged space where the spiritual encounter between humans and animals could take place (Busacca 2017). Such examples only reinforce the idea that sacred landscapes are, of course, human creations, and it is cultural constructs that give meaning to places and manifest, for example, the memory of human communities. Religious signs, performances, sacrifices, etiological myths, theonyms and epithets, as well as physical constructions (e.g. shrine, temple, altar, peribolos, etc.) together create a complex web of ciphers and symbols that make up the sacred landscape of a region, creating a ‘text’ or ‘narrative’; i.e. the sacred landscape has been invested with meaning that can be read like a ‘text’. Indeed, we should aim for a better ­comprehension – or dare we say ‘thick description’, in the words of Clifford Geertz (1973) – of the meaning behind the sacred landscape. We also need to explore how cult places and natural/topographic features may be read as mythical texts or narratives. This is particularly challenging in societies in which religious matters and local mythical accounts were not written down, or only recorded at a much later period. A comparative and multi-disciplinary approach, both among ancient societies and between ancient and modern case studies, can provide food for thought to challenge existing assumptions and re-interpret our archaeological findings. It is important to investigate how people might have experienced their landscape, for example in a phenomenological approach, how they interacted on a daily basis with natural features in the world they inhabited, and what rituals people carried out in the landscape. But we must not forget nature’s ‘agency’. Many human actions and rituals are likely to have been inspired by ­people’s environment and by their experience of natural forces, their blessings and dangers, notably in the form of droughts, wildfires and earthquakes, as well as floods, inundations, tsunamis and landslides, to name but a few. Major disasters were not only attributed to divine action (or punishment), but they also entered mythical narratives. A common topos in many religions across several continents is, of course, the deluge (see e.g. Mulsow and Assmann 2006). Patrick Nunn (2014) has shown that many of these – often orally transmitted – ‘euhemeristic myths’ across the world do indeed present memories of extreme rises in sea level or the rapid subsidence of landmasses or islands. We can only imagine how ancient people would have coped with some of the current natural disasters in our modern

world, such as climate change, extreme weather or the tremendous wildfires ravaging across the Australian continent during the hot summer of 2019–20 when this book was sent to the printer. Natural disasters can trigger the compilation of myths. And we must remember that myths exist to be performed, repeated and re-enacted through recitations, songs and dances. Not only do they help people to cope with disasters, but they aim to instruct people. And nothing is better for memorising myths and remembrance than associating these with physical or visual features, such as particular sites in the local topography that may acquire a ‘divine’ meaning.

Etiological myths and the landscape It is almost as if the intimate features of locality formed a kind of prism through which the global facts of existence might be described. (Wagner 2001, 73)

Wagner puts the relationship between nature/landscape and myth/religion – as already recognised by Claude Lévi-Strauss in his Mythologiques (1964–71) – in a nutshell (cf. Hirsch 2006, 152). Across the world we can see over and over again that ‘religion’ and ‘myth’ resulted from humans’ curiosity about the world around them. People tried to explain natural phenomena in their environment, they tried to make sense of the seasons, understand birth and death, fertility and infertility, as well as ‘new’ developments, such as farming and fire, along with the domestication of animals and the changing relationships between humans/hunters and animals. Many of these aspects can be seen in early cult places, probably as early as 10,000 BCE at sites such as Göbekli Tepe with its anthropomorphic pillars, animal depictions and a violent iconography that for some may reflect possible coping mechanisms for life in a harsh environment (see Busacca 2017, 320). This leads to etiological myths about the creation of the world and the origin of humans, together with the (often special or privileged) role humans play in this natural environment. In each case, it is imperative to consider the local context, since people’s interaction with their environment creates understandings – and myths – that reflect particularly localised choices and conceptions. For each case, we need to ask what environmental and topographical factors dominate the local society and therefore the local creation account (e.g. general climatic conditions; topographical features such as mountains, rocks, rivers, marshes, springs, the sea, etc.), what animals play which role in local society, what are the myth’s main concerns, who are the main protagonists in the myths and then subsequently in cult activities and re-enactments of myths? And who is the ‘culture hero’ (the héros civilisateur or demiurge) who is responsible for making the

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environment habitable for humans and ‘instructs them in the arts of civilization’ (Long 2005, 209), for example by introducing humans to fire and the arts of agriculture? In Greek myth it was Prometheus who stole fire from the gods and gave it to the humans (Hesiod Theogony 507–616; Erga 42–105; Plato Protagoras 320c–322a). The same role has Maui among the Maori (Buckova 2012, chapter 6) and the coyote in some Native American mythologies (Long 2005, 209). The identity and the activities of the culture hero reflect people’s lives in their natural environment. Apart from giving humans fire, the emphasis generally focuses on hunting, fishing and, of course, agriculture, depending on the natural environment in which these myths were created: i.e. some human groups will require certain tools to survive, others the skills to handle and process specific plants, others again might have to survive in extreme climatic conditions. Having completed their task, the culture hero usually disappears, although often transformed into cosmic or natural features in the landscape (Long 2005). This shows how a simple myth, such as that of a creator being and/or culture hero, not only mirrors people’s environment, but gives meaning to the environment, to people’s relationship with natural features and to daily activities, rituals and understandings. Myth and culture heroes can be embedded in the landscape of the local population. This has implications for people’s understanding of ‘their’ sacred landscape. Surviving myths can be expected to be embedded in people’s immediate environment: they point to particular rivers, mountains and settlements where a mythical event is said to have taken place, thus creating a landscape embedded in a mythical (sacred) account. Narratives were also adapted to local landscapes. For instance, we may wonder whether there ever was a ‘panCeltic’ mythology since we see myths embedded in people’s local environment, as revealed in the sacred topography of the Táin for Ireland and the Mabinogi for Wales (see e.g. Siewers 2009). But the concept of a localised sacred landscape has consequences for people who live in an increasingly interconnected world: if every community or people had their own ‘pantheon’ of gods and spirits present in their landscape, then we can expect to find several places where weather gods or fertility gods, etc., were born, as in the case of Apollo or Zeus in the Greek context (see paper by Gian Franco Chiai). The microcosm of a well-documented sacred landscape or ‘cityscape’, one may argue, can be found in Rome where sacred sites were linked to the actions of Roman gods, ancestors and myths (see Cancik 1985–6). Geological and natural elements of space were connected with ritualistic activities and cult places, such as Rome’s seven hills, the river Tiber, the ficus Ruminalis and the lupercal (the den of the she-wolf that rescued Rome’s founders, Romulus and Remus) and the lacus Curtius (an earth fissure on the Forum Romanum). And then there is also the sacred grove of Dea

Dia, about 7 km south-west of Rome at the boundary of the ager Romanus antiquus, where the Arvales fratres – the Arval Brotherhood – made sacrifices to the ‘good heavenly light who allowed the grain to ripen unhindered’, with the ripening of the grain being ritually represented (Scheid 2006). Rome’s sacred landscape continued to evolve. For example, the site of Augustus’ Apollo Palatinus temple was chosen where lightning had struck (Cassius Dio 49.15.5). Myth, history, memory and ancestors were embedded in Rome’s sacred landscapes for everybody to see and to engage with. Mythical, historical, religious events and understandings – which can hardly be separated in Rome’s earlier ‘history’ – were kept alive by annual festivals, such as the Lupercalia. Many of these natural and geographical sites were monumentalised with altars and temples, showing the continued human devotion to their deities and consolidating the presence of the gods in Rome’s landscape and hoping for their continued favour towards the city. In the late first century BC, Livy’s Roman History (ab urbe condita 5.51–4) provides an interesting example, showing the indissoluble connection between geography and cult. He reports that the project to transfer the sacra of the Vestals to Veii after Rome had been defeated by the Galli (c. 390 BC). But this was not possible, because the ancestral Roman cults and rituals were tied to Rome’s cityscape and could only be celebrated in the Urbs (Ferri 2010, 199–202; Chiai 2016, 267–71). This may remind us of Lucien Lévy-Bruhl’s work (1935/83, 45): Earth and sea are […] as living books in which the myths are inscribed […] A legend is captured in the very outlines of the landscape.

The Romans must have understood the concept of a landscape, and emperors such as Augustus clearly knew how to manipulate that landscape in their favour, be it in Rome, Italy or the provinces. But there was no equivalent term for landscape in Latin, nor in Greek or Egyptian, only for individual locations (e.g. locus, regio, τόπος), natural elements (e.g. mons, amnis, collis, etc.) or for climatic and ecological phenomena (ἄνεμος, ὄμβρος, χιών, etc.). This is the case for many ancient societies and languages as well as for some modern languages (for Japanese terms, see e.g. Gehring and Kohsaka 2007). And yet, many ancient societies can be considered to be a ‘société paysagiste’, in the terminology of Ermanno Malaspina (2011), even if there is no specific term for ‘landscape’. In Hellenistic and Roman times, for example, we certainly see an increased interest in the ‘landscape’, and in Roman literature the concept of locus amoenus, the ‘pleasant place’, seems to have been well established in the first century BC. We find the systematic descriptions of landscape features and the idea of an ‘untouched, if idealized, nature’ that a person can experience (Schlapbach 2007). This ‘pastoral idyll’ can also be seen

1.  Interpreting sacred landscapes: a cross-cultural approach in many mosaics depicting ‘country life’ or the paintings of landscapes in urban houses, as in Pompeii, as well as in the ‘garden culture’ of the elites (Ling 1977; Ritter 1963). This romantic view of the landscape, the love for nature and gardens in many societies – and notably among their elites – frequently stands in contrast to people’s actions, such as the systematic exploitation of natural resources that were significantly altering the landscape, its mines and quarries, the drainage of marshes and lakes, the building of canals and aqueducts, extensive deforestation and, of course, urbanism. Was there any respect for the sacred landscape when it came to economic considerations in ancient societies? As we shall see in many papers in this volume, some sacred sites seem to have been respected for generations, even centuries, despite all the changes in social and cultural understandings. Even when people may no longer perform the appropriate ritual practices, they still have awe and respect for certain sites, such as the conspicuous ruins of Bronze Age tumuli.

Deciphering the web of ciphers in the landscape We can often identify a web of sacred sites in particularly conspicuous locations across the landscape. Many papers in this volume discuss the relationship of myth and landscape (see e.g. the papers by Julie Balerieux, Elena Chepel, Marco Polone and Maria Cruz Cardete). But often our evidence makes it rather difficult to decipher the underlying mythical narrative, especially when we are dealing with non-literate societies (as in the case of Iberia or Britain, see papers by Ruth Ayllón-Martin, Anthony King, Gil Burleigh, Andy Valdez-Tullett). Studies of contemporary societies can help us to understand the possible significance of natural features and of the divine forces and spirits embodied in the landscape in people’s religious understandings. Ingold, for example, provides numerous examples, such as the Nayaka of Tamil Nadu who refer ‘to the spirits that inhabit hills, rivers, and rocks’ as ‘forefathers’ (2000, 140–1, based on Nurit BirdDavid 1990, 190). But can people really descend from the ‘spirits’ of landscape features? As shown by Ingold and Bird-David, the local population saw in these natural features ‘ancestors’ because they provided the conditions ‘for their children’s growth and development’: And since the spirit inhabitants of the land contribute to human well-being equally, and on the same footing, as do human forbears, providing both food, guidance and security, they too can be ‘big’ fathers and mothers. As such, they are ancestors of a sort, albeit ones that are alive and active in the present. (Ingold 2000, 141)

Similarly, the yul lha – Tibetan mountain deities and deities of the territory – were explicitly referred to as ancestors

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– even parents – of the local people and considered to be responsible for fertility and for protecting the territory (Karmay 2000, 393; Pommaret 2004, 45, 51; McKay 2006, 96). Are they just mountain spirits? Samten Karmay (2000) has witnessed the complexity of the ‘yul lha cult’ in small rural Tibetan villages in the late 1990s and described the ceremonies in detail. The various symbolic acts and offerings symbolise inter alia the unity of the village and the wish for prosperity, and they reflect the fact that humans and deities are sharing the same land. Though we are dealing with a local event (dedicated to a local deity, dGra-‘dul thogsmed-rtsal), it takes place around the day of the ‘common purificatory ritual for the Universe’, which also indicates the cosmological symbolism of the event, especially in this liminal space between mountain and sky, at a height of 2500 m above sea level. The fact that the term yul lha can mean both the land and its deity shows, in the words of Karmay (2000, 393), ‘the telluric relation between man and his natural environment’. The temple is not situated on some remote mountain peak, but just west of the village surrounded by abundant wood: participants experiencing the ‘landscape’ seems to be an intrinsic feature of the rituals involved (ibid.). At this stage, we need to think about the nature of the divine: modern scholarship often just uses terms such as ‘god’ or ‘deity’, or ‘spirit’ for a ‘lesser deity’. As we have seen, for the Nayaka, we use the terms spirit and ancestors, but gods for the yul lha in Tibet. What term would be suitable to describe these divine forces that reside in the natural environment in ancient times: natural or totemic spirit, daemon/δαίμων, genius (loci), numen, hero, god, etc.? Or are we creating false distinctions, especially when we use modern, western or Graeco-Roman terminology to explain phenomena in other religions, cultures or periods? The Japanese term kami 神 comes to mind. Being deliberately ambiguous, kami can refer to landscape features, the forces of nature, animals, the spirits of the deceased, of ancestors, former emperors and persons of outstanding virtue and deeds, as well as powerful gods and goddesses, such as the sun goddess Amaterasu, the moon god Tsukuyomi and the storm god Susanoo. The ambiguity of kami is useful when we endeavour to understand how ancient peoples across the globe saw their landscape, as it allows us to keep an open mind. This leads us to divine or ancestral (but not necessarily immortal) beings in the southern hemisphere. A wellstudied example of the relationship between ‘divine beings’, humans and their natural environment is, of course, the so-called ‘dreamtime(s)’ of the Australian Aborigines. The English translation is misleading since it has nothing to do with ‘dreaming’; it describes the period when the world was inhabited and created by ancestral beings, both animal and human in form, resulting in a ‘mythic geography’ (Devereux 2013; James 2015; cf. Bradley 2005 for the following summary). This provides food for thought when studying sacred landscapes in other cultural contexts. We are dealing

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here with ancestral beings who not only had the role of the ‘culture hero[es]’, by ‘teaching each group [of people] the correct manner of doing things’ (Bradley 2005), but as ‘creator beings’ who also shaped the landscape and transformed parts of their body into landscape features and natural phenomena (ibid.). Through their primordial journeys, these ancestral beings created a link between a group of people who were founded by them and who are considered their direct descendants, and a place. As a result, each group of people is defined by their particular territory embedded in the landscape and their ancestral ‘creator being’ that also demanded specific behaviour. Diana James (2015, 33) cites Nganyinytja Ilyatjari, a senior Pitjantjatjara (Anangu) Law Woman: We have no books; our history was not written by people with pen and paper. It is in the land; the footprints of our Creation Ancestors are on the rocks. The hills and creek beds they created as they dwelled in this land surround us. We learned from our grandmothers and grandfathers as they showed us these sacred sites, told us the stories, sang and danced with us the Tjukurpa (the ‘Dreaming Law’). We remember it all: in our minds, our bodies and feet as we dance the stories. We continually recreate the Tjukurpa.

In this view, creation myth and mythical narratives, the natural environment, people’s history and their laws are all interwoven and interconnected, and constantly ‘re-enacted’ (or perhaps rather, ‘brought to life’) in song and dance: ‘the land comes alive’ (James 2015, 34). Even more, the dancers enter a numinous liminal space and the Tjukurpa takes over the bodies of the dancers and singers. In the words of James, this creates a sacred time and space ‘where past, present and future are simultaneously present’ (ibid., 43). Moreover, natural features, such as a rock, are not only considered to be like people, but they are people (ibid., 41). This is not necessarily identical to ancient societies. But as we have already mentioned above, even Rome’s deities, origin myths and historical and mythical narrative were equally inscribed into the Roman landscape, and for generations annual festivals and rituals served to re-enact and commemorate these mythical events, bringing them back to life, suggesting a comparable understanding of history as non-linear. Immortals travelling across the landscape are, of course, not unique to Australia, but happen in all religions. In Antiquity, for example, there is Demeter and her search for her daughter, Kore – the two Greek goddesses relating to the fertility of the land, agriculture and the seasons. Another interesting case is Herakles/Hercules and his journey to the island of Erytheya ‘beyond the ocean’, travelling across southern Europe, from Iberia, Liguria, Gaul, Magna Graecia to Greece (e.g. Ammianus Marcellinus 15.9.2–7; Apollodorus Bibliotheca 2.5.10). This created a ‘Heraklean

landscape’ starting in the west with the Pillars of Hercules at the Strait of Gibraltar. We can also see this in material culture, as in early bronze figurines of Hercules along the Alpine passes, at Susa, or numerous cult places in his honour along the ‘Heraklean Road’ (Aristotle Mirabilium auscultationes 837a; Benoit 1949). In the Rhône delta, there used to be a city called Heraclea, according to Pliny (Naturalis Historia 3.33), and just to the east there is the Crau, where Zeus assisted Hercules in making it rain pebbles, thus creating the ‘stone desert’ we know today (Strabo 4.7 citing Aeschylus; Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1.41). The battle between Hercules’ and Neptune’s sons, Albion and Bergios, in the Crau (Strabo 2.5) also reflects the transformation and appropriation of myth, turning it into a conflict between Greek colonisers and local inhabitants. Subsequently, it seems that local people adapted Hercules’ mythical travels to their own purposes, for example to argue for a common ancestry between ‘natives’, Greeks and Romans. In Glanum, Hercules became the predominant god associated with the sacred spring (Roth Congès 1997), and for the Lepontii – living between the Lago Maggiore and the source of the Rhine – Pliny (Naturalis Historia 3.134) informs us that ‘most other writers, giving a Greek interpretation to their name, consider the Lepontii to be the followers of Hercules who were left behind [i.e. from Greek leipo “to leave behind”] in consequence of their limbs being frozen by the snow of the Alps’. In this respect, Hercules can serve as a unifying factor across the western Mediterranean, and the (invented and adapted) memory did certainly create a ‘Hercules landscape’ around the Lepontic region in Roman times when we find there a particularly striking concentration of Hercules dedications (see Häussler 2015). In return, these divine identities and the sacred landscape can also be used to demarcate oneself from neighbouring communities (this might be a better way to think about certain marginal cult places than to consider them to be ‘frontier sanctuaries’). Comparable processes of change can be seen in many societies. Hiscock demonstrates that we are not dealing with ‘fossilised religious institutions’, for example in the case of the Australian Aborigines, but with ‘dynamic religious systems’ where ‘mythology/cosmology’ was reconfigured ‘to suit the rapidly changing landscapes in which [people] lived’, notably after the colonial encounter which can also have an impact on artefacts acquiring new meanings within ritual and cosmology (Hiscock 2013, 126; see also Hirsch 2006).

What makes a site sacred? If we presume that most societies had creation myths that aimed to explain how natural features and phenomena were created and how people’s environment was formed, then we should expect that landscapes were considered sacred, in one way or another. People’s understandings, their mythical narrative and their religious practices can

1.  Interpreting sacred landscapes: a cross-cultural approach also be expected to change as a result of societal, cultural and economic changes and we should not underestimate the impact of urbanisation on people’s understanding of the landscape and the natural world, or of road building, demographic change, intensifying agriculture, including extensive changes to the landscape (surveying, field systems, centuriation, irrigation/drainage methods). It is important to analyse how people adapt and modify their sacred landscapes in the longue durée. Whether we accept the equation between ‘sacred landscape’ and ‘mythical narrative’ or not, we always need to ask what makes a particular site sacred. Why did people choose a particular location as cult place? What makes a site or a natural feature, such as a rock, mountain, spring, river, cave or grove, ‘special’, i.e. different from other sites? At the same time, we need to be cautious: a natural feature, such as a mountain or river, can be considered sacred, but there is no need for a dedicated cult place or a site or feature that is visible in the archaeological record. Indeed, the site of worship or the place where rituals took place might have been elsewhere, for example in a nearby settlement, as we have already seen in our Tibetan example. Let us imagine the spirit, god or kami of a mountain. Many societies had – and still have – their sacred hills or mountains, like the San Martin Pajapan volcano for the Olmec people in Mexico or the 4400 m high Mount Shasta in California for the neighbouring First American groups towards which deceased persons would be orientated to in order for the soul to fly away (Theodoratus and LaPena 1994; Devereux 2013, 52). Then there is, of course, Mount Etna in Sicily in whose crater Hephaistos resided while the giant Enceladus was buried under Etna, causing earthquakes and eruptions (Vergil Aeneid 8.416–22; 3.578–82). A mountain still famously sacred today is unquestionably Mount Fuji, sacred for both Shinto adherents and Buddhists (Kitagawa 1992). Similarly, the almost 7000 m high Mount Kailash (also Mount Kailasa and Mount Meru) in Tibet, a site of pilgrimage and circumambulation, is sacred to Buddhism, Hinduism, Janaism and Bön, but for very different reasons: as home of Shiva and home of the bodhisattva Demchog, as a pillar of the world and axis mundi (McKay 2006). We have to bear the variety of interpretations and the complex relationship between myth and topographic feature in mind when studying sanctuaries and cult places in mountainous location (see e.g. Christine Morris and Alan Peatfield, Lucia Alberti and Eris Williams Reed in this volume). But what are the local people doing to worship their ‘mountain kami’? Do festivals and processions aim to venerate or appease these deities/spirits, to keep them happy, preserve the pax deorum in order to protect the community, provide fertility and fecundity, provide water and prevent calamities? Was the mountain an important feature in people’s cosmic understandings, a symbol of the creation myth, or, as in the case of the above-mentioned Mount Shasta, a ‘beacon’ guiding the souls on their ascent to the heavens

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(Theodoratus and LaPena 1994)? People might also appease the ‘mountain spirit’ to prevent landslides or avalanches, or because they exploited the mountain by mining or stone quarries (see e.g. Dészpa 2012, 23–31 for dedications around mining districts in Dacia). But would they have dared to climb to the mountain peak, like the people climbing up Mount Fuji in Japan, which is a life-changing experience for many, or was climbing an auspicious mountain considered a taboo in some of our ancient societies? It is also possible that access was perhaps limited, as originally at Kailas, which was only accessible to ascetics, saddhus and sannyasis (McKay 2006, 95). And if people did indeed climb the mountain, did they leave any archaeologically visible remains at certain locations, for example, votive offerings or rock carvings, or perishable remains? Or perhaps the ritual procession, the circumambulation and performances of dances, songs and hymns were more important ritual activities? This already shows some of the problems we are facing when interpreting our archaeological, epigraphic and literary evidence. We should not make conclusions ex silentio, since the evidence for most ritual activities is probably lost to us. And we must be cautious not to overinterpret a site; but at the same time the danger of a functionalist approach is equally problematic. Yes, it is possible that people – or rather members of the elite – may merely choose conspicuous landmarks, such as rock formations, hilltop sites, springs or groves, to install a cult place in a display of their power. But is it not more likely that people already had awe and (religious) respect for a place, which was then monumentalised and perhaps also misappropriated by members of the local elites? It is equally feasible that people deliberately used a site that was impractical for agriculture, though it is perhaps more probable that marginal locations, such as hilltop sites and groves, were considered – rightly or wrongly – as an ‘undisturbed’ landscape, a continuum from times immemorial, away from the plains and valleys where the landscape was clearly ‘human-made’. Such sites are likely to be considered liminal places, at the border between the ‘civilised’ and the ‘wilderness’, between the mortal world and the immortal realm. In Assyria, for example, elements of the environment were considered innately divine; mountains and bodies of water at the edges of the ‘known human world were believed to be entry points into the divine realms’ (see paper by Anastasia Amrhein). Apart from rocks, caves, hills and springs, these liminal, transcendent places also include marshes, bridges, fords and road crossings; for the latter, we find dedications to goddesses of road crossings and forks, such as the Biviae, Triviae, Quadruviae north of the Alps in Roman times (Euskirchen 2006; e.g. the dedication to the Deae Quadruviae – the four-way goddesses – from Worms: CIL XIII 11708d = CSIR D.2.10, 42). The crossing or bifurcation is a liminal space, probably both in reality and in a metaphorical sense, and we can only speculate

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how people’s perceptions of their (sacred) landscape was impacted by new road constructions, such as the Romans’ dead-straight roads that provided a very different landscape, especially if religion, myth and history had been embedded in people’s pre-conquest landscapes. As we have seen earlier, modern examples and well-documented ancient cases demonstrate a number of reasons why people choose a particular place or natural or geographical feature as sacred or holy, or as site of a cult place, and how this relates to people’s religious understandings and mythical narratives. Moreover, the same feature can be considered sacred for several reasons, depending on people’s religious beliefs, as in the case of Mount Fuji and Mount Kailash. And we should also expect that sites are sacred ‘not normally for one reason only, but for an accumulation of sacred features’ (McKay 2006, 94). There can be specific geographic conditions, as shown for example by the study of Heiki Valk for Estonia where the ‘holy natural places […] have not lost their importance’, such as healing at holy stones still known from the twentieth century (2007, 201–2). He shows that ‘choosing holy sites did not occur within the frameworks of modern rational “positivism”, but in a totally different system of thinking – religious and full of the supernatural’ (ibid., 210). Though many holy sites in Estonia are less than 1 km from the village centre (ibid., 203), this does not deny a site’s religious significance: the site should have a dominant position in the landscape, provide an unusual appearance of natural objects, provide objects that are needed for ritual purposes, such as stones and trees, and a visible border that allows communities to distinguish ‘holy sites from the background’ (ibid., 203). But choosing a holy place for a new community also involves a range of natural features (e.g. unusual tree growth that results from local geographic conditions, such as underlying water currents) as well as transcendent or mystic experiences, involving, for example, a shaman, a sorcerer and animals, in an attempt to identify non-visual features, particular energy spots, natural anomalies that can be used as cult places (ibid., 209–10; also cf. Eliade 1961, 8–28). Similar concepts can be found in many religions across the world. In Daoism, for example, Feng Shui (literally, ‘wind and water’; similarly Kanyu, ‘mountain and (low) land’) has been used for centuries to orientate houses, temples and tombs in an ‘auspicious’ manner in Asia, as one can already be seen in the fourth-/fifth-century AD ‘Book of Burial’ (Zàngshū). Apart from ‘functional’ reasons, such as wind direction or sunshine, we find the cosmological and religious orientation of buildings in many ancient cultures (see e.g. Parker Pearson and Richards 1994; for ancient Israel, see Faust 2001), and many sanctuaries and individual human-made structures are orientated, for example, towards the summer or winter solstice (cf. e.g. Burillo-Cuadrado and Burillo-Mozota 2017).

This reflects a certain ‘unity of man with nature’, as advocated in Chinese philosophy (Chen and Wu 2009); Feng Shui also aims to situate the human-built environment on locations with good qi a kind of ‘life force’ or ‘energy flow’ of the earth and the universe, which leads us to the role of the Earth’s geomagnetic field as a measurable quantity in choosing sacred sites. Today in Japan, the idea of a ‘power spot’ (literally transcribed as パワースポット) is very popular and countless sites are considered as power spots, especially Shinto shrines, which also reflects an increased interest in ancient Shinto and early mythology (Carter 2018, 153). Apart from Ise and Izumu Taisha (home of the deities Amaterasu and Susanoo), many shrines and natural sites are pilgrimage destinations for their presumed healing energies: natural features include old trees and ‘sacred groves’, rocks and stones, mountains, rivers, waterfalls, etc. But what comes first: the ‘energy’ present at a site, which was then chosen for (or by) a kami, or is it the presence of the kami at a place generating the ‘mystical power’? As argued by Carter (2018, 151–2), ‘the ever-increasing urbanisation of Japan only adds to the idea that nature itself can counter the ailments of modern city life’. Though Carter describes this new popularity of power spots as a kind of ‘New Age’ development, we can see that the relationship between natural sites and kami has been an integral part of shrines for centuries, like mountains as ‘place of numinous power’ and trees, waterfalls and rocks being designated as ‘sacred’ by priests with the traditional ropes (shimenawa) and strips of paper (shide) (ibid., 158). The combination between (Shinto) shrine and nature, even the ‘symbiotic relationship’ between religion and nature, humans and environment, has even been politicised for contemporary environmental concern (ibid., 167) and also led to the popularity of the concept of satoyama in recent years, reflecting societies in harmony with their natural environment (cf. Callicot and McRae 2017). This relation between religion and environment can also be seen in ancient religions. Certainly, in the context of sanctuaries, we can identify attempts to provide a clean environment and there is also a critique against the pollution and the exploitation of natural resources in a religious context (e.g. see for the Graeco-Roman world: Seneca Epistulae 89.21; 122.8; Pliny Naturalis Historiae 18.3; cf. Fedeli 1990; Thommen 2009; Cordovana and Chiai 2017 ). In this respect, we might also be able to understand certain European Iron Age societies in which rubbish pits looked more like religious structured depositions (see Hill 1995 for the case of Iron Age Britain): if people were conscious of their place within the natural environment, then it makes sense that the ‘disposal’ of everyday objects – from pottery to animal bones – took a more conscious, ‘ritual’ form as it may have been considered a form of pollution. Perhaps such actions reflect a sense of humans belonging to the landscape and a return of their ‘products’ to the earth.

1.  Interpreting sacred landscapes: a cross-cultural approach

Constructing and rewriting sacred landscapes So far, we have seen that in various ancient and modern societies people had different attitudes regarding the cultural and religious meaning of their landscape, the environment and natural features. Many of the societies we have explored show their deep-rooted relationship to their environment. As a result, the landscape commonly plays a role in its entirety because it has been endowed with meaning: it provides a visual and physical narrative about creation and people’s origins, their lives and livelihoods, their identities and collective memories, and consequently their religious understandings and history, a landscape embedded with symbolic meaning, ancestors, spirits and deities (see e.g. paper by María Cruz Cardete). Within this landscape, individual sites might have acquired particular meaning and therefore a particular symbolism, devotion or worship, such as sites in particularly liminal locations. And yet, the majority of cult activities might take place in less conspicuous locations: fertility, planting and harvest festivals may be carried out in a village or in a farm; other sites may have been considered taboo so that any god, divine spirit or kami may have been appeased from a distance. But societies are changing and so do people’s attitudes and interpretations of their landscape. We need to be aware of the bi- and multilateral development(s) between humans and their environment: the landscape is no static, unchanging factor, but an anthropogenic landscape that is shaped and re-shaped by human activities. The spread of agriculture, for instance, leads to forest clearing, irrigation, field systems, terracing, etc., while animal husbandry has consequences for the diversity of animals and plants. Can pre-existing sacred landscapes survive? Any existing myths need to be adapted and expanded, a process that might be hardly noticeable to contemporaries. But this may not be sufficient. Such processes are most notable in complex hierarchical, literate and/or urban societies. In the latter, the increasing dichotomy between city and countryside and the conceived antagonism between ‘civilised’ and ‘wilderness’ is bound to create different attitudes to nature and a re-interpretation of existing myths. Nature becomes a resource that needs to be exploited. And land becomes above all a necessity to feed larger communities, and in some societies a resource to accumulate wealth and/or the object of war. In these societies people acquire more distance from their natural environment: both fauna and flora need to be harnessed. Are we dealing with a battle between humans and nature? We are hardly dealing with a ‘symbiotic’ relationship between them in increasingly complex societies. In literate societies, this distant approach to the landscape is accelerated by compiling inventories of properties and by engaging in ‘rational’ debates, leading to a commodification and objectivisation of the landscape. Pliny the Elder (AD 23–79), for example, and his work Naturalis Historia (Natural History)

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shows this ‘commodification’ and a certain scepticism of the supernatural element in nature. Moreover, many ancient texts show knowledge of different variations of mythical accounts, which in turn does, of course, undermine the religious awe for landscape features, perhaps relegating it to the role of superstition. Here, we might also mention cartography. If we look at some of the more precise maps of the ancient world, we can see that villages, cities and roads were plotted on a map, sometimes even field systems (e.g. the first-century AD Orange ‘cadastre’), while rivers, hills and mountains became mere points of orientation for travellers. In these cartographically described worlds, often covering huge areas, such as the whole of the Mediterranean world, any pre-existing sacred and mythical narratives of the landscape might merely be considered a local superstition or fairy tale by the authors and compilers, something local people told foreigners to attract them to their city or sanctuary, and this information becomes increasingly distorted as it was inserted in more comprehensive mythical narratives. This also leads us to different social views of a sacred landscape, especially in larger state societies with a high level of spatial mobility: one possible scenario might be that sub-elite people preserve some of the oral tradition of the local sacred landscape, while an educated elite indulges in different understandings and interpretation, perhaps focusing on new urban cult centres; newcomers might just see the individual sacred location, but perhaps for different reasons than those of the autochthonous population. In an entangled world, the idea of cults and deities spreads across ethnic boundaries, which may suggest that the sacred landscape is less relevant when a religious community searches for a site for their new cult place, shrine or temple. A ‘Romano-Iranian’ mithraeum, for example, can in theory be constructed anywhere, but the original ‘cave’ context of the myth had to be recreated in its architecture; in a city, mithraea are therefore often underground cavelike structures, but if there was an opportunity, it seems that worshippers created mithraea in actual caves, such as the Grotta di Matromania on Capri with its large marble relief of Mithras or the alleged mithraeum at the Halberg in Saarbrücken. Many sacred sites need landscape features. For instance, at Brauron in Attika, the Artemis sanctuary – said to have been created by Iphigenia on the order of the goddess Athena – is clearly embedded in mythical narratives and the landscape: a rock spur, a cave with a shrine (associated with Iphigenia), a sacred spring and the vicinity to the sea (Giuman 1999). And around the myth of Demeter, Greece’s agricultural goddess, an entire sacred landscape developed along the sacred way from Athens to the sanctuary in Eleusis. During the annual procession, the initiates stopped at the shrine of the Sacred Son at Athens’ sacred gate, shouting – as if in trance –‘Íakch’, O Íakche!’; at the Kephissus

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river they offered a lock of hair; at the temple at Daphni they made votive offerings; at the river Rheitoi the descendants of Krokos tied yellow strands to the initiates’ wrists and ankles, signalling their connection to the Mother Goddess; and, finally, at the Bridge of Jests the initiates were mocked by jesters, led by an old woman named Baubo or Iambe, before they finally arrived at the sanctuary at Eleusis in the evening (Pausanias, Description of Greece, 1.36.3–38.1, 2.26.8). Indeed, Pausanias’s work demonstrates that – at least from a local perspective – many Greek sanctuaries had a close connection between landscape features and myth, and the presence – the epiphany – of a god or goddess often seems an essential part of a site’s sacredness. This leads us to the question of hierarchical societies where the sacred landscape often became a tool for individuals to demonstrate their power, status, wealth and divine right. Hierarchies suggest the need for collective events to consolidate the existing social order, be it in a small village, a large city or across ‘tribal’ or kinship groups. In some societies, socio-religious events are created that involve large-scale feasting, as we can see in the Iron Age feasting enclosures in Gaul, like Corent (Poux and Demierre 2016). Significantly, such sites need not be in any particularly ‘sacred’ location. Instead, the chosen site was made sacred, for example by demarcating it with ditches, palisades, peribolos, boundary stones, votive offerings and so on. As shown by Anastasia Amrhein in this volume, the already-sacred landscape was marked as specifically ‘Assyrian’ not only through the installation of rock-cut stelae, but also through ephemeral, performative engagements with the landscape that served to integrate regions into Assyria, the ‘Land of the god Ashur’. For some societies, more information is available, as in the treatise by Cicero, Varro and other Roman authors: Rome’s ius divinum (i.e. the law that regulates the relationship between humans and the divine) clearly determined whether a space is sacred or not. Noteworthy is the terminology according to which a space is sacer if it has been consecrated according to the religious prescriptions. A space is sanctus if its integrity is sanctioned by law. Finally, a space is religiosus if characterised by the presence of sacred elements, which might be natural or constructed by human hands, as the public or private temples. This shows the Romans’ emphasis on legal correctness in religious affairs; correct practice according to the divine law was considered quintessential to preserve the pax deorum, the peace between the city and the gods (see also Pirson 2011). In many hierarchical societies, funerary cults may have been more important than cult places – if such a distinction can be made, since the boundaries between funerary and cult sites are generally permeable. This often represents a large investment of resources, sometimes larger than in contemporary religious activities, such as impressive tumuli in conspicuous locations in the landscape, deliberately visible from far away, like many Bronze Age and Iron Age

burial mounds in several cultures. And how many tumuli are surrounded by an engineered landscape, with pathways and procession roads, ritual depositions and feasting areas, stone alleys and circles, and even cosmological orientation of the immediate landscape (cf. Mees 2007)? We often see how individual tombs eventually – over a few generations or sometimes centuries – became sacred places where people worshipped real and imaginary ancestors. And how often do Bronze Age sites get appropriated in the Iron Age as cult places? But does the memory of the original community survive (see Häussler 2009)? Manipulating sacred landscapes – and the sacred in general – seems to be the norm in most societies, though in varying degrees. Some forms of manipulation might be less visible in the archaeological record as they may not require any physical presence, but are performances, such as prayers, dances, processions, circumambulation of sites, touching of landscape features, collecting stones, pebbles, plants. And even embedding cosmological and mythical features, divine interventions and ancestors in the landscape is a form of manipulation, or in the words of Jesper Østergaard an ‘artification’ of the landscape: ‘By embedding mythology in the landscape, a temporal dimension is given to the landscape […]. Likewise, the landscape gives materiality form to a time-related mythology’ (2013, 167). Based on the case study of Maratika in eastern Nepal – the cave of the second Buddha Padmasambhava and one of the six most holy places for Tibetan Buddhism – Østergaard shows how the ‘religious specialists’ re-telling and elaboration of […] mythical activities’ led to a pilgrimage site in which pilgrims can interact with the landscape and experience a mythical landscape that possesses ‘Padmasambhava’s blessing and life-enhancing qualities’; the pilgrims’ activities symbolise cleansing, karmic balance and long human life (Østergaard 2013, 172). Apart from worshippers and pilgrims, who, having learned about mythical narratives, want to experience these sacred landscapes and make offerings and leave mementoes of their visit, we must not forget that for every instance there must have been those social agents who originally instituted a sacred site, who claimed to decode and interpret nature and the divine for ‘ordinary’ persons, who set the date for sacrifices or processions and who had the necessary religious knowledge. And what is the intended outcome: reaffirming existing hierarchies, control over resources and the population, redistribution of resources and/or creating a sense of identity and Otherness? Whether we are dealing with priests, holy men/women, shamans, druids, prophets or philosophers, they are manipulating people and their view of their environment, and creating legal and behavioural patterns. In this respect, the physical creation is an act of consolidating and perpetuating these myths. And, as we have seen so far, we do not necessarily talk about shrines and temples, but a large variety of ‘commemorations’, from small graffiti,

1.  Interpreting sacred landscapes: a cross-cultural approach paintings and cup marks to the huge Nazca lines and geoglyphs in Peru. Other sacred sites may have been marked by rocks, statues, shrines and temples. States and empires are often well versed in appropriating local sacred landscapes and rewriting existing myths. For instance, Rome’s colonial foundations across its vast empire frequently appropriated existing pre-Roman sites as a kind of ‘acropolis’ of the new Roman cities; for instance, Iron Age hilltop sites in Nîmes and Vienne became sacred areas of the new town, even monumentalised and visible from far away. In many empires, the creation of new cities and sacred sites often go hand in hand and the location of cult places within a city is usually well defined. And we also find cities that were based on a religious ‘faith’, as in the case of Akhetaten (Amarna), dedicated by the pharaoh to his idea of a monotheistic religion based on the god Aten (see e.g. papers by Katharina Zinn and Maxwell Stocker). In our attempt to gain a better understanding of sacred landscapes, this chapter merely aims to introduce the reader of this book to some of the major methodological problems. We have seen how complex and multi-layered the theme of ‘sacred landscapes’ is. There are countless questions to which we would like to find the answers, but often our ancient evidence leaves us in despair. The papers in this volume deal with case studies from different periods, studied from very different scholarly perspectives. Rather than merely arranging them geographically, we decided to follow the themes of our original 2014 Sacred Landscapes conference: the first section looks at the manipulation and monumentalisation of natural sites, and this is followed by papers discussing the transformation of sacred landscapes, from the Bronze Age to the early medieval period. In the third section, the focus is on the relationship between myth, memory and landscape, followed by a discussion of people experiencing and engaging with sacred landscapes in the fourth section, and finally a section on the manipulation of landscapes for issues of identity and social cohesion.

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Section 1 Manipulation of sacred sites: monumentalising natural features

2 Inside the volcano and into the trees. The sacred grove of Diana Nemorensis in archaic Latium between the literary and archaeological sources Francesca Diosono

The shrine dedicated to Diana in Nemi demonstrates perfectly how the sacred space is an outcome of actions, intentions and recollections in the relationship between man, material implements, architecture and landscape (Moser and Feldman 2014, 1). To fully comprehend its history and characteristics, reading a simple two-dimensional map is not quite enough: the shrine, both for religious and architectural choices, was fused to the context itself; only by considering it within its landscape and the evolution conditioned by it during the centuries makes it possible to truly gain an understanding of the natural spectacle that a description in mere words can never have the evocative power to provide. The shrine is situated inside an extinct volcano that is a part of the geological formation called Vulcano Laziale, which characterises the territory of the Alban Hills south-east of Rome (Fig. 2.1). Arriving from the Via Appia, a visitor was faced with a sudden descent down a steep slope and a deep and dark lake in the middle of the crater (Fig. 2.2). Once inside the crater, contact with the surrounding landscape is lost: the only elements still visible (besides the modern towns of Genzano and Nemi, both of which were built in more recent times) are a circular portion of the sky up high that is reflected on the equally circular body of water down below; around it, the steep walls of the volcano, covered with dense forest, give the impression of being immersed in an isolated wilderness. That is also how Strabo describes it (5.3.12): the temple is in a sacred grove and in front of it is a lake deep as the sea; all around it lies an unbroken and rather tall range of mountains, enclosing both the temple and the lake in a hollow and deep basin. It is the forest that is the primary element of the shrine and the basis of all the changes it subsequently went through.

Recent archaeological research has shown (besides the traces of human activity from the Neolithic era on and in the Middle Bronze Age) that there was a terraced settlement in this area during the Late Bronze Age, half-way from the lake, which had to be wider and deeper at the time (Bruni 2009; 2012; 2013; see also Coarelli 2017; Fig. 2.3). After the settlement had been abandoned, the dense forest that grew within the volcano remained in its place and assumed a different value altogether, perhaps due to its isolated nature, and the figure of the rex nemorensis, the king of the forest, became inextricably linked to it. The rex of the woods of Nemi, an absolutely unique figure in the panorama of the history of the religion of ancient Italy, is too complex a figure to examine here (for a synthesis, see Diosono 2013a), but it seems necessary to emphasise that his reign can be traced back to the time before the appearance of the city-state in Latium (for a synthesis of debate about the emerging of the city-state in Latium, cf. Fulminante and Stoddart 2016). The rex, whose succession was tied to a branch from the sacred tree in the forest, and to a duel to the last breath, portrayed a leader of a protohistoric society, based in clans, that recognised those woods as a common space and saw in the rex a leader that represented them as a community. It appears interesting to consider also another ascension that was not as cruel, but otherwise bore a striking resemblance to that of the rex nemorensis: the rex of Rome received, during the archaic new year celebrations, a branch of a felix arbos from the lucus Streniae (Symmach. Epist. 10.15 Seek), highlighting his role as the guarantor of the continuity in time for the whole community (Coarelli 1999). With the birth of the urban society in the area of the Alban Hills, the role of the rex passed from a political dimension

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Francesca Diosono

Fig. 2.1. The area of Alban Hills in Latium. The dot indicates the shrine of Diana Nemorensis (Photo: ESA).

Fig. 2.2. Present-day view of the Lake Nemi seen from the Appian way (Genzano). A: Diana shrine; B: Mons Albanus; C: modern town of Nemi (Photo: Gemma Carafa Jacobini).

2.  Inside the volcano and into the trees

Fig. 2.3. The terraced area of Late Bronze Age at the middle of the shrine during the 2007 campaign (Bruni 2013).

to an exclusively religious one – a dimension that also includes the forest he reigned over, a forest that is now a part of the territory of Aricia. The first common space that was established here, dedicated to Diana, is described by Cato (fr. 58 Peter) as lucus Dianius in nemore Aricino; this definition is followed by a list of Latin peoples who had taken part in the rite of consecration of the lucus, conducted personally by the dictator Latinus from Tusculum, Manius Egerius Baebius: lucum Dianium in nemore aricino Egerio Baebius tusculanus dedicavit dictator Latinus. Hi populi ­communiter: Tusculanus, Aricinus, Lanuvinus, Laurens, Coranus, Tiburtis, Pometinus, Ardeatis Rutulus.

The same dedication seems to be mentioned also by Festus (128 L.): Manius Egeri Nemorensem Dianae consecravit. The woods of Nemi thus remained a religious centre of the federated community, but of a new one that created an artificial space, a lucus, a clearing and/or shrine consecrated to Diana within the largest and densest forest in the territory of Aricia. This hypothetical interpretation, commonly believed to be plausible, was formulated by Filippo Coarelli (1987, 166–7; 1993; see also Ampolo 1993, 161–3; Comella 2005), who also makes reference to the etymology of the word lucus (from lux, ‘light’) meaning ‘a space illuminated by light’ differing from the para-etymology of lucus, ‘a space that lacks the lux’, proposed by Servius (Aeneid 1.441) and Isidore (Origines 14.8.30); however, they wrote during the time when the term lucus stood for the entire complex of the sacred grove. Coarelli’s interpretation is based also on another Cato text (De Agricultura 139–40 = Pliny Naturalis Historia 17.28.267) in which he described the necessary steps in creating a lucus within

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a forest, making a reference to literally cutting down the trees while performing expiatory formulas and sacrifices. Consequently, the dedicatio of a lucus would be the same operation as the inauguratio of a temple from a religious point of view (Coarelli 1987, 16–17). The meaning of lucus as a clearing within the forest is also defined in other Latin texts: Acteon encounters, significantly, Diana in a lucus (Ovid Metamorphoses 3.175–6); Livy describes the lucus of the temple of Juno Lakinia in Crotone as a sacred meadow, bordered by tall cypresses (Livy 24.3.4). And Isidore’s definition is particularly clear, although late (Origines 14.8.30): Lucus est locus densis arboribus saeptus. Centuries after Cato, the definition of lucus proposed by Servius (Aeneid 1.310), lucus enim est arborum multitudo cum religione, nemus vero composita multitudo arborum, would highlight a semantic change, beginning from the Late Republican era, when the concept of lucus from a sacred space surrounded by trees and destined to the worship would have been extended to include even in the literary sources the sacred grove that originally represented its confines, while in the epigraphic sources it appears to designate the actual shrine (Coarelli 1993, 52). There is similar terminological confusion over the sacred grove by the Clitumnus springs: for Propertius (Elegies 2.19.25) it was a lucus, and for Suetonius (Caligula 43) a nemus (see also Otto 2000). According to Seneca (Epistulae 4.41.3), the lucus was an isolated and ancient forest that transmitted an intrinsic sensation of sacredness. The idea of lucus originally as a sacred clearing obtained artificially within the forest, that then was generalised to mean sacred grove, and thus the trees surrounding the original lucus were engulfed in the definition, is widely accepted by most scholars (Malaspina 1995; 2000; Comella 2005; Locchi 2007, 89). But Scheid (1993, 19), with Servius as a point of reference, has proposed the lucus as a grove or forest, subject to given religious laws, and therefore intact, obscure, deserted, sterile, impenetrable for man; by contrast, the nemus would be, for Scheid, a beautiful and lush forest, regulated by human intervention, and free of religious implications. Actually, nemus is of an equivocal nature that oscillates between a lush and idyllic landscape, and a threatening and isolated wilderness, a natural space that is still intact, which is its original meaning (Malaspina 2000; Locchi 2007). Cato’s knowledge of the consecration of the lucus Dianius was based on an inscription that is supposed to be located at the shrine in Nemi (Ampolo 1983; Coarelli 2012), and it has been pointed out that it would have indicated a leadership by Tusculum and Aricia over a federation of Latin cities (Ampolo 1983, 326; Zevi 1995, 126 also points out another contemporary lucus sacred to the Latins, the one of Diana at Corne, referred to by Pliny Naturalis Historia 16.91.242). The timeframe that is usually attributed to the dedication of the lucus is shortly after the battle of Ariccia in 504 BC, and would reflect the precise

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moment when some of the Latin cities attempted to break away from the Roman dominion, taking advantage of the internal turmoil in the city following the end of the monarchy (Cicala 1976–7, 303–4; Bernardi 1973, 24–5; Cornell 1990, 272–3; 1995, 297–8; Coarelli 1991, 36, 38–9; 2012; Liou Gille 1992, 430–5; 2004; Mastrocinque 1993, 108–9; Cicala 1995, 363–5; Schneider 2006, 274). Ampolo (1983; 1993) believes instead that Cato’s list was incomplete, and that it would have also included Rome; some scholars insist rather on a date for the lucus Dianius a little before the battle of Ariccia instead (Alföldi 1965, 152; Zevi 1995, 128). Rome was one of the cities that participated at the Feriae Latinae at the Mons Albanus (now Mount Cavo), where the ancient Latin communities (Fig. 2.4) shared the flesh of the bull sacrificed to Jupiter Latiar (Ampolo 1996; Cornell 1997, 9; Grandazzi 2008). But Rome was also one of the cities that regularly met at caput acquae Ferentinae by the lacus Turni in the foothills of the same Mount Cavo (according to Ampolo 1981; 1993; see also Cifarelli 2012 and Garofalo 2019 with previous bibliography), both at the concilia populorum Latinorum, and also to organise the army. Instead Rome, at the moment of the birth of the

lucus Dianius in the sacred grove of Ariccia, also in the foothills of the very same Mons Albanus, was not present with the various delegations of the Latin peoples, and could not have been, because Rome was seen as an enemy of the Latin community that was performing a rite to found a new meeting site, by consecrating it, where Rome could not have had the same supremacy that it had over Mons Albanus and the grove of Ferentina. The spatial and visual relationship between Diana Nemorensis and Iuppiter Latiaris should not be underestimated. High up on the Mons Albanus, Jupiter, visible and easily recognisable from almost the entirety of ancient Latium, dominated the territory at a glance, and was in direct visual contact especially with the shrine in Ferentina, as Fausto Zevi (1995, 123–4) has emphasised; so, the god was present and a guarantor when the Latins in arms took oaths and made pacts at the foothills of the mountain consecrated to him. Down below, hidden in the crater of a volcano and a forest, on the banks of a deep lake, was Diana Aricina, from whose shrine it was not possible to see that of Jupiter at the Mons Albanus, notwithstanding the short distance, due to the depth of the crater, excluding therefore Jupiter from

Fig. 2.4. The territory and the peoples of Latium Vetus showing the centrality of Mons Albanus (Fulminante 2014).

2.  Inside the volcano and into the trees what took place in the lucus. Both cults were of political and federal nature (Schneider 2006): that of Diana was based in the forest of the rex nemorensis, an expression of pre-archaic royalty; Iuppiter Latiaris, on the other hand, was the deification of Latinus, the eponymous king of the Latins allied to Aeneas (Liou-Gille 1996, 76–9). As the current archaeological research has shown, the grove of Nemi existed before the worship of Diana was instituted there at the end of the sixth century BC on a site perfectly appropriate to the deity, since Diana is montium custos nemorunque (Horace Carmina 3.22.1), the goddess of the intermediate dimension in which the transition takes place, who acts at the margins of the social dimension, in the extra-urban space and nocturnal time, who protects the marginalised and the precarious without status (Montepaone 1993, 69–75; Massa Pairault 2011; Mastrocinque 2012, 134). The shrine in Nemi will always be characterised as representing ‘another’ world that is older and more conservative, for its isolated location on the banks of a deep volcanic lake, where, far away from the city, the original Latin goddess reigns in which the Latin components are recognisable, compared to the subsequent influences from Greece, Magna Graecia, Rome and Etruria (Montepaone 1999, 77–93; Spineto 2000; Diosono 2013a, 80). This situation was not in conflict with the urban dimension, but rather in a necessary opposition to it: it was necessary for managing through sacred and cultural mediation what was abnormal, and what otherwise was left out by the laws of urban society. This way it was able to become a site where the different realities met, just as in the case of the various Latin cities dedicating the lucus in order to meet in an open and ‘neutral’ space that was regulated and guaranteed by mutual religious conventions; the story of the shrine of Diana, and the deeply rooted popular devotion that has a secular evolution, begins here, a story that goes way beyond its political role (Schilling 1964; Massa Pairault 1969). In Aricia, thus, the nemus would have undergone the first regularisation, both physical and religious, at the end of the sixth century BC, with the creation of the lucus, consecrated to Diana by the federation of various Latin cities, within the forest. Compared to that moment, the figure of the ‘King of the Forest’ represented times already past, of a wilderness, that was a complete opposite to both the urban settings of the archaic Latin communities and the sacred site itself that was artificially created as the centre for their political community. The forest (even though regulated cum religione) and the city appear as opposites from the archaic era on: the forest remained, however, ‘another dimension’ subjected to different set of rules, and for that represented an external meeting point from their respective ‘worlds’ (Smith 1996, 215). For this reason the Latin tribes convened, or met with their enemies, at the federal shrine at the lucus Ferentinae when preparing for a war (Ampolo 1994, 163–4 for all

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the references to the literary sources); for this reason the concilia plebis were held at the lucus Petelinus outside the Porta Flumentana and thus outside the pomerium of Rome (Coarelli 1996b); and for this reason the Lucus Feroniae was an multi-ethnic sanctuary with asylum from the archaic era onwards and an important marketplace where Etruscans, Faliscans, Capenates, Latins and the Sabines converged (Di Fazio 2013, 51–6); for this reason the lucus Pisaurensis could represent both political and religious points of reference for the coloni viritani in the ager Gallicus in the third century BC (Coarelli 2002; Belfiori 2017). It was not as significant for the various peoples to meet in a rural place as much as it was to meet in a place that was contemporarily both natural and artificial, wild yet regulated. It is not surprising that in Roman codified law, the lucus would have been considered extra-territorial, as solum indubitate populi Romani (Agenn. Urb., de contr. agr. in Gromatici Veteres p.56.12 = 87.16 L.). The archaeological research in Nemi between 1989 and 2019 has been directed by the Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici del Lazio and the Universities of Perugia and Ludwig Maximilian in Munich (and conducted by me on the field since 2003). We have found traces of occupation in the area as a shrine dating to roughly the same time period when the literary sources indicate the consecration of the lucus. Rare pieces of material, dating back to the ninth–fifth centuries BC, had already begun to sporadically turn up both in the zone of the nymphaeum and on the middle terrace, which indicates human occupation, perhaps due to the presence of a source of water, while the middle terrace seems to be occupied again only after the Bronze Age, in the Late Republican era (Diosono 2013b, 195; Filser 2013; Lanzi 2013, 544). But the area of the lucus is not to be identified here at the middle terrace, as proposed by Coarelli 2017, given the results of the subsequent excavations. Sporadic materials dating from the Neolithic period to the Early Iron Age Latial culture were also discovered during the last excavations in the area where the main Diana temple had been constructed (Fig. 2.5). A considerable amount of material evidence, including architectural and decorative fragments as well as votive objects dating to the sixth and fifth centuries BC, has started to come to light only from the same area (brief references in Ghini and Diosono 2016; Diosono 2017; Diosono and D’Angelo 2019; Diosono et al. 2019). The same temple has revealed archaic phases preceding the first monumental building built at the end of the fourth century BC (a preliminary analysis of the building phases of the monumental temple in Ghini-Diosono 2012, reviewed and updated in Diosono et al. 2019 and Diosono forthcoming). These periods and the related material finds are currently under investigation and can now only generically be dated between the sixth and fifth centuries BC.

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At this stage, it is possible to hypothesise that a more constant attendance in the area of the future temple seems to have resumed around the last decades of the sixth century BC, and that from that moment on people began to regularise the space by building the terraces and various stone structures still under study (Coarelli 2012, 369; Ghini and Diosono 2016). This evidence would be compatible with what could have taken place during the consecration of the lucus, a sacred space that was established and easily distinguishable against the surrounding forest. It therefore seems probable that the subsequent temple of the late fourth century BC would have been built within the archaic lucus, in whose vicinity some buildings were already present. Just as the lucus materialised the presence of Diana in the grove and contemporarily marked the political space of the Latin League in the surrounding landscape, the building of the great temple in peperino stone at the end of the fourth century BC, in what was once the principal political-religious landscapes of the league, materialised the dominion of Rome, which in 338 BC, with the dismantling of the league, had also gained control over the shrine, according to Livy (8.14; see Diosono 2014, 43; forthcoming; Diosono et al. 2019). The temple dedicated to Diana is of exceptional size and quality for its time: the entire podium – 28 by 16 m, constructed in blocks of peperino – still stands today, having been excavated between 2009 and 2017; the foundations reach a depth of over 2 m, which suggests that this was an imposing structure of majestic proportions. The temple then became the focal point of the progressive monumentalisation of the Late Republican era, which eventually turned it into the largest terraced shrine of the whole of Latium, but we cannot analyse it here for lack of space (for more information on monumentalisation in Nemi, see Braconi et al. 2013). This evolution from lucus (‘sacred grove’) to monumental shrine is not an isolated case, even though it is usually quite difficult to find any archaeological evidence for the first phase. As a matter of fact, in the known cases, the subsequent building phases tend to destroy any evidence for the first phase, including the traces of any ancient trees (van der Meer 2015). How does one identify a space that is characterised by the lack of them, that is a lucus? In fact, a lucus, from the archaeological point of view, is an open space marked by the trees that surround it, i.e. a manifestation of absence. In the case of Nemi, the materials and the analysis of the evolution and position of the structures on the site itself are helpful, but the research is still ongoing. On a denarius minted by Publius Accoleius Lariscolus in 43 BC (RRC 486/1; Fig. 2.6), Alföldi (1960) has identified a depiction of the cult statue of Diana Nemorensis in her tricorporal aspect, cited in the literary sources, with the trees from the sacred grove depicted in the background. Various scholars have analysed the coin and there is consensus that the image represents the triple cult statue of Diana (Ampolo 1993; D’Angelo and Martín Esquivel 2012; Coarelli 2013;

Fig. 2.5. The different phases of the Diana temple, lateral view from NE (Photo: LMU – campaign 2017).

Fig. 2.6. The coin of P. Accoleius Lariscolus, with the ­representation of the triple Diana of Nemi and the trees in the background.

contra Pasqualini 2013, 547–8, n. 42); on the basis of this image, the lucus Dianius is generally considered as being surrounded by cypresses. However, it seems appropriate to call into question the identification of the trees as cypresses because in reality the trees are not clearly represented on the coin, and according to ancient sources (Cato de agricultura 48.151) cypress trees were introduced to Italian soil from Crete more recently than the dedication of the lucus in the end of the sixth century BC; new trees must have been planted in the place of the old ones over time, but in a context as conservative as a religious one it does not seem likely that the particular type of tree would have been replaced by another. A sacred grove has been identified at the shrine of Juno in Gabii where the area surrounding the temple preserves preparations made for the planting of the trees, identifiable by the quadrangular and regular cuts in a shallow depth, dug in a natural bank of tufa (Jiménez 1982, 52–5; Coarelli 1993, 50; 2017). Such holes can be linked to two phases, the first one from 150 BC onwards and the second phase at the beginning of the first century BC, even though there is testimony of a sacred grove in the territory of Gabii already in the beginning of the third century BC according to our sources (Gabrielli 2011). Coarelli (1987, 17) suggests that

2.  Inside the volcano and into the trees the grove represented the nemus in which the lucus had been cut, similar to the relationship between podium and temple. Among the sacred groves that received extensive archaeological research, including archaeobotanical analysis, the shrine in Altino clearly stands out (Cresci Marrone and Tirelli 2013 with previous bibliography). The excavation of the latter has confirmed the importance of the boundaries between an external and internal space dedicated to a deity, as testified by our sources, characterised by strictly controlled access, management and attendance of which was determined by religious rules and ritual maintenance; this was the norm for all Italic luci, as we can see in the lex luci Spoletina (Panciera 2006), the Tabula Veliterna (Rix 1992), the Lex Lucerina (Bodel 1994) or the acta of the fratres Arvales (Scheid 1990; 1998). The space in the sacred grove was divine; not everyone could enter, and not at any time. The planting, pruning and felling of the trees were preceded and accompanied by ritual performances and took place in pre-determined moments. Also, the trees in the luci would never have been fruit-bearing trees, and there should have been a variety of types present (Montepaone 1993, 70), even though Martial (4.64.17) defines pomiferum nemus as the one that surrounds the sacred spring of Anna Perenna on the Via Flaminia (Piranomonte 2013 with previous bibliography). That the archaic Italic sacred groves should have consisted, just like the Greek alsoi, of a mixture of trees and clearings in which the statues, altars and other structures would have stood, can be recognised, for example, from the tabula Agnonensis (Prosdocimi 1996) or from the suggestive reconstruction of Fondo Patturelli in Capua by Carlo Rescigno (2009, 38–9). Our material knowledge of the most ancient sacred groves of Rome is virtually non-existent, since they generally did not survive the subsequent constructions taking place from the Republican era onwards. Many of these are only known to us only thanks to the references in literary sources, and they seem to have surrounded sacred elements rather than having been sacred themselves, like the lucus Furrinae (Calzini Gysens 1996) or the luci Esquilinus and Fagutalis (Buzzetti 1996). This fact also brings to mind the Greek alsos, at least for how it is regularly described by Pausanias (see Jacob 1993): usually it was not consecrated to a deity, but rather represented a clearly limited context in which a group of buildings, statues and other sacred elements were combined together, including funerary monuments, altars, bothroi, a stele, spring and offerings. In the same way, Roman sacred groves seem to be described as having one arboreal part and one free of vegetation, organised and characterised by structures, suppellectile, ex voto and ornamenta, a mixed environment that was anything but wild (Jacob 1993, 37; Ragone 1998, 15–16). In any case, it was a limited space characterised by sacred elements and laws, and in which the divine presence manifested itself in the landscape.

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By contrast, the primeval, uncultivated and untouched nemora of the Roman mythological landscape described in the literary sources appear as threatening wilderness, lacking any sacred connotations (Locchi 2007, 89–91); the nemora of the imperial period were the silvae amoenae, as Festus depicts them (158 L.), where one could pleasantly spend time, as they had lost their religious meaning (Locchi 2007, 86–7). The archaic Roman luci and nemora were, however, elements that provided thresholds and boundaries, originally external to the city, and therefore perceived as the sphere of an ancestral deity, natural and primordial sceneries that in time were absorbed and transformed by the urban context. This short analysis of the Roman groves shows that they were originally always suburban, providing us with a basic idea of the religious landscape surrounding Rome which is today lost. Of the only two groves of Rome that have been subjected to archaeological research, we know now that they were both creations of the Augustan era, that of Apollo on the Palatine Hill (Gros 2003) and that of the goddess Dia at the Magliana (Scheid 2013). Both were expressions of the Augustan ideological-religious programme during which new sacred contexts were created that were dressed up as being of ancient origin and tradition, but in reality they were not. In the case of the fratres Arvales, worship of a minor deity was reconstructed, claimed to be long-forgotten and archaic, and placed in a sacred grove. In the case of the Palatine Hill, in the area Apollinis, a silva was created and it was furnished with sacred objects and monuments for worship: statues, altars, baetyl and a tetrastyle. This is quite different in the case of the sacred grove of Libitina outside the Porta Esquilina, where a temple was probably already built in the archaic era before being transformed into a marketplace later on (Coarelli 1996a). The same ‘secularisation’ that occurred in Libitina also happened over time to the lucus around the sacred spring of the Camenae and Egeria, just outside the Porta Capena where, according to the tradition, the nymph and King Numa used to meet (Rodríguez Almeida 1993); the only evidence left of the grove in our possession is a drawing by Pirro Ligorio dated 1558 and a description by Juvenal (3.16) who saw the nemus being desecrated twice: first, because it was robbed of its archaic, natural appearance when it was embellished with marble and, secondly, because it had become a refuge for merchants and beggars (the erroneous identification of this nymphaeum with those that are in reality the remains of the villa of Herodes Atticus dates back to the sixteenth century: see De Cristofaro 2014 and Dubbini 2018). The link between the fons Egeriae of Porta Capena and the grove of Nemi that had become the refuge of the nymph after the death of the king of Rome has been analysed by Marzia De Minicis (2013), also in relation to the large nymphaeum that was excavated in the area of the shrine in Nemi, probably dedicated to Egeria (for the architectural aspects, see Diosono 2013b; for the

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hypothesis of a link between Caligula’s reconstruction of the nymphaeum and the cult of the Deified Drusilla, see Diosono forthcoming). The shrine was a context of social, political and economic activities, which were inextricably linked to the religious activities taking place there (Dally and Metzner Nebelsick 2001, 203). The grove of Nemi, in its most natural and wild phase in the Bronze Age, was already the scenario in which the rex nemorensis roamed. It was therefore already a site that was representative for the community, both from a religious and political point of view. In the archaic era, it remained a political landscape for the Latin cities, interpreted, due to its character, as external and extraneous to the urban dimension, even though it was part of the

territory of Aricia. For this reason, the various components of the Latin community could have found in Nemi a place to meet, discuss matters and unite. Just as the religious sphere is separated from the political one in the cities, in the grove a different management of the space was required, initially remaining much more generic under the rule of the rex; then the lucus within the nemus was born. In the same way, when the Latin League was dismantled and Diana Aricina ended up in Roman hands, Rome probably physically materialised its power through the construction of a temple, a large sacred structure that represented the house of the deity that was no longer identifiable with the lucus alone. Before resuming excavations in Nemi, Coarelli (1987, 174) had hypothesised that the lower terrace of the shrine

Fig. 2.7. The site of the Diana shrine in 2013 (Ghini and Diosono 2013). K: Diana temple; V: nymphaeum (east) and the middle t­errace, with the Late Bronze Age site (west).

2.  Inside the volcano and into the trees would have been occupied by a forest similar to the one in Gabii. After 20 years of research on the site, our knowledge of the spatial organisation of the shrine has increased considerably (see the updated map from 2013 in Fig. 2.7), but it is still rather limited compared to the enormous size of the shrine. What slowly emerges is an image of an area cluttered with buildings and structures constructed from the beginning of the Late Republican monumentalisation programme onwards, slowly taking over the nemus that surrounded the lucus dedicated to Diana. The idea resembles Juvenal’s description of the Egeria’s nymphaeum outside the Porta Capena, cited earlier: an ancient site transformed by later lavish buildings, decorating and monumentalising it in such a way that it would have conserved very little of its original, primitive appearance. The creation of a lucus is a religious concept that is based on human action. It is accompanied by expiatory dedication ceremonies followed by the defining of an artificial space within a natural context. It is possible to see the progressive de-naturalisation of this initial core in the area of the shrine: first by the construction of the archaic buildings, then by the monumental temple at the end of the fourth century BC; again later by the building of large sub-structures for the creation of the artificial terraces that profoundly modified the landscape, creating space where other, grander structures could be built, progressively destroying more and more of the original appearance of the nemus, if not, perhaps, in few sectors, as has been hypothesised of the space between the middle terrace and the nymphaeum (Ghini and Diosono 2013, 35). In the meantime, the entire crater was filled with buildings, first of all those belonging to the villa of Julius Caesar, and then of Caligula, who then went on to occupy even the lake with his famous ships (see various contributions in Ghini 2013). Between the first and second centuries AD, the shrine of Diana had become a terraced complex that extended over nearly three hectares of land (see various contributions, Braconi et al. 2013), and the space surrounding it must have been dotted with buildings and structures. The idyllic and natural appearance that is visible today is due to the abandonment of the site in Late Antiquity, transforming it initially into a source of building material, and later into gardens; agriculture, landslides and mudslides helped nature to take over what was once constructed by man, restoring the ancient landscape to its primitive forested appearance.

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Coarelli, F. (1993) I luci del Lazio: la documentazione archeologica. In Les bois sacrés. Actes du Colloque International organisé par le Centre Jean Bérard et l’Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (Ve section), Naples 1989, 45–52. Naples, Centre Jean Bérard. Coarelli F. (1996a) Libitina, Lucus. In E.M. Steinby (ed.) Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae III, 189–90. Rome, Quasar. Coarelli, F. (1996b) Lucus Petelinus. In E.M. Steinby (ed.) Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae III, 194. Rome, Quasar. Coarelli, F. (1999) Strenia, Sacellum, Lucus. In E.M. Steinby (ed.) Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae IV, 378. Rome, Quasar. Coarelli, F. (2002) Il lucus Pisaurensis e la romanizzazione dell’ager gallicus. In C. Bruun (ed.) The Roman Middle Republic. Politics, Religion, and Historiography c. 400–133 BC Papers from a Conference at the Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, September 11–12, 1998, 195–205. Rome, Institutum Romanum Finlandiae. Coarelli, F. (2012) Il santuario di Diana Nemorensis e la lega latina. In G.M. Della Fina (ed.) Il Fanum Voltumnae e i santuari comunitari dell’Italia antica. Atti del XIX Convegno Internazionale di Studi sulla Storia e l’Archeologia dell’Etruria, Orvieto 2011, 367–77. Rome, Quasar. Coarelli, F. (2013) Da Nemi a Pesaro. La testa bronzea tardo-­ arcaica di Copenhagen. In P. Braconi, F. Coarelli, F. Diosono and G. Ghini (eds) Il santuario di Diana a Nemi. Le terrazze e il ninfeo. Scavi 1989–2009, 639–42. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Coarelli, F. (2017) Le origini dei santuari laziali. Satricum, Lanuvium, Lucus Aricinus. In S. Agusta-Boularot, S. Huber and W. Van Andringa (eds) Quand naissent les dieux. Fondation des sanctuaires antiques. Motivations, agents, lieux, 143–81. Rome, École française de Rome. Comella, A. (2005) Lucus: mondo etrusco, italico e romano. In Thesaurus cultus et rituum antiquorum (ThesCRA), IV, Cult Places; Representations of Cult Places, 266–9. Los Angeles, The J. Paul Getty Museum. Cornell, T.J. (1990) Rome and Latium to 390 BC. In F.W. Walbank, A.E. Astin, M.W. Frederiksen and R.M. Ogilvie (eds) The Cambridge Ancient History 7.2, The Rise of Rome to 220 BC, 243–308. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Cornell, T.J. (1995) The Beginnings of Rome: Italy from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars, ca. 1000–264 BC. New York, Routledge. Cornell, T.J. (1997) Ethnicity as a factor in Early Roman history. In T.J. Cornell and K. Lomas (eds) Gender and Ethnicity in Ancient Italy, 9–21. London, Accordia Research Institute, University of London. Cresci Marrone, G. and Tirelli, M. (2013) Il bosco sacro nel santuario di Altino: una proposta di lettura. In F. Fontana (ed.), Sacrum facere. Atti del I Seminario di Archeologia del sacro, Trieste, 17–18 febbraio 2012, 165–85. Trieste, EUT. Dally, O. and Metzner Nebelsick, C. (2001) Heilige Orte, heilige Landschaften. Archäologischer Anzeiger 2001(1), 203–7. D’Angelo, G. and Martín Esquivel, A. (2012) P. Accoleius Lariscolus (RRC 486/1). Annali dell’Istituto Italiano di Numismatica 58, 139–60. De Cristofaro, A. (2014) Il Ninfeo di Egeria nella valle della Caffarella a Roma: forma, cronologia, funzione. Orizzonti 15, 31–49.

De Minicis, M. (2013) La funzione del ninfeo nel santuario nemorense e la figura di Egeria. In P. Braconi, F. Coarelli, F. Diosono and G. Ghini (eds) Il santuario di Diana a Nemi. Le terrazze e il ninfeo. Scavi 1989–2009, 235–45. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Di Fazio, M. (2013) Feronia. Spazi e tempi di una dea dell’Italia centrale antica. Rome, Quasar. Diosono, F. (2013a) Alle radici del rex nemorensis. In P. Braconi, F. Coarelli, F. Diosono and G. Ghini (eds) Il santuario di Diana a Nemi. Le terrazze e il ninfeo. Scavi 1989–2009, 73–84. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Diosono, F. (2013b) Il ninfeo: caratteristiche architettoniche e costruttive. In P. Braconi, F. Coarelli, F. Diosono and G. Ghini (eds) Il santuario di Diana a Nemi. Le terrazze e il ninfeo. Scavi 1989–2009, 195–218. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Diosono, F. (2014) Nemi: nascita di un luogo sacro e del suo mito. In G. Ghini, A. Palladino and M. Rossi (eds) Sulle tracce di Caligola. Storie di grandi recuperi della Guardia di Finanza al lago di Nemi. Catalogo della mostra, 41–7. Rome, Gangemi. Diosono, F. (2017) Diana nel Nemus Aricinum: dal re del bosco alla dea del lucus. In L. Attenni (ed.), Sacra Nemora. La cultura del Sacro nei contesti santuariali in area albana. Rinvenimenti archeologici e recuperi della Guardia di Finanza. Catalogo della mostra, Lanuvio 11 maggio–31 ottobre 2017, 87–90. Rome, Dielle Editore. Diosono, F. (forthcoming) Costruire, offrire e ricostruire. Testimonianze di riti legati ad edifici nel santuario di Diana a Nemi. In Fenomenologia e interpretazioni del rito. Dialoghi sull’Archeologia della Magna Grecia e del Mediterraneo. Atti del IV Convegno Internazionale di studi, Paestum 15–17 novembre 2019. Diosono, F., Braconi, P., D’Angelo, G., Ghini, G. and La Notte, A. (2019) Le prime fasi edilizie del Tempio di Diana a Nemi. In F.M. Cifarelli, S. Gatti and D. Palombi (eds) Oltre ‘Roma Medio-Repubblicana’. Il Lazio tra i Galli e Zama, Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Roma, 7–9 giugno 2017), 383–90. Rome, Quasar. Diosono, F. and D’Angelo, G. (2019) Nemi in contesto. La decorazione fittile delle diverse fasi del tempio di Diana tra vecchie collezioni e nuovi dati stratigrafici. In P. Lulof, I. Manzini and C. Rescigno (eds) Deliciae Fictiles V: Networks and Workshops. Architectural Terracottas and Decorative Roof Systems in Italy and Beyond. Proceedings of the Fifth International Conference held at the University of Campania ‘Luigi Vanvitelli’ and the National Archaeological Museum in Naples (March 15–17, 2018), 397–406. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Dubbini, R. (2018). La valle della Caffarella nei secoli: Storia di un paesaggio archeologico della campagna Romana. Rome, Gangemi. Filser, W. (2013) La ceramica dei secoli IX–IV a.C. In P. Braconi, F. Coarelli, F. Diosono and G. Ghini (eds) Il santuario di Diana a Nemi. Le terrazze e il ninfeo. Scavi 1989–2009, 257–65. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Fulminante, F. (2014) The Urbanisation of Rome and Latium Vetus from the Bronze Age to the Archaic Era. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Fulminante, F. and Stoddart, S. (2016) Indigenous political dynamics and identity from a comparative perspective: Etruria and Latium Vetus. In M.A. Alberti and S. Sabatini (eds) Exchange

2.  Inside the volcano and into the trees Networks and Local Transformations. Interaction and Local Change in Europe and the Mediterranean from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age, 117–33. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Gabrielli, C. (2011) Moral reflections and sacred constraints: about a lucus at Gabii. Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 13, 253–61. Garofalo, P. (2019) Quale suburbio? Il territorio tra Roma e i Colli Albani alla luce delle fonti. In A.L. Fischetti and P.A.J. Attema (eds) Alle pendici dei Colli Albani. Dinamiche insediative e cultura materiale ai confini con Roma, Groningen Archaeological Studies 35, 91–104. Groningen, University of Groningen & Barkhuis Publishing. Ghini, G. (ed.) (2013) Caligola, la trasgressione al potere. Catalogo della mostra. Rome, Gangemi. Ghini, G. and Diosono, F. (2012) Il Tempio di Diana a Nemi: una rilettura alla luce dei recenti scavi. In G. Ghini and Z. Mari (eds) Lazio a Sabina 8. Ottavo Incontro di Studi sul Lazio e la Sabina, Roma 30–31 marzo, 1 aprile 2011, 269–76. Rome, Quasar. Ghini, G. and Diosono, F. (2013) La terrazza mediana. In P. Braconi, F. Coarelli, F. Diosono and G. Ghini (eds) Il santuario di Diana a Nemi. Le terrazze e il ninfeo. Scavi 1989–2009, 35–41. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Ghini, G. and Diosono, F. (2016) Diana Nemorense: considerazioni dopo 25 anni di ricerche. In A. Russo Tagliente and F. Guarneri (eds) Santuari mediterranei tra Oriente e Occidente. Interazioni e contatti culturali. Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Civitavecchia–Roma 18–22 giugno 2014, 219–22. Rome, Scienze e Lettere. Grandazzi, A. (2008) Alba Longa, histoire d’une légende. Recherches sur l’archéologie, la religion, les tradition de l’ancien Latium. Rome, École française de Rome. Gros, P. (2003) Le bois sacré du Palatin: une composante oubliée du sanctuaire augusteéen d’Apollon. Revue archéologique 35, 51–68. Jacob, C. (1993) Paysage et bois sacré: ἅλσος dans la Périégèse de la Grèce de Pausanias. In Les bois sacrés. Actes du Colloque International organisé par le Centre Jean Bérard et l’Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (Ve section), Naples 1989, 31–44. Naples, Centre Jean Bérard. Jiménez, J.L. (1982) Arquitectura. In M. Almagro Gorbea (ed.) El santuario de Juno en Gabii. Excavaciones 1956–1969, 39–86. Rome, Escuela Española de Historia y Arqueología en Roma. Lanzi, D. (2013) I metalli, il vetro e l’osso lavorato. In P. Braconi, F. Coarelli, F. Diosono and G. Ghini (eds) Il santuario di Diana a Nemi. Le terrazze e il ninfeo. Scavi 1989–2009, 535–66. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Liou Gille, B. (1992) Une tentative de reconstitution historique: les cultes fédéraux latins de Diane Aventine et de Diane Nemorensis. Parola del Passato 47, 411–38. Liou Gille, B. (1996) Naissance de la ligue latine: mythe et culte de fondation. Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 74, 73–97. Liou Gille, B. (2004) Le gouvernement fédéral de la ligue latine sous la royauté romaine: dictateur fédèral, roi fédéral, ‘hegemôn toû èthnos’. Revue des Études Anciennes 106, 421–43. Locchi, A. (2007) Una definizione dello spazio silvestre tra natura e cultura: il caso dei nemora a Roma. In F. Squarcini (ed.) Topografie della ‘Santità’. Studi sulle simbolizzazioni religiose dei confini e sulla geografia politica delle tradizioni religiose, 83–91. Florence, Società Editrice Fiorentina.

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Malaspina, E. (1995) Nemus sacrum? Il ruolo di nemus nel campo semantico del bosco sino a Virgilio: osservazioni di lessico e di etimologia. Quaderni del Dipartimento di Filologia di Torino 1995, 75–97. Malaspina, E. (2000) Nemus come toponimo dei Colli Albani e le differentiae verborum tardo antiche. In J. Rasmus Brandt, A.M. Leander Touati and J. Zahle (eds) Nemi. Status Quo: Recent Research at Nemi and the Sanctuary of Diana. Acts of the Seminar (Rome, 2–3 October 1997), 145–52. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Massa Pairault, F.H. (1969) Diana Nemorensis, déesse latine, déesse hellenisée. Mélanges de l’École française de Rome – Antiquité 81, 425–71. Massa Pairault, F.H. (2011) Qualche considerazione sui passaggi dell’adolescenza e i suoi paradigmi: dai boschi alla città. In V. Nizzo (ed.) Dalla nascita alla morte. Antropologia e archeologia a confronto. Atti dell’Incontro Internazionale di studi in onore di Claude Lévi-Strauss, Roma 21 maggio 2010, 107–20. Rome, E.S.S. Mastrocinque, A. (2012) La liberazione degli schiavi e i boschi sacri nell’Italia antica. In A. Pinzone, E. Caliri and R. Arcuri (eds) Forme di dipendenza nelle società di transizione. Atti del XXXII Colloquio Internazionale G.I.R.E.A. (Messina 15–17 maggio 2008), 131–8. Messina, Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità dell’Università di Messina. Mastrocinque, A. (1993) Romolo. Este, Zielo. Montepaone, C. (1993) L’alsos/lucus, forma idealtipica artemidea: il caso di Ippolito. In Les bois sacrés. Actes du Colloque International organisé par le Centre Jean Bérard et l’École Pratique des Hautes Etudes (Ve section), Naples 1989, 69–75. Naples, Centre Jean Bérard. Montepaone, C. (1999) Lo spazio del margine: prospettive sul femminile nella comunità antica. Rome, Donzelli. Moser, C. and Feldman, C. (2014) Introduction. In C. Moser and C. Feldman (eds) Locating the Sacred. Theoretical Approaches to the Emplacement of Religion, 1–12. Oxford, Joukowsky Institute. Otto, C. (2000) Lat. Lūcus, nemus ‘bois sacré’ et les deux formes de sacralité chez les Latins. Latomus 59, 3–7. Panciera, S. (2006) Epigrafi, epigrafia, epigrafisti. Scritti vari editi ed inediti (1956–2005) con note complementari e indici, I. Rome, Quasar. Pasqualini, A. (2013) Latium Vetus et Adiectum. Ricerche di Storia, Religione e Antiquaria. Tivoli, Tored. Piranomonte, M. (2013) Rome. The Anna Perenna fountain, religious and magical rituals connected with water. In A. Schäfer and M. Witteyer (eds) Rituelle Deponierungen in Heiligtümern der hellenistisch-römischen Welt. Internationale Tagung, Mainz 28.–30. April 2008, 151–66. Mainz, Generaldirektion Kulturelles Erbe Rheinland-Pfalz, Direktion Landesarchäologie. Prosdocimi, A.L. (1996) La tavola di Agnone. Una interpretazione. In L. Del Tutto Palma (ed.) La tavola di Agnone nel contesto italico. Convegno di studio, Agnone 13–15 aprile 1994, 435–630. Florence, Iannone. Ragone, G. (1998) Dentro l’àlsos. Economia e tutela del bosco sacro nell’antichità classica. In C. Albore Livadie and F. Ortolani (eds) Il sistema uomo – ambiente tra passato e presente, 11–25. Bari, Edipuglia.

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et notes d’informations des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 2013(1), 151–66. Schilling, R. (1964) Une victime des vicissitudes politiques, la Diane latine. In M. Renard and R. Schilling (eds) Hommages à Jean Bayet, Collection Latomus 70, 650–67. Brussels. Schneider, H.C. (2006) Der Schrein des Iuppiter Latiaris und der Hain der Diana Nemorensis. Überlegungen zur überregionalen Funktion von Heiligtümern im frühen Latium. In K. Freitag, P. Funke and M. Haake (eds) Kultpolitik–Ethnos. Überregionale Heiligtümer im Spannungsfeld von Kult und Politik, Kolloquium, Münster, 23.–24. November 2001, 265–76. Stuttgart, Steiner Verlag. Smith, C.J. (1996) Early Rome and Latium, Economy and Society c.1000 to 500 BC. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Spineto, N. (2000) The King of the Wood oggi: una rilettura di James George Frazer alla luce dell’attuale problematica storico-religiosa. In J. Rasmus Brandt, A.M. Leander Touati and J. Zahle (eds) Nemi. Status Quo: Recent Research at Nemi and the Sanctuary of Diana. Acts of the seminar (Rome, 2–3 October 1997), 17–25. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. Van der Meer, L.B. (2015) The impact of Rome on luci (sacred glades, clearings and groves) in Italy. BABESCH 90, 99–107. Zevi, F. (1995) I santuari ‘federali’ del Lazio: qualche appunto. Eutopia 4(2), 123–42.

3 Sacred landscape and rock-cut sanctuaries of the Iberian Peninsula: the principle of duality or harmony of complementary oppositions Maria João Correia Santos

Introduction The idea of a sacred place is deeply related to the place itself and the symbolic perception of the landscape. It reveals itself by certain aspects that somehow set it apart, such as its topography and location within the landscape, aspects that are perceived and signified according to the cultural and religious background of a given society. But not all the places that are imposing in the landscape correspond to sanctuaries, and this is due to the fact that landscapes are the result of a dynamic relationship between the human occupation and the economic exploration of territories. As Fairclough (2008, 409) pointed out, ‘environment changes into landscape in the eyes of the beholder’. This relationship goes much deeper: ‘as places animate the ideas and feelings of persons who attend to them, these same ideas and feelings animate the places on which attention has been bestowed’ (Basso 1996, 107). This is the reason why the study of sacred places should always be twofold: the study of the place itself and of its context. In the Iberian Peninsula, one type of sacred place stands out by its large number and morphological resemblances: the rock-cut sanctuaries, remarkable by the existence of steps and cavities, which sometimes are associated with rock engravings, rock inscriptions or Roman votive altars. Assigning a clear chronology to these places is often a challenge due to the insufficient number of archaeological excavations undertaken so far. According to the available data, they appear to emerge around the beginning of the Late Bronze Age, they are further developed during the Iron Age and, in some cases, even reach the Roman period when new inscriptions, such as those in Latin, were incorporated.

These structures have some parallels in France (Louradour 1964; Sabourin 2003), Italy (Arcà 2010; Porietti 2010; Di Silvio 2011; Vaudagna 2011; Menichelli 2013), Greece (Marangou 2009), Bulgaria and Turkey (Fol 2008; Raduncheva 2008). But it is in the Iberian Peninsula that we find not only the largest number, but also the greatest variety of features that can be evaluated within their chronological development. Rock sanctuaries used to be one of the archaeological fields that was regarded with suspicion and scepticism because of the romanticised views of the early twentieth century that interpreted many carved stones as ‘pagan’ altars for blood sacrifices (cf. Alfayé 2009, 146–53). Some of these idealised ‘pagan’ sanctuaries were even built from scratch, such as the one at Rowtor Rocks, Peak District, by Thomas Eyre back in the eighteenth century (Edmonds and Seaborne 2001, 95–9). In the Iberian Peninsula, people suggested that Celtiberians sacrificed horses and human victims in rock-cut altars with holes and channels that drained their blood (Costa 1917, 24), and many authors provided accounts of these supposed sacrificial stones (Bonsor 1899; Aguilera y Gamboa 1909, 134–55; Mélida 1914–16, 40, 48). This situation, together with the difficulty in assigning a chronology to these places, has discouraged their revision. Only recently it became a topic of interest for researchers, resulting in a series of important contributions, such as the works of Benito del Rey and Grande del Brío (1994; 2000; 2003), Marco Simón (1996), Almagro Gorbea and Jiménez Ávila (2000), Jiménez Guijarro (2000), Barandela Rivero et al. (2005), García Quintela and Santos Estévez (2008), Alfayé Villa (2009), Fabián García (2010), García Quintela and Seoane Veiga (2011; 2013), Estebán Ortega et al. (2013; 2014) and, more recently, Almagro Gorbea (2016).

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The findings that many of these works started to show revealed the need for a systematic and contextual analysis of these structures. The attempt to better understand these archaeological features motivated a PhD research – ‘Rockcut sanctuaries of Indo-European Hispania’ (Correia Santos 2010a; 2010b; 2010c; 2012; 2013; 2015; 2016) – upon which the present paper is based.

Setting the stage: methodological remarks Some methodological remarks are needed to better understand both the archaeological data and the research framework used in this work. Our definition of a ‘sanctuary’ is a place demarcated for religious purposes (Bergquist 1967; Pedley 2005, 57). When we speak of cult places related to rocks, we must distinguish two major categories: sacred rock places and rock-cut sanctuaries. In the first case, the rock itself remains as it is and the only visible human imprints are rock paintings, rock engravings or inscriptions. In the second case, the rock appears modified, through the sculpting of several elements, such as steps and rock-cut basins, sometimes also associated with rock engravings or inscriptions. A rock-cut sanctuary can be defined as a structure carved out of a natural open-air rock, with or without steps, that presents a natural or human-made basin, the characteristics of which do not allow a practical daily use, but are an intended symbolic disposition instead. Which criteria can we use to identify a place as a rock-cut sanctuary? When there are votive inscriptions, it can be easy, but very few of these sites have epigraphic elements. For all the cases without text, we must then observe the context. To begin with, before supposing any hypothetical ritual use of a structure, we should first consider all other possible alternatives: from the cementation of buildings, to water deposits or wine presses. Only when the practical use of such structures is not possible, such as unnecessary steps that lead to cavities too small to be of any efficient use, can we assume that it could be a rock-cut sanctuary. Nevertheless, the statement is not valid if we do not know the purpose of a given structure; it should be symbolic or religious. For instance, a single sequence of steps carved on the rock that apparently leads nowhere is not enough by itself to classify a place as a rock-cut sanctuary. One way to overcome these difficulties is to adopt a systemic methodology – from the Greek synhistanai, ‘to place together’ – i.e. to put the object of study into context and to verify the nature of its relations. We should therefore consider not only the archaeological record and the internal organisation of the place itself, but also other comparable sites, as well as its location in the landscape and its relation towards the human occupation of the territory, the natural resources and the natural passageways.

As Binford (1992, 57) once said, ‘the site scale is too narrow to permit an evaluation of what we are seeing’ and ‘if we can relate what we see at the local scale to what we see in terms of stability at a very large scale, we will be in a much better position to understand sites’. With this objective in mind, it was necessary to consider a geographical domain wide enough to set all the data into context and, at the same time, would not be too artificial. Therefore, the chosen territory is not based upon Roman circumscriptions, defined more according to the Roman administrative needs than the respect for indigenous boundaries, nor upon the supposed traditional territories of the indigenous populi, firstly because the little we know was passed down by classical authors, and secondly, due to the difficulty of defining an ethnic affiliation to several of these populi, such is the case of the Lusitanians (Guerra 1998, 802–16; Correia Santos 2009, 181–93). Since these places are mainly concentrated in a region with a solid Indo-European linguistic tradition (Untermann 1962, 19–33; 1965, 8–25; 1992, 19–33; 1999, 509–12), it was this area that was chosen to undertake this analysis. Of course, it is also an artificial demarcation, as ‘Indo-European’ itself is no more than a modern creation or restitution, from which is thought to have evolved the so-called Indo-European languages. Still, it is a well-defined geographical domain with regards to linguistic features, apparently related to Late Bronze Age chronologies, and so, earlier than the formation of the indigenous ethnic groups found by the Romans (Hoz 2001, 123–8; Prósper 2002, 19–26): in other words, it may set the stage in which these structures emerge for the first time. With regards to the human occupation of the landscape in which these sites are located, a theoretical territory of 10 km in diameter was attributed to each of them, since usually the territory of any settlement corresponds to about one hour of walking, which is 5 km (Davidson and Bailey 1984, 30), depending on the location, whether in a plain or mountainous region (Christopherson et al. 1996). Within this territory, we proceed to collect all the data regarding the human settlements from Late Bronze Age to the Roman period, including their intervisibility relations. Likewise, for each site, the morphological features were considered, as were the site’s internal organisation and orientation, with the accurate measurement of each element, as well as the archaeological remains eventually associated with it. The assembled data allowed the construction of an exhaustive database that improved comparison between sites, at several scales, with the advantage of revealing repetitive elements, from which certain patterns emerge. In what structures are concerned, to say it plainly, we measure units, physical realities; however, patterns cannot be measured, but mapped (Fritzof Capra, 2000, 77), since,

3.  Sacred landscape and rock-cut sanctuaries of the Iberian Peninsula to understand them, we should first map all their possible relations. The data also allowed for the establishing of guidelines on how to distinguish the rock-cut sanctuaries from other rock-cut structures, mistakenly classified as sanctuaries. This is the case of the so-called ‘sacrificial stone’ of Arcobriga, Monreal de Ariza (Aguilera and Gamboa 1909, 134–55), associated only to medieval remains (Alfayé et al. 2001–2), and also of the supposed sacred precinct of Mayoralguillo de Vargas, Cáceres (Mélida 1902, 40), which was merely an olive oil press (Peña Cervantes 2010, 435). Likewise, the supposed rock altars of San Pelayo, Zamora (Benito del Rey and Grande del Brío 1992, 41–56; 2000, 63–78; Álvarez-Sanchís 1999, 475) are nothing but wine presses; the ‘sacrificial altar’ of Sierra de Santa Cruz, Trujillo, Cáceres (Mélida 1902, 48) corresponds to the wall of a semi-rupestrian house (Correia Santos 2014); and the supposed ritual pits of Mau Vizinho, Chaves (Costa 1973; Santos Júnior 1982; 1989; Lemos and Martins 2010, 89–90) and Mogueira, Viseu (Mantas 1984, 363–4; Marques 1987, 289; Pessoa and Ponte 1987, 264–6; Rodríguez Colmenero 1995–2007, 481; Vaz 2002, 40–1; Maciel 2004, 29–30) are actually the foundations of medieval fortifications (Correia Santos 2010a; 2010b; 2012). On the other hand, the repetition and differences of certain elements allow us to distinguish two major typological groups (Correia Santos 2010a, 153–4): type A, referring to monuments with steps and cavities; and type B, concerning

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rocks with cavities, along with other elements, but always without steps. In both groups there is a certain morphological and chronological evolution, which leads to the distinction of several subgroups. Briefly, within type A, it is possible to distinguish four subtypes: 1) type A.1.1, representing monuments with rough little steps that give access to natural basins, always related to Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age contexts; 2) type A.1.2, which always has flights of steps that lead to both natural and/or artificial basins, associated mainly with Iron Age chronologies; 3) type A.2, with nicely cut steps and artificial basins to which are added structures in the form of seats, generally associated with Late Iron Age settlements; and finally, 4) type A.3, with flights of steps, artificial cavities and basins, always associated with epigraphic elements and Roman materials, even though the majority are located in the vicinity of Late Iron Age settlements (Fig. 3.1). Type B can be divided into three major subtypes: 1) in type B.1 there prevails the basins of natural origin with artificial draining channels, related to Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age chronologies; 2) type B.2 includes, besides the natural basins, artificial cavities and structures in the form of seats, mainly associated with Late Iron Age contexts; and finally, 3) type B.3 corresponds to monuments with natural and artificial basins, always associated with Roman votive inscriptions, and Late Iron Age and Roman materials (Fig. 3.2).

Fig. 3.1. Examples of monuments of Type A.1.1, A.1.2, A.2 and A.3, respectively, Peña Buracada, Zamora, Spain; Ulaca, Ávila, Spain; Pé do Coelho, Guarda, Portugal; and Pias dos Mouros, Valpaços, Portugal (M.J. Correia Santos).

Fig. 3.2. Examples of monuments of Type B.1, B.2 and B.3, respectively, Lampaça, Vila Real, Portugal; Monsanto, Castelo Branco, Portugal; Fonte da Tijela, Sabugal, Portugal (M.J. Correia Santos).

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However, the absence of steps in monuments of type B does not imply they are older than those of type A; instead, they seem to reflect different religious requirements. Indeed, both types A and B appear to follow a similar morphological and chronological evolution: the monuments of type A.1 and B.1 are always related to Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age chronologies, while the structures of type A.2 and B.2 appear to be associated with Late Iron Age contexts; and both type A.3 and B.3 contain Roman materials. The different topographic locations seem to convey the evolution of the general settlement strategy: the early monuments (type A.1.1) are generally set in the plains, but from type A.1.2 onwards, hilltop sites and mountain ridges are clearly preferred, especially if they overlook natural passageways or river courses. They clearly formed part of an animated landscape, as we are about to explore, dwelling, as Hartley said (1956, 1), in the ‘foreign country of the past’.

Dwelling in the foreign country of the past The rock-cut sanctuaries seem to reveal a perception of the landscape mainly organised according to what we may call a harmony of complementary oppositions, or, in other words, a principle of duality, recognisable in the vast majority of the sites through the intentional display of the rock-cut elements that are part of the sanctuary as well as its location within the landscape. This empirical observation was first noticed during a visit to the Castro de Santa Marina, Ourense, Spain, apparently occupied during the Late Iron Age (Barandela and Lorenzo 2004, 95–8; García Quintela and Seoane Veiga 2013); Marco García Quintela noticed that the settlement was organised in two halves, east and west. A more detailed analysis revealed that all the carved rocks are located in the eastern half of the summit, including a rock-cut altar of type A.1.2, in what seems to be a binary organisation of the space (Fig. 3.3). This was not the only visible opposition: the distribution of the two principal groups of rocks shows that one of them is located on the summit, while the other one is at the foot of the hill. The geographic location of the place itself is also worthy of note: next to the double confluence of the rivers Barbantiño and Listanco that mark the eastern and western sides of the hill respectively. The further comparison with other sites revealed this was not an isolated incident that occurred by chance, but apparently a common and intentional feature of these places. Regarding the monuments of type A.1.1, perhaps the best example is El Sequero (Mérida, Spain) situated next to the confluence of the rivers Aljucén and Guadiana, as well as in the proximity of a natural passageway. At no more than 1.5 km distance there is evidence for human occupation during the Late Bronze Age (Domínguez de La Concha and Enríquez Navascués 1991; Enríquez Navascués 1991; 1997, 24; Jiménez Ávila 2005a, 53; Fig. 3.4).

The site, noted by Almagro-Gorbea and Jiménez Ávila (2000, 428), consists of four carved rocks, from which the most impressive is one rock of type A.1.1 that overlooks all of the surroundings. The structure was carved on a very curious rock, shaped by erosion in form of a ‘Y’, with the summit split into two halves. Precisely in between, ten small cavities allow people to climb up to a round basin, placed above in the middle of the rock bifurcation. From here, one carved step gives access to the eastern platform where we find a single cup-mark with a draining channel; and another step, quite similar, allows access to the western platform, which was artificially flattened and contains several little cup-marks. It seems clear that the arrangement of the elements was intentional, according to a perched duality or a harmony of oppositions, beginning with the choice of the rock itself. The summit of the rock is naturally divided in two; with leading steps in opposite directions, respectively to the western and eastern platforms, the first one with a single cup-mark and drainage channel, orientated to

Fig. 3.3. Distribution of the carved rocks in the Castro de Santa Marina, Ourense, Spain. The circles: petroglyphs; the small triangles: rocks with basins; the large triangle: rock altar (M.J. Correia Santos).

Fig. 3.4. The monument of type A.1.1 of El Sequero, Badajoz, Spain (M.J. Correia Santos).

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Fig. 3.5. Rock-cut altars of Pico de San Gregorio, Cáceres, Spain (M.J. Correia Santos).

a natural alignment of three rocks, and the second with several cup-marks that face the mountain ridge of Sierra de Carija. Further to the east, Pico de San Gregorio (Cáceres, Spain) is another example. It is precisely located on the highest peak of Sierra de Santa Cruz, overlooking a mountain gateway to the west, and the natural passageway that connects the Tejo and Guadiana basins to the east (Correia Santos 2015). A settlement of the Late Bronze Age to the Second Iron Age is located less than 200 m away (Martín Bravo 1999, 88–90; Torres Ortiz 1999, 109); and even nearer, two votive altars dedicated to Jupiter were discovered in the south-western and north-eastern slopes of the mountain (AE 1977, 434; ILER 14; Fig. 3.5). This site has a semicircular platform into which two structures with steps were carved, one in front of the other: in the first one, three unnecessary steps were sculpted with the sole purpose of reaching a small cup-mark with a drainage channel at a height of 1 m; and in the second structure, two steps, even more unnecessary (since the rock outcrop is at ground level on one side), lead to a group of four cup-marks lined in a crescent. The sole topography of the site seems to express an arrangement according to a binary opposition, open to south-west and closed to the north-east. Once again, only one side of the summit is delimitated by rocks with cup-marks, in this case, the south-western side. It is also very interesting to observe that precisely on the opposite side of this mountain ridge, there is another rock-cut sanctuary of type A.1.2, San Juan el Alto (Ortega et al. 2014), with which this ‘harmony of oppositions’ seems to be completed, demarcating the mountain ridge. The altars of Pico de San Gregorio are on the highest peak at its south-western limit, while the altars of San Juan el Alto are located in the lowest mound on the opposite, north-eastern side.

Also in the province of Cáceres, there are three other monuments of type A.1.1 that seem to delimit a marshland scattered around countless rock-outcrops, known as Los Barruecos: in the northern area, La Zafrilla (Ortega et al. 2015; forthcoming); in the east, Las Cuatro Hermanas, and in the south, Las Trescientas (Almagro Gorbea and Jiménez Ávila 2000, 427; Ortega et al. 2013, 318). This area is indeed a geographic landmark, and it seems to have had a symbolic value across time, as indicated by a total of more than 40 rock-art panels and the finding of two bronze ex-votos in form of a goat, dedicated to the indigenous goddess Ataecina (CIL II 5298–9). Nearby, there is a settlement occupied during the Chalcolithic and the Early Bronze Age, but some material from the Late Iron Age down to the second century BC were also discovered (González Cordero 1996, 700; 1999, 192–3; Sauceda 2001; Cerrillo Cuenca et al. 2002, 103). The arrangement of the site of Las Cuatro Hermanas, located at the eastern limit of the marshland and next to an important natural passageway, shows best this possible ‘harmony of complementary oppositions’: a rough staircase of 11 steps provides access to the summit where there are two natural basins, one in front of the other – one with no human imprint that drains towards the north-east, while the other one, much bigger and with an artificial drainage channel, is orientated to the south-west, precisely the opposite direction. Moving north-east, we find another example, Atalaya (Salamanca, Spain), located on the summit of a conic hill that breaks out in the south-eastern slope of Cerro del Berrueco. Directly beneath is the settlement of Los Tejares, occupied from the Late Iron Age until the Republican period (Fabián García, 2010, 249, 251; Fig. 3.6). The site is formed by two rocks: one with six carved steps that lead to a pair of small rectangular holes, orientated towards the east; next to it, there is a much smaller rock with several cup-marks

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Fig. 3.6. Rock assemblage of Atalaya, Salamanca, Spain (M.J. Correia Santos).

and a rectangular cavity with a channel that drains to the west. Again, we can detect what seems to be an intentional disposal of the elements according to a principle of oppositions: the stairs climb towards the east, but the cavity of the smaller rock drains to the west; there is one large rock, with steps and two cavities, while the other is a small rock with only one cavity. In the province of Ávila the site of Canto del Mortero is also worth mentioning. It is located in the centre of the territory consisting of several protohistoric settlements (Fabián García 2010, 232). The rock assemblage is situated on the top of a low mount, orientated north to south, and delimited by two streams that run to the east and west of the mount. In the upper part of the largest rock there is a completely circular basin from which diverge four draining channels that match the four cardinal points; the adjacent smaller rock, despite having been artificially smoothed, only presents a natural basin. Another extraordinary example is Ulaca (Ávila), located in a fortified settlement occupied from the Late Bronze Age to the Second Iron Age, on the summit of a prominent hill that overlooks the Amblés valley and an important natural passageway. This place is remarkable because it assembles four different types of monuments: a famous altar of type A.1.2, another altar of type A.1.1, and three other structures in form of seats, i.e. of type B.2 (Fig. 3.7). The apparent ‘harmony in opposition’ becomes most visible in two aspects: first, all the structures described above, except for one, are placed next to the passageway that connects the settlement’s eastern and western entries; secondly, all the carved rocks are concentrated on the summit’s western side. Another interesting aspect is that the principal rock-cut altar presents two parallel stairs, one that climbs to the south-east, while the other descends towards the north-west. According to the archaeo-astronomic observations made by Pérez Gutiérrez (2010, 136–40, 180–206), the orientation of the stairs

Fig. 3.7. Rock assemblage of Ulaca, Ávila, Spain (M.J. Correia Santos).

coincides with the winter solstice, during which one of the stairs stays in the shadow, while the other receives the sunlight (Table 3.1). Among the monuments of type A.2, i.e. those with steps and structures in form of seats, only two seem to have this type of arrangement: the so-called Silla de Felipe II (Madrid, Spain) and Cadeirão do Pé do Coelho (Guarda, Portugal). The sanctuary of Silla de Felipe II is located in one of the highest peaks of the Guadarrama mountain, overlooking an important natural passageway that will later be used as a transhumance route (Canto de Gregorio 1999). The only pre-Roman settlement known in the vicinity is La Atalaya Real, c. 4 km from Silla de Felipe II (Jiménez Guijarro 2004, 89). The sanctuary is formed by an assemblage of three carved rocks. The first one is of type A.1.1 with small carvings allowing access to a pair of cup-marks and a natural basin; the other two rocks were placed one in front of the other:

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Table 3.1. Table of relations between the four subtypes of group A (M.J. Correia Santos).

one of type A.1.2, where a well-carved staircase leads to a platform with a cup-mark and a natural basin; and another one, of type A.2, where two staircases give access to another platform where three parallel structures in the form of seats were sculptured, quite similar to the above-mentioned case of Ulaca (Fig. 3.8). A harmony in opposition can be recognised, firstly, in the two rocks placed one in front of the other with stairways that ascend in opposite directions, to the west and the east; and secondly, in the fact that one of the rocks shows three carved seats, while the other one only has cup-marks and a natural basin. The other site of type A.2 in which we can detect this manner of disposition is Cadeirão do Pé do Coelho, associated with Late Iron Age materials (Tente and Lourenço 1999, 778–9). It consists of two rocks, one carved out of a granite out-crop, with a triangular basin, where three steps give access to a carved seat, orientated towards the north; and the other rock, much smaller, located directly in front of the other, which corresponds to a coarse armchair sculpted in a slacken rock, without steps and orientated towards the south, in precisely the opposite direction (Fig. 3.9). Also, among the monuments of type A.3, one can identify this possible harmony of opposition in at least one case: Peñalba de Villastar (Teruel, Spain), perhaps the one site of this category frequented over a longer period of time. It is an impressive rock promontory, almost 2 km long, located next to a multiple river confluence and at the very entrance of the Villel canyon that controls the natural passageway between the Mediterranean and the hinterland. Distributed along the rock promontory, more than 20 inscriptions were identified, as well as rock engravings, steps and rock-cut basins with draining channels (Cabré 1910, 258–80; Marco Simón 1986, 731–59; Beltrán Lloris 1996, 295–306; Beltrán Lloris et al. 2005, 911–56; Alfayé Villa 2009, 96–112; García Quintela and González García 2010, 231–96).

Fig. 3.8. The monument of type A.2 of Silla de Felipe II, Madrid, Spain (M.J. Correia Santos).

The topography of the place itself assumes an orientation north-north-east to south-south-west. It seems clear that the two most important groups of rock-cut basins are located precisely on the opposite sides of the rock promontory: the first one is placed high on the summit and faces south, while the other one is located much lower and faces north. The Latin inscriptions seem to show the same preference (Beltrán Lloris et al. 2005, 945). This arrangement is also reflected in the distribution of the cavities and cup-marks along the ridge of the summit, while the inscriptions and rock engravings are always located along the eastern wall, with only one exception. Regarding typological group B, it is curious that the number of sites in which is possible to recognise an apparent arrangement according to this principle augments from Type B.1 to type B.3 (Table 3.2). An example of type B.1 is Castro de San Martiño (Pontevedra, Spain), a settlement of the Early Iron Age, located on a hill overlooking the surrounding landscape

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(Santos Estévez 2008, 136). Here, among several cup-marks and rock-cut basins, we can identify engraved footprints: one of them, corresponding to a left foot, is situated on a small rock and orientated towards the west, while the other one, carved on the highest rock outcrop and corresponding to a right foot, is orientated towards the east. Another example is El Muro (Salamanca, Spain), associated with Late Bronze Age materials (Benito del Rey and Grande del Brío 2000, 131; 2003, 353) and located on a hill delimited by two streams that converge at its base, precisely where the narrow canyon of the Duero river enlarges quite significantly. The distribution of the rock-cut elements seems to be intentional, articulated according to the east–west axis: on one side, the engravings with circular motives, in the open-air and exposed to the sunset and the river Duero; and on the other side, the engravings with vertical lines, hidden

beneath a natural shelter and orientated towards the rising sun and a mountain ridge. Trevejo is an interesting site of type B.2 (Fig. 3.10). It is located on an impressive peak, surrounded by a slightly lower mountain ridge (Benito del Rey and Grande del Brío 2000, 156–9). It consists of a wide circular basin next to a group of cup-marks that drains its capacity towards the south-east; and on the other side, there is a structure in form of a seat, orientated towards the north-west, to Herraderos, where a Late Bronze Age warrior stela was found in situ (García de Figueirola 1982; Celestino Pérez 2001, 279–80). Another example of type B.2 is Los Tres Tronos (Cuenca, Spain) which is located next to a river confluence and associated with Late Iron Age and Roman finds. The site includes three parallel structures in the form of seats, along with a fourth one slightly apart and several rock-cut basins. An apparently intentional opposition was set regarding these cavities, concentrated only in the southern side of the rock, where two basins with draining channels towards the east and south seem to be opposite the other two, located to the west and north, without draining channels. Regarding type B.3, several of these sites seem to reflect the harmony of oppositions. As an example, we can refer to As Canles (Pontevedra, Spain), intimately related to a large number of Iron Age petroglyphs, whose opposite limits in the north-east and south-west are marked by two small hills with two inscriptions, both with the text divi; in one of them the word begins with an inverted D (García Quintela and González García 2010, 7).

Fig. 3.9. Cadeirão da Quinta do Pé do Coelho, Guarda, Portugal (M.J. Correia Santos).

Fig. 3.10. Rock assemblage of Trevejo, Cáceres, Spain (M.J. Correia Santos).

Table 3.2. Table of relations between the four subtypes of group B (M.J. Correia Santos).

3.  Sacred landscape and rock-cut sanctuaries of the Iberian Peninsula Another good example is Cabeço das Fráguas (Guarda, Portugal; Fig. 3.11), the most important territorial marker of the entire Cova da Beira region with several water sources; there, we find a rock inscription in the Lusitanian language that refers to a sacrificial ceremony comparable to the Roman suovetaurilia (Correia Santos 2007). According to the archaeological excavation (Correia Santos and Schattner 2010), the place was first occupied in the Late Bronze Age, but it was only monumentalised with built structures during the Iron Age, from the fifth century BC onwards, before being abandoned sometime during the first century AD. The rock inscription is located at the centre of the summit facing east, within a precinct whose entrance is located on the western side. Inside this precinct it was also possible to identify two similar round structures within an outer rectangular compartment, as well as a coarse alignment of monoliths, orientated south-east to north-west. The summit of the hill is demarcated by several petroglyphs and once again all the carved rocks are concentrated in only one half of the summit, the northern one. Finally, amidst the several rock engravings there is a little basin with two drainage channels, one orientated towards the east, the other towards the west. Besides their internal disposition, we need to consider the relationship of each of these sites with their surrounding landscape. Rivers or mountains are not always obstacles, but instead landmarks that articulate territories and natural passageways. As Nogué (2007, 377) stressed, ‘our daily geography is full of unknown landscapes and hidden territories’ and ‘when we don’t understand the landscape, we don’t see it’. Let us, then, try to explore this past landscape in more detail. Going back to Galicia, the first site is San Trocato (Ourense), which seems to be part of the same landscape as the above-mentioned Castro de Santa Mariña. San Trocato

Fig. 3.11. The site of Cabeço das Fráguas, Guarda, Portugal (M.J. Correia Santos).

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is a small fortified settlement, occupied during the Late Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age (Chamoso Lamas 1953; Fariña Busto and Xusto Rodríguez 1991). We find five rockcut basins, arranged from the south-east to the north-west. One of them is associated with a rock inscription with three initials: S. A | P. Only the rocks of the western side were carved and, together, they mark a semicircular space from the south-east to the north-west, dividing the summit in two halves (Fig. 3.12). More importantly, San Trocato is not isolated in the landscape: to the east it overlooks the mouth of the Barbantiño river, to the west the mouth of river Avia, to the south the hill fort of Laias and to the north the hill fort of San Cibrán de Las. These visual relations with settlements only seem to relate to the Late Iron Age, which could indicate that San Trocato became a place of memory in this period. In San Cibrán de Las, less than 1 km from San Trocato, four votive inscriptions were found, dedicated to Jupiter, Nabia Abione, Sadu Vladu and Bandua Lansbricae (De Bernardo Stempel and García Quintela 2008). The second inscription, with the text Na|bia || Abi|o|ne (HEp. XIII 2003–4, 489) carved on both sides of the same stela, is very interesting if we take into account the nearby mountain of Faro de Avión, also known as Serra do Suido, that forms a mountain barrier parallel to the river Avia, the principal affluent of river Miño, flowing no more than 2 km to the west. Perhaps it is more than just a coincidence that all the carved rocks, including the one with inscription, were placed on the western side of the hill, facing the river Avia. We could suppose it as a confinium: at least, nowadays, the territories of four ‘parishes’ – Las, Laias, Eiras and Ourantes – converge in San Trocato. The initials SAP unfortunately do not correspond to any of these names and it is quite difficult to unveil their meaning, but one hypothesis could be something like S(acrum) A(bione) | p(osuit; posuerunt), even though it is rather unconventional. A Ferradura and Coto do Castro would be part of this symbolic landscape (García Quintela and Santos Estévez 2008, 536), as well as the hill fort of Santa Mariña and the one of Avión, all of them with rock-cut structures of possible ritual use. We can also identify a possible sacred landscape for the already cited Pico de San Gregorio (Cáceres), together with Las Calderonas and San Cristóbal. All three sites are placed next to natural passageways that were later used as transhumance routes: a pattern documented in many of these rock-cut sanctuaries. In Las Calderonas (Esteban Ortega et al. 2013, 316–17), four stairways provide access to an open channel that flows in opposite directions. At the current stage of research, no archaeological remains close to the monument have been found apart from the Late Bronze Age warrior stela found at El Carneril (Celestino Pérez 2001, 341), but it is striking

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Fig. 3.12. The landscape of San Trocato, Ourense, Spain (M.J. Correia Santos).

that each of the four stairs has a different orientation: the first one is orientated towards San Cristóbal, an important Late Bronze Age settlement (González Cordero and Barroso Bermejo 1996–2003) with several basins of type B.1; the second one faces the Pico de San Gregorio; the third one is orientated towards the natural passageway that is now the Cañada Real de la Plata; and the last one faces the Sierra de las Villuercas, where important Second Iron Age settlements are located (Martín Bravo 1999, 181–3, 189–92). This provides a glimpse of how these places were intertwined in the ancient landscapes, linking human settlements, natural passageways and geographic landmarks, woven together in layers of significance.

Rock-cut sanctuaries: overlooking the places and the landscape The rock-cut sanctuaries follow a very systematic and coherent pattern of location, and some sites that might appear isolated in the landscape are actually well interconnected (Table 3.3). Some of the less accessible places could probably only be reached by those who knew their location, but many others were closely associated with the wider pattern of movement about the territories. We do not know much about land organisation on the pre-Roman Iberian Peninsula, although it surely existed, perhaps similar to other European regions,

as suggested by two petroglyphs from Valcamonica: the so-called maps of Bedolina (Blumer 1964) and Giadighe (Priuli 1985, fig. 25). Still, it seems that the major organisation of these territories occurred during Late Iron Age. The link with watercourses is also well documented. Confluences and crossing places were favourable locations. The delimitation of certain geographic features is equally worthy of attention: usually there is more than one rock-cut structure that marks its limits, such as the examples of the mountain of Santa Cruz, the marsh of Los Barruecos in Cáceres or the valley of As Canles in Ourense. Another aspect that we have seen repeatedly is a seemingly deliberate arrangement according to a harmony of oppositions. This feature can be found in the majority of sites, not only in the internal disposition of the sanctuary, but also through its placement within the surrounding landscape. García Quintela and Seoane-Veiga (2013, 48–9) describe something similar when they speak of an ambiguous architecture, although they refer only to the opposition between natural and artificial structures. Mere binary opposition can be said to describe the world view and those of virtually any religion, of which the Chinese concept of yin and yang is the best known: ‘it is an ineluctable consequence of the way we as a species organize our cognized world’ (Beck 2006, 82).

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3.  Sacred landscape and rock-cut sanctuaries of the Iberian Peninsula Indeed, the majority of sites appear to reveal binary oppositions, but it is quite remarkable that they assume entirely different patterns that go beyond the opposition between natural and artificial. The opposing elements are commonly based on an east-to-west axis (but there are also other axis: north–south, north-east–south-west, south-east–north-west) (Fig. 3.13), in addition to other binary oppositions like natural/artificial, small/large, circular/rectangular, up/down and exposed/hidden. This apparent harmony of oppositions seems to appear more often in sites of types A.2 and B.2, i.e. in the monuments associated with Late Iron Age contexts. There is, however, a clear decrease of such feature from the sites of type A.1 (74%), to type A.2 (50%) and finally to type A.3, with only one site that seems arranged in such manner: Peñalba de Villastar (a site of particular interest since it probably provides us with the oldest chronology). Nevertheless, in group B there is an entirely different trend: the sites arranged according to this supposed harmony of oppositions augments considerably from type B.1 (25%) to type B.2 (50%) and finally to type B.3 (63%). Considering all the sites in this study, the dominant opposition or duality seems to be focused on the east–west axis, followed by the north–south axis. Sanctuaries are designed as microcosms, and if we attempt to read these places in relation to the sun’s daily and annual motion and to the moon’s 28-day rotation, then we can see that most rock-cut structures are aligned according to their movements.

The rock-cut sanctuaries emerge not only as a religious expression of pre-Roman indigenous communities, but also of their territorial behaviour and perception. The need to intervene in the landscape by carving stones in conspicuous locations like mountain gateways and river confluences, marsh lands and open areas gives a glimpse of the ancients’ complex concept of landscape. The mountains, rivers, natural passageways, the land and the people were all, in one word, intertwined. As Basso (1996, 110) wrote, ‘more than an isolated experience, places are sensed together […] thus represented and enacted daily, monthly, annually and their meanings are continually woven into the fabric of social life’.

Table 3.3. Location of the rock-cut sanctuaries regarding human settlements (M.J. Correia Santos). Type

Inside settlements

Max. of 3 km from settlements

‘Isolated’

A.1

34%

41%

25%

A.2

50%

25%

25%

A.3

50%

50%

 

B.1

33%

31%

36%

B.2

50%

33%

17%

B.3

63%

25%

12%

Fig. 3.13. Graphic with the several documented oppositions (M.J. Correia Santos).

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Bibliography Aguilera y Gamboa, E. (1909) El Alto Jalón: descubrimientos arqueológicos. Discurso por el Sr. Don Enrique de Aguilera y Gamboa individuo de número de la Real Academia de la Historia. Leído en la Junta pública del 26 de Diciembre de 1909. Madrid, Establecimiento Tipográfico de Fortanet. Alfayé Villa, S. (2009) Santuarios y Rituales en la Hispania Celtica. Oxford, BAR International Series. Alfayé Villa, S., Díaz Arino, B., Rodríguez Álvarez, P. and Gonzalo, A. (2001–2) Actuación arqueológica en la piedra de sacrificios humanos, Monreal de Ariza (Zaragoza). Kalathos 20–1, 251–9. Almagro Gorbea, M. and Jiménez Ávila, J. (2000) Un altar rupestre en el prado de Lácara (Mérida). Apuntes para la creación de un parque arqueológico. El Megalitismo en Extremadura. Homenaje a Elías Diéguez Luengo. Extremadura Arqueológica 8, 423–42. Álvarez-Sanchís, J.R. (1999) Los Vettones. Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 1. Madrid, Gabinete de Antigüedades de la Real Academia de la Historia. Angás Pajas, J. (2005) Santuarios como indicadores de frontera en el territorio noroccidental de Vulci (siglos VII–III a.C. Itália Centro-Tirrénica). Saldvie 5, 65–94. Arcà, A. (2004) The topographic engravings of Alpine rockart: fields, settlements and agricultural landscapes. In C. Chippindale and G. Nash (eds) Pictures in Place: The Figured Landscapes of Rock-Art, 318–49. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Arcà, A. (2010) Le rocce a coppelle della collina morenica di Rivoli. Sentinelle di pietra: i massi erratici dell’anfiteatro morenico di Rivoli-Avigliana. Catalogo della mostra. Torino, Museo regionale di scienze naturali. Barandela Rivero, I., Castro, L., Lorenzo Rodríguez, J.M. and Otero, R. (2005) Notas sobre los santuarios rupestres de la Gallaecia. Minius 13. Revista do Departamento de Historia, Arte e Xeografía 47–68. Basso, K.H. (1996) Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache. Albuquerque, University of New Mexico Press. Beck, R. (2006) The Religion of the Mithras Cult in the Roman Empire. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Beltrán Lloris, F. (1996) La epigrafía de Teruel. A propósito de un nuevo corpus provincia. Archivo Español de Arqueología 69, 295–306. Beltrán Lloris, F., Jordán Cólera, C. and Marco Simón, F. (2005) Novedades epigráficas en Peñalba de Villastar (Teruel). In F. Beltrán and C. Jordán (eds) Acta Palaeohispanica IX, Actas del IX Coloquio sobre Lenguas y Culturas Paleohispanicas. Palaeohispanica 5, 911–56. Zaragoza, Institución Fernando el Católico-Diputación de Zaragoza. Benito del Rey, L. and Grande del Brío, R. (1992) Santuarios Rupestres Prehistóricos en las Provincias de Zamora y Salamanca. Zamora-Salamanca, Iberdrola. Benito del Rey, L. and Grande del Brío, R. (1994) Nuevos santuarios rupestres prehistóricos en las provincias de Zamora y Salamanca. Zephyrus 47, 113–31. Benito del Rey, L. and Grande del Brío, R. (2000) Santuarios rupestres prehistóricos en el Centro-oeste de España. Salamanca, Gráficas Cervantes, S.A.

Benito del Rey, L., Bernardo, H.A. and Sánchez Rodríguez, M. (2003) Santuarios Rupestres Prehistóricos de Miranda do Douro (Portugal) y de su entorno de Zamora y Salamanca (España), I. Miranda do Douro-Salamanca, Câmara Municipal de Miranda do Douro. Blumer, W. (1964) The oldest known plan of an inhabited site dating from the Bronze Age, about the middle of the second millennium BC. Imago Mundi 18, 9–11. Bonsor, G. (1899) Les colonies agricoles pré-romaines de la Vallée du Betis. Revue Archéologique 25, 292–7. Bradley, R. (2000) An Archaeology of Natural Places. London, Routledge. Cabré Aguiló, J. (1910) La montaña escrita de Peñalba. Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia 56, 241–80. Canto de Gregorio, A.M. (1999) La Silla de Felipe II en El Escorial: un mito que se renueva. Canto Blanco. Revista de Noticias de la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid 7, 9. Celestino Pérez, S. (2001) Estelas de Guerrero y Estelas Diademadas. La precolonización y formación del mundo tartésico. Barcelona, Edicións Bellaterra. Cerrillo Cuenca, E., Prada Gallardo, A., González Cordero, A. and Heras Mora, F.J. (2002) Noticiario de la secuencia cultural de las primeras sociedades productores en Extremadura: una datación absoluta del yacimiento de Los Barruecos (Malpartida de Cáceres, Cáceres). Trabajos de Prehistoria 59(2), 101–11. Chamoso Lamas, M. (1953) El castro de San Torcuato (Orense). Cuadernos de Estudios Gallegos 8, 295–7. Correia Santos, M.J. (2010a) Inscripciones rupestres y espacios sagrados del norte de Portugal: nuevos datos y contextualización. Los casos de Pena Escrita, Mogueira y Pias dos Mouros. In J.A. Arenas-Estéban (ed.) Celtic Religion Across Space and Time. IX Workshop F.E.R.C.AN (Fontes Epigraphici Religionvm Celticarvm Antiquarvm), 180–99. Madrid: Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha. Correia Santos, M.J. (2010b) O Cabeço das Fráguas e a concepção de espaço sagrado na Hispania Indo-europeia. In M.J. Correia Santos and T.G. Schattner (eds) Actas da Jornada Porcom, Oilam, Taurom. Cabeço das Fráguas: o santuário no seu contexto (Guarda, 23 de Abril). Iberografias: Revista de Estudos Ibéricos 6, 131–48. Correia Santos, M.J. (2010c) Santuários rupestres no Ocidente da Hispania indo-europeia. Ensaio de tipologia e classificação. Paleohispanica 10, 147–72. Correia Santos, M.J. (2012) La arqueologia, lo imaginário y lo real: el santuário rupestre de Mogueira (São Martinho de Mouros, Resende, Portugal). Madrider Mitteilungen 53, 455–96. Correia Santos, M.J. (2013) A Rocha da Mina e as Terras de Endovélico: conceito ou preconceito de paisagem sagrada? In A.P. Fitas (ed.) Cadernos do Endovélico 1, 143–8. Lisbon, Edições Colibri. Correia Santos, M.J. (2014) El santuario rupestre del Pico de San Gregorio, Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Cáceres. Paleohispanica 14, 89–128. Zaragoza, Institución Fernando el Católico. Correia Santos, M.J. (2015) Santuarios Rupestres de la Hispania Indoeuropea. Tesis Doctoral en Ciencias de la Antiguedad, Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidade de Zaragoza. Available at http://zaguan.unizar.es/record/31628/files/TESIS2015-069.pdf.

3.  Sacred landscape and rock-cut sanctuaries of the Iberian Peninsula Correia Santos, M.J. (2017) Silla de reyes o tronos de dioses? Cuestiones metodológicas en torno a los santuarios rupestres. In M. Almagro-Gorbea and A. Gari Lacruz (eds) Saxa Sacra, Creencias y Ritos en Peñas Sagradas, Actas del Coloquio Internacional (Huesca, 27–29 Noviembre 2016), 113–50. Huesca, Instituto de Estudios Altoaragoneses & Gabinete de Antiguedades de la Real Academia de la Historia. Costa, A. (1973) O Castelo do Mau Vizinho. Trabalhos de Antropologia e Etnologia 22–3, 345–51. Costa, J. (1917) La religión de los Celtiberos y su organización politica y social. Madrid, Establecimiento Tipográfico de Fortanet. De Bernardo Stempel, P. and García Quintela, M.V. (2008) Población trilingüe y divinidades del Castro de Lansóriga (NO de España). Madrider Mitteilungen 49, 255–91. Di Silvio, P. (2011) C’è una piramide nel bosco. Archeo 314, 90–6. Domínguez de la Concha, C. and Enriquez Navascués, J.J. (1991) Restos de una necrópolis orientalizante en la desembocadura del río Aljucén (Mérida, Badajoz). Saguntum 24, 35–52. Edmonds, M. and Seaborne, T. (2001) Prehistory in the Peak. Strout, Tempus. Enriquez Navascués, J.J. (1991) Los restos de la necrópolis de la desembocadura del río Aljucén dentro del contexto orientalizante extremeño. I Jornadas de Prehistoria y Arqueología en Extremadura (1986–1990). Extremadura Arqueológica 2, 175–84. Enriquez Navascués, J.J. (1997) La Mérida prerromana y el poblamiento pre y protohistórico de su comarca. Mérida. Ciudad y patrimonio: Revista de arqueología, arte y urbanismo 1, 29–44. Estebán Ortega, J., Ramos Rubio, J.A. and San Macario Sánchez, O. (2013) El altar rupestre de La Molineta (Trujillo) y su entorno arqueológico. Boletín de la Real Academia de Extremadura de las Letras y las Artes 21, 307–20. Estebán Ortega, J., Ramos Rubio, J.A. and San Macario Sánchez, O. (2014) El complejo arqueológico de San Juan el Alto (Santa Cruz de la Sierra-Cáceres). Santuarios rupestres. Alcántara 79, 11–28. Fabián García, J.F. (2010) Altares rupestres, peñas sacras y rocas con cazoletas. Ocho nuevos casos abulenses y uno salmantino para la estadística, el debate y la reflexión. Madrider Mitteilungen 51, 222–67. Fairclough, G. (2008) The long chain: archaeology, historical landscape characterization and time depth in landscape. In G. Fairclough, R. Harrison, J.H. Jameson Jr and J. Schofield (eds) The Heritage Reader, 408–24. London, Routledge. Fariña Busto, F. and Xusto Rodríguez, M. (1991) Coto de San Trocado (San Amaro-Punxín, Ourense). Arqueoloxía-Informes 2, 209–14. Fol, V. (2008) The rock as a topos of faith. The interactive zone of the rock-cut monuments – from Urartu to Thrace. In R.I. Kostov, B. Gaydarska and M. Gurova (eds) Geoarchaeology and Archaeomineralogy, Proceedings of the International Conference, 153–62. Sofia, Publishing House ‘St. Ivan Rilski’. García de Figuerola Paniagua, M. (1982) Nueva estela decorada del tipo II en San Martín de Trevejo (Cáceres). Zephyrus 34–5, 173–80.

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García Quintela, M.V. and Santos Estévez, M. (2008) Santuarios de la Galicia Céltica. Arqueología del Paisaje y Religiones Comparadas en la Edad del Hierro. Madrid, Abada Editores. García Quintela, M.V. and Seoane Veiga, Y. (2011) La larga vida de dos rocas ourensanas. Archivo Español de Arqueología 84, 243–66. García Quintela, M.V. and Seoane Veiga, Y. (2013) Entre naturaleza y cultura: arquitectura ambigua en la Edad del Hierro del NO peninsular. Gallaecia 32, 47–86. García Quintela, M.V. and González García, A.C. (2010) Campo Lameiro y Peñalba de Villastar: Miradas cruzadas sobre lugares de culto prerromanos peninsulares y su romanización. In F. Burillo Mozota (ed.) VI Simposio sobre los Celtíberos: Ritos y Mitos (Daroca, 27–29 de noviembre de 2008), 113–21. Daroca, Centro de Estudios Celtibéricos. Gillette, D.L., Greer, M., Hayward, M.H. and Murray, W.B. (2014) Rock Art and Sacred Landscapes. New York, Heidelberg, Springer Science & Business Media. González Cordero, A. (1999) Datos para la contextualización del Arte rupestre esquemático en la Alta Extremadura. Zephyrus 70, 191–220. González Cordero, A. and Barroso Bermejo, R. (1996–2003) El papel de las cazoletas y los cruciformes en la delimitación del espacio. Grabados y materiales del yacimiento de San Cristóbal (Valdemorales-Zarza de Montánchez, Cáceres). Norba. Revista de arte, geografía e historia 16, 75–121. Hartley, L.P. (1956) The Go-Between. London, Hamilton. Ingold, T. (2000) The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London, Routledge. Jiménez Ávila, J. (2005) El Territorio Emeritense en época protohistórica. Antecedentes prerromanos de Augusta Emerita. In T. Nogales (ed.) Augusta Emerita. Territorios, Espacios Imágenes y Gentes en Lusitania Romana, Monografías Emeritenses 8, 41–66. Mérida. Jiménez Guijarro, J. (2000) Las Peñas Sacras como imago mundi del ‘centro cósmico’ en el mundo indoeuropeo y céltico. Trabalhos de Antropologia e Etnologia 40(3–4), 101–16. Jiménez Guijarro, J. (2004) Los epígrafes regios del Canto Castrejón (El Escorial, Madrid) y la leyenda laurentina de la Silla de Felipe II. Estudios de Prehistoria y Arqueología Madrileñas 13, 87–107. Lemos, F.S. and Martins, C.M.B. (2010) Cap. 6. Povoamento e rede viária no território de influência de Aquae Flaviae. In C.M.B. Martins (ed.) Mineração e povoamento na Antiguidade no Alto Trás-os-Montes Ocidental, 79–106. Porto, Edições Afrontamento e Rainho & Neves Lda. Louradour, A. (1964) La Pierre aux neuf gradins de Soubrebost. Mémoires de la Société des Sciences Naturelles, Archéologiques et Historiques de la Creuse 35, 467–75. Maciel, M.J. (2004) Imagens de arquitecturas: Quadrata, Lacus e Laciculi nos santuários rupestres do período romano em Portugal. Revista de Historia de Arte 3, 25–39. Mantas, V.G. (1984) A inscrição rupestre da estação luso-romana de Mogueira (Resende). Revista de Guimarães 44, 361–70. Marangou, C. (2009) Carved rocks, functional and symbolic (Lemnos island, Greece). In D. Seglie, M. Otte, L. Oosterbeek and L. Remacle (eds) Prehistoric Art: Signs, Symbols, Myth, Ideology. XVth World Congress of the IUPPS, 93–101. Oxford, BAR.

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Marco Simón, F. (1986) El dios céltico Lug y el santuario de Peñalba de Villastar. In Estudios en homenaje al Dr. Antonio Beltrán Martínez, 731–60. Zaragoza, Universidad de Zaragoza. Marco Simón, F. (1993) La individuación del espacio sagrado: testimonios cultuales en el Noroeste hispánico. In M. Mayer and J. Gómez Pallarés (eds) Religio Deorum, Actas del coloquio internacional de epigrafía: Culto y sociedad en Occidente, 317–24. Sabadell, Editorial Ausa. Marco Simón, F. (1996) Romanización y aculturación religiosa: los santuarios rurales. In S. Reboreda Morillo and P. López Barja (eds) A Cidade e o Mundo: Romanización e cambio social 1, 83–100. Xinzo de Limia. Marco Simón, F. (1997) El paisaje sagrado en la España indoeuropea. In J.M. Blázquez and R. Ramos (eds) Religión y magia en la Antigüedad, 147–65. Valencia, Generalitat Valenciana. Marques, J.A.M. (1987) Espigão de capacete do Castro da Mogueira (São Martinho de Mouros, Resende). Revista da Faculdade de Letras, Porto XCIV, 287–9. Martín Bravo, A.M. (1999) Los Orígenes de Lusitania, El I milenio a.C. en la Alta Extremadura. Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia. Mélida y Alinari, J.R. (1914–1916) Catalogo Monumental y Artístico de España. Provincia de Cáceres I. Madrid, Ministerio de Instrucción Pública y Bellas Artes. Available at http://biblioteca.cchs.csic.es/digitalizacion_tnt/ (accessed 21/02/2013). Menichelli, S. (2013) La Piramide Etrusca. Un altare rupestre nel comune di Bomarzo, Architettura sacra nell’Etruria rupestre: il caso degli altari. I Quaderni di Tages 31, 3–12. Ortega, J.A., Estebán Ortega, J. and San Macario Sánchez, O. (2014) El complejo arqueológico de San Juan el Alto (Santa Cruz de la Sierra-Cáceres). Santuarios rupestres. Alcántara 79, 11–28. Peña Cervantes, Y. (2010) Torcularia. La producción de vino y aceite en Hispania. Tarragona, Instituto Catalán de Arqueología Clásica. Pérez Gutiérrez, M. (2010) Astronomía en los castros celtas de la provincia de Ávila. Diputación Provincial de Ávila – Institución Gran Duque de Alba. Ávila. Pessoa, M. and Ponte, S. (1987) Contributo da Mogueira (Resende) para o estudo comparativo dos santuários rupestres. Lucerna 2, 263–71. Priuli, A. (1985) Incisioni rupestri della Val Camonica. Ivrea, Torino.

Proietti, L. (2010) La Piramide di Bomarzo: cifre, dati quantitativi ed ipotesi interpretative. Archeotuscia News 2, 36–8. Raduncheva, A. (2008) Prehistoric rock sanctuaries in the eastern Rhodopes and some other mountain regions in Bulgaria. In R.I. Kostov, B. Gaydarska and M. Gurova (eds) Geoarchaeology and Archaeomineralogy Proceedings of the International Conference, 180–4. Sofia, Publishing House ‘St. Ivan Rilski’. Rodríguez Colmenero, A. (1995–2007) Espacio sagrado e interpretatio romana en los santuarios rupestres. In J. Cardim Ribeiro (ed.) Actas do II Coloquio Internacional de Epigrafia ‘Culto e Sociedde’. Sintria 3–4, 457–500. Sintra, Museu Arqueológico de São Miguel de Odrinhas. Sabourin, J. (2003) La pierre aux neuf gradins (commune de Soubrebost). Mémoires de la Société des Sciences Naturelles, Archéologiques et Historiques de la Creuse 49, 65–72. Santos Estévez, J.M. (2008) Petroglifos y paisaje social en la Prehistoria reciente del Noroeste de la Península Ibérica. Trabalhos de Arqueoloxia e Patrimonio 38. Santiago de Compostela, Laboratório de Arqueoloxia do Instituto de Estudos Galegos Padre Sarmento. Santos Júnior, J.R., Freitas, A.M. and Costa, A. (1982) Campanha de trabalhos, Castelo do Mau Vizinho, Cimo de Vila da Castanheira, Chaves. Trabalhos de Antropologia e Etnologia 24(2), 293–320. Santos Júnior, J.R., Freitas, A.M., Costa, A. and Júnior, N. dos S. (1989) O Santuário do Castelo do Mau Vizinho. Revista de Guimarães 49, 375–81. Sauceda Pizarro, M.I. (2001) Pinturas y grabados rupestres esquemáticos del Monumento Natural de Los Barruecos, Malpartida de Cáceres. Memorias 2. Mérida, Publicaciones del Museo de Cáceres. Tente, C. and Lourenço, S. (2000) O Cadeirão da quinta do Pé do Coelho e o Penedo dos Mouros: primeira interpretação como santuários rupestres. In Actas do Congresso de Proto-história Europeia 2, 775–92. Guimarães, Revista de Guimarães, Sociedade Martins Sarmento. Torres Ortiz, M. (1999) Sociedad y mundo funerario en Tartessos. Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia. Vaudagna, A. (2011) Ricerca archeologica nelle Alpi Biellesi (Piemonte). Progetto Alte Valli – Relazione preliminare. Biella, Centro Studi Biellesi. Vaz, J.L.I. (2002) Tipologia dos santuários rupestres de tradição paleohispânica em território português. In J. Cardim Ribeiro (ed.) Loquuntur Saxa, Religiões da Lusitânia, 39–42. Lisbon, Museu Nacional de Arqueologia.

4 The transformation of cult places during the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east (third–first century BC) Leticia López-Mondéjar

Introduction Beyond their importance in the development of cults and rituals, sacred spaces were essential points in the Late Iron Age landscapes of the Iberian Peninsula from the fourth century BC. Some aspects, such as their development, their position in the landscape or their links with the main sites of these territories, show them either as points that politically legitimised the territorial control of the elites and the main fortified sites (‘oppida’), or as places of social and ideological aggregation for the community (López-Mondéjar 2014). Rome soon noticed this crucial role, especially at a territorial and socio-political level, and cult places became strategic elements during the Roman expansion in this area. As a consequence, they constitute key sites to approach the processes that defined the integration of the Iberian communities in the Roman orbit from the end of the third to the first century BC. The Iberian south-east and the territories corresponding to the current region of Murcia (Spain) (Fig. 4.1) constitute a very interesting area in which to explore those aspects. Not only were some of the most important peninsular Iron Age sites, and particularly sanctuaries, located here, but some of them also had very interesting developments from the third century BC. Moreover, this was a very dynamic area, in continuous contact with the Mediterranean world, and the Roman city of Cartagena was located here, which meant a continuous Roman presence in the coastal area from the end of the third century BC and consequently a growth in the political and economic influence of Rome over all the surrounding area. All these aspects define this territory as an ideal area of study in order to analyse the transformations related to the Roman expansion in the Iberian Peninsula and provide us with a good deal of information with which to address many of the issues concerning the

transformations undergone by Iberian cult places during the indicated period. Unfortunately, despite the fact that the research developed in other Mediterranean areas has shown how necessary it is to explore cult places within their historical context (Polignac 1984; Alcock and Osborne 1994; Tagliamonte 2004; Stek 2009), regional studies have always focused on the archaeological record and structures of these sites, paying scarce attention to their role within the landscape and to the socio-political dynamics of this period. Taking into account that scenario, this paper aims to explore the role and the development of cult places in the Iberian south-east from the third to the first century BC and to analyse them for the first time within both the strategies of territorial control and integration followed by Rome, and the changes undergone by the native communities. Besides understanding these sites as mirrors of the transformations taking place at these periods in the Iberian south-east, I will approach them as active tools and agents in those processes of change. I shall attempt to offer a new way of looking at the cult places of this area, exploring that double role and approaching for the first time some aspects which have been traditionally ignored by the studies focused on this territory. Hence, it is hoped that this perspective provides interesting data for reflection on the Roman expansion process in this area and a more complete picture of Iberian cult places, shedding new light on the transformations experienced by them and their connection with the complex historical and socio-political context of these centuries. In order to investigate these aspects, two case studies, both located in the current Murcia region, are presented here from a comparative view: the sanctuaries of La Luz and La Encarnación (Fig. 4.1). Both constitute prime ­examples

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Fig. 4.1. Study area in the Iberian south-east with the location of the main sites and the two case studies (A. La Luz area; B. La Encarnación area).

since they were monumentalised during the indicated period. However, whereas the former followed Hellenistic patterns (Lillo 1995–6), the latter was monumentalised along Roman lines (Ramallo 1991).

The context: the Iberian south-east at the end of the third century BC The emergence and development of cult places in the Iberian south-east date back to the fourth century BC, a moment defined by significant social, territorial and ideological transformations (López-Mondéjar 2014, 5). This is the case of La Encarnación and other regional cult places, such as El Cigarralejo and Coimbra del Barranco Ancho. Others with a previous occupation, among them La Luz, experienced a new development in this century (Lillo 1991–2, 111; Fig. 4.1). However, beyond those sanctuaries, what was the scenario found by Rome upon its arrival at these territories at the end

of the third century BC? It is worth providing some background information on the situation in the area prior to the Roman conquest by paying attention to the landscape that defined the Late Iron Age in the study area, the so-called ‘Iberian period’. The term ‘Iberians’ designates those peoples who inhabited the southern area and the coast of Iberia from the Pyrenees to Andalusia during the Late Iron Age and before the Roman arrival. This wide territory led to the existence of clear particularities in every Iberian area, which were expressed not only through the material culture or the settlement patterns of those communities, but also through their different responses to contact with other Mediterranean cultures and particularly with the Roman world (Keay 2013). The Iberian south-east and in particular the two areas of study constitute singular territories in this period due to their economic and cultural dynamism and their closeness

4.  The transformation of cult places during the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east to the Punic capital in the Iberian Peninsula, the city of Qart Hadash (modern Cartagena), on the Mediterranean coast (Fig. 4.1). Those cultural contacts boosted the native communities of the territories that adapted and integrated the most different Mediterranean traditions. All these previous influences would play a decisive role during the Roman conquest and would be essential to the consolidation of the new Roman organisation and the adoption of the Roman cultural forms. Beyond those influences, a close look at the Iberian south-east during the Late Iron Age shows a hierarchised landscape. The period between the fourth and third centuries BC was characterised by the consolidation of both the major centres of the Iberian south-east and their political territories. A small number of fortified oppida occupied strategic positions along the main rivers and functioned as landmarks in the landscape, being also residences of the local elites (Fig. 4.1; López-Mondéjar 2012). In the surrounding area of those oppida, new secondary settlements emerged in the lowlands. According to their location and material record, most of them can be related to farming activities and they would have been dependent on the oppida, especially at a defensive level since they do not show any kind of defences (López-Mondéjar 2012). At the same time, adjacent cult places were established next to those main centres (Fig. 4.1). They determined symbolically the oppida’s territorial domain in the landscape and politically legitimised the elites’ territorial control (Ruiz and Molinos 2007; López-Mondéjar 2014). This is the context in which our two case studies, La Luz and La Encarnación, should be understood. Similar to other cult places, they were linked with major oppida and situated at strategic locations, controlling the main natural axis of communication (Fig. 4.2). Moreover, both developed a key role at different levels during the Late Iron Age. Firstly, they functioned as territorial markers within the political territory controlled by their adjacent oppida. Secondly, they became ideal spaces in which to enhance the social position and prestige of the elites. Finally, they represented spaces of aggregation and identity for the entire community. All these become essential in order to explain the transformation and monumentalisation of these sites from the end of the third century BC onwards. Scipio’s arrival in Iberia in 211 BC and the conquest of the Punic capital, Qart Hadash, in 209 BC was an important turning point in a scenario that resulted in increased contacts with the Roman world, noticeable through the material record documented in the sites of this period. Although the direct control and exploitation of these peninsular territories was not yet a priority for Rome, its stable presence in Qart Hadash, from what was then Carthago Nova, meant the beginning of Roman interventionism in this area which can be traced to the creation of two provinces in 197 BC. From this moment, the first transformations became visible in the

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Fig. 4.2. Visual control of the two case studies in the Quípar and the Segura valleys.

indigenous landscape (López-Mondéjar 2010). Therefore, from the end of the third century BC and during the next century, certain sanctuaries, such as Coimbra del Barranco Ancho and El Cigarralejo, were abandoned (Fig. 4.1), while other cult places experienced a significant new development marked by the introduction of new elements and models in the previously native sanctuaries. It is precisely to this period that the transformation of the two case studies can be dated.

The sanctuary of La Encarnación (Caravaca, Murcia) The first case study is La Encarnación, located in Caravaca de la Cruz (Murcia). It is integrated in the archaeological and historical area of El Estrecho de Las Cuevas, occupied from prehistoric times as it is a crossing point in the natural route between the Iberian Levant and Andalusia through the Segura and Quípar valleys (Figs 4.2 and 4.3). Moreover, different traditional transhumance paths also run through

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this area. The cult place is located in a forest and natural environment, widely visible from the valley and which, even nowadays, has a sacred and special character. In fact, a hermitage was erected here in the sixteenth century and a pilgrimage is still celebrated once a year from the nearby village of La Encarnación. The indigenous sanctuary, located beyond the oppida limits, had a suburban character. It was linked with the fortified site of Los Villaricos which has been identified with the later municipium of Asso, mentioned by Ptolemy and cited in one of the inscriptions found in the area (Brotóns 2007, 315; CIL II 5941). The origins of this cult place can be dated to the fourth century BC (Brotóns 2007, 315–16), though the remains of this first phase are very scarce. Although no structures dated to the fourth and third centuries BC were found, fieldworks carried out during the 1990s revealed the presence of circular holes carved in the rock, which may suggest a building made of perishable materials (Ramallo 1991, 50). In addition, remains of milk and honey were documented, probably related to libation rituals (Brotóns 2007, 325; Ramallo and Brotóns 1997, 261), a very common ritual in

Fig. 4.3. Aerial view of El Estrecho de las Cuevas with the location of the sanctuary of La Encarnación (A) and the oppidum of Los Villaricos (B).

the Mediterranean and also documented in other Iberian sanctuaries during the Late Iron Age (Rudhart 1958; Lillo 1995–6; Izquierdo 2003, 126–8; González-Alcalde 2009). The archaeological record of this first phase offers a wide variety of artefacts, including Greek imports, votive offerings realised in metal, stone figurines of warriors, miniature weapons, terracotta figurines and indigenous pottery (Fig. 4.4; Ruano and San Nicolás 1993). The presence of certain specific types of pottery can also be linked with libation rituals. Along with its strategic location and its topographical link with the oppidum, all those materials reveal the cult place’s important role for the community and also for the elite during the centuries prior to Rome’s arrival. In this respect, the presence of some figurines, such as horses, warriors and miniature weapons, can be related to the Iberian aristocracies since they were key symbols within their ideology during this period (Moneo and Almagro 1998, 95–6; Brunaux 2002). There are also other elements that point to the participation of the indigenous elites in this cult place, such as the richness of some of the votive offerings. In particular, almost a hundred fragments of gold and silver votive pieces were discovered under the successive floors of one of the later Roman buildings (temple B; Brotóns and Ramallo 2010). Among them, there is a carved representation on a small silver plaque of an individual whose dress and features identify him as someone who played a priestly role in the cult place, usually a position held by members of the aristocratic group in Iron Age Iberian communities (Fig. 4.4; Chapa and Madrigal 1997). These clear links between the local elites and the ceremonies developed in the site, along with the volume of its archaeological record and its parallels with other sanctuaries of the Iberian south-east, lead us to define this cult place as a key point in the indigenous landscape of the Quípar valley from the fourth century BC and to explain its later development. From the beginning of the second century and during the first century BC, once Rome had consolidated its presence in the Iberian south-east, the native cult place was transformed into a monumentalised sacred complex. The archaeological research has revealed that the entire area was remodelled on Italic patterns and two temples were constructed whose decorations were directly imported from Roman workshops in Latium, based on stylistic parallels and the results from mineralogical analyses (Ramallo and Arana 1993). A first building, the so-called Temple A, was a temple in antis, probably a treasury. It shows clear parallels with many temples documented in the Italian Peninsula during this period, including that of Portunus located in Rome’s Forum Boarium (Ramallo 1991, 52). The second edifice, Temple B, was larger and more monumental. It also followed Italic patterns, being subsequently remodelled in various stages. The first phase dates back to the beginning of the second century BC and corresponds

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Fig. 4.4. Archaeological record of the sanctuary of La Encarnación: a. Stone figurines of warriors (after Ruano and San Nicolás 1993); b. Silver miniature brooch (fourth–second centuries BC) (after Brotóns and Ramallo 2010, figs 17, 91); c. Engraved silver plaque (after Brotóns and Ramallo 2010, figs 17, 92).

Fig. 4.5. Decorations of the temples of La Encarnación (after Ramallo and Arana 1993, figs 6, 8, 10–11): a. Proposal for the location of the antefixes and plaques; b. Antefixes with satyrs’ head from the sanctuary; c. Plaque of La Encarnación (above) and main parallels found at Pyrgi (1), Lo Scasato (Civita Castellana) (2, 4), Ardea (3) and Cosa (5, 6).

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Fig. 4.6. Plan of the sanctuary of La Encarnación at the end of the first century BC with the two Roman temples (after Pozo, Robles and Navarro 2006, fig. 1).

to an Etrusco-Italic temple whose decoration was imported from Italic workshops. Studies have revealed the similarity of its revetment plaques with those known from many cities in the Etruscan area (Fig. 4.5; Ramallo and Arana 1993, 79–83). Also, the fragments of antefixes found in the area of the sanctuary, representing satyrs’ and maenads’ heads framed by vine leaves, share the same characteristics as those from Rome and central Italy during the third and second centuries BC (Fig. 4.5; Ramallo and Arana 1993, 90). In the next phase, between the end of the second century and the beginning of the first century BC, the building was remodelled and entirely built in stone, presenting now a pronaos and a portico in antis. During the last phase, in the first century BC, it became an octostyle pseudoperipteral temple whose archaeological evidence indicates continuous use during the next centuries of the Roman Empire (Fig. 4.6; Ramallo 1991, 52–3). As a result of those changes, the indigenous appearance of this cult place changed completely, and, along with it, the sacred landscape of this inland territory. The sanctuary’s strategic location made the new Roman buildings visible to all the inhabitants of the valley, inserting them in a new ‘hybrid’ landscape defined from now by both native and Roman traditions. Considering all these transformations, some questions arise. Firstly, what was the broader scenario in which those changes took place? Secondly, why did Rome decide to intervene in this inland area of the Iberian south-east, and why do it in this way? And, finally, why did Rome intervene in a cult place, and in particular in La Encarnación, instead of choosing any other site or a major settlement? Regarding the first two questions, it is essential to understand the situation of Rome at the beginning of the second

century BC. The analysis of the ancient texts of this period has focused on Cato’s campaigns in Iberia, revealing that the Roman contingents were not always numerous enough to face the alliances of indigenous peoples and to deal with the logistics of the Roman conquest during the initial years of the second century BC (Martínez 1992, 175). Within this context, the changes undergone by this sanctuary should be explained in connection with Rome’s interest to assure the status quo in the area. However, how would have Romans done that? Considering the indicated scenario and the fact that the direct domination and exploitation of these territories, distant from the coastal area and from Carthago Nova, was not yet a priority for Rome, the Romans should have looked initially for alliances with the local elites. Thus, they were interested in maintaining the previous territorial structure, assuring the continuity of the situation in this area and avoiding possible indigenous rebellions. Since the support of the Iberian aristocracies was a key factor for that stability, Rome looked to strengthen their control over the territory. Therefore, the main oppida seem to have kept their role in the articulation and organisation of these regional territories and no destructions have been documented in this area as a direct consequence of the Roman settlement in Cartagena at the end of the third century BC. In relation to the last question, the aforementioned role of cult places of the Iberian south-east from the fourth century BC, their strategic locations and their links with the elites and the oppida become the main aspects to be taken in consideration. All these issues show La Encarnación as an ideal space for the Roman interests in these inland territories and allow us to understand why Rome focused on this cult place for its initial intervention in the area. Moreover, despite the fact that it was monumentalised with the support of the local elites, it is clear that the new sanctuary was ultimately a symbol of the presence of a new authority beyond the native elites. The temples, their iconography and the ideology linked with them were new for the native communities and were expressions of Rome, who had two main objectives by monumentalising this site. Firstly, the role of this sanctuary as a key territorial marker was also reinforced within the new historical context. Not only did this confirm the power of the local elite through its alliance with the new Roman power, but it also assured Rome an indirect control over these territories. Thus, it avoided possible conflicts in the region during these initial years of the second century BC, while Rome was involved in diverse military campaigns in other areas (Martínez 1992). Secondly, even though the cult place continued to be used by local communities, since there is no evidence to suggest the presence of Roman people in the area during this period, the new Italic patterns of the sacred complex should have contributed to the spreading and the progressive adoption of the Roman ideology by the Iberian society (Millett 1995, 98; Vermeulen 1995). In this context, it is easy to understand

4.  The transformation of cult places during the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east Rome’s interest in bringing architectural terracottas from Italy and using them as part of the new buildings erected at La Encarnación. It is precisely in Rome, centre of that new ideology, and particularly in the Palatino and in the Temples B and C of Largo Argentina, where the clearest parallels of the antefixes of La Encarnación have been documented (Ramallo and Arana 1993, 91). Regarding the local elites, they also took advantage of these changes since they kept their control over those territories (Keay 1995, 38). At the beginning of the second century BC, while Romans were immersed in diverse military campaigns, the support of the local aristocracies was of vital importance for Rome, and it knew how to attract them into its orbit. The monumentalisation of the cult place meant the strengthening and confirmation of La Encarnación as a key site in the landscape of the valley and it indirectly reinforced the power and the importance of the adjacent oppidum of Los Villaricos, which continued to be occupied over the following centuries and is attested as municipium during Hadrian’s reign (AD

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117–138; Brotóns 2007, 315). From this perspective, both temples should be read, ultimately, as symbols of the alliance between Rome and the local elites who would have offered Rome their loyalty, in return for keeping their control over the territory and their privileges during the first period of the Roman presence in the area (third to second centuries BC).

The Iberian sanctuary of Nuestra Señora de La Luz (Verdolay, Murcia) Our second case study, the sanctuary of La Luz, is part of the Verdolay archaeological complex that also comprises the oppidum of Santa Catalina del Monte and the necropolis of Cabecico del Tesoro. The site has been known since the early twentieth century due to incidental findings. Since then, the sacred area has been systematically excavated and its archaeological record has been published in numerous studies, especially during the 1980s and 1990s (a compilation of those works can be found in García et al. 2007).

Fig. 4.7. Location of the sanctuary of La Luz (1) and the oppidum of Santa Catalina del Monte (2) in the area of Verdolay (Murcia).

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Fig. 4.8. Plans and views of the sanctuary of La Luz: a. Plan of the sanctuary with the location of the two different sectors (after Lillo 2002, 208, fig. 5); b. Aerial view of Salent Hill with the current remains of the sanctuary; c. Floor plan and elevation of the temple (after Lillo 1995–1996, 103); d. West view of Salent Hill with the temple on the top (after Lillo 1995–6, 103).

As seen in the case of La Encarnación, the location of La Luz and its role within the landscape of the Late Iron Age are crucial factors to be considered in order to understand its development from the end of the third century BC. The cult place, together with the necropolis and oppidum, are located on the slope of the Carrascoy mountains, occupying a strategic position within the Iberian south-east (Figs 4.2 and 4.7). The sanctuary

was placed on the so-called Salent Hill and reached the lower part of it, the Olivar plain (Fig. 4.8). The hill was not far from the oppidum, giving the cult place a certain extra-urban character. Its position provided it with a wide control over both the confluence of the Segura and the Guadalentín valleys and the main communication axis between the coast and the interior, which would be also followed by the later Roman road to Complutum. It

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Fig. 4.9. Votive bronze figurines of La Luz: a. Feminine figure dated back to the transition of the third–second centuries BC (after Lillo 1991–2, 133); b. Warrior figurine (end of the third century BC) (after Lillo 1998, figs 7–8); c. Fragment of bronze figurine identified with a priest (after Lillo 1999, fig. 6.1).

therefore dominated the access to the Segura valley from Carthago Nova, which is a remarkable point, especially taking into account the historical importance of this centre during the period analysed. Finally, the location of the cult place presents another interesting and noteworthy characteristic. It is near a transhumance path that runs parallel to the valley and unites other later religious places in the area, including the remains of a Late Antique basilica. In fact, some religious buildings are still located in this sector, such as the monastery of La Luz and the chapel of San Antonio El Pobre (Fig. 4.7). All of them, along with the region’s natural environment, its situation in the forest area of Carrascoy and the great number of springs, reveal the unique character of the location. Regarding the development of La Luz, fieldworks have revealed a first occupation of this area already at the end of the fifth century BC (Lillo 1991–2, 117; 1998, 128), coinciding with the earliest phase of the necropolis of Cabecico del Tesoro (García and Gómez 2006, 63). Unfortunately, little is known about this initial occupation. It was during the next century when a substantial change took place: the area was restructured and a temenos was built (Lillo 1995–6, 99). In addition, the remains of workshops, which manufactured the numerous bronze votive offerings

found in the cult place, were also documented (Lillo 1991–2, 117). The iconography of those bronze figurines, such as richly dressed women, horsemen and warriors with belt buckles – a power symbol for the Iberian people (Lillo 1991–2; 1995–6, 114) – and an individual related to priestly functions (Fig. 4.9), links those representations with the aristocratic groups and their interests in enhancing their social prestige within the community (Derks 1998, 231–3; Tagliamonte 2004, 104–5; Pedley 2005, 108–10). Taking into consideration its location, its connection with the main centre of this territory and those materials, the sanctuary appears at the eve of Rome’s conquest as a central point in the landscape of this region and a space of social representation and interaction for the one or more communities. Moreover, due to its wide visibility over the lowlands of the Segura basin, the cult place would have contributed to reaffirm the power of the Santa Catalina oppidum and its elite over those territories (Castillo et al. 1996; López-Mondéjar 2014), while also functioning as place of aggregation for the surrounding populations (Pedley 2005, 12). In addition, since it has been linked to an indigenous deity, probably related to the agricultural cycle (Lillo 1991–2), its presence should have ensured the harvests and the fertility of the land for the inhabitants of Santa Catalina

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Fig. 4.10. Different models of antefixes from the temple of La Luz (after Lillo 1995–6, 107) and female head in white marble dated (second century BC) (height: 24.4 cm; Archaeological Museum of Murcia, photo by the author).

and also for those of the small sites dispersed in the valleys and dependent on the oppidum. This is the panorama that defined this site at the end of the third and beginning of the second century BC when the sanctuary underwent a major transformation with the construction of a temple on the Salent Hill. It was a temple in antis with two large columns, made of bricks and stucco, placed in the frontage and presenting a rectangular plant, with a pronaos, a naos and a cella (Lillo 1993–4; Fig. 4.8). Beyond the building, the sacred complex was completed by different terraces with a buttress, a grandstand in the slope of the hill, ambulatory paths, intended for processions, and a water tank located close to the access path to the temple, probably related to purification rituals (Lillo 1995–6). In addition, other changes are documented during this period. One of the most interesting ones was the development of new representations, linked with the indigenous deity to whom the temple was probably dedicated. On the one hand, there is a collection of antefixes that were part of the temple decoration, characterised by female faces placed between multiple and winged palmettes, which has parallels in eastern Mediterranean representations of Astarte (Lillo 1995–6, 110). On the other hand, a second interesting representation corresponded to a female head in white marble with similar attributes to those of Demeter (Fig. 4.10). Both of them show the connections of Iberian society of this period with the Mediterranean world, and its knowledge

of Mediterranean traditions. Also, the indicated grandstand, ambulatory paths and the presence of sacrifices of piglets point to the celebration of rituals with strong Mediterranean and Greek inspirations (Lillo 1993–4, 162–3; 1995–6). The presence of those Hellenistic models was a result of the aforementioned cultural and economic contacts of these communities and their use in a sacred place insert them within a process of reinterpretation and adoption of foreign elements common to the whole Mediterranean area (Keay 2013, 302, 317). In this sense, there is no doubt that the strategic position of La Luz, close to Qart Hadash and to some of the main communication routes between the interior area, the coast and the south of Iberia was a key factor. The ‘assimilation’ and ‘appropriation’ of those models provides an interesting perspective to approach the reasons that could explain the transformation undergone by this sanctuary. Certainly, it is true that, after centuries of Mediterranean contacts, those models would have been accepted by then and ‘appropriated’ by Iberian communities of this area. However, why use them in the new, remodelled sanctuary? The context in which the restructuring of the sacred space took place, marked by a stable Roman presence along the coast, is crucial when approaching that question. Studies developed in the Italic area, and particularly in Samnium, have shown how Hellenistic models were appropriated by native communities and used in their policy towards Rome to strengthen their identities (Stek 2009). In the case of La

4.  The transformation of cult places during the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east Luz, the display of those Mediterranean models suggests similar processes: it is not by chance that the transformation of the sanctuary dates precisely to the transition between the third and the second centuries BC, coinciding with the Roman conquest of Carthago Nova. However, it is not only that ‘appropriation’ of Mediterranean models that can be interpreted from this perspective. The analysis of the grave goods of the nearby necropolis of Cabecico del Tesoro shows an increment in the number of tombs with weapons during this period, rising from 17 in the third century to 26 in the second century BC. Furthermore, a considerable increase in the number of decorated ‘falcatas’ is noticeable, a specific kind of sword linked to aristocratic groups. Those swords dating to this period represent 33.3% of those documented in the necropolis, compared to just 8.3% in the third century BC (only the 8.3%) (Quesada 1986–7, 48). Thus, the number of these swords seems to have experienced an important recovery, reaching levels similar to those of the fourth century BC when these weapons peak as the grave goods in this area. Bearing in mind that the ‘falcata’ was probably the most emblematic weapon for the Iberian peoples during the Late Iron Age and, in particular, for the aristocratic groups of the Iberian south-east (Quesada 1997, 608–13, 622–3), this rise could also be read in connection to the aforementioned enhancement of the indigenous cultural traditions during this period. Considering the suggested perspective, the monumentalisation of La Luz sanctuary should be understood in connection with the local people clearly displaying their indigenous identity to the new conquerors, and especially the power of the local elites. In this sense, the sanctuary’s role as a place of social representation during the previous centuries is a key factor. In fact, the cult place’s transformations represented a significant investment of communal action, also common to other Mediterranean areas during the Roman expansion (Bradley 1997, 121–2; Izzet 2007), and suggest, once again, the presence of a strong political power in the oppidum of Santa Catalina which articulated this whole stretch of the Segura valley. All these issues are essential to understand the final development of the sanctuary at the end of the second and first century BC (Lillo 1991–2, 111). Archaeological works have shown a systematic destruction in the sacred complex, which affected above all the temple and the sculpture of the goddess, and which does not seem to reflect a spontaneous uprising despite its magnitude. Even though it is not possible to reject internal conflicts as the cause of these changes, for example between aristocratic groups or against the ruling elites, the historical context of the Iberian south-east suggests instead the involvement of Rome (Sala 2012, 214). After the end of the Third Punic War in the 146 BC, the Roman strategy for the Iberian Peninsula, based on the maintenance of the status quo, changed and the end of the

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Mediterranean conflicts allowed Rome to concentrate its energy on the complete integration of the Iberian territories. It is during this second half of the century when some important conflicts with the indigenous communities arose. In the area of Murcia, the first changes are visible in the landscape. Most of the regional oppida were abandoned, declined or destroyed, along with their cult places. The gradual disappearance of those sites from the second half of the second century BC onwards and the emergence of smaller centres in low-lying areas represented the development of a new settlement pattern closer to Roman models that will define this area from the first century BC (López-Mondéjar 2010, 75–80). Moreover, recent studies focused on these territories have brought to light the importance of some conflicts, such as the Sertorian wars, in the development of this area during the first century BC (Sala 2012). It is in that context that the end of the sanctuary of La Luz must be explained. In fact, remains of lead projectiles have been documented in the cult area, which could be linked to this moment. However, whereas the cult place was destroyed, it is striking that the oppidum of Santa Catalina continued to be occupied, especially when taking into account that in other regional sites the disappearance of cult places was linked with a loss of vigour of the adjacent settlements. Bearing in mind the sanctuary’s role for the community, the local elites and the surrounding area, would it be possible to consider whether Rome would have seen this native place of aggregation as a ‘threat’ to its initial interests in the area? In any case, the reality is that this site, marked by its ideological significance and its role in the display of the power of the local elites, had no more meaning within a new landscape that would give way to the Roman patterns and interests. Thus, its disappearance should be explained in connection with the process of dismantling the previous ideological, socio-political and territorial structure in which La Luz had played a key and central role from the fourth century BC (Mattingly 2011, 106).

Final remarks The analysis of the two Iberian sanctuaries presented above demonstrates the considerable interest of these regional sites for the study of the first centuries of Roman presence in the Iberian south-east. Moreover, it demonstrates the importance of analysing these sites from a broader perspective, beyond the isolated study of their material record or architectural development which has traditionally defined research in this Iberian area. In this way, this comparative analysis has allowed us to explore these sites from a new and more fruitful approach, paying attention to their meaning within the landscape and the historical dynamics of these Iberian territories between the end of the third and the first century BC. Moreover, it has enabled us to establish a broader and

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more complete picture of the cult places in this area, which previous studies lacked. At this point, it is worth highlighting several points. Firstly, it is evident that our two cult places played a remarkable role in the integration process of these Iberian territories within the Roman orbit. Both La Encarnación and La Luz, as other Mediterranean cult places, were not simple ‘mirrors’ or ‘passive agents’ in the landscape during the Roman conquest (Becker 2009, 96–7; Stek 2009). On the contrary, they became active elements and were involved in the economic, social and political life of the Iberian communities. The monumentalisation of these cult places through the building of three temples during the Republican period reveals how these sites kept their previous ideological and social roles during the third and second centuries BC. It is interesting to bear in mind the high ideological and symbolical value that has been historically placed on the temples since they give, more than any other public building, cultural identity and cohesion to a society (Vermeulen 1995, 190). In this sense, the temples built at La Encarnación and La Luz should have functioned as points of special significance for the inhabitants of these areas, enhancing their links with the main oppida and their territories. Not only did their location contribute to build up and reinforce community bonds, but they also determined symbolically the territorial domain of the oppida and, ultimately, the territory of the community, protecting and ensuring the fecundity of the harvests on which it depended. In this way, they played multiple roles, also at an ideological level, which was fundamental during the first stages of the Roman expansion in the Iberian territories. Moreover, both Rome and the local communities sought to benefit from that valuable role of those sites. Whereas the former used the cult place of La Encarnación as a space to spread Roman iconography, architectural models and ideology, the latter made it into a scene to express and enhance the local traditions and identity. This must be understood within a context defined by the Roman presence and by a continuous renegotiation and redefinition of the identities (Van Dommelen and Terrenato 2007, 9–10; Jiménez 2008, 52; Mattingly 2011, 206–7). Consequently, cult places became key spaces for both Romans and natives, although the two case studies allow us to illustrate how they were used and manipulated in order to achieve very different goals. On the one hand, the sacred complex at La Encarnación intended to spread the new Roman values and culture within the Iberian society. Such a different model of sanctuary should have had a considerable impact on the native communities of these inland territories (Vermeulen 1995, 196). By contrast, transformations developed in La Luz strengthened their own traditions in the face of the new Roman models and the display of the power of local elites towards both the community and Rome.

Thus, the building of the temple of La Luz, considering its aforementioned value for the community, also meant an ideological reinforcement for the authority of the native elites (Vermeulen 1995). Furthermore, there is another factor that explains the different development followed by these two sites, and it is their own location within the regional area. On the one hand, the sanctuary of La Luz was located close to the principal route to Carthago Nova, which may explain the contacts with the Roman world visible from the first half of the second century BC onwards in the material record (Lillo 1991–2). On the other hand, La Encarnación was built in an inland and rural area, far from Cartagena and its surrounding territory; therefore, the use of Roman models in this sanctuary illustrates Rome’s strategies of integration in this peripheral territory, distant to the main areas of Roman influence. Consequently, from a broader perspective, the analysed changes must be considered and studied as part of a far-reaching transformation that led to the dismantling of the landscape of the previous centuries and to the definitive integration of these territories in the Roman world (Mattingly 2011, 106). The changes experienced by those sanctuaries were an expression of the stable presence of Rome in the Iberian south-east after the conquest of Carthago Nova and a first step of that process that, eventually, led to the collapse of both the Iberian socio-political structure and the ideological system represented and supported by those cult places. The destruction of the temple at La Luz seems to be the clearest example of that. Finally, the different development of those sites conveys another crucial aspect, the Roman interests in these territories during these first centuries of its presence in the Iberian south-east. In the first place, Rome sought to maintain the status quo in order to assure the control and stability of those territories. Beyond the alliances with local elites, Rome reinforced one of the main bases of their territorial and socio-political power, the cult places, or at least, as in the case of La Luz, Rome ‘allowed’ the monumentalisation developed by the local elites. With those alliances, Rome gained a certain indirect control over those territories. Secondly, another main interest of Rome was to keep an eye on possible dangerous or problematical elements due to their power as aggregation points for the native communities or to their significance at a socio-political and economic level. Although it is a widely held view that this part of the Iberian Peninsula had been controlled by Rome since the conquest of Carthago Nova, it was at the end of the second century BC, and after some local conflicts in other part of the peninsula, including southern Iberia and the nearby territories of Granada (Adroher and López 2004, 269, 281), when the entire region was definitively integrated into the Roman world. From this point of view, the sanctuary of La Luz, despite its Roman character, could have been seen by Rome as a ‘dangerous focus’ in

4.  The transformation of cult places during the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east the area, especially considering that only the sanctuary was destroyed, not the oppidum of Santa Catalina. The settlement, however, declined and was abandoned after the destruction of its sanctuary and its population was distributed among new settlements along the Segura valley during the first century BC. Our two case studies show that from the beginning Rome was aware of the significance of the cult places in this territory, a fact that led them to place them in a privileged position during the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east. Thus, the role of those sites appears much more complex that the traditionally held view in this area, since they emerge as crucial points in the landscape not only in the Late Iron Age but also during the first stages of the Roman expansion in the Iberian south-east. In the new context, defined by transformations, contacts and negotiations, they became another arena where both Romans and natives expressed their particular interests. Hence, they constitute indispensable sites from which to obtain insight into the socio-political structure of the local communities and the dynamics of change that defined the integration of these territories in the Roman orbit from the end of the third century BC. There is therefore no room for doubt that all these aspects should be borne in mind in order to deepen our knowledge of the development of the cult places in the Iberian south-east and to reconsider thoroughly the transformations undergone by those sites during the Republican period as part of a broader process of change and reformulation of previous values, traditions, structures and landscapes.

Bibliography Adroher, A.M. and López, A. (2004) El territorio de las altiplanicies granadinas entre la Prehistoria y la Edad Media. Seville, Instituto Andaluz de las Artes y las Letras. Alcock, S.E. and Osborne, R. (ed.) (1994) Placing the Gods. Sanctuaries and Sacred Space in Ancient Greece. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Becker, H. (2009) Chapter 4. The economic agency of the Etruscan temple: elites, dedications and display. In Votives, Places and Rituals in Etruscan Religion. Studies in Honor of Jean MacIntosh Turfa. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 166, 87–99. Leiden, Boston, Brill. Bradley, G. (1997) Archaic sanctuaries in Umbria. Cahiers du Centre G. Glotz 8, 111–29. Brotóns, F. (2007) Las terracotas en forma de cabeza femenina del santuario ibero-romano de La Encarnación (Caravaca de la Cruz – Murcia). In M.C. Marín and F. Horn (eds) Imagen y culto en la Iberia prerromana: los pebeteros en forma de cabeza femenina, 313–38. Seville, SPAL Monografias IX. Brotóns, F. and Ramallo, S.F. (2010) Ornamento y símbolo: las ofrendas de oro y plata en el santuario ibérico del Cerro de la Ermita de La Encarnación de Caravaca. In T. Tortosa and S. Celestino (eds) Debate en torno a la religiosidad protohistórica, 123–68. Madrid, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas.

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Brunaux, J.L. (2002) Les fondements religieux de l’aristocracie Gauloise. In V. Guichard and F. Perrin (eds) L’aristocratie celte à la fin de l’âge du Fer (IIe s. av. J.-C.–Ier s. ap. J.-C.), 231–42. Glux-en-Glenne, Bibracte. Castillo, L.J., Demarais, E. and Earle, T. (1996) Ideology, materialisation and power strategies. Current Archaeology 37(1), 15–31. Chapa, T. and Madrigal, A. (1997) El sacerdocio en época ibérica. Spal. Revista de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la Universidad de Sevilla 6, 187–203. Derks, T. (1998) Gods, Temples and Ritual Practices: The Transformation of Religious Ideas and Values in Roman Gaul. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University. García, J.M. and Gómez, M.A. (2006) Avance al estudio radiológico del armamento de la necrópolis ibérica del Cabecico del Tesoro (Verdolay, Murcia). I. Las falcatas. Gladius 26, 61–92. García, J.M., Conde, E. and Page, V. (eds) (2007) Pedro A. Lillo Carpio y la cultura ibérica. El Santuario de La Luz (Verdolay, Murcia). Murcia, Editum. González-Alcalde, J. (2009) Una aproximación cultural a los vasos caliciformes ibéricos en cuevas-santuario y yacimientos de superficie. Quadernos de Prehistoria y Arqueologia de Castellò 27, 83–107. Hübner, E. (1892) Inscriptionum Hispaniae Latinarum supplementum. Berlin, Georgium Reimerum. Izquierdo, I. (2003) La ofrenda sagrada del vaso en la cultura ibérica. Zephyrus 56, 117–35. Izzet, V. (2007) The Archaeology of Etruscan Society. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Jiménez, A. (2008) Imagines Hibridae. Una aproximación postcolonialista al estudio de las necrópolis de la Bética. Anejos del Archivo Español de Arqueología 43. Madrid, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Keay, S. (1995) The role of religion and ideology in the Romanization of south-eastern Tarraconensis. In J. Metzler, M. Millett, N. Roymans and J. Slofstra (eds) Integration in the Early Roman West. The Role of Culture and Ideology, 33–44. Luxembourg, Musée National d’Histoire et d’Art. Keay, S. (2013) Were the Iberians Hellenised? In J. Prag and J.C. Quinn (eds) The Hellenistic West. Rethinking the Ancient Mediterranean, 300–19. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Lillo, P.A. (1991–2) Los exvotos de bronce del santuario de La Luz y su contexto arqueológico (1990–1992). Anales de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la Universidad de Murcia 7–8, 107–42. Lillo, P.A. (1993–4) Notas sobre el templo del Santuario de La Luz (Murcia). Anales de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la Universidad de Murcia 9–10, 155–74. Lillo, P.A. (1995–6) El períbolos del templo del santuario de La Luz y el contexto de la cabeza marmórea de la diosa. Anales de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la Universidad de Murcia 11–12, 95–128. Lillo, P.A. (1998) Excavaciones en el santuario ibérico de La Luz. Campaña de 1992. Memorias de Arqueología 7, 122–41. Lillo, P.A. (2002) V Campaña de excavaciones en el santuario ibérico de la Luz (Murcia). Memorias de Arqueología 10, 201–12.

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López-Mondéjar, L. (2010) Paisaje y poblamiento en el Sureste peninsular: de la República tardía al Alto Imperio. In J.M. Noguera (ed.) Poblamiento rural romano en el Sureste de Hispania, 71–98. Murcia, Editum. López-Mondéjar, L. (2012) Aspectos económicos y ocupación del territorio en el Sureste ibérico: los valles del Argos y el Quípar en los siglos IV y III a.C. Archivo de Prehistoria Levantina 29, 209–36. López-Mondéjar, L. (2014) Santuarios y poder ideológico en el Sureste ibérico peninsular (siglos IV–III a.C.): paisajes, ceremonias y símbolos. Munibe (Antropologia-Arkeologia) 65, 157–175. Available at http://www.aranzadi.eus/fileadmin/docs/ Munibe/2014157175AA.pdf (accessed: 05/04/2020). López-Mondéjar, L. (2016) Placing sanctuaries in their socio-­ political landscapes: a diachronic approach to the Late Iron Age communities in south-east Iberia (fourth–second centuries BC). Oxford Journal of Archaeology 35(1), 101–21. Martínez, J. (1992) La campaña de Catón en Hispania. Barcelona, Universidad de Barcelona. Mattingly, D.J. (2011) Imperialism, Power, and Identity: Experiencing the Roman Empire. Princeton, Oxford, Princeton University Press. Millett, M. (1995) Re-thinking religion in Romanization. In J. Metzler, M., Millett, N., Roymans and J. Slofstra (eds) Integration in the Early Roman West. The Role of Culture and Ideology, 93–100. Luxembourg, Musée National d’Histoire et d’Art. Moneo, T. and Almagro-Gorbea, M. (1998) Santuarios y elites ibéricas. In C. Aranegui, J.P. Mohen and P. Rouillard (eds) Actas del Congreso Internacional. Los Iberos. Príncipes de occidente. Las estructuras de poder en la sociedad ibérica, 93–8. Barcelona, Fundación La Caixa. Pedley, J. (2005) Sanctuaries and the Sacred in the Ancient Greek World. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Polignac, F.D. (1984) La naissance de la cité grecque: cultes, espace et société VIIIe–VIIe siècles avant J.-C. Paris, Découverte. Pozo, I., Robles, A. and Navarro, E. (2006) El ‘Sitio Histórico Estrecho de las Cuevas de la Encarnación’, Caravaca de la Cruz. Musealización de algunos recursos patrimoniales. Revista murciana de antropología 13, 375–88. Quesada, F. (1986–7) El armamento en la necrópolis ibérica de ‘El Cabecico del Tesoro’ (Murcia). Cuadernos de Prehistoria y

Arqueología de la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. Homenaje al prof. Gratiniano Nieto 2(13–14), 47–63. Quesada, F. (1997) El armamento ibérico. Estudio tipológico, geográfico, funcional, social y simbólico de las armas en la cultura ibérica (siglos VI–I a.C.). Monographies Instrumentum 3. Montagnac, Éditions Mergoil. Ramallo, S.F. (1991) Un santuario de época tardorrepublicana en la Encarnación, Caravaca, Murcia. Templos romanos en Hispania. Cuadernos de Arquitectura romana 1, 39–45. Ramallo, S.F. and Arana, R. (1993) Terracotas arquitectónicas del Santuario de la Encarnación (Caravaca de la Cruz, Murcia). Archivo Español de Arqueología 66, 71–98. Ramallo, S.F. and Brotóns, F. (1997) El santuario ibérico de La Encarnación (Caravaca de la Cruz, Murcia). Quaderns de Prehistòria i Arqueologia de Castellò 18, 257–68. Ruano, E. and San Nicolás, M. (1993) Exvotos ibéricos procedentes de ‘La Encarnación’ (Caravaca, Murcia). Verdolay 2, 101–7. Rudhart, J. (1958) Notions fondamentales de la pensée religieuse et actes constitutifs du culte dans la Grèce classique. Geneva, Droz. Ruiz, A. and Molinos, M. (2007) Iberos en Jaén. Jaén, Universidad de Jaén. Sala, F. (2012) El litoral de la Contestania ibérica ante la conquista romana: una cuestión de confines en el sureste de Hispania. In F. Prados, I. García and G. Bernard (eds) Confines. El extremo del mundo durante la antigüedad, 213–26. Alicante, Universidad de Alicante. Stek, T.D. (2009). Cult Places and Cultural Change in Republican Italy. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press. Tagliamonte, G. (2004) Horsemen and Dioskouroi worship in Samnite sanctuaries. Archaeologia Transatlantica 22, 103–14. Van Dommelen, P. and Terrenato, N. (2007) Introduction. Local cultures and the expanding Roman Republic. In Articulating Local Cultures. Power and Identity under the Expanding Roman Republic, Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplement 63, 7–12. Portsmouth, RI, Journal of Roman Archaeology. Vermeulen, F. (1995) The role of local centres in the Romanization of northern Belgica. In J. Metzler, M. Millett, N. Roymans and J. Slofstra (eds) Integration in the Early Roman West. The Role of Culture and Ideology, 183–98. Luxembourg, Musée National d’Histoire et d’Art.

5 Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality Ruth Ayllón-Martín

Introduction Usually defined as a geological and cultural entity, landscape could also be considered as a palimpsest comprised of different layers that continuously reshape the meaning of the landscape. The traditional territorial approaches to ancient societies frequently take into consideration sacred landscape as one essential landscape compound that completes their analysis. According to Edlung-Berry (1987, 126, 134), a natural sacred space was a holy place that had become an object of pilgrimage from the very first moment when it was identified as a place of worship by human beings. In general terms, the setting of an altar usually implied the beginning of the monumentalisation of a natural sacred space, which would afterwards evolve in accordance with social and historical changes. Focusing on 37 assumed natural sacred spaces, including mountains, groves and caves, this paper aims to discuss the development of Celtiberian sacred spaces and their cultural adaptation during a period of intense social and political upheavals, between the third century BC and the second century AD, ending with the establishment of the new Roman cultural and social order. This paper is the first step towards a comprehensive study of indigenous natural sacred spaces in central and eastern Hispania Citerior Tarraconensis. There are still many questions to be answered in the field of Celtiberian religion. Fortunately, in recent years landscape studies and archaeology have provided precious data that can be used in order to boost ancient religion studies (e.g. Alfayé Villa et al. 2002; Royo Guillén and Gómez Lecumberri 2006). The sacred spaces examined here do not include those natural holy places scattered over rural areas of Celtiberia, such as rocky or aquatic sanctuaries (Lorrio Alvarado and Sánchez de Prado 2002; Beltrán Lloris and Paz Peralta 2004; Alfayé Villa 2009, 27–9, 145–79). Even though they are not

analysed in this paper, they are taken into consideration as constituents of the sacred landscape. This paper consists of two sections. The first part discusses the geographical and social background of the territory; it analyses the weaknesses of the current catalogue of Celtiberian natural sacred places and highlights the significant ones discovered. In order to complete the profile of all of them, the second section examines the surrounding landscape of the case studies from a local and regional perspective. It also takes into account the Roman religious evidence in the area in an attempt to establish a possible continuation in Celtiberian and Roman beliefs.

Myth and reality of Celtiberian natural cult places Geographical and social context On account of classical sources, archaeology and linguistic studies, historians have been able to describe the development of this territory; the final stage of this was closely related to the Roman conquest and processes of cultural ‘assimilation’. Celtiberia covered approximately the entire modern provinces of Soria, most of Guadalajara and Cuenca, eastern Segovia, southern Burgos and La Rioja, western Zaragoza and Teruel and the north-western area of Valencia province (Fig. 5.1). Celtiberia is a mountainous region, with an average altitude of 900–1200 m and 1200–1500 m above sea level. Its territory is crossed by three major rivers of the Iberian Peninsula and their tributaries: the river Ebro at the eastern part, the Douro at the western area and the Tajo at the south-west. In the Roman period, although rather isolated, Celtiberia was connected to the Atlantic and the Mediterranean through these rivers, which also offered the Celtiberian people access to the entire Peninsula (Lorrio Alvarado 2005, 54–5).

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There is still a debate over the number of Celtiberian peoples (Burillo Mozota 2005). It should be taken into account that we are dealing with neither a centralised state nor a political union, but rather a wide range of people with different chronologies and fluctuating boundaries between

them. The Arevacci, Belli or Titti have been accepted as Celtiberians by most scholars, but there are still controversies concerning whether to accept other people based on classical sources (Vaccaei, Lusones, Pelendones), their cultural features (Berones) and their location within Celtiberia (Turboletae, Olcades, Lobetani, Beribraces) (see a general approach with specific bibliography in Lorrio Alvarado 2005, 38–43 and Burillo Mozota 2008, 182–247, especially the chapters on Berones and Segobriga, 223–8 and 405–12, as they have been included in this analysis).

Compendium

Fig. 5.1. Celtiberians and other ethnic groups of the Iberian Peninsula in the second century BC (after Burillo Mozota 2005, 413).

Archaeology has revealed a great deal about Celtiberian society and culture, but most of our knowledge concerns the urban scene, leaving rural areas behind. Despite the scarce evidences of Celtiberian natural sacred spaces (Marco Simón 1999; 2005, 311–6), a thorough bibliographical review is necessary to compile data from the oldest reports to the latest studies. The result is the creation of a compendium of 37 assumed sacred spaces, such as sacred caves, groves and mountains (Fig. 5.2). Rock epigraphy is considered one of the most reliable indicators to identify caves as cult places. Apart from that,

Fig. 5.2. Celtiberian natural sacred places: further information in Appendix 1 (Source: author, 2014).

5.  Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality specialists also look for archaeological materials such as votive offerings, rock paintings and carvings. We have been able to identify up to 18 cavities that are assumed to be Celtiberian sacred caves. Most of them have Catholic shrines in their vicinity. However, the coexistence of both epigraphy and archaeological is only present in two remarkable caves: Román and La Griega (see below). Groves have been identified through Roman votive epigraphy and written sources. In spite of 11 possible examples, there are four more sites considered as pre-Roman natural sacred spaces due to ritual reminiscences found in contemporary Catholic festivities1 (these are not included in the material study). However, archaeological data are only present in two out of the 15 sites. Finally, four possible sacred mountains have been identified in Celtiberia, primarily based on archaeological and written sources. Two of them are geographical references within their territory, but only one has noteworthy inscriptions.

Lights and shades of research A major part of our catalogue faces serious methodological and archaeological problems that might be easily solved by archaeological excavation. As a result, there are some presumed sacred spaces where the evidence is too weak to confirm them as ‘sacred’. The problems that these spaces demonstrate are mostly related to the archaeological methodologies of the first half of the twentieth century. Before obtaining more data about these places, by studying their context in the surrounding landscape, we will briefly comment on the major research obstacle that needs to be overcome by giving some examples of the most uncertain Celtiberian natural sacred spaces. There are few examples that present the worst archaeological scenario. For example, San Cabrás and Fuente Giriego caves no longer have evidence of a Celtiberian natural cult place (bibliography available in Appendix 1, no. 21 for Soria, no. 27 for Segovia). On one hand, San Cabrás’ isolated character, the vicinity of a water source and the existence of an abandoned Catholic shrine all in the same place suggested it might be considered as an example of Celtiberian religious practices. On the other hand, at Fuente Giriego humidity might have destroyed most part of a votive inscription, which has been linked to some archaeological and epigraphic evidences of the area. Considering all these evidences together, a rural sanctuary vowed to the Matres could have possibly existed at Fuente Giriego (Alfayé Villa 2009, 52–6). According to Martial’s epigrams, the Moncayo mountain (Epigrams 1.49, 4.55 – no. 32, Soria/Zaragoza), the Boterdus grove (Epigrams 1.49, 12.18 – no. 8, Campiel(?), Zaragoza), the Buradonis grove (Epigrams 4.55 – no. 33, Beratón(?), Soria) and the Vadavero mountain (Epigrams 1.49 – no. 31, Madero mountain (?), Soria) are said to have been natural sacred spaces. While most of the locations are

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still doubtful and few may be interpreted as poetic licences of the artist, scholars have long considered the Moncayo as a reference to Celtiberian sacred places (see Appendix for bibliography). However, as has been pointed out by Alfayé (2009, 26), there is no archaeological or epigraphic evidence to confirm the Moncayo as a sacred mountain. The ongoing study and revision of the Celtiberian epigraphy has not only increased this corpus, but some previously published inscriptions have had to be re-interpreted. For example, the evidence for alleged sacred spaces, such as Peña Escrita and Siete Altares caves in Segovia, are now considered to date to the medieval and modern period (for Siete Altares: Aguilera y Gamboa 1918, 132–6, 143–7; Lucas de Viñas and Viñas 1971, 100; Lucas Pellicer 1974, 68; Knapp 1992, 267; Alfayé Villa 2009, 68–9), while the epigraphic evidence from the Segovian Solapo del Águila cave is now dated to pre-Celtiberian times and therefore excluded from our analysis (Aguilera y Gamboa 1918, 137–41; Lucas de Viñas 1971; Lucas Pellicer 1974, 65; 1990). On the contrary, one painting of the Covachón del Puntal and the inscription of the Robusto cave have been recently attributed to the Late Celtiberian period and the beginning of the first century BC respectively (nos 22 and 12, Soria and Guadalajara) and we will therefore study them within their landscape setting. The existence of certain sacred spaces depends on how inscriptions are read. For example, the grove of the goddess Drusuna is closely related to the deity’s name, which is etymologically associated with ilexes and oaks (Gómez Pantoja and García Palomar 1995, 187–9). However, since the inscription has been lately read as Deus Dubunecisaus, this grove could disappear from our catalogue of natural sacred spaces (no. 35, Soria); the sacred place offered to Bonus Eventus was only considered as a place of worship after Alföldy’s new reading (no. 37, Segovia). Moreover, the trifanium of Contrebia Belaiska in Botorrita is the latest sacred grove discussed by scholars (no. 7, Zaragoza). The first bronze plaque was traditionally read as a legal document from a local senate, but in the last few years, and despite the lack of an archaeological study, an increasing number of scholars consider it as a lex sacra of an oak wood offered to two local deities (Adrados 1995; Fernández Nieto 2010a, 73–4). The archaeological study is absolutely essential to provide a more objective view when it comes to the more controversial cases where natural sacred spaces are connected with Catholic festivities, shrines and monasteries. For example, images of Sta. Mª de Valvanera and Santa María Magdalena in La Rioja suggest a strong relation to trees and forests (nos 17 and 18). Both virgins once appeared centuries ago inside oak trees and the Roman votive epigraphy in the area is linked to the worship of nature. However, unlike La Dehesa (no. 10), there has not been any scientific study confirming these assumptions (Arenas Esteban 2007). In fact, the controversy around the Arcobriga religious complex

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(Zaragoza) ended in 2002 when an archaeological study established the medieval and modern chronologies of the site (Alfayé Villa et al. 2002). Until then, despite minor opposition (Marco Simón 1989, 124; Gómez Pantoja 1992, 111), a Romantic interpretation had considered the place as a religious complex formed by a drunemeton, a human sacrificial altar, five Iberian tombs, a stadium, a cromlech, the Cazoletas cave and several rooms used by Celtiberian fighters and animals (Aguilera y Gamboa 1999). More recently, an in-depth epigraphic analysis has established a Celtiberian phase in the chronology of the Cazoletas cave (no. 4, Royo Guillén and Gómez Lecumberri 2006, 312; Alfayé Villa 2009, 71). Despite these controversial cases, there are exceptional examples of Late Celtiberian and Roman natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia, all supported by the unique combination of epigraphy, archaeology and documentary sources. The sacred mountain of Peñalba in Villastar, for example, is probably one of the most studied Celtiberian sacred places (no. 9). In this case, ancient pilgrimage has been proved and scholars consider Peñalba as a regional and inter-ethnic sanctuary (in-depth analysis in Marco Simón and Alfayé Villa 2008; Alfayé Villa 2009, 89–123. See also Correia Santos’ paper in this volume). Another peak in the Demanda range in La Rioja seems to have been a natural sanctuary devoted to an unknown deity whose local epithet was Dercetius (no. 13). Despite the lack of archaeological evidence, this worship is attested by a Roman votive inscription (CIL II 5809) and Dercetius has been read as derk-, ‘see’, i.e. ‘the visible one’ (Albertos Firmat 1974, 154–5; Delamarre 2001, 116). In the seventh century, this theonym was used as a toponym – Dircetii montis – by Saint Braulio (Vita S. Emiliani 11.4) and the very same geographical reference can be found in a tenth-century treatise, which identifies it as the location of the spring of the river Douro (Gómez-Moreno 1919, 289, n. 5). Moreover, in the same century the famous San Millán de la Cogolla monastery was known as sancto Emiliano Dircetii monasterii; this monastery is less than 2 km from where the Roman altar was found in the nineteenth century (Gómez-Moreno 1919, 289, n. 8; Albertos Firmat 1974, 153). In this sense, documentary sources seem to locate this mountain in the western area of the Demanda range, probably in the San Lorenzo/ St Lawrence peak (2271 m) or even nearer to Berceo, only some 800 m from where the altar was found (Dercensis > Vergegio > Berceo) (Albertos Firmat 1974, 153). La Griega cave in Pedraza (no. 28, Segovia) shows how the sacredness of a place of worship has been maintained through different ages. One hundred and nineteen Palaeolithic rock paintings were carefully respected by the Romans when they wrote 107 rock inscriptions between the first and third centuries AD (for in-depth analysis, see Corchón 1997). Apart from one possible clay sculpture, there are up to 14 rock inscriptions relating to the religious sphere

and Roman-style cult activities, such as praemia, vota and ponere, have also been documented. Nemedus Augustus, Deus Moclevus and Deva seem to have been the deities worshipped inside this special cave (Marco Simón 1993; Mayer i Olivé and Abásolo 1997, 255–6; 2011). Finally, we may also include the Román cave (no. 29, Burgos) in this exceptional list, a sanctuary located just in the subsoil of Clunia, the capital of Conventus Cluniensis. This cave has provided 39 clay inscriptions and several clay figurines, masks and vessels (Palol and Vilella 1987). It has been considered a fertility and healing sanctuary where mud bath treatments took place within the cave (in-depth epigraphic analysis in Gasperini 1998; Cuesta Moratinos 2012, 172–5).

Landscape: the ultimate frontier Landscape study can provide valuable data to obtain a more complete profile of the Celtiberian natural sacred spaces. Our analysis focuses on the features of the surrounding area of natural sacred spaces in order to attempt to establish who their possible worshippers were and which road links they used to reach their sanctuaries. It also takes into account the Celtiberian and Roman religious evidence that has been detected around these holy places. Traditionally, detailed reports of the archaeological material provide the basic description of a particular cult space. This study has taken into consideration such data under a wider perspective so a general profile of the Celtiberian sacred spaces in their natural context may be obtained (Appendix 1). The location of these sacred spaces influenced the deity’s identity and its attributes, and these, in turn, defined votive offerings that were also determined by the cultural or religious needs of the nearby communities (Edlung-Berry 1987, 62, 134). In general terms, the availability of water stands out as the most common feature in natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia with up to 23 sites, as springs and rivers are found in the vicinity of caves and groves (no. 15, Berunius; no. 10, La Dehesa; and no. 7, trifanium of Contrebia Belaisca). Only four sacred spaces may have enjoyed internal water sources. The most common Celtiberian sacred space lacks any manmade structures and might be combined with Palaeolithic rock paintings and carvings. Epigraphy is present in 57% of the sites in our catalogue and pottery only in 22% of the assumed natural sacred spaces. Moreover, certain archaeological materials, such as metal, glass or pottery imports, are extremely rare. This pattern can be seen in most Celtiberian contexts. In these 14 cases, the epigraphic evidence, dating between the third and the first century BC, plays the leading role, followed by pottery and metals. The Roman materials are present in half of the catalogue entries, which depend on epigraphy to identify up to 13 sacred spaces. In fact, Roman materials are more scarce than Celtiberian ones and, despite

5.  Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality not being mutually exclusive, only eight sacred spaces have yielded both types of evidence. The Celtiberian sacred caves are usually shallow (100– 150 m) and they hardly ever have the subterranean lakes or cave formations that are so common in Iberian sacred caves (González Alcalde 2002, 365–6; Moneo 2003, 460). Only three of the 20 catalogued caves might have preserved manmade constructions, despite the fact that their chronology is nearly impossible to establish. Palaeolithic rock paintings and carvings have been found in only six caves, so this combination of rock art and Celtiberian and Roman expressions is not so common as has been expected (Martínez Bea 2009, 118, 121). Besides, whenever rock art occurs in a cave, the Celtiberian or Roman epigraphy seem to have respected the ancient expressions and shared the very same rock panel, despite having the entire cave to display their writings. Our sacred caves catalogue also shows some regional differences, as pottery is more commonly found in Aragón than in caves of both Castillas, probably due to the influence of the Ebro valley. In fact, southern Celtiberia seems to be delimited by four sacred caves in Albacete province (Plaza Sobrairas, Abrigo de Reiná, Santa del Cabriel and Perra caves), which are the first examples in the southern plateau with a clear profile of Iberian sacred caves (González Alcalde 2002, 365–77; Moneo 2003, 299–301, 460). However, it is not possible to define any archaeological object as the Celtiberian sacred cave’s leitmotiv due to the absence of information about pottery and the location within caves. This distinguishes the Celtiberian sacred caves from the Iberian ones, where the abundance of caliciform miniature vessels helps to identify them (Martínez Perona 1992; González Alcalde 2002, 367–71). Caliciform vessels have been found in two Celtiberian cavities that seem to have been under Iberian influence due to their geographical vicinity and roads of communication (no. 1, Coscojar cave and nos 5–6, both Épila caves). Finally, scholars largely rely on documentary sources and epigraphy in order to identify the sacred mountains and groves in Celtiberia, since none of them have been excavated due to the uncertainty regarding their locations. Common features of the sacred groves, such as the vicinity of water or man-made structures related to their exploitation, are deduced from leges sacrae (Arenas Esteban 2007, 192–3; de Bernardo Stempel 2010; Fernández Nieto 2010a, 542–3). Unfortunately, there are no traces dating back to Celtiberian times and the groves have been used in the Roman period.

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an up-to-date catalogue configure an approximated reality of what ancient landscapes might have looked like. Unfortunately, high latitudes remain unexplored or unpublished and the geographical span of extensive sacred spaces remains unknown to us. As a result, certain mountains and groves have not been included in distance analysis since their exact location is not known (no. 13, Dercetius; no. 32, Moncayo; no. 7, trifanium of Contrebia Belaisca; no. 8, Boterdus). In general, it is possible to get an insight into how natural sacred spaces interacted with the nearest settlements over the centuries (Figs 5.3 and 5.4). Nearly half of the natural sacred places up to the third century BC were located no more than 2 km from the nearest village. They might therefore have acted as sacred space of local cults. The other half of these sites were so close to settlements that they might be considered as suburban sacred places (no. 24, Termes cave; no. 1, Coscojar cave; and no. 4, Cazoletas cave). In this sense, as distance increases, Celtiberian sacred spaces located beyond a 2 km radius progressively decrease to such an extent that there is only one sacred place that surpasses 8 km. This uncommon distribution might insinuate the strictly local ‘catchment area’ of the natural cult places during this period or, to put it another way, it reflects a densely occupied settlement pattern prior to the Roman conquest. More archaeological data is needed in order to confirm these hypotheses. During the second and first centuries BC, several changes can be identified, such as the increasing medium distances of up to 46% of the catalogued natural sacred spaces. Yet, the sacred sites were less than 2 km away from the nearest village. This may confirm the local role of natural cult places for the local community in opposition to the traditionally assumed remote imagery. Sacred spaces operating within a local area (or periphery) might have become rural sacred spaces as long as the area they belonged to remained more or less remote from the region’s main settlements. At the same time, the distance among settlements and natural cult

Settlements As Farinetti notes (2012, 44), in order to obtain information about the social and political dimension of natural sacred spaces in a specific period, ‘è necessario dare ai luoghi di culto un contesto sociale e uno ambientale, in altre parole un paesaggio’. Even though any territorial analysis largely depends on archaeological studies, results obtained using

Fig. 5.3. Estimated distances between settlements and natural sacred spaces from the third century BC onwards (Source: author, 2014).

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Fig: 5.4. The landscape around Moncayo (32), Vadavero (31) and Buradon (33) taking into account settlement evolution, roads and paths. Since the locations of Vadavero and Buradon are hypothetical and the location of the Moncayo sacred area is not accurate, they have not been included in distance analysis (Source: author, 2014).

places started to increase progressively (4–10 km), probably due to the rising instability triggered by the ongoing wars during these two centuries. Previous trends seem to be confirmed during the first century AD as the distance between villages and natural sacred spaces further increased: those sacred spaces located beyond 6 km doubled the number of sites within a 2 km radius from a village. Celtiberian natural sacred spaces seem to become more and more isolated from human settlements in this period.

Roads and routes Roman roads reused previous routes along the Douro and Ebro rivers, as well as their tributaries valleys. In an area without any attested Roman roads, we can expect that mountain passes and natural corridors continued to be used as paths. Examples include the Madero mountain pass (Soria) which connected the Ebro valley routes with those in the Douro valley (Sillières 2007). There are also several passes in the Guadarrama mountains, between the modern provinces of Segovia and Madrid, most of which were fundamental to connect the northern and southern plateaux (Martínez Caballero and Santiago Pardo 2010, 85–6, 89), or the lessknown Menadella pass in the province of Valencia, which enabled communications between the Ebro valley and the Valencian coast (Arasa i Gil 2010). Plateaux, hills and mountains define not only the Celtiberian landscape, but also its society and economy.

Roads and paths could therefore ignore neither the economic nor the potential strategic value of high altitudes. In addition to the road system, we also need to take into consideration the seasonal movements of livestock in order to find possible ancient local and regional paths. The aim is to define the routes that did not fossilise and consequently fell into disuse (Gómez Pantoja 1994; 1995; Sierra Vigil and San Miguel Maté 1995). As Alfaro Giner pointed out (2001, 218–19), we may classify ancient roads in two categories: main roads, which provide a direct route between two regional hubs (e.g. Via Augusta and Silver Route), and secondary roads, which meander through valleys and across mountains, and thus create a dense path web. Among the latter, cattle tracks have been prudently included since, according to García Martín, these routes should be treated as ‘polysemous, polyvalent and mutable tracks’ (Sánchez-Moreno 1998, n. 61). Even though Celtiberian trans­ humance routes are conjectural, some scholars presume their existence and attempt to draw possible circuits within the plateau area from evidence such as ancient emigration, local cults and hospitality tesserae (Gómez Pantoja and Garcia Palomar 1991; Gómez Pantoja 1995; 2001, 201–3, 206; Sierra Vigil and San Miguel Maté 1995; Sánchez-Moreno 1998, 66–8). As with any other landscape component, Celtiberian sacred spaces must have maintained mutual linkage with the nearest roads. Although sanctuaries may have preceded roads, the latter enabled worshippers to reach their sacred places. In this sense, the aforementioned local feature of natural cult places, that is, their 2 km radius from settlements, seems to be confirmed in the mutual relation between a natural sacred space and the roads. Nearly 49% of catalogued sacred spaces have a secondary road as their nearest land route. One may regard this as a high percentage, considering the few known Roman main roads in Celtiberia, but in fact this percentage is rather low when considering the dense network of secondary roads. Twenty per cent of Celtiberian sacred spaces are less than 5 km away from a Roman main road, that is, those ways described by the ancient sources that archaeologists continuously aim to identify. In most cases, this result affects those natural sacred spaces located less than a kilometre away from a given settlement and previously described as suburban. On the other hand, up to 14 natural cult places might have had in their vicinity a possible cattle track (31%). No accurate circuits or distances between sites are to be described here, since nowadays transhumance routes do not necessarily overlap with the tracks used by Celtiberian shepherds. In our analysis we use cattle tracks not as a certainty but as an assumption of the existence of a possible communication link in Celtiberian times. Thus, we attempt to appreciate its vicinity to natural sacred spaces as another component to take into consideration. Soria’s and Segovia’s seasonal migration paths have linked those apparently remote sites with other active and

5.  Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality distanced areas. An example of this may be the Roman road connecting Termes and Segovia. In this case, La Griega cave is completely isolated and out of reach as it is located in the Guadarrama range slopes. However, if we include the seasonal migration paths, this cave appears connected not only with the plateau beyond its territory, but also with the valleys behind the Guadarrama mountains. We should point out, however, that the province of Segovia is an exceptional example for transhumance routes as nearly all northern seasonal migration routes go

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through these natural passes on their way to the southern plateau (Fig. 5.5, left). Another example might be the sacred grove dedicated to Drusuna near Uxama Argaela (no. 35, Olmillos, Soria). The deity has also been documented in Segobriga, another major point for the seasonal migration network in the southern plateau. Nowadays, both cities are connected by a modern cattle track (Cañada Oriental Soriana). The Drusuna grove is not only close to a major seasonal migration path (north-east–south-west direction), but also to a regional

Fig. 5.5. Top: the Roman roads around La Griega cave, which is particularly well connected through traditional cattle tracks (no. 28). Bottom: the Mesta and the traditional transhumance routes coincide with Roman roads in the Soria province with Numantia and Uxama Argaela as major focal points (Source: author, 2014).

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Fig. 5.6. Religious evidences in Celtiberia from the Roman period. The votive inscriptions are categorised as ‘Roman’ deities, local (Celtiberian) deities and evidence to unknown deities (Source: author, 2014).

cattle track that also follows the river Douro (Cañada Real de San Esteban). Moreover, this sacred space is close to San Esteban de Gormaz (7 km), where another possible sacred place might have existed due to the high concentration of votive altars offered to Hercules. Apart from being another stop for several cattle tracks just after leaving Uxama Argaela, San Esteban de Gormaz is also considered to be the first ford in Douro as well as the point from which this river becomes navigable. Finally, the main cattle tracks guarded by the ancient Mesta institution happened to overlap with Roman main roads up to four times: the Eresma river valley in the Segovia province, the Ebro high valley in La Rioja province, the basins of Alhama-Merdancho-Abión rivers and the Uxama Argaela-Termes road, both in the Soria province (Fig. 5.5, right; Gómez Pantoja 1995, 502; Moreno Gallo 2011). This highlights again the joint origin of both roads as they were natural paths created by continuous and instinctive animal movement. As time went by, these small paths fossilised and evolved to become more important, ‘publicly’ maintained roads.

Roman religious evidence In Celtiberia, Roman religious practises may have involved the use of movable items (i.e. lararia, votive offerings, statues), religious buildings and notably votive inscriptions (195 inscriptions, 78% of the finds; Fig. 5.6). However, they provide a biased view due to the inherent randomness of their preservation and especially because they were unaffordable to a large proportion of the local population. Those who could pay for them were also those who seem to have shared the typical Roman-style means and ways of expression. Roman priesthoods are mentioned in Celtiberia up to 18 times in Roman votive and honorary inscriptions, with Segobriga as centre where both major and minor priesthoods are attested. Flamines, seviri and XVviri were the most recurrent titles, though they have not been found

across Celtiberia. Closely related to the Roman imperial cult, priesthoods were commonly found in cities whose inhabitants experienced intensively the performance of imperial propaganda. Besides these, votive altars featuring the Roman imperial cult appear using the augustus epithet for abstract deities (Fortuna, Pietas, Concordia) as well as for single indigenous and Roman divinities (Nemedus and Mercury). The latter is probably an interpretatio of a pre-existing local god whose authority was then reinforced with the epithet augustus. The more effective way to spread the official cult must have been temples, even though we do not find many examples in Celtiberia (Termes, Segobriga, Clunia, Turiaso?, Uxama, Bilbilis). Despite the amount of recorded natural sacred spaces, the deities worshipped at these sites remain unidentified. Among the 37 sacred places studied, we can only identify a deity at nine sites, sometimes without knowing its attributes or functions: • • • • • • • •

no. 7, Contrebia Belaiska trifinium – Togotis and Sarnicios; no. 9, Peñalba – Lugus/Equaisos/Cordonus; no. 11 delubrum of Diana; no. 25, Labrada cave – Diana; no. 28, La Griega cave – Deus Moclevus, Nemedus Augustus and Deva; no. 36, delubrum of Hercules; no. 35, lucus of Drusuna; no. 37, delubrum of Bonus Eventus.

Moreover, there are four more sacred spaces where the ­deity’s attributes have been depicted (no. 10, La Dehesa; no. 16, Nájera; no. 13, Dercetius; no. 27, Fuente Giriego cave; and no. 29, Román cave). The remaining sites are merely considered sacred spaces and rituals functions have only been proposed for a few of them (Valdivieso Ovejero 1991; Moneo 2003, 245; Alfayé Villa 2009; Arenas Esteban 2010, 89). Unfortunately, most of the Roman religious evidence, such as lararia, figurines or sculptures, have been found in cities or in their vicinity, therefore they do not seem to have any connection with Celtiberian natural sacred spaces. Since most of the identified deities of natural sacred spaces appear indigenous, considering that they bear a name of Celtic origin, the Romanitas of the remaining gods can be questioned. In fact, despite having Roman appearance, the deities worshipped at La Griega cave show a clear Celtiberian background (Deva, Nemedus Augustus and Deo Moclevo). Deva is believed to have been a water goddess (Mayer i Olivé and Abásolo 2011, 357–8), while Nemedus Augustus symbolises the union of the Celtic and Roman beliefs in a single dedication. This dedication acknowledges the dominant religious scheme and, by using the public cult epithet augustus, seeks its own integration and acceptance

5.  Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality within the Roman belief system (and the Roman establishment) (Marco Simón 1993; Mayer i Olivé and Abásolo 2011, 354–7). Diana and Hercules might have been an indigena interpretatio (Marco Simón 1987, 57; Sopeña Genzor 2005, 349–50; Häussler 2012), except for the Diana delubrum in Segobriga, a popular but typically Roman cult (Alföldy 1985; Almagro Gorbea 1995; Alfayé Villa 2009, 124–37), and the sacred space of Bonus Eventus (no. 37, Mangas Manjarrés and Martínez Caballero 2010, 345–7). Furthermore, the indigenous, ‘Celtic’ tradition is also present in the aforementioned natural sacred spaces. A local healing deity or even the mother goddesses could be behind the mud baths carried out at the Román cave (no. 28, Gómez Pantoja 1997; Gasperini 1998), but also at the cult displayed at the Fuente Giriego cave (no. 27, Alfayé Villa 2009, 52–6). Dercetius could be the local epithet of a superior god who probably had his sacred space at the St Lawrence peak in the Demanda range (no. 13, Marco Simón 1987, 63–4; Rivas Fernández 1993, 33). This saint is traditionally identified with the Sun and it therefore maintained the visibility concept etymologically referred by the name Dercetius (v. supra). Finally, the pre-existing local cult at La Dehesa, Valvanera and Nájera might have evolved into a veneration of the Virgin Mary, whose images appeared in

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trees (nos 10, 17 and 16; Marco Simón 1987, 71; Arenas Esteban 2007, 196–8). Besides the sacred spaces, votive epigraphy provides us with most of the Celtiberian theonyms, despite less than 50 instances (23%). Dedications to Roman deities prevail in the catalogue (62%), which is completed by ex-voto and anepigraphic altars (15%). Only for a few deities do we have more than one votive altar, since localism is the main feature of Celtiberian votive inscriptions. The exceptions are the Matres with 14 inscriptions, Lug, Arco and Drusuna with three inscriptions each, Cordonus and probably Airon with two each, though none of them is attested in the whole of Celtiberia. In fact, both plateaux usually share the most common deities, such as Epona (Lara de los Infantes-Segontia), Arco (Saldaña de Ayllón-Riba de Saelices), Lug (Uxama – Abánades and Torremocha) and Drusuna (Olmillos-Segobriga). As it has been noted by Gómez Pantoja and García Palomar (2001, 609–10), at least in the case of the two latter deities, the route between the modern cities overlaps with one of the major cattle tracks of the Iberian Peninsula (Cañada Real Soriana Oriental). Dedications to the Matres are particularly well represented in Celtiberia. Most of them appear in the north-western corner of Celtiberia, where they seem to match grosso

Fig. 5.7. Some dedications to the Matres are aligned along the north-western corner of Celtiberia. There is also a special concentration of altars dedicated to Mars around the Vadavero and the Moncayo mountains (nos 31 and 32) (Source: author, 2014).

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modo with the Cañada Real Segoviana, a cattle route that connects La Rioja, Burgos and Segovia provinces (Fig. 5.7). The distribution of the Matres in this area matches several sacred places discussed in this paper (no. 27, Fuente Giriego; no. 29, Román cave; no. 13, Dercetius; no. 21, San Cabrás; near no. 32, Moncayo). They were not only fertility goddesses of earth and water, both essential elements upon which cattle subsistence farmers depended, but also fecundity, abundance and health deities, which explains their close connection with water cults (Marco Simón 1987, 62; Olivares Pedreño 2002, 254–5). In this regard, at least four of the aforementioned sites had healing waters and all of them were located in important natural paths and mountain passes (no. 27, Fuente Giriego and no. 29, Román cave; Yanguas, near no. 21, San Cabrás and also Ágreda, near no. 32, Moncayo) (Gómez Pantoja 1997, 425–6). The preserved votive inscriptions are mainly dedicated to Roman gods. Iuppiter Optimus Maximus, Diana and Hercules are very common (21, 16 and 15 inscriptions for each); for Mars, Minerva, Fortuna and Mercury there are eight inscriptions. With just one each, ‘imperial deities’, such as Pietas, Concordia or Tutela, do not seem to be very common, despite their ability to be easily assimilated with local deities due to their abstract nature. The distribution of Roman votive inscriptions in Celtiberia can be interesting: for example, the eight altars dedicated to Mars predominantly spread around the Vadavero mountain, creating a north-eastern and south-eastern area that could also affect the Moncayo mountain (nos 31–2). As we have seen in the province of La Rioja with its groves and mountains, Moncayo and its peak are also known as Saint Michael mountain. This leads us to the question of cult continuity, as it seems that the Moncayo might have

been Christianised by replacing Mars with the archangel Saint Michael, the leader of god’s armies, always depicted as a soldier wearing Roman armour and carrying a spear or sword (Muela 2008, 328–32). Finally, Mercury is the single Roman deity worshipped throughout Celtiberia. But there are only eight inscriptions. He is always found in cities next to key routes, thus highlighting his role as god of trade and communication. Specifically, he was worshipped at Vareia (La Rioja) on the Roman road Tarraco–Legio VII; Arcobriga, at the mansio on the road Emerita Augusta–Caesaraugusta, at Segobriga, centre of several Roman roads, and at Uxama Argaela, mansio between Asturica and Caesaraugusta. He is also found along minor routes, such the Termes–Segovia at Confluentia.

Boundaries Rural sanctuaries can develop different functions within a community’s territory, depending on their location and their relationship with the surrounding area. Though symbolic boundaries might be very fragile to preserve over time, the sacredness attached to them may have turned them into unmovable features of the landscape, also impacting how inhabitants used the landscape, for example as production or living areas (Grau Mira 2010, 33–4). Sometimes peripheral spaces became an important reference point to a single community or to a group of communities as they were perceived to be located in no-man’s land and their status may have been symbolically evoked, for example, by associating the space to exceptional natural features. Such a peripheral place may subsequently evolve into a natural sacred space that may have acted as border, political or regional sanctuary. In some cases, the essential role they played within their landscape was maintained by newcomers as a recognition

Fig. 5.8. Left: the surrounding landscape of Covachón del Puntal (no. 22, Soria). Right: The Numantia (no. 5) and Épila caves (no. 6, Zaragoza). Both might be examples of probable community convergence points (Source: author, 2014).

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Fig. 5.9. On the left, La Griega cave is located in the peripheral territoria between the two Roman municipia of Confluentia (north) and Segovia (south). On the right, location of the Robusto cave between Roman Segontia (left), the mansio of Medinaceli (north) and Lutia (south) (Source: author, 2014).

to the previous but still present local organisation (EdlundBerry 1987, 41–2, 132–4, 141–2; Parcero Oubiña et al. 1998, 512–13). In order to obtain more information of the Celtiberian sacred spaces within their immediately surrounding territory or region, we follow Parcero Oubiña et al.’s theoretical model (1998, 513–15) which tries to detect and recognise ancient sacred spaces in the landscape through a series of indicators, such as land limit, unevenness, population vacuum, ritual sites, no-man’s land, unnatural appropriation, toponymy, folklore and sacred places. By using these criteria as a complementary tool, several of the listed features can be identified in some of the assumed Celtiberian sacred spaces. For example, the Dercetius mountain and the Robusto cave present eight and seven of Parcero Oubiña’s criteria (nos 13 and 12 of the catalogue), followed by La Dehesa and the Hercules delubrum each with matching six criteria (nos 10 and 36), and the Épila caves, Peñalba, Román cave and Moncayo with up to five criteria (nos 5, 6, 9, 29, 32). On the other hand, the well-known Celtiberian sacred spaces, such as La Griega cave, the Bonus Eventus delubrum and the Diana sanctuary in Segobriga (nos 28, 37, 11), hardly match two criteria, which shows that every place and its surrounding landscape attributes also need to be considered on its own. In this regard, this method seems more useful for the more peripheral rather than for the suburban sacred spaces (no. 1, Coscojar; no. 4, Cazoletas; or no. 24, Termes cave), or those whose exact geographical location is unknown (no. 35, Drusuna; no. 21, San Cabrás; no. 7, Trifanium; no. 8, Boterdus; or no. 33, Buradon). Furthermore, the analysis of the surrounding landscape of a sacred space and the mutual linkage between sites can

provide an insight into a site’s role within its communities. The Épila caves and the Covachón del Puntal could have acted as a spatial reference point to several surrounding settlements (nos 5, 6, 22). Such sites may therefore behaved as a community convergence site and might have helped, simultaneously, to delimit the area of influence of each Celtiberian settlement (Fig. 5.8). La Griega cave also seems to have developed the very same role, but on a larger scale (no. 28). This sacred space is located between the territoria of two oppida, which subsequently became Roman municipia. In addition to votive inscriptions, some inscriptions have been interpreted as evidence for magistrates from the two municipia visiting the site (Mayer i Olivé and Abásolo 1997, nos 35, 36, 48). Though highly speculative, it has been suggested that the different names and dates may insinuate a possible supervision of the natural sacred place by the official religious authorities of the municipium (Mayer i Olivé and Abásolo 1997, 255; Mangas Manjarrés and Martínez Caballero 2010, 353–4). According to them, La Griega cave might have been considered a natural frontier sanctuary between the two former communities of the Arevacci and their territoria, Segovia and Confluentia (Duratón), which had previously been transferred from the ‘oppidum’ Cerro Sopeta (Sepúlveda) (Fig. 5.9, left). The Robusto cave is another example of a possible spatial reference point within its surrounding border territory (no. 12). This may explain the concentration of archaeological sites and points of interest within the area: a megalithic grave, a Celtiberian cemetery and settlement, a Roman military camp and a Roman villa, as well as a chapel and a saltern (Arenas Esteban 2010, 89). This cave is also located

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at the modern border of three municipal areas, including the frontier between the two autonomous regions of Castilla y León and Castilla-La Mancha. The Celtiberian cemetery may have been a collective burial area, shared by several settlements, as suggested by its exceptional materials and its scale, consisting of 6000 graves (Arenas Esteban and Cortés 1995, 17). It is therefore feasible that the Robusto was a ritual and affluence centre shared by several peripheral settlements, still remembered at the beginning of the first century BC (Arenas Esteban 2010, 89; Gamo Pazos 2014, 55–9; Fig. 5.9, right). Apart from local territories, we also need to consider the Celtiberian ‘tribal’ boundaries, taking into account the scholarly controversies regarding tribal locations and borders (Burillo Mozota 2008, 182–250). The Dercetius, Moncayo and Peñalba mountains may be the best case studies as they stand out as major natural sacred spaces for different reasons (nos 13, 32 and 9). The Dercetius mountain was the natural frontier among the Pelendoni and the Berones, and its sacredness appears confirmed by epigraphy and literature, though unfortunately not by archaeological finds. There was no single excavation in the mountain area and no Celtiberian or Roman site has so far been found in the vicinity. As Parcero Oubiña’s theoretical model points out, cartography and local religious folklore can provide interesting data that need to be taken into account (1998, 513–15). This uncertainty is also present at the Moncayo mountain, which could have acted as a natural frontier, a possible trifinium, between the Titii, Arevacci and Lusones (Burillo Mozota 2007, 211). Peñalba has also been described as a convergence sanctuary since it was located at the south-eastern Celtiberian boundary and frequented by Celtiberians and Iberians according to the epigraphic record (Marco Simón and Alfayé Villa 2008; Alfayé Villa and Marco Simón 2008, 283–5). Finally, we also must consider Roman boundaries in our spatial analysis. In Roman times, Celtiberia was part of the province of Hispania Citerior Tarraconensis, but the creation of the conventus iuridici in the first century AD provided a crucial modification by splitting up Celtiberia into three conventus: Caesaraugustanus, Carthaginiensis and Cluniensis, which embraced the former territories of the Arevacci and Pelendoni. When drawing the boundaries of the conventus, the Romans followed major mountain ranges, starting at Demanda, Moncayo and finishing at the Guadarrama mountain (no. 13, Dercetius; no. 32, Moncayo; no. 31, Vadevero; no. 28, La Griega cave). Moreover, the southern boundary was also defined by following the Maestrazgo, Javalambre and Albarracín ranges (no. 3, La Vacada; no. 1, Coscojar; no. 9, Peñalba). Though most natural sacred spaces are found in the mountainous regions and on mountains (Moncayo, Demanda mountains, etc.), there has been no archaeological campaign in these areas, so the actual data does not provide any evidence that these symbolic values could have been

taken into consideration when the conventus boundaries were established.

Conclusions This paper has aimed to analyse Celtiberian natural sacred sites based on the scarce archaeological and epigraphic evidence and through the analysis of the sites’ setting in the landscape. Our catalogue includes 37 potential sacred spaces. In order to obtain more information about them, we have put each one in relation with surrounding settlements, roads and religious evidences in order to understand the evolution of their interaction with the Celtiberian communities and the new Roman reality between the third century BC and the second century AD. The most common Celtiberian natural sacred spaces are found near water sources and generally lack any manmade structures; occasionally they share their location with Palaeolithic paintings and carvings. Whether Celtiberian or Roman, the most common votive offering generally consists of inscriptions, followed far less often by pottery, which is almost exclusively found in the Aragón region. Unfortunately, most of the Celtiberian and Roman pottery is virtually impossible to date due to the methods applied during excavations. Since the remains left by possible ritual activity are better preserved in caves than on peaks or in groves, these spaces dominate our evidence for Celtiberian natural sacred spaces. Sacred caves developed a distinctive profile, different from Iberian sacred caves: they are relatively small spaces with no internal water sources and have preserved rock inscriptions, but hardy any archaeological materials. Landscape analysis has increased our knowledge of natural sacred spaces. The diachronic analysis of the distances between settlements and sacred sites reveals how their isolated location increasingly developed from the Late Iron Age to the Roman period. Despite the fact that they could have maintained their role as local sacred spaces, the impact of Roman territorial reorganisation and spatial administration, together with social and ideological changes, might have accelerated the decrease of worshippers to the (by then new) remote natural sacred spaces. Though our knowledge of ancient roads and paths in some of the Celtiberian areas is regrettably low, our results seem to confirm the local influence of these sacred spaces. The conventional idea of remote and unreachable cult places seems rather doubtful to me since nearly half of our catalogued sites are within a 2 km radius of a road. In addition, even though transhumance routes may be used only as guidance, they provide a significant contribution, as in the case of La Griega and Drusuna. Moreover, natural sacred spaces maintained their ‘Celtic’ tradition even in Roman times. Though the Celtiberians adopted many Roman ritual practises, media (and the use

5.  Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality of Latin writing), people’s Romanitas also seems to have embraced the ancestral traditions; for a short period, most of the pre-Roman natural sacred places and the essence of their deities seem to have been maintained. The integration of these spaces into the Roman sphere was performed through votive rock inscriptions and altars, thus adopting writing and the Latin alphabet, but also embracing Roman practises, as we have seen in the case of La Griega cave. In the absence of any major architectural monumentalisation, epigraphy and Roman-style rituals seem to have been the main forms of how Celtiberian natural sacred spaces were monumentalised. Migration and settlement transfer seem to have been the main causes for their abandonment, and not the acquisition of new beliefs, since most sacred spaces were rather localised sanctuaries and relied on their local catchment area. Embracing new criteria in landscape analysis may provide new perspectives and valuable information with which to examine features of natural sacred spaces. Their characteristics are so variable that general methodologies may not work for all sacred spaces, thus necessitating individual analyses. In this regard Celtiberian natural sacred spaces seem to have acted as symbolical centres and as community convergence sites for several settlements, communities and ethnic groups. This study is the first attempt to identify and understand Celtiberian sacred spaces and their development during the Roman period. It attempts to provide a more comprehensive understanding of the evolution of these sacred places within their communities and their surrounding landscape, where spatial distribution and landscape components played a key role in the possible social function and influence span of the sacred spaces in Celtiberia.

Note 1

I am referring to the Catholic festivals displayed at Manjarrés, Nájera/Badarán, Anguiano and Vinuesa (see bibliography in catalogue nos 14, 16, 17 and 34). The second one involves actions very similar to the ones displayed at La Dehesa (no. 10). The third includes the Virgins of Valvanera and Magdalena (Anguiano), while the Virgen del Pino or Virgin of the Pine (Vinuesa) has been said to be linked with the cult of Aricia.

Bibliography Abascal Palazón, J.M. and Almagro Gorbea, M. (2012) Segobriga, la ciudad hispano-romana del sur de la Celtiberia. In G. Carrasco Serrano (ed.) La ciudad romana en Castilla-La Mancha, 287–370. Cuenca, Ediciones Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha. Abásolo, J.A. (1985) Inscripciones romanas de las provincias de Segovia, Burgos y Palencia. Archivo Español de Arqueología 58, 159–66. Adrados, F.R. (1995) Propuestas para la interpretación de Botorrita I. Emerita 63, 1–16. Aguilera y Gamboa, E. de (1911) Páginas de la Historia Patria por mis excavaciones arqueológicas. Madrid.

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Martínez Bea, M. (2004) Un arte no tan levantino. Perduración ritual de los abrigos pintados: el ejemplo de La Vacada (Castellote, Teruel). Trabajos de Prehistoria 61, 111–25. Martínez Bea, M. (2009) Las pinturas rupestres del abrigo de La Vacada (Castellote, Teruel). Zaragoza, Universidad de Zaragoza. Martínez Caballero, S. and Mangas Manjarrés, J. (2005) Tiermes celtibérica. In A. Jimeno Martínez and J. Igna (eds) Celtíberos: tras la estela de Numancia, 169–75. Soria, Diputación Provincial de Soria. Martínez Caballero, S. and Santiago Pardo, J. (2010) La ocupación del territorio segoviano en época imperial romana (ss. I–V d.C.). In S. Martínez Caballero, J. Santiago Pardo and A. Zamora Canellada (eds) Segovia romana II: gentes y territorio, 75–122. Segovia, Caja Segovia. Martínez Caballero, S. and Santos Yanguas, J. (2005) Pervivencias indígenas en la Termes romana. Elementos para su evaluación. Palaeohispanica 5, 685–706. Martínez Perona, J. V (1992) El santuario ibérico de la Cueva Merinel (Bugarra). En torno a la función del vaso caliciforme. Serie de Trabajos Varios 89, 261–81. Mayer i Olivé, M. and Abásolo, J.A. (1997) Inscripciones latinas. In M.S. Corchón (ed.) La Cueva de La Griega de Pedraza, 183–254. Zamora, Junta de Castilla y León. Mayer i Olivé, M. and Abásolo, J.A. (2011) Restos cultuales romanos en la Cueva de La Griega (Pedraza, Segovia). Sintria 3–4, 346–61. Moneo, T. (2003) Religio iberica. Santuarios, ritos y divinidades (s. VII–I a.C.). Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia. Moreno Gallo, I. (2011) Vías romanas en Castilla y León. Available at: www.viasromanas.net (accessed: 01/05/2014). Muela, C. (2008) Iconografía de los santos. Tres Cantos, Akal. Olivares Pedreño, J.C. (2002) Los dioses de la Hispania Céltica. Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia. Olivares Pedreño, J.C. (2003) Reflexiones sobre las ofrendas votivas a dioses indígenas en Hispania: ámbitos de culto y movimientos de población. Veleia 20, 297–313. Oria Segura, M. (1993) Los templos de Hércules en la Hispania romana. Anales de Arqueología Cordobesa 4, 221–32. Ortego Frías, T. (1987) Estaciones de arte rupestre del Alto Duero: El Covachón del Puntal. Boletín Informativo de la Asociación Española de Amigos de la Arqueología 23, 34–9. Palol, P. de and Vilella, J. (1986) ¿Un santuario príapico en Clunia? Koiné 2, 15–25. Palol, P. de and Vilella, J. (1987) Inscripciones en el santuario ‘priápico’. In P. de Palol (ed.) Clunia II. La epigrafía de Clunia, 129–56. Madrid, Ministerio de Cultura. Parcero Oubiña, C., Criado Boado, F. and Santos Estévez, M. (1998) La arqueología de los espacios sagrados. Arqueología Espacial 19–20, 507–16. Pascual Mayoral, P. and Pascual González, H. (1984) Carta Arqueológica de La Rioja. El Cidacos. Logroño, Amigos de la Historia de Calahorra. Perales, M.P. (1989) Introducción al Poblamiento Ibérico en Mora de Rubielos (Teruel). Teruel, Seminario de Arqueología y Etnología Turolense. Pérez Casas, J.A. and Sus Jiménez, M.L. (1984) Un conjunto de cuevas en el Sistema ibérico. Estudio Preliminar. Arqueología Espacial 2, 35–52.

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Natural sacred places

Coscojar

Castillejo Legacho

La Vacada

Cazoletas

Épila I

Épila V

Trifanium of C. B.

Boterdus

Peñalba

La Dehesa

Diana delubrum

Robusto

Dercetius

Manjarrés

 

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

G

M

C

G

G

M

G

G

C

C

C

C

C

C

Manjarrés, LR

Estollo, LR

Aguilar de Anguita, GU

Saelices, CU

Olmeda de Cobeta, GU

Villastar, TE

Campiel, ZA?

Botorrita, ZA?

Épila, ZA

Épila, ZA

Monreal de Ariza, ZA

Castellote, TE

Calamocha, TE

Mora de Rubielos, TE

Type Location

ext

int?

ext

ext

int

ext

ext

ext

ext

ext

1?

1

1?

S

Morfology ext

W

1

1

1

R

1

1

1

E

1

1

1

1

1

P

1

M

Celtiberian

1

1

1

1

1

E

1?

1

1

1

P

M

Roman

Celtiberian natural sacred places

Pérez Casas and Sus Jiménez 1984, 35–52; Burillo Mozota 1997, 236; Moneo 2003, 245, 265; Alfayé Villa 2009, 63–65.

Royo Guillén and Gómez Lecumberri 2006, 293–321; Alfayé Villa 2009, 71.

Martínez Bea 2004, 111–25; Alfayé Villa 2009, 74; Marco Simón and Royo Guillén 2012, 308–9.

Turiel Ibáñez 1995, 9–19; Moneo 2003, 264; Alfayé Villa 2009, 66–68.

Perales 1989, 35–37; Moneo 2003, 245.

Bibliography

Sopeña Genzor 1987, 58–59. (Continued)

Gómez-Moreno 1919, 289; Albertos Firmat 1974, 153–5; Salinas de Frías 1985, 81–101; Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 20; Marco Simón 1999, 154; Olivares Pedreño 2002, 117; 2003, 300.

Aguilera y Gamboa 1911, lám. A y B; Alfayé Villa 2009, 41; Arenas Esteban 2010, 89–90; Gamo Pazos 2014, 55–59.

Almagro Basch 1976, 187–214; Alföldy 1985, 139–59; Vázquez Hoys 1983, 331–8; 1995, v.2, 229, 236–8, 245; Almagro Gorbea 1995, 61–97; Marco Simón 1999, 153; Alfayé Villa 2009, 124–37; Fernández Nieto 2010b, 539; Abascal Palazón and Almagro Gorbea 2012, 297–331.

Arenas Esteban 2007a; 2010, 92–94; Fernández Nieto 2010a, 75.

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Gutiérrez Pérez 1992, 63–64; Alfayé Villa 2009, 27.

Beltrán Martínez 1973; Adrados 1995, 2–5; Villar and Jordán Cólera 2001; de Bernardo Stempel 2010; Fernández Nieto 2010a, 73–74; Fernández Nieto 2010b, 542–3.

1 Pérez Casas and Sus Jiménez 1984, 35–52; Burillo Mozota 1997, 236; Moneo 2003, 245, 265; Alfayé Villa 2009, 63–65.

G

5.  Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality 73

Natural sacred places

Berunius

Nájera / Badarán

Ntra. Sra. Valvanera

Ntra. Sra. Magdalena

Ntra. Sra. Hermedaña

Barranco del Rus

Barraco San Cabrás

Covachón del Puntal

Barranco del Hocino

Termes

Labrada

Lóbrega or Sepúlveda

Fuente Giriego

La Griega

 

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Nájera, LR

Logroño, LR

C

C

C

C

C

C

C

C

C

Pedraza, SE

Duratón, SE

Sepúlveda, SE

Sepúlveda, SE

Montejo de Tiermes, SO

Torrevicente, SO

Valonsadero, SO

Lería, SO

Torrevicente, SO

CTH Sorzano, LR

CTH Anguiano, LR

CTH Anguiano, LR

G

G

Type Location

ext

int

ext

ext

ext

ext

ext

ext

int

W

1

1

S

Morfology

1

1

R

1

1

1

E

1?

1?

P

1?

1

M

Celtiberian

1

1

1

1

1

E

1?

1?

P

1?

1

M

Roman G

(Continued)

Corchón et al. 1997; Mayer i Olivé and Abásolo 1997; Marco Simón 1999, 151; Olivares Pedreño 2002, 124; Santos Yanguas et al. 2005, 247–84; Sopeña Genzor 2005, 357; Alfayé Villa 2009, 43–51; Mangas Manjarrés and Martínez Caballero 2010, 347–50; Mayer i Olivé and Abásolo 2011.

Knapp 1992, 168; Marco Simón 2005, 297; Santos Yanguas et al. 2005, 239–40; Alfayé Villa 2009, 52–56; Mangas Manjarrés and Martínez Caballero 2010, 350–1.

Knapp 1992, 290–1; Olivares Pedreño 2002, 129; Santos Yanguas et al. 2005, nº158; Alfayé Villa 2009, 51–52.

Lucas Pellicer 1974, 63; Del Hoyo Calleja 2000; Santos Yanguas et al. 2005, nº156; Alfayé Villa 2009, 137–9; Mangas Manjarrés and Martínez Caballero 2010, 347–50; Santos Yanguas and Hoces de la Guardia 2010, 327–8.

Calvo 1913, 380–1; Salinas Frías 1985, 316–7; Martínez Caballero and Mangas Manjarrés 2005, 171–2; Martínez Caballero and Santos Yanguas 2005, 692–7; Alfayé Villa 2009, 60–62.

Cabré Aguiló 1916, 155; Taracena Aguirre 1941, 163; Jimeno Martínez 1980, 163–4; Alfayé Villa 2009, 39–40.

Jimeno Martínez and Gómez-Barrera 1983, 195–202; Ortego Frías 1987, 34–39; Alfayé Villa 2009, 72–74.

Taracena Aguirre 1941, 91; Pascual Mayoral and Pascual González 1984, 73; Alfayé Villa 2009, 62.

Cabré Aguiló 1917, 112; Gómez-Barrera 1992, 239; Alfayé Villa 2009, 72.

Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 90–91.

Valdivieso Ovejero 1986; Sopeña Genzor 1987, 60; Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 89–90.

Valdivieso Ovejero 1986; Sopeña Genzor 1987, 59; Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 82–86; Arenas Esteban 2007, 195.

Sopeña Genzor 1987, 58–59; Marco Simón 1999, 152.

Espinosa Ruiz and López Romero 1997, 262; Alfayé Villa 2009, 27.

Bibliography

Celtiberian natural sacred places (Continued)

74 Ruth Ayllón-Martín

Román

San García

Vadavero

Moncayo

Buradon

Virgen del Pino

Drusuna

Hercules delubrum

Bonus Eventus delubrum

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

Beratón, SO?

Soria/ Zaragoza

Ólvega, SO

Barriosuso, BU

Coruña del Conde, BU

G

G

G

Sepúlveda, SE

Montejo de la vega, SEG

Olmillos, SO

CTH Vinuesa, SO

G

M

M

C

C

Type Location

int?

ext

ext

3+2

S

Morfology int

W

6

1

R

7

1

E

5+2

P

2+1

M

Celtiberian

14

1

1

1

1

E

3+3

1+1

M

Roman P

1

G

Alföldy 1994; Mangas Manjarrés and Martínez Caballero 2010, 345–7; Ruiz Gutiérrez 2011, 217.

Abásolo 1985, 159–60; Knapp 1992, 295; Oria Segura 1993, 227–9; Gómez Pantoja and García Palomar 2001, 96; Santos Yanguas et al. 2005, 121–3; Mangas Manjarrés and Martínez Caballero 2010, 354–5.

Gómez Pantoja and García Palomar 1995, 187–9; Marco Simón 1999, 151–2; Gimeno Pascual and Ramírez Sánchez 2002, 294–7; Olivares Pedreño 2002, 124; Sopeña Genzor 2005, 353.

Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 86–89.

Dolç 1953, 232–4; Blázquez Martínez 1962, 9; Salinas de Frías 1985, 91; Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 36; Gutiérrez Pérez 1992, 64; Alfayé Villa 2009, 27.

Dolç 1953, 182–5; Blázquez Martínez 1962, 10; Salinas de Frías 1985, 91; Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 36; Gutiérrez Pérez 1992, 64; Alfayé Villa 2009, 26.

Dolç 1953, 186; Valdivieso Ovejero 1991, 36; Gutiérrez Pérez 1992, 70; Lorrio Alvarado 2005, 333; Alfayé Villa 2009, 26.

Marco Simón 1999, 155; Lorrio Alvarado 2005, 333; Marco Simón and Alfayé Villa 2008, 511; Alfayé Villa 2009, 38–39.

Palol and Vilella 1986, 15–25; Palol and Vilella 1987, 129–56; Gómez Pantoja 1997, 421–32; Gasperini 1998, 161–82; Alfayé Villa 2009; Cuesta Moratinos 2012, 167–80.

Bibliography

Key C: cave; G: grove; M: mountain; CTH: Catholic evidences. W: Water presence; S: Structures; R: Rock art; E: Epigraphy; P: Pottery; M: Metal; G: Glass.

Natural sacred places

 

Celtiberian natural sacred places (Continued)

5.  Natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia: myth and reality 75

6 Nature as sacred landscape in Roman Dacia Csaba Szabó

Sacred landscape revised In the nineteenth century, religious studies and archaeological discourse understood landscape mainly as a totality of natural, geographical and physical elements of a territory, some of them being sacred by their own nature. Later, ‘place’ and ‘locality’ became separately identified notions, especially due to the so-called ‘spatial turn’ theory where contexts were more important than places (Rau 2019, 67–77). The rapid development of landscape theory (Aston 1985, 9–12; Johnson 2007, 3–6) redefined the dimensions of this notion, arguing that landscape is a totality of spatial agents in the social world. Similarly, sacred landscape became a fashionable term in the historiography, mainly related to rites and rituals. The influential work of Jonathan Smith (1987) and the works of Catherine Bell (1992) marked the redefinition of sacred landscape (Moser and Feldman 2014, with further bibliography). For Roman religious studies, sacred landscape as a theory appears in the influential article of Hubert Cançik (1986). He defines landscape as a multi-layered socio-cultural construction, where nature is only one of many different elements, frequently acting as part of a landscape ‘memory’ or an imaginary landscape (Jenkyns 2013). More recently, landscape has been interpreted in more varied ways, for example, reflecting paradigm change between disciplines of place theory, landscape theory, urban and religious studies. Sacred landscape – also referred to as ‘symbolic landscape’ (Cosgrove 1984, 13–39; Backhaus and Murungi 2010, 3–32) or ‘religious landscape’ – could potentially have similar connotations as the landscape of memory (Birksted 2000, 1–9). Place theory has been innovatively connected to religious studies and the archaeological approach to ‘the sacred’ (Moser and Feldman 2014, 2–6) based mainly on the work of Edward Casey (2008). This has led to the discussion of ‘place-scape’ or ‘place-world’, where the concept of ­‘constitutive co-ingredient’ (Moser and Feldman 2014,

6) made an interdependency between ritual and place: from whence ritual became emplacing and emplaced, and place becomes dependent on rituals and their agents (see also Rüpke 2018 and Szabó 2018, 1–10). Therefore, within this understanding, landscape is no longer equivalent to nature. Physical geography and nature must be analysed as an important component – or even agent – of this interdependent relationship between ritual and place. In this article, I will talk about the sacred landscape as a complex and artificial construction where natural elements represent only a single part of a larger construction – transformed, imagined, integrated and manipulated by human activities.

Nature and geography of Dacia: between imaginary and reality Before presenting the latest results on the palaeogeography of Dacia, reconstructing the physical landscape of the former province, one must ask what the Romans knew about Dacia. How was the province perceived by the common people? Even today, the general knowledge of the contemporary societies of foreign countries and unvisited places are reconstructed on the basis of stereotypes and topoi (Schneider 2005, 65–94). The fear or emotional distance of the unknown places could transform a society into an emotional community (Chaniotis and Ducrey 2013). Romans – even if they never travelled to some places – had an imagined idea of Italy (Haug 2011) and the provinces. The study of the Roman imaginary and its religious impact is a new field of research and it is worth expanding on some particular case studies, such as Dacia (Jenkyns 2013, 135). There must be multiple imagined Daciae. The imagined Dacia of an exclusive elite could be based on literary sources (more than 80 passages even before the Roman conquest of Dacia: Iliescu, Popescu and Ştefan 1964),

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famous visual representations, such as Trajan’s Column, reliefs and panels representing the personification of the province, coins, itineraries and maps (Talbert 2004), or even personal letters (Crişan and Timoc 2005). The soldiers’ and merchants’ understanding of Dacia could be similarly based on coins, orally transmitted legends of the Trajanic wars (Bruun 2003), personal accounts and memories of visits in the province or painted and portable itineraries (Mititelu 1943). All of these, however, had some common features. Most of the literary sources mention some specific features of the physical landscape: high and cold mountains and unfriendly climate (Vergil, Georgica 3.355–80, Seneca, de providentia 4.14), dense and foggy woods and forests (Florus Bellum Thracium 1.39.21: curio Dacia tenus venit, sed tenebras saltuum expavit; Nenninger 2001, 139), abundant moisture and pasture (Porphyry De antro) and the long and majestic Danube (Caesar de bello Gallico, 6.25.5–7, Diodorus Siculus 4.56.7; Peţan 2012). The Dacians, as the indigenous population and an essential element of this imaginary landscape, appear as a brave, fearless and brutal people (rigidi getae: Secula 1996), conquered in two ruthless wars by Trajan (Horace Carmina 2.20.7–19). All of these elements are typical for the fines concept of the Romans (Nemeti 2011; Grüll 2013a). The wildness and unfriendly nature, however, sometimes appear as romantic and idealised features of this distant end of the Empire (Horace Carmina 3.24.9–24). The real fauna, flora, climate and geography of the province can be reconstructed with modern, interdisciplinary methods. The recent results of aerial archaeology, the fast evolution of the limes studies in Romania, new centuriation research as well as archaeobotanical and osteological analyses (Gudea 2009) have enriched our view on the limits and physical aspects of Dacia (Szabó 2014a). There are also new local and international tendencies towards palaeogeographical and ecological research, focusing especially on the geography of the Roman mines, the massive deforestation of the Roman Empire and its impact on economy, trade and even religion (Woolf 2012, 48–61; Grüll 2013b). The recent study by Rob Wanner (2012) pioneered a new way of interpreting the modification of the landscape by the construction of the forts and cities. Kaplan’s recent results also proved the massive deforestation of Dacia in the Roman period (Kaplan 2009). The 3D and virtual reconstructions of some landscapes of the province can also help to improve our knowledge of ancient spatial networks and space theory. Beside the results of the modern interdisciplinary methods, we can recreate the physical landscape and flora and fauna of the province, with the use of indirect or secondary sources, like figural representation of the forests, rivers and natural landscapes on Trajan’s column (Nenninger 2001, 139; Antonescu 2009), the botanical analysis of the local funeral and votive iconography, or medieval sources and descriptions of Transylvania (Csukovits 2005).

The three main geographical and natural characteristics of the province – forests, mountains and healing waters – marked not only the motivation of the conquerors, but also the religious life of the provincial population. In many aspects, Dacia – like the German, Moesian or Pannonian parts of the Empire – was just another ‘wooded’ province, not very unusual for a Roman soldier or merchant. Many of the sacred landscapes have no specifically local aspects, but reflect the general feelings and attitude of the ancient (not only Roman) person for some natural phenomena like the forest or waters (Nenninger 2001, 18–28; Mylonopoulos 2008; 2013). The creation of the province was a fast, artificial and a brutal process (Nemeti 2011) which forced and attracted thousands of Romans ex toto orbe Romano – the army, accompanied by merchants and other civilian groups – to move in and get in direct contact with the province. The majority of the newcomers in the province – especially the first generation in the age of Trajan and the always changing, dynamic elites of the province – were confronted with a new, physical landscape. The fast and dynamic transfer of these previously established religious small groups into an anecdotally marked and wild landscape represents the specialty of the province. Its particularity – if it had one – could be served by its literary ‘fame’, which defined the first generation as an ‘emotional community’ (Chaniotis and Ducrey 2013) in a religious sense, where fear, superstitions, homesickness or the transformation and manipulation of the local geography was highly prevalent (on the homesickness of soldiers, cf. Adamson 2012).

Natural elements as religious agents in Roman Dacia How did nature become an integral part of the sacred landscapes of Roman Dacia? Mylonopoulos cites the letter of Seneca as proof of the omnipresence of the sacred nature (2008, 54–6). However, we know that not all fountains, mountains, caves or hot baths were worshipped as sacred places. What makes a natural place sacred? In most cases, it is an act of individual choice and a result of space sacralisation. Communal memory, ritual coherence and institutionalised sacralisation also help to maintain the continuity of sacred places (Moser 2014, 29–30). Due to some specific geological and botanical features of the province (e.g. dense forests, mountains, hot springs, numerous rivers, salt, gold and marble), these natural elements were already used as sacred spaces in the Dacian kingdom before the Roman conquest; however, the identity of their exact religious context and continuity during the provincial period is very problematic (Nemeti 2013). Some of the hot springs, such as Germisara, Aquae or Ad Mediam, could have been venerated also by Dacians. The worship of the forests, spirits of the roads, trade, sky and mines

6. Nature as sacred landscape in Roman Dacia are present, too, in the slightly known Dacian mythology (Spanu 2013).

Transforming nature into a sacred place The earliest places where religious activity took place (Smith 1987) were within those natural formations that a society considered to be ‘sacred’ due to their rare, unusual or unique

79

geological or natural feature (Stek 2014, 228–9). Springs, fountains, mountains, caves and cavities are just few of these formations (Fig. 6.1). The continuity of sacred natural places from pre-Roman Dacia to the provincial context is very problematic; however, it seems to be plausible. One of the most relevant examples of the directly transformed nature into sacred ‘place-scape’ are the sanctuaries of Germisara (Geogiu Băi, Algyógyfürdő). The natural cavity in the form

Fig. 6.1. Map of Dacia with healing sanctuaries (Map based on Schäfer 2007, 357, fig. 1, with the kind permission of the author).

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Csaba Szabó

Fig. 6.2. Topography of Roman Germisara and its sites (after Pescaru and Alicu 2000, 68, pl. XXI).

of a dome was created by an extremely dynamic hydrothermal spring. The cavity’s original form and structure is hard to reconstruct because of the transformation of the landscape caused by the human activity from the Dacian period to our contemporary period (Ollivier 2008, 18). The main cavity and several small springs and vapour sources are also, to this day, permanently changing, as they were in Roman times. The archaeological excavations from the 1980s revealed two phases of construction and multiple annexed buildings that mainly followed the rapid change of the natural cavity. In this case, the rocky dome and cavity

transformed and influenced the human activity rather than the reverse. Archaeological, numismatic, onomastic and epigraphic sources could indicate the pre-Roman use of some locations where Roman baths were constructed (Pescaru and Alicu 2000, 66; Fodorean 2012). The worship of the nymphs as syncretistic divinities of indigenous goddesses is also a plausible theory (Nemeti 2010; 2013; Piso 2015). The natural landscape in Germisara was only slightly transformed, most of the buildings in the first and also in the second phase (before AD 168) were carefully adapted to the landscape and

6.  Nature as sacred landscape in Roman Dacia

81

Fig. 6.3. The sanctuary of Germisara after the modern reconstructions in the 1990s (Photo: Aurora Petan).

not inverse (Figs 6.2–3). This may be considered as proof of the sacred nature of the cavity and the worship of the hot water. The golden votive plates and ritual deposits (altars and statues) show a typical ‘Celtic’, later ‘Romanised’ tradition of worshipping waters and springs (Merrifield 1987, 22–58; Müller 2002, 56–66; Schäfer 2009); however, this cannot be demonstrated in every province. In the case of Germisara, the natural cavity and the water itself seem to have been sacred, and also architecturally constructed by rocks, stones and cavities. The human-made buildings are just additional places, providing the physical environment for the worship of the sacred. They do not destroy or change anything within the natural landscape; on the contrary, the form, shape and functionality of the buildings are strictly related to the thermal waters and their courses, movements and rapid geomorphologic changes. Beside Germisara, there are numerous other springs, fountains and rivers worshipped and transformed directly – without major modification of the natural landscape – into sacred spaces, such as Ad Mediam (Băile Herculane) and Aquae (Călan). In both cases, the epigraphic evidence shows the special dedicative formulas (genio loci fontibus, dis et numinibus aquarum) relating to the important presence of the water. It has been argued that personified springs and hot waters were never just used as part of a larger, artificially created sacred place, but that they were in fact worshipped for their own natural power (Cumurciuc 2011; Piso 2015).

Similarly, there are some natural caves transformed into Mithraic spelaea in Dacia. The recreation of the spelaeum, the mythical cavern where the tauroctony took place, was one of the main purposes of every Mithras sanctuary (Beck 2006, 41–2). The idea of worshipping caves, however, is not a ‘Mithraic’ invention, it was just one of the many ‘fashionable’ aspects of this cult (about grotto: Mylonopoulos 2008, 56–7). There are numerous examples from all over the Roman Empire of natural caves being used as mithraeum (CIMRM 716, 895, 1280, 1409, 1442, 1457, 1482, 1846, Schwarzerden, Duino, Reichweiler, Fertőrákos spelaeum). In Dacia, there are two possible places used as Mithraic caverns. Peştera Veterani, one of the most famous and mythologised caves in Romania, is considered even today as a sacred space by many Dacomanic groups. The archaeological excavations between 1964 and 1965 revealed Roman inscriptions, bricks and architectural structures (Pintilie 2000, 236). Similarly, the so-called ‘Peşterea lui Traian’ in the valley of the Cernei river, visited by Franz Cumont at the end of the nineteenth century, is considered as an uncertain Mithraic cave. After Cumont’s visit, there was no further research or investigation into the cave. There is no proof, as has been claimed by many scholars (Pintilie 2000, 235), that there ever was a mithraeum in Doştat; the famous monuments preserved in the castle of the Teleki family surely came from a great urban Mithraic community, such as Apulum or Sarmizegetusa.

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Natural cavities were also used as sanctuaries or sacred places in the area of the mines and quarries (about stone quarries of Dacia: Bajusz and Konyelicska 2009). A possible cave transformed into a place of worship was found in the so-called ‘Széles fal’, in the ‘Ilonkavölgye’ valley near Porolissum. Here, nineteenth-century Hungarian folklore preserved the memory of a famous female statue known as the ‘Ilonka fairy’. The detailed description of the statue from the nineteenth century fits the representation of a Roman goddess, but her identity is impossible to establish (Magyar 2007, 100).

Nature as integrated part of sacred spaces The second type of sacred place where nature plays an important role is where geographical elements – springs, fountains, rivers, trees and hills – were ‘integrated’ into a much larger artificial landscape dominated by monumental human-made structures (Mylonopoulos 2008, 67–75). In these cases, mostly relating to urban landscapes, nature suffers a drastic transformation and becomes a secondary, integrated part of a complex sacred place. Sanctuaries or complex sacred areas of this kind represent not only emplaced and embodied religious experience, but also serve as self-representation, monumentalisation and individual acts, such as euergetistic activity of the local elite. Monopolising ritual places and activity with the help of architectural monumentalisation and nature creates a possibility not only for staging public spectacles and performing rituals, but also for expressing power, economic status and memory (Ma 2009). This tendency of organising religion within the context of urban landscape was mostly presented by the polis religion theory which has recently been heavily criticised (Woolf 1997; Bremmer 2010, 13–35). Recent studies have shown the important role of competitive individuals and rival attractions in creating performances and public religious acts (Woolf 1997, 80; Rüpke 2013, 25–7). In Dacia there are some sacred places where natural features were agents in monumentalised space sacralisation. One of the best examples for this is the so-called Locus Apulensis, the Asklepieion of Apulum (Fig. 6.4; Szabó 2004). If we accept Ádám Szabó’s theory, then there was a sacred area (locus sacer) with multiple buildings outside the walls of the Colonia Aurelia Apulensis, in the north-eastern part of the city near the river of the Ompoly (Ampoiţă) and at the foot of the ‘Kutyamál’ Hill (Dealul Furcilor). Inscriptions and sporadic excavations suggest a sanctuary for Apollo Salutaris and Diana as well as a healing centre, an ‘Asklepieion’. The area of c. 0.3 km2 was a complex and monumental architectural achievement of elite self-representation. The inscriptions suggest that there were several reconstructions of the portico of the Asklepieion, the bridge over the river and the erection of numerous statues and altars as an act of euergetism and self-expression by

Fig. 6.4. Physical survey results of the Asklepieion (Locus) from Apulum (Source: http://foto.cimec.ro/cronica/2004/030/rsz_0.jpg).

the local elite, mostly magistrates of the civilian town (CIL III 975, 976; AE 1993, 1337). The locus was not only a place for self-expression for the elite, but also a legally defined sacred templum (locus sacer) with its own priests (antistes huiusque loci). This complex was also a place of religious embodiment where healing was a lived activity of the worshippers and patients (Ahearne-Kroll 2014). The complexity of such places were increased and quasi-legitimised by geographic features: the river Ompoly, the Dealul Furcilor Hill and the vallum of the city wall were natural and semi-natural formations, limiting and cutting the locus from the rest of the world, creating an earthly, real templum in Apulum. The fountain in the Asklepieion and near the Diana shrine (Szabó 2014b, 58) also suggests the integrated feature of the local geography. The existence of the Tăuşor lake in Antiquity has not yet been proven; however, the geological and hydrological features of the area suggest that the physical aspects of the locus and the colonia were transformed many times into an island, having been surrounded by the floodplain of the Mureş and the marshy area in the city’s western part. Similarly, the Asklepieion from Sarmizegetusa has fountains integrated in the architectural landscape (Pescaru and Alicu 2000, 41). Gardens and flora also represent an integrated part of many sanctuaries and sacred places of Dacia. A notable example is the shrine of Liber Pater where the central place was interpreted as an open-air garden (Schäfer and Diaconescu 1997; Fiedler and Höpken 2014). Similarly, in great free space areas, such as in the case of the temenos of the Asklepieion from Sarmizegetusa (Pescaru and Alicu 2000, 39) or on the plateau of the sanctuaries in Porolissum, trees and gardens surely played a key role as integrated natural elements (see also Stackelberg 2009,

6.  Nature as sacred landscape in Roman Dacia 86–92). The presence of a so-called fanum in Apulum (CIL III 1005) also suggests a non-architectural integration of the sacred. Rivers and lakes also played an important role as integrated elements of sacred places. Cults, with highly innovative and expressive processions and rituals, such as the cults of Isis or Liber Pater, integrated rivers in their cultic areas (Feldman 2014, 35–54). The possible Iseum of Apulum (Szabó 2014b, 66) was close to the bank of the Mureş river, which could suggest that the river was part of the cultic area and ritual activities, as happened in many cases. Similarly, the presence of numerous aquatic deities in Apulum (also a genius nautarum) and a possible salt bureau in the colonia (Szabó 2014c) suggest a port sanctuary in the city or at least an accumulation of altars near the riverbank. Slopes, hills and mountains served also as integrated parts of some sanctuaries. Mithraic sanctuaries were usually built in deeper areas, imitating the mythical cavern or spelaeum (Szabó 2018, 98–120). One interesting aspect could be the presence – or absence – of natural light and the sun as a factor for orientation and internal structure for some sanctuaries. The presence of a horologarius (keeper of the horologium) in Apulum clearly suggests knowledge of sundials and astronomy among the people (CIL III 1070). Nature surely played an important role and could be found as an integrated part of rural sanctuaries and their sacred places. Identifying these, however, is very problematic in the case of Dacia. The majority of the identified ‘rural’ settlements are in fact, sporadic finds labelled by the Romanian historiography as vici, pagi and villae rusticae (Gudea 2008). The problematic aspect of this discipline is also shown by the fact that most of the works dealing with Dacian rural settlements and villas forget to discuss and define these Roman legal terms. A redefinition of these could redraw the rural aspects of a province, as some recent analogies from other provinces have shown (Kovács 2013). Identifying religious activities in a rural context in Dacia is still a problematic and absent point in the historiography based mainly on epigraphic evidence (Bărbulescu 1998).

The indirect impact of nature on the religious life of the provincials Natural elements could not only be sacred by their own nature, sacralised by collective memory or consecutive rituals, or integrated in more complex architectural places, but also influenced indirectly the religious activity of the provincials. The popularity of some cults in Dacia could be interpreted not only as a general, ‘imperial’ tendency, but also a local specificity. In many cases, it is hard to explain the direct influence of nature. For example, is the presence of the cult of Fortuna and the nymphs among the Illyrian communities of the gold mines in Alburnus Maior influenced by the Dacian mines? Or is it rather a transportation

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of local Illyrian deities and a sign of ‘patriotism’ of the cult of paternal gods (dii patri)? Similarly, the cult of Terra Mater in Dacia: is the worship of this deity provoked by the Dacian landscape, or it is just an imperial tendency to worship Terra Mater by miners and farmers (Gesztelyi 1981)? The answer needs a much more careful analysis of the cult’s local specificities. It is clear that Dacia’s natural landscape provoked the creation and maintenance of some cults, especially those related to mines (Fortuna Salutaris, Hercules, Terra Mater), roads (Quadriviae, Triviae, Lares Viales) and forests (Silvanus, Diana). However, not all of the dedications of these divinities were related to natural landscapes. The cult of Silvanus had multiple aspects in a provincial context (Dészpa 2012), as did those of Diana or Fortuna (Bodor 1989). The cult of Terra Mater is also related to a monopolising and imperial tendency of the mining activity and the religious self-expression of the provincial elite (Mráv and Ottományi 2005, 75). These matters could explain the presence of this cult in urban context of Apulum (IDR III/5, 344, 360). Similarly, the presence of the Celtic deities Triviae and Quadriviae in Dacia (Ardevan 2006) and of the Lares Viales (Piso 2013) does not necessarily imply a direct influence of the woody and dangerous landscapes of Dacia. The presence of the latrones in the province (CIL III 1585=8021; Grünewald 2004, 24) and the literary ‘fame’ of Dacia’s dangerous forests could indicate in some areas, such as Drobeta, the Orăştiei mountain or Dacia Porolissensis, the intensive fear that might have triggered the popularity of these road-protecting divinities.

Conclusion In this study I have presented a possible redefinition of what we have come to call ‘the sacred landscape’, using new approaches based on religious studies and landscape theories. Similarly, discussing for the first time the natural landscape of the province as a religious place, I tried to create a short list of the possible sacralised places of Dacia where natural elements played the role of agency in religious communication. The imagined province and the real one, reconstructed based on archaeological, literary and geographical evidence, shows the importance of mountains, forests, mines and hot springs in people’s everyday life in Dacia. Some of them were considered directly as sacred places, even by Dacians, whilst others were introduced and integrated into an artificial sacred space where rituals had multiple meanings. The natural landscape of Dacia surely played an important role in the life of the provincials. The number of possible sacred places in the province is impossible to estimate. Shrines, small rural temples and votive deposits in waters are difficult to identify. Similarly, the psychological motors of some dedications and the impact of nature on some epigraphic activity is difficult to establish. This study

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has summarised the recent state of the impact of nature on religion in Dacia and consequently opens new possibilities for a further, much more detailed study on this topic.

Acknowledgement I am most grateful to Prof. Gregory Woolf and Prof. Ralph Häussler for their thoughtful correction of my English and their constructive ideas. The current study was conducted as part of the Postdoctoral Research Grant PD NKFI-8 nr. 127948 funded by the National Research, Development and Innovation Office of Hungary (2018–2021).

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7 Environments and gods: creating the sacred landscape of Mount Kasios Eris Williams Reed

Sometime between 47 BC and AD 197, a certain Damasias of Laodicaea in northern Syria decided to erect a statue of his city’s Tyche in a neighbouring temple. A fragmentary inscription, preserved on a limestone block, records how he fulfilled his wish: κατὰ συνχώρησι[ν τῆς] Σελευκέων προβ[ουλῆς] Δαμασίας Ἀγα[θοκλέ]ους Ἰουλιεὺς ὁ [καὶ Λαοδι]κεὺς τὸν ᾀ[νδριάντα] τῆς Τύχ[ης τῆς Ἰουλιέων] τῶν κα[ὶ Λαοδικέων τ]ῷν π[ρὸς θαλαάσσῃ] By the consent of the higher council of the Seleucians, Damasias, son of Agathocles, Julian and Laodicean, dedicated the statue of the Tyche of the Laodiceans by the sea. (SEG 36 1297, with Seyrig 1986, 201–2 and Aliquot 2015, 159–60)

The block was uncovered amidst the ruins of the monastery of St Barlaam just below the summit of a mountain known as Mount Kasios in the Hellenistic and Roman periods (modern-day Jebel al-’Aqra‘/Kiliç Daği). Lying close to the modern-day border between southern Turkey and northern Syria, the mountain dominates the skyline of Seleucia to the north but cannot be seen from Laodicaea some 50 km south. The monastery in which Damasias’ inscription was discovered lies on the upper slopes of the mountain’s eastern flank and was probably built in the late fifth century AD on, or close to, the site of an earlier temple dating from around 300 BC (Djobadze 1986; also Schaeffer 1938, 313–34 and Lane Fox 2008, 260). Excavations also uncovered numerous inscribed tiles, which confirmed beyond reasonable doubt that the temple was dedicated to Zeus Kasios, the mountain’s eponymous god (Seyrig 1986, 203). Damasias’ inscription prompts us to consider several key matters surrounding the temple of Zeus Kasios and,

more broadly, the creation of sacred landscapes. First and foremost, as Julien Aliquot (2015, 157–67) has previously outlined, this text shines light on the temple’s management and importance to some of the communities surrounding Mount Kasios, an area known in Antiquity as the Syrian Tetrapolis. In order to install his statue of the Tyche of Laodicaea, Damasias required the consent of the higher council of Seleucia, who clearly regulated some activities in this temple on the mountain overlooking their city. The fact that Damasias had to seek permission – and indeed indicate in his dedication that permission had been granted – could suggest that the temple attracted numerous worshippers from the wider area, which necessitated the involvement of Seleucia’s higher council to manage the influx of dedications. Although we cannot irrefutably conclude that the temple of Zeus Kasios was some sort of regional cult centre, the Seleucians permitting the installation of another city’s Tyche in their local temple suggests they recognised that multiple religious communities had a stake in the site. Likewise, Damasias’ desire to erect a statue of the Tyche of Laodicaea in a temple some two days’ journey from his home city is revealing. This desire suggests that the region’s communities not only wished to be visible in the site’s dedicatory landscape, but also that they deemed it fundamental to honour Zeus Kasios in his temple on the mountain. Such a mentality is entirely logical: it is to be expected that the mountain from which Zeus Kasios took his name became a regional focal point for his reverence, with worshippers willingly ascending the mountain to honour the god in his eponymous landscape. This integral relationship between Mount Kasios and its god naturally brings us to questions about the creation of sacred landscapes: namely, what was the nature of the relationship between Mount Kasios and this local Zeus, and

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in what ways did this relationship contribute to the creation of the mountain as a sacred landscape in the mind of its neighbouring religious communities? As I have argued elsewhere with reference to other religious communities in the Roman Near East (Williams Reed 2018, 186–7; see also Rieger 2016, 181; and, for the Greek world, Mylonopoulos 2009, 56, and Larson 2010, 57–8), landscapes were not inherently sacred but rather created through worshippers’ repeated engagement with the local environment. The sacred landscape of Mount Kasios was no exception: through their activities at the temple of Zeus Kasios below the summit, worshippers inaugurated the god’s cult in the landscape and reinforced his intrinsic connection to the mountain. Nevertheless, we should not underestimate the extent to which the relationship between environment and god informed the creation process. As I hope to demonstrate, Zeus Kasios was characterised with particular reference to the unique local environment of his eponymous mountain, with the result that the environment gave authority to the religious traditions associated with the god and these religious traditions likewise organised the landscape in the mind of the ancient worshipper. This proposal aligns with the work of Katherine Clarke, who has argued in relation

to the Greek world that, ‘while the physical environment provides a setting for mythical episodes, those myths in turn facilitate the intellectual transformation of physical space into a resonant “landscape”’ (2017, 16). For the purposes of this volume, I will contribute the case of Mount Kasios to explore how this reciprocal relationship between environments and gods could underscore the creation of sacred landscapes. To achieve this, we must foreground our discussion with an examination of the environmental context of Mount Kasios and then consider the ways in which this particular landscape informed and affirmed the characterisation of the mountain’s associated divine figures. The topography of Mount Kasios not only renders the mountain as a distinctive peak along the coast of northern Syria, but also gives rise to the particular meteorological conditions that manifest around its summit. Although the mountain has since been subjected to intensive deforestation, in Antiquity the lower slopes of Mount Kasios were densely wooded (Ammianus Marcellinus 22.14.4) before giving way to the distinctive round peak we see today (Fig. 7.1). The mountain is the highest in northern Syria and identifying its precise height (around 1728 m) has long been a subject of curiosity (Djobadze 1986, 3 with n. 1). Indeed, Pliny the

Fig. 7.1. Mount Kasios (modern-day Jebel al-’Aqra‘/Kiliç Daği) from the site of Seleucia (© J. Aliquot).

7.  Environments and gods: creating the sacred landscape of Mount Kasios Elder noted that an observer standing atop the summit could see the sun rising in the east whilst the west still remained shrouded in night, precisely because the mountain was ‘supremely lofty’ (Pliny HN 5.18/80: excelsa altitudo; see also Amm. Mar. 22.14.4). The western flank of the mountain rises precipitously from the Mediterranean, such that Mount Kasios appears as an impenetrable wall along a coastline otherwise dotted with small harbours stretching back to rolling hills cut by fertile valleys. The mountain serves as a navigational landmark to seafarers, particularly to those sailing from Cyprus as Mount Kasios is the first landscape feature to become visible on the horizon. For this reason, Zeus Kasios also became a patron of seafarers across the ancient Mediterranean, although we will not explore this aspect of his reverence here (see further, Brody 1998, 19; Tito 2012, 81–3; Collar 2017, 23–36). Several low-pressure systems converge along this coastline, providing reliably high levels of precipitation to the mountain’s neighbouring communities and stimulating cloud formation around its summit (Allen 2014, 25–36). When these systems reach the mountain’s western flank, the steep gradient causes a process commonly known as orographic uplift: the air is forced to rise, which reduces the temperature and dewpoint of the air and generates clouds (Ahrens 2013, 159–60). However, because the rising air is still warmer than the surrounding atmosphere it becomes unstable and, consequently, creates the ideal conditions in which a thunderstorm can be triggered. These pressure systems are particularly volatile in the transition period from summer to winter, such that the eruption of thunderstorms around Mount Kasios often signals the end of the summer drought and the start of the winter rains. Moreover, as observed by Robin Lane Fox (2008, 257), thunderclaps emanating from the mountain peak can be heard rolling across the nearby ridges at the end of summer. These climatic and topographic factors thus create a distinctive landscape: in addition to its striking coastal location, Mount Kasios’ upper slopes are consistently obscured by cloud for several months of the year and the mountain manifests (visually and audibly) as a focal point for thunderstorms. Before the Hellenistic period, other religious communities took inspiration from this particular landscape in their characterisation of the mountain’s associated god. One such community was Ugarit, a coastal city some 40 km south of the mountain that flourished in the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BC (Wyatt 2007). Mount Kasios, known in Ugarit as Mount Saphon, can be seen distantly on the city’s northern skyline. The site centres on a citymound once home to various royal, administrative and religious structures, including the temple of Baal where excavators uncovered a stele depicting the god striding across the landscape and wielding a lightning bolt (Callot 2011; Acc. no. AO 15775, Musée du Louvre). This god is the focal point of the so-called Baal Cycle, a mythological

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epic recorded in the first half of the fourteenth century BC that reveals Ugarit’s religious community regarded Mount Saphon to be the home of their local Baal, who they often worshipped as Baal Saphon (on the interpretation of text, see Smith 1994, 58–114, and Smith and Pitard 2009, 4–6; see also Rahmouni 2008, on divine epithets in the Ugaritic texts). A large part of this complex narrative is devoted to Baal seeking permission to establish his home on the mountain; when he is successful, he is finally able to unleash the full force of his meteorological abilities from the summit (KTU I.4.VII: 25–42; Smith and Pitard 2009, 650). This is a pivotal moment in the narrative, precisely because the manifestation of Baal’s powers is only possible once he is in residence on the mountain. For the religious community at Ugarit, then, it seems that the mountain’s localised thunderstorms and low-lying clouds – visible indicators of the god’s theophany – lent legitimacy to the myth of Baal inhabiting the mountain’s peak (see also a Late Antique sailing guide that labels the mountain as ‘Throne’ (θρόνος), Stadiasmos Maris Magni 143). Another aspect of the Baal Cycle has bearing on our ­discussion: Baal’s ascendency and quest to establish his home on Mount Saphon was prompted by his defeat of Yamm, the deified Sea. Although this section of the epic is relatively fragmentary, we learn that Baal dismembers Yamm using a special set of weapons before scattering his remains across the land (KTU 1.2.IV: 11–31, esp. 23–7; Smith 1994, 318–61). Significantly, other religious communities who associated the mountain with an ascendant storm-god also recognised this mytheme in some capacity. Composed in the Late Bronze Age, the Hurrian-Hittite literature of Hattusa in central Anatolia describes the struggles of the storm-god Tarhun (Hurrian: Teshshub; on these texts, see now Bachvarova 2016). In particular, the Kumarbi Cycle outlines Tarhun’s encounters with monstrous creatures sent by the Sea, such as Hedammu, a sea serpent, and Ullikummi, a giant rock encircled by the sea (for an accessible text, see Bachvarova in Lόpez-Ruiz 2014, 139–63). Tarhun’s battle with the Sea himself is depicted on a Neo-Hittite relief from Malatya (now in the Anatolian Civilisations Museums, see Collins 2007, 150, fig. 3.14); and is known from several references in Kumarbi Cycle and a selection of lacunose texts that comprise The Song of the Sea (Rutherford 2001, 598–609). This latter text was also recited at a festival in honour of Mount Hazzi (the Hurrian-Hittite name of Mount Kasios), thus revealing that the myth was in some way connected to the mountain – although the scant nature of the evidence facilitates little more than speculation as to the nature of this connection (Rutherford 2001, 598–609; Ayali-Darshan 2015, 23–4). However, the setting of this mytheme at the mountain is made plain in Graeco-Roman period: Apollodorus (Bibl. 1.6.3) cites Mount Kasios as the location of Typhon’s final battle with Zeus, and Strabo (16.2.7) comments that Typhon fled Zeus’ lightning bolts by

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descending underground and forming the river Orontes, the river that empties into the Mediterranean Sea close to the base of Mount Kasios (on Typhon and the Near East, see Bonnet 1987, 101–43; Ogden 2013, 75–6; Rutherford 2018, 14–17). Although this primordial mytheme appears in many cultural traditions of the ancient world, we might speculate that the mountain’s coastal location imbued the Ugaritic, Hittite-Hurrian and Graeco-Roman myths with a particular geographical resonance, wherein the landscape bore witness to the juxtaposition of the Sea’s maritime sphere with the god’s mountainous realm. These three traditions illustrate the potential of particular landscapes to become settings of myths that are readily imagined in their physical environments (on myth and mountains in particular, see Buxton 1992, 1–15). Moreover, the diachronic manifestation of this reciprocal relationship between environment and god bears witness to the striking landscape of the mountain capturing the imaginations of its neighbouring religious communities. Before we turn our full attention to Zeus Kasios, this discussion of the Ugaritic and Hittite-Hurrian traditions prompts us to touch on matters of cultural continuity between the religious communities of the Late Bronze Age and the Graeco-Roman period. In general, Fergus Millar (1993, 6; contra Ball 2016) has rightly stressed that, in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, ‘so far as our evidence goes (an important qualification), a noteworthy “amnesia” marked the historical consciousness of the inhabitants of the Near East’. Accordingly, it must be affirmed from the outset that the nature of our evidence does not allow us to identify a conscious continuity of religious traditions and practices between the Late Bronze Age and the Graeco-Roman periods, even if we can recognise similarities. Moreover, attempting to label Zeus Kasios as the interpretatio Graeca of an identifiable and pre-existing Near Eastern god not only risks an oversimplification of the evidence, but also disengages us from the environmental focus of this chapter (on challenges surrounding divine ‘syncretism’ in the Roman Near East in general, see e.g. Kaizer 2013, 113–28). In my opinion, the god of Mount Kasios that appears in our evidence from the Graeco-Roman period was the outcome of many cultural voices whose dialogue was, above all, underscored by a shared captivation with the mountain from which Zeus Kasios took his name. Whilst the religious traditions associated with Zeus Kasios were undoubtedly informed by cultural factors, my emphasis here will be on the ways in which the particular landscape of Mount Kasios stimulated and affirmed the characterisation of the mountain’s eponymous god. Damasias’ inscription has already introduced us to two cities in the area of northern Syria known as the Tetrapolis: his home city of Laodicaea, and Seleucia whose council apparently regulated the temple of Zeus Kasios on the mountain from which the god took his name. Antioch, some 32 km north-east of Mount Kasios, and Apamea, 70 km south-east

of the mountain, comprise the remaining cities of the Syrian Tetrapolis. Along with Seleucia, Antioch is the city with which a significant proportion of our evidence about Zeus Kaisos is associated. Although this area of northern Syria was almost certainly home to various communities long before the Hellenistic period, Seleucus I allegedly founded these four cities during the late fourth century BC (Cohen 2006 and Strootman 2014). These cities and the surrounding region later came under Roman control following the establishment of provincia Syria around 63 BC, after which Antioch regularly hosted the emperor on account of its proximity to the eastern frontier (e.g. Strabo 15.1.73; Tacitus Histories 2.80; Cassius Dio 68.17–18 and 24.1–2). Whilst these Graeco-Roman influences had a bearing on the development of Antioch’s religious traditions, the local environment also underscored aspects of religious life in and around the city. For instance, the iconography of the Tyche of Antioch, the subject of a renowned statue by the Hellenistic sculptor Eutychides, takes inspiration from the local landscape: she perches on a rocky outcrop reminiscent of the steep mountains enclosing the city and overlooks a personification of the river Orontes that flows through Antioch (Pausanias 6.2.6–7; on coinage, e.g., Butcher 2004, nos 48–50, 474–84; see also Stansbury O’Donnell 1994, 50–63). Similarly, the Seleucids established a sanctuary for Apollo and Daphne on a densely wooded plateau just outside the city, which came to be known as the place where Daphne herself had transformed into a laurel tree to escape the god’s amorous pursuits (Strabo 16.2.6; Philostratos VA 1.16.1–2; Libianus Oration 11.26–8; and Sozomenos Historia Ecclesiastica 5.19; on coinage, e.g., Butcher 2004, no. 343c; see also, IGLS 3.992, with Strootman 2014, 251–61). Although this tendency to associate certain divine figures with particular landscapes was by no means unique to Antioch or the Syrian Tetrapolis, we will now see that the region’s religious communities also characterised Zeus Kasios with reference to the specific environmental conditions of the mountain. Starting with the literary record, this wide-ranging body of evidence attests to Zeus Kasios’ firm attachment to the mountain and its storms from the Hellenistic period through to the later Roman Empire. Admittedly, the literary corpus poses problems because many of these texts were composed by authors who probably never visited northern Syria. John Malalas, born in Antioch in the late fifth century AD, is a notable exception, but his description of the Seleucid-era city foundations tells us more about the constructed memory of this historical period rather than the events themselves (Grigolin 2018). As a result, we should be wary of solely using such literary accounts to reconstruct religious practices in the Syrian Tetrapolis, but we can acknowledge these texts as testament to a prevalent knowledge of certain historical traditions and myths, of which all bear witness to the conceptualisation of Zeus Kasios as a stormy god closely associated

7.  Environments and gods: creating the sacred landscape of Mount Kasios with his eponymous mountain. Moreover, by reconstructing a broad chronology of the cult’s development from these accounts, we can better appreciate the historical development of this relationship between environment and god. Two particular groups of narratives shine light on Zeus Kasios’ connection with the mountain and the storms that erupted around its summit (see also Julian Misopogon 361D; Libianus Oration. 18.172; Ammianus Marcellinus 22.14.4, on Julian’s visit to the summit). Firstly, several Roman-era historians describe the significance of Mount Kasios and its god in the Seleucid foundation of Seleucia (Ogden 2017, 107–9). John Malalas relates that Seleucus I ascended the mountain on 23 March to make a sacrifice to Zeus Kasios and to ask where he should build a city (Chron. 8.12/198–9). At that moment, an eagle seized the sacrificial meat before depositing it along the coast at an old trading-station known as Pieria. Seleucus and the augurs descended the mountain, discovered the meat and thus laid the foundation walls for the city of Seleucia at that place. To give thanks for this divine assistance, Seleucus celebrated a festival in honour of Zeus Keraunios (‘thunderer’) at Iopolis on Mount Silpios, which overlooked the future site of Antioch. Similarly, Appian comments that a ‘portent of thunder’ (διοσημίαν κεραυνοῦ) preceded the foundation of Seleucia, with the result that Seleucus ‘consecrated thunder as the god of that place, and the inhabitants worship and sing hymns to honour it even today’ (Appian Syriaca 58: τοῦτο θεὸν αὐτοῖς κεραυνὸν ἔθετο, καὶ θρησκεύουσι καὶ ὑμνοῦσι καὶ νῦν κεραυνόν). Secondly, several authors report that Trajan and Hadrian interacted with the mountain and its god when they spent time in Antioch in the first and second centuries AD. Before departing Antioch to attack the Parthians, Trajan apparently made dedications to Zeus Kasios, ‘Lord of the Black Clouds’ (Κελαινεφὲς), to grant victory (Anth. Pal. 6.332). Several years later, whilst staying in Antioch, Hadrian was purportedly sacrificing to Zeus Kasios atop the mountain when a storm suddenly developed and a lightning bolt struck both the sacrificial victim and Hadrian’s attendant (SHA Hadr. 14.3). Moreover, according to Cassius Dio (69.2.1), the day before Hadrian was declared emperor in the city, the future ruler dreamt that a bolt of lightning descended from the sky and passed through him without harm to indicate Hadrian’s forthcoming ascension (Malalas Chronicle 10.51/265 also mentions an unusual lightning strike during Apollonius’ visit to Antioch, although there is no explicit connection to Zeus Kasios). Zeus Kasios’ attachment to the mountain and his meteorological powers are thus made plain throughout these various narratives: both Seleucus I and Hadrian specifically ascended Mount Kasios to honour the god and he apparently manifested as a lightning bolt to both rulers. Nevertheless, whilst these literary accounts confirm that certain historical stories and myths about Zeus Kasios were in circulation during the first six centuries AD, we can only insinuate from

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these texts the perceptions of Mount Kasios’ eponymous god held by the worshippers themselves. Though we may note from the literature that Zeus Kasios must be worshipped on the summit and that the god never appeared in anthropomorphic form, we must still utilise both the numismatic corpus to ascertain the images of Zeus Kasios that were shared and accepted by the residents of the Syrian Tetrapolis; and the epigraphic record to appreciate the significance of Mount Kasios and its patron god amongst the religious communities surrounding the mountain. As these narratives illustrate, Zeus Kasios purportedly assisted Seleucus I with the foundation of the Syrian Tetrapolis in the form of an eagle or a lightning bolt. Both motifs appeared on the coinage issued across northern Syria during the reign of Seleucus I and subsequent Seleucid rulers, suggesting that the dynasty was actively propagating some sort of foundation myth amongst these communities (on Seleucid coinage and gods, see now Erickson 2019). Numerous coin types were issued by Antioch and Seleucia with variant images, including a male god holding a lightning bolt, an eagle carrying a lightning bolt and a lightning bolt alone (e.g. Houghton and Lorber 2002; Seleucus I, nos 32–4 and Antiochos I, nos 343–5, 355–6). Whilst the inclusion of these motifs on the coinage of the Syrian Tetrapolis has been interpreted as a reference to Alexander’s association with lightning, the storms around Mount Kasios undoubtedly enabled such emblems, and therefore the myth, to resonate with the local population (Ogden 2011, 150–2). The relationship between landscape and myth was one of reciprocity: the physical appearance of lightning around the mountain validated the mythological narrative and the myth organised these environmental features into a sacred landscape within which the god compellingly made his presence felt. Further evidence indicates that the local population did indeed acknowledge and cultivate this myth, with the result that the mountain’s god was rendered as a lightning bolt. An inscription, dated to the reign of Seleucus IV (187–175 BC) and preserved on a marble slab previously in the yard of the Armenian church at Seleucia, lists amongst the annual priesthoods of Seleucia those of Zeus Kasios, and the so-called ‘thunder-bearers’ (IGLS 3 1184: κεραυνοφόροι, with Drew-Bear et al 1985, 32–7). This text reveals two important details: first, that Zeus Kasios was worshipped in Seleucia by at least the early second century BC – and thus confirming that the god’s reverence in the Hellenistic period was not an elaboration by later authors – and, second, that there existed a distinctive group of cultic personnel associated with thunder who were almost certainly involved in the cult of Mount Kasios’ stormy god. The numismatic record also shines further light on how we might interpret this inscription by revealing significant details about the visualisation of this stormy figure. In 109 BC, Seleucia began to issue its own autonomous coinage

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featuring a new image of a lightning bolt resting on a pulvinar, a portable, cushioned throne (e.g. Butcher 2004, nos 1–34; Houghton et al. 2008, no. 2447). Considering the epigraphic and numismatic evidence in parallel, we might even speculate that the ‘thunder-bearers’ were responsible for parading this aniconic image on its pulvinar (see also Parker 2017, 222). The same image appeared on the city’s coinage throughout the Roman period (Fig. 7.2) and, during the reign of Antoninus Pius, a legend labelled the image ΖΕΥC/ΚΕΡΑΥ, Zeus Keraunios (Butcher 2004, nos 61–6; cf. ibid., nos 45–51, 75, 79, 85, 87, 90, 92 and 94; on Zeus Kasios and Zeus Keraunios, see Seyrig 1939, 296–301). The combined evidence – that is, Appian’s comment about the worship of ‘thunder’ at Seleucia, the epigraphic testimony to the ‘thunder-bearers’ and these numismatic images – ­encourages us to recognise the lightning bolt as the cult image of Seleucia’s local storm-god, who was surely associated with the storms of Mount Kasios. We might therefore conclude that the storms erupting around the summit of Mount Kasios – the very place Seleucus and Hadrian had to visit in order to honour Zeus Kasios – were interpreted by worshippers as a tangible manifestation of the god. This

Fig. 7.2. Seleucia Pieria, Syria. Æ (24 mm, 12.57 g, 12 h). Trajan, AD 98–117. Struck AD 114–117. Obverse: laureate head right. Reverse: lightning bolt on a pulvinar. Butcher 2004, no. 47 (© Classical Numismatic Group, www.cngcoins.com).

Fig. 7.3. Seleucia Pieria, Syria. Æ (25 mm, 14.01 g, 12 h). Trajan, AD 98–117. Obverse: laureate head right. Reverse: aniconic image of Zeus Kasios within a shrine. Butcher 2004, no. 52 (© Classical Numismatic Group, www.cngcoins.com).

body of material therefore suggests a reciprocal relationship between environment and god: Mount Kasios’ distinctive localised thunderstorms gave validity to the god’s association with the mountain, and his characterisation likewise structured the environmental context in the mind of the ancient worshipper. In addition to the lightning bolt, Seleucia also issued coins from the reign of Trajan onward bearing an image of a shrine with a pointed roof containing a round object labelled as ZEYC/KACIOC (Fig. 7.3; Butcher 2004, nos 52–9, 67–72, 76, 80, 86, 88, 91, 93, 95). Aniconic images labelled with the name of a local god are not without precedent on the coinage of the Roman Near East, and it is generally accepted that such images represented reallife aniconic cult figures (e.g. on aniconic figures on the coinage of Arabia, see Gaifman 2008, 37–72). Likewise, in the case of Zeus Kasios, several scholars have advocated that the numismatic images from Seleucia do indeed depict a real-life shrine that held an aniconic image of the god (cf. e.g. Wroth 1899, lxxii; Butcher 2004, 229, 414; Lane Fox 2008, 261–2; Parker 2017, 222). To add to this, Robin Lane Fox (2008, 261) has drawn attention to an altar that may further support the existence of Zeus Kasios’ aniconic cult. Discovered some 450 km south-east of Mount Kasios at Dura-Europos, this altar bears a dedication: ‘To the ancestral god, Zeus Betylos, of those by the Orontes’ (SEG 7, 341: Θεῷ πατρῴῴ Διὶ Βετύλῳ τῶν πρὸς τῴ Ὀρόντῃ, see also Seyrig 1933, 68–71). Whilst the precise function of the appellation ‘Betylos’ in this text remains unclear, the term nevertheless conjures associations with the ‘sacred stones’ of Greek baitylos and the aniconic images of Semitic byt-’l (Millar 1993, 15; on terminology, see Gaifman 2008, 41–4). Although the inscription makes no reference to Zeus Kasios, we might infer Zeus Betylos’ connection to Mount Kasios on account of his description as the ancestral god of those by the Orontes, the river that emptied close to the mountain’s base (Lane Fox 2008, 261; cf. Seyrig 1963, 19, who was reluctant to draw conclusions from this connection; and Millar 1993, 1–15, who did not seem to make this connection in his otherwise lengthy discussion of the text). The evidence prevents us from drawing firmer conclusions about this text; but the numismatic record nevertheless indicates that Zeus Kasios was visualised and worshipped in the form of the mountain from which he took his name. The significance of the image’s form should not be underestimated here: the object comprises a wide base that tapers at the top and clearly evokes not only a mountain, but also the distinctive pointed peak of Mount Kasios. As a result, I propose that, in addition to his reverence as a lightning bolt, Zeus Kasios was also recognised in a form that directly correlated with the mountainous landscape with which he was so intimately associated. Thus, as the storms of Mount Kasios bore witness to the stormy nature of its god, the

7.  Environments and gods: creating the sacred landscape of Mount Kasios distinctive shape and imposing scale of the mountain also informed the orographic visualisation of Zeus Kasios. This chapter has illuminated some of the ways in which the religious communities surrounding Mount Kasios characterised the mountain’s eponymous god with close reference to the local environment. This illumination also prompts us to consider how we might conceptualise this particular relationship between Zeus Kasios and his mountain, and such a consideration will also reorient us to the creation of sacred landscapes. Our evidence encourages us to consider three ways in which Mount Kasios’ religious communities might have conceptualised this particular relationship between environment and god. Firstly, the mountain was under Zeus Kasios’ sphere of influence: the alleged experiences of Seleucus I and Hadrian indicate that the god communicated with his worshippers on Mount Kasios by manipulating its storms or sending other signals at the summit. Secondly, Mount Kasios was the home or abode of its eponymous god: the presence of the temple of Zeus Kasios close to the summit bears witness to the purposeful locating of the god in that specific landscape. Thirdly, Zeus Kasios was himself the mountain and its storms: the numismatic record demonstrates that Mount Kasios’ religious communities visualised the god as the mountain and the lightning for which the landscape was known. These three potential modes of thinking are not mutually exclusive and instead hint at a critical and complex thought process, wherein worshippers consistently negotiated the intersections between god, environment and sacred landscape through their religious traditions and practices. All at once, the environmental conditions legitimised the god’s association with the landscape and the god’s characterisation structured the environmental context into a sacred landscape, which could function both as a physical place of worship and as a conceptual realm of the divine. This conclusion should not be read as a simple equation between natural phenomena and divine personality (something that Schwemer 2007, 130, rightly warns against); rather, the case of Mount Kasios presents an example of religious communities engaging critically with the local environment in the formulation of their religious traditions and the creation of their sacred landscapes. Whilst a range of social and cultural factors informed the articulation of the relationship between Mount Kasios and its eponymous god, we should not underestimate the fundamental significance of the mountain itself in the shaping of this relationship. Mount Kasios’ imposing coastal location, the distinctive shape of its peak and its manifestation as a focal point for thunderstorms all found expression in the religious traditions associated with the mountain. Indeed, it was precisely these environmental qualities that distinguished Mount Kasios from other peaks in the area and stimulated religious communities to render the mountain as a sacred landscape.

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Acknowledgements It is a pleasure to thank Ralph Häussler and Gian Franco Chiai for organising the conference session ‘Sacred Nature and Structuring the Sacred’ at BANEA 2016, upon which this volume is based, and for their commitment to bringing this volume to fruition. Thanks are also due to Durham University’s Faculty of Arts and Humanities and the British Association for Near Eastern Archaeology, who generously funded my attendance at the conference. I would also like to express my gratitude to Julien Aliquot for kindly allowing me to use his photograph of Mount Kasios; and to both Robin Lane Fox and the anonymous reviewer for their constructive comments on a much longer version of this chapter, written in 2016, that examined both Zeus Kasios and Baal Saphon. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own.

Abbreviations IGLS Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie (1929–). KTU  Dietrich, M., Loretz, O. and Sanmartín, J. (eds) (1976) Die keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit, ­einschließlich der keilalphabetischen Texte außerhalb Ugaritis. Neukirchen-Vluyn, Neukirchener Verlag. SEG Supplementum epigraphicum Graecum (1932–).

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Section 2 Transformation of sacred landscapes

8 Over the rainbow: places with and without memory in the funerary landscape of Knossos during the second millennium BC Lucia Alberti

Introduction The aim of reconstructing the funerary landscape of the Knossos valley during the second millennium BC with all its multiple connotations may appear to be idealistic and completely fantastical. Real difficulties certainly do exist in reconstructing a landscape thousands of years old, in which an extensive series of human groups have lived, and numerous natural and historical events have been played out. If a landscape is by definition always in the process of change, on occasion it is impossible to give a precise chronology to all the changes we detect today: which landscape do we therefore choose to analyse if we consider it not simply as a passive container, but rather as a sort of active participator in past events? Another aspect to be considered in the hermeneutics of landscapes, within the field of humanities and generally speaking within every other field of research, is that our evaluation, comprehension and interpretation will tend to be highly personal. I suspect that individualised perspectives are fundamental and active in the interpretation of research and that their effects have to be taken into account, even if it is a difficult undertaking. Even more hazardous is the task of investigating the cultural, practical and also aesthetical reasons of those who, millennia ago, chose one specific place over another for burial (Ingold 2000; Argenton 2005; Pizzo Russo 2005; Arnheim 2008). Nevertheless, in approaching the subject of landscape archaeology and especially that of the sacred landscape, it is possible to use new paradigms of interpretation that can illuminate, even if in a hypothetical way, our understanding of past people’s attitudes toward space, landscape, burial customs and their belief-systems. Very useful to landscape studies are phenomenology and cognitive archaeology: by working with the physical they can claim to reconstruct the

abstract – here past processes of knowledge, actions and beliefs (Renfrew and Zubrow 1994; Tilley 1994; Ingold 2000; Kourtessi-Philippakis 2011; Treuil 2011). Without visiting the extremes of this type of approach, very interesting but still highly hypothetical with respect to material culture (Malafouris 2010), I limit myself to stating that my approach to the Knossian funerary landscape has been both practical and theoretical. Practical, in the sense that I have myself tried to repeat experiences of the past, walking the area with mind and eyes alert, using in the first instance human ‘tools’ that have not seemingly changed from the past, i.e. our sense of view and our ability of movement in a given space. Theoretical, in having employed in my musings ­various existing concepts and approaches to landscape studies – such as visibility and intervisibility, phenomenology and the most recent integration between human and non-human agencies. In essence, the natural and physical world (Ingold 1993; Tilley 1994; 1996; Hamilakis 2001; Wright 2006). I must stress that this initial approach to the funerary landscape was a severely practical one, because I deliberately – stressing the deliberate nature of my approach – wanted to have a fresh and ‘uncluttered sight’ (as far as this is possible) of the landscape, imagining myself in the spatial position of the people who had done so earlier. For the same reason, in this early phase of the analysis, I have chosen not to use the new spatial and virtual technologies already applied to this territory; however, I may employ them at another time (Soetens et al. 2008; Soetens 2009). The difficulties (and maybe the impossibilities) of achieving such an ‘unbiased’ point of view are well known, especially for an area such as the Knossos valley and with a topic, Minoan burial customs, which has been the subject of decades of research and publications (Evans 1906;

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1914; 1921–35; Forsdyke 1926–7; Hood and De Jong 1952; Hutchinson 1956; Hood 1958; Hood et al. 1958–9; Alexiou 1967; Popham and Catling 1974; Hood and Smyth 1981; Alberti 1999; 2001; 2003; 2004; 2009; 2013; 2015; Preston 1999; 2004a; 2004b; 2005; 2013; Gkiasta 2008; Miller 2011; Kotsonas et al. 2012). Another aspect that requires a wider discussion is whether a funerary landscape can be considered a ‘sacred’ space, both generally speaking and more specifically for the Knossian Bronze Age population. We are not dealing with temples or sanctuaries in which ritual actions were performed with particular and recognisable paraphernalia. Within Minoan contexts the definition of such spaces is often uncertain; even with a liminal space definitively separated and different from the political and civil one, it is not exactly coincident with what usually is referred to as a sacred space (Renfrew and Bahn 1991; D’Agata 2009; Nixon 2009; Boehm and Müller-Celka 2010). For the little we know about the Minoan population and their beliefs, ritual spaces were located both in natural environments and within built-up areas. On one hand, we have the numerous caves and mountain peaks used in Crete during the Bronze Age, and on the other, the religious spaces identified in Minoan palaces, villas and rural houses, as well as free-standing examples (Hägg and Marinatos 1981; Rutkowsky 1986; D’Agata and Van de Moortel 2009). Sometimes the two aspects, the architectural and the natural, were perfectly integrated, as seen in peak sanctuaries where very simple structures, often only an altar and a temenos, were built (Peatfield 1983; 2009; Soetens et al. 2008). With regard to the funerary landscape, the liminality of the space, their exclusive use for the dead and the traces of ritual actions during and after the funerals encourage us to define this space as ‘special’ and also as ‘sacred’. The complex Minoan belief-system of death and possibly the underworld is unfortunately still unknown, but the existence of a cultural system is unquestionable, as the organic set of specific location of tombs in the landscape, the important architectural remains and the grave goods assemblages all testify (Alberti 2015).

The valley, delimited by mountains and the sea, runs north to south and is at best about 2–3 km wide and about 7 km long (Fig. 8.1). It was cut by a small river, the Kairatos, today much tamed and canalised, especially where it enters in the city of Herakleion. To the north of Knossos, the valley leads to the Aegean Sea. East of the city it is flanked by a series of low hills, the Profitis Aelias Hill, that, with its flat top, makes up an almost perfect horizontal skyline. To the west are other low hills, such as the Acropolis, where the Roman acropolis would later be located. To the south, the valley shrinks into a constricted defile that separates the valley from the Archanes area, located 10 km to the south. Archanes is one of the most important Minoan sites, with a distinguished necropolis and a settlement partially contemporary with Knossos (Sakellarakis and Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1997; Maggidis 1998). The river Kairatos springs from the sides of the Jouktas massif, one of the sacred Minoan mountains, that overlooks all the landscape round about and is visible from every point within it (Fig. 8.2). The time horizon here considered is the central and later part of the second millennium BC, a period of about 500 years, from Middle Minoan IIB to Late Minoan IIIC early, in absolute terms from c. 1700 to c. 1200 BC, according to a very simplified version of the traditional chronology (for a more defined and contextualised

The physical and temporal space The physical space we will be dealing with is the Knossos valley, a very well-examined and, at least for some periods of its history, a well-known area. Because it is a physical space clearly delimitated by natural elements, it is an ideal field laboratory for observing and reconstructing cultural changes and interactions in an ancient landscape, in particular in the relationships between the City of the Living and the City of the Dead. The valley is indeed both narrow enough to strengthen the links between life and death and wide enough to keep the two states apart.

Fig. 8.1. The Knossos valley (after GoogleEarth).

8.  Over the rainbow: places with and without memory in the funerary landscape of Knossos

Fig. 8.2. The Jouktas massif looking south.

chronological tables, see Cline 2010). In this paper relative terms will be used, together with the more common absolute chronologies, avoiding discussions on the date of the Santorini eruption and the problematic links with the Egyptian chronologies, two fundamental issues still unresolved in Aegean archaeology (for the latest contributions on this highly controversial issue, see Cherubini et al. 2014 and the following discussion; cf. Manning et al. 2014 with a completely opposite view).

The archaeological evidence in physical and temporal space Knossos is not only the most famous Minoan palace found in Crete, it is also the most long-lived settlement of the island where the first population settled at the beginning of the seventh millennium BC (A.J. Evans 1921–35; J.D. Evans 1964; Day and Wilson 2002; Tomkins and Kilikoglou 2004; Macdonald 2005; Tomkins 2010; Efstratiou et al. 2013). Recent studies have demonstrated that human groups had reached the south coast of the island already in the Lower Palaeolithic, about 130,000 years ago. Archaeological surveys collected information about numerous sites occupied before the Mesolithic, when these first colonisers possibly vanished (Strasser et al. 2010; 2011). From what we know, the first Neolithic inhabitants settled in the Knossos valley early in the seventh millennium BC, perhaps island-hopping from the south-west Anatolian coast, bringing with them seeds and domesticated animals (Treuil et al. 1989; Macdonald 2005; King et al. 2007; Poursat 2008). During the Neolithic and the Bronze Age, the population and number of sites were steadily growing, leading to the phenomenon of the construction of the so-called ‘First Palaces’ around 1900 BC (for an upgraded view, see various contributions in Cline 2010). These first political, economic and religious centres, each controlling a surrounding area of

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notable size, were destroyed around 1700 BC. After varying lapses of time in the various sites, the so-called Second or New Palaces were constructed. Knossos was certainly the most important one, reaching its period of acme between 1600 and 1500 BC. In this phase the palace possibly controlled a large part of the island’s central region through a series of secondary settlements like villas, hamlets and smaller towns (Driessen 2001; Warren 2004). Its products were widespread beyond the island: the precious output of the palace-controlled workshops and more popular items, such as Minoan pottery, have been found in Greek and eastern sites, especially along the eastern Mediterranean coasts (Rutter and Zerner 1983; Betancourt 1998; Macdonald et al. 2009). A few decades after the Santorini eruption, at the end of Late Minoan IB (between c. 1470 and 1450 BC in the traditional chronology), all the Minoan palaces were destroyed along with much else on the island, and never reconstructed, with the partial exception of the palace at Knossos and possibly Chania. At Knossos the early excavations did not identify traces of destruction, but these can clearly be recognised in the settlement. The palace survives for a few more generations, until c. 1370 BC when it was definitively destroyed. After this event, even if the settlement continued to be populated, it is not clear whether the palace was still functioning as a political centre (Macdonald 2005). The second possible exception is Chania, where only few traces of palatial architecture have been found, but for which we suppose the existence of a palace; here also the settlement continued. These widespread destructions have been interpreted as caused by human agency or by natural events such as earthquakes. In this second case, a very large and destructive event must be considered, a circumstance not without parallel in Cretan history, given the position of the island on the tectonic arch dividing the European and African plaques (Papadopoulos 2011). Concerning the findings of the necropoleis and tombs, the major funerary evidence in the Knossos region dates back to the Proto/Neopalatial watershed, i.e. the beginning of the Neopalatial era, around 1700 BC. In this period, which saw a great increase in the town of Knossos, the first tombs of the necropoleis of Mavro Spileo and Aelias were established (Forsdyke 1926–7; Alberti 2001; 2013; Hood 2010). Both sites consist of multi-chambered tombs or of a version with a single, very wide and irregular chamber, sometimes internally divided into smaller spaces (Fig. 8.3). Both are set in the slopes of Profitis Aelias, the flat-topped hill on the east valley side, overlooking the palace, but clearly separated by the Kairatos river from the town. These two necropoleis were used contemporaneously until the end of Middle Minoan III (seventh century BC), when Aelias stopped (Hood 2010). Mavro Spileo, on the contrary, carries on not only into Late Minoan I (c. sixteenth century BC), even though with a

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marked contraction, but also until Late Minoan IIIC early (about 1200 BC) (Alberti 2001; 2013). Other tombs of this phase have been found isolated in the valley: a chamber tomb in Gypsades (Hood et al. 1958–9) dated to Middle Minoan III, Neopalatial cave tomb(s) in Monastiriako Kephali (Hutchinson 1956; Preston 2013) and the Gypsades tholos tomb that we will see later on (Hood 1958).

The funerary data and the burial customs change significantly after the widespread destructions of Late Minoan IB. Even if a multi-chambered necropolis on the hills continues to be used, new necropoleis in different locations and with new architecture and grave-good assemblages appear, influencing substantially all the burial customs of the valley (Alberti 2004; 2014; 2018b).

The ‘visual’ aspect: the first phase

Fig. 8.3. Mavro Spileo necropolis, multi-chambered Tomb V (after Forsdyke 1926–7, fig. 8).

After this quick historical overview on the principal archaeological findings and events of the Knossos valley during the second millennium BC, we return to the physical and ‘simple’ approach we delineated previously, starting to walk within the funerary terrain. As far as possible, I will try to adopt the same visual angle and consequently hope to experience the same visual approach and perhaps appreciate a similar symbolism as did the people who chose and used these burial sites for centuries. The traditional archaeological maps of the valley and the more modern and snappy images taken from satellites give the impression that the Knossos valley is lacking in particular vantage points and is a relatively monotonous terrain (Fig. 8.1). This impression is not dispelled even by the view of Profitis Aelias, which we can see from below (Fig. 8.4). But when ascending the Profitis Aelias slopes, what had seemed a low, gentle and quite accessible relief becomes steep, terraced by natural outcrops and so quite difficult to climb, leaving aside the negative impacts of the thick thorny bushes. An important focal point, a visual marker in the landscape that surely helped in locating tombs and cemeteries from

Fig. 8.4. The Profitis Aelias Hill.

8.  Over the rainbow: places with and without memory in the funerary landscape of Knossos far away, is represented by the Black cave, in Greek the Mavro Spileo, where a natural spring was used and probably also monumentalised from the second millennium BC onwards. Despite their apparent closeness, it is very hard to pass laterally along the contour lines from the Mavro Spileo cemetery to the Aelias one. Passage is hindered by the small ravine in the hill produced by water flow, probably from the Black cave spring. It is plausible to suppose that there were paths regularly cleaned of vegetation: some steps dug from the rock were recognised during the excavations at Mavro Spileo and a staircase was found at Aelias (Forsdyke 1926–7; Alberti 2001; 2013; Hood 2010). This would imply a form of controlled organisation of the area and the possible existence of social groups dedicated to these activities. The two cemeteries were probably both accessible from the bottom of the valley, with two parallel access paths, perhaps incorporating a series of hairpin bends, to make climbing easier. In our climb, we see immediately how, after an ascent of only a few tens of metres in altitude, it is possible to enjoy an extraordinary view (Fig. 8.5). From both Aelias and Mavro Spileo, one can take in all the principal focal points of north-central Crete. Looking south, we can perfectly see Jouktas in all its majesty, even if this is not in itself an extraordinary fact: this fundamental geographical, religious and cultural point of reference is visible from about everywhere in northern Crete (Fig. 8.2). This was the site of one of the most important and longstanding Minoan peak sanctuaries, very probably the peak sanctuary of Knossos, used for centuries and probably directly controlled by the palace (Karetsou 1981; Soetens 2009; Karetsou and Mathioudaki 2012). Looking south-westwards, we can detect the road for Archanes, which skirts the Temple tomb site and the Gypsades hill, where we also find funerary traces from Middle Minoan III (c. 1700 BC onwards) (Hood 1958; Hood et al. 1958–9; Grammatikaki 1993). And, above all, there is the extraordinary vista of the palace and the city of the Quick (Fig. 8.6). West beyond the palace and the Acropolis hill, where the important Neopalatial tomb of Monastiriako has been found and from which the view from on high is similar (Hutchinson 1956; Preston 2013), to the west one can see the mountains of Psiloritis that most scholars identify as Mount Ida, known from our ancient sources. This massif is visible from great part of the island: a sacred cave on its south face, used as a sanctuary, is located at some 1500 m (Dawkins and Laistner 1912–13; Van de Moortel 2011). Going back to our vantage point at Knossos on Aelias Hill, and now turning to the north, we have an excellent view of all the seawards section of the valley, with the road toward the harbour town, Poros, and, finally, the sea itself (Fig. 8.7). Viewed from the sites of the oldest necropoleis of Knossos, the visible physical landscape takes in more than 180°: it involves the entire valley with its physical

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Fig. 8.5. The slope of the Profitis Aelias.

and natural focal points. The perceived cultural landscape appears as a concentration of a peak sanctuary, necropoleis and funerary areas, settlements, palace and port. It thus constitutes an ‘embodiment’ of the main ritual, funerary and political ingredients of the Bronze Age Knossian world, an abstract of their achievement and memory (Figs 8.6–7). Always remaining inside this landscape, we now pass to the Gypsades Hill to the south of the valley. Here, along the road leading to Archanes, a very special monument has been found: the so-called Temple tomb. We will leave aside this ‘tomb’ because it would require its own special discussion, for its ambiguous nature, incomparable structure and findings, and also for the many uncertainties due to the Evans’ excavations so long ago (Evans 1921–35; Pini 1968). In Middle Minoan III (c. seventeenth century BC), an epigeic tholos tomb was erected on Gypsades: that is, a

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Fig. 8.6. The Knossos valley looking south.

Fig. 8.7. The Knossos valley looking north.

tomb built above ground of a type common in the Mesara plain in central Crete (Hood 1958; Pelon 1976; Alberti 2001; in press). Gypsades is still unpublished, but we can have an idea of the tomb type and especially the type of location from a reconstructive design of the similar tholos of Apessokari in the Messara (Fig. 8.8; Flouda 2011). In the case of Gypsades, again, one goes uphill: on the map this does not seem so sharp in comparison with Profitis Aelias, but is still a steep enough climb. The position of the tomb high up the slope is a dominant one in the valley; its location shares many similarities with what we have seen at Mavro Spileo and Aelias. There is the Jouktas massif behind us in the south, and to our right Profitis Aelias with its two necropoleis. But, most emphatically, looking north we have before us another excellent view of the palace. In the distance, once more, we can see the Kairatos valley, the City of the Living and, once again and only, the sea.

Fig. 8.8. The Apessokari tholos tomb, reconstruction design (after Pelon 1976, pl. VII.1).

During the Neopalatial phase at Knossos (c. 1700–1450 BC), the evidence therefore seems to show that the cemeteries on the high ground run round in a curve from the east at Profitis Aelias (necropoleis of Mavro Spileo and Aelias), south through Gypsadhes (necropoleis of

8.  Over the rainbow: places with and without memory in the funerary landscape of Knossos Gypsades and tholos) and up the west onto the Acropolis Hill (Monastiriako Kephali tomb) (see south section of the reconstructive design in Fig. 8.12). This positioning ensures first intervisibility between the main known necropoleis; then, between the necropoleis and the important focal and cultural points, such as Jouktas with its peak sanctuary and the Psiloritis mountain with the sacred cave of Kamares; and finally, between the city of the Living and the city of the Dead (Figs 8.6–7). The city proper here portrayed is not only the palace, but also the settlement that extends north towards the harbour and the sea. The landscape is thus a net of interconnected places of natural spots, history and memory. In this long occupational phase, the northern area of the valley, where the main road goes from the town towards Poros, the harbour and the sea, had not been occupied by any burial grounds – circumstance that is about to change.

The ‘visual’ aspect: the second phase As we have seen, at the end of Late Minoan IB (c. second half of the fifteenth century BC), the nature of palatial Crete was changing radically. All the palaces (excepting Knossos and arguably Chania) were destroyed and most were never reconstructed, together with many other sites, settlements, villas etc. Knossos is the only palace we are certain had a palatial role and function on the island in the subsequent phase (Treuil et al. 1989; Warren 2004; Macdonald 2005). After these widespread destructions, during the Final Palatial phase (around 1450–1370 BC), the funerary landscape at Knossos was also changing very significantly. In the northern sector of the valley, new necropoleis with new types of tombs were set up; architecturally, they were completely different from the earlier ones: they consist of a quadrangular, single chamber, approached by a long and narrow dromos with its walls sloping in towards the top (Fig. 8.9). In rare cases, single-use tombs also appear, again of a typology previously unknown in Crete: they are either shaft graves, the bottom of which, when covered by stone slabs, acts as a burial space, or the so-called pit graves that are deeply excavated pits with niches at the bottom. Until now, these last two typologies have only been found in Crete at Knossos and at Chania where an important Final Palatial necropolis with similar features has been discovered (Andreadaki-Vlazaki and Protonotariou n.d.) Moreover, the grave goods are different from the few Neopalatial assemblages known up to now. There is now a marked display of bronze items and jewellery, including bronze vases, prestigious objects, personal items and considerable assemblages of weaponry. So much weaponry that these tombs were defined as ‘warrior graves’ (Hood et al. 1958–9; Alberti 2004; in press). Special sets of clay vases are present, too. All these items were found in association and, together with the architecture of the tombs, recall

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Fig. 8.9. Isopata necropolis, mono-chamber Tomb 5 (after Pini 1968, fig. 37).

contemporary and earlier assemblages found extensively in mainland Greece (Popham and Catling 1974; Alberti 2003; 2004; 2009). Also, the number of depositions per tomb is completely different from the older tombs at Knossos. It is likely that most of the data from the earlier sets of tombs involved cases where most of the skeletal materials were reordered in Antiquity or reburied after archaeological excavations (a practice used also in other contexts in the twentieth century and recently reintroduced, see Burial Act 1857). The picture obtained from the Aelias necropoleis suggests that these last are large-family tombs, with dozens of individual burials, sometimes about 70 people in total (Hood 2010). The newly created tombs on the contrary contain much smaller groups: those belonging to the impact phase of the phenomenon are under five individuals per tomb, while in the later phase the numbers rise to a dozen (Alberti 2018b). Another physical fact with very significant cultural implications is that in the tombs of the northern part of the valley, the conical cup, the Minoan vase par excellence found not only in settlements but also in funerary contexts in Knossos and in all Crete, is simply not present. But there is a new and specific pottery set of alabastron, kylix and three-handled jar: this triad repeats the mainland pottery patterns (Alberti 2004). As in the first phase, at the start of Final Palatial (c. 1450 BC), in this northern sector we found a tholos tomb, the Kephala tholos (Hutchinson 1956; Preston 2005). Despite the relatively close proximity both in space and in time with the Gypsades tholos, the Kephala one belongs to a completely distinct typology (Fig. 8.10). It is not only hypogeic, namely built purposely to be underground, but it is also in a hidden position. It occupies a sort of flat natural terrace, not at all dominant in the sloping landscape. It employs, moreover, architectural technologies completely different from those employed for the former epigeic tholoi, but ones that are very similar, almost identical, to those of the mainland tholoi (Alberti in press). The Kephala tholos marks the beginning of the continental-type tholoi phenomenon in Crete: from this moment, in fact, the epigeic tholoi of the Messara type are not in serious use anymore. With time a number of hypogeic-continental-type tholoi begin to appear in the island (Belli 1995).

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Fig. 8.10. The Kephala tholos (after Hutchinson 1956, 75).

Cross-referencing the data of the new funerary structures in the northern area with the surrounding physical environment, we can spot some interesting particulars and patterns. Looking around from the Kephala tholos location, it is possible to note immediately that from the tomb-site (with the exception of Jouktas, visible from just about everywhere in Knossos), we can see virtually nothing (Fig. 8.11). Even trying to get a view of the palace, assuming zero vegetation, is not possible; Psiloritis is not visible, nor the city of the Living, nor the sea. We can see Profitis Aelias and, but only just, the top of the hills towards the south and east (see north section of the reconstructive design in Fig. 8.12). Moving to the northern locations of the other Final Palatial necropoleis, of our second phase, the result is

comparable. The sides of the valley shut us in, permitting only glimpses of the higher ground. No sweeping vistas of the horizons beckon, nothing to pull the eye and spirit into the vastness of the skies. The city of the Living – palace and settlement alike – is not discernible. It is important to underline, even if briefly, the special context of the Mavro Spileo cemetery, one of the earlier necropoleis located high up on Profitis Aelias and belonging to our first ‘visual’ phase. This is the only necropolis that had a long life that includes this later phase: the cemetery was in use down to Late Minoan IIIC early (c. 1200 BC). Of its later life, a first sub-phase with multi-chamber tombs took up in Late Minoan II and immediately after the widespread destructions, but then

8.  Over the rainbow: places with and without memory in the funerary landscape of Knossos

Fig. 8.11. View from the necropoleis of the second phase.

Fig. 8.12. Reconstructive design of intervisibility in the valley.

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later the new Final Palatial mono-chamber tombs were inserted wherever feasible in the spaces left between the Neopalatial multi-chambers; the latter had been regularly distributed on the slope, placed at a certain distance from each other. At least here the same visual connections apply as before; the assemblages do not have the same ‘continental’ atmosphere but seem more hybridised. The most interesting feature is that, in these Final Palatial mono-chamber tombs, the conical cup did not vanish, making a striking difference with their contemporaries in the northern section. The same happened in tomb locations in the southern and western sections of the valley. They continued to be employed as important burial areas, with the newer features fully inserted within the earlier ones, and also in broad continuity with the earlier Minoan traditions. These significant changes in the use of the funerary landscapes at Knossos are most assuredly connected with the question of the supposed continental/mainland presence at Knossos in this Final Palatial phase. Until the 1990s the academic community believed in a Mycenaean presence at Knossos from around the middle of the fifteenth century BC. The appearance of Mycenaean traits in the material culture – especially the Linear B tablets written in a form of proto-Greek and found in the Final Palatial and Postpalatial destructions of the palace, the new type of burial customs, as well as new ceramic shapes and various architectural features – have led to the probably extreme conclusions that a group of Mycenaeans not only destroyed the palace, but conquered the entire island (Popham 1994). Subsequently, doubts as to the chronology of the tablets and the advances in hermeneutics in Aegean archaeology have led to more nuanced interpretations in which an undefined foreign presence is contemplated (warriors as mercenaries or allies?). In the last two decades, the majority of scholars have gone beyond this, arguing that the real changes visible in the material culture were more indebted to the processes of ‘acculturation’, ‘bricolage’, ‘hybridisation’ and ‘creolage’ (see Häussler and Webster forthcoming) than to a foreign presence. Concepts such as identity, ethnicity and hybridisation have been introduced to explain this controversial and subtle phenomenon, without coming to any overarching agreement (Preston 1999; 2004a; 2004b; Alberti 2003; 2004; 2009; 2014; 2015; Wiener 2015). Isotope analysis on skeletal remains has not yet solved the matter since it has so far been only possible to examine persons who came from the later periods (Nafplioti 2008; Alberti 2014; 2018b). A real discussion of this controversial and subtle issue is beyond the scope of this paper: I simply wish to enumerate another marked difference between the two phases. A difference that is not only represented by diverse locations and visibility but seems to deal with more intense and deep cultural choices.

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Climbing down … to conclusions My walking of the high and low roads, trying to recapture the Minoan and later experiences of how one might conduct a funeral, has provided me with very different sets of images and views, an appreciation of the physical exertions required and, I must say, also engendered feelings. We are all taught to aim for scientific objectivity in our work, but I think it is always nearly impossible to be really detached. The methodology here used of phenomenology and cognitive archaeology with their interconnected principles can definitely help us to ‘approach’ the difficult topic of thinking about processes and emotions that ancient groups can have experienced. But, in using our human senses, in gauging such things as the sightlines and presence within a physical space, we should perhaps better admit that, in trying to interpret such matters, we inadvertently react to them, too. Indeed, perhaps we ought to react so. It is probably impossible to distinguish whether these reactions are simply personal or part of those feelings common to human beings that transcend time and space (Sozzi 2009). The objectivity of research is always weakened by the researcher’s personality, and not only in the Humanities. Despite that maybe, the funerary landscape at Knossos in the transition time between the Neopalatial and Final Palatial phases incorporates changes that are both sharp and meaningful (Fig. 8.12). First, as Minoans, we have ‘rooms with a view’, physically located high up, at sites with sweeping vistas, where a viewer is set within a dense and interconnected network of their world. Though separated physically from the city of the Living, these sites had a visual access to the main physical, cultural, political and religious focal points: peak sanctuaries and mountains, other necropoleis and tombs on the hillsides, the settlement and palace in the valley, the main roads and the harbour town, the blue Aegean sea and sky beyond all. Then, with the newly established burial grounds, we move to tombs located lower down or even underground. These are locations without any known earlier funerary connections and from which we do not have any views, either of the city of the Living or of important places in the previous Minoan narrative. Indeed, it is possible that these new cemeteries were more integrated into the landscape of the Living, set between inhabited regions, along the passage route to the harbour, they were probably more interested in being viewed by the living, in a sort of ‘external’ mortuary display. More focused on their surface and underground aspects than the previous ones, as the typology of the Kephala tholos testifies, they appear as funerary installations devoid of connection to the Minoan past, or at least seemingly without any interest whatsoever in the places held dear in Minoan memories.

In between these two extremes, we have the Mavro Spileo necropolis in which the new types of tombs are inserted in the spaces left by the older ones. And where in the second phase of the tombs, the grave goods became really mixed: there is the Minoan conical cup and stone vases of the old tradition, but here too the new architecture of a chamber with dromos. In this case we can plausibly speak about a hybridisation phenomenon. In the two phases, therefore, the degree of interactions and integrations between the human and the non-human sphere (i.e. land, sky, sea, mountains, water, etc.) appears very different. From a high level in the first and thus ‘visual’ phase, we pass to a far lower set of circumstances in the second and ‘less visual’ phase (Alberti 2015; 2018a). In reconstructing the thought processes of those who chose these places, we need to bear in mind that these changes in location and consequently in visual perspective are not compelled by any obvious economic or practical reasons. Some people, after all, continued to use the older necropoleis. Rather, the changes are due to some fundamental cultural factors; this would involve not only the practical experience and the perception of the individuals, but also their ideology and symbolism, their ritual and religion, their personal and social identities. From places orientated to the sky and space, to places planted on and even in the ground (with possible chthonic connections); from locations interconnected and charged with memories and past histories, to places unencumbered with past associations. This is a change by no means insignificant.

Acknowledgements I wish to thank the organisers of the workshop for the kind invitation and the very interesting topic chosen. My warm thanks go to the British School at Athens for the permission to study and republish the Mavro Spileo necropolis and for their continuous support, to the Institute for Aegean Prehistory for funding my researches and to Dr Don Evely for the great patience and competence in correcting the English.

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9 Material forms and ritual performance on Minoan peak sanctuaries Christine E. Morris and Alan A.D. Peatfield

Religions may not always demand beliefs, but they always involve material forms. (Keane 2008, 124)

Introduction This quote, from Webb Keane’s 2008 study of the evidence for the sensory and material aspects of religion, neatly demonstrates the way that anthropological and archaeological thinking has developed an increasing appreciation of the material and performative aspects of religion. While the intellectual aspects of religion may involve complex abstractions of thought and belief, they need to be grounded in the formalities of action and performance. Indeed, one can argue that, while thoughts and beliefs will be redefined under the pressures of social change, by contrast the formal nature of ritual action may remain more constant and truthfully expressive of religion within ancient society. As archaeologists, we are essentially scholars of material culture. Therefore, instead of focusing on drawing inferences of belief from our evidence, we should be encouraged to be more aware of the subtleties of assemblages of artefacts and the nuances of their spatial organisation. They are, after all, the consequences of the sensory and material expression of the ancient religions we study. Our discussion focuses primarily on the Minoan peak sanctuary of Atsipadhes Korakias, in west Crete, while also drawing on material from other sites, notably those in east Crete that form part of the current East Cretan Peak Sanctuaries Project (ECPSP), in collaboration with Costis Davaras. Some of our recent work on the Atsipadhes material has focused on the spatial organisation of the material on the peak sanctuary using GIS to represent and to interrogate the distribution of finds within the site (Peatfield and Morris

2012; 2019). This chapter will also draw on aspects of that work to explore ritual performance within its spatial and wider landscape contexts. In parallel, we reflect on ritual action, experience and performance through the life cycle or biography of the figurines, one of the key material forms involved in the rituals. We begin by briefly introducing the archaeology of peak sanctuaries within their Cretan Bronze Age context, followed by a summary of the main layout of the Atsipadhes site as revealed by excavation.

Contextualising Minoan peak sanctuaries The Bronze Age on Crete, conventionally termed Minoan, begins around 3200/3100 BC, with the second millennium (from c. 1900 BC) marked by the emergence of complex society, characterised by monumental palaces such as Knossos in north-central Crete, elite literacy and sophisticated aesthetic and technological skills. This should be set within the wider context of increasing interaction between the Minoans and their Mediterranean neighbours, especially in the Near East and East, which facilitated exchange of raw materials, finished objects and ideas. The main periods of peak sanctuary use coincide with these palatial periods. The evidence suggests a general pattern of ritual sites that served their local communities during the Protopalatial (Middle Minoan IB–II: c. 1900–1700 BC) period, whereas in the succeeding Neopalatial period (MM III–LM I: c. 1700–1460) there was a reduced number of active sites, which became more closely linked with elite centres and their ideologies (Peatfield 1987; 1990).

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The first peak sanctuary to be excavated was Petsofas in 1903 (Myres 1902–3). On top of a prominent mountain overlooking the Palaikastro coastal plain, the excavator Myres found a small hypaethral structure, comprising a temenos wall, within which was a small room. The thousands of clay figurines that made up the main finds from the site portrayed anthropomorphic figures, animals and separately modelled pieces of the human body, now usually termed ‘votive limbs’ (Myres 1902–3; Rutkowski 1991). Myres identified the anthropomorphic figures, not as deities, but as representations of the men and women who worshipped at the shrine. In many ways this prescient insight was counter-intuitive, given that, across the Mediterranean, figurines were widely assumed to represent deities, and especially goddesses. Although Myres did observe some stratigraphic relationship between the figurines and the building, including concentrations of them in association with a plastered stone bench, he did not offer any more detailed analysis of the spatial patterns of the figurines in relation to the natural and built features of the site. It was Evans who established the ‘peak sanctuary’ category by comparing the site he investigated on the top of Mount Juktas with Petsofas (Evans 1921, 151–2; Davaras 2010, 71). Although Evans identified not only a small building but also an altar and votive deposits, like Myres he did not investigate the spatial organisation in any more detail. From these two earliest examples, the peak sanctuaries that can be confidently identified now number approximately 25–30 (Peatfield 1990; 2009; Nowicki 1994; 2007). Although

around 20 of them have by now been excavated to lesser and greater degrees, there is limited spatial and statistical information available from publications, creating the impression that the material is randomly scattered about each site.

Atsipadhes Korakias As we have already described elsewhere, the excavation strategy on Atsipadhes – which involved the exhaustive plotting of all the finds, and especially the figurine material, in situ – was designed to test this impression and to explore the possibility of building a fuller understanding of ritual action and performance at these mountain shrines (Peatfield 1992; Peatfield and Morris 2012; 2019). Technology has now caught up with our original analytical vision, and by developing an intrasite GIS (Geographical Information System), which draws on the information in a digital relational database (Filemaker Pro), we are able to virtually relocate the figurine fragments within their spatial contexts on the site. Using the GIS we are easily able to query and visually represent distributions, densities and spatial relationships between figurines across the site. Chronologically, the material from Atsipadhes is mostly Protopalatial (or Middle Minoan) in date, as are the majority of peak sanctuaries with only a limited number of them, as noted above, continuing into the following Neopalatial period or beyond. There are traces of earlier Early Minoan II–III material on some sites (Peatfield 1990, 125; Nowicki

Fig. 9.1. Conical peak of Atsipadhes within the Kouroupas massif, as viewed from the Ayios Vasileios valley.

9.  Material forms and ritual performance on Minoan peak sanctuaries 2001; 2018, 8–10), while at Atsipadhes there is also evidence for an earlier Final Neolithic/Early Minoan I use of the site, demonstrating earlier human engagement with the mountains, which we have reported on elsewhere (Morris and Batten 2000).

Fig. 9.2. Profile view of Atsipadhes sanctuary showing the upper (to the west) and lower (to the east) terraces with the rock clefts between them.

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Set on a northern spur of Mt Kouroupas, overlooking the Ayios Vasilios valley, the natural formation of the Atsipadhes Korakias peak has two main terraces, the upper to the west, and lower to east (Figs 9.1–2). On the upper terrace the material is limited to the eastern edge, privileging the part that overlooks and is intervisible with the lower terrace. Within the upper terrace a notable discovery was a central, roughly circular feature, around 10 cm in maximum depth, wherein some object was placed, and around which was a concentration of pebbles mixed in with figurines and pottery. We cannot be certain what that object was, but the possibilities include a baetyl or perhaps a vessel (Peatfield and Morris 2012, 231–2; 2019). Set on the natural east–west axis of the site, this object/feature seems to have been the main locus for liturgical activity, especially activity associated with manipulation of liquids, as suggested by the notable presence in the immediate area of clay libation tables, rhyta, both in animal and vessel form, as well as cups and bridge-spouted jars. Importantly, the water-worn pebbles were found only in this area of the site, strongly supporting the idea of a distinctive and spatially specific set of ritual actions.

Fig. 9.3. GIS map showing the distribution of figurine fragments on the site, represented as percentages within the trench areas (A: upper terrace; B: rock clefts; C–F: lower terrace).

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The drop between the two terraces comprises rough rock clefts. Here we found around 50% of the c. 5000 figurine fragments (Fig. 9.3). The density of the figurines diminished further east, across the flatter sections of the lower terrace. But then, after an area with relatively few figurines, there was secondary density clustered on the very eastern edge of the site. We suggest that this is associated with the viewpoint down onto the Minoan settlements contemporary with the peak sanctuary, and that a concern with intervisibility was a decisive factor (Peatfield and Morris 2012; 2019). The relative quantities and spatial distributions of the animal versus human figurines were of obvious interest given that the majority of identifiable fragments fall into these two categories. Visualisation of the data demonstrates that in terms of both raw numbers of fragments and estimated numbers of individual figurines, the animals predominate in all areas; at Atsipadhes these are mostly bovine and of a medium size that fits comfortably in the hand. The diagram further shows clearly that animal and human are to be found together everywhere on the site, but that the human fragments comprise a consistently larger proportion of the finds on the lower terrace (trenches C–F) than in either the rock clefts (B trenches) or on the upper terrace (A trenches). Among the many variables of the human figurines that merit exploration, gender and gesture sprang most immediately to mind. Gender has long been a focus of interest within figurine studies globally; this ranges from the universalising interpretations of large swathes of figurine material as ‘mother goddesses’, arising from the preponderance of female forms in the earliest assemblages, to a more recent shift to thinking beyond the male-female binary to consider gender ambiguity and indeed to foreground other aspects of human identity. Interestingly, some earlier studies of peak sanctuaries have hypothesised a predominance of male figurines among the votive artefacts (Davaras 2010, 74 – on peak sanctuaries in general: ‘male figurines in typical gestures ounumber females’; Karetsou 1981, 146 – Jouktas, ‘female idols were very few’; Rethemiotakis 2014, 148 – Kophinas, ‘over 90% of the fragments belong to male figurines’). The Atsipadhes data strongly suggest that this is by no means universally so, since there are twice as many identifiably female fragments as male. It is important to note, also, that many pieces are too fragmentary to confidently be gendered. Female and male figurines, where identifiable within the larger dataset, showed no sign of being spatially differentiated, but were rather found across the site. It was all the more interesting, therefore, to observe that the gestures performed by the figurines do show evidence for being spatially distinct, a point we will return to later in the chapter. In other papers we have discussed the significance of gesture in Minoan religion, and have argued that the clay figurines, when viewed in conjunction with other evidence, notably that of the gold rings, are indicative a strong shamanic component

in Minoan religion (Morris 2001; 2004; Morris and Peatfield 2002; 2004). This arises from the way that gestures and body postures can be used to access altered states of consciousness. The phenomenology of shamanism associates it with rituals of divination, especially weather, and of healing – both of which accord with the peak sanctuary evidence. We have further argued that the Protopalatial date of the peak sanctuary material suggests that this was a component of Minoan popular religion, not just that of the elite (Peatfield 1990; 2000). We do not propose to repeat these particular arguments, rather our intent here is to tease out and render explicit the layers of performative ritual process that are embodied in the figurines as material forms. It is useful to frame this in terms of the ‘biography’ of the figurines; this encourages us to think beyond the archaeologically recovered artefact, which is, of course, only one portion of any object’s life cycle (Kopytoff 1986; Gosden and Marshall 1999; Joy 2006). Thinking then in terms of a life cycle from production to consumption, we may identify the following stages: the manufacture of the figurines; bringing them to the site; performance, offering and deposition on the site; and the relationships between images and ritual performance.

Making It is easy to underestimate the process of making figurines, especially in relation to the low value of the material, the apparent simplicity of their creation and their affinity to the economic realm of pot-making. Studies exploring the manufacturing processes of the figurines, their chaine opératoire, are beginning to offer insights into modes of production and use (Rethemiotakis 2001; Zeimbeki 2004; Murphy 2018; Morris et al. 2019). Both fabric and style point to local production and consumption of figurines: in other words, the material forms brought to the mountain are made locally, to be used locally. It is also beginning to become clear that there are significant differences between the figurine assemblages from the individual peak sanctuaries. Some sites appear to have significant concentrations of types: male anthropomophic figures of large size at Kophinas (Rethemiotakis 2014), or the female anatomical body parts from Petsofas (Myres 1902–3, 374–5 with pl. XII; Rutkowski 1991, 91–105; Zimmerman 2019). This does not account, however, for the fact that the creation of figurines would have been one component in the broader community preparations for the peak sanctuary ritual (Peatfield and Morris forthcoming). It is all too easy to forget that ceremonies may require long periods of material preparation when, as archaeologists, we are dealing primarily with the physical end results of such processes. Material preparations do, of course, also build emotional expectations – as well as evoke memories – that reach fulfilment (or disappointment!) in the long-awaited ritual itself. That sense of emotional expectation would have had added

9.  Material forms and ritual performance on Minoan peak sanctuaries resonance for the people for whom the figurines were made. We can perceive that the figurines were made for specific purposes, especially when they were made for healing, as indicated by the votive limbs (Morris and Peatfield 2014). The figurines become expressive of that purpose and of the emotions involved.

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Bringing the figurines to the site bridges the emotional expectation of material preparation with the ritual itself. Those who have climbed to peak sanctuaries as archaeological sites will be familiar with the process of the journey, and it is one that is, to some extent, mirrored in the modern journeys to the small Orthodox chapels, some of which are also located high in the mountains (Spratt 1865, 158–60; Psilakis 2005; Nixon 2006). The journey to the sanctuary is, to use Ingold’s terminology, ‘wayfaring’: it is not simply about getting to a destination, but about the ‘perpetual monitoring of the environment that is revealed along the way’ (Ingold 2016, 80). There are profound dynamic experiential qualities in moving through the landscape, involving all the senses, not just the physical effort of the ascent and the company of others participating in the ritual, but also the fragrances of

the vegetation (the famous Cretan herbs); the sounds within the landscape – wind, birds, distant goat bells; the changing visual perspectives as the summit gets closer; and then the remarkable views from the peak itself. The journey to the peak is in a very real sense a performative prelude to the ritual on the sanctuary itself. One of the things most commented on by those who study figurines is their tactile quality – not just the touch of the clay, smooth or gritty dependent on its manufacture, but also the way that they change angles depending on their morphology. It is clearly no accident that the vast majority of figurines are of a size that comfortably fits the hand, to be carried, making them a portable object that has an easy intimacy with our human body (Fig. 9.4). Linking that portability to what we have just observed about the journey to the peak sanctuary, we should understand that the process of transporting a figurine, the sensory qualities of carrying it in the hand, perhaps wearing it suspended around the neck (since anatomical votives such as legs and torsos are specifically pierced for hanging), enhanced the association between the ritual artefact and the individual whose ritual purpose it was to serve. Not all figurines – or other objects – were hand-sized or portable, however. Hence there is also scope to begin to

Fig. 9.4. Male anthropomorphic figurine, fitting comfortably in the hand (from Atsipadhes, Rethymno Museum 6784).

Fig. 9.5. Miniature animal figurines, placed on the hand for a sense of scale (from Prinias, Ayios Nikolaos Museum).

Bringing

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Fig. 9.6. Large hollow animal (bovine) figurine, held for sense of scale, H. 40 cm. Such large figurines are usually represented only in fragmentary form (from Traostalos, Ayios Nikolaos Museum 10911).

think about the physical challenges and sensory affordances of different scales of production and use. At one end of that scale are much more miniaturised figurines, averaging 2.5–4 cm in length, and small enough for a group to nestle on the hand (Fig. 9.5). Such figurines are, for example, well represented at Jouktas, where they have been carefully studied by Zeimbeki (2004), and at Petsofas (Myres 1902–3, 376–8 with pl. XIII; Rutkowski 1991, 35, with pls XLVIII–XVIX), and so they seem to be a feature of sanctuaries with stronger palatial links. That suggestion finds support in their absence from the more rural Atsipadhes assemblage, which also lacks the wider variety of animals (goats, sheep, pigs, etc.) that are particularly familiar within the miniaturised material. At the other end, there are clearly much bigger figurines being made and offered, and these are represented in the Atsipadhes material; like the medium-sized figurines, the larger animals are primarily bovine, such as this exceptionally well-preserved example from Traostalos excavated by Davaras (Fig. 9.6). Safe transport of larger and heavier figurines up to the sanctuary would have required considerable care, and once there they would surely have commanded attention through their size and visibility.

Performance, offering and deposition Arriving on the peak sanctuary itself, we have the clearest of evidence for ritual performance – the deposition of the figurines in the rock clefts. Most discussions of the peak sanctuary figurines focus on what may called the votive

process, so much so that the figurines are most commonly called votive offerings. In this interpretative model, the votives are offered by votaries, and become the passive memorial of their act of submission to or supplication of whatever supernatural being is associated with the cult place. From what we have already described of the making and carrying of the figurines, it is clear that they have a far more strongly expressive role in the ritual performance of the peak sanctuaries; in sensory terms they capture or are expressive of the emotional and spiritual impulses that drove the rituals. Central to this interpretation is the observation that the votive process was not a simple act of placement into the rock clefts – but rather that the spatial data indicates that they were (or became) broken in situ. This has been observed by all excavators of peak sanctuaries, and has been clearly indicated by the pattern of joining pieces at Atsipadhes – they are all to be found with centimetres of each other. Joining pieces are not found widely scattered over the site. Leaving the material at the sanctuary and, in some cases, breaking it are decisive acts. We can speculate on the precise meaning and timing within a given ritual, but it does mark a definitive moment in ritual performance, whose significance lies in its contrast to the care involving in the creation and carrying of the figurines.

Distribution, image and performance We return again to the issue of the distribution of the human figurines in terms of gesture and body posture. The gesture of a figurine is the arrangement of its limbs, in a variety of different forms. We have preferred the term ‘body posture’ because it more accurately describes the dynamic qualities of these bodily shapes. Myres was aware of the varieties of these postures, illustrating figurines with arms held away from the body as well as close to the body. But the fact of better preservation has meant that the most famous of these is the hands-to-chest gesture of the familiar Petsofas male figurines. Early studies of peak sanctuary figurines followed this process of lumping the figurines together by using the overarching term ‘prayer gestures’. This does very much presuppose a Christian model of religion, as being primarily the worshipful supplication of a powerful deity. Our own study of the Atsipadhes figurines revealed that, although there are indeed two broad categories of body postures, open (hands away from the body) and closed (hands held to the body), within these categories there is great variation derived from the precise angle and elevation of the arms relative to the body. When we took these two broad categories as criteria for our spatial distribution analysis, an unexpected pattern emerged – the closed body postures cluster in and around the rock clefts that form the drop between the upper and lower terraces. By contrast, the open postures are all further away, marking more of a

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peripheral area on the lower terrace (Peatfield and Morris 2012, 240 with fig. 11.6; 2019). The obvious question, which occurred not only to us but also to most colleagues with whom we shared this observation, was whether this spatial organisation was reflective of stages of action in the peak sanctuary ritual. There are strong arguments for suggesting that this is the case. When Myres made his original observation that the figurines portrayed the worshippers themselves, it was possible to see the choices made in those portrayals – the elaborate clothing and hairstyles, the painted or attached jewellery, the accoutrements (notably the male daggers) as expressions of individual social identity. The variety of postures, again a matter of choice, reveals that this sense of identity also extends into ritual. The figurine images not just the individual’s social identity but also his/her performance of the peak sanctuary ritual – it is expressive of intent, performance and spiritual experience.

The narrative of ritual performance We are, in Aegean archaeology, familiar with the idea of ritual scenes, art depicting ritual narratives: frescoes, carved stone vases, gold rings, seals and sealings. Less appreciated are three-dimensional ritual scenes, exemplified by the clay models from the Kamilari tholos in south Crete (Lefèvre Novaro 2001). Relatively well preserved, these have long been regarded as somewhat unusual in the corpus of Aegean art. This will change dramatically when the material from several peak sanctuaries is published. Although very fragmentary, similar clay models are present in many of the major assemblages of peak sanctuary finds. Most are simple dishes marked out with horns of consecration, and showing figures in simple ritual scenes. The most complex, however, seem to show extraordinarily elaborate mountain landscapes with figures moving through them (Rethemiotakis and Christakis 2011, 212) a three-dimensional version and prototype of the famous scene from the Theran West House fresco. This further demonstrates the significance of place and performance expressed in yet another material form. For our purposes here, this adds yet another layer to the way that the peak sanctuary figurines express ritual performance, including the ritual prelude of the journey to the peak sanctuary. Even more importantly, the grouping of figurines together indicates that the Minoan participants in peak sanctuary ritual were self-reflective of their ritual and spiritual process. The miniaturising of the ritual space, with figurines arrayed in interactive ritual performance, adds support to the idea that the spatial distribution of the different body postures among the figurine assemblage on Atsipadhes does reveal something of human ritual performance. We should imagine that people really stood in different ritual body postures in different, discrete parts of the sanctuary. We might speculate that they believed

Fig. 9.7. Fragmentary relief stone vase, showing male figure bending to place an offering in a rocky setting, most likely at a peak sanctuary. Gypsades, Knossos (Heraklion Museum).

that this enhanced the spiritual effectiveness of their performance.

Symbolic mountains, ritual performance For our final point on the association of peak sanctuaries with ritual performance, we turn to the Neopalatial pieces of elite art that show peak sanctuaries or sacred mountains – most famously, these are the Mountain Mother sealing from Knossos, the Zakro peak sanctuary rhyton, and the Gypsades stone vase fragment (Fig. 9.7). It has also been persuasively argued that the undulating back of the throne in the Knossos throne room represents a mountain, so it should also be considered within this symbolic grouping (Peatfield 1990; 2007, 298; Hitchcock 2010). Collectively, they demonstrate the appropriation of the peak sanctuaries as an emblem of elite, perhaps specifically Knossian, power (Haysom 2018). It is the association with the sacred mountain that lends spiritual authority to political power. But these are more than just static symbols; they all belong to objects that are manipulated in ritual performance – displayed imagery, vessels for libation and, of course, a seat of authority. The Knossos throne, in particular, because the person sitting on it literally aligns him or herself with the mountain (represented by the back of the throne); this makes a profound performative statement about their ritual power.

Conclusion Aegean archaeology has, of course, long argued for the performative content of elite imagery. But these images

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are just that – images, they merely portray or symbolise action, remaining at a remove from it. Here, we argue for the importance of focusing on material forms in relation to ritual performance, so that ‘doing’ and ‘wayfaring’ are foregrounded. Focusing on the clay figurines as material forms, we suggest that they can also be understood as revelatory of ritual performance, in the sense of direct participation. They were made as part of the preparations, embodying both expectations and past memories of the rituals. As they were carried up the mountain to the sanctuary, their tactile qualities were a sensorial stimulus, a reminder of the rituals to come. On site, they were part of the spatial dynamics of ritual performance, and they may indeed have imaged the dynamic actions of their owners. Once offered, they were (or became) broken, and then left on the sanctuary. These layers of involvement with the ritual process suggest that these humble clay objects became imbued with an expressive power through which the ordinary Minoan people manifested their spiritual concerns and aspirations.

Bibliography Davaras, C. (2010) One Minoan peak sanctuary less: the case of Thylakas. In O. Krzyszkowska (ed.) Cretan Offerings: Studies in Honour of Peter Warren, British School at Athens Supplement 18, 71–87. London, Thames and Hudson. Evans, A.J. (1921) The Palace of Minos: A Comparative Account of the Successive Stages of the Early Cretan Civilization as Illustrated by the Discoveries at Knossos. London, McMillan. Gosden, C. and Marshall, Y. (1999) Cultural biography of objects. World Archaeology 31, 169–78. Haysom, M. (2018) Mass and elite in Minoan peak sanctuaries. In G. Vavouranakis, K. Kopanias and C. Kanellopoulos (eds) Popular Religion and Ritual in Prehistoric and Ancient Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean, 19–28. Oxford, Archaeopress. Hitchcock, L. (2010) The big nowhere: a master of animals in the throne room at Knossos? In D.B. Counts and B. Arnold (eds) The Master of Animals in Old World Iconography, Archaeolingua Series 24, 107–18. Budapest, Archaeolingua. Ingold, T. (2016) Lines: A Brief History. London, Routledge. Joy, J. (2006) Reinvigorating object biography: reproducing the drama of object lives. World Archaeology 41, 540–56. Karetsou, A. (1981) The peak sanctuary of Mt Juktas. In R. Hägg and N. Marinatos (eds) Sanctuaries and Cults in the Aegean Bronze Age, Proceedings of the 1st International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens 1984, 137–53. Stockholm, Svenska institutet i Athen. Keane, W. (2008) The evidence of the senses and the materiality of religion. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 14(1), 110–27. Kopytoff, I. (1986) The cultural biography of things: commoditization as process. In A. Appadurai (ed.) The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, 64–91. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

Lefèvre Novaro, D. (2001) Un nouvel examen des modèles réduits trouvés dans la grande tombe de Kamilari (Messarà-Crète). In R. Laffineur and R. Hägg (eds) POTNIA: Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age, Aegaeum 22, 89–98. Liège, Université de Liège. Morris C.E. (2001) The language of gesture in Minoan religion. In R. Laffineur and R. Hägg (eds) POTNIA: Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age, Aegaeum 22, 245–51. Liège, Université de Liège. Morris, C.E. (2004) ‘Art makes visible’: an archaeology of the senses in Minoan élite art. In N. Brodie and C. Hills (eds) Material Engagements: Studies in Honour of Colin Renfrew, 31–43. Cambridge, McDonald Institute Monographs. Morris, C.E. and Batten, V. (2000) The Final Neolithic pottery from the Atsipadhes Korakias peak sanctuary. In A. Karetsou (ed.) Proceedings of the 8th International Cretological Congress 1996, 373–82. Heraklion, Etaira Kretikon Istrorikon Meleton. Morris, C.E. and Peatfield, A.A.D. (2002) Feeling through the body: gesture in Cretan Bronze Age religion. In Y. Hamilakis, M. Pluciennik and S. Tarlow (eds) Thinking Through the Body. Archaeologies of Corporeality, 105–20. New York, Plenum. Morris, C.E. and Peatfield, A.A.D. (2004) Experiencing ritual: shamanic elements in Minoan religion. In M. Wedde (ed.) Celebrations: Sanctuaries and the Vestiges of Cult Activity, Papers from the Norwegian Institute at Athens 6, 35–59. Bergen, Norwegian Institute at Athens. Morris, C.E. and Peatfield, A.A.D. (2014) Health and healing on Cretan Bronze Age peak sanctuaries. In D. Michaelides (ed.) Medicine in the Ancient Mediterranean World, 54–63. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Morris, C.E., O’Neill, B. and Peatfield, A.A.D. (2019) Thinking through our hands: making and understanding Minoan female anthropomorphic figurines from the peak sanctuary of Prinias, Crete. In C. Souyoudzoglou-Haywood and A. O’Sullivan (eds) Experimental Archaeology: Making, Understanding, Storytelling. Oxford, Archaeopress. Murphy, C. (2018) Solid items made to break, or breakable items made to last? The case of Minoan peak sanctuary figurines. Les Carnets de l’AcoSt 17. Available at https://journals.openedition. org/acost/108999 (accessed: 15/03/2019). Myres, J.L. (1902–3) Excavations at Palaikastro II. The sanctuary-site of Petsofa. Annual of the British School at Athens 9, 356–87. Nixon, L. (2006) Making a Landscape Sacred: Outlying Churches and Icon Stands in Sphakia, Southwestern Crete. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Nowicki, K. (1994) Some remarks on the pre- and protopalatial peak sanctuaries in Crete. Aegean Archaeology 1, 31–48. Nowicki, K. (2001) Minoan peak sanctuaries: reassessing their origins. In R. Laffineur and R. Hägg (eds) POTNIA: Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age, Aegaeum 22, 31–7. Liège, Université de Liège. Nowicki, K. (2007) Some remarks on new peak sanctuaries in Crete: the topography of ritual areas and their relationship with settlements. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 122, 1–31. Nowicki, K. (2018) Cretan peak sanctuaries: distribution, topography and spatial organization. Archeologia (Poland) 67 [2016–17], 7–29.

9.  Material forms and ritual performance on Minoan peak sanctuaries Peatfield, A.A.D. (1987) Palace and peak: the political and religious relationship between palaces and peak sanctuaries. In R. Hägg and N. Marinatos (eds) The Function of the Minoan Palaces, Proceedings of the 4th International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens 1984, 89–93. Stockholm, Svenska institutet i Athen. Peatfield, A.A.D. (1990) Minoan peak sanctuaries: history and society. Opuscula Atheniensis 18, 117–31. Peatfield, A.A.D. (1992) Rural ritual in Bronze Age Crete: the peak sanctuary at Atsipadhes. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 2, 59–87. Peatfield, A.A.D. (2000) Minoan religion for ordinary people. In A. Karetsou (ed.) Proceedings of the 8th International Cretological Congress 1996, 9–17. Heraklion, Etaira Kretikon Istrorikon Meleton. Peatfield, A.A.D. (2009) The topography of Minoan peak sanctuaries revisited. In A.-L. D’Agata, A. Van de Moortel and M. Richardson (eds) Archaeologies of Cult. Essays on Ritual and Cult in Crete in Honour of Geraldine C. Gesell, Hesperia Supplement 42, 251–60. Princeton, American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Peatfield, A.A.D. and Morris, C.E. (2012) Dynamic spirituality on Minoan peak sanctuaries. In K. Rountree, C.E. Morris and A.A.D. Peatfield (eds) The Archaeology of Spiritualities, One World Archaeology, 227–45. New York, Springer. Peatfield, A.A.D. and Morris, C.E. (2019) Space, place and performance on the Minoan peak sanctuary of Atsipadhes in Crete. In G. Papantoniou, C.E. Morris and A. Vionis (eds) Unlocking Sacred Landscapes: Spatial Analysis of Ritual and Cult, Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology, 189–200. Nicosia, Åströms Förlag.

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Peatfield, A.A.D. and Morris, C.E. (forthcoming) Peak sanctuary figurines: materialising issues of ritual personhood within community/house identity. In M. Relaki and J. Driessen (eds) OIKOS. Archaeological Approaches to House Societies in the Ancient Aegean, Aegis. Louvain-la-Neuve, Presses universitaires de Louvain. Psilakis, N. (2005) Laikes Teletourgies stin Kriti [Folk Ceremonies in Crete]. Heraklion, Karmanor Publications. Rethemiotakis, G. (2001) Minoan Clay Figures and Figurines: From the Neopalatial to the Subminoan Period. Athens, Archaeological Society at Athens. Rethemiotakis, G. (2014) Images and semiotics in space: the case of the anthropomorphic figurines from Kophinas. Kretika Khronika 34, 147–62. Rethemiotakis, G. and Christakis, K.S. (2011) Landscapes of power in protopalatial Crete: new evidence from Galatas, Pediada. Studi Micenei ed Egeo-Anatolici 53, 195–218. Rutkowski, B. (1991) Petsophas. A Cretan Peak Sanctuary. Studies and Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology and Civilization I(1). Warsaw, Polish Academy of Sciences. Spratt, T.A.B. (1865) Travels and Researches in Crete, Volume 2. London, John van Voorst. Zeimbeki, M. (2004) The organization of votive production and distribution in the peak sanctuaries of state society Crete: a perspective offered by the Juktas animal figurines. In G. Cadogan, E. Hatzaki and A. Vasilakis (eds) Knossos: Palace, City, State, British School at Athens Studies 12, 351–61. London, Thames and Hudson. Zimmermann, S.K. (2019) Midwives of Eileithyia: Tracing a Female Healing Tradition in Prehistoric Crete. Unpublished PhD thesis, Trinity College Dublin.

10 Transforming landscapes: exploring the creation of a sacred landscape in north-east Cyprus at the beginning of the Late Bronze Age Louise Steel

[…] relationships to places may also find expression through the agencies of myth, prayer, music, dance, art, architecture and in many communities, recurrent forms of religious and political rituals. Thus places and their meanings are continually woven into the fabric of social life, anchoring it to features of the landscape and blanketing it with layers of significance that few can fail to appreciate. (Basso 1996, 57)

Introduction This paper examines the transformative power of communal ritual during periods of social change. Specifically, it explores the creation of a modified ceremonial landscape in north-east Cyprus at the transition from the Middle to Late Bronze Age. With reference to landscape theory and anthropological approaches to ritual performance, it interrogates how this created landscape was incorporated within ceremonial practice, how it was experienced and how it was used to mediate relations within and between settlements of the region during a period of social upheaval.

Archaeological background The transitional Middle–Late Bronze Age on Cyprus (henceforth Middle and Late Cypriot periods, MC–LC, c. 1700–1600 BC; Table 10.1) was a period of social upheaval, characterised by the widespread abandonment of villages that had hitherto been occupied over countless generations as well as their ancestral burial grounds (Steel 2004a, 152–4). There was a dramatic change in the distribution of habitation through the landscape with a clear shift towards previously uninhabited areas (Fig. 10.1). New coastal centres established at Enkomi and Morphou-Toumba tou Skourou acted as regional economic nodes controlling production (metallurgical and pottery) and maritime exchange. This

transition was not peaceful; violent destructions are attested at some sites and social unrest has been inferred from the sudden and unprecedented appearance of mass burials, usually attributed to human agency (warfare) or to plague (Steel 2004a, 153–4). Alongside this backdrop of disruption and turmoil was increasing competition over social and economic capital: agricultural land, control over land routes, access to new maritime trading markets and, above all, control over the island’s rich copper resources, all of which were contested by newly emergent elite groups within the small island communities. Certain changes appear to illustrate the development of a hierarchically organised society, possibly even the kernel of an early state system (see discussion in Knapp 2013b). Chief amongst these were the adoption of a Minoanising writing system (Ferrara 2012, 56–63), increasing use of cylinder seals, gradual urbanisation and centralised control over the production and export of copper (Knapp 2008, 133; 2013a, 348–9). These significant societal transformations were likewise accompanied by shifts within household activities and technological production within the settlements, most evident in ceramic production (Crewe 2007; Steel 2010, 108–9; 2013b, 227). The evident locational and emotional upheaval to the island’s communities undoubtedly influenced their perceptions of the world around them and how they interacted with space. While there has been considerable investigation

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Fig. 10.1. Map of Cyprus.

Table 10.1. Relative chronological phases on Cyprus (after Crewe 2007, table 1). Relative chronological period

Approximate date BCE

Middle Cypriot (MC) III

1750–1650

Late Cypriot (LC) IA

1650–1550

Late Cypriot (LC) IB

1550–1400

Late Cypriot (LC) IIA–B

1400–1340/15

into the monumentalisation of urban spaces during the LC II period, c. fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BC (Knapp 2009; Fisher 2014), there has been limited engagement, if any, with the altered experiences of liminal spaces in the hinterland during the transitional MC–LC periods. Indeed, during such a period of social ferment we might expect the manipulation of ritual performance and ceremonial spaces to be a means of consolidating and reifying an emerging new social order. Certainly, the ceremonial landscape of north-east Cyprus was dramatically transformed at this time with the construction of new communal spaces for ritual action in which social relations were mediated. Most

spectacular is Korovia-Palaeoskoutella, a special burial location covered with earth and rubble tumuli (Sjöqvist 1940, 106–28); another possible ritual centre has been identified at Phlamoudhi-Vounari (Symeonoglou 1975, 72–3; al-Radi 1983), although interpretation of this site is disputed (Horowitz 2008, 80–2).

Monumentalising ritual landscapes Recent understanding of people’s place in the landscape draws heavily on concepts of phenomenology and embodiment, namely the idea that landscapes are shaped by human practice and are experienced bodily. People’s movement through landscapes and their engagement with specific natural features, locales and humanly created monuments imbue spaces and places with meaning and make them culturally resonant (see, for example, Tilley 1994; Bender 2006; Harmanşah 2014). Fundamental to my own understanding of the creation of ritual landscapes in the Cypriot Bronze Age is the concept that landscapes are dynamic and have agency; as much as they are palimpsests of human action (Bender 1993) they equally and actively shape human social, political and ritual action.

10.  Transforming landscapes: exploring the creation of a sacred landscape in north-east Cyprus Landscape theory highlights how certain spaces become embedded in human consciousness as locales where the spiritual or supernatural world is present or accessible. These become the focus of ideological practice and ritualised action, developing into significant places for social reproduction and the expression of a community’s identity. Through this social action and experience space becomes place (Casey 1996), it is objectified and imbued with meaning through repeated, embodied practices. Underlying this is a complex relationship between landscape, ideologies and memory. Inscribed practices – physically manifested through visible commemorative activities, such as the creation of monumental structures and communal repeated actions – embed places within the ritual landscape (Connerton 1989; Rowlands 1993; Harmanşah 2014). ‘Control of space lies at the heart of social power’ (Chapman 2000, 184) and the ideologies of emergent political and economic elites are articulated through physical manipulation of the landscape; places are inscribed, shaped and altered through the construction of monuments that are incorporated within ritual action. Monumentality expresses power relations and is intended to maintain and authorise the political landscape of society (DeMarrais et al. 1996), whereas funerary monuments are places where ancestral memories might be mediated and perpetuated over generations. Monumentality and inscribed landscapes articulate the rhetoric of these social relations, expressing dynamics of inequalities and power to those who use and/ or view them. This dynamic is communicated through strict control of special places, for example through the juxtaposition of the inclusivity and exclusivity of space. Ritual ceremonial places are characterised by restriction of access and the creation of exclusive spaces where esoteric knowledge is enacted, alongside more inclusive areas in which large numbers of people are able to gather and take part in or observe ceremonial action. Furthermore, the act of constructing and maintaining a monument, as well as the inclusivity of communal places, fosters social cohesion and a sense of group identity (Bradley 1998, 72; Knapp 2009, 47). These monuments might be appropriated by local elites as a means to reify their social, political and economic positions, while diverse embodied performative practices, such as ritual processions, serve to weave these monumentalised sacred landscapes within a wider system of settlements (rural and urban communities) scattered throughout the cultural landscape (Harmanşah 2014, 3), thereby crafting an evocative sense of place that is experienced communally (Basso 1996). Monuments clearly form part of the cultural landscape and are integral to people’s consciousness and experiences. This is true generations after their original construction, in many cases long after they have fallen into disuse and those who constructed them are long forgotten. They inscribe the landscape and shape the embodied material experiences of the surrounding population; these are structures that

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are intended to endure and as such play an important role in the material culture of remembrance (Rowlands 1993). As such, they might be considered to be inalienable possessions (Weiner 1992) that acquire multiple biographies and histories throughout their use through their association with the people who variously built, used and experienced them. Even so, the memories attached to monuments are not permanent but will be altered over time as new experiences and memories are attached to them (Bradley 2002, 82–6, 109–11). Looking specifically at mounds such as barrows and tumuli, however, Ingold (2013, 76–80) questions the assumption that these were designed as monuments to last in perpetuity, and indeed the notion that we can accurately date their construction to a specific moment in time. While we might consider such structures to be the result of deliberate action that shaped and inscribed the landscape, Ingold moves the emphasis away from monumentality to performance and the ongoing act(s) of making/mounding as part of ritual action. He suggests the intention was not necessarily to create a structure and to monumentalise the landscape, but rather to gather and perform ceremonies repeatedly at the same place possibly over generations; whilst doing so, people’s actions of adding to and/or removing earth or stones at specific points in the locale gradually but continually reshaped the physical space. The ritual landscape therefore embodies a deep sense of the past that may include mythologies, traditions, entanglement with individuals and repeated communal gathering and performances; as such, it is integral to a community and people’s sense of identity and competition for social and political capital. ‘Places thus serve as meaningful nexuses of human interaction and as sites of immediate everyday experience’ (Harmanşah 2014, 2). These relationships are expressed through myriad embodied performative acts and become embedded in the mythology of place (Basso 1996, 57). The communal experience of place and shared embodied performances evokes Durkheim’s notion of collective effervescence – group performance in which the actors achieve an altered state of consciousness through repeated actions within liminal contexts; the intense emotional, spiritual and physical experiences involved serve to strengthen bonds between individuals (Buehler 2012, 73). [I]f collective life awakens religious thought on reaching a certain degree of intensity, it is because it brings out a state of effervescence which changes the conditions of psychic activity. Vital energies are over-extended, passions more active, sensations stronger; there are even some which are produced only at this moment. A man does not recognize himself; he feels himself transformed and consequently he transforms the environment. (Durkheim [1912] 1995, 424, my emphasis)

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These shared embodied and spiritual encounters, grounded in ceremonial action and lived experiences outside of normal social practice, can also be characterised as communitas. This is an achieved emotional and spiritual state, rooted in turmoil in which the natural order is upturned and through which identities are mediated and tradition is reinforced (Olaveson 2001; Turner 2012). It has been suggested that such transformative communal ritual experience is particularly important during periods of tumultuous social events (Buehler 2012, 74), such as those suggested for the MC–LC transition. Consequently, we might assume that changes within a ritual landscape might reflect significant changes in a community’s habitus, specifically their strategies of competition for social capital during times of stress (see Papantoniou 2012, 78) and communal ritual action. The abandonment of traditional places thus might be viewed as a conscious strategy to create a deliberate break with the past, while the creation of new ritual spaces facilitates the establishment of new traditions to be used in the mediation of changing social relations.

Early–Middle Cypriot precursors A brief survey of ritual performance in the Early–Middle Cypriot (EC–MC) periods will help contextualise the significance of the transformation of the ritual landscape in north-east Cyprus during the mid-second millennium BC. Present evidence suggests that extramural cemeteries provided the primary focus for social gathering and ritual performance; these were conceivably the main arena where social relations were mediated and individuals competed to accumulate social capital (2014, 620–2). In particular, Webb and Frankel (2010, 200, 203) highlight the performance of elaborate ceremonies in the cemeteries of the north coast – ‘theatrically charged events involving feasting, dancing’, animal sacrifice and possibly the use of animal hides, horns and antlers as costumes. There is considerable evidence for the embellishment of mortuary ritual, with multi-stage funerary treatment, prestige display, libations, animal sacrifice and feasting. Based on the elaboration of a small number of tomb entrances, the iconography of the Kotsiatis models and the presence of large jars at the entrance to some tombs, Webb and Frankel (2010) have surmised, at least in the island’s northern cemeteries, that the tombs were the focus of an ancestor cult (see also Keswani 2005, 349–50; Steel 2013a, 58–9, 67–9). In contrast, there is no evidence for the marking of sacred places in the wider Cypriot landscape, which were the focus for repeated ceremonial performance, nor were special spaces set aside in the settlement (Webb 1999, 17), although a plaster installation from Marki has been likened to the tomb facades and Kotsiatis shrine models (Webb and Frankel 2010, 202) and was possibly incorporated within some ceremonial action within the settlement by members

of the community. Additionally, Webb (2014, 623) suggests that communal feasting within and beyond the household was an important means of ritual communion within the settlement; in these household contexts there was a symbolic focus around the hearth associated with ritualised breakage and structured deposition of clay zoomorphic figurines. Nonetheless, the cemeteries provide the primary arena for communal gatherings and the mediation of social identities during this period. In the turbulent, formative years of the MC–LC transition, however, there was a significant shift in ritual action in the communities of north-east Cyprus, which I suggest was in part a response to transformed social realities at this time.

Korovia-Palaeoksoutella The ritual landscape of north-east Cyprus was transformed in the final years of the Middle Bronze Age. Perhaps the best example of such manipulation of ritual space is illustrated by the unique funerary monument at Korovia-Palaeokoustella, in the remote Karpass Peninsula (Fig. 10.2). Here in MC III the landscape was altered by the construction of a massive tumulus on top of a prominent hill, encircled by an estimated 20 smaller tumuli placed at regular intervals. The placement of the monument is imposing, and this is further accentuated by the monumentalisation of the locale. As extant, the central tumulus covered an area of around 17.5 by 22 m and stood to a height of over 3 m, creating a ‘mighty outline on the central area of the top plateau’ (Sjöqvist 1940, 119) that dominated the surrounding landscape. This physical shaping of place at Palaeoskoutella contrasts significantly with typical practices evidenced within the mortuary landscape throughout the preceding EC–MC period; only occasionally have tumuli been identified at other cemeteries, such as at Alambra-Mouttes (Webb 1992, 94), but nowhere so prominent as the Palaeoskoutella tumuli. The Swedish Cyprus Expedition (SCE) investigated seven of the tumuli at the site. Four of the mounds (Tumuli Two, Four, Five and Seven) covered rock-cut chamber tombs, but only two of these contained human remains and grave goods. A double burial was found in Tumulus Four, together with a modest range of ceramic vessels, and the large central mound, Tumulus Seven, contained 14 burials accompanied by an impressive array of bronze objects and ceramic vessels (Table 10.2). The tombs beneath Tumulus Two and Five were completely devoid of human remains as well as extant grave goods, although a small number of sherds were recovered in Tumulus Two (Table 10.3). The excavators speculated as to whether these tombs had been emptied of their contents in remote antiquity (Sjöqvist 1940, 111–12, 116, 127) and we might envisage such action as part of the rituals that were performed at the site (Keswani 2004, 47; 2005, 358). If we extrapolate this

10.  Transforming landscapes: exploring the creation of a sacred landscape in north-east Cyprus

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Table 10.2. Finds from burial tumuli, Korovia-Palaeoskoutella. Object type

Tumulus Four

Tumulus Seven

Pottery Red Polished Bowl Red on Black Jug Miniature jug Bowl Amphora Amphoriskos Red on Red

1 4 1 3

6 6 1 3 1

Bowl Plain White (handmade) Jug Jar Bowl Cook pot Plain White (wheelmade)

24 6

1

Jug Bowl Amphora Black Slip Globular jug Amphora Bowl Red Slip

30

5 7 1 1

1

2 2 4 1

Jar Black Lustrous Wheelmade

2

Jug White Painted Wheelmade

1

Jar Light on Dark Ware

1

Jug Coarse Ware

1

Jar Other Terracotta

1

Spindle whorl Lead

2

7

Spindle whorl Bronze

1

Knife Pins Rings Chains Fragments

1 5 6 1 1

Fig. 10.2. Plan of Korovia-Palaeoskoutella.

action back to the MC–LC transition, Tumulus Five stands out for being completely empty, with not even a single sherd or bone fragment being left behind. Similarly, the treatment of this structure is different to that attested elsewhere at the site and, I would argue, marks this as a special liminal place incorporated in some form of ritual action, namely a form of cleansing and/or purification of place aimed at restoring social order (Douglas 1966). As part of this ritual cleansing the tomb structure was significantly modified. The stomion was destroyed, the tomb chamber and dromos were filled with rubble and chavara waste and the area above the stomion and dromos was paved over by irregular flat stones (Sjöqvist 1940, 116, fig. 45.2), creating a flat surface and thereby plausibly transforming it into a performative space. Whether the tomb beneath Tumulus Five had actually ever been incorporated within funerary ritual, as the resting place for one or more burial, certainly merits some consideration. Although there is plentiful evidence for the manipulation of human bones as part of Cypriot funerary ritual throughout the Bronze Age, which is usually attributed to ceremonial performance associated with an ancestor cult (Keswani 2005, 352–3), it seems unlikely that every single bone from earlier burials would have been collected together and removed from these facilities while leaving no physical trace, not even the tiniest fragment of bone. Instead, we might speculate that two chamber tombs were deliberately abandoned and purified, or indeed were left unused before they had received any human remains, perhaps reflecting a shift in the community’s relationship with place and the ancestors. The other tumuli (One, Three and Six) were built over levelled rock into which complexes of rock-cut basins and pits were cut; the most intricate of these lay beneath Tumulus One (Sjöqvist 1940, 108–9; Keswani 2004, 48). These were filled with dark sticky soil, ash and splinters of animal bone

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Louise Steel Table 10.3. Sherds from tumuli with no burials, Korovia-Palaeoskoutella.

Pottery

Tumulus One

Tumulus Two

Red Polished

Tumulus Three

Tumulus Five

Tumulus Six

26

Black Slip

264

9

120

80

Red Slip

108

11

41

45

Red on Black

295

33

40

56

Red on Red

22

s

9

Plain White

20

22

14

White Painted V

6

6

Coarse Ware Total

4 725

61

(Sjöqvist 1940, 106–9, 113, 118–19), apparently the debris of diverse repeated embodied ceremonies enacted at the site, presumably accompanying different stages in the complex mortuary rituals. This appears to be a development of ancient funerary rituals practised in northern Cyprus; certainly, plaster-lined pits were cut into the dromoi of the tombs in the EC cemetery at Vasilia (Webb 1992, 91). Significant quantities of fragmented pottery were found in some of the pits and basins (Table 10.3); Red-on-Black ware was predominant, comprising around 34% of the total pottery recovered. From these remains we might suggest that the ceremonial performances accompanying funerary ritual included animal sacrifice, liquid libations (plausibly blood, water or wine), and commensality ‘a rite of incorporation, of physical union’ (van Gennep [1909] 1960, 29) binding together the participants and mediating relations between the living actors, the dead and the ancestors. Alongside these we might suggest other embodied practices that have left no trace in the archaeological record, but which would have embedded the place within the consciousness of the participants, for example dancing, music, specialised costume(s) and storytelling (see Basso 1996, 56). The combination of repeated embodied rituals performed at a special, liminal place in the landscape would have evoked powerful memories of experiences and emotions, drawing the participants together in a state of ‘effervescence’ or communitas and thereby reiterating the significant role that Palaeoskoutella played in the creation and affirmation of identity. Chief amongst the pottery used in rituals at Palaeoskoutella was a new ceramic style – the Red-on-Black ware. Sixty pieces were recovered in Tumulus Seven alone, primarily jugs and bowls (Table 10.2). This strictly ceremonial style was imported to the site from the north coast, probably from the production centre at Phlamoudhi-Melissa (Smith 2008b, 61–2). I would argue that the special, ceremonial nature of this pottery (Steel 2013b, 185), reiterated by its use within a liminal space, was such that it could not be subsequently transformed into an object of daily use and returned to the

249

0

208

living space. Instead, it was broken deliberately at the end of the feasting and libation ceremonies and was ritually disposed of at the site in purpose-built pits and basins, along with other debris from the ceremonies. Certainly, numerous studies have highlighted the deliberate breakage and specialised disposal of special purpose objects (Meillassoux 1968; Chapman 2000, 23–6; Webb 2014, 623). The interweaving of these novel ceremonial objects, their use in ancient embodied funerary rituals and their interweaving in the lives of the actors who used and disposed of them was a form of enchainment that bound the participants to place. I would suggest two phases of ceremonial action at Palaeoskoutella: the first consists of a series of embodied engagements with the deceased and the ancestors within funerary ritual, to be identified with the debris recovered from the basins and pits and the assemblages in the associated tombs; the second involves the formation of the mounds that covered the cemetery and marked the landscape. This second phase, I would argue, was a longer-term engagement with place, with groups of actors gathering on the hilltop on many occasions and perhaps choosing to commemorate their communion with the ancestors simply by leaving a stone or a handful of earth as a silent marker of their presence. Plausibly, this was an intentional shaping of the landscape, a deliberate inscription of place at the interface between the living and the dead and might be viewed as a form of social action embodying competition over social and economic capital. We might then consider this to be a conscious political act with the intention of ‘inventing’ new traditions and a new focus in the ritual landscape during a period of social stress and change. Alternatively, applying Ingold’s (2013) concept of ‘making’, we might read this as a longer-term transformation of place, during which time it was woven into the spiritual fabric of life through repeated communal gatherings and a gradual mounding on the summit of the hill, created by individual actors repeatedly adding handfuls of earth and stone and thus reproducing the site through embodied ceremonial performances. Such a reading of the

10.  Transforming landscapes: exploring the creation of a sacred landscape in north-east Cyprus tumuli that cover the tombs and the associated pits and basin, and in particular the decision to ‘re-sculpt’ the empty tomb beneath Tumulus Five, leads us to a new understanding of a powerful and transformative relationships between human actors and place, one in which they were deliberately and consciously reproducing place, creating a focus for gathering and performing, while at the same time, perhaps more subconsciously physical, making, shaping and/or ‘mounding’ place. This reproduction of space helped the community to forge new traditions within their transformed ritual landscape.

Phlamoudhi-Vounari

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out for being the first attested example of a ceremonial or ritual place on Cyprus with no explicit funerary connotations. The length of time between the initial creation of the artificial hill and the first construction of a stone platform on its summit in Phase 2 (MC III–LC I) is unclear. Subsequently, the platform went through repeated phases of architectural embellishment (Phases 3–5; Horowitz 2008, 73–7; Fig. 10.3; Table 10.4), reflecting significant investment by the local community and furthermore illustrating how this place was embedded in communal ceremonial action over many generations. In Phase 3 plastered pavements were built around the outside of the stone platform and from

Another site in north-east Cyprus that demonstrates physical manipulation of place during the transitional MC–LC period, also apparently associated with some form of ritual performance in which social relations were mediated, is Phlamoudhi-Vounari (al-Radi 1983; Horowitz 2008). Vounari is located in the narrow coastal strip north of the Kyrenia mountains, at a strategic location, nestling in the foothills by a narrow mountain pass to the Mesaoria plain, and less than 1 km from the coast.1 Here there is evidence for deliberate monumentalisation of place – namely, the creation of an artificial conical hill of clay (Noller 2008), topped by a stone and plaster platform, which rises some 10 m above the level of the surrounding plain in an area that had previously been unoccupied throughout the EC and MC periods. The date of construction of the hill is unknown (Horowitz 2008, 73), but it seems reasonable to assume that it was created by an incoming population group that had settled at nearby Phlamoudhi-Melissa during the MC–LC transition (Smith 2008b, 45); certainly, the earliest datable activity on the summit of the hill dates to MC III and there are clear material links between the two sites (Horowitz 2008, 77). While the exact nature of Vounari is under debate (see discussion infra) it was undoubtedly incorporated within some form of ceremonial performance, and as such stands

Fig. 10.3. Plan of platform at Phlamoudhi-Vounari.

Table 10.4. Phasing at Phlamoudhi-Vounari. Phases

Architectural activity

Dating

Associated pottery

Phase 1

Construction of artificial hill

Unknown (MC III?)

None

Phase 2

First construction of tower platform

MC III–LC IA (early)

Red on Black, White Painted, Plain White

Phase 3

Grander design of stone platform; plastered pavements

LC IA–LC IB

Red on Black, Base Ring I, Monochrome, Red/Black Slip Wheelmade, LC I pithoi, Tell el Yahudiyeh ware

Phase 4

Extensive renovation; buttressed on south side, new circuit wall, double gateway on north side

LC IB

Base Ring I, White Slip I, Proto White Slip, Black Slip Reserved Slip, Bichrome, Monochrome

Phase 5

Renovation of north gate

LCIIA (early)

Base Ring I, White Slip II, Monochrome, LC II pithoi

Phase 6

Abandonment

LC IIA (late) (until Cypro-Archaic I)

None

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Phase 4 the platform was approached from the north via a grand double gateway, which was renovated in Phase 5: the external pavements and interior area accessed through the gateway might be considered respectively as inclusive and exclusive spaces for ritual action. The excavators suggested that the sides of the hill were originally plastered for enhanced visual impact (al-Radi 1983, 15–17). A detailed re-examination of the stratigraphy, however, suggests this was instead a slump of plaster from successive floors that had gradually weathered down the slope subsequent to the abandonment of the mound (Horowitz 2008, 76). Vounari was abandoned late in LC IIA, at a time when authority was increasingly being embedded within the newly established urban centres; in the case of the population of Phlamoudhi and the surrounding area, ceremonial action legitimising elite authority had probably been appropriated by the elites associated with the monumental structure at nearby Melissa

(Smith 2008b). In contrast, there is no further evidence for activity at Vounari until well into the Iron Age. The artificial hill dominates the surrounding landscape and was visible from the neighbouring settlement of Melissa as well as from the sea. Moreover, Vounari’s situation at a conspicuously strategic point indicates it to be a marker of place that was established by an incoming population to highlight and legitimise their claims over new territories and resources. The investment in labour involved not only in the initial construction of the hill but also the ongoing embellishment of the platform structures on its summit (Horowitz 2008, 73–7) emphasises community involvement in the creation of place: through its ongoing social interactions at Vounari the community became embedded in the landscape. Even more so than at Palaeoskoutella (v. supra), there was a deliberate break with ancient traditions and social action at Vounari: instead,

Fig. 10.4. Red-on-Black pottery from Phlamoudhi-Vounari.

10.  Transforming landscapes: exploring the creation of a sacred landscape in north-east Cyprus the novel type of monument illustrates the introduction of new traditions, changing forms of ceremonial performance and altered interactions with space, all of which were undoubtedly manipulated by different groups within the community in their competition for social and economic capital. As such, it represents a remarkable transformation in people’s relationship with space and their manipulation of their natural and material worlds. Hector Catling initially identified Vounari as an isolated fort (1962, 159, no. 138) and subsequently it was classified as a small rural sanctuary. However, a more recent examination of the architecture, phasing and finds has resulted in a very different interpretation of the site. Horowitz (2007; 2008) proposes that the Vounari corresponds to a tertiary nodal site within Knapp’s settlement hierarchy model (1997, 58–9), which acted as a regional centre for myriad economic exchanges, central storage, administrative control and food consumption. Even so, Horowitz does recognise the imposing aspect of place embodied in the artificial hill and platform, ‘built to impress and to dominate the landscape’ (Horowitz 2008, 80), and conjectures that social and economic interactions at Vounari were mediated through ceremonial performance, comprising elite sponsored feasting and gifting within an imposing communal setting. Nonetheless, it is difficult to extract supporting evidence of administrative action and the movement and storage of commodities at Vounari from the fragmentary archaeological remains (see discussion of material remains in al-Radi 1983, 24–31, 38–48; Horowitz 2008, 77–80). Instead, the finds are more in keeping with a small, largely isolated rural community (al-Radi 1983, 37) and their deliberate marking of place. Large quantities of fragmentary pottery were found at Vounari, associated with the stone platform. The storage jars identified in Phases 3–5, together with the grinding stones and a small number of cooking pots, were plausibly required to provision extra-household consumption and feasting. Certainly, the presence of large quantities of particularly fine Black-on-Red ware drinking sets (made up of very fine small bowls, juglets, bottles, larger jugs and bowls; Fig. 10.4) supports the notion of communal consumption. The Blackon-Red style, which was produced at nearby Melissa, was considered highly desirable and acquired considerable symbolic and ideological value beyond the local region during this period of social turmoil and change; as such it was widely distributed throughout north-eastern Cyprus (v. supra) and was incorporated within communal feasting and funerary ritual but was not used in daily household practices. Only the very best examples of Red-on-Black pottery were brought to Vounari (Horowitz 2008, 77) and, as at Palaeoskoutella (v. supra), this special pottery was seemingly ritually broken at the place of consumption, binding the social actors to place. We might envisage therefore that the monument at Vounari was used for large gatherings of the local (and possibly wider) community. Embodied practices performed

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here included ritual consumption of food and drink – a code of hospitality developed to bind together the neighbouring community during a period of social change. Commensality was an ancient and honoured tradition of social action for the Bronze Age communities of Cyprus (Steel 2004b), but at Vounari we see it transformed into a new ritual experience. Communal action moved away from the funerary arena into a new type of shared and monumentalised place, which gradually became embedded within the local landscape as a focus for repeated ritual performance over many generations, shaping a new relationship with space. This custom of shared consumption, performed at a special place outside of normal social practice and no doubt accompanied by other embodied rituals, would have evoked powerful emotions amongst the participants; it was a transformative experience that allowed the newly established community at Phlamoudhi to negotiate and legitimise social relations, whilst simultaneously marking their place in the landscape.

Conclusions To conclude, therefore, these two case studies illustrate the modification of the ceremonial landscape in north-east Cyprus associated with the creation of new traditions at a time of social stress. Time-honoured traditions of ritual action within the mortuary landscape were gradually abandoned; significant places in the landscape were marked, shaped and transformed; and new forms of specialised ritual equipment were incorporated within ancient practices of commensality alongside other embodied practices involving enchainment. The deliberate break with the past, the gradual creation of a new ritual landscape and the transformation of ceremonial action all reflect significant changes in the Cypriot habitus, and were conscious strategies developed to mediate social relations during this period of significant social upheaval.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Ralph Häussler for inviting me to contribute a paper to the Sacred Landscapes conference at Lampeter in 2014. I am grateful to Luci Attala for insightful comments concerning materialities and making, also for advice on the anthropological literature on ritual performance and communitas. Many thanks also to Stephen Thomas for reading and commenting on various drafts of this paper.

Note 1

The sites of Phlamoudhi-Vounari and Melissa were excavated by a team from the Columbia University, New York between 1970 and 1973. Much of the material from the excavations has been unavailable for study since 1974, as it is in the still occupied part of northern Cyprus. Most recently, the field notes and some of the material that is in New York have been published (see Smith 2008a).

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Bibliography Basso, K.H. (1996) Wisdom sits in places: notes on a western Apache landscape. In S. Field and K.H. Basso (eds) Senses of Place, 53–90. Santa Fe, School of American Research Press. Bender, B. (1993) Stonehenge. Contested Landscapes (Medieval to Present-Day). New York, Berg. Bender, B. (2006) Place and landscape. In C. Tilley, W. Keane, S. Kuechler, M. Rowlands and P. Spyer (eds) Handbook of Material Culture, 303–14. London, Sage. Bradley, R. (1998) The Significance of Monuments: On the Shaping of Human Experience in the Neolithic and Bronze Age Societies. London, Routledge. Bradley, R. (2002) The Past in Prehistoric Societies. London, Routledge. Buehler, A. (2012) The twenty-first-century study of collective effervescence: expanding the context of fieldwork. Fieldwork in Religion 7(1), 70–97. Casey, E.S. (1996) How to get from space to place in a fairly short stretch of time: phenomenological prolegomena. In S. Field and K.H. Basso (eds) Senses of Place, 13–52. Santa Fe, School of American Research Press. Catling, H.W. (1962) Patterns of settlement in Bronze Age Cyprus. Opuscula Atheniensia 4, 129–69. Chapman, J. (2000) Fragmentation in Archaeology: People, Places and Broken Objects in the Prehistory of South Eastern Europe. London, Routledge. Connerton, P. (1989) How Societies Remember. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Crewe, L. (2007) Sophistication in simplicity: the first production of wheelmade pottery on Late Bronze Age Cyprus. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 20(2), 209–38. DeMarrais, E., Castillo, L.J. and Earle, T.K. (1996) Ideology, materialization, and power strategies. Current Anthropology 37(1), 15–31. Douglas, M. (1996) Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London, Routledge. Durkheim, E. ([1912) Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse. Trans. K.E. Fields (1995) The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. New York, The Free Press. Ferrara, S. (2012) Cypro-Minoan Inscriptions I. Analysis. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Fisher, K.D. (2014) The creation and experience of monumentality on Protohistoric Cyprus. In J.F. Osborne (ed.) Approaching Monumentality in Archaeology, 355–83. Albany, SUNY Press. Harmanşah, Ö. (2014) Introduction: towards an archaeology of place. In Ö. Harmanşah (ed.) Of Rocks and Water: Towards an Archaeology of Place, Joukowsky Institute Publications 5, 1–12. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Horowitz, M.T. (2007) Monumentality and Social Transformation at Late Bronze I Phlamoudhi-Vounari, Cyprus. PhD thesis, Columbia University. Horowitz, M.T. (2008) Phlamoudhi-Vounari: a multi-function site. In J.S. Smith (ed.) Views from Phlamoudhi, Cyprus, 69–85. Boston, American Schools of Oriental Research. Ingold, T. (2013) Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture. London, Routledge.

Keswani, P.S. (2004) Mortuary Ritual and Society in Bronze Age Cyprus. Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology. London, Oakville, Equinox. Keswani, P.S. (2005) Death, prestige, and copper in Bronze Age Cyprus. American Journal of Archaeology 109(4), 341–401. Knapp, A.B. (1997) The Archaeology of Late Bronze Age Cypriot Society: The Study of Settlement, Survey and Landscape. Occasional Paper Series 4. Glasgow, University of Glasgow. Knapp, A.B. (2009) Monumental architecture, identity and memory. In A. Kyriatsoulis (ed.) Proceedings of the Symposium: Bronze Age Architectural Traditions in the East Mediterranean: Diffusion and Diversity, 47–59. Weilheim, Verein zur Förderung der Aufarbeitung der Hellenischen Geschichte. Knapp, A.B. (2013a) The Archaeology of Cyprus from Earliest Prehistory Through the Bronze Age. Cambridge, World Archaeology. Knapp, A.B. (2013b) Revolution within evolution: the emergence of a ‘secondary state’ on Protohistoric Bronze Age Cyprus. Levant 45(1), 19–44. Kus, S. (1997) Archaeologist as anthropologist: much ado about something after all? Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 4(3/4), 199–213. Meillassoux, C. (1968) Ostentation, destruction, reproduction. Economie et Sociétés 2(4), 760–72. Noller, J.S. (2008) Physical foundations of Phlamoudhi. In J.S. Smith (ed.) Views from Phlamoudhi, Cyprus, 25–9. Boston, American Schools of Oriental Research. Olaveson, T. (2001) Collective effervescence and communitas: processual models of ritual and society in Emile Durkheim and Victor Turner. Dialectical Anthropology 26, 89–124. Papantoniou, G. (2012) Religion and Social Transformations in Cyprus from the Cypriot Basileis to the Hellenistic Strategos. Leiden, Boston, Brill. al-Radi, S.M.S. (1983) Phlamoudhi-Vounari: A Sanctuary Site in Cyprus. SIMA 65. Göteborg, P. Åströms Förlag. Rowlands, M. (1993) The role of memory in the transmission of culture. World Archaeology 25(2), 141–51. Sjöqvist, E. (1940) Reports on Excavations in Cyprus. Stockholm, Swedish Cyprus Expedition. Smith, J.S. (ed.) (2008a) Views from Phamoudhi, Cyprus. Boston, American Schools of Oriental Research. Smith, J.S. (2008b) Settlement to sanctuary at Phlamoudhi-Melissa. In J.S. Smith (ed.) Views from Phamoudhi, Cyprus, 45–69. Boston, American Schools of Oriental Research. Steel, L. (2004a) Cyprus Before History: From the Earliest Settlers to the End of the Bronze Age. London, Duckworth. Steel, L. (2004b) A goodly feast … a cup of mellow wine: feasting in Bronze Age Cyprus. In J. Wright (ed.) The Mycenaean Feast. Hesperia 73(2), 161–80. Steel, L. (2010) Late Cypriot ceramic production: ­hetararchy or hierarchy? In L. Maguire and D. Bolger (eds) The Development of Pre-State Communities in the Ancient Near East: Studies in Honour of Edgar Peltenburg, 106–16. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Steel, L. (2013a) The social world of Early–Middle Bronze Age Cyprus: rethinking the Vounous Bowl. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 26(1), 51–73.

10.  Transforming landscapes: exploring the creation of a sacred landscape in north-east Cyprus Steel, L. (2013b) Materiality and Consumption in the Bronze Age Mediterranean, New York, London, Routledge. Symeonoglou, S. (1975) Excavations at Phlamoudhi and the form of the sanctuary in Bronze Age Cyprus. In N. Robertson (ed.) The Archaeology of Cyprus. Recent Developments, 61–75. Park Ridge, Noyes. Tilley, C. (1994) A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments. Oxford, Berg. Tilley, C. (2006) Introduction: identity, place, landscape. Journal of Material Culture 11(1/2), 7–32. Turner, E. (2012) Communitas: The Anthropology of Collective Joy. Basingstoke, Palgrave Macmillan. Van Dyke, R.M. and Alcock, S.E. (2003) Archaeologies of memory: an introduction. In R.M. Van Dyke and S.E. Alcock (eds) Archaeologies of Memory, 1–13. Oxford, Blackwell. Van Gennep, A. (1909) Les rites de passages. Trans. M.B. Visedom and G.L. Caffee (1960) The Rites of Passage. Chicago, University of Chicago Press.

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Webb, J.M. (1992) Funerary ideology in Bronze Age Cyprus – toward the recognition and analysis of Cypriote ritual data. In G.C. Ioannides (ed.) Studies in Honour of Vassos Karageorghis, 87–99. Nicosia, Leventis Foundation. Webb, J.M. (1999) Ritual Architecture, Iconography and Practice in the Late Cypriot Bronze Age. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology Pocketbook 75. Jonsered, P. Åströms Förlag. Webb, J.M. (2014) Ritual as the setting for contentious interaction: from social negotiation to institutionalised authority in Bronze Age Cyprus. In A.B. Knapp and P. van Dommelen (eds) The Cambridge Prehistory of the Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean, 629–34. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Webb, J.M. and Frankel, D. (2010) Social strategies, ritual and cosmology in Early Bronze Age Cyprus: an investigation of burial data from the north coast. Levant 42(2), 185–209. Weiner, A. (1992) Inalienable Possessions: The Paradox of Giving While Keeping. Berkeley, Oxford, University of California Press.

11 Monumentalisation of watery cults in Tarraconensis and Lusitania Francisco Marco Simón

Introduction For most religious systems, however diverse they are, water is considered both the essential source of life as well as an excellent agent for purification and regeneration. That explains the extraordinary importance of aquatic sacred landscape components. For Pindar, water is the best of things (Olympian Odes 1.1). In his Natural History, Pliny wrote that ‘Under various names, too, they [i.e. water] augment the number of the deities and give birth to cities’ (augent numerum deorum nominibus variis, urbesque condunt (Naturalis Historia 31.2.4)). Concerning the sacredness of water, Seneca emphasised the centrality of rivers and sources in religion (epistulae 41.3): magnorum fluminum capita veneramur; subita ex abdito vasti amnis eruptio aras habet; coluntur aquarum calentium fontes, et stagna quaedam vel opacitas vel immensa altitudo sacravit. And still in the fourth century AD, Servius (in Vergilii Aeneidos 7.84) stated that there is no fountain that is not sacred: nullus enim fons non sacer. In this context, we can also cite Pliny the Younger’s description of the sacred spring Clitumnus near Spoletum (epistulae 8.8), which had oracular functions and numerous shrines built around the spring’s temple. Pliny also informs us that this cult complex used to be part of Augustus’ private properties before ownership was transferred to the citizens of Hispellum. Our ancient sources are rich in stories regarding the inviolability of rivers and the sanctity of springs. For instance, Tacitus (Annales 14.22.4) conveys the anecdote of Nero who would be punished by the gods for having bathed in a sacred spring. The role of water can be explained by two complementary features well emphasised by Aupert (1992): falling from the sky and having visible effects on the fertility of

the land, water is an agent of the celestial deities; springing from the ground, it brings new forces supplied by the chthonic deities. As a link between the diverse cosmic realms (Green 1989, 155), the aquatic element surpasses all others: the waters temper the sky, fertilise the land, joining the air when they evaporate, rise to the heights and take possession of heaven. We can see this, for example, in Isidore (Etymologiae 13.12.3): Aquarum elementum ceteris omnibus imperat. Aquae enim caelum temperant, terram fecundant, aerem exhalationibus suis incorporant, scandunt in sublime et caelum sibi vindicant. Quid enim mirabilius aquis in caelo stantibus?

The monumentalisation of diverse ancestral sanctuaries, as well as the redefinition (or ‘interpretatio’ – see Chiai et al. 2012) of indigenous deities linked to aquatic spaces through a classical iconographic language, is a process certainly supported by provincial elites to convey the idea of peace, fertility and wealth associated with the presence of Rome.

The ‘Fonte do Ídolo’ in Braga My first example is the ‘Fonte do Ídolo’ (Fig. 11.1), an aquatic sanctuary in Braga (Portugal), the ancient Bracara Augusta, capital of one of the conventus in north-western Tarraconensis (Garrido et al. 2008; Rodríguez Colmenero 2012). On the left part of the rock front, we see a bearded figure, standing, dressed in a long tunic and toga with ample folds on the right arm, and holding a cornucopia with the left. This representation has traditionally been interpreted as male figure by Leite de Vasconcelos (1905, 249), who identified it as the dedicator. Due to the fact

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Fig. 11.1. Fonte do Ídolo, Braga/Bracara Augusta. Architectonic monumentalisation (after Garrido et al. 2008).

that this image is larger than the deity’s bust inside the aedicula, Toutain (1917–18, 154), Blásquez (1961, 194–5) and Tranoy (1981, 283) argue that this standing figure is a representation of the god Tongobiagus while the bust is a picture of the dedicator, Caelicus Fronto. And according to the latest publications (Garrido et al. 2008; Rodríguez Colmenero 2012, 78), the great standing figure could also represent the goddess Nabia/Fortuna, attested in a votive altar found in the area. Near the images, we find the following two inscriptions (CIL II 2419): [Ce]licus Fronto | Arcobrigensis | Ambimogidus | fecit. || Tongoe/nabiago || ‘Celicus Fronto, from Arcobriga, of the Ambimogidi, made this.’

The second scene appears to the right of the previous one, i.e. facing to the east. This is a classic type of a niche surmounted by a triangular pediment within which a dove and a maze are shown. Just below the niche there is a flowing spring. Inside the niche there is a male bust, as well as the inscription Celicus fecit; below the niche, Fron(to), and other letters on the pediment. To the right of the aedicula there is another inscription in square capitals: Tongoe | nabiagoi. The theonym Tongonabiagus is interesting as it is composed of two elements: the first part, Tongo-, is related, as D’Arbois de Juvainville already stated (Rodríguez Colmenero 2012, 75), to the root -tong*, ‘swear’ in Celtic. A toponym Tongobriga is documented in neighbouring Freijo (Marco de Canaveses). The second part seems to be an epithet clearly related to another well-documented theonym

11.  Monumentalisation of watery cults in Tarraconensis and Lusitania in north-western Hispania, the goddess Nabia, from whose name many river names of the regions originate. The maze and dove inside the pediment have been linked by Leite de Vasconcelos (1905, 261) and Tranoy (1981, 283) with Tongus Nabiagus and Nabia, respectively. Much more problematic is the relationship established by Tranoy with Sucellus and Nantosuelta. Instead, it seems more probable to be an ‘assimilation’ between Tongus Nabiagus and Silvanus; the god with the maze is often represented in western areas of the Roman Empire, while the large female figure Nabia adopts the characteristics of a deity of fertility of the Ceres-Fortuna type. In the vicinity of the spring a rectangular stone block measuring 137 × 49 × 28 cm became visible, perhaps in the sixteenth century. Notches at the corners indicate that it must have been part of an architectonic ensemble. The inscription reads: T(itus) Caelicus, Vitor(um) heres, | Fronto et M(arcus) et Lucius | Titi f(ilii) pronepotes Caelici | Frontonis renouauerunt. ‘Fronto Caelicus Titus, heir to the vow, and his sons Marcus and Lucius, great grandchildren of Caelicus Fronto, renewed (the vow done before).’ (CIL II 2420 (add. p. XLIV, 900) = AE 2008, 679)

It is therefore a vow renewed by the gens. This renewal of Fronto Caelicus’ initial vow would take place in line with the construction or remodelling of the sanctuary. The last inscription related to Fonte do Ídolo is a dedication to Nabia on a granite altar: Nabiae | Rufina | v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) (now in the Museo Diego D. Sousa; HEep 473 = AE 1955, 258). The ‘Fonte do Ídolo’ is an aquatic rock sanctuary whose origin is impossible to determine since the original traces of channels were truncated by later works. Archaeologically we can identify two different phases regarding the monumentalisation of this sacred complex. The first phase corresponds to the appearance of writing as monumentum and the anthropomorphic representation of the two deities on the southern side of the natural rock: Nabia is probably represented by the great figure with cornucopia, and Tongus Nabiagus could be the figure inside the aedicula. Iconography and writing are the new ways to capture the divine presence and to express the piety and public image of the dedicants, notably of Celicus Fronto from Arcobriga, a city in Celtiberia or Baeturia Celtica. This first monumentalisation would occur in the early stages of the Roman city of Bracara Augusta, in whose foundation Q. Fabius Maximus, legatus Augusti and amicus principis, played an essential role (Rodríguez Colmenero 2012, 84–5; Tacitus Annales 1.5; Ovid Epistulae ex Ponto 12, 3.3, 4.6, etc.); he also founded Lucus Augusti, ‘the (sacred) grove of Augustus’, another capital of the conventus iuridicus in north-western Hispania.

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In the second phase, probably in the Flavian period, a new architectonic monumentalisation was carried out: a cultic pool, 6 m long and 4 m wide, was constructed that occupied half of the rock facade of the sanctuary and extended longitudinally toward the south, as shown by the walls unearthed in the excavations of 2002–3. It would be at this time when a low wall of regular stone blocks was placed ahead to frame the mouth of the spring. This second monumentalising phase corresponds to the renewal of works by the grandson and great-grandchildren of Celicus Fronto. The discovery of a series of notches carved into the surface of the rock led Garrido et al. (2008, fig. 41) to reconstruct a monumental portico topped by a triangular pediment that would frame the relief of the great standing figure, probably Nabia. The idea of the springs as dwelling and expression of the deity is well represented in two inscriptions from Guimarâes (CIL II 2402–3) that mention Bormanus, a theonym clearly related to Borvo, Bormo, a healing god often associated with Apollo, a patron of numerous aquatic sanctuaries in the Roman west, whose theonym has been used to form a series of place names of the type that has left behind a large toponymy of Bourbon/Bourbonne type (Jufer and Luginbühl 2001, 30; Delamarre 2003, 83). An inscription from Padrenda (Ourense) is dedicated to Suleis Nantugaicis in the correct reading of Tranoy (1981, 277; HEp 1997, 532 = IRG-04, 98 = AE 1951, 108). This is a double theonym of great interest. The first element is the same as for the Suleuiae Matres whose worship is documented in many parts of the Romano-Celtic world, from Hungary to Britain (Delamarre 2003, 287); it also resembles the goddess Sulis who was venerated in the hot springs of Aquae Sulis/Bath on the river Avon where she was associated with the Roman Minerva; there, a huge complex was constructed and offerings to Sulis include a large number of lead tablets (defixiones) deposited in the spring (Tomlin, 1988). The dedication’s second theonym, Nantugaicis, resembles the name of the Gallic goddess Nantosuelta, who is associated with areas of water sources and small valleys (Delamarre 2003, 231–2).

The sanctuary of Salus Umeritana in Otañes (Cantabria) My second example is an ekphrasis, i.e. the imaginary description of an aquatic sanctuary that was monumentalised in Roman times. The silver patera of Otañes (Cantabria), found in the Pico del Castillo in the late nineteenth century, has a diameter of 21.5 cm and weighs nearly 1 kg (Fig. 11.2). It can be dated to the end of the second or the beginning of the third century (Baratte 1992, 47–8) rather than the first (Strong 1966, 150) or fourth century (Musso 1983, n. 219). The inscription (CIL II 2917) mentions the name of the donor and the weight in pounds, comparable to goblets and

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Fig. 11.2. The patera from Otañes (Cantabria) depicting the sanctuary of Salus Umeritana (after Iglesias Gil and Ruiz Gutiérrez 2014, fig. 1).

silver vessels from Aquae Apollinares (CIL XI 3287 = ILS 3876 a) or from the Berthouville treasure (CIL XIII 3183). Along the border we can read Salus Umeritana, and on the reverse: L(uci) P. Corneliani p(ondo) III [---?] (Iglesias Gil and Ruiz Gutiérrez 2014, fig. 4). The iconography of the patera, which has some coated gold decorations, displays six different scenes. At the top we see the image of an aquatic deity (presumably the goddess Salus Umeritana) depicted between two trees, leaning on the left arm and holding an amphora and a patera in his right hand. The water coming out of the patera runs through a channel to a pond bordered by stones, to the right of which a kneeling character prepares to fetch water with a vessel to fill a large cylindrical container. Below, there is another figure emptying the content of an amphora into a large barrel, depicted on a four-wheeled cart hauled by two yoked mules. Another scene, which is probably stressing the healing power of the waters, exhibits, to the right and above the previous image, a young man with a short tunic in front of a tree, offering a glass of water to an old man sitting on an armchair and holding bread in his left hand. One might interpret these three scenes, of outstanding quality and richness of details, as a sequential development implying the collection, transportation and offering (or consumption) of water from the sanctuary. The closest iconographic parallel to transporting and offering of healing water is a stele of Q. Veiquasius Optator, cultor sacrorum, from Cherasco (Cuneo), now in the Archaeological Museum in Turin (Baratte 1992, 46, fig. 6).

The other two scenes have a ‘ritual’ character. To the left, an old man, bearded and dressed in toga, is pouring water with a patera over an altar; the depiction through the golden fringe of a typical purple toga praetexta would indicate that this figure is a magistrate, as suggested by Iglesias Gil and Ruiz Gutiérrez (2014, 285). In the upper right, another figure, equally bearded and wearing a short tunic, supported by a staff in his left hand, perhaps indicating a sick man or perhaps a shepherd, is offering by an altar.1 Although there could be a spatial bipartition in this representation, as suggested by Díez de Velasco (1998), with the scenes of the upper half referring to the sacred sphere of the cult and in the lower half relating to secular life, the arrangement of the various scenes resembles other silver paterae that have the same structure of scenes around a central image, such as the paterae of Aquileia, Altenwalde and Parabiago (Musso 1983). Contrary to the common interpretation of this object as a votive patera – offered perhaps after successful healing – realistically depicting an aquatic sanctuary, Baratte (1992) has suggested an alternative theory, namely that it contains a more general or symbolic evocation of the memories of a pilgrim about a shrine of uncertain location in line with the well-known four silver vases from Vicarello that depict the itinerary from Gades to Rome (Gasperini 2008, 93–4). What seems clear is that this is an iconography that shows Roman cultural influence by associating an ancestral divine personality to the Roman goddess Salus. The presence of the two remarkable figures in robes and the farmworker in the sacrificial scenes may indicate that the sacred spring was venerated and/or frequented by all strata of society, in a place where the sacred waters were channelled and retained in a pond, beside the Roman road from Pisoraca (Herrera de Pisuerga) and Flaviobriga (Castro Urdiales) (Iglesias Gil and Ruiz Gutiérrez 2014, 290). The epithet Umeritana refers to an indigenous toponym, probably situated in the territory of the Autrigones in northern Hispania. Pliny (Naturalis Historia 31.24) mentions the Fontes Tamarici in Cantabria, situated in the modern Velilla de Guardo, Palencia. There were three springs and they united in one current, forming a large river: in unum alveum coeunt vasto amne. They ran dry many times a day, and it was considered a bad sign if they were not running for those who wanted to see them. This happened to the legatus Augusti Larcius Licinius who died seven days later in Hispania (c. AD 70): dirum est non profluere eos aspirece volentibus, sicut proxime Larcio Licinio legato pro praetore post septem dies accidit. There is further information in the Tarraconensis that may be interpreted as attempts to memorialise the countryside in aquatic sanctuaries. Such is the case of the inscription at Milla del Río (León), a dedication to the protective god of Asturica Augusta, Vagus Donnaegus, made by the magistrates Gaius Pacatus and Flavius Proculus (CIL II 2636; AE 2012). It comes from an area of the river Orbigo from which

11.  Monumentalisation of watery cults in Tarraconensis and Lusitania the water to supply the city was extracted. The inscription was placed on what appears to have been the pedestal of a cult statue that was part of a complex with aedes or aedicula dedicated to the deity (González Rodríguez 2014, 215) in a suburban sanctuary whose role was the symbolic delineation of the region of Asturica Augusta (Marco Simón 1996, 219–20). Another interesting case is that of the memorialisation implicit in the rock inscription to Bonus Eventus in Puente Talcano, on the left bank of the Duratón river, dedicated by M(arcus) Valerius Natalis, a member of the ordo decurionum of the Flavian municipality of Confluentia (Duratón) – perhaps in an area in which Fortuna Balnearis was venerated, as mentioned in another inscription found the same territory (Martinez Caballero 2014a, 244–9; 2014b).2 It is conceivable that Bonus Eventus was an interpretatio of an indigenous aquatic deity, perhaps comparable to Deus Aironis attested in Fuente Redonda (Uclés, Cuenca) (CIL II 6338; Olivares Pedreño 2002, 118–19),3 or deities similar to the nymphs in the Baños de Montemayor sanctuary (Salamanca), or the nymphs and the use of the thermal waters at the ‘Cela Fountain’ in the municipality of Tagili (Armuña de Almanzora, Almería) (López Medina 2014), or Salus at the ancient resort of Valdelazura (Santa Cruz and Esteban Ortega 2014, 499), not to mention the altars found in the Cueva Román, under Clunia (Cuesta 2011).

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The goddess Silbis and the sanctuary of Turiaso During the archaeological excavations that had started in March 1980 at Tarazona (Zaragoza), an aquatic sanctuary was discovered with a pool of cruciform plan, a drainage channel on the east to the river Queiles and a hypocaust. The excavations brought to light an interesting set of ex-votos and offerings, especially an exceptional sardonyx head initially representing the emperor Domitian that was reworked to produce under Trajan a portrait of Augustus of the Prima Porta type (Beltrán Lloris 1984). There were also 14 male and female terracottas dressed in togas, a votive bronze foot, coins ranging from the Augustan period to the third century, glass vases and, significant for our interpretation, various items of medical and therapeutic use. At the same place, an iron chest with exceptional decoration, unique to Hispania, has been found: it depicts figures of Apollo, Fortuna and Mercury, plus faces of Amor, Eros and Silenus. But the most interesting find was the head of the cult statue of Minerva in Carrara marble, dating to the early years of Trajan’s reign and following Hellenistic prototypes, such as those of the Athena of the Pergamene Library (Beltrán Lloris and Paz Peralta 2004). The excavators explained the monumentalisation of this Minerva shrine (Fig. 11.3) in relation to Augustus’ possible stay in the municipium of Turiaso to cure liver fluxions

Fig. 11.3. The sanctuary of Minerva in Tarazona (Turiaso) (after M. Beltrán Lloris 1984).

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by taking cold baths, as recommended by the physician Antonio Musa according to Suetonius (Divus Augustus 81). Having saved his life, Augustus returned to Tarraco from the Cantabrian front in 26 BC. Two bronze emissions from Turiaso, datable between 29 and 27 BC, are particularly interesting in this respect. On their obverses, they depict a female head looking right, laureate and with a pearl necklace, accompanied by the legend Silbis. Beltrán (Beltrán Lloris and Paz Peralta 2004) has rightly pointed out that this iconography undoubtedly reflects the goddess Salus’ role as protector of physical health (Montero 2013), as shown, for example, in denarii minted at Rome by Acilius Glabrio in 49 BC. Saladino (1994), among others, has emphasised the relationship between the goddess Salus, the figure of the princeps and the Fratres Arvales making vows for the Salus of the Emperor and the Roman state (cf. Scheid 1998). Although diverse terracotta votive offerings found in the sanctuary are datable to the Augustan period, the statue of Minerva dates to the second century AD when the Roman goddess may have replaced a Silbis/Salus as the shrine’s patron deity. We need to point out, firstly, the absence of evidence for the worship of Minerva in the Ebro valley or north-eastern Hispania (as only one inscription from Aquae Calidae testifies: CIL II 4492), and secondly, the link between water and the goddess Minerva, and the presence of aquatic shrines to Minerva in various parts of the Roman west. The sanctuary of Aquae Sulis (Bath) is a good example for this; there, Minerva was associated with the indigenous goddess Sulis (Cunliffe 1985). This case of interpretatio is similar to that of Turiaso, where Minerva was associated with Silbis, an ancestral goddess apparently linked to water and health. This interpretatio of an indigenous goddess through the Roman Salus is documented in other areas of Hispania, like the above-mentioned case of Salus Umeritana. Silbis, the patron goddess of Turiaso, attested in the early Augustan Principate, would have been much older in origin. In the latter half of the second century BC, some coin series – one with the legend turiazu in Palaeo-Hispanic script on the reverse – present a truly extraordinary type in the landscape of both Iberian and Celtiberian coinage in Hispania Citerior. While the usual type is defined by the head of a male deity in the obverse, with a rider holding a palm, spear and other weapons or objects on the reverse, the obverse of these turiasu coins exhibit a female head with helmet, almost certainly the adaptation of the iconography of the patron goddess of Rome, while the rider on the reverse seems to represent a nude woman accompanied by star and crescent (Gonzalbes Fernández de Palencia 2009, 46–7, fig. 33).4 In my opinion, this iconography shows the patron goddess of Turiaso at the end of the second century BC, presumably the same goddess that appears under the name of Silbis in the series issued between 29 and 27 BC.

Analysing the theonym Silbis, Hill (1931) advanced the hypothesis that it was the oldest name of Turiaso. Holder (1962, 1546) includes a Gaulish place name Silbona (today Serbonnes [Yonne]) whose root might, in my view, be linguistically related to Silbis. According to my colleague Carlos Jordan, one can suggest the form *sil-ubi-s from which Silbis would derive (Marco Simón 2008, 230). Originally, therefore, the theonym would mean ‘the Sil River’. If we accept this, the theonym Silbis shares the same basis as the British Sulis, a theonym designating the indigenous goddess of the waters, identified with Minerva. In conclusion, three stages can be distinguished in the evolution of the female patron deity of the city of Turiaso (Marco Simón 2008, 230–1): (a) A first horizon, datable to the second half of the second century BC with the emergence of the iconography of a deity related to the war and the stars, probably receiving the souls of the warriors, according to the exposure ritual admirably described by Silius Italicus (Punica 340–3) and Aelianus (Hist. Anim. 12.22), and well documented in the iconography of the Celtiberians and Vaccaeans (Sopeña Genzor 1995). This female goddess adopts the iconography of the helmeted Roma in the obverse. (b) In a second phase, dating from the early Augustan Principate, our polis (or city) deity appears as Silbis. However, since the context of the Roman municipium of Turiaso has significantly changed when compared to the Celtiberian Turiasu, the new type is no longer a warrior goddess who takes the goddess Roma as a model, but Salus, whose personality as dispenser of fertility and prosperity represents the new times of Romanitas from the perspective of civic aristocracies. Silbis/Salus is the presiding deity of the aquatic sanctuary where the Augustan ex-votos were dedicated. (c) Finally, in an uncertain time between the first and second centuries AD, probably after Domitian’s reign (judging by the renovation of his portrait with Augustan traits) or perhaps early in the reign of Trajan, a monumentalisation of the sanctuary was taking place (Fig. 11.3), which now appears to be under the protection of Minerva in a process of syncretisation with the indigenous ancestral deity, similar to Sulis for Britannia or Salus Umeritana in northern Spain.

Lusitania: the ‘Lintel of the Rivers’ and other examples of monumentalisation The so-called ‘Lintel of the Rivers’ is an extraordinary find near the provincial capital Emerita Augusta, nowadays Mérida (Badajoz), relating to a mausoleum datable to the mid-third century AD, situated near the city walls (Fig. 11.4). The lintel in question has an inscription in the

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139

Fig. 11.4. The so-called ‘Lintel of the Rivers’ from Mérida (Emerita Augusta) (after Canto et al. 1997, fig. 8).

memory of Gaius Iulius Successianus, freedman of Caius Iulius Exsuperantius (AE 1997, 778a): Recommemoratio | C(ai) Iul(ii). Successiani | Augustalis Emeritensis | (Palm) Exsuperanti l(iberti) || Ana | b(onis) b(ene?) || Bar|raeca (Canto et al. 1997)

This person was an Augustalis of the imperial cult. The two reliefs flanking the inscription are of particular interest: these are representations of river deities reclining on an amphora with water, with the right hand grabbing some reeds and aquatic plants. The left figure, bearded, is accompanied by the inscription Ana | b. b. On the right of the viewer there is another reclining figure, beardless, wearing the inscription Bar|raeca. Canto et al. (1997) have rightly interpreted these figures as personifications of two rivers: Ana (modern Guadiana) and its northern tributary Albarregas that joins it to the west in the provincial capital. The first theonym, Anna, seems to be associated with the Indo-European root *an-, meaning ‘ancestor (male or female)’, i.e. the river would mean ‘the father’ because the rivers have male gender in a Roman mindset, as seen in the case of Tiber, Rhine and Danube. A face of a bearded old man appearing on the obverse of the Augustan coinage of Emerita Augusta (García-Bellido and Blázquez 2001, 124, 5ª 19) probably depicts the river Ana. The second theonym, Barraeca, reminds us of the epithets of Celtic Mars attested in Luguvalium (Carlisle): M(arti) Barregi (RIB 947; Jufer and Luginbühl 2001, 27). A parallel for the appearance of river deities in pairs occurs in a mosaic of Vienne (Isère) documented precisely between the rivers Isère and Gère. The ‘Lintels of the Rivers’ attests to a distinctive cult of the confluence of the Ana and Barraeca, and the ancestral cult would no doubt be the subject of a new meaning in the context of the imperial cult, in view of the mausoleum’s role in the imperial cult. In the north-western city of Orense (Aurium, in Gallaecia) half a dozen votive altars to Reuue Anabaraego have been brought to light in recent excavations (González Rodríguez 2012). They can be dated to the second half

of the first or the beginning of the second century AD. The epithet Anabaraegus is almost identical to both local deities documented in Mérida, and for that reason I have proposed (Marco Simón 2018) the possibility of a process of dissociation of an ancestral deity (Revve Anabaraegus) into two different local gods (Ana and Barraeca) in a different, more southern and later context due to the emigration of some of the Gallaecian cultores to the capital city of Lusitania. The theonym Reue had a wide geographical distribution in Gallaecia and Lusitania, with a dozen entries between the Minho/Sil and Guadiana areas in addition to its mention in the Lusitanian inscription of Cabeço das Fráguas (Schattner and Correia Santos 2010), probably getting a bull as a sacrificial victim. Reve is an indigenous theonym that is often considered to derive etymologically from a root *reu-, ‘to flow’, for rivers or waterways, with a protohistoric prototype *reiuos. Francisco Villar (1996) noted that originally it would have been a name to designate streams. From this topographic value, the deification of this landscape component entailed its personification (Marco Simón 1993a): the god is not only depicted in physical form, but also conceived as a personal, anthropomorphic divine entity that dwells in the landscape feature as its protector and dispenser. And, secondly, the local expression of that individualisation process results in the epithets of the divine name. A similar individualisation of a landscape feature can be suggested, in my view, from the Celtic name to designate the sanctuary par excellence (nemeton, ‘clearing in the forest’) to theonyms, such as Nimmedus (Mieres, Asturias), Nemedus Augustus, documented in a rock inscription well deep in the cave of La Griega (Pedraza, Segovia), or the goddess Nemetona, documented mainly in eastern Gaul (Marco Simón 1993b). It is possible, as pointed out by Canto et al. (1997, 278), that other compounds of Reve with epithets allude to the confluence of two different rivers. This might be the case of Reve Langanidaegus (Castelo Branco), for the two elements, Langa and Nitta/Nida, are also attested separately. This cult of deities representing river confluences, as documented by the ‘Lintel of the Rivers’ in Emerita Augusta,

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seems characteristic for religions within a Celtic cultural mindset where the names Confluentes are good examples. For example, Koblenz at the confluence of the Rhine and Moselle, Belgrade/Singidunum between Save and Danube, Complutum (nowadays Alcalá de Henares) or the Celtiberian Komfloénta mentioned by Ptolemy (2.6.55), perhaps at the confluence of Arlanza and Arlanzón, both tributaries of the Duero river. The river confluences were ideal spaces for the establishment of sanctuaries. The most famous one in Gaul was, of course, Condate (‘confluence’) where the Rhône and the Saône (Arar and Rhodanus) met in Lugudunum (Lyon). The importance of the sanctuary of Condate was recognised by Roman authorities with the creation of a large altar dedicated to Rome and Augustus on 1 August 12 BC on which the names of 60 Gaulish agglomerations were inscribed. There, the concilium Galliarum, the assembly of the Gaulish provinces, met annually (García Quintela and González-García 2014). The sarcophagus of Gaius Annius Flavianus, veteran of the legio XXX Ulpia, found in Lyon and dating to the first quarter of the third century AD, depicts two river deities reclining on a water urn and palm that would be representing the Rhône and the Saône (CIL XIII 183). An antoninianus minted during Probus’ reign with the legend Siscia represents two river gods, Colapis and Savus, which meet in the place where the city of Siscia was located (Montero 2012, 27, fig. 6); another bronze coin minted in Stobi (Macedonia) in Caracalla’s times depicts the rivers Axius and Erigon that meet in that city (Montero 2012, 27, fig. 7). Aristotle states that the Celts submerged newborns in a river (Pol. 7.15.2), which the ‘Greek Anthology’ of c. 200 BC named as the Rhine (Anth. Graec. 9.125). Claudian (In Rufinum 2.110–12) also suggests the submersion of the newborns into the Rhine, and according to Propertius (Elegies 4.10.40–1), the Gallic chieftain Viridomarus boasted in the third century BC of having as grandfather the river Rhine. This ritual practice, improperly designated as ‘druidic baptism’ (Zecchini 1984, 19, n. 5), is documented by other authors as well.5 Furthermore, votive altars were dedicated to deities personifying rivers, such as Danubius (CIL III 3416 and 10395) or Rhenus Pater (AE 1969–70, 434; Vollkomer 1994; Montero 2012, 22). An antoninianus, minted in various series between AD 260 and 269 under Postumus, represents a river god, bicornis, as the Rhine of literary texts, leaning on a source flowing from an urn, with bow and anchor, accompanied by the legend Salus Provinciarum (Vollkommer 1994, 15, pl. 14). This Rhine running through various fluvial border provinces seems to guarantee the salus of the parts of the empire concerned. Rivers served not only to prove the legitimacy of newborns, but to allow the last journey of the dead. Around 1560 fossilised human remains in logs from the Rhine were found

in the Zuiderdzée terracing in Holland, which resemble the paddle-burials from France (e.g. Haute-Saône, Montseugny, Caen or Le Havre). The idea of the ship of the dead and of the posthumous navigation, not unique to the Celtic world, is reflected in texts such as Procopius of Caesarea (De Bellis 8.20.42) on the passage of the dead from the continental ports of the Franks to the island Brittia, undoubtedly Britain (Marco Simón 1997). Gallia documents the importance of cults of river gods. It suffices to remember the sanctuaries at the sources of Dea Sequana (Seine), Matrona (Marne), Sabrina (Severn) and aquatic connections of the matres in Nîmes (Namausicae), Glanum (Glaneicae) or Clunia in Tarraconensis. Some coins of the Parisii depict a male head, to the right, on a boat (Izarra 1993, 120). In Hispania, as we have seen before, the theonym Nabia persists in the name of several rivers, the most famous of which runs through the western Asturias. Durius, a theonym documented in Porto (CIL II 2370), is presumably the aquatic tutelary deity of the Douro river. Rivers or streams are in view of almost two-thirds of the cult sites and monuments in the province of Lusitania (Richert 2012, 88; see also Fernandes da Silva 2002). In many cases, monumentalisation was taking place through votive inscriptions on rock sanctuaries or altars. The Castro dos Três Rios (in the north-west of the Conventus Emeritensis) is, as the name implies, located near the confluence of the Sasse, Pavia and Asnês rivers. It has a rock inscription to deities named Peinticis, with rock-cut stairs and basins on the hill-slope facing south-east towards the very point where the three waterways meet (Richert 2012, 92; HEp 23177: L(ucius) Manlius D(ecimi) f(ilius) tr(ibu) Aemilia | a(nimo) l(ibens) m(erito) v(otum) s(olvit) Peinticis || CEIO? Tiusgi (filio)? | Tureius). The symbolic space of springs and rivers was monumentalised and immortalised by little more than the addition of written language, notably votive altars (Richert 2012, 203, 208). For example, Leite de Vasconcelos recorded that a votive altar erected by Threptus, Gaius Apuleius Silo’s slave, to the personified Roman spring deity, Fontanus, was found next to a large spring in the conventus Pacensis (1913, 620–1; C.2.8). The inscription even records the reason for its erection, ‘for the discovery of [these] waters’: Fontan[o?] | sacrum | Threptus C(ai) Appulei | Silonis ser(vus) v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) a(nimo) | ob aquas inventas (HEp 23751). In southern Lusitania, a small spring in a Roman marble quarry was monumentalised not by a votive altar, but by a bas-relief image of a masculine, classical-style aquatic deity carved just above it (Richert 2012, fig. 4.13; for sanctuaries in Roman quarries cf. Alfayé Villa and Marco Simón 2014). Many individual votive altars to spring deities have been found within the rural areas of this province. These were dedicated to Salus, Fons, Fontanus, Aquae (sacrae) and the

11.  Monumentalisation of watery cults in Tarraconensis and Lusitania nymphs. The fourth most revered classical deity in rural Lusitania was Salus, whose worship centred around eastern Lusitania, especially Cáceres, a region well known for its natural and therapeutic springs. These springs were sacred markers in the local landscape and worshipped in varying ways (Richert 2012, 84). In some cases, springs in the immediate surroundings of cult sites were elaborated by adding large stones that would mark them out and encase their flow of water. In the case of Piedras Labradas (Jarilla), a spring, c. 230 m from the temple, was partially encircled in a series of irregular rocks, intentionally arranged around it in a crescent shape. Similarly, recent archaeological work at the Quinta de S. Domingos (at the base of the Cabeço das Fráguas Hill, in the north-west of Conventus Emeritensis) brought to light a spring that was surrounded by worked ashlars a few hundred metres north-west of the chapel, in a structure dated to the Roman period (Correia Santos and Schattner 2010, 93, fig. 3). At the ‘Quinta de São Domingos’, at least 20 altars were discovered, possibly made by the same local epigraphic workshop. Three or four altars are dedicated in Latin to the indigenous god Laepus, possibly the same god as the one named Laebo/Labbo in the Cabeço das Fráguas rock text (MLH IV L.3.1). If we compare the religious testimonies from Cabeço das Fráguas and ‘Quinta do Sao Domingos’, the existence of spatial, linguistic and ritual polarities between them seems clear (Alfayé Villa and Marco Simón 2008) (Table 11.1). Table 11.1. Polarities between Cabeço das Fráguas and Quinta de Sao Domingos. Cabeço das Fráguas

Quinta de Sao Domingos

Location

inside a hillfort, top of a 1015 m high mountain

settlement at the feet of the mountain, vicus Ocelona

Spatial context

open-air natural place

small Roman temple

Material

rock outcrop

altar

Language

Lusitanian

Latin

Religious content

multiple animal sacrifice to several indigenous gods

fulfilment of vows and dedications of altars using Latin prayer formulae

Devotees

unknown; local people(s)

individuals with indigenous or Latin personal names; the vicani Ocelonenses

Deities

Trebopala, Laebo/ Labbo, Trebarune, Iccona Loemina?, Reve Tre[---]

Laepus

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A systematic polarity can therefore be identified in the forms and media of worshipping traditional deities in these two sites (Cabeço/Quinta): • • • • • • •

up/down; depopulated/inhabited; natural/architectural; untouched material (rock outcrop)/handmade material (altar); vernacular language/Latin; animal sacrifices lusitano modo/Roman-style fulfilments of vows; mountain-pilgrimage in a ‘wild’ space/worship in a ‘domesticated’ space (Alfayé Villa and Marco Simón 2008).

As Tilley (2004, 217) states, ‘monuments can be landscapes and landscapes may be monuments’. From this point of view, a change in the location of the sanctuary definitively modifies the landscape of the cult and the way people were experiencing it. If we compare the sacred topography of Cabeço das Fráguas and Quinta do Sâo Domingos, it is easy to realise that the landscapes where the rituals were performed are radically and phenomenologically different. Moreover, the adoption of new cultic media implies also the adoption of their ritualism, and changes the forms of addressing the supernatural powers, modifying definitively the ways in which the worship (even to the same gods) is accomplished. According to the archaeological evidence, it seems clear that the ways of displaying worship on Cabeço and Quinta were – at least externally – absolutely opposite. Therefore, we must wonder whether we should interpret these places as complementary and coexistent models of ceremonial spaces and places of worship within a resilient and integrating provincial religious system. This would raise the question whether the rock inscription manufacturer belonged to the same epigraphic workshop from which the altars at Quinta de São Domingos came. But then, if all the inscriptions are contemporaneous, why did the worshippers choose Lusitanian language instead of Latin for the Cabeço das Fráguas text? Or, in spite of their supposedly contemporary second century AD chronology, is it feasible that these ritual places and practices can both be considered as different temporal phases of a complex process of transformation – and ‘Romanisation’ – of the indigenous religious systems, as it has proposed for other Western provinces? However, not every inch of river water in the Roman orbit was sanctified. Pliny the Younger, who tells how various sacella were scattered on the banks of the Clitumnus river, also notes that a bridge separated sacred from profane sections of this river (Epistulae 8.8: […] quod ponte transmittitur. Is terminus sacri profanique. In superiore parte navigare tantum, infra etiam natare concessum). This

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indicates that the ancients may have been quite precise about where the deity resided.

Notes 1

Conclusion The fact that the sources or springs manifest outside the living water, the cosmic matter which is fundamental for securing fertilisation and regeneration of species, explains the universal sacredness of springs which in ancient ‘Celtic’ realms were the seat of deities distinguished by their salutary character and even the revival of the dead warriors. For example, the Irish god of healing, Diancecht, raised the dead warriors in the Second Battle of Mag Tured, unless their wounds had reached their brains, by submerging them in the Glann spring (tipra sláine; glann- ‘pure’, the root that also appears in Glanis and the town Glanum; Green 1992, 80; on the aquatic symbolism among the Celts, see Gran-Aymerich and Almagro-Gorbea 1991; MacCana 2000, esp. 88). As noted by Gaston Bachelard (1978, 30), water, symbol of purity and sexuality, and also of maternity – feeding and rocking like a mother, of life and death, a transitional element par excellence, is, in short, a total being: ‘She has a body, a soul, a voice. Perhaps more than anything else, she is a complete poetic reality’, that is to say a complete religious reality. Hence the importance of the aquatic cults. The establishment of the pax Romana with its characteristic ideals of fertility, fecundity and abundance naturally provided new impetus to pre-existing aquatic cults, through renaming and memorialising local places under the new framework inherent to the Roman presence, in addition to the introduction of new deities, partly ‘assimilated’ to pre-existing ones. The memorialisation of the cults in Tarraconensis and Lusitania has been demonstrated above: from the Bracara Augusta sanctuary (capital of one of the juridical conventus of north-west Hispania) to the temple of Minerva at Turiaso (which was the culmination of the transformation of a local goddess, Silbis, warlike in origin, at least in the iconography) and the monument in Mérida, located in a typical river confluence, in which two indigenous gods – Ana and Baraecus – are shown in accordance with Graeco-Roman iconography. Be that as it may, the qualitative changes must not be forgotten as these were affixed by the new votive altars through which the cultores expressed a new type of piety through far more permanent publicity, something that the patera from Otañes clearly reflect. Writing history into the landscape, the social memory was re-actualised through these epigraphic and architectonic monuments, and they thus became themselves objects of remembrance – monumentum est quod memoriae servandae gratia existat (Dig. 11.7.2.6) – and active agents of identity.

2

3

4

5

Altars belonging to what seems to be a rural watery sanctuary appear also depicted in other interesting patera from the Calzadilla collection in the Museo de Badajoz (in the Roman province of Lusitania) representing the god Bandua Araugelensis (Marco Simón 2001, 216), who was possibly venerated as a deity of the river fords (Prosper 2002, 257–81). There was another aquatic sanctuary in the nearby spring called Fuente Giriego, also on the riverside of the Duratón, where two rock inscriptions have been found (Martínez Caballero 2014a, 237–43). As in the case of the theonym Tullinus documented on the inscription in Brescia, which could be an adjectival form of tull(i)us, the emergence of water, a term that appears in Pliny (Naturalis Historia 17.26.120) and Paulus Festus (cf. Tullios, Scen. 20, 122 Vahl; Valvo 2004, 212–13). Tullinus should be a theonym created from a common noun to refer to the emergence of water (Abascal Palazón 2011, 254), which, thus, gave rise to the theonym Tullonius which is known through a lost inscription in Alegría, Álava (CIL II 2939), which led to the modern toponym Toloño. Likewise, the theonym Airo or Aironis led to the modern toponym Airón, linked to wells in various places around Hispania or the areas of western Europe (Varner 2009) rich in Celtic toponyms (information in Salas Parrilla 2005 and Lorrio 2007, 131–3) and appears in a number of ballads in popular Hispanic literature (Pedrosa 1993). This feminine goddess has been linked to a Celtic deity of the Epona type in relation to horses and stars that is frequently represented in the coins of the Ambiani and Redones of northeastern Gaul; ancient place names and coin evidence seems to suggest the presence of Belgian groups in the upper and middle Ebro valley in the third century BC (Marco Simón 2004). Virgil (Aeneid 9.603–4) relates it to other peoples in Italy, while other sources relate it to the Germans (Bourgeois 1991, 93).

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11.  Monumentalisation of watery cults in Tarraconensis and Lusitania Bachelard, G. (1978) El agua y los sueños. Ensayo sobre la imaginación de la materia. México, Fondo de Cultura Económica (= L’eau et rêves: essai sur l’imagination de la matière. Paris, Éditions Le livre de poche, 1942). Baratte, F. (1992) La coupe en argent de Castro Urdiales. In R. Chevallier (ed.) Les eaux thermales et les cultes des eaux en gaule et dans les provinces voisines. Actes du colloque 28–30 septembre 1990 (Aix-les-Bains), Caesarodunum 26, 43–54. Tours, Centre de recherches A. Piganiol. Beltrán Lloris, M. (1984) El retrato del ‘Divus Augustus’ del Municipium Turiaso (Tarazona, Zaragoza). Un palimpsesto de época trajanea. Madrider Mittteilungen 25, 103–34. Beltrán Lloris, M. and Paz Peralta, J.A. (eds) (2004) Las aguas sagradas del Municipium Turiaso. Excavaciones en el patio del Colegio Joaquín Costa (Antiguo Allué Salvador). Tarazona (Zaragoza), Caesaraugusta 76. Zaragoza, Inst. Fernando el Católico. Blázquez Martínez, J.M. and García Gelabert, Mª.P. (1997) El culto a las aguas en la Hispania prerromana. In Mª.J. Pérex Agorreta (ed.) Termalismo antiguo. I Congreso Peninsular. Actas. Arnedillo (La Rioja), 3–5 octubre 1996, 105–15. Madrid, Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia, Casa de Velázquez. Blázquez Martínez, J.M. (1962) Religiones primitivas de Hispania. I. Fuentes literarias y epigráficas, Roma, Biblioteca de la Escuela Española de Historia y Arqueología en Roma. Bourgeois, C. (1991) Divona. I. Divinités et exvoto du culte gallo-romain de l’eau. Paris, De Boccard. Bourgeois, C. (1992) Divona. II. Monuments et sanctuaires de culte gallo-romain de l’eau. Paris, De Boccard. Canto, A.M., Bejarano, A. and Palma, F. (1997) El mausoleo del dintel de los ríos de Mérida, Revve Anabaraecus y el culto de la confluencia. Madrider Mitteilungen 38, 247–94. Cazanove, O. de and Scheid, J. (eds) (2003) Sanctuaires et sources. Les sources documentaires et leurs limites dans la description des lieux de culte. Naples, Publications du Centre Jean Bérard. Chiai, G.F., Häussler, R. and Kunst, C. (2012) Einleitung. Intepretatio: Religiöse Kommunikation zwischen Globalisierung und Partikularisierung. Mediterraneo Antico 15(1–2), 13–20. Correia Santos, M.J. and Schattner, T.G. (2010) O Santuário do Cabeço das Fráguas através da arqueologia. In M. J. Correia Santos and T.G. Schattner (eds) Actas da Jornada Porcom, Oilam, Taurom. Cabeço das Fráguas: o santuário no seu contexto(Guarda, 23 de Abril), (=Iberografias: Revista de Estudos Ibéricos 6), 89–108. Guarda, Centro de Estudos Ibéricos. Cuesta, M.R. (2011) Cueva Román: fuente de abastecimiento – Lugar de culto de la Colonia Clunia Sulpicia. In A. Costa, L. Palahí and D. Vivó (eds) Aquae Sacrae. Agua y sacralidad en la Antigüedad, 174. Girona, Universitat de Girona, Institut de la Recerca Histórica. Cunliffe, B. (1985) The Temple of Sulis Minerva at Bath. 3 vols. Oxford, Oxford University School of Archaeology. Delamarre, X. (2003) Dictionnaire de la langue gauloise: une approche linguistique du vieux-celtique continental. Paris, Errance. Díez de Velasco, F. (1992) Divinités des eaux thermales dans le Nord-Ouest de la provincia Tarraconensis et dans le nord de la provincia Lusitania: une approche au phénomène du

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Martínez Caballero, S. (2014b) Bonus Eventus en Puente Talcano (Sepúlveda, Segovia). Un santuario rural en el territorio del municipium de Duratíon (Hispania Citerior). In J. Mangas Manjarrés and M.A. Novillo López (eds) Santuarios suburbanos y del territorio en las ciudades romanas, 339–82. Madrid, Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Instituto de Ciencias de la Antigüedad. MLH IV = Untermann, J. (1990) Monumenta Linguarum Hispanicarum IV: Die tartessischen, keltiberischen und lusitanischen Inschriften. Wiesbaden, Reichert. Montero, S. (2012) El Emperador y los ríos. Religión, ingeniería y políica en el Imperio Romano. Madrid, Editorial UNED. Montero, S. (2013) La dea Salus e i culti termali: uil caso della Hispania. In M. Bassani, M. Bressan and F. Ghedini (eds) Aquae Salutiferae. Il termalismo tra antico e contemporáneo. Atti del convegno internazionale (Montegrotto Terme, 6–8 settembre 2012), 209–18. Padova, Padova University Press. Musso, L. (1983) Manifattura suntuaria e commitenza pagana nella Roma del IV secolo. Indagine sulla lannx di Parabiago. Rome, Erma di Bretschneider. Olivares Pedreño, J.C. (2002) Los dioses de la Hispania céltica. Madrid, Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Instituto de Ciencias de la Antigüedad. Pedrosa, J.M. (1993) El Pozo Airón. Dos romances y dos leyendas. Medioevo romanzo 18, 261–75. Prósper, B.M. (2002) Lenguas y religiones prerromanas del occidente de la Península Ibérica. Salamanca, Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca. Richert, E. (2012) Sacred Place: Contextualizing Non-Urban Cult Sites and Sacred Monuments in the Landscape of Lusitania from the 1st to 4th c. AD. 2 vols. PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh. Rodríguez Colmenero, A. (2012) La Fonte do Ídolo, los demás ídolos de la fuente y … no sólo. In A. Rodríguez Colmenero (ed.), Bracara Augusta Romana, 65–85. Santiago de Compostela, Xunta de Galicia. Saladino V. (1994) Salus. In Lexicon Iconographicum Myhtologiae Classicae VII(1), 656–61. Zurich, Munich, Artemis. Salas Parrilla, M. (2005) Airón. Dios prerromano de Hispania. Leyendas, romances, mitología, brujería y otras curiosidades históricas. Madrid, Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Instituto de Ciencias de la Antigüedad. Santa Cruz, J. and Esteban Ortega, J. (2014) Dioses y santuarios rurales en el territorio Caperensis. In J. Mangas Manjarrés and M.A. Novillo López (eds) Santuarios suburbanos y del territorio en las ciudades romanas, 489–510. Madrid, Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Instituto de Ciencias de la Antigüedad. Schattner, T. and Correia Santos, M.J. (eds) (2010) O sántuario de Cabeço das Fráguas (Lusitânia), Iberografias nº 6. Guarda, Centro de Estudos Ibéricos. Scheid, J. (1998) Commentarium Fratrum Arvalium qui supersunt. Les copies épigraphiques des protocoles annuels de ls confrérie arvale (21 av.–304 ap. J.C.). Roma antica IV. Recherches archéologiques à La Magliana. Rome, École française de Rome. Solana Sáinz, J.M. (1977) Precisiones sobre la pátera argéntea de Otañes. Durius 5, 139–45.

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12 Romano-Celtic temples in the landscape: Meonstoke, Hampshire, UK, a hexagonal shrine to Epona and a river deity on a villa estate Anthony C. King

Romano-Celtic temples in the landscape of Britannia One of the characteristics of Romano-Celtic temples in the Roman north-west provinces is a close connection with the surrounding landscape (Blagg 1986; Woodward 1992; Ghey 2005a; Budei 2016; Smith et al. 2018, 132–68; cf. also Bradley 2000, 18–32). Temple sites are often classified according to their physical natural location, especially in the German historiographical tradition, so that they can be in high places (e.g. Uley, Gloucestershire: Woodward and Leach 1993), by springs (e.g. Springhead, Kent: Andrews et al. 2011; cf. also Ghey 2007, 25–6; Sauer 2011), by watery locations (e.g. Nettleton, Wiltshire: Wedlake 1982; cf. also Ghey 2005b), overlooking the sea (e.g. Jordon Hill, Dorset: Putnam 2007, 121–3) or on an island (e.g. Hayling, Hampshire: King and Soffe 2013). They can also be classified geographically in relation to human settlement, such as on or near earlier prehistoric monuments (Hutton 2011), in an abandoned Iron Age hill fort (e.g. Maiden Castle, Dorset: Wheeler 1943, 72–8, 90–1, 131–5) or an extra-urban or suburban location (e.g. Folly Lane, St Albans, Hertfordshire: Niblett 1999; Bryant 2007, 69–71, or Tabard Square, Southwark, London: Killock 2015; cf. Rogers 2008; Péchoux 2010; Chevet et al. 2014). It is also apparent that sacred sites had widely variable areas of influence in terms of the distance travelled by worshippers of the cult, ranging from the strictly local, through regional hinterlands to supra-provincial popularity (Fear 2007; Kiernan 2012; Roymans and Derks 2015). Within this tradition of classification, there is a category of villa-estate temples (‘Villenheiligtümer’), into which the site at Meonstoke apparently fits. Or does it? The site

is immediately adjacent to a river that conserves a Celticderived river name, and it may be a riverside shrine rather than a villa-estate temple. This paper examines the evidence from the site, as part of a wider exploration of the sacred landscape of Romano-Celtic temples in Britain.

Meonstoke, Hampshire: site of a villa and shrine The Roman site in the parish of Meonstoke lies c. 1 km to the north of the village, on a shallow north-facing slope down to the river Meon, a typical fast-flowing chalk stream, the old course of which ran only 10 m from the site (Fig. 12.1). The slope on which it is situated is part of a low chalk hill in the middle of a wide basin-like section of the Meon valley, dominated to the east by the chalkland scenery and geomorphology of Old Winchester Hill and its Middle Iron Age hill fort, and to the west by Beacon Hill. The low hill itself had been a focus for Neolithic and Bronze Age burial, with an oval barrow and a large circular tumulus (c. 32 m diameter) being positioned close together in a prominent position, c. 100 m to the east of the Roman site. A good command of the valley and the surrounding countryside is also available from the Roman buildings, and it is likely that it was close to north–south communication routes along the valley floor linking the minor Roman settlements (vici) of Wickham and Neatham, as the modern main road does today. Other Roman sites are known in the valley, notably the aisled building at Lippen Wood, West Meon, c. 4 km to the north (Williams 1905). No other religious sites are known, however, and the nearest significant towns with temples in them are Winchester (Venta Belgarum), c. 15 km to the WNW, and Chichester (Noviomagus Regnensium), c. 25 km

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Fig. 12.1. Sketch map of the central section of the Meon Valley, showing Iron Age and Roman sites and findspots. Key: M - Meonstoke Roman site; BH - Beacon Hill; LW - Lippen Wood Roman villa; OW - Old Winchester Hill Iron Age hillfort. Symbols: small dot – Roman coin (up to 4); medium dot – Roman coins (5 or more); cross – Iron Age coin; filled small circle – Iron Age and/or Roman settlement; large circle with grey infill – Iron Age hillfort; triangle – Roman villa; square – Roman temple; inverted triangle – Roman mausoleum or stone sarcophagus. Scale: the width of the map is 6 km.

to the east-south-east. The Meon valley was very likely to have been within the civitas of the Belgae, but there is no clear indication of Roman administrative boundaries in southern Britannia. Knowledge of a Roman building on the outskirts of Meonstoke parish goes back to the 1930s, when widening of the main road up the Meon valley, now the A 32, resulted

in the discovery of Roman foundations in the roadside ditch (Williams-Freeman 1937, 294). When investigations started in earnest in the 1980s, the old findings were put in context, and established to be part of an aisled building that had been cut across by the main road (Fig. 12.2). Excavations from 1984 to 1991 concentrated on this building, and revealed a very well-preserved collapsed

12.  Romano-Celtic temples in the landscape wall, which had originally been the short end of the aisled building (King 1996). This enabled us to propose a detailed reconstruction of the appearance of this type of architecture (King 1996, fig. 6.9). The facade was elaborate and had two sets of arcaded openings, above an arched entrance, all laid out in Roman feet. The building would have been large, up to 40 Roman feet high, 50 feet wide and 100 feet long.

Fig. 12.2. Outline plan of Meonstoke Roman site, showing excavations 1984–91 on Shavards Farm, to the east of the A32 trunk road, and excavations 2016–18 on Manor Farm Exton, to the west of the road. The 100 m grid square is SU 616210.

Fig. 12.3. Resistivity plot of the 2016–18 site, showing (A) a possible recent square structure, (B) the hexagonal building excavated in 2016–18 and (C), a row of rooms that may be a bath-house, excavated 2017–18.

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In terms of conventional villa plans, aisled buildings have usually been regarded not as the main focus, but as subsidiary structures, possibly with a multifunctional domestic/ agricultural purpose (Wallace 2018; Schubert 2016, 321–4; Cunliffe 2013a), as seen for instance in the north range at Brading, Isle of Wight (Cunliffe 2013b) or Sparsholt in Hampshire (Johnston and Dicks 2014). The excavations at Meonstoke did not reveal the location of a main building, but did indicate a courtyard running to the south-west from the corner of the aisled building (Fig. 12.2). It was also evident that the aisled building ran under the main road and should therefore be visible in any investigations on the west side of the road. Matters rested at this point until recent years, and the research aims of the Meon valley project moved onto the Anglo-Saxon period (Stoodley and Stedman 2001). Excavation of an Anglo-Saxon cemetery was followed up by field-walking and geophysics, conducted by the Meon Valley Archaeology and Heritage Group under the direction of Dr Nick Stoodley and Dr Andy Payne (Entwistle et al. 2005; Payne 2015). By 2015, these had yielded detailed results for the field belonging to Manor Farm, Exton, on the west side of the A32. The findings were very interesting and surprising (Fig. 12.3). The end of the aisled building was located, as expected, although badly damaged by a historical but now unused badger sett. A few metres further west, a row of rooms could be seen, possibly a bath-house. Next to this building a separate hexagonal trace could clearly be seen.

The hexagonal building Hexagons are rare in Roman architecture, the most famous being the large hexagonal harbour of Trajanic date at Portus at the mouth of the river Tiber (Keay 2013). This harbour is not simply hexagonal for practical reasons; it has alignments on the cardinal points and can be related to the solstices, the concept of traditional named winds and the 12 winds in the Roman wind-rose (Sparavigna 2017). This gives a hint that this shape had significance in Roman culture beyond the purely functional. The other large and well-known example of a hexagonal space is the entrance courtyard to the massive temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus at Baalbek, Lebanon (Brown 1939; Boëthius and Ward-Perkins 1970, 421, fig. 156; Schlumberger 1971). This is of roughly similar date to Portus and, indeed, most hexagonal structures and rooms in buildings and of high imperial or late Roman date (cf. King forthcoming). In Gaul, hexagonal buildings can be found as RomanoCeltic temples, such as Chavéria, Jura, or Mordelles, Illeet-Vilaine, both in France (Fauduet 2010, 104, 106), or as smaller structures often associated with water or springs, such as Ihn-Niedaltdorf, Saarland, Germany (Fauduet 2010, 91; Ghetta 2008, 327–9). An interesting example of a small hexagonal shrine can be seen at the large late Roman villa

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of Montmaurin, Haute-Garonne, France, positioned to one side of the entrance courtyard (Fouet 1969, 155–9). Another villa, at Abicada, Algarve, Portugal, has a central hexagonal atrium pool in an innovative and unusual arrangement of the pars urbana of the villa (De Sousa and Vidal 2012). In Britain, hexagonal buildings are known at another Hampshire villa site, Dunkirt Barn, Abbotts Ann, near Andover (Cunliffe and Poole 2008, 84–6), and at the temple site of Colleyweston Great Wood, Northamptonshire (Knocker 1966). A ditched hexagonal cemetery enclosure is also known from Kent, near Canterbury (Wilkinson 2008). Octagonal or circular buildings are much more common, being found at several villa sites and usually interpreted as agricultural outbuildings. Octagonal shrines are also relatively more numerous than hexagonal temples. The hexagonal outline revealed by the geophysical survey at Meonstoke, therefore, became a natural focus for renewed excavation work at the site. This commenced in 2016 with a three-week season that opened up all of the hexagonal

building and part of the row of rooms to the north. The outline of the building was soon seen during cleaning back the topsoil and the immediately underlying subsoil. Its maximum external dimensions were 11 m between the angles of the north and south sides, and 9.75 m externally from east to west. The wall foundations were well built, with courses of chalk blocks and flint (Fig. 12.4). None of the upper walling was found, but it can be assumed to have been stone-built to the roof line, to judge from the massiveness of the foundations and the definite stone walling used in the adjacent tiled building. Red tesserae were found, suggesting an internal tessellated floor. The geophysical plot indicated gaps in the hexagon on the north-west side, and a slightly asymmetric shape to the geometry of the building. On excavation, the asymmetry was confirmed, with the north and south corners of the hexagon being at a sharper angle than expected, and flatter east and west sides as a consequence. The gap, however, was not an entrance, but robbing in the modern period, to judge

Fig. 12.4. Vertical photo of the hexagonal building, showing the position of the horse and foal skeletons in the centre. North is to the left of the photo (Photo: I. Harris).

12.  Romano-Celtic temples in the landscape from the mechanical excavator tooth marks, and associated finds. The real entrance, on further consideration, was on the south-east side, facing into the courtyard located in the excavations of the 1980s to 1990s. Some badly conserved traces of this courtyard wall were found running up to the east wall length of the hexagon, on the same alignment. This was also on an alignment perpendicular to the long axis of the aisled building. Finds associated with the hexagon were few, but included second-century samian ware, third- and fourth-century Alice Holt and New Forest wares and a small assemblage of early to mid-fourth-century bronze coins, almost exclusively House of Constantine. It is likely that the hexagonal building was contemporary with the aisled building, the floruit of which was late third century to mid-fourth century (King 1996, 56–8). Three objects, however, pointed to a possible religious association for the building. The back of the head of a broken dea nutrix figurine in terracotta, of Gaulish manufacture and second-century date, came from the central area of the hexagon, in levels pre-dating the stone structure. Figurines of this sort are usually found broken, and it has been suggested that this was the result of deliberate action, perhaps linked to the offering of the figurine in some sort of ritual (Bristow 2012; Deyts 1992, 67). Another temple site in Hampshire, at Hayling Island, has also yielded a fragment of a dea nutrix, possibly an offering in the collapsed late Roman building debris (King and Soffe 2013, 27). Two natural flint spheres, one 57 mm in diameter, the other 36 mm, were also deposited in or near the building. The spheres are akin to the finds of fossil sea-urchins or Palaeolithic handaxes at temple sites (Turner and Wymer 1987), and were probably brought to the site because they were unusual and considered to be worthy of votive offering.

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Age. The pit with structured deposits, together with other concentrations of oysters and animal bones (chiefly sheep or goat) in specific groups, raises a strong possibility that the hexagon had a ritual purpose, and was the latest phase of a sequence of such activity at the site. In 2018/19, excavations within the hexagonal building (King 2018a; 2018b) yielded spectacular findings that now allow us to say with some certainty that the building is a shrine, and give a strong indication of its dedication. The earliest features under the hexagon date to the Late Iron Age. A large curving ditch for an enclosure was positioned under the hexagon, running to the south-east and the south-west, forming an approximately right angle. It contained quantities of pottery and animal bone that point to debris from meals or, perhaps, feasting and offerings (Fig. 12.5). Parallels for the pottery can be found in the immediately pre-Roman phases at Silchester, and include imported fine wares, such as probable terra rubra and terra nigra. The pottery, together

A Late Iron Age/early Roman shrine under the hexagonal building An unusual find, chronologically, was a silver minim of the Late Iron Age, of Epaticcus, dated to the decade or so just before the Roman conquest. This opened the possibility of an Iron Age phase to the site’s sequence. This hypothesis was strengthened by excavation in 2016 of a small pit, c. 3 m to the south of the hexagon and within the courtyard. The pit contained structured deposits; three broken and abraded complete pots, a horse scapula and rib, and worked flint nodules that had been selected for white, black/dark grey and dark red colouration (cf. Hoecherl 2015 for discussion of coloured artefacts). The pottery had its best parallels in the late Iron Age and Roman-conquest (pre-Flavian) phases at Silchester (Timby 2000, figs 137–8; cf. also Collis 2014). More pottery of the same date was found in a ditch running east–west under the hexagonal building (Fig. 12.4) and suggests that the Meonstoke late Roman phase was underlain by considerable occupation activity going back to the Late Iron

Fig. 12.5. The hexagonal building from the east, showing the Late Iron Age enclosure ditch in the foreground, and the old course of the river Meon in the hedge line just behind the excavation site (Photo: A.C. King).

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Anthony C. King and it proved impossible to lift intact, and the same problem applied to a lesser extent to the adult as well. However, it is possible to obtain measurements of stature from the long bones, and to carry out scientific tests (e.g. DNA, isotope analysis) to answer questions of the relation between the adult and the foal (presumably, but not certainly closely related), and any factors such as origin of the adult from outside the local region. A third horse cranium, without mandibles, was found near the two skeletons, positioned on the inner edge of the ditch, almost exactly at the point where the internal diagonals of the later hexagon intersect. The ditch containing the equine skeletons was not the only pre-hexagon phase of activity. A circular area of burning, c. 2 m diameter, was positioned in the middle of the interior of the hexagon, and overlay the horse and foal, being c. 25 cm above them. Pottery associated with the burning indicates an early Roman date, late first or early second century AD. It is therefore an intermediate phase between the ditches and the later Roman construction of the hexagon, and indicates continuing usage of this area for open-air ritual activity up to the time that the hexagon was built.

A hexagonal shrine to Epona?

Fig. 12.6. The skull and upper spinal column of the horse skeleton (Photo: A.C. King).

with coins of Epaticcus and a potin, from elsewhere in the excavation, suggest relatively high-status activity. The ditch contained a spectacular find located almost exactly in the middle of the hexagon (Fig. 12.4), c. 40 cm below the putative floor level of the later stone structure. A female horse skeleton had been laid into the ditch, with its head to the south-west. It had been squashed in, to a certain extent, with the cranium pushed up and bent downwards (Fig. 12.6), and the front and rear limbs lying at unnatural angles in relation to the body of the horse. In all probability, the head and limbs of the corpse of the horse had been twisted to fit the ditch, but it had not been dismembered. It was a small individual, of pony size. Alongside the adult female horse was a foal skeleton, with its head to the north-east, apparently laid out in a crouching position (Fig. 12.7). The foal was very young, with all sutures being open in the cranium, and all teeth apparently unerupted. It seems fairly certain the foal had been born (i.e. it was not a foetus), but the exact age at which it died remains to be established with detailed osteological analysis. The bones of the foal were very fragile

The implications of the equine skeletons are exciting, because the immediately relevant association is with the goddess Epona, assuming, of course, that the deposition was a result of an offering of some sort, not a simple veterinary tragedy. The goddess is usually shown on sculpture and figurines as being seated on a female horse, sometimes with a foal (Oaks 1987, table 1, type 1a). She is often side-saddle and carrying a cornucopia. As such, she is a fertility deity, closely related in function to the mother goddesses (Green 1986, 91–4). Epona is always associated with horses and, by extension, was a patron of horsemen. The dedicators of Epona inscriptions include many cavalrymen and other military officials (Magnen and Thevenot 1953; Oaks 1987, 299; Green 1995, 184–7). There is also a link, via the foal, to kingship and princely succession, as dramatically brought out in the story of Rhiannon in the Mabinogion (Gantz 1976, 45–65; Oaks 1987, 308; Green 1992, 187–90). The position of the foal at Meonstoke, with its head towards the rear end of the mare, may indicate suckling, and thus fertility, nursing and the rearing of young. This is also seen in imagery from Gaul (Green 1992, 22) and on coins, such as one of the Aulerci Cenomani (inf. D. Nash-Briggs). Evidence for Epona in Britain is limited, as worship of the goddess was essentially focused on central and eastern Gaul and the Rhineland. Green has a bronze figurine from Wiltshire as the main surviving evidence (1983, 54–6; King 2018b, fig. 4). The Meonstoke find adds considerably to this, and suggests that the hexagonal shrine, built over the horse burial some 150 years later, and conserving the position and

12.  Romano-Celtic temples in the landscape

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Fig. 12.7. The horse and foal skeletons. The top of the foal’s skull can be seen just below the shorter, 20 cm scale. North is to the left of the photo (Photo: I. Harris).

Fig. 12.8. Vertical drone photo of the bath-house, July 2019. North is to the left (Photo I. Harris).

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Fig. 12.9. Polychrome wall-painting of a female torso, possibly a nymph or water deity, found during excavation in the bath-house apodyterium; scale 10 cm (Photo: A.C. King).

memory of Late Iron Age ritual activity, may be the first known cult building of Epona in Britain.

The bath-house and the River Meon Some 10 m to the north-east of the hexagonal building were traces of a series of rooms (Fig. 12.3, C) which had the appearance prior to excavation of being a bath-house or a line of domestic rooms. Excavation in 2017–19 confirmed the bath hypothesis, and the rectangular apodyterium and part of the warm rooms were uncovered (Fig. 12.8). Interior decoration was much more evident here compared with the hexagonal building, with evidence of painted wall-plaster in two overlying phases, quarter-round mouldings, box-flue tiles and pedales tiles halved and laid out as the floor of the apodyterium. The overall plan has not yet been excavated, but it seems very likely that this is a row-type bath-house with the praefurnium at the north-east end, typical of those found in Hampshire villas (Johnston 1978, 79–83).

The painted wall-plaster included a finely painted and accomplished figured scene within a bordered panel, with at least one nude female figure (Fig. 12.9), together with drapery and a blue/grey background. In terms of quality it is the equal of the best late Roman painting in Britain, such as the Cupid from Southwell, Nottinghamshire, or the figured scene at Tarrant Hinton, Dorset (Ling 1985, 40–4). It is difficult to interpret the figure in the absence of the head or any clear iconography, but a strong possibility is that she represents a nymph or water deity, with her arms raised, possibly holding a drape or cloth in an arc above her head. Other nymphs depicted in wall-paintings in Roman Britain include the well-known example in situ at Lullingstone villa, in a niche in the ‘Deep Room’ (Meates 1979, 31–5; 1987, 10–11, pls IV–VI). The finding of the decorated wall plaster leads to a more daring suggestion, that it is possible to attribute a name to the deity or nymph. In the Roman period, the river Meon flowed past the site, immediately adjacent to the bath-house and hexagonal building, c. 10 m to the north. Currently, the river has been realigned as a result of works in the nineteenth century, but high rainfall in 2016 during the excavation saw flooding along the old course of the river next to the site, as the old course reasserted itself (indicated on Fig. 12.2). The river name, Meon, is pre-Saxon, and has been interpreted as Celtic (Brittonic) from *meu- meaning ‘damp, musty, to moisten’ and also ‘to wash, to clean’ (Insley 2001, 476; Kilpatrick 2014, 2; cf. also Oscroft 2015, 381–3). The name, as Meonea and variants, first appears in Saxon boundary charters of the tenth century (transcripts in Kilpatrick 2014; cf. Oscroft 2015, 383) and, earlier in date, as the people, the Meanwara, in Bede, c. AD 750 (Coates 1989, 116). Rivers in the Roman north-west provinces often had female deities associated with them, representing spring nymphs or such-like. The most notable of these is Sequana, from the Sources de la Seine, giving her name to the River Seine in the Roman period (Deyts 1992, 74–8; Green 1995, 91–3). Beyond the Roman world in Ireland, the deity Boann is associated with the River Boyne (Green 1995, 82–3; Bradley 2017, 184). Thus, a possible reconstructed name for the deity in the Meonstoke bath-house could be *Meonna or *Meanna. The survival of the memory of the site into the Saxon period is also demonstrated in one of the boundary charters referred to above. In Exton charter B.758 whereby King Eadmund grants to the thegn Aethelgeard 12 hides at Exton in AD 940, there is the following: [30] ‘Thonnae suth and lang Lea to Tiggael Beorgae’ (‘Then south along the Lea to Tile Barrow’). As Grundy says, ‘The barrow must have been right opposite the village, on the other side of the Meon’ (Grundy 1924, 114–15; Kilpatrick 2014), thus positioning it on the site of the Roman remains, presumably surviving at that time as a noteworthy heap of tiles and building debris.

12.  Romano-Celtic temples in the landscape This is a rare instance of an Anglo-Saxon reference to a Roman site, and the parish boundary between Exton and Meonstoke even today follows the same alignment along the river, immediately adjacent to the excavations.

Conclusions: villa, temple or a combination of both? When the aisled building was excavated in the 1980s/90s, the natural assumption was that it was part of a villa complex, there being no evidence then available to question this assumption. This is how the site was interpreted in publications (King and Potter 1990; King 1996), and in the display captions accompanying the portion of collapsed wall now in the British Museum Roman Britain gallery. The new excavations have upset this certainty, because of the unusual nature of the hexagonal building and its likely association with religious activity. The questions therefore arise: was the hexagon a shrine, and the aisled building part of a religious complex rather than a villa? Was this why no main villa building has been detected so far? The answer to the second question may be due to the nature of the topography, since the modern road bisects the site, and it may have destroyed the main building, if it was located in the south part of the courtyard. A partial answer to this problem comes from new survey work outside the courtyard wall, c. 150 m south of the hexagonal and aisled buildings on the other side of the modern road, where geophysical survey and surface survey in 2017 has indicated the existence of rectilinear walling that might be another Roman building, together with Roman pottery, building material and coins (including two gold solidi of the mid-fourth century; Stoodley 2018). The building seen in this survey appears to be a simple row of rooms, but is large enough to be possibly the elusive main villa building. At the time of writing, it awaits further investigation. The first question in the preceding paragraph is more difficult to answer, as it raises the more general issue of the interpretation of villa sites. It is now recognised that purely functional explanations of villas as farms must be tempered by the evidence for culture, art and religion that is present at many of them, especially in the late Roman period. Shrines or, indeed, quite substantial temples have been found at several sites, notably the spring shrine and probable Romano-Celtic temples at Chedworth (Baddeley 1931; Walters 2000), the hexagonal shrine at Montmaurin (see above; Fouet 1969) and the apsidal temples at São Cucufate, Alentejo (De Alarcão 1998, 29, 40), and Milreu, Algarve (Hauschild and Teichner 2002, 49–55), both in Portugal. Circular and polygonal buildings at RomanoBritish villas have been discussed as possible shrines within the villa curtilage, sometimes classed as garden shrines, as was suggested for the hexagonal building at Dunkirt Barn

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(Cunliffe and Poole 2008, 181). Romano-Celtic temples near villas are also a recognised phenomenon (Ghetta 2008, 295; Budei 2016, 68–75). Examples from Gallia Belgica include Newel and Otrang, both near Trier (Ghetta 2008, 295–6, 325–7), and from Britain, Bancroft, Milton Keynes (Williams 1994) and Lullingstone, Kent (Meates 1979, 119–32), as well as Chedworth. In terms of categorisation, are these examples the result of private patronage of shrines by villa owners, and thus essentially adjuncts to villa estates? Alternatively, is there a case to be made for some sites previously regarded as villas to be reclassified as temple sites as their primary function? A plausible case has been made for Great Witcombe, Gloucestershire (Walters and Rider forthcoming a), and, less convincingly, for Chedworth (Webster 1983; Walters 2000; Walters and Rider forthcoming b). Features previously regarded as domestic bath suites, etc., at Great Witcombe can now be interpreted as facilities for worshippers at a central octagonal shrine. With this in mind, it is clear that the architecture of ancillary buildings at temple sites can often resemble villa buildings, and can be confused with them. Meonstoke, therefore, has many characteristics of a villa, such as the rectangular courtyard with buildings spaced around it, the aisled building and the bath-house. But it also has a hexagonal building, almost certainly a shrine. The site location, next to the river Meon in a low-lying position in the central part of the river valley, gives significance to the shrine as a potential regional religious focus. As such, the site may have been more than simply an estate shrine, and the ‘villa’ with its elaborate and highly decorated aisled building facade and high-quality wall plaster may have served the Meon valley local community as a set of buildings for public worship and festivals (cf. Roymans and Derks 2015), rather than just a villa with a private ‘chapel’ for its owner.

Acknowledgements We are very grateful to the farmer and landowners Mr and Mrs Martin, of Exton Manor Farm, for their enthusiastic support and permission to excavate. The workforce for the excavation was provided by the unfailing help of the volunteers of the Meon Valley Archaeology and Heritage Group, especially Alison Smalley, John Snow and Guy Liardet, and students of the University of Winchester. Financial assistance was received in the form of grants from the Association for Roman Archaeology and the University of Winchester. We are also grateful for help and advice from Historic England, the South Downs National Park Authority and the archaeological staff of Hampshire County Council. The finds and archive from the excavation will be deposited with Hampshire Cultural Trust, Chilcomb House, Winchester.

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75-2015. Available at http://research.historicengland.org.uk/ Report.aspx?i=15387&ru=%2fResults.aspx%3fp%3d1%26n %3d10%26rn%3d75%26ry%3d2015%26ns%3d1 (accessed: March 2019). Péchoux, L. (2010) Les sanctuaires de périphérie urbaine. Montagnac, Editions Monique Mergoil. Putnam, B. (2007) Roman Dorset. Stroud, Tempus. Rogers, A.C. (2008) Religious place and its interaction with urbanization in the Roman era. Journal of Social Archaeology 8(1), 37–62. Roymans, N. and Derks, T. (2015) Rural cult places and the symbolic construction of supralocal communities. In N. Roymans et al. (eds) The Roman Villa of Hoogeloon and the Archaeology of the Periphery, 229–42. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press. Sauer, E.W. (2011) Religious rituals at springs in the Late Antique and early medieval world. In L. Lavan and M. Mulryan (eds) The Archaeology of Late Antique ‘Paganism’, 505–50. Leiden, Brill. Schlumberger, D. (1971) La cour hexagonale du sanctuaire de Jupiter à Baalbeck. Bulletin du Musée de Beyrouth 24, 3–9. Schubert, T. (2016) ‘Pars fructuaria’. Studien zu Nebengebäuden mit Speicherfunktion auf römerzeitlichen Villae im Tagebaugebiet Hambacher Forst. Hamburg, Tredition-Verlag. Smith, A., Allen, M., Brindle, T., Fulford, M., Lodwick, L. and Rohnbogner, A. (2018) Life and Death in the Countryside of Roman Britain. Britannia Monograph 31. London. Sparavigna, A.C. (2017) The hexagon of Portus Traiani and its link to the solar arc and the ancient wind rose. Social Sciences Research Network Archaeology e-journal 1.10. Available at https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2943871 (accessed: March 2019). Stoodley, N. (2018) Exton Manor Farm and Shavards Farm, Meonstoke, Hampshire. Report on the Archaeological Fieldwork, 2017–2018. Meon Valley Archaeology and Heritage Group Research Report 10. Meonstoke. Stoodley, N. and Stedman, M. (2001) Excavations at Shavards Farm, Meonstoke, 1998–1999: the Anglo-Saxon cemetery. Proceedings of the Hampshire Field Club & Archaeological Society (Hampshire Studies) 56, 129–69. Timby, J.R. (2000) The pottery. In M. Fulford and J. Timby, Late Iron Age and Roman Silchester. Excavations on the Site of the Forum-Basilica 1977, 1980–86, Britannia Monograph 15, 180–312. London. Turner, R. and Wymer, J.J. (1987) An assemblage of Palaeolithic hand-axes from the Roman religious complex at Ivy Chimneys, Witham, Essex. Antiquaries Journal 67, 43–60. Wallace, L.M. (2018) Community and the creation of provincial identities: a re-interpretation of the Romano-British aisled building at North Warnborough. Archaeological Journal 175, 231–254. Walters, B. (2000) Chedworth: Roman villa or sanctuary? A re-interpretation of a well-known site. Bulletin of the Association for Roman Archaeology 9, 10–13. Walters, B. and Rider, D. (forthcoming a) Great Witcombe, Gloucestershire: a reinterpretation of the site as a temple rather than a villa. In M. Henig, G. Soffe and K. Adcock (eds) Villas, Sanctuaries and Settlements in the Romano-British Countryside. New Perspectives and Controversies. Oxford, Oxbow Books.

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13 Past and present: the Ilissos area of Athens in the second century AD Sarah McHugh

The Ilissos river weaves through Attica from Mount Hymettos, skirting the boundaries of Athens just outside what was, in classical times, the south-east wall of the city. The ‘Ilissos district’ we explore in this paper extends from the Olympieion on the north bank of the river and along the south bank to the Stadium. Plato’s Phaedrus immortalised the banks of the Ilissos in this area as the ideal locale for philosophical thought and discussion and, moreover, as a deeply sacred locus amoenus. In the Antonine period, a number of writers mimicked Plato’s Ilissos in creating their own philosophical settings, to the extent that Plutarch warned contemporaries against over-use of the motif (Amatorius 749a). Plato’s vivid depiction of the Ilissos area was deeply rooted in its sacred landscape. The Ilissos area had been populated by temples and small sacred places since the earliest days of the city. It was reported by Thucydides (2.15.3–6) to have been the oldest part of Athens next to the Acropolis; whether or not this was true (although the archaeological and textual evidence does seem to corroborate the claim), the value of this statement is that the Ilissos was believed to be the oldest district of the city. The vestiges of great antiquity are seen by Pausanias (1.18.7) in the second century AD, who records not only the prominent classical buildings but the archaic shrine of Olympian Ge and the crevice where Deucalion’s flood drained out. By the time of Pausanias’ tour, the Ilissos district was home to many new buildings, a number of which were associated with Hadrian (Fig. 13.1). Prior to the mid-second century, the area appears to have remained relatively undisturbed since the classical period. In this paper I explore two contexts in which the Ilissos area was reconfigured in the second century AD: in literary depiction and in the physical landscape.

Plato’s Phaedrus and Antonine Mimesis Plato’s vision of the area stood the test of time remarkably well; the beauty of the text left a lasting impression on travellers even into the nineteenth century. Christopher Wordsworth (1837, 164), despite finding the area ‘bare and treeless’, found it was imbued with beauty and atmosphere owing to Plato’s description, while William Leake (1841, 275–6) thought it easy to imagine the verdure and plane trees of the Phaedrus. Even today, although the area is dominated by the noisy Leoforos Arditou, the green space around the small church of Agia Fotini on the south bank of the dry river-bed evokes some of the peace and quiet of Plato’s scene, and one can still find a cave of Pan nestled amongst the trees (Fig. 13.2). The Phaedrus is made up of three speeches on the subject of love. As the dialogue begins, Phaedrus is coming from a gathering in a house near the Olympieion when he meets Socrates. As they exit the city, Socrates suggests sitting down in a quiet spot by the Ilissos, and Phaedrus proposes that paddling in the cool water of the river might be refreshing in the summer heat (Phaedrus 229a). They walk on, across the river, and look for the tallest plane tree, where there is a shady spot on the grass with a pleasant breeze (230b–c): νὴ τὴν Ἥραν, καλή γε ἡ καταγωγή. ἥ τε γὰρ πλάτανος αὕτη μάλ᾽ ἀμφιλαφής τε καὶ ὑψηλή, τοῦ τε ἄγνου τὸ ὕψος καὶ τὸ σύσκιον πάγκαλον, καὶ ὡς ἀκμὴν ἔχει τῆς ἄνθης, ὡς ἂν εὐωδέστατον παρέχοι τὸν τόπον: ἥ τε αὖ πηγὴ χαριεστάτη ὑπὸ τῆς πλατάνου ῥεῖ μάλα ψυχροῦ ὕδατος, ὥστε γε τῷ ποδὶ τεκμήρασθαι. Νυμφῶν τέ τινων καὶ Ἀχελῴου ἱερὸν ἀπὸ

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τῶν κορῶν τε καὶ ἀγαλμάτων ἔοικεν εἶναι. εἰ δ᾽ αὖ βούλει, τὸ εὔπνουν τοῦ τόπου ὡς ἀγαπητὸν καὶ σφόδρα ἡδύ: θερινόν τε καὶ λιγυρὸν ὑπηχεῖ τῷ τῶν τεττίγων χορῷ. πάντων δὲ κομψότατον τὸ τῆς πόας, ὅτι ἐνἠρέμα προσάντει ἱκανὴ πέφυκε κατακλινέντι τὴν κεφαλὴν παγκάλως ἔχειν. ὥστε ἄριστά σοι ἐξενάγηται, ὦ φίλε Φαῖδρε. By Hera, what a lovely secluded spot! This plane tree is very tall and flourishing, the agnus is tall enough to provide excellent shade too, and since it is in full bloom it will probably make the place especially fragrant Then again, the stream flowing under the plane tree is particularly charming, and its water is very cold, to judge by my foot. The place seems by the statuettes and figures to be sacred to certain of the Nymphs and to Achelous. Or again, if you like, how pleasant and utterly delightful is the freshness of the air here! The whisper of the breeze chimes in a summery, clear way with the chorus of the cicadas. But the nicest thing of all is the fact that the grass is on a gentle slope which is perfect for resting one’s head on when lying down. You are indeed a very good guide, my dear Phaedrus. (trans. Waterfield 2002)

As they walk, Socrates and Phaedrus note a place sacred to the river-god Achelous and the Nymphs (230b), ‘the shrine in Agra’ (229c), a shrine of the Muses (278b) and an altar to Boreas in the place where he carried off Oreithyia from the riverbank (229c). Throughout the dialogue the rural and sacred nature of the Ilissos area is not only mentioned in passing but comes to the forefront; temples, shrines, the chirping cicadas, the rustling trees and the clear, bright water maintain a strong presence, providing an idyllic context for the philosophical discussion. Socrates states that as a φιλομαθής he prefers the city because the country and the trees will not teach him, but the people in the city will (230d). However, while Socrates never disavows this belief, throughout the text he finds inspiration in the natural environment that surrounds him, for example in the myths of Boreas and Oreithyia (229c–230a), and the cicadas and the Muses (259b–c). The dialogue concludes with a prayer: ‘Dear Pan and all gods here, grant that I may become beautiful within and that my external possessions may be congruent with my inner state’ (279c). Despite the presence of the Themistoclean city wall in Plato’s time, the Ilissos district was firmly located inside the Cleisthenic urban demes – the area outside the walls was

Fig. 13.1. The Ilissos area (after Travlos 1968).

13.  Past and present: the Ilissos area of Athens in the second century AD

Fig. 13.2. Cave of Pan near the church of Hag. Fotini adjacent to the dry bed of the Ilissos river (image of Pan barely visible on the right-hand side).

not immediately classed as ‘the countryside’ and therefore the Ilissos was essentially an urban space (Traill 1975, map 2). The concept of the pomerium did not exist in the Greek world – there was no sacred boundary line surrounding the city (Polinskaya 2006, 88). While in reality the wall did not stand as a divisive boundary between city and country, there is evidence that this role may have been played out on an imaginary level. One cannot define individual gods as exclusively ‘urban’ or ‘rural’ (after all, both Artemis and Pan also had their place at the heart of the city on the Acropolis), but one cannot deny that the cults located in this relatively small area, when considered as a group, carry a distinctively rural character. A perceived division between city and countryside in this area is evident in the Phaedrus: once they leave through the gate, Phaedrus contrasts walking in the city’s colonnades with the more refreshing (‘ἀκοπωτέρους’) pursuit of walking the country roads, while Socrates states that he prefers the city for its educational benefits (227a, 230d). The scenery throughout the dialogue, summarised above, characterises the area as distinctly rural: if no identifiable topographical detail had been provided, one might be forgiven for thinking the dialogue was located in a much more remote, categorically rural area. The reality of the topography presented in the Phaedrus has been in question even since Antiquity (e.g. Cicero De Oratore 1.28), probably to some extent due to the particular rurality of the dialogue and the contrast between Plato’s image and the landscape of later times. For the most part, scholarship on the dialogue focuses on the rhetorical purpose of the scenery, assessing the landscape as a fictional setting rather than a real location (Thompson 1868, 9; Wycherley 1963, 91; Ferrari 1987, 2–34). Despite the philosophical purpose of the dialogue, there is nothing in Plato’s description that causes us to question the reality of the district in which

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it takes place; the cults in the area, at least, are corroborated by other literary sources and the archaeological evidence. We need not imagine that Socrates’ and Phaedrus’ walk itself was a historical occurrence, nor that Plato had a specific plane tree in mind; but it is reasonable to interpret Plato’s description of a popular religious zone on the outskirts of the city as based on reality and personal familiarity with the area (Rowe 1986, 135). However, my interest in the Phaedrus is not in the accuracy of its topographical detail, nor in attempting to compare the dialogue’s setting to a contemporary fourth-century ‘reality’. It seems clear that Plato took the real features of the landscape – the river with its tree-lined banks scattered with small cult places – and elevated it into an almost mythical setting, its atmosphere permeated by the workings of divine inspiration. As Werner (2012, 23) has noted, the conspicuous setting is almost a third character in the dialogue. The deeply mystic landscape and god-haunted atmosphere are pervasive forces that envelop the speakers and weave in and out of the dialogue itself. Pan, Achelous, the Muses and the nymphs are the ephemeral deities of the Ilissos, their presence marked in less explicit ways than the ‘official’ cult sites of Artemis, Boreas and Dionysos. Throughout the dialogue these gods are very present, and not just in the symbolic form of small shrines and votives; their influence is seen at various points to be working on Socrates and Phaedrus. The nymphs in particular feature in this way: Socrates fears he may become possessed by the nymphs to whom Phaedrus has exposed him, and later when Phaedrus praises his speech Socrates transfers the praise to the nymphs along with Achelous and Pan, for it is they who have inspired his endeavours, and therefore it is they who are more skilled than Lysias (241e, 263d). Socrates’ comment that Phaedrus will have to remind him of what he said, as he was too inspired (ἐνθουσιαστικὸς) at the time to be able to remember, also plays into the idea that he had become νυμφόληπτος (‘nympholeptos’ possessed by the nymphs) and had surrendered to the divine forces of the country (263d). There is clearly a wry element to these comments, as Socrates had previously mocked Phaedrus for his love of the countryside and claimed that the country could not teach him anything. There is also a hint of mockery regarding the elevated status of the orator Lysias, who Phaedrus acclaims highly; Socrates expresses amazement that these local rustic gods could be credited with more expertise in speech-making than the great and urbane Lysias. While the gods we have encountered so far hold a prominent position in the dialogue, there are also more subtle allusions to the sacred landscape of the Ilissos. The Lesser Mysteries were celebrated on the 20th day of Anthesterion in the precinct of the Mother at Agrai, just across the river. Little is known about the initiation process, but it seems that by the fourth century BC participation in the Lesser Mysteries was a mandatory requirement for those wishing

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to be initiated in the Greater Mysteries at Eleusis (Plat. Gorgias 497c; Plutarch Demosthenes 26.1–5; Scholia in Aristophanem Plut. 845). Later sources associate the Ilissos with the purification rites of the Lesser Mysteries; in the second century AD the orator Polyaenus (Stratagems 5.17.1) described the Ilissos as the place ‘where they complete the purification for the Lesser Mysteries’, while the fourth-century orator Himerius (Orationes 47.4, 10.20) associated the clear waters of the Ilissos with the cult of Demeter, and describes the banks of the river as ‘mystic’. It has been suggested (Nelson 2000, 25–43; Werner 2012, 23) that Plato made his choice of location for the Phaedrus in order to evoke the Lesser Mysteries, based on the dialogue’s allusions to purification, barefootedness, enthronement and head-covering. In this reading, Plato taps into the mystic identity of the banks of the Ilissos and uses the language of the Mysteries to convey an initiation into philosophical discourse; in this way, the pre-existing sacred landscape becomes representative of the philosophical ideal (Nelson 2000, 43). If the locale of the Lesser Mysteries emphasises the motif of philosophical initiation, the other gods of the area and the landscape itself are also representative of the dialogue’s themes: Boreas and Achelous are quite literally forces of nature, identified in mythology with a vigorous and dangerous sexuality; while Pan and the Nymphs represent a wild madness and frenzy. The pervasive presence of Pan throughout the dialogue contributes significantly to the creation of the Ilissos as a rural landscape: Socrates and Phaedrus have crossed the boundary into the domain of Pan – typically an Arcadian idyll that masks the danger beneath the surface. A sense of danger is ever-present in the dialogue: Socrates warns about the risks of becoming νυμφόληπτος, and recounts the myth of the men who the Muses turned into cicadas after their ecstatic love of song and neglect of food caused them to die of starvation (238c–d, 259b–c). Another menace is implicit in Socrates’ statement that there are many reasons to continue talking at midday, and not stop and sleep; traditionally, midday is the time Pan sleeps, and mortals disturb him at their peril (259d, see also Theoc. 1.15–18; Gottfried 1993, 180–1). The midday heat, the flowing water, the chirping cicadas and the breeze rustling the leaves create an environment that is at once idyllic and hazardous; the ultimate wild landscape, free from the city’s constraints but also its protection. Such landscapes are typically found on the margins, associated with mountains, forests and the wilderness on the periphery of the polis (Cole 2000; McInerney 2006). That Plato’s description held a lasting impact on perceptions of the Ilissos is evident in the correspondence of Marcus Aurelius and M. Cornelius Fronto, particularly in letters written around AD 139 when the future emperor was studying in Athens. In one notable letter (Epistulae 8.9; Addit. 7.3) Fronto draws on the content of the Phaedrus,

and concludes that he intends to show Marcus a particular flower ‘if we go for a walk outside the city walls as far as the Ilissos’. This is only one example of second-century engagement with the Phaedrus among the educated elite, for whom the dialogue was the centrepiece of a rhetorical and philosophical education (Trapp 1990, 141–73; Taoka 2013). While the themes of the Phaedrus – love, destiny, rhetoric, the soul – were popular and much imitated in the second century, I focus here on the cases in which later writers have mimicked the setting of the dialogue, and explore the possibility that the Ilissos itself was in fact an important contributing factor in the dialogue’s popularity at this time. References to the setting of the Phaedrus come in two forms: meetings in sacred groves recalling that of the dialogue, and direct allusions to Plato’s text. The most valuable reference comes from Plutarch’s Amatorius (749a), in which Flavianus urges his companion Autobulus to refrain from extensive descriptions of the natural scenery ‘and whatever else poets are so studious to add to their descriptions, imitating with more curiosity than grace Plato’s Ilissos, with the chaste tree and the gentle rising hillock covered with green grass’. Plutarch’s reference to the setting of the Phaedrus asserts that mimesis of the dialogue had become fashionable among second-century writers and the tone implies that it had in fact become rather over-used. While we must be careful not to attribute every such scene to the direct influence of the Phaedrus, Plutarch’s observation suggests not only that it was the object of widespread mimesis, but that it was quite possibly considered as the definitive model of the locus amoenus. A similar impression is inferred from another dialogue, pseudo-Lucian, Amores (31), in which the speaker ponders Plato’s Ilissian plane tree, considering it ‘more fortunate than the Academy and the Lyceum’ for it had witnessed Socrates’ and Phaedrus’ dialogue, and pondering that if the tree itself could speak it might echo the philosophers’ sentiments. The notion of landscape soaking up the wisdom and beauty of the philosophers’ words is an important factor in the second-century fascination with the Phaedrus and its setting. As has already been noted, the themes of the dialogue were particularly popular at this time – it follows, therefore, that the Ilissos would become synonymous with this classical paragon of love and rhetoric and the cosmos. Indeed, there is further evidence for the setting of the Phaedrus representing the subject matter. Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon demonstrates the extension of Platonic influence into prose fiction, a genre that flourished during the first few centuries AD (Swain 1999; Whitmarsh 2002). As in the Phaedrus, the central concerns of the novel are ‘rhetoric, eros, and the form, unity and status of written communication’ (Whitmarsh 2002, xxi; Morales 2004; Hunter 2012, 194). Clitophon relates his story to the narrator who leads Clitophon to a nearby grove, the perfect setting for his ‘erotic fiction’, where they are surrounded

13.  Past and present: the Ilissos area of Athens in the second century AD by plane trees and cool, flowing water (1.2). This mode of setting the scene illustrates the observation made by Plutarch and locates Clitophon and the narrator in a locus amoenus alluding to the Phaedrus. In another context we might be more cautious about connecting this rather generic setting to the Phaedrus, but the themes of the novel are so evocative of that particular dialogue that it is reasonable to expect that a learned second-century reader would have recognised the allusion, and that this was in fact the intention of the writer. Turning to the genre of philosophical rhetoric, a notable allusion is made by Dio of Prusa in Oration 1.53–4, which concludes with a tale of his encounter with an old woman in the Peloponnese (see also Oration 36.1–8). The similarities with the setting of the Phaedrus are quite significant: having wandered the countryside for some time, Dio meets the priestess at midday in a sacred grove marked by humble offerings, later revealed to be a shrine of Heracles. The priestess is thought to speak under divine inspiration (1.55) as Socrates does once he has come under the influence of the local gods (Phaedr. 235c, 241e). There are, of course, key differences – Dio’s setting is far more primitive than Plato’s, and the rustic old woman a far cry from the urbane Socrates. However, as Trapp suggests (1990, 144), the differences serve a purpose: ‘The latter episode (Or. 1) is surely meant as a piquant transposition of the former (Phdr.), trading on the familiar antithesis of Attic and Ionian elegance with the harsher ethos of the Dorians’. The setting of the Phaedrus, then, functions as a paragon of Athenian sophistication, serving to highlight the rusticity and wildness of Dio’s Dorian landscape while imbuing the oration with a recognisably Platonic quality. Dio’s use of a near-identical setting highlights the regard in which the Phaedrus was held in the second century and, moreover, the extent to which Plato’s Ilissos had become a centrepiece of ‘sacred grove’ iconography. It also demonstrates a symbolic association of the Ilissos with a distinctively Attic character and elegance. The texts we have looked at in this section all belong to the period of the Second Sophistic – a cultural movement defined in part by its use of ‘Atticising’ dialect, an Atheno-centric preoccupation with the Greek past and mimesis of classical figures and themes (Whitmarsh 2005; Webb 2006). While none of our writers are considered ‘sophists’ as such, I would suggest that the hallmarks of that movement can to an extent account for the dialogue’s popularity in the second century, and thus to contemporary interest in the Ilissos area itself. The Phaedrus, after all, boasts a number of features that would appeal to a second-century literary connoisseur: fashionable subject matter, high philosophical pedigree and a setting in an Attic locus amoenus. Plato (Republic 2.393c) defined mimesis as the assimilation of oneself with another, and in regard to the Second Sophistic, mimesis is usually considered as the process of bringing a character to life through words, as sophists were trained to do (e.g. Aristides Orationes 3, 5;

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Philostratus Lives of the Sophists (VS) 2.595). While sophists recreated historical events – real or imagined – for their audiences, our second-century writers recreated a famous Platonic scene. The common factor here is Athens, the most popular subject for the sophists and at the heart of the popularity of the Phaedrus. By the middle of the second century AD Athens had reached a new cultural zenith, and the classical Athenian past had a powerful hold on the contemporary imagination. Plutarch (Praecepta gerendae reipublicae 814b–c) illustrates his advice to Greek statesmen on the use of historical examples with cases from Athenian history, urging orators not to use the examples of Marathon, the Eurymedon and Plataea, as these ‘make the common folk vainly to swell with pride and kick up their heels’. One can infer from Plutarch’s instruction that stories of the Athenian past were prevalent among the Greek statesmen of his time. The lengthy encomium of the land of Attica to which Aelius Aristides devotes 25 chapters of his Panathenaic Discourse is intended to highlight the absolute purity of the Athenian race, and the superior qualities bestowed upon them by the land that gave them birth (Orationes 13, 8–33). Aristides uses the image of ‘water rising out of springs’ to describe the first Athenians rising from the land, a simile that seems strikingly resonant in a land that placed a high ideological value on its rivers. The renaming of rivers in fifth-century Athenian cleruchies – the Ilissos on Imbros, the Cephisus on Scyros (Fredrich 1908, 82; Moreno 2007, 306) – suggests that the Attic rivers functioned as key markers of the landscape’s ‘Athenianness’. In this vein we should consider also Dionysius of Alexandria’s Periegesis of the Known World, a second-century whirlwind tour that encompasses the whole world in fewer than 1200 lines. While Athens is not mentioned by name, it is evoked by a mention of the Ilissos ‘where Boreas carried off Oreithyia’ (Dionysius Periegesis 421–5). The allusion to the Phaedrus is inherent in this passage, and entirely appropriate given the objective of Dionysius’ work: ‘to evoke, not so much the places themselves, as the reader’s awareness of them, literary associations and cultural memory’ (Lightfoot 2014, 5; see also Oudot 2004, 423–5). Dionysius uses rivers to represent cities or regions elsewhere in the Periegesis: the Alpheus and Olympia (374) and the Ismenus and Thebes (1165). In the case of Athens, it is the Ilissos river that evokes the city with the Phaedrus as the key literary reference, intrinsically associated in the mind of the reader with both the Ilissos and Athens itself. In the use of this allusion, Dionysius confirms the symbolic role of the Ilissos in the second century, and the ever-present influence of Plato’s vision. In an era that placed such a high value on Hellenism, that commodified paideia and made Athens the focal point of a shared Greek identity, it is understandable that the Ilissos, immortalised so beautifully by Plato, could have become

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an object of some fascination. Athens in the second century was arguably a city of the imagination; the dissemination of classical texts throughout the empire, the travelling sophists’ performances of Athenian history, the fame of the city’s schools – all these factors create the foundations of expectation, and an image of Athens rooted in its classical past. The idyll presented by Plato provided for the second-century reader a vision of classical Athens centred on myth, beauty and paideia. Depending on individual viewpoint, the Ilissos area could have functioned as either an urban or a rural space. The perceptions of a philosopher such as Plato would have been different to those of the local launderers who dedicated votives to Achelous and the Nymphs at their Ilissos shrine (IG II2 2934). In the mid-second century Fronto and the young Marcus Aurelius, wishing to emulate Socrates and Phaedrus by walking ‘outside the walls’, will have viewed the area differently from Pausanias, seeking to document the important monuments of the district at the present time. Moreover, we know that scholars of the Roman period sometimes sought to compare the reality of a place to depictions in literature; indeed, this is exactly what Strabo set out to do in the late first century BC: ‘I am comparing the present conditions to those described by Homer’ (8.8.3). With these examples in mind, one must consider again second-century visitors to the Ilissos area; it is not difficult to imagine that the Phaedrus’ philosophical idyll will have informed expectations and created a vision of rurality. For some the new amenities and the vast Olympieion towering above the shrines and the river to the south may have put paid to their rural imaginings; while for others the beauty of Plato’s dialogue, coupled with the still-flowing river and the cult places along its banks, may have sustained the sense of rurality even if it was, essentially, imagined.

The Ilissos district was an important location in the mythology of Theseus. The Delphinion just south of the Olympieion was the site of a number of versions of Theseus’ first arrival in Athens. When the unknown Theseus – young, with long hair and a long tunic – first arrived in Athens, the roof of the Delphinion was not yet complete; mocked for looking like a young girl, Theseus loosed the oxen from the builders’ cart and threw them higher than the unfinished roof (Pausanias 1.19.1). In another version, Theseus’ father Aigeus is persuaded by his wife Medea to poison the unknown man in case he prove dangerous; Theseus proves his identity by drawing his sword, and Aigeus throws away the poisoned cup on the site of the Delphinion (Plutarch Theseus 12.8). Further, the Delphinion was the place where Theseus sacrificed the bull of Marathon, where he sacrificed to Apollo before departing for Crete and where he was tried for the killing of the Pallantidae (reflecting the Delphinion’s role as one of Athens’ five murder courts) (Theseus 14.1, 18.1; Pausanias 1.28.10). The Delphinion and the Olympieion are closely linked in Pausanias’ account (1.19.1), with the former standing ‘close behind’ the new temple and described immediately after it. The two temples are indeed very close, with less than 100 m between the north side of the Delphinion and the Olympieion’s south temenos wall (Figs 13.1, 13.3). The Olympieion is raised above the temples to the south, the natural ridge on which it was located having been built up by Hadrian using the Roman terracing technique, but the visual connection between the temples remains strong (Willers 1990, 34–5; Boatwright 2000, 152). This juxtaposition of the temples, and accordingly Hadrian and Theseus, is clear in Pausanias’ account. If one wished to explore further connections, it has been suggested that a parallel may be found in the comparative states of the temples when Theseus and Hadrian arrived in the city: Pausanias tells us

Hadrian and Theseus in the Ilissos area Theseus is one of the most important figures in Athenian mythology, and one of the most prevalent in Attic cult. The cult of Theseus is particularly remarkable for the great enthusiasm that was poured into it during the fifth century BC. In response to an oracle that instructed him to ‘bring home the bones of Theseus’, Cimon found the bones on Scyros after the island’s capture in 476/5 and returned them to Athens, where the Theseum was built to house them (Plutarch Cimon 8.5–7, Theseus 36.1–4; Pausanias 1.17.2–6, 3.3.7). Theseus was believed to have aided the Athenians at the battle of Marathon, and he is depicted on the Stoa Poikile rising up out of the earth in the midst of battle (Pausanias 1.15.4). Significantly, Theseus was credited with the synoikism, uniting the separate cities of Attica and bringing the people together as Athenian citizens to create the great classical city (Thucydides 2.15).

Fig. 13.3 The Olympieion viewed from the south side of the temple of Apollo Delphinios.

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that Theseus found the Delphinion ‘finished except for the roof’ (1.19.1); given the repeated attempts to complete the Olympieion over the previous centuries, it may be that the Olympieion was in a similar state when Hadrian decided to finish it. Heracleides Creticus (pseudo-Dicaearch On the Cities of Greece 1.1) and Strabo (9.1.17) both found the temple ‘half-finished’. The Delphinion is not the only place in this area connected to Theseus. Pausanias begins his route to the Olympieion at the Prytaneion (1.18.3), the ancient town hall and council chamber integrally associated with Theseus’ synoecism of Attica. Thucydides (2.15.2) and Plutarch (Theseus 24.3) describe the independent communities of Attica prior to the synoecism, and how Theseus brought them together and established one common town hall (πρυτανεῖον) in Athens. Between the Prytaneion and the shrine of Eileithuia on the way to the Olympieion, Pausanias sees ‘a place where they say Theseus and Peirithous took their oath before they marched together on Sparta and on Thesprotia’ (1.19.5), presumably alluding to the story recounted by Plutarch (Theseus 31) in which Theseus and Peirithous travelled to

Sparta to steal Helen. The route to the Ilissos area is marked by places associated with Theseus, keeping the founding hero of Athens in the reader’s mind as Pausanias approaches the Olympieion. Moving beyond Pausanias’ account, the route from the Prytaneion to the Olympieion is particularly interesting as it also marks the key axis from the Acropolis to the Ilissos district. It has been noted (Schmalz 2006, 78) that this axis illustrates the topographical orientation of the growth of Athens as viewed by Thucydides (2.15.15): from the cave of Aglauros, which dominates the south-east slope of the Acropolis when viewed from the lower city, along the course of the modern Lysicrates Street, past the Prytaneion (or at least its close vicinity), towards the Olympieion and the ancient cult sites of the Ilissos area. In the second century AD this axis was marked out by the arch of Hadrian (Figs 13.4a–b). The arch was constructed at the north-west corner of the temenos of the Olympieion, likely on the occasion of its dedication in 131/2. I am inclined to follow Greco (2011, 451) in attributing the arch to the Athenians rather than Hadrian on the basis of the content of its inscription

Fig. 13.4a. Looking north-west through the arch of Hadrian, along Lysicrates Street to the Acropolis and the cave of Aglauros.

Fig. 13.4b. View from the top of the Acropolis down Lysicrates Street, to the arch of Hadrian and the Olympieion, with Ardettos Hill and the Stadium in the background.

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and the quality of the marble, which is lower than that of other buildings of Hadrian in Athens. Regarding the inscription Greco cites the Vita Hadriani (20.2), which states that Hadrian cared nothing for inscriptions on his public works (Et cum titulos in operibus non amaret, multas civitas Hadrianopolis appellavit …). One might imagine the arch as a token of thanks for Hadrian’s generous donations to the city on the occasion of the dedication of the Olympieion and the foundation of the Panhellenion in 131/2, during Hadrian’s third visit to the city. The most notable features of the arch are the two striking inscriptions (IG II2 5185) that adorn the architrave of the east and west facades: αἵδ’ εἴσ’ Ἀθῆναι Θησέως ἡ πρὶν πόλις. αἵδ’ εἴσ’ Ἁδριανοῦ καὶ οὐχὶ Θησέως πόλις.

The first, on the west side of the arch, informs the viewer that they are in the former city of Theseus, while the second, on the east, states that ‘this is the city of Hadrian, not of Theseus’. This inscription has been the subject of much scrutiny. For a long time prevailing opinion viewed the arch as an entrance in a new extension of the Themistoclean circuit wall, and thus a boundary between ‘the ancient city’ (ἡ πρὶν πόλις) and a new Hadrianic quarter (Curtius 1862, 58–9; Judeich 1931, 163, 381–2; Graindor 1934, 228–9; Boatwright 1983, 175–6 contra 2000, 147), but this reading cannot be reconciled with the archaeological evidence. The course of the ancient walls was later found to have run further to the east, where a gate (IX) stood approximately 150 m from the arch (Fig. 13.1), and the possibility of new walls is neither supported by the archaeology nor probable within the historical context (Travlos 1971, 289; Greco 2011, 450). Interpretation of the arch has rested heavily on the translation of its inscription, as well as the archaeological context. The translation of πρὶν as ‘ancient’ (Travlos 1971, 253; Zahrnt 1979, 393) suggests that one side of the arch is ancient and the other a new city developed by Hadrian. However, as we have seen, the Ilissos area was considered to have been the most ancient district of the city after the Acropolis; likewise, there were many Hadrianic buildings elsewhere in the city – such a distinction is thus rendered meaningless. The more plausible, and now more widely accepted, translation of πρὶν in this context is ‘former’ (Oliver 1965, 124; Jones 1981, unpublished (cited by Adams 1989, 11); Boatwright 2000, 147). This brings the focus of the inscription to Hadrian and Theseus and the relationship between these two figures as founders of Athens, wherein the most appropriate interpretation lies. With πρὶν translated as ‘former’ the inscription can be understood to refer to the whole city, rather than to separate areas demarcated by the arch: Athens is the former city of Theseus, now the city of Hadrian. This view is supported by the inscription that once stood at the terminus of Hadrian’s aqueduct on the south-east slope of Mount Lycabettus,

which describes the aqueduct as standing in novis Athenis (ILS 337 = CIL III 549). The terminus was outside the walls but some distance from the arch of Hadrian; the whole of Athens, then, was ‘new Athens’ – not just one district. As Theseus was the founder of Athens in legendary times, uniting the towns of Attica in the synoecism, Hadrian is the new founder, having facilitated through his many benefactions Athens’ period of renewal in the mid-second century. Aelius Aristides, in his Panathenaic Oration, comments on how the cities of Asia pride themselves on the size of their temples or the architecture of their baths, but Athens ‘has even these things to an unsurpassable degree, just as a recently founded city might’ (13.250). Even if one were to strip away her great antiquity, Aristides says, Athens would be an exemplary modern city reflecting ‘today’s opportunity and way of life’ with magnificent baths, athletic grounds and gymnasia (13.246). One must naturally be cautious with the Panathenaic Oration; delivered at the Panathenaic festival of 167, it was designed to present Athens as a city of unparalleled greatness. In this, however, Aristides’ declarations are not entirely hyperbolic; Hadrian’s benefactions were extensive and the Antonine emperors followed suit, if to a somewhat lesser extent. Hadrian’s patronage enabled the city of Athens to flourish in the second century, enhancing the landscape of the city in a way that complimented and celebrated her classical past while providing the necessary embellishments required of a modern city. Athens is more than a paragon of Antiquity – it is also a new, or rather, renewed city. This is the context in which we must understand the inscription on the arch of Hadrian; if Theseus founded archaic Athens from the scattered communities of Attica, Hadrian re-founded it as city of the second century, and a cultural centre of the Roman Empire. The arch, then, reflects its historical context. But there is more to be said on the parallels between Hadrian and Theseus and the notion of Hadrian as a founder. Firstly, the arch is reminiscent of the στήλη said to have been set up by Theseus on the Isthmus with an inscription in an identical format: τάδ᾽ οὐχὶ Πελοπόννησος, ἀλλ᾽ Ἰωνία τάδ᾽ ἐστὶ Πελοπόννησος, οὐκ Ἰωνία.

According to Plutarch (Theseus 25.3), Theseus set up this marker to define territorial boundaries after he had joined the territory of Megara to Attica. Strabo (3.5.5, 9.1.6–7) says the marker was set up as a result of a border dispute between the Ionians and the Peloponnesians – he does not attribute it to Theseus directly, but rather to the heroic period generally. The marker is only known from these sources, and Strabo reports it to no longer be standing in his day. In the imperial period, probably the second half of the first century AD, an arch was set up at the approach to the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmia, along the route of the coastal road from

13.  Past and present: the Ilissos area of Athens in the second century AD Attica and central Greece into the Peloponnese. Gregory and Mills (1984, 427–8) suggest that the Roman arch may have been influenced by Theseus’ legendary monument, as Plutarch and Strabo demonstrate a Roman-era interest in such a boundary marker. The Isthmus inscription then had a spatial significance, but this does not mean the same purpose should be attributed to the Athenian version; if we consider that the Athenians who dedicated the arch were purposely alluding to Theseus’ στήλη, it is clearly the motif of ‘Theseus as founder’ that is being evoked, not the idea of a boundary marker (Vanderpool 1970, 44; Spawforth and Walker 1985, 93; Greco 2011, 450). The notion of mimicking the precise format of the Isthmus inscription was designed to connect Hadrian with Theseus. Aside from the specific identification of Hadrian with Theseus, further contemporary evidence characterises Hadrian as the founder of Athens. Over 100 altars of Hadrian are known in Athens, of which the vast majority are dedicated to Hadrian as ’Oλύμπιος, Σωτήρ, Κτίστης (Benjamin 1963, 57–86; Spawforth and Walker 1985, 93). Considering the vast number of altars and the regularity of the epigraphic formula (τῶι κτίστηι | καὶ σωτῆρι | Αὐτοκράτορι | Ἁδριανῷ | Ὀλυμπίῳ, IG II2 3324–70), Benjamin (1963, 60) suggests that they were dedicated on the official occasion of the foundation of the Panhellenion and the dedication of the Olympieion in AD 131/2. Spawforth and Walker (1985, 93, 102) suggest a conceptual link between the arch and the Panhellenion, based on the discovery of two replicas of the Athenian arch at Eleusis, dedicated at a later date by the Panhellenes (see also Greco 2011, 451). This connection has never been discussed in any detail, but one might consider that there is a symbolic parallel between Theseus uniting the cities of Attica with Athens as the communal centre, and Hadrian uniting the cities of the Greek world in a league, likewise, with Athens at its heart. The arch of Hadrian is embedded in the heart of both the ancient city of Theseus and the second-century city of Hadrian. Like the many altars of Hadrian in Athens, it represents the Athenians’ gratitude to the emperor for the renewal of their city, in terms of both the physical landscape and – as we shall explore – cultural and economic life. Moreover, it symbolises their acceptance and, indeed, celebration of Hadrian’s rule over their city. Hadrian’s investment in Athens was unprecedented; even Augustus had not done so much for the city. Hadrian’s buildings changed the landscape and brought it up to date, enabling Athens to fulfil its role as the centre of the League of the Panhellenion. The association of Hadrian with Theseus has connotations beyond the city. As we have seen, Theseus’ act of founding – the famous synoecism – established the territory of Attica as a single political community with Athens at the centre, and united the inhabitants of Attica as Athenians. The effects of Hadrian’s benefactions extended beyond the city: the construction of the aqueduct will have

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impacted the countryside between Athens and Mount Parnes to the north, including the construction of a reservoir with a monumental propylon on the south-east slope of Mount Lycabettus (Travlos 1971, 242–3; Leigh 1997, 279–90; Boatwright 2000, 167–8). The Oil Law (IG II2 1100), meanwhile, impacted olive growers throughout Attica in its measures for ensuring an adequate oil supply for Athens. While neither of these measures echoed Theseus (the latter appears rather to take Solon as a model), they were ‘civic benefactions with extramural effects’ (Boatwright 2000, 83). Hadrian’s Athens, like Theseus’, extended beyond the city, and into the countryside of Attica.

Conclusion In this paper, I have explored two aspects of the Ilissos area in the second century: the Ilissos as a model for the loca amoena of contemporary literature, and the Ilissos as the focal point of Hadrian’s Athens and an important location for the promotion of Hadrian as a new founder. The river is a powerful presence in Plato’s dialogue, and we have seen that the landscape of the Phaedrus achieved a status far beyond that of ‘backdrop’ among second-century writers; rather, it represented the ultimate philosophical idyll and became symbolic of the city itself. This veneration of the Ilissos as an ideal philosophical location was a product of both the popularity of the Phaedrus in the second century and the wider trend of looking to Athens and her classical past. Within the scope of this paper it has not been possible to expand upon the area’s connections with the League of the Panhellenion; chiefly that a building located in this area just south of the Olympieion and Delphinion is thought to be the meeting-place of the League (Fig. 13.1). However, with this in mind, it is worth noting that the themes we have explored throughout this discussion make the area a particularly appropriate location for a second-century league that centred strongly on an ideal vision of Athens and her past. More than other areas of the city, the Ilissos – its relatively undisturbed landscape full of mythical associations – presented an opportunity for an ‘interactive’ engagement with the Athenian past. Theseus’ legendary synoecism of Attica is recreated on a vast scale, with Athens conceived as the centre of the Greek world in the League of the Panhellenion.

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Rosen and I. Sluiter (eds) City, Countryside and the Spatial Organization of Value in Classical Antiquity, 61–92. Leiden, Brill. Rowe, C.J. (1986) Phaedrus. Warminster, Aris & Phillips. Schmalz, G.C.R. (2006) The Prytaneion discovered? Hesperia 75(1), 33–81. Spawforth, A. and Walker, S. (1985) The world of the Panhellenion. I. Athens and Eleusis. Journal of Roman Studies 75, 78–104. Swain, S. (1999) Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Taoka, Y. (2013) The correspondence of Fronto and Marcus Aurelius: love, letters, metaphor. Classical Antiquity 32(2), 406–38. Thompson, W.H. (1868) The Phaedrus of Plato. London, Whittaker. Traill, J.S. (1975) The Political Organisation of Attica: A Study of the Demes, Trittyes, and Phylai, and their Representation in the Athenian Council. Princeton, American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Trapp, M.B. (1990) Plato’s Phaedrus in second-century Greek literature. In D.A. Russell (ed.) Antonine Literature, 141–74. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Travlos, J. (1971) Pictorial Dictionary of Ancient Athens. London, Thames and Hudson. Vanderpool, E. (1970) Some Attic inscriptions. Hesperia 39(1), 40–6. Waterfield, R. (tr.) (2002) Phaedrus. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Webb, R. (2006) Fiction, mimesis and the performance of the past in the Second Sophistic. In D. Konstan and S. Saϊd (eds) Greeks on Greekness: Viewing the Greek Past Under the Roman Empire, 27–46. Cambridge, Cambridge Philological Society. Werner, D.S. (2012) Myth and Philosophy in Plato’s Phaedrus. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Whitmarsh, T. (2002) Leucippe and Clitophon. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. (2005) The Second Sophistic. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Willers, D. (1990) Hadrians panhellenisches Programm: archäologische Beiträge zur Neugestaltung Athens durch Hadrian. Basel, Vereinigung der Freunde antiker Kunst. Wordsworth, C. (1837) Athens and Attica: Journal of a Residence There. London, J. Murray. Wycherley, R.E. (1963) The scene of Plato’s ‘Phaidros’. Phoenix 17(2), 88–98. Zahrnt, M. (1979) Die ‘Hadriansstadt’ von Athen. Chiron 9, 393–8.

14 The impact of economics on sacred landscapes: hoarding processes taking place in Attic sanctuaries 625–475 BC Rita Sassu and Rosa Di Marco

Introduction (R.S.) The Greek sanctuary is first of all a territorially delimitated area, conceived as a sacred place focused on the interaction between the human community and the divine world – a relationship that is primarily implemented through ritual. But a sanctuary is also a complex system whose importance is not limited to the religious sphere but goes beyond it. It is closely related to the establishment of socio-political cohesion of the polis, to the reinforcement of its collective yet unitary identity, and to its political and, above all, economic existence. Hence, several factors contributed to the formation of the sacred landscape, which was a physical yet also mental place, where each action and each construction was invested with multiple meanings: for instance, cult practice carried out inside the sacred area was a means to worship divine beings and furthermore to build and to strengthen the polis’ social bonds by corroborating the citizens’ sense of belonging to a community that performed the same religious acts; sacred buildings were meant to honour the deity with their monumental structure and decorative programme, but in addition to this they had further practical and political functions, linked to the image of the polis promoted to the external world. Moreover, sacred space was also marked by further meanings related to the economic field. In this regard, it should be pointed out that the collective economic system of several poleis during the pre-Hellenistic period was managed through the sanctuary itself. Hoarded assets, formally owned by the deity, were actually run by (and for) the collective body, so that there was a deep connection between cult and ritual from one side and economic activity and financial transactions from the other one. This duplicity is clearly reflected in sacred landscape architectures, particularly during the period ranging between

the seventh and fifth centuries BC. In this respect, Athens’ Acropolis can be regarded as an exemplary case study due to the consistency of available literary, epigraphic and archaeological documentation attesting the close relation between polis and temenos in running the public economy and to the multi-faced role played by its sacred structures, whose proper understanding can only derive from the comprehension of the function of Attic local sanctuaries, as it will be illustrated. The Athenian site exemplifies how intensely the polis’ economic system impacted sanctuaries’ spatial organisation. It required the construction of sacred edifices whose main purpose was economic as well as the establishment of a series of administrative boards for their management. Coherently, in the case of the Athenian Acropolis, the erection of the Parthenon (and previously of the pre-Parthenon) should be regarded as a political and economic action: the goal was, on the one side, to celebrate the Athenian society that had just defeated the foreign enemy and was enhancing democracy and, on the other side, to provide a safe and manageable place in which to store huge amounts of precious items and money. The Parthenon’s construction itself entailed a redistribution of common wealth and also aimed at establishing a collective treasure for the polis. This paper intends to show how the Acropolis’ edifices were progressively built and spatially organised to meet the polis’ needs to create a financial collective deposit, hoarding the main funds previously dislocated in Attica shrines.

The establishment of Athenian Treasurers’ Boards (R.S.) The Attic and, more specifically, Athenian sanctuaries represent an excellent area to analyse the so-called ‘economy of

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sacred’ and to observe the role played by sacred buildings marked by an economic purpose, that were mainly intended to keep collective funds belonging not only to the sanctuary itself but to the whole city-state system, serving as a sort of wealth-storage depository for the whole community. In Attica and Athens, the boundaries between the sacred and the profane appear almost absent, and both the polis and the sacred areas seem to lack a clear division between the divine and the city-state when dealing with economic administration. In fact, this traditionally presumed polarity disappears when we study epigraphic and literary sources: they reveal the sanctuary’s image as a landowner, a property administrator, a place where money was minted, where gold, silver and copper objects were gathered and transformed into coins to support the polis, where money could be borrowed and where all these actions were implemented on behalf of the political body that authorised them, often in its own interest (significantly, the Kallias Decrees (side B) state that ‘amounts exceeding 10.000 drachmas – i.e. the annual amount already authorised – cannot be taken from the funds of Athena, unless the demos authorises the withdrawal’, ll. 14–16). The most ancient document from the Acropolis reporting the existence of economic transactions inside the sanctuary is the so-called tamiai inscription (IG I3 510, dated to c. 550 BC; cf. Cavaignac 1908, 30; Jeffery 1961; Ferguson 1932, 6, n. 1; Kirchner 1935, 9, n. 6; Threatte 1980, 2). It records how the Acropolis treasurers or tamiai, after having collected a certain amount of resources (ta chalkia), dedicated them to the goddess Athena by placing them inside her sanctuary. It is likely that these resources did not only consist of the offerings of worshippers, but also included fines, tithes and occasional taxes levied on Athenian citizens. In fact, the practice of collecting resources had been previously initiated by the predecessors of the tamiai, i.e. the naukraroi, whose duties were connected to the management of the polis economy and included the collection of fines and special levies to be used for public needs such as those related to the edification of civic space buildings (see Harpokration, s.v. naukrarika; Suda, s.v. naukrarika; Aristotle Athenaion Politeia 8.3; Pollux 8.108; Androtion FGrH 324.36 and see comments by Jordan 1970, 159–62; Harris 1995, 11). In the absence of minted coins, the taxes were paid in kind or through precious objects, namely the chalkia mentioned in epigraphic text. Funds collected by naukraroi were placed inside the Acropolis, as testified by Aristotle’s Politeia, where the author maintains that ‘regardless their nature, collected fines were put inside the Acropolis’ sanctuary’ (Athenaion Politeia 8.4–5). This indirectly confirms the just hypothesised correspondence between the Acropolis’ tamiai and the previous naukraroi. Naukraroi’s primary headquarters were the Acropolis itself, as proved by both Herodotus (5.71) and Thucydides (1.126.3), who, when referring to Kylon’s attempt to occupy

the Acropolis and to establish his tyranny over Athens in 632 BC, seem to affirm that the naukraroi were inside the sacred area. This would give a sound reason why the naukraroi were accused not to have properly defended the sanctuary and, above all, its properties during Kylon’s failed coup (Stroud 1968, 71, n. 28; Jones and Wilson 1969, 114–15; Rhodes 1981, 82). It is highly probable that the tamiai, having replaced the naukraroi, continued to deposit collected resources inside the temenos, given that epigraphic texts testify that their tasks mainly concerned the control of properties kept inside the sacred area and literary sources document that their main headquarters were once again, as for their predecessors, the Acropolis itself. In fact, the tamiai, as collectors and protectors of the possessions kept inside the sacred area, stayed inside the Acropolis even during the Persian invasion, as documented by Herodotus (8.53.2: ‘The Persians entered the abandoned city, but, after having gone inside the sanctuary, they found out […] the tamiai tou hierou inside it’) and by the Themistocles Decree (EM 13330; Jameson 1960; see particularly line 111: ‘the treasurers […] remained inside the Acropolis to safeguard the deities’ properties’). Their existence, first epigraphically documented in the sixth century BC, can be dated back to the last quarter of the seventh century since Aristotle mentions the tamiai with reference to the Draconian laws of 621/620 BC (Athenaion Politeia 4.2). So, the placement of public assets inside the Athenaion required the creation of a dedicated college of officials aimed at administrating the sacred yet public funds. Accordingly, it seems that even before the introduction of coined money the Acropolis acted as the place where public resources were preserved and controlled through a dedicated staff of officials.

The construction of buildings marked by economic significance (R.S.) The creation of a collective financial deposit did not just imply the treasurers’ appointment, but further impacted the polyadic sanctuary. Citizens’ progressive awareness of the communal economic role played by their shrine caused the decision to monumentalise such a role by making it publicly visible through the creation of a specific temple devoted to hoarding the properties. Hence, during the archaic age, in addition to the Athena Polias temple, a ‘reduplication’ of this shrine was built in the southern area of the Acropolis (Fig. 14.1). The edifice, also known as pre-Parthenon, was equally dedicated to Athena but, instead of being the centre of ritual practice, it was primarily intended as a wealth-storage building, consisting of oikemata containing objects made by precious metals (and coins after their introduction). Its site was later occupied by the Parthenon, which continued to function as an instrument of collective goods hoarding.

14.  The impact of economics on sacred landscapes: hoarding processes taking place in Attic sanctuaries

Fig. 14.1. Athens, Acropolis, general plan, 490 BC (by Claudia Lamanna).

The proposed reconstruction can be also inferred by the so-called hekatompedon inscription (IG I3 4), which provides a coherent interpretative framework. The text, written some decades after the already examined tamiai inscription, sheds light on economic activities implemented inside the sanctuary and attests the ‘bipolar’ nature of the sanctuary of Athena, organised in two main temples in order to respond to both the religious and economic needs of the socio-political body. In this case, the inscription illustrates how the different actions implemented inside the religious space directly influenced its topography, the dislocation of its edifices as well as their meanings. The document, found in 41 fragments, was inscribed on the rear face of two metopes from the Athena temple (570–560 BC) and can be dated to c. 508/507 BC, i.e. after the establishment of the democracy, as the decree is enacted by the demos. A. Kirchoff (1873–1890) identified the archon mentioned in the inscription as Philocares and therefore dated it to 485/484 BC. The face B of the decree contains a series of prohibitions to commit nuisances, including the ban of throwing waste on different buildings, thus proving to be a telling instrument to pick out the topography of the Acropolis. It distinguishes

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a neos provided with an altar (l. 9), which should certainly be interpreted as the archaic temple of Athena Polias, and a second construction named hekatompedon (l. 11), which seems to be a stand-alone building (there is not unanimous consent in this regard – cf. Tölle-Kastenbein 1993; Németh 1994; 1997; Butz 1995; Lipka 1997). Afterward, the inscription sets out tasks that had to be carried out by the tamiai, including the duty to periodically check the oikemata, that, as illustrated by the very beginning of face B, functioned as storage for funds. The term hekatompedon, in the context of this document, appears to be clearly connected to the oikemata, since it is mentioned immediately after them in the dative case (ll. 17–18). Although the debate is still open, the hekatompedon is likely to have been a temple organised in several rooms (oikemata) preserving precious items (that is why the tamiai have to check them at the beginning, the middle and the end of each month). It is quite probable that such a temple can be identified with the pre-Parthenon, which is hence clearly characterised by a primary economic role from its original construction. Significantly, as the economic needs of the community were as important as the ‘merely ritual’ ones, this edifice was positioned in a prominent location in the southern sector of the temenos, mirroring the more ‘religious’ temple located north, i.e. the Athena Polias’ shrine. Therefore, it seems that the Athenians first started to deposit public funds inside their main temenos and soon after established a treasurers’ board in charge of their administration; as a third step, they decided to consecrate a special temple for the storage of public funds. Consequently, the Acropolis was characterised by a bipolar structure documented both from an epigraphic and archaeological standpoint since the archaic period. The sacred landscape seems to focus around two major shrines, both sacred to Athena, i.e. the temple of Athena Polias located in the northern side, probably since the Orientalising age, and the hekatompedon or ‘pre-Parthenon’ in the southern one. The northern temple was mainly connected to ritual performance (since it had the altar mentioned in the inscription) and to the preservation of the simulacrum (as it hosted the ancient statue of Athena Polias), while the southern one was dedicated to economic funds storage. As already pointed out by Roux (1984), the Athenian Acropolis is not the only sanctuary with several temples dedicated to the same deity but serving different purposes. A similar model can be recognised, for instance, in Delos or in Samos as well. The choice to spatially organise the sacred landscape in two separate areas marked by different yet complementary functions is not always the most suitable strategy for managing consistent amounts of properties. In fact, this method is applicable only to large-scale sanctuaries, while in most small and medium-size sacred areas the main temple would have been used both for ritual and financial aims. This is the case of Attic sanctuaries that seem to comply with Athenian

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schemes, where a precise borderline between the political body and the sacred areas is absent. Some of them were able to produce and to control consistent amounts of incomes, mostly deriving from dedications, leasing of land, interest charged on borrowing activities and so on, that were perhaps subsequently partially transferred to Athens.

An overview of the economic activities of Attic sanctuaries (R.D.M.) In the Attic demes, which constitute the fulcrum of the administrative-territorial system created after the democratic reform that Herodotus (5.66.68–9) ascribed to Cleisthenes around 508/7 BC, the public funds are predominantly managed inside the sanctuaries. The political and religious administration of the Attic demes is carried out by local officials, led by the demarch: once again, the distinction between the sacred and the profane is fluid. Among the 139 Attic demes known from our literary sources, only a minority is attested archaeologically and an even smaller number is documented by both archaeological and epigraphic sources; our knowledge of their internal structure and their relationship with Athens, on which they were ultimately dependent, is therefore rather limited. According to the documents currently known, demes’ assemblies mainly dealt with administrating public finances, worshipping the gods and implementing their festivals and celebrations, as well as honouring eminent citizens and electing demes’ officials. The first inscribed documents that can be referred to a deme date back to the end of the sixth century and they become more numerous in the fifth century: it is significant that most of the epigraphic material contains information on religious matters and sometimes administrative affairs, providing lists of public expenses that occurred during festivals or paid for honorary decrees, while few cases retain decrees or lists of citizens. There are recurring records of annual expenditures that the deme purchased for the management of sacred places and, in general, of all that pertains to the public competences; besides, rental leases of lands or buildings, religious calendars, such as those of Thorikos (IG I³ 256b) and Erchia (SEG XXI 541), sacred laws, horoi and dedications are attested, too. Although political and administrative aspects of the demes are still not completely known, nonetheless, demes’ most relevant sacred elements are better documented both archeologically and epigraphically: the management of cults and financial administration of sanctuaries gradually passes in the hands of the deme, with few exceptions, pointing out the substantial absence of a borderline between it and its sacred area and stressing how the sacred area itself acted as the economic centre. It should be pointed out that an extensive study of demes is hampered by the limited chronological period documented by the inscriptions, since roughly two-thirds

refer to a restricted period of time, namely the second half of the fourth century BC. In addition, the available texts come from no more than 35 demes, around a quarter of the total, which makes it difficult to know whether there was a common administrative model and whether and what kind of transformations were happening in the course of time. Despite the previously mentioned difficulties, it is possible to infer that the economy of each centre, though strictly dependent on Athens, was still managed at local level where a fine accounting of incomes and expenditures is recorded in several cases, demonstrating that finances are sometimes anything but modest. The main sources of income are the taxes paid by citizens, the liturgiai (more or less voluntary financial donations by wealthy citizens), the rent of lands and public property and the interest earned on loans (Finley 1952; Lippolis and Sassu 2016). In this respect, local shrines, acting as both religious and economic centres in many demes, play a very important role. The income of the sanctuaries seems to derive predominantly from three sources: the rents of leased lands, donations of private citizens and offerings to the gods. Several ancient sources show that most of the revenues of Attic demes came from leasing of the land that often belonged to sacred areas and were managed by the demarch. In smaller demes, such as Plotheia, the mistosis income for one year in the last quarter of the fifth century is equal to 134 drachmas and two and half obols, a sum that together with the interest deriving from loans was earmarked for cult purposes (IG I³ 258, ll. 22–8, dated to 425/413; to the fourth century by D.M. Lewis in IG II²; cf. Guarducci 1935, 205–22). In the demes of Piraeus and Rhamnous, some decrees lay down general rules for the leasing of lands pertaining to a temenos (cf. IG II² 2498, a Piraeus decree dated to 321/320 (eponymous archon); IG II² 2493, about the leasing of a temenos in Rhamnous, dating to 339/338, ll. 12–13) and in the deme of Aixone a tax over the right of pasture, the ennomia, was levied (IG II² 1196, a large fragment of the assembly decree of Aixone, dating to 326/325 BC). The accounts of financial resources of the Nemesis sanctuary at Rhamnous, administrated by the hieropoioi, are an exemplary case study for the management of sacred finances in a fifth-century deme. Each year, the lists of cult resources that were invested and used to generate a higher income, almost entirely invested in loans, granted mostly to private citizens, was recorded (IG I³ 248; the five years that the accounts refer to are probably not consecutive, but may date between 450 and 440 BC; see Finley 1952, 285, n. 43); generally, it is believed that the management of the cult and also of the finances of the Nemesis sanctuary at Rhamnous was not the prerogative of the demos but of the polis (Meiggs and Lewis 1969, no. 53; contra Boersma 1970, 78; Linders 1975, 13, n. 38). In the same period two other examples come from Ikarion, a deme of average size,

14.  The impact of economics on sacred landscapes: hoarding processes taking place in Attic sanctuaries where the annual expenditure for Dionysus’ cult and local hero Ikarios was four talents and half (IG I³ 253), and the much smaller deme Plotheia assigned more than three talents to religious services (IG I³ 258). One of the earliest surviving deme decrees, from fifth-century Ikarion (IG I³ 254, ll. 3–7), requires the demarch to supervise any antodoseis arising to the appointment of choregoi in the deme, and the accounts that are inscribed on the other side of the stone comprise a record of the funds of Dionysus and the deme’s eponymous hero Ikarios handed over for six years. The difference between state and sacred property is not fixed and it is often the demarch who is in charge of the financial management of local sanctuaries, the administration of income deriving from the leasing of sacred lands, the organisation of recurrent festivals and the upkeep of temples and shrines (IG II² 1178 from Ikarion; in IG II² 1173, of unknown origin, maybe from Acharnai, the honoured person, most likely the demarch, restored the commemorative festivities; IG II2 2498, from Pireus, deals with the leasing of a temenos; and the above-mentioned IG II2 2494 from Sounion or Rhamnous). In the sanctuary of Eleusis, the management of the funds and of the revenues – which were certainly very important, as it can be elicited from the increase of the architectural activities in the site and the implementation of festivals lasting for several days – was entrusted to public officers. These must be identified with the hieropoioi and later on, since 432 BC, with the epistates (Lippolis 2006, 137–45; decree on the establishment of epistates: IG I3 32). It is noteworthy that these are the same officers mentioned in the Kallias Decree, who must give the local shrines’ resources to the Athenian Acropolis’ treasurers of Other Gods (v. infra). Moreover, the financial accounts of Eleusis were also published on marble copies, of which some fragments dating between 422 BC and the early third century BC have survived. Furthermore, the sanctuary here has its own sacred land or hierá orgás that primarily included the fertile Rharia valley and the Reithoi lakes. Another Athenian inscription ratifies the demarch’s duty to collect the aparchai that all Attic farmers had to pay in honour of the Great Goddesses; all officials in the deme of Eleusis received offerings by demotai and then handed them to the hieropoioi who annually recorded all received donations (IG I³ 78, ll. 8–30, 422 BC). It is not possible to establish whether the system continued to remain in force with the same rules since an inscription of 329/8 BC (IG II² 1672, ll. 263–71) contains the statements of epistatai of Eleusis which shows the list of aparchai and the total amount of offerings donated by the 10 phylae, but without any reference to the demarchs or even the demes (cf. Whitehead 1982, 37, 42). The hieròs of Herakles in Akris, together with the demarch, was in charge of the erection of inscribed stelai

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with the decrees concerning the leasing out of marble quarries whose proceeds were offered to the deity (SEG XXVIII 103, ll. 47–9). In Myrrinous, the priests were appointed by the deme to run the loans of land, buildings and other possessions, and to fix the horoi on the properties in question, specifying which god owned the money granted in credit (IG II² 1183, ll. 27–32); the same decree also orders that if a horos is damaged, the priest has to pay for its fixing. The five sacred calendars engraved on stelai (Thorikos, Erchia, Marathon, Eleusis and Teithras) from Attic demes show further economic data concerning the estimated expenditure for festivals held in demes’ sanctuaries, that are often Athenians and pan-Attic festivals, too (Thorikos: IG I3 256bis; Erchia: SEG XXI 541; Tetrapoli of Marathon: IG II2 1358; Eleusis: IG II2 1363; Teithras: SEG XXI 542; Daw 1968, 170–86; Mikalson 1975; 1977, 424–35; Whitehead 1986, 185–204). As a result, demes’ sanctuaries offer important elements that allow us to reconstruct the functioning of the public economy in Attica. In fact, the inscriptions indicate how resources, which were directly administrated through local meetings, were strictly interconnected with the running of religious rites and demonstrate that the greater sanctuaries, such as Rhamnous, Sounion, Brauron or Eleusis, were important financial centres whose management was inseparable from the local deme and the polis. This is probably one of the reasons why Athens finally decided to gather together all the main funds deriving from such a sanctuary network. Large amounts of assets were usually kept in Attic sanctuaries. Interest on loans and the rents of lands (examples also come from the great shrines of south Italy) guaranteed constant income. Public resources and the god’s property were intertwined (on the difference between public and private cult, see Aleshire 1994). Not only were the sanctuaries’ revenues used for the deme’s needs, but most of the deme’s resources were invested in cult practice: the sacred calendars from Attic demes demonstrate the great attention paid to ritual activities and records the costs paid for the implementation of local festivals and associated sacrifices. The substantial economic function of the greater sanctuaries is also testified by their strategic location in the region and the most famous, most monumental and the richest religious centres are in fact located in the most productive areas: Rhamnous is located at the seaside, supervising maritime traffics towards Euboea; Thorikos is located in the important mining area of Laureion where mining, industrial and commercial activities prospered; Sounion is placed at the southern end of the Attic coast, guarding maritime traffic and the boundary of the mining area of Laurion; Eleusis is situated on the border with Megaris and in control of a fertile plain that guaranteed Athens the supply of grain as well as important marble quarries.

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Financial hoarding processes in classical Attica (R.S.)

accurately considering the coeval historical situation and the political events occurring in that period. The Acropolis inventories seem to have been established by the so-called Kallias Decrees (IG I3 52 A and B = IG I2 91–2; cf. Fröhner 1865, n. 47, 98–105; Wade-Gery 1931; Mattingly 1964; Fornara 1970; Bradeen 1971; Pritchett 1971; Thompson 1973; 1979; Lewis 1981; Meritt 1982; Kallet-Marx 1989; Samons 1996; 1997; Blamire 2001). The

From 434 BC to 300/299 BC, the tamiai listed each year the contents of the temples on the Acropolis by drawing up texts known as ‘inventory lists’ (Figs 14.2–4). More than 200 fragments have survived (for a concise and exhaustive overview, cf. Harris 1995, with previous bibliography; also cf. Ferguson 1932; Thompson 1964a; 1964b; 1965a; 1965b; 1970; Tréheux 1965; Harris 1990–1; Samons 1997; Sickinger 1999; Moroo 2003–4). Besides their importance for understanding the wealth of these temples and their financial role, other significant information emerging from the inventory lists is the presence of a large number of deities – in addition to Athena – possessing valuable objects inside the Parthenon. The inscriptions also mention Artemis, Aphrodite, Apollo, Asclepius, Demeter and Kore, the Dioscuri, Dionysus, Hephaestus and Zeus. In this regard, the Parthenon (Fig. 14.5) situation is completely different from that of the Archaios Neos, whose inventories only lists objects pertaining to the goddess Athena. Such a situation raises several questions: why do the Parthenon’s inscriptions mainly record items connected to deities other than Athena? For example, objects belonging to Artemis are almost as numerous as those of Athena. How is it possible that the owner of items at the Parthenon, as recorded in the inventories, was not only Athena, but a wide group of deities? In order to answer these questions, it is necessary to come back to the root of the inventory lists and the creation of the treasure of the Other Gods, by

Fig. 14.3. Athens, Epigraphic Museum, EM 6745, Inventory IG I3 340 (Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents, Oxford).

Fig. 14.2. Athens, Epigraphic Museum, EM 7797–9, Inventory IG I3 342 (Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents, Oxford).

Fig. 14.4. Athens, Epigraphic Museum, EM 6762, Inventory IG I3 338–9 (Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents, Oxford).

14.  The impact of economics on sacred landscapes: hoarding processes taking place in Attic sanctuaries

Fig. 14.5. Athens, Acropolis with Parthenon.

document sets out rules to be respected by the tamiai and that include, inter alia, the duty to periodically check the contents of the Parthenon and to weigh and catalogue the items made in precious metals belonging to the gods (ll. 20–4), thus codifying a practice already attested in the archaic period, as already discussed earlier. The text clearly reveals the financial interest of the socio-political community of Athens for the resources kept inside the Parthenon – whose contents have been henceforth continuously inventoried up to 300/299 BC. Furthermore, the inscription, which is fundamental for the reconstruction of the mosaic of economic actions carried out in the Acropolis, also shows how the city borrowed money from the deity and subsequently returned it, thus proving that the polis perceived the sacred funds as collective assets that could be used to cover consistent and extraordinary civic expenses, such as building programmes or wars (see Sassu 2014, with previous bibliography). In order to understand the presence of several deities inside the Parthenon, special attention should be paid to the following sentence of this inscription: The tamiai of the Other Gods have to take the chremata from the epistatai and from the hieropoioi of the sanctuaries who managed them up to now. (IG I3 52, ll. 18–19)

Chremata is the term denoting the sacred resources. In other words, the treasurers of the Other Gods have to place the items belonging to the gods other than Athena inside the Parthenon by taking them from the officials who hitherto administrated such resources. But who are these Other Gods and who are these officials? By comparison with the examined sources on Attic sanctuaries, it seems probable that these gods are the same deities whose shrines were located across Attica, and it is very likely that the epistatai and the hieropoioi mentioned are the same officials administrating the funds of the Attic sanctuaries attested by local

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inscriptions, taking into account that exactly the same terms were used to designate such officials. Subsequently, it seems that Athens decided to accumulate the funds of Attica’s main sanctuaries by putting them under its direct control inside its own main sanctuary, the Acropolis. This provides a sound explanation as to why the inventories of the classical period do not only register the assets belonging to Athena, but also those pertaining to Apollo, Artemis Brauronia, Demeter and Kore, Dionysus, Zeus and so on. By comparison with the already mentioned inscriptions from the Attic demes, it seems likely that the funds of the Other Gods hoarded in Athens came from the Demeter and Kore sanctuary of Eleusis, the Artemis sanctuary at Brauron, the Zeus sanctuary in Myrrinous deme, the Dioscuri sanctuary (Pausanias 1.18.1), the Dionysus sanctuary at Ikarion, etc. Thus, the Acropolis became, in the last quarter of the fifth century BC, the cornerstone of a complex, stratified, multi-level network of political and economic interlinked relations. After Athens’ victory over the Persians and the creation of the Delian League, the city established its renewed pan-Hellenic image not only by means of a largescale architectural programme involving the whole city and particularly the Acropolis, aiming to present Athena Polias’ sacred landscape as an icon of the new city, but also conceived a new organised system to store and preserve assets of its empire in one single area with symbolic meaning, an area that had traditionally been used as a hoarding space since the seventh century BC.

Conclusions Although a sacred space, the Athenian Acropolis was nevertheless permeated with elements other than religious, given that there was not a clear boundary between the polis and the sanctuary for the construction of a political identity and, above all, the management of public assets. The sacred landscape provided not only the scenario where religious acts, ritual performances and the worship of the gods were taking place, but it was also the space where dedications were made, buildings were constructed and economic activities were managed. From at least the seventh century BC onwards, the importance of economic activities was steadily increasing until it was necessary to create a board of officials for the administration of the collected wealth; as a consequence, the college of naukraroi was first created and soon replaced by that of the tamiai. After a few decades, towards the end of the sixth century BC, the sacred economy had attained such an importance that a specific building was needed to preserve the assets, leading to the construction of a second temple for Athena in the southern area of the Acropolis that functioned as a wealth storage place. As indicated by literary and epigraphic sources, this construction was

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meant to keep both the assets of the sanctuary and of the polis, which were merged together. The economic process taking place in the Acropolis continued to evolve and during the classical age the system was no longer restricted to the city of Athens, but involved all demes across Attica; their sacred assets were also, at least partially, transferred to the Acropolis, thus generating an economic centralised model, making the sanctuary the centre of a comprehensive network of financial relations and deposit places that concerned the whole Attica, and subsequently all the poleis of the Delian League. The process of monumentalisation that led to the construction of a temple for the main purpose of wealth storage can therefore be regarded as a direct consequence of the increasing role played by the sanctuary in the administration of public funds and its construction is a way to redistribute them. Consequently, the physiognomy of the sanctuary had an impact on the visitors’ perception of the sacred space, exposing its various ‘identities’: first of all, as a place where Athena and other deities, such as Zeus, Artemis and Hermes, were worshipped; second, as a place where socio-political identity was publicly exhibited; and, finally, as a place where collective economic properties were managed. Therefore, the close relation between the temenos and the polis in the running of the public assets finally determined the spatial and architectural organisation of the Acropolis, leading to the establishment of its bipolar structure that, having been created in the archaic age as a consequence of processes that had already commenced in the Orientalising phase, reached both its monumental and operative apex during the classical period with the building of the Parthenon and the creation of two boards of treasurers managing the several deities’ properties on behalf and in the interest of the whole collective. This paradigm, whose steps can be inferred from the analysed sources, came about from progressive and expanding developments that resulted in an articulated, multi-level economic system able to accumulate in one area the incomes deriving from different, spatially distant sacred places with the view of creating a consistent financial deposit to be used by the community in a context that was definitely deprived of an autonomous state treasury independent from the sanctuary.

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Samons, L.J. (1996) The Kallias Decrees (IG I³ 52) and the inventories of Athena’s treasure in the Parthenon. Classical Quarterly 46, 91–102. Samons, L.J. (1997) A note on the Parthenon inventories and the date of IG I³ 52 B. Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 118, 179–82. Sassu, R. (2014) Hiera chremata. Il ruolo del santuario greco nell’economia della polis. Roma, Sapienza Casa Editrice. Sickinger, J.P. (1999) Public Records and Archives in Classical Athens. Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press. Stroud, R.S. (1968) Drakon’s Law on Homicide. Berkeley, University of California Press. Thompson, W.E. (1964a) A pronaos inventory. Hesperia 33, 86–7. Thompson, W.E. (1964b) The late fifth-century inventories of the Parthenon. IG I² 284/5. Poenix Toronto 18, 262–71. Thompson, W.E. (1965a) The early Parthenon inventories. American Journal of Archaeology 69, 223–9. Thompson, W.E. (1965b) The Hekatompedon inventories, 414/­ 13–411/10. Hesperia 34, 298–309. Thompson, W.E. (1970) Notes on the treasurers of Athena. Hesperia 39, 54–63. Thompson, W.E. (1973) Internal evidence for the date of the Kallias Decrees. Symbolae Osloenses 48, 24–45. Thompson, W.E. (1979) An Aspect of Athenian Finance. ActaCl 22, 149–153. Threatte, L. (1980) The Grammar of Greek Inscriptions, I. Berlin, New York, De Gruyter. Tölle-Kastenbein, R. (1993) Das Hekatompedon auf der Athener Akropolis. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 198, 43–75. Traill, J.S. (1975) The Political Organization of Attica: A Study of the Demes, Trittyes and Phylai and Their Representation in the Athenian Council. Hesperia, Supplement 14. Princeton. Tréheux, J. (1965) Études sur les inventaires attiques (Le dernier inventaire de Pronaos; L’inventaire additionnel des trésoriers d’Athéna en 402/1 avant J.-C.; Un nouveau fragment de IG II2 1388). Études d’archéologie classique 3, 1–85. Wade-Gery, H.T. (1931) The financial decrees of Kallias. Journal of Hellenic Studies 51, 57–85. Whitehead, D. (1982) Notes on Athenian demarchs. Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 47, 37–42. Whitehead, D. (1986) The Demes of Attica. 508/250 BC. A Political and Social Study. Princeton, Princeton University Press.

15 Landscape, Christianisation and social power in Late Antique and early medieval Galicia Marco V. García Quintela and José C. Sánchez-Pardo

Introduction Abundant literature exists on the process of Christianisation and ecclesiastical organisation in the north-west of the Iberian Peninsula (historically known as Gallaecia) during Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Díaz y Díaz 1976; 1991; Isla Frez 1992; López Pereira 1997; Núñez García and Cavada Nieto 2001; Fernández Conde 2002; Armada Pita 2003). These studies have mainly been based on written sources, both of a literary nature (López Pereira 1993), and those produced by the ecclesiastical authorities (Díaz Martínez 1998; Freire Camaniel 1998; Carbajal Sobral 1999), although in recent years there has been growing interest in studying the religious material record from this period (Armada Pita 2003; Rodríguez Resino 2005; Sánchez Pardo 2012). This background material has provided us with an overview of the process of Christianisation in Gallaecia. In general, it can be said that Christianity initially took root in urban areas between the third and fourth centuries AD, then gradually expanded into rural areas. It was a slow process in comparison to other parts of the Iberian Peninsula, which had to deal with the controversy regarding Priscillianism, a doctrine that was strongly rooted in this region (Díaz y Díaz 1976, 111–13). There is also general agreement on the important role the monasteries played in its expansion (Díaz y Díaz 1976, 108–15; Díaz Martínez 1990; Freire Camaniel 1998; Fernández Conde 2002, 291). However, there are still very few studies on how this process of Christianisation was carried out at local level, which strategies were used and how contacts were made between the old and the new religion. It is true that we have a number of references to ‘pagan’ places of worship being replaced by other Christian sites, such as the reference made by Valerio del Bierzo in his autobiography

from the late seventh century (Frighetto 1999, 146). We also know of the concerns of the Galician ecclesiastical authorities regarding the persistence of ‘pagan’ practices in the region. In the treaty entitled De correctione rusticorum, written in the mid-sixth century by bishop San Martín de Dumio, he refers to the persistence in Gallaecia of cults that worshipped stones, trees, fountains and crossroads, the use of soothsayers and mystics, the celebration of the Vulcanalia and the Kalenda, and other ‘superstitions’ (López Pereira 1996). We can still find references of this kind in documentation from later centuries, such as the references to ‘magicians’ who operated in churches belonging to the monastery of Samos in East Galicia in 861 (Lucas Álvarez 1986, doc. 3) or the warnings against superstitions discussed in the Synods of Compostela in the eleventh century (Díaz y Díaz 2002, 34). Nevertheless, many of these warnings are clichéd (Díaz y Díaz 1991), difficult to discern from reality and barely inform us of the Church’s real attitude towards these religious expressions, or how they were adapted to Christianity. In this study we aim to explore in greater detail the strategies involved in the process of Christianisation between the fourth and tenth centuries in the current territory of Galicia, which covers most of ancient Gallaecia (Fig. 15.1). By means of three case studies, we will focus on the Christianisation of landscapes as a whole, rather than merely individual locations, and their relationship with the dynamics of social power at this time. In order to achieve this goal, we adopt an approach that includes both archaeological, textual and toponymic information about religious landscapes, in the same way as has been done for other parts of the world (Morris 1997; Nixon 2006; Turner 2006; Bitel 2009; Andrén 2013). But we also aim to include two new sources: on the one hand,

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Marco V. García Quintela and José C. Sánchez-Pardo Arianism and Catholicism) and accumulative (with different types of Catholic worship: martyrs, saints, apostles, aspects of the life of Jesus). In this study we will focus on how the people involved in the process of evangelisation ‘read’ the previously existing landscape of the rural inhabitants of Gallaecia and which tools they used to fill it with Christian values. However, the first question we must ask is why it was necessary for the Christians to construct a new landscape.

Why Christianise the landscape? By definition, landscapes are spaces that are constructed by culturally conditioned view. What differentiates space from a landscape is the culture that gives meaning to the latter. And this culture is often a religious expression. Therefore, one of the functions of religion is the creation of landscapes. In the ‘pagan’ traditions of Antiquity this was quite clear. In words of Versnel (2011, 116 and 88–119): Fig. 15.1. Map of north-west Spain showing the location of the three case study areas (by authors).

local traditions in the form of texts or ‘para-texts’, with oral support (contained in chronicles and documents from different periods), which explain the foundation or typical rituals of specific cults or sanctuaries. They are expressions of the use of certain locations as repositories of memory for a recognised reality in rural zones of erudite rhetoric, but which was based on religious traditions (Smith 1997; Yates 1999; García Quintela 2013). On the other hand, we are interested in archaeo-astronomical observations, inasmuch as they help us to associate aspects whose connections would otherwise only be conjectural. Also, these astronomical relationships between points in the landscape imply the apprehension of extensive physiographic units (García Quintela and González-García). Given the limits of the available information, this work is only a first survey in this topic, which undoubtedly will require further research. One of the main problems we have to face here is the lack of accurate chronologies for the conversion process. This means we use relative chronologies and work simultaneously with long and very short sequences in order to understand how the landscape was transformed. In other words, the landscape where this process of ‘evangelisation’ took place would have been ‘pagan’ for centuries, and after its conversion it was also Christian for centuries, but the intervention that brings about a semantic U-turn to this landscape is, in comparison with these sequences, the result of a very short lapse of time. And this is the case even though these moments were repeated over time by means of different types of Christianisation that were changing (Priscillianism,

local gods are right here in their sacred topography, and they are right now, as registered in the familiar chronological order of the local festive calendars. Their order is that of a map drawn to delineate a coherent landscape with centres of divine power to resort to and divine residents to appeal to, havens to anchor one’s identity. And, in this way – perhaps only in this way – they together form a (locally) coherent universe.

The same could be said of Roman religion and the widespread worship at local level of their gods, and also the religion of the ancient Celts, as revealed by the proliferation of their types of worship (Arcelin and Brunaux 2003) or when they acquire a Roman material appearance such as theonymic expressions, a situation which has been clearly identified in the north-west Iberian Peninsula for years, since Untermann (1985) identified the area of the ‘GalicianLusitanian theonyms’. Furthermore, the Greeks and Romans shared the idea that there can be a god in any given place, even though their name may not be well known (Alvar 1988; Guittard 2002), and the Greek formula of agnosthos theos has been important in the history of Christianity (Acts 17, 23; van der Horst 1989). Polytheism is also characterised by theological expressions identifying many of the pertinent actions for human life, being a kind of ‘taxonomy of reality’ (Perfigli 2004, 176–7). Within this context, the worship of stones, trees and rocks that was denounced by the early Christians (Dowden 2000, 25–77; including the previously mentioned De correctione rusticorum) was based on the reality of a sensitive world full of gods, taking care to ensure that this worship was addressed to the gods who resided in them (Scheid 2008). And so the need to construct Christian landscapes was primarily derived from the fact that these landscapes were

15.  Landscape, Christianisation and social power in Late Antique and early medieval Galicia ‘pagan’ because they were inhabited by polytheistic gods who had to be eradicated. As a result, for the Christians who were involved in the fight against polytheism, there were as many scenarios for religious confrontation as there were gods who covered the different types of human actions or places where these were carried out, an aspect we will now explore in greater detail. As a result, the study of the expansion of Christianity in rural areas can be understood as studying the topography of a ‘religious war’ and of the places where this war was to be waged. Here it should be noted that this situation is in no way exclusive to contact between polytheist ‘pagans’ and monotheist Christians. We have examples from history and anthropology of places chosen to stage an ideological, symbolic or even a bloody struggle due to the religious significance they have acquired over time. Christomy (2008) presents an example of pacific interference between Sufi Islam that was implanted in the seventeenth century and the Javanese polytheist tradition (Hinduism). This involved creating a sanctuary for pilgrims to visit the tomb of the wali (‘saint’) who brought Islam to the island, and the ‘reinvention’ of the local space by an ‘open narrative’ that associated every part of the local landscape with the saint and his genealogy. In turn, Greene (2004) studies the importance for the Ewe of Ghana of having social interaction with religiously defined enclaves, and how, from the mid-nineteenth century colonial conflict, brought about a constant redefinition of positions and symbolic creations in relation to these locations, including episodes of violence between the supporters of different beliefs. Finally, Sahlins (1985, 60–5) analyses a revolt by the Maori against the English in New Zealand between 1844 and 1846. The scenario chosen for the clash was a location where the English had set up a flagpole, and the reason was the different symbolisms that both camps attributed to the pole. The Crónicas de Indias (written by the chroniclers who accompanied by the Spanish conquistadores in the Americas) are full of similar tales, which were also adapted throughout the colonial period, and even after independence (Lafaye 1977; Bernand and Gruzinski 1988). In this sense, from a historical perspective, what we could refer to as the ‘discovery of the landscape’ by Christianity could be considered as secondary in terms of its expansion. We know that the first places of worship were rooms in private homes, especially in urban areas, without any fixed shape (MacMullen 2009). The next stage consisted of the monumental transformation of the material heritage accumulated by the old polytheisms, especially in the cities, through a combination of policies (Joannou 1972; Hanh et al. 2008) focused on the construction of a Christian urban landscape that began with Rome (Haas 1996; Curran 2000; Hall 2004; Maxwell 2006; Deliyannis 2010). These processes were never linear in nature, as indicated in the studies mentioned above, revealing the different treatment

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given to the ‘pagan’ spolia (Settis 1985) from another perspective. However, in all of these cases the Christianisation of the rural environment always appears as an afterthought with processes that were protracted over time and under very specific circumstances (Trombley 1985; Codou et al. 2007; Sauzeau 2007; Andrén 2013). Traditional research on these topics has consisted of defining an inventory of the material remains of the Christian presence, which are fragmented, diverse and frequently reused in churches, hermitages or oratories, or by studying toponyms, allowing us to observe landscapes that became Christianised. What we will now try and do is explore the process of changing the interpretation of a landscape conceived in ‘pagan’ and especially polytheistic terms, to a landscape conceived in Christian terms. That said, we cannot refer to a process of ‘conversion’. Conversion, becoming Christian, when referring to a person, represents an intellectual problem that acts on the inner self (conditioned by a social environment). But a landscape cannot be the object of a similar type of process. The conversion of a landscape to Christianity refers to its ‘construction’ in Christian terms, carried out by Christians who were previously converted (directly or through their religious and cultural tradition), and who in a second stage had to face up to a rural environment full of gods who they felt it was their duty to transform. Against this backdrop, we are interested in the concept of ‘Micro-Christianities’ used by Peter Brown (1997, 188– 201). This is based on the differences found in the types of worship and dogma adopted by Christians in distant parts of the world due to political fragmentation, communication difficulties, the appearance of relevant religious personalities at regional level and the limited authority of the Pope. This idea can be used to understand the processes of Christianisation on a micro-scale, as the same forces are not operating in each location. This perception is also affected by the discontinuity and fragmentation of the available documentation, and the use of new sources that also vary greatly in terms of their availability in time and space.

The construction of three Christian landscapes in north-west Spain Our starting point is the fact that modern-day Galicia is full of Christian place names. If we examine a small-scale map, we can see dozens of saints’ names used as toponyms for villages, ranges of hills and mountains, chapels or hermitages. We also know that these saints are always associated with different dates, as behind each mention of a religious figure is the celebration of a ritual. The Christianisation of the spatial-temporal coordinates of the rural population, which dominated in Galicia until the 1950s/60s, is a fundamental aspect of daily life over the centuries. In this case we aim to highlight the interest of studying Christian landscapes,

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not only as a way of uncovering the strategies behind the process of evangelisation during Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, but also the nature of the pre-Christian religious landscapes, which we know about precisely as a result of their conversion. These pre-Christian landscapes are still scarcely known. Nevertheless, it seems clear that in the religious sphere the impact of Roman material culture was very limited. Everything would seem to indicate that, in the same way as can be seen in inscriptions, the pre-Roman places of worship continued to be in use, transformed to a greater or lesser extent, but only on rare occasions in the cities with a clearly Roman appearance. Neither is the matter simplified by the fact that the process of identifying and classifying pre-Roman places of worship is undergoing a thorough revision, revealing the interest in their discovery of applying notions such as the ‘social life of objects’, the use of spolia and generally approaching locations that in many instances are marked by traditional Christian perceptions (SeoaneVeiga et al. 2013). Basing on these premises, we will explore now how three different Galician landscapes were transformed by the Christianity during the Early Middle Ages (Fig. 15.1).

The area of Celanova-Castromao Castromao is an important hill fort placed in the municipality of Celanova, in south Galicia. It is located in a break in the slope, so that its position stands out over the valley of Arnoia running to the north and east (Fig. 15.2). It has been occupied since the fourth century BC (Orero 2000). Its ancient name, Koilióbriga, is described as the capital of the Coelerni by Ptolemy (2.6.42) and other ancient sources (Nieto 2002; García Rollán 2004). In the valley, the archaeological landscape includes a rocky outcrop (known as the pedrón) that stands in the patio of the monastery of San Salvador de Celanova, located at a distance of 2 km in a straight line from the hill fort summit to the south-east (Fig. 15.3). In its current condition, this rock has signs of anthropic action that are impossible to date, although there are descriptions of its intensive use throughout the centuries in old tales from the monastery, and in artistic representations (García and Seoane 2011, 249–52). Seen from the pedrón, the sun sets at the summer solstice over the summit of Castromao. This cannot be seen today, as it is covered by the monumental structure of the monastery’s seventeenth-century church, as well as the houses

Fig. 15.2. Map and photograph of the area of Celanova-Castromao. The white dotted lines on the map indicate the solar alignments between the different studied sites.

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Also, the chosen Christian rites and saints are taken directly from the New Testament. St Rudesind, the founder of the monastery, attempted to build a New Jerusalem, proof of which was the fact that he brought to Celanova the relics of St Trocado, presumed companion of St James the Elder in the earlier Christianisation of Spain.

San Cibrán de Las and A Ferradura

Fig. 15.3. Christianisation of Celanova area; the ‘pedrón’, the oratory of St Michael and the monastery of Celanova. Below, to the right, photograph of the equinox in the oratory. The three items, standing very close to each other, have different cultural stratigraphy, which reinforces the sacrality of the area.

in the modern-day town. However, it is relevant that the vast monastery, built and rebuilt from the tenth century onwards, has always maintained its structure to the south of the solstitial line that connected the pedrón with the hill fort. This solstitial dates are conserved by Christianisation through the dedication of the monastery to San Salvador, commemorating the ‘transfiguration’ of Jesus on Mount Tabor (Matthew 17.1–8; Mark 9.2–8; Luke 9.28–36) in presence of St Peter, St John the Apostle and St James (the first two clearly related to solstitial dates: 29 June and 27 December) (David 1947, 208, 226–7). The pedrón is basically a shapeless rock, although it does have a defined east–west axis and is still located 2 m west of the oratory of St Michael, built in the tenth century. Also, seen from the pedrón, the sun rises at the equinoxes above the summit of a mountain known as San Cibrán where an early medieval church was built alongside a Neolithic dolmen. St Michael (29 September) and St Cibran (14 September) also coincide at their equinoctial dates. Celanova (‘New monastery’) and Castromao (‘Great fort’) are both names that are indicative of the medieval Christian order that ‘forget’ the pre-Roman place names.

The point where the Miño and Barbantiño rivers meet, in the north-west of the Ourense province, is a natural communication ‘hub’ between the basin of the Miño and northern Galicia, which has been used since prehistoric times until the present day (Fig. 15.4). During the Second Iron Age and the early Roman period, the area was dominated by the hill fort of San Cibrán de Las. It was built in the early second century BC, and was finally abandoned at the end of the first century AD. It covers an elliptically shaped area of some 10 ha; in its centre a wall surrounds an acropolis of around 1 ha that would have served a religious purpose. Inscriptions have been found in Latin alphabet with a Roman and several pre-Roman Indo-European theonyms, one of which is dedicated to Bandua Lansbricae, providing us with the Celtic name of the hill fort (De Bernardo and García 2008, 263–4). The western gate of the acropolis faces towards the sunset at the summer solstice. Looking north-east from this acropolis, at a distance of 4.5 km in a straight line on the left bank of the river Barbantiño is the rock art station of A Ferradura. Three rocks stand out for their solar connections. A Ferradura, which shares its name with the area, is the large rock with numerous carvings, especially podomorphs, and a transverse crack that points towards the acropolis of San Cibrán de Las on the other side of the valley. The sun sets through this crack at the beginning of February. O Raposo is a rocky shelter inside which a rock with a carving faces towards a natural window that point towards the sunset at the winter solstice, when the sun is over the summit of San Trocado (1.5 km to the south of the hill fort of San Cibrán). Finally, in A Zarra another rock shelter has a carving in its interior that is only lit at sunset on the summer solstice, although without relevant archaeological elements at the point where the sun sets. The relationships in terms of intervisibility and the solstices between the hill fort of San Cibrán and the petroglyphs of A Ferradura make it possible to consider the ensemble as a coherent symbolic and religious system (García 2006; García and Santos 2008, 231–87). Two types of evidence reveal how this Iron Age sacred landscape was Christianised (Fig. 15.5). Firstly, the hamlet of Formigueiro, alongside the rock art station of A Ferradura, has Candlemas as its feast day. The festival celebrates the purification of the Virgin Mary 40 days after the birth of Jesus, and therefore connects 25 December with 2 February. Secondly, the place names

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associated with early Christian saints in the area seem important – St Torquatus (1 May), St Cyprian (14 September) and the dedication of the parish of Trasalba, which contains A Ferradura, to St Peter (29 June) – as they are related to both the equinox and the solstice. It seems that there is a clear correlation between the dates of Candlemas and the relevant dates in the relationship between the rock carvings from A Ferradura on the left bank of the Barbantiño, and the landmark and hill fort on the right bank. The use of the above-mentioned saints lend further complexity to the system, as the date of St Peter coincides with the summer solstice in the hill fort of San Cibrán de Las and in the petroglyph of A Zarra, in A Ferradura, and 1 May also coincides with the ancient Celtic seasonal festival of Beltain. If we consider that Egeria, a female pilgrim to the Holy Land and of possible Galician

origin (López Pereira 1993), first announced the festival of Candlemas celebrated in Jerusalem in the Christian West at the end of the fourth century, then what we are seeing in this case is the adoption at a local level of an element of Late Antique Christian liturgy, inspired by previously existing temporal relationships.

The site and landscape of A Espenuca We turn now to the site of A Espenuca, in the municipality of Coirós (province of A Coruña), in north-west Galicia (Fig. 15.6). It is a landmark from where it is possible to see the lower reaches of the river Mandeo and the northern estuaries of the province of Coruña. The area contains a series of relics of early Christian activity, especially a chapel dedicated to St Eulalia, and has recently been studied by Veiga Ferreira and Sobrino Ceballos (2012).

Fig. 15.4. Map of Barbantiño area. The solar relations between A Ferradura area and the right Barbantiño river bank are shown. White dotted lines: (1) A Zarra summer solstitial alignment; (2) A Ferradura 2 February solar alignment with San Cibrán de Las hill fort; (3) O Raposo winter solstice alignment with St Trocado summit and Early Iron Age hill fort.

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Fig. 15.5. Christianisation of Barbantiño area. From bottom to top, first and second layers indicate the Iron Age solar relationships between the A Ferradura sanctuary and the hill forts on the western bank of Barbantiño river. At the top, the symbolic Christianisation of the area (as it is not related with any materialisation but just to place names and dates of feasts).

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Fig. 15.6. The Espenuca area. Dots from left to right are St Martha of Babío, St Eulalia of Espenuca, St Cosmo of Mántaras. Dotted line indicates summer solstice alignments. Below left, Espenuca view from the west; right, view from St Cosmo with zoom lens. Both views show the singular shape of Espenuca that makes it a landmark.

To start with, we can define a stratigraphy of the materials with a symbolic value that are accumulated in Espenuca. In the oldest level there is a rock with three small steps carved into it, at a distance of 5 or 6 m (Fig. 15.7). The ‘Bed of St Eulalia’ consisted of two fonts carved into the rock. The first rock was altered by the construction of a cross made of reused materials in 1985, while the second was destroyed by roadworks in 1948. Both elements are typical of pre-­Roman rock art sanctuaries. The already mentioned pedrón of Celanova is a comparable structure, which was Christianised at an early stage. Fonts are omnipresent in these types of structures, such as those found in the Pedra da Moura or the Pedra Furada in the same municipal district of Coirós (Fernández Malde 1993, 2013). The sunken entrance to the church is based directly on the rock and there is a channel carved into the rock that is impossible to date but which

has no connection with the church, as it disappears behind the steps and does not lead anywhere. It was carved before the church was built, and is also a common feature found in pre-Roman rocky sanctuaries (Seoane-Veiga et al. 2013). The process of ‘Romanisation’ is represented by a stele without an inscription that was reused in the lintel of a building alongside the chapel of St Eulalia. It is decorated with a triskele in the pre-Roman tradition, although the stele itself is ‘Roman’. As regards the process of Christianisation, we should remember that the worship of St Eulalia, a martyr from the Spanish city of Merida, was a common feature in the early stages of Christianity in Gallaecia (Armada Pita 2003; Armada Pita and Martín Seijo 2007). We also know that the church already existed by the year AD 868 and that it belonged to the bishop of Iria (López Alsina 1988, 156). The

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Fig. 15.7. Christianisation of Espenuca. In this case the symbolic stratigraphy is elusive as the Iron Age and Roman rests are concealed or reused as spolia. (A) On the summit is the church bulrush and a calvary built on 1943, over (B) a presumed former rocky sanctuary. (C) A little down the slope towards the east are the baptistery (left) and St Eulalia church (right). On the baptistery (D) a Roman anepigraphic stela (E) is reused as a lintel. The current Romanesque church (F) is built over a previously worked rock with a channel (G), perhaps part of an Iron Age rocky sanctuary.

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current structure of the chapel dates from the twelfth century, although it probably reused elements from the pre-Romanesque structure. We also know of a rock art inscription, which is now fragmented, next to the church, which refers to its restoration in the year AD 881. Above this inscription

Fig. 15.8. The Christianisation of St Cosmo of Mántaras. (A) The Romanesque facade of the chapel. (B) A Neolithic barrow (dotted line) occupies the ridge and partly conceals the chapel view from east (there are some 5–6 more dolmens nearby). (C) North wall of the chapel, the dotted line indicating the possible early medieval constructive phase. In this case the symbolically different layers are materialised, as in Celanova, and articulate a whole area. This spot provides an impressive visibility over the surrounding region.

are the illegible traces of a previous one, possibly dating from the late seventh century (Iglesia 1863; Veiga Ferreira 1994). A number of early mediaeval anthropomorphic tombs were found close to the bell tower (Castillo Maldonado 1949; Veiga Ferreira and Sobrino Ceballos 2012; VVAA. 2013, 465). An important religious procession is held here on 8 September, despite the fact that the official feast day of St Eulalia is 10 December. In the surrounding area there are also numerous rocks with suggestive shapes that are associated with different local traditions, including fertility rituals. The so-called Forno de Allares – ‘Oven of Allares’ – is a cave (which explains the local place name, from the Latin specus or spelunca) with two carved crosses (Veiga Ferreira and Sobrino Ceballos 2012, 67). In close vicinity, there is another rock known as the ‘Lady’s Rock’, where tradition dictates that visitors have to pass beneath it. There is also a cup mark that is nearly always full of water. What we are seeing in this case is a place of worship that has been repeatedly reused, and which at a given moment in time was Christianised. In topographic terms, A Espenuca is a perfect natural observatory, something that is usually the case in the pre-Roman ‘sanctuaries’ in Gallaecia, whose extensive views are now partly concealed by eucalyptus plantations (see photos from the first half of the twentieth century in Veiga Ferreira and Sobrino Ceballos 2012). Its religious interest is associated with this topographic layout, as revealed by the tradition itself. It is said that St Eulalia declared that her church should be built on this spot in order ‘to see her siblings, St Martha (of Babío) and St Cosmo (in Mantaras)’. However, what this tradition interprets in terms of family relations is in fact a previously existing solar relationship. The churches dedicated to the ‘three siblings’ are connected by their position in relation to the summer solstice. From the heights of A Espenuca, on the days of the solstice the sun rises over the hill where the hermitage of St Cosmo stands (at a distance of 5.5 km and a height of 472 m) and where there is a Neolithic necropolis (Fig. 15.8). On the same day, the sun sets over St Martha, situated on a relatively significant high point (190 m) due to its proximity to the coastline and because the narrow valley of the river Mandeo, which flows beneath A Espenuca, ‘points’ in this direction. The relevance of this observation is further supported by the solar connotations of the triskelia on the ‘Roman’ stele, which would seem to agree with the ‘solar’ nature of the sanctuary, which was then transformed by Christians into the fraternity of the saints to whom the three churches are dedicated within the landscape. The three churches are positioned on the highest points in the areas, and local religious processions are held in all of them. Also, the church of St Cosmo contains remains from the early medieval period, and, as said, is based on a Neolithic necropolis consisting of dolmens, with a petroglyph nearby. In the church of Babío there are references

15.  Landscape, Christianisation and social power in Late Antique and early medieval Galicia to an old hill fort, something that can be deduced from its layout, although there are no visible remains. If a hill fort did indeed once stand here, the foundations on which the church is built have destroyed it completely.

Social power and the Christianisation of the landscape In the three cases we have seen how the process of Christianisation did not occur from place to place, but instead was based on whole pre-Christian ritual landscapes, and took place during the Early Middle Ages. This allows us to offer a series of considerations regarding the historical context within which this process took place. Firstly, we can see that the areas that probably had a religious or ritual function in pre-Christian Galicia (at least in the Final Iron Age, and which seem to have still been in use in the Roman period) were not simply a collection of isolated locations, but instead were structured as spaces that were built according to a religious world view, and the process of Christianisation acted on these landscapes (García Quintela et al. 2014). As previously indicated, we cannot offer precise dates; all we know is that San Miguel de Celanova was built in the mid-tenth century (although there are references to a previous church dedicated to St Martin), and that the pedrón or stone alongside it still had a special significance to the local community. In Espenuca, we know that the church stood there before the year 868. In the area of Barbantiño, we can only speculate. We know that the festival of Candlemas was known in the west from the end of the fourth century. However, the important point here is verifying that the solar alignments of the petroglyphs of A Ferradura were still known by the local population when Christianisation occurred, which perceived this situation or was inspired by it. How do we interpret this process involving the Christianisation of ritual landscapes? Compared to the widespread idea of a long ‘continuity’ or ‘survival’ of ancient forms of worship, or of a late process of Christianisation, we believe it is more appropriate to consider a creative reuse of sacred landscapes in the long term. In fact, one of the basic principles of organising the social landscape at any historical moment consists of creating sacred spaces through the selective and creative appropriation of previously existing elements, using them to ‘re-write’ the landscape (Parcero et al. 1998). Also, in the situation we are dealing with, we believe it is possible to identify a strategy that sought to legitimise a new power in the Christian intervention of ‘pagan’ ritual landscapes, which were valued by the local communities (Bradley 1993). Here we should remember the important role that Christianity plays in legitimising absolute power, or permitting totalitarian control (Cleve 1988), something that has its origins in the fourth century AD, when the concept

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of sacred Christian space was created (Markus 1994). In this case, it is important to highlight the close relationship between religion and political changes in this period of the history of Gallaecia. As various authors have demonstrated (Frighetto 1999, 139; Castellanos 2000, 142) during the sixth and seventh centuries, the Visigothic kingdom was interested in eradicating paganism with the aim of promoting the strengthening and centralising power in the figure of a sacralised sovereign. And so, the evangelisation of the north-west of the Iberian Peninsula at this time would have had a strongly ideological component, encouraged by the monarchy and welcomed by the nobility, so that the rural population ‘discovered the true faith’. The same thing happened in the later kingdom of Asturias (eighth to tenth centuries), where religion contributed towards supporting the new political project of the kingdom (Fernández Conde 2002). For this reason, there was a major increase at this time in the number of churches and monasteries dedicated to San Salvador, the king of kings, such as the monastery of Celanova, the most visual way of representing any type of political or religious power on Earth. This political and ideological situation allows us to suggest that the Christianisation of rural landscapes we have discussed was, at least to some extent, the result of a power strategy created by the elites that existed at this time. We also have to consider the process of intervening in the landscapes through the control of relics. Late Antique and early medieval churches often contained relics of the saints to whom they were dedicated, and very strict controls were in place due to the great potential of the symbolic power they granted (Castellanos 1996; Castillo Maldonado 2004), as well as their potential to attract to donations (Innes 2000, 30–4). In our sample, Celanova is relevant as one of Rudesind’s first actions after founding the monastery was to transfer the relics of St Torquatus, which were deposited in the nearby church of Santa Comba de Bande (Geary 1990; González García et al. 2007, 128–32). This operation had a major symbolic scope, because, as explained before, St Torquatus was considered as one of the ‘apostolic followers’ who accompanied St James in his first evangelisation of Hispania. By appropriating his relics, Celanova highlighted its sacred status by connecting it directly with Jerusalem and the New Testament. Therefore, both the landscapes and the relics, operating at different levels, played a role in terms of social cohesion, which included the celebration of rituals, especially processions led by the bishop, as an expression of the collective identity (Castellanos 2000). The involvement of the bishops can be deduced in the Christianisation of the landscapes. In Celanova, the chapel and monastery were built by St Rudesind, a bishop and one of the most important aristocrats in the north-west Iberian Peninsula in the tenth century. This ecclesiastic centre was not built in a place of such symbolic importance by chance, with its pedrón and solar relationships, and which was also

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an important crossroads for the Roman roads that were still in use (Sánchez Pardo 2010). Rudesind unveiled a strategy that was aimed at appropriating the symbolic value of this location, with a series of objectives: to legitimise the Christian faith amongst the local community, to become established in the centre of a network of economic relationships in order to receive donations and channel communication between the faithful and the saints and divine power (the reason for appropriating the relics of St Torquatus). In the case of Espenuca, we only know that the church was in the hands of the bishops of Iria prior to the year 868, while in Barbantiño we lack any precise information, although the presence of toponyms of the same saints as in Celanova (St Torquatus or St Cyprian) indicates a similar ideological, political and religious context. The situation we are describing also reveals that the Church applied or tolerated a certain degree of syncretism in order to impose itself upon the landscape during this period. In the autobiography of Valerio del Bierzo, written in the late seventh century, we find examples of syncretism in the north-west of the Iberian Peninsula, such as the use by Saturnino, a vir sanctus/presbyterum, of methods that were condemned by the conciliar canons in seeking greater agricultural output. This involved the blessing of a velellum on the altar of the oratory of St Pantaleon, perhaps as a way of achieving a degree of proximity with a local rural population that was used to these types of practices, applying a more popular type of Christianity (Frighetto 1999, 148). These ‘pagan’ practices were profoundly linked with ancestral types of worship, possibly pre-Roman, and are similar to those that took place in other areas, such as Anglo-Saxon England (Blair 2005, 183–5). Another example is the worship of relics, which the Church had to admit because, as Augustine himself recognised, people were used to them, and they were a good way of attracting ‘pagans’ (González Fernández 2000, 179). Therefore, flying in the face of canonical regulations or the episcopal councils, it seems clear that the Church not only tolerated but even supported types of religious syncretism. The cases when the bishops are clearly present, as in Celanova or Espenuca, reveal that they were in control of the processes of syncretism, agreeing on the construction of churches over ‘pagan’ monuments, or on the preservation of these monuments, such as the pedrón. We therefore believe it is necessary to overcome the traditional focus placed on the loca sacra in order to analyse the role of the sacred landscapes as a whole. Certain evidence and other studies that are currently underway would suggest that, apart from the cases presented here, this strategy to Christianise rural landscapes was widespread. For example, we know that in the Early Middle Ages in Gallaecia it was usual to found various churches, each dedicated to one saint, but forming a religious community (Freire 1998). While this may have been for different reasons, such as economic

or cultural factors, it is also likely that the saints served to organise the landscape, something that becomes evident when the saints’ names were converted into toponyms. In this case, the intervisibility between churches that were in close proximity to each other can provide interesting data, as well as the celebration of pilgrimages or religious processions connecting different locations together, or the repeated presence of saints such as St Torquatus or St Cyprian in certain areas, such as the south of Galicia.

Conclusion In this study we have verified the existence of a process involving the Christianisation of pre-Christian landscapes during the Late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages in Galicia. In contrast to the more simplistic idea of continuity or survival, we believe that we have identified a series of carefully conceived strategies for the appropriation of symbolic pre-Christian landscapes, which were already ‘structured’. The protagonists of these actions, which we would confidently refer to as ‘religious engineering’, were the elites that existed at that moment in time, such as the bishops or the aristocracy of the Suebi-Visigothic and Asturian kingdoms. These aristocratic interventions in the landscape were not only restricted to the religious realm but need to be understood also as real strategies of supporting and enhancing social power in periods of social instability and political conflict. However, this does not mean that until this time Galicia had not been Christianised. As indicated by Díaz y Diaz (1991), Galicia was already Christian by the sixth century, despite the survival of ‘pagan’ worship. We can still find traditions and superstitions alive today in parts of Galicia that clearly have ‘pagan’ roots, although there can be no doubt about the dominance of the Catholic religion. In this case we consider that a more suitable focus than considering the simple pagan/Christian question would consist of attempting to understand the strategies the Church adopted or adapted, and which resulted in the coexistence (rather than the repression) of these practices in the Early Middle Ages. Finally, we would draw attention to the need for studies at different scales, as the perceptions of the landscapes we have discussed can be complemented with studies of specific locations on a small scale within these same landscapes. Similarly important are interdisciplinary approaches through aspects such as archaeology, written texts, dedications to saints and archaeo-astronomy in order to study the religious transformations that took place, as well as the complementarity between the perspectives that focus on the diachrony and highlight the interest of the landscapes. In fact, we can only perceive elements of spaces that were previously used for worship if we understand the Christian landscapes.

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Acknowledgements This work makes part of the projects Early Medieval Churches: History, Archaeology and Heritage, funded by the European Union (FP7 PCIG12-GA-2012-334068) and Archaeology and Religion from Iron Age to Middle Age, funded by the Xunta de Galicia (10PXIB210112PR). The authors want to express their gratitude to Rebeca Blanco Rotea, Yolanda Seoane Veiga and A. César González García for their constant help and support in the fieldwork carried out for both projects.

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López Pereira, J.E. (1997) A cristianización da Gallaecia. In J. M. García Iglesias (ed.) Galicia castrexa e romana, 282–8. Santiago de Compostela, Consellería de Cultura e Comunicación Social. Lucas Álvarez, M. (1986) El tumbo de San Julián de Samos (siglos VIII–XII). Santiago de Compostela, Caixa Galicia. MacMullen, R. (2009) The Second Church: Popular Christianity AD 200–400. Atlanta, Society of Biblical Literature. Markus, R.A. (1994) How on earth could places become holy? Origins of the Christian idea of holy places. Journal of Early Christian Studies 2, 257–71. Maxwell, J. (2006) Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity. John Chrysostom and his Congregation in Antiochia. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Morris, R. (1997) Churches in the Landscape. London, J.M. Dent and Phoenix Giant. Nieto Muñiz, E.B. (2002) Novo aspecto da Tabula Hospitalis de Castromao. Boletín Auriense 32, 53–74. Nixon, L. (2006) Making a Landscape Sacred: Outlying Churches and Icon Stands in Sphakia, Southwestern Crete. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Núñez García, O. and Cavada Nieto, M. (2001) El nacimiento del cristianismo en Gallaecia. Manifestaciones pagano-cristianas en los siglos I–IV. Ourense, Aica. Orero Grandal, L. (2000) Castromao (Celanova, Ourense). Brigantium 12, 179–86. Parcero Oubiña, C., Criado Boado, F. and Santos Estévez, M. (1998) Rewriting landscape: incorporating sacred landscapes into cultural traditions. World Archaeology 30, 159–76. Perfigli, M. (2004) Indigitamenta: Divinità funzionali e funzionalità divina nella religione Romana. Pisa, ETS. Rodríguez Resino, A. (2005) Do imperio romano á Alta Idade Media. Arqueoloxía da Tardoantigüidade en Galicia (séculos V–VIII). Noia, Toxosoutos. Sahlins, M. (1985) Islands of History. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Sánchez Pardo, J.C. (2010) Estrategias territoriales de un poder monástico en la Galicia medieval: Celanova (siglos X–XII). Studia historica. Historia Medieval 28, 155–78. Sánchez Pardo, J.C. (2012) Arqueología de las iglesias tardoantiguas en Galicia (ss. V–VIII). Una valoración de conjunto. Hortus Artium Medievalium 18, 395–414. Sauzeau, P. (2007) De la déesse Héra à la Panaghia. Réflexions sur le problème des continuités religieuses en Grèce et en Grande-Grèce. Revue de l’histoire des religions 224, 289–317. Scheid, J. (2008) Le culte des eaux et des sources dans le monde romain. Un sujet problématique, déterminé par la mythologie moderne. L’annuaire du Collège de France. Cours et travaux 108, 622–37. Seoane-Veiga Y., García Quintela, M.V. and Güimil Fariña, A. (2013) Las pilas del Monte de Santa Mariña de Maside (Ourense): hacia una tipología de los lugares con función ritual en la Edad del Hierro del NW de la Península Ibérica. Cuadernos de Estudios Gallegos 60, 13–50. Settis, S. (1985) Continuità, distanza, conoscenza: tre usi dell’antico. In S. Settis (ed.) Memoria dell’antico nell’arte italiana 3, 373–486. Torino, Einaudi. Smith, J.Z. (1987) To Take Place. Chicago, University of Chicago Press.

15.  Landscape, Christianisation and social power in Late Antique and early medieval Galicia Trombley, F.R. (1985) Paganism in the Greek world at the end of Antiquity. The case of rural Anatolia and Greece. The Harvard Theological Review 78, 327–52. Turner, S. (2006) Making a Christian Landscape. The Countryside in Early-Medieval Cornwall, Devon and Wessex. Exeter, University of Exeter Press. Untermann, J. (1985) Los teónimos de la región Lusitano-gallega como fuente de las lenguas indígenas. In J. De Hoz (ed.) Actas del III Coloquio sobre Lenguas y Culturas Paleohispánicas, 343–63. Salamanca, Universidad. VVAA. (2013) Enciclopedia del Románico en Galicia: A Coruña. Aguilar de Campoo, Fundación Santa María la Real, Centro de Estudios del Románico. Van der Horst, P.W. (1989) The altar of the unknown god in Athens (Acts 17:23) and the cult of ‘unknown gods’ in the

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Hellenistic and Roman periods. In W.W. Haase, H. Temporini, J.J. Vogt and W.D. Werk (eds) Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung II.18.2. Prinzipat: Religion (Heidentum: Die religiösen Verhältnisse in den Provinzen), 1426–56. Berlin, De Gruyter. Veiga Ferreira, X.M. (1994) Espenuca. A Xanela: revista cultural das Mariñas 4, 6. Veiga Ferreira, X.M. and Sobrino Ceballos, J. (2012) Espenuca, inscrición, edificios e lugares máxicos. Anuario Brigantino 35, 59–98. Versnel, H.S. (2011) Coping with the Gods. Wayward Readings in Greek Theology. Leiden, Brill. Yates, F.A. (1999) Arts of Memory. London, Routledge.

Section 3 Myth and memory: landscapes invested with meaning

16 Pan’s sacred landscapes in classical Arkadia María Cruz Cardete

Religious systems, and Greek religion is no exception, tend to be presented by societies as unchangeable realities, existing in illo tempore. As Garland (1992, vii) has stated: ‘Religion is sometimes treated as a kind of abstraction, independent of the complex reality surrounding it and sustaining it. The truth is far different’. Religion is very important in order to build up the social process because it contributes to shaping modes of territorial organisation, developing economic systems, organising social hierarchies, constituting political structures and elaborate complex ideologies justified by religious power. In fact, religions take out a coercive and legitimating strength from their supposed timelessness and essentialism, which political power, social pressure or moral rules cannot achieve. They contribute to the construction of coercive messages – ideological and factual – from the elites and the submission of the underprivileged who are trapped in systems that justify immobility and absorb the distress that they produce (Bourdieu 1977; 1979; Hulin 1989, 90–3; Tilley 1991; Cardete 2005a, 84). A key element in building up the external immutability of religion is the sacred landscape, which combines time and space together. Because of the apparent neutrality of the landscape, religious prescriptions and ideas become less noticeable when they are related to it, although the landscape is always a human construction. The use of a different category of landscape, which we have called sacred landscape, is useful in order to understand the social, political, economic, intellectual and symbolic complexity of historical construction. In this paper we apply the category of sacred landscape to the specific case of classical Arkadia. To begin with, it is necessary to explain what I understand by sacred landscape and what is the difference between my proposal and other approaches to Greek religion.

What is a sacred landscape? It is necessary to jettison the taken-for-granted idea that landscape is something natural, a reality external to culture and society that can resist and vanquish them. We must remember that landscape is not a geographic concept, but a contextual one. It is created by the interaction between places, people and circumstances that do not always share the same space or time. Landscape is, above all, a cultural construction. Landscape is neither a stage nor a mere container of features for which it provides a stage. On the contrary, landscape is a network of meaningful relationships, full of social, economic, political, ideological, religious, ethical, intellectual and cultural elements. All of them join together in a thick net of perceptions, experiences and meanings that allow us to understand the complexity of societies without compartmentalising them. Thus, landscape must be understood as an inclusive concept in which the landmarks of positive historiography might be substituted by relational nodes and where the material and factual factors are closely related to ideological and perceptive ones, none of them being superior (Bradley 2000; Buxton 2000; Thomas 2001; Bender 2002; Launaro 2004, 36; Croxford 2005; Cosgrove 2006; Forbes 2007; Tilley 2010). In order to make a transition from the traditional research on ancient religions to the sacred landscape, we must assume two basic principles: firstly, religion is not only spiritual and untouchable, but also practical and material; secondly, due to the vitality of religion and its presence in every social background in ancient societies, we must understand it as a social process bound to historical change and placed within its space-time coordinates. Thus, the sacred landscape can be defined as a network of social interactions in which religion is shown not only through myths, beliefs, images and rites, but also through

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political, cultural, economic, philosophic, sociological and daily practices. Religion is not isolated from the elements that make up society, it can only be created in the context of the relational network that offers identity references to people (Sheldrake 2001, 21–2; Croxford 2005, 10; Woolf 2005, 130; Bender et al. 2007, 17). Religion, far from being separated from materiality and daily life, as traditional research on ancient religions used to suggest, is closely related to them. We are facing rites, beliefs and religious practices that are as much part of social processes as any other element belonging to human groups. I understand landscape as a relational, inclusive and active network that does not have to be narrowed by physical boundaries and is fed by meanings created along long social times and through spaces which might (or might not) be physically discontinuous, but which always form a conceptual network. Connectivity is the contrary to fossilisation: landscape is historical and, therefore, it is space and time – in a phenomenological view of landscape. It cannot be limited to its geological materiality or understood deeply only with Cartesians tools such as GIS or remote sensing. We cannot forget the processes of perceptive construction that, sometimes, result in very different landscapes, although initial material conditions are similar, either in the past or at present (Thomas 2001, 176–7; Tilley 2010, 477). Time is not just a complement of landscape, it is as essential as space. In the words of Bender (2002, 103): ‘time is landscape materializing’. We are not referring to the Cartesian and logical concepts of time and space, uniform, objective and factual. Time and space are defined according to internal perceptions and not to objective references because they do not create social action, social action creates them (Bailey 1987, 12; Shanks and Tilley 1987a, 39–40; 1987b, 125–7; Thomas 1996, 55–82; McGlade 1999, 143–5, 156; Bender 2002; Robin and Rothschild 2002, 162). Landscape interweaves, connects and contextualises, so geological and biological realities can only be understood in a human dimension through their connections with society. We are not dealing with an unchangeable reality, and we cannot understand the background as a natural stage where we can perform the cultural role to which we are led by our social dimension. The mere concept of landscape destroys the false dichotomy between nature and culture. It shows that, on a human scale, every landscape is cultural because it has been built in a particular context. It is flexible, changeable and historical because without human beings there would be trees, mountains or rivers, but nobody would recognise them anthropologically and provide them with conceptual existence (Schama 1995, 61; Thomas 1996, 65–6; Meier 2006, 19; Cardete 2016, 27–48). The space-time permanence of sacred landscapes is a fiction produced by the identification between materiality and landscape. This identification is very useful to legitimise power but also to deny change when it produces unease. This

is the reason why we often find invented traditions, either in the past or at present, that change the meanings while trying to maintain the fiction of the inalienable continuity of signifiers, as if both could be understood separately (Shanks and Tilley 1987a, 39; 1987b, 131–2; Hobsbawn 2003; Gehrke 2009; Hodos 2010, 3–4; Hölscher 2011, 48). These signifiers are often monumentalised because societies tend to think that monuments are outside historical context and are fixed and immovable along space and time and, therefore, they are useful to legitimise ideologies and to underpin the ‘collective memory’ (Holtorf 1987; Connerton 1989; 2006; Bradley 1991; Nora 1997; Alcock 2002, 28; Forbes 2007, 40–1; Chapman 2009, 13; Scheid and Polignac 2010, 433). This type of memory is not based on the past, but on the construction of one particular past, on feelings and emotions (and not so much on reflections) generated by the present through its renowned landmarks – ‘memory landmarks’ – and on the sense of belonging and possession that they help to shape (Children and Nash 1997, 1; Holtorf 1987, 49 and 55–7; Chapman 2009, 10; Van Dyke 2008, 277–8). The discourses of the power and monuments associated to an ideology become active subjects that produce (and not only reflect) relationships of dependency (Rowlands and Tilley 2006, 511; Lyon Crawford 2007, 38–9; Van Dyke 2008, 278–9). These are not limited only to vertical relationships of political control, but also include horizontal connections that are closer to concepts such as Gramsci’s hegemony (1991), Bourdieu’s symbolic violence and power, even his habitus (Bourdieu 1977; 1979) and, above all, Foucault’s micropowers (Foucault 1975), as well as De Certeau’s strategies and tactics (De Certeau 1980). Both of them believe that power is a plural concept, a network of interactions based on daily practice, for whose understanding we cannot underestimate the capacity of coaction of ruling classes, nor look down on the role of the rest of the society in the construction of ideology. Sometimes ideology is imposed by force, but more often it is simple conviction that imposes it. It is a more subtle and lasting imposition, supported by daily practice, poorly intellectualised, and traditions that are understood as community signs of identity (Shanks 1996, 121; Thomas 1996, 91; Chamberlain 2006; Osborne 2008). Ideology softens the lines between the use of power and the subjugation to it. A result is that there are no conflicting landscapes, but rather a single landscape with different social factors and competing powers that are coexisting (Hirsch 2006, 154). In this situation the historian must try to denaturalise landscape and recognise it as a cultural construction, comprehend the social process that it represents and its symbolic dimensions to understand it from a complex, inclusive and scientific point of view (Mitchell 1994, 2; 1986, 37–44; Von Maltzahn 1994, 113–14; Bradley 2000; Robin and Rothschild 2002; Launaro 2004; Cardete 2005a, 2–6; Croxford, 2005; Meier 2006, 18–19; Bender et al. 2007; Forbes 2007, 5, 395).

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16.  Pan’s sacred landscapes in classical Arkadia Landscape is a perception, which gives it scientific importance because it does not have a denotative meaning itself, but becomes connotative through the societies that build it. The process of perceptive construction entails a contingent, contextual and reflexive relationship between feeling and knowledge (Frieman and Gillins 2007, 8), so it is not limited to sight, it includes all other senses and the whole body, because landscape is apprehended in a multi-sensorial way. It is done within a system of values belonging to each culture, which is adapted to eventuality and needs and which is relational (Gell 1995; Hamilakis et al. 2002, 2–5; Tilley 2004a, 1–16; 2004b, 78–80; 2010, 27–8; Howes 2005, 6–11; Forbes 2007, 32–3; Frieman and Gillings 2007; Borić and Robb 2008; Fowler 2008, 48–49; Thomas 2008, 301–2; Harris and Flohr Sørensen 2010, 151). This system is very important in order to create rites, myths and beliefs (Von Maltzahn 1994, 19; Ashmore 2008). This sensorial interconnectivity gives full meaning to the expression ‘dwelling landscape’ and goes beyond a typical dualism of rationalist thoughts consisting of separating body and mind, putting mind in a high level of development and reliability and naturalising the senses, which are not considered cultural products (Howes 2005, 3–10; Harris and Flohr Sørensen 2010, 147). If we apply this concept to the study of religion, we go into an analysis where the fixed and static images of the traditional studies of religion – temples, votive offerings, deities, rituals, beliefs and myths – are interwoven in an ever-changing web of representation. Religion is ruled not only by the desire of the elites but also by the other social agents and the connections between them, because landscapes are always dynamic and conflicting. If we want to study religious processes, we must use a methodology that considers change and combines different types of sources. This is the reason why it is so important to overcome the Hawkes ‘Ladder of Inference’ and, with it, the suspicion of many archaeologists (1) analysing religion, which is considered an epiphenomenon and irrational and, therefore, not accessible from a scientific point of view, and (2) studying religion from material aspects of the archaeological record, accepting the capacity of symbolical analysis of archaeological theories and practices (Lewis-William 2008, 23; Whitley and Hays-Gilpin 2008, 19). Religious processes have not only a narrative entity, but also a practical and daily dimension that unites belief and action, because one and the other cannot be understood separately (Insoll 2004; 2007; Cardete 2005a; Edwards 2005). The rite is not only an expression of a belief and/or a myth, but the belief and myth building themselves. Both are social phenomena and depend on practice to be constituted because they must be shared, renowned and repeated by the human group (Sorensen 2013, 12–13). So, religion does not end in spirituality. It is not only related to the great constructions that define a great part of

Table 16.1. Traditional approach vs landscape approach to study of religions. Traditional studies of religions

Sacred landscapes

Compartmentalisation

Relationships

Individuality

Context

Isolation of the landmark

Sociability of the node

Passive objects

Active subjects

Static reality

Constructive process

Greek religion. It is defined by interaction amongst many elements: the sanctuary, the place, the temple, territorialisation, economic production, the exhibition of votive offerings, transhumance networks, sacred places, artisan production, social struggle, the rite, political interests, daily life, a poly­ theist conception, cultural gears, the myth and the senses that create and perceive it through time and so on. Religion lies in the relation that turns landmarks into nodes and allows them to exist together, resulting in a sacred landscape. It is much more than the sum of its parts, because interaction creates realities that did not exist individually in the original elements (Tilley 2004a, 12). They only exist in a symbiotic process. We must understand landscape as complex and social (De Polignac and Scheid 2010, 432) and therefore contextual and historical. Therefore, sacred landscape, as defined here, offers a revised approach (Table 16.1).

Sacred landscapes in ancient Arkadia: Pan’s landscapes Political and identitary landscapes: Pan, the god of Arkadia The image of Arkadia is one of the most manipulated in the ancient Greek world. We know it as a static image, a mythologised representation of romantic nature that holds every ancestral reality of primeval Greece, especially in the religious field: human sacrifices, lycanthropy, therianthropy, etc. These peculiar features are accompanied by an assumed underdevelopment in the polis configuration, a terrible poverty and a very deep cultural backwardness. However, even that seemingly fossilised and historically unrealistic tradition can be overcome and we can deconstruct the way the divine figures and myths, which tend to be more static, connect with the sacred landscapes, which are dynamic. It is the way from the evident (the god Pan) to the meaningful (Pan’s landscapes). To put it bluntly, Pan is a shepherd god, associated with Arkadia’s greatly overstated livestock wealth (Homeric Hymn Pan 30–2; Homer Iliad 2.605; Theocritus 22.158). His functions are related to stockbreeding and small game hunting, favouring herders and hunters. Pan himself, while wandering the mountains (Callimacus Hynm to Diana

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87–97; Homeric Hymn Pan 12–15), hunts and also herds sheep and, above all, goats. In fact, he is represented as a billy goat, adopting human characteristics to a greater or lesser extent depending on the time and place (Fig. 16.1; Jost 1985, 464–7; Boardman 1997a; 1997b). The mix between animal and human represents perfectly Pan’s character. He is a god always at the limits of savagery, but at the same time a guarantor of a civilisation he continuously defies. Pan is the link between the civilised world and the wild mountains, because animality becomes divine in him and the god becomes an animal. Pan is not any animal, but specifically a goat, which was considered to be wild and domesticated at the same time, gaining importance to humankind because of its husbandry use. Consequently, his natural habitats are mountains and rural paths, away from cities (Callimachus Hymn to Diana 87; Euripides Iphigenia Taurica 1125–1131; Homeric Hymn Pan 1–22; Nemesianus Eclogue 3.17; Nonnus Dionysiaca 5.269, 6.275; Pausanias 8.24.4, 36.8, 38.5, 38.11, 54.6–7; Silius Italicus Punica 13.302; Sophocles Ajax 693–700; Vergil Eclogues 8.22–26). Our ancient sources mention some Pan temples and urban sanctuaries where he was present (Pausanias 8.26.2; 30.6; 31.3–4 and 37.2 and 11), but this is quite rare. This opposition to the urban worlds of classical Greece is also observed in his relation to dance and music. Pan usually plays panpipes – an invention attributed to him (Achilles Tatius Leucippe and Clitophon 7.5, 6–8; Pindar fr. 95-100 Snell; Hymn Homeric Pan 15–28; Lucretius 4.580– 594; Moschus Bion 51–57; Silius Italicus Punica 13.302; Theocritus 1.1–3; 1.128–129; Vergil Eclogues 4.58–59). The music of this shepherd flute is opposed to urban music. Its music goes along with its dance. Pan is the ruler of the choir of nymphs and even of the choir of gods (Homeric Hymn Pan 19–28; S. Aj. 698). His dance is frenetic and ecstatic. His sexuality is also uncontrolled, animal-like, characterised

Fig. 16.1. Fragment of a volute krater (c. 500–490 BC). Pan is playing aulós in a symposium (Courtesy of Allard Pierson Museum Amsterdam, no. 2117).

not only by rapidity and surprise, but also by sterility. This god is possessed by a transgressive pathos that leads him to pursue sexual satisfaction – which he does not get – or to lose control listening to ecstatic music, being always halfway between panoleptic possession and dissatisfaction, between divine desire and human realities. Moreover, Pan leads to unease, as he has in himself plenty of opposition: he is a goat and a human, sometimes peaceful and sometimes wild, creative and destructive. That is why he sometimes behaves as a loving artist and sometimes as a lustful being (Cardete 2016, 210–13). The relationship between Pan and Arkadia is well known. They share even the most trivial features, creating a religious, political and local identity symbiosis. If we follow the paths of Pan, we can go from the Arkadian god to the identitarian landscape (Fig. 16.2). Despite the first impression, the comparison between Pan and Arkadia is not a spiritual one, but a political product that benefited the Parrhasian communities, especially Megalopolis. They used the traditional religious symbols of the Parrhasian area, full of identity meanings, in their failed Pan-Arkadian project. The new city of Megalopolis, created by a synoecism in c. 369 BC, was intended to convince the peoples who had been compelled to participate in the

Fig. 16.2. Arkadia and its main poleis at the end of classical period (following Jost 1985, pl. 1).

16.  Pan’s sacred landscapes in classical Arkadia synoecism, Parrhasian and Menalian communities, as well as the great Arkadian powers, Tegea and Mantinea, of the new polis’ raison d’être. They were supposedly ancestral and religious, but had nothing to do with reality, rather with the perception of it. This way, the south-west Arkadian frontier became a true icon, a rich cultural landscape whose influence has reached us to create an image of Arkadia, a false but very powerful image. The commonalities between different Arkadian communities are loose, but we can examine them in detail. First, there is the ethnikon Άρκάς or Άρκάδες, which first appears in fifth-century sources and became more frequent after the foundation of Megalopolis (Nielsen 1999, 22–9). Second, a variable group of legends and myths that were not often known in Arkadia as a whole, but only in some poleis. Third, a very regionalised divine ‘pantheon’ in which the more ubiquitous deities are identical to those in other parts of Greece (Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter, Athena, etc.), while those who are only known in Arkadia (Despoina, some Olympian advocacies as Zeus Lykaios or Demeter Melaina) are generally worshipped only in specific areas. Fourth, a certain shared history, almost exclusively mythical (Homer Iliad 2.603–14; Herodotus 9.26; Pausanias 8.1–5). Fifth, some cultural clichés built in the classical period as Pelasgian or autochthonous, proselenaioi and balenophagoi (Apollonius Rhodius 4.264–5; Herodotus 1.66; Lycophron Alexandra 479–83; Ovid Fasti 2.281–90; 5.89–90; Pausanias 8.42.6), which function as static images in order to hide diversity and contextual complexity. Sixth, a common language, which does not seem to have been that relevant since even the constitutional decree of the Arkadian Confederation was written in Attic dialect (Burelli 1995, 61–112; Nielsen 1999, 22–45). Finally, there is a problematic coin series known as Arkadikon (490–418 BC), which reveals more power struggles between great Arkadian poleis than the improbable existence of an Arkadian Confederation in the fifth century BC (Cardete 2005a, 194–8). Nevertheless, Megalopolis used these features, propagated under its power, to consolidate the Arkadian Confederation, which was represented as a Pan-Arkadian federal project, though it only consisted of southern Arkadia. Megalopolis would not achieve its political purposes, but it was successful from an ideological perspective because it shaped the concept of Arkadia as a compact identity, regionally homogeneous and symbolically united, i.e. what we used to call the Arkadian ethnos (Cardete 2016, 134–8; 2005c). Although this image was not real, it achieved some success in Antiquity. In fact, Demosthenes (26) used ‘Megalopolitan’ and ‘Arkadian’ as synonyms. And it is alive even today. We do not mean that Megalopolis invented the Arkadians, but Megalopolis invented Arkadia because it turned a noun of regional character into one with political and cultural connotations in its attempt to control the diverse civic ethnoi of a large and fragmented region (Cardete 2005a, 59–63; 2005c).

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In this process of reshaping civic identities Megalopolis skilfully used religious elements. Pan was vital in this process because he is the autochthonous god par excellence in Arkadia (Callimachus Hymn to Diana 87; Homeric Hymn Pan 30–2; Pindar fr. 95 Snell; Porphyry. On the cave of the Nymphs 20; Propertius 1.18; Silius Italicus Punica 13.302; Theocritus 1.22–126; 7.115; Vergil Eclogues 4.59). The gods and rites of mythical Arkadia were more interesting for ancient historians than Arkadian daily life; meanwhile, the political, economic, ideological and social dimensions are diluted into religious expression. Civic identities, however, would remain much stronger than regional identity (Borgeaud 1979, 29; Nielsen 1999, 59; 2002, 155; Roy 2001, 266). In fact, it was the civic identity that prevailed when Megalopolis tried to design a Pan-Arkadian scenario, because the symbols they employed primarily derived from the south-western frontier, specifically from Parrhasia (Zeus Lykaios) and Lycosura (Despoina or Demeter Melaina). In this mythical and political melting pot, Pan worked as a mobile and flexible element, able to unite around him several Arkadian poleis, not only those favourable to the synoecism. His divine presence can be found all over the region. That is why the coins issued by the Arkadian Confederation and Megalopolis showed Zeus Lykaios on the front and Pan on the back, and why the priests of both deities took turns to preside over the Lykaia (Fougères 1904, 1435; Jost 1985, 184, 475). For sure, the iconography of both gods adapted to the new times. Pan is no more the standing goat of archaic representations, not even the hybrid being of the mid-fifth century BC, but a handsome boy with two little goat horns on his head (Fig. 16.3; Williams 1965). But a god does not create an ethnic group, and Megalopolis failed to gain traction in its control of a common identity in the highly fragmented region of Arkadia. Megalopolis’ unifying ideology went beyond the city and placed Pan in a

Fig. 16.3. Coin issued by the Arkadian Confederation. It shows Zeus Lykaios on the front and a very anthropomorphic Pan with lagobolon on the back (c. 363–362 BC) (Courtesy of Département de Monnaies Médailles et Antiques, © Bibliothèque Nationale de France).

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privileged position in the Arkadian pantheon that the elites from Megalopolis had tried to popularise. Pan’s presence was also especially meaningful in the most important Phigaleian extra-urban sanctuary, Bassae, which was primarily dedicated to Apollo (Fig. 16.4). In Bassae, there is a record of two of Pan’s advocacies: Pan Bassae (or Bissas) (Aeschylus Callisto, fr. 143; Palatine Anthology 6.253) and Pan Sinois (IG V.2.429; Pausanias 8.30.2–33). Bassae was not only situated in the middle of a network of short distance transhumance routes, but also at the heart of Phigaleian identity, always in struggle

with Sparta. We also find Pan at Arkadia’s south-western frontier, at Mount Lykaion, the centre of Parrhasian identity (IG V.2.550; Pausanias 8.36.3, 38, 5; Fougères 1904, 1435; Jost 1985, 184, 475). Very close to Mount Lykaion and Bassae we can find Berecla, an exceptional point of confluence between Arkadia, Messenia-Sparta and Triphylia. In Berecla there was another sanctuary, dated between the sixth and fourth centuries BC, which identifies the area as Arkadian. This sanctuary functioned as a mental frontier. It was dedicated to Pan and its votive offerings, especially some figurines of hunters and shepherds, some of which

Fig. 16.4. Pan’s sanctuaries in Arkadia.

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Fig. 16.5. Bronze statuettes from Berekla. From left to right: bearded man carrying a calf on his shoulders; beardless man with a cock and a bearded man and a beardless man in a martial stance (Photography by author. Courtesy of National Archaeological Museum, Athens (nos 13053, 13056, 13060 and 13057)).

represented youths and others bearded men (Fig. 16.5), are stylistically very similar to those found in Mount Lykaion and Lycosura (Kourouniotis 1902; Lamb 1925–6; Jost 1985, 187; Hübinger 1992, 198, 202; Roy 2010, 57). We can connect these figurines with a Theocritean scholium (Thalisia 7.103–14), which mentions an initiation and expiatory ceremony in which ‘when the Arkadians go hunting, if they are successful, they honour Pan, but if not, they attack him with squill, inasmuch as being at home on the mountain, he is patron of the hunt. Munatius tells that in Arkadia a festival is celebrated in which the young men attack Pan with squill’. The complementarity between bearded and beardless figurines together with this scholium has been interpreted by Borgeaud (1979) and Hübinger (1992) as traces of an initiation rite, chaired by the god Pan, which was understood as an exceptional pharmakós (Borgeaud 1979, 108–12), in which the youth entered political and religious adult life. It is a way of reproducing the political community and of uniting initiation and expiation spheres with hunting as an economic activity and a prestige occupation. A political, economic, religious and symbolic landscape has been built and it goes beyond the votive figurines (‘the evidence’) to reach the historic context (‘the meaningful’). In the same area, Pan also appears in other poleis, such as Lycosura (Pausanias 8.37.11), Megalopolis (Pausanias 8.30.2–6, 31.3–4) and Heraea (Pausanias 8.26.2).

But the goat god was not only present in the south-western frontier, but also in many other places in Arkadia. For example, Pan was worshipped on Mount Parthenion, the mount that Phidipiddes was crossing when Pan appeared to him and which is situated between Tegea and Argos (Pausanias 8.54.6). The myth of Pan and Philippides is very interesting because it justified the cult of Pan in Athens, and such a cult was spread throughout Greece from Athens. Herodotus (6.105) wrote that the herald Philippides brought the message of Persian arrival to Marathon to the Spartans and, when he was in Mount Parthenion, close to Tegea, he encountered Pan. The god called out and bade him ask the Athenians why they paid him no attention. The Athenians believed the story and established a sacred precinct of Pan beneath the Acropolis with annual sacrifices and a torchrace (Palatine Anthology 16.232). When Athens adopted Pan, he was tailored to Athenians’ needs and preconceptions, contributing to the building of a connected landscape that was spatially and temporally discontinuous. This new landscape was characterised by four aspects that connected Pan with the Athenian political background: first, the cult of Pan facilitated the Athenian approach to Arkadian mercenaries and to important Arkadian communities opposed to Sparta, such as Tegea and Phigaleia. Second, the goat god motivated the close relationship with Sicily and Magna Graecia where Arkadian myths were important. Third, it facilitated the trade relations with Arkadia, rich

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in raw materials. Fourth, it answered correctly to religious demands of Athenian hoplites (Cardete 2016, 175–88). Pan is not limited to the archaic and classical Arkadian poleis and Athens, but he connects places and times from far away, by making use of perceptive commonalities. Beyond Attic frontiers, Pan was a ubiquitous deity who appears in many different places, such as Thebes, Delphi, Sicily and Magna Graecia, Buthrotum, Thasos, Thessaly, Thrace, Macedonia, Megara, Cephalonia, Crete, Illyria, etc. The influence of Attic Pan is evident in all these places, but in each of them Pan showed a great versatility and was adapted to the needs of his adherents and to historic circumstances. Pan can acquire some features or lose or minimise others that contribute to build different Pan landscapes. It might seem a contradiction for our urban conception of space that a god who jumped over stones, liked isolated paths and to whom mountains were dedicated, is considered a civic god. However, Pan was indeed a civic god because his presence in boundaries created civilisation. It allows us to move from a wild god to a complex border landscape.

Economic landscapes: Pan as shepherd and hunter Pan is especially useful as a link to contextual connections because he is a flexible god. He changes without betraying himself or leaving his passions behind. His divine figure is the ornament fraught with deep contextual meanings. This is the reason why Pan is as an exceptional node in a contextual network in which economic aspects that ruled the lives of peasants and livestock (e.g. sheep, goats, pasture, small game hunting, etc.) interweave with places where such activities took place (i.e. mountains, pastures, borders, frontiers, caves, etc.), thus building powerful mental and sacred landscapes. In fact, the nodal point in religious Arkadian landscapes, such as extra-urban sanctuaries, mountains, rivers and woods, are strongly related to the social, economic and political necessities of communities and they change together with them. Pan moves along the political and economic boundaries of the community, between its borders and its survival activities, defining its geopolitical and mental frontiers, especially through two activities, ovicaprid stockbreeding and small game hunting – both were considered as minor in aristocratic ideology, but they were vital to a community’s prosperity. Away from the urban areas, where Pan is hardly ever worshipped, his image has been used to reproduce the fallacy, implicit in the Greek literary tradition, that the astu worked separately from its chora. This idea has been especially referred to liminal spaces that give shape to boundaries. Normally, the polis is only identified with the urban centre or with the fields, distinguishing between agricultural activities, considered as civilised, and livestock breeding and hunting, still belonging to a prior stage, as suggested by Skydsgaard (1988). Opposing this erroneous image, most archaeological and ethno-archaeological research starts with the idea of economic interdependence (Chang and Koster

1986; Osborne 1987; Halstead 1987–8; 1996; Cherry 1988; Hodkinson 1988; 1990; Whittaker 1988; Gallant 1991, 34–59; Alcock et al. 1994; Forbes 1994; 1995; Roy 1999; Nixon and Price 2001; Chandezon 2003; Foxhall 2003; Howe 2008; Plácido 2008). In fact, there is no evidence showing that ancient Greeks needed a production system characterised by profitability, maximisation of benefits, minimisation of efforts and compartmentalisation of production. Indeed, in Arkadia, a household herding model was developed that was characterised by small scattered farms close to larger centres (Cardete 2016, 108–10). Agricultural production used to be self-sufficient in basic products, using regional trade with other products that were also necessary but not essential, such as metals, oil, fish or luxury items (Roy 1983, 268; 1999, 328–38; Lloyd et al. 1985, 217; Roy et al. 1988, 182; 1992; Forsén and Forsén 2003, 260–7). Therefore, Greek peasantry was much more concerned with the subsistence of their families than with the commodification of production (Gallant 1991; Garnsey 1999, 22–42). Moreover, the polis is a symbiotic interaction between astu and chora and it is defined not only by its centre, but also by its limits. We have to study the interaction between elements without artificial separations. All these ideas are in the alternative or agro-pastoralism model, based on economic interdependence characterised by intensive farming (especially with grain, grapes, olives and legumes) and household herding. It is a system based on interaction, not on competition. The majority of labour was organised around family lands in which the stockbreeder is also a farmer. Production is conditioned by family necessities and capacities, climate and rhythms of social production, as shown by the aforementioned archaeological and ethno-archaeological studies. Pan is an image of this permeable interdependence: he was a goat and a goat herder, and he was also a nodal limit of the chora. He protected it and watched the activities that took place in it. His function of border delimitation was shown economically through small game hunting (partridges, quails, even wild boars, but nothing bigger) and short-distance seasonal migration of livestock. Shepherds of sheep and goats offered him their crooks and flutes in the limits of the territory, and hunters provided Pan with little bows and hunting equipment (Palatine Anthology 6.13, 14, 34, 109, 177, 188; 9.337). Without his protection of liminal areas and their economic activities, the polis would collapse. Therefore, it is not by chance that Pan is one of the gods in Apollo Bassae, an extra-urban sanctuary located at the heart of a transhumance network which functioned as a sacred expression of the Phigaliean identity against Sparta (Cardete 2005a, 87–113). Of course, it is also significant that Pan was not only protector of flocks, but also a hunter. Livestock breeding went along with this other liminal activity, which was also essential for the survival of the non-privileged classes, the polis and its boundaries.

16.  Pan’s sacred landscapes in classical Arkadia Once again Pan’s landscapes help us overcome topics such as Arkadian long-distance transhumance, first suggested by Georgoudi (1974) and then reiterated, with nuanced variances, by other scholars, such as Chaniotis (1995; 1999) and Roy (2007a, 295). Short-distance seasonal movements are better adapted to archaic and classical Arkadian, and to Greece in general. Arkadians did not have the ecological, economic or political necessities – or possibilities – to develop a long-distance trans­ humance due to several reasons. Firstly, there were no such large herds that would have needed to move far in search of pasture. In fact, long-distance transhumance is not a consequence of climatic or geological conditions, but a political, cultural, social and economic decision (Garnsey 1988, 204; Hodkinson 1990, 155; Nixon and Price 2001, 403; Chandezon 2003, 397; Howe 2008, 50; Cardete forthcoming). Secondly, the demand for livestock products was not so high as to require crossing poleis boundaries. Thirdly, the possession of livestock is not a transcendent element in the configuration of status in the classical period (Cherry 1988, 56; Hodkinson 1988, 56–8; Forbes 1995, 326). Short-distance movements of no more than 10 km do not necessarily imply seasonality (even though they are often associated with changes between winter and summer) and are more appropriate for the steep Arkadian orography. Moreover, they are centred on little ovicaprid herds, the most common livestock in Arkadia (Roy 1999, 322–3; Forsén and Forsén 2003, 266), and offer additional advantages such as the use of fallow land as an alternative source of grazing (Halstead 1988, 43–5; Gallant 1991, 52–6; Burford 1993, 121–5; Alcock et al. 1994, 148; Foxhall 2003, 84; Gallego 2009, 169). In this way, sheep and goats collaborate with the process of fertilisation through manure. This is easily understood within a peasant world in which sustainability is key for survival. In fact, it is the same system that Van Andel and Runnels (1987, 13–25) have proposed for the Argolid. With this model of territorial occupation and exploitation, we can speak about Pan’s landscapes and turn Pan into a diving force that interweaves, instead of separates, basic economic activities (agriculture and husbandry) and complementary ones like hunting. Pan is present in many places in Arkadia, while other gods associated with cattle, such as Apollo or Hermes, are not so widely present in the region. Suitable pastures for cattle breeding can only be found in very specific areas of Arkadia, while ovicaprids can survive almost everywhere.

Conclusion If we analyse thoroughly Arkadian landscapes as a context, as a network of relations showing a certain way to understand and build the world, we notice that its nodal limits, those

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with a deepest and most representative meaning, match the socio-economic and political needs of the communities living there and change according to them. The use of a divine figure like Pan, who incarnates them, who is flexible and mobile and who adapts to different needs, can weave connection networks that build up landscape and give them a divine approval. Because of the romantic concept of Arkadia, it is difficult to see in it a political structure similar to other areas in Greece or an economic system that is far from the ‘rural’ topics about livestock breeding societies or dispersed settlement, but not poor or underdeveloped. It is difficult in part because the ritual and spiritual aspects of religion have obscured and hidden all others. However, we can use religion to understand the economic practices through rites, to analyse the interactions between them and to decipher ideological lectures from religious traditions or to study political problems through myths and cults. Therefore, from the divine figure we can reach the sacred landscape, which is conformed in a historical context, so it is modifiable, and full of symbols.

Acknowledgements This research was carried out as part of the following R + D Projects funded by MINECO (Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness): ‘El problema del mal y los dioses en el mundo antiguo (s. VI – I a.C.)’ (HAR2011-26096) and ‘Identidad ciudadana en la polis griega arcaica y clásica y su proyección espacial y cultual’ (HAR2012-30870).

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17 Creating sacred landscapes in Roman Phrygia: the cases of Laodicea on the Lycus and Aizanoi Gian Franco Chiai

After briefly discussing the concept of sacred landscape and the importance of coins for knowledge of the local mythical traditions of the poleis, this paper aims to analyse and reconstruct the creation and transformation of a new (mythical) sacred landscape in Roman Phrygia by considering the coinage minted in Laodicea on the Lycus and Aizanoi, each of which claimed the status as birthplace of Zeus in competition with one another. Furthermore, this paper will analyse several coins minted in the neighbouring centres of Apameia and Akmoneia, which also claimed the same prestigious status as the birthplace of Zeus.

Coins as source for reconstructing the sacred landscapes According to the definition given by Hubert Cançik (1985/6), a sacred landscape can be defined as ‘a constellation of natural phenomena constituted as a meaningful system by means of artificial and religious signs, by telling names or etiological stories fixed to certain places, and by rituals which actualize the space’. Such a definition highlights the strong relationship between the natural features of a territory and the human interaction with the space that can modify the natural environment, for example, by placing religious signs (e.g. altars, stelae statues, etc.) or constructing temples and sanctuaries. In many cases, however, a natural space itself, if viewed as the location of a god’s birth or apparition (epiphaneia), can become holy and also assumes a particular juridical status, such as that of the site’s inviolability. This is the case for many caves, rivers and groves in the ancient world, such as the Ida cave in Crete as Zeus’ birthplace or the sacred tree of Delos where Apollo and Artemis were born according to the Delian tradition (about the concept of nature as temple, see Mylonopoulos 2008 with further

literature). Altars, stelae and other religious signs mark the holiness of these places while the myths explain why they are holy and the rituals serve to commemorate and perpetuate their holiness. In the Greek world, each polis had its own mythical traditions, which were the basis for the local identity; myths generally recounted the birth of a god or the passage of a hero in the polis’ territory. The Delian historian Semos (FGrHist 396, F 20) tells us that many cities and regions in the Greek world claimed to be the birthplace of Apollo; in Roman imperial times, Pausanias (4.33.1) affirms, ironically, that it was impossible to enumerate all cities and regions that claimed to be the birthplace of Zeus. Concerning these myths, coins represent a useful source to reconstruct the local traditions of the Greek poleis, particularly for Asia Minor in Roman times. The cities, which had received the privilege from the princeps to mint coins, had images of gods or local heroes depicted on the coins’ reverses that alluded to the local legends, founding and creating a (new) ancient Hellenic origin and identity (about the use of the coins to point out the polis-identity during the imperial times, see, with further bibliographic references, Linder 1995, with a careful analysis of the phenomenon of the ‘Selbstdarstellung der Polis’; Weiss 2004; Nollé 2005; 2006; 2009; and the papers in Howego et al. 2005). This was taking place within the competitive framework for εὐγένεια (eugeneia, ‘noble origin’) and ἀρχαιότης (archaiotes, ‘antiquity’), which characterised social and political life as well as the relationships among the cities in the Greek East during the time of the Second Sophistic (see Merkelbach 1978; Dräger 1993, 107–200; Schmitz 1997, 97–135; Heller 2006; Dmitriev 2011). The creation of new mythical traditions, aimed at founding a new cultural identity for the urban centres, was often

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connected to the emergence of a new sacred landscape where these religious mythical traditions allegedly took place. Numerous cities in the Greek East claimed, for instance, to have been the birthplace of Zeus, Dionysus, Artemis and Apollo. This was possibly due to the appropriation of old mythical traditions, such as the one of Zeus’ birth, which were transferred, for example, from Crete to Phrygia in the territory of Laodicea on the Lycus or Aizanoi. This transfer is connected to the construction of a new sacred landscape – or the manipulation and transformation of the older one – in which Greek place names replaced the old Anatolian ones, while local deities, such as river gods, which were present, acting and participating in local traditions, remained connected to the territory. Thus, the natural elements of the landscape were (re)interpreted and invested with sacred meaning as the location of a polis’ mythical past. Such a process of sacralisation is often connected to the creation and re-writing of sacred local history in line with a polis’ cultural identity (see Dillery 2005; Chiai 2013). Furthermore, according to the concept of intentional history (Gehrke 1994; 2010), such a sacralisation, explained by the myths, must also be acceptable for and accepted by the urban community because the mythical traditions play an essential role in a community’s cultural and collective memory. Thus, inscriptions, coins, artworks (e.g. statues and reliefs) and literature became the main media to communicate and preserve these traditions of a polis’ noble and ancient origin. In this context, we should also take into account the case of the so-called poeti vaganti, wandering poets, financed by urban communities to compose poems and literary works to praise a city’s glorious past (see Guarducci 1929; Hunter and Rutherford 2009). Due to the loss of most of the epigraphic, literary and artistic evidence, coins are the main source with which to reconstruct the above-mentioned cultural and political phenomenon of competition for archaiotes and eugeneia, particularly in the geographic context of the Greek East. The interpretation of the coins’ iconography, however, is never straightforward and must be complemented by epigraphic and literary evidence.

The rule of the rivers for constructing a city identity Rivers played an important role when praising a polis, especially in the context of the panegyric literature during the Second Sophistic (see Chiai 2017, 63–5). For example, the rhetorician Menander (1.347–9) recommended in his handbook to mention its eudria (the richness of water) and to stress its importance for urban life when praising a city. The glorification of the city was intrinsically bound to that of its chora. In his elogium on Antiochia on Orontes, Libanius (Oration 11.244–7) emphasises the eudria of this polis, which represents a central element of its beauty (kallos) and

greatness (megethos). Great and clean rivers are, of course, central for the life and economy of a city: the people drink the water and the landscape becomes fertile. Furthermore, during the time of the Second Sophistic, rivers were seen as an important element of urban identity and they were praised in literary works and epigraphical dedications for the local river god, but they were also represented on the reverse of local coins (for a collection of the numismatic and archaeological evidence, see Imhoof-Blumer 1923; C. Weiss 1984). We find such a perception of the landscape also in the early coinages of the Greek cities in the colonial territories; numerous representations of rivers, fountains and mountain gods are figured on the coins (see Peter 2005; Nollé 2006, 50–60, 66–8; Günther 2009). These deities, divine personifications of the natural elements of the territories, are central elements of the sacred landscape, which the Greeks created after their arrival in those regions: they served the purpose of protecting the territory of the city and bestowed prosperity on the inhabitants.

Laodicea on the Lycus Laodicea on the Lycus was founded on a strategic point in the middle of the third century BC by the Seleucid king Antiochos II who forced a synoikismos on the inhabitants of two local villages (see Ramsay 1895, 32–7; Robert 1969, 298–305; Corsten 1997, 131–3). An inscription (IvLaodik I, no. 1), discovered in 1970 and dated to the year 267 BC, provides important information on the territory’s history and structure prior to the Seleucid foundation. It contains the text of an honorific decree for Achaios, of the Seleucid household, and for Babanabelos and Lachares. Achaios, who received the title soter, and the others are said to have delivered many prisoners of the region during the war against the Galatians. This inscription testifies that the territory was composed of many villages (it had a kata komas structure), which were inhabited by a mixed population of Anatolians, Iranians and Greeks. The text mentions the villages of Mama Kome and Kiddiou Kome together with another place, Neon Teichos, probably (according to its name) a fortified settlement. The inscription also mentions that the citizens of Kiddiou Kome and Neon Teichos participated in the same assembly (ekklesia), which insinuated that they had a common administration. Concerning religious life, the mention of the temple of Zeus in Baba Kome and of Apollo in Kiddiou Kome, where this stele as well as other decrees were set up, is noteworthy. These deities continued to receive a cult in the later polis, which cannot have been accidental and represents an important indication for cult continuity. According to a short notice by Pliny the Elder (Naturalis Historia 5.105) the oldest known name of the city was Diospolis (‘City of Zeus’); this is likely to have been a translation of the local Baba Kome, because Papas was the Bithynian name for Zeus according to Arrian (FGrHist 156 F 22). The second name Pliny records

17.  Creating sacred landscapes in Roman Phrygia: the cases of Laodicea on the Lycus and Aizanoi is Rhoas, which emphasises the city’s position on the river. Both names therefore stress the city’s relationship both with the environment and the main deity of the city. The city was founded by initiative of the king Antiochos II (reign 261–246 BC) who named it after his wife, Laodike. Stephan of Byzantium recounts a foundation myth according to which Zeus revealed his aim to found a new city by sending the god Hermes in a dream; then, an oracle of Apollo is said to have ordered the construction of the new centre: Ἀντιόχῳ βασιλῆι τάδε χρᾷ Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων∙ κτιζέμεναι πτολίεθρον ἀγακλέες, ὡς ἐκέλεθσεν/Ζεὺς ὑψιβρεμέτης, πέμψας ἐριούνιον Ἑρμῆν The Phoebus Apollo announced to the king Antiochos by an oracle: found a very famous city, how the high thundering Zeus commanded, when he send the fast Hermes.

The foundation of Laodicea therefore demonstrated Antiochos following the divine will of Zeus and Apollo, the main deities of the two above-mentioned villages. This tradition likely aimed at emphasising the noble origin of the city, which was able to compete with the others regarding eugeneia, as well as highlighting its good relationships with their gods. The remarkable combination of Zeus and Hermes in this tradition may also explain the motive of a relief from the times of Antoninus Pius where Zeus Laodikenos, the polis god of Laodicea, is associated with Hermes. The importance of gods, heroes and kings participating in the foundation of a city is stressed by rhetorician Menander, who writes in his treatise (355, 512): The second main head is that which is called ‘origin’. It is divided into: founders, settlers, date, changes, causes of foundations. Each of these in turn has many subdivisions: e.g. if we enquire who the founder was, we say whether he was a general, a king, or a private individual. If a god, the encomium is the grandest […] If a demigod or a hero who subsequently became a god, the encomium is less grand, but still reputable. […] If a man, it is reputable enough if he was a general or a king, but there is no repute or distinction if he was a private citizen.

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territory’s natural features. The hill around the urban centre is flanked by two rivers, the Asopos and Kapros, and above the city stands the mountain Kadmos where the source of the rivers Lycus and Kapros are found. The Lycus, connected to the city by a monumental aqueduct, was the most important river for Laodicea and was represented on the local coins together with the Kapros. Laodicea minted coins for almost 400 years (the last known emission is dated to the time of the emperor Decius). Since the Hellenistic period, we find images that testify to the importance of natural elements of the landscape for the rise and development of a collective identity (on the coins from Laodicea, see Weber 1898; Huttner 1997 analyses the historical importance of these images for the city identity; Chiai 2012, 57–62). On the reverses of the so-called cistophori (Fig. 17.1; BMC Phrygia, Laodicea 2), we recognise the figure of a wolf as a city’s emblem; this animal is accompanied by a lyra or ivy leaf. The significance of these images is ambiguous because the representation of the wolf – λύκος – could be understood both as reference to the name of the city’s most important river, Lykos, and as an allusion to the cult of Apollo Lykios, whose sacred animal – and attribute – was a wolf. Other coins from the same mint have the head of the city goddess on the obverse and the image of a wolf next to a lyra on the reverse (Fig. 17.2; BMC Phrygia, Laodicea 22; SNG Kop., Phrygia 596). The combination of these images is very interesting as they emphasise the close relationship between the city, its river and its god. Another coin (Fig. 17.3; RPC I, 2910) belongs to the category of the pseudo-autonomous issues, dated to the Augustan period. It can assist us in reconstructing the relationship between landscape and religion in Roman Laodicea. On its reverse, we find the figure of a wolf together with a double axe and a taenia. Again, this is an allusion to the most important river of the territory as well as to Apollo. For instance, the double axe is the religious symbol of Apollo in the neighbouring city of Hierapolis (SNG Kop. Phrygia, 456); furthermore, we find the same symbol associated with

(translation by D.A. Russel and N.G. Wilson)

Concerning the competition for eugeneia, Laodicea was best able to satisfy the requirements: it was founded by a king with the participation of three gods: Zeus, Apollo and Hermes. But why does Zeus express his desire to found a new city in this territory? An examination of the local coinage can help us answer this question.

Creating a sacred landscape in Laodicea Regarding the creation of a sacred landscape, we must consider the city’s natural position – situated on a hill – and the

Fig. 17.1. Laodicea on the Lycus (BMC Phrygia, Laodicea 2). Cistophorus. Obverse: cysta mystica; Reverse: two snakes and wolf.

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Fig. 17.2. Laodicea on the Lycus (SNG Copenhagen, Phrygia 596). Local bronze coin. Obverse: city goddess; Reverse: the river god Lykos as wolf.

this goddess are represented on the obverses of the coins from Hellenistic times (in the cistophori). A revival of an Aphrodite cult in the city during Roman times may have been consciously employed by local elites to reinforce the relationship with Rome and the Augustan dynasty similar to the great benefits the Carian city Aphrodisias received from the Julio-Claudians, the alleged ‘descendants’ of Venus/ Aphrodite (see Chaniotis 2003). Another numismatic piece shows on the obverse the head of the demos, and on the reverse a sitting wolf with the left paw on a vase, from which springs water (SNG München 368; on the images of the demos on the Roman coins of Asia Minor, see Martin 2008; 2013). The images again show the importance of the river Lykos for the community, represented by the god Demos. Regarding the relationship with Rome, one coin from the Flavian period is particularly noteworthy as it shows a picture of the wolf together with the twins, Romulus and Remus, on the reverse (SNG Kop. Phrygia, 518). In this context, the Laodiceans have used their city symbol, the wolf, to reinforce the relationship with Rome and to demonstrate their loyalty to the emperors. We find the same use of the wolf, alluding both to the river and to the Rome’s foundation myth, in the neighbouring city of Colossae (e.g. RPC IV 1891 from the time of Antoninus Pius; on the use of the wolf on the coin-reverses, see Stoll 1992, 59–61 and Weiss 1990 who discusses the issues from Lykaonia). The river Lykos was also represented according to the traditional iconography as a reclining god, as shown, for example from a coin from Roman times (Fig. 17.4; SNG Kop. Phrygia, 539). On its obverse, we see a bust of the god Demos, and on its reverse an image of the reclining river god, Lykos, who holds a plant with three leaves in the right hand. The coin legend is Λαοδικέων Λύκος (the Lycos of the Laodiceans). This combination emphasises the close relationship between the community and their river; the plant was probably a typical plant of the Laodicean region, and grew on the riverbanks. This plant is only used as divine attribute on this polis’ coins.

Fig. 17.3. Laodicea on the Lycus (RPC I, 2190). Pseudo-­ autonomous coin. Obverse: Aphrodite; Reverse: wolf with double axe.

Fig. 17.4. Laodicea on the Lycus (SNG Copenhagen, Phrygia 539). Bronze coin (Imperial time). Obverse: head of Demos; Reverse: river god Lykos.

the cult of Zeus Karios: both deities are interpretationes Graecae of local Anatolian deities. The laurel wreath, which surrounds the coin, could be a reference to an agon celebrated for Apollo. Whereas this festival is not attested in our epigraphic documents, the presence of a phyle (‘tribe’) named Apollonis, mentioned in two inscriptions, could suggest the existence of such a festival in the city, organised by the members of this phyle. The name of the magistrate who was responsible for this issue was Pytheus, who probably belonged to the phyle Apollonis. The obverse of this coin shows the goddess Aphrodite, who, imitating the iconography of the main city god, Zeus Laodikenos, is holding a bird in the hand. The same iconographic model is used also for representing Zeus Aizaneus, the main god of the neighbouring city Aizanoi (SNG Kop. Phrygia, 83; on this god’s iconography, see von Mosch 2000). These gods equally represent interpretationes Graecae of local Anatolian male deities. Furthermore, coins are the sole testimonies for the cult of Aphrodite in Laodicea (BMC Phrygia, Laodicea, 25–47; SNG Kop. Phrygia, 512), which probably had been introduced by Antiochos II because his wife, Laodike, was identified with this goddess and her official images show a similarity with that of Aphrodite on the coins. Images of

17.  Creating sacred landscapes in Roman Phrygia: the cases of Laodicea on the Lycus and Aizanoi

Fig. 17.5. Laodicea on the Lycus (SNG Copenhagen, Phrygia 607). Bronze coin (Imperial time). Obverse: cuirassed bust of Philip II; Reverse: the river gods Kapros and Lykos, as boar and wolf.

Fig. 17.6. Laodicea on the Lycus. Medallion (Elagabalus’ time). Obverse: cuirassed bust of Elagabalus; Reverse: the city goddess seated left, below the river gods Lykos and Kapros.

The Kapros is the other river god represented on the local emissions. For instance, an emission, dated to the Antonine dynasty (BMC Phrygia, Laodicea 186; SNG Kop. Phrygia, 586), shows on its obverse a picture of the empress and on the reverse an image of the city goddess as can be identified by the coin legend. The goddess is holding a statuette of Zeus Laodikenos on the left, while below her we can recognise the images of the river gods Kapros and Lykos, as indicated by the coin legends. The meaning of the reverse is the same: polis and rivers are in unity. The statuette of Zeus, which the goddess holds, expresses the god’s close relationship with the city. Furthermore, this god also appears in the homonoia coins as the city’s protector (on the homonoia coins, see Franke and Nollé 1997). From late Hellenistic times, the river Kapros is represented as a boar on the Laodicean coins, since the word kapros also means ‘boar’. A coin, dating to the second half of the second century BC, shows a jumping boar with the monogram EKAT on the obverse, and a wolf with the legend ΛΑΟΔΙΚΕΩΝ on the reverse (BMC Phrygia, Laodicea, 111). Both images emphasise the importance of the two rivers in forming the polis’ identity as well as the relationship between the polis and its chora. These images highlight again the importance of the two rivers and the cult

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of Zeus Laodikenos for the polis. Lastly, we can mention another emission, dated to the time of Caracalla, which has a wolf and a boar on its reverse, and from their mouth springs water (Fig. 17.5; BMC Phrygia, Laodicea 128). The coin legend on the reverse, ΛΑΟΔΙΚΕΩΝ ΝΕΩΚΟΡΩΝ ΤΠΗ, announces the neokory achieved by this emperor. The reason for representing the Kapros instead of the Asopos is because this river was connected to the city by a monumental aqueduct: the Kapros was the river providing water to the city. Finally, I want to consider the image on the reverse of a coin minted in Laodicea on Lycos, representing the city goddess Laodicea, holding a cornucopia in the left and a statuette of Zeus Laodikenos on the right (Fig. 17.6; Imhoff Blumer, pl. XII, no. 23). Below, on the right side, we see the river god Kapros and on the left the river god Asopos, reclining according to ancient iconographical tradition. Through these divine personifications, this coin visualises the polis’ sacred landscape, characterised by the presence of two great rivers, essential for urban life and for the local economy. The numismatic evidence shows not only the centrality of the rivers Lykos and Kapros for defining the city identity, but also their importance for religious urban life from Hellenistic times, when the first coins were minted.

Creating a sacred landscape by the patria But why would Zeus desire a new city to be founded in Phrygia? We can find an answer to this question in the local mythical traditions (patria) that we can reconstruct by studying the iconography on the reverse of the local emissions: the territory of Laodicea presents the sacred landscape where Zeus was born and spent the first years of his childhood. Two medallions, coined under the emperor Caracalla, provide a significant iconography (SNG Kop. Phrygia, 589; LIMC I, Adrasteia II 7). We recognise a central female figure, with a mantle, holding a child on the left. She is Adrasteia, Zeus’ nurse, surrounded by four armed Korybantes dancing in order to protect the child. On the left and right sides, the river gods Lykos and Kapros are portrayed reclining (see Lindner 1995, 176–82; Nollé 2003, 636–7). These coin images, as Louis Robert suggested (1969, 359; see Chiai 2012, 61–2 with further literature and a collection of the numismatic evidence), could allude to a local tradition according to which Zeus was born not in Crete, but in Laodicea’s territory. On the obverse of another local coin, there is the bust of Zeus Aseis (Fig. 17.7; BMC Phrygia, Laodicea, 137), a local Phrygian god identified with the Greek Zeus, and, on its reverse, a representation of the goat Amaltheia together with a child (i.e. Zeus). The coin legend on the obverse is ΖΕΥΣ ΑΣΕΙΣ, on the reverse ΛΑΟΔΙΚΕΩΝ. The coin legends emphasise the strong relationship between the god and the city: Zeus is the god

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of the Laodiceans because he was born in his territory and spent his childhood there. Furthermore, this coin is a local emission for the local market circulating only in Phrygia; its iconography may therefore be interpreted as a response to the coins of the neighbouring cities, which equally claimed to be Zeus’ birthplace, as the emissions of Aizanoi for example show. Dionysus’ birth is also said to have taken place in the polis’ territory (Fig. 17.8; SNG Kop. Phrygia, 542, 580). A coin represents Zeus as kourotrophos holding a child, Dionysus (a very interesting and unique image of Zeus) as well as the goat Amaltheia (Robert 1969, 359; Lindner 1995, 176–8). Sardis is another city that claimed to be the birthplace both of Zeus and Dionysus, as an epigram of the Antologia Palatina (9.645) and the pictures on the reverses of the local coins testify. For instance, SNG München 522 shows Zeus and Dionysus as children. There is also the reverse of a local bronze coin representing an eagle with the figure of Dionysus underneath, standing in a cysta (see Weiss 1992; Lindner 1995, 131–5; Nollé 2003, 638–9). The rise of these traditions aiming at constructing an ancient and noble Greek origin for the Phrygian polis is connected to the creation of a sacred landscape where the

Fig. 17.7. Laodicea on the Licus (BMC Phrygia, Laodicea 137). Pseudo-autonomous coin (Severian dynasty time). Obverse: diademed and draped bust of Zeus; Reverse: goat Amaltheia.

Fig. 17.8. Laodicea on the Lycus (SNG Copenhagen, Phrygia 542). Pseudo-autonomous coin (Imperial time). Obverse: head of Demos; Reverse: Zeus Kourotrophos holding the infant Dionysos with the goat Amaltheia (left).

myths take place – the natural scenery for the patria. In this context, the local place names were translated into Greek: the river names Asopos, Lycos and Kapros are typical Greek names; the name of the mountain, Kadmos, where the rivers originate from, refers to Thebes, where Dionysus was particularly popular.

Competing sacred landscapes: the case of Aizanoi Aizanoi represents another interesting case for the creation and transformation of a sacred landscape. Originally, Aizanoi was the seat of an ancient sanctuary of Zeus, i.e. presumably an ancient Anatolian male god who was identified with Zeus. Following the political annexation of north-east Phrygia by the Pergamene king Attalos I, the sanctuary received rich estates. Neither the original position of the sanctuary nor its architectural shape is known. The military settlement around this sacred area must have constituted the first fulcrum of the civic community, which was recognised as polis during the first century BC. During Roman imperial times, particularly under the Julio-Claudians and Hadrian, the city was monumentalised by the construction of a colossal temple dedicated to Zeus – and probably to Rhea-Cybele (Naumann 1967; 1969; Jes et al. 2010), a luxurious bath complex and a stadium. Opposite the temple, an agora was constructed with a small temple, probably dedicated to Azan (or Aizan), the mythical founder of Aizanoi. According to a tradition transmitted by Pausanias (8.4.3; 9.32.3), Azan was the son of Arkas, the ancestral and eponymous king of Arcadia, who led Arcadian settlers to Phrygia; he is said to reside in the region of the river Patroklos where we find the holy cave Steunos and where people worshipped Meter Steunene (on the iconography see Ateş 2010; Fig. 17.9). As the founder of Aizanoi, Azan’s cult in the agora allowed the Aizanitians to claim a Greek Arcadian origin that legitimated their admission at the Panhellenion, which was instituted by Hadrian. The above-mentioned Meter Steunene was a local Phrygian goddess, whom the Greeks interpreted as Rhea; her cave was considered the birthplace of Zeus. We can see how a sacred landscape was constructed by transferring the most important Greek mythical traditions from Crete to the territory of Aizanoi, which became the place where Zeus was born and spent the first years of his childhood. This reconstruction is predominantly based on the numismatic evidence, since the coin reverses of the local emissions have images connected to these myths (Robert 1981; Jes 2007). For instance, the reverse of a local bronze coin of Aizanoi shows Meter Steunene as Rhea holding Zeus on the right and surrounded by the dancing armed Korybantes (von Aulock 1969, 91, pl. 77, no. 62). The Zeus temple, where Rhea was also worshipped, was the most important sacred institution of the city, as testified by the epigraphic evidence. The building had a subterranean chamber, reproducing the form

17.  Creating sacred landscapes in Roman Phrygia: the cases of Laodicea on the Lycus and Aizanoi

Fig. 17.9. Aizanoi (von Aulock 1969, 89, 17). Pseudo-autonomous coin (Imperial time). Obverse: head of Boule; Reverse: Kybele seated.

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Fig. 17.10. Aizanoi (von Aulock 1969, 91, 62). Bronze coin (Commodus’ reign). Obverse: cuirassed bust of Commodus; Reverse: goat Amaltheia.

Fig. 17.11. Aizanoi (SNG München, Phrygia 36). Bronze coin (Hadrianic period). Obverse: bust of Hadrian; Reverse: river god Penkalos, holding the infant Zeus.

Fig. 17.12. Acmoneia (BMC Phrygia, Acmoneia 101). Bronze coin (Trebonianus Gallus’ reign). Obverse: cuirassed bust of Trebonianus Gallus; Reverse: Adrasteia advancing right, holding the infant Zeus, three Kuretes around, each in armour and holding sword and shield.

of a cave, where religious ceremonies reminiscent of Zeus’ birth were probably celebrated. Rhea’s figure on the coins could depict the real cult statue of the goddess, worshipped in the cave, represented as kourotrophos with her child. Another coin depicts the goat Amaltheia on the reverse, again indicating Aizanoi as Zeus’ birthplace (Fig. 17.10; von Aulock 1969, 91, pl. 77, no. 62). This representation could be explained as a response to the Laodicean emissions claiming to be god’s birthplace. Another specimen shows the river god Penkalos on the reverse, holding a child on the right (Fig. 17.11; SNG München 36); according to the interpretation of Louis Robert (Robert 1981, 353–7; Lindner 1995, 172; Chiai 2012, 59–61), this shows Zeus bathing in the river. The territory of Aizanoi became a sacred landscape where the myth of Zeus’ birth took place and where the father of the gods spent his infancy. In the case of Aizanoi, we can reconstruct a Greek interpretation of the local deities, connected with the appropriation and transformation of the pre-existing sacred landscape: Meter Steunene’s cave became the cave of Rhea and the birthplace of the god. Finally, I want to examine a medallion from Akmoneia coined under Gordian. It represents, according to contemporary iconography, Adrasteia, the dancing Korybantes and

the child Zeus (Fig. 17.12; LIMC I, Adrasteia II 4; on this coin see Robert 1975; Lindner 1995, 183–5; Nollé 2003, 636–7; Chiai 2012, 62–3). This image reproduces a local mythical tradition of Zeus’ birth that was inserted in the polis’ landscape. The birth could have probably taken place in a cave situated in the mountain Akmon. The city is named after Akmon, one of the Korybantes who protected Zeus (on this tradition, see Nonnus Dionysiaca 13.143, 28.309–18, 37.682). This myth has been used both to construct a Greek identity for Akmoneia and create a sacred landscape in its territory. Together with similar coins from Apameia (SNG von Aulock 3514) and Tralleis (BMC Lydia, Tralleis, 138) and the same iconography in Cos (Nollé 2015), we see that all these coin images suggest a common iconographical model to represent this mythical tradition. These coins probably reproduce real monuments, like statues and paintings, which people could see in public urban spaces, glorifying the cities’ mythical past. Unfortunately, most of these monuments are lost, many destroyed by Christians in Late Antiquity. Important exceptions are the theatre reliefs from Nysa and Hierapolis. The relief cycle from the theatre of Nysa represents Dionysus’ birth in the polis’ territory (Lindner 1995, 103–71;

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Nollé 2003, 638–40). According to Strabo (14.1.44), writing in the Augustan period, Nysa claimed to be Dionysus’ birthplace. The presence of river gods and local nymphs insinuates that these deities – personifications of the natural elements of Nysa’s landscape – were involved in the myth. Here and elsewhere, local gods associated with the territory seem to play a central role in the creation of the mythical traditions and in constructing a Greek origin for these cities. The theatre reliefs of Hierapolis represent the rape of Kore by Hades, which took place, according to the local tradition, not in Sicily but in Hierapolis where a famous ploutoneion existed, which was considered as entrance to the realm of Hades. Coins of Hierapolis, minted under the emperor Hadrian, reproduced the images of this relief (SNG Kop. Phrygia, 428, 461). Among the other reliefs of this cycle, there is the representation of the birth of Apollo and Artemis (D’Andria and Ritti 1985, 100–2, pl. 28.2; 143–65, pls 37–43; D’Andria 2010, 161–81; on this tradition, see remarks in Price 2005, 118–19). In local understanding, their birth took place in Ephesus, not in Delos, as indicated by the statue of Artemis Ephesina. This suggests that Hierapolis accepted Ephesus as birthplace of the Lethoids; the so-called homonoia coins testify the good political relationships between Hierapolis and Ephesus (Franke and Nollé 1997, 40–1, nos 322–30). A fragment of the Delian historian Semos (FGrHist 396, F 20), transmitted by Stephanus of Byzantium, informs us that Delos, Miletus, Athens, Tegyra and many other cities claimed in their local traditions to be the birthplace of Apollo. The claims to be a deity’s birthplace are particularly pursued by the poleis of the Greek East, which aspired to be admitted to the Panhellenion and needed to demonstrate their Greek origins.

Conclusions Based on the numismatic evidence, we are able to reconstruct local mythical traditions in the Greek East. We have seen how these cities – in competition with each other – constructed a Greek origin by claiming to be the birthplace of deities like Zeus, Dionysus and Artemis. In Laodicea on the Lycus, the images of the rivers Lycus and Kapros on the coins, depicted both as animals (wolf and boar) and traditional river gods, allude to the central role that natural elements of the territory played in the creation of a polis’ Greek identity and a new sacred landscape where these new mythical traditions are said to have taken place. The coins of Aizanoi make it possible to reconstruct the transformation and manipulation of local religious traditions and the sacred landscape in order to construct an Arcadian origin. The competition for the status as a god’s birthplace was a widespread phenomenon among the Greek cities in Roman times, particularly during the Second Sophistic. Regarding the cities that claimed to be Zeus’ birthplace, Pausanias

(4.33.1) asserted ironically: ‘It is a hopeless task, however zealously taken, to enumerate all the peoples who claim that Zeus was born and brought up among them’. Concerning these mythical traditions, we must, however, consider the historical context of its origins: the Hellenistic period. During Hellenistic times, the founding of Greek poleis in Phrygia and the arrival of Greek-speaking communities in the region must have led to processes of acculturation and interaction with the local population, particularly in the religious sphere. Previously, there were a few urban centres in Phrygia that probably had their own mythical traditions and cults, while in the countryside there was a mixed population of Phrygians and Iranians. The Greeks often had to deal with such a mixed environment. The local myths are mostly unknown to us, as we have seen. The Mother of the Gods (Kybele) may have been the chief deity of the Phrygians. She was a place-bound fertility deity whose paredros was a heavenly god whom the Greeks equated with Zeus. Their union is said to have created a divine child – whose birth probably took place in a mountain cave – connected to nature and its seasonal cycles. This divine couple and the birth of the child formed the basis of many local mythical traditions with which the Greeks came into contact and which they transformed: the mountains and rivers of the region represented the religious landscape in which these myths acted. This transformation shows the appropriation of the territory and its cultural traditions by the Greek colonisers. These have tried to establish a new cultural memory through the transformation or ‘Hellenisation’ of these myths. These traditions, albeit in a Hellenic habitus, enable us to reconstruct the survival of the Anatolian substratum even in myths of the Greek poleis. Most of these legends are known to us from the Roman imperial period when the poleis competed for ἀρχαιότης and εὐγένεια, especially in the Greek East.

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18 On urban rock sanctuaries of eastern Greece Florian Schimpf

καὶ ἐν τῷ ὅλῳ δέ τινες αὐτὴν μεμῖχθαί φασιν, ὅθεν ἴσως καὶ Θαλῆς ᾠήθη πάντα πλήρη θεῶν εἶναι (Aristotle de anima I 5.411 a 7–8)

This is a very famous, and at the same time, much-discussed quotation that has survived from Antiquity. It refers to the belief that inanimate nature (literally every river, mountain top, cave and rock) is numinous, but obviously the gods’ presence has not been apparent and permanently manifested everywhere. Therefore, by studying rock sanctuaries, especially the ones within an urban, yet geogenic, scenery, this paper aims to contribute to a better understanding of the divine nature in Hellenic Asia Minor. Such can easily be imagined when confronted with carvings such as the one visible near the modern road from Pythagorio to the tunnel of Eupalinos at Samos (Fig. 18.1). Here, the god(dess)’s epiphany has been permanently visualised and we see the most revealing element of a so-called rock sanctuary. Elaborately hewn out of a rock and eventually provided with hinges, some impressive niches in a door-like shape can even be named ‘Erscheinungstüren’, i.e. ‘epiphany doors’ (Held 2010, 360). Natural and artificial terraces, platforms or even antechambers are usually found in front of or near to them. Due to the variety of these spots, the eastern Greek poleis of Ionia and Aeolia are very much suited to an investigation of prerequisites, developments and forms of such precincts in an epoch-spanning context. Since many of them are situated inside the city walls, they represent a fascinating kind of natural yet urbanised sacred landscape to investigate, though this paper can only provide an insight into the diversity of questions and will focus on selected spots, chosen by their location, their spatial and potential semantic contexts (as a preliminary report of my research project Mensch – Landschaft – Religion: Eine Untersuchung zur Genese, Gestaltung und Wahrnehmung heiliger Naturräume in Kleinasien at the University of Mainz). To start with,

I shall sum up the history of research and explain what a rock sanctuary can look like, then describe the findings and finally discuss a few more general questions relating to the precincts mentioned. Eastern Greek rock sanctuaries have not always been the focus of research, but they have been, in the case of the landscapes in question, more or less well explored by now. The increasing interest may be illustrated by a brief description of their publication: in the context of the necropolis excavations in 1884, Johannes Boehlau mentioned in passing rock-cut niches and depictions of Cybele at Samos (Staatliche Museen Kassel 1996, 182–3). Similarly, Theodor Wiegand points to a possible rock sanctuary at Myous, seen during his short stay in 1908 (1935, 1436). With the work of Josef Keil, who unveiled sites on Mount Panayır at Ephesus (1915; 1926, 256–61), the interest in them noticeably increased, though he focused on iconographical issues. In 1957, after the construction of the new street leading up to the citadel, Erich Boehringer reports on rockcut niches at Pergamon’s western slope (1959, 128). The first extensive studies took place in the late 1960s and the following decade, when Ernst Langlotz first published rock sanctuaries on Mount Değirmen at Phokaia (1966, 21; 1969, 383–4) and the impressive precinct of Meter at Kapıkaya near Pergamon has been examined under the direction of Wolfgang Radt (Nohlen and Radt 1978; Radt 1978), just to name some of the well-known examples. Far more sites, unearthed during the last two decades at Priene (last: Raeck and Rumscheid 2011, 60–1; Raeck 2013, 291–2; Filges 2015), Pergamon (Pirson 2011, 86–120, 129–33; 2013, 93–7), Phokaia (Özyiğit 1999, 46–55; 2003, 118; Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000), Erythrai (Erdoğan 2006; Akalın Orbay

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2008; 2012) and Ephesus (Kerschner 2009, 18–9; 2010, 42–3; 2011, 29), even enlarged the number of known rock sanctuaries at coastal landscapes. Thus, if nothing else, the actuality of their emergence makes them a phenomenon worth (re-)examining. It seems worth beginning with a short introduction to this type of sanctuary. Speaking of rock sanctuaries, one may start by asking: what makes a rock sanctuary and what is a rock sanctuary? The usage of that term seems to contain numerous views and ideas of what they are. Remnants of human workmanship on rocks serving a religious purpose can be traced back to the very early days of Anatolian history, probably for the first time discernibly with Yazılıkaya at the gates of the Hittite capital Hattuša (Işık 1996, 51). The open-air sanctuary of the second half of the second millennium BC consists of two natural chambers with rock-cut reliefs depicting more than 90 gods, animals and fabulous creatures (Fig. 18.2). The major one bears a procession of the Hittite gods. Over the course of time and dependent on the cultural landscape, rock-cut monuments developed

in different forms: niches with or without rock-cut reliefs; so-called step monuments, which means altars or thrones; basins and so-called rock cellae, just to name the main elements (cf. Işık 1996, 59–62; Berndt-Ersöz 2009, 11). Of course, this differentiation and classification into several elements is modern, as the distinction of a rock and a sacred cave or grotto. However, the latter sometimes represented an essential part of the sacred precinct and should therefore not be left aside per se. This affiliation of rock and cave appears in several spots, exemplarily at Samos (v. infra; cf. the sanctuary of Meter at Kapıkaya near Pergamon; Nohlen and Radt 1978; Radt 1978). The elements mentioned, whether altogether or individually, can indicate a rock sanctuary. They sometimes appear solitary, sometimes in conjunction with another element and sometimes the site in question combines several elements. The type of site may originate, as mentioned, in late Hittite rock-cut shrines, nevertheless rocks must have been thought sacred much earlier. Following Fahri Işık, who recently pointed out a constant development from east to west and from the Early Iron Age up to classical times (1996, esp. 53, 56), niches, stepped altars and basins appear in Urartu, the landscape lying in between Phrygia in the west and Assyria in the south (Işık 1996, esp. 52). According to Işık, the numerous and monumental Phrygian examples of the Middle Phrygian period, that is to say the eighth to sixth centuries BC, may have derived or at least been influenced from Urartu (Işık 1996, 52–3; Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 17; for Phrygian rock-cut monuments, see Haspels 1971; against this assumption, cf. Vassileva 2001, 58). The Phrygian monuments are again considered models for the numerous rock sanctuaries in western Asia Minor, especially in Lycia (Işık 1996, 53, 56). The oldest specimens on the western coast already appear in archaic times at Phokaia and the islands of Chios and Samos. Again, from

Fig. 18.1. Mount Ampelos at Samos, rock-cut niche with a seated figure.

Fig. 18.2. Yazılıkaya (Hattuša), main chamber with the famous depiction of the Hittite gods.

18.  On urban rock sanctuaries of eastern Greece Phokaia the cult of Cybele, plainly an indication for a rock cult, had been transferred to the west, as indicated by finds at the Phokaian colonies Massalia, nowadays Marseille in France (Naumann 1983, 139–45; Hermary 2000), and Elea/ Velia in Italy (Naumann 1983, 142–5; Greco 2005). Though there is little doubt concerning the origin and the geographical development of the quoted elements, alterations are apparent. In the course of time, and further west, the niches and monuments were becoming smaller – though Phrygian monuments may also lack the monumental facade and only consist of a tiny niche. In some way the little, sculpted and movable votive naiskoi of archaic times found in Ionia and Aeolia may mark the peak of that development, starting from impressive carvings and facades in Anatolia and diverging to numerous, yet plain, niches and solitary votive reliefs in eastern Greece. The exemplary Phrygian monuments mentioned above are mostly situated ‘on the boundaries of the human and the natural landscape’, that is to say extra-urban in impressive terrain (Roller 2009, 2; cf. Işık 1996, 52; Roller 1999, 113). Since many Greek rock sanctuaries are found within an urban landscape, commonly situated at the cities’ boundaries, it is their remarkable location that differentiates them from their Anatolian predecessors. One of the remote Ionian rock sanctuaries is also one of the oldest examples. The famous ‘Daskalopetra’ or ‘School of Homer’ on the Ionian island of Chios, a sanctuary of Cybele whose name derives from the belief that it has been the location of Homer’s teachings in poetry, lies some 6 km north of Chios town near Pityos (Rubensohn and Watzinger 1928; Kaletsch 1980; Naumann 1983, 150–2; Graf 1985, 107–15; Roller 1999, 138). It consists of a big rock, which fell from Mount Epos and formed a cave-like space underneath and a natural terrace on top of it, comparable to the cult sites at Kapıkaya near Pergamon and, more generally, the precinct of Meter Steunene at Aizanoi in Phrygia (cf. Wiegand 1911; Rubensohn 1928, 115; Naumann 1967; 1983, 151). The top has been smoothed, with the exception of a bank or a wall at the northern and eastern side and a cube that has been carved out. A depiction of the seated Mother Goddess, facing the nearby seaside, is carved in the front of that cube. The sides bear depictions of lions, the rear the relief of a panther. Due to its style, the whole site has been dated to the late archaic period and thus seems to be one of the earliest cult sites of Cybele in Ionia (Rubensohn 1928, 116; Kaletsch 1980, 227–8; Naumann 1983, 151–2; Graf 1985, 107–8). Nearby, at the coast opposite Chios, lies the city of Phokaia. One of its numerous rock sanctuaries is situated at the harbour, in front of the city wall (Fig. 18.3). In terms of orientation, it resembles the Chian sanctuary (Özyiğit 1999, 46–51; Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 12, 21). Its founding has been related to the construction of the wall (cf. Herodotus 1.163–4) at the beginning of the

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Fig. 18.3. Phokaia, so-called harbour sanctuary in front of the city wall.

sixth century BC, since the bottommost stones had been cut here. A predecessor cult may have been underneath the temple of Athena, where basin-like cavities can still be seen. The precinct consists of a straightened rock with five niches hewn out of it (the largest probably bore the cult statue; see Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 21), at the front it had a place for the gathering of the worshippers 1 m above sea level. Stairs provided access from the seaside. A comparable location outside, yet very close to the city walls, has been observed on the island of Samos and at Ephesus. At Samos, one of the three rock sanctuaries lies outside, but very close to the eastern passage of the city wall (Yannouli 2004, 117). At Ephesus, different precincts dedicated to Zeus and Meter (Fig. 18.4) and identifiable through rock inscriptions (Meter: Keil 1915, 67; Zeus: SEG IV 524) are located at the north-eastern slopes of Mount Panayır (Keil 1915; 1926, 256–61; Naumann 1983, 214–16). Nearby, a pre-classical fortification wall runs across the steep and rocky slope (Keil 1926, 261), the top of which not only had late archaic traces of settlement, but

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Fig. 18.4. Mount Panayır at Ephesus, open-air sanctuary.

another terrace dedicated to Meter that has recently been unveiled (Kerschner 2009, 18–19; 2010, 42–3; 2011, 29). The earliest inscription, the one to Zeus Mainalos, has been dated to the second half of the fifth century (Scherrer 1999, 384); the spectrum of finds made in the precinct of Meter indicates a peak in Hellenistic times. It seems reasonable to relate the sanctuaries’ emerging to the developments on top of them. The precinct uncovered in 2009 seems to date to the middle of the third century (Kerschner 2010, 42–3; 2011, 29) and thus can be associated with an expansion of the mentioned wall above it. Despite being extra-mural, the latter cult sites were not really placed in a non-urban environment, since they are situated very close to the cities’ fortifications and thus the city itself. Additionally, at Phokaia and Samos far more niches and consequently more rock sanctuaries have been recorded intra muros, namely at the hills called Değirmen and Altınmağara in the east of Phokaia (Langlotz 1966, 21; Naumann 1983, 153–5; Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 17–21) and at Ampelos north of Samos (Yannouli 2004). At Değirmen Tepesi more than 100 niches have been recorded, 84 of them hewn out of an isolated rock in the southern area of the hill (Fig. 18.5). Two stairways (Fig. 18.6) provided access between the various levels of the precinct that consisted of antechambers, isolated rocks and one well in the south-west. At the hill called Altınmağara, which is located south of Değirmen Hill, 13 rock-cut niches, situated in two locations, in combination with an eponymous cave have recently been counted. The city wall runs across the two hills close to the sanctuaries (Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 17, 20). The two remaining Samian examples lie within the city, too, at Mount Ampelos, a hill that rises directly north of the ancient city but had to be integrated into the wall, similar to Phokaia, for fortifiable reasons. They can be distinguished in one precinct in the area of Glyphada at the western border of the city and another one north of the modern Pythagorio-Eupalinos tunnel road, which more or less matches the ancient borderline of the inhabited area

Fig. 18.5. Mount Değirmen at Phokaia, rock-cut niches.

Fig. 18.6. Mount Değirmen at Phokaia, rock-cut stairs and niches.

and the mountainous landscape north of it (Yannouli 2004, 117; cf. Strabo 14.1.14). The former precinct occupies a low hill between the sanctuaries of Demeter in the north and Artemis in the south. Access to the higher levels of the sanctuary has been granted by stairs. Furthermore, cuttings for statue plinths, dedicatory bases or wooden columns have been found throughout the site (Yannouli 2004, 119). The cult’s centre has been identified with a higher point, where the rock had been cut in the form of a throne, following the older Anatolian examples (see above; Yannouli 2004, 119). The latter sanctuary (Fig. 18.7) spreads along the horizontal axis of the slope from approximately 150 m west of the eastern fortification wall to the end of the tunnel of Eupalinos in the west. It includes natural terraces for altars or statues of the goddess (Yannouli 2004, 117–18) and caves in the rock, one being provided with a rock-cut bank (Yannouli 2004, 118). The Samian sanctuaries are dated through finds from late archaic up to late Hellenistic times (Freyer-Schauenburg 1974, 173–4, no. 87 with pl. 73; Horn 1972, 112–15, nos 84 a–f with pl. 59 and addendum 12, 26; 212–14, nos 174 a–d with addendum 26).

18.  On urban rock sanctuaries of eastern Greece

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Fig. 18.7. Mount Ampelos at Samos, rock-cut niches.

Fig. 18.8. Myous, rock sanctuary.

At Erythrai in Ionia, comparable to Phokaia and Samos, countless niches were hewn out of rocks at distinct areas. Four rock sanctuaries can be distinguished, one of them being Roman and thus not considered in this paper (cf. Akalın Orbay 2012). The pre-Roman ones are all lying intra muros, occupying and spreading all over the inner-city’s natural scenery. One precinct, consisting of just one rock and a niche, lies near the northern part of the city’s wall. A second precinct is situated near the city’s south-eastern boundary. The numerous niches here all face west, roughly in the direction of the citadel, where not only the city’s main cult but further rock-cut niches are situated at the northern, southern and western slopes. All in all, about 200 niches have recently been counted at Erythrai, dating from archaic to Hellenistic times (Erdoğan 2006, 115). At Ionian Myous, a rock sanctuary is located at the gateway to the hill that bears the city’s main sanctuaries, directly at the waterfront and facing the sea (Fig. 18.8). Coming from the south, one crosses the necropolis and the city nowadays, before reaching the hill that bears the city’s sanctuaries (Weber 1965, 43–64; cf. Pausanias 7.2.10–11 and Strabo 14.1.10). Underneath the Byzantine castle, two niches hewn out of a worked rock in combination with surrounding walls and a basin in the west indicate a rock sanctuary. Wiegand reported that at this same place he had found terracottas, ‘die eine Muttergottheit (mit Kind auf dem Schoß) darstellen, der dort ein Altar errichtet gewesen sein mag’ (Wiegand 1935, 1436). Whilst excavating at the temple-terrace, Weber, too, mentioned the finding of a terracotta statuette, depicting a woman with a child on her left arm and probably corresponding to the ones Wiegand found (Weber 1967, 143, no. 2, pl. 9.2). Wiegand’s report, in combination with the site, suggests a cult place of a Mother Goddess. Furthermore, its location and its opening to the nearby sea are reminiscent of the so-called harbour sanctuary at Phokaia and perhaps of the above-mentioned Chian sanctuary. At all sites, the niches face the open sea, a reference that may at first seem rather unusual for a goddess of the mountains.

However, as a votive relief of Hellenistic times, probably found in the environment of Kyzikos, reveals, the adoration of Cybele at the seaside has not been such an oddity as one may imagine nowadays: it bears the depiction of the three gods Hermes, Zeus and Cybele; on the left, the coastline with a ship behind is visible (Conze 1891, 191–3; Smith 1892, 362, no. 788; cf. the cult of Cybele at Kyzikos, see Herodotus 4.76). To emphasise the goddess’s connection to the sea, it is worth taking a look back at Phokaia and its offshore islands Incir and Orak. The former has been identified with the island Bacchium mentioned by Livy (37.21). At its east side, several niches, bases and basins have been found and identified with cult places (Özyiğit 1999, 52–3; Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 21–3). The spot studied best is edged by the rock at three sides and, like the so-called harbour sanctuary onshore, open at the seaside. A relief of a female goddess, probably Cybele, is hewn out of the cliff. At Orak, the larger of the two islands, basins and one block of stone that has been interpreted as a depiction of the Mother Goddess are the elements that constitute a sacred precinct at the eastern coast. The implied trend, i.e. the foundation of rock sanctuaries in an urban, albeit natural scenery, continues in Hellenistic times. Priene in Ionia is a late classical foundation whose predecessor city remains unknown. The city is situated at the foot of its steep acropolis, called Teloneia. At the north-eastern part of the settlement, in between the precipice and the city’s wall, excavations during the last seven years have unearthed a sacred precinct consisting of a natural terrace, some artificial elements, such as water canals and walls and, as its background, a prominent crag with two small niches facing south-east hewn out of it (cf. most recently: Raeck 2011, 60–1; 2013, 291–2). This spot may have been one of several cult sites spreading along the horizontal axis of the slope between the lower and the upper city, still awaiting exploration (Filges 2012, 163; Raeck 2013, 291–2). It lies within the city’s boundaries and had been used before as a quarry for the nearby city wall (Filges 2015, 87), as the

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Phokaian harbour sanctuary had been used for quarry works, too. Finds made in the precinct, especially ceramics and terracottas of dancers and Cybele, confirm a Hellenistic dating (Raeck 2011, 60; 2013, 291). Pergamon, the seat of the Attalids, displays very similar features. At its western and eastern slope excavations recently unearthed quite a few cult places, consisting of niches, throne-like carvings and water canals (cf. Pirson 2011, 86–120, 129–33; 2013, 93–7). The slopes in question had been integrated into the city wall in the course of the city’s expansion under Eumenes in the second century BC. Finds made at the spots on the eastern slope indicate that the sacred precincts had been in use from the second century BC onwards, and that their emergence can thus be linked to the building of the new city wall. To emphasise this conspicuousness, the noticeable foundation of natural cult sites in an urban landscape, one may think of the grottoes that had been carved into rocks at quite a few neighbouring cities at that same time. The grotto underneath the theatre of Miletus, which was unearthed in 2013, may serve as the latest example (Niewöhner 2016). At Karian Knidos, existing hollows at an upper east terrace had already been enlarged and integrated into the so-called sanctuary of the Muses in late classical times (Bruns-Özgan 2002, 93–4). Two more artificial grottoes had been constructed at Rhodes and Karian Herakleia at the same time – cities that were newly founded in that time. Herakleia is the succession city of Latmos at the foot of the eponymous mountain. There, the old cult of the mountain god and beloved of Selene, Endymion, had been transferred from its adyton at Mount Latmos – probably identifiable with an impressive cave north-west of the agora at Latmos that had been decorated with ceiling paintings in Byzantine times – into a grotto-like temple in the south of the new city (Peschlow-Bindokat 1996, 27–8, 37). Rhodes owes its existence to a synoecism in late classical times. Here, the grotto traverses a large part of the acropolis (Neumann 2012). A closer examination thus reveals a remarkable accumulation of urban natural cult sites from late classical times onwards that goes along with an intensified usage in general, as is indicated by the spectrum of finds at Ephesus, Samos and Kapıkaya (Nohlen and Radt 1978, 32–68; Radt 1999, 244) and the founding of new sites at Priene, Ephesus (Kerschner 2010, 42–3; 2011, 29), Pergamon and Phokaia (Özyiğit 1999, 48). Regarding the locations of these spots, we recognise that they are situated in a more or less natural environment at the city’s hillsides or slopes: at the hillsides of Phokaia, Samos and Erythrai, at the western and eastern slopes at Pergamon, at the slope just below the steep face of the acropolis at Priene and at the naturally terraced slopes on Mount Panayır at Ephesus. At Phokaia, Myous and Chios the sites are related to the nearby seaside. According to terracotta finds, the sanctuaries were often dedicated to Cybele-Meter – though one must not consider

every niche as dedicated to the Great Goddess. In fact, the naming of only one addressee seems in some cases rather questionable. At Erythrai, not only missing finds, but also the fact that the sanctuaries have never been excavated, impedes the identification of the god(dess). At Pergamon and Priene, numerous finds, among them terracotta statuettes of Cybele, have been discovered, but they remain ambiguous. Examples of the possible heterogeneity of worshipped gods are the niches and votive naiskoi found at Mount Panayır at Ephesus (v. supra). Here, inscriptions inform us about precincts dedicated to Zeus and Meter, the reliefs uncovered additionally depict a younger male deity (Keil 1915; 1926, 256–61). All of the mentioned rock formations existed before, but many of them apparently had not been considered sacred until after quarry or construction work. The rock at Priene must have become sacred after its stone had been used for the building of the city wall; similar to this is the so-called harbour sanctuary at Phokaia. Another terrace dedicated to Meter joined the existing cults at Mount Panayır in the course of a fortifiable expansion. Not least, the sanctuaries’ close locations to the cities’ walls, if not random, suggest an emergence during the construction of the walls, but this is a satisfactory explanation rather than an observable coincidence. Regarding such possible reasons for charging geogenic nature with sacrificial meaning in view of what has been said, usefulness seems to have been a criterion. The area at Priene where the rock sanctuary is situated bears far more impressive ledges, but the ones chosen were those used for and smoothed by building the city wall before. The same happened at Phokaia. There, the rock that bears the niches had been cut for the building of the archaic city wall on its top. A question that must remain unanswered for the moment is whether these sites were used out of functional (the rock had already been ‘prepared’) or other imaginable reasons (e.g. to appease the goddess). Besides functionality, another factor may have been equally decisive, namely the view and visibility. The rural sanctuary at Kapıkaya lies in a visual axis to Pergamon’s western slope, its main niche faces the city, and the sanctuary of Meter at Mamurtkale can be seen from the eastern slope (Radt 1978, 599). Several potential rock sanctuaries have recently been found at these slopes. The Phokaian niches mainly face west in the direction of the nearby islands Incir and Orak that bear sanctuaries of the Mother Goddess (Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 21–3), and the city’s main sanctuary with the temple of Athena and, probably, the earliest cult of Cybele underneath it (v. supra). The site at Priene not only provides a fantastic view to the mythologically significant Mount Latmos, but overlooks the city and the sea behind, as do the sanctuaries at Samos. Furthermore, one of these sanctuaries lies in between the sacred precincts of the related goddesses Demeter and Artemis, very much

18.  On urban rock sanctuaries of eastern Greece comparable to the orientation of the Ephesian precincts that face the sanctuary of Artemis. Despite such assumptions, which can hardly be verified, another factor will finally be considered. As mentioned before, most of the rock sanctuaries are situated at the cities’ periphery. They are located outside, but close to the city walls at Phokaia, Samos and Ephesus, inside and nearby the walls at Priene, Samos, Erythrai and Phokaia. At Myous and Phokaia they are located at a natural border, the seaside. Thus, we see a predominant location nearby the cities’ borders, whether natural or artificial. At some places, the question in dispute is whether the sanctuaries were founded before or after the building of the borderline. At Priene, Phokaia and Ephesus it seems ascertainable that they were founded in the course of the building of the walls, but there is no proof for this hypothesis at Erythrai. Whether inside or outside the walls, their nearby location may be explained in two ways: one is that due to the strategic inclusion of hillsides at the vicinity of a city into the pathway of the walls, natural yet unusable belts arose at the borderline of the residential town (for the ‘Geländemauer’, cf. von Gerkan 1924, 110–11). These belts, often sloping and littered with rocks, are unusable for cultivation, but suitable for natural cult sites. Another explanation is that the nearby borderline, whether constructed or natural, matched the guarding character of Cybele. Despite ambiguous findings at some places, the majority of rock sanctuaries near city walls seem to have been dedicated to the Mother of the Gods, whose guarding character has long been attested (Naumann 1983, 244; Simon 1997, 745, 765–6; Özyiğit and Erdoğan 2000, 16; in general, see Vermaseren 1977; Naumann 1983; Roller 1999). One may consider that the sanctuary of Cybele at Priene, at the south-western ending of the residential area (Fig. 18.9), is rather a rock than an untreated open-air sanctuary (Wiegand 1904, 171–2; Rumscheid 1998, 98–9). Its location close to the city’s western gate matches the locations of the rock sanctuaries mentioned before. Again, the sanctuary’s location had to have been unusable for another housing complex since it is confined by the wall. It therefore appears that location, scenery and the deity’s character semantically depended on each other and both explanations are to be considered equally: natural, yet unusable belts, which arose in the course of the construction of the cities’ borderlines, were not only suitable for natural cult sites, but also for deities with guarding characters. Loosely based on Ovid’s works (Fasti 4.219–21) one is inclined to ask why Cybele’s sanctuaries are located near the walls. Was it because she first brought the fortification wall to mankind? The answer, like the one given in the Fasti, may be yes. It is the goddess’s nature that not only defines the location, but the orientation of her cult sites. In her function as a guarding goddess, her cult sites at Erythrai, Ephesus, Priene, Samos, Pergamon and Phokaia (if it is indeed the goddess, who had been worshipped at Erythrai, Priene and Pergamon) are located very close to the

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Fig. 18.9. Priene, open-air sanctuary of Cybele.

Fig. 18.10. Offshore islands seen from Mount Değirmen, Phokaia.

fortification walls. From here, she was capable of overseeing the city and the sea behind, as can be understood at Priene, Samos and Phokaia (Fig. 18.10). The mistress of the sea can easily be observed at Myous, Chios, Phokaia and its offshore islands Incir and Orak. The development goes along with an intensified usage of natural cult sites and an increasing treatment of nature in ancient literature, namely Theocritus and the pastoral poetry. Whether the intensified usage and the increase of inner-city cult foundations is connected to that development in literature, which is usually explained by an increasing urbanisation in Hellenistic times, cannot yet be answered. However, the development, as shown, suggests that the cult at a rock started at rural sites in eastern Anatolia, at the latest in classical times, and became a regular feature of inner-city cult practice in eastern Greece.

Bibliography Akalın Orbay, A.G. (2008) Traces of the Mother Goddess in Erythrai. In E. Winter (ed.) Vom Euphrat bis zum Bosporus. Kleinasien in der Antike. Festschrift Elmar Schwertheim, Asia Minor Studien 65, 1–7. Bonn, R. Habelt.

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Akalın Orbay, A.G. (2012) Erythrai’da Ana Tanrıçanın izleri II. In T. Yiğit and M.A. Kaya and A. Sina (eds) Ömer Çapar’a Armağan, 1–12. Ankara, Hel Yayıncılık. Berndt-Ersöz, S. (2009) Sacred space in Iron Age Phrygia. In C. Gates, J. Morin and T. Zimmermann (eds) Sacred Landscapes in Anatolia and Neighboring Regions, 11–19. Oxford, Archaeopress. Boehringer, E. (1959) Pergamon. In Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (ed.) Neue deutsche Ausgrabungen im Mittelmeergebiet und im Vorderen Orient, 121–71. Berlin, Gebr. Mann. Bruns-Özgan, C. (2002) Knidos. Ein Führer durch die Ruinen. Konya, Pozitif Matbaacılık. Conze, A. (1891) Hermes-Kadmilos. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 16, 191–3. Erdoğan, A. (2006) Erythrai kaya kutsal alanları. Olba. Mersin Üniversitesi Kilikia Arkeolojisini Araştırma Merkezi yayınları 13, 115–43. Filges, A. (2012) Natur als Bühne der Kultur? Der Einfluss des Naturraums auf Ort und Gestalt von Priene. In F. Pirson (ed.) Manifestationen von Macht und Hierarchien in Stadtraum und Landschaft, BYZAS 13, 151–65. Istanbul, Ege Yayınları. Filges, A. (2015) Ein Felsheiligtum im Stadtgebiet von Priene. Privater Kult im öffentlichen Raum? In K. Sporn, S. Ladstätter and M. Kerschner (eds) Natur – Kult – Raum, Akten des internationalen Kolloquiums Paris-Lodron-Universität Salzburg, 20–22. Jänner 2012, 81–110. Wien, Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut. Freyer-Schauenburg, B. (1974) Bildwerke der archaischen Zeit und des Strengen Stils, Samos 11. Bonn, R. Habelt. Graf, F. (1985) Nordionische Kulte. Religionsgeschichtliche und epigraphische Untersuchungen zu den Kulten von Chios, Erythrai, Klazomenai und Phokaia. Zürich, Schweizerisches Institut in Rom. Greco, G. (2005) Una Cibele attica a Velia. In B. Brandt, V. Gassner and S. Ladstätter (eds) Synergia. Festschrift Friedrich Krinzinger II, 45–57. Wien, Phoibos Verlag. Haspels, C.H.E. (1971) The Highlands of Phrygia. Sites and Monuments. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Held, W. (2010) Die Heiligtümer und Kulte von Loryma. In R. van Bremen and J.-M. Carbon (eds) Hellenistic Karia, Proceedings of the First International Conference on Hellenistic Karia, Oxford 29.6.–2.7.2006, 355–77. Paris, Éditions De Boccard. Hermary, A. (2000) Les naiskoi votifs de Marseille. In A. Hermary and H. Tréziny (eds) Les cultes des cités phocéennes. Actes du colloque international Aix-en-Provence/Marseille, 4–5 juin 1999, Études Massaliètes 6, 119–33. Aix-en-Provence, Edisud. Horn, R. (1972) Hellenistische Bildwerke auf Samos, Samos 12. Bonn, R. Habelt. Işık, F. (1996) Zum Ursprung lykischer Felsheiligtümer. In F. Blakolmer, K.R. Krierer, F. Krinzinger, A. Landskron-Dinstl, H.D. Szemethy and K. Zhuber-Okrog (eds) Fremde Zeiten. Festschrift Jürgen Borchhardt 1, 51–64. Wien, Phoibos Verlag. Kaletsch, H. (1980) Daskalopetra – ein Kybeleheiligtum auf Chios. In F. Krinzinger, B. Otto and E. Walde-Psenner (eds) Forschungen und Funde. Festschrift Bernhard Neutsch, Innsbrucker Beiträge zur Kulturwissenschaft 21, 223–35. Innsbruck, Verlag des Institutes für Sprachwissenschaft der Universität Innsbruck.

Keil, J. (1915) Denkmäler des Meter-Kultes. Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts in Wien 18, 66–78. Keil, J. (1926) XII. Vorläufiger Bericht über die Ausgrabungen in Ephesos. Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts in Wien 23. Beiblatt, 247–300. Kerschner, M. (2009) Panayırdağ. Wissenschaftlicher Jahresbericht des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts 2009, 18–19. Kerschner, M. (2010) Ephesos in vorhellenistischer Zeit: Die Siedlung am Nordosthang des Panayırdağ. Wissenschaftlicher Jahresbericht des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts 2010, 42–3. Kerschner, M. (2011) Ephesos in vorhellenistischer Zeit: Die Siedlung am Nordosthang des Panayırdağ. Wissenschaftlicher Jahresbericht des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts 2011, 29. Langlotz, E. (1966) Die kulturelle und künstlerische Hellenisierung der Küsten des Mittelmeers durch die Stadt Phokaia. Köln, Westdeutscher Verlag. Langlotz, E. (1969) Beobachtungen in Phokaia. Archäologischer Anzeiger 1969, 377–85. Naumann, F. (1983) Die Ikonographie der Kybele in der phrygischen und der griechischen Kunst. Istanbuler Mitteilungen, Beiheft 28. Tübingen, Ernst Wasmuth Verlag. Naumann, R. (1967) Das Heiligtum der Meter Steunene bei Aezani. Istanbuler Mitteilungen 17, 218–47. Neumann, S. (2012) Rhodos. Die rätselhaften Grotten auf der Akropolis. Antike Welt. Zeitschrift für Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte 2012(3), 73–83. Niewöhner, Ph. (2016) An ancient cave sanctuary underneath the theatre of Miletus. Beauty, mutilation, and burial of ancient sculpture in Late Antiquity, and the history of the seaward defences. Archäologischer Anzeiger 2016(2), 67–156. Nohlen, K. and Radt, W. (1978) Kapıkaya. Ein Felsheiligtum bei Pergamon, Altertümer von Pergamon 12. Berlin, De Gruyter. Özyiğit, Ö. (2003) Recent work at Phokaia in the light of Akurgal’s excavations. Anadolu/Anatolia 25, 109–27. Özyiğit, Ö. and Erdoğan, A. (2000) Les sanctuaires de Phocée à la lumière des dernières fouilles. In A. Hermary and H. Tréziny (eds) Les cultes des cités phocéennes. Actes du colloque international Aix-en-Provence/Marseille, 4–5 juin 1999, Études massaliètes 6, 11–23. Aix-en-Provence, Edisud. Özyiğit, S. (1999) Foça. Phocaea. Izmir, Arkadaş Matbaasılık. Peschlow-Bindokat, A. (1996) Der Latmos. Eine unbekannte Gebirgslandschaft an der türkischen Westküste. Mainz, Philipp von Zabern. Pirson, F. (2011) Pergamon, Bericht über die Arbeiten der Kampagne 2010. Archäologischer Anzeiger 2011(2), 81–212. Pirson, F. (2013) Pergamon – Bericht über die Arbeiten in der Kampagne 2012. Archäologischer Anzeiger 2013(2), 79–164. Radt, W. (1978) Kapıkaya bei Pergamon – Ein ländliches Heiligtum der Göttermutter Kybele und des Sonnengottes Mithras. In E. Akurgal (ed.) The Proceedings of the Xth International Congress of Classical Archaeology Vol. II, 593–603. Ankara, Türk Tarih Kurumu. Radt, W. (1999) Pergamon. Geschichte und Bauten einer antiken Metropole. Darmstadt, Primus Verlag. Raeck, W. (2013) Die Arbeiten in Priene im Jahre 2011. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı 34, 289–306.

18.  On urban rock sanctuaries of eastern Greece Raeck, W. and Rumscheid, F. (2011) Die Arbeiten in Priene im Jahre 2009. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı 32, 58–79. Roller, L.E. (1999) In Search of God the Mother. The Cult of Anatolian Cybele. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London, University of California Press. Roller, L.E. (2009) The sacred landscapes of Matar: continuity and change from the Iron Age through the Roman period. In C. Gates, J. Morin and T. Zimmermann (eds) Sacred Landscapes in Anatolia and Neighbouring Regions, 1–10. Oxford, Archaeopress. Rubensohn, O. and Watzinger, C. (1928) Die Daskalopetra auf Chios. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 53, 109–16. Rumscheid, F. (1998) Priene. Führer durch das ‘Pompeji Kleinasiens’. Istanbul, Ege Yayınları. Scherrer, P. (1999) Bemerkungen zur Siedlungsgeschichte von Ephesos vor Lysimachos. In H. Friesinger and F. Krinzinger (eds) 100 Jahre österreichische Forschungen in Ephesos, Akten des Symposions Wien 1995, 379–87. Wien, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. SEG = Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (1923– ). Simon, E. (1997) Kybele. Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae VIII, 744–66. Smith, A.H. (1892) A Catalogue of Sculpture in the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities I. London, William Clowes and Sons, Limited.

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19 Landscapes of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia Julie Baleriaux

It is the ancient belief that the Peloponnese was an habitation of Poseidon; and this country is regarded as sacred in a way to ­Poseidon, and, speaking generally, all the cities in the Peloponnese pay honour to this god more than to any other of the immortals. (Diodorus 15.49.4, translation Sherman 1952)

According to Diodorus, the Peloponnesians particularly revered Poseidon. It is not surprising that this region of Greece, surrounded by the sea and shaken by regular earthquakes, was under the patronage of the god who controls both of them. However, this statement does not apply as readily to Arcadia. The land is far away from the coast, and few earthquakes comparable to those that shook Sparta and Olympia have been recorded there. And yet, the Arcadians seem to have celebrated the god with fervour, as the evidence from various sites dedicated to Poseidon shows (Jost 1985, 280–1; Mylonopoulos 2003, 98–133, 271–2). The majority of occurrences of Poseidon in Arcadia, be it in myth or cult, refer to the god under the epithet Hippios. This particular form of Poseidon has long been the subject of scholarly attention. However, most interpretations, among which Farnell’s (1907, 14–26) is perhaps the most famous, have studied Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia from a symbolic point of view, focusing on the god’s relationship with Demeter and attempting to draw parallels with similar myths circulating in Boeotia. Another somewhat related interpretation, notably adopted by Jost (1985, 283–4), was to see in him the remains of a Mycenaean horse-shaped old divinity ‘Hippos’ who was later anthropomorphised and associated with Poseidon. These approaches have their limits, as this paper will show. This paper will propose a different perspective on the topic by going back to the topographical evidence for the myths and rites of Poseidon Hippios, hence grounding the research in the landscape. It is noticeable from the archaeological evidence and from the localisation of the myths told in Pausanias that there are common trends in the spaces in

which Poseidon, and especially Poseidon Hippios, is present in Arcadia. What seems to stand out is that these places are frequently subject to destructive floods or are located in damp basins. Since we know that the ancient Greeks tended to understand and phrase natural phenomena through the framework of myths, the approach here will be to look more closely at the blurred lines between mythical discourses aiming to explain a natural occurrence, and the so-called scientific discourses aiming to describe and bring a rational explanation of the same natural phenomena.

Evidence of the cult of Poseidon: myth and sites Poseidon’s presence in Arcadia takes two forms. On the one hand, he is the famous protagonist of myths where he either abuses the grieving Demeter, or where his early childhood in the Arcadian mountains is recounted. These myths are not all directly related to a cult of Poseidon Hippios himself. On the other hand, the god has a material presence in several Arcadian poleis either through the shape of a statue or that of a religious space with a sanctuary, a temple and/or an altar.

Mythical evidence Pausanias’ account of Arcadia in the second century AD features relatively detailed accounts of two types of local myths told about Poseidon. The first type of myth is found in the Mantinike. Rhea, after giving birth to Poseidon, placed him among a flock of lambs grazing near a spring called Arne. When Cronos appeared and demanded to eat the baby, Rhea pretended that she had given birth to a foal and gave the foal to the father

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instead of the child. The resemblance between this myth and the wider-spread version of Zeus’ avoidance of Cronos’ gluttony did not escape Pausanias (8.8.2). However, we shall not explore the rivalry between Mantinean myth and the Hesiodic version here and will instead focus on where exactly Pausanias localises this event, in conformity with the topographical approach of this investigation. The traveller arrives in Mantinike from the east, crossing Mount Artemision and arriving by the ruins of Nestane. The hill of Nestane has been identified as being situated above the present village of Nestani (Hansen and Nielsen 2004, n. 281 and n. 284). The village is located at the entrance of a basin that used to be frequently flooded when its natural sinkholes, located at the foot of the hills south of the basin near Nestani, did not function well (Pritchett 1969, 54–5, fig. 8). This basin has been identified as the so-called Argon Pedion or ‘Untilled Plain’ mentioned by Pausanias (8.8.1). He then continued on his way, crossing the basin at the height of Nestane, going around the south of Mount Alesion (now Mount Barberi) that separates the Untilled Plain from the basin of Mantinea. The spring Arne was identified by Fougères (1898, 94) as the second spring that one encounters there, c. 1.9 km south-east of Mantinea, c. 900 m east of the village of Milea where the remains of the sanctuary of Poseidon Hippios rebuilt by Hadrian and the hippodrome have been found (Pausanias 8.10.2–3; Fougères 1898, 99, 104). This zone was marked by etiological narratives: not only is the name of the spring Arne explained by the myth, since it is said to originate from the lambs (ἄρνες) among which baby Poseidon was hidden by his mother, but the mountain itself is called Alesion because of Rhea’s wanderings (ἄλη). As both places were located in the direct vicinity of the important sanctuary of Poseidon Hippios, it can be inferred that this area of landscape was marked by satellite etiological discourses that may have originated thanks to the presence of the sanctuary. The other type of myth, which spread with variations across the south-western corner of Arcadia, tells of the violent encounter between Demeter and Poseidon Hippios. Variations on a similar narrative are told in Onkeion, near Thelpousa, Phigalia, and to some extent at Lycosoura. Onkeion and Phigalia are some 30 km apart on the western fringe of Arcadia, and Lykosoura is c. 20 km directly east of Phigalia. Between Onkeion and Thelpousa lies a sanctuary dedicated to Demeter, which features two wooden statues, both with Parian marble faces, hands and feet (Pausanias 8.25.4–7). Each had a different epithet: Erinys for the taller one, which also held a chest and a torch, and Lousia for the smaller one. According to the myth, when Demeter was looking after her kidnapped daughter she was followed by Poseidon, who lusted after her. Realising this, she turned into a mare and hid within the flock of Onkios in Onkeion. Poseidon then turned into a stallion and raped the goddess.

Her anger after the episode led her to be called Erinys. She then washed in the Ladon and was placated by the bath: this is why, according to Pausanias, the Onkeians also call her Lousia. From the union of Poseidon and Demeter was born a daughter, whose name was kept a secret from the uninitiated, and the horse Arion. Pausanias claims that it is because of this myth that Poseidon was called Hippios. The sanctuary of Demeter might be identified with the sixth- to early fifth-century temple foundations found outside Onkeion, based on Pausanias’ indications (Hansen and Nielsen 2004, n. 300; Jost 1985, 66). Almost exactly the same story is told at Phigalia, and Pausanias (8.42.1–2) explicitly says that the Phigalians acknowledge that similarity. However, the consequences of Poseidon’s act differ somewhat between the two places. At Phigalia, the furious goddess shut herself into a cave on Mount Elaion, which overlooks the Neda river, dressed in black. Her apparel led her to be called Melaina. Because of her concealment, the fruits of the earth were perishing and the human race was dying. Pan accidentally found out where the goddess was, and Zeus sent the Fates to soothe her anger. This time, the product of Poseidon and Demeter’s affair was, according to the Phigalians, the goddess called Despoina by the Arcadians: she might be the same daughter as the one in the Onkeian myth, as in Arcadia Despoina is the subject of a mystery cult. In this case, the myth was supposed to have explained the cult of Demeter Melaina, whose cult statue took the form of a seated woman with a horse’s head. The Phigalians claimed that the cult antedated the Persian wars (Pausanias 8.42.4–7). Unfortunately, it is now impossible to locate the cave of Demeter Melaina, and there is no trace of her statue. Finally, the mention of Despoina as being the daughter of Poseidon-horse and Demeter-mare points to Lykosoura, where an important sanctuary was devoted to Despoina from the fourth century BC at the latest, and where mystery rites were performed (Pausanias 8.37.8–9; IG V 2 514–16, 543; Jost 2003). Her cult statue, famously crafted by Damophon, sat next to that of her mother, framed by Anytos the Titan and Artemis holding a torch. Among the altars scattered on the site and mentioned by Pausanias was one dedicated to Poseidon Hippios as her father, but no archaeological evidence of this particular altar has been found so far. Thus, we have identified two types of mythical evidence about Poseidon. The first one is in Mantinike (eastern Arcadia), where Poseidon Hippios’ sanctuary is located in a zone where toponyms are explained by etiological myths about his birth. The second type stages intercourse between Demeter and Poseidon in western Arcadia, where both gods turn into horses. Only at Onkeion does Demeter give birth to a horse, but in the three aforementioned places the couple also give birth to Despoina. All of these myths are associated with religious buildings in the wider sense (monuments or

19.  Landscapes of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia statues), which they aim to explain, but in none of them is Poseidon Hippios the main deity: Demeter and Despoina have the preponderance of the cult.

Material evidence In addition to the instances of Poseidon Hippios mentioned above, the god is also worshipped in several Arcadian settlements. Along with Pausanias’ record, it is necessary to briefly examine more recent archaeological finds.1 In Pheneos, a statue of Poseidon Hippios used to stand on the acropolis. Pausanias (8.14.5) reports that a local legend attributed the statue to Odysseus, as an offering of thanks to Poseidon Hippios for having found his lost mares. The hero had also dedicated a sanctuary to Artemis Eurhippa (‘Horse-finder’) in the Pheneatan countryside, at the place where he had found the horses. As is often the case, no trace of the statue remains, and it is impossible at this point to attribute a date to it. In Kaphyai, a flat settlement in a flat basin south of Pheneos, Pausanias mentions the existence of a sanctuary of Poseidon without going into further details. Two classical sanctuaries have been found in the territory of Kaphyai which could perhaps be identified with Poseidon Hippios’ sanctuary.2 However, the site yielded too little evidence to allow their identification. Luckily, more evidence exists on the other sites. Orchomenos was a polis set on a steep mountain to the south-east of Kaphyai, which controlled the passage between the Kaphyai plain, where the roads coming down from northern Arcadia led, and the Orchomenos plain, which led to Mantinea and Tegea. There, Pausanias (8.13.2) records sanctuaries of Poseidon and Aphrodite with stone cult statues. A possible candidate for the temple of Poseidon has been uncovered by the French excavations of the early twentieth century: it was a large Doric temple in the lower city, dating from around 530 BC, judging by its column capitals. Further evidence for sixth century BC activity had been found on the site in the shape of architectural fragments and offerings, which unfortunately went undocumented (see Østby 1990–1, 327–37; Voyatzis 1999, 135). However, no evidence seems to allow the firm attribution of the temple to Poseidon rather than Aphrodite. Another site has been excavated in the lower city, a peripteral monument with indistinct foundations inside a terrace of marble and limestone slabs. Geometric and later offerings were found nearby, but the monument is still unidentified (Blum and Plassart 1914, 81–8; Voyatzis 1999, 135). In Mantinea, Poseidon Hippios was the main deity. His sanctuary was located by Polybius seven stades from Mantinea (9.8, 11.14). The old sanctuary was said to have been made of oak by the famous mythical architects Agamedes and Trophonios. It was subject to a religious ban forbidding any living being to enter it, and the Arcadian king Aipytos, who disregarded the interdiction, was killed

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by a wave of saltwater bursting from the sanctuary. Polybius (11.12), in his description of the battle of Mantinea in 207 BC, adds more to the picture by writing that the grounds near the sanctuary were flat and suitable for cavalry. Later, under the Empire, the old construction was hidden by the new temple of Poseidon Hippios built under Hadrian. Pausanias (10.2.3–4) also records that the sanctuary was, at that time, at the edge of a thick forest called Pelagos (‘the Sea’) – thus implying that the landscape had changed since Polybius’ account of 207. Unfortunately, due to the taboo Pausanias apparently did not visit the sanctuary, and therefore gives little information on what it used to look like. The site has been identified by Fougères (1890, 80-2) south-east of the polis, near the present village of Milea, at the foot of Mount Barberi (ancient Alesion). He discovered at that spot two massive limestone slabs of 3.5 × 1 × 0.5 m deeply embedded in the sandy ground which he identified as parts of a threshold, probably originating from the Hadrianic temple. Fougères (1898, 106 and fig. 15) also unearthed a column capital that he deemed to be archaic, as also indicated by the finding of a clay Laconic type acroterion with a Gorgoneion. The position has been later confirmed by Jost (1985, 132) and Pritchett (1969, 50–1). Some of the earliest offerings found on site are eighth-century BC horse-headed bronze figures, recalling the epithet of the god, which were studied by Voyatzis (1992, 278). Several inscriptions were also found on the site of the temple. An inscription (IG V 2 323) with a list of names has been found in the area, dated from 425–385 BC. Another pre-fourth-century BC inscription (IG V 2 271) listing Mantinean tribes – including one named Posoidaia – was found nearby. Consequently, the evidence suggests that the sanctuary of Poseidon Hippios was old, in activity at least from the eighth century BC onwards, and important enough to justify both the attribution of the name of the god to a tribe and the reconstruction of the temple by Hadrian. The offerings and the proximity of the hippodrome indicate a cult of Poseidon ‘of horses’, as the god’s epithet indicates, which endured for some time. Finally, a small temple excavated at Petrovouni, near ancient Methydrion, has been identified as the temple of Poseidon Hippios mentioned by Pausanias (8.36.2). An early sixth-century temple was found under the foundations of a Hellenistic temple built in limestone. The earlier building was dated thanks to architectural terracottas, and the later building followed the plan of its predecessor (see recent studies by Kästner 1990, 256; Voyatzis 1999, 140; Mylonopoulos 2003, 116–18). Scholars have been led to identify it with Poseidon Hippios due to the votive offering of a group of bronze horse-headed dancers found west of the temple (Voyatzis 1992, 276–8), which recall those found at Mantinea and similar examples found in the temple of Despoina at Lykosoura (see Jost 2003, 157–62 for a recent study).

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Landscapes of Poseidon Hippios This survey of evidence concerning Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia points to three general observations. Firstly, as one would expect, there is a conspicuous link between Poseidon and horses, be it in votives or etiological myths. Secondly, perhaps more surprisingly, there is scarcely an overlap between the places where Poseidon Hippios features in a myth and his places of worship. In fact, his adventures with Demeter are meant to explain cults of the goddess or of their daughter, not of Poseidon himself; the only cultic trace of Poseidon Hippios in these districts is his altar in the sanctuary of his daughter Despoina in Lykosoura. In the case of the god’s childhood on Mount Alesion in Mantinike, the myth hints at the epithet of the god in his sanctuary at the foot of the same mountain and gives an etiological explanation of topographical features nearby. But again there seems to be no explicit link between the myth and the sanctuary itself. Thirdly, it appears that the topographical location of Poseidon’s sacred spaces are recurrently in zones affected by water issues and, more specifically, regular drainage problems. This third observation deserves more attention: in what measure is there a correlation between Poseidon Hippios’ cult locations and natural drainage issues, and if this is the case, how can we explain it? Looking back at all the sites where we have evidence of the worship of Poseidon Hippios, there are striking similarities regarding their natural environment. Arcadia πολυπῖδαξ (‘rich in springs’, Homeric Hymn to Pan 19, 30) is known for its moist soil, but some districts are more affected than others by the unfortunate consequences of living in a karstic landscape. The characteristics of these unfortunate basins are that water streams into them from the mountains at the end of the winter and saturates their natural sinkholes, leading to large-scale floods (Higgins and Higgins 1996, 13, 70–1). Pheneos, Mantinea, Methydrion, Kaphyai and Orchomenos were the districts where such recurrent drainage problems occurred. In Pheneos, Poseidon Hippios’ statue on the acropolis overlooked a basin frequently swallowed by floods. They were even so regular that their constant repetition left a permanent level mark on the mountain that struck Pausanias (8.14.1) and Eratosthenes (in Strabo 8.8.4), and that is still visible today. The water that drained from that same basin resurfaced as the sources of the river Ladon on Mount Oryxis, south of the district: Strabo’s and Pausanias’ words on this have been confirmed by modern geological investigations (Higgins and Higgins 1996, 70). When the katavothres of Pheneos were saturated and the plain was entirely flooded, it increased the flow of the Ladon river so much that it even affected Olympia. In eastern Arcadia, drainage problems were also common. Mantinea was one of the districts most likely to be hit by the waters, for the katavothres at the border

with Tegea were susceptible to becoming clogged and thus compromising the drainage of the basin: Thucydides (5.65.4) says that it could become a strategic device in wars between the two cities. In Mantinea, the sanctuary of Poseidon Hippios was at the intersection of the districts’ two basins. To the east was the Untilled Plain, so named because it was rendered useless by the rain and the vast amount of water that came from the mountains. Pausanias (8.7.1) even says that if it were not for the chasm at the foot of the mountain, the whole basin would have been a lake. The other basin west of Mount Alesion, where the god had his sanctuary, is surrounded by sinkholes (Pritchett 1969, 55 and figs 7–8). Methydrion, in central Arcadia, was located 1,000 m above sea-level, and according to Pausanias was named after the fact that it was built between the waters of the Mylaon and the Maloetas rivers, which suggests that it might have been affected by flooding issues as well. Finally, in north-eastern Arcadia, Orchomenos was set on a mountain in the middle of two basins. The basin to the south of the city was fertile and flat, but the northern one, shared with the flat territory of Kaphyai, was transformed into a lake every winter (Pausanias 8.13.4; Pikoulas 1999, 268, n. 14). It therefore appears from this survey that the Arcadian districts consistently impacted by floods due to drainage issues, characteristic of karstic landscapes, were located in the eastern half of the region. These coincide with where cults of Poseidon Hippios are reported. On the other hand, this observation does not hold true for the three sites where the myth of Poseidon and Demeter took place. Onkeion, Phigalia and Lykosoura were set on higher mountains in western Arcadia, and no flooding issues seem to have been reported there. The divide between places staging myths of Poseidon Hippios and places where he is worshipped thus correlate with different types of landscapes tackling a different set of natural issues. As a result, the second and third observations outlined above coincide. In fact, on the one hand there is scarcely an overlap between the places where Poseidon Hippios is worshipped and where he takes part in a myth, and on the other hand the places where he has a cult are characterised by serious drainage issues. These observations emphasise the need to try to shed light on the religious topography of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia. As the myths of western Arcadia with Poseidon Hippios-horse have already been the object of numerous studies, the focus here will shift onto eastern Arcadia, which is a more propitious place to carry out a topography-based investigation.

‘Hippios’, horses and freshwater It is not a bold claim to state that Poseidon was the patron god of horses and charioteers, as this is already made very clear by numerous instances in Homer. Arcadia was even,

19.  Landscapes of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia according to Strabo, fit for horse breeding and husbandry since it had many lush pastures. The geographer adds (8.8.1) that the Arcadian race of horses is ‘most excellent’, at a level comparable to that of the Argive and Epidaurian breeds. On top of this, the god is also often considered the master and progenitor of famous mythical horses. For instance, the paternity of the Arcadian Arion in Onkeion is attributed to Poseidon not only by Pausanias, but also by Callimachus (Iambics fr. 11, from Stephanus Byzantius, s.v. Apesas), Apollodorus (3.77), Lycophron (Alexandra 153), a scholion to the Iliad (23.347) and by Quintus Smyrnaeus (4.570), among others. In Boeotia, Pausanias (9.33) says that there was a spring called Tilphossa where Poseidon became the father of the horse Arion. He also sired the first horse Skyphius while asleep on a rock or, according to another version, by striking the earth with his trident (Schol. Pindar Pythian Ode 4 v. 246; schol. Lycophron Alexandra 766). This brings us to Poseidon’s link with spring water. One of his attributes was that he opened springs all over Greece. On the Athenian acropolis, in Boeotia, in Argolis and in Arcadia, he would crack open rocks, allowing water to gush forth (see Nilsson 1963, 121). This role may go back to the Mycenaean Poseidon: in fact, parallel to the etymological theory bringing the roots of Poseidon to the pre-Indo European *da-, ‘earth’, there exists another trend of scholarship linking it to the Indo-European root *da-, ‘running water’ (Burkert 1985; Milićević Bradač 2003, 380). So, if at first sight it may seem strange to associate Poseidon ‘of Horses’ with water, the two realms actually seem to overlap. Indeed, according to the myths, Poseidon usually opens the springs in one of two ways: either he does it by himself or through the mythological horses he sired. In any case, the link between Poseidon, springs and horses is very explicit in the case of his son Pegasus. Pegasus, too, opens springs in the rock, just like his father. For instance, by striking Mount Helicon with his hoof he opens the Hippokrene spring on the command of Poseidon (Ant. Lib. 9). Since Hesiod (Theogeny 273–86), the winged horse’s etymology has been linked to the Greek πηγὴ, meaning ‘the spring’. This etymology has been challenged recently (Debord 2010, 241), but the debate does not question the image of the Greek Pegasus as an opener of springs, for the Hesiodic etymology seems to have predominated in Greece through the Corinthian exploits of Pegasus and Bellerophon (see Stephanus Byzantius s.v. Peg-asa). In a more implicit way, the relationship between horses and springs is present in springs bearing horse-related names: not far from Hippokrene is the spring Aganippe (Hesiod Theogony 6; Doyen 2011, 298). In Troizen, Pausanias (2.31) tells of another Hippokrene. There was also a source Hippê or Hippeion near Argos (Callimachus fr. 66.8).

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However, until recently a more problematic interpretation of the relationship between Poseidon and horses had been claimed by scholarship and was used to interpret the myths of Poseidon Hippios and Demeter of western Arcadia. Schachermeyr (1950, 50–60) with Farnell (1907, 14–26) arguing that Poseidon Hippios was actually the residual manifestation of an older horse-shaped god. This argument held that the myths where Poseidon transforms into a horse to rape Demeter-mare and where Rhea hands over a foal instead of the baby Poseidon prove that Poseidon Hippios was in fact the relic of a very ancient, primitive horse-god named Hippos. This horse-god was subsequently anthropomorphised and assimilated with Poseidon. The hypothesis was taken further by a trend of scholarship influenced by structuralist theories and the study of primitive societies in anthropology, which was particularly popular in the 1960s. The argument put forward by the supporters of the primitive Poseidon horse-god is that one can read i-qo in Mycenaean tablets PY Fa 16 and PY Eq 59, perhaps indicating the existence of a deity called ‘Hippos’ (Gallavotti and Sacconi 1961, 124, 148; Palmer 1963, 277-8; Palmer and Chadwick 1966; Ventris and Chadwick 1973, 259–61). This is problematic for several reasons. Firstly, it is not clear at all whether i-qo refers to a divinity or an animal (Gérard-Rousseau 1968, 120–2; Chirassi 1968, 945–91). Jost (1985, 283–4), who sides with the Poseidon-horse theory, herself admits that the Mycenaean evidence is controversial and inconclusive. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, there is no evidence to support this theory apart from this controversial mention of a horse-god in Pylian tablets, and there is even less evidence of an Arcadian horse-god. Furthermore, the attribution of an evolutionist timeline to Greek religion, suggesting that it developed from the worship of primitive animal divinities to anthropomorphic gods, has now been generally rejected. In fact, the only evidence for ancient animal-gods resides in the existence of classical and later hybrid deities, whose existence was in turn explained by putative ancient animal deities. The argument is therefore circular (see Forbes Irving 1990, 38–55). The reason why horses and water were connected in myth therefore seems to arise from the fact that both were placed under the patronage of the same god. Thus, while we surely cannot assert that Poseidon Hippios originated from a primitive horse-god, there is evidence in the literary sources and Greek topographical names that a relationship existed between horses and springs on the one hand, and between Poseidon Hippios and horses on the other.

Etiological discourses In Orchomenos, Kaphyai, Mantinike and Pheneos, there is evidence for regular natural catastrophes due to the overwhelming amount of water that came down into the basins. If the sinkholes located at the foot of the mountains did not do

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their job, the water level started to increase dangerously, eventually forming a lake that swallowed up crops and pastures. This phenomenon was a genuine concern for the Arcadians, both because of its effect and because of its frequency. The impact of this constant issue is visible throughout Antiquity. It was discussed and alluded to in literature, and it also left archaeological traces. In fact, the reaction of the ancient Arcadians to drainage problems can be roughly grouped into two stages, which shed light on the relatively thin line between etiological narratives and rationalising discourses. The first stage in the etiological explanation of natural problems comes from Homeric poetry (Homeric Hymn to Poseidon 22; Il. 20.23, 34, 57, 67, 21.436 f). There, earthquakes were attributed to the Shaker of the Earth, Poseidon. The Homeric epithet survived for centuries, and it was often to Poseidon’s wrath that destructive earthquakes shaking the Peloponnese were attributed. A few examples of those were the earthquake that shook Sparta at the time of the Helots’ revolt, and the one that shook Olympia in the sixth century AD (Pausanias 7.25.3; Cartledge 2002, 183–4). There was a high frequency of particularly high-impact earthquakes in the Peloponnese peninsula compared to the rest of Greece, which probably led Poseidon to become one of its most worshipped gods. Diodorus (15.49.3–4) makes this connection explicit. The type of reasoning that explained earthquakes through myth was, between Homer and Herodotus, extended to another natural phenomenon: floods. Herodotus’ description of the mouth of the Peneus river in Thessaly gives a good idea of the connection that was made between earthquakes and the consequent opening of outlets for water, which was again attributed to Poseidon. Indeed, Herodotus (7.129.4) eloquently states that: This is reasonable, for whoever believes that Poseidon is the shaker of the earth and that rifts made by earthquakes are the work of that god will conclude, upon seeing that passage, that it is of Poseidon’s making. It was manifest to me that it must have been an earthquake which forced the mountains apart (translation Godley 1920)

Whether an earthquake really did cause the Peneus delta to look like a rock ‘torn in two’ matters little: what is important is that Herodotus, Xerxes and probably the Thessalians believed that it had been opened by Poseidon, who shakes the earth. This statement was based on observation, since earthquakes can in fact have direct effects on watercourses: they can create, modify or close down water outlets. Nearly a millennium after Herodotus Nonnus, in his Dionysiaca (6.371–2), attributes the draining of the great flood provoked by Zeus to Poseidon, who split the Thessalian mountains and dug a channel for water to escape towards the sea at the mouth of the Peneus, thus allowing the earth to dry. The

mythical narrative explaining the shape that the landscape took survived. Conversely, earthquakes can have the opposite effect and can clog water outlets. This phenomenon is still observable today: in Italy, for instance, excavators sometimes struggle to identify sites described by ancient sources as close to a spring or stream, because the outlet has been closed and then reopened several hundred metres away in the centuries that have elapsed since their locations were first recorded (personal communication with Francesca Diosono at Lampeter about Nemi). However, a clogged water outlet may result in more serious problems, such as severe drainage issues. Thus, Poseidon’s anger can manifest itself in earthquakes that subsequently provoke floods. The connection between Poseidon, earthquakes and floods is asserted very clearly by Diodorus (15.49.3–5). He reports that, after the Achaeans refused to acknowledge the request of the ambassadors from the Panionion, Poseidon shook and flooded their land as a punishment (see also Pausanias 7.24.5). Since Poseidon was connected to ground water and earthquakes, these ascriptions probably also led to him being attributed control over floods. The mention of Diodorus brings us to the second stage of the elucidations of natural phenomena, which tends towards moving away from myth to provide rational explanations. Rationalising authors of the first century BC and the first century AD connect earthquakes, ground water and floods as a chain reaction without mentioning Poseidon. Seneca (Quaestiones Naturales 3.8–9) and Strabo (9.2.16) pictured the space underground, where earthquakes originate, as pierced by deep cavities in which underground water flowed before being dispatched into rivers. The cavities could collapse, which would cause disasters on the surface such as earthquakes, followed by floods if the caves were filled with water. Diodorus (15.49.5), who does not move away altogether from involving Poseidon’s anger as the cause for floods and earthquakes, points out that, since rivers plunge underground near Pheneos and Stymphalos, they must be swallowed by underground caves, and that this observation therefore proves their existence. In fact, this model was not so far from the reality, as two-thirds of modern Greece mainly rests on karsified limestone (Clendenon 2009, 146). More precisely, as explained by Higgins and Higgins (1996, 13) it means that the bedrock is progressively weathered by acidic water from the surface, which then sinks away through the rock. The acidic water can carve underground caves in the bedrock below the sinkholes, causing a cave system. The water then circulates underground until it finds a way out, draining back to the surface further away in the shape of a natural spring. Due to the underground caves, this geomorphological layout can pose various threats. Caves caused by water are, for instance, susceptible to collapse and can cause earthquakes (White et al. 1995, 459). The natural drainage system can also become clogged or saturated and

19.  Landscapes of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia provoke floods, a phenomenon frequently experienced by the Arcadians (see Pausanias 8.14.2, 15.5; Plutarch De sera 12; Churchill Semple 1929, 121, 126; Pritchett 1969, 123; Corvisier 1994, 315). After reviewing various explanations in different non-Arcadian authors, it is time to explore the Arcadians’ specific response to these natural threats. Pausanias (8.14.1–3) alludes to it when visiting the Pheneatan countryside. He writes that the locals attribute the construction of a long diversion canal that led water to a sinkhole and the enlargement of that same outlet to Heracles. This statement should not be dismissed as a local myth, since evidence of these works was found by a team of German engineers in the 1980s (see Knauss 1988; 1989; 1990; 1991; 1996). The constructions were deemed to be of a similar period as the Mycenaean water management works at Tiryns. This discovery has several consequences. On the one hand, these discoveries show that the drainage issues reported by Pausanias in most of the places where Poseidon Hippios was worshipped had existed for centuries before his visit. On the other hand, the fact that these real works were attributed to the hero Heracles demonstrates that the memory of the construction work was in all likelihood lost along with the technology that allowed its making, probably through the Dark Ages, and was subsequently attributed to the hero who solves mankind’s problems provoked by nature. Remarkably, similar works have been excavated and analysed by the same team in the Orchomenos and the Kaphyai basin as well as in Tegeatike, in the south of Mantinea. The memory of these latter instances, however, seems to have fallen into oblivion, which probably indicates that the Dark Ages erased any material trace of them. Thus, there is an intricate network of etiological narratives aiming to give an explanation as to how and why the Arcadians were cursed with floodable basins, either by appealing to mythical geography or by rationalising discourses. It also appears that attempts to combat this unfortunate natural predisposition had been devised by the locals from the Mycenaean period onwards. Although there is no evidence directly attributing the cause of floods in Arcadia to Poseidon Hippios, the fact that the places where early drainage works were discovered overlap with places where Poseidon Hippios is worshipped suggests that there is a relationship between the two, particularly given that the god’s relationship with earthquakes and water has been established.

Concluding remarks This paper proposed to look at the cults of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia from the point of view of religious topography, namely by looking at the common trends in their natural environment and how these could indicate a preferred location to place the god. The study showed that there were

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two distinct trends in the localisation of Poseidon Hippios. First, he was present in metamorphosis myths with Demeter in western Arcadia but was not worshipped on his own. And, secondly, he was worshipped in sanctuaries in eastern Arcadia while scarcely being featured in their myths. The only case where the two somewhat overlap is in Mantinea, where local myths featuring Poseidon’s early life provided etiological etymologies for toponyms around the sanctuary of Poseidon Hippios, without however relating directly to his cult. Certainly, the main limit to this distinction is that, as is often the case in Arcadia, most of our evidence for local myths comes from Pausanias, who writes under the Second Sophistic. He can thus only provide a snapshot of the myths that were told in the second century AD, which invariably introduces a bias in the investigation. However, by moving away from the strange myths of western Arcadia and looking at archaeological evidence for the cults in eastern Arcadia, it appears that Poseidon Hippios was worshipped outside cities but not too far from their walls, and that the earliest certain evidence for a cult is at Mantinea in the Geometric period. The evidence is scarce and the identification of sites arduous, yet there is an overlap observable between the districts where the god is worshipped and the basins regularly plagued by floods to a more significant degree than the rest of Arcadia, as the excavated Mycenaean water management works demonstrate. Yet it is not clear why a relationship existed between the floods and Poseidon Hippios in particular. The literary evidence shows various connections between Poseidon and horses, Poseidon and springs, horses and springs, and Poseidon, earthquakes and floods. The reason why all of these were reassembled under the patronage of Poseidon might result from a broad interpretation of the god’s sphere of action, which included water and earthquakes before being extended to horses when they started to become domesticated. Finally, this case study produces two points that are particularly worthy of further consideration. First of all, there is minimal overlap between the places where cults of Poseidon Hippios exist and places where he acts in myth. This discrepancy is quite interesting and suggests that different aspects of Poseidon Hippios were put forward in different places according to what was required of him. Secondly, the apparent preference for placing Poseidon in very wet landscapes is not, as far as we know, articulated in Arcadian myth, but rather results from empirical observation. The case of Arcadian Poseidon Hippios thus remains unsolved. However, I hope to have demonstrated that moving away from a symbolic interpretation that aims to explain similar myths in different regions, namely Arcadia and Boeotia, to propose a landscape-oriented approach on a regional scale, could offer a very different perspective on Greek religion and raise different issues that deserve to be considered.

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Disclaimer This paper originates in the author’s doctoral thesis presented at the University of Oxford in 2016, under the supervision of Profs Robert Parker and Nicholas Purcell. It was written before joining the European Research Council Executive Agency and represents the views of the author. It is published in her personal capacity and under her sole responsibility. It does not reflect the views of the European Commission, nor those of the European Research Council. The author would like to thank the peer reviewers and her supervisors for their valuable feedback. Any remaining error is, of course, her sole responsibility. An updated version of this chapter has been published under J. Baleriaux, ‘Mythical and Ritual Landscapes of Poseidon Hippios in Arcadia’, Kernos 32 (2019), 81–100.

Notes 1

2

Other sites where cults of Poseidon are attested in Arcadia: Pallantion (Pausanias 8.44.4), Megalopolis (IG V 2.454, second century BC; Pausanias 8.30.1), Trikolonoi (Pausanias 8.35.6), and perhaps Tegea (IG V 2.94, third-century BC Herm); IG V 2.97 (third-century BC stele); IG V 2.73 (thirdcentury BC triple Herm with Poseidon, Zeus, Demeter); IG V 2.95 (archaic inscription with Poseidon, Hermes, Heracles); IG V 2.96 (perhaps second-century inscription to Poseidon Kuretios). Site 1: Hansen and Nielsen 2004, n. 275, see Archaiologikon Deltion 37 1982, 116. Site 2: Hansen and Nielsen 2004, n. 275; Pritchett 1969, 122–5; Jost 1985, 112.

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Pirenne Delforge, V. (2008) Retour à la source: Pausanias et la religion grecque. Liège, Centre International d’Étude de la Religion Grecque Antique. Pritchett, W.K. (1969) Studies in Ancient Greek Topography II (Battlefields). Berkeley, University of California Press. PY = Bennett, E.L. and Olivier, J.-P. (1973) The Pylos Tablets Transcribed. Rome, Ed. dell’Ateneo. Roller, D.W. (2010) Eratosthenes’ Geography. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Schachermeyr, F. (1950) Poseidon und die Entstehung des griechischen Götterglaubens. Munich, Bern, Lehnen. Scheffer, T. (1994) Female deities, horses and death (?) in Archaic Greek religion. In B. Alroth (ed.) Opus mixtum: Essays in Ancient Art and Society, 111–33. Stockholm, Aström. Semple, E.C. (1929) Irrigation and reclamation in the Ancient Mediterranean region. Annals of the Association of American Geographers 19(3), 111–48. Sherman, C.L. (1952) Diodorus of Sicily, vol. 7. Books XV. 20 XVI. 65. The Loeb classical library, 389. Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press. Ustinova, Y. (2009) Caves and the Ancient Greek Mind. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Ventris, M. and Chadwick, J. (1973) Documents in Mycenaean Greek. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Von Pauly, A., Wissowa, G. et al. (1894–1980) Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaften. Stuttgart, Metzler/Druckenmüller. Voyatzis, M.E. (1990) The Early Sanctuary of Athena Alea at Tegea and Other Archaic Sanctuaries in Arcadia. Göteborg, P. Ȧströms förlog. Voyatzis, M.E. (1992) Votive riders seated side-saddle at Early Greek sanctuary sites. The Annual of the British School of Archaeology at Athens 87, 259–79. Voyatzis, M.E. (1999) The role of temple building in consolidating Arkadian communities. In T.H. Nielsen and J. Roy (eds) Defining Ancient Arkadia: Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Center, Symposium, April, 1–4 1998, 130–68. Copenhagen, Reitzel. White, W.B., Culver, D.C., Herman, J.S., Kane, T.C. and Mylroie, J.E. (1995) Karst lands. American Scientist 83(5), 450–9.

20 Performing sacred landscapes: worship and praise of land in Greek drama Elena Chepel

The concept of sacred landscape is best understood as a dialogue between the built cultic environment and its natural surroundings, the dialogue that informs us both about religious experiences of geographical phenomena and about the formation of local identities in cultic contexts. In speaking of sacred landscapes, I follow the terminology of de Polignac (‘paysage religieux’) who uses the idea to refer not just to physical reality but to a process of communication and perception of religious ideas that is dependent upon its performative context. In other words, place, time and occasion can create an experience of physical space and communicate religious meanings to a group of worshippers (de Polignac 2010, 494). While the study of physically natural or created spaces as well as of religious attitudes and beliefs remains static in its perspective, the reconstruction of the process by which landscape is invested with meanings requires a more dynamic approach. One way of dealing with this is to study cultic archaeological sites from the perspective of the rituals performed within them: processions, sacrifices, dance, hymns and dramatic enactments of myths. This approach has begun to emerge more strongly in recent decades and has become known as the archaeology of performance (Mylonopoulos 2006; Melfi 2010; Connelly 2011). In this article, I shall look at performances in order to study their interaction with actual spaces and landscapes and to reconstruct the mechanisms by which religious meanings and identities are created and re-created. In order to do this, I shall use the evidence of fifth-century Athenian dramatic texts, placing them in the context of contemporaneous ritual practices. Despite recent intensive research in the field of dramatic space and stagecraft (Taplin 1978; Rehm 2002; Lowe 2006; Ley 2007), a study that would address dramatic plays in

relation to the spatial dimension of their natural and urban environment still does not exist. However, it is well known that theatres in Greece were open-air and that spectators enjoyed the spectacular surroundings that, in some sense, formed the scenery for dramatic performances. Furthermore, the spaces used for performances in Greece were usually adjacent to a sacred precinct. In the case of the theatre of Dionysos in Athens, the theatrical venue together with the sanctuary of Dionysos Eleutheros constituted a single continuum of ritual space (Wiles 2003). With its situation at the foot of the Acropolis, this continuum could, on a larger scale, be thought to extend to the whole architectural ensemble of the sacred hill of Athena. The cultic buildings next to the theatre included, besides the sanctuary of Dionysos, the temple of Asklepios located just above the theatrical cavea and the Parthenon, which could also be seen from the orchestra and from the audience’s seats. It is vital, therefore, to examine how the environment in which the dramatic productions took place was reflected in the plays and how the ritual meanings in regard to the surrounding land- and cityscape were communicated through Greek drama. Performative genres of Greek poetry, and in particular Athenian drama, are especially fruitful for studying the process of ‘creating’ sacred landscapes since, in the theatre, the communication of meanings is not separable from the hic et nunc of the dramatic performance. To illustrate how the performativity of drama can be useful in studying sacred space, I shall concentrate on one specific – and highly performative – pattern of invocations of landscapes and places in dramatic plays. This pattern is particularly suitable because of its significant deictic potential and because of its capacity for creating meaning within the hic et nunc of the performance. I shall offer an analysis of direct addresses

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to landscapes across the two main genres of Greek theatre, tragedy and comedy, referring to the lyric genres wherever necessary. Within tragic contexts, it is typical to invoke places that are related to the tragic hero. In most tragic addresses to land, the speaker refers to a concrete geographical location as his or her homeland. The Messenger’s speech in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon is the most notorious example. The Messenger arrives from Troy with the news of victory and starts his account with greetings to the land of Argos. The speech emphasises both that he is returning home and that he has a strong affection for his native land. His relationship with Argos is expressed through his strong wish to be buried there:

back from Troy and who, in a similar way, addresses his native Calydonian land, telling the audience about his parentage (fr. 558). The tragic motif of nostos often accompanies the invocation of land and landscape. Greetings to the house are traditional in entry-speeches in order to mark the hero’s return home from war or exile. Herakles, in Euripides’ play, addresses his house upon arrival from long absence during which he had been counted to be among the dead (Heracles l.523).

All hail, soil of Argos, land of my fathers! On this happy day in the tenth year I have come to you. Many hopes have shattered, one only have I seen fulfilled; for I never dared to dream that here in this land of Argos I should die and have due portion of burial most dear to me. Now blessings on the land, blessings on the light of the sun, and blessed be Zeus, the land’s Most High, and the Pythian lord.

Menelaus in Orestes addresses his palace upon return from Troy (l. 356) and Agamemnon in Oresteia begins his speech upon arrival home from Troy by mentioning Argos and its native gods (Agamemnon l. 810). The theme of home, oikos, was central in Greek tragedy, and it appears that greetings to the native land had the function of focusing the audience on the relationship of the hero with his home. Fulfilling a similar purpose, they can also be placed in the middle of the play serving not as a greeting, but as a farewell at a moment of high tragic emotion. Ajax addresses his fatherland Salamis, Athens and the Trojan plains in his farewell speech just before he commits suicide; Hippolytos says goodbye to the land of Trozen where he now is and to the land of his father, Athens, when he is about to leave his home forever and go into exile. Philoctetes in his final speech bids farewell to Lemnos, his cave, the sea waters, hill and other elements of the landscape which became his home when departing to Greece rescued by Heracles (Hippolytus ll. 1094 ff; Ajax ll. 856 ff; Philoctetes ll. 1452 ff). From these examples it is clear that invocations of landscapes in tragedy are characterised by the addressing of one’s native land, which may or may not be combined with the return (nostos) of the hero home after his long absence. The address strengthens the relationship between the protagonist and his house and family. The land addressed usually coincides with the mythical setting of the play and helps spectators to visualise the imagined place through deictic references to it. Did comedy use the tragic motif of greeting one’s native land upon arrival? One passage can certainly be taken as a parody of the tragic model, although a lack of context does not allow us to pursue the example very far. In Eupolis’ Demes fr. 99, ll. 35–6, Aristeides begins his speech, apparently resuming the action after a choral interlude. Storey recognises elements of grand style in this opening and locates the scene of this episode in the Athenian agora following the return of the deceased leaders from the underworld (Storey 2003, 161):

(ll. 503–9, translation Smyth 1926)

A similar case is presented in a fr. 911 from an unknown play by Sophocles in which an unnamed character addresses the land of Pheraia and the water of the Hyperea spring using the epithet ‘native’, ‘born together’, sungonon hudōr. In Euripides’ tragedies, addresses or apostrophes to places are most frequently found in prologues where their main function is to set the scene at the beginning of the play. Thus, in Alcestis and Electra the speakers of the prologue address the place where the action takes place: the palace of Admetus and the plain of Argos, respectively. Dramatic openings with apostrophes of all kinds (not only to places but also to gods and characters) are usually followed by a narrative that conveys the present state of circumstances and the antecedents to the action. Deictic references to places in prologues help the audience to visualise the distant land that the orchestra represents in the play as e.g. Egypt in Helen. At the same time the locations that are invoked, being the scene of the dramatic action, represent the protagonist’s homeland and are often combined with a motif of return. Euripides’ lost play Telephus opens with the protagonist’s address to his homeland. He recalls how his ancestor Pelops marked out the land and tells the story of his birth in Arcadia and exile in Mysia (Telephos fr. 696). Now he returns to Greece and hails his native land, addressing it alongside the local god Pan. He visualises the landscape of Arcadia by an appeal to the Mountain Parthenion, which was the witness of his birth. In another fragmentary play, Oineus, the prologue is recited by Diomedes who has just come

All hail! my house and gates of my home, how glad I am to emerge to the light and see you. (translation Coleridge)

20.  Performing sacred landscapes: worship and praise of land in Greek drama My homeland, greeting. I […] you […] of all cities most […] (translation Storey)

Other passages in comedy can hardly be seen as paratragic. They belong, instead, to a different lyric tradition of hymns and praise. Notably, Pindar’s hymns are the first poetic texts to contain second person invocations of places. They usually serve to personify places, endowing them with divine identity. As the performance context of Pindaric poetry is usually seen to be ritual, lyric addresses to places should be considered not as mere literary embellishment but as part of the cultic structure of the hymns themselves. It is this ritual pattern of addressing and praising landscapes in the lyric tradition that is reflected in comedy. In Pindar’s hymns, personified islands and cities receive greetings and praise from the poet, as if they were gods and heroes. It has been noted that these songs usually open with such invocations, a placement, which shows their development from invocations of gods, a feature normally found at the beginning of prayers (Meyer 1933; Radt 1958). There are several epinician odes which open with an address to the nymph of a place, an island or a city, locations which, due to their gender, were personified as females (Smith 2011, 105) and which were called, by the poet, with the same name. This is the case in Pythian 12 (city of Acragas), Pythian 2 (city of Syracusae), Isthmian 1 (city/mother Thebe), Olympian 8 (city/mother of contests Olympia). Also, Athens is addressed in Dithyramb fr. 76 and Delphi in Paean 6. Islands are addressed in Nemean 1 (Ortygia), fr. 87 (Delos), in Hymn to Zeus fr. 33c (Delos), in Paean 6, 123 f. (Aegina). In comedy there are several examples of invocations of places that can be regarded as ‘para-lyric’. In Acharnians the Megarian man praises the Athenian agora as his favourite place for trade in high-flown style: All hail! Athenian market, beloved of the Megarians. By the God of Friendship, I’ve yearned for you as if for a mother. (ll. 729–30, translation Sommerstein)

The Pindaric motif of addressing the land as mother is clearly imitated here (cf. in Olympian 8 and Isthmian 1, Pythian 4, 20, also Paean 6, 12 (Rutherford 2001, 308). We encounter more elevated Pindaric diction in a fragment of a lost Aristophanes’ comedy Farmers, where the word ‘gleaming’, liparos, traditional for lyric praise is used, fr. 112. Dear country of Cecrops, self-grown Attica, hail gleaming plain, bosom of fine land (translation Henderson)

As an epithet of places and cities, liparos appears in Olympian 13, 110 (of Marathon); Olympian 8, 82 (of Olympia); Pythian

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2, 3 (of Thebes); Nemean 4, 18 (of Athens); Isthmian 2, 20 (of Athens), also fr. 204, fr. 196; Dithyramb, fr. 82. A direct address to Athens with the same epithet can be found in Pindar’s Dithyramb to Athens (fr. 76). In tragedy, this epithet is used in ritual hymnic contexts, too, a usage which can be taken to draw on the lyric tradition (Alcestis, l. 452; Trojan women, l. 803; Iphigenia in Tauris, l. 1130; Aeschylus’ Suppliants, 1028). The context of the address in Farmers is lost but it recalls lyric hymns rather than the invocation of a hero’s ancestral land. If the nature of this fragment is indeed ‘para-lyric’, the address must belong to a foreigner, not a local inhabitant. According to Photius, the Farmers featured Strepsaeans, citizens of the Thracian city Strepsa, fr. 126, so it is possible that one of these could be the speaker in fr. 112. Another passage that illustrates the praise of the city in the hymnic tradition is the embedded praise in Acharnians, ll. 636–40. In this passage, all the key patterns described so far are mocked: a Greek ambassador from abroad tries to deceive the Athenians, flattering their city with stock epithets ‘violet-crowned’ and ‘gleaming’, which are taken from Pindar’s Dithyramb fr. 76 but which also resemble the general Pindaric style used in praise of places and cities. The place, occasion and circumstances in which Pindaric hymns were performed are debated. However, unlike in tragedy, the performer is usually foreign to the place he praises. The invocations of cities in Pindar often imply the arrival of the poet or the chorus of the performers at the place. A good example is Pythian 2: O great city of Syracuse, sanctuary of Ares mighty in war, divine nourisher of men and horses delighting in steel, to you I come from shining (liparān) Thebes bearing this song and its news of the four-horse chariot that shakes the earth … (translation Race)

In the following lines of this ode, the landscape addressed extends to the victory-crowned Ortygia, an island near Syracuse, the dwelling place of Artemis. The whole passage elevates geographical locations to the same level as the gods through personification and hymnic invocation. In Paean 6 the poet delivers a prayer to Delphi, asking that the deified place receives him: Golden Pytho, famed for seers, I beseech you, by Olympian Zeus, with the Kharites and Aphrodite, welcome me, the interpreter of Pierides, famed in song, at the sacred time. (ll. 1–6, translation Rutherford; N.B. ‘Pythos’ is the Poetic name for Delphi)

The poet’s arrival is emphasised further in the poem: the poet after his prayer to the place explains how and why he

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arrived at Delphi and repeats again that he is arriving at the place (Rutherford 2001, 307–8). This pattern of delivering praise upon arrival fits into a larger pattern of ‘wandering’ lyric poets which is characteristic of many figures in ancient Greece, e.g. Orpheus, Thamyris, Empedocles (Hunter and Rutherford 2009). A ‘paralyric’ episode in Aristophanes’ Birds discussed by Martin (2009) seems to reflect the same tradition of wandering poets as the Pindaric odes. A vagrant poet appears on stage and interrupts Pisthetairos’ sacrifice. He attempts to perform a hymn to the newly founded city of Cloudcuckooland, requiring a payment for this. Martin argues that ‘Aristophanic parody accurately, albeit with comic exaggeration, captures the actual discourse of praise-poets in the fifth century’ (Martin 2009, 87). Interestingly, there is an address to the landscape included in his speech. Having received what he wanted, the poet departs, and before leaving the stage he utters the following verses: ἀπέρχομαι, κἀς τὴν πόλιν ἀπελθὼν ποήσω τοιαδί·‘Κλῇσον, ὦ χρυσόθρονε, τὰν τρομεράν, κρυεράν·νιφόβολα πεδία πολύπορά τ῎ήλυθον. ̔Αλαλαί.’ I am going, and going out of the city I will make such verse: you of the golden throne, celebrate the shivering, freezing one; to snow-blasted many-waged plains have I come. Alalai! (ll. 948–52, translation Martin 2009)

The ‘arrival’ motif is parodied here as instead of praising ‘on arrival’, he does so upon leaving the city. Instead of coming he is leaving, and instead of praising he describes the city ironically it as both snow-covered and abundant in harvest. Landscape plays a significant role in the poet’s speech, as it is through landscape that the city is characterised. The emphasis of the poet’s praise/blame speech is on the landscape and the unpleasant climatic features of the newly founded city. It is remarkable that such a description of landscape is included in this parody, which allows us to regard it as a recurrent element of the agenda of wandering poets. Another example that borrows praise of the city from the lyric tradition is the parodos in Aristophanes’ Clouds. In their song, the chorus of cloud-goddesses, who have just arrived at Athens, draw attention to their journey and arrival by offering details of their departure from the ocean and the sky and their arrival on the earth. The chorus visualises what they ‘see’ on the earth during their travel: Eternal Clouds! Let us arise […] in order that we may behold clearly the far-seen watch-towers, and the fruits, and the fostering, sacred earth, and the rushing sounds of the divine rivers, and the roaring, loud-sounding sea; […] Come, let us […] survey the earth with far-seeing eye. (ll. 275–90)

After this, in the antistrophe, they specify the land they see as the sacred landscape of Athens. They reveal in their song that they have come to the city and they deliver praise to it using Pindaric epithets such as liparos and euandros (Pythian 1, 40; Nemean 5, 9). They also explain their purpose in coming to Athens: they want to see the Attic land, its sacred rites and its citizens: ἔλθωμεν λιπαρὰν χθόνα Παλλάδος, εὔανδρον γᾶν Κέκροπος ὀψόμεναι πολυήρατον Rain-bearing maidens, let us go to the gleaming land of Pallas, to see the lovely land of Cecrops, home of fine men. (ll. 298–301)

Details relating to the arrival of the performer/performers are also given in Paean 6. After the invocation of Delphi, the poet explains the reasons for the visit, giving some details of their departure and journey. Addressing the city in a hymn would, of course, please the citizens and contribute to the creation of their local identity. It is significant that the landscape and the city are interrelated in such addresses. Invocations represent cities as personified figures and objects of cult, but at the same time, through addresses to landscape, the personification is not detached from the physical experience of it. The city is addressed through significant geographical highlights such as mountains, islands and plains, and aspects of climate. The lyric/Pindaric motif of an arriving poet who delivers praise to a place is connected to the Greek tradition of theōriai, religious journeys of sacred embassies. During theōriai, visitors to the sanctuary brought offerings, took part in ritual celebrations and honoured the gods of the place with hymns. Each theoric embassy officially represented its state at the Panhellenic celebrations. One of the Pindaric odes discussed above, Paean 6, was conceivably performed during such a theōriā at the Theoxenia festival at Delphi which attracted many guests from other Greek states. Rutherford discusses different assumptions about who the performers of the hymn were and proposes a hypothesis that the paean or one part of it was performed by an Aeginetan chorus that accompanied a theōriā from Aegina to Delphi and that Aeginetans sent choruses to Delphi on a regular basis (Rutherford 2001, 331–7). The chorus of Cloud-goddesses that arrives at Athens resembles a theoric chorus. Upon arrival, they perform a hymn and dance and explain their main purpose, which is to take part in sacred rites during the Greater Mysteries. In the fifth century, Athens promoted the Eleusinian Mysteries on the international level, sending special messengers, spondophoroi, to announce the festival and to invite other Greek states to send aparkhai, offerings of corn and barley

20.  Performing sacred landscapes: worship and praise of land in Greek drama each year to Eleusis (Rutherford 2013, 30, 225). As Dover notes in his commentary (1968, 141), the Cloud-goddesses’ references to this festival bestow Athens with an international standing in religion comparable with that of Delphi and Olympia and portray Athens as a destination for religious traveller: where are the august rites non may speak of, where to receive the initiates the temple is opened at the holy Mystic festival; giving the gifts to the gods of heaven, high-roofed temples, sacred statues, holy processions in honour of the Blest Ones, garlanded sacrifices to the gods and festivities at each and every season […] (ll. 299–310)

The emphasis here is on the participation in ritual, but the chorus praises Athens for its attractiveness to visitors – they have the privilege of taking part in sacred rites and of enjoying the beautiful architecture and performances; they are also well received in the temple. The arrival of the sacred delegation at a sanctuary was significant for the relationships between the two communities (the one represented by the theōriā and the one hosting the sacred place). The visitors were received and hosted by specially appointed theōrodokoi, a word deriving from the verb dekhomai, to receive. The process of negotiation between the two communities and the reception of the guests as well as the appointments of theōrodokoi was regulated and recorded in official inscriptions (Rutherford 2001, 16–17, 56–7, 337–8). The successful reception of the delegates was an important motif for Pindar. Paean 6 features a prayer to the place of Delphi and the deities Charites and Aphrodite to welcome (deksai) the poet. In another Paean 5, l. 45 in the concluding prayer, the poet asks Apollo and Artemis to receive their servant (i.e. the performer of the hymn or the poet) as they receive the hymn. According to Rutherford (2001, 297) this paean was likely to be performed during the Athenian theōriā to Delos. In Pythian 5, l. 22, the addressee of the ode, Arkesilaos, is praised for having welcomed the chorus of performers. The theme of receiving is found in comedy as well. The chorus in Clouds calls the sanctuary at Eleusis a palace that receives initiates (a hapax legomenon mustodokos, with the second part dokos deriving from dekhomai). In Peace, the protagonist hands the girl Theoria to the Athenian magistrates who were usually responsible for receiving sacred embassies from other states with the following words: ̓Αλλ’, ὦ πρυτάνεις, δέχεσθε τὴν Θεωρίαν. O Magistrates, receive Theoria. (l. 905)

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The chosen wording has a double meaning – one can receive a person (e.g. Birds, l. 1708) or an offering (Birds, l. 937) but it is also a special term for receiving a theoric delegation. Rutherford writes about this scene (2013, 249): Not only do the words ‘receive Theoria’ suggest the term theōrodokos, but the idea of theōriā being presented to the boulē recalls real Athenian practice, which stipulated that Athenian theoroi returning from abroad should report to the boulē, and for all we know visiting theōroi did the same. […] Given that Aristophanes imagined Theoria as having been rescued from imprisonment in a distant place, it makes comic sense to represent her as being returned to the Council like an Athenian theōriā returning from abroad, but it would have been more logical to have her setting off from Athens into the newly pacified panhellenic religious network.

Now that I have shown that comedy in the invocation of land and landscapes draws on cultural and ritual practices rather than on tragic examples, I would like to discuss a final passage from Aristophanes’ Wealth. It contains a direct invocation of landscape that is important for my argument. I shall show that this passage is grounded in literary traditions and uses them in a careful way. However, beyond that, it transmits religious meanings and messages that cannot be found in any of them, offering a unique combination of meanings created in the hic et nunc of the dramatic performance. Wealth featured the god Ploutos or Wealth who was brought to Athens, healed from his blindness and installed as a deity in Athena’s temple on the Acropolis. The protagonist of the play is the virtuous but poor Athenian citizen, Khremylos, who went to seek advice from an oracle in Delphi and ran into Ploutos there. The passage that I am going to concentrate on is the moment at which Ploutos returns to Khremylos’ house after having been cured of his blindness. Ploutos appears on stage and starts his speech by addressing the sun, the hill of Pallas and the whole land of Attica: καὶ προσκυνῶ γε πρῶτα μὲν τὸν ἥλιον, ἔπειτα σεμνῆς Παλλάδος κλεινὸν πέδον χώραν τε πᾶσαν Κέκροπος ἥ μ’ἐδέξατο. And first I make obeisance to you sun; Then to august Athene’s famous plain, And all this hospitable land of Cecrops. (ll. 771–3, translation Rogers)

The triple invocation of the sun, Athena’s plain (which is Acropolis – the word pedon is used for sacred precincts in Aeschylus Choephori 1036, Euripides Andromache 1085) and the Attic land makes it sound similar to the Messenger’s address to land, sun and Zeus in Agamemnon, and commentators beginning with Fraenkel has taken the scene to

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reveal a paratragic flavour (Fraenkel 1950 and Sommerstein 2001 ad loc.). Indeed, in this passage the audience was perhaps reminded of the tragic pattern of addressing one’s native land upon arrival home, as the themes of nostos and oikos play important roles in Wealth. The play starts with the protagonist’s nostos-like return to his house from a journey to Delphi; in the episode under discussion, Ploutos returns from the journey to the temple of Asklepios. The house of Khremylos forms the central location of the play, being the single dramatic setting around which the action revolves. The action is set at the door of Khremylos’ house, which according to Lowe’s interpretation acts as a boundary between private and public spaces with movements across it taking on important role (Lowe 2006, 51). The theme of oikos marks key phases in the establishment of the new Utopian order. At first, Khremylos persuades Ploutos to enter the house. Then, Ploutos is sent to Asklepios’ sanctuary, returning with his sight restored and re-entering the house. At the end of the play, Ploutos is transferred from Khremylos’ house to the public space of the Acropolis and his blessings are thereby spread from just one house to the polis as a whole. It has also been noted that the scene of Ploutos’ arrival is represented as the ritual of receiving a new slave into the household. Khremylos’ wife throws katachusmata, small gifts consisting of sweetmeats, nuts, figs and dates over Ploutos’ head, a gesture customary at the arrival of a newly bought slave into the house (ll. 768–801; Demosthenes 45.74; Plutarch Moralia 753d; Bowie 1993, 291). However, although the theme of the house plays such an important role in the play, particularly in this passage, the situation diverges significantly from the tragic pattern. In his address, Ploutos does not call Athens his native land as most tragic characters do. Ploutos is not represented as an Athenian returning to his home country and his relationship with the Attic land is not mentioned until the very late in the play when Khremylos suddenly claims that Ploutos had resided in the Athenian temple before at l. 1192. From the beginning, the spectators are given the impression that Ploutos was found in Delphi and is, generally speaking, a foreigner. In the first part of the play, he is portrayed more like a wandering homeless beggar travelling from one house to another (ll. 85, 235–44). In ll. 771–3 and in the dialogue about katachusmata which precedes it, Ploutos is represented as a stranger who needs to be welcomed and then induced through special rituals. His address resembles the lyric invocations of land and cities spoken by a foreigner who arrives at a new city and praises it. He uses the verb dekhomai, which was used in the theoric context, making clear that Ploutos is a visitor from afar, just like the chorus in Clouds, who is welcomed into Athens. Besides apparent theoric connotations, this verb was used in general to refer to the hospitable receiving

and entertaining of guests, as in Pindar’s Pythian 4, l. 128, Women at the Thesmophoria, l. 872. In lyric contexts this was possible not only between mortals but also between personified places, as in Pythian 9, l. 56, where the land of Libya receives Cyrene, as Apollo’s bride in her palace. The idea of receiving Ploutos, who is a god himself, as a visitor and a slave constitutes the humour of the scene (a parallel episode of receiving a god into the household can be found in Wealth 1147, where the god Hermes asks Khremylos’ slave Cario to receive him as a slave into Khremylos’ rich house). Ploutos is a deity associated in cult and myth with Demeter and Eleusinian mysteries as her son from a mortal Iasion (Hesiod, Theogonia, ll. 969–73, and in a hymn PMG 885, PMG 862, Homeric Hymn to Demeter, l. 488, Women at the Thesmophoria, l. 299). He personified agricultural abundance and the myth about his birth was depicted in a dramatic enactment during the Eleusinian mysteries. Sommerstein suggests (2001, 6–8) that in the play Aristophanes combined the image of Ploutos as god giving blessings with that of a more malicious deity of poetic (especially iambic and comic) tradition, who was presumably, portrayed as blind, old, wicked and unjust (Antiphanes, fr. 259; Archippus, fr. 37, 38, 39). In this perspective, Ploutos’ arrival at Athens can be compared with other arrivals of gods that were memorable events in the 420s (Parker 1996, 152ff). New gods were introduced into the Athenian cult through the ritual of hidrūsis, which Ploutos himself undergoes at the end of the play, being installed in the Athenian temple of Acropolis (ll. 1191–1230): e.g. the cult of the eastern goddess Bendis was installed in Athens with special rites, including a procession in 429 BC. One of the most notorious examples of god-foreigners is Asklepios. The details of his arrival in Athens bear some strong resemblances to Ploutos’ case, which would presumably be understood by the audience given the prominence of Asklepios himself in the play. It is known that Asklepios was brought on a ship from Epidauros to Attica in 421/420 BC, disembarked at the port of Zea in Piraeus and was welcomed by an Athenian citizen into his house. The installation of Asklepios was therefore, at first, represented as a private initiative before his cult was officially installed and the sanctuaries dedicated to him in Piraeus and on the Acropolis were opened (Parker 1996, 175). According to later sources, the person who received Asklepios in Athens was Sophocles, and for this reason he obtained the cultic name Dexion after his death: ‘the Receiver’ (Parker 1996, 184–5). The Epidauria festival in honour of Asklepios was incorporated into the Greater Mysteries, making Asklepios a deity associated with the Eleusis (Garland 1992, 116–35; Parker 1996, 179). It is important for my argument that the temple of Asklepios was built on the southern slope of Acropolis,

20.  Performing sacred landscapes: worship and praise of land in Greek drama below the Parthenon and above the theatre of Dionysos, so that it could be seen from the theatrical spaces. MitchellBoyask (2008, 105–22) discusses the location and claims that this choice of place was conscious, since Asklepios and Dionysos had many features in common and since healing and disease were prominent themes of imagery and language in Athenian drama in the last quarter of the fifth century. Asklepios was remarkably popular in comedy as well, especially in the last decade of the fifth century and at the beginning of the fourth (Orth 2013, 389–90). Nevertheless, he was still referred to as a ‘foreign’ or ‘imported’ god in the list of gods, ksenikoi theoi in Apollophanes, fr. 6, with the discussion of the term ksenikos found in Orth (2013, 389–90). The proximity of the sanctuary of Asklepios reinforced the associations between Asklepios and Ploutos and contributed to the representation of Ploutos as a newly introduced god. Ploutos’ address to the Acropolis and Attica upon his arrival from the sanctuary of Asclepios in Piraeus in ll. 771–3 plays an important role in this representation. This has been noted by Bowie, who correctly argues that the scene of the arrival of Ploutos has more emphasis in the play than the final event of his installation (Bowie 1993, 290–1). The arrival scene in Wealth can be paralleled with a scene in Knights where the Sausage-seller announces the ritual of greeting the newly established Demos in Acropolis after his miraculous rejuvenation. The scene is charged with ritual elements such as the euphēmia proclamation of the beginning of the ritual at l. 1316, and the invitation to the whole theatre to cry the paean at l. 1318 and l. 1327. The appearance of the new rejuvenated deity is accompanied by praising of Athens in stock hymnic epithets ‘violet-crowned’ and ‘gleaming’ in a direct address to the city (ll. 1323, 1329–30). There are, then, a great many factors that charge Ploutos’ arrival with a ritual dimension: its relation to the hymnic tradition used in cultic contexts, its association with the ritual acceptance of a slave and with the ritual introduction of a new deity into the official polis cult. Moreover, the verb proskunō with which Ploutos starts his address to the landscape expresses a ritual meaning: ‘to make obeisance to the gods or their images, fall down and worship’. In fifth-century texts, this term used to indicate either the worship of gods or the barbarian custom of proskunēsis, prostrating oneself in front of men of power, a practice generally condemned (Xenophon, Anabasis 3, 2, 13; Herodotus 1.119, 8, 118, 3.86). In drama this verb is used in a variety of situations to express the idea of worshipping the earth together with other gods (Knights, ll. 155–6; Oedipus at Colonus, l. 1654; Persians, l. 499; Sophocles Electra, l. 1374). E.g. Orestes intends to bow down to the seats of his native gods. This verb makes Ploutos’ speech sound as if it is a ritual invocation regardless of whether or not he actually fell to the ground while uttering his greeting.

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My last and most important task is to consider where the places to which tragic and comic actors address in their speeches are actually located. It is easy to note a difference between tragic and comic usage. Addresses to land in tragedies contribute to the creation of the imaginary space of dramatic action, a space that is usually different from Athens. It is clear that gestures accompanying the addressing of houses and palaces must be towards the scenery and/ or stage props. With landscapes it is not so clear whether the actor would have addressed the scenic space or the surroundings, but it would be more compelling, within imaginary landscapes, to stay inside the dramatic illusion and to direct gestures to the spaces and objects within the theatre. As Oliver Taplin suggested in a discussion at the workshop Greek Theatre, Landscape and Environment in London in February 2014, the orchestra of the theatre functioned as the imagined soil of the country where the dramatic action took place in tragedy. As for comedy, the addresses I have referred to in this article all concern Athens. Given the metatheatrical nature of comedy it is plausible to suggest that actors would have used the surrounding landscape, pointing towards it with metatheatrical gestures as the respective description was uttered. This could be the case in the addresses contained within Clouds, Birds, Knights and Wealth. Ploutos’ address is directed towards the Acropolis, an architectural ensemble that was physically present within the limits of the spectator’s sight. This aspect of his address is particularly significant because it is the first time in the play when he finally sees what is around him, having been cured of his blindness. Consequently, his addressing of the places visible from the orchestra of the theatre is also a means by which to demonstrate his restored sight. The land of Attica that he also invokes could not, of course, all be seen in the same way, but could nevertheless be gestured towards and could thereby be perceived using a combination of physical visibility and an act of imagination. A similar passage is found in Knights where, after making a proskunēsis to the earth and the gods (l. 155) the Sausageseller, now the ruler of Athens, is taken by Demosthenes to see the earth under his control from the theatrical space. He is shown not only the space that was visible from the stage – the audience sitting in the theatre (ll. 162f.), but also the market, the Pnyx, the harbours and even the islands of the Athenian empire: Demosthenes: Climb up higher, on this table, and look down on all the islands all around promising a lot of income, and even Caria and Carthage. Sausage-seller: I see them. (ll. 169f.)

Notably, the same emphasis on seeing the land from a height can be found in Clouds.

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Ploutos’ invocation, therefore, uses the visible sacred space around the theatre to stress the ritual context of his arrival, thus transcending the space of the orchestra and extending the space of the dramatic action to the surrounding cityscape through a metatheatrical gesture. At the same time, he transfers the ritual meanings with which the scene is charged onto the whole land of Attica. Through his invocation, he treats Acropolis and the land of Attica almost as personified divine beings by whom the god is received into the city. To conclude, Old Comedy invests Attic landscape with sacred meaning and involves the spectators into this process as they perceive the landscape around them with emotions of religious awe, guided by the speech of the comic character. The environment of the theatre is represented as sacred through a combination of ritual meanings through which a relationship is created between people and places. My analysis shows that Greek theatre, and comedy in particular, is a place where ritual meanings are constructed and reflected; they are not just reflected or used for dramatic purposes, such as parody, but create new meanings and recreate old ones.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Ian Rutherford, who discussed with me early versions of the text, and Mark Porter, who corrected my English. All mistakes are, of course, mine. My sincere thanks go to the Hardt Foundation for the opportunity to work on the article in a friendly and inspiring environment.

Bibliography Bowie, A. (1993) Aristophanes Myth, Ritual, and Comedy. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Coleridge, E.P. (1938) Euripides. The Complete Greek Drama, 1. Heracles. New York, Random House. Connelly, J.B. (2011) Ritual movement through Greek sacred space. Towards an archaeology of performance. In A. Chaniotis (ed.) Ritual Dynamics in the Ancient Mediterranean: Agency, Emotion, Gender, Representation, 313–46. Stuttgart, Franz Steiner. De Polignac, F. (2010) Un paysage religieux entre rite et représentation. Éleuthères dans l’Antiope d’Euripide. Revue de l’histoire des religions 4, 481–95. Dover, K. (1968) Aristophanes: Clouds. Oxford. Fraenkl, E. (1950) Aeschylus: Agamemnon. Vol II. Oxford. Garland, R. (1992) Introducing New Gods. London, Duckworth. Henderson, J. (ed.) (2008) Aristophanes, V, Fragments. Loeb Classical Library 502. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Hunter, R. and Rutherford, I. (eds) (2009) The Wandering Poets of Ancient Greece. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

Ley, G. (2007) The Theatricality of Greek Tragedy: Playing Space and Chorus. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Lowe, N. (2006) Aristophanic spacecraft. In L. Kozak and J. Rich (eds) Playing Around Aristophanes: Essays in Celebration of the Completion of the Edition of the Comedies of Aristophanes by Alan Sommerstein, 48–64. Oxford, Aris & Phillips. Martin, R.P. (2009) Read on arrival. In I. Rutherford and R.L. Hunter (eds) The Wandering Poets of Ancient Greece, 80–104. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Melfi, M. (2010) Ritual spaces and performances in the Asklepieia of Roman Greece. The Annual of the British School at Athens 105, 317–38. Meyer, H. (1933) Hymnische Stilelemente in der frühgriechischen Dichtung. Würzburg, Triltsch. Mitchell-Boyask, R. (2008) Plague and the Athenian Imagination. Drama, History and the Cult of Asclepius. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Mylonopoulos, J. (2006) Greek sanctuaries as places of communication through rituals: an archaeological perspective. In E. Stavrianopoulou (ed.) Ritual and Communication in the Graeco-Roman World, 69–110. Liège, Centre international d’étude de la religion grecque antique. Orth, C. (2013) Fragmenta Comica. Alkaios – Apollophanes. Heidelberg, Verlag Antike. Parker, R. (1996) Athenian Religion. A History. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Race, W.H. (1997) Pythian Odes. Loeb Classical Library 56. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Radt, S.L. (1958) Pindars zweiter und sechster Paian: Text, Scholien und Kommentar. Amsterdam, A.M. Hakkert. Rehm, R. (2002) The Play of Space: Spatial Transformation in Greek Tragedy. Princeton, New York, Oxford, Oxford University Press. Roger, B.B. (1907) The Plutus of Aristophanes. Bell. Rutherford, I. (2001) Pindar’s Paeans. A Reading of the Fragments with a Survey of the Genre. Oxford, New York, Oxford University Press. Rutherford, I. (2013) State-Pilgrims and Sacred Observers in Ancient Greece: A Study of Theōriā and Theōroi. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Smith, A.C. (2011) Polis and Personification in Classical Athenian Art. Leiden, Boston, Brill. Smyth, H.W. (1926) Aeschylus. Loeb Classical Library Volumes 145 & 146. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Sommerstein, A.H. (1980) The Comedies of Aristophanes, Vol. I: Acharnians. Warminster, Aris & Phillips. Sommerstein, A.H. (2001) Aristophanes Wealth. Warminster, Aris & Phillips. Storey, I.C. (ed.) (2011) Fragments of Old Comedy. Vol I–II. Loeb Classical Library 513–515. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Storey, I.C. (2003) Eupolis. Poet of Old Comedy. Oxford, New York, Oxford University Press. Taplin, O. (1978) Greek Tragedy in Action. London, Routledge. Wiles, D. (2003) A Short History of Western Performance Space. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

21 Integration and interaction in Egyptian non-royal sacred landscapes: a study of the tomb-chapel of Neferhotep (TT50) Maxwell Stocker

Introductory remarks Research aims and objectives This article investigates Egyptian conceptualisations of sacred landscapes in the late second millennium BC, discussing the tomb-chapel of the high priest Neferhotep (TT50) in Sheikh Abd el-Qurna in the Theban necropolis, and analysing its relationship to the sacred landscape in which it is embedded. Using an interdisciplinary methodology that incorporates both Egyptological and anthropological approaches, I discuss factors that could have contributed to the choice of location for this tomb, and I explore the archaeological, spatial and geographical evidence that characterises the relationship of TT50 to the broader Theban necropolis. This article addresses the current lack of secondary literature on the relationship of this particular tomb to its surrounding environment; the tomb nonetheless features the social and familial data about the tomb-owner necessary to discuss the positioning of his tomb within the landscape, and TT50 also allows us to explore broader issues surrounding the conceptualisation of sacred landscapes in New-Kingdom Egypt.

Research context and methodology The rock-cut tomb-chapel of Neferhotep is situated in Sheikh Abd el-Qurna, also known as the Valley of the Nobles, within the Theban necropolis; it constitutes the primary evidence for the existence of Neferhotep and of his family (Hari 1985, 1). The city of Thebes functioned as the predominant economic, political and cultural centre of Egypt in the mid- and late second millennium BC; the cliffs and adjacent desert plains that lie three miles to the west of the Nile at Thebes were used as a location for elite burials for much of ancient Egyptian history, and they provide an abundance of archaeological evidence regarding royal and non-royal burial practice and funerary culture throughout the Dynastic

Period (Strudwick and Strudwick 1999, 9; for a general overview of the Theban necropolis, see Baines and Malek 1980, 85–104; Manniche 1987; Kampp-Seyfried 1999a, 809–11; Hodel-Hoenes 2000; Strudwick and Taylor 2003). The Theban necropolis consists of several sub-necropoleis, both royal and non-royal, and the one in which TT50 is located was named after the tomb of Sheikh Abd el-Qurna, which crowns its highest point (Arnold 2003, 194). Qurna is a modern settlement (now uninhabited and replaced by New Qurna), which is situated between the sub-necropolis of el-Assasif to the north and that of Qurnet Marrai to the south (on the geography and composite sub-necropoleis of the Theban necropolis, see Arnold 2003, 194). Sheikh Abd el-Qurna, in which more than 150 tombs have been discovered so far, was used as a site of burial principally from the sixteenth to the sixth centuries BC; TT50 is located in the south-east of the area, and dates to the reign of Ramesses II in the thirteenth century BC (early Nineteenth Dynasty).1 This tomb had previously been dated to the reign of Horemheb (late Eighteenth Dynasty) on the basis of a scene on Wall B of the transverse hall, which shows Neferhotep and two of his fellow officials receiving the reward of golden necklaces from Horemheb in the third year of his reign (on the formerly ascribed date of the reign of Horemheb, see Lichtheim 1945, 195; Manniche 1987, 63). However, Hofmann (2004) convincingly argued that the tomb ought to be re-dated to the reign of Ramesses II on the basis of style, density of text and use of sunk relief. In Sheikh Abd el-Qurna, there are approximately three times as many Eighteenth-Dynasty tombs (110) as there are Nineteenth-Dynasty tombs (37) (Manniche 1987, 67). It possesses the highest concentration of non-royal tombs in the Theban necropolis, and was the most popular place of burial in western Thebes throughout the New Kingdom, as

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‘tomb after tomb perforated the hillside like a honeycomb, being so close together that an earlier tomb was often accidentally met with by the stonemasons chipping away at the cliff’ (Manniche 1987, 49). Neferhotep himself was a high-ranking member of the Theban priesthood; he held the title ‘God’s Father of Amun’, and he hailed from a priestly family (on his social and familial background, see Hari 1985, 1; his titles and social status will be further explored below). His tomb is unique among all known Egyptian tombs in containing three individual harpists’ songs (for an overview of harpists’ songs both as a genre and in TT50, see Lichtheim 1945, 178–212; 1975, 193–7; 1976, 115–16; Wente 1962, 124–6; Bochi 1998, 89–95). A small minority of Egyptian tombs from the third, second and first millennia BC contain single examples of these songs, possibly performed at funerals, but TT50 uniquely exhibits a trio of them which connect and interact both with one another intertextually, and with the sacred landscape in which the tomb was positioned (Bochi 1998, 89). Over the course of recent decades, the discipline of Egyptology has seen a marked increase both in the prevalence of the study of landscape in ancient Egypt, and in the application of anthropological theories and approaches to the investigation of Egyptian society and culture (for important interdisciplinary studies between Egyptology and anthropology, see Lustig 1997; Lehner 2000; Meskell 2004; for the history of interdisciplinarity between these two fields, see Bussmann 2015; Howley and Nyord 2018, vi–ix). The current trend towards interdisciplinary modes of research and more extensive dialogue between the fields of Egyptology, archaeology and anthropology has widened the scope of discourse on Egyptian burial practice. It has also resulted in a more nuanced understanding of Egyptian applications of religious and cosmogonical thought to ideas of landscape throughout the Dynastic period (most of the secondary literature on Egyptian sacred and funerary landscapes is sequestered according to chronological or geographical focus; for illuminating recent studies, see Richards 2005; Dorman and Bryan 2007; Jeffreys 2010, 108–16; Harrington 2013, 131–7; Magli 2013; Vischak 2015; Snape 2017; Bárta and Janák 2020; for the Egyptian conceptualisation of landscape, see Richards 1999, 83–100). In broad terms, I base my discussion on several fundamental principles drawn from anthropological theory regarding the human relationship to landscape, specifically: the ongoing and increasing criticism of traditional dichotomies such as those between natural and cultural landscapes, and between the human and non-human worlds; the creation of sacred landscapes as an ongoing process involving both personal experiential shaping and group transmission of knowledge; the use of landscape to express identities, social relationships and power hierarchies; and the definition of a sacred landscape as ‘a temporal and spatial fabric spread

over a geographic region’, unified within broader landscapes by narrative frameworks (Reese-Taylor 2012, 752; for relevant theoretical literature, see Hirsch and O’Hanlon 1995; Tilley 1997; 2006; Layton and Ucko 1999; Michaels 2003; Stewart and Strathern 2003; Benediktsson and Lund 2010; Fowles 2010; Fontein 2011; Arnason et al. 2012; Hodder 2012; Janowski and Ingold 2012; Tilley and CameronDaum 2017). As a highly important mortuary landscape, the Theban necropolis has historically been one of the most intensively studied regions within Egyptology, but there remain many tombs, as well as other archaeological features and material culture, within this necropolis that have not yet been thoroughly treated or investigated. Moreover, within the rich literature on the Theban necropolis there has been an increasing focus on the idea of landscape as a medium of cultural expression and as an important factor in its own right within Egyptian religious thought and burial practice. Aside from the range of secondary literature on the unparalleled trio of harpists’ songs in TT50, the tomb as a whole remains relatively understudied (v. supra; for existing studies on TT50 as a whole, see Hari 1985; Manniche 1985; Kampp 1996, 254–5; Wasmuth 2003, 89). TT50 was initially published in 1894 by Bénédite, and was later republished in 1985 by Hari, who provided a brief description, as well as a plan and images of the interior (Bénédite 1894; Hari 1985). One of the most relevant recent investigations is Vischak’s (2015) study of the Old Kingdom cemetery at Qubbet el-Hawa. Vischak focused on a group of 12 elite tombs from this necropolis; using an agency-centred methodology (see Vischak 2015, 7–15), and incorporating theories from art history and the anthropology of landscape and identity, she investigated the tomb-owners’ self-expressions and constructions of personal and communal identity, as well as the relationship between people and landscape, and the role which the tomb-owners played in the design and location of their tombs (ibid., 218–22; for a discussion of similar issues relating to Middle-Kingdom burial practices, see further Szpakowska 2008, 198–9). Vischak’s study demonstrates the effectiveness of examining and analysing the relationship of a particular tomb to its surrounding landscape in conjunction with its historical context and the sociocultural network of its owner. By exploring these factors, I aim to suggest possible aspects of the rationale behind the situation and positioning of TT50, and how it was integrated into the surrounding sacred landscape. The series of decisions that led to the choice of location for TT50 were taken on two geographical and conceptual levels – that of the broader Theban landscape, and that of the specific locality of southern Sheikh Abd el-Qurna – and any discussion must reflect this distinction in its layout. I propose that TT50 was integrated into the landscape through three principal considerations that are here discussed in succession: associations with movement in festival and

21.  Integration and interaction in Egyptian non-royal sacred landscapes funerary contexts, and linkages to the Ramesseum and the cult of Amun; integration within a specific cluster and sub-cluster of tombs in the sub-necropolis of Sheikh Abd el-Qurna; and connections to a selected past, the pre-Amarna Eighteenth Dynasty, through various aspects of the tomb’s layout and content. This article thus aims to contribute to current understandings of landscape as process in New-Kingdom Egypt, and of the diverse participations of individual tombs within that process over time. Egyptian tombs were carefully integrated within the landscape surrounding them, and the location of tombs was not accidental; the situation of a tomb was the result of a series of conscious decisions that were taken on account of specific reasons and motives (Hartwig 2004, 22–8). A landscape-based study of TT50 may open up new lines of enquiry concerning the various distinctive features of the tomb such as its artistic programme and its trio of harpists’ songs, the relationships between its interior content and exterior setting, and broader issues regarding space and place in New-Kingdom funerary practice.

The integration of TT50 within the Theban landscape I propose that the location of TT50 was determined partly by associations made between the tomb itself, the Ramesseum, the cults of Amun and of Ramesses II and networks of physical and idealised movement through the Theban landscape in festival and funerary contexts. TT50 was oriented east-to-west, with a slant of 15 degrees in a south-west to north-east direction (Hari 1985, 6). Sheikh Abd el-Qurna can be divided into a northern and a southern area, and the tombs situated in the southern area form a crescent, with TT50 at its eastern end. The majority of the tombs in Sheikh Abd el-Qurna had already been built at the time of the construction of TT50 during the reign of Ramesses II, and most of them were in the northern part of the necropolis (on the chronological sequence of tombs in Sheikh Abd el-Qurna, see Manniche 1987, 67). The entrance and axis of the tomb face east, and the continuation of that central axis as an unbroken straight line runs successively through the sub-necropoleis of el-Khokha, Dra Abu el-Naga and el-Tarif (see Strudwick and Strudwick 1999, 11). It is notable that none of the other tombs in the vicinity of TT50 in Sheikh Abd el-Qurna, even those that are oriented in an eastward direction, are positioned in this way, suggesting that TT50 is uniquely situated with respect to the surrounding landscape. Moreover, the focus of a tomb was inward as well as outward; like many other tombs, TT50 was oriented east-to-west, both so that the tomb-owner would be facing Karnak, and so that the tomb would remain in accordance with the symbolism of the eternal solar cycle ‘as a metaphorical reflection of the transition from life (east) into death (west)’ (Hartwig 2004, 16).

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Moreover, the presence of the festival calendar in TT50, incomplete and reconstructed from fragmentary remains by Manniche, further integrates the tomb into the surrounding landscape. It is the most detailed and significant example of its kind to have survived from a non-royal context throughout the Dynastic period, and it is reminiscent of those found in royal temple and funerary contexts from the late second millennium BC; it is importantly paralleled by the contemporaneous festival calendar on the south wall of the Ramesseum (Nelson and Hölscher 1934 2–29; Manniche 1985). As Quirke (2015, 99–100) has argued, festivals and festival calendars were fundamental to Egyptian constructions of sacred landscapes and timescapes, and each festival calendar ‘has its own context and reason for existence’ on a micro-level, rather than forming part of some larger national calendar, for which no direct evidence exists from this period. Egyptian festivals were fundamentally concerned with the maintenance and renewal of the created cosmos and more broadly with ideas of rejuvenation through repetition and connection to the past. Thematically, tomb and temple were closely connected to one another through the concept of renewal through festival and ritual; this multi-layered relationship was augmented over time and manifested itself in the landscape through constant reference to the past in the construction and positioning of new tombs and religious structures in the Theban necropolis (Wilkinson 2000, 95–7; on Egyptian temple as tomb, see Wilkinson 2000, 78–9; see Quirke 2015, 98–9 on the disjuncture in meaning between the Egyptian noun hb and the modern English noun ‘festival’). The east-to-west orientation and location of TT50 also reflects the format and symbolism of the Beautiful Festival of the Valley, through the fundamental shared concepts of existential transition and idealised movement by boat from east to west. This particular festival rose to prominence in the late second millennium BC and was celebrated in the middle of the harvest season; at this time, the inhabitants of Thebes visited the tomb-chapels of deceased relatives and the barques of the Theban triad (Amun, Mut and Khonsu) were taken from Karnak across the Nile to the temples of various gods and deified kings in and around the Theban necropolis, including the Ramesseum (on the ‘Festival of the Valley’ and its relationship to the tombs in the Theban necropolis, see Sheikholeslami 2003, 131; Bunson 2012, 422). The festival calendar therefore binds the tomb itself together with a broader conceptual map of the greater Theban area, and, like other inscriptional and iconographical elements in Egyptian tombs, it forms an important connection between tomb-chapels themselves and viewers (Vischak 2015, 221). It links TT50 to idealised movement in the festival landscape and timescape of the necropolis, to the Ramesseum and the cult of Amun and to the physical movements of individuals who interacted with the tomb, among whom the social memory of the deceased was

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hoped to endure (Assmann 1996, 80–1). Moreover, the king emphasised his presence through cult activity at Thebes and through physical and symbolic participation in these festivals; by incorporating a detailed and comprehensive festival calendar into the decorative programme of his tomb-chapel, Neferhotep integrated himself within the cult of the king and the broader ritual landscape of western Thebes. Another critical feature of the integration of TT50 into the Theban sacred landscape is the positioning of the tomb precisely due north of the northernmost corner of the Ramesseum, the mortuary temple of Ramesses II which was located directly to the south of southern Sheikh Abd el-Qurna (Porter & Moss 1960, 501). Construction on the Ramesseum began very shortly after the ascension of Ramesses II in approximately 1279 BC, and Hofmann’s re-dating of TT50 to his comparatively long reign means that this tomb and the Ramesseum were being built at the same time and that TT50 was planned and initiated during or, more probably, after this event (see Yurco 1999, 812–14). The tomb’s position directly due north of the most northerly corner of the Ramesseum is highly distinctive in the context of the relative positions of the other southern tombs to that temple. The extraordinarily precise nature of the alignment and the availability of many alternative spaces across southern Sheikh Abd el-Qurna in which to locate a tomb (many of these alternatives were in fact used over the following two centuries) suggest that a deliberate connection was being made. This position carried salience relating to Neferhotep’s social prominence and relationship with the reigning king, and, through this linkage of funerary monuments, an association was drawn between the tomb-owner and the king in the social memory of his community and in the cultural memory of the landscape (Vischak 2015, 208). The nature of Neferhotep’s occupations and social status further substantiates this linkage; he acquired the following, highly prestigious titles over the course of his career (Hari 1985, 10, 23, 33, 51; Table 21.1). Both Neferhotep and one of his brothers, Parennefer, had inherited the office of ‘God’s Father of Amun’ from their father Ameneminet, as attested on the upper register of Wall C (see Hari 1985, 22–3). The Ramesseum, Ramesses II and the god Amun were closely linked to one another and certain titles relating to Amun also related to the Ramesseum itself. The pre-eminence of the cult of Amun in early Ramesside state architecture and ritual practice has been extensively studied and this relationship is exemplified by the Egyptian name of the Ramesseum: ‘The House of Millions of Years of Usermaatre Setepenre which unites with Thebes in the domain of Amun’ (Wilkinson 2000, 182). The titles of ‘God’s Father of Amun’ and ‘Master of Secrets in the House of Gold of Amun, king of the gods, of Ra-Atum in Heliopolis and of Ptah in Memphis’ relate to the cult of Amun and to the convergence of broader cosmogonical traditions and indicate a further association

Table 21.1. List of titles of Neferhotep. Title

Transliteration

Lector priest

hˍry-ḥbt

God’s Father of Amun

ἰt-nṯr n ἰmn

Chamberlain of Kamutef

ἰmy-ḫnt n kᴈ-mwt=f

Wab-priest

w‘b -

Master of Secrets in the ḥry sštᴈ m pr-nbw n ἰmn nsw House of Gold of Amun, king nṯrw m r‘-ἰtmw m ἰwnw n ptḥ of the gods, of Ra-Atum in m ḥwt-ptḥ Heliopolis, and of Ptah in Memphis Judge of the Throne

zᴈb st wr(.t)

with the Ramesseum. The title of ‘Chamberlain of Kamutef’ is also significant, since it relates, in the Theban context, specifically to Amun, who was ascribed the epithet of Kamutef in association with the idea of fertility from the Twelfth Dynasty onwards; there is also a scene within the Ramesseum which depicts ritual activity centred around the cult of Amun Kamutef (on the epithet Kamutef, see Wilkinson 2003, 93; Hart 2005, 21; on the depiction of the cult of Kamutef within the Ramesseum, see Lepsius 1849). In a broader sense, the particularity of the alignment suggests a more general association between TT50 and the Ramesseum in which integration into landscape reflects and preserves real or idealised social networks.

The integration of TT50 within Sheikh Abd el-Qurna Neferhotep therefore situated himself within the geography and materiality of the broader Theban sacred landscape through a range of associations and relationships. I shall now concentrate on the immediate environment of TT50 and its neighbouring tombs in southern Sheikh Abd el-Qurna; I shall discuss the relationship of TT50 to those tombs and their owners, and the rationale according to which the tomb was positioned within the sub-necropolis itself. TT50 is situated within a particular cluster of tombs (Kampp 1996, 218, pl. II; Table 21.2). These surrounding tombs, and the identities, titles and careers of their owners (listed below), are informative concerning the rationale behind the location and articulation of TT50 within the immediate context of Sheikh Abd el-Qurna (Porter and Moss 1960, vol. 1, 1). Both Porter and Moss (1960, vol. 1, 381) and Kampp (1966, 569) state that TT301 is located in Dra Abu el-Naga, and so I conclude that Kampp has made an error in his ascribing of the number ‘301’ to the tomb which he has in fact labelled as ‘TT301’. Porter and Moss (1960, vol. 1, 501) do not record the existence of any such tomb (Table 21.3).

21.  Integration and interaction in Egyptian non-royal sacred landscapes Owing to the connections in chronology and titles between Neferhotep and the neighbouring tomb-owners, I propose that TT50 and its owner were being positioned in a particular social network; this is clear from the similarly prestigious titles and priestly careers of his neighbours, and from the fact that some of his neighbours performed specific activities during their careers similar or identical to those performed by Neferhotep. The above titles pertain variously to the state and to temple institutions, and they indicate that these individuals occupied positions at the very top of the social hierarchy. This is well exemplified by the presence of three individuals who held the highly prestigious title of First God’s Servant, which entailed authority over the economic and administrative management of the temple whose deity they served. Moreover, the title of First God’s Servant of Amun conferred immense socio-political and economic power, and the holder was ‘among the most powerful figures in the land, often rivalling the king, because he administered the vast holdings of the god Amun that were spread throughout the country’ (Teeter 2011, 26). Amenwahsu and Nakht held high-ranking titles within the priesthood and administrative infrastructure of the Theban cults of Amun and, in the case of Amenhotep, within the cult of Table 21.2. Chronological distribution of tombs within cluster. Pre-existing tombs TT30

Later tombs TT50

TT31

TT51

TT301

TT95

TT111

TT345 TT343 TT397

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the deified Eighteenth-Dynasty king Thutmose I. Benia originated in an aristocratic Levantine family and adopted the Egyptian name Paheqamen in addition to his original Semitic name; he was raised in the royal residence and oversaw state construction projects (Porter and Moss, vol. 1, 410–12; Kemp 2006, 34–5). The tombs in this group that were already present at the time of TT50’s construction were TT30, TT51 and TT95, as well as the more northerly TT345, TT343 and TT397 (see Porter and Moss, vol. 1, 501). As attested by the titles, the owners of most of those tombs were connected with the cult of Amun similarly to Neferhotep, constituting a specific high-ranking priestly milieu, and the owners of TT51, TT95 and TT31 held the title of First God’s Servant, which ranked near the top of the priestly hierarchy (on the status and titles of the priesthood during the New Kingdom, see further Doxey 2001, 72). The owner of TT95 – the tomb directly adjacent to TT50 – held the title of First God’s Servant of Amun, and the holder of this title was appointed directly by the king, holding responsibility for the cult and revenues of Karnak, and was one of the highest members of the elite in the whole country (Porter and Moss, vol. 1, 195; on the title ‘First Prophet of Amun’, see further Doxey 2001, 72). Moreover, the owner of TT51, which faced TT50 across the central forecourt, oversaw the Theban cult of the then-deceased king Thutmose I. Neferhotep himself held the title of lector priest, which related to funerary and mortuary cult and to general magical practice, and which entailed the recitation of the funerary texts vital to the transformation of the deceased in the afterlife (on the roles of status of lector priests, see Ritner 1993, 220; Doxey 2001, 71). He also held the title of God’s Father of Amun, which was probably a functional title by this date; it ranked above wab-priest and entailed the responsibility of leading processions at festivals (Doxey 2001, 72). The particularities of the location of TT50 thus link the tomb and its owner to a social world grounded in the Theban priesthood.

Table 21.3. Details of tombs within cluster.

i

Tomb number

Date of tomb

Name of tomb-owner

Titles of tomb-owner

TT30

Ramesside, reuse of unfinished tomb from reign of Amenhotep IIi

Khonsumose

Scribe of the Treasury of the Estate of Amun

TT51

Sety I

Userhat

First God’s Servant of the Royal Ka of Thutmose I

TT111

Ramesses II

Amenwahsu

Scribe of Divine Writings in the Estate of Amun

TT95

Amenhotep II

Mery

First God’s Servant of Amun

TT31

Ramesses II

Khonsu

First God’s Servant of Menkheperre

TT345

Thutmose I

Amenhotep

Wab-priest, First King’s Son of Thutmose I

TT343

Thutmose III

Benia

Overseer of Works, Child of the Nursery

TT397

Thutmose III

Nakht

Wab-priest of Amun, Overseer of the Magazine of Amun, First King’s Son of Amun



Bacs 2011, 10; Table 21.3 is based on Porter and Moss 1960, I.

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Furthermore, the owners of the tombs closest to TT50 on the central forecourt (TT30, TT95 and the contemporaneous TT111) worked for, and held a title directly associated with, the cult of Amun, whereas the owners of TT31, TT345 and TT343, which are not situated around this particular forecourt, did not. This suggests that TT50 was being situated within a sub-group that was itself a part of the overall cluster; this sub-group was comprised of the tombs of priests who, like Neferhotep himself, had careers directly associated with the cult of Amun. The integration of Neferhotep within the social world of this sub-cluster of priests of Amun is also evident through his title of Master of Secrets in the House of Gold of Amun, king of the gods, of Ra-Atum in Heliopolis, and of Ptah in Memphis (Porter and Moss 1960, vol. 1, 1, 46). The House of Gold was a highly important temple institution ‘devoted to storing and disseminating information and skills required for specialised categories of priests’ (Doxey 2001, 72). In it, cult statues were manufactured and perfected, and then made effective through ritual (Teeter 2011, 43–5). The best understood procedure of the animation of a statue is the Opening of the Mouth and Eyes; attested primarily for non-royal individuals, this ritual involved the provision of meat offerings, a funerary meal and a process of sculpting and animation in which the ba, or divine essence, of the deceased took up residence in the statue (Quirke 2015, 89, 97, 231). This facilitated two fundamental and related aims: the sustenance and the transformation of the deceased in the afterlife (Quirke 2015, 201). This title relates directly to the temple workshops and to three very important cult centres in Egypt, and it also signifies that Neferhotep held a high-ranking position in this particular institution, in addition to his other roles. Khonsumose, the owner of TT30, which pre-dates TT50, held the title of Scribe of the Treasury of the Estate of Amun. Since the treasury was administratively associated with workshops, Neferhotep and Khonsumose followed very similar careers in the same social and professional network. The positioning of TT50 adjacent to the forecourt of TT30 connected Neferhotep particularly closely with Khonsumose within this sub-cluster of priests of Amun; as stated above, this sub-cluster was itself part of the overall cluster of tombs in which TT50 was located (on the association between the treasury and temple workshops, see further Bleiberg 2001, 327). It is evident that Neferhotep did not structure the area, since most of the tombs in this cluster, as well as the forecourt onto which Neferhotep attached his tomb, were already in existence at the time of the construction of TT50. Instead, his tomb was integrated into a pre-existing milieu that was closely aligned with his own career and social network; this process was conceptualised on the level of the sub-cluster, of the cluster as a whole, of southern Shiekh Abd el-Qurna and of the broader Theban sacred landscape. The likelihood of this hypothesis is further supported by the evidence cited

by Hartwig, which indicates that tomb placement in the Theban necropolis reflected social status to some extent and that one’s rank and career exerted a considerable impact upon the location of one’s tomb (Hartwig 2004, 22). The multi-layered integration of TT50 within this closely defined social network may also represent an early stage of the broader process of change that occurred within the Theban necropolis from the late thirteenth to the eleventh centuries BC, by the end of which ‘the elite and other groups shaping its mortuary landscape belonged to a single community centred around Karnak temple and the wide-ranging estate of Amun’ (Bacs 2011, 7). The development of the Theban non-royal sacred landscape during and after the time of Neferhotep was marked by ‘increased social and cultural integration’ of the kind exhibited by TT50’s relationship to its surroundings, indicating that this particular case study is characteristic of a broader observable trend across the Theban necropolis (Bacs 2011, 7).

Integration with the past in TT50 Another notable factor in TT50’s relationship to the surrounding landscape is the concept of the tomb as an archive of preceding Eighteenth-Dynasty modes and forms, specifically in terms of its external and internal architecture, artistic scheme and funerary literature. TT50 is located adjacent to the forecourt of an older tomb in a widespread EighteenthDynasty practice; TT30 is the main tomb in the group and the tombs of Userhat, Amenwahsu, Mery and Neferhotep were subsequently situated off its forecourt. The clustering of elite tombs around a central tomb or a central forecourt was well established in the Theban necropolis by this date. Archival trends within TT50 are also evident in its internal architecture and decoration (on the artistic, architectural and conceptual differences between Eighteenth- and NineteenthDynasty tombs, see Kampp-Seyfried 2003, 10; Snape 2011, 223–5; for the development of non-royal mortuary architecture during the New Kingdom, see Dodson 2010, 820–1). Its layout is typical of the T-shaped tomb characteristic of the non-royal mortuary architecture of the Eighteenth Dynasty; it consisted of an open forecourt leading to a doorway, followed by a transverse hall, an elongated passage and a sanctuary with a statue niche at the rear (see Baines and Malek 1980, 104; Hari 1985, 81). Many contemporaneous, typically Nineteenth-Dynasty architectural features, such as small pyramids and funerary cones, are absent from TT50 (Snape 2011, 224). All decoration in the tomb-chapel was carved in sunk relief, and the layout, location and orientation of the scenes were composed and harmonised in a meaningful way. TT50 also exhibits axiality, a fundamental design feature of non-royal tombs of the Eighteenth Dynasty in which the different areas and components of the tomb are arranged horizontally from east to west (Snape 2011, 224; on ‘axiality’, see further Assmann 2003, 47).

21.  Integration and interaction in Egyptian non-royal sacred landscapes TT50 features a variety of texts, images and scene types explicitly relating to the past in both form and content, indicating significant engagement with the work of previous generations. The composition on Wall A consists of three registers, in which Songs 1 and 2 are inscribed (see Hari 1985, 9; see ibid., 12 for his labelling of the trio of harpists’ songs as Songs 1, 2 and 3). The surviving left-hand side of the upper register depicts two offering scenes. The southerly one shows seven figures – Neferhotep and his parents and siblings – seated on chairs before a man who presents offerings to them (Hari 1985, pl. III). What remains of the middle register depicts, from right to left, a lutist with an accompanying prayer, Songs 1 and 2 and the image of the harpist himself (Hari 1985, 11). The lutist is shown with a cone, lotus-flower and wig upon her head in exactly the same manner as the female members of Neferhotep’s family in the scenes in which they appear. The harpist holds a harp, which has a curved neck and sixteen strings, and he is seated upon the ground (Hari 1985, 12). The lower register, below the harpists’ songs, is unfinished. From right to left in the remaining traces, a woman in a transparent dress performs an unclear action; her head and arms are missing, as is the rest of the scene to the right. In the middle of the surviving scene, a man who is presumably Neferhotep sits upon a chair in front of a table of offerings, holding a sekhem-sceptre in his left hand and reaching out to the offerings with his right (Hari 1985, 16). A bouquet of flowers had just been laid upon the pile of offerings by an adolescent male, who wears the sidelock of youth and a leopard-skin characteristic of the sem-priest (Hari 1985, 16). On the left, Neferhotep and his wife sit on chairs, smelling lotus-flowers, and Neferhotep reaches out to a game of senet with his right hand (Hari 1985, pl. V). Wall B shows Neferhotep being rewarded by the Late Eighteenth-Dynasty king Horemheb with various items of golden jewellery. The offering-scene, the actions and attire of the depicted persons, the harpists’ songs, the lutist and her attire, the game of senet and the frequently occurring lotus-flowers are all features associated with Eighteenth-Dynasty tomb decoration (on the role and meaning of the lutist and her attire, see Manniche 1991, 110; on the significance of the game of senet, see Piccione 1984, 180). The compositions that occupy Walls A and B are thus indicative of the invocation of social memory and of integrating oneself within a pre-existing tradition and lineage. The scenes that comprise the overall composition of Wall A constitute a ‘catalogue de thèmes’; this was used to integrate the tomb-owner into the social structure encoded in the surrounding sacred landscape and also had an archival coherence through the grouping and integration of Eighteenth-Dynasty forms in one place, complementing TT50’s relationships with the surrounding Eighteenth-Dynasty tombs, as discussed earlier (Hari 1985, 16).

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A particularly striking feature of TT50 is its trio of harpists’ songs, a genre present in a number of EighteenthDynasty tombs in the Theban necropolis, and they integrally relate both to landscape and to the other archaising features in TT50 in a variety of ways (on cultural history and transmissional issues relating to harpists’ songs as a genre, see Morenz 1996; Zinn 2013). The harpists’ songs are a genre of funerary literature that occurs in a small minority of Egyptian non-royal tombs throughout the second millennium BC, and discourse on the nature of life, death and the afterlife. In TT50, Songs 1 and 2 are inscribed adjacent to one another on Wall A (the section of wall facing the entrance on one’s left as one enters) as stated earlier, and Song 3 is inscribed on Wall G, the north-western wall of the elongated passage. The songs present differing perspectives on existential and cultural questions; their content was contextualised within the architectural and artistic scheme of the tomb and the songs were integrated with one another and with the internal space of TT50. The themes of performance, liminality and transformation are fundamental to the functions of the harpists’ songs in Egyptian tombs. The tomb itself was a funerary performance immortalised in stone and the harpists’ songs are conceptually associated with the liminality fundamental to that performance; those in TT50 create between themselves an intertextual dialogue on the nature of the netherworld and on the existential transformation for which the tomb itself was constructed (Assmann 2005, 141). Individually composed and distinctive poems were linked to generalised images of a harpist that were broadly similar across various tombs and cemeteries; this is indicative of broader tensions in Egyptian art between the conventions and parameters of decorum and creative individual expression. The text of the song activated the image of the harpist and vice versa, and post-funerary interactions of living audiences with the songs inside the tomb-chapel during festivals maintained and perpetuated the performance both of the songs and of the tomb as a whole (Bochi 1998, 94). Moreover, the songs were integrated into the architectural layout of TT50 in a performative manner that actively engages with the viewer and reflects certain aspects of landscape. Much of how we see tomb-chapels is shaped by the nature of modern photographic technique, but lived experience of these spaces must be envisioned in terms of visitors entering and walking through the whole of the tomb progressively. The walls first hit by sunlight are the most important spaces in the tomb for certain kinds of display; they were the Blickpunktsbild, or ‘focal point representations’, which ‘were a sensitive indicator about the identity, life and larger social world of the deceased, as well as how the tomb-owner desired to be remembered by the living and how he wanted to be maintained in the hereafter’ (Hartwig 2004, 35). On the focal walls of TT50, the scenes of Neferhotep’s homage to his ancestors are

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positioned such that they could be illuminated by the rising sun, further emphasising the tomb’s connectivities and integrations with the past. The trio of harpists’ songs also mirrors the sacred Theban landscape in terms of ritual movement and solar symbolism, through their spatial relationships to each other and to the surrounding iconographical elements on the walls of TT50. In her study of portrayals of identity in the Theban necropolis, Hartwig (2004, 16) convincingly argued that scenes in the outer, ‘eastern’ transverse hall of T-shaped Theban tomb-chapels were concerned with the earthly life of the deceased, and those in the “western” interior hall of the chapel addressed his or her transition into, and life in, the hereafter. Since the transverse hall was the room nearest to the external world, the decoration reflects its use as a type of receiving room for people during necropolis festivals and visits.

Correspondingly, Songs 1 and 2, which are largely positive about death and the netherworld, are positioned in the transverse hall, whereas the strikingly pessimistic Song 3 is located in the interior hall and the movement of the visitor between them reflects idealised movement in festival and funerary contexts from east to west and the westward movement of the deceased towards the setting sun and the netherworld. Moreover, in the transverse hall, Songs 1 and 2 are positioned directly opposite the easternmost Wall C, which features banquet scenes. This scene type was a common feature of Egyptian non-royal tomb decoration in the second millennium BC; banquet scenes symbolised rebirth and transformation, and, as Harrington has demonstrated, they perpetuated in the netherworld what was done in this world and were important in establishing links with the past (Harrington 2016, 129–72). They were also fundamentally associated with the funerary banquets that took place during the process of interment, marking the transformation of the tomb-owner from one existential state to another, and they possibly formed part of the archaising trend within TT50, since banquet scenes subsequently ceased to be depicted in non-royal tombs during the Ramesside Period (Harrington 2016, 140). Furthermore, Songs 1 and 2, which present a positive view of the netherworld, are left in permanent shadow within the tomb-chapel; by contrast, at certain times of year, Song 3 was illuminated by the rising sun, in thematic accordance with the song’s emphasis of celebrating the pleasures of this world and the irreversibility and emotional anguish involved in death. Song 3’s emphasis on music, song and celebration in relation to death and transformation also fits thematically with the festival calendar that faces it on the opposite wall of the interior hall. Crucially, these archival aspects of TT50 are reflective of the broader historical and cultural context in which the tomb

was planned and constructed. Approximately 50 years earlier, the Eighteenth-Dynasty king Akhenaten had instated a religious counter-revolution over a 14-year timespan known as the Amarna period. He severed links with Thebes and with many aspects of traditional Egyptian polytheism in the third year of his reign, introduced a radically new state religion and built a new city on virgin soil devoted solely to the cult of the sun-disc. The Amarna period is characterised by two principal attributes: the extraordinary speed and radicalism with which it appeared and the attempted obliteration of all traces of it in its aftermath (Assmann 2003, 214–28). This unprecedented experiment abruptly ended after the death of Akhenaten, and its precepts quickly came to be viewed as heretical and unspeakable. Subsequent kings responded to the legacy of this deeply traumatic interlude with systematic campaigns aimed at erasing it from the collective memory of Egyptian culture. The manner of TT50’s integration with the past accords with broader contemporaneous trends related to the recovery and reassertion of traditional epistemological structures and cosmological concepts after the Amarna period. As Manniche argues specifically in reference to the festival calendar in the interior hall of TT50, the tomb’s multifaceted integration with the past vis-à-vis the harpists’ songs could be seen as a linkage to pre-Amarna modes and forms; in a broader sense, TT50’s integrations with the landscape and with aspects of a particular Eighteenth-Dynasty past are conceptually indistinguishable (Manniche 1985, 108).

Conclusion The tomb of Neferhotep was therefore integrated on many levels with important social and cultural aspects of the surrounding sacred landscape of the Theban necropolis, and a number of factors contributed to this process of articulation and cohesion and to the choice of location of TT50. It was articulated within the broader Theban landscape through connections to physical and idealised movement in festival and funerary contexts, the associations of the festival calendar in the interior hall and linkages to the Ramesseum and the cult of Amun through the location of TT50 and the nature of Neferhotep’s titles and family. TT50 was then integrated within a specific cluster of tombs in the sub-necropolis of Sheikh Abd el-Qurna; within that cluster, it was also integrated within a sub-cluster of priests of Amun, centred around the forecourt adjacent to the tomb of Neferhotep. TT50 also establishes connectivity to a particular past, the pre-Amarna Eighteenth Dynasty, in its external relationships to other tombs, its internal decorative scheme, its trio of harpists’ songs and their relationship to the tomb and the wider landscape and its inclusion of the festival calendar with its spatial and conceptual relationship to Song 3. In illuminating anthropological and cross-disciplinary understandings of the relationships between landscape and religion, it is hoped that this case study will inform some of

21.  Integration and interaction in Egyptian non-royal sacred landscapes the broader cross-cultural realities covered in this volume and particularly the fact that social structures and concepts of ritual movement and transformation strongly influence the nature of sacred landscapes in culturally particular ways. Integrations and interactions within Egyptian sacred landscapes are fundamentally concerned with the maintenance of an ongoing process linked to cosmological ideas of maintaining order amidst chaos, and of securing an afterlife both in the netherworld and in the deceased’s survival in social memory among the living.

Note 1

For the history and significance of the sub-necropolis of Sheikh Abd el-Qurna, see Kampp-Seyfried 1999b, 822–4; Arnold 2003, 194; Muñoz Herrera 2019. For a map of the southern half of Sheikh Abd el-Qurna showing the location of TT50, see Porter and Moss 1960, 501. For a brief summary of the historical context of TT50, see Hari 1985, 6. For a summary of the dates of the reigns of kings during the New Kingdom, and on the margin of chronological error present in the estimation of those dates, see further Shaw 2000, 479–81. For an overview of Ramesses II and his reign, see Grimal 1988, 250–68; Kitchen 1997; van de Mieroop 2007; 2011, 213–39. On the familial background of Ramesses II, see Dodson and Hilton 2004, 158–76.

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22 Desacralised landscapes: Nilotic views in the Ethiopian Story by Heliodorus Marco Palone

Introduction: desacralising the Nile In Heliodorus’ Aethiopica (Ethiopian Stories) of the third– fourth century AD, sacred spaces seem to be subject to a systematic process of desacralisation. To observe this process, we need to recall some important keywords: space, time and landscape. In the novel, space (setting) and time are strongly bound. Therefore Bakhtin forged the concept of ‘chronotope’ (1978, 239–60 ‘Greek novel’, and 261–77 ‘Roman novel’). For the landscape (see Malaspina 2011), we can notice that the plot of the novel unfolds along the course of the river Nile, as observed by Morgan: ‘The story-space is thus in effect arranged along the course of the Nile, from its mouth southwards towards its source’ (2012, 557). In addition to being a landscape, the Nile is one of the most important deities of ancient Egypt (Merkelbach 2011, 102ff, 152), which appears in the novel’s opening. The story is told beginning from the middle, in medias res, according to the Odyssiac model. The two protagonists are found along the shore of the Nile delta in the middle of a committed slaughter, among corpses, traces of a battle and food; in the background there is a shipwreck. At this point they met a Greek person, Knemon, who told them his story. Later they would meet the novel’s third protagonist, Calasiris, an Egyptian priest, who in turn would tell them his story and accompany them up to the end of first half of the novel. During the development of the story, many other nested tales are told in order to reconstruct the previous stages of the story and the events of the lives of the main characters. Their journey proceeds along the river Nile, including a novel’s typical elements: separation of the lovers, pirates, scenes of witchcraft, attempts to seduce the two lovers or break their mutual fidelity. Many of the turning points are situated along the Nile: Memphis (where

the two sons of Calasiris fight under the walls of the town and the protagonists are kept prisoner in Arsake’s palace), Chemmis, i.e. Panopolis, where the protagonists meet after their separation. Chapter IX recounts the siege of Syene, which was conquered by modifying the course of the river Nile. In the final chapter, the couple arrive at Meroe, the Ethiopian capital city, which stretches upon a triangular island at the source of the Nile. The beginning of the story takes place at the mouth of the river, which is described as a theatre of a violent slaughter: corpses and blood pollute the waters of the Heracleotic mouth, whilst remains of a banquet blemish the shore. If we draw attention to ‘That men call Heracleotic’ (τὸ καλούμενον Ἡρακλεωτικὸν – Heliodorus 1.1), as Morgan notices in Reardon (2008, 350), Heliodorus here tries to anchor his story to the reality, giving at least the GraecoRoman perception of it. The language is particularly impressive and effective (Heliodorus 1.1.3–6): Ὁ δὲ αἰγιαλός, μεστὰ πάντα σωμάτων νεοσφαγῶν, τῶν μὲν ἄρδην ἀπολωλότων, τῶν δὲ ἡμιθνήτων καὶ μέρεσι τῶν σωμάτων ἔτι σπαιρόντων, ἄρτι πεπαῦσθαι τὸν πόλεμον κατηγορούντων. Ἦν δὲ οὐ πολέμου καθαροῦ τὰ φαινόμενα σύμβολα, ἀλλ’ ἀναμέμικτο καὶ εὐωχίας οὐκ εὐτυχοῦς ἀλλ’εἰς τοῦτο ληξάσης ἐλεεινὰ λείψανα, τράπεζαι τῶν ἐδεσμάτων ἔτι πλήθουσαι καὶ ἄλλαι πρὸς τῇ γῇ τῶν κειμένων ἐν χερσὶν ἀνθ’ ὅπλων ἐνίοις παρὰ τὴν μάχην γεγενημέναι ὁ γὰρ πόλεμος ἐσχεδίαστο· ἕτεραι δὲ ἄλλους ἔκρυπτον, ὡς ᾤοντο, ὑπελθόντας· κρατῆρες ἀνατετραμμένοι καὶ χειρῶν ἔνιοι τῶν ἐσχηκότων ἀπορρέοντες τῶν μὲν πινόντων τῶν δὲ ἀντὶ λίθων κεχρημένων· τὸ γὰρ αἰφνίδιον τοῦ κακοῦ τὰς χρείας ἐκαινοτόμει καὶ βέλεσι κεχρῆσθαι τοῖς ἐκπώμασιν

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ἐδίδασκεν. Ἔκειντο δὲ ὁ μὲν πελέκει τετρωμένος, ὁ δὲ κάχληκι βεβλημένος αὐτόθεν ἀπὸ τῆς ῥαχίας πεπορισμένῳ, ἕτερος ξύλῳ κατεαγώς, ὁ δὲ δαλῷ κατάφλεκτος, καὶ ἄλλος ἄλλως, οἱ δὲ πλεῖστοι βελῶν ἔργον καὶ τοξείας γεγενημένοι. Καὶ μυρίον εἶδος ὁ δαίμων ἐπὶ μικροῦ τοῦ χωρίου διεσκεύαστο, οἶνον αἵματι μιάνας, καὶ συμποσίοις πόλεμον ἐπιστήσας, φόνους καὶ πότους, σπονδὰς καὶ σφαγὰς ἐπισυνάψας, καὶ τοιοῦτον θέατρον λῃσταῖς Αἰγυπτίοις ἐπιδείξας. But the beach! – A mass of newly slain bodies, some of them quite dead, others half alive and still twitching, testimony that the fighting had only just ended. To judge by the signs this had been no proper battle. Amongst the carnage were the miserable remnants of festivities, that had come to this unhappy end. There were tables still set with food, and others upset on the ground, held in dead men’s hands; in the fray they had served some as weapons, for this had been an impromptu conflict, beneath other tables men had crawled in the vain hope of hiding there. There were wine bowls upturned, and some slipping from the hands that held them; some had been drinking from them, other using them like stones, for the suddenness of the catastrophe had caused objects to be put to strange, new uses and taught men to use drinking vessels as missiles. There they lay, here a man felled by an axe, there another struck down by a stone picked up then and there from the shingly beach; here a man battered to death with a club, there another burned to death with a brand from the fire. Various were the forms of their death, but most were the victims of arrows and archery. In that small place the deity (daimon) had contrived an infinitely varied spectacle, defiling wine with blood and unleashing what at the pastry, combining wining and dying, pouring of drink and spilling of blood, and staging this tragic show for the Egyptian bandits. (All translations of the Ethiopian Story by J.R. Morgan, in Reardon 2008)

According to the Greek point of view, the elements of the miasma (for miasma, see Parker 1983) are all present here: the sacrilegious juxtaposition of blood and wine; the mixture of food and dead bodies in the water is particularly vivid. Moreover, the Egyptian pirates commit an additional offence: they steal from the corpses. In Egyptian religion, the water of Nile was sacred, so for an Egyptian, the mixture of blood, food and sacred water appears blasphemous (Merkelbach 2001, 152). The massive presence of realistic features enriches the description. The interrupted ritual in particular has been described reporting many sacred elements: the tables, some of them upturned, the cut hands, the wine bowls, the fire and the blood. Some objects are reused, turned into missiles to fight the sudden battle. Responsible for this incomprehensible scene, which the audience will understand later on in the novel’s subsequent chapters, is an undefined deity (daimon), perhaps tyche. According to Morgan’s interpretation in

Reardon (2008, 350), the daimon can be seen as ‘Providence’ or the ‘plot in disguise’. The realistic effect is also obtained by reporting precise elements of the ritual, here suspended, which recalls the Greek idea of miasma and shows the deity’s inexplicable action. Other elements of Heliodorean realism are visible in the whole novel, as noticed by Mecella (2014, 643–4). Heliodorus frequently uses pseudo-historical devices: (1) pseudo-scientific or ‘pseudo-rational’ explanations; (2) descriptions of assembly procedures, trial practices, reception of legations, etc.; (3) presentations of religious institutions; (4) descriptions of battles and sieges; (5) elaboration of oral speeches, citations of written documents, such as letters and official messages. The theatre of the novel’s spectacular ouverture is the delta of the river Nile. But the river accompanies the story’s turning points in the following chapters. At 2.28, there appears a geographic excursion about the Nile whose sacred nature is yet recognised: ‘I told him everything I knew, all that is recorded about this river in sacred texts, things of which none but members of the priestly caste may read and learn’. But what does Calasiris know about the sacred river? The priest of Isis gives a kind of scientific explanation of the winds, tides, flooding, climatic zones and sweet waters, to end up with the news that ‘the Nile, alone of all rivers, does not give off breezes’. The source for this information is without any doubt Herodotus (2.19.3 and 2.27). This ‘scientific’ interpretation is probably a Greek reading of Egyptian religion, which instead does not give any scientific explanations for Isis (see Merkelbach 2001, 113 and passim). Is this the secret knowledge hidden in the Egyptian priests’ sacred books? Even the Isis temple is subject to the desacralisation. The temple is located in Memphis and mentioned at 7.2, where Arsakes, wife of the Satrap Oroondates, desires Thyamis – at that time priest – while he is celebrating the rites. Heliodorus describes her behaviour as ‘shameful gazes’ and ‘indecent desire’. In the same temple, Arsakes takes the fancy of Theagenes (7.9); from this point onwards the sufferings of the couple are beginning to become life-threatening. However, the temple itself is not object of any description. At 9.3, the siege of Syene is described. To break the resistance of the inhabitants, the king Hydaspes, then discovered as father of the protagonist Chariklea, diverts the flow of the Nile and encloses the city walls with water. This can appear as subverting the natural order, but on the contrary the author shows his pleasure in the description of it: ‘In an instant Syene was an island, an inland town surrounded by water, washed by the waves of the flooding Nile’ (9.4); ‘This was a most extraordinary spectacle …’ (9.5). The inventor of this spectacular method of siege, king Hydaspes, is considered as

22.  Desacralised landscapes: Nilotic views in the Ethiopian Story by Heliodorus a model of an illuminated monarch, law-abiding at the cost of his own interests and compassionate even with his enemies (see 9.21–2; 9.26; 10.16). Hydaspes was not to be accused of committing hybris in altering the natural environment, but, on the contrary, his strategy was seen as a way of avoiding bloodshed; in fact, the enemy surrendered. The author’s positive comments testify that subverting natural order is viewed very differently here from how it was considered in the ‘classical’ mentality, for instance in Aeschylus (Persae 745–51, see Garvie 2009, 295): ὅστις Ἑλλήσποντον ἱρὸν δοῦλον ὣς δεσμώμασιν ἤλπισε σχήσειν ῥέοντα, Βόσπορον ῥόον θεοῦ, καὶ πόρον μετερρύθμιζε καὶ πέδαις σφυρηλάτοις περιβαλὼν πολλὴν κέλευθον ἤνυσεν πολλῶι στρατῶι, θνητὸς ὢν θεῶν δὲ πάντων ὤιετ’ οὐκ εὐβουλίαι καὶ Ποσειδῶνος κρατήσειν. πῶς τάδ’ οὐ νόσος φρενῶν εἶχε παῖδ’ ἐμόν; For he conceived the hope that he could by shackles, as if it were a slave, restrain the current of the sacred Hellespont, the Bosporus, a stream divine; he set himself to fashion a roadway of a new type, and, by casting upon it hammer-wrought fetters, made a spacious causeway for his mighty host. Mortal though he was, he thought in his folly that he would gain the mastery of all the gods, yes, even over Poseidon. Must this not have been a disease of the soul that possessed my son? (Translation by H.W. Smyth)

Another example of this classical mentality appears in Herodotus (7.22, 23, 24, 37, 116, 122: see Mikalson 2002, 194), where even Xerxes reacts to the anger of the gods (7.34–35.2) cursing the Hellespont’s waters because the storm destroyed the bridge of ships. But the impious behaviour of Xerxes is probably a product of the Persians’ ‘barbarisation’, which corresponds to the Herodotean ideology. Instead, for Pucci (2015, 225, n.41), this environmental consciousness of the ancients (‘coscienza ambientalista’) is determined by economic and religious reasons, and it is not the product of a genuine respect for nature. Hence, according to recent studies, Xerxes’ hybris, like the destruction of the Greek temples, appears to be Herodotus’ imposition that found followers in historiography and literature (Funke 2007, 21–34). In this respect, Heliodorus distances himself from the Herodotean (and classical) ideology. While the Persians had become victims because they subverted the natural order, the way the sacred Nile was used to besiege Syene can be seen as a clear sign of the river’s desacralisation. At 9.9, the distance between the author’s Hellenic perspective (see Morgan 2014, 260–76 and Stephens 2008, 56–71) and the local Egyptian culture that considers the Nile a god is evident. Egyptian beliefs of the Nile are divided in two categories, those of the common people

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and the secret knowledge of the initiates. At the end the result is a confused pseudo-scientific theory that is reminiscent of the pseudo-scientific explanation of the Nile flooding. In passage 9.9, the Nile represents the moist element and the land the dry one, according to the belief of the common people; by contrast, the truth is revealed that these two elements are really Isis and Osiris, in addition to Typhon (there is therefore a mix of Greek and Egyptian mythology). Heliodorus closes his excursus with the sentence: ‘Well, may the gods pardon me for saying this much’ (9.10.1). The passage 9.9 reveals the perspective of the hellenophone communities on Egyptian religion and culture. Apart from the taste of exoticism, there is no admiration or surprise, but a form of appropriation (the Greek Typhon) and a confused evaluation: common people vs. secret knowledge vs. scientific explanation, i.e. dry and moist. The confusion reoccurs when the statement that the Egyptians called the Nile Horus (9.22) contradicts the information from a few chapters before (9.9) in which the Nile was associated with Osiris. This contradiction reveals the novel’s non-Egyptian point of view, since the confusion between Horus and Osiris was impossible for Egyptians (Merkelbach 2001, 4). Another sign of Greek appropriation is testified by the numeric explanation of its name. The Greek spelling of the river’s name corresponds to a series of numbers [(ν = 50 + ε = 5 + ι = 10 + λ = 30 + ο = 70 + ς = 200) = 365], as they considered it a mere element of the landscape, responsible for the seasons and harvests (see 9.23). This is a case of Gematria, according to which the alphabetical signs correspond to numbers in such a way that words of the same numerical value are correlated (Hughes 2008). The Nile corresponds to the year because of its flooding times and dry seasons. It is also present in a description of locus amoenus (8.14.3) where the typical elements of the topos – water, shadow, meadow and animals – appear with an exotic touch: the names of the plants (Pucci 2015, 233). However, in the description there is no reference to the sacred nature of the river (Merkelbach 2001, 102–12). It looks more like a literary topos with its typical elements: the secluded place, the water and shadows of the trees, and with nature at its peak: no trace of any human hand, animals or plants in their congenial environment. It is a clear Theocritean legacy (for locus amoenus vs. urbanisation, see Malaspina 1990, 116). Only the exotic names of the plants (sicamores, persea trees) give an Egyptian glimpse and serve to give the impression of realism, which is a necessary premise for the audience’s emotional participation. Moreover, the locus amoenus along the river Nile in Heliodorus does not have any geographical marks and therefore remains vague. Having considered the passages above it is possible to confirm that the desacralisation of the Nile corresponds:

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a) the novel’s aim of entertainment which considers the Egyptian river as an element of exoticism. See Heliodorus 2.27: ‘for Greeks find all Egyptian lore and legend irresistibly attractive’. b) to the reappropriation of the Egyptian culture and religion by the Greeks who instead do not conceive a ‘system of sacred places’ for the Nile, which remains extraneous to their idea of sacred landscape. About this see further in the Conclusion and Cançik (2008, 67).

representing the last obstacle to the union of the two main characters, Theagenes and Chariklea. In fact, Charikles, having discovered by whom he had been deceived, finds his way to Ethiopia and attempts to stop the wedding of the two lovers. As we can see, Delphi – its temples, rites and priests – do not seem to receive any particular religious respect and devotion in the novel.

An interesting case of reappropriation of Egyptian tradition and culture by the Greeks is the ‘Hymn to the Nile’ studied by Cribiore (1995, 97–106).

Having started at the delta of the Nile, the novel concludes at the source of the river. Meroe, the capital city of Ethiopia, is finally described as a wonderland, based again on Herodotus (3.23). The river Nile surrounds the town, which is located on an island. The description highlights the enormous size of the land, the animals and the plants, and – in harmony with the topoi of the paradoxographic literature – the fertility of the soil.

Delphi This sacred place is evoked by Heliodorus only as a narrative excursus to reconstruct the protagonists’ past events. It is also a meaningful episode to understand how the author treats one of the most famous sacred places of the Greek world, which can be contrasted with possibly the only sacred place in the novel: Meroe, at the spring of the Nile in Ethiopia. The presence of temples, processions and celebrations in honour of deities are often turning points in the plots of ancient novels. For Chariton, the adventure begins and ends in Aphrodite’s temple. For Xenophon of Ephesos, temples and sanctuaries are the main stages of his plot. However, very rarely do these religious spaces earn an accurate description (De Temmermann 2012, 483–516). Delphi, the sancta sanctorum of Greek religion, is an important intersection in the plot of Heliodorus’ Ethiopian Story, but the setting earns only a short description (Heliodorus 2.26, but cf. Pausanias 9.9.5; see Morgan 2012, 557–78). While the narratives concerning the Nile (delta; Memphis; siege of Syene; Meroe) are told directly by the primary narrator, the events of Delphi are told in an embedded narrative (for more on the embedded narratives in Heliodorus, see Palone forthcoming). We are dealing here with stories within stories within stories (Barth 1981): in Calasiris’ tale, Delphi’s priest Charikles tells his story within which the Ethiopian ambassador Sisimitres tells his story. The description of the procession, strongly requested by Knemon (3.3), is therefore an element of entertainment; the procession and the Pythian Games (4.1) are depicted with the typical rhetorical techniques of the ekphrasis (see Bartsch 1989, 3–39 and 171–7; about the difference between ekphrasis and landscape description see Malaspina 2011, 69–73). Delphi is the location of the deceit made by Calasiris, who acts like a charlatan against Charikles, making him believe that his daughter was affected by the evil eye. At 4.15, again in Delphi, Calasiris, by giving a false interpretation of a dream, deceived Apollo’s priest, Charikles. At the very end of novel, Charikles turns into a negative character,

Meroe

10.5 Ἡ γὰρ δὴ Μερόη μητρόπολις οὖσα τῶν Αἰθιόπων τὰ μὲν ἄλλα ἐστὶ νῆσος τριγωνίζουσα ποταμοῖς ναυσιπόροις τῷ τε Νείλῳ καὶ τῷ Ἀσταβόρρᾳ καὶ τῷ Ἀσασόβᾳ περιρρεομένη, τοῦ μὲν κατὰ κορυφὴν ἐμπίπτοντος, τοῦ Νείλου, καὶ πρὸς ἑκάτερα σχιζομένου, τῶν ἑτέρων δὲ δυοῖν κατὰ πλευρὰν ἑκατέραν θατέρου παραμειβόντων καὶ αὖθις ἀλλήλοις συμπιπτόντων καὶ εἰς ἕνα τὸν Νεῖλον τό τε ῥεῦματ ό τ’ ὄνομα ἐκνικωμένων. Μέγεθος δὲ οὖσα μεγίστη καὶ ἤπειρον ἐν νήσῳ σοφιζομένη (τρισχιλίοις γὰρ τὸ μῆκος, εὖρος δὲ χιλίοις περιγράφεται σταδίοις); ζῴων τε παμμεγεθῶν τῶν τε ἄλλων καὶ ἐλεφάντων ἐστὶ τροφὸς καὶ δένδρα παραλλάττοντα ἢ κατ’ ἄλλας φέρειν ἀγαθή. Ἐκτὸς γὰρ ὅτι φοίνικές τε ὑπερμήκεις καὶ τὴν βάλανον εὔστομοί τε καὶ ὑπέρογκοι, σίτου τε καὶ κριθῶν στάχυες τὴν μὲν αὔξησιν ὥστε καὶ ἱππέα πάντα καὶ καμηλίτην ἔστιν ὅτε καλύπτειν, τὸν δὲ καρπὸν ὥστε καὶ εἰς τριακόσια τὸ καταβληθὲν ἐκφέρειν, καὶ τὸν κάλαμον φύει τοιοῦτον οἷος εἴρηται. Meroe is the capital of Ethiopia. In form it is triangular island bounded on all three sides by navigable rivers: the Nile, the Astaborrhas, the Asasobas. The first of these, the Nile, breaks upon the apex of the triangle, where it splits into two; the other two rivers run along either side of the island until they rejoin to form one river, the Nile, which subsumes their names as well as their waters. In size Meroe is so vast that, despite being an island, it presents the impression of being a continent; its length comprises 345 miles; its breadth 115. It provides a habitat where enormous animals, including elephants, can flourish, and is so fertile that it produces the tallest trees in the world. Apart from gigantic palm trees that bear massive, succulent dates, the ears of corn and barley grow so high there that they can completely conceal even the tallest man on a horseback – or even, occasionally, on camelback! – and are so prolific that the seed sown is increased 300-fold. The size of the reeds that grow there has already been touched upon.

22.  Desacralised landscapes: Nilotic views in the Ethiopian Story by Heliodorus Here the sacred meadow where the final part of the plot takes place is particularly emphasised: the orgàs, the sanctuary of the Gymnosophists. 10.6. μικρὸν δὲ καὶ πρὸ τῆς ὀργάδος ἐντυχόντες οἱ Γυμνοσοφισταὶ δεξιάς τε ἐνέβαλλον καὶ φιλήμασιν ἠσπάζοντο· μετὰ δὲ τούτους ἡ Περσίννα τοῦ νεώ τε ἐν προπύλοις καὶ περιβόλων ἐντός. Κἀπειδὴ προσπεσόντες τοὺς θεοὺς προσεκύνησαν καὶ τὰς χαριστηρίους εὐχὰς ὑπέρ τε τῆς νίκης καὶ σωτηρίας ἐτέλεσαν, ἐκτὸς περιβόλων ἐλθόντες ἐπὶ τὴν δημοτελῆ θυσίαν ἐτρέποντο, κατὰ τὴν προηυτρεπισμένην ἐν τῷ πεδίῳ σκηνὴν προκαθίσαντες, ἣν τέσσαρες ἐπλήρουν νεότμητοι κάλαμοι, σχήματος τετραπλεύρου γωνίαν ἑκάστην ἑνὸς καλάμου, κίονος δίκην, ἐρείδοντος καὶ κατὰ τὰς ἄκρας εἰς ἁψῖδα περιαγομένου καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἅμα φοινίκων ἔρνεσι συμπίπτοντος καὶ τὸ ὑποκείμενον ὀροφοῦντος. Καθ’ ἑτέραν δὲ σκηνὴν πλησίον ἐφ’ ὑψηλῆς μὲν κρηπῖδος θεῶν τε ἐγχωρίων ἀγάλματα καὶ ἡρώων εἰκόνες προὔκειντο, Μέμνονός τε καὶ Περσέως καὶ Ἀνδρομέδας οὓς γενεάρχας ἑαυτῶν οἱ βασιλεύοντες Αἰθιόπων νομίζουσι· χθαμαλώτεροι δὲ καὶ οἷον ὑπὲρ κορυφῆς τὰ θεῖα πεποιημένοι κατὰ τῆς δευτερευούσης κρηπῖδος οἱ Γυμνοσοφισταὶ ὑπεκάθηντο. Τούτων ἑξῆς ὁπλιτῶν φάλαγξ εἰς κύκλον περιεστοίχιστο ταῖς ἀσπίσιν ὠρθωμέναις καὶ ἀλλήλων ἐχομέναις ἐπερειδομένη, τό τε πλῆθος ἐξόπισθεν ἀναστέλλουσα καὶ τὸ μεσεῦον ἀνενόχλητον τοῖς ἱερουργουμένοις παρασκευάζουσα. (…) ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν ἑτέρων, Ἡλίῳ μὲν τέθριππον λευκὸν ἐπῆγον, τῷ ταχυτάτῳ θεῶν, ὡς ἔοικε, τὸ τάχιστον καθοσιοῦντες, τῇ Σεληναίᾳ δὲ ξυνωρίδα βοῶν, διὰ τὸ περίγειον, ὡς εἰκός, τῆς θεοῦ τοὺς γηπονίας συνεργοὺς καθιεροῦντες. […] the Gymnosophists waited to greet him at the edge of the holy glade (orgàs), where they clasped his hands (of the king Hydaspes), embraced, and kissed him. The last person to welcome him home was Persinna, who was waiting at the temple gate, inside the sacred precinct. After prostrating themselves in homage to the gods and discharging their vows of thanksgiving for his victory and safe return, they left the precinct and turned their attention to the public sacrifice, taking their seats in the pavilion that have been erected in readiness in the plain. This was a square structure, whose weight was borne by four freshly cut reeds which stood like columns, one in each corner; their upper sections were arched over and connected to make, with the addiction of palm fronds, a dome that formed a canopy over the space beneath. There was a second pavilion close by, where an elevated dais had been set images of their national gods and likenesses of the heroes whom the kings of Ethiopia regard as founders of their house: Memnon and Perseus and Andromeda. Beneath these, on the lower step of the dais, sat the Gymnosophists, so that the gods appeared to stand over them, All this was ringed by a regiment of foot soldiers, resting on their shields, which they held vertically, with no gaps between them, so creating an unobstructed space in the middle from which the crowd was excluded and the ceremony could be performed.

Both places, the city and the orgàs, receive a very accurate description. This prepares the final solemn scene of the plot.

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But what is now about to happen is a human sacrifice. Thus, the sacred laws, to which Hydaspes appeals, seem cruel and inhuman. The orgàs, i.e. the sacred meadow, turns into the place where the Ethiopians and Theagenes wrestle, and into the scene of the trial where the characters assume processual roles: barrister and prosecutor, witness and accused. Coups de théàtre come in succession until Charikles’ appearance, when he claims back his supposed daughter and undermines the happy end of the story. At the very end, the location rediscovers its sacred nature for the celebration of the wedding between the protagonists, for which the gods are invoked (10.40). The story’s climax occurs in front of the people of Meroe, who take part emotionally in the novel’s dramatised conclusion (10.17; 10.30).

The orgàs According to the Greek tradition, there are two possible interpretations for orgàs. The orgàs is a land sacred to the gods and must not be cultivated: ‘La hierà orgàs era lasciata incolta’ (Ampolo 2000, 18; Daverio Rocchi 1988, 186). The concept of hierà orgàs is well attested by numerous inscriptions and documents due to the famous dispute between Athenians and Megarians; for example, Thucydides (1.139) speaks about the hierà orgàs as the object of a decree by the Athenians (IG II2 204; also see e.g. RL s.v. orgàs; Callimachus fr. 35 P; Plutarch Pericles 30; Pausanias 3.4.2; Herodotus 4,46; see McDonald 1996, 321–2; Horster 2010, 444–5; 451–2). Orgàs is also a synonym for ‘land’ or ‘fertile meadow’. The context in which the word appears in Heliodorus (10.2.2, 10.4.1, 10.6.1) is clearly associated with the sacred, so he probably draws from the historical tradition of the fifth–fourth centuries BC. For later authors, like Didymus in Demosthenes 14.23; Harpocration 28.8 and Pausanias 3.4.2, it seems to have become a distant concept, since many of them accompany the word with expressions like ‘the so-called’ hierà orgàs, showing that this concept was no longer common in Late Antiquity. Moreover, another idea seems to interfere with the description of the hierà orgàs. Already in the Odyssey the land of the Ethiopians is mentioned as a far and mythical place, where a hecatomb and a banquet was offered to Poseidon (Homer Iliad 1.423–4: Ζεὺς γὰρ ἐς Ὠκεανὸν μετ’ ἀμύμονας Αἰθιοπῆας/χθιζὸς ἔβη κατὰ δαῖτα, θεοὶ δ’ ἅμα πάντες ἕποντο). […] ὁ δ’ ἀσπερχὲς μενέαινεν ἀντιθέῳ Ὀδυσῆϊ πάρος ἣν γαῖαν ἱκέσθαι. ἀλλ’ ὁ μὲν Αἰθίοπας μετεκίαθε τηλόθ’ ἐόντας, Αἰθίοπας, τοὶ διχθὰ δεδαίαται, ἔσχατοι ἀνδρῶν, οἱ μὲν δυσομένου Ὑπερίονος, οἱ δ’ ἀνιόντος, ἀντιόων ταύρων τε καὶ ἀρνειῶν ἑκατόμβης. (Poseidon); but he continued to rage unceasingly against godlike Odysseus until at length he reached his own land.

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Howbeit Poseidon had gone among the far-off Ethiopians – the Ethiopians who dwell sundered in twain, the farthermost of men, some where Hyperion sets and some where he rises, there to receive a hecatomb of bulls and rams, and there he was taking his joy, sitting at the feast. (Homer Odyssey 1.20–5; translation by A.T. Murray)

In Herodotus’ account of Ethiopia, reporting what he has heard in Elephantine, it is described as a place where animal sacrifices are offered and called the ‘Table of the Sun’ (3.18; also Herodotus 3.23). Ἡ δὲ τράπεζα τοῦ Ἡλίου τοιήδε τις λέγεται εἶναι. Λειμών ἐστι ἐν τῷ προαστείῳ ἐπίπλεος κρεῶν ἑφθῶν πάντων τῶν τετραπόδων, ἐς τὸν τὰς μὲν νύκτας ἐπιτηδεύοντας τιθέναι τὰ κρέα τοὺς ἐν τέλεϊ ἑκάστοτε ἐόντας τῶν ἀστῶν, τὰς δὲ ἡμέρας δαίνυσθαι προσιόντα τὸν βουλόμενον· φάναι δὲ τοὺς ἐπιχωρίους ταῦτα τὴν γῆν αὐτὴν ἀναδιδόναι ἑκάστοτε. Ἡ μὲν δὴ τράπεζα τοῦ Ἡλίου καλεομένη λέγεται εἶναι τοιήδε. Now the Table of the Sun is said to be something of this kind: there is a meadow outside the city, filled with the boiled flesh of all four-footed things; here during the night the men of authority among the townsmen are careful to set out the meat, and all day whoever wishes comes and feasts on it. These meats, say the people of the country, are ever produced by the earth of itself. Such is the story of the Sun’s Table. (Translation by A.D. Godley)

Heliodorus’ orgàs (10.2.2, 10.4.1, 10.6.1, 10.6.3, 10.6.5) seems to have many points in common with Herodotus’ ‘Table of the Sun’ (see study by Papazarkadas 2001, 244–59). It is worth mentioning that in this description by Heliodorus, the author himself becomes visible, although he usually stays in the background of his narration (οἶμαι, ὡς ἔοικε, ὡς εἰκός): it could be because the author tries to give more credibility to his narration. In the above-cited passages, it is possible to reinterpret Heliodorus’ hiera orgàs and the Table of the Sun. Under the emblem of exoticism, the two concepts have been manipulated and mixed. The Table of the Sun and the hierà orgàs become the imaginary and solemn setting where the story comes to the end, but the ingredients of this solemnity come from the time-honoured Greek tradition (i.e. Homer, Herodotus and Thucydides), so that a typical Greek historical concept (hierà orgàs) is turned into an element of exoticism of Ethiopia, such as the Table of the Sun. The author repossesses the exotic dimension of Ethiopia through a typical Greek imagery.

Conclusion Heliodorus adopts two different attitudes toward the sacred landscape. The first one is valid for the Nilotic landscape and Egyptian lore. In this case, the landscape is viewed

according to the sensitivity of the Greek audience who perceives Egypt as an exotic place, but not a real ‘sacred landscape’ since it is not a ‘system of signs’ (Cançik 2008, 67–9). Also, Delphi – the Panhellenic sacred landscape par excellence – has lost its religious importance in the novel since the Panhellenic sanctuary becomes a place of deception and Delphi’s representative – the priest Charikles – turns into a negative character. Helidorus’ second attitude to sacred landscapes can be seen in Ethiopia. This bears the typical elements of the sacred landscapes: the ‘geometrisation’ of space (Meroe being located on a triangular island), the presence of the Gymnosophists and their pavilion (geometrically described: see above Heliodorus 10.6), the hecatomb, the space where the sacrifice of the protagonists should take place, but which later becomes later their wedding place. All these elements concur to the ‘system of signs’, which makes it a sacred landscape. The hierà orgàs and the related idea of the Table of the Sun, which Heliodorus seems to have blended together, are rooted in the deepest historical and cultural tradition of the Greeks.

Bibliography Ampolo, C. (2000) I terreni sacri nel mondo greco in età arcaica e classica. In E. Lo Cascio and D.W. Rathbone (eds) Production and Public Powers in Classical Antiquity, 14–19. Cambridge, Cambridge Philological Society. Bakhtin, M. (1978) Esthétique et théorie du Roman. Paris, Gallimard. Barth, J. (1981) Tales within tales within tales. Antaeus 43, 45–63. Bartsch, S. (1989) Decoding the Ancient Novel. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Cançik, H. (2008) Rome as sacred landscape. Varro and the end of Republican religion in Rome. In H. Cançik-Lindemaier (ed.) Römische Religion im Kontext. Kulturelle Bedingungen religiöser Diskurse. Gesammelte Aufsätze 1, 62–80. Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck. Cribiore, R. (1995) A hymn to the Nile. Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 106, 97–106. Daverio Rocchi, G. (1988) Frontiera e confini nella Grecia antica. Rome, L’Erma di Bretschneider. De Jong, I. (ed.) (2012) Space in Ancient Greek Literature. Leiden, Brill. De Temmermann, K. (2012) Chariton and Xenophon Ephesius. In I. De Jong (ed.) Space in Ancient Greek Literature, 483–516. Leiden, Brill. Funke, P. (2007) Die Perser und die griechischen Heiligtümer in der Perserkriegszeit. In B. Bleckmann (ed.) Herodot und die Epoche der Perserkriege. Realitäten und Fiktionen. Kolloquium zum 80. Geburtstag von Dietmar Kienast, 21–34. Köln, Weimar, Wien, Böhlau. Garvie, A.F. (2009) Persae. Aeschylus (Introduction and Commentary). Oxford, Oxford University Press. Godley, A.D. (tr.) (1920) Herodotus. London. Horster, M. (2010) Religious landscape and sacred ground: relationships between space and cult in the Greek World. Revue de l’histoire des religions 4, 435–58.

22.  Desacralised landscapes: Nilotic views in the Ethiopian Story by Heliodorus Hughes, J.P. (2008) Suggestive Gematria. Sequim (WA), Holmes. Malaspina, E. (1990) La Valle di Tempe: descrizione geografica, modelli letterari e archetipi del ‘locus amoenus’. Studi Urbinati 62, 105–35. Malaspina, E. (2011) Quando il paesaggio non era stato ancora inventato. Descriptiones locorum e teorie del paesaggio da Roma a oggi. In G. Tesio and G. Pennaroli (eds) Lo sguardo offeso. Il paesaggio in Italia. Storia geografia arte letteratura. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, 24–27 Settembre 2008, Vercelli, 45–85. Torino, Centro di Studi Piemontesi. McDonald, J. (1996) Athens and the hiera orgàs. In M. Dillon (ed.) Religion in the Ancient World: New Themes and Approaches, 321–32. Amsterdam, A.M. Hakkert. Mecella L. (2014) L’enigmatica figura di Eliodoro e la datazione delle Etiopiche. Mediterraneo Antico 17(2), 633–58. Merkelbach R. (2001) Isis Regina – Zeus Sarapis. Die griechisch-ägyptische Religion nach den Quellen dargestellt. München, Leipzig, Saur. Mikalson, J.D. (2002) Religion in Herodotus. In E.J. Bakker and I. De Jong (eds) Brill’s Companion to Herodotus, 187–98. Leiden, Brill.

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23 The temple of Contrada Marafioti in Locri Epizephirii: a new approach Viviana Sia

Introduction In the eighth and seventh centuries BC, a demographic crisis and the search for new commercial ports and emporia led the Greeks to settle along the south Italian coast. These new foundations became rich and powerful and the whole area became known as Magna Graecia. For Pliny (Naturalis Historia 3.95), Locri Epizephirii, founded on the Ionian Coast of Calabria around 673 BC, was considered a gateway to Greece: ‘At Locri begins the forepart of Italy, called Magna Græcia’. Locri Epizephirii was a radial point of several events and a very important strong colony. Thanks to Pausanias we know that these settlers arrived from Locris, a poor region of ancient Greece, but it is still debated whether they came from Opunzia or Ozolia (3.19.12). There is also a tradition that connects the colony to Sparta: during Polydorus’ kingdom (eighth–seventh century BC) the Spartans sent settlers to Italy, in particular to Crotone and Locri. Throughout the ages, many significant events affected Locri, from the magnificence of the archaic age and her alliance with Syracuse to the difficult times during the Roman period, from the new positive impact of municipal status to the unavoidable decline in the seventh and eighth centuries AD caused by intense environmental problems, such as the lack of resources and the spread of malaria. The polis of Locri Epizephyrii was governed following a typical Greek model: dominated by an aristocracy that exerted its power through the Assembly of 1,000, which was probably composed of all citizens with political rights. The population was divided into three phylae (‘tribes’) and 36 phratries. At the heart of the community, there were the Zaleukos’ laws, which date back to the beginning of seventh century BC. It was an extremely conservative legislation that suppressed internal strife. But we also need to acknowledge the importance of the rule of the women in

ancient Locri, whose prestige derived from the importance of the feminine element in the polis cults as well as their legal rights in the polis (e.g. women received all of their inheritance and they had the right to pass down their family name even after the death of every man in their family). This has led many modern experts to theorise the existence of an ancient matriarchal government in Locri, despite the lack of evidence to confirm or refute this.

Analysis of the Locrian context In Magna Graecia, female property owners and a female hereditary aristocracy in the Cento Case area (Fig. 23.1) played a key role in the polis’ foundation and in the exercise of specific functions of worship, as in the well-known case of ‘sacred prostitution’ at Locri Epizephirii (see Budin 2008). This cult was the result of increasing contact between the eastern Greek world and the western one that was developed from the seventh century BC. There are three possible hypotheses for their contact: • • •

Trade seems to play an essential role since this kind of sanctuary is generally located near the sea. It may have been a reparation of an ancient ὕβρις. It may have been an expression of hospitality to pilgrims who arrived in Locri to participate in sacred ceremonies.

It is significant that the various forms of procuring insinuate an important social role of women who acted for the benefit of the entire polis, while we can also see the link with the male world. Moreover, this ritual provided an income for the sanctuary. It is undeniable that the role of women was incredibly important as they contributed to both the economic and public life of Locri. Female

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Viviana Sia die each winter and are reborn again in the spring. One of the fourth-century BC gold tablets from Pelinna suggests the association with Persephone as the goddess who frees human beings from the burden of previously committed crimes (OF 485 B In. 2 = είπεîν Φερσεφόνα σʹðτι Βάκχιος αὐτὸς ε̌λυσε – Redcliffe III 2013, 359). The Orphics affirmed the divine origin of the soul, and that through the process of transmigration it can liberate itself from its Titanic inheritance and achieve eternal bliss (Guthrie 1953).

Focus on the female cult: Persephone and Aphrodite

Fig. 23.1. Map of Locri Epizephirii (after Sabbione 2011, 311, fig. 21.12).

prostitution was not considered a lustful orgy but rather a religious act with a strong ritualistic component (Budin 2008). The natives exerted a certain influence on the colonists of Locri, notably in the religious sphere where a prominent place was given to the cult of the dead and to the veneration of Persephone. But the local Persephone was not the typical Greek Kore. She had acquired new traits as the goddess of life and death. Moreover, the location of her temple outside the city walls allows us to identify a pre-existing indigenous sanctuary. For a better understanding of the particularity of this location, we have to analyse the religious Locrian heritage in which we can observe the dominance of the chthonic deities. A very important factor seems to have been the popularity of the Orphic mysteries, a religious cult that was prominent in southern Italy in the seventh century BC. The rites were based on the myth of Dionysus/Zagreus, the son of Persephone and Zeus, who was kidnapped as a young child by the Titans who sliced him into pieces and subsequently boiled and roasted him. They ate all of his body, except his heart, which was rescued by Athena. She gave the heart to Zeus, who gave it to Semele to eat. Semele later gave birth to Dionysus again – just one of numerous legends about this god (Abel 1885, 230; Campbell 1898). Dionysus is therefore the god who died and was reborn. Thanks to his sacrifice, humanity came into being. This story represents the symbolism of earth (Persephone) and sky (Zeus) giving birth to the crops (Dionysus), which

The rich iconography of the pinakes – votive images made in clay in Locri betwen 490 and 450 BC – makes them a valuable and unique resource for examining cult activity, myth and women’s lives in this Greek colony (Fig. 23.2). Various fragments were discovered in large votive deposits during the excavations by Paolo Orsi in 1908 at the Mannella sanctuary, where the ruins of the Persephone sanctuary are located (Orsi 1908, 406; Quagliati 1908, 136–234). It seems to have been part of the ritual to break the pinakes. In 1955, Zancani Montuoro analysed this corpus, demonstrating that the myth of Kore-Persephone, the maiden who became the Queen of the Underworld, was the base of the representation. Her presence provides a glimpse into a different version of the myth in which the Dioscuri, and not Hades, abducted the maiden (Fig. 23.3) (Zancani Montuoro 1935, 19–218; 1954, 71–106; 1964, 386–95). In addition, on the top of these tablets other deities are represented, such as Aphrodite. In an attempt to explain Aphrodite’s presence at the Mannella sanctuary, previous scholars have tended to define her role in relation with Persephone (Prückner 1968). There can be no doubt that the two goddesses complemented each other. However, it is also clear that Aphrodite’s presence at Locri extended beyond the Mannella sanctuary, and that her role could also be related to – and even dependent upon – her other cultural functions, such as these below. Rumpf (1932, 283 and Picard (1935, 15ff) developed another vision of Aphrodite’s birth that refers to her chthonic nature and in opposition to Persephone: Aphrodite’s anodos from the ground based on the tradition of her birth from the sea (Zancani Montuoro 1964, 391; see also Schindler 2007 for a re-assessment of Aphrodite’s role at Locri). Second, the combination of Aphrodite and Persephone may represent the goddesses of love and sexuality, both pure (for marriage) and erotic (for other needs). Third, Mertens Horn (2006, 49–57) interpreted the figure of Persephone not only as Queen of the Underworld, but also as the guarantor of several rites of passage: life/ death, childhood/adulthood and virginity/marital status – with a specific reference to the erotic world, a peculiar

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Figs 23.2 and 23.3. Pinakes of Locri: Persephone and Dionysus; Persephone and Hades on the throne; Abduction of Persephone (National Archaeological Museum of Locri Epizefiri).

aspect of Aphrodite. The hypothesis of initiation is further supported by some pinakes where Dionysus is also represented. He would play the role of the god of this practice. Dionysus and the Dioscuri were gods and warrior figures often associated with these goddesses: Dionysus, because he represents the myth of rebirth as well as representing the prenuptial and initiations rites; traces of his cult were found in the city of Locri, in particular in the theatre, next

to the Casa Marafioti sanctuary. And the Dioscuri were very important for Locri because they helped the population to fight against the powerful army of Crotone. The divine twins, Castor and Pollux, were considered a symbol of the initiates. The twins were related to vegetation, death and resurrection and were often represented as horsemen and their typical attributes, like the sphinx, the dog and the snake, relate to passage rites.

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Analysis of the sacred area of Casa Marafioti as a reconstruction of the cult of the colony Interest in the site of Locri Epizephirii began in the first half of nineteenth century. The duke of Luynes was the first to successfully create a description of the city and its layout, even if some mistakes were made (Capialbi 1849, 1–36). Thanks to Paolo Orsi, Locri became the most studied site in southern Italy and it was possible to identify the city’s main sacred places and the most venerated deities. We will focus on the so-called ‘Sanctuary of Contrada Marafioti’ and a large group of clay figurines entitled the ‘young knight supported by sphinx’, which were discovered there in 1911. Inside the city walls and most likely near the agora and other important public buildings, like the theatre, Orsi discovered the remains of a large building, about 20 metres wide, together with architectural clay fragments, attributed to a Doric temple with an east–west orientation, constructed in the sixth century BC. Orsi could only provide a hypothetical reconstruction based on the foundations and the few remaining building blocks. He supposed that it probably was a peripteral temple, built from local limestone, a wooden roof and clay decorations (Fig. 23.4). He also identified two phases: around the end of the fifth century BC the temple was rebuilt in Ionic order and it was rebuilt again after having burnt down, apparently without any reason, in the second century BC. During the eighteenth century, the Casa Marafioti was built over the ancient remains of the temple, making it impossible to study this area without the valuable work of Paolo Orsi (1911, 27–62). During the excavations, Orsi found several clay fragments, and after closer examination he realised that the fragments originally formed a single group: a horseman supported by a sphinx (Fig. 23.5). It was a very strange statue, and it is especially interesting because it reveals essential information about the temple, namely the deity worshipped here and the importance of a specific cult practised in the colony. This sculpture is a unique masterpiece for Magna Graecia. It is 150 cm high, made of brown/grey clay, shaped by hand with a cue, and dates to the end of the fifth century BC. The sphinx is a fantastic animal with the head of a young girl, the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle. Its heavily restored head resembles other clay female heads found in the Centocamere area, in Locri and in the sub-colony of Medma (Fig. 23.6). We also find similar characteristics in the young boy whose soft shape resembles the Dioscuri of Marasà (Fig. 23.7). Those figures are masterpieces made in Paro’s marble; they were found in Locri by Orsi and Petersen in Locri’s Marasà area – another important temple dedicated to Aphrodite – between 1890 and 1891 (De Franciscis 1960, 1–29). These two compositions, depicting two young naked men who have descended from their horses, are supported by a newt. This probably had to be put on the crown of

Fig. 23.4. Map of the temple of Casa Marafioti (by Paolo Orsi).

the pediment of the temple. They are not only identified as the Dioscuri, but they depict, in particular, the moment in which they came to Locri to help the population during the Sagra Battle.

Conclusion It is necessary to emphasise that none of the Locrian sanctuaries have so far been fully investigated and that there are other religious contexts, including the agora, which still present a large gap in our knowledge of Locri Epizefirii. Nonetheless, the excavated evidence attests a complex cultural reality that was being developed from the end of the seventh to the second century BC. The map of all known cult places (Fig. 23.8) shows that there is a high concentration of sites inside the walls or just outside. For example, between the Abbadessa and Mannella Hills, we find the most important suburban sanctuary attributed to Persephone, but also to some male gods, such as Hades, Dionysus, Hermes and the Dioscuri. This sanctuary had a long life, from the end of the seventh century BC until the Roman imperial period. It can be considered a centre of attraction clustered on female (pinakes) and male (weapons) components because it was a temple linked to initiation ceremonies, as we have seen above. South of the colony, inside the Marasà area, there is an urban sanctuary that was constructed around the end of seventh century BC and existed until to the mid-fourth century BC, likely attributed to Aphrodite or to the Dioscuri, due to the discovery of the aforementioned statues. Not far away, but just outside the walls, there is the U-shaped stoa that is also related to Aphrodite and the practice of sacred prostitution in the area identified as the Centocamere; there is the shrine of Aphrodite in Marasà Sud, which became known as the ‘Lions’ House’ in the Hellenistic period, and there is also a place of worship for Adonis, the child connected to Aphrodite and Persephone.

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Fig. 23.5. Statue of a youthful horseman supported by a sphinx, from the Casa Marafioti (National Archaeological Museum of Locri Epizefiri).

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Inside the city walls, we find the Athenaion in the Mannella area, which was built around the end of the sixth century BC and dedicated to the goddess Athena promachos, as well as the Casa Marafioti temple and the theca, which was discovered in 1959, situated just 100 m from the latter and from the theatre. It is a theca with 39 bronze tablets written in Doric dialect, with links to the Olympieion archive and dated to the second half of the fourth century BC. These tablets document financial transactions made by the staff of the sanctuary and therefore De Franciscis (1960) thought that this was connected with the Casa Marafioti temple

Fig. 23.6. Clay female heads from Medma (National Archaeological Museum of Medma, Rosarno).

where he thought that Zeus Olympius was venerated. But not all scholars agree with this theory. In particular Gullini (1987, 394–400) and Torelli (1977, 103) argued that there was not any connection between the theca and the temple. Due to the modern features from the reconstruction and lack of funds to facilitate archaeological investigations, there are many uncertainties about which deity was worshipped in this temple. But it is also possible to infer the presence of female cults from this temple because it was collocated in the city centre and usually there was a strong relation between the economic-political life and the sanctuaries of female deities. However, in the light of what we have said, it shows a strong female character in the Locrian religion, with Persephone and Aphrodite as principal deities with different and complementary characteristics, that created a unicum. We are therefore faced with different aspects of femininity, underlined by the diverse collocations of the cult areas that resemble the same model of the city of Sparta to which Locri is said to have been closely linked. Aphrodite dominated the polis and near the sea, a reminder of her connection with water; Persephone can be found across the chora, with reference to the earth and her chthonian element. Both are connected to a cultural male substrate, creating a complementary relationship between male and female (Montagnini 2006–7, 142). Considering the role of Orphism in the city, it seems plausible to assume that in particular regard to Casa Marafioti sanctuary, we are dealing with an important triad, consisting of Persephone, Aphrodite and Dionysus, because all three refer to the chthonian world and to the cycle of death and rebirth, as well as initiation rites. This hypothesis can be

Fig. 23.7. The Dioscuri of Marasà (National Museum of Reggio Calabria).

23. The temple of Contrada Marafioti in Locri Epizephirii: a new approach supported not only by the cultural analysis of the site, but also by examining the statue of a horseman found in situ that can be identified as one of the Dioscuri, those twin star-crowned gods whose presence on a ship’s rigging was believed to help a ship to escape from a storm, but who were also considered a projection of the initiates with their dual chthonian and solar nature.

Fig. 23.8. Map of the sanctuaries of Locri Epizefiri: (1) Temple of Marasà – sanctuary of Aphrodite; (2) Shrine of Aphrodite at south Marasà; (5) Theca of Olympyeion; (6) sanctuary of Casa Marafioti; (7) sanctuary of Persephone at Mannella Hill; (10) U-stoa.

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Grecia (Taranto 3–8 ottobre 1976), 147–84. Naples, Arte Tipografica. Torelli, M. (1979) Considerazioni sugli aspetti religiosi e cultuali. In D. Musti (ed.) Le tavole di Locri. Atti del colloquio sugli aspetti politici, economici, cultuali e linguistici dei testi dell’archivio locrese (26–27 aprile 1977), 91–112. Naples, Edizioni dell’Ateneo & Bizzarri. Zancani Montuoro, P. (1935) Il giudizio di Persephone in un pinakion locrese. Archivio Storico per la Calabria e la Lucania 1935, 195–218. Zancani Montuoro, P. (1954) Note sui soggetti e sulla tecnica delle tabelle di Locri. Atti e Memorie della Società Magna Grecia 71–106. Zancani Montuoro, P. (1964) Persefone e Afrodite sul mare. In L.F. Sandler (ed.) Essays in Memory of Karl Lehmann, 386–95. New York, Institute of Fine Arts.

Section 4 Experiencing sacred landscapes

24 The sacralisation of landscape as memory space in medieval China: ‘Ascending Mount Xian with several Gentlemen’1 Thomas Jansen

In the introduction to his book on the religious landscape of the Southern Sacred Peak (Nanyue 南嶽) in medieval China, James Robson highlights the need to rethink the nature of the relationship between Chinese sacred mountains and our modern conceptualisations of sacrality by quoting from a prose-poem entitled ‘Inscription About a Crude Dwelling’ (陋室銘) by Tang poet Liu Yuxi 劉禹錫 (772–842): Mountains are famous not because of their heights, but because transcendents live there; waters are numinous not because of their depth, but because dragons live there 山不在高, 有仙則名; 水不在深, 有龍則靈. (Robson 2009, 22)2

The poem suggests that the special status of a mountain or a river is not merely a property of the site itself; rather, numinosity (ling 靈) or sacredness is constituted by a site being endowed with numinous elements – for example, potent herbs, powerful animals like the dragon or healing waters – or by the presence of superhuman beings, ‘transcendents’ (xian 仙). In other words, the sacred nature of a Chinese mountain was, at least partially, defined by what it contained or by those who dwelt in it. The Daoist alchemist and hagiographer Ge Hong 葛洪 (283–343) even went so far as to state that ‘all mountains, whether larger or smaller, have gods and spirits. If the mountain is large, the god is great; if the mountain is small, the god is minor’ (山無大小， 皆有神靈，山大則神大，山小即神小也) (Chen Feilong 2001, 670; quoted from Lin 2014, 1; cf. Michael 2016). The use of the term xian (‘transcendent’) in Liu Yuxi’s poem further highlights a second aspect of a mountain’s elevation into sacredness: the inscription of religious images and concepts onto its topography. To become a xian is the ultimate goal of many medieval Daoist practitioners. The

term originally referred to ‘nonhuman winged beings who could be found only in mountain fastnesses or divine realms but came to refer to humans who had attained some form of physical longevity or immortality’ (Kleeman 2016, 16). To identify a mountain as the dwelling place of ‘transcendents’ is to apply a pre-existing, in this case Daoist, taxonomy onto a natural landscape. Ge Hong is doing the same by correlating mountains of different sizes with the hierarchy of the Daoist pantheon. Other examples of imposing religious symbols onto a site include the monumental rock carvings of Buddhist scriptures on Chinese mountains (Harrist 2008), the dotting of a mountain landscape with religious architecture (Lin 2014; Fig. 24.1) or the identification of a certain spot with an auspicious celestial object or constellation (Robson 2009, 22). Liu Yuxi’s observation of what constitutes the special status of certain places is noteworthy because it cuts across modern dichotomist distinctions between an essentialist understanding of sacrality, according to which sacred places ‘share a mystical unity with the ultimate being or reality’ (Palmer 2014, 176), thus having an unaccountable identity that is prior to and separate from those who move in and through them (cf. Lane 2002, 24), and the opposite Durkheimian view of the ‘sacred’ as being constituted entirely by collective social, political and cultural forces (Palmer 2014, 176–7). While these two modes of sacralisation – the one that sees sacredness as inherent in the object, and the other one that regards sacredness as a social construct imposed onto a natural landscape – are important, they cannot fully account for the fact that, as Robson (2009, 23) has also noted, writings on sacred mountains are full of people, their biographies or hagiographies. Mountains are considered numinous or important not merely because of what they

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are or contain, but because famous people used to live there or had established an otherwise special relationship with the site, and are remembered by posterity. Mountains as sacred sites represent a complex amalgam of natural features, religious ideas and practices as well as human experiences crystallised into historical memory. Hence, they cannot be fully understood in isolation from the social practices and relationships that serve to bind them and the people associated with them together. ‘The sacrality of a place’, David Palmer noted, ‘then, emerges from the intense interpenetration of the fields of relationships of human organisation, collective memories, and of the place itself’ (Palmer 2014, 179). Indeed, if we read Liu Yuxi’s prose-poem further, we see that he uses the image of the numinous mountain to describe his own humble house, which, despite its alleged simplicity, is firmly embedded in a rich web of cultural practices and human relationships, both past and present: 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

山不在高, 有仙則名。

Mountains are famous not because of their heights, but because transcendents live there; waters are numinous not because 水不在深, of their depth, but because dragons 有龍則靈。 live there. Though this is a small and humble 斯是陋室, house, it is filled with my virtue’s 惟吾德馨。[…] fragrance. […] Great scholars often come to laugh 談笑有鴻儒, and chat; no shallow-minded per往來無白丁。 sons are among my guests. I can play the unadorned zither any可以調素琴, time; or, read the Buddhist scriptures 閱金經。 written in gold dust. No unpleasant music to disturb my 無絲竹之亂耳, 無案牘之勞形。 ears; nor official paperwork to tire my body. Zhuge [Liang] lived in a thatched 南陽諸葛廬, cottage in Nanyang, while [Yang] 西蜀子雲亭。 Ziyun dwelt in a pavilion in Western Shu.3 Confucius said, ‘You call it humble! 孔子云。 Why?’4 何陋之有。 (Translation based on E.C Chang. http://www.poetry-chinese.com/9. html)

In this paper, I will focus precisely on these interactions between people, their experiences and the environment and how these relationships impact on the sacralisation of space. I will argue that sacralisation often involves other processes in addition to the discovery of a mountain’s contained powers or the social construction of sacredness

by mapping a set of pre-existent images and meaning onto the natural landscape, thereby transforming it into a sacred landscape. Using a poem from the Tang dynasty (618–907), I shall examine how the dynamic and interrelated processes of climbing a mountain, contemplation of the environment and reflection on history contribute to the transformation of a mountain into a sacred space of interaction between human society, non-human ecology and cultural memory. Using the method of close reading, I will offer an analysis of a poem by Tang dynasty literatus Meng Haoran 孟浩然 (c. 691–740) in order to demonstrate how these different aspects work together in the creation of sacrality. The poem, which is entitled ‘Ascending Mount Xian with Several Gentlemen’ (Yu zhuzi deng Xianshan 與諸子登峴山), records an outing with friends to Mount Xian, near the city of Xiangyang 襄阳市 in modern Hubei 湖北 province (Kroll 1981: 34–38; Owen 1986: 22–32). Climbing a famous mountain was a popular pastime for members of the literati class as these mountains were dotted with pavilions, terraces, halls, the former residences of well-known literati, as well as springs, ponds and caves. As a rule, the poems recording these outings would have been composed on site, while the group of visitors was still under the spell of the experience.

Fig. 24.1. The area of Mount Wutai, Shanxi Province, with natural sites and religious architecture (image after Lin 2014, 4).

24.  The sacralisation of landscape as memory space in medieval China 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

人事有代謝,

Human lives succeed each other and decay, 往來成古今。 [They] come and go, becoming past and present. 江山留勝跡, Rivers and mountains keep traces of glory; 我輩復登臨。 We, too, climb up to have a view. 水落魚梁淺, When the waters sink, Fish-Weir Island emerges from the shallow river; 天寒夢澤深。 When the sky is cold, Cloud-Dream Lake is deep. 羊公碑尚在, Lord Yang’s stele is still here, 讀罷淚沾襟。 After we read it, tears soak our robes. (translation based on Frankel 1976, 111–12; Owen 1986, 24)

The first four lines of the poem seem to juxtapose the transience of human life with the permanence of the rivers and mountains. While individual human lives come and go, rivers and mountains remain for successive generations to be visited and enjoyed. The impermanence of human life is not absolute, however, for the cycle of birth and decay creates a continuous stream of time that flows from the past into the present and extends into the future (line 2). The brevity and fleetingness of human life is thus counterbalanced by the continuity of history. Conversely, the permanence and timelessness of the natural environment are less perfect and complete than they first appear. While certainly more durable than an individual human life, the line ‘Rivers and mountains keep traces of glory’ undermines the idea of permanence by introducing an element of temporality into the landscape. The expression shengji 勝跡, which has come to mean ‘famous historical site’ in modern Chinese, must be understood here more literally as the ‘glorious traces of the past’, referring to the marks left on the mountain by those famous people and divine beings who once inhabited or visited the place. Scenic spots are often those places on a mountain where the human hand has transformed the natural landscape by raising a building – a terrace, a gazebo, a hall where the traveller can rest or even more solid structures such as a monastery. While rivers and mountains remain, they are nevertheless continuously being transformed by those who visit the mountain to observe the traces of past generations and, in turn, leave their own. ‘We, too, climb up to have a view’, the third line of the poem reads. The landscape, however ‘natural’ and unchanging it might appear to the occasional viewer, is always under construction. We will see shortly that ascending a mountain to appreciate the views is anything but a passive, merely receptive activity. Re-reading the first four lines, we realise that the poem describes an interrelationship between landscape and human

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visitor that is more complex than the simple dichotomy between human transience vis-à-vis the permanence of the environment. The landscape is not merely the scenic background against which human life and actions unfold. Both are involved in a process of mutual (trans)formation, in which the environment offers the dwelling space and the material on which humans (and other beings) can leave their traces. One could say that the landscape enfolds human activities, as in the case of caves that have become the dwelling places of hermits. Speaking about human-landscape interaction, we ought to take note of two intersecting historical timescales or temporalities, namely the vertical timescale of human history that extends from the past, through the present to the future, and the, for want of a better word, horizontal timescale of the landscape: since both human life and the landscape are subject to change as a result of mutual formation, the two timelines intersect with one another constantly so that it becomes difficult to separate human history from the history of the environment in China. Each time a group of visitors climbs up the mountain to overlook the low-lying country and to leave its own trace in the landscape, human history and the history of the environment intersect, creating a moment where both merge into one, becoming part of the same ‘sphere’. To illustrate this idea of converging timescales, allow me a brief detour to quote from another poem entitled ‘At White Emperor City, Cherishing the Past’ by Chen Zi’ang (661–702; translation based on Frankel 1976, 108): 1

2

3

4

5

6

The sun is setting, it’s evening on the 日落滄江晚, 停橈問土風。 Big River. Stopping the oars, I inquire about the local customs. The city looks down on the Viscount 城臨巴子國, 臺沒漢王宮。 of Ba’s land. The King of Han’s palace has vanished from the terrace. This land, though distant and wild, 荒服任周甸, 深山尚禹功。 belonged to the royal domain of Zhou; The mountains, forbidding and deep, can still be approached through the merit of Yü. Precipices hang, green walls break off; 巖懸青壁斷, 地險碧流通。 The terrain is difficult but the jadegreen river comes through. Ancient trees grow to the edge of the 古木生雲際, 孤帆出霧中。 clouds, A lone sail pokes through the mist. The river-route goes on without limit, 川途去無限, 客思坐何窮。 The traveller’s thoughts linger on without end.

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The scene described in the poem is that of a traveller by boat on the Yangzi river. He interrupts his journey at White Emperor City to learn about the history of the place and absorb its atmosphere. The historical traces of the past, the palaces and buildings of the ancient kingdoms have long since disappeared. However, the location’s natural features, the mountains, precipices and trees, are still there and preserve and evoke the memories of the distant past by virtue of belonging equally to both past and present. If my reading of these lines is correct (or at least justifiable), then there is no absolute distinction made in the poem between ‘natural’ terrain and ‘artificial’ structures (the buildings of the past), as both are virtually inseparable: the deep mountains can still be approached as a result of the achievements of the Great Yü, the culture hero who is credited with having regulated the waterways. The present in this poem is not marked off from the past or the future. The traveller moves seamlessly through the landscape, no chronological barrier impeding his experience of the past. At the end of the poem the traveller continues his journey along the ‘endless river route’, an apt image encapsulating the unison movement of human transience, expressed in the traveller, and the infinite flow of time. The river itself is both a symbol of constancy and change, as it cuts apparently endlessly through the landscape, at the same time forming and corroding it. After this brief detour, let us return now to Meng Haoran’s poem. The scene that our visitors observe from their elevated position is the theme of the next couplet, namely lines 5–6: 5 6

水落魚梁淺,

When the waters sink, Fish-Weir Island emerges from the shallow river;5 天寒夢澤深。 When the sky is cold, Cloud-Dream Lake is deep.

The visitors, who have been moving through the mountain up to this point, have reached a spot from which they can overlook the scenery beneath them. This time it is the scenery that is gradually changing as eyes wander across the vast terrain while the observer seems to stand still: areas of shallow water levels exposing rocks and riverbeds are juxtaposed with, but not sharply delineated from, the vast and deep expanse of water that is Lake Mengze at its seasonal high. Again, the landscape presented in this view is neither a ‘natural’ landscape, nor simply the background against which human history unfolds. On the contrary, the landscape is shaped by the activities in which people may be continuously engaged. Fish-Weir Island no doubt reminded educated visitors of the Han-dynasty recluse Pang Degong 龐德功, who hailed from Xiangyang, while Cloud-Dream Lake made them think of the poet Qu Yuan 屈原 who drowned himself in waters that formed part of the Cloud-Dream Lake system (Owen 1986, 25). Furthermore, the mention of fish weirs and Cloud-Dream Lake points to fishing as a key economic activity of the region that has been incorporated into the

enduring features of the landscape. While the previous two lines showed an active traveller – one who leaves traces, climbs up the mountain and overlooks the surrounding scenery – lines 5–6 focus on how the landscape changes.6 The travellers as well as the readers of this poem are made conscious of the fact that innumerable people stood at the same spot before, enfolded between heaven above and the river below, and, through dwelling in the same landscape as others before, are able to inhabit the same sphere and share in the same stream of experiences that connect past and present. This connection is possible because, as I mentioned before, the landscape is intertwined with the rhythms of human life by virtue of its temporality and impermanence. Precisely because it is temporal in the sense of being generated through movement and performance in resonance and interlocked with the recurring cycles and rhythms of life, it is able to absorb the experiences and traces of the past. David Reason summarised the idea of the temporality of the landscape: Landscapes change: and change is itself an intrinsic aspect of our experience of landscape. The landscape is a polyrhythmic composition of processes whose pulse varies from the erratic flutter of leaves to the measured drift and clash of tectonic plates. Relative to the human span, the view before us seems composed of fleeting, ephemeral effects which create a patina of transience on apparently stable forms. (quoted from Ingold 2000, 201)

The experience of ascending Mount Xian is not complete, however, without a written record of the event. Such records exist on three different timescales (Frankel 1976, 113): first, we have the stele that commemorates the visit of a previous visitor to the mountain, a certain duke Yang (Yang Hu). We do not know the text of this stele, but Yang Hu’s biography in the History of the Jin (Jin shu 晋書) contains the following passage: [Yang] Hu delighted in mountains and rivers. Whenever the weather was fine, he would visit Mount Xian, where he had wine served and poetry recited, without tiring all day long. Once he heaved a deep sigh, looked at his Attendant Zou Zhan and the others, and said to them: ‘From the beginning of the world, this mountain has always been here. All along, worthy and outstanding men have climbed up here to enjoy the distant view. There have been many like you and me, who have perished without leaving a reputation behind. This makes one sad. If a hundred years from now there are conscious souls, they are still bound to climb up here.’ Chan said: ‘Your virtue caps all within the four seas, in your conduct you are the heir of former sages. Your noble reputation, your noble fame will surely be preserved together with this mountain. As for the rest of us, it will be as you have said.’ [After Yang Hu’s death] the people of Xiangyang erected a stele and built a temple on the spot where Yang Hu used to take his ease on Mount Xian, and every year they would make sacrifices to

24.  The sacralisation of landscape as memory space in medieval China him. And not a single person who looked on the stele could help shedding tears, so that Du Yu gave it the name ‘stele for shedding tears’. (cf. Frankel 1976, 112; Owen 1986, 22–23) 祜樂山水，每風景，必造峴山，置酒言詠，終日不倦。嘗慨 然歎息，顧謂從事中郎鄒湛等曰： 「自有宇宙，便有此山。 由來賢達勝士，登此遠望，如我與卿者多矣！皆湮滅無 聞，使人悲傷。如百歲後有知，魂魄猶應登此也。」湛曰： 「公德 冠四 海，道嗣前 哲，令 聞令 望，必 與此 山 俱傳。 至若湛輩，乃當如公言耳。 」… 襄陽百姓於峴山祜平生遊 憩之所建碑立廟, 歲時 飧祭焉。望其碑者莫不流涕, 杜預 因名為「墮淚碑」。 (Jin shu 1974, 34.1020)

Second, there is the record of the momentary experience of the poet and his companions, which finds expression in this poem; and finally there are the future records of all those poems later visitors to the mountain are going to write, following Confucius dictum that ‘When a gentleman climbs to a high place, he must compose poetry’ (孔子遊於景山之上， 子路子貢顏淵從. 孔子曰：君子登高必賦，小子願者何？ 言其願，丘將啟汝) (Frankel 1976, 113; Hightower 1952, 248). In the same way that Yang Hu’s stele commemorates a past visit, Meng Haoran’s poem commemorates the present visit, thus entering the visit and all who participated in it into the continuous stream of memory, connecting past, present and future. What are the implications of my analysis of the poem? Or, put differently, what can it tell us about the relationship between mountains as sacred peaks and the people visiting those mountains? What can we learn from the poem and the context of its production about the sacralisation of landscape? Finally, and more broadly, what are the implications for our understanding of how humans produce meaning in relation to the environment they live in? It is perhaps easiest to start with the last question and introduce the ideas of an anthropologist whose work I found inspiring in the preparation of this paper.7 In his book The Perception of the Environment, Tim Ingold seeks to develop a conceptual framework to explain how humans perceive the environment that is not premised on the idea that the cultural ordering of a physical terrain is ‘the inscription of ideal design upon the material world of things’ (2000, 178). Ingold is critical of the notion that humans appropriate their life-worlds predominantly by laying a framework of culturally and socially constructed meanings over the real world. A Chinese mountain is not transformed into a sacred space as a result of an individual or groups of people intentionally reading its surface structure, its inhabitants (both human and non-human) or its visible and invisible features with reference to, for example, a system of Buddhist symbols and concepts. In other words, sacrality is not constituted by the

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application of an external interpretive framework onto an object. There is no doubt, as I have shown at the beginning, that the buildings, plants, animals or mythical inhabitants we find on a sacred mountain become fully meaningful only through reference to a religious belief system or concepts. For example, a person living in a mountain grotto is imbued with religious significance by being referred to as a Daoist xian (‘transcendent’) or Buddhist ascetic. In the case of China, it is furthermore important to be mindful of Paul Kroll’s cautionary remarks against understanding Tang dynasty depictions of landscape as reflecting a factual reality. In their text-centered culture, Tang poets were ‘being conditioned and stimulated, to varying degrees, by the verbalized visions of previous writers’ (Kroll 1998, 90). Tang dynasty writers and readers where conscious of the fact that in their depictions landscape was being recreated as a ‘world seen through words’ (Kroll 1998, 90; emphasis in the original). I would agree that any literati engagement with the environment is entangled in a rich textual culture, the ‘lexical landscapes and textual mountains’ (Kroll 1998) that generations of sinologists have analyzed. However, that does not mean that such signification, the application of concepts and symbols onto an external world, is sufficient to fully explain the processes by which certain landscapes are sacralised. The problem with such a view is that it does not explain how these symbolic meanings come into being in the first place; more importantly, however, such a view grossly underplays the significance of the fact that as humans we are first and foremost bodies placed in an environment; what we do, how we learn and what we know is to a significant degree conditioned by salient aspects of the environment in which we live. Even Chinese literati left their writing desks occasionally to climb up a mountain (even if they might have been carried up), to build a pavilion or small temple (even if they did not do it themselves) or to gather with like-minded friends at a scenic spot. Following in the footsteps of Heidegger, Bourdieu, Merleau-Ponty and James Gibson, Ingold therefore concludes that ‘processes of thinking, perceiving, remembering and learning have to be studied within the ecological contexts of people’s interrelations with their environment’ (2000, 171). In other words, landscapes, including sacred landscapes, are not constructed by imposing an externally conceived cultural framework, a worked-out plan onto the world; rather, when constructing meaning about our environment, we seem to be working from the inside out; we create our life-worlds and what they mean to us through constant pragmatic engagement with the constituents of the environment we inhabit (ibid., 154), in other words, by being in it rather than by looking at it from the outside. Ingold has called this integrative view on people’s practical engagement with their lived environment the ‘dwelling perspective’ as opposed to the ‘building perspective’. By adopting a ‘building perspective’, Ingold argues, we objectify nature and negate the influence of

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the environment on the ways in which humans make the environment their home (ibid., 178–81). While Ingold is primarily concerned with creating a conceptual framework for analysing architecture and its interrelationship with the environment, his insights can also be made fruitful in the analysis of the making of sacred landscapes. Applied to the context of sacred mountains in China, Ingold’s insights suggest that sacredness is neither constituted by the discovery of the numinous properties of a landscape, creating a natural aura where that impacts on the wellbeing of humans – this is, for example, the basis of fengshui 風水 (literally ‘wind and water’) in which the physical environment is perceived to be a real dragon, and the ultimate purpose of fengshui is to locate the cave or lair of the dragon (Bruun 2008, 17–31; Field 2003a; Field 2003b); nor does sacralisation mean the ‘imposition of an arbitrary framework of symbolic meaning upon reality’ (Clifford Geertz, quoted from Ingold 2000, 178). Instead, Meng Haoran’s poem suggests that sacralisation arises from involved activity within a landscape; it arises from the specific relational contexts that people create through practical engagement with their surroundings. Sacred place requires that people respond to an environment, experience it and renew and share these experiences across time by writing about them; by inserting them into the memory connected to a specific place. The arguments that I presented in the foregoing analysis of Meng Haoran’s and Liu Yuxi’s poems were directed at undermining, or at least questioning, conventional assumptions about the relationship between humans and landscape. My aim was to introduce additional perspectives, namely the role of social memory as well as a ‘dwelling’ perspective, to the discussion of what makes a sacred landscape. In the course of my deliberations I have argued, following Ingold, that some of the conventional oppositions between, for example, ‘nature’ and ‘culture’ or between the temporality of human life processes and the eternal properties of the environment are in need of reconsideration. I would like to conclude this paper by suggesting that what I have said about landscapes in general might also be applied to sacred space in particular, both in China and elsewhere. It might be more fruitful to think of sacred space not predominantly as a space clearly demarcated from ordinary human lives, implicitly applying a ‘secular’ versus ‘sacred’ dichotomy, but rather as a landscape formed through the crystallisation of all those daily activities, rituals, experiences and social connections we make across time, thus erasing the separation between the past and the present. In the poems I discussed these activities range from climbing a mountain, resting at a scenic spot, overlooking the scenery, fishing, writing, deciphering and reading aloud (the stele), weeping, composing a poem, remembering, moving through the landscape and probably more. In Ingold’s words: ‘To perceive the landscape is therefore to carry out an act of

remembrance, and remembering is not so much a matter of calling up an internal image, stored in the mind, as of engaging perceptually with an environment that is itself pregnant with the past’ (2000, 191). Ultimately, sacralising a landscape may not be so different from transforming our environment into a landscape we normally call home.

Notes 1 2 3

4

5

6 7

I am grateful to Antje Richter (University of Colorado at Boulder) for several corrections to my article. All remaining errors are my own. Two important articles on the sacred geography of Chinese mountains are Kroll 1983 and 1998. Zhuge Liang 諸葛亮 (181-234), genius military leader and prime minister of the state of Shu Han during the Three Kingdoms (220-265) period, lived in a thatched cottage where he was thrice visited by the emperor to be consulted on matters of the empire. See Sanguo zhi 三國志 4.920. Yang Ziyun 楊子雲 (Yang Xiong 楊雄, 53 B.C.-A.D. 18), the most influential literary figure of the Western Han dynasty, was allegedly content to live in a humble book pavilion to write his Exemplary Sayings (Fayan 法言) in imitation of the Analects of Confucius. The last line is a reference to the Analects of Confucius, Lunyu 論語 9.14: “The Master wished to live among the uncivilized Yi tribes [of the east]. Someone said, ‘The Yi tribes are crude, how would that be for you?’ The Master said, ‘If a gentleman lived among them, what crudeness could there be?’” Chinese commentators identify the characters yuliang 魚梁 as referring to Yuliang zhou 洲 (‘Fish-Weir Island), an islet in the Han River to the east of Mt. Xian. Mengze, also known as Yunmengze 雲夢澤 (‘Cloud Dream Lake’), was a vast region of marshes and lakes in present-day Hubei province. Numerous modern hydrobiological studies have confirmed the existence of significant water-level fluctuations in southern China. See, for example, Fang 1993. I am indebted to an article by David A. Palmer (2014), which brought Tim Ingold’s work to my attention and has itself been useful in the preparation of this paper.

Bibliography Barnes, G.L. (1999) Buddhist landscapes of East Asia. In W. Ashmore and A.B. Knapp (eds) Archaeologies of Landscape: Contemporary Perspectives, 101–23. Oxford, Blackwell. Bruun, O. (2008) An Introduction to Fengshui. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Chen Feilong 陳飛龍 (2001) Baopuzi neipian jinzhu jinyi 抱朴子 內篇今註今譯. Taibei, Shangwu yinshuguan. Fang, Jin-Qi (1993) Lake evolution during the last 3000 years in China and its implications for environmental change. Quaternary Research 39(2), 175–85. Field, S. L. (2003a) In Search of Dragons: Fengshui and Early Geophysical Notions of Qi. www.fengshuigate.com/dragonsearch.html. Accessed 10 October 2016. Field, S. L. (2003b) The Zangshu, or Book of Burial. www.trinity.edu/sfield/Fengshui/Zangshu.html. Accessed 10 October 2016.

24.  The sacralisation of landscape as memory space in medieval China Frankel, H.H. (1976) The Flowering Plum and the Palace Lady: Interpretations of Chinese Poetry. New Haven, London, Yale University Press. Harrist, R.E. (2008) The Landscape of Words: Stone Inscriptions from Early and Medieval China. Seattle, WA, University of Washington Press. Hightower, J. (trans.) (1952) Han shih wai chuan: Han Ying’s Illustrations of the Didactic Application of the Classic of Songs. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Ingold, T. (1995) Building, dwelling, living: how animals and people make themselves at home in the world. In M. Strathern (ed.) Shifting Contexts: Transformations in Anthropological Knowledge, 57–80. London, Routledge. Ingold, T. (2000) The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London, New York, Routledge. Jin shu (1974) 晋书 (History of the Jin). Beijing, Zhonghua shuju. Kleeman, T.F. (2016) Celestial Masters: History and Ritual in Early Daoist Communities. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Kroll, P.W. (1981) Meng Hao-jan. Boston, Twayne. Kroll, P.W. (1983) Verses from on High: The Ascent of T’ai Shan. T’oung Pao 69(4/5), 223–60. Kroll, P.W. (1998). Lexical Landscapes and Textual Mountains in the High T’ang. T’oung Pao 84(1/3), 62–101.

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Lane, B.C. (2002) Landscapes of the Sacred Geography and Narrative in American Spirituality. Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press. Lin, W. (2014) Building a Sacred Mountain: The Buddhist Architecture of China’s Mount Wutai. Seattle, WA, University of Washington Press. McDermott, J.P. (1989) The making of a Chinese mountain, Huangshan: politics and wealth in Chinese art. Asian Cultural Studies 17, 145–76. Michael, T. (2016) Mountains and Early Daoism in the Writings of Ge Hong. History of Religions 56(1), 23–54. Owen, S. (1986) Remembrances: The Experience of the Past in Classical Chinese Literature. Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press. Palmer, D.A. (2014) Transnational sacralizations: when Daoist monks meet global spiritual tourists. Ethnos 79(2), 169–92. Reason, D. (1987) A Hard Singing of Country. In Jonathan Williams et al. (eds) The Unpainted Landscape, 24–87. London; Edinburgh: Coracle Press; Scottish Arts Council: Graeme Murray Gallery. Robson, J. (2009) Power of Place the Religious Landscape of the Southern Sacred Peak (Nanyue) in Medieval China. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press.

25 ‘God is on the journey too.’1 Sacred experiences on the road in Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age southern Britain Andy Valdez-Tullett

With widespread field systems and settlement, the landscapes of the Iron Age in southern Britain have a domestic feel to them not seen in preceding periods. In marked contrast with the Neolithic and Early Bronze Age, there is a distinct lack of monuments interpreted as ceremonial or ritual, and for most of the Iron Age in Britain there is even an absence of a clearly observable funerary ritual. Formal shrines or temples are rare, and the earliest examples only make an appearance in the later stages of the Middle Iron Age (400–150 BC), although most have a Late Iron Age (150 BC–AD 43) provenance (Cunliffe 2005). The widely assumed concept of the worship of chthonic deities at natural locations, such as springs, streams, forest groves or clearings, is hard to verify except where they have become the focus of ritual deposition, and in these cases appear to be a late phenomenon (e.g. Score and Browning 2010). This dearth of obvious ceremonial structures with highly visible settlements and regular recovery of human remains from domestic architecture has focused the search for ritual behaviour on domestic sites. Our dominant narratives for ritual behaviour have thus become centred on how cosmogonies are recreated through domestic architecture and how human remains are deployed within structured deposition in pits and enclosure ditches. We have moved to a general understanding that the sacred has been subsumed within the practice of everyday life. This paper will focus on the landscapes of Wiltshire, an area in southern Britain (Fig. 25.1) where during the Late Bronze Age (1100–800 BC) and Earliest Iron Age (800–600 BC) a transhumant regime was being practised, with certain elements of society engaged in seasonal movement patterns away from a fixed domestic sphere (Tullett 2010). This is evidenced by the wholesale division of the landscape into large pastoral units, a dramatic reduction in the number and scale of settlements, emerging evidence for small temporary

camps and the creation of large communal monuments for the management of animals (Valdez-Tullett 2017). This paper seeks to assess how such groups engaged with the divine whilst away from the domestic structures that are perceived as the focus of the spiritual. It will review the way that we currently view ritual behaviour during the Iron Age before moving on to understand how cosmogonies could be built into the cycle of the journeys that people of the Earliest Iron Age participated within. It therefore goes beyond traditional approaches to the Iron Age that are static and site-based, reconstructing how the divine could be experienced in the landscape whilst undertaking such journeys.

Ritual practice and the British Iron Age The evidence for unpicking spiritual activity and belief systems during the British Iron Age is relatively ephemeral and patchy in nature for most of the period. Accounts of British religious practices by classical authors and early Irish texts drawn upon by authors such as Cunliffe (e.g. 2005) or Karl (2004) relate to the final stages of the Iron Age in Britain. The use of such texts is used to imply a timelessness and widespread uniformity of religion in the past (Fitzpatrick 1991), even though the archaeological record presents a picture of dynamism and regionality. The uncritical adoption of such texts is therefore extremely problematic for the Late Iron Age and becomes increasingly questionable when pushed further back into the Middle or Early Iron Ages (Hill 1995; James 1999; Collis 2003). Funerary practice is highly regional, but for most of the country involves excarnation and the deposition of fragmentary human remains. That leaves many accounts of ritual to focus on the deposition of material considered special in the modern mind, such as metalwork, into the ground or watery environments.

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Fig. 25.1. The area around Wiltshire, a county in southern Britain (Produced by the author).

There appears to be a twofold division of sacred locations between specifically constructed sites and natural locations. Shrines/sanctuaries have been mostly identified within developed hill forts, such as those of Danebury, Maiden Castle or South Cadbury, as well as non-hill-fort locations such as Heathrow and Frilford, although these are mostly of Late Iron Age provenance and at their earliest Middle Iron Age (Cunlilffe 2005, 561–5). The identification of natural sacred sites in the landscape by necessity depends upon them having been the focus of votive deposition. Woodland groves and clearings are unlikely to survive, meaning that any deposits are removed from their context and are at the mercy of interpretations as hoards or even domestic sites. Deposition in bogs provides a firmer context of deposition and is supported by scatters of material recovered from across the country and the existence of sites such as Flag Fen, a Late Bronze Age platform built out into a waterlogged fen that acted as the focus of regular deposition of metalwork (Pryor 2005). Rivers are another location cited as maintaining ritual significance. At Fiskerton in Lincolnshire, a wooden walkway and platform were used for the deposition of a variety of metalwork into the river Witham (Field and Parker Pearson 2003). Elsewhere the idea of the use of rivers in votive deposition is based in

part upon the regular recovery of material considered special, dredged from rivers such as the Thames. Whilst the quality of the material recovered makes it difficult to argue against, the sheer quantity of material recovered from the Thames pertaining to all periods suggests that this may relate to some more fundamental aspect of human nature than a specific prehistoric ritual belief (Bradley 1990), something mirrored by the modern obsession to cast coins into fountains or wells. Other attempts to discern ritual practice have focused on the most visible structures of the period, hill forts and enclosed settlements, and their major structural elements – roundhouses, pits and enclosure ditches. For most of Iron Age Britain, the dominant funerary rite remains largely hypothetical as formal burials are rare. Human remains are mostly recovered in fragmentary conditions across a variety of domestic contexts, but the quantities of human remains recovered is clearly not representative of the numbers of individuals that would be resident at such sites. Human skeletal parts do not appear to be treated with reverence and the recovery of scattered, disarticulated and partially articulated remains is currently taken to represent the widespread practice of excarnation (Carr and Knüsel 1997). Cunliffe classed human skeletal elements and articulated groups of animal bone as ‘special deposits’, and their identification within pits at Danebury hill fort led him to posit a theory surrounding the role of deposition in the propitiation of underworld deities to ensure the fertility of agricultural output (Cunliffe 1992; 2011). Additionally, in contrast to the normal recovery of fragmentary human remains, the presence of whole bodies or largely whole bodies in pits is taken to represent exceptions to the prevailing tradition and explained away as either the treatment of those suffering unclean deaths or those subjected to a ritualised death, possibly sacrifice (Cunliffe 2011, 151). Pits are the most prevalent features of domestic sites, the major repositories of deposited material culture and hence the analysis of their contents guides our knowledge of economy, social order, craft, trade and beliefs (Daly et al. 2005). The idea that material deposited within pits was structured according to certain socio-cultural principles can be traced to the 1980s and set against the early growth of the post-processualism theoretical movement. Cunliffe’s work coincided with the publication of observations regarding structured deposition during the Neolithic (Richards and Thomas 1984) and the general post-processual acceptance of the link between ideology and depositional practice with a move away from what were considered modern western ethnocentric and inherently functional interpretations (Garrow 2012, 92). Developing along these lines, Hill (1995) illustrated that there was a discernible grammar to depositional practice with the incorporation of ‘special deposits’ (expanded to include unusual ceramic assemblages and two or more ‘small finds’) to structure deposition within pits and en-

25. Sacred experiences on the road in Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age southern Britain closure boundary ditches. His ultimate interpretation was that ritual behaviour was so intimately tied up within the actions of everyday practice that it was problematic to draw distinctions between material deposited as rubbish and that deposited through ritual, with these categorisations bearing no meaning to the inhabitants of the Iron Age (ibid.). Led by critiques of structured deposition during the Neolithic (Garrow 2007; 2012), the widespread application of these ideas is starting to come under increasing scrutiny. For the Iron Age this has been through researchers describing the way that some ‘special deposits’ might actually originate through routine everyday activities (Brudenell and Cooper 2008) and zooarchaeologists pushing functional interpretations of articulated animal bone groups (Hambleton and Maltby 2008; Morris 2008; Morris and Maltby 2010). It is still a widely held belief that a range of materials, especially those considered special in modern terms, such as human remains, animal bone groups, metalwork and querns, were deposited in ritually significant ways during the Iron Age in southern Britain. Iron Age roundhouses were also prone to a similar interpretative trajectory as those of pits. The recognition that Iron Age roundhouses tended to have similar orientations to Neolithic and Early Bronze Age ceremonial monuments raised the possibility that ritual activity had shifted from the public to private sphere and that both could be subjected to similar forms of inquiry (Wait 1985). In a systematic study on the orientation of roundhouse doorways, Oswald (1997) observed a number of significant patterns. Most cited and pertinent for this discussion was that surrounding 234 roundhouses from 34 sites in southern England there was an unequivocal dominant orientation to the east and south-east that was linked to a ritual association with sun worship (Oswald 1997). A division of material culture within roundhouses was first made by Chadwick when she excavated an Early Iron Age roundhouse at Longbridge Deverill Cow Down, Wiltshire, that had burnt down with the contents remaining largely in situ where they were in use or being stored that seemed to show a south/north division of material into living and sleeping/storage areas (Chadwick Hawkes 1994). A similar left/ right division was identified at Dunston Park, Berkshire, by Fitzpatrick, who linked such arrangements with the passage of time (1994). These models were unified by Parker Pearson (1996; 1999) with the division of space, the activities being undertaken and ultimately the structure of gender and power relationships ordered through sun-based cosmogonies. It is a model where a dominant solar cosmogony is made material in the activities enacted around the roundhouse. It suggests the manipulation of space in the construction of narratives of life and death with the roundhouse acting as a microcosm of the world, the passage of time and the seasons. These ideas have not escaped criticism, foremost of which has come from Pope using evidence from Oswald’s

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original study to illustrate that in some areas of Britain, such as north-west Wales, there is no clear orientation of roundhouses in any direction, with what appears to be a completely random pattern. In instances such as these she advocates factors such as topology, landscape setting and social considerations as playing the most important role in the siting of entrances (Pope 2007). Although the widespread regionalisation of practice throughout Britain at this time may suggest regionalisation in belief systems as well. In areas where the dominant east/south-east alignment holds true, Pope revived the functionalist argument that such an orientation provided optimal conditions to light the interior, but also provide shelter from Britain’s dominantly south-westerly winds. She also illustrated that, in the north of Britain at least, the differential utilisation of space appeared to be based upon the lines of an inner/outer and front/ back divide, which again had more to do with functional and social concerns than ritual or belief-based factors. The cosmological models represent a simplistic coverall model that certainly does not hold true for the entirety of Britain over the entirety of the Iron Age. They do, however, provide an influential argument that fits the evidence from southern Britain and continues to be widely accepted (Richard Bradley, pers. comm.). The difficulty locating widespread sites of ritual activity during the Iron Age, most specifically the Earliest and Early Iron Age of southern Britain, has led to researchers focusing on activity, typically in the domestic arena, that cannot simply be ascribed functional or utilitarian explanations (Brück 1999). It is, as Joy designates in his own work, the attribution of a list of the unexplainables to the realm of ritual and religious practice (Joy 2011, 407). These largely generalised models take little account of regional or chronological variation across the British Isles, even though the Iron Age is noted for pronounced variation in both. In the next section I will look at one region, Wiltshire, at the end of the Bronze Age and the Earliest Iron Age, where the normal evidence from areas of habitation for spiritual practice within everyday life is either lacking or more subtle.

Late Bronze/Earliest Iron Age Wiltshire The county of Wiltshire lies in central southern Britain. It is dominated by the chalk uplands of Salisbury Plain and the Marlborough Downs, with the valleys of the Thames and Bristol Avon bounding the region to north and west, the Vale of Pewsey in the centre running west to east and Salisbury Avon running north to south through the lower half of the county. Activity on the chalk downlands dominates narratives in the earlier periods, with the monument complexes of Avebury on the Marlborough Downs to the north and Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain to the south. Thousands of hectares of fields are also identified on the chalk from

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the Middle Bronze Age, such as Preshute Down, Burdeop Down Orcheston Down and Figheldean Down, signalling an escalation in arable production. This apparently starts to come to an end in the Late Bronze Age as linear earthworks, stretching in some instances up to 16  km (e.g. Old Ditch West on the Salisbury Plain Training Area), are constructed. The relationship of linear earthworks with the earlier field systems is complex and muddied by later periods of field construction, but three main types of relationship can be identified. The commonest can be found at locations such as Snail Down or Rockley Down where the linear cuts across fields at angles that would suggest the fields had gone out of arable production (Gingell 1992, 156; McOmish et al. 2002, 63). The second is where the linear earthworks divide blocks of fields from areas of rougher pasture, such as at Overton or Cherhill Down (Kirkham 2005), and the last is where linears cross the systems in a sympathetic way with the fields and could possibly denote the portioning up of the fields themselves into smaller blocks, such as those around the northern margins of the Wylye valley (McOmish et al. 2002, 64). In this latter case the continuing use of the fields for arable production is variable, as illustrated around a linear on Dunch Hill where asymmetrical lynchets either side of the linear suggest differing exploitation strategies after its construction (ibid., 54). These major changes to the landscape are indicative of a change in the major mode of production shifting from arable to pastoral exploitation of the downs along with an increase in the scale of landscape exploitation from small-scale fields to large open blocks of pasture. It is a change that is mirrored by transformations in the settlement patterns shifting initially from the small Middle Bronze Age downland enclosures of Preshute Down (Piggott 1942) and Thorny Down (Stone 1937) to larger open sites such as Dunch Hill (Andrews 2006), before an apparent abandonment of the downs in favour of the Vale of Pewsey as we reach the Earliest Iron Age (McOmish 1996). As settlement disappears on the downs, evidence for their continuing pastoral exploitation comes from transhumant camps along the Old Ditch to the west of Breach Hill (Birbeck 2006), Boreham Farm (Ellis and Powell 2008) and Odstock Road near Britford (Wessex Archaeology 1997) where the odd pit or posthole with hearths and small scatters of material are found in association with linear features such as roads, linear ditches and streams. In the Vale of Pewsey, there is a huge growth in activity exemplified by Earliest Iron Age sites like All Cannings Cross (Cunnington 1923), Potterne (Lawson 2000), East Chisenbury (McOmish et al. 2010) and Stanton St Bernard that are characterised by large black earth midden deposits. These deposits are constituted by stabling waste and burnt byre material often up to 2 m depth laid down over a 1 to 200-year period. The deposit is usually packed with ceramics, animal bone and tools associated with weaving and the processing of animal hides.

No roundhouses have so far been identified at any of these midden settlements, although large concentrations of postholes were recently revealed during new excavations at East Chisenbury (Andrews forthcoming), and large pits of the type identified with structured deposition have only been found at All Cannings Cross (Cunnington 1923). This site, however, continues in use into the Early Iron Age (600–350 BC) and the large grain storage pits are likely to belong to this later phase when the use of this style of pit becomes more widespread. The animal bone figures show significant seasonality with spring culls identified at East Chisenbury (Serjeantson et al. 2010) and autumn culls at Potterne (Locker 2000). It implies the congregation of people and animals at these sites when they were transiting between valleys and downs to access fresh pasture (Waddington et al. 2019). The new excavations at East Chisenbury have proved variability in the density of material (Andrews forthcoming); they are still indicative of the annual slaughter of hundreds if not thousands of animals at each of the sites, numbers that exceed the capacity of the Vale of Pewsey (Serjeantson 2007; Tullett and Harrison 2008; Serjeantson et al. 2010). Evidently animals reared on the downs were being brought to the midden sites for slaughter. The downs themselves seem to have been turned over to a more extensive animal exploitation regime, as evidenced by the linear earthwork systems. These large areas of pasture were evidently being exploited from the midden sites, but the existence of temporary camps suggests that this was a longer-distance seasonal transhumant system rather than the smaller-scale historical model of daily drives between valley and downs (Valdez-Tullett 2017). In terms of ritual behaviour or evidence of spiritual practice, the lack of pits curtails the use of these mediums for structured deposition. It is possible that the middens deposits themselves became a locus for structured deposition, although in the published sites there is currently no evidence to support this hypothesis. It has been suggested that the middens could represent figurative stores or hoards of fertility, with the inclusion of human bone symbolically facilitating the renewal of people and agricultural production (Brück 1995). This argument relies on the notion that the inclusion of small fragments of human bone into a deposit in turn makes the deposit itself special, even when there is little to differentiate it, to the casual eye, from the fragments of butchered animal waste also included. Additionally, the main role of manure in cycles of fertility is when it is spread on fields to promote arable production, but as illustrated above we are at a time when arable production appears secondary to that of animals, and contrary to other periods this store of fertility is never utilised as such. When considering spirituality during this period we have an apparent discrepancy between models where ritual behaviour is solely focused around the domestic sphere

25. Sacred experiences on the road in Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age southern Britain and a social model that points to a highly mobile society. Everyday life in this instance having associations with movement and animal management schemes rather than a settled home environment.

Spirituality on the move When investigating the archaeology of a transhumant group, the challenge is to shift from essentially motionless data to the mobile life lived. To do this we need to investigate the theoretical ideas behind space, place, landscape and movement, studies of travel and pilgrimage along with some thoughts from the earliest thinker on the subject of movement, Aristotle, as they are equally applicable to movement in all periods. An early attempt to explain movement was made by Aristotle in Physics (books 2–3), who raised the theory of kinesis. The ancient Greeks understood movement rather differently to the spatial/temporal displacement that we take as a modern definition. For them, movement could also be thought of in terms of substance, quality or quantity as well as locomotion. The modern translation of kinesis therefore has movement as interchangeable with that of change. Aristotle defines kinesis, movement or change as ‘The fulfilment of what exists potentially, in so far as it exists potentially, is motion – namely, of what is alterable qua alterable, alteration’ (Aristotle Physics 3.201a10). It can alternatively be read as: the emergence or coming into being of that which potentially is where the potentiality possesses pre-sightedness. So that what we are effectively seeing is something reaching a fulfilment through the potential contained within it. For the being it is considered to be the achievement of its ‘beingness’ (Heidegger 1998). This is a rich interpretation of movement bringing the being towards its own personal fulfilment and resonates with ideas of life as a journey. That change brought to fruition through movement develops the individual and progresses them forward into some future state. A highly influential exploration of the socialisation of space was made by Lefebvre in an attempt to understand how space is produced (1991). He saw social space as a social product that does not exist independently and hence can only be understood in the context of the society that created it (Schmid 2008). Lefebvre saw place as a multi-layered entity with different types of space superimposed upon each other. To grossly simplify his ideas, he principally saw place constructed from perceived space, conceived space and lived space (Shields 1999). Perceived space is a space of functional symbolism. These are the visual symbols that result from how a space is used, telling us how it should be used and how we should act and behave. For example, if we encounter the architecture of a church we understand that it is a place of worship and should be treated with reverent behaviour.

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Conceived space is intentionally planned space. It is the space of the scientist and the planner who deliberately shape space towards some goal. It is the space brought into being by design of the urban planner creating a new town centre one-way system on one hand or the farmer laying out a set of fields on the other. Lastly, lived space is space as encountered, a space of reaction and resistance. It is space created through use and the person who refuses to use space in the way it is intended. It is the space of the person who refuses to obey the space of functional symbolism by talking loudly in the library, or in defiance of the space of the planner by diagonally crossing the grass rather than following the concrete path, and of course the urban graffitist who inscribes their character for all to see. Together these spaces create a multitude of spaces superimposed upon one another to create a place. The layering of space through human activity creates the palimpsest that is the historically constituted landscape but, as Lefebvre repeatedly asserts (1991, chapter 2, 68–168), these are not neutral spaces that have some independent form of existence but rather exist only in their social context. Landscape can therefore be understood as physically constituted by the sum total activity undertaken within it, in the past and at the moment of experience. It is a historical space worked and reworked by each generation. On top of this historical construction we can understand landscape as mentally constituted with a symbolic layer of meaning that is culturally and socially inscribed. Encountering a place creates a culturally significant experience based upon the interpretation of its social symbolism through the participant’s habitus (Bourdieu 1980). This may be the simple recognition of what kind of behaviour is appropriate in a certain location, expectations about what you are going to find, or places may be mobilised in moral narrative and cautionary tales (for instance, see Basso 1996). Part of the cultural significance of a space is its historical construction. This historical constitution need not be real, as a perceived or ‘mythologised’ history is just as influential. Mythologisation of a location may result from an attempt to explain the unknown or to spatialise some part of the mythos and thereby introduce control over it. For example, on the northern margin of the Vale of Pewsey we have a Neolithic long barrow known as Adam’s Grave (Fig. 25.2) and an Iron Age settlement known as Giant’s Grave. Such structures, when their method of construction, meaning and use has passed out of memory, demand explanations for which myths and the supernatural often fill the gap in knowledge. In these cases, based upon their size and shape, both are considered the burial sites of giants. In turn, the mythologisation of a location can feed back into it as a place imbuing it with a sacred or taboo status. This knowledge is absorbed by being within a specific cultural context rather than overtly taught and learned, as Katharine Jordan states:

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As a native of Oare, I have always known that if you run seven times round the Giant’s Grave, the giant will come out. I have no idea who told me this, and family and friends from Oare all say the same: ‘You don’t know who told you, you just know it. It’s handed down’. (Jordan 1990, cited in Chandler 2000, 107)

As the travellers traversed the landscapes, they would have regularly encountered traces of the past inscribed upon the land. Earthworks such as those of the Neolithic causewayed enclosure at Rybury that underlie the later hill fort (Fig. 25.3) would similarly have demanded an explanation that would have incorporated them into the travellers’ spatial cosmogony. Locating movement in this culturally constituted space, we need to add a further spatial dimension, kinetic space. This space of movement is textured by other forms of space and negotiated by the mechanism of locomotion. The way we traverse space is informed by the symbolic information around us like traffic signs or the way that a surface is laid. Planned space inevitably tries to guide movement either directing, promoting or deterring progress through routes of access, barriers, one-way systems, transport systems like railways and points of access like airports (Fig. 25.4). The earthworks of earlier monuments, tombs and enclosures, would have acted as landmarks by which the landscape could be described and mentally mapped. They could become waypoints in the planning of journeys, gravitating travellers to them, bringing them into their stories. Alternatively, some sites may have been considered taboo and actively repelled visitors. Lastly, lived space can create its own paths and break through barriers at certain points that attract movement. All of these are contextualised by our backgrounds as social actors but also the means of locomotion by which we

Fig. 25.2. Adam’s Grave long barrow, Wiltshire, in the centre distance (Photograph from the author’s collection).

travel. The kind of information that we pick up from the space around us on how and where to walk differs greatly from that of how to ride a bicycle or drive a car. As a result, the journeys between the same two points will vary greatly depending upon the mode of transport, as will the experience of the journey for the participants. Pilgrimage is a particular form of travel that is held up as a specific form of liminal experience (Turner and Turner 1978), but if we look at movement in spatial terms we can see that liminality is integral within all journeys. Movement detaches the individual from their normal lived space and into kinetic space. The participants are removed from their place within their normal social setting until their eventual return home and their reincorporation. This is most pronounced where, for example, an individual travels to a foreign country and encounters new social rules and a contrasting spatial socialisation. It is also true, however, where an individual leaves their home on a short local journey and they leave the spatial zone of their house where they control socialisation. Many transhumant/pastoralist groups are derived from specific sectors within the community, such as adolescent males (historically more prevalent in southern Europe) or females (historically more prevalent in northern and western Europe) (Costello and Svensson 2018, 5) and there is no reason to believe that the same was not true for prehistory (Brück 2007). The seasonal journeys these groups would have taken would have removed them from the surveillance and scrutiny faced within settlements and liberated them from the formal authority and strictures of the family. They would be experienced as outside the constraints of normal practice and morality. Travelling in groups adds to the ‘otherness’ of journeys. Even when the group consists of family, friends or work colleagues, its constitution is often at variance with that of normal society. The Turners suggested that there is a level-

Fig. 25.3. The earthworks at Rybury where an Iron Age hill fort was constructed over an earlier Neolithic causewayed enclosure (Photograph from the author’s collection).

25. Sacred experiences on the road in Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age southern Britain

Fig. 25.4. Ancient hollow ways ascending the southern scarp of the Marlborough Downs alongside the modern road near Milk Hill (Photograph from the author’s collection).

ling of power structures within a group of pilgrims creating what they term as communitas or being outside of structure (Turner and Turner 1978). Although this idea of communitas has been criticised (for instance, Eade and Sallnow 1991), it is clear that there is usually a transformation of power relations for travellers as they are removed from the normal systems of surveillance, supervision and authority and new forms of authority take over. More usually these power relations are based upon ability and knowledge (for example, knowing the route to get to a certain location or knowing how to use the means of locomotion). In societies without recourse to devices for measuring time, its passage is usually marked by the progression of daily routines: a series of activities that as each is completed shows that time has moved on that little bit further. Meals are important punctuations of the day, being more usually linked to certain times or to be taken after certain activities have been completed rather than strictly when you need to take on nourishment. Away from home, normal daily activities are suspended, and the flow of time is experienced at a completely different pace. It is commonly reported that those travelling on foot either on pilgrimage or walking holidays find themselves becoming more attuned to what their body tells them, stopping to take meals not at set times but when they actually become hungry (Luik 2012). The experience of time on the road can thus become an almost abstract experience, as travellers can feel that they are outside the normal confines of time, approaching a union with their body outside of structure (Herrero 2008). Negotiating communion with the landscape through the journey is not unusual, with the hardship of passage forming a key component deserving of absolution during pilgrimage (Frey 1998). For example, of the 22 miracles associated with the shrine of Santiago in Compostela, none occurred at the shrine itself but instead occurred either on the

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journey to and from the shrine or upon reaching home (ibid.). It is also reflected in the experiences of pilgrims who often report in interviews that they found god in the mountains of Galicia rather than at the golden shrine of Compostela (Luik 2012). Through such communion with their bodies and the demands of the environment around them, a raised level of spirituality is generated in the way that they encounter and interpret the world around them. Transhumance is the seasonal exploitation of dispersed areas of pasture that demands the movement of people and animals away from a fixed-home social sphere. Their relationship with the landscape is dynamic rather than fixed and is negotiated through the activities they undertake. Whilst the route of a transhumant group may move back and forth across a region, the nature of the journey means that it is experienced both in a linear fashion and as a cycle. Linear in that a series of locations are encountered sequentially, creating a mental impression of the landscape as a form of itinerary rather than as a spatial map. However, the end of the journey is also the point from which they started and the point from which they will once again depart on the next journey. In transhumance, life is expressly experienced in a circular fashion and parallels can be drawn between the seasonal circuit of the landscape, the progress of time, the cycle of the seasons and life as a journey. This assumes a cosmogony similar to that posited by Fitzpatrick (1994) and Parker Pearson (1996) for the roundhouse, but in this case set away from the settlement and involving a spiritual engagement with cosmology deeply embedded within their landscape that is manipulated through travel.

Conclusions One of the issues surrounding ritual in Later Prehistory is that domestic models tend to be extrapolated across the entire country from the Late Bronze Age through to the end of the Middle Iron Age. There is very little understanding of regional variation and how ritual practice may have shifted through time with changing circumstances. The transition period for Wiltshire is a good example of this. With elements of the population spending significant periods of time away from the domestic sphere, their experience of everyday life would clearly be vastly different from the sedentary experiences upon which current models of the spiritual are based. For those moving seasonally with their animals, their encounters with the spiritual will have arisen from their bodily engagement with the landscape. This would not be a mundane, fixed experience of landscape but a dynamic one. The landscape in Wiltshire is littered with prehistoric monuments that would also have seemed ancient and timeless to these travellers, however familiar they may have been. Such features would have demanded the creation of historical and mythological explanations and the cultural

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discourses played out through these places would allow a personal reinterpretation and appropriation of the landscape to occur. The liminality of the journey removing them from the bonds of normal social hierarchies would allow them to develop a spiritual narrative mediated through the places they traversed. Even when set within a cultural framework, it is a deeply personal experience, which can vary greatly between individuals. It would, however, have been an experience with which they could relate back to the spirituality played out within the very construction and use of their houses. The locations with cultural significance becoming markers of the cycle of time and a mnemonic for the greater journey that we are engaged with, that of life.

Note 1

Saint Teresa of Avila.

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25. Sacred experiences on the road in Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age southern Britain Heidegger, M. (1998) Pathmarks. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Herrero, N. (2008) Reaching ‘Land’s End’: new social practices in the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. International Journal of Iberian Studies 21(2), 131–49. Hill, J.D. (1995). How should we understand Iron Age societies and hillforts? A contextual study from southern Britain. In J.D. Hill and C.G. Cumberpatch (eds) Different Iron Ages: Studies on the Iron Age in Temperate Europe, BAR International Series 602, 45–66. Oxford. James, S. (1999) The Atlantic Celts: Ancient People or Modern Invention? London, British Museum Press. Jordan, K.M. (1990) The Folklore of Ancient Wiltshire. Trowbridge, Wiltshire County Council Library and Museum Service. Joy, J. (2011) The Iron Age. In T. Insoll (ed.) The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Ritual and Religion, 405–24. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Karl, R. (2004). Celtoscepticism, a convenient excuse for ignoring non-archaeological evidence? In E.W. Sauer (ed.), Archaeology and Ancient History: Breaking Down the Boundaries, 185–99. London, Routledge. Kirkham, G. (2005) Prehistoric linear ditches on the Marlborough Downs. In G. Brown, D. Field and D. McOmish (eds) The Avebury Landscape: Aspects of the Field Archaeology of the Marlborough Downs, 149–55. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Lawson, A.J. (2000) Potterne 1982–5 Animal Husbandry in Later Prehistoric Wiltshire. Wessex Archaeological Report 17. Salisbury. Lefebvre, H. (1991) The Production of Space. Oxford, Blackwell. Locker, A. (2000) Animal bone. In A.J. Lawson, Potterne 1982–5: Animal Husbandry in Later Prehistoric Wiltshire, Wessex Archaeology Report 17, 101–17. Salisbury. Luik, E. (2012) Meaningful pain suffering and the narrative construction of pilgrimage experience on the Camino de Santiago. Suomen Antropologi: Journal of the Finnish Anthropological Society 37(2), 24–43. McOmish, D. (1996) East Chisenbury: ritual and rubbish at the British Bronze Age–Iron Age transition. Antiquity 70, 68–76. McOmish, D., Field, D. and Brown, G. (2002) The Field Archaeology of the Salisbury Plain Training Area. Swindon, English Heritage. McOmish, D., Field, D. and Brown, G. (2010) The Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age midden site at East Chisenbury, Wiltshire. Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Magazine 103, 35–101. Morris, J. (2008) Associated bone groups; one archaeologist’s rubbish is another’s ritual deposition. In O. Davis, N. Sharples and K. Waddington (eds) Changing Perspectives on the First Millennium BC, 83–98. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Morris, J. and Maltby, M. (2010) Integrating Social and Environmental Archaeologies: Reconsidering Deposition. BAR International Series 2077. Oxford. Oswald, A. (1997) A doorway on the past: practical and mystic concerns in the orientation of roundhouse doorways. In A. Gwilt and C. Haselgrove (eds) Reconstructing Iron Age Societies: New Approaches to the British Iron Age, 87–95. Oxford, Oxbow Books.

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Parker Pearson, M. (1996) Food, fertility and front doors in the first millennium BC. In T.C. Champion and J.R. Collis (eds) The Iron Age in Britain and Ireland: Recent Trends, 117–32. Sheffield, J.R. Collis. Parker Pearson, M. (1999) Food, sex and death: cosmologies in the British Iron Age with particular reference to East Yorkshire. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 9(1), 43–69. Piggott, C.M. (1942) Five Late Bronze Age enclosures in north Wiltshire. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 8, 48–61. Pope, R. (2007) Ritual and the roundhouse: a critique of recent ideas on the use of domestic space in later British Prehistory. In C. Haselgrove and R.E. Pope (eds) The Earlier Iron Age in Britain and the Near Continent, 204–28. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Pryor, F. (2005) Flag Fen: The Life and Death of a Prehistoric Landscape. Stroud, Tempus. Richards, C. and Thomas, J. (1984) Ritual activity and structured deposition in Later Neolithic Wessex. In R. Bradley and J. Gardiner (eds) Neolithic Studies. A Review of Some Current Research, BAR British Series 133, 189–218. Oxford. Schmid, C. (2008) Henri Lefebvre’s theory of the production of space: towards a three-dimensional dialectic. In K. Goonewardena, S. Kipfer, R. Milgrom and C. Schmid (eds) Space, Difference, Everyday Life: Reading Henri Lefebvre, 27–45. Abingdon, Routledge. Score, V. and Browning, J. (2010). Ritual, hoard and helmets: a Late Iron Age shrine at Hallaton, east Leicestershire. In M. Sterry, A. Tullett and N. Ray (eds) In Search of the Iron Age. Proceedings of the Iron Age Research Student Seminar 2008, University of Leicester, Leicester Archaeology Monograph 18, 145–63. Leicester, School of Archaeology and Ancient History, University of Leicester. Serjeantson, D. (2007) Intensification of animal husbandry in the Late Bronze Age? In C.C. Haselgrove and R. Pope (eds) The Earlier Iron Age in Britain and the Near Continent, 80–93. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Serjeantson, D., Bagust, J. and Jenkins, C. (2010) Animal bone. In D. McOmish, D. Field and G. Brown, The Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age Midden Site at East Chisenbury, Wiltshire, 62–5. Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Magazine 103, 35–101. Shields, R. (1999) Lefebvre, Love, and Struggle: Spatial Dialectics. London, Routledge. Stone, J.F.S. (1937) A Late Bronze Age habitation site on Thorny Down, Winterbourne Gunner, S. Wilts. Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Magazine 47(1935–7), 640–60. Totnes, Prospect Books.Turner, V.W. and Turner, E. (2011) Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture. New York, Columbia University Press. Tullett, A. (2010). Information highways – Wessex linear ditches and the transmission of community. In M. Sterry, A. Tullett and N. Ray (eds) In Search of the Iron Age. Proceedings of the Iron Age Research Student Seminar 2008, University of Leicester, Leicester Archaeology Monograph 18, 111–26. Leicester, School of Archaeology and Ancient History.

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Tullett, A. and Harrison, C. (2008) The Pewsey Middens: centres of feasting or symbols of community? In S. Baker, M. Allen, S. Middle and K. Poole (eds) Food and Drink in Archaeology 1, 149–57. Turner, V. and Turner, E. (1978). Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives. Oxford, Basil Blackwell. Valdez-Tullett, A. (2017) Sheep in wealth’s clothing: social reproduction across the Bronze Age to Iron Age transition in Wiltshire, southern England. European Journal of Archaeology 20(4), 663–81.

Waddington, K., Bayliss, A., Higham, T., Madgwick, R. and Sharples, N. (2019) Histories of deposition: creating chronologies for the Late Bronze Age–Early Iron Age transition in southern Britain. Archaeological Journal 176, 84–133. Wait, G.A. (1985) Ritual and Religion in the Iron Age of Britain. BAR British Series 149. Oxford. Wessex Archaeology (1997) Land off Odstock Road, Britford, Salisbury. Archaeological excavation. Doc. ref. 36932.

Section 5 Landscape, identity and social cohesion

26 Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive? Katharina Zinn

When discussing the creation, manipulation and transformation of sacred landscapes for ancient Egypt, two sites immediately spring to mind – Abydos and Amarna (Fig. 26.1). While comparing these two ancient Egyptian sacred landscapes, one main question materialises: what is the major difference between them? To help us answer this issue, we should examine the importance of permanence and temporality of sacred landscapes. Could cultural shifts permanently ‘kill’ a sacred landscape, or does it survive dormant? To further shed light on these issues and discuss the temporality and dwelling perspective of sacred landscapes, this paper aims to develop a matrix of comparison between different religious sites.

Introduction: the impossibility of discussing ancient sacred landscapes? More than 20 years ago, Tim Ingold (1993) discussed the temporality of landscapes. Following his premises, this paper explores dimensions of temporality in different types of sacred landscapes with special attention to ancient Egypt. There is one question that is of interest with regard to any sacred landscape, be it ancient or modern: how can the spirit of a sacred landscape be kept alive? This seemingly simple question in fact is very difficult to answer, especially when looking at past sacred landscapes where we are restricted by the chance of survival, be it of archaeological, material and textual sources. We are unable to conduct anthropological fieldwork as done with sacred sites of modern indigenous groups (cf. Carmichael et al. 1994). Instead, we should (and can) rely on the site itself, the things left in it and their agency. They contain messages of humans interacting in and with them in a shaped relationship. The need to communicate ‘indirectly’ with past peoples also

makes another important factor difficult to assess or trace: where sacredness is involved, so are emotions, beliefs and attitudes. Definitions of identity or social belonging are influenced by social and personal ‘self-definitions’ (Ucko 1994, xviii; Harmanşah 2014, 1–2). Whenever we identify practices in temporally remote cultures, we need to be aware that we apply our ideas onto the ancient landscape and therefore describe it through a particular lens (Ashmore 2014, 40). Comparing various places therefore might help us to get closer to the understanding of how landscapes were manipulated and transformed to ensure their (continued) utilisation, and consequently their survival. This argument is based on one of the recent turns in humanities, the so-called spatial turn, which connects the phenomena ‘space’ and ‘place’ with their social, religious and historical determinants and vice versa (Lahn and Schröter 2010, 2). Within this paradigm, the focus is on the definition of space, its agency and the agency of everything within as well as on the forms of identity brought into these spaces and created from within. Also important are examples of different types of space (public, limited, private), multifunctional spaces and the dichotomy between religious/sacred, mythological places and everyday functional places (Lahn and Schröter 2010, 4–5). Sacred landscapes were the last ‘human-land relationships’ (Knapp and Ashmore 1999, 1) discussed in this context. Landscapes, including sacred ones, are the result of diverse kinds of agency within natural settings (Rippon 2012, 1) and a specific cultural time (Assmann 2002, 13). As such, they comprise natural and cultural features (Lucero and Kinkella 2014, 13). Agency transforms the landscape so that it is both the backdrop to and the product of human enactment. Our understanding of sacred places has evolved since the mid-1990s, when indigenous people and

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Katharina Zinn and organised by the people who dwelt in them (Ingold 1993, 152). Such an approach views humans, their interaction and the landscapes they are acting in as entities that constantly influence and form each other (Ingold 1993, 154). We could call this actively an inhabited space (Knapp and Ashmore 1999, 8). Such activeness is also important for the essence of a sacred landscape, which also needs to be kept alive. However, how much renewed activity is necessary?

Defining the sacred in the landscape and timeframe of ancient Egypt?

Fig. 26.1. Map showing Abydos and Amarna.

their interpretation of landscapes, especially burial sites, as being sacred were finally heard (Carmichael et al. 1994). This discussion has led to new approaches to studying past landscapes and we no longer have to be as pessimistic as Ucko: ‘What hope can there be for archaeologists and others to obtain a satisfactory feeling for the sacredness of past surroundings?’ (1994, xix). Even though we are still far from a full understanding of past feelings towards sacredness, numerous conferences and publications have demonstrated the possibility to discuss these themes in an interdisciplinary debate between archaeologists and anthropologists, heritage professionals and area studies (to name just a few). The process of interpretation is made more difficult by the fact that modern ideas of what was seen as sacred and how sacredness was achieved are changing. Analysis is impeded by the fact that tangible (natural landscape, objects within the landscape) and intangible (symbolic/ideological) worlds are immersed. This is a typical effect and the starting point of agency applied to and in these landscapes, often expressed via rituals (Chaniotis 2011). Agency creates identity, generates territorial organisation and keeps sacred landscapes alive. This mirrors Ingold’s definition of a ‘dwelling perspective’ where the landscape is understood as being formed, defined

When comparing Abydos and Amarna it is helpful to follow Ingold’s idea to remove the ‘sterile opposition between the naturalistic view of the landscape as a neutral, external backdrop to human activities, and the culturalistic view that every landscape is a particular cognitive or symbolic ordering of space’ (Ingold 1993, 153). Sacred places are part of a natural landscape and have therefore physical character; however, they are human constructs as well: they might have been shaped by human (physical) interaction or connected with (ideational) creation myths (Ucko 1994, xviii). Very often they are both. As spaces, they should be equally understood as both a medium and an outcome of human activity. What makes a natural landscape ‘sacred’ are the ideas that people impose on it. The connection of the people with ‘their’ landscape, initiated by the very same landscape itself, forms their social identity, which in turn is expressed in territorial structures and their usage, place names and architecture (Rippon 2012, 4). These sites express shared social and cultural memory (Harmanşah 2014, 2). This leads to the question of the mindscapes behind the landscapes or the mythical interpretation of natural reality. These ideas are becoming one with the landscape as the result of social interactions between land and everything inhabiting it. Such interaction happens in cycles as long as the landscape has meaning, but it is never complete (Ingold 1993, 158–62). This interpretation is congruent to the specific and unique cultural timeframe of ancient Egypt, which sees indefinite cycles running on an eternal linear time stream (Assmann 2002, 12–9, 59–61; 2005, 371–2). The main aspect of time in ancient Egypt is permanence or continuance (Assmann 2003, 32–4; 2005, 369–88), expressed in the understanding of the cosmic and therefore sacred time-forms of neheh (nḥḥ) and djet (ḏ.t). This theological concept of time is clearly differentiated from the finite and individually defined forms used to refer to the time of humans and things: 3.t as description of a moment and tr as a time segment that is the correct or ideal period for something (Assmann 2003, 37–9). When studying religious practices of ancient civilisations, we are not able to observe the customs or routines of people. To make sense of the ways in which past people saw their landscape we are reliant on the sources they have

26.  Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive? left behind (material culture, texts and formed landscapes). Such evidence is naturally limited by the chance of survival. Additionally, meaning embedded in a landscape is not necessarily matched by materially detectable remains (Knapp and Ashmore 1999, 2). Landscapes seem to be the least affected by changes – they are in front of us and have survived. Any source only gives an imperfect image of the phenomenon of religion, as it is limited in tracing the emotional, conceptual and everyday elements that exist alongside religious practice in specific societies. Therefore, we have to try to trace the material worlds and their inherent beliefs and mentalities – or ‘matter’ and ‘mental’ in the words of Laneri (2015, 1) – by breaking down the modern boundaries between academic subjects traditionally dealing with them. Egyptology is well placed here, as by default this incorporates different ways of researching religious activities and tracing the sacred via material culture and analysis of belief systems. What we should ask for is an archaeology of religion that includes both the material manifestation and as close as possible a reconstruction of lived religiosity (Laneri 2015, 3–4). Sacred landscapes combine social ideas of existing and formed space within a specific temporal frame. The past often becomes part of the landscapes itself and forms new meanings relating to emotions of identity and social belonging. Changes in these phenomena express the temporality of sacred landscapes, which will become apparent when comparing Abydos and Amarna as case studies. Memory-making relates to ancient Egyptian sacred landscapes both due to the role religion plays in the process of transmission of knowledge and memory as well as how to participate in it. It is therefore vital to ask how continuous or standardised this needs to be for a successful life-cycle of a sacred landscape. Landscapes are equipped with animate and inanimate materials (Harmanşah 2014, 1), architecture or intentional landscaping to house the god and/or divine as well as objects that materialise these religious practices (Laneri 2015, 5–8). Many of these landscapes are split into several smaller sacred sites, which often interact (Harmanşah 2014, 1). Established characteristics of sacred places include the material nature of the sites, their symbolic aspects and their ability to demand offerings as part of their functionality (Carmichael et al. 1994, 1–2). As with the correlation of landscape and identity, other features, such as ownership and management/upkeep of such sites or specific local practices, have an influence on the temporality of the sacred landscape, something we will explore in the following case studies. Egypt’s physical context was explained mythologically throughout its entire history, be it in images, texts or titles. One prominent example is the contrast between the fertile Black Land (Kmt) of the flood plain as the land of the living and the surrounding desert (Dšrt, the Red Land) as the land of the dead. Another dichotomy is the one between the life-giving (the flood brought the fertile Nile silt and the necessary water) and life-taking (death after a flood or

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famine) quality of the river which was equated with the god Hapi (Parcak 2010). Landscape was part of certain religious concepts: the sun in the sky represented the life cycle of the sun god(s), the pyramid-shaped mountain in Thebes West marked the city of the dead and related to Hathor. Equally, mythological landscape was symbolically represented in religious and funerary architecture: temples were seen as the image of the cosmos and as places of first creation where the primeval mound rose out of the primeval ocean; pyramids, obelisks and the benben stone were connected with the sun cult.

Sacred landscapes in ancient Egypt: sites, cults and agency Sacred landscapes as backdrop to ritual activity become increasingly important within Egyptological paradigms. During the last decade, ritual studies have proven to be one of the most popular areas within Egyptology (Verbovsek 2011, 235). Rituals are cultural narratives that embed emotional value in structural and functional characteristics (Verbovsek 2011, 236, based on the approaches as outlined in Belliger and Krieger 1998). Such discussion refers to how rituals relate to sacred sites and happen within sacred landscapes. However, Bussmann (2015) recently noted that there is still not enough theoretical discussion about how to apply ideas from social and cultural anthropology to Egyptology. Nonetheless, in the context of the archaeology of landscapes, some progress has been made. For example, Richards’ (1999) article on conceptual landscapes described ancient Egyptian landscapes as being characterised by space, time and the self. He emphasised the ways in which the ancient Egyptians conceptualised the physical environment around them and argued that its significance was sustained by ‘sacred events […] enacted by humans, making reference to symbolically potent features of the natural topography’ (Richards 1999, 83, 85). Agency is here seen as part of and a prerequisite for embedded meaning. In this process things are formed, gathered and placed in the landscape. I would go further by not limiting the definition of agents or acting social bodies to humans (or animals) inhabiting the space, but would like to include inanimate objects as well. Sacred landscapes in ancient Egypt were often developed to meet the need for localised myths: ideas, symbolic meaning and images were connected with real places and embedded within natural landscapes, for example the myth of Osiris and the site of Abydos (Effland and Effland 2013, 14). Most places with (mythological) meaning in ancient Egypt were equally sacred and profane, perhaps instinctively following the generally accepted dualism that can be observed even in the grammatical structure of the ancient Egyptian language. This is different to the frequently applied modern differentiation between sacred and profane places (Trubshaw 2005, 32–4).

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Both case studies, Abydos and Amarna, are constructed, conceptualised and ideational landscapes (cf. Knapp and Ashmore 1999, 10–13). Anything included within them may have altered and transformed their meaning, and therefore reconstructed these landscapes. They were mediated and given meaning through the practices conducted within them, which likewise allowed new concepts (ideas and perceptions) to be drawn up. As religious centres, they were bound into the permanent forms of time. Abydos gained its permanent importance by being a funerary site on which then ritualistic and theological interpretations were applied. These explanations circled around the ideas to gain access to the afterlife. As the wish to reach the afterlife and life for all eternity was one of the main goals of the Egyptian population, Abydos was quickly embedded within the Egyptian psyche. This started amongst the high elite, but became soon an aspiration for all. Amarna focused on the solar cult of Aten, which theologically should have embedded this site in eternity. This site did not have the time to resonate with the Egyptians beyond the court. What sets them apart is the temporal aspect in their transformation and conservation, which had a significant impact on the level of identity connected with the sites.

Abydos: re-created and conserved […] I conducted the Great Procession, following the god in his steps. I made the god’s boat sail, Thoth steering the sailing. I equipped with a cabin the bark ‘Truly-risen-is-the-Lord-of-Abydos’. Stela of Ikhernofret (Lichtheim 1975, 123)

Abydos (3bdw, Fig. 26.2) is a very good example of the quote by the geographer Carl Sauer (1963, 343): ‘[t]he cultural landscape is fashioned from a natural landscape by a culture group. Culture is the agent, the natural area is the medium, the cultural landscape the result’. The dynamic relationship between the location around a wadi and everything in it

Fig. 26.2. Abydos, Umm el-Qaab (© Markh).

lasted throughout all periods of Egyptian history. Abydos is an organically evolved landscape (Knapp and Ashmore 1999, 9) where the natural environment was interpreted and developed into a religious site over generations, which reshaped the natural landscape (Effland and Effland 2010, 133). Owing to this long timeframe, it becomes equally easier and more difficult to interpret the landscape as ‘a central frame for identifying practices and memory’ (Ashmore 2014, 40) for the funerary beliefs and afterlife ideas – easier as we have a contingent history, built-up social memory and more material culture to read; however, the overlapping levels of interpretation and representation of different stories make a meaningful biography of this landscape more difficult. It is interesting that not only is the general physical landscape incorporated in the interpretation and memory, natural specifics, such as animals and their behavioural patterns, are as well. For Abydos, we should mention local wild canids which led to the development of the canid god Wepwawet and very likely to the earlier the original local god Khontamentiu (Pouls Wegner 2007). Abydos is situated in northern Upper Egypt, in the modern administrative district of Sohag, about 500 km south of Cairo. The sacred site spreads on the western side of the Nile, about 10 km away from the Nile at the border to the fertile land. This huge site, which covers about 720 hectares, was in use from the early fourth millennium until 400 BC (Richards 1999, 91–2). The landscape as in the archaeological record reveals two main sections (north and south Abydos) with several sub-sites: larger and smaller sacred sites such as temples, chapels, offering sites, royal and non-royal cemeteries and settlements (O’Connor 2009, 15; Landvatter 2013, 237; Effland 2014, 22). The myth and mythological aspects inherent to this site seem to have been formed already in prehistoric times during the fifth millennium (Effland 2014, 22) and were still evident in the Ptolemaic period when traditional Egyptian identity was already contested at other sites in this time of multi-cultural interaction and changes (Landvatter 2013, 235). The last evidence for cult in Abydos is the so-called Moses-Vita talking of the Christian victory in Abydos and an ostracon from the sixth century AD mentioning Apa Moses (Effland and Effland 2013, 130). The content of the myth and meaning of the site itself changed, shifting from Khontamentiu to Osiris and from being a royal sacred site comprising royal burials with subsidiary tombs of high officials as well as ceremonial sites for usage by a wider and national public. The myth and its symbolic nature shaped the landscape, but, to function as an ongoing sacred site, other societal dimensions were needed: cult was based in ritual structures, offerings need economic structures, pilgrimage needs places to welcome pilgrims and their needs (O’Connor 2009, 100–3). Therefore, a conserved sacred site functioning over an extended period would need these features as well.

26.  Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive? Centre stage is taken by two wadi, riverbeds which are now mostly dried up due to lack of continual water flow. They were formed by erosion and still function as natural drainage courses after the very rare but extremely heavy rain showers in the desert (Effland 2014, 23). The one coming down from the high desert – Wadi al-Gir – must once have channelled huge powerful water streams, as in its vicinity there is no predynastic or pharaonic evidence (Effland and Effland 2013, 9; for a photo of the natural formation of this wadi, see ibid., 13, fig. 8). The second – also named Umm el-Qaab, the royal burial site nearby – is a wadi slightly to the south of Wadi al-Gir, made by erosion. It still acts as a natural waterway sometimes after heavy rain showers (Effland and Effland 2013, 9; for photos of the natural formation of this wadi, see ibid., 12–13, figs 6–7). These heavy rain showers flow down the wadi, producing a loud noise like thunder or a powerful waterfall (ibid., 12). This processional wadi with its microclimate might have established and continuously increased the symbolic and sacred significance of the landscape, which contained all important sacred geographical features – desert, rising land as remembrance of the primeval mound and the sun which sets in the west within the wadi (Richards 1999, 93). During these very rare rain showers a ring of water would have encircled the land, just as was said of the primeval mound on which sacred cities were situated (Assmann 2001, 24–5).

Royal burials The processional wadi divides north Abydos from the predynastic royal necropolis to which mortuary activity was confined during the pre- and early dynastic period (Bestock 2009). This area, called Umm el-Qaab, is recognisable due to the millions of ceramic pot shards scattered around the ground indicating the heart and hub of the cultic, religious and sacred life. Material culture evidences the human involvement in this site and gave Umm el-Qaab its name ‘mother of the pots’: the piles of pottery given as offerings to Osiris (Bestock 2009, 2). Geographically, the site lies nearly halfway between the irrigation zone and the very imposing cliffs of the high plateau (Effland 2014, 22). The placement of the burial site near the wadi and the connected ritual site (royal enclosures, closer to the irrigation zone) within this geographical landscape stresses the importance of the pre- and early dynastic necropolis (Bestock 2009). The cliffs sweep around the space in which the sacred landscape was developed, creating a kind of natural stage for the mythical interpretation and its performance within rituals (Richards 1999, 92; Effland 2014, 23–7). The royal tombs provide the earliest examples of writing in ancient Egypt – tags that record deliveries for the funerary estate (Dreyer 1998) – and of pottery imported from

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the east Mediterranean (Hartung 2001). Placing the tombs and the ritual enclosures (O’Connor 2009, chapter 10) within Abydos, the pre- and early dynastic kings inserted themselves into the natural and mythical set up. So, they claimed their role as masters not only of the landscape, but certainly also of the belief system behind it – the afterlife. It was not so much their visibility which marks the importance of these features – they did not strikingly stand out from the landscape (O’Connor 2009, 176–7) – but the simple fact that they were embedded and how this was achieved. Architecturally, the early royal tombs are directed towards the wadi entrance. In the south-western corner of the secondary tombs, encircling the inner royal tomb, is a gap allowing the reborn king to enter the wadi and therefore the afterlife (Effland and Effland 2010, 130–1; 2013, 10–11). A reflection of these ideas might textually be captured in the Pyramid Texts, recorded from the Fifth Dynasty onwards. This seems especially obvious in PT459 (Pyr § 867a) which refers to the jnt ‘3 – the great wadi, which very likely means Wadi Umm el-Qaab (Effland and Effland 2010, 133).

Re-creation: non-royal involvement Despite being one of the most important cult centres from the second half of the third millennium BC onwards and therefore always highlighting mystery and revelation (O’Connor 2009, 15, 31), Abydos was never the capital of Egypt. It was, however, one of the most significant provincial towns, its reputation thriving on the religious importance which was at most times connected with Osiris. Being independent from kingship as office from 2500 BC onwards (Richards 1999, 93) offered a chance for this sacred landscape to develop independently from political changes related to the royal house. Hence it thrived also during intermediate periods. As the royal prerogative ceased, access to the funerary and ritual site began to widen in stages from royalty alone to high national elite, local elite and non-elite. This process can be seen in cemetery space, evidence for rituals at this site, embedded material culture and proven pilgrimage (Richards 1999, 93–4; Richards 2005, 38–45, 125–72; O’Connor 2009, esp. chapters 5–8). Best known are large groups of stelae from the stairway of the great god (rwdw n nṯr ‘3), which originally stood in chapels. The dedicators asked for their own and their families’ participation in the great mysteries and would receive a (symbolic) share of the offerings to the god (Simpson 1974, see plates for different stela forms and 7, fig. 2 for a reconstructed chapel; O’Connor 2009, 96 with a reconstruction of the chapels 94, fig. 47). These stelae show the active participation of the public in these rituals with non-initiated Egyptians as agents. On the stela of Amenemhet of the Twelfth Dynasty, the donor wishes to ‘kiss the ground to Khontamentiu in the great procession’ (sn t3 n ḫnty-jmntw m pr.t ‘3.t) (BM

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EA567; Simpson 1974, pl. 22). The provenance of this stela cannot safely be traced to Abydos, despite the reference to the festival procession in the text and its inclusion into corpus ANOC13 (Abydos North Offering Chapel – Simpson 1974, 18). Stela BM EA 581 of Intef, also Twelfth Dynasty, however, was found in one of the chapels in Abydos, together with his seated statue (BM EA 461) and two further stelae (BM EA 562; BM EA 572). On BM EA 581, Intef not only kisses the ground while seeing the beauty of Wepwawet (Lichtheim 1975, 121), he also states: As to this shrine, I made it in the desert of Abydos, this island to which one clings, walls designed by the All-Lord, seat hollowed since the time of Osiris. (Lichtheim 1975, 121)

The reason to participate is also mentioned: ‘[a]n offering for this honoured Chamberlain Intef, son of Sent’ (Lichtheim 1975, 121) which will be relevant for his afterlife. Most of these stelae date to the Middle Kingdom, but we also have evidence for non-royal involvement on the Stairway of the Great God from the New Kingdom with the stela of Kares in his tomb in Thebes (Pouls Wegner 2002, 135–8). Abydos as the ‘national’ cemetery appears to have reached a peak in the Third Intermediate and Late Period (Kemp 1975, 36) when interments even happened close to the royal temples (O’Connor 2009, 127, fig. 69).

Osiris mysteries and cult What participants witnessed is described on the stela of Ikhernofret (Ägyptisches Museum Berlin, ÄM 1204; Lichtheim 1975, 123–5). Ikhernofret was charged by the king Senwosret III to organise the annual festival and to restore the Osiris temple. The festival is described as a procession in four parts (Assmann 2005, 227–9): • •

• •

Procession of Wepwawet in which Horus was triumphant over Osiris’ enemies; Great Procession, which enacted the funeral procession of Osiris in the neshmet-barque moving towards Pķr (very likely Umm el-Qaab, cf. Leahy 1989, 57–9; Effland and Effland 2010); Haker Festival (‘The Night of the Battling Horus’) which acted out the battle between Horus and Seth, and was connected with the judgement of the dead; Procession to the Temple of Osiris as the return of the resurrected Osiris to the temple.

Ikhernofret himself was sent by the king whose royal decree forms the first part of the stela; he acted as ‘his beloved’ son, as the substitute in a role otherwise preserved for the king (Hare 1999, 34–43):

I directed the work of the neshmet-bark, I fashioned the cabin. I decked the breast of the lord of Abydos with lapis lazuli and turquoise, fine gold, and all costly stones which are the ornaments of the god’s body. I clothed the god with his regalia in my rank of master of secrets […] (Lichtheim 1975, 124)

That such (performing) responsibilities of priests within the Osiris mysteries continued in the New Kingdom is shown by stela BM EA1199 (Pouls Wegner 2002, 161–9; Frood 2003; this is the only known Eighteenth-Dynasty example of non-royal use of the narrative motive – Frood 2003, 67(d)). Nebwawy says of himself: ‘[I acted as His Beloved Son] in the ritual of the mansion of gold, in the mysteries of the lord of Abydos. I am one who presents [hands in adorning the god, a sem-priest] pure of fingers’ (Frood 2003, 65). By transforming Osiris and the king, Nebwawy will be transfigured himself in the next world (Frood 2003, 75). The sacred landscape reached its largest extension in the second millennium BC. Later additions were incorporated within the then already existing boundaries. This allows us to interpret the site as structured continuous re-interpretation (O’Connor 2009, 87). Some parts were desolate at certain times, as had happened with Umm el-Qaab which lay dormant for about 800 years despite being considered an ancient and sacred site (O’Connor 2009, 89). The tomb of Djer was reinterpreted as the tomb of Osiris during the Middle Kingdom and was architecturally reworked by re-roofing and the inclusion of stairs and the so-called Osiris bed in the Thirteenth Dynasty (Leahy 1977; O’Connor 2009, 89–90). Several tombs were re-excavated during the Middle Kingdom and Djer’s tomb re-roofed and re-interpreted as that of Osiris (O’Connor 2009, 89). We cannot explain the preference of his tomb above others (Leahy 1977, 56–7). Djer might not have been remembered as the specific early dynastic king who was the owner of the tomb (Leahy 1989, 56–7). Nonetheless, the sacred relevance of these early – and therefore nearly mythical – kings was still embedded in the cultural memory.

The multi-layered landscape Royal involvement was nevertheless always present, but focused on certain areas (Abydos south) while other parts were shared not only by the local elite but also by pilgrims from all over Egypt. Royal patronage helped to refurbish the temples in Abydos north and initiated the erection of chapels (Pouls Wegner 2002, 69). We have royal decrees like the one recorded on the granite stela of Wagaf (Cairo JdE 35256; Second Intermediate Period, Thirteenth Dynasty), usurped by Neferhotep I, which is crucial for the understanding of the development of the cult of Osiris and Wepwawet in the Middle Kingdom (Leahy 1989). It very clearly explains which parts of the sacred site (the outreaching wadi or depression – t3 ḏsr – Kemp 1975, 34–6) and specifically of

26.  Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive? the incorporated/adjacent cemeteries were out of bounds for the public or non-initiated persons to guarantee undisturbed access to processional routes for the Osiris processions. Other areas were available for use as burial sites: As for anyone who shall be found within these stelae, except for a priest about his duties, he shall burn. […] But as for everywhere outside this holy place, [it is] an area where people (rmṯ) may make tombs (ḥ3wt) for themselves and where one may be buried. (Leahy 1989, 43)

The natural border between the flat land and the cliff behind was used to describe a specific experience in border areas. This also allowed a discussion of porosity between the two spheres of consciousness in this life and the afterlife. The wadi was interpreted as a portal or gate to the underworld into the realm of Khontamentiu and Osiris. This is comparable to features like waterbodies or caves in other ancient cultures and often connected with pilgrimage (cf. the sacred landscape of Cara Blanca, Belize, in Maya culture: Lucero and Kinkella 2014, esp. 17–18). The wadi entrance itself was always considered a crucial point beyond which only initiated people had access. The dried-up riverbed was the natural and symbolic stage for the ritual procession during the annual mysteries for Osiris to which so many people travelled in order to take part, showing Osiris’ significance on both a regional and national level (O’Connor 2009, 32). The connection between this sacred site and its afterlife belief systems was nationally significant: not only were people buried in Abydos ritually empowered due to their closeness to Osiris, but all deceased ‘swam to Abydos like a great school of fish’ (O’Connor 2009, 74). They had to pass the ‘divine fisherman of Abydos’ (O’Connor 2009, 74) who was trying to catch everybody who had not lived a righteous life according to Maat. In addition, several local forms of Osiris connected Abydos to other cult centres, including Heliopolis, Rosetau as the cemetery of Memphis and Herakleopolis, to name only a few (O’Connor 2009, 74). The inclusion of the motif of the Journey to Abydos in tomb decorations from the early Middle Kingdom onward further highlights the national importance of this site (Leahy 1989, 56, esp. n. 59). The deceased went on pilgrimage to Abydos to participate in the Osiris festival as a transition ‘from home to tomb’ (Assmann 2005, 306–8). Chapter 18 of the Book of the Dead marks the ‘day of examining the dead’ as the date on which to travel to Abydos (Assmann 2005, 306, n. 17). Another example for the national significance is the Abydos Formula, which can be found on private stelae from Abydos and Thebes. They can refer to Osiris, but decidedly indicate the wish to be welcomed in Abydos during the mysteries during the inundation season. The earliest stelae appear already in the Eleventh Dynasty and the formula is

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fully developed only in the Twelfth Dynasty (Smith 2017, 204). It nevertheless characterises Abydos as the main cult centre for Osiris and clearly shows involvement of private individuals at the site. Via rituals and processions, the natural and sacred landscape of Abydos was rich with emotions. Rituals were realised at special places and set in their specific timeframes of happenings and recurrent participations. Place and time became institutionalised. It is important to understand that rituals create identities that could be personal, social, cultural or a mix of them (Verbovsek 2011, 236, 240). Abydos is a very good example of this process. The so-created identity connected the participant with the ritual and the stage where it occurred, and locked them emotionally into the wider setting. These emotions can be traced in the archaeological and textual record because the internal emotional quality of religious practices always manifested itself externally, as becomes obvious in the manifold verbal, behavioural and bodily expressions linked to rituals (Verbovsek 2011, 237–40 with more references). Funerary rituals are particularly saturated with emotions. This functions mainly on the personal level. The set up in Abydos with the many cenotaphs also includes Abydos as the culmination of all funerary ritualistic activity and creates the importance of this site not only locally or at a specific time, but nationally and during every time period.

Amarna: created […] I shall make Akhet-Aten [Amarna] for the Aten, my father, on the orient (side) of Akhet-Aten – the place which he himself made to be enclosed for him by the mountain, on which he may achieve happiness and on which I shall offer to him. This is it! Boundary Stelae, Earlier Proclamation (Murnane 1995, 77)

In contrast to Abydos, which existed from the – as the ancient Egyptian perceived it – mythical time onwards, Amarna has a clearly marked beginning and end. It is a planned shortlived sacred landscape. Amarna (Fig. 26.1) is the short form for the modern Arabic name Tell el-Amarna or El-Amarna. The name refers to the ancient Egyptian sacred landscape originally called Akhetaten – the Horizon of the [sun-disc] Aten. It was the newly founded capital of Egypt under Akhenaten (also known as Amenhotep IV) and at least one immediate successor during part of the so-called Amarna Period (1393–1298 BC) (Zinn 2016, 255). Akhenaten intended to build his new religious and political centre in a politically and religiously neutral desert plain. This was to be a sacred landscape which represented his revolutionary ideas (for his new religion, see Allen 1996; Foster 1999; Assmann 2012). He wanted to start afresh, create a new religious identity and

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Fig. 26.3. Amarna, boundary stela U (© Luis Ojeda).

to suppress the memory of some of the ancient gods, especially Amun. As the boundary stelae (Fig. 26.3) that encircle the area of the city indicate (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993), the establishment of the Akhetaten was an act of creation initiated by the god Aten himself and mediated through his son, king Akhenaten (Murnane 1995, 75): Behold Aten! The Aten wishes to have [something] made for him as a monument with an eternal and everlasting name. Now it is the Aten, my father, who advised me concerning it (namely) Akhet-Aten. […] to tell me [a plan] for making Akhet-Aten in this distant place. It was the Aten, my father, [who advised me] concerning it, so that it could be made for him as Akhet-Aten.

An estimated 30,000–50,000 believers followed the king and inhabited the new city (Tietze 2010, 39; Kemp 2012, 272). Not even 20 years later (Kemp 2012, 301), this city was abandoned by its inhabitants, stripped bare of most of the portable goods and partially dismantled. Akhenaten and his successors were deemed heretics and non-persons, and thus deleted from the annals. What seemed

a tragedy at the time is in fact a blessing for modern archaeologists, as what was left of this city when the inhabitants moved away preserved ‘Egypt in microcosm’ (Kemp 1989, 261).

Planning a sacred landscape Amarna was set out as a clearly defined and associative cultural landscape in Middle Egypt, nearly equidistant to Memphis and Thebes (Knapp and Ashmore 1999, 9; for a visual impression of the set up, see Mallinson 1999, 74, fig. 51). It was constructed in a highly intentional way similar to smaller gardens and parkland spaces. Amarna can be identified as a religious landscape rich in meaning through its orientation towards the ‘notable natural landmark’ (Knapp and Ashmore 1999, 10) of a dried-up riverbed in the east cliffs on the east side of the river (Fig. 26.4). The sun would rise behind the wadi at certain days of the year (Mallinson 1999, 75; Kemp 2012; 82), iconographically symbolising the main characteristics of the Aten religion and at the same time determining the location of the city and the specific orientation of the built landscape within. The rising sun behind the wadi (Fig. 26.5) also corresponded to the hieroglyphic

26.  Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive?

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Fig. 26.4. Amarna, landscape from the north (Courtesy of Meretseger Books).

Fig. 26.5. Amarna, wadi entrance (Courtesy of Meretseger Books).

sign (Gardiner List N 27), already known before the Amarna period, and to an image in the royal tomb (room α, wall A – Martin 1989, pl. 34). Within the wadi in the east sat the royal tomb that links to the boundary stelae in a pattern of rays reaching over the natural landscape (Mallinson 1999, 74, fig. 51). Together with the structure of the planned city along the royal road linking the North Palace with the three main temples as well as the North and South tombs, these rays formed a regular alignment, which was already indicated in the text written on the boundary stelae (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993). The sun’s orientation is indicated in the name of the new c­ apital – Akhetaten – the Horizon of the [sun-disc] Aten. The above-mentioned visual representation in room α (wall A) shows the sun-disc over the wadi, sending out rays with hands touching the Great Aten temple and the central city (Martin 1989, pl. 34). This scene appeared already in the Great Aten temple (Gem-pa-Aten) in Karnak (Loeben 2010, 280, fig. 7). These orientations and proportions underpinned the first set of boundary stelae from the fifth regnal year, the socalled Younger Proclamation: stela X in the north and M in the south of the east bank. The latter was soon replaced by stela K, due to sudden deterioration. K is now the best preserved of the earlier proclamations (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993, 11). Also mentioned are the king’s reasons for setting out the city in this way (Murnane 1995, 77 – text following stela K):

‘At Akhet-Aten in this place shall I make the Mansion of Aten for the Aten, my father.’

‘At Akhet-Aten in this place shall I make the House of Aten for the Aten, my father.’ Great Aten Temple (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993, 172; Kemp 2012, 82)

Small Aten Temple (king’s personal chapel or mortuary temple) (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993, 172; Kemp 2012, 84) ‘At Akhet-Aten in this place shall I make the sunshade of the [Great Royal] Consort [Nefernefruaten Nefertiti] for the Aten, my father.’ Sunshade of Re, Kom el-Nana (Williamson 2013, 144) ‘In the “Island of Aten, whose jubilees are distinguished” at Akhet-Aten in this place shall I make the “House of Rejoicing” for the Aten, my father. In the “Island of Aten, whose jubilees are distinguished” at Akhet-Aten in this place shall I make the “House of Rejoicing in [Akhet]-Aten” for the Aten, my father.’ Island of Aten, whose jubilees are distinguished – Central City area (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993, 216, n.89; Murnane 1995, 105, n. 5) House of Rejoicing – larger: Great Palace, smaller: columned courtyard of Great Aten temple (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993, 172–3; Murnane 1995, 105, fn. 6; Kemp 2012, 123–46) ‘(And) at Akhet-Aten in this place shall I make for myself the residence of Pharaoh (and) I shall make the residence of the Great Royal Consort.’ Palace area in the north of town (?) – either Great River Palace or North Palace (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993, 173–4; Murnane 1995, 105, fn. 7; Kemp 2012, 146–53)

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All temples and ceremonial buildings within the city were aligned on the route created by connecting stelae X and M. The halfway point gave a perpendicular line orientated towards the wadi and especially the royal tomb (Mallinson 1999, 76). Not only the inner city, but also specific parts reflected the natural landscape, so the sanctuary at the back of the Great Aten Temple represented the eastern mountain (Kemp 2012, 94–5, figs 3.17 and 3.18). The oath to Aten taken in the Earlier Proclamation on Stelae X, M and K in the fifth regnal year is confirmed by the Later Proclamation from year six (11 stelae, 8 of them on the eastern river bank) with a colophon renewing the oath and confirming the borders of the sacred landscape in the eighth regnal year (Murnane and Van Siclen 1993, 69–109).

People within The whole sacred landscape of Amarna and its cultic activity was dependent on the king as sole mediator between the god Aten and the people (Foster 1999, 105–8; Kemp 2012, 231–5; for the involvement of Nefertiti, see Zinn 2015). Following on from the mediated act of creation as described above, this was also made clear by the different ‘pattern of nested dependency’ (Kemp 2012, 20). Large parts of the population received benefactions (food, rising within the social hierarchy, giving people the chance of self-organisation), but only if they were loyal followers (Kemp 2012, 20, 41–5). Loyal employees also obtained state-built housing, especially in the Central City, while other houses in the suburbs were commissioned privately (Spence 2012, 74–5). Faithful followers, often spurred on by the prospect of rising in the social hierarchy, took part in the religious life of the sacred landscape on the east riverbank. They partook in the daily procession of the royal couple in chariots on the royal road from the palaces in the north to the Central City as well as in the temple rituals. This is shown by scenes in their tombs (e.g. Panehsi – Amarna North Tomb 6: royal couple in chariots – Davies 1903, pl. 13; depiction of the palace – ibid., pl. 14). Evidence for the king as mediator between humankind and the god Aten was limited to the Central City and within houses of the high officials. We find them in the included chapels and as small stelae or plaques, such as the famous house altar ÄM 14145 (Ägyptisches Museum und Papyrussammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin; cf. Kemp 2012, 231–5; Zinn 2015, 50, fig. 8). Very rarely, the name of Aten appears directly within private names, or short prayers were directed to the king, Nefertiti or even Aten himself (Stevens 2006, 6). This, however, was not a real incentive for the inhabitants in the suburbs on the east bank, let alone on those living on the west bank or in the rest of Egypt. Evidence for private religion in Amarna is mostly found outside the Central City and in the suburbs, and draws a different

picture of people’s private religious lives (for blurred lines in the definition of state and private religion, see Stevens 2006, 17–21). The material evidence offers jewellery, figurines, models, statues and stelae, ostraca, vessels and furnishing not exclusively connected with the new religion and the Aten (Stevens 2006, 27–253), but dedicated to other gods, such as Thoth, Wepwawet, Bes, Isis, Renenutet, Taweret and even Amun-Ra (Kemp 2012, 235–45). Kemp called these gods ‘divine trespassers’ (2012, 235) and ‘friendly forces’ (2012, 239). Some religious ideas clearly did not conform to the official state religion. Such non-conformist ideas stemmed from the fact that, according to the Hymn to Aten, the new religion did not provide an explicit explanation of the afterlife other than it being the role of the king to grant access to it (Stevens 2006, 8). To partially compensate for that, senior officials still alive at the time received respect from people lower than themselves and, in addition, they were depicted in statues of the same type as those used for the deceased (Kemp 2012, 245–51). Kemp calls them the ‘Ancestors-to-be’ (2012, 245).

The end When Akhenaten died in his 17th regnal year, it did not take long until his second or third successor Tutankhaten (Allen 2009; Hanus 2012, 37–8) changed his name to Tutankhamun in favour of the traditional state god Amun and withdrew the court from Amarna. The courtiers and officials followed with the rest of the population (Kemp 2012, 301). This might only have taken three to four years as the city’s location was only attractive under the premises of Akhenaten’s religious beliefs. The only part of the site that lived on until the Ramesside period about 200 years later was situated at the end of the road leading towards the alabaster quarries at Hatnub (Kemp 2012, 301), which survived purely for logistical and economic reasons. Akhenaten was not acknowledged as a legitimate king from the Nineteenth Dynasty onwards (Kemp 2012, 302), which explains the damnatio memoriae that saw the hacking out of Akhenaten’s and Nefertiti’s names and images (Hanus 2012, 38–40). Due to the short lifespan, Akhenaten’s religious framework was not fully thought through, especially the afterlife beliefs; nor was it sufficiently settled after Akhenaten’s death to survive (Kemp 2012, 302). The city also battled with other problems during its rapid establishment. The territory was an island that had not enough hinterland to feed its inhabitants and thus food needed to be sourced from the outside, mainly the west bank of the river (Tietze 2010, 39–40). There was no functioning infrastructure. The desert-like climate with sandstorms impacted on the wells. The wider topography with the Bahr Yusuf in the west, however, was helpful. This channel ran parallel to the Nile and was less affected by rising or falling water levels. It connected Middle Egypt

26.  Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive? with the Fayum and beyond to Memphis. The second advantage of the site was the very fertile strip of agricultural land on the west bank (Tietze 2012, 58). Both guaranteed transportation and food for the new city. In summary, it becomes clear that Amarna was set out as a highly conceptualised landscape, infused with a particularly powerful religious meaning. However, because the city did not grow organically but was, architecturally and artistically, an expression of a specific concept limited to a specific point in time, it ultimately failed to be kept alive as a continuum.

Sacred landscapes: keeping the spirit alive? Both sacred landscapes discussed here offer a ‘variation along a continuum of ancient human intervention in landscapes’ in the words of Knapp and Ashmore (1999, 11). They also relate to each other in the way in which they functioned as architectural symbols of the physical religiously interpreted world around them. Both sites were embedded into the landscape gearing towards wadis in the desert cliffs (Kemp 2012, 94–5; Table 26.1). The main difference between the two sites lies in their connection to aspects of cultural memory. When Amarna was understood to negatively impact on the traditional cultural memory, the landscape was given up and forgotten, erased from memory. It ceased to function as a place shaping Egyptian identity, which it should have done as a royal site, or even to reconfirm aspects of identity. Abydos was based on memory, reconfirmed over thousands of years through use and re-use (rebuilding and extending of the landscape) with a restoration of previous architectural and landscape-shaping features, reinterpretations (such as the re-used pre-dynastic tombs as places of divine burial site for Osiris) as well as (re-)constructing new features. In contrast, Amarna was set up only as an act of creation and, equally deliberately, abandoned some years later. Abydos added important and far-reaching (in a literal and symbolic sense) economic and administrative dimensions to its function as sacred landscape (O’Connor 2009, 71), and the cosmological dimension which allowed it to live on. In

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other words: Abydos always had zeitgeist (O’Connor 2009, 201), representing the interpretation of each period, which was incorporated into the activities happening at any time by equally remembering the past. In Amarna, we see the strong focus on Akhenaten as the sole mediator to Aten. How did that correlate with the belief that rituals ‘generate and realise the affiliation with a group or society’ (Verbovsek 2011, 239)? Could his rituals act as one of the main drivers for cultural identity in ancient Egypt? The inner group involved in the rituals of the Amarna period had been small and consisted of the court and the cluster of the loyal officials. This did not seem enough to establish a feeling of participation as seen in Abydos. In addition, the sphere of funerary rituals, and especially mourning rites, was neglected, and with it the chance to cope with emotions such as fear of change or loneliness. In other words, Amarna never became an example for the possibility of overcoming such emotions, and thus of hope (Verbovsek 2011, 240–8). Akhenaten might have hoped that the strong emphasis on the royal couple and their daily processions in the chariots through town would embed this action as a powerful daily ritual. A ritual capable of generating amazement, joy and euphoria (Verbovsek 2011, 248–52). Such formal ceremonial macro-rites need back up from interconnecting lower hierarchical social systems with their own behaviour and role patterns and their micro-rites (Bergesen 1998, 53). To create a functional ritual order supporting a social system, a whole structure of hierarchical interconnected rites is necessary. The clear-cut divide between official religion and the preference of the lower or non-elite for ‘divine trespassers’ or ‘friendly forces’ in Amarna created different identities that cannot come together, and thus hinders the creation of a shared memory. Under these circumstances, it is impossible to develop meso-rites that guarantee mutual acceptance (Bergesen 1998, 60–2). It is interesting to note that Akhenaten was aware of the specific features that kept Abydos alive – as talatat blocks that had been decorated in his reign and reused in the foundations of the portal temple of Ramesses II in Abydos show. Despite the treatment or banishment of Osiris during his

Table 26.1. Abydos and Amarna as variations of sacred landscapes – temporal references. Abydos

Amarna

Creation

in mythical time (ritualistic place of pre-dynastic kings)

as expression of a planned theology of light in Eighteenth Dynasty

Existence

recreated over 3500 years as sacred, ritualistic, spiritual, royal and funerary landscape  innovatively conserved, dwelling

only as social construct (sacred and royal, but not spiritual); not a lived landscape (re-creation via activity is missing)

Time relevance

incorporated in and applied to cyclical time (several cyclical time frames which run on the linear time to reinforce it)

single act of creation, fully connected with Akhenaten as part of the divine triad (linear time frame, cyclical time frames were attempted to be established, but only worked in daily patterns, not yet as re-creation)

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Katharina Zinn Table 26.2. Abydos and Amarna as variations of landscapes - cultural references (following Knapp and Ashmore 1999).

Matrix of comparison of different religious sites

Amarna

Abydos

Clearly defined – intentionally designed and created





Associative cultural: outstanding geographical landscapes receive symbolic meaning and evolve into sacred places

 created



Organically evolved: either socio-economic, religious or administrative; in response with natural environment

 conserved

Memory

suppressed

lived

Identity

attempted to apply

applied

reign, on these talatats we see Akhenaten receiving life from Aten and a temple plan with statues of himself and Nefertiti in it (O’Connor 2009, 118–19, talatats in fig. 65). More ­talatats show hands of the Aten (Effland and Effland 2013, 28, fig. 9) and Akhenaten standing in a boat, likely to smite an enemy with Nefertiti and one of the daughters behind him (Petrie 1903, pl. 39, upper left – now Ägyptisches Museum Berlin, ÄM 23719; Anthes 1934, 98–9, fig. 8 – here wrongly attributed to Memphis). An alternative reading could be Nefertiti smiting an enemy with two daughters behind her as parallel to scene Boston MFA 64.521 (Zinn 2015, 43–6, figs 5 and 6) or talatats from Thebes (Zinn 2015, 45, n. 70). Even if we cannot prove with certainty that these blocks originally came from Abydos, it seems that Abydos and Osiris had a special fascination for him, as shown by his ushabti (BM EA 65805; Petrie Museum, UCL UC007 and UC2236 – all found in Amarna). The Aten religion was also represented in temples outside Amarna. Blocks with similar boat scenes are known from Memphis (here the king smiting, from the area of the Ptah temple; Engelbach 1915, 32 and pl. 54, fig. 7) or from Thebes (Zinn 2015, 45, n. 70; Loeben 2010, 282, fig. 9). Blocks from Hermopolis (Boston MFA 63.260, MFA 64.521 and MFA 1989.104, New York MMA 1985.328.15) are very likely from Amarna itself (Table 26.2).

Attempting a résumé Sacred landscapes need more than simply to be created or socially constructed. They need to be cyclically and ritually renewed and to be reconstructed via active involvement in and communication with the site. This guarantees the constant (re-)creation of meaning, which enables a site to be included into the cultural memory as well as to be integrated into the creation and confirmation of identity. Only then, a (sacred) landscape will become sustainable. We know this phenomenon within modern landscape management in the heritage sector (Antrop 2006). Changes in lifestyles and circumstances let new landscapes emerge with specific decisions for their planning, management and conservation. To make this landscape operational in the

long-term, we must look at whether agency of and within these sacred landscapes changes as well. Amarna and Abydos started within a similar natural setting, both being directed towards a wadi as the outstanding natural feature that represented religious ideas. Even so, these sites are completely dissimilar in the agency connected with them. Amarna has only one primary human agent – the king – and one additional actor – the queen. They, together with the god Aten, formed a relationship with the natural landscape and were responsible for, as well as beneficiaries of, the sacred landscape. Sacredness was achieved in the direct communication of these agents. In Abydos, it was also royalty that kick-started this process. This, however, was followed by a widening of agency with manifold agents who have responsibility for and gain reward from the sacred site. This brings us back to Ingold’s dwelling perspective (Ingold 1993, 152) where the sacred factor lies in manifold relationships and is therefore independent of a specific human, even independent of human agency alone. Another difference lies in what is representing what and how: while Akhenaten had a very specific idea of the revolutionised religious interpretation of the sun cult and found this portrayed in the natural landscape of newly set up Amarna, Abydos developed slowly over time. The natural landscape clarified pre-existing ideas, and in turn these ideas shaped the landscape.

Acknowledgements Many thanks go to the organisers of the conference Sacred Landscapes: Creation, Manipulation & Transformation: Ralph Häussler (University of Winchester), Eleanor Betts (Open University) and Gian Franco Chiai (Freie Universität Berlin). The paper which led to this article was given in session 4 of the conference: Identity & Territorial Organisation. I also want to thank Louise Steel, Thomas Jansen and Ralph Häussler for discussions and Louise for her proofreading. While writing this paper, the need to revisit Tim Ingold’s ideas and reapply them to the discussion was also proven

26.  Creating and conserving sacred landscapes: Abydos and Amarna – keeping the spirit alive? by the publication of an article by Dan Hicks who also saw the need to emphasise the ongoing importance of the interpretations of the keywords landscape, temporality, dwelling and taskscape (Hicks 2016).

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27 Spatialising sacralised places: landscape as analytical category for understanding social relations and spatial interaction of Graeco-Roman sanctuaries in the Hauran Anna-Katharina Rieger

The role of landscape in the archaeology of religion Archaeology as an object-based discipline is intrinsically place-oriented: an object has a location, an archaeological context. Archaeologists also perpetuate this place-oriented view of objects and the people behind them in larger spatial settings, for example landscapes (Casey 2008), resulting in site-centred interpretations. But how can one get from the analytical category of ‘place’ to the one of ‘space’, embracing that of ‘landscape’ (see Casey 1996)? In anthropology, history, archaeology and sociology, as well as in the classical discipline of space – geography – the general interest in space and spatial relations grew over the last decades in the wake of the ‘spatial turn’ in the 1980s (Werlen 1993, 140–4; 1997, 130–7). With this ‘turn’, landscapes and regions as objects of study came into play in all of these disciplines. The understanding of landscapes, their impact on socio-cultural structures and economies, as well as vice versa – i.e. the impact of human beings and societies on the landscapes – are now a long-standing topic in archaeology, blossoming in the formation of the subdiscipline of landscape archaeology. The latter’s focus on spatial, social and environmental entanglements combines an analysis of impacts of and on the environment with developments in research methods that allow for an easier documentary and interpretative (as well as visualising) coverage of larger spaces with different available sources according to period and geographical setting. On a theoretical level, phenomenological approaches that stress the factor of experiencing an environment are applied to past landscapes in order to disentangle constructed, imagined and physical landscapes (Tilley and Bennett 2004; Ashmore and Knapp 1999).

‘Sacred landscape’ and landscape as artefact The larger the spatial setting archaeologists embrace when studying religious phenomena, the more they tend to use ‘sacred landscape’ as an overarching concept of their approaches. This often refers to the distribution pattern of the remains that pertain to religious practices in a physical landscape, rather than to the ‘landscape’ as a concept and artefact. On another level of meaning, the term ‘sacred landscape’ is used for the natural elements that religious activities may be related to, such as plains, rivers, caves, groves or mountains. All variations revolving around ‘sacred landscape’ express a certain take on past religious structures and practices in a spatial setting (Horster 2010): ‘sacred topography’ is used for natural and architecturally formed environments, while ‘paysage religieuse’ entails the religious aspects of nature (and its assumed immanent sacredness); ‘Kultlandschaft’ and ‘ritual geography’ point in the direction of religious activities in larger spatial contexts. Despite growing refinement of terms and technologies, the use of ‘sacred landscape’ often falls short, since various aspects of the mutual impacts of landscapes, people and religion are not embraced. In studies on religion, a landscape is often taken as a given entity and as the conglomerate of features and places, not as an ever-changing artefact in a continuous dynamic process of natural prerequisites and human adaptations (De Polignac and Scheid 2010; Rieger forthcoming; see also Häussler and Chiai in this volume, 2–3). But it does not lead to reasonable results if one conceives of religion as a static set of religious traditions and institutions (architecture, rituals, deities) and of landscape as a given set of natural conditions, wherein the religion takes place (see for a comparable approach Csaba Szabó this volume; Häussler and Chiai in the introduction, 9–10). A main concern, hence,

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should be how to achieve an areal and interconnected view on sacralised places by taking the focus on landscapes in archaeology seriously and adapting it to religious activities of people for a synthetic view (cf. Matteo Fulvio Olivieri, this volume; Ingold 2007, 46, 53; Williamson 2012). To acknowledge the dynamic processes of making places and landscapes sacred, I use ‘sacralised’ instead of ‘sacred’ places and landscapes (see also Rieger 2020). In this paper, I look at a geographical unit (Salisbury 2009, 7) in Graeco-Roman Hauran, in today’s southern Syria and northern Jordan, through the lens of the religious activities that took place there, and search for the interaction between space, sacralised places and people. The geographical unit includes the aspects of the natural environment, while the religious activities embrace social groupings, their interactions and their engagement with objects. In doing so, I conceptualise the landscape as an artefact, not as an axiomatic value or pre-existing container. The case study explores what role topography and natural environment play in developing the religious life and its practices of the people living there, to then filter out the interplay between landscape and religion in a region. To substantiate the claims of the first section, we have to ask how to move from sacralised place to a sacralised landscape. For this purpose, I start by giving a landscape description of the study area in Graeco-Roman Syria in order to then examine resources, artefacts and structures as issues of religious practices. Based on material remains, I explore the reciprocal effects of the religious activity on the social and natural environment, thus focusing on spatial/physical and personal networks, coined as connectivity and catchment area. This perspective is informed by the approach of ‘Lived Ancient Religion’ (McGuire 2008; Rüpke 2011) where religion is conceived of as an outcome of the interaction of different agents, experiences and appropriations rather than a fixed system of (religious) norms and rules. Central to this way of thinking of religion are its local and situational, as well as individual, dimensions (Raja and Weiss 2015). The sacralised places, specific groups and the role of both in constructing a layer of meaning of the physical landscape they are located in will be analysed from below, from a microscopic perspective. This approach allows an understanding of how sacralised places became a structuring feature of larger geographical entities, and how places and their situation structure social interaction.

Material, scales and qualities of spatial and social interaction In historical scholarship, regional entities are often defined according to geographical definitions, ancient political systems, textual sources or homogeneity in artefacts. However, we have to clarify on what categorical basis a region we are dealing with is demarcated. Depending on the analytical

category applied, regional entities shift in their scale and outline: from a geophysical to an administrative or a linguistically homogenous unit. These units sometimes overlap, but they are rarely identical (Kantner 2008; Salisbury 2009). In archaeological definitions, regional units are differentiated according to material objects and spatially determined features (Wobst 2006). However, whether we can get a high-definition view on past phenomena depends on the categories of features and artefacts we look at: a road has a different spatial reach and quality in comparison to the ‘chainê d’operatoire’ and the distribution of pottery. The level of granularity that an inscription of an individual using epigraphic formulas offers might be higher than that of a non-personalised piece of ceramic, which in turn is informative in technological and practical concerns. An architectural motif that can be transferred to places the artisans and builders work at has again a different reach. Using various material categories (infrastructural remains, inscriptions, architectonical or sculptural pieces etc.), I differentiate the fields of people, politics, motives and resources in which connections through spatial and/or personal interaction occur. When examining the interaction of different entities and material features pertaining to religious activities, I have to know about their physical and virtual contacts and connections. To integrate them in an areal view, the understanding of place ‘more as an event than a thing’ (Casey 1996, 26) takes us further: a sacralised place is made of the intertwined layers and the net of events in time shaped by people, objects and structures. Through the agents of every single event, the place becomes part of larger spatial settings – as, for example, a landscape. When we explore interactions, we have to consider the quality of relations – for example, the strength of weak ties (Granovetter 1973) that is active in or influence a network – and we have to look for the spatial scales of interaction (Nakoinz 2013, 233–6). From the different quality or intensity of connections represented by material remains we can reconstruct the spatial frame of interactions (connectivity and catchment area) through these places and integrate these elements to a perception and construction of landscape (Casey 2008, 44–6).

Connectivity and catchment area Connectivity and catchment area are methodological tools to approach the problem of the interaction of sacralised places and people. Connectivity covers the outreach of a place and its people; catchment area encompasses the literally understood attractiveness of a (sacred) place. By employing these concepts, I aim to focus on spatial, social and economic networks and interactions of (groups of) agents (Collar 2013). Differently construed layers of a landscape are seen through the lens of religious activity. Connectivity allows for factoring in the quality and intensity of these connections, even though this remains

27. Spatialising sacralised places: Graeco-Roman sanctuaries in the Hauran difficult to judge from archaeological material. People who frequented a place represent one form of connection. But also artisans or religious or political officials could leave their imprint on a place, and represent ties of more distant provenience and aspects of meaning. Hence, the analysis of phenomena recognisable and meaningful to all kinds of people are at the fore. From the connectivity of a sacralised place we can derive its catchment area. In hydrography, the term describes from how far water travels to a waterbody, and in human geography from where people come to infrastructural facilities. In archaeology the idea of site catchments is often applied in (prehistoric) settlement and economic archaeology (Vita-Finzi and Higgs 1970). I broaden this concept to religious activities forming a landscape. The catchment area of a sacralised place corresponds to the geographic range from which it attracts people (cf. Rous 2009, 20). Defining this area of a sacralised place we can understand its impact on a spatial and institutional scale (i.e. economy and politics), and avoid such not well-founded socio-spatial characterisations as ‘supra-regional’, ‘extra-urban’ or ‘rural’ sacralised places (as used for example in Freyberger et al. 2015; Mazzilli 2019). The latter presuppositions foster a mono-dimensional understanding of sacralised places, whereas a focus on the catchment and networks of these places – taking into consideration the intensity, quality and durability of connections – allows for a view on sacralised places as religiously imprinting a layer of landscape, from a microscopic perspective (v. supra). This approach via connectivity and catchment allows us to change scale, and thus subsequently integrate the results in both a local or more global environment.

Graeco-Roman sacralised spaces in the Hauran To judge by the number of sacralised places, the Hauran in southern Syria and northern Jordan seem to be an area inhabited in Antiquity by people with a high interest in religious activities. Are they sacralised landscapes due to mere quantity? But what do numbers of sacralised places reveal about their interconnectedness and function? How can sacralised spots form a sacralised landscape?

Physical-geographical features, ecological environment and pertaining life-styles The Fertile Crescent and neighbouring areas are strongly shaped by regionally varying landscapes (Millar 1993, 225–35). These spatial entities that are distinct in regard to their physical geography, morphology and climate are connected by centuries-old economic and social networks. Between the Jordan valley north of Lake Tiberias and the Arabian desert to the east extends an area characterised by its volcanic origin, covered with basalt stones. Known as the Hauran, it is dominated by the Jebel el-Arab/Mons

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Alsadamus (